Free Palestine

Just a 20 something year old teenager here to read, like and reblog

[yawnlovescookies]

Cats and cookies

Pairing: Jack Abbott x Female!reader

Summary: Your cat and his intents on escaping brings you to finally meet your neighbor next door, who quickly becomes his favorite human. You and Jack bond over your cat and the cookies you keep giving him as an apology. [9k]

Content: No use of Y/N, no physical descriptions of reader, idk what else.

A/N: I had this idea because my cat is an absolute menace (he's the cat from the photo and his actual name is Gregorio)

Disclaimer: English is NOT my first language so this may as well be written with my eyes closed and half delusional brain. Hope you enjoy it! NOT PROOF READ AT ALL!!!

Masterlist ✦ Jack Abbot Masterlist ✦ Read on A03

“Meatball! Where are you, my little baby?" You called for your cat as soon as you got home.

He had the audacity to rebel against your wishes to be an indoor cat, always finding the way to scape.

"Spoiled cat” you murmured while you kept turning your place upside down to find him.

Your cat is a beautifully colored Siamese cat, adopted and spoiled. He's your whole world and you love him deeply but he gets in your nerves too easily.

First time cat mom and your fur baby kept refusing to listen and stay in the safeness and comfort of your home.

You looked everywhere he liked to hide on before panicking. You don't have a clue how he escaped, you made sure to close every door and window before going to work.

While checking windows and doors you realized you had left the door to your balcony with only the screen door closed. Same one that now had a big hole made by the little paws of your demon cat.

“Shit" you murmured while you stepped into the balcony, looking for any trace of your cat.

You caught sight of his tail as he entered your neighbor's apartment. You were going to strangle that cat.

Unfortunately, you knew nothing of your next door neighbor except that he was a doctor and apparently worked nights. Or that's what another neighbor had told you.

Oh, right. He works nights so he probably will be sleeping…. shit.

With a resigned sigh, you knew you had to wake up your neighbor to get your cat. That was if the little shit hadn't woken him up already, he had the habit to wanting cuddles when everyone was sleeping and he wasn't known for his patience.

Before leaving your house you grabbed your keys and a handful of buttercream cookies you had baked last night, hoping they were enough apology to your neighbor.

Once in front of the door of your neighbor's apartment you took a few breaths— you were not good at talking with people you didn't knew beforehand— before ringing the bell and waiting patiently for him to open the door.

A few minutes went by before hearing the door open and being greeted with the sight of your very handsome very shirtless neighbor. His hair was in all directions and his face showed he was asleep before you interrupted him.

Oh, and he was carrying your very big very fat cat like he was a baby. And the fucker was purring.

“Hello, may I help you?" He asked seeing your dumbfounded expression, yet his voice was somewhat kind.

You blinked a few times before forcing yourself to look away from him "Uh, yes. Dr. Abbot, right?” you pointed towards your door "I think that's my cat”

He hummed, observing your flustered expression while leaning against the threshold, still carrying your cat. "Call me Jack” He offered, his voice friendly “And yes, I had the suspicion that it was from one of my neighbors"

You raised your eyes to met his, a frown set on your forehead "Meatball looks like he's too comfortable”

I would he too if I was carried in those arms

Your neighbor smiled at you with humor. "Meatball, huh? I have been calling him Greg”

"Greg? Huh, I guess he does resemble a Greg” You murmured softly before glancing down at the cookies you were holding "Oh, these are for you”

He blinked at you, then followed your like of sight. "Oh, you didn't have to.”

You waved him off "I wanted to, it's kind of an apology for finding my cat"

“I think that Meatball was the one who found me” Jack replied with amusement “Come on in so I can put him down" He offered.

You nodded, entering and closing the door after you. Once he put your cat down, you handed him the cookies.

"These look delicious" the corner of Jack's mouth started to water at the sight of the cookies.

Staring down, you observed how your cat was meowing and practically asking for Jack to pick him up once again.

"He didn't wake you, did he?” You asked mortified when you remembered how spoiled by you he was and seeing that he had taken a liking to your neighbor…

Your neighbor merely shrugged with a small smile “He wanted cuddles, apparently"

A groan left your lips "I'm sorry, he's a bit spoiled and likes his cuddles”

A smile curled in his lips “No worries, he's a cute little fella"

“You could say that" you murmured under your breath.

A laugh cut through the silence in the room, soft and breathy "And Meatball owner's name?”

Eyes snapping up to him, you muttered your name shyly.

“Jack Abbott" He introduced himself “About time we know each other, we're next door neighbors"

“I agree" you smiled at him “Though I must admit I'm not the most friendly person, contrary to that little shit" you pointed at your cat who was trying to get Jack's attention.

Your very handsome neighbor only laughed at your description of Meatball. He could tell it all was rough love, hearing the tenderness in your voice.

“You work nights, right?" You asked him, earning a nod from him “That's why we haven't met, I usually get to my place after work and crash until next day”

“Makes sense" He hummed softly, staring at you with interest. "But now we know each other, thanks to Meatball”

You chuckled softly, he was right. “Well, apparently he likes you because he is ignoring me right now and asking for you to pick him up"

He leaned down with a smile, scratching between Meatball's ears earning a satisfied purr. “He's cute and… big”

“You can say it, he's fat" You shrugged softly “I don't have a clue why, I have him on a strict regime"

Jack looked at you with a teasing smile "Are you fat shaming your cat?”

Squirting at him, you repressed a laugh “I'm saying a fact. He's big and fat and mean"

“He's adorable" Jack defended your cat.

“That too" you agreed with a smile. You were glad that your neighbor was nice and wasn't mad at you for not controlling your cat.

The two of you stared at each other for a few moments, a smile on both of your faces, before breaking out of the haze.

“Shit, I'm keeping you while you probably should be sleeping or getting ready for your shift" You blurted out, realizing you might be imposing.

He waved you off "I have a few hours until I have to be on my way to my shift. Sit, let's eat these delicious looking cookies you brought”

You chuckled softly “I don't want to impose, I should leave—"

He raised a hand, stopping your excuses “If you have nothing to do, stay and have a cookie."

Jack was giving you an out, yet you didn't want to go, he intrigued you.

With a sigh, you relented “Alright, alright"

That's how you ended up staying most of your afternoon in his place, talking and eating your cookies. It was cut short because he had to work, but before you left he made you promise to bake him more cookies.

You accepted, of course. Also, you had the feeling that Meatball was going to find his way to his apartment again.

.̩₊̣.̩✧*̣̩˚̣̣⁺̣‧.₊̣̇.‧⁺̣˚̣̣*̣̩⋆·̩̩.̩̥·̩̩⋆*̣̩˚̣̣⁺̣‧.₊̣̇.‧⁺̣˚̣̣*̣̩✧·.̩₊̣.̩

The next time you saw him was in your day off, it was early in the morning, way too early for someone like you who didn't like mornings.

You were deep cleaning and throwing a bunch of stuff you didn't need into trash bags. And you had a lot of it.

Once you had everything you needed to get to the containers, you made an escape plan. Yes, escape plan because your cat would bolt out the door as soon as you opened it. Unfortunately, you were not quick enough and the little shit beat you to it, sprinting out the door.

“Meatball!" You groaned and followed him, trying to catch him but he was fast for such an oversized cat.

He was fast and slippery, quickly tiring you out before sprinting on the opposite direction. Rounding a corner on the hall and towards the flights of stairs, and then you saw Meatball jump into someone's arms. Jack's.

"Oh. Hey, Meatball” Jack was quick to adjust the cat in his arms, watching as you breathlessly stopped in front of him. “Jail break?"

You stood in front of him, trying to regulate your breathing "Yeah”

“I have the feeling that Meatball doesn't like being in your apartment" He pointed out teasingly.

You sighed heavily “Too bad, he's an interior cat"

Jack merely hummed, amusement lacing his face.

Looking at him— really looking— you realized he was wearing scrubs, shifting the weight from one leg to another. "Coming home from work?”

“Yes, shift rang long" He was now distracted petting your cat.

You responded with a hum, staring to walk towards your apartments and away from the stairs and possible freedom of your cat.

Stopping by your door, Jack could see that you had something going on. “Cleaning day?" He asked you, his eyebrows raised.

"Deep cleaning day” You corrected him "That's how this Tasmanian devil escaped, he ran out the door when I was trying to get these to the container” you pointed towards the big trash bags.

He blinked at you, still holding your cat who was very happy to be held by him "Seems like you take cleaning very seriously”

“Something like that" You murmured, now realizing what a mess you had made with your idea of deep cleaning. "Anyway, let me take this one off your hands so you can go rest”

Meatball hissed angrily when you tried to take him from Jack.

With a frown, you pointed at your cat with your index finger "Meatball, don't hiss”

He responded by slapping your finger with his paw before melting onto Jack, who was grinning while trying to suppress a laugh.

“Do you want a cat?" You asked your neighbor with a dead ass expression "It's free, I'll throw in 20 dollars if you accept”

Jack was now full on laughing, shaking his head "Nah, he's all yours”

"50 dollars, then”

“Tempting" Jack answered with a smile “Still no"

You huffed, glaring at your cat "Seems like the fucker adopted you”

Jack frowned at your words “Adopted me?”

“Yes” you answered with a firm nod "It happens, they pick their favorite human”

“Wouldn't that be you?" Jack tilted his head in confusion.

"No, I am only the human that feeds him and keeps him alive” You rolled your eyes at your cat "You're his favorite human now.”

“I guess that is… good?” He asked softly, not fully understanding what you meant.

You gave him an amused glance "You're not much of a cat person, are you?”

He shook his head bashfully “Not really, no. I've always been more a dog person"

With a chuckle, you nodded "You have that vibe about you, yeah. Doesn't matter now cause you officially been adopted by my cat"

Jack gave you a doubtful glance "Didn't he adopt you too?”

“Nope, I adopted him, he adopted you" You shrugged “Weirdly enough"

.̩₊̣.̩✧*̣̩˚̣̣⁺̣‧.₊̣̇.‧⁺̣˚̣̣*̣̩⋆·̩̩.̩̥·̩̩⋆*̣̩˚̣̣⁺̣‧.₊̣̇.‧⁺̣˚̣̣*̣̩✧·.̩₊̣.̩

That's how you started making friends with your next door neighbor, through your cat.

Meatball seemed to love Jack, always scratching the door when he would hear him arrive or pass by your door while you tried to explain to him that it was way too early for him to he planning mischief.

Though your cat did not care for any of your chiding, looking for a way to get to Jack. It was official, Meatball had adopted Jack.

The doorbell rang a little too early for your taste on day. Opening one eye, you glanced at your clock, seeing it was a little past 7:30 in the morning. Yes, you had to be starting to get ready for work in about 20 minutes if you wanted to leave on time but those were minutes you liked to get of sleep.

With a groan you threw your blankets off you, grabbing a robe and putting it on before moving to answer the door.

There, you found Jack with Meatball lounging comfortably in his arms. You didn't even know when had Meatball escaped from the comfort of your home but seemed like the little demon wanted to always be with Jack.

You sighed heavily “Hi, Jack"

He smiled at your disheveled appearance "Hi. Meatball was sleeping on my couch and I thought you might want him back”

You opened the door for him to step in. “Offer still stands, get the cat and 50 dollars"

He chuckled, putting Meatball down "I think it is a hard pass still. He would grow lonely”

You smiled at him, going into the kitchen to serve Meatball his breakfast. “I don't know how you work nights" You commented.

Jack shrugged, following you to keep the conversation through the kitchen threshold "My therapist says I find comfort in the darkness”

Huh, that sounded about right.

"Overrated”

You scoffed softly "There is nothing in the world I love most than sleeping. I think I was a mite in a past life"

“And what about sleep?"

That got him to chuckle “Very unlikely but I know what you mean"

You saw Jack grab a cookie from the plate on your kitchen counter. After the first bite, he let out a sound of agreement. "These are delicious. New recipe?”

It was endearing how much Jack loved your baked goods and how he always complimented you. It was not helping you to avoid having a crush with your neighbor.

You hummed with a smile “They have a tiny bit of lavender"

He pointed at you "Delicious. I'm going to get big only by eating what you bake”

With a chuckle, you grabbed the plate, putting a few on a container "You are not. You exercise and do yoga and a lot of shit, you’re safe”

He took the container once you handed it to him “Maybe, but still."

"If you don't want it…" you started, reaching for the container.

Playfully, he pushed your hand away “No, no. I want cookies"

“That's what I thought" you smiled at him before glancing at your clock. "Oh, shit. It's late, I have to get ready for work”

He smiled at you, grabbing the container so he could leave "I'll see you around. Have a good day at work”

“Thank you for bringing Meatball" You returned his smile “I owe you"

Jack showed you the cookies “Payment enough. I'll let myself out, you do what you have to"

“Bye, Jack. Thank you so much" You said, already making your way to your room to get ready.

.̩₊̣.̩✧*̣̩˚̣̣⁺̣‧.₊̣̇.‧⁺̣˚̣̣*̣̩⋆·̩̩.̩̥·̩̩⋆*̣̩˚̣̣⁺̣‧.₊̣̇.‧⁺̣˚̣̣*̣̩✧·.̩₊̣.̩

A few weeks passed by before you saw Jack again, yet this time it was you seeking for him.

You knocked on his door, a big plate full with a variety of sweets in your hands while you waited for him to open the door.

Once he opened the door, he smiled when he saw you. "Well, hello”

You gave him a sheepish smile "Hi, Jack"

He rested his weight on the doorframe, staring at you with suspicion “I'm guessing those sweets are to convince me of something"

"I always give you baked goods!” You defended yourself before sighing "But this time I do need something”

With a chuckle, Jack invited you in. Once the two of you were comfortably sitting, he asked “Shoot. What do you need, Sweetheart?"

Sweetheart? He's calling me sweetheart? Oh, I'm going to swoon. Dramatically.

You blinked at him "Sweetheart?”

He nodded “Sweetheart"

You shook your head, letting it go for the moment "Alright, so I need a big favor to ask you”

“Didn't know we were on the stage of asking big favors" Jack smirk showed when he said that.

“Didn't know we were on the sweetheart stage” You threw back.

“Touché. What's the big favor?"

At that, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself "I need to know if you could be my cat-sitter for a couple of days?”

He raised his eyebrows at that "Cat-sitter?”

“Yes, I need to get out of the city for a few days and as much as I'd like to take him with me, I can't" You explained, your tone desperate.

"Everything okay?” came Jack's question.

Wait, he looked… worried? He's not helping my dumb heart.

You sighed heavily “Yeah, it's just kind of a family thing and I don't have a place adapted for Meatball at my parent's house, besides he always get too nervous when traveling"

“Your parents live far?”

“Three hours by car" you answered “and I'm driving all the way there. Meatball definitely won't last that long in his carrier. I usually leave him with a friend but she has a newborn now and you're my last budget friendly option"

It was obvious you almost blurted out that information, seemingly talking fast when you were nervous or anxious.

He was staring at you with a tinkle in his eyes "You really know how to talk a lot without breathing, don't you?"

You left out a groan “Jack! Focus, please"

Jack raised his hands in innocence “Alright, alright. I think I can manage with Meatball"

"Really?” You asked him, relieved "Oh, I will he in debt with you forever”

"When are you leaving?”

"In three days” You answered softly "I will write down everything you need to know and I'll bring you everything you need” Giving a look around his place, you dared to ask "Would you mind if he stays in your apartment? It's just that he gets clingy"

He nodded "Yeah, no problem. Besides, I think it'll be better that way”

"You're my savior” Relief laced your words.

Jack pointed at you "You owe me a lot of baked goods”

"Of course” the sigh that left your lips was one of pure relief and you could tell Jack was finding it amusing “Thank you so, so much"

Your stress was quickly replaced with relief, you could not let your baby be alone and Jack seemed like the logic options since Meatball loved him a lot. You were doubtful of asking him to cats sit, but he was your last resort and you didn't have the money to spend on a hotel for pets, they were too expensive and you were a tiny bit distrustful about how complete strangers would treat Meatball. So that was a no.

…

"… and you call me if something seems slightly off with him, so I can call the vet and—”

Jack put his hands on your shoulders, leveling his gaze to yours “I have it under control, Sweetheart."

You took a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves “Sorry, I tend to get anxious"

Rubbing your shoulders, he shot you a smile "I assure you, Meatball is in great hands”

Looking at said cat, he was comfortably laying on Jack's couch, without a care in the world.

Jack Abbot is very aware of the fact that you are overly protective of Meatball, he can see it in the constant worry etched into your face anytime he doesn't eat his full plate of food or meows the wrong way. Jack has spent enough time around you and your cat to know when something is off in your eyes regarding Meatball.

"You're right, I'm being a lot right now”

He chuckled softly "You're just worried, it's normal. He's your baby” Jack pointed towards Meatball, who was sleeping belly up, a very good signal that he was comfortable with Jack around.

Looking down at your clock, you let out a sigh “I think it's time for me to go"

"Everything will be fine” He said slowly, reassuring you once again. He was being too patient with you. "Text me when you get there, okay?”

"Of course” you nodded, making your way to say goodbye to Meatball.

Feeling you near, Meatball opened his eyes, looking at you with curiosity before letting out a little meow, asking for you to pet him.

You peppered kisses on his little head "I love you so much, little shit. Be good for Jack” with wack kiss to your cat you murmured your words, asking him to behave.

Once you were a bit satisfied you stood upright, moving towards the door, opening it but not quite leaving yet.

"Last thing, he likes his food served far from his water—”

“… and at certain hour, I know” Jack was confirming everything you had told him, patiently.

“— he has to have a little play time or he gets angsty—"

"…Yes, 20 minutes everyday is the minimum”

“— he will wake you up for cuddles almost always, he's clingy like that—" you kept on rambling.

"… but if I'm tired I should keep his mouse toy close so he could focus on it instead, yes”

"— he can have two treats each day, if he behaves—”

“…not more than two, I am aware”

“—also, he doesn't like to eat alone so you must—"

"…put his bowl next to where I eat and eat with him. I know"

You squinted at him, realizing he had indeed listened to you. “Okay, you have everything under control. I'll leave"

He smiled at you, getting closer to bid you goodbye “Drive safe, we will see you in a week"

With a reluctant sigh, and without really thinking about it, you moved to kiss his cheek "You're the best, see you”

Jack saw how you left after that, standing frozen in place while his heart was beating so fast because of a little kiss on the cheek. God, you were going to be the end of him.

The days passed and there was not a single day when you wouldn't be texting him or calling him to know if Meatball was okay.

…

Neither of you would admit it, but the calls and texts were the best part of both of your days.

It was becoming increasingly hard to ignore the crush you had on your neighbor yet you couldn't bring yourself to be forward with your feelings. Besides, what if Jack didn't feel the same? You only knew each other recently and most of your conversations happened because of your cat or the sweet treats you gave him.

Jack Abbot was not fairing better than you, he could not stop thinking about the owner of the cat he was sitting. You had come into his life full of chaos and comfort and now he could not dare to think about a life without your cat, sweet treats and you in it.

Shit, thinking about it, maybe you do look like a schoolgirl with a crush.

On the last day before going back to Pittsburgh, you called Jack two hours before he was to start his shift, knowing his schedule almost by memory.

The phone rang two times before Jack picked up. “Hello, Sweetheart”

Shit. Fuck. You could not let his voice affect you the way it does.

“Hi, Jack" You answered into the phone while packing your bags. “How's my baby?"

You could hear movement on the other side along with the chuckle that left his lips “He's okay, asking very loudly for treats”

A laugh left your lips at that. Even in the distance, you knew your cat and how spoiled he was “Yep, that's my baby. Means he's okay, though"

Jack hummed and you could hear the smile in his lips "I must admit, Meatball is a tiny bit spoiled”

“Try very spoiled" You rolled your eyes “I thought he was going to take harder the fact that I was not around but I think he's doing pretty good" A pause “I don't know if I should feel relieved or offended"

“If it's any consolation, he was trying to scape earlier"

“Sadly, it's not. Meatball keep refusing to a life of luxury, full meals and a warm bed." You didn't know what else to do for that cat to understand he had it nice and he doesn't appreciate it.

"He wants to experiment, be a bad boy and find love” Jack's voice was full of amusement. He loved those little chats were both you and him left your minds fly free, grateful that you understood his humor.

"Don't we all” You murmured, trying to remember if you were forgotten to pack anything.

"What? Find love?” Jack asked you while laying on his bed, your cat by his side.

"Yeah” You answered, your mind still preoccupied "I mean, I love love but I can't seem to find it”

His heart ached at the thought of you not finding the love you deserved “You’ll find it, I'm sure of it"

“How can you be so sure?" You asked him, now flopping into your bed. “I've been single almost my entire life"

"Good things comes to those who wait”

“Then I'm getting the fucking best of what love has to offer" Humor was lacing your words.

Yes, you were a little skeptical of the ways life worked.

“Be patient, I'm sure it's in the way" He tried to comfort you, hearing your voice change a bit.

A groan left your lips, sounding more tired and sleepy than awake. The bed was too comfortable and a nap sounded good.

You could hear the chuckle that left his lips through the cellphone “Sleepy, are we?" he teased you.

He could hear the ruffling of the bed as you turned into your side in the bed “Yeah, a little."

“You should probably have a good night sleep, you're coming back tomorrow, right?"

You hummed and nodded, even when he couldn't see you. “Are you on your way to work already?" your question was interrupted by a yawn. You were indeed tired.

A chuckle left his lips at your yawn, he could only imagine how adorable you looked all sleepy, yet you were still asking about him. He checked his clock before answering you “Probably should head out any minute now. I'm cuddling with Meatball at the moment”

You could not help but let out an ‘aww’ at the mental image of it "That sounds comfy”

“Meatball is such a good cuddler"

Your smile turned into a frown once you thought about how much hair Meatball shed "Wait, your scrubs are black”

“And?"

"You will be full of Meatball's hair!” your tone was one of worry, you usually did not care for cat hair but Jack's a doctor, you're pretty sure that's a health violation.

"Oh” he said in realization of what you meant "I have one of those sticky rollers thingy”

You chuckled softly at that "You mean a lint roller?”

“Yes, that thingy"

Without helping it, you rolled your eyes with fondness "I don't know how you're able to memorize all that doctor language but not the name of a lint roller"

"Doctor language is easy stuff”

“I beg to differ, I’ve never been able to correctly pronounce the name of complicated medicine"

“That’s cause you're not a doctor, Sweetheart” Jack's voice was laced with teasing.

A yawn left your lips, sleepiness taking over you almost completely now. “Yeah, you're right"

“Go to sleep, Sweetheart" His voice was firm “I shall see you tomorrow"

You hummed in response, your eyes already closed "Bye-bye, Jack”

.̩₊̣.̩✧*̣̩˚̣̣⁺̣‧.₊̣̇.‧⁺̣˚̣̣*̣̩⋆·̩̩.̩̥·̩̩⋆*̣̩˚̣̣⁺̣‧.₊̣̇.‧⁺̣˚̣̣*̣̩✧·.̩₊̣.̩

The drive back to Pittsburgh was uneventful and peaceful, giving you a lot of time to think and reflex about the dumb crush you were developing for your very handsome neighbor.

It took you a total of one hour driving alone with your thoughts to get to the conclusion that you were, indeed, fucked. Of course you were, you had a bigger and softer heart that you would like, always falling hard for people that didn't feel that way about you.

Oh, you stupid lover girl.

The rest of the drive, your thoughts were swarming with plans of how to fall out of love with him.

Love? Who said love? Stupid heart.

Yes, maybe love was a strong word but, as said before, you were kind of a lover girl, so the months you had known him got you dreaming of being with him.

As said before; Fucked.

It was around noon when you arrived to your apartment complex, unloading your bags and things you brought from your parent's place. You were almost sure that Jack would be sleep, given the hour, so you decided not to bother him until later, only shooting him a text.

You

Hey! I'm home, let me know when you're awake so I can pick up Meatball.

:)

While you waited for Jack's reply, you took on the task to dust off and prepare a little snack, wanting to be as productive as you could be before going back to work the next day. Good luck your mom sent you home with a week's worth of meals.

It was a couple of hours before your doorbell rang, signaling someone was there and it probably was Jack.

From your place on the couch, you asked “Who is it?"

"It's me” came Jack's voice from the other side of the door.

“Come on in, it's open" You shouted, not caring for moving from your very comfortable place on the couch.

It was a few seconds before you heard the door opening, and there he was; Jack Abbot holding your chubby cat in his arm. Meatball was quick to jump from his arms and run to you, snuggling against your chest making you chuckle.

"Hi, baby” you kissed his little head "Looks like someone missed me”

Jack moved to sit across from you after closing the door, staring at the image in front of him with a soft expression. "Yes, we missed you” He confessed.

You tilted your head, looking at him with an inevitable smile “We?"

You were basking on both the purring coming from the cat in your chest and the warmth you felt when Jack uttered those words.

"We” Jack confirmed with a nod of his head "It wasn't the same without you around”

“I was only gone for a week"

"It was more than enough to miss you” Jack said almost instantly, his words sounding too honest for your liking.

Your only answer to his words were a smile, you did not know what to reply to it.

Shaking your head, you tried to stir the topic away from things that would make your heart act irrationally.

"How this little fur ball behaved?” You asked Jack.

“He was delightful, though he didn't like one mug I had"

You groaned loudly, of course Meatball had to break havoc on another house “He did not"

"He did” Jack confirmed "Let's say he looked quite pleased when it landed on the floor and broke to a million pieces”

You nodded solemnly "I know what you mean” with a sigh, you reached for your cellphone "I'll transfer you the money”

Jack immediately held one hand up "You will not”

“I need to atone for any mischief Meatball did, that includes paying you for what he broke"

He shook his head "I don't want your money, it was an ugly mug anyway"

You gave him a deadpan look, not liking the idea of not paying for something your cat broke intentionally “I must insist to pay for the mug"

"I don't want your money”

“Jack" you said in all seriousness.

"Sweetheart” He matched your tone.

“I'm paying for the mug" You were not willing to let it go.

“I will accept cookies as a payment, that's it"

You pursed your lips, not liking how he didn't want to let you pay for your cats misdeeds. "Money”

“Nope. Cookies"

You shot a glare in his direction. "I give you cookies because I want to, I don't like to see it as a bargaining chip or I would lose any interest however to bake them. There has to be payed with money"

He pursed his lips, his eyes showing that he was thinking about what to do next. “I will not accept your money. It was just a dumb mug"

"I don't care, I pay my dues” the stubborn monster in you was taking reign.

Silence involved your loving room for a few moments before his face lightened with an idea.

“Alright, I'll tell you what" he was trying to make his smile seem innocent but he was failing “I know how you can pay me back"

You squinted at him, carefully nodding "I'm listening…”

“You can let me buy you dinner" He all but blurted out.

Shit. He wants to take you on a date? You go, girl.

A frown etched itself into your face despite of your heart screaming for you to agree “Wouldn't I have to buy you dinner?"

"I know what I said. I will buy you dinner” His voice was absolute, leaving no room for negotiation.

“I haven't said yes"

"You haven't said no” His smile was growing bigger by the minute.

“You work nights, you can't buy me dinner"

“Breakfast, then" He was quick to solve any problems you were throwing his way. “or lunch"

Holding his gaze for a few seconds, you finally let out a sigh, making Jack's face to light up even more.

“Alright, you win. I will let you buy me lunch" your resigned tone could not be far from the real party that was going inside your head.

Jack was now full on smiling, making his way to you, stretching his pinky your way.

You looked at him up and down, a fake disgusted face on “What?"

"We have to seal it” He pointed out "It's the only way”

With a roll of your eyes, you sealed the deal pinky swearing.

He let out a satisfied sound before leaning down, his eyes finding yours “Stop looking pissed, I shall see you tomorrow for our date. I'll text you"

Before leaving he made sure of saying his good-byes to Meatballs, who poured happily from the attention.

Jack stooped by the door, shooting you a different smile from the ones before. This one was lacking any kind of teasing, leaving in its way a soft smile, full of expectation and… longing. “Bye, Sweetheart."

You matched his smile, no doubt looking foolish "Bye, Jack. See you tomorrow”

"I can't wait”

And with that, he left you alone with your cat.

Alone. Now it was the time for you to panic and crash out.

You just agreed to have a date with Jack Abbot.

You were fucked.

.̩₊̣.̩✧*̣̩˚̣̣⁺̣‧.₊̣̇.‧⁺̣˚̣̣*̣̩⋆·̩̩.̩̥·̩̩⋆*̣̩˚̣̣⁺̣‧.₊̣̇.‧⁺̣˚̣̣*̣̩✧·.̩₊̣.̩

Sadly enough for both of you, you could not make it to the lunch. The chaos around you in your work was a bit too much, impending you to grab lunch with him.

You took a few minutes away from the chaos to call him, this was two hours before you were supposed to met.

It rang a few times before you heard the call connect.

"Hey, Sweetheart”

" Don't hate me” was the first words you uttered when you head his voice “I won't be able to get away for lunch"

You heard the disappointed sigh that left his lips and it made you feel worse with yourself.

" That's okay, we will reschedule” His voice was kind, trying to mask the disappointment. He was a little too excited about the date.

“I will make it up to you, I promise" You quickly reassured him, picking on your nails nervously.

" I know you will, Sweetheart. Don't worry”

You didn't answer, merely staying silent while your mind was screaming at you for this. It was mortifying, you really did want to go out with him.

His voice snapped you out of your head, taking you back to reality.

“Hey, you still with me?"

“I- yeah. I'm here" your voice was small, apologetic even. " I'm real sorry, Jack”

"I understand, okay. Don't feel guilty.” His voice was warm, caring. “I have a night off on Friday, maybe we could go to dinner after all?"

A chuckle left your lips “Yeah, okay. I'd like that"

"I'd like that too, Sweetheart. I'll see you later, okay?”

"Okay, Jack”

You said your respective goodbyes before hanging up, yet you still couldn't stop feeling guilty. You were expecting to grab lunch with him too much, but stupid work things that didn't allowed you were your first enemy now.

You spent all day at work thinking about Jack. Yes, stupidly enough. You didn't understand how destiny didn't allow you the simple favor of letting you go on a date with Jack. It was unfair.

…

Your luck was getting worse and worse with each passing moment. You had gotten home way later that you were used to because you had to solve some problems back at work.

It was a given that your mood was pretty bad by the time it was dark. You had wanted to see Jack before he went to work, but again, that was not possible thanks to your own job.

All you had now was the shining opportunity of a shower, food delivery and couch rooting next to your fat cat.

You were naive to believe it would be that easy. Yes, you took a long shower, dressed in your comfortable pj's and moved to the couch to put on your show while you waited for the food you had ordered to arrive.

Everything was going good, even Meatball was cooperative by sharing the couch with you, asking for cuddles.

Pity your luck had not gotten better since the start of the day.

When the food arrived, you got up from the couch, going to get your purse to pay for it. Little did you noticed that Meatball was already planning his escape as soon as you would open the door.

Once with your purse, you made your way to open the door, engaging in small talk with the delivery guy while he handed you the food.

It was an instant that you got distracted. It was enough.

Meatball ran out of the door with all his energy. The delivery guy— God bless his soul— tried to catch him only to end up bitten by your demon cat.

“Shit! Sorry, he's vaccinated!" You all but shouted while sprinting behind your very fast cat.

Meatball was on a mission, live a life of freedom away from your cozy home.

It wasn't the first time he tried to run away, though this time he was set on doing it right. He kept dodging you, making his way towards the stairs, you could not let that happen, if he got there, it would be a pain to catch him.

So you put your all into trying to catch the fucking cat, running after him with only socks in your feet. Bad idea. Very bad. And you knew it the moment your cat took a turn right instead of going straight in direction of the stairs, making you try to break sharply. It didn't work, your socked feet sent you flying forward, the floor too slippery thanks to the fabric on your feet.

You don't really know what happened after that, only feeling a sharp pain in your arm, that was twisted in a strange position that was not definitely normal, and a stinginess in the side of your face.

You were laying on the floor, disoriented while looking around. You fell down a few steps of the stairs, now laying on the stairs landing.

Well, shit.

It was a while until the ambulance arrived— that was called by the delivery guy— and the paramedics quickly put you on a gurney, letting you know that you had dislocated your shoulder and had a minor laceration to your face.

You were about to ask if anyone had seen your cat, you could not leave him alone, when the little shit jumped into the gurney, settling his little body on your chest.

“Ma'am, he can't ride with us—" A paramedic tried to tell you.

"I'm not going anywhere without him” You said firmly, not leaving any room for negotiation.

Apparently, your paramedics were a little too tired that didn't even refute, merely nodding before they kept going.

“Wait" You suddenly said, startling everyone around. “Could someone go to my apartment" you pointed out to the wide open door when they were wheeling you down the hall “And grab his harness? It's hanging from behind the door”

With a long, tired sigh, one of the paramedics quickly went to get it so they could get you to the hospital and hopefully, clock out.

The ride to the hospital was quite uneventful, it took three minutes before Meatball worked his charm— he was a little too friendly for a cat sometimes— and had the paramedics wrapped around his little paw.

The pain wasn't all that bad, yet. You knew it was matter of time before the pain would start killing you, probably thanks to the adrenaline of the whole ordeal.

Deep down, you knew you almost asked the universe for it. Why? Simple. You were bitching about your day and how unlucky you were, blah blah. Last time you were acting like that you sprained your ankle. Once again the universe was reminding you that it always can get worse.

You felt the ambulance come to a stop, most surely arriving at the emergency room where you would be drugged up and fixed. Good, it was starting to hurt.

You were wheeled down the ambulance and into the other side of the sliding doors.

Ugh, hospital lights are always too bright.

As soon as you were spotted, two doctors made their way to you, addressing the paramedics.

“What do we have here?" Asked a tall doctor, a little gruff looking but he seemed nice.

The paramedics were quick to present you, telling your age and a lot of things you were not listening that intently "— old female, BP 139/88, HR 112, RR 19. She took a fall down a couple of steps, shoulder dislocation and face laceration. Patient is responsive”

“And what about the cat?" The question came from the next doctor, who looked a little too carefree while holding a concernedly big cup of iced coffee.

One of your paramedics turned to look at him with a deadpan expression "She wouldn't let us bring her here without Meatball”

Not far away from there, a doctor that you knew well, was reviewing some labs from a patient, not moving to tend to the new arrival since it was Shen's patient, lifted his head in curiosity when he heard the name Meatball.

Jack Abbot scanned the ED until his eyes fell on your laying form on the gurney, Meatball laying comfortably in your side, wearing his harness.

As soon as he spotted you, he was moving, calling your name. "What are you doing here?”

Meatball was quick to demand attention from his favorite human with a meow. Jack patted his little head mindlessly.

"Meatball. Jailbreak. Stairs. Fall. Hurt” You explained simply.

Jack sighed, staring at you with concern but ultimately shaking it off while turning to the other two doctors. "Shen, I got her" He addressed the caffeine holding one “Crus, you're with me" He said to the tall, stern looking doctor.

"North 15 is open!” A redheaded woman called from behind a very big desk, offering you a friendly smile.

You were wheeled to what you suspect is North 15, quickly being moved into a hospital bed before the paramedics said a brief goodbye and left you in the hands of capable doctors and nurses.

Both Jack and Dr. Crus started working on you, checking vitals and making sure that nothing else was broken.

“How's the pain?" Jack asked you, checking you pupils.

"Getting stronger by the minute” You murmured, focusing on petting Meatball with your good hand.

“Push 1 m.g. of Ketamine for the pain" He addressed a nurse who quickly nodded on injected a liquid into an I.V.— same one that you didn't even feel when they pooked it into your arm.

"You're giving me the good drugs?” You asked him with a smile.

“Only the best" Jack winked at you, continuously working on the preliminary exams.

You allowed them to keep assessing your injuries by staying silent, Meatball laying by your side while he followed every one of Jack's movements. Freaking cat was obsessed with him.

They were talking between them in terms you didn't understand. Doctor gibberish. But ultimately Jack turned to look at you. "I'll order and x-ray to discard any broken bone but I don't think it's more than the dislocated shoulder. Head seems fine and you're responsive” He smiled at you with relief "But we'll have to take care of that cut on your cheek”

You couldn't see the cut but you knew it wasn't pretty. “How many stitches?"

"Probably three but hopefully it won't leave a scar” He reassured you softly.

“Good, I cannot look too bad, I have a date on Friday" You teased him slightly, already feeling the effect of the meds.

He hummed, crossing his arms on his chest, his biceps popping out. "Is that so? Must be quite the guy”

"Well, my cat likes him, so…” You shrugged, pointing towards your very comfortable looking cat.

“A good judge of character" Jack nodded in approval “I still don't know how you managed to get them to bring Meatball along"

You shrugged softly, your head resting tiredly on the gurney "I refused treatment and asked them if they could get his harness from my apartment”

Jack shook his head, a chuckle leaving his chest “You are something else"

A knock on the glass door interrupted you, Jack was being called away, he turned to look at you hesitantly.

“Go" You said with a smile “I'll be alright"

He nodded at you, smiling softly before walking out of the room, facing his fellow attending Dr. Shen.

“Your patient in Central 14 is asking for you" Shen slurped his coffee was too loud for Jack's patience.

“Alright, thanks" Jack started to walk away, Shen following him. “Do you need something?"

“Who's the cat lady?" Shen asked, being his nosy self.

"She's my friend and neighbor”

Shen's eyebrows rose, staring at Jack “Oh, she's that friend, isn't she?"

“What are you talking about now?" Jack keep walking, wanting for Shen to go away and stop asking questions.

“Lately you check your cellphone and smile when you're reading texts of someone. I'm betting she is the one texting you and making your face light up every time"

“Shut up, Shen"

Shen raised his hands in innocence, deciding that short conversation was enough to confirm his suspicions, before going to tend to his own patients.

Of course Shen was right, Jack has had a crush on you almost since he met you, always smiling when you were around or when he received a text, though he was not going to let Shen know how right he was.

Once Jack was free and your x-rays were delivered, he made his way back to your room, finding you snoozing off. The cut on your cheek had been already stitched up and Meatball was being a complete angel, not moving from your side.

Jack moved to sit by the side of the bed, when you heard movement you opened your eyes, looking at him.

“Hey, Sweetheart" He said softly.

"Hi” was your response, followed by a yawn.

“Tired, are we?"

A groan left your lips “You have no idea"

“Good news, we can fix you up by popping your shoulder back in place" He informed you “No broken bones"

“That sounds painful, though"

His expression softened even more, if that was possible "We'll give you something for the pain. You will only feel a mild discomfort”

You only hummed, already feeling too tired to speak.

“Who did your stitches?" He asked you, tilting your head to observe the work.

"Dr. Crus” you replied "I didn't feel a thing"

He nodded satisfied with the work of the stitches “Good, that's good"

"So you'll pop back my shoulder and I can leave?” You asked hopefully, really wanting to go home and sleep.

“I don't think so" He replied instantly, watching your displeased frown “I know your family doesn't live close by and you can't go around all by yourself like this, the shoulder will take a few weeks to heal"

You pursed your lips, you were used to be independent and Jack knew it “Then what does that mean? That I have to ask my parents to come watch me as if I'm a child?"

He shook his head "I could help you, take care of you” Jack proposed softly “That is, if you want. But for the rest of the night I was thinking you spend it here and I'll drive you home after my shift"

"I don't want to spend the rest of the night in the hospital” You grimaced.

"Well, you can't go home by yourself. I'm your best option right now”

You let out a huff, acting a bit like a child but you were not happy with the whole way your day was going.

He tapped your forehead playfully, wanting to see that frown turn into a smile. You shot him a glare, not entirely pissed with him but partly.

“You'll get wrinkles" He teased you softly.

“Good"

"Sweetheart” Jack leveled his gaze to find yours, his face warm and kind "I know it's not ideal but it'll only be a few hours that you will spend sleeping”

"I will try to make my escape” You murmured with a frown.

Jack raised his eyebrows skeptically “With the meds that we're going to give you to fix the dislocation? I don't think so. You'll be drowsy"

“Keyword; try”

Despite himself, he chuckled softly “Look, my shift ends in…” he checked the clock on his wrist "Six hours. I'll buy you anything you want for breakfast if you make it that long without trying to escape"

"What about Meatball? His zoomies will kick in any moment now” You pointed at your cat.

“We'll manage" He shrugged softly.

You huffed once again “You're not letting me win this one, are you?"

He shook his head, trying to suppress a smirk, knowing you were about to give in.

“Alright, I'll wait"

"Attagirl”

…

It was a while before they were able to fix your shoulder, and Jack was right, you didn't feel a thing. Soon enough, you were sleeping comfortably with the lights off and clear instructions you were not to be bothered.

Every one of his colleagues were shooting him suggestive looks, amused with the fact that Jack seemed overly protective of you. He paid them no mind.

Jack keep working through his shift, stopping now and then to check on you and Meatball— who was laying protectively on your chest.

When it was nearing the time for hand offs, he asked Shen if he could cover, wanting to get you out of the hospital and into your apartment as soon as possible, knowing you would not be happy if you woke up and his shift had extended longer, as it was usual.

Once he set up everything to go, he woke you up, since he had already taken care of everything for discharge, he guided a sleepy you across the ED—while holding also holding Meatball— to get you seated in his truck comfortably.

You were sleepy and still drowsy thanks to the meds but you seemed in good spirits, enabling in conversation with him while holding Meatball in your lap.

Jack let you choose the food, and you decided you wanted to eat in your own comfortable home, so he decided to pick the food before getting there.

Once settled in your couch, he took it upon himself go feed Meatball before preparing you a plate of food, kind of hovering while you ate.

“I can feed myself, Jack. You don't need to hover” You murmured, taking a bite of your food.

“How's the shoulder? Any pain?"

"I'm good, stop acting like a doctor” You chided him, not being used to be fuzzed over.

“I am a doctor"

You simply rolled your eyes while letting the silence setting in.

"Jack?”

“Yes, Sweetheart?"

"Thank you for taking care of me” You said, looking firmly into his eyes.

Jack's expression melted, becoming one of pure warmth. “You have nothing to thank me for"

"I do, you're taking care of me and my cat”

He shook his head “I am doing it with pleasure, Sweetheart. You need me, I'm here. Simple as that"

You beamed at him, he was not helping your feelings towards him. "I guess we'll have to reschedule that date, huh?”

“You kidding? No more rescheduling" He shook his head “I'll cook you something special and we'll dine here”

“That's not how a first date is supposed to happen" You pointed out.

With a sigh, he moved to sit next to you, on your good side. “Don't you know?" he grabbed your chin, guiding your face towards his “I do not care about the date, I care about you"

Your breathing stuttered, seeing how close he was. “But—"

"No buts, Sweetheart” He tsk, leaning in slightly, his eyes lost in yours before glancing briefly at your lips “We will have that date, and hopefully you'll allow me to kids you"

You gulped softly "Why not kiss me now?” the words left your mouth in a whisper.

He moved to kiss your forehead tenderly "I am a gentleman. I'll wait for our date, make it special”

Jack was looking at you with bright eyes, caressing your cheek, being utterly careful of the cheek with the cut.

That got a laugh out of you, feeling your cheeks warming up. "I can't wait"

“Me neither" He whispered, looking at you with utter awe. “I want cookies once you're healed, though"

"As many as you want, Jack”

do not copy, reupload, translate or feed to artificial intelligence.

©yawnlovescookies.

[chris-tredidation21]

This is so cute 🥹🥹🥹 and OMG meatball the menace you are !!!!!!

[voidsagent]

NOBODY TOUCH ME !! THIS IS MY NEW FAVORITE PIC OF HIM !! IM CRYING HES SO CUTE— 🤧🫶🏻

[chris-tredidation21]

The smile lines, the jumper, the curls and the readers?!!?!!!

I haven't felt this way for a man EVER!!!

[perkyjackon]

THE SCREAM I SCRUM, THE BARK I BARKED IM DEAD

I am COMPLETELY FERAL about this, how dare he look SOOOOO HOT, this has awoken something so unhinged in me that i didn’t even know existed, THE LEATHER JACKET AND THE TIE, THE LUSCIOUS CURLS, THOSE HAZEL EYES, PEEPAW has never looked hotter except for in UNIFORM, u don’t understand, IM OBSESSED

also THE HANDS, the ARMS, wanna bite that ARM so bad

the doctor is in more like THE DOCTOR CAN CUM IN ME ANYTIME, peepaw isn’t pregnant but he certainly DELIVERED

being thirsty for dilfs is my full time job now

can’t write a paper to save my life BUT I CAN WRITE AN ESSAY FOR THOSE ARMS

how am i supposed to act normal now

fr tho he talks about some great points especially about how the fandom culture has now become so volatile and aggressive in terms of how we interpret characters and can turn on each other to keep our worldview instead of celebrating the character and accepting all its interpretations as multifacets of a person

[chris-tredidation21]

This man's gonna get me institutionalised istg

[satellite-evans]

favorite flower

Pairing: Jack Abbot x reader

Summary: Six years after losing your daughter, a patient reminds you and Jack that grief doesn't disappear. Sometimes it just waits for you to stop running.

Word count: 11k+

Warnings: grief/mourning, child loss, angst with comfort, suicidal thoughts

A/N:

Please mind the warnings. This fic deals with infant loss, grief, depression, and past suicidal thoughts.

Take care of yourselves.♥️

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The shift had been busy from the moment you walked through the ambulance bay doors that morning, which wasn't unusual for the PTMC.

By seven-thirty the waiting room was already overflowing. By eight there were stretchers parked in sections of the hallway that weren't technically supposed to hold stretchers, nurses negotiating impossible patient assignments, and enough monitor alarms going off at once to create their own kind of soundtrack. Someone was calling for respiratory over the intercom. A paramedic crew rolled through the department with a chest pain. A patient in triage was loudly insisting that his sprained ankle constituted a medical emergency while another complained about the wait time despite having arrived less than fifteen minutes ago.

In other words, it was a normal day.

The department ran on organized chaos, and after enough years working in emergency medicine, you'd stopped noticing most of it. The noise became background. The constant movement became routine. Even the stress settled into something familiar.

You preferred it that way.

Busy meant there wasn't time to think.

It wasn't something you admitted out loud, not even to Jack, but somewhere along the way you'd realized that exhaustion was easier to manage than silence. Silence left room for thoughts. Silence left room for memories. There were parts of your life you had spent years carefully learning how to carry, grief you had folded into neat little boxes and stacked somewhere deep inside yourself where it couldn't interfere with your ability to function. Most days you were successful. Most days you could go entire shifts without thinking about any of it.

The trick was to keep moving.

As long as there was another chart waiting to be reviewed, another patient asking for help, another crisis demanding your attention, your mind stayed where it needed to be. Focus became its own form of self-preservation.

"God, if I have to take care of one more frat boy today, I'm quitting."

Santos practically dropped into one of the empty chairs near the nurses' station, dragging a hand down her face like she'd aged ten years in the last hour.

You didn't bother looking up from your charting.

"I thought you liked that demographic."

"I like making fun of them. That's different."

You could hear the offense in her voice.

"There is nothing I like about boys. Trust me."

A laugh escaped through your nose as you continued scrolling through lab results.

"That's a strong statement."

"It's an informed statement."

Now you looked up.

"Oh?"

Santos pointed dramatically toward the waiting room.

"One more twenty-year-old with alcohol poisoning tells me he's 'built different' and I'm personally escorting him back onto the sidewalk."

"You can't do that."

"A girl can dream."

The conversation settled around you as comfortably as an old habit. One of the things nobody told you when you started working in emergency medicine was how attached you became to the people beside you. You saw each other at your worst. At three in the morning. During trauma activations. During mass casualty incidents. During the moments that broke people and the moments that saved them. Eventually your coworkers stopped feeling like coworkers and started feeling like family.

A deeply dysfunctional family, but family nonetheless.

Santos suddenly straightened in her chair.

"Oh, hey, Huckleberry."

You glanced up just in time to see Whitaker speed-walking through the department, clutching a tablet against his chest. He looked exactly like someone who knew he was already behind schedule and was desperately trying to convince everyone else otherwise.

Santos immediately lifted a chart.

"Could you take this case off me? I'd owe you a big one."

Whitaker stopped so abruptly it was almost impressive. His eyes moved from Santos to the chart and back again, his expression shifting into the same look most people reserved for unexploded explosives.

"Uh..."

"I'm hearing hesitation."

"You should be."

Santos held the chart out farther.

Whitaker actually took a step backward.

"I'm sorry, I can't. Robby's waiting for me in Trauma One."

Santos groaned.

A loud, suffering sort of groan.

"And besides," Whitaker added, already retreating down the hallway, "you already owe me. A lot."

"I'm a generous debtor."

"You're a terrible debtor."

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Whitaker disappeared around the corner before she could trap him in another conversation.

You turned back to your workstation and worked your way through a handful of charts, signed off on imaging results, answered a question from a nurse about discharge instructions, and approved a medication order without really needing to think about it. The rhythm was familiar enough that your hands often seemed to move ahead of your brain. Years in emergency medicine had a way of doing that. Eventually, after enough shifts, the workflow became muscle memory.

You were halfway through finishing a note when Dana appeared beside your workstation.

You noticed her immediately, not because she said anything, but because Dana had a way of making people notice her. Unlike most of the department, she never seemed rushed. The ER could be falling apart around her, stretchers lining the hallways, nurses getting pulled in six directions at once, residents asking questions over each other, and somehow she'd still move with the same steady confidence. You weren't entirely sure how she did it. Maybe nobody was. But there was a reason everyone looked for Dana when things got bad.

"Need you in Central Fourteen, hun."

You finished typing the sentence you'd been working on before glancing up.

"Sure. What've we got? Anything exciting?"

Dana checked the chart in her hand and snorted.

"Not unless you're excited by paperwork."

"Then definitely not."

"That's what I thought." She glanced back at the chart. "Six-year-old female. Poor thing took a tumble off the monkey bars. Forehead laceration."

You nodded automatically.

"Sounds good."

You pushed back from the workstation and stood, grabbing a pair of gloves from the dispenser mounted on the wall before heading toward Central Fourteen. Cases like this were usually straightforward. A worried parent. A frightened child trying very hard not to look frightened. Maybe a few stitches. Maybe some glue if you got lucky. A quick neurological assessment, discharge instructions, and home before dinner. The kind of patient you saw every day and rarely thought about again once the shift was over. As you made your way down the hallway toward the room, you didn't give the chart another thought. It sounded routine. Ordinary. The sort of case that blended into all the others by the end of the day.

At least, that's what you thought as you pushed open the door to Central Fourteen.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, alcohol wipes, and the unmistakable sweetness of grape popsicles.

The little girl sitting on the exam bed looked entirely unimpressed by her circumstances. Dried blood streaked down the side of her forehead, disappearing into blonde hair where a jagged laceration hid just beyond her hairline. Judging by the amount of blood staining her shirt and cheeks, the injury had probably looked much worse when it happened. Head wounds usually did. They bled dramatically, terrified parents, and then ended up requiring little more than a few stitches and a cartoon bandage.

Her mother, however, clearly hadn't gotten that memo.

She sat rigidly beside her daughter, one hand wrapped around the girl's ankle as if letting go might somehow make things worse. Her eyes kept darting to the cut, then to the monitor, then back to the cut again. Every few seconds she opened her mouth as though she wanted to ask another question before deciding against it. The little girl seemed significantly less concerned. If anything, she looked bored, which was usually how these visits went. Parents came into the emergency department imagining worst-case scenarios. Kids came in wondering how quickly they could leave.

You stepped into the room and offered a smile.

"Hi there."

Both of them looked up.

The mother immediately straightened.

The little girl barely moved.

"I'm Dr. Abbot, one of the attendings here. Mind if I take a look?"

The girl's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Am I getting stitches?"

The question came so quickly that you almost laughed.

Straight to business.

You crouched slightly so you were more at her eye level before answering.

"I'm afraid so, sweetie." You gave her an apologetic look.

She groaned dramatically and let her head fall back against the bed.

"Oh, come on."

Her mother sighed. "Honey."

"What?" the girl complained. "Nobody likes stitches."

"That's true."

She immediately pointed at you.

"See? She gets it."

You bit back a smile while her mother shook her head.

"I'm sorry. She's been talking nonstop since we got here."

"I'm not talking right now."

The look her mother gave her was enough to make the girl grin, and that finally earned a genuine laugh from you. The tension that had been hanging over the room since you walked in eased almost immediately. The mother's shoulders relaxed a little, and the little girl looked entirely too pleased with herself for successfully making a doctor laugh. Kids had a way of doing that. No matter how frightened the adults around them were, they somehow found a way to make things lighter.

You stepped closer to the bed and gently parted her hair, getting a better look at the laceration. It was a decent cut and definitely deep enough to need sutures, but otherwise she looked good. No active bleeding. No obvious skull deformity. She was alert, interactive, answering questions appropriately, and arguing with her mother, which was usually one of the most reassuring neurological signs you could ask for in a six-year-old.

"Okay," you said as you examined the wound. "Tell me what happened."

"I fell."

You nodded seriously.

"Excellent explanation."

The little girl beamed.

"I fell off the monkey bars."

"That makes a little more sense."

"I told her not to climb up the outside," her mother added.

"I didn't climb."

"You absolutely climbed."

The girl considered this carefully.

"Okay. Technically I climbed."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself as you continued the exam.

"Were you knocked out at all?"

The girl's eyes widened.

"No."

"Any vomiting?"

"Ew. No."

"Headache?"

"A little."

Her mother immediately leaned forward.

"She said it was worse in the waiting room."

The little girl rolled her eyes so dramatically it was almost impressive.

"Moooom."

"What?"

"It's because I hit my head."

"I know, sweetheart."

You couldn't help noticing the way her mother's hand automatically moved to smooth her hair back from her face. The gesture was completely instinctive, the sort of thing parents did without thinking about it. Protective. Familiar. A physical expression of love so ingrained it barely required thought.

"Everything you're telling me sounds reassuring," you said gently. "I don't see any signs that make me worried about a serious head injury. We'll clean the wound, numb the area, put in a few stitches, and make sure you're feeling okay before you head home."

The relief on her mother's face was immediate.

"Oh, thank God."

"Told you," the little girl said proudly.

Her mother laughed weakly and shook her head.

For a moment, the room felt warm. Normal. Familiar. Just another worried parent and another child who was far more concerned about missing recess than getting stitches. It was the sort of interaction you saw every day in emergency medicine, and standing there beside the bed, listening to the little girl chatter while her mother worried enough for both of them, everything felt reassuringly ordinary.

Satisfied, you stepped over to the computer to update the chart. Your fingers moved automatically across the keyboard while your mind stayed focused on the next steps. The wound would need irrigation, local anesthetic, a handful of simple interrupted sutures, and discharge instructions. Routine. The sort of case you saw several times a week and usually forgot before your shift was over.

Then your eyes landed on the demographic information.

Lily Allison.

Age: 6 years.

You stared at the screen.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

As if the words might rearrange themselves if you looked long enough.

Your throat tightened.

The cursor blinked patiently in the corner of the chart while the rest of the emergency department moved around you, utterly unaware that the ground had just shifted beneath your feet.

Lily.

Six years old.

You hadn't heard that name spoken outside your own head in years. Not really. Not beyond the quiet conversations you and Jack occasionally had in the dark when neither of you could sleep. Not beyond birthdays that nobody else remembered and anniversaries that existed only for the two of you. The grief had become private over the years. Carefully folded. Carefully contained. Most people probably assumed it was gone.

Most people were wrong.

The daughter you never brought home still existed in every corner of your life.

She existed in the way you automatically calculated her age every year without meaning to. She existed in the nursery that had sat untouched for months because neither of you could bear to dismantle it. She existed in the tiny hospital bracelet tucked inside a drawer that you had never once considered throwing away. She existed in the silence that settled between you and Jack every year on her birthday. She existed in every version of the future you had imagined and every version that never happened.

And now her name was staring back at you from a patient chart.

Lily.

Six years old.

For a moment, all you could do was stare at the screen. The realization didn't hit like a sudden blow. It settled into you slowly, heavily, the way a storm settles over a landscape, until suddenly there was no part of the sky untouched by it. You'd wondered what she might have looked like at six. Wondered what kind of laugh she would've had. Whether she would've inherited Jack's eyes or your smile. Whether she would've liked soccer or dance lessons or dinosaurs or books.

But six had never felt real before.

Now it did.

Because six wasn't an idea anymore. Six was sitting ten feet away from you on an exam bed with dried blood in her hair and grass stains on her sneakers. Six was arguing with her mother about monkey bars and insisting she didn't need stitches. Six had a teacher she apparently disagreed with on a daily basis. Six had favorite games and best friends and stories about recess.

Six had become a person.

And all at once, the future you and Jack had lost stopped feeling abstract too.

Your daughter should have been six years old.

The thought came quietly, but it cut deeper than anything else.

She should have been talking too much. She should have been asking impossible questions from the back seat of the car and leaving crayons in places crayons had no business being. She should have been bringing home drawings that looked nothing like what they were supposed to be and insisting they belonged on the refrigerator. She should have been losing teeth and scraping knees and complaining about homework. She should have been doing all the ordinary things that parents spent years taking for granted.

Instead, all you had were guesses.

You would never know what her laugh sounded like.

You would never know if she was shy or stubborn or fearless.

You would never know whether she would've loved animals or hated vegetables or driven both you and Jack absolutely insane.

That was the part grief never warned you about.

People talked about losing birthdays and holidays and milestones. They talked about anniversaries and empty nurseries and all the obvious things. Nobody talked about the smaller losses. The ordinary Tuesdays. The school pickup lines. The forgotten lunchboxes. The soccer games you complained about attending while secretly loving every second of them.

Nobody talked about how grief stole an entire lifetime of tiny moments.

And somehow those were the things that hurt the most.

Without realizing it, your gaze drifted back toward the bed. Lily was still talking, still smiling, completely unaware that she'd just cracked open a part of you that had spent years trying to heal. Her mother reached over and smoothed her hair back again, that same unconscious gesture you'd noticed earlier, and the sight nearly undid you.

Because suddenly you weren't jealous of the milestones.

You were jealous of that.

Of the hand automatically reaching out.

Of knowing how your child liked her sandwiches cut.

Of helping with homework.

Of arguing about bedtime.

Of all the thousands of small moments that added up to a life together.

Lily was in the middle of explaining some elaborate disagreement she'd had with a teacher over whether "speed walking aggressively" counted as running. Her mother looked exhausted. You almost smiled.

Almost.

Then reality reasserted itself.

You weren't standing in a nursery six years ago. You weren't sitting at home imagining what might have been. You were standing in an emergency department with a patient who needed you. There was a frightened mother depending on your reassurance and a little girl waiting for her doctor to stop staring at a computer screen.

So you inhaled slowly, forced the grief back behind the walls you'd spent years building, and reminded yourself of the role you had to play.

A patient didn't need a grieving mother.

She needed a doctor.

You returned to the bedside and slipped back into the familiar rhythm of medicine. Lily launched immediately into another story, this one involving recess,  and soccer. You nodded at the appropriate moments while reassessing her neurological status, checking her pupils once more and asking follow-up questions. From the outside, nothing had changed. You were still the same attending physician you'd been fifteen minutes ago. Calm. Attentive. Focused.

Inside, it felt as though you were trying to hold back a flood with your bare hands.

Every word out of Lily's mouth seemed to catch on something raw. Not because she was doing anything wrong, but because she was doing everything right. She was exactly what six years old was supposed to look like. Curious. Talkative. Dramatic. Entirely convinced that whatever happened at recess constituted breaking news. She had stories and opinions and little frustrations that would be forgotten by next week but felt enormous today.

She had a life.

You focused on the medicine because medicine made sense. Medicine had steps. Logic. Structure. The laceration was straightforward. No loss of consciousness. No vomiting. No concerning neurological findings. A simple forehead wound that would need irrigation and a few sutures before she went home. You explained the procedure to her mother, reviewed the risks, answered questions, and prepared the supplies while Lily watched with the suspicious concentration of a child trying very hard to pretend she wasn't nervous.

"Will I have a scar?"

You glanced up from the suture tray.

"Maybe a small one."

Instead of looking upset, she seemed delighted.

"My friend Tyler has one."

"Oh yeah?"

"He says it makes him look dangerous."

Despite everything, a smile tugged at your mouth.

The girl grinned back.

For one terrible moment, your mind filled in the blanks it had spent six years trying not to imagine. A little girl with Jack's eyes. Dark curls that refused to behave. A gap-toothed grin. Tiny sneakers kicked off in the hallway. Construction-paper artwork hanging crookedly on the refrigerator because neither of you could bear to throw it away.

The image felt so real it hurt.

Your hand faltered slightly while positioning the needle driver.

Only a fraction of a second.

Years of practice corrected the movement immediately, and nobody noticed. Lily certainly didn't. She was too busy informing her mother about her friend Sally.

But your chest ached.

With every stitch you placed, the grief seemed to sink a little deeper. Not because it was growing, but because it was being disturbed. Like sediment at the bottom of a river, untouched for years until something came along and stirred it up again, clouding everything around it.

By the time you tied the final knot and applied the dressing, you felt hollowed out.

"All done."

Lily blinked. "That's it?"

You smiled despite yourself. "That's it."

Her eyes widened. "I didn't even cry."

"No sweetie," you said softly. "You didn't."

You removed your gloves and turned toward Lily's mother. The rest came automatically. Wound care instructions. Concussion precautions. Watch for worsening headaches, vomiting, confusion, unusual sleepiness, or anything that seemed different from her normal behavior. Her mother listened carefully, nodding along as relief slowly replaced the fear she'd walked into the department carrying.

"So she should be okay?"

You glanced toward Lily, who was already proudly inspecting her bandage. "She should be just fine."

The woman let out a breath that sounded like she'd been holding it for hours. "Oh, thank God."

"Told you," Lily said immediately.

A small laugh escaped her mother before she shook her head and gathered their things. When she looked back at you, her eyes were shining with gratitude.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Really."

"Of course."

The woman thanked you once more before guiding Lily toward the door. Just before leaving, the little girl turned around and waved enthusiastically.

"Bye, Dr. Abbot."

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You forced yourself to smile.

"Bye, Lily."

The door clicked shut behind them.

For a long moment, you simply stood there staring at it.

The room wasn't silent. Hospitals were never silent.

Life continued exactly as it always did. And yet, the absence left behind by one little girl felt deafening.

You weren't sure how long you stood there staring at the closed door before Dana appeared in the room.

"Hey, hun."

The sound of her voice startled you enough that you turned too quickly. It felt almost guilty, as though she'd caught you doing something you weren't supposed to be doing, even though all you'd done was stand there long after your patient had left. Dana's eyes immediately moved over your face. Not in an obvious way. Not the way most people looked when they were trying to figure out what was wrong. It was quicker than that. More practiced. Years of running an emergency department had taught her how to assess people almost as efficiently as she assessed patients.

She held up the chart in her hand.

"Need you in Trauma Two."

The words were completely ordinary. A normal request on a normal shift. You'd heard her say it dozens of times a day. You nodded immediately, grateful for the excuse to move.

"Okay. Sure. Yeah."

You stepped toward the door and reached for the chart.

Dana didn't hand it over.

That was what made you stop.

When you finally looked up, she was still watching you.

Dana had worked beside you for years. Long enough to know the difference between tired and exhausted, between stressed and overwhelmed. She knew what you looked like after a bad trauma, after a difficult death notification, after one of those shifts that seemed determined to break everyone involved. Whatever she was seeing now clearly didn't fit into any of those categories.

"Everything okay, hun?"

The answer arrived automatically.

"Fine."

You barely thought about it. The word had become instinctive over the years. Fine was easier than explaining. Easier than trying to describe how a six-year-old girl with a playground injury had somehow managed to drag you backward through six years of grief. Easier than admitting that for the last hour it had felt like somebody had reached into your chest and reopened a wound you'd spent years learning how to live around.

Dana didn't look convinced.

Her gaze drifted past you toward the computer still glowing beside the bed. You watched her eyes move across the chart, toward the patient's information at the top of the screen, and saw the exact moment understanding settled over her face.

"Oh."

The single syllable landed harder than it should have.

You hated that word because it meant she understood. It meant someone else could see the connection. It meant this wasn't something you could dismiss as a bad moment or an overreaction. It was real.

For a few seconds neither of you spoke. When Dana looked back at you, there was so much sympathy in her expression that you immediately had to look away. "I didn't even notice that, sweetie," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."

And somehow that was worse than seeing Lily's name on the chart.

It wasn't the memories that threatened to undo you.

It was the kindness.

The quiet understanding in Dana's voice. The fact that she wasn't asking questions or demanding explanations. She simply knew. And kindness had always been dangerous when you were barely holding yourself together, because it made it harder to hide. Harder to keep all the broken pieces contained behind professionalism and routine.

"You need five minutes?"

You shook your head before she even finished speaking.

"No."

The answer came too quickly, too sharp.

Because five minutes meant stopping, and stopping meant thinking. It meant sitting still long enough for everything you'd been holding back all afternoon to finally catch up with you. You knew exactly what would happen if you gave yourself permission to breathe. The carefully constructed walls you'd spent years building would crack, and there were still patients waiting to be seen.

Dana studied you for another moment. You could practically see the argument forming behind her eyes, the concern, the temptation to push a little harder. But Dana understood emergency medicine. She understood the stubbornness of people who spent their lives taking care of everyone except themselves.

Eventually she nodded.

"Okay. Whatever you want."

The words weren't dismissive. They were an offer. A reminder that if you changed your mind, she'd still be there.

Then she handed you the chart and let you go.

So you went to Trauma Two.

And then another room.

And then another.

For the next three hours, you became exactly what the job required you to be. You reviewed labs, returned pages, started IVs, called consultants, explained treatment plans, and helped Robby intubate a patient. You taught a medical student how to work through a differential diagnosis. You reassured nervous family members. You cracked the occasional joke when someone looked frightened enough to need one.

Twice your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You already knew who it was before checking.

Jack.

Both times you silenced it without opening the messages.

Not because you didn't want to talk to him. The truth was exactly the opposite. You wanted to hear his voice so badly it hurt. You wanted him to tell you it was okay. Wanted him to wrap his arms around you and somehow make sense of a day that refused to make sense.

But you knew yourself too well.

The second you heard his voice, everything you were holding together would finally fall apart.

From the outside, you were functioning perfectly.

Inside, every spare second was spent fighting against memories that kept trying to surface. The delivery room. The silence afterward. The impossibly small blanket. Jack's hand wrapped around yours so tightly it hurt. The unbearable weight of walking out of a hospital carrying flowers and paperwork instead of your daughter.

Nobody would have guessed that every quiet moment felt dangerous. Santos certainly wouldn't have spent the afternoon making inappropriate jokes if she'd known what was happening inside your head, and Javadi probably would've stopped peppering you with questions every time she spotted you in the hallway. To everyone else, you looked exactly the same. Competent. Calm. Busy. Just another attending making it through another shift.

The problem was that every time the department gave you even a second to breathe, your mind drifted right back to Central Fourteen.

Back to Lily.

Back to the missing front tooth and the dried blood in her hair. Back to the way she'd smiled after the stitches were done, proud of herself for not crying. Back to her mother's hand automatically reaching out to smooth her hair away from her face.

And beneath those memories waited older ones.

Every time one of those memories surfaced, you shoved it away and focused on the next task in front of you. Review the labs. Call the consultant. Reassess the patient in South Seven. Answer the page. Sign the orders. Do something. Anything. As long as you kept moving, you could stay ahead of it.

For a while, the strategy worked.

Emergency medicine had always rewarded motion. There was always another patient waiting, another problem demanding your attention. Grief struggled to compete with a department that never stopped moving.

But eventually the shift slowed. The waiting room was still full. Patients were still arriving. Nurses were still moving through the hallways with armfuls of supplies and half-finished conversations. The emergency department was still alive.

There was just a little more space between crises.

A little more room to think.

And that was the problem.

Because the moment there was space to think, there was space to feel.

You found yourself walking before you consciously decided where you were going. One minute you were standing at a workstation reviewing a chart, and the next you were moving through the department on instinct. Past the nurses' station.

You didn't stop to question it.

Some part of you had already made the decision.

By the time you pushed open the rooftop door, your chest physically ached from holding everything in. The cool evening air hit your face immediately, carrying the distant sounds of traffic from the streets below.

Normally the roof helped.

Normally it gave you enough distance from the chaos downstairs to breathe again. A few minutes alone, a little fresh air, and then you could go back down and finish the shift.

Not tonight.

Tonight there was nothing left to distract you.

No patients waiting for answers.

No charts demanding signatures.

No monitors alarming.

No pages interrupting your thoughts.

Just silence.

And grief.

For six years, you'd learned how to live around it. You'd learned how to carry it to work, how to laugh despite it, how to build an entire life around an absence that never really left. Most days you were successful. Most days the grief stayed where you'd put it.

But grief was patient.

It didn't disappear just because you got better at avoiding it.

It waited.

And the moment you finally stopped running, it caught up.

By the time Jack walked through the ambulance bay entrance for his night shift, he already felt exhausted.

Not the kind of exhaustion that came from long hours or too many patients. He could handle that. This was older than that. Deeper. Sleep had been a problem for years now, long before the Pitt.

Afghanistan had taken care of whatever normal relationship he might have had with sleep.

The nightmares had changed over the years, but they had never disappeared completely. Some nights, he woke up convinced he could still hear explosions. Other nights, he reached for a leg that wasn't there anymore. Therapy had helped. Time had helped. Experience had helped. But some things never fully leave you.

Losing Lily had added an entirely different category of nightmare.

For a long time, he thought he'd experienced every kind of pain a man could endure. He'd survived a war. Lost friends.  Lost his wife. Lost part of himself. Watched relationships fall apart. Spent months rebuilding a life he hadn't been sure he wanted anymore.

None of it came close.

There was something uniquely cruel about losing a child because there was nowhere for the grief to go. It settled inside you and stayed there. It changed the shape of everything around it.

The hardest part hadn't even been his own grief.

It had been watching yours.

Jack still remembered those first months with painful clarity. He remembered waking up in the middle of the night to find your side of the bed empty. Sometimes he'd discover you standing in the nursery doorway, staring into the darkness. Sometimes you were sitting on the floor beside the crib, crying so quietly he almost couldn't hear it.

Other nights were worse.

There were nights when you'd wake up screaming. Nights when he had to shake you awake because you were trapped somewhere inside a dream. Nights when you'd cling to him afterward so tightly it felt like you were afraid he'd disappear too.

Even now, years later, those memories stayed with him.

In fact, they had become their own kind of nightmare.

Because every time he thought about Lily, he thought about you.

About the way your smile had disappeared for months.

About how laughter had become something you had to relearn.

About how every pregnancy announcement from a friend became a battle neither of you discussed afterward.

Therapy had helped eventually. More than either of you wanted to admit at the time.

When your therapist first suggested switching to day shifts so the two of you weren't constantly orbiting the same grief twenty-four hours a day, Jack had thought it was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard.

"You want us to spend less time together?" he'd asked.

"No," she'd replied patiently. "I want you to learn how to exist outside of this loss."

At the time, he'd hated her for saying it.

Looking back, she had probably saved both of you.

The automatic doors slid shut behind him as he entered the department. The familiar sounds of the ER immediately surrounded him.

"Hey."

Dana looked up from the nurses' station.

"Hey."

Jack dropped his bag beside a workstation and glanced around.

"Is Robby gone already?"

"No. He's talking with a patient's family."

Jack nodded absently, but his eyes kept moving through the department.

It wasn't even conscious anymore. After all these years, one of the first things he always did when he came in was look for you. Sometimes he'd catch a glimpse of you halfway down a hallway. Sometimes you'd already be buried in a patient room. Occasionally, you'd be sitting at a computer pretending to chart while actually scrolling through your phone.

Tonight, though, you weren't anywhere.

Dana noticed immediately.

Of course she did.

"Your wife's upstairs."

Jack's gaze snapped back to her.

Something in her voice made his stomach tighten.

It was subtle. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed it. But he'd worked with Dana for too long. He knew her rhythms. Knew the difference between casual information and information she was carefully choosing how to deliver.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Jack had worked with Dana long enough to know when she was choosing her words carefully, and the hesitation alone was enough to make something tighten in his chest. Dana wasn't someone who danced around bad news. She didn't soften things unless she thought the person standing in front of her genuinely needed it.

"Everything okay?" he asked quietly.

Dana looked down at the chart in her hands before answering. "There was a kid today. Playground fall. Nothing serious."

Jack waited.

Something in her expression told him that wasn't the important part.

"The kid's name was Lily."

The air seemed to leave his lungs.

Dana didn't need to explain why that mattered. She didn't need to remind him of a little girl neither of them had ever gotten to watch grow up. She didn't need to explain why his wife had disappeared to the roof instead of heading home after her shift. Still, after a moment, she added softly, "She was six, Jack."

His jaw tightened immediately.

Six.

His daughter would have been six years old.

The thought arrived with the same brutal certainty it always did, the same way it showed up every birthday, every Christmas, every first day of school season when parents filled social media with photographs of backpacks and oversized smiles. Six years old. Old enough to lose baby teeth. Old enough to read simple books. Old enough to come home from school excited about friends and teachers and playground drama. Old enough to be a person. Not just a memory. Not just a name. A child. A little girl who should have existed.

Jack looked away and rubbed a hand across his jaw, trying to push down the familiar ache rising in his chest. He wasn't thinking about the patient. He wasn't picturing some random six-year-old who had fallen off playground equipment. He was picturing you standing in that room, looking down at that chart, seeing the name, seeing the age, and feeling six years of carefully buried grief suddenly crack open beneath your feet. Because he knew exactly how your mind worked. He knew you would've smiled at the patient, reassured the mother, repaired the laceration, and done everything right. You would've been calm and professional because that's what you always were. And all the while, you would've been imagining the life your daughter never got to have.

"How bad?" he finally asked.

Dana's expression softened immediately. Not because of the patient. Because she knew exactly who he was asking about.

"She made it through the shift, which is honestly a miracle. Poor thing was like a walking ghost."

The answer hurt more than Jack expected because he understood exactly what it meant. It meant you'd spent hours pretending to be okay. You'd smiled at patients, answered pages, reviewed charts, taught students, and handled emergencies while carrying around a grief that had probably been tearing you apart from the inside. You'd done what doctors always did. You'd put everyone else first. You'd survived the shift.

But surviving and being okay had never been the same thing.

Without another word, he turned and headed straight upstairs.

The rooftop door creaked shut behind him.

Jack didn't move immediately. He stood near the entrance for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the fading evening light as he searched the rooftop. It didn't take long to find you.

You were standing at the far end, facing the city.

The skyline stretched endlessly before you, washed in gold and blue from the setting sun. Traffic crawled through the streets below, headlights beginning to flicker on as evening settled over Pittsburgh. The city was alive, moving forward the way it always did.

You weren't.

Your arms were wrapped tightly around yourself, shoulders hunched slightly against the wind. From where he stood, you looked small. Not physically. There was just something about grief that shrank people, made them curl inward around pain that nobody else could see. Jack felt his chest tighten because he knew that posture. He'd seen it before.

For a second, he wasn't standing on a hospital roof. He was standing in the doorway of the nursery six years ago, watching you stare into a crib neither of you could bear to dismantle. You hadn't been crying then either. That was the thing most people never understood. The moments that scared him most weren't the ones when you cried. They were the quiet ones. The moments when you became so still, it was like all the life had drained out of you.

Before Lily, you'd never been quiet.

You'd been loud laughter in grocery store aisles. Terrible singing in the car. Endless conversations that jumped from one subject to another so quickly he could barely keep up. You'd always been moving, always talking, always filling every room you entered with energy. Then one day, that woman disappeared, and Jack spent months wondering if she'd ever come back.

She had, eventually.

Mostly.

But there were still days like this.

You must have heard the rooftop door because your head tilted slightly, acknowledging his presence without actually turning around. You already knew it was him.

Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his scrub pants and started walking toward you. He didn't rush. After everything you'd survived together, he'd learned that grief couldn't be rushed. Sometimes the best thing he could do was simply show up and wait for you to let him in.

When he was close enough, he looked out at the city beside you and said, "You know, there are easier ways to avoid answering my texts."

The joke was weak, but intentional.

For a few seconds, you didn't respond. Then he heard you let out a small breath.

"I wasn't answering anyone's texts."

The roughness in your voice immediately told him what he needed to know. You'd been crying for a while.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Dana filled me in."

That was all he said. That was all he needed to say.

Jack stopped beside the railing, leaving just enough space between you that it didn't feel suffocating. One of the things grief had taught both of you was that comfort wasn't always touch. Sometimes comfort was simply presence. Knowing somebody was willing to stand beside you in the dark without demanding you come out of it immediately.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The silence wasn't awkward. It had never been between the two of you. Jack had always loved that about your relationship. He never needed to perform around you. Never needed to fill every quiet moment with conversation. The two of you could stand together without speaking and still understand exactly what the other was feeling.

Eventually, he glanced sideways.

Your eyes were fixed on the horizon, red and swollen from crying. It wasn't the tears that hurt to see. He'd seen you cry before. What hurt was the exhaustion. The defeated look on your face. The expression of someone who had spent hours fighting a battle they couldn't win.

"You should've called me."

The words came out before he could stop them.

You laughed softly, but there wasn't any humor in it.

"Why?"

Jack frowned.

"Because."

You looked at him for the first time.

"Because what?"

"Because I would've come."

The answer was immediate. No hesitation. No uncertainty. As if there had never been any other possible outcome.

Something in your expression cracked at that.

When you finally broke the silence, your voice was so quiet he almost missed it.

"She smiled."

Jack looked over at you.

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

"That's the stupid part. The name hurt. Seeing her age hurt. But I could handle that. I thought I could handle that." Your fingers tightened around your arms. "Then she smiled and I just kept thinking..." You stopped, swallowing hard. "God, our daughter could've smiled like that."

Jack looked away toward the city.

The pain in your voice was familiar. Not because he'd heard those exact words before, but because he'd lived with that same thought for years. There were moments when the grief was manageable, when it sat quietly in the background and let you both function. Then there were moments when something completely ordinary would rip it open again.

A little girl in a grocery store.

A first day of school picture.

A family at a restaurant.

You wiped at your face, frustrated by the tears that refused to stop.

"I just kept looking at her. Every time she talked, every time she rolled her eyes at her mom, every time she laughed, I kept wondering what Lily would've been like."

Your voice cracked around your daughter's name.

"I know she wasn't our daughter. I know that. But I couldn't stop comparing them."

"You don't have to explain that to me."

The answer came immediately.

You looked over at him.

Jack was still staring out at the city, jaw tight, hands shoved into his pockets.

"I've done the same thing."

You blinked.

"What?"

He let out a humorless laugh.

"You think you're the only one?"

For a moment he shook his head, almost embarrassed by the admission.

"There are times I'll see a kid somewhere and immediately start doing the math. Every birthday. Every Christmas. Every school year." He rubbed a hand across his face. "Hell, sometimes I don't even realize I'm doing it."

You stared at him.

Because Jack didn't talk about this.

Not often.

Not unless you dragged it out of him.

The silence stretched between you before he continued.

"I still wonder what she'd look like."

The confession sounded strange coming from him. Vulnerable in a way that felt almost rare.

"I still wonder if she'd have your smile." A small smile appeared briefly at the corner of his mouth. "Or your attitude."

You snorted despite yourself.

"My attitude?"

"Absolutely your attitude."

The smile disappeared as quickly as it came.

"I wonder if she'd like soccer. Or music. Or if she'd hate school." His eyes remained fixed on the horizon. "I wonder if she'd be smart enough to get into trouble and talk her way out of it."

A lump formed in your throat.

Because those weren't hypothetical thoughts.

They were thoughts he'd clearly had before.

Many times.

Thoughts he'd carried by himself.

"I thought I was doing better," you admitted quietly.

Jack finally turned toward you.

"You are."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"No." His voice softened. "It feels like today hurt."

You looked down.

"I spent six years trying not to think about what we missed."

Jack nodded slowly.

"I know."

"And then she walked into that room and suddenly all I could think about was everything our daughter never got."

The words spilled out before you could stop them.

"First grade. Birthday parties. Soccer games. School pictures. Stupid arguments about bedtime. All those little things everyone complains about." Your voice trembled. "We would've loved those things."

Jack's eyes burned.

Because you were right.

You would've.

You would've complained and laughed and argued over homework and worried about report cards. You would've picked her up from school, taken hundreds of pictures, and embarrassed her in front of her friends.

You would've had a daughter.

Instead, all either of you had were imagined versions of a little girl who never got the chance to grow up.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The wind tugged gently at your hair as you stared out at the city below. You closed your eyes for a moment and let the cool air wash over your face. Your chest still hurt. It felt like it had been hurting all day. Maybe longer than that.

Eventually, Jack stepped closer.

Not because he thought he could fix any of it. The two of you had learned that lesson years ago. There were some wounds love couldn't heal and some losses that never became smaller no matter how much time passed. After everything you'd survived together, Jack understood that sometimes the only thing you could offer another person was your presence. A reminder that they weren't carrying the weight alone.

His hand found yours automatically.

The gesture was so familiar neither of you seemed to think about it anymore. Your fingers slipped between his without hesitation, settling into a place they'd been finding for years. There was something painfully comforting about it. Six years later and your body still reached for him whenever things got bad. Six years later and his hand still closed around yours as though it belonged there.

"I miss her too," he said quietly.

The words nearly undid you.

Not because they were profound. They weren't.

There was no attempt to make things better. No reassurance. No careful speech about healing or moving forward. Just the truth. Simple and devastating in a way only truth could be.

I miss her too.

For a moment, neither of you looked at each other. You simply stood there holding hands while tears burned behind your eyes. Jack squeezed your fingers once, and somehow that hurt almost as much as the words.

You stared out at the city for so long that he was beginning to think the conversation was over when a quiet laugh escaped you.

It wasn't really a laugh.

More like a breath that got lost on its way out.

Jack immediately glanced over.

"What?"

You shook your head.

"Nothing."

His eyebrow lifted.

"That's never reassuring."

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched.

"Why?"

"Because every time somebody says 'nothing,' it's followed by something that's definitely not nothing."

For a second, you almost smiled.

Then the feeling disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

Your gaze dropped to your joined hands. Jack's thumb was moving absentmindedly across your knuckles, tracing the same small pattern he'd been tracing for years without ever seeming to realize it. The familiarity of it made your chest ache.

Because this was the part nobody saw.

The years afterward.

The thousands of tiny ways the two of you had kept each other alive.

You swallowed hard.

"I never told you something."

The change in your voice was immediate.

Jack straightened slightly.

"What is it?"

The question was gentle, but you could already see concern settling into his expression.

You looked away.

Suddenly the words felt impossible.

They had lived inside you for six years. Six years of therapy, sleepless nights, anniversaries, birthdays, and somehow you'd never said them out loud. Maybe because saying them would make them real. Maybe because part of you still felt ashamed of them.

But after today, after Lily and the missing front tooth and the smile you couldn't stop thinking about, you weren't sure you could keep carrying it by yourself anymore.

"After we lost Lily..." Your voice caught. "Those first few months were bad."

The moment the words left your mouth, Jack's expression changed.

Not because he disagreed.

Because he remembered.

God, he remembered.

There were entire stretches of those months that had blurred together over time, but some memories never faded. The nursery. The sleepless nights. The endless silence that seemed to fill every room of the apartment. The way both of you kept pretending you were okay because the other person looked worse. The way grief had transformed your home into a place neither of you wanted to be but couldn't bear to leave.

You laughed weakly and wiped at your eyes.

"I was sitting in her room one night."

The memory felt painfully clear.

You could still see the moonlight coming through the window. Still remember sitting in the rocking chair staring at a crib that would never be used.

"And I remember thinking..." Your throat tightened. "God, I remember thinking it wasn't fair that she was gone and I was still here."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

You didn't wipe it away.

For a second neither of you moved.

Jack was looking at you now.

Really looking at you.

The way he did when he knew something important was coming and was almost afraid to hear it.

Your voice dropped to a whisper.

"I thought about joining her."

For a moment, Jack didn't react at all.

The silence stretched between you.

You could actually see the impact of the confession settling over him, could see the exact second it landed. It was like watching the air leave his lungs. His face didn't change immediately. He didn't interrupt. Didn't argue. Didn't rush to reassure you.

He just looked at you.

Heartbroken.

As though six years later he'd discovered there was still a piece of your pain he'd never known existed.

"I never had a plan," you said quickly. "I wasn't going to do anything. It wasn't like that. Or maybe it was, I don't know."

Your voice cracked and you looked away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

"I was just so tired, Jack."

The words felt inadequate. Ridiculous, even. How were you supposed to explain that kind of exhaustion to someone who had lived through it beside you? Every morning began the same way. For a few brief seconds after waking up, there would be peace. Then reality would return. Lily was gone. She was still gone. She was going to stay gone. And you would have to survive another day knowing it.

"I'd wake up and have to remember all over again," you said quietly. "Every single day. There were mornings when I genuinely didn't know how to keep doing it."

Jack didn't respond. He closed his eyes instead, and you knew exactly where he'd gone. Back to that apartment. Back to those months neither of you ever talked about anymore. Months that felt blurred together now except for the parts that didn't. The nursery. The sleepless nights. The sound of the shower running because it was the only place you could cry without feeling watched. The way grief settled over everything until even breathing felt like work.

Neither of you had survived those months gracefully. There was nothing noble about it. The two of you had stumbled through them half-broken, taking turns falling apart and pretending you weren't. Looking back, it felt less like surviving and more like refusing to die.

When Jack finally opened his eyes again, there was so much pain in them that it made your throat tighten.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

The question wasn't angry. If he'd been angry, you would've known what to do with it. Anger could be defended against. Anger had somewhere to go. This sounded heartbroken, and somehow that hurt more.

A shaky laugh escaped you.

"Look at you."

Jack frowned immediately.

"What does that mean?"

"It means you were barely holding yourself together too."

Your eyes dropped to your joined hands.

"I remember those months, Jack. I remember waking up in the middle of the night and checking if you'd slept at all. I remember finding you sitting in the garage for hours because you thought I didn't notice."

His mouth twitched.

"I was being subtle."

"You were absolutely not being subtle."

For a second, something almost resembling a smile passed between you before disappearing again. The memories were already there, crowding the space. The apartment that had become too quiet. The nursery neither of you could bear to touch. The endless cycle of pretending you were okay because the other person looked worse. You trying to protect him from your grief while he tried to protect you from his. Both of you failing. Both of you loving each other enough to keep trying anyway.

"You stopped eating," you continued softly. "You'd sit at the table and push food around your plate for twenty minutes and call it dinner. I'd wake up at three in the morning and find you staring at the ceiling or sitting on the couch in the dark."

Jack looked away.

"You looked at me like I was going to disappear."

The confession slipped out before you could stop it.

His jaw tightened immediately because he knew it was true. There had been mornings when he'd wake up and panic before he even opened his eyes. Mornings when he'd reach across the bed just to make sure you were still there. Times when he'd come home and find you sitting in the nursery and feel overwhelming relief that you were still breathing.

"You were all I had left."

His voice was so quiet it almost disappeared into the wind.

The words stole the air from your lungs.

Jack kept his gaze fixed on the city.

"I lost Lily," he said, his voice cracking around her name. He swallowed hard before continuing. "I lost Lily, and then I watched you disappear too."

The tears came back immediately.

"There were days I didn't recognize you," he admitted. "And I hated myself for thinking that."

You closed your eyes.

Because you remembered her too. The woman who couldn't walk through the baby aisle without crying. The woman who heard a newborn crying in public and immediately had to leave. Sometimes that version of yourself still scared you.

"I didn't know how to help you," Jack said quietly. "Which was a problem, because helping people is kind of the only thing I know how to do."

That finally pulled the smallest smile from you.

"That's your whole personality?"

"Pretty much."

"You couldn't even fix Robby’s dishwasher."

A faint laugh escaped him.

"I still maintain that wasn't my fault."

For a second the heaviness eased, just enough to breathe.

Then Jack looked back at you, and the humor disappeared.

"If you had told me..."

His voice softened.

"If you had told me you were thinking about something like that, I would've stayed."

The tears slipped down your cheeks.

"I know."

"No."

He shook his head immediately.

"I don't think you do."

There was no anger in his voice. Only grief. Regret. Love. The kind of love that had spent six years carrying the same loss and still hadn't learned how to put it down.

"I would've sat on that nursery floor with you every night if I had to. I would've stayed awake. I would've listened. I would've done anything."

And that was what hurt.

Because you believed him.

You always had.

The problem wasn't that you didn't trust him.

It had never been about trust. If anything, that was the problem. You trusted him completely. You trusted him enough to know exactly what losing Lily had done to him, even when he tried to hide it. You remembered the weight he lost, the sleepless nights, the way he stopped laughing for a while. You remembered the way he looked at you during those first months, as though he was constantly checking to make sure you were still there.

"I couldn't do that to you."

Jack frowned.

"What?"

"I couldn't give you one more thing to carry." Your voice broke. "You were already drowning."

The words seemed to surprise him. For a moment he just stared at you, and then a quiet laugh escaped him. There wasn't any humor in it. If anything, it sounded exhausted. Like the truth hurt too much to do anything else.

"That's exactly what I thought about you."

The words settled heavily between you.

For a second neither of you spoke, because suddenly so many memories looked different. All those nights spent lying awake beside each other pretending to be asleep. All the conversations that stopped just short of what you were really feeling. All the moments one of you had walked into a room and found the other crying, only for both of you to immediately insist you were fine. You had spent years believing you were protecting him. He had spent years believing he was protecting you. Somehow, despite loving each other more than anyone else in the world, you'd both ended up carrying parts of your grief alone.

Jack looked away first, out toward the city lights glittering beneath the darkening sky. His jaw tightened and for a moment you thought he wasn't going to say anything else.

Instead he swallowed hard and asked quietly, "You know what kept me here?"

You blinked.

"What?"

A humorless laugh escaped him as he rubbed a hand across his jaw.

"You."

The answer hit so hard you almost thought you'd misheard him.

Jack kept staring at the city.

"I wasn't staying alive for me back then."

His voice sounded different now. Raw. Stripped of all the things he usually hid behind. You had known Jack through some of the worst moments of his life. You had seen him after Afghanistan. Seen him after surgeries and physical therapy and nightmares that woke him in the middle of the night. You had watched him survive things that would've broken most people.

You couldn't remember the last time he sounded this vulnerable.

"There were days I didn't want to get out of bed," he admitted quietly. "Days when I couldn't think past the next hour. I wasn't doing any of it because I wanted to. I wasn't doing it because I thought things would get better."

He paused, staring out at the skyline.

"I was doing it because of you."

Your throat tightened painfully.

Jack shook his head, almost like he was embarrassed by the admission.

"I knew what losing her was doing to you. I saw it every day. I saw you stop sleeping. I saw you walk around our apartment looking like a ghost." His voice cracked. "And every time I thought about giving up, every time things got bad enough that I just wanted everything to stop, all I could think was that if I left too..."

He stopped.

For a second he couldn't finish.

"...you'd be alone."

The words nearly shattered you.

Jack looked down, blinking hard.

"And that scared me more than anything."

The confession settled between you with a weight that seemed to press against your chest. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't some grand declaration. If anything, it was devastating because of how simple it was. After everything that had happened, after all the pain and anger and grief, the thing that had kept him here was the same thing that had kept you here.

Each other.

You stared at him as memories rearranged themselves inside your head. Every meal he'd forced himself to eat. Every morning he'd gotten out of bed when neither of you wanted to. Every phone call. Every silent drive. Every night he'd sat beside you without saying a word because there weren't any words that could make it better. You had always thought he was being strong for you. It had never occurred to you that he was hanging on just as desperately.

Jack finally turned toward you.

His eyes were red.

There were tears sitting there now, and for once he wasn't trying to hide them.

"Lily is gone."

The words hurt.

They would always hurt.

Nothing was ever going to change that. Not time. Not therapy. Not surviving. There would always be a part of both of you that ached when her name came up. There would always be birthdays and anniversaries and random moments in grocery stores that knocked the air out of your lungs.

But Jack looked at you anyway.

"But you aren't."

A tear slid down his cheek.

He didn't wipe it away.

"And I'm really damn grateful for that."

That was what finally broke you.

Not because you suddenly missed Lily more than you had five minutes ago. Not because the grief was any worse. But because after six years, you finally understood something neither of you had ever said out loud. You had spent all this time believing you survived for him. Believing every impossible day had been endured because you couldn't leave him behind.

And all along, he'd been doing exactly the same thing.

The sob escaped before you could stop it.

Jack didn't try to say anything else. There wasn't anything left to say. Instead, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, and you went immediately. His arms tightened around you the second you buried your face against his shoulder, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. For a long time neither of you moved.

Up here on the roof, there was only the two of you.

Two people who had spent six years carrying the same loss.

Two people who had spent six years keeping each other alive.

And the daughter you would spend the rest of your lives missing.

[chris-tredidation21]

You write grief so well 💐

You made it feel so real that I began to feel the emotions whilst reading and now I'm left with this strange empty feeling in my stomach over a child that I've never had 🤍🤍

[miasvelvetvoid]

doe-eyed running to my tranquility,

summary: After escaping your abusive boyfriend, you get pulled into the dangerous world of the Cody family and unexpectedly become the center of Pope Cody’s obsessive attention. As dark secrets unravel around you, Pope grows fiercely protective, pulling you deeper into his chaotic life until the line between safety and danger disappears completely. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: DD:DNE, hard warning for smurf, naiveish!reader, she’s naive until she isn’t, not timeline specific, could be season one related but idfk tbh, pope says two words and reader is on her knees (who wouldn’t be), I imagine pope has his curly hair, possessive!pope, obsessive!pope, bestie!deran, deran goes crazy, the brothers really like reader except baz is sneaky with smurf, abusive relationship, damsel trope, reader has doe eyes and is called bambi, maybe ooc characters, drinking, reader is super taken by pope the second she meets him, murder!!!, blood, gore, canon violence, SMUT!! (they shower together it’s steamy, soft!dom pope, voyeurism,pervish!pope (my favorite), mentions of choking, dacryphilia, unprotected piv, creampie), mentioned sexual assault (not on reader), mention of sexual predators. word count: 14.8k amalia’s love note: 1000 followers special!!!! love you all thank you so much for supporting me always. If you hate this don’t say anything i’m extremely sensitive rn. Also i rewatched euphoria last week and totally based her bf off nate lol. credit to: The Deer’s Cry by Isabella Albuquerque NEXT PART!!

The music hit you before the house even came into view. Heavy bass rolled through the humid Oceanside air hard enough to rattle the windows of the massive beachside property perched at the edge of the cliff. The Cody house glowed gold against the dark, crowded wall to wall with people drinking, smoking, laughing too loud. Surfboards leaned crooked against the fence. Expensive cars packed the driveway bumper to bumper. Jetskis and dirt bikes sat scattered across the lawn like abandoned toys. Somewhere in the backyard a girl shrieked with drunken laughter loud enough to cut through the music.

You stumbled through the open gate barefoot, your pink heels dangling from two fingers. Your chest burned from running. Tears blurred your vision, hot and humiliating.

Your knees were scraped raw from slamming against the pavement after Nate shoved you down outside the bar. One side of your face still throbbed where he’d slapped you hard enough to split the inside of your lip maybe fifteen minutes earlier.

You hadn’t thought about where you were going. You’d just run.

And somehow your body dragged you here.

To the one place you’d been specifically told not to come.

Deran had mentioned the party offhandedly two days ago while fixing the walk-in freezer at the bar, half buried in tools and swearing at the wiring. Your shifts there had been sparse lately while finals swallowed your life whole, but somehow the routine of seeing him had become one of the few stable things you had left.

You weren’t even sure why your feet brought you to him.

Maybe because Nate hated him.

Maybe because Deran was one of the only people who ever looked at Nate like he saw exactly what lived underneath his skin.

Or maybe because somewhere along the way Deran Cody had turned into the closest thing you had to family. The older brother neither of you would ever admit out loud you needed. You knew things about him nobody else did. Dark things. Ugly things. And he knew yours too.

Which was exactly why he’d warned you more than once that Smurf’s house was not somewhere he wanted you.

You pushed through the side yard, adrenaline making you dizzy.

Nobody stopped you. Nobody really noticed you at first. You probably looked like every other fucked up girl stumbling through Oceanside at two in the morning. Mascara smeared under your eyes, dress strap hanging broken from one shoulder, blood drying on your knees.

The kind of girl people learned not to look at too hard.

Bodies crowded around the pool. Drunk girls danced in bikinis beside giant speakers while shirtless guys launched beer cans into the water. The whole place smelled like chlorine, weed, sweat, tequila, salt air.

Then Deran saw you.

His face changed instantly.

Not confusion. Not surprise.

Fear.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, already crossing the yard toward you. Fast. “What happened?”

Your throat tightened before the words could even come out. “I know you said not to come here, but-”

Deran grabbed your arm carefully, fingers surprisingly gentle as he turned your face toward the pool lights.

The second he saw the bruise blooming across your cheek, something in his expression went cold. “That fucking asshole hit you?”

You looked away automatically.

That was answer enough.

“Craig,” Deran barked sharply.

A guy with long hair sitting on top of a cooler looked over immediately. Beside him, another man with dark hair and calmer eyes straightened from his chair too.

“What happened?” the dark-haired one asked.

Deran didn’t take his eyes off you. “Her boyfriend hit her.”

Craig stood so fast the cooler tipped sideways behind him. “Are you fucking serious?”

“It wasn’t-”

“Don’t,” Deran snapped instantly. The sharpness of it made you flinch. His jaw clenched hard enough you could see the muscle ticking beneath the skin. “Don’t do that shit.”

You’d seen Deran angry before. At customers. At his family. At himself.

This was different. This looked dangerous.

“Where is he?” the dark-haired man asked calmly, already getting to his feet.

Baz, you remembered suddenly. That was his name.

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know. I ran.”

Deran looked like he wanted to tear somebody apart with his bare hands.

Then another voice cut through the tension behind him.

“Well,” she said smoothly. “Who’s this?”

You turned slowly, still clutching the broken strap of your dress against your chest.

Smurf Cody stood near the patio doors with a cigarette balanced elegantly between perfectly manicured fingers.

Beautiful in a way that didn’t feel warm. Sharp blonde hair untouched by the humidity. Gold jewelry glittering beneath the lights. She looked at you the way people looked at horses before buying them. Assessing. Calculating.

Like she could find every weak spot you had in under thirty seconds.

Deran exhaled through his nose. “Smurf.”

She ignored him completely.

Her eyes stayed fixed on you.

“You’re pretty,” she said casually. “Too pretty to be crying over a man.”

Heat crawled into your face immediately.

“This is Bambi,” Deran said tightly. “My best friend.”

“Friend,” Smurf repeated, amused.

And suddenly you understood an alarming amount about Deran’s issues.

Smurf stepped closer, gaze drifting over the ripped strap hanging off your shoulder, the bruise on your cheek, the blood on your knees.

“A boy do this to you?”

You nodded once.

Her expression barely changed.

“Hm.”

Something about the sound chilled you more than if she’d yelled.

Deran snatched his keys off a folding table. “We’re gonna go find him.”

Baz stood slower, calmer. “Deran.”

“I’m not gonna fucking kill him,” Deran snapped.

Craig gave a sharp laugh. “I might.”

Smurf waved her cigarette lazily through the air. “Just don’t bring cops back to my house.”

Then her eyes flicked back toward you.

“You can stay here tonight, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I couldn’t-”

“Yes, you could,” Smurf interrupted smoothly. “You look half dead.”

Deran turned toward you again, still vibrating with restrained anger.

“You good here?”

You nodded slowly, though you weren’t entirely sure that was true.

His jaw flexed as he looked around the party.

“Stay inside.”

Then the three of them disappeared through the side gate.

And just like that, they were gone.

You stood awkwardly near the pool while the party swallowed the moment whole. Nobody cared. Nobody even really looked twice. Music still blasted. Somebody cannonballed into the pool. A girl stumbled past you laughing with glitter smeared across her chest.

The world kept moving like nothing happened.

Smurf tilted her head toward the house. “Come inside.”

The kitchen felt strangely quiet compared to the chaos outside.

The bass still pulsed faintly through the walls, but softer now. Distant. Smurf moved around the massive kitchen like she owned every atom inside it. Which, honestly, she probably did.

“You hungry?” she asked.

“A little,” you admitted nervously.

She opened the fridge, pulling containers out without ever really stopping watching you.

The house was beautiful in an intimidating sort of way. Expensive without looking staged. Polished wood floors. Massive windows overlooking the black ocean. Family photos lining the walls.

Every room felt lived in.

Claimed.

Smurf moved through it like royalty.

Which, in a deeply fucked up way, she was.

“You and Deran sleeping together?” she asked casually.

You nearly inhaled your own spit. “Oh my God, no. No.”

Not that the idea itself was horrifying. Deran was objectively attractive and you had functioning eyes. But it was also probably one of the least likely scenarios imaginable considering Deran had spent the better half of your friendship pointing out hot men to you with alarming enthusiasm.

“Hm.” Smurf pulled leftover pasta from the fridge. “That’s disappointing. He needs prettier girlfriends.”

You laughed nervously.

“I’m serious.”

The smile fell from your face.

You genuinely couldn’t tell if she was joking.

Smurf handed you a plate before leaning against the counter, cigarette balanced between two fingers as she studied you openly.

“You’re too soft for my boys anyway.”

The statement landed strangely hard. It irritated you more than it should have. She didn’t know you. Not really. The first thing she’d ever seen from you was this version. Crying. Bruised. Shaking.

Weak.

“I’m just his friend,” you said quietly.

“Mm.” She lit another cigarette. “Girls always think they’re just friends with Cody men.”

She pointed at you lightly with the cigarette.

“Especially the pretty ones.”

You looked down at the plate in your hands.

“Does the boy do this often?”

You hesitated. “Sometimes. He was angry tonight.”

Smurf’s expression stayed unreadable.

Cold almost.

“You should learn now,” she said quietly. “Men don’t hit women they love.” She took a slow drag from the cigarette. “They hit women they own.”

The bluntness stunned you into silence.

Before you could answer, movement outside the kitchen windows caught your attention.

Someone sat near the fountain in the backyard, half hidden in the shadows.

You hadn’t noticed him before.

Large frame. Broad shoulders curled slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees. Dark curls falling over his forehead. Freckles dusted across skin that disappeared beneath the sleeves of a faded gray t-shirt. Around him the party carried on at full volume, people screaming over music, splashing into the pool, stumbling through clouds of smoke.

But he sat completely still.

Just watching.

His eyes moved slowly across the yard, detached from all of it like he existed outside the noise.

Then his gaze landed on you.

And stayed there.

Something twisted low in your stomach.

Not fear exactly.

Awareness.

Like some instinct deep in your body already knew who he was before anybody said it.

Smurf noticed immediately.

“Oh,” she murmured softly, almost amused. “There’s Pope.”

Pope.

The name alone tightened something in your spine.

Deran had warned you about him enough times.

If you ever meet Pope, avoid him.

Why?

Because he’s fucking weird.

You glanced back toward the window.

Pope was still staring directly at you.

Not smiling. Not moving. Just staring with an intensity that made your skin feel too tight.

“He just got out,” Smurf said casually, like she was discussing the weather. “Prison makes socializing difficult.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that.

“He’s harmless,” she added after a second.

The way she said it somehow made you feel the exact opposite.

“You should say hi.”

“No, I’m okay-”

“Pope!” Smurf called loudly through the open sliding door.

Your stomach dropped so fast it almost hurt. You shot her a horrified look while she smiled lazily around her cigarette. For a second you genuinely wondered if she was fucking with you. Testing you maybe. You still couldn’t tell when Smurf was being genuine and when she was setting somebody up for entertainment.

Outside, Pope lifted his head immediately.

“Come meet Deran’s friend,” Smurf called.

Your palms started sweating.

A minute later the sliding door opened.

Up close, he was even bigger than you expected.

Not polished like Baz. Not clean-cut like Deran.

Pope looked rough in a way that felt accidental instead of curated. Sharp eyes. Scarred hands. Thick shoulders that made the kitchen suddenly feel smaller. There was something restless underneath his skin even while he stood perfectly still.

And he looked at you like he was trying to figure something out.

“This is Bambi,” Smurf said smoothly.

Pope kept staring.

You shifted awkwardly under the weight of it, suddenly hyperaware of your ripped dress and smeared mascara.

“Hi,” you said quietly.

“Hi,” he echoed.

His voice caught you off guard.

Soft. Almost gentle.

Smurf looked between the two of you with obvious amusement sparkling in her eyes.

“Well,” she said, pushing off the counter. “Try not to scare her, baby.”

Then she disappeared down the hallway, leaving you alone with him.

Silence settled heavily into the kitchen.

You looked literally anywhere except directly at him.

“I like your dress,” Pope said suddenly.

You blinked. “Oh. Thanks.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear awkwardly.

“It’s ripped.”

Your eyes dropped to the broken strap hanging off your shoulder.

“I guess, yeah.”

Pope leaned back against the counter, arms folding loosely across his chest, but his eyes never left you.

You tried focusing on the food instead.

“You’re bleeding,” he said after another moment.

You looked down at your scraped knee. Blood had dried in messy streaks down your shin. “Oh.”

Without another word Pope opened the freezer and grabbed an ice pack.

When he handed it to you, your fingers brushed accidentally.

He pulled his hand back immediately.

Too fast. Like the contact surprised him.

And maybe you imagined it, but for half a second his entire expression changed when you looked at him directly. Something almost startled flickered across his face before he looked away.

You didn’t know it, but Pope spent most of his life disconnected from people. Numb to them. Detached. But there was something about you standing in his mother’s kitchen bruised and trembling with those wide, wet doe eyes fixed on him that hooked somewhere deep beneath his ribs before he could stop it.

Maybe it was how vulnerable you looked while still trying to pretend you were fine.

Maybe it was the softness in your voice.

Maybe it was the fact that you looked at him without immediately looking afraid.

He didn’t know.

He just knew he liked it.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

He nodded once.

Now he was the one avoiding your eyes.

God.

Deran was right.

He was weird.

Not creepy exactly.

Just… off.

Like his brain worked differently from everybody else’s.

You glanced toward the backyard where music still pounded through the walls.

“You don’t like parties?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

Pope’s eyes shifted toward the window again. “Don’t like all these people in my space.”

You made a small oh with your mouth before he continued.

“They always break stuff.”

That felt oddly reasonable coming from him.

“You ran here?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

You shrugged awkwardly. “I knew Deran was close.”

Pope considered that for an uncomfortably long amount of time.

“You trust him.”

“I do.”

Another silence stretched between you.

“He said Nate hurts you sometimes.”

Your head snapped up. “Deran told you that?”

The question slipped out sharper than you intended.

Why would Deran tell them about you? About your relationship? About the ugly parts of it?

Had he told all of them?

Or just Pope?

Pope frowned slightly, like he could tell your mood shifted but wasn’t fully sure why.

“He said he doesn’t like him.”

That sounded far more believable.

You relaxed a little, pressing the ice pack carefully against your cheek.

Pope watched the movement intently.

Not flirtatiously.

Not even curiously.

Just intensely.

Like he noticed every little thing your body did.

It made you hyperaware of yourself. Of the way you sat. The way your fingers trembled slightly. The way your dress slipped against your skin.

You cleared your throat quietly.

“So…” you started. “What exactly do you think your brothers are doing right now?”

Pope didn’t answer immediately. You could practically see him debating how honest to be.

“Probably beating the shit out of him.”

Your stomach twisted hard.

“You think?”

Pope looked genuinely confused by the question.

“Yes.”

And somehow the certainty in his voice scared you more than the answer itself.

Nate hit the pavement hard enough to split the skin across his cheekbone.

The crack echoed through the empty marina parking lot like a gunshot.

Before he could even suck in a breath, Craig grabbed him by the collar and hauled him upright again like he weighed nothing.

“You like to hit women?” Craig snarled.

His fist slammed into Nate’s ribs hard enough to fold him sideways with a broken wheeze.

Nate choked violently, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

The marina stretched empty around them. Black water crashed against the docks below while Baz’s truck headlights cut harsh white beams across the pavement. Boats rocked slowly in the distance, chains clinking against metal poles in the wind.

Deran paced nearby like something feral trapped in human skin.

He couldn’t stop moving.

Every few seconds his eyes snapped back to Nate, rage crawling visibly beneath his skin like he was seconds away from tearing him apart with his bare hands.

“You touch her again,” Deran snapped, voice low and shaking, “I’ll fucking drown you myself.”

Nate spit blood onto the concrete.

“She’s a lying-”

Craig kicked him hard in the stomach before he could finish.

Nate crumpled with a strangled noise.

“Wrong answer,” Craig muttered.

Baz stayed leaned against the truck, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers while he watched the scene unravel with the exhaustion of someone who already knew this was spiraling too far.

“Enough,” he said finally.

“Enough?” Deran barked. He turned so fast the movement itself looked violent. “He beat the shit out of her.”

Nate groaned weakly on the pavement, curling onto his side.

Deran looked down at him with something far worse than anger.

Hatred. Pure, ugly hatred.

The kind that sharpened every edge of his face until he barely looked human anymore.

“We should tie a fucking cinderblock to him and dump him in the ocean.”

Craig immediately pointed at him. “That’s what I said.”

Baz rubbed a hand down his face slowly. “And then what? We explain a dead body to Smurf?”

Deran ignored him completely. “He put his hands on her.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word. Almost disbelieving. Like his brain still couldn’t process the image of you standing in Smurf’s backyard bruised and crying.

Nate coughed wetly, trying to push himself up onto one elbow.

Huge mistake. Deran crossed the distance so fast Baz barely had time to move.

He grabbed Nate by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the side of the truck hard enough to rock it violently on its suspension.

“You think you get to touch her like that?” Deran hissed.

Nate cried out as the back of his head cracked against metal.

Craig’s expression shifted instantly.

The amusement disappeared. “Hey,” he said carefully now. “Deran.”

But Deran either didn’t hear him or didn’t care.

“You think because she stays with your sorry ass that means you can keep doing it?” he snapped. “You think she belongs to you?”

Nate’s face had gone pale beneath the blood smeared across it. “I didn’t mean-”

Deran slammed him against the truck again.

“Bullshit.”

Baz straightened immediately, cigarette dropping to the pavement.

He pushed off the passenger door and started toward them fast.

“Deran.”

Warning this time. But Deran didn’t back off.

He sidestepped Baz entirely, grabbed Nate by the throat with one hand and yanked him upright again. His other hand caught the open passenger door.

“You feel like a big-”

Deran slammed the truck door into the side of Nate’s head. The sound cracked through the marina.

“-tough-”

Another slam. Nate screamed this time.

“-man?”

The final hit sent Nate collapsing onto the pavement in a limp heap, blood streaking down the side of the truck.

Silence hit for half a second except for the waves crashing below the docks. Even Craig froze.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

Nate lay sprawled on the concrete unmoving for a second too long.

Baz moved immediately, shoving past Deran to crouch beside him.

“You trying to fucking kill him?” Baz snapped.

Deran stood there breathing hard, chest rising and falling violently. But he kept staring at Nate like he still wasn’t done.

Like every instinct in his body was screaming at him to finish it. Craig glanced toward Baz briefly. That look alone said enough. Even Craig was getting nervous now.

Nate finally groaned weakly, curling into himself as blood dripped from his nose onto the pavement.

“She always made me fucking crazy,” he slurred through swollen lips.

The second the words left his mouth, Deran snapped again. He lunged so violently Craig barely caught him in time, grabbing him around the waist before he could get to Nate.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Craig barked, struggling to hold him back now.

Deran fought against his grip anyway. Actually fought him.

“She was crying!” Deran shouted. “Did you see her fucking face?”

“Yes,” Craig snapped back. “I saw it.”

Deran shoved hard against him, chest heaving violently.

“I should kill him.” And the terrifying part was nobody thought he was bluffing anymore.

Baz stepped between them now, calmer than both of them but visibly tense for the first time all night. “We scare him,” Baz said firmly. “That’s it.”

Deran laughed once. “You think this shit scares him?”

Nate stayed curled on the pavement bleeding and shaking, but Deran still looked unsatisfied. Like nothing short of irreversible damage was going to quiet the rage clawing through him.

Three days later the bruise on your cheek had finally started turning yellow around the edges. It still hurt when you touched it.

You stood behind the bar beside Deran, wiping down glasses while music hummed low through the speakers overhead. The lunch rush had died an hour ago, leaving the place quieter than usual. Sunlight spilled through the open windows facing the street, warm salt air drifting inside with the sound of traffic and distant waves.

Craig sat at the far end of the bar half drunk already, arguing with Baz about whether or not a guy outside had stolen his parking spot.

“You can’t just threaten people with a wrench every time you get annoyed,” Baz said flatly.

Craig looked genuinely confused. “Why not?”

Deran snorted softly beside you while restocking bottles.

For the first time in days things almost felt normal. Almost. Nate was in a coma.

Nobody said it out loud, but everybody knew Deran had gone way too far at the marina.

You tried not to think about it.

Tried not to think about how part of you felt relieved.

The bell above the front door chimed. Then the entire room changed. You felt it before you even looked up.

Deran froze beside you instantly. A man stood in the doorway.

Older than Nate by maybe twenty years. Thick build. Weathered face. The kind of man who looked mean even standing still. His eyes swept across the bar once before landing directly on you.

Your stomach dropped so hard it made you dizzy.

Because Nate had his father’s eyes.

“Oh,” Craig muttered quietly. “Fuck.”

The man walked inside slowly. Every instinct in your body screamed. You backed up automatically.

Deran moved immediately, stepping in front of you slightly. “What do you want?” he asked coldly.

Nate’s father ignored him completely. His eyes stayed fixed on you. “So,” he said slowly. “This is where the little bitch that ruined my son’s life works.” Your breath caught.

The room suddenly felt too small.

Deran’s expression darkened instantly. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

The older man finally looked at him.

“You’re Deran Cody.” Not a question. “You put my son in the hospital.”

Deran didn’t answer. Didn’t deny it either.

The man laughed once under his breath, but there was nothing amused about it. “You know what Nate told me?” he asked, eyes flicking back toward you. “Said she cries real pretty.”

Your face went cold. You took another step backward unconsciously. And then you felt someone beside you. Solid. Quiet.

Pope.

You hadn’t even seen him come out from the back office. Your fingers wrapped around his arm before you could stop yourself “Andrew,” you said quietly. Nervously.

The name felt strange in your mouth after hearing everybody call him Pope for days.

But his real name fit him more somehow.

Pope looked down at your hand gripping his forearm. Normally he hated being touched. Most people knew better than to try. Craig once joked Pope reacted to physical affection like a feral dog. But he didn’t pull away from you. Didn’t tense. Instead he shifted slightly closer. Enough that your shoulder brushed against his chest.

And instantly, unbelievably, the panic inside you eased. You couldn’t explain it, Pope made you feel calm. Safe. Like if you stayed close enough to him nothing terrible could reach you. The feeling settled through your chest warm and strange and deeply confusing.

Nate’s father noticed immediately. His eyes narrowed. “That your new boyfriend?” he asked cruelly. “You spread your legs for the whole family now?”

Deran lunged forward instantly.

Baz caught him hard across the chest before he could reach him.

“Deran.”

“No,” Deran snapped violently.

But Pope moved first. He stepped fully in front of you now, blocking you from view entirely. The shift was subtle. Terrifyingly subtle. His face stayed calm, but something in his eyes changed.

“You should leave,” Pope said quietly.

Nate’s father laughed. “And what?” he sneered. “You gonna stop me?”

Pope tilted his head slightly. “Yes.”

Silence dropped heavily across the bar.

Nate’s father took another step toward you anyway.

You grabbed the back of Pope’s shirt tighter instinctively. The movement made Pope go completely still.

Then Nate’s father pointed directly at you.

“You think you’re safe now?” he snapped. “Girls like you always go back. You’ll crawl right back to him if he wakes up.”

Something cracked across Deran’s face.

“You need to get him out of here,” Baz said carefully.

But nobody moved. Nate’s father laughed again, uglier this time. “You Codys think you’re untouchable?” He looked around the bar. “Whole family’s fucking rotten.”

Then his eyes landed on you again. “And you.” Your body stiffened instantly. “You should’ve kept your mouth shut.” Pope stepped forward once.

Nate’s father finally seemed to realize something dangerous stood in front of him. Because for the first time since walking in, he hesitated. Then he scoffed and backed toward the door. “This ain’t over.”

The bell chimed again when he left. Silence swallowed the room immediately after.

You were still clutching Pope’s arm. Still half hidden behind him. Nobody pointed it out.

Deran stared at the door long after the man disappeared outside. That same frightening stillness settling over him again.

Baz saw it immediately. “No,” he said firmly.

Deran didn’t look at him.

Craig leaned back slowly against the counter. “He threatened her.”

“No,” Baz repeated harder.

But Deran was already somewhere else mentally. You could see it happen. That cold detached look settling into his face.

Pope glanced back toward you then. His eyes softened slightly when he saw how shaken you still were. “You should go upstairs,” he said quietly.

Deran owned the apartment above the bar. You’d slept there the last two nights because the idea of going home alone suddenly made your skin crawl. You nodded slowly. Your fingers slipped from Pope’s arm reluctantly. The loss of contact felt immediate. Strange, Pope noticed it too.

Something unreadable flickered across his face before he stepped back.

“I’ll lock up,” Deran said flatly.

Baz looked between both brothers and swore under his breath.

Later, long after you finally drifted asleep curled against the arm of Deran’s couch upstairs, the brothers left through the alley behind the bar. The city had gone quiet by then.

Streetlights reflected off damp pavement. The ocean air felt colder at night, heavier somehow, carrying the distant sound of waves crashing somewhere beyond the buildings.

Deran locked the back door without a word.

Pope stood beside the truck waiting calmly, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. His face looked unreadable in the dark.

Deran slid behind the wheel while Pope watched the apartment windows upstairs for one last second. The living room light was off.

Satisfied, he climbed into the passenger seat. The truck rolled silently out of the alley.

They found Nate’s father exactly where they expected. At the same liquor-stained dive bar off the harbor road where guys like him spent every night slowly rotting themselves from the inside out.

Deran parked across the street beneath a dead streetlamp.

The windows of the bar glowed dim yellow against the dark while old motorcycles lined the curb outside. Inside, Nate’s father sat hunched over the counter already half drunk, laughing too loudly at something the bartender said. Pope watched him quietly through the windshield. “You think he hits women too?” he asked.

Deran’s jaw tightened. Neither of them asked how the other knew that he did. Some things were obvious.

An hour passed. Then another. Neither brother spoke much.

Every once in a while Deran drummed his fingers once against the steering wheel before stopping himself again. Too much energy sitting beneath his skin. Too much anger still trying to claw its way out.

But Pope stayed perfectly still.

Around two in the morning Nate’s father finally stumbled out of the bar alone.

The brothers followed. His truck drifted lazily between lanes as he drove through the sleeping streets of Oceanside toward the edge of town. Small houses gave way to emptier roads. Fewer streetlights. Fewer witnesses.

Finally he pulled into a narrow gravel driveway beside a run-down one story house near the marshes. No nearby neighbors. No barking dogs. Perfect.

The porch light flicked on as he staggered toward the front door fumbling with his keys.

Pope watched carefully from the passenger seat.

Deran killed the engine two houses down. The darkness swallowed the truck instantly.

Ten minutes later the kitchen light inside the house flicked on briefly before disappearing again. Then nothing.

Pope checked his watch. “Give him twenty.”

Deran nodded once. The wait almost killed him. He sat leaning forward slightly, jaw clenched hard enough to ache while rage simmered quietly beneath his skin. Every time he closed his eyes he still saw you standing in the bar clutching Pope’s arm with fear written all over your face.

Girls like you always go back.

The memory alone made his hands tighten.

Twenty-three minutes later Pope opened the passenger door. The brothers moved silently through the yard.

Pope picked the back lock in under thirty seconds.

The house smelled stale inside. Beer. Cigarettes. Old grease. A television played quietly somewhere in the living room.

Nate’s father had passed out half reclined on the couch with an empty bottle hanging loose from one hand. Pope closed the back door carefully behind them.

The man woke slightly at the sound. “Huh?”

Deran moved first. He crossed the room in three steps and drove his forearm across the man’s throat hard enough to pin him against the couch before he could fully react.

Confusion flashed across the older man’s face. Then recognition. Then fear.

“What the fu-”

Pope grabbed the bottle before it hit the floor. Quiet. Always quiet.

Nate’s father struggled violently beneath Deran’s grip now, but alcohol slowed him down. Age slowed him down more.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t see this coming.” Deran said quietly.

The man wheezed against his arm. Pope stepped closer calmly, expression empty. Pope looked at him the same way somebody looked at a broken appliance they needed to get rid of. “You scared her,” Pope added softly.

Nate’s father started fighting harder then. Panic setting in.

Deran slammed him backward against the couch again hard enough to daze him.

“Left her scared in my fucking bar,” Deran hissed.

The older man reached desperately for the side table. Phone. Weapon. Anything.

Pope caught his wrist instantly. Then twisted. A wet crack echoed through the room.

The scream barely had time to leave his mouth before Pope clamped a hand over it.

“You should’ve stayed away from her,” he said.

Afterward, they cleaned everything carefully. Pope wiped surfaces while Deran staged the kitchen. A shattered beer bottle near the counter. Water spilled across the tile.

The body positioned wrong enough to look accidental but believable.

A drunk man falls hard enough onto the corner of a counter and sometimes he doesn’t get back up. Sad. Common. Forgettable.

By the time they left, the house looked untouched.

The brothers washed their hands at a gas station fifteen minutes later. Deran scrubbed blood from beneath his fingernails in silence while Pope leaned against the sink watching the empty parking lot through the window.“You think she’s asleep?” Pope asked quietly.

Deran nodded once. Pope looked back down at the water running pink briefly before turning the faucet off. Then they drove to the hospital.

The city was beginning to pale blue with early morning by the time they parked in the visitor garage.

Nate’s room sat on the fourth floor.

Critical condition. Machines breathing for him. Deran stared through the small window in the door for a long moment before entering. Nate looked smaller like this.

Bruised face swollen beyond recognition.

A machine beeped steadily beside him in the darkened room.

Pope closed the door quietly behind them. Nate’s eyes fluttered weakly at the sound. For one horrifying second he almost looked aware. Then his gaze landed on Deran. Fear flooded his face instantly.

Good, Deran thought.

He should be scared.

“You should’ve left her alone,” Deran said softly.

Nate tried to speak. Nothing came out around the breathing tube.

Pope walked calmly to the door, peeking once through the narrow window toward the empty hallway before looking back at his brother. Deran stepped toward the bed.

And by the time the sun finally rose over Oceanside, Nate’s room had become just another tragedy inside a hospital full of them.

It had been a few weeks. A few strange, chaotic, strangely comfortable weeks where the Cody family somehow became woven into your life before you fully realized what was happening.

You’d officially met everyone now.

J had shown up at the bar one afternoon quiet and observant, watching everybody with the same careful expression Pope wore sometimes. Nicky was sweet in an exhausting sort of way and latched onto you immediately after discovering you owned actual skincare products. Lena adored you after exactly ten minutes because you sat on the floor with her and helped untangle one of her necklaces without getting annoyed.

And Smurf… Smurf had become dangerously fond of you. Not in a normal way either. It felt more like she’d picked you out. Like she was studying you the same way she studied her sons. Watching your reactions. Learning your weak spots. Encouraging certain behaviors while quietly steering you away from others.

You noticed it more lately.

“You apologize too much,” Smurf had told you three nights ago while helping you clean up after dinner.

You blinked. “What?”

“You say sorry before you even speak sometimes.” She handed you a wine glass. “Men smell weakness, sweetheart.”

You laughed awkwardly. “I think that’s a little dramatic.”

“No,” Smurf said calmly. “It isn’t.”

Then she’d taught you how to hold eye contact during confrontation like it was a lesson worth learning.

And weirdly enough Pope started hovering more whenever Smurf was around. At first you thought you imagined it. But then you noticed how he lingered nearby anytime Smurf cornered you into conversations. How his eyes tracked the two of you constantly. How he interrupted more. Redirected you away from her. Like he knew something you didn’t.

Which honestly happened a lot with the Codys.

You were beginning to realize there were entire conversations happening beneath the surface around you. Things you weren’t understanding.

Like the fact that none of them ever talked directly about what they actually did.

You heard rumors, obviously. Everybody in Oceanside heard rumors about the Codys. Crime. Robberies. Violence.

But then Deran would make you coffee exactly how you liked it without asking, or Baz would walk you to your car after work, or Craig would spend twenty minutes teaching Lena how to cannonball properly into the pool while Pope sat nearby staring at you like you hung the fucking moon.

They didn’t feel dangerous around you. Not really. Just damaged.

And Pope… Pope was becoming something else entirely. Possessive wasn’t even the right word anymore. It was quieter than that. More constant. Like gravity. He always knew where you were in a room. Always noticed immediately when another man looked too long at you. Always positioned himself close enough to touch you somehow without making it obvious.

His hand brushing the small of your back. His knee pressed against yours under tables. His fingers curling around your wrist absentmindedly while you talked.

And the eye contact.

Jesus Christ.

Pope looked at you like he physically could not stop.

Sometimes it genuinely made you nervous how intensely he listened whenever you spoke. Like every word mattered. Like every facial expression was something worth memorizing. But you liked it more than you should’ve. Way more.

Which was probably why you found yourself currently squeezed tightly beneath Deran’s arm at one of Smurf’s massive pool parties wearing a bikini that barely qualified as fabric. A bikini Smurf picked out herself.

You should’ve known that alone was dangerous.

“Oh my god,” you muttered earlier that afternoon holding the tiny black swimsuit up between two fingers. “This is insane.”

Smurf looked unimpressed from her closet doorway. “No, sweetheart. It’s expensive.”

“It’s basically underwear.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed nervously. “Nate would’ve had an aneurysm.”

Smurf’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Good.”

And somehow you ended up wearing it anyway.

Now music pounded through the backyard while bodies crowded around the pool beneath strings of warm patio lights. Somebody was doing shots off a surfboard table. Craig had already thrown two people into the water fully clothed.

Deran sat beside you on one of the lounge chairs, arm hooked around your shoulders mostly because he was still paranoid about men approaching you at parties now.

You leaned comfortably against him sipping from a drink while laughing at something Nicky screamed near the pool.

Then you felt it. That familiar feeling. Being watched. Your eyes lifted automatically across the crowded backyard. Pope sat near the outdoor kitchen talking to Baz.

Well. Baz was talking. Pope was staring directly at you. Even from across the yard you could feel the intensity of it.

His eyes moved slowly over you once before locking back onto your face. Heat crept into your chest immediately.

Deran noticed your distraction and followed your gaze. “Oh my fucking god,” he muttered.

“What?”

“He’s doing it again.”

You looked innocent. “Doing what?”

“Looking at you like a psychopath.”

You snorted into your drink. “He’s not that weird.”

Deran turned toward you slowly. “Yes,” he said flatly. “He is.”

“I think you exaggerate.”

“Yeah?” Deran barked out a laugh. “Because you don’t work with him.”

You frowned immediately. “What work?”

The second the question left your mouth, Deran’s expression shifted.

“Nothing,” he said.

“That sounds weird.”

“It’s not.”

“You literally just made it more suspicious.”

Deran rubbed his forehead already irritated.

“You ask too many questions.”

“And yet you avoid all of them.”

“Smartest thing I’ve ever done.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly.

Again. That weird feeling.

Like everybody around you knew something you didn’t. Before you could push further, Craig suddenly cannonballed into the pool hard enough to soak half the patio.

You yelped as cold water splashed across your legs. “CRAIG.”

He surfaced laughing wildly. “That was for saying i’m six foot something with shampoo-commercial hair and I only have exactly three surviving brain cells fighting for fourth place earlier.”

“Was I wrong? You do have shampoo-commercial hair.”

Craig pointed dramatically. “See?”

While everybody argued around the pool, your eyes drifted back toward Pope automatically. Still watching you. Except now his expression looked darker somehow.

You followed his line of sight downward and immediately realized why. Deran’s hand rested against your bare thigh.

Oh. You bit back a smile.

“Your brother looks homicidal,” you murmured.

Deran glanced over again. Then groaned loudly. “For fuck’s sake.”

“What?”

“He’s jealous.”

You nearly choked on your drink laughing “Pope? No.”

Deran stared at you like you were stupid “Bambi. He follows you around like a stray dog.”

“That is so mean. Don’t be mean to him.”

“It’s accurate.” He rolled his eyes.

Your smile widened despite yourself. Because maybe Deran wasn’t entirely wrong. Pope looked at you differently now. Not subtle either. Everybody noticed. Especially Smurf.

You caught her watching the interaction from near the grill with an amused little smile pulling at her mouth.

“You should go sit with him,” Deran muttered.

“What?”

“Before he burns holes through my skull.”

You laughed harder. “You’re being dramatic.”

Deran looked back toward Pope. Then immediately removed his arm from around your shoulders. “Nope. Absolutely not. Go.”

“Deran-”

“I’m serious. He’s freaking me out.”

You looked back across the yard again. Pope hadn’t looked away once. God. It should not have affected you this much. But it did.

Because unlike every other guy who looked at you, Pope never seemed distracted. Never checked his phone mid conversation. Never split his attention elsewhere.

When he looked at you, he looked only at you. Like the entire room disappeared.

You stood slowly from the lounge chair.

Almost immediately Pope straightened slightly where he sat.

Deran watched the reaction happen and muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.

You crossed the backyard toward him through the crowd.

Pope tracked every step.

By the time you reached the outdoor kitchen, Baz was already smirking into his beer.

“Well,” Baz drawled. “There’s the reason he hasn’t heard a word I said in ten minutes.”

Pope ignored him completely. His eyes flicked slowly over your bikini again before settling on your face. “You cold?” he asked immediately.

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re shivering.”

“Oh.” You laughed softly. “The pool water.”

Pope grabbed the towel beside him without hesitation and held it out. Your chest tightened a little. Always paying attention. Always noticing.

“Thanks, Andrew.”

The second you said his real name, something changed in his expression. Softened. It happened every single time. Pope loved when you called him Andrew. Loved it in that deep quiet way he loved most things concerning you.

Baz noticed too because of course he did “Oh my god,” Baz muttered. “You’re whipped.”

Pope didn’t even deny it.

You smiled trying to hide your embarrassment while taking the towel from him. Pope’s hand settled automatically against your thigh once you sat beside him.

Possessive. Casual. Like it belonged there.

And weirdly enough you let it stay there without thinking twice.

Across the yard, Deran watched the interaction happen before looking deeply exhausted. Smurf appeared beside him sipping wine. “Told you,” she said smugly.

Deran sighed. “This is gonna end in a body. Hopefully not hers.”

Smurf smiled wider. “Probably will be.”

The party got louder the later it got.

Music pounded through the backyard hard enough to shake the deck beneath your feet while bodies crowded shoulder to shoulder around the pool. The entire property glowed gold against the dark ocean behind it, strings of lights hanging from the balcony while drunk strangers danced barefoot across wet concrete.

Craig had somehow started an argument about sharks. “No, listen to me,” he insisted loudly, pointing with a beer bottle while half sprawled across a lounge chair. “If sharks can smell blood from like five miles away then obviously they can smell cocaine.”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Deran said flatly.

“It’s literally dissolved in your bloodstream.”

“That’s not how drugs work.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely know that.”

J sat nearby trying unsuccessfully not to laugh while Nicky filmed the entire thing on her phone solely for future blackmail purposes.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” she informed Craig cheerfully.

Craig pointed at her dramatically. “History’s gonna vindicate me.”

Beside you, Pope stayed stretched back against the outdoor couch with one arm hooked lazily along the cushions behind you. Well. Not really behind you anymore.

At some point during the conversation you’d shifted closer without thinking until your shoulder rested fully against his chest, your legs tucked partly beneath his along the couch. And Pope loved it. You could tell.

Not because he said anything. Because every time you touched him he got quieter. More focused. Like his entire body locked onto the feeling immediately.

His hand rested against your thigh now, large fingers spread lazily over sun-warmed skin while everybody argued around you. Every so often his thumb brushed absentminded little circles there.

Every single time it happened, his eyes flicked down toward your face. Checking. Watching your reaction carefully like he still hadn’t fully processed the fact that you let him touch you this much.

You leaned your head back slightly to look up at him. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”

Pope’s eyes dropped to yours instantly. The height difference forced you to tilt your chin up slightly from where you rested against him. “I’m listening.”

“To Craig talking about drug-sniffing sharks?”

“Yes.”

You laughed softly.

Pope’s eyes lingered on your mouth a second too long afterward.

Across from you, Baz noticed immediately and smirked into his drink. The man was obsessed with you. Not even subtly anymore.

Smurf sat nearby with a glass of wine watching the entire interaction unfold with careful amusement. Like she was observing a particularly entertaining science experiment in real time.

You were halfway through making fun of Craig’s shark theory when a girl suddenly approached the couch hesitantly.

You recognized her vaguely from high school. Not close friends. Just familiar enough to know her name if somebody said it out loud. She looked relieved when she spotted you.

“Oh my god,” she said softly. “There you are.”

You frowned slightly. “What?”

“I’ve been trying to find you.”

Beside you, Pope’s hand engulfed your thigh more firmly instantly. Protective. Alert. His eyes lifted toward the girl carefully now.

Confusion twisted through you. “Why?”

The girl glanced awkwardly around the group before looking back at you. “You didn’t hear?”

Something in her tone made your stomach tighten immediately. You laughed nervously shaking your head. “Hear what?”

“Nate’s dad died.”

Everything around you seemed to go strangely muffled. Like somebody dropped water over your ears. “What?” you whispered.

The girl nodded quickly. “Yeah. Cops are saying he got drunk and slipped in his kitchen or something. Everybody’s freaking out because he was like… such a good guy..”

A good guy. Yeah fucking right.

You felt Pope’s entire body go still behind you.

The girl kept talking nervously. “And Nate…” Your chest tightened instantly. “He died Wednesday morning at the hospital.”

The words hit like ice water. Your body instinctively pressed backward into Pope’s chest before you even realized you were moving. And immediately Pope’s arm wrapped fully around your waist. His fingers slid beneath the tie of your bikini bottoms absentmindedly, anchoring you against him.

The touch made heat crawl up your spine despite the panic suddenly flooding your chest. Around you, every Cody had gone silent.

Especially Smurf. All of them watching your face carefully now. Measuring your reaction. Because you knew what happened at the marina. You looked between them slowly, heartbeat suddenly roaring in your ears “How?” you asked quietly.

The girl shrugged uneasily. “They said his ventilator malfunctioned or something. Like some weird glitch.” You suddenly became hyperaware of Pope’s hand tightening slightly against your waist. The girl laughed awkwardly into the silence. “Crazy, right? Anyway, his mom’s doing a service for both of them next week.”

Nobody answered her. Because now the atmosphere felt wrong. Heavy. You swallowed hard.

Your brain started racing violently. Nate dead. His father dead. The ventilator made no sense. The kitchen accident made too much sense.

And suddenly every rumor you’d ever heard about the Codys stopped sounding like rumors at all.

You looked toward Deran slowly. His expression stayed unreadable. Too unreadable. Like none of this was actually news to him.

Baz somehow looked calmer than everybody else which honestly made him scarier. Craig wouldn’t meet your eyes anymore. Even J looked tense now.

But Pope was only watching you. Like your reaction mattered more than the deaths themselves.

The girl shifted awkwardly under the silence. “I just thought you should know.”

“Yeah,” you said faintly. “Thanks.”

She disappeared back into the crowd quickly after that. But the weirdness stayed.

The party still raged around you. Music blasted through the backyard. Somebody screamed after getting shoved into the pool fully clothed again. Bottles clinked. People laughed too loudly. But around the couch, tension settled heavy and suffocating.

You sat stiffly against Pope’s chest now, barely realizing how tightly you’d pressed yourself into him. His hand stayed firm against your waist, thumb moving slowly against your side like he was trying to soothe you. Or maybe soothe himself. You honestly couldn’t tell anymore.

“Nate died?” you said finally, voice sounding distant even to yourself.

The words felt unreal. Deran exchanged a quick glance with Baz. Craig stared down into his beer bottle. J watched everyone carefully from the edge of the chair, quiet like always.

Smurf leaned back calmly, wine balanced elegantly between her fingers while sharp interest glittered behind her eyes.

The whole thing suddenly felt deeply wrong.

You looked around slowly. “Why is everybody acting weird?”

“No one’s acting weird,” Deran answered way too fast.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah, you are.”

Pope’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly when your voice rose.

You looked up at him instinctively. His eyes were already on your face. Always.

“You okay?” he asked quietly. And somehow that almost made it worse.

Because he sounded genuinely concerned while everybody else looked tense as hell.

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know.” The girl’s words replayed violently in your head.

You suddenly stood up. “I need to leave.”

Pope immediately straightened beside you. “Hey-“

“I just…” You rubbed your forehead shakily. “I need a second.” Your fingers grabbed the nearest sweatshirt off the couch blindly before pulling it over your bikini top. You barely noticed the sleeves swallowed your hands completely.

Pope did. His eyes locked instantly onto the oversized hoodie hanging off your body. His hoodie. Something sharp and possessive flashed across his face so quickly only Smurf caught it.

Interesting.

You pushed through the side gate quickly. The metal slammed behind you. The second you disappeared down the street, Craig exhaled loudly.

“Good job not acting suspicious as fuck, guys,” Baz said sarcastically.

“Shut up,” Deran muttered.

Smurf swirled the wine slowly in her glass. “She knows something.”

J frowned slightly. “About what?”

Smurf’s eyes stayed fixed thoughtfully on the closed gate. “That girl didn’t react like someone upset her ex-boyfriend died.” Her expression sharpened slightly. “She reacted like she’s scared.”

Baz leaned forward now. “You think Nate told her something?”

“I think,” Smurf said carefully, “our sweet little Bambi is smarter than you boys thought.”

Pope stood immediately. “She’s not gonna say anything.”

Smurf’s gaze flicked toward him knowingly. “You sound very sure. You willing to bet your freedom on it?”

“I am.” The certainty in his voice shut everybody up briefly.

Because Pope trusted you completely. And honestly? That made him the most dangerous person in the family right now.

Smurf looked between her sons slowly before nodding once toward the street “Follow her.”

Deran groaned immediately. “Come on. She ran out of here looking terrified. She just found out her ex died.”

“And?” Smurf snapped lightly. “You think that girl’s stupid? She’s putting things together.”

Baz stood first. “Let’s go.”

But Pope was already moving toward the driveway before anybody else.

Because he knew the look on your face when you got overwhelmed. And more importantly, He wasn’t about to let anybody else get to you first.

Your hands shook so badly on the steering wheel you nearly blew through a stop sign.

The tires screeched slightly when you corrected too hard. Everything felt wrong.

Your thoughts kept colliding into each other faster than you could process them. Nate yelling. Nate crying the first time he begged you not to “ruin his family.”

Nate’s father smiling at barbecues while flipping burgers like some suburban dad straight out of a Home Depot commercial. Pretending he wasn’t a lousy drunk behind closed doors.

The hidden files on the computer. Your best friend sobbing in that video. God. Your stomach twisted so violently you thought you might throw up. The apartment complex came into view too fast.

You parked crooked and barely remembered shutting the car off before climbing out. The apartment you once shared with Nate was dark when you stepped inside. And it still smelled like him. Stale beer. Laundry detergent. Old cigarettes soaked into fabric and walls. You hated it instantly.

It hit you all over again why you hadn’t come back since the night he hit you. Why staying with Deran had somehow felt safer than being alone here. Your chest tightened hard.

The silence inside the apartment felt wrong now. Haunted.

You moved quickly toward the entertainment center near the living room wall, panic making your movements jerky. Books hit the floor one after another while you ripped them off the shelves searching.

“Come on,” you whispered shakily under your breath. “Come on, please…”

Your fingers slipped against the wood paneling behind the shelf before finally catching the loose edge. Relief hit so hard it almost made your knees weak. You pulled the hidden disk case free from inside the wall.

“Oh my god,” you laughed breathlessly to yourself. Not happy. Just relieved.

Your grip tightened around the case as you turned and nearly screamed. A solid wall of muscle stood directly in front of you. You stumbled backward violently before realizing it was Pope. A startled sound escaped your throat. His hand shot out immediately, grabbing your forearm gently before you could trip over the books scattered across the floor.

Your eyes snapped upward.

All four brothers stood inside the apartment doorway. The sight of them there made your pulse spike instantly.

“What the fuck?”

Pope stepped closer first. “Hey,” he murmured softly, saying your name like he was trying not to scare you. Too late. You took another step backward anyway.

“How did you even know I was here? Nobody answered immediately.

And for the first time since meeting them, the Cody brothers looked exactly like the stories people whispered about. Craig leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, expression unusually serious. Baz’s eyes moved carefully around the apartment, taking everything in automatically. Deran looked tense enough to snap.

But Pope only looked at you. Or more specifically At the disk case clutched tightly in your hands.

Your heartbeat sped up immediately. “You followed me here?” you asked carefully.

Baz spoke first. “What’s that?”

Your fingers tightened around the disk instinctively. “Nothing.”

You shoved it behind your back too quickly.

The second Deran stepped forward with that cold unreadable look on his face, you regretted it. “Bambi,” he said carefully. “Why’d you come here?”

You looked between all of them uneasily. The atmosphere had shifted. Not violent exactly. But serious. Focused. Like they were trying to solve a problem.

Pope took another slow step closer. “You scared us.”

A nervous laugh escaped you. “So your solution was following me to my apartment?”

“Yeah,” Craig muttered. “Because you looked like you were about to have a fucking breakdown.”

Your eyes lifted back toward Pope automatically.

His gaze dropped briefly toward the disk behind your back. Then back to your face.“What’s on it?” he asked softly. And somehow him asking gently broke you more than if he’d demanded it.

Your throat tightened. “It belonged to Nate’s dad.” You swallowed hard. “It’s why he said I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Every single one of them went still. The memory of that night at the bar flashed visibly across their faces. Deran’s expression darkened immediately.

You stared down at the disk case in your hands. “A few months ago Nate’s dad let me borrow his computer,” you said quietly. “I found videos on it.”

Baz’s face flattened instantly. “What kind of videos?”

You looked sick even trying to say it. “Girls.” Nobody spoke. “High school girls.”

Craig swore quietly under his breath.

“One of them was my best friend.” Your voice cracked instantly. “She was crying and he was hurting her.” Pope’s face changed. You sniffed shakily and kept talking too fast now, words tumbling over themselves. “She went missing our senior year. They found her body all the way out in Point Loma.”

Silence slammed into the apartment. Pope looked genuinely frightening now. Not toward you. Toward the thought of somebody making you cry like this.

Craig sat down hard on the couch suddenly, elbows braced on his knees while he dragged both hands down his face. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered.

You rushed your words out quicker now through tears. “I wanted to go to the police but Nate kept begging me not to ruin his dad’s life and then we started fighting more and more and…” Your throat closed painfully. “The night he hit me was because I told him I was done protecting them.” Your breathing shook. “It had been seven years since she died and-” You stopped hard, trying to steady yourself. “Her parents invited Nate and me to breakfast every year after they found her body.” Your voice cracked again. “And I had to sit across from them pretending the person I was sharing my life with didn’t know his father murdered their daughter.”

Deran looked disgusted. Actually disgusted.

Pope stepped toward you immediately. His hand lifted carefully, fingers brushing against the side of your face almost hesitantly. “What…” he said softly, eyes searching yours. “What do you mean he knew?”

You swallowed hard. “Nate helped him.”

Even the air in the apartment felt different afterward. “That asshole helped his father?” Deran asked flatly. Not remorseful. Just colder somehow.

You nodded shakily. “He knew the whole time.” Tears slid down your cheeks faster now. “He wasn’t shocked when I told him what I found. He was angry I wouldn’t look the other way anymore.”

Baz rubbed a hand slowly over his mouth processing everything. Then finally he held his hand out toward the disk carefully. “Can I see it?”

You hesitated. And for one awful second, fear curled low in your stomach. Not because you thought they’d hurt you. Because suddenly you realized you didn’t actually know what these men were capable of. Now here they stood in a dead man’s apartment after silently following you across town.

You looked toward Pope carefully. He noticed the hesitation instantly. And it visibly hurt him. Something shifted in his expression almost imperceptibly. “Hey,” he said quietly.

Your eyes lifted toward him. “We’re not gonna hurt you.” The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache.

You nodded slowly before handing Baz the disk case.

Baz opened it carefully while Craig leaned over trying to see too. Deran cursed quietly under his breath almost immediately. Inside sat a plain burned CD labeled in black marker.

S. DAVIS — 3/18/2009.

“Her name was Sarah,” you whispered.

“Jesus Christ,” Craig muttered again.

You looked away immediately, humiliation mixing violently with grief in your chest. “I know I should’ve gone to the cops sooner.”

You completely misunderstood the look passing between them. You thought they were judging you. Wondering why you stayed quiet so long. You didn’t notice the other realization settling in instead.

That Nate and his father being dead suddenly looked a whole lot less suspicious if this ever surfaced.

“No,” Pope said immediately. Your eyes lifted toward him again. His expression softened instantly the second he saw your face. “You tried.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Because nobody else had ever said that to you. Not Nate. Not yourself. Pope stepped closer carefully now. Close enough that you could smell him mixed with the smoke and beer still clinging faintly to the oversized sweatshirt hanging off your body. His sweatshirt. You suddenly became aware you were still wearing it.

Pope noticed you realizing. His eyes dropped briefly toward the sleeves swallowing your hands. Something possessive flickered low across his face again. Then he looked back at you. “You were trying to protect people,” he said quietly. Your throat tightened painfully “Sarah deserves justice.”

Baz looked up from the disk then. “We can help with that.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

Deran nodded slowly now. “You take this to the cops, they’ll actually listen.”

“Especially now,” Craig muttered darkly. “Perfect dead suburban family man bullshit kinda falls apart once this gets out.”

You stared at all of them. “You’d help me?”

Baz feigned confusion by the question. “Why wouldn’t we?”

You almost laughed at that. Because ten minutes ago these men silently appeared in your apartment like something out of a nightmare and scared the hell out of you without even trying. And now they were calmly offering to help expose a predator.

Nothing about the Codys made sense.

Pope stepped even closer. Close enough that your pulse stumbled slightly. “You don’t gotta do this alone anymore,” he said softly. “I’ll take you to the cops myself.”

And the terrifying thing was you believed him immediately.

The police station took almost two hours.

Two exhausting, emotionally draining hours of sitting beneath fluorescent lights while detectives asked careful questions and copied files from the disk. You felt nauseous the entire time.

Pope never left your side once. Not once.

He sat beside you in stiff silence through every interview, large body angled slightly toward yours the whole time like some unconscious shield. Every time your voice shook answering a question, his eyes lifted immediately to your face.

One detective finally asked if he was your boyfriend.

Pope answered before you could. “Yes.” The word came out flat and immediate. You turned toward him in surprise. Pope didn’t even look at you. Just kept staring at the detective like daring him to question it.

The detective only nodded slowly and moved on. But your stomach had flipped violently anyway. Because Pope didn’t say things casually. Everything with him felt carved in stone.

By the time you finally walked back outside, the sky had gone dark. You stood near the parking lot rubbing your arms tiredly while Pope watched you carefully beside his truck.

“You okay?”

“No,” you admitted honestly.

Pope nodded once like he expected that answer. “You wanna stay alone tonight?”

The thought made your stomach twist immediately. Nate’s apartment suddenly felt unbearable now, and you knew Deran had Adrian over. You looked at him quietly. “Can I stay with you?”

Pope’s entire body went still. You noticed. Because you’d started learning him now. And Pope looked at you like you’d just handed him something precious.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, okay.”

The drive to his apartment was quiet.

Pope drove one-handed, occasionally glancing toward you like he was checking to make sure you were still there. The apartment complex itself surprised you.

Small. Quiet. Nothing flashy.

Inside surprised you even more. Everything was spotless. Painfully spotless. You stepped inside slowly while Pope locked the door behind you. The apartment looked almost untouched. Counters completely clear. Shoes lined up perfectly near the wall. Blankets folded sharply across the couch. Not a single dish in the sink.

“You actually live like this?” you asked softly. Pope shrugged. “It’s cleaner than a hospital in here.”

“I don’t like mess.” You looked around again. The apartment felt exactly like him somehow. Every object carefully placed where it belonged. Even the air smelled clean.

Pope watched your eyes move around the room intently. Like he cared whether or not you approved.

You smiled faintly. “I like it.”

The tension visibly left his shoulders.

God. That should not have affected you as much as it did. You turned toward him fully then. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For helping me today.”

Pope frowned slightly like the answer was obvious. “You needed help.”

“I know but…” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “Nobody’s ever really done something like that for me before.”

Pope stared at you so intensely your chest warmed. “You don’t gotta thank me for taking care of you.” There it was again. That dangerous kind of devotion sitting quietly beneath everything he said.

You swallowed hard. Pope’s eyes immediately dropped to your throat moving. Jesus Christ. The man stared like it physically hurt him not to touch you. “You can shower if you want,” he said suddenly. “I’ll find you clothes.” You nodded quickly mostly because you needed a second to breathe.

The bathroom was just as obsessively clean as the rest of the apartment. White towels folded perfectly. Everything organized. You caught yourself smiling slightly while turning on the shower. Of course Pope folded towels properly.

You stripped slowly, exhaustion finally crashing into your body as steam filled the room. The hot water felt almost painful against your skin at first. You closed your eyes beneath the spray immediately. For the first time all day, your brain quieted.

A soft knock sounded faintly through the bathroom. You barely heard it over the water. “Bambi?” Pope’s voice.

You called back weakly, “Yeah?”

“I got clothes for you.”

You hummed something unintelligible, eyes still closed beneath the water. A second later the bathroom door opened quietly. Pope stepped inside carefully holding a folded shirt and sweatpants. Then he froze. The glass shower door was partially translucent from the steam. Enough to see your silhouette beneath the water. Your head tilted back slightly. Wet hair slicked against your shoulders. Water tracing down your body slowly. Pope stopped breathing for a second.

You didn’t notice him immediately. Eyes still closed while water poured over your face. Pope should’ve left. Instead he stood there completely motionless staring through the steam like a man starving to death. His jaw flexed once hard enough to hurt.

Then you opened your eyes. And saw him.

For one suspended second neither of you moved. Pope looked almost caught.

Your heart started pounding instantly. But you weren’t scared. Not even a little. Because it was Andrew. Obsessive, strange, intense Andrew who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.

Slowly, you reached forward and pulled the shower door open wider. Steam curled out into the bathroom. Pope stared at you silently. Water dripped down your skin while his eyes moved over you openly now. No pretending otherwise.

Your voice came out soft. “You gonna just stand there?”

Pope swallowed hard. “You want me to come in there?”

You stepped closer instead of answering. Close enough now that steam dampened the front of his shirt. Then your fingers curled around the front of it gently and pulled. Pope came willingly. The second he stepped beneath the hot water, your mouths crashed together hard.

It wasn’t soft. Weeks of tension snapped all at once.

Pope kissed like he thought about it constantly. Hands immediately gripping your waist hard enough to bruise while yours tangled into his damp hair. A low sound left his throat when you kissed him back harder.

“You sure?” he murmured roughly against your mouth.

You answered by dragging his shirt upward impatiently. That nearly killed him. Pope pulled back just enough to yank the shirt over his head before grabbing your face again immediately. His hands were everywhere now. Like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch you most.

Your chest. Your waist. Your thighs. Always pulling you closer. Always needing more.

You kissed down his jaw while your fingers worked open his belt beneath the spray of water. Pope’s breathing turned uneven instantly. “Bambi,” he muttered warningly. But his hands tightened against you anyway.

You looked up at him through wet lashes. The eye contact alone almost destroyed him. Because Pope loved your eye contact. Loved seeing exactly what you felt while touching him.

You pushed his jeans down just enough to make him curse softly under his breath before his mouth found yours again harder this time. The steam thickened around both of you while water poured over his shoulders. Everything about him felt overwhelming up close. Big hands. Heavy breathing. The intensity. Even kissing you, Pope watched your face constantly like he needed every reaction. “You’re so pretty,” he whispered suddenly against your mouth.

The sincerity in it made heat rush through you instantly. Pure Andrew.

Your fingers slid across his chest slowly and Pope actually shivered beneath your touch. That realization alone nearly made you dizzy. Because this terrifying man, this obsessive, dangerous Cody, looked completely undone by you touching him back. His hands stayed locked around your waist beneath the spray of hot water while your mouths moved together desperately, steam thickening the air around both of you until breathing felt difficult. Not because of the heat. Because of him. Because every time you touched him, Pope reacted like it meant something.

Your fingers slid through his wet hair and his entire body tensed instantly. A rough sound left his throat before he kissed you harder, backing you slowly against the cool shower wall. “Andrew,” you breathed against his mouth. His forehead dropped briefly against yours while he stared at your face through wet lashes, breathing uneven.

“You keep doing that,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Calling me that.”

You smiled softly. “Well do you like it.”

“Yes.” Always honest. You laughed quietly and Pope’s eyes locked onto your mouth again instantly. Like he couldn’t help himself. The intensity of it made your stomach twist pleasantly. Water ran down his chest while your hands moved lower, tracing slowly across muscle and scar tissue. Pope shivered again beneath your touch and the realization almost drove you insane. This terrifying man who scared half of Oceanside looked completely undone just from you touching him gently. Pope suddenly grabbed your thighs without warning. You gasped softly as he lifted you effortlessly against him. His mouth found yours again immediately. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively while his hands held you securely like he never wanted to put you down again. Which honestly,

he probably didn’t.

Pope kissed down your jaw slowly before pressing his face briefly against your neck. Not even kissing for a second. Just breathing you in. The intimacy of it made your chest ache. Then suddenly he pulled back just enough to look at you again. Really look at you. Water dripped from his dark hair into his eyes but he barely blinked.“You wanna stop?” he asked quietly.

The question caught you off guard. Because despite all the intensity, all the possessiveness simmering beneath his skin Pope had been careful with you from the beginning.

You shook your head immediately. “No.”

Pope stared one second longer like he needed to make absolutely sure. Then he kissed you again and carried you straight out of the shower. You laughed breathlessly against his mouth as water dripped onto the bathroom floor.

“Andrew…”

He barely let you finish speaking before pushing open the bedroom door. The room matched the rest of the apartment perfectly. You didn’t even fully process it before Pope lowered you onto the mattress and climbed over you immediately. The second your back hit the sheets, something in him snapped. Like having you in his bed meant more than it should. His large hands slid beneath your thighs while he kissed you deeper, slower now, finally able to touch you without interruption.

You tugged him closer instantly. Pope practically groaned into your mouth. “You want me close,” he muttered against your lips almost like he was amazed by it.

“Yes.” His eyes flashed dark immediately. Pope loved hearing that. Loved anything that sounded like you choosing him. He kissed you again rougher this time while his hands moved over your body constantly. Your waist. Your hips. Your stomach. Like he couldn’t stop touching you long enough to think straight. Pope kept pulling back just enough to look at you. Watching your face every time you touched him. Every little sound you made. Every reaction. It was almost overwhelming how focused he was on you.

You reached up brushing damp hair back from his forehead gently. Pope froze for half a second. “What?” you whispered.

“You’re…” He swallowed hard. “You’re nice to me.”

The quiet sincerity behind the words hurt your chest unexpectedly. Like he genuinely wasn’t used to tenderness. You touched his face softer this time. “Andrew.”

His eyes shut briefly. You realized suddenly that Pope Cody would probably let you ruin him completely if you asked. The thought hit hard. Because underneath all the danger and obsession and intensity Pope was touch-starved in a way that felt almost painful. Every gentle touch visibly affected him. Every kiss. Every time your fingers dragged through his hair or across his shoulders. He reacted like he’d remember it forever.

Your hands slid down his chest slowly while he kissed along your throat, breathing rough and uneven against your skin.

“You smell good,” he murmured distractedly.

You laughed softly. “That’s a weird thing to say during a makeout.”

“I know.” Again with the honesty.

You smiled into another kiss while Pope’s hand tightened slightly against your waist. Like he physically needed to keep part of you underneath his hand at all times. His mouth moved slower now, deeper, tension simmering heavy between you both while the room stayed quiet except for uneven breathing and the occasional creak of the mattress beneath his weight. His mouth broke from yours only long enough to drag his lips down the line of your jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. The sound you made, breathless, broken, pulled a low hum of approval from his chest. Pope's hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you harder against him until there was nothing between you and the heat radiating off his body. “You have no idea,” he murmured against your neck, voice rougher than it had been moments ago, "how long I've been thinking about this."

You tilted your head back, giving him more space, and he took it without hesitation, tongue tracing down your throat, teeth sinking just enough to make you gasp. His other hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face so he could look at you. Those dark eyes, half-lidded and burning, swept over your expression like he was memorizing every detail. “I need you to understand something first.” His thumb traced over your lower lip, tugging it down just slightly. “If we do this-“ He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “You belong to me. Not for tonight. Not for the weekend. You’re mine. You understand?”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver straight through you, pooling heat low in your belly. You nodded, breath catching, and he shook his head slowly.

“Words, sweetheart. I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered, voice steadier than you expected. “I understand. I'm yours.”Something flickered in his gaze, satisfaction, hunger, and a tenderness that made your chest ache. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, pulling you into another kiss that wasn't gentle. It was claiming. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you moaned against him, fingers curling into muscle. He pulled back just enough to look at you again, breath mingling. “Such a good girl.” The words hit you like a live wire.

Pope’s hands cupped your breasts letting his knuckles drag across your skin as he went. His eyes dropped to your chest, and he let out a slow exhale. “Fuck,” he breathed. “You're so gorgeous.”

He didn't rush. His mouth followed the path his hands had taken, kissing down your collarbone, over the swell of your breasts, tongue circling your nipple and your back arched off the mattress. He sucked hard, then softer, then hard again, switching between the two until you were writhing beneath him, fingers tangled in his curly hair. His hand moved to your other breast, thumb rolling over the peak while his tongue worked the first.

“Please,” you gasped.

“Please what?” He lifted his head, dark eyes finding yours. His lips were wet, his jaw tight with restraint.

“Please-I need-“ You didn’t know what you needed.

“I know what you need.” His hand slid down your stomach, fingers circling your hip bone. “But I want to hear you say it.”

You swallowed, heat flooding your cheeks even as your hips bucked into his touch. “I need you inside me, Andy.”

The name, Andy, did something to him. His pupils dilated, his breath caught, and for a second he just stared at you like you'd given him something precious. “Say it again,”he commanded, voice rough.

“Andy.”

His mouth crashed into yours, hungry and desperate, and his hand finally, finally, slipped further fingers sliding through slick heat. He groaned into your mouth when he felt how wet you were. “That's for me,” he muttered against your lips. “All this, just for me.”

You nodded frantically, and he rewarded you by pressing two fingers inside you without warning. A cry tore from your throat, not pain, but pleasure sharp enough to make your vision blur. He curled them, found that spot immediately, and your hips jerked.

“Yeah,” he breathed, watching your face. “Right there. I know.” He worked you slowly at first, dragging his fingers in and out while his thumb pressed against your clit in tight circles. Your hands gripped the sheets, your moans growing louder, more broken, until you felt that familiar tension coiling in your gut.

“m’close,”you whimpered.

Pope shook his head, pulling his fingers out. “Not yet. I want to feel you come on my cock.” Your whine of protest died in your throat when he sat back on his knees, eyes fixed on you as he stroked his hard cock, and you watched, transfixed, as his head fell back and he let out such a deep groan. He was hard, thick, the tip already glistening. Your mouth went dry. Pope tightened his hand around his shaft, stroking once, twice, moving his head so. he never broke eye contact with you. “You want this?”

“Yes, fuck-yes, Andy.”

He leaned over you, bracing one hand beside your head while the other guided his cock to your entrance. He didn't push in, not yet. He just let the head rest against you, teasing, letting you feel the heat and the pressure. “Tell me you're mine.”

“I'm yours.” Your voice cracked, desperate. “I'm yours, Andy. Please-“

He pushed in. Slow. Impossibly slow. Every inch of him stretching you open, filling you until you couldn't breathe. Your eyes rolled back, a strangled moan escaping your lips. He paused when he was fully sheathed, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You feel-fuck.” He started moving. Long, deep strokes that hit exactly where you needed him. His pace was steady, controlled, each thrust a deliberate claim. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned at the angle. “Yeah, just like that.”

One of his hands found yours, fingers interlacing, pinning it to the mattress beside your head. His other hand, you saw it twitch toward your throat, saw the want flash in his eyes, and you tilted your chin up in silent invitation. But he pulled his hand back, gripping your hip instead.

“I can't,” he said, voice strained. “I can't, God, I want to, but I can't stand the idea of hurting you.”

“It wouldn't hurt me,” you breathed. “I want it.”

“I know you do.” His thrusts grew harder, faster, chasing his own edge. “But I won't. I'll give you everything else, every fucking thing, but not that.”

You wanted to argue, but the way he was fucking you made any thoughts impossible. He angled his hips, and suddenly he was hitting a spot that sent electricity through your entire body. Your nails dug into his back, and he hissed in pleasure.

“That's it. Let me feel you.” The pressure built again, faster this time, and your mouth fell open in a cry. Pope watched your face, drinking in every expression, and when your eyes welled with tears, from the intensity, from the sheer overwhelming pleasure, his breath stuttered. “Fuck,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering. “Look at you. Crying on my cock.”

The tears spilled over, tracking down your temples into your hair. He lowered his head and licked one off your cheekbone, the gesture strangely tender in the midst of the brutality of his thrusts.

“You're so beautiful like this,” he murmured. “So perfect. I want you to come. I want to feel you squeeze me.” His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, fast circles. That was all it took. The orgasm crashed through you, violent and consuming, your body arching off the bed as a broken scream tore from your throat. Pope kept moving through it, fucking you through the aftershocks, groaning as your walls clenched around him. “That's it,” he panted. “Fuck, that's it.”

He didn't stop, couldn't stop. He flipped you onto your stomach in one smooth motion, pulling your hips up and entering you from behind. The new angle was deeper, harder, and you buried your face in the pillow to muffle your cries as he took you apart. His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back just enough so he could lean down and speak against your ear.

“You're taking me so well. You feel that? That's me inside you. No one else. Ever.”

Words failed you. All you could do was moan and push back against him. His pace grew erratic, his grip on your hip bruising. “I'm gonna come inside you. Fill you up. You want that?”

“Yes-yes, Andy, please-“

His hand slid around to your front, fingers pressing against your clit again, and you felt a second orgasm building, impossibly fast.

“Come with me,” he commanded. “Now.”

Your body obeyed. The second wave hit as he drove into you one last time, burying himself deep, his groan long and guttural as he spilled inside you. Hot pulses of release filling you, and you felt every one.

He collapsed forward, chest heaving against your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder. Neither of you moved for a long moment, just breathing, just existing in the aftermath.

Finally, he pulled out slowly, and you felt the warmth of his cum trickling down your thigh. He turned you over gently, gathering you into his arms, his hand stroking your hair with a tenderness that made your eyes well up again. “You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, voice gone. Pope stayed wrapped around you for a long moment afterward, both of you breathing hard in the dark quiet of his apartment. The room smelled faintly like steam and laundry detergent and him. His forehead rested against the back of your shoulder while one large hand spread slowly across your stomach, almost absentmindedly keeping you pulled tightly against his chest. Like he physically couldn’t let go yet.

Finally, he shifted carefully, easing you up the sheets. His movements slowed immediately the second he saw your face twist slightly from sensitivity. Instant concern. “You hurt?” he asked softly.

“No,” you whispered quickly. “No, I’m okay.”

Pope searched your expression another few seconds anyway. Making sure. Then he leaned down pressing a slow kiss against your forehead before reaching toward the nightstand for a towel. The tenderness of it nearly undid you. He cleaned you up carefully, almost shy despite everything that had happened minutes earlier. Every time you flinched slightly from sensitivity, his hand smoothed automatically over your thigh or stomach in silent apology.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked again.

You nodded, throat tight. Pope noticed immediately. “You’re crying.”

You touched beneath your eye in surprise.

God. You were.

“I don’t know why,” you admitted quietly.

Pope’s expression softened instantly. He climbed back beside you without hesitation and pulled you into his chest again, one arm wrapping tightly around your waist while the other hand moved slowly through your damp hair. The repetitive motion felt calming immediately. Safe. “Do you regret it?” he asked after a moment.

Your head lifted quickly. “No.” The answer came so fast it visibly affected him. Relief crossed his face so openly it hurt your chest “No,” you repeated softer this time. “Not even a little.”

Pope stared down at you in silence. Then his hand moved gently across your cheek. “You sure?”

You nodded. And maybe it was emotional exhaustion or the intimacy of being held like this, but suddenly your chest ached with it. Nobody had ever touched you like Pope did. Like your comfort mattered more than his own. Like he was constantly paying attention. You curled closer instinctively beneath the blankets. Pope immediately tightened his arm around you. His eyes dropped toward the top of your head where it rested against his chest. “You fit good there,” he murmured quietly.

You laughed softly against his skin. “That’s such an Andrew thing to say.” The second the name left your mouth, his fingers tightened slightly in your hair. He loved that name from you. Loved it in that deep quiet way he loved everything involving you “Y’know you’re the only one who calls me that,” he said.

“Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

You tilted your head up enough to look at him. Pope was already staring back down at you. Of course he was. You smiled sleepily. “You stare a lot after sex too, huh?”

“I stare at you all the time.”

You laughed quietly and his expression softened watching it happen.

For a while neither of you spoke. Pope kept tracing slow patterns against your back beneath the blankets while you listened to his heartbeat under your ear.

© 2026 all rights reserved - miasvelvetvoid. do not modify, plagiarize, feed my work to AI, repost or claim any of my work as your own without permission.

[chris-tredidation21]

I love how protective all the Cody boys are of Bambi but omg soft!Andrew the man U are 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

[fanficwritinggirl]

{Her Name - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

I am going to warn you all now, you are going to cry. I love you all and im sorry in advance for the emotional damage that i am about to inflict on you.

You had given birth three days ago. Seventy-two hours. Not even, technically. And everyone kept saying that like it meant something.

Like seventy-two hours was a law.

Like seventy-two hours was supposed to keep you in bed, keep you still, keep you from packing a diaper bag with shaking hands while your newborn daughter slept in her carrier by the front door.

Craig stood in the hallway with his arms crossed, watching you like he was trying to decide whether he could physically block the exit.

"You should be resting," he said.

You tucked a packet of wipes into the side pocket of the bag. "I rested earlier."

"You slept for forty minutes."

"That counts."

"It does not."

"I closed my eyes. Time passed. That's sleep."

Craig stared at you. You stared back. The baby made a tiny sound from the carrier between you. Both of you looked down immediately.

She was asleep again within seconds, one little fist tucked near her cheek, dark hair soft against her forehead, her mouth slightly open in the deeply dramatic way she had already perfected.

Andrew's frown. Your stubbornness. A full Cody-level commitment to making everyone panic over very little. You looked back at Craig.

"I'm going."

"I know."

"Then stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're still deciding whether you can stop me."

"I am still deciding that."

"You can't."

"I know."

The front door opened behind him and Deran stepped in, carrying two coffees and wearing the expression of someone who had already decided he wanted no part in the argument, despite walking directly into it.

He looked from you to Craig. Then down at the baby. Then back to you.

"You look terrible."

Craig turned on him. "Why do we keep saying that to her?" Deran blinked. "Because she does."

"I just had a baby," you said.

"Exactly."

Craig pointed toward the door. "Go wait in the car." Deran held up the coffees. "I brought caffeine."

"I can't even have that one."

"It's decaf."

You softened despite yourself.

"Oh."

Deran looked away quickly. "Yeah, whatever." The baby sighed in her sleep. Tiny. Indignant. All three of you froze.

She settled. You breathed again. Craig looked exhausted, and he had not even given birth.

"I don't like this," he said quietly.

Your chest tightened.

"I know."

"It's too soon."

"I know."

"You're sore. You're bleeding. You're barely sleeping."

"I know."

"And taking a newborn into a prison is—"

"Craig."

He stopped.

You rested one hand on the kitchen counter, steadying yourself because standing too long still made your body feel strangely hollow and heavy at the same time.

You were sore. Everywhere.

Your stitches pulled if you moved wrong. Your milk had come in overnight and made your whole chest ache. Your stomach felt soft and strange, no longer full of her but not yours yet either. You had cried that morning because one of her socks fell off.

You were exhausted. You were scared. You were happy in a way that felt almost violent. And you needed Andrew to meet his daughter. Not through a phone.

Not through a video. Not through a message handed over by a guard. Him. Her. The same room.

"I need him to hold her," you said.

Craig's face shifted. You saw the argument leave him. Not because he liked it. Because he understood. Deran cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes.

"He got the approval," he said.

Your eyes went to him. Deran shrugged. "Good behaviour. Newborn visit. Some family exception. I don't know. Craig did most of the annoying phone calls."

Craig muttered, "Most?"

"All," Deran corrected.

You looked at Craig. His jaw tightened like he was trying not to care too visibly.

"They said one hour," he said. "Contact room. Supervised, but not through glass."

Your throat closed. One hour. No glass. Andrew's hands on his daughter. Andrew's arms around you.

You pressed your palm over your mouth. Craig's face softened immediately. "Don't cry."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I just had a baby. I'm allowed."

Deran held out the decaf coffee. "Here." You took it with shaking fingers.

"Thank you."

He nodded once. Craig looked down at the carrier.

"She got a name yet?"

You went still. Deran looked up too. You glanced at your daughter. Her tiny face was relaxed now, all the fury of her first day folded into sleep.

You had filled out the hospital paperwork. You had written it carefully. First name. Middle name. Surname.

You had stared at it for so long the nurse had gently asked if you were alright. You had not told Andrew yet. Not over the phone. Not through a message.

Not because you doubted it. Because some things deserved to be spoken while he was holding her. You looked back at Craig.

"She has a name," you said.

His eyes sharpened slightly. Deran's expression changed. Neither of them asked. You loved them a little for that. Craig nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Then let's go."

The prison looked worse with a newborn. That was the only way you could think it. You had hated it before.

The gates. The wire. The sharp sound of locked doors. The fluorescent lights. The stale, metallic air that clung to everything.

But carrying your daughter inside made the place feel obscene. Too hard. Too loud. Too gray.

She slept against your chest in a wrap because you had refused to carry her in the plastic car seat any longer than necessary. Her little body was warm beneath your hand, one cheek pressed against you, breath soft and uneven.

You had tucked a yellow hat over her hair. The duck onesie was under her blanket. Of course it was.

Andrew's duck sat at home on the nursery shelf, watching over the room with its crooked little beak. You wished you could have brought it.

You wished you could bring the whole room.

The green walls. The chair. The lamp. The clean blankets. The proof that the world waiting for Andrew was not only made of concrete and rules and things taken away.

Craig and Deran walked on either side of you like very tense bodyguards. It would have been funny if you were not so close to crying.

At the security desk, the guard looked at your ID, then at the baby, then back at the paperwork.

"She's three days old?" he asked.

"Yes."

His expression said several things. None of them wise to speak aloud. Craig leaned slightly forward. "Problem?" You shot him a look.

The guard looked at Craig, decided something, and shook his head. "No." Deran muttered, "Smart."

"Deran," you warned.

"What? I said smart."

The guard gave instructions. You barely heard them over the thud of your own heartbeat. Special visit. One hour. Contact permitted.

No passing items directly without approval. Baby stays with mother or inmate only. Officer present outside room. The words blurred together. Contact permitted.

That one stayed. Your daughter shifted against your chest. You placed a hand gently over her back.

"We're almost there," you whispered.

You did not know if you were talking to her or yourself. They took you to a room you had never been in before. Not the regular visiting room. No booths.

No glass.

Just a small square space with a table, three chairs, a box of tissues, and a window too high to see out of properly. The walls were beige in a way that felt aggressive.

But there was no glass. Your knees nearly gave. Craig noticed immediately.

"Sit," he said.

"I'm fine."

"Sit."

For once, you did not argue.

You sat carefully in the chair closest to the door, moving slowly because your body still reminded you of birth with every shift. Deran took the diaper bag and set it beside you.

Craig hovered.

"You want us in here?"

You looked up at him. He already knew the answer. He nodded before you said anything.

"We'll be outside."

Your eyes filled.

"Thank you."

He looked away. "Yeah." Deran cleared his throat.

"You need anything, yell."

You smiled faintly. "In a prison?"

"You've yelled in worse places."

"I really haven't."

"You could."

Craig opened the door, then paused. His eyes dropped to the baby. His expression softened in a way he would deny under oath.

"He's gonna lose his shit," he said quietly.

You laughed, and it came out shaky.

"Probably."

Craig nodded once. Then he and Deran left. The door shut. You were alone with your daughter. For about ten seconds.

Then the other door opened. Andrew walked in. He stopped dead. No glass. No phone.

No counter. No barrier except the space between you. He looked at you first, because he always did.

His eyes moved over your face, your body, the way you were sitting carefully, the tiredness you knew you couldn't hide. His expression tightened with worry.

Then the baby made a tiny noise against your chest. Andrew's gaze dropped. Everything in him changed.

It was not dramatic in the way movies made things dramatic. He did not stumble. He did not speak. He did not reach out. He just stopped being defended.

All at once.

His face went open in a way you had almost never seen. Raw. Terrified. Wondering. Like his whole life had come to the surface and left him no room to hide behind any of it.

You stood slowly. Too slowly. Andrew moved instantly, one step forward, hand half-lifted.

"Careful."

His voice cracked on the word. You smiled through tears.

"There you are."

He looked at you. Then at her. His mouth parted. No sound came out.

"She's here," you whispered.

Andrew stared at the little bundle against your chest. His daughter slept on, entirely unimpressed by the emotional devastation happening around her.

"She's so small," he said.

Barely a voice.

"Yeah."

His eyes flicked up to yours.

"You okay?"

You laughed softly, crying already.

"You are holding yourself together by a thread and still asking me that."

His jaw worked.

"You okay?" he repeated.

You nodded.

"Sore. Tired. Emotional. But okay."

"And her?"

"She's perfect."

Andrew looked back down. His hands were shaking. He noticed. You did too. He curled them once at his sides like he could force them steady.

Your heart cracked open. For a few seconds, neither of you moved. Not because you did not want to.

Because after months of glass and phones and supervised distance, neither of you seemed to know how to cross a room without breaking.

Then you whispered, "Andrew." His eyes lifted. You shifted your daughter carefully higher against your chest.

"Come here."

Something in his face broke. He crossed the space in two steps. Not fast enough to scare you. Not slow enough to keep control.

Just desperate enough that your breath caught.

His hands hovered near you first, as if he had forgotten where he was allowed to touch. As if your body had become something fragile and sacred in his absence. As if he was terrified of hurting you, or her, or the moment itself.

You solved it for him. You stepped into him. Carefully.

Awkwardly, because there was a newborn between you and your body still ached from birth, but close enough that his breath caught against your hair.

His arms came around you. Not tight. Never too tight. Just enough.

One hand settled between your shoulder blades. The other curved carefully around the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair like he had been holding the shape of it in memory for months.

You made a sound you did not mean to make. Small. Broken. His arm tightened by a fraction.

"I've got you," he whispered.

That did it. You cried into his chest. Not prettily. Not quietly.

The kind of crying that had been waiting through every visit, every phone call, every contraction, every night you had slept curled around his old shirts because it was the closest thing you had to him.

Andrew bent his head over yours. His cheek pressed to your hair.

"I've got you," he said again.

"You're here," you whispered.

His breath shook.

"Yeah."

"No glass."

"No glass."

Your daughter shifted between you, making a tiny grumbly noise like she objected to being squashed into the reunion.

You laughed through tears and pulled back just enough to look down at her.

"Sorry," you whispered. "Your parents are very dramatic."

Andrew's hand moved automatically to the baby's back. Barely touching. A feather-light brush over the blanket. Then he froze, like even that was too much.

You looked up at him.

"It's okay."

His eyes met yours. Wet. Destroyed.

"It's okay," you repeated.

His fingers settled more surely against the blanket. There. His hand on his daughter. His other hand still in your hair.

For one second, the three of you were touching. Really touching. After months of not enough. After all the cold glass and dead phone lines and timed visits.

Your forehead rested against his chest. His palm covered his daughter's back. The baby breathed between you. Home, you thought. Not the house.

Not the green room. This. Andrew looked down at you, and his face shifted again. You knew that look. You had missed that look so badly it made you feel hollow.

His thumb brushed once along your hairline.

"You're really here," he said.

You smiled through tears. "I brought a baby and everything." A broken laugh escaped him. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Your breath caught. It had been months.

Months since he had kissed you.

Months since you had felt him close enough to know the warmth of his skin, the roughness of his jaw, the way he always paused the smallest second before kissing you like he was giving you time to change your mind.

He paused now. Even here. Even after everything. Your throat tightened.

"Andrew," you whispered.

His eyes lifted to yours.

"Kiss me."

His face crumpled. Then his mouth was on yours. Careful at first. So careful it hurt.

A trembling press of lips, almost disbelieving, like he was afraid the room would take it back if he wanted too much. You leaned into him.

The kiss broke on a shared breath. Then he kissed you again. Still gentle, but deeper this time. Enough that your hand tightened in the front of his shirt.

Enough that his fingers flexed in your hair.

Enough that for a few seconds, you were not in a prison contact room with a guard outside and a newborn tucked between you. You were his wife.

He was your husband. And the months without touching collapsed all at once. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. Both of you were crying.

Your daughter made another tiny noise between you. Andrew laughed softly, wet and ruined. You smiled.

"She has terrible timing."

"She gets that from me," he whispered.

"Yes."

He kept his forehead against yours for one more second. Then he looked down at the baby in your arms. His hand was still on her back.

"She's warm," he said.

His voice was barely there. You nodded.

"She is."

His throat moved. You took a breath and stepped back slowly, keeping one hand on his arm because you were not ready to stop touching him completely.

Neither was he. You could tell by the way his hand followed you for half a second before he caught your fingers and held them. Just held them.

Like he had been starving for your hand. Like the shape of your palm was something he had been trying to remember correctly for months.

His thumb moved over your knuckles. Once. Twice. You looked down at your joined hands. Then back at him.

"Now," you whispered, "do you want to hold your daughter?"

He looked up so fast it hurt.

"What?"

"Do you want to hold her?"

Fear rushed into his face first. Not rejection. Never rejection. Just fear.

"I don't know how."

"I'll show you."

"She's too small."

"She is exactly baby-sized."

"That's too small."

You laughed through tears. Andrew swallowed hard.

"I don't want to hurt her."

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

His eyes found yours. You squeezed his hand.

"I do," you repeated.

He nodded once, not because he believed himself, but because he believed you. You guided him into a chair. He did not let go of your hand until he had to.

Even then, his fingers slipped from yours slowly, reluctantly, like separating skin was physically painful.

You stood in front of him and adjusted the baby carefully.

"Arm like this," you said.

Andrew lifted his arms. Wrong. You smiled.

"Okay, no. Like you're holding a football."

His eyes shot to yours.

"A football?"

"Gently."

"That doesn't help."

"It will."

He looked deeply alarmed. You laughed, and the baby stirred.

"Sorry," you whispered, pressing a kiss to her hat. "Your dad is very stressed."

Andrew looked like he might stop breathing. Your dad. The words were not new.

But here, in this room, with no glass and his arms waiting, they landed differently. You guided his arm into place.

"Support her head," you said softly.

"I know."

"You've been reading."

"Yes."

"Good."

"Don't quiz me."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm proud of you."

He looked away. You lowered the baby into his arms. For one terrifying, holy second, everything held still. Then she was there. In his arms.

Andrew froze. Completely. Your hands stayed over his for a moment, helping him hold the weight of her.

"She's okay," you whispered.

His eyes were fixed on her face.

"She's okay," you repeated.

The baby shifted, making a small offended sound. Andrew flinched. You smiled through tears.

"That's normal."

"She made a noise."

"She does that."

"Why?"

"Because she's a baby."

He looked overwhelmed by this information. You eased your hands back, though you stayed close.

Andrew looked down at his daughter like she had been placed in his arms by something too big to argue with. His hands were still shaking.

But he held her perfectly. Careful. Secure. So gentle it made you ache.

"She's warm," he whispered.

You covered your mouth with one hand.

"Yes."

"She's really warm."

"Yeah."

"She's…" He swallowed. "She's breathing."

Your tears spilled over.

"She is."

The baby's tiny mouth opened in a yawn. Andrew's face broke. It broke so completely you had to sit down before your knees gave out.

You lowered yourself into the chair beside him. Close. So close your knee pressed against his.

Andrew shifted instantly to make room, never taking his eyes off the baby. You leaned into his side. Your head rested carefully against his shoulder.

His breath hitched. Then he tilted slightly toward you, just enough for his shoulder to hold some of your weight. Your hand found his forearm.

His skin was warm beneath your fingers. Real. No glass. No phone.

He looked down at your hand on his arm, then at the baby in his arms, and his face crumpled again. You knew. Too much. Too much touch after months of none.

Too much love in one small beige room. He started crying silently. No sound. No sob.

Just tears sliding down his face while he held his daughter for the first time and let his wife lean against him. Your own crying turned helpless.

"Oh, baby."

He shook his head once, eyes never leaving her.

"She's real."

You nodded against his shoulder.

"She's real."

"She was in you."

You laughed wetly. "Yes."

"And now she's…"

"In your arms."

His breath shook. The baby opened her eyes. Not much. Just a tiny slit.

Dark, unfocused, newborn eyes blinking up at him like she was not impressed by lighting, air, or fathers. Andrew stopped breathing.

You leaned closer, hand sliding from his forearm to his wrist.

"She's looking at you."

"She can see?"

"Not really. Just shapes, probably."

"She's looking."

"She is."

The baby scrunched her face. Andrew's mouth trembled into something like a smile.

"She's frowning."

"She has your frown."

"No."

"Yes."

"No, she doesn't."

"Andrew."

He stared at the baby. She frowned harder. His face crumpled again.

"She does."

You laughed softly. The room was quiet except for the tiny newborn sounds and Andrew's uneven breathing. No glass. No phone static. No countdown yet.

Just him holding her. Finally. You reached over and brushed your fingertips against his jaw. He closed his eyes for half a second.

Like even that small touch had almost undone him. When he opened them, his gaze moved to you.

"You came," he said.

Your throat tightened.

"Of course I came."

"You had a baby three days ago."

"I noticed."

"You shouldn't be here."

"I know."

His face folded with worry. You leaned in gently, your hand still against his jaw.

"Don't make me regret it by lecturing me."

He closed his mouth.

"Good choice."

His eyes softened.

"You're hurting?"

"Yes."

He flinched.

"But I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

"No," you said honestly. "Not always. But right now, yes."

He nodded slowly. His gaze dropped back to the baby.

"She eats okay?"

"Yes."

"Sleeps?"

"Not really."

"Breathing?"

You smiled. "Currently, yes." He looked up, serious.

"I mean—"

"I know." You softened. "She's doing everything she's supposed to do."

"Good."

"She screams like she's personally offended by life."

His mouth twitched.

"Good."

"You keep saying that."

"Strong lungs."

"That is exactly what you said on the phone."

"It's true."

You watched him. The way he held her. The way every hard thing in him had gone quiet around her. Not gone. Never gone.

But quiet. Like she had put a tiny hand over the worst noise inside him and, impossibly, it had listened. You wiped under your eye.

His free hand moved, slow and uncertain, then found yours where it rested on his wrist. He covered your fingers with his. You both looked at your hands.

He did not let go.

"There's something I need to tell you," you said.

Andrew's gaze flicked up.

"What?"

You looked down at your daughter. Your daughter. His daughter.

This tiny furious person you had named in the quiet after birth, though really you had known before. You had known for weeks, maybe longer, carrying the name like a secret under your ribs.

Andrew had no idea. No hint. No warning.

You had talked about Mara and Nora and Willa and June and Anna. You had let him circle maybes. You had listened to him reject fruit names and shirt names and anything too sharp.

You had kept this one tucked away. Not because it was only yours. Because you needed to give it to him like this. With her in his arms.

With your hand under his. With his shoulder beneath your cheek.

With no glass between him and the part of himself he never believed deserved to become something soft.

"She has a name," you said.

Andrew went still. His eyes dropped to the baby. Then back to you.

"You picked?"

"We picked."

His brow furrowed faintly.

"We didn't decide."

"I know."

"Then—"

"You'll understand."

His expression shifted. Uncertain now. Careful. You reached into the diaper bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The birth certificate copy.

Not the official one yet, not fully processed, but the hospital record. Her name written in black ink where you had filled it in with a shaking hand.

You held it for a second. Andrew watched. His daughter slept in his arms, face tucked toward his chest. You moved closer again, shoulder pressed to his.

The three of you nearly touching from every angle. His arm around the baby. Your hand over his wrist. His knee against yours. You looked down at the paper.

Then at him.

"Her name is Andie."

Andrew did not move. For a second, you thought he hadn't understood. Then his eyes lifted to yours. Wide. Devastated.

Soft.

"What?"

You smiled through tears.

"Andie."

His mouth parted. No sound came out. You looked down at the baby.

"Andie Hope Cody."

Andrew's face crumpled. All at once. Not pretty. Not controlled.

He looked at you like you had reached into his chest and put his heart in his daughter's tiny hands.

"No," he whispered.

Your smile trembled.

"Yes."

He shook his head once, barely.

"Baby."

"I know."

"You didn't—"

"I did."

"Why?"

You touched your daughter's blanket.

"Because I love the name."

His eyes shone.

"And because it's hers. Not yours. Not exactly. She gets to be herself."

Andrew looked down at the baby. At Andie. His tears fell onto his prison-issued shirt.

"But…" Your voice softened. "I wanted her to have something that sounded like the part of you I love."

His breathing broke. You continued before he could argue.

"Not the damage. Not the Cody mess. Not all the things you're afraid of giving her."

Andrew's jaw trembled.

"You," you whispered. "The you who made her a duck with your hands. The you who talks to her like she understands every word. The you who asks about water and safe sleep and whether baby girls can wear yellow. The you who has been her dad since the second you knew she existed."

He closed his eyes. The baby stirred in his arms. His eyes opened immediately. Instinctive. Focused.

Father. Your heart nearly split.

"Andie," he said.

Her name sounded different in his voice. Smaller. Holier. Like he was afraid saying it too loudly would wake something sacred. Andie's mouth moved.

A tiny newborn twitch. Andrew stared at her.

"Andie," he whispered again.

You cried silently beside him. His hand shifted carefully over her blanket, one finger brushing the edge near her curled fist. Not touching skin yet.

Still scared. Still learning.

"Andie Hope Cody," he said.

Your lips trembled.

"Yes."

His eyes came back to yours.

"You gave her my name."

"No," you said gently. "I gave her a name that reminds me of you."

"That's the same."

"It isn't."

"It feels the same."

You smiled through tears.

"Maybe a little."

He huffed a broken laugh. Then looked down at Andie again.

"I don't deserve that."

"I know you think that."

"It's true."

"No," you whispered. "It's familiar. That doesn't make it true."

His face twisted. You touched his cheek again, because you could. Because there was no glass.

Because every second of this visit felt stolen, and you were going to use all of it.

"She deserves to know that her father is loved," you said. "That's all the name means. That I loved you when I chose it. That I loved her. That she came from something better than everything that hurt you."

Andrew covered your hand against his cheek with his own. For a moment, he just held it there. Your palm against his skin. His hand over yours.

His daughter asleep in his other arm.

Then he bent his head carefully over the baby, not quite touching her at first. Then he pressed his lips to the top of her yellow hat. So gently. So carefully.

Like even love needed permission. You sobbed. Andrew stayed there for a second, eyes closed, mouth against the hat covering his daughter's dark hair.

When he lifted his head, his face was wet.

"Hi, Andie," he whispered.

The baby made a small noise. His breath caught. You laughed through tears.

"She knows."

"She doesn't."

"She does."

"Mother science?"

"Mother science."

His mouth moved. A real smile. Tiny. Impossible. There.

You reached up and touched his cheek. He leaned into it before he could stop himself. Your thumb brushed under his eye.

"I wanted to tell you in person."

"I'm glad."

"I didn't want it to be over the phone."

"No."

"I wanted you holding her."

He looked down. Andie slept on, unaware that she had just remade him.

"You did that," he said.

"What?"

"You brought her here."

"Of course I did."

"You should be home in bed."

"Yes."

"But you brought her."

"Yes."

"For me."

"For both of you."

His eyes closed briefly. When he opened them, they were wet again.

"Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me for bringing your daughter to you."

"Yes," he said. "I do."

You let him have that. The room stayed quiet.

Outside the door, someone shifted. A guard, probably. Craig or Deran maybe. The real world waiting to take back its rules.

But inside, for a little while longer, there was only this. Andrew holding Andie. You leaning against him. His thumb against your knuckles.

Your fingers at his wrist. No glass. No phone. No static. You slipped one hand around his arm, careful not to disturb the baby.

"I missed you," you whispered.

His throat moved.

"I missed you."

"I know."

He looked at you then. At the tiredness in your face. At the flannel around your shoulders.

At the body that had carried his daughter and brought her here before it had even healed. His expression changed. Softened into something that hurt to look at.

"You look like a mom," he said.

Your face crumpled.

"You already used that line."

"It's still true."

You laughed wetly.

"And you look like a dad."

He looked down at Andie, stunned all over again.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His hand cupped her more securely. Not less afraid. But more sure.

"Andie," he whispered again.

The name seemed to settle around the three of you. Around the room. Around the impossible hour you had been given. The guard knocked gently on the door.

"Fifteen minutes."

You closed your eyes. Andrew's arm tensed under your hand. No. Not yet. Never yet.

Andie stirred, squirming slightly in his arms. He looked panicked.

"She's moving."

"She does that."

"What do I do?"

"You're doing it."

"She's making a face."

"She's probably hungry."

His eyes widened. "Do you need—"

"In a bit."

"She needs to eat."

"She can wait a few minutes."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

He looked doubtful. You smiled.

"Already bossing me about feeding her."

"She's small."

"She is."

"She needs things."

"She mostly needs milk, sleep, clean nappies, and people willing to stare at her like she invented air."

Andrew looked down at her.

"She did."

Your heart melted into something useless.

"Oh, you are gone."

He did not deny it. Not even slightly.

"I am," he said.

That confession made you cry again. Andrew looked at you, then down at Andie.

"I'm gone," he repeated, quieter. "Yeah."

His free hand moved back to yours. He held on until the guard's shadow shifted outside the door. Time was coming back. You hated it.

Andrew looked at you with panic rising now, not wild, but there.

"I don't want to give her back."

"I know."

His face crumpled.

"I know," you whispered.

He held Andie closer, still careful, still safe.

"I just got her."

"I know."

His eyes closed. For a second, you saw every version of him at once. The boy who had never been held right.

The man who had done things he could not forgive himself for. The husband who had cried through glass.

The father holding his daughter for the first time and learning, too late and right on time, that his hands could be gentle. You touched his cheek again.

"She knows you now."

His eyes opened.

"She heard you before," you said. "But now she knows your arms."

Andrew looked down at Andie. The words landed. You saw them land. He nodded once. Barely.

But it steadied him.

"She knows my arms," he whispered.

"Yes."

He swallowed hard.

"Okay."

The guard opened the door a fraction.

"Five minutes."

Andrew's jaw tightened. You sat up slowly, your body protesting. He noticed and shifted immediately.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"You're hurting."

"A little."

He looked like that wounded him. You shook your head.

"Worth it."

"Don't say that."

"Too late."

"You're stubborn."

"So is your daughter."

"Our daughter."

You smiled.

"Our daughter."

Andie made another tiny noise. Andrew looked down and laughed softly. It was the gentlest sound you had ever heard from him. The guard stepped in this time.

"I'm sorry. Time."

You had known it was coming. It still felt like being split open all over again. Andrew's arms tightened for one brief second.

Then he loosened them immediately, like he was afraid of holding too hard. You stood carefully and moved in front of him.

"I'll take her."

He looked at you. His eyes were red. You bent and slid your hands under Andie, lifting her gently from his arms.

For a second, he kept one hand against the blanket. Just one. Not stopping you. Just saying goodbye in the only way he could. Then he let go.

Andie settled against your chest, fussing softly. Andrew stood. You expected him to step back. He didn't.

He leaned in, careful of the baby, careful of your body, careful of every rule breathing down his neck, and wrapped one arm around you. Your breath caught.

Then you melted into him. It was not a full hug. Not the way either of you wanted.

There was a newborn between you and a guard at the door and your body still aching from birth. But his arm was around your shoulders.

His cheek pressed briefly to the top of your head. Your face turned into his chest. For the second time that hour, he held you. Really held you.

You sobbed once. He closed his eyes.

"I love you," he whispered into your hair.

"I love you."

His hand moved carefully to Andie's back. A feather-light touch.

"And I love you," he whispered to her.

She made a tiny sound. Andrew pulled back just enough to look at both of you. His face was wrecked. Yours probably was too. You smiled through tears.

"Say goodbye to Daddy," you whispered.

Andrew nearly broke again at the word. Daddy. Not dad in theory. Not father on paper. Daddy.

To this tiny girl in your arms.

"Andie," he said, voice trembling.

Her name sounded like a promise.

"I'll see you again."

You nodded.

"Yes."

His eyes lifted to yours.

"Both of you."

"Yes."

He bent his head and kissed you again. Brief. Careful. Desperate.

His hand cupped your face for one last second, thumb brushing your cheek like he was trying to memorize the texture of your skin.

Then he kissed the top of Andie's hat. The guard cleared his throat softly. You stepped back. Andrew's hand fell slowly from your cheek.

He looked at Andie until the last possible second. Then at you.

"Go home," he said.

You laughed through tears. "Bossy."

"Rest."

"I will."

"Eat."

"I will."

"Let Craig drive."

"I wasn't planning to walk."

"Don't be funny."

"I am very funny."

His mouth trembled into something like a smile. You held Andie closer. Then you turned toward the door. Every step hurt. Your body.

Your heart. Both. At the doorway, you looked back.

Andrew stood in the middle of the room, empty arms at his sides, tears on his face, looking at you and Andie like the world had just been handed to him and taken away in the same hour.

You lifted Andie's tiny hand from the blanket. Just barely. A little wave. Andrew covered his mouth. You smiled through tears.

Then the door closed. Craig was waiting in the hallway. Deran too. Both of them stood when they saw you. Craig's eyes went immediately to your face.

Then to Andie. Then over your shoulder, toward the room.

"Okay?" he asked.

You nodded.

"Yeah."

Your voice broke. Craig stepped forward, then hesitated. You leaned into him before he could decide. He hugged you carefully around the baby.

Deran looked away, jaw tight.

"He held her?" Craig asked.

You nodded against his shoulder.

"Yeah."

Craig exhaled.

"And?"

You pulled back, smiling through tears.

"He's gone."

Craig blinked.

"What?"

You looked down at Andie, sleeping now like she had not just permanently altered the architecture of her father's soul.

"He's gone," you repeated softly.

Deran huffed, but his eyes were suspiciously bright.

"Yeah," he said. "Figured."

You laughed. Then winced. Craig immediately pointed at the exit.

"Car. Home. Bed."

"You and Andrew are very alike sometimes."

Craig looked offended. "Don't say that."

"It's true."

"Take it back."

"No."

Andie sighed against your chest. All three of you looked down. She slept on. Tiny. Warm.

Named. Outside, sunlight waited.

Inside, Andrew Cody sat alone after they brought him back to his cell, his arms still shaped around the weight of his daughter and his mouth still remembering the kiss of his wife.

Andie. Andie Hope Cody. He whispered it once. Then again. Quietly, so no one could take it.

He pressed his hands together and remembered the warmth of her. The softness. The small sound she had made when he said her name.

The way you had leaned against him. The way your hand had found his wrist. The way your mouth had felt after months of glass.

The way the three of you had fit, even for a minute. Andrew bowed his head. He had spent most of his life believing his name was something damaged.

Something sharp. Something handed down with blood on it.

Then you had placed his daughter in his arms and given her a name that sounded like love finding another way. Andie. His daughter. His girl.

For the first time since the prison doors had closed behind him, Andrew did not feel only trapped inside his own life.

Somewhere outside those walls, you were taking his daughter home. Their daughter. And she had his name. Not exactly. Not enough to hurt her.

Just enough to remind him that some parts of him were still worth carrying.

Andrew lay back on his bunk, one hand resting over his chest where Andie had slept for one impossible hour. His other hand touched his mouth once.

A small, almost disbelieving gesture. His eyes closed. He could still feel both of you there. Warm. Real.

His. And for tonight, even after they took you from his arms, the world did not manage to take that too.

Taglist - 

@itwas-maroon16, @locaalolaa, @lizzyhaas-blog. Angelbunny222, @ynniksslirg, @mn2024x, @leilawarnerr, @lillly-ofthevalley, @nyxmoretti, @hehehehehehehaaaaaaaa @happyendingarentreal, 

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[chris-tredidation21]

YOU WERE NOT KIDDING OMG ‼️‼️

'i wanted her to have something that sounded like the part of you I love... You'

'that she came from something better than everything that hurt you'

I HAD TO PAUSE CAUSE I COULDN'T SEE PAST THE TEARS ‼️‼️‼️

[satellite-evans]

hula hoop

Pairing: Jack Abbot x reader

Summary: After a violent patient attack leaves you critically injured, Jack is forced to confront what it means to almost lose the person he loves.

Word count: 12k+

Warnings: patience violence, severe injury, angst, fluff

A/N:

read part 2 here

hey guys !! i’m genuinely so excited to finally post my first jack abbot fic, and i’m so excited for you guys to read it 😭

because tumblr hates me and this fic apparently exceeded the block limit, i had to split it into two parts <3 but i really hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed emotionally ruining myself while writing it.

anyways !!! thank you so much for reading, and please be nice this is my first time writing for the pitt/jack hahahah. if i used any medical terms wrong, my apologies 🫶

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The rain had started sometime before dawn.

By the time you merged onto the interstate, the entire city looked washed out and miserable beneath sheets of gray rain and smeared headlights reflecting across wet pavement. Your windshield wipers moved at full speed and still barely kept up with the storm. The coffee sitting untouched in your cupholder had gone cold nearly an hour ago, though you were honestly too exhausted to care anymore.

The overnight shift had turned into fifteen hours instead of eight after two trauma admissions arrived back-to-back near the end of the night, and now every muscle in your body ached with the kind of exhaustion that settled deep into your bones. You genuinely could not remember the last time you slept more than four uninterrupted hours.

Traffic slowed suddenly ahead of you.

At first you assumed construction or flooding because of the weather, but then smoke curled upward through the rain and your stomach dropped immediately.

Cars sat mangled across three lanes of traffic at impossible angles. One SUV had spun into the median while another sedan looked almost folded around the back of a delivery truck, its front end crushed so badly it barely resembled a vehicle anymore. Hazard lights blinked weakly through the storm while people stumbled across the interstate in shock.

Your body moved before your brain fully caught up.

“Oh my God.”

You were already unbuckling your seatbelt before the car completely stopped.

Adrenaline sliced straight through your exhaustion hard enough to make your hands shake as you reached for the trauma bag in the passenger seat. Rain hit you instantly the second you shoved the door open, cold water soaking through your clothes within seconds while distant screaming echoed somewhere through the storm.

Someone yelled that a driver was trapped.

Another voice screamed for a medic.

A woman near the shoulder sobbed hard enough she could barely breathe, blood running down the side of her forehead while a man beside her stood completely frozen, staring blankly at the wreckage like his brain had stopped processing reality altogether.

You were already running.

“I’m a doctor,” you shouted over the rain. “Move back and give me some room.”

People listened immediately.

The trapped driver looked somewhere in his forties, pinned awkwardly behind the wheel of the crushed sedan. Blood streamed from a scalp laceration down the side of his face while the airbags hung deflated around him. His breathing came too fast beneath the sound of rain hammering against twisted metal, panic beginning to sharpen around the edges of every inhale.

You crouched carefully beside the shattered driver’s side window, ignoring the glass biting through your scrub pants into your knees.

“Hey,” you said, forcing calmness into your voice despite the adrenaline roaring through your chest. “Can you hear me?”

The man blinked slowly toward you, dazed. “Think so.”

“Good. That’s good.” You adjusted the flashlight between your fingers while quickly checking his pupils. “What’s your name?”

“Leon.”

“Okay, Leon. I’m Dr. Y/L/N.” Your voice stayed steady automatically, years of emergency medicine taking over before panic had a chance to settle in. “Don’t move your neck for me, alright?”

A shaky breath of laughter escaped him. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

Despite everything, you smiled a little.

“You’re doing great,” you assured him quietly. “Stay with me.”

And he did.

His eyes kept finding yours every few seconds like you were the only stable thing left in the middle of the chaos.

Your hands moved automatically after that.

Pressure against the head wound. Monitoring responsiveness. Keeping him conscious and talking while you assessed what you could from outside the vehicle. Rainwater mixed with blood beneath your fingers while traffic backed up for what looked like miles behind you, headlights glowing dimly through the storm.

Leon kept looking at you every few seconds like you were the only stable thing left in the middle of the chaos.

“You work at the PTMC?” he asked weakly after spotting the hospital logo embroidered onto your soaked jacket.

“Unfortunately.”

That got a real laugh out of him, brief and pained but enough that relief loosened slightly in your chest.

“You always this calm when you see a car crash?”

You let out a tired breath through your nose. “No. I’m panicking beautifully internally.”

That made him laugh again.

Patients relaxed faster once they laughed. It was something you learned early in residency, fear loosened the second people felt human again instead of helpless.

So you stayed with him.

Even after the paramedics arrived.

Even after they started finishing the extrication, peeling back what remained of the driver’s side door while rain poured endlessly over the wreckage.

You stayed crouched beside him talking him through every step because shock was already creeping in around the edges of his expression, and every time panic threatened to overwhelm him again, his eyes found yours immediately.

“You’re okay,” you kept saying quietly. “Stay with me. You’re okay.”

The interstate blurred around you in streaks of red brake lights and flashing hazards. Rain soaked through your jacket and scrubs completely now, damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to your skin while your hair stuck to the back of your neck. The adrenaline that had carried you through the crash scene was already fading, leaving behind an exhaustion so heavy it felt physical.

An EMT looked up from the stretcher and did a double take.

“Dr. Y/L/N?”

You snapped back into focus automatically.

“Male, approximately forty-two. Restrained driver. Brief LOC reported by witnesses. GCS fifteen currently. Complaining of left-sided rib pain. Possible concussion. Neuro status intact for now, but keep an eye on him.”

The EMT nodded once while adjusting the cervical collar. “Got it.”

They moved quickly after that, securing straps, checking vitals, loading equipment through the rain while Leon tracked every movement with the wide-eyed focus of someone trying very hard not to think too much about what had almost happened.

Your knees ached from kneeling on broken glass. Your hands had started trembling slightly now that nobody urgently needed anything from you anymore.

But you stayed beside him anyway.

Leon caught your wrist weakly just before the paramedics closed the ambulance doors.

“Hey.”

You looked up immediately.

His face looked pale beneath the blood and rainwater, eyes glassy with pain and adrenaline, but there was something steadier there too.

Gratitude maybe.

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

The words landed somewhere deeper than they should have.

You swallowed hard before giving his hand one quick squeeze.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Of course.”

For a second, you just stood there breathing.

The interstate still smelled like gasoline and smoke. Somewhere farther down the road another paramedic shouted instructions while tow trucks crawled through the rain toward the wreckage. Traffic in the opposite lanes slowed almost to a stop as people stared through fogged windows at what was left of the crash.

“You riding in with us?” one of the EMTs asked.

You glanced once toward your abandoned car still trapped in unmoving traffic nearly half a mile behind the accident scene. The thought of trying to get back to it right now felt impossible.

“Yeah,” you answered tiredly.

The ambulance doors shut behind you a second later, sealing you inside with the sharp smell of antiseptic, wet clothing, and adrenaline.

Leon talked for almost the entire ride to the hospital.

Nervous talking.

The kind trauma patients did when they were scared enough to fill every silence because silence meant thinking too hard about how close they came to dying. You’d seen it hundreds of times before. Some people cried. Some got angry. Some went terrifyingly quiet.

Leon talked.

So you let him.

He rambled about his job, about his daughter’s soccer game this weekend, about how his wife was going to kill him for wrecking the car because they still hadn’t finished paying it off. Every few sentences his voice shook slightly before he forced another joke out anyway.

You stayed beside him the whole ride, monitoring pupils and vitals while keeping him talking just enough to assess mental status without making it obvious you were doing it.

“You always pick up patients on the highway on your day off?” he asked weakly at one point.

You let out a tired breath of laughter. “Only the lucky ones.”

That earned another shaky smile from him.

The ambulance doors burst open, paramedics already rolling the stretcher down the bay entrance while rainwater dripped steadily from the wheels onto the floor.

By the time the ambulance rolled through the bay doors at The Pitt, you were freezing hard enough your teeth almost hurt. Your scrubs were soaked completely through, your shoes squelching against the floor while trauma staff moved around you in organized chaos.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Santos called across the ER the second she spotted you climbing out of the ambulance bay. “Always a pleasure seeing you this early, Iron Woman.”

You groaned immediately.

You earned the nickname after accidentally mistaking a patient for Robert Downey Jr. during a twenty-hour shift.

To be fair, the goatee had been identical.

“Dana,” you called immediately, falling into step beside the stretcher. “What’s open?”

Dana barely looked up from the nurses’ station. “Trauma Two’s clear.”

“Perfect.” You pushed damp hair back from your face before glancing toward the department. “Whitaker, Javadi, you’re with me. Perlah, can you help set up Two?”

Perlah nodded immediately and disappeared ahead of the group while Whitaker grabbed gloves from the wall dispenser on his way past.

“You look cold,” Whitaker informed you conversationally.

“Thank you,” you replied flatly.

Javadi appeared beside the stretcher while all of you pushed through the trauma bay doors together. “What happened?”

“Restrained driver, approximately forty-two,” you answered automatically. “High-speed MVA during the storm. Brief LOC reported by witnesses. GCS fifteen on arrival, complaining of left-sided rib pain and worsening headache. Possible concussion.”

“Vitals stable en route,” one of the paramedics added while helping transfer Leon onto the trauma bed.

Whitaker immediately started attaching monitors while Javadi pulled supplies from cabinets with the frantic efficiency of someone still trying very hard to look calmer than she actually felt.

Then Jack looked up from the computer station.

And somehow, in the middle of the packed emergency department, everything softened slightly around the edges.

You caught the exact moment recognition crossed his face. The exhaustion behind his eyes shifted immediately into concern as his gaze moved slowly over you. Soaked scrubs, blood smeared across your gloves, rainwater dripping steadily from your hair onto the floor beneath you.

Jack crossed the trauma bay almost immediately.

“You okay?” he asked quietly. “What happened? I thought you went home.”

His voice grounded you in a way almost nothing else could anymore.

Maybe it was because he always sounded calm even during chaos. Maybe it was because after years together your body recognized him before your brain consciously caught up. Or maybe it was simply that exhaustion hit harder the second somebody else arrived to help carry it.

“I’m fine,” you answered automatically while stripping off your soaked gloves and replacing them with clean ones. “Probably need a head CT.”

Jack’s expression tightened instantly.

“For you?”

You blinked at him before realizing what you’d said. “What? No. For the patient.”

Behind you, Perlah had already started cutting away Leon’s soaked shirt while Whitaker attached cardiac leads to his chest.

“BP’s holding,” Whitaker called.

“Sinus tach at one-ten,” Javadi added while checking another monitor. “Probably pain and adrenaline.”

“Good,” you answered automatically before stepping back beside the bed.

“Where’s Robby?”

“Overdose in Four,” Dana answered from the doorway.

You nodded once and reached for your penlight again, checking Leon’s pupils carefully while rain continued tapping faintly against the ambulance bay doors behind you.

Santos wandered into Trauma Two looking personally offended. “Why does huckleberry and crash get invited? I can help.”

“You can stand there and look pretty while actual doctors save lives,” you shot back immediately.

Santos gasped dramatically. “Dr. Abbot, your girlfriend is bullying me again.”

“She bullies everybody,” Jack muttered.

But there was no heat behind it.

His eyes lingered on you a second too long.

You knew that look by now.

Jack had spent years in emergency medicine learning how to bury concern beneath sarcasm and exhaustion, but you still caught it every time. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes. The slight tremor beginning in your hands now that the adrenaline was wearing off. The way your shoulders sagged whenever you thought nobody was looking.

“You’re freezing,” he said quietly.

“You are correct. I am freezing.”

Without another word, Jack pulled his hoodie off the back of the nurses’ station chair and draped it carefully around your shoulders before you could protest. It was still warm from him, smelling faintly like coffee, antiseptic, and the cologne he only remembered to wear maybe twice a month.

Something in your chest tightened stupidly at the gesture.

Behind him, Santos gagged theatrically. “Oh my God. Romance in the trauma bay. I’m going to throw up.”

“Go chart something,” Jack said flatly.

Whitaker looked up from the monitor leads. “Actually, I think it's very sweet."

“You’re all miserable,” you informed them while pulling the hoodie tighter around yourself.

“No,” Javadi corrected while checking Leon’s blood pressure. “You two are just aggressively in love in public.”

Jack looked genuinely offended. “Aggressively? I don't get it."

Despite yourself, you laughed softly while stepping back toward Leon’s bedside.

Leon noticed the interaction immediately.

“That your boyfriend?” he asked weakly from the trauma bed.

“Husband to the emergency department,” you corrected while snapping fresh gloves on. “Boyfriend in real life.”

Jack rolled his eyes while typing orders into the computer. “Don’t encourage her, Leon.”

Leon grinned despite the pain. “You guys are disgustingly cute.”

Under the brighter trauma lights, bruising had already started blooming dark purple across his ribs beneath the rain-soaked skin.

“Headache worse?” you asked while checking his pupils again.

“A little.”

“You nauseous?”

“Not yet.”

“Good,” you answered. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Javadi palpated carefully along his left side while Whitaker adjusted the blood pressure cuff.

“There’s something strangely comforting about you people,” Leon admitted weakly after a moment.

“You say that now,” Javadi muttered.

That earned another tired laugh from him before he winced sharply afterward.

“There it is,” you said softly. “Still joking. Good sign, buddy.”

There was something oddly comforting about patients who stayed conversational. After years in emergency medicine, you learned to appreciate moments where humanity still existed between procedures and bloodwork and trauma assessments.

Sometimes those tiny conversations mattered almost as much as the medicine itself.

Jack stepped beside you while reviewing Leon’s vitals, his shoulder brushing yours briefly in the cramped trauma bay. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, damp fabric, and rainwater now that Leon’s soaked clothing had finally been cut away.

“You should change,” Jack murmured quietly while adjusting one of the monitor leads. “I got this, baby.”

You barely glanced at him, still focused on the chart. “Don’t worry. I’ll survive.”

A tired look crossed his face immediately.

“That’s usually what people say right before passing out.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder, though exhaustion dulled most of the energy behind it. “You’re dramatic.”

“You’ve been awake how long now?”

“Eighteen hours.”

Jack stared at you flatly. “That’s not comforting.”

“You stopped at a major accident scene after an eighteen-hour shift?” Javadi asked incredulously.

You shrugged slightly.

And that alone made Jack’s jaw tighten, because that was exactly the kind of thing you always did.

The adrenaline carrying you through the crash scene had almost completely faded now, leaving behind exhaustion so heavy it felt physical. Your wet clothes clung coldly to your skin beneath Jack’s hoodie while every muscle in your body ached now that the immediate crisis had passed.

Jack exhaled softly through his nose before lowering his voice.

“You don’t always have to run yourself into the ground trying to save everybody.”

The words landed harder than they should have.

You focused instead on adjusting Leon’s blanket over his chest, smoothing the fabric carefully just to give your hands something else to do.

Jack knew you too well by now to push after saying something like that.

That was part of what made loving him dangerous sometimes. He noticed things you worked very hard to hide from everybody else.

He noticed the way your hands trembled after bad trauma calls once the adrenaline wore off. How you skipped meals without realizing it during difficult shifts. How every patient death stayed with you longer than you ever admitted aloud.

Jack had spent years in emergency medicine learning how to compartmentalize just enough to survive it, which somehow only made him better at recognizing when you weren’t doing the same.

His hand brushed briefly against the small of your back as he moved toward the monitors again.

“Don’t worry, Leon,” Jack said easily while checking the cardiac tracing. “You’re in good hands.”

Leon looked toward him before his gaze drifted back to you.

“I figured that out already,” he said softly. “She stopped on the interstate for me.”

You glanced up from the chart, slightly surprised by how steady his voice sounded now despite everything.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” Leon continued quietly.

You shrugged lightly, pushing damp hair away from your face. “Part of the job.”

“Maybe,” he answered softly, still watching you carefully. “But most people would’ve kept driving.”

Something warm and uncomfortable settled low in your chest at that.

Most patients never saw the moments in between all of this. They saw calm voices and steady hands. They saw competence because that was what they needed from you in moments like these.

They never saw the aftermath.

The exhaustion. The panic doctors swallowed in real time just to keep functioning. The way people occasionally locked themselves in supply closets for thirty seconds after bad cases just to breathe before walking back out like nothing happened.

But Leon had seen you kneeling beside twisted metal in freezing rain with blood on your hands while traffic screamed past only feet away.

He’d seen the human part too.

And somehow that felt far more exposing than expected.

Before you could answer, something shifted.

Subtle.

Small enough most people in the room probably would have missed it entirely.

But after years in emergency medicine, your body noticed changes before your brain consciously caught up.

Leon’s breathing changed.

One second it was slow and uneven with postictal exhaustion.

The next it caught strangely in his chest.

His eyes lost focus somewhere over your shoulder while every muscle in his body tightened beneath the blankets all at once.

Your stomach dropped instantly.

“Leon?”

Jack looked up from the monitor station at the exact same moment Leon’s entire body stiffened violently against the mattress.

“He’s seizing!”

Everything exploded into motion.

The seizure hit hard and fast, violent enough that the entire trauma bed rattled beneath him. His back arched sharply while his arms convulsed uncontrollably, knocking equipment sideways as monitors erupted into sharp screaming alarms throughout the room.

“Clock started,” Perlah called immediately.

“Two minutes on the seizure pads,” Whitaker added while grabbing suction.

“Turn him,” you ordered.

You and Javadi moved together automatically, carefully rolling Leon onto his side while his body continued jerking violently beneath your hands. Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth where he’d bitten through his tongue while every breath came in horrible choking gasps between convulsions.

“Airway’s clear,” Javadi said quickly, though her voice still sounded tight with adrenaline.

Across the room Jack was already pulling medication from the crash cart while Dana called CT from the doorway ahead of transport.

Then finally, slowly, the seizure broke.

Leon’s body slumped heavily back against the mattress drenched in sweat while ragged breaths tore unevenly from his chest. The room fell briefly into that strange silence that always followed emergencies, where everybody still moved quickly even though the worst part had passed.

For now.

“Let’s get a CT stat,” Jack said immediately.

You nodded once, trying to ignore the tremor beginning in your hands now that the adrenaline spike was crashing again.

“I’ll stay with him until transport.”

Jack hesitated.

Only briefly, but long enough for you to notice.

Something unreadable crossed his expression while his eyes flicked from Leon back toward you.

Concern maybe.

The same quiet tension he always carried after particularly violent trauma cases.

“You sure?” he asked softly.

You frowned slightly. “Yeah.”

Whitaker glanced briefly between both of you like he noticed something too, but before he could say anything Dana appeared in the doorway again.

“Trauma Three needs help now.”

Jack’s jaw tightened.

His fingers brushed briefly against your wrist before he stepped away toward the hallway, disappearing almost immediately back into the noise and chaos outside the trauma bay.

The room quieted afterward.

Machines beeped steadily while rain tapped faintly against distant ER windows somewhere down the hall. Whitaker and Javadi had already been pulled into another room, leaving you alone beside Leon while he lay motionless in exhausted postictal confusion.

You dimmed the overhead light slightly before adjusting the blanket higher over his chest.

“Hey,” you said gently when you noticed him beginning to stir. “You’re okay. You had a seizure.”

No response.

His eyes stayed fixed upward, unfocused and confused.

Postictal.

You had seen it hundreds of times before. Disorientation. Confusion. Agitation sometimes. Patients waking terrified because their brains had not fully caught up to reality yet.

Your shoulder ached dully now that exhaustion was settling deeper into your body again. You reached absentmindedly for the chart at the foot of the bed, mentally running through differentials and imaging priorities while waiting for CT to call back.

You missed the shift in him by less than a second.

One moment Leon lay motionless against the mattress, the next his eyes sharpened violently.

Not recognition.

Fear.

Pure terrified instinct.

Your stomach dropped.

“Leon—”

He surged upright before you could finish the sentence.

His hand closed around your throat with terrifying force, slamming you backward into the cabinet hard enough to knock the air violently from your lungs. Pain exploded across the back of your skull as your head cracked sharply against metal.

“Leon!”

The sound came out broken and strangled.

But he wasn’t seeing you.

That was the horrifying part.

His eyes looked completely wild now—unfocused, terrified, empty all at once. Pure neurological panic stripped entirely of recognition.

For one terrible second, training overrode fear.

“Leon,” you gasped desperately, grabbing his wrists instinctively instead of striking him. “Listen to me. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

Nothing reached him.

His grip tightened harder around your throat.

Air stopped.

Panic slammed through you instantly now, sharp and animal and overwhelming in a way you almost never allowed yourself to feel. Your vision flickered violently while you clawed uselessly at his hands, trying desperately to drag in even one full breath.

You needed help.

Safe word.

Your mouth opened automatically.

“H—”

Nothing came out except a rasp.

Leon shoved you backward harder, your skull slamming against the cabinet again hard enough that white exploded across your vision.

The hospital safe word.

You just needed to say it.

“Hula—”

The sound collapsed into another strangled gasp as his fingers crushed tighter against your airway.

Your lungs burned.

Tears blurred your vision from pain and lack of oxygen while movement echoed faintly somewhere outside the trauma bay. People were still moving through the ER completely unaware of what was happening behind the curtain.

Your body was weakening fast.

You forced one shredded breath into your lungs and screamed:

“HULA HOOP!”

The entire department reacted instantly.

The trauma bay doors burst open hard enough to slam against the wall while voices shouted over each other.

Hands grabbed Leon, trying to drag him backward while he fought wildly in blind confusion and terror.

But before anyone could fully pull him away, he shoved you violently across the room.

Your shoulder struck the edge of the cabinetry with a horrible crack before the rest of your body collapsed hard onto the tile floor.

Pain tore through your arm instantly, sharp and wrong enough it barely felt real.

You couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

The room blurred violently while alarms screamed overhead and people shouted your name somewhere nearby.

And through all of it, through the pain and chaos splitting apart around you, your brain found one thing instinctively.

Jack.

You thought about the way he always found you in crowded trauma bays without even trying. The way his hoodie still smelled faintly like coffee and antiseptic around your shoulders. The quiet brush of his hand against your back only minutes earlier.

You wondered irrationally if he was going to blame himself for leaving the room.

That thought hurt almost as badly as the pain itself.

Your eyes slipped closed just as the world dissolved completely into noise.

Jack was halfway through finishing a chart when he realized he had not seen you in several minutes.

He looked up automatically, scanning the department for you out of habit more than anything else. Usually he could spot you immediately no matter how crowded the ER became. You moved quickly when you worked, sharp and focused and impossible to miss once he knew what to look for.

But you were nowhere.

“Hey, Javadi,” he called while signing off medication orders. “Have you seen Dr. Y/L/N?”

Javadi looked up so quickly, like she was a deer caught in headlights. “Uh… no,” she answered quickly. Too quickly. “I haven’t seen her since I left Leon. Sorry.”

Then she disappeared almost immediately toward another patient before he could ask anything else.

He pushed himself upright from the workstation, the familiar ache radiating faintly through his prosthetic. Long shifts always made it worse. The socket rubbed raw after enough hours on his feet, especially during busy trauma nights when he barely sat down.

Normally he ignored it.

Right now he barely felt it at all.

“Dana,” he called, already moving toward the nurses’ station. “Have you seen Y/N?”

Dana barely looked up from the chart she was reviewing. “Pretty sure she’s still with Leon. Why?”

Jack turned the iPad slightly toward her. “They haven’t gone to CT.”

That got her attention.

Her eyes flicked quickly toward the tracking board before settling back on him. “They’re probably backed up upstairs.”

“Maybe.”

But something still felt wrong.

Dana sighed softly. “Jack, she’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”

He knew that.

God, he knew that better than anybody.

You were one of the strongest people he had ever met. Smarter than most attendings twice your age. Calm during trauma activations that made residents freeze completely. You handled combative patients, pediatric codes, catastrophic MVCs, and grieving families with a steadiness that still amazed him after all these years.

But that feeling in his chest would not go away.

Dana pointed down the hallway. “I actually need you in Central Fourteen. Chest pain rule-out and Dr. Garcia wants another set of eyes before she calls cards.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, still staring at the tracking board.

“Right,” he muttered distractedly. “Yeah. Okay.”

He turned reluctantly toward the direction of Central Fourteen, adjusting his pace automatically as the prosthetic clicked softly against tile beneath his scrub pants. Fatigue had settled deep into the joint hours ago, making his gait slightly uneven now that the adrenaline from earlier trauma activations had worn off.

Then he heard it.

“HULA HOOP!”

Everything in his body stopped instantly.

The voice was barely recognizable.

Raw. Ragged. Strangled around obvious pain and panic in a way that made every hair on the back of his neck stand upright immediately. For one horrible second his brain refused to process it properly because it did not make sense. Not your voice. Not like that.

And then recognition hit him all at once.

The hospital safe word.

Trauma Two.

Jack’s heart dropped so violently it almost hurt.

No.

The thought hit him before anything else.

No no no.

Adrenaline detonated through his bloodstream hard enough to make him dizzy.

Then instinct took over completely.

“No,” he breathed aloud, already moving before the word fully left his mouth.

He pivoted so sharply pain shot violently through his prosthetic, the sudden turn grinding pressure through the socket hard enough that under normal circumstances it would have staggered him. But right now he barely felt it beneath the sheer overwhelming panic flooding his system.

Fear swallowed everything else whole.

Not the controlled fear he knew from trauma medicine. Not the clinical kind that sharpened your focus during codes and mass casualty calls.

This was different.

This was personal.

Jack shoved past a stretcher hard enough that the wheels screeched across tile while people all around him started reacting at the exact same time. Nurses turned toward Trauma Two instantly at the sound of the safe word. Dana’s head snapped upward from the nurses’ station. Santos was already running before half the department fully understood what was happening.

But Jack got there first.

The curtain outside Trauma Two jerked violently as shouting erupted from inside the room. Monitors screamed overhead loud enough to echo through the entire department while equipment crashed hard against the floor somewhere beyond the drapes.

“Get him off her!”

The words barely registered through the roaring in Jack’s ears.

His pulse was so loud now it drowned everything else out.

He hit the doorway hard enough that the curtain ripped halfway off the track as he shoved inside.

And then he saw you.

Lying on the floor.

Motionless.

For one horrifying second his brain simply stopped functioning.

You were crumpled unnaturally against the tile beside the cabinets, one arm twisted wrong beneath you while blood streaked across the side of your face from where your head had struck something hard enough to split skin open. Jack noticed everything all at once in the brutal hyperclarity trauma doctors developed after years in emergency medicine.

The bruising already forming around your throat.

The abnormal angle of your shoulder.

The way your chest barely moved.

And somehow that was the part that terrified him most.

You were not moving enough.

Leon was still screaming somewhere nearby while Ahmed and two nurses fought to restrain him against the opposite wall, his face wild with postictal confusion and terror. Somebody was yelling for sedation meds. The entire trauma bay had dissolved into complete chaos.

But Jack barely registered any of it.

Because you were on the floor.

And you were not getting up.

Something inside his chest seemed to cave inward violently.

“Oh, honey.”

Then he said your name, and the sound that came out barely resembled the steady, composed voice Jack used during traumas and codes and every impossible shift the hospital threw at him.

This was different.

There was no clinical calm left in him now.

Only fear.

Pure terrified fear.

He dropped beside you so fast pain tore sharply through his prosthetic as his knee hit tile, but he ignored it instantly. His hands shook hard enough he almost missed your carotid pulse the first time he checked.

Then finally.

There. Weak, but there.

Relief hit so hard it almost made him nauseous.

“Oh my God,” he whispered shakily, one bloodstained hand cradling the side of your face carefully while the other pressed against your neck searching for injuries. “Hey. Hey, stay with me. Come on.”

You did not respond.

Jack’s stomach turned violently.

Training forced itself back online in fragmented pieces despite the panic threatening to choke him alive. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Neuro. He assessed automatically even while his brain screamed at him that this was you beneath his hands.

Not a patient.

You.

Blood pressure crash from trauma? Concussion? Cervical injury? Shoulder dislocation? Fracture? Internal bleed?

His eyes flicked instantly toward your throat again and rage flooded him so suddenly it nearly stole his breath.

Finger-shaped bruises were already darkening against your skin.

He hurt you.

The realization nearly made Jack physically sick.

“Jack,” Dana’s voice cut sharply through the chaos as she dropped beside him. “We need to move.”

But Jack could barely hear her.

Your eyelashes fluttered faintly for half a second before falling closed again and something inside him broke completely at the sight.

“No no no,” he whispered frantically, brushing damp hair away from your face with shaking fingers. “Stay awake. Baby, stay awake for me.”

His voice cracked hard on the last word.

That terrified him almost as much as the sight of you bleeding on the floor.

Because Jack Abbot did not lose composure.

Not during traumas, not during mass casualties, not while pronouncing deaths.

But right now panic was tearing straight through him so violently he could barely breathe around it.

And for the first time in years, he had absolutely no idea how to separate being a doctor from being the man who loved you.

“What the hell happened?”

Robby’s voice cut sharply through the chaos as he pushed into Trauma Two with Mohan directly behind him, but for half a second, both of them stopped cold.

The room looked catastrophic. Leon was still fighting violently against security near the far wall, his movements frantic and disorganized while Santos shouted for more sedation. Equipment littered the floor around the trauma bay, overturned trays and scattered supplies crunching beneath people’s shoes as alarms screamed overhead loudly enough to make the entire room feel claustrophobic.

And in the middle of all of it, you were lying motionless on the floor with Jack kneeling beside you.

Blood streaked down the side of your face and disappeared beneath the collar of his hoodie still hanging around your shoulders. Bruising had already started darkening visibly around your throat, ugly fingerprints blooming beneath the fluorescent trauma lights, while your left arm rested at an angle that made Mohan’s stomach immediately drop.

“Jesus Christ,” Mohan breathed.

“Security’s got the patient,” Dana snapped, already dropping beside you with Santos. “Probably postictal aggression after the seizure. He went after her.”

Robby moved instantly after that, years of trauma medicine overriding shock the second he reached your side. “Get her on a gurney now. C-spine precautions. Santos, I need vitals. Dana, page CT and tell them we’re coming immediately. Mohan, get me neuro and ortho on standby.”

Everybody moved except Jack.

He stayed frozen beside you on the tile floor, one hand still cradling the side of your face like he physically could not force himself to let go.

“Jack,” Robby said.

No response.

Jack was staring at you with an expression Robby had never seen on him before. Not panic exactly. Worse than panic. Helplessness, maybe, like his brain had short-circuited somewhere between doctor and boyfriend and now could not figure out how to function as either.

“Jack,” Robby repeated more firmly.

That finally seemed to pull him back enough to blink.

“She isn’t breathing right,” he said hoarsely, voice rough enough it barely sounded like him anymore. “He had her by the throat. Her head hit the cabinet, probably. Possible LOC. Shoulder’s definitely dislocated, maybe fractured too.”

The words came out clipped and automatic, pure trauma assessment forced through panic, but his hands were still shaking.

Dana and Santos carefully slid a backboard beneath you while Mohan cut away the remains of the hoodie around your shoulder to assess the injury better. The second the fabric moved, Jack saw the full extent of the bruising spreading across your throat, dark purple already beneath your skin.

“He squeezed hard enough to leave petechiae,” Santos muttered quietly while examining your neck. “Shit.”

Robby’s jaw tightened immediately. “We need airway monitoring. Neck trauma protocol.”

You stirred weakly then, letting out a broken sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper as Dana stabilized your shoulder. Jack moved instantly at the sound.

“Hey,” he said, voice softening so fast it almost hurt to hear. “Hey, don’t move. You’re okay.”

Your eyes fluttered halfway open for barely a second before unfocusing again.

“She’s awake,” Jack breathed.

“For now,” Robby answered grimly while checking your pupils with a penlight. “Possible concussion. We’re not ruling anything out yet.”

Jack knew that tone. It was the same one they all used when things might be much worse than they looked initially.

Around them, the room was finally beginning to settle into controlled chaos instead of outright panic. Security had Leon restrained now while Santos pushed sedatives through an IV line with tight, controlled movements. Leon’s terrified shouting dissolved into confused, exhausted mumbling as the medication began taking effect.

“He didn’t know what he was doing,” Mohan said quietly, mostly to fill the horrible silence hanging over the room.

Jack did not answer. Rationally, he already knew that. Postictal aggression, neurological confusion, severe agitation after seizure activity. They had all seen it before. But none of it mattered right now, because every time Jack blinked, he saw your body hitting the floor again.

“On my count,” Santos said firmly while positioning herself near your head. “One, two, three.”

They lifted you carefully onto the gurney, and the second they moved your shoulder, a sharp cry tore from your throat despite your barely conscious state.

Jack physically flinched.

Robby looked at him immediately. “Jack, I need you with me here.”

But Jack still looked frozen. His prosthetic locked slightly as he stood too quickly, pain shooting sharply through the joint while exhaustion and adrenaline crashed violently together inside his body. Normally, he compensated automatically for it. Years of physical therapy had taught him exactly how to move through pain without thinking.

Right now, he barely noticed it. All he could see was you strapped to a trauma gurney instead of standing beside one, and somehow that felt profoundly wrong in a way his brain could not fully process yet.

Dana squeezed his arm briefly as she passed him. “She’s alive,” she said quietly, firmly enough that it sounded almost like an order. “So stay with us.”

Jack swallowed hard, then finally nodded once.

The second the gurney locked into place beside the trauma bed, the room shifted fully into trauma mode. Controlled chaos. Fast hands. Sharply clipped orders. Monitor alarms blending into the constant noise of the ER outside while everybody moved around you with the kind of practiced coordination that only came from years of emergency medicine.

“BP dropping,” Santos called from the monitor station. “Ninety-two over fifty-six. Heart rate one-forty. Pulse ox ninety-four.”

Robby swore quietly under his breath before stepping beside the gurney. “Dana, I need another large bore IV. CBC, CMP, coags, type and screen, lactate. Full trauma panel.”

Dana was already moving before he finished speaking.

Mohan carefully stabilized your cervical spine while Perlah adjusted the collar more securely around your neck. Blood stained the side of your face now, dark against pale skin beneath the fluorescent trauma lights, while bruising continued spreading visibly across your throat.

“She’s tachycardic from pain and adrenaline,” Mohan said quickly while palpating carefully along your ribs and clavicle. “Left shoulder deformity obvious. Could be anterior dislocation, maybe proximal humerus fracture too.”

“She hit hard,” Dana added grimly while cutting away the sleeve of your scrub top completely. “Look at the swelling already, poor baby.”

Jack forced himself closer finally, though every instinct in his body screamed at him to stop looking entirely.

Your shoulder looked wrong. Not subtly wrong, catastrophically wrong. The joint sat visibly displaced beneath skin already darkening with bruising while your arm rested protectively against your torso in unconscious guarding. Even barely responsive, your body was trying to protect the injury.

“Y/N?” Robby called firmly while shining the penlight into your eyes again. “Hey, stay with me.”

Your eyelids fluttered weakly, and your lips parted slightly before a small broken sound escaped you, more pain than words.

“There you go,” Dana said softly. “That’s good, hey sweetie.”

“She’s responsive,” Mohan confirmed. “Pupils reactive bilaterally.”

“Any obvious neuro deficits?”

“Hard to assess until she’s more alert.”

Jack swallowed hard. Normally those words would have sounded clinical. Routine. Hearing them about you made him feel sick.

Robby’s fingers moved carefully along your scalp before stopping near the back of your head. “She’s got a laceration here. Probably where she hit the cabinet.”

“How bad?” Jack asked immediately.

Robby looked up briefly. “Needs staples. I’m more concerned about intracranial bleed.”

Jack felt the room narrow sharply around him as his brain supplied every possibility instantly. Subdural. Epidural. Contusion. Diffuse axonal injury. Years of trauma medicine suddenly felt less like a skill and more like torture because now he knew exactly how bad this could become.

“BP’s still dropping,” Santos called sharply.

“Hang another liter.”

Dana connected fluids immediately while Mohan checked your abdomen carefully for rigidity and tenderness.

“She guarding?”

“Little bit.”

“Could just be pain response.”

“Or internal injury,” Robby answered grimly.

Jack closed his eyes briefly. Only twenty minutes ago, he had been teasing you for refusing to change out of wet scrubs. Twenty minutes ago, you had been standing beside him alive and exhausted and rolling your eyes at him. Now you were strapped to a trauma gurney while your coworkers discussed possible brain bleeds.

The trauma bay doors pushed open again.

“What do we have?”

Garcia entered already pulling gloves on, clearly expecting another routine consult before her eyes landed on the gurney. Then she froze.

“Is that...?”

Nobody answered immediately because suddenly saying it aloud made everything feel horrifyingly real.

Garcia moved closer automatically, surgical instincts taking over even while shock still flickered visibly across her face. Her eyes swept quickly across your injuries, taking in the bruising around your throat, the unstable shoulder, and the blood matted into your hair.

“Oh my God.”

Jack looked away sharply at the sound in her voice. He could handle panic, trauma, blood, failed resuscitations, and catastrophic injuries. But he could not handle hearing pity directed at you.

“What happened?” Garcia asked quietly.

“Postictal assault,” Robby answered while reviewing your vitals. “Patient seized after MVC. Became combative during recovery.”

Garcia’s jaw tightened immediately. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Jack, and somehow that made everything worse. Everybody in the hospital knew about the two of you. Not because either of you talked about it much, but because some things became obvious after enough years working together. The way Jack unconsciously searched for you in crowded rooms. The way your voice softened around him even during impossible shifts. The way both of you somehow always ended up side by side during difficult traumas without discussing it first.

And now everybody was watching him try not to fall apart while you lay bleeding in front of him.

“Y/N,” Garcia said gently while stepping closer to assess your airway. “Can you hear me?”

Your brow twitched faintly at the sound of your name.

“Good,” she murmured softly. “Stay with us.”

Jack finally moved closer again until he stood directly beside the gurney. For a second, he just stared at you. Really stared. At the bruises darkening beneath your jaw, at the trembling rise and fall of your breathing, at the blood drying against your temple.

Then very carefully, he reached down and took your hand.

Your fingers twitched weakly against his palm almost immediately.

Tiny movement. Huge relief.

“Okay,” Robby said firmly, forcing the room back into focus. “Let’s move. I want CT angio head and neck immediately. We’re ruling out intracranial bleed and carotid injury.”

Garcia nodded once beside him, already assessing your airway with practiced hands. “Neck swelling’s getting worse.”

Jack saw it too now that she said it aloud. The bruising around your throat had spread darker beneath the fluorescent lights while swelling gathered visibly beneath your jawline. Every breath you took sounded wrong now. Wet. Shallow. Strained enough to make every survival instinct in his body start screaming.

“Pulse ox is dipping,” Santos called sharply. “Ninety-one.”

“Jaw thrust,” Garcia ordered immediately.

Dana repositioned carefully at your head while Garcia leaned closer, studying the bruising around your airway with growing concern. “She may need to be intubated before CT if the swelling progresses.”

The word hit Jack like a physical blow. Intubated. His brain immediately supplied images he did not want. Ventilator settings. Sedation drips. ICU monitors. Neurological checks every hour.

“No,” he said automatically before he could stop himself.

Everybody looked at him.

Jack swallowed hard immediately, realizing too late he had said it aloud.

Robby’s expression softened slightly. “Jack.”

He hated the way Robby said his name right now. Carefully. Like he was one bad second away from falling apart completely.

“I know,” Jack muttered quickly, dragging a shaky hand down his face. “I know.”

But he didn’t. Not really. Because his brain kept splitting violently between two impossible realities. One side of him catalogued injuries automatically. Airway trauma after strangulation. Possible cervical instability. Hypoxia. Concussion. Internal bleeding. Shoulder fracture-dislocation. The other side could barely process the fact that you were lying here at all.

Your breathing suddenly hitched sharply.

Jack’s head snapped toward you instantly.

Your eyes fluttered weakly before opening. Confusion crossed your face immediately while you tried weakly to move, but pain flashed across your expression so fast it made Jack physically tense.

“Don’t,” he said immediately, stepping closer. “Baby, don’t move.”

Your gaze drifted slowly around the trauma bay like you were trying to understand where you were. The bright lights. The people surrounding you. The monitors beeping overhead. Then finally, your eyes landed on Jack.

Relief flickered there instantly. Small. Barely there. Enough to nearly destroy him.

“Hey,” he said softly, gripping your hand tighter without realizing it. “Hey, I’m right here.”

Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out at first except a weak breath.

Jack leaned closer immediately. “What?”

Your brow pinched faintly in confusion.

“...Leon?”

The room went quiet for half a second.

Even now, barely conscious and injured and terrified, your first instinct was still the patient. Something inside Jack cracked painfully at that.

“He’s restrained,” Robby answered gently before Jack could. “You’re safe.”

Your eyes shifted again, slower this time.

“Hurts,” you whispered faintly.

Jack looked immediately toward your shoulder. “I know,” he said quietly, voice finally cracking despite how hard he tried to control it. “I know, sweetheart.”

Garcia’s eyes flicked sharply toward him at the sound. Jack almost never lost composure at work. Not like this.

You tried to swallow and immediately winced.

Garcia noticed too. “Throat pain?”

A tiny nod.

“Difficulty breathing?”

Another weak nod.

Garcia looked immediately toward Robby. “Airway’s worsening.”

Robby swore quietly under his breath. “We tube here or risk losing it in CT.”

The room shifted instantly again. More movement. More urgency. Dana reached for airway equipment while Santos prepared sedation meds with visibly tighter movements now. Mohan adjusted oxygen flow quickly while Garcia moved toward the head of the bed.

Jack felt suddenly frozen all over again.

Your eyes moved back toward him weakly, panic beginning to flicker beneath the pain now that you were awake enough to understand pieces of the conversation around you.

“Jack,” you whispered hoarsely.

His chest tightened violently. “I’m here.”

Your fingers curled weakly against his hand.

“Don’t...” Your breathing hitched painfully. “Don’t leave.”

That finally broke him.

Because you sounded scared. You, the person who stayed calm during pediatric arrests and mass casualty incidents and catastrophic traumas that made residents physically sick afterward.

Jack leaned down immediately, pressing his forehead briefly against yours despite the blood and chaos surrounding both of you. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered shakily. “Okay? I’m right here.”

Then your heart rate spiked sharply.

“One-fifty,” Santos warned.

Your oxygen dipped again.

“Eighty-eight.”

Garcia looked up instantly. “That’s it. We’re securing the airway.”

Panic flashed visibly across your face, and Jack felt your hand tighten weakly around his.

“Hey,” he said immediately, brushing damp hair carefully away from your forehead. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

Your unfocused eyes found his again.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, even though his own heart was pounding hard enough to make him nauseous. “Just keep breathing for me.”

Garcia stepped beside him carefully. “Jack,” she said quietly. “I need room.”

And suddenly he realized there was nothing else he could do. No medication to order. No procedure capable of fixing this himself. No trauma protocol separating him from the overwhelming terror flooding his chest.

All he could do was let go of your hand and watch other people try to save you, and somehow that felt worse than anything he had seen in his entire career.

And somehow that felt infinitely worse than any injury he had seen in his entire career.

The intubation blurred together afterward in fragments Jack knew would probably stay with him for the rest of his life.

Garcia’s voice turned sharp and clinical the second she stepped fully into procedure mode. “Etomidate ready?”

“Ready.”

“Succinylcholine?”

“Ready.”

“Pulse ox?”

“Eighty-seven and dropping.”

The room moved quickly around you after that. Packaging tore open, monitors screamed softly overhead, and Santos pushed medications through your IV with controlled precision while Dana stabilized your cervical spine at the head of the bed.

Jack stood rooted beside the wall, feeling completely fucking useless.

He had watched hundreds of intubations in his career. He had performed them himself during impossible traumas, with blood filling airways and families screaming outside the room. Usually, the procedure grounded him. Medicine always grounded him because medicine made sense. Algorithms. Protocols. Airway, breathing, circulation. Find the problem and fix it.

But this was you, and suddenly none of it felt clinical anymore.

Your eyes found his one last time before the sedatives fully took effect. Fear still flickered there beneath the exhaustion and pain, but so did trust. Complete trust. The kind that made his chest ache violently because you were still looking at him like he could somehow fix this.

Then your body relaxed beneath the medication.

Garcia moved immediately. “Going in.”

The room fell quieter for a second except for the ventilator alarms and the sound of Jack’s own pulse hammering violently in his ears. He watched Garcia guide the laryngoscope carefully while Robby monitored your vitals from beside the bed.

“Visualized.”

“Tube.”

“Advancing.”

Jack swallowed hard enough that it hurt.

You looked so small suddenly. That was the thought that kept repeating in his head while he stared at your motionless body beneath trauma lights that suddenly felt much too bright. You had always seemed larger than life somehow. Loud when you wanted to be. Brilliant. Sharp-edged. Impossible to intimidate. The kind of doctor residents followed instinctively because even during disasters, you carried yourself like you could handle anything thrown at you.

Now you were lying completely still while somebody else breathed for you.

“Tube’s in,” Garcia confirmed.

Relief swept through the room instantly, subtle but collective.

“End tidal color change confirmed.”

“Breath sounds bilateral.”

“Secure it.”

Dana taped the ET tube carefully into place while the ventilator connected with a soft mechanical hiss. Your chest finally began rising in slow, controlled breaths afterward, steady and artificial and horrifyingly impersonal.

Jack hated the sound immediately.

The ventilator transformed you from injured into critical in a way his brain could no longer avoid.

Robby was already moving again. “Okay, we transport now. I want CTA head and neck, cervical spine imaging, chest CT, trauma series. Somebody call ortho and tell them she’s likely got a fracture-dislocation.”

“She’s still hypotensive,” Santos warned while adjusting fluids.

“Pressure?”

“Ninety systolic.”

“Hang another liter.”

Everything continued moving around him after that, but Jack could barely process any of it fully anymore. The room had narrowed into snapshots burned violently into his memory. Blood staining the collar of your scrub top. Finger-shaped bruises spreading darker around your throat. Your hand slipping weakly from his when they rolled the gurney toward the doors.

He followed automatically beside the bed while they rushed you toward imaging. His prosthetic protested immediately beneath the sudden pace, sharp pain radiating through the socket with every uneven step, but he barely registered it now. His entire body had narrowed itself into one singular instinct.

Stay close. Do not lose sight of her.

Hallway lights blurred overhead while the gurney rattled violently across tile. Nurses moved aside instantly when they recognized who was lying on the stretcher, and somehow that silence hurt worse than panic would have.

People stopped talking when they saw you.

A respiratory therapist physically froze near the elevators before whispering, “Oh my God.”

Jack looked away immediately. He could not handle watching other people realize how bad this was.

Then suddenly, he was left standing alone in the hallway.

The silence hit him all at once.

He stared numbly at the closed doors for several long seconds before finally turning back toward Trauma Two because he genuinely did not know what else to do with himself.

By the time he returned, the room was mostly empty again. The chaos was over. Only the aftermath remained.

One overturned tray still sat abandoned near the wall where it had been kicked over during the struggle. Wrappers and syringes littered the floor beside shattered plastic packaging while a monitor continued beeping pointlessly beside an empty bed.

And blood.

Your blood was still everywhere.

Jack stopped walking.

For a second he just stood there staring at it. Tiny streaks across the tile floor. Smears against the cabinets where your head had hit. Dark fingerprints dried against the bedrail.

His stomach twisted so violently he thought he might actually throw up.

Because the only thing left of you in this room now was blood.

Not your laugh echoing across the nurses’ station during overnight shifts. Not your sarcasm when Santos annoyed you on purpose. Not the warmth of your body curled against his after impossible shifts when both of you were too exhausted to even speak properly anymore.

Just blood.

Jack looked down slowly at his own hands. There was still dried blood caught beneath his fingernails from where he had held your face trying to keep you conscious. More stained the sleeves of his scrub top in dark rust-colored smears that made his chest tighten painfully every time he looked at them.

You were intubated upstairs while trauma surgeons searched your brain for bleeding.

The thought cracked something open inside him.

If he had stayed. If he had trusted his instincts. If he had checked sooner.

“Jack.”

Dana’s voice came softly from the doorway behind him.

He did not turn around immediately. For a second, neither of them spoke while she took in the scene around him. Dana had worked in emergency medicine long enough to understand what trauma aftermath looked like, not just physically, but emotionally too.

Jack looked wrecked. Not outwardly hysterical. That almost would have been easier. Instead, he looked hollowed out from the inside.

“You should sit down,” she said gently.

“I’m fine.”

The answer came automatically, immediate and empty.

Dana almost sighed because they both knew it was complete bullshit. She stepped further into the room slowly, careful with him now in the same way people approached trauma patients who had not realized how badly they were injured yet.

“You’re shaking.”

His hands were trembling badly now that the adrenaline had started wearing off, small uncontrollable tremors moving through his fingers no matter how tightly he clenched them into fists.

“I left her,” he said quietly.

Dana’s expression softened immediately. “Jack.”

“I left her alone with him.”

The guilt in his voice nearly hurt to hear.

Dana moved closer. “You could not have predicted postictal aggression escalating like that.”

“But I should’ve checked sooner.”

Jack laughed once under his breath, but there was absolutely no humor in it. Just panic and exhaustion and guilt twisting together so tightly he could barely breathe around it anymore.

“She sounded scared,” he whispered roughly. “Do you know how bad it has to be for her to sound scared?”

Dana’s chest tightened painfully because she did know. Everybody in that hospital knew how terrifyingly calm you usually were under pressure. You were the person comforting other people during disasters. The doctor residents looked for during bad traumas because your voice never shook.

But tonight it had.

Dana stepped directly in front of him then and reached up without hesitation, gripping the back of his neck firmly enough to ground him.

“Listen to me,” she said softly but seriously. “She is alive.”

Jack swallowed hard. “She squeezed my hand before CT.”

“Then hold onto that.”

His eyes burned immediately at the words.

For a second, he looked terrifyingly close to falling apart completely.

“She was looking at me like she thought she was dying.”

Dana’s face crumpled slightly at the crack in his voice because Jack Abbot almost never sounded fragile. Not after everything life had already put him through.

But this was different.

This was you.

“You know her,” Dana said quietly. “You know how hard she fights.”

Jack closed his eyes briefly because somehow that made this hurt even worse. He did know. He knew the exact stubborn determination living inside you, the way you worked through exhaustion and grief and pain because your body physically did not know how to stop caring about people.

And suddenly, the idea of losing you felt so catastrophic he genuinely could not imagine surviving it.

When you woke up, the first thing you felt was pain.

Not sharp at first. Not localized enough to understand. Just heavy.

A crushing ache spread through your entire body like every bone had shattered somewhere deep beneath your skin. Awareness dragged itself slowly upward through layers of medication and exhaustion while fluorescent hospital light glowed faintly red through your eyelids. For one blissfully empty second, your brain stayed blank enough that you did not remember anything at all.

Then your chest tightened violently around the ventilator tube lodged in your throat.

Panic hit instantly.

Your eyes snapped open as your body reacted on pure instinct, trying desperately to fight the foreign object forcing air into your lungs. The movement sent agony ripping through your throat and jaw so violently it nearly knocked you unconscious again. A horrible choking sound escaped around the tube while pain exploded across the side of your head hard enough to blur your vision immediately.

The monitors beside your bed erupted into sharp alarms.

Then suddenly Jack was there.

He moved so quickly the chair beside your ICU bed nearly tipped backward onto the floor. One second the room felt empty and terrifying and unfamiliar, and the next his hands were hovering carefully near your face like he wanted to touch you everywhere at once but was terrified of hurting you more.

“Hey, hey, don’t fight it,” he said immediately, voice low and urgent. “You’re okay. Breathe with it.”

You could see his mouth moving. Could see panic written all over his face.

But you could not hear him properly.

Everything sounded distorted beneath the ringing in your ears, voices muffled and warped together like you were trapped underwater. The ventilator hissed rhythmically beside you while your chest rose mechanically against your will, and the sensation was horrifying enough to send another wave of panic crashing violently through your body.

Jack kept talking anyway.

You recognized the cadence of his voice more than the words themselves. Calm. Steady. But underneath it there was something rawer now, something desperate he usually hid much better than this.

Your entire body hurt.

Your throat burned every time the ventilator pushed another breath into your lungs. Your jaw ached violently from the intubation while your left shoulder throbbed with deep nauseating pain that radiated all the way down your arm. Even breathing hurt despite the machine doing most of the work for you.

Then memory came back all at once.

The trauma bay. Leon seizing. Hands crushing around your throat. Your head slamming violently against the cabinet. The floor.

You started crying before you even realized it was happening.

Tears slipped silently sideways into your hair while panic clawed straight up your chest hard enough to blur your vision again. You could not stop shaking. Every instinct in your body still screamed danger even though logically you knew you were safe now.

Jack’s entire expression broke the second he realized you were crying.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered hoarsely.

At least you thought that was what he said.

He sat carefully on the edge of the chair beside your bed before reaching for your hand, avoiding IV lines and bruises with practiced gentleness. The second his fingers touched yours, you grabbed onto him desperately enough that pain shot violently through your injured shoulder again.

You did not care.

Jack was here.

And somehow that meant alive. Safe.

Your grip tightened harder around his hand while your breathing turned ragged around the tube again. Jack immediately leaned closer, his thumb brushing shakily across your knuckles while he tried to calm you before you exhausted yourself further.

“It’s okay,” he murmured softly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Only then did you really look at him.

And God.

He looked awful.

Dark bruising sat beneath his eyes like he had not slept once since this happened. His hair looked messy in a way that suggested he had spent hours dragging anxious hands through it, and there was something hollowed out in his expression now that made your chest tighten painfully.

You mouthed the question anyway despite the ventilator.

What happened to you?

Jack watched your lips carefully before understanding finally crossed his face. His throat worked once visibly while emotion flashed so openly across his expression it almost scared you more than the pain itself.

He still looked terrified.

Even now.

Instead of speaking, he carefully turned your hand over in his and began tracing slow letters against your palm with his thumb.

Patient attacked you.

The memory crashed back completely after that.

The pressure around your throat. Leon’s empty unfocused eyes. Your body hitting the wall. The terrifying realization that he genuinely did not recognize you anymore.

You jerked violently on instinct before you could stop yourself, panic surging through your bloodstream so fast your vision blurred instantly while the cardiac monitor erupted into another wave of alarms beside the bed.

Jack reacted immediately.

“Hey, hey, look at me.”

You could not fully hear the words, but you knew his voice. Knew the shape of it. The desperation underneath it.

Your breathing turned frantic around the ventilator while terror clawed violently through your chest again. You remembered thinking you were going to die. Not abstractly. Not distantly.

Really die.

And for one horrifying second, lying in this ICU bed unable to speak or breathe on your own, that feeling came rushing back all over again.

Jack kept one hand wrapped tightly around yours while the other hovered uncertainly near your face. He looked like he wanted to pull you against him and protect you from everything all at once but knew touching you too much would only hurt you further.

“You’re safe now,” he kept saying quietly. “He can’t hurt you. You’re safe.”

Safe.

Your eyes darted weakly around the ICU room instead. Machines. IV poles. Bandages. Your leg elevated and immobilized beneath blankets. Soft restraints loosely secured around your wrists so you would not accidentally pull the ventilator tube out while disoriented.

You felt trapped inside your own body.

The panic became unbearable.

Then your eyes landed on the PCA pump beside the bed.

Jack noticed immediately.

His entire face fell.

“Baby…”

You reached weakly toward the button anyway with trembling fingers.

Jack looked absolutely shattered watching you press it. Not angry. Not disappointed.

Heartbroken.

Because he understood immediately what you were doing.

You could not stop the fear. Could not stop the pain.

So you were choosing unconsciousness instead.

Medication flooded slowly through your bloodstream almost immediately afterward. Warmth spread outward in gradual waves, softening the sharp edges of panic first before the pain finally began loosening its grip around your body. The terror still lingered somewhere deep beneath everything else, but it no longer felt sharp enough to suffocate you alive.

Your grip weakened slightly around Jack’s hand as exhaustion dragged heavily at your eyelids again.

Jack stayed exactly where he was.

You could barely keep your eyes open anymore, but you still saw the way he looked at you while the medication slowly pulled you back under.

Completely devastated.

Like watching you choose sedation over consciousness hurt him almost as much as the attack itself.

Your fingers twitched weakly against his palm before your eyes finally slipped closed again.

The last thing you felt before unconsciousness dragged you under completely was Jack lifting your hand carefully toward his mouth and pressing one shaking kiss against your bruised knuckles.

The second time you woke up was somehow worse because this time you stayed conscious long enough to understand what had happened to you.

Pain existed everywhere now.

Not sharp anymore. Not even severe enough in one specific place to focus on. It had settled deeper than that, heavy and constant, wrapping itself around your entire body until even breathing felt exhausting. Every inhale pulled painfully against bruised ribs while your jaw throbbed in slow aching pulses that spread all the way into your skull. The medication dulled the edges enough to keep panic from swallowing you whole again, but not enough to make you forget.

Nothing let you forget for very long.

Garcia stood beside your ICU bed when your eyes finally opened again, flashlight moving carefully across your pupils while monitors hummed steadily around the room. The overhead lights had been dimmed sometime while you slept, leaving everything washed in pale blue-gray shadows that made the hospital feel strangely unreal.

“Hey,” Garcia said softly the second she noticed you were awake. “Welcome back.”

Your hearing still came and went in fractured bursts after the concussion. Some sounds arrived painfully sharp while others disappeared completely beneath the relentless ringing inside your ears. Voices felt warped and distant, like everybody speaking stood underwater somewhere far away from you.

You blinked slowly toward the doorway and spotted Santos hovering there awkwardly holding a bouquet of flowers that looked aggressively stolen from the hospital gift shop. Half the stems bent sideways beneath crinkled plastic wrap while one of the price tags still dangled visibly from the bouquet.

You stared at them for a second before a weak breath of laughter escaped you despite the pain immediately punishing the movement.

Santos looked so relieved at the sound she nearly seemed close to crying herself.

“You scared the absolute shit out of us,” she said quickly, like humor was the only thing keeping her from saying something genuinely emotional instead.

The ghost of a smile tugged weakly at your mouth.

Garcia stepped back after finishing the neuro assessment while Santos moved a little closer to the bed, still clutching the flowers awkwardly against her chest.

“Abbott threatened like six people,” she muttered after clearing her throat.

Your eyes shifted toward her slowly.

“He almost went through security trying to get back to Leon.”

Your stomach twisted instantly.

Leon.

For one horrible second you saw him again exactly as he looked before the attack happened. Pale and exhausted beneath ambulance lights while rain hammered against the windows around both of you. Laughing weakly through pain. Asking if you were always that calm. Looking at you like you were safe.

You swallowed hard against the sudden nausea crawling into your throat.

“What happened to him?” you asked quietly, each word dragging painfully through the ache in your fractured jaw.

Santos’ expression changed immediately. The sarcasm disappeared first. Then the humor.

“He’s okay,” she answered after a moment, voice softer now. “Physically, I mean.”

You closed your eyes briefly.

Santos hesitated before continuing more carefully. “He doesn’t remember anything after the seizure started. Robby thinks it’s the postictal state mixed with the head trauma.”

The room fell quiet after that.

Not awkward quiet.

Heavy quiet.

The kind that settled directly into your ribs and stayed there.

Because the worst part was that you believed her completely.

You knew exactly what postictal violence looked like. You understood the neurological confusion, the blind panic, the total loss of recognition that sometimes followed severe seizures. Rationally and medically, every part of your brain understood exactly what had happened inside Trauma Two.

But emotionally, it still hurt in ways you did not know how to untangle yet.

A strange grief wrapped itself around the fear sitting inside your chest because less than an hour before the attack, Leon had been sitting beside you in the back of an ambulance talking about his daughter and his wife and soccer games and stupid jokes while rain pounded against the windows. You remembered thinking he seemed kind, the sort of patient who apologized too much for being in pain.

You had liked him.

And then suddenly he became the person who nearly killed you.

Emergency medicine was cruel like that sometimes. One second somebody was human to you. The next they became trauma.

Santos stepped closer quietly before squeezing your foot gently through the blanket. “We’ll come back later, okay?”

You nodded weakly.

After they left, the ICU room felt unbearably quiet again. Machines hummed softly around you while rain tapped faintly against distant windows somewhere beyond the hallway. Pittsburgh looked gray outside the narrow ICU window, the city blurred beneath another storm rolling slowly across the skyline.

You drifted in and out for hours after that.

Sometimes nurses came in to check vitals and neuro responses. Sometimes transport arrived to wheel you toward imaging. Sometimes you only woke long enough to register pain before medication dragged you under again.

Then sometime deep into the night, consciousness returned slowly enough that you realized somebody was sitting beside your bed.

Jack.

At first you thought he was asleep.

His head rested bowed carefully against your hand where it lay on top of the blanket, broad shoulders slumped forward like exhaustion had physically crushed him downward into the chair. The dim ICU lighting softened the edges of him enough that for one brief second he looked strangely fragile.

Then you noticed he was shaking.

Your heart cracked instantly.

Jack was crying.

Quietly. Almost silently. But hard enough that his shoulders trembled every few seconds beneath the dim blue ICU lights.

The sight hurt worse than any fracture in your body.

You had seen Jack exhausted before. Angry. Burned out after impossible shifts and mass casualty nights and pediatric codes that left entire departments emotionally gutted afterward.

But you had never seen him like this.

Very slowly, ignoring the pain shooting through your ribs and shoulder, you lifted your fingers weakly toward his hair.

The movement alone was enough.

Jack lifted his head immediately.

His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed beneath exhaustion so deep it looked painful. There was stubble shadowing his jaw now like he had not even thought about himself since this happened, and the healing cut near his cheekbone stood out harshly beneath fluorescent light.

Destroyed.

That was the only word your exhausted brain could find for the way he looked.

Jack Abbott was always the steady one. The person everybody else leaned on during disasters because he never seemed to break no matter how catastrophic things became around him.

Until now.

“I should’ve stayed.”

The words came out rough enough they barely sounded like him at all. Raw. Torn open somewhere deep inside.

You frowned weakly despite the pain. “No.”

“I knew something was wrong.”

“You couldn’t know.”

“I did.”

Jack stood abruptly then, pacing once across the small ICU room before turning back toward you like he physically could not force himself to stay still anymore. His prosthetic clicked sharply against the tile beneath his scrub pants while one trembling hand dragged hard through his hair again.

“I left you alone in there.”

“Jack.”

His face crumpled so suddenly it stole what little breath your bruised ribs could manage.

“When they pulled him off you...” His voice broke completely for one horrible second before he forced himself to continue anyway. “You weren’t moving.”

Your own eyes filled instantly.

Jack pressed shaking fingers hard against his mouth, trying desperately to regain control of himself and failing anyway.

“There was so much blood,” he whispered finally.

The confession hollowed the entire room out around both of you.

You reached toward him carefully despite the pain.

Jack moved back to your bedside immediately this time, like he physically could not tolerate distance from you anymore, and leaned down slowly until his forehead rested carefully against yours.

For a long time neither of you spoke.

Machines hummed softly around the room while rain tapped gently against the windows again. Jack’s breathing still shook every few seconds no matter how hard he tried controlling it, and you realized with sudden aching clarity that he had been holding himself together by force ever since the attack happened.

Probably for everyone else.

For the department.

For you.

Until now.

Finally, through the ache in your jaw and throat, you whispered softly, “You saved me.”

Jack closed his eyes immediately like the words hurt almost as much as the memory itself.

For a long moment he did not say anything at all. His forehead stayed pressed carefully against yours while his breathing shook unevenly every few seconds, and you realized suddenly that he was trying very hard not to completely fall apart in front of you. The effort of it sat visibly in every tense line of his body, in the way his fingers curled tightly around yours like letting go might physically destroy him, in the way his shoulders remained rigid even now like some part of him still expected another disaster to happen the second he stopped bracing for it.

“You almost died.”

The words came out so quietly you nearly missed them beneath the hum of machines surrounding both of you.

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you again, and the expression on his face made something ache deep inside your chest because he looked terrified still.

Not panicked anymore. Not frantic.

Just deeply, genuinely terrified in a way you had never seen before.

“I couldn’t get to you fast enough,” he admitted roughly, eyes fixed on your face like he needed constant proof you were still here. “I heard the safe word and I ran, but by the time I got there...” His throat tightened visibly. “You were on the floor.”

You swallowed painfully.

Bits and pieces still came back in flashes more than complete memories. Leon’s hands around your throat. The cabinet slamming against the back of your skull. The overwhelming certainty that your body was beginning to give out beneath you.

Then Jack.

Your eyes drifted slowly across his face now, taking him in properly for the first time since waking up. The exhaustion. The fear. The sleepless hollowing beneath his eyes. He looked like somebody who had been surviving on adrenaline alone for far too long.

“You did get to me,” you whispered carefully.

Jack laughed once under his breath, but the sound cracked painfully in the middle. “Barely.”

“That’s not true.”

His jaw tightened immediately.

You knew that look. The same one he got after bad outcomes. After losses he carried around long after everybody else moved on. Jack had always been harder on himself than anyone else could ever be, especially when the people he loved were involved.

And God, he loved deeply.

Even when he pretended not to.

You shifted your hand weakly against his, ignoring the ache radiating through your shoulder and ribs.

“Jack.”

His eyes lifted back to yours instantly.

“I’m here.”

Something inside him seemed to break completely at those words.

Jack lowered his head again, pressing one trembling kiss carefully against your bruised knuckles before holding your hand against his chest. His heartbeat pounded hard and uneven beneath your fingers, fast enough that you could still feel the leftover adrenaline vibrating through him.

For a while neither of you spoke again.

The ICU remained dim and quiet around you while rain continued tapping softly against the windows outside. Nurses’ footsteps echoed faintly somewhere down the hallway, distant enough that it almost felt like the rest of the world existed somewhere very far away from this room.

Your eyelids had started growing heavy again by the time Jack finally spoke.

“You scared me,” he admitted quietly.

The confession sounded small somehow. Honest in a way that made your chest ache more than the injuries did.

You looked at him for a second before squeezing his hand as tightly as your exhausted body would allow.

“I know,” you whispered.

Jack nodded once, eyes never leaving your face.

Then very carefully, like he was handling something impossibly fragile, he leaned closer and pressed a kiss against your forehead while exhaustion slowly began pulling you back under again.

This time, when sleep finally took you, Jack’s hand never left yours.

taglist : @kittykaylat1987

[chris-tredidation21]

Ur such a good writer !!!! istg every piece U write is top tier 💐

[antisirkbitch]

The Cherry On Top- Finale

Pairing:

Summary: After months of mixed signals, Mateo and Y/N finally own up to what everyone around them knew forever.

Warnings:foster care/foster fail backstory, references to past child abuse & neglect, mutual pining, best friends to lovers, jealousy, drunk confessions, oblivious y/n, overprotective jack abbott, found family, dennis “mr. steal your girl” whitaker

Note: i'm so sorry this took so long to post. work has been a little hectic lately, and i've been trying to navigate a few things in my personal life as well, which unfortunately meant writing had to take a bit of a backseat. Also I found a kitten outside this morning. I don't know what to do.... I hope you enjoyed! I'll maybe try my hand at more SMAUs, this was fun <3

Masterlist

Previous

frecklesandflour posted

liked by dennis.whitaker, samira.mo, flangdon.md and 545 others

frecklesandflour: Besties to lovers doesn't sound too bad 💕

mateodiaz: hard launching now are we?

⤷frecklesandflour: shut up you literally confessed drunk

⤷mateodiaz: yeah but now its insta official. scary

shenanigans: HE DID IT EVERYBODY CHEER

samira.mo: about damn time 💛

dennis.whitaker: happy for u guys :)

⤷dennis.whitaker: only slightly devestated I won't get free pastries anymore

⤷frecklesandflour: liar you still get free pastries

jackabbotmd: get off diaz's lap

⤷frecklesandflour: get off my instagram old man

⤷jackabbotmd: no

vjavadi: Congrats!

trin_santos: this is so cute stop

mateodiaz: that's my girl btw

⤷shenanigans: there he goes

mateodiaz posted

liked by frecklesandflour, shenanigans, danaevansrn and 438 others

mateodiaz: She made it insta offcial so ig I will too. Love my girl frecklesandflour

frecklesandflour: awwwww I love you ❤️

⤷mateodiaz: still can't believe i pulled you

shenanigans: you've cried in my car over this woman btw

⤷mateodiaz: blocked

samira.mo: the flowers 😭

dennis.whitaker: happy for you guys!

trin_santos: now the hospital will finally know peace now that these two stopped pining

jackabbotmd: where are my daughters pants

⤷mateodiaz: respectfully sir, I can explain

⤷jackabbotmd: that somehow makes it worse

⤷frecklesandflour: DAD

vjavadi: this sickeningly cute

danaevansrn: happy for you kids

taglist: @uhmellamoanna @lorosette @seph8 @archxve @mysticapollo @longfulforlee @kmc1989 @llovekats @kitkatrina @youusunshineyoutemptress @st4rgrl4ever @korina1o1 @missharper33 @hzdhrtss @lorosette @sofianotvergara @poeshumanity @asteriology @ilocuras24 @isasdreams @teenwolfbitches28

[chris-tredidation21]

HELL YEAH HARD LAUNCH OF THE CENTURY

I can't get over 'i think I've always been in love with you too' and 'you can't just say that and not expect me to come and kiss my girl' like TF

[lovergirlcinema]

Baby Rabbit (3.)

Jack Abbot x black!reader

Summary: Jack and Nova’s connection continues to grow, and he finds that he enjoys being Nova’s “Dada.” Meanwhile, you both try to navigate the mutual attraction that you have to each other without complicating things.  Series Link

Chapter III: Goldfish and Gummy Bears

“Okay, let’s try this again, Nova. His name is Jack. J-ack. Say it with me.”

“Dada.”

“Nope, Jack.”

“Dada.”

You and Nova both give each other blank stares as you continue trying to get her to stop calling Jack “Dada.” It’s pretty clear from the stubborn frown on her face that she won’t be changing the name anytime soon. You hold up a picture of Jack from last week when you, Jack, and Nova all went out to dinner together. Nova grabbed your phone from the table, turned the camera to face herself and Jack, and snapped a million pictures. Some blurry, but some not bad at all.

It always amazed you just how smart your little girl is at her small age. 

You point at the picture, “This is Jack, Nova.”

Nova looks at the picture of Jack and then you before settling her gaze back on the picture. She smiles widely at the picture while making eye contact with you, “Dada, mama.”

You sigh before realizing that you won’t be getting anywhere with this conversation. Nova had permanently solidified Jack as “Dada” in the lexicon of her mind. 

You peer at Nova, who gives you a toothy grin. You scoop her up in your arms and stand planting kisses all over her face, “You think you’re slick? My smart, pretty girl.” 

Nova giggles loudly as she wriggles in your arms. You finally stop tickling her as she settles herself in your arms. She stares at you for a few seconds before puckering her lips. 

You laugh as the little “mmm” leaves her lips. You peck Nova’s lips, to which she giggles even more, “Love you, mama.”

“Aww, I love you too, lovebug. How about we go to the park today and have a picnic?”

Nova squeals and claps her hands, “Yay!! Picnic!” 

“Sounds good. Mommy’s gonna go pack the snack bag, you go make sure that Bun Bun is ready to go, okay?”

“Otay, mommy!”

Nova walks off to go collect Bun Bun from her room, while you move throughout the kitchen to start making the sandwiches. 

It doesn’t take Nova long to come back with Bun Bun. She comes into the kitchen to stand by you, “Bun Bun ready, mama.”

“Good job, lovebug. Do you want goldfish and gummy bears today?” You ask.

Nova nods her head excitedly before taking Bun Bun out of the kitchen with her. She looks at your phone sitting on the couch and whispers “Dada” to herself. If she’s going to the park, surely Dada should be going too. 

Nova casually walks over to pick up your phone and taps her fingers for your passcode. She’d been watching you each time that you put that code in, so it was practically ingrained in her mind. 

She slides over to the phone app and presses Jack’s contact. She only knows that it’s him by the contact photo that you had for him. 

Nova presses the phone to her ear as she waits for Jack to pick up. 

Inside his house, Jack sees his phone light up with your name and contact photo. It’s a picture of you and Nova smiling. He can’t control the flutters that radiate through his chest at the sight of the picture, but also the fact that you’re calling. 

Every time you call, Jack gets that feeling in his chest. He’s excited to hear yours and Nova’s voices radiating through the line. He enjoys hearing Nova tell him all about what she colored at daycare or hearing you talk about new pieces that you got at the museum. 

He’s down bad, and he isn’t sure what to make of it all. 

He clicks the answer button as he puts the phone up to his ear, “Hello?”

There’s a quick sound of rustling before Nova’s voice comes through the line, “Hi Dada.”

Jack softens at the sweet sound of her voice. He’s practically mush whenever the little girl calls him now. “Hi, sweet girl. How are you?”

“M’good. Dada good?”

“Yeah, honey, Dada is good, especially since you called. I missed hearing your voice.” He doesn’t even recognize that he’s used the nickname.

Nova giggles, “Miss you too, Dada.”

She pauses for a few seconds, but Jack doesn’t rush her. He waits patiently, just as he always does for his Nova darling to talk. 

“Dada, me and mama go to the park. Dada come?”

Jack feels the warm tears stinging in his eyes, but he has to will them not to fall. Nova wants him to come to the park with you guys. It fully brings the moment in for him that he hasn’t really lived life outside of the Pitt. 

“Nova, who are you talking to, lovebug?”

“Dada,” Nova answers, excitedly.

“Oh, can I talk to him really quickly?” You ask, keeping your tone gentle.

“Otay, mama.”

“Thank you so much, lovebug,” You respond, and Jack hears you kiss Nova, to which she giggles. 

You hold the phone up to your ear, “Hi, Jack.”

The funny fluttery feeling is back in Jack’s chest and stomach. “Hi, sweetheart, how are you?”

“I’m good! I’m sorry about Nova calling. You must be busy, and she’s gotten to that stage where she knows the passcode to my phone.”

You’re rambling, but Jack only chuckles softly. “It’s fine, honey. Nova can call me anytime that she likes. The same goes to you.” He pauses for a second, “So..uh…she mentioned that you guys were going to the park?”

“Yeah, I figured that since it’s a beautiful day. Nova would enjoy some fresh air.” You look down at Nova and then the phone before the pieces fall into place, “That’s why she called. Did Nova ask you to come with us today?”

Jack scratches the back of his neck, “Uhh..yeah, but if you want it to just be you, girls. I definitely get that.”

“No! I’d love to have you there…plus, I think Nova’s kind of expecting it at this point.”

“Great. I’ll meet you both there. Is there anything you need me to bring?” Jack asks. 

“Nope. Just yourself,” You reply, and it’s quite clear that there’s a smile on your face. 

Nova tugs on your jeans and points at the phone. You laugh softly, “Nova wants to talk to you.” You reach down to give her the phone, which she presses to her little face. 

“Dada, come to the park?” She asks, rocking from side to side. 

Jack’s heart clenches in his chest, “Yeah, sweet girl, I’ll be there.”

“Yayyy!” Nova squeals as she begins babbling into the phone, more than likely telling Jack all of her plans for the park. He hums and listens carefully, while asking follow-up questions. 

“Okay, Nova, we’re about to head out. Tell Da–I meant Jack bye-bye for now.” Jack doesn’t miss your slip-up, and he smirks at the mistake. 

“Bye, Dada,” Nova said into the phone. 

“Bye, sweet girl. I’ll see you in a bit,” Jack replies. Nova lets out a quick mhmm as the line goes dead. She hands the phone back to you as she goes to grab Bun Bun. 

You grab the picnic basket, along with a blanket, before opening the door for Nova. She walks out in front of you before you both head to the elevator. Inside, Nova sings to herself while talking to Bun Bun. 

“Mama, Dada, Nova, and Bun Bun go to the park. Dada loves Nova. Dada loves mama,” she said, smiling at Bun Bun.

It makes your heart clench when you hear her words. You start to wonder if she’s getting to that point of wanting a father figure in her life. So far, it’d only been you and her. You often wondered what it would’ve been like if Nova’s father had stuck around, but you refused to let your baby be confused because of his own inconsistency. 

You like Jack…a lot. He’d been nothing but sweet to you and Nova since you first met him. Even outside of Nova, he’d text you throughout the day to see how you were doing. 

After Nova went to sleep, he’d call you, and you would talk for hours while he was on shift. Even when you’d fall asleep, Jack would wait for a while, just listening to the sound of you breathing, before he was on his next case. 

The lines are starting to become murky, and it worries you. You know that Nova’s grown attached to Jack, and selfishly, you have to admit that you’ve grown attached to him too. 

It was clear to you that you and Jack needed to define the terms of your friendship…relationship, or whatever it was. For Nova’s sake. 

Because the last thing you wanted was for her to end up hurt.

At the park, you and Nova wait until you see Jack’s truck pulling up. He parks in the space beside you before rounding the car to greet you and Nova.

Nova is a ball of energy as she sees Jack. “Dada,” she yells, her little legs running towards Jack.

He smiles widely and bends down to wait for Nova to crash into his arms. When she makes it, he scoops her up and holds her tight to his chest. Nova squeezes him equally as tight. 

“Miss you, Dada,” she whispers in his ear.

“I missed you, too, Nova,” Jack whispers back. 

You almost faint at the sheer cuteness radiating from Jack and Nova. Jack walks over to you with Nova still in his arms, and you have to admit that she kind of looks like she could be his daughter. 

Nova looks like she’s completely comfortable and at home in Jack’s arms. 

“Hey,” Jack said as he stood in front of you. Almost naturally, he pulls you into a hug, and you can’t help how much you like having his body pressed against yours. 

Subtly, Jack catches a whiff of your perfume and melts. He likes the way that your body perfectly meshes with his. He doesn’t realize how long he’s hugging you until Nova throws her arms around you both. 

You laugh at the feel of Nova patting your back and pull back from the hug. You look at Jack, “Thanks for coming. I packed a few sandwiches and snacks for us.”

“S’no problem. Thank you for inviting me. Hanging out with you and Nova is typically the highlight of my day,” Jack states. 

You smile, “We like spending time with you too. But we gotta get you some more hobbies, Dr. Abbot. Work cannot be your only fun thing.”

Before he can comment, Nova starts pointing at the playground set at the park. Jack sets her on the ground just as she’s about to run towards the playground. She stops to turn to you and Jack, “Mama, Dada. Come play.” 

“Okay, lovebug,” You said, walking behind her. You choose to leave the sandwiches and snacks in the car in the cooler while you and Nova play. Nova takes Jack’s and your hands to walk closer to the playground. 

“Slide, Dada,” Nova said. 

“Okay, sweet girl, let’s do it,” Jack replies. He helps her with climbing the slide stairs, and when she gets to the top, he’s very adamantly standing at the bottom. Nova lets out a range of giggles as she moves down the slide and into Jack’s arms. She goes back around the back for her and Jack to repeat the process. Her little laugh tugs at the strings of Jack’s heart. It also moves him with how much she wants him involved in her playtime.

You take a few videos of Nova sliding down the slide. 

“Mama, monkey bars,” Nova said. The three of you walk to the monkey bars, and it’s clear that Nova’s a little too short for the monkey bars. You pick her up in your arms and lift her to the bars. “Okay, bug, you gotta make your way to the other side. I’m gonna be right here to hold you up.”

Nova reaches for each of the bars as you continue holding her. You smile at the determined look on her face, and Jack moves to the end where she can see him. When she makes it to the last bar, Jack is there to help her down. She claps happily, “Dada, I climbed all the way!”

Jack holds his hand out for a high-five, to which Nova obliges, “I saw you, sweetheart! You’re so strong!” He tickles her sides, which causes Nova to let out a range of giggles. 

You, Nova, and Jack go to a few of the other playground toys, and Nova insists that you and Jack play with her at all times. There isn’t a moment when the smile leaves her small face. At the end of swinging, she turns to you, “Mama, hungry.” 

“Okay, let’s go get the food.” 

You, Nova, and Jack all venture back to your car to grab the cooler containing the food. You grab the spare bag that has art materials in it. Without asking, Jack grabs both bags from your hand and even scoops Nova up. Heat floods through your lower belly at seeing him in this domestic role and just how strong he is.

Jack catches the heated look that you throw his way and smirks. It’s nice for him to see that he’s not the only one being affected by all of this. Soon, you find a suitable spot in the grass that’s under a shady tree and lay the blanket out. 

You, Nova, and Jack all sit down. Nova makes it clear that she wants to sit between you and Jack. She places Bun Bun next to her. You open the cooler and pass her one of the sandwiches, along with a pack of Goldfish. You pass Jack the other sandwich just as your fingers brush against each other’s. You both hold eye contact until you look down with a slight smile. 

Nova takes a few of the Goldfish in her hand and offers them to Jack, “Here, Dada.”

Jack has found out fairly quickly that he can’t tell Nova ‘no,’ so he gladly takes the Goldfish from her hands, “Thank you so much, sweetheart.” 

Nova takes a Goldfish in her hand and holds it up to your mouth, “Eat, mama.”

“Why, thank you, lovebug. I was so hungry,” You said, accepting the goldfish. You and Jack watch as Nova offers Goldfish to Bun Bun. She moves the stuffed rabbit closer to her ear before nodding, “Mama, Bun Bun no hungry.”

“Okay, baby, we’ll feed him later on if he gets hungry.”

The meal continues peacefully with Nova continuing to supply you and Jack with Goldfish. You open the pack of gummy bears as the three of you eat them together. After you’re finished, you wipe Nova’s hands and take out the canvases that you brought. 

You look in Jack’s direction, “Do you want to paint with us?”

Jack scratches the back of his neck, “Um..I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t have a creative bone in my body.”

You chuckle, “That’s fine. It’s not about creating a masterpiece. It’s about expressing yourself creatively. I always paint with Nova because I want her to have that outlet. Most of the time, it’s just her getting paint all over herself, but as long as she’s having fun, that’s all that matters to me.”

Jack looks down at the canvas and paint before looking back at you, “Sure, I’ll give it a shot.”

You grace him with another one of those beautiful smiles that makes his heart beat faster. 

You give him and Nova a little palette to put their paints in before taking out the brushes. You take out little cups and pour water into each one. 

“What are you going to paint, lovebug?” You ask Nova.

“Surprise, mommy,” She responds, which makes you and Jack laugh. 

“Okay then, Ms. girl, I guess I’ll just wait and see.”

You dip your brush in the paint and start applying gentle strokes to the canvas. Jack watches the peaceful routine that you and Nova fall into, focusing on your respective canvases. He looks at his own canvas in confusion until you look up and smile at him. “Remember, it’s not about perfection. Just express yourself. Whatever the canvas is telling you, even if it means just drawing a line.”

He nods before dipping his brush in green and running it across the canvas. Truly, he has no clue what he’s doing, but he just allows himself to be. It’s nice to be out in nature with you and Nova without the hustle and bustle of the ED.

Nova hums happily to herself while she keeps her painting from your view. She peers up at you and Jack before looking down at her own painting. She sticks her tongue to the side to show that she’s concentrating on her painting. Jack chuckles lowly at how serious she is. Twenty minutes pass in tranquility before Nova looks at you and Jack with a wide grin.

“Mama! Dada! Look!” She states, turning the picture to face you and Jack. 

In the picture, it’s a house with three stick figures standing outside. Nova points at the stick figures, “Us!” 

You glance over at Jack, who’s already staring at you. He looks back at Nova, “It’s amazing, Nova. I love it.”

You smile softly, “Yeah, lovebug, you’re so talented! Mommy’s gonna hang it up at home, okay?”

“Otay, mama!” 

Nova takes the opportunity to stand up and walks over to sit closer to Jack. She gives Jack a look before climbing to sit in his lap. She looks down at Jack’s blob of a painting before covering her mouth to giggle. You look over at the painting yourself and stifle a giggle. 

Jack laughs before holding up the canvas, “What? You guys don’t think this belongs in the Louvre?”

“No..it’s abstract. I’d definitely put it by the Mona Lisa,” You said, finally laughing. 

Jack turns to Nova, “How about you help me to make it prettier, babygirl?”

“Otay, Dada,” Nova responds before picking up a paintbrush. She looks to Jack for his permission, and he nods as she begins painting what looks like a flower. Jack and Nova begin their own conversation, with Jack helping Nova to paint and complimenting her. 

“That looks good. I think the only thing we’re missing now is a handprint,” Jack said to Nova. 

They both look to you for permission as you nod. You grab a spare plate from your bag and pour yellow paint into it. You dip Nova’s hand into the paint as she giggles at the cool feeling of the paint. She presses her small palm into the paint before removing it. 

“You, Dada,” Nova said, pointing at the blank spot for Jack’s hand. 

Jack dips his hand and presses it next to the spot where Nova’s handprint is. Nova turns to look at you, “Now, you mama.”

“We have to check with Jack if he wants my handprint on there,” You said before turning your gaze to Jack. 

He smiles at you, “Painting wouldn’t feel complete without your hand there, sweetheart.”

You chuckle before dipping your hand in the paint and pressing it on the other side of Nova’s handprint. Jack looks at you and Nova, “There. Now it’s perfect.”

You reach over to grab the wipes to wipe your hand first. Nova moves to stand, but accidentally presses her hand with the paint on Jack’s shirt. She gasps, and you watch as she begins to poke her lip out. Tears start filling her eyes, “M’sorry, Dada.” 

Jack’s expression softens, “Hey, sweetie, it’s okay. I’m not mad. It’s an accident. Watch this.”

Jack takes his hand and presses it into his shirt, “See, look, I made a mess too. It’s okay, babygirl.” He uses his other hand to wipe at her face before giving her a warm smile. Nova instantly brightens up and throws her arms around Jack’s frame. He squeezes her back while you watch the display. 

You mouth a silent ‘thank you’ to Jack. Nova gives you her hand to wipe off, and without thinking, you take Jack’s hand to wipe too. He stares at the look of concentration on your face and how careful you’re being with him. When you look up again, you catch Jack’s stare. From how close you are, you’re able to see all of the freckles present in his face and catch the hints of green in his hazel eyes.

Jack’s eyes flicker down to your lips, and he thinks to himself how much he wants to kiss you. 

Subtly, you both start leaning into each other before you’re interrupted by Nova yawning. You look down at her, “Hey, Nova, you getting sleepy?”

“Mhmm, mommy,” She replies, rubbing at her eyes. 

“Alright, let’s get this all cleaned up, and we’ll head home.”

You’re about to reach for her when Jack stops you, “I can hold her for you.” 

You give him a grateful smile while gathering up all the supplies. From the corner of your eye, you can see Jack talking with Nova while she curls up to his chest. He takes Bun Bun in his hand and starts doing a voice while waving him around. Nova giggles. 

Once you’re done gathering up all the supplies, you look over to find Nova sleeping in Jack’s arms. Her chubby cheeks are pressed against his shoulder, and she looks at peace with Jack. Jack runs a soothing hand down her back while rocking her gently in his hold. 

“She really likes you,” You state.

“Yeah, I really like her too. I mean, I like spending time with both of you,” Jack responds. He moves to stand, and you stick your hand out to help him up. You can tell that he’s being intentional with making sure that Nova isn’t being moved too much. He settles her in his arms, and he feels comforted by her tiny breaths that go across his neck. 

For a second, Nova stirs, and Jack gently shushes her back to sleep while rocking her. 

You fold the blanket before sticking it in your bag. You and Jack walk back to your cars, but it’s clear that neither of you is ready for this to end. As you open your car door, Jack gently places Nova into her car seat while strapping her in. He places Bun Bun under her arm.

As he stands, you both stand in front of each other. You look nervous for a second before biting your lip softly. Jack thinks to himself how much he’d like to be the one biting your lip. 

“Do you want to come over? To talk or hang out?” You ask before you cringe. “I mean, you’re probably busy. You’ve been with us all day. I don’t want to take you away from any plans that you may have.”

Jack quickly shakes his head, “Sweetheart, I’d love to come over. I told you I was a boring old man, so I’m free.” You both chuckle as you move to your door. Jack opens the car door, “I’ll follow behind you.”

Back at your apartment, Jack follows behind you and Nova, who is still asleep. You open the door and guide Jack inside. He takes in your apartment and admits to himself that he loves how comfy your apartment feels. He had decorated his own house, but it’s still missing that quality of feeling like home. 

You turn to face him, “Make yourself at home. I’m gonna go take Nova a little bath and get her settled.” 

Jack nods and takes a seat on the couch. He looks around the living room and spots multiple pictures of you and Nova that adorn the walls. He stands to take a closer look. There’s one of you pregnant with Nova. Your belly rounded as you cradle the bump with a soft smile on your face. There’s one of you at your baby shower with mountains of gifts beside you. His expression softens when he gets to the picture of you from when you delivered Nova. 

A freshly born Nova is lying on your chest with a head full of hair as you look down at her with tears in your eyes. 

“I was really nervous when my water broke that day. I think it finally hit me that I was actually about to be a mom,” You said from behind Jack. He turns to look at you as you step closer until you’re standing side by side. 

“As soon as they laid her on my chest and she looked at me, it all clicked, you know? Like it all made sense, and I suddenly couldn’t imagine a world without her in it.” 

Jack keeps his gaze on you, “You’re an amazing mom. I see parents day in and day out, and trust me when I say, you’re doing amazing.”

“Thank you, Jack.”

“Would you like a drink? I have a bottle of wine,” You suggest.

“Yeah, I’ll take a glass,” He replies, following behind you into the kitchen. 

He glances at the fridge, which is filled with magnets and pictures drawn by Nova. He sits at the counter while you open the bottle. You pour two glasses for yourself and Jack. He takes a sip from his as he continues watching you. You set your glass on the counter while leaning forward.

“We should talk. About Nova. About this.” You gesture between the two of you.

Jack nods. A look crosses your face before you speak, “I like you, Jack. I like spending time with you, and I know that Nova enjoys it as well. Obviously, it’s kind of complicated, especially with her calling you ‘Dada.’ I just don’t want to mix things up for her or complicate anything. I’m really curious to know what your intentions are or what you think of all of this.”

Jack takes in your words. He understands where you’re coming from. You’re a single mother just trying to protect your baby from getting hurt. 

He leans forward and grabs your hand in his, “Sweetheart, I wasn’t lying when I said that spending time with you and Nova is the highlight of my week. I mean, my day gets better when I get a call from either of you. I have grown attached to Nova….but I also really like you, sweetheart. You’re smart. You’re beautiful. You’re funny. I’m fine with taking this in whatever way that you want me to. If you want to just be friends, then I’m fine with that. But I’d like to explore the option of being more…if you’re open to that? I care about you, and I care about Nova. I wouldn’t do anything if it meant that either of you got hurt.”

There’s a moment of silence for you and Jack as you digest his words. Your heart thuds in your chest at his declaration of feelings for you. You look down at your intertwined hands and then back up at Jack. You take the moment to walk to the other side of the counter so you’re standing in front of him. 

Jack straightens and looks down at you. He lowers his head until you’re both nose-to-nose. He can feel your breath wafting against his. He makes eye contact with you and silently asks for your permission. You nod just as he brings his lips down upon yours. 

Jack takes the opportunity to bring his hand up to cup the side of your face as he deepens the kiss. Your whole body feels like it’s on fire from how Jack kisses you. You’re both practically gasping into the kiss. Jack loses himself in you. He spins your body so your back is pressed into the counter. He moves his lips from yours and trails them across your neck. A soft moan leaves your lips as Jack presses kisses there. He slots his knee between your open legs, and your body shudders. 

 He’s about to kiss you again when you both hear Nova call out, “Mommy, I thirsty.”

“Okay, lovebug, I’ll be right there,” You call back. 

Jack steps back and flashes a boyish smile at you. “I should get going. I wouldn’t want her to get the wrong idea.” As you walk Jack to the door, he turns to press one last kiss against your lips.

“I’m here for as long as you and Nova want me to be. It doesn’t bother me that she calls me her dad. If it makes you uncomfortable, we can find a way of working around it, but I meant it when I said that I’m serious about this. About us. Let me take you out next Friday.”

“Deal,” You said, smiling at him. 

“Mommy, water!” Nova yells from her room. You and Jack chuckle. 

“I’m being summoned,” You state. Jack chuckles, “Yeah, wouldn’t want to keep her waiting. Goodnight, sweetheart. Thank you for letting me come.” 

“Of course. Goodnight, Jack. Text me when you get home.”

He nods and turns to leave. He can’t resist the temptation of pulling you in for another kiss. As he leaves, he smiles to himself at the fluttery feelings radiating through his chest. He could get used to this.

You close the door as you make your way to the kitchen to grab Nova’s water. You gently touch your lips, which are still tingling from kissing Jack. 

You haven’t felt like this in a while.

You hold onto that feeling as you walk to Nova’s room. 

To be continued…

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@accountforreading123 @danielle143 @butterpas2 @thebabykashmere @1dhoe93 @heyimmisunderstood

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@ynniksslirg @xoscar03 @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @straykids1011

[chris-tredidation21]

Nova calling jack to come with them to the park 🥹🥹🥹

OMG THAT KISS!!! like nova honey I love you but go back to sleep mama and dada have business to attend too

[lovergirlcinema]

Baby Rabbit (2.)

Jack Abbot x black!reader

Summary: After your ER visit with Nova, she’s constantly asking where her “Dada” is. On the other hand, it appears that Jack is also missing Nova. A chance encounter in the grocery store continues to build your little dysfunctional family unit.

Part 1.

Lovergirlnote: lol this was supposed to be uploaded yesterday, but I had to get my hair braided for a family trip. As always, thank you so much for all the support on the first part! Im curious to hear what you all think of this chapter!

Chapter II: Maybe Child Leashes Aren’t So Bad

You’re not too prideful to admit this.

You used to judge people who put their children on child leashes. In your honest defense, the thing all seemed so mundane. Do you really need a leash for your own child? You’ll gladly admit that you’re eating your words and you owe every parent you silently judged an apology. Because at this very moment, you wish that you had a child leash to put on your daughter, who had miraculously decided that this moment in the grocery store is the perfect time to escape.

It was one of those Saturdays when you and Nova went grocery shopping together. You enjoyed going grocery shopping with your little girl. You liked watching her little eyes light up as she took in the new scenery. You’d always buy her a little sweet treat at the end if she was good.

However, it appears that today just isn’t one of those days for you guys.

You were standing in the fresh fruit and vegetable aisle as you tried to pick out the best tomatoes. You didn’t have Nova in the basket today because you wanted to try to give her some semblance of independence at this age. Turns out, you should’ve strapped her in the basket. One minute, Nova was beside you, babbling about Bluey, while you hummed in agreement to show her that you were listening.

Little did you know your daughter had stopped speaking and had her eye on a very interesting man. That interesting man, being Dr. Jack Abbot or “Dada” as Nova had christened him. 

Since the Emergency Room visit, Nova had been constantly talking about Jack. She’d spent every second of the day at home asking you about “Dada.” To avoid upsetting her, you just had to play it off as “Dada’s at work right now.” 

Nova clocks Jack almost immediately. However, he doesn’t see you or Nova yet. He throws a couple of packs of meat into his basket before going down the cereal aisle.

Nova’s eyes light up, “Dada.”

She panics as she sees Jack walking down the cereal aisle without her. In her mind, he’s supposed to be taking her there with him. With a frown, she toddles away from you and towards the cereal aisle where Jack is standing. 

She makes it to the cereal aisle and smiles even more when she sees that Jack is still standing at the cereal boxes. Jack is still clueless about the little girl who is walking in his direction until he feels small arms wrap around his leg.

He jumps before quickly looking down to see Nova clutching his leg and looking up at him with her wide eyes and a huge smile on her face. She squeals at the notion of Jack finally noticing her, “Dada! Up!” 

Nova throws her little arms up and waits for Jack to oblige her request. The moment stuns Jack as he can’t believe that the little girl is still remembering him, along with the fact that she’s still referring to him as “Dada.”

He bends down to scoop Nova up in his arms, “Hey there, sweetie. What are you doing here, huh? Where’s your mommy at?”

He looks around the aisle to see if he can spot you and figures that Nova must’ve walked off without you noticing. He figures that by now, you’re most likely panicking, so he sets out with Nova to find you.

“Come on, sweet girl, let’s go find mommy,” Jack says to Nova. 

Nova claps her hands together excitedly before yelling, “Mama!” Jack chuckles at her obvious enthusiasm. 

“Nova!” You call out, searching the aisles relentlessly for your daughter. One of the employees at the grocery store had offered to help you find her. Tears prickle in your eyes as the panic seems to increase. How had you managed to lose your own daughter? 

“Mama!” 

You whip around as you spot Nova in Jack’s arms. A deep breath leaves your chest as you rush over to Nova. You run your eyes over her to check and see if she’s been harmed, but you calm down once you notice that she’s okay. It’s only when you take another deep breath that you finally notice that Jack Abbot is the one holding Nova.

You give him a rather embarrassed smile, “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. I had my eye on her, and then I didn’t. Thank you.”

Jack shrugs, “Hey, it’s no problem at all. She must’ve spotted me in the cereal aisle and decided to come by to say hi.” 

You look at Nova, “Nova, you scared mommy really bad. You have to stay beside me, okay?”

Nova appears to take in your distressed state and pouts a little, “Sowwy, mama.”

You smile, “It’s okay, baby. I’m not mad at you. Mommy was just a little worried. That’s all.” 

You rub a soothing hand down her back as the employee who was helping you pops up. “Oh, I see you found her. I’m assuming that this is your husband!” 

You and Jack both go to correct the girl before Nova yells out, “Dada.” She lays her head down on Jack’s chest as he looks down at her. The girl smiles at the three of you, “Awww, how cute! You guys make a beautiful family. I’m glad that you were able to find her.”

You give her a polite smile before thanking her for her help. 

You turn back to Nova and Jack, and peek at the big lollipop in her hand, “Where’d you get the lollipop from, Nova?”

It’s now Jack’s turn to give you a sheepish look, “I gave it to her. Sorry if I overstepped.”

You shake your head, “No, it’s fine. I definitely trust you, Jack.”

He swallows at your sweet voice, saying his name. He admits to himself that he really likes the way that it sounds coming from you. He runs his eyes down your frame and swallows at the way that the sundress conforms to your body. 

He plays the moment off by trying to hand Nova back to you. In response, Nova whines a little bit before Jack settles her back into his arms. You chuckle, “Nova, Jack has to do his grocery shopping. Don’t you want to help me grocery shop? We can go look at the cookies.”

Nova lights up at the mention of the cookies, but it still doesn’t seem to be enough to persuade her to leave Jack’s arms. She looks up at Jack, “Dada. Ookies.” 

Jack smiles, “That’s right, pretty girl. You and mommy are going to get cookies.” He nods along with her as she laughs. Jack glances over at you, “How about I just walk with you guys? Keep you company if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. Plus, it’d be nice having you around.”

You both smile softly at each other as you retrieve your buggy. You follow behind Jack, who is still holding Nova as he walks back to the cereal aisle to retrieve his buggy. He passes Nova over to you as you place her inside the buggy and strap her down with the seatbelt. She gives you a blank look, but checks to make sure that Jack is still following behind you. 

Jack gives her a quick smile, “Still here, Nova.”

She seems content with the sentence. She looks at both you and Jack before clapping excitedly and yelling out, “Mama! Dada.”

At this point, you and Jack figure it’s a good idea to just let her have this moment. You pull out your phone as you look over to Jack, “I still have a few things on my list that I need to get. I hope that we’re not pulling you away from your list.”

He shakes his head, “Definitely not. I have a few things, but I’m not in a rush either. Take your time.”

As you and Jack walk down the aisles together, it’s not lost on either of you how much of a family that you look like. In the cart, Nova hums happily and babbles to Jack, who is listening very intently and even asking her follow-up questions. 

Soon, you both go to the register to check out. You move to the register to swipe your card as the checkout girl gives you your receipt, and Jack helps to place the bags inside your cart. Without thinking, he scoops Nova up in his arms as she wraps her arms around him. He moves beside you to check out at the counter. He hands Nova’s lollipop to the checkout girl before giving it back to her. 

“Tank you, Dada,” Nova said, pressing a kiss to Jack’s cheek. 

Jack is practically goo on the inside. He smiles warmly at Nova, “You’re welcome, sweetheart.” 

Cue your ovaries exploding. Jack shifts Nova in his arms slightly as he grabs his wallet to pay. He seems like a natural at all of this as he types his PIN in all while talking to Nova. The three of you walk out to your car, where Jack hands Nova over to you, while he puts your groceries in the back.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that, Jack.”

He raises his eyebrows at you, “Actually, I did. What kind of man would I be if I wasn’t helping you with your groceries?”

You smile before thanking him. You’re about to turn to strap Nova in when Jack calls out your name, “I know this may be a little forward, but would you and Nova want to grab a bite with me right now?”

You look down at Nova, who’s already looking at you. “Yeah, we’d love that. Did you have anything in mind?”

“There’s this little restaurant right around the corner. They have chicken nuggets if Nova prefers those.” 

Nova perks up at the mention of her favorite food, “Chikky nuggies!”

You laugh, “Yeah, that sounds good. We’ll follow you there.”

You, Jack, and Nova all sit across from each other at the table. Nova’s sitting in a high chair between you and Jack after she demanded to be sat next to “Dada.”

It’s funny that in her one-year-old mind, she’s already feeling like she runs things. 

The waitress hands you all menus before sliding a coloring sheet over to Nova, along with the crayons. 

“What can I get you all to drink?” The waitress asks. 

Jack nods for you to go first, “Can we both get lemonades?”

The girl nods before looking to Jack, “I’ll have a lemonade as well.” 

The waitress nods before asking you all what you want to eat. Naturally, Nova chooses the chicken nuggets, while you and Jack both get sandwiches. 

As the waitress leaves the table, Nova is already preoccupied with her coloring sheet. She spares a glance in Jack’s direction, “Dada color.” 

She leaves no room for discussion as she passes the crayon over to Jack, who happily obliges. You watch as Jack and Nova color the teddy bear together with Nova directing Jack on which spots she wants him at. 

From his point of view, Jack’s just happy to be included. This is the first time in years that he’s actually felt included and wanted. Selfishly, he’s enjoying the time with you and Nova, and he thinks about what this would look like in a more permanent situation. 

But the doubt creeps in, what if you’re just being polite? What if you can sense that he’s a desperate and lonely old man with no sense of work-life balance? 

Frankly, he likes the attachment that Nova had seemingly grown towards him, along with the fact that he’s crushing on you so hard right now. 

He can’t stop the way that his eyes keep naturally gravitating in your direction, and how much he keeps looking at your lips. Every single aspect of you, Jack can’t help but think how perfect you are. 

He catches your eyes again and smiles. 

“So what do you do for work?” Jack asks, multitasking between looking at you and giving Nova attention. 

“I’m an art curator for the museum,” you reply before looking down at Nova’s coloring. 

“That sounds like a really cool job. Do you like it?”

A wide small crosses your face, “Yeah I do. I love it actually. I grew up around a lot of art and my parents really liked for me to be exposed to different cultural perspectives, so we took a lot of trips to museums.”

Jack listens attentively. “What’s your favorite part of it all?”

“I love the process of telling the story and working with artists to craft their story to the space. I know people probably think we just hang the paintings up, but there’s so much that goes into exhibitions. Just meeting all these new people is always an amazing experience,” You said. 

As if you couldn’t get cooler. Nova chooses the moment to hold her picture up to you and Jack, “Mama! Dada! Look!”

The picture is a combination of scribbles and neat coloring on Jack’s end. You smile, “That looks really good, bug! You even colored in the lines.”

Nova smiles at the praise before turning to Jack. He smiles brightly, “It looks amazing, Nova! A real piece of art, sweetheart.”

She blushes as she kicks her legs in the chair. It’s then that Jack decides to bring up the question that’s been nagging him, “I’m sorry if this is intrusive to ask, but is her father in the picture?”

You shake your head, “Nope. When he found out that I was expecting, he decided that fatherhood wasn’t something that he wanted. I respected his choice. I rather he not be here at the beginning as opposed to jumping in and out of Nova’s life. She deserves consistency, not instability.” 

Jack nods at your words, but internally, he wonders how someone could ever not want you and Nova? He’s only just met you both and is craving to be around you both 24/7.

“I’m sorry to hear that. But he’s missing out. You and Nova are both amazing.” 

“Thank you, Jack. Now, tell me a little bit about yourself. I assumed you’d be still working days right now. I know ER Doctors tend to work pretty crazy hours.” 

“I’m actually on the night shift. I just help out on day shift when it gets pretty hectic. I don’t have much really. I’m kind of a boring guy,” Jack states with a laugh.

You chuckle before shaking your head, “That’s not true. You’ve made a big impression on me and Nova so I wouldn’t call that boring.”

A faint blush starts to creep upon Jack’s skin, “I guess you can say I work entirely too much, so I really don’t have time for hobbies.” 

“Well what do you like to do?”

“Fishing. My best friend, Robby, and I go all the time,” Jack responds.

“I always wanted to take Nova fishing. She loves being outdoors. I think she’d really like it.” 

The little girl perks up at the sound of her name, “Fishy, mama?” 

“Yeah, baby. Jack goes fishing.”

Nova looks up at Jack with a curious expression, “Fish, Dada?”

He laughs softly, “Mhm, I can take you and your mommy fishing if you’d like that?” 

He looks up at you with a questioning gaze. “We’d really like that, Jack. Wouldn’t we, Nova? You wanna go catch some fishes?”

Nova nods while clapping her hands together and saying, “fishey.” You and Jack know that she’s probably assuming that you’re meaning a pet fish, but you’ll let her have it for now. 

The waitress brings your dishes to the table. You pour ketchup into Nova’s plate as she starts to eat her chicken nuggets. She holds one of the nuggets up to you which is covered in ketchup, “Nugget, mama.”

“Why thank you baby,” you answer back, taking a bite out of the nugget that she was offering you. Nova shoves the rest of the nugget into her mouth before dipping another one into her ketchup. 

This time, she holds it out to Jack, “Nugget, Dada.”

Jack looks at the sweet expression on her face and turns to absolute mush inside. He takes the nugget that Nova’s offering and munches on it. He graces the sweet girl with a big smile, “Thank you so much, Nova. It was so yummy.”

Seemingly satisfied with herself, Nova goes back to munching away on her nuggets. 

“You’re really good with kids. Do you have kids?” You ask. 

“None. My ex-wife and I had talked about it in passing before, but we never actually settled to have any.”

You raise your eyebrows, “Oh, do you think you’ll ever want any now?” 

Jack clocks that you don’t inquire about his ex-wife. “I wouldn’t mind, but I think that timeline had kind of passed for me, sweetheart.” He looks over to Nova with a soft smile before glancing back at you. 

“It’s never too late for that, Jack.”

A second passes between the two of you before Nova pulls both of your attentions back to her. You all finish your meals together while making idle chat. 

The waitress comes to the table with the bill and immediately slides it to Jack. Without even a second thought, he hands his card to the waitress as she leaves.

“Jack, you didn’t have to do that. I would’ve covered Nova and I.” 

He shakes his head, “Sweetheart, whenever we’re out together, you don’t have to worry about things like that. You or Nova.” 

Cue your ovaries exploding for the millionth time. You raise a teasing eyebrow at him, “Ah..so you’re planning for more of these to happen?” You gesture to the three of you.

“Yes. To be honest, spending time with you and Nova has been the highlight of my week. I like your company and I like hers. If you’re willing, I’d like for us to have more outings together,” Jack responds.

He recognizes how the end of the sentence must come off and quickly corrects himself, “As friends, I mean. I didn’t mean to imply anything else.” 

Your heart clenches before you steel your expression, “I’d like that, Jack. I think Nova would like it too.”

As attracted as you are to Jack, you don’t want to risk blurring any unnecessary lines and confusing Nova. 

You and Jack are friends. 

That’s all you can be. No matter how much you imagine feeling his lips against yours or spending all your time with him.

Little do you know, Jack’s going through a similar dilemma.

After the outing with Jack, you both exchange numbers, which consists of daily communication. 

Jack will ask about Nova, who in turns demands that you call “Dada.” 

When Jack has a moment to spare, you’ll hand the phone over to Nova, who rambles to Jack about her day, and he listens closely because he doesn’t want to miss a thing. 

You find yourself highly amused when you hand the phone over to Nova and she goes over to the other side of the room to have her conversation with Jack. 

She’ll come back twenty minutes later saying, “Mama, Dada talk.” Which typically means that Jack wants to talk to you. 

The whole thing is very domestic, yet you and Jack don’t label it as that. You’re just two friends who happen to enjoy talking to each other, and maybe your daughter keeps calling him “Dada,” but hey semantics, right?

You go to the daycare to pick up Nova and find Ms. Berta standing there holding her hand. The older woman gives you a mischievous smile, “Well..well..Ms.Girl, you didn’t tell me that you were seeing a new man.”

You frown in confusion. You’d grown close to Ms. Berta so she was very privy to a lot of the things that went on in your personal life. 

“Ms. Berta, I’m not seeing anyone.”

Ms. Berta scoffs, “Little girl, you ain’t slick. Ms. Nova here ain’t been able to stop talking about her Dada. She even made this today.” 

Ms. Berta hands you a piece of paper, which is clearly from their arts and crafts period of class. In the picture, you recognize the little stick figures that represent you and Nova. 

You look into the corner of the picture and see a blue stick figure that resembles a man standing next to yours and Nova’s stick figures with hearts all around.

You kneel in front of Nova, “Hey, bug, who’s this?” 

Nova looks you dead in your eye with a bright smile, “Dada!” She looks utterly proud at the way that she’s drawn Jack in the picture. 

You glance at Ms. Berta, who gives you a look in return. You smile sheepishly, “It’s definitely not what you think. You remember a few weeks ago when Nova was sick and I took her to the emergency room? Well there was this doctor there. His name is Jack Abbot, and he was in charge of taking care of her. I guess Nova really liked how well that he took care of her and she’s started calling him her father.”

“She also said that you ate food together.” 

You spare a glance at Nova, who’s playing with Bun Bun. “Yes, we ran into him at the grocery store. He invited us to lunch and paid for it. We talk on the phone a few times, but mostly he talks to Nova.”

The older woman gives you another teasing smile, “Chile, sounds like that’s your man now. You may be denying it, but baby girl over here knows it. You and Mr. Abbot seem to be the only ones oblivious.”

She gives you one last smile before turning to leave. You pick up Nova while holding her drawing in your hand. 

You strap Nova into her seat before placing her drawing in the passenger’s seat. Arriving at your apartment, you and Nova walk into the space while setting your things down. 

Nova goes to the carpet to start playing with Bun Bun and her other toys. 

“Come here Nova. I want to get a picture of you with your drawing,” You said, as your little girl walks over.

She holds the paper in front of her with a wide toothy grin, “Say cheese, bug.” 

“Cheeseee.” 

It makes your heart swoon at seeing your baby grow up. You press a quick kiss to her forehead as she goes back to her previous activity. 

You open up your text thread with Jack. You send the picture to the Jack.

You

Looks like you’re haunting every part of her life now 

Jack

Wow! The resemblance is uncanny. She even managed to get my hair right

I’d love to have it to hang up at home

…and it’d also be nice to see you both tonight or tomorrow. I have an hour lunch

You

We could stop by tonight and bring you lunch 

Jack

I’d like that. But I’ll send the money to you. I just want to see you and Nova

A ping appears on your phone. 

Jack Abbot has sent you $60.

You

Jack what exactly do you think costs $60.

Jack

I’d rather be safe than sorry. 

You look over at Nova, “Hey Nova, do you want to go visit Jack?”

Nova’s eyes light up at the mention of Jack’s name. She claps excitedly, “Yay! Dada!”

You dress her in warmer clothes before you both load up in the car again. You pick up sandwiches for you and Jack with chicken nuggets for Nova. You text Jack as you pull up into the parking lot. 

You and Nova walk hand-in-hand to the front desk where three people are sitting. The woman in the glasses smiles at you, “Hi, how can I help you?”

“We’re here to drop off lunch for Dr. Abbot,” you reply. 

Just as Lena’s about to respond, Nova spots Jack walking down the hallway. She gasps and yells out in excitement, “Dada.” 

She lets go of your hand to run to Jack. Jack sports a similar grin upon seeing Nova and scoops her up into his arms, “Hey there,  Princess.”

Nova immediately jumps into telling Jack about her day as he walks to the desk with her in his arms. 

When Jack makes it to the desk, he gives you a quick hug. At the desk, Ellis, Shen, and Lena all look between you, Jack, and Nova to decipher what’s going on. 

Jack eyes them before introducing you, “This is Nova. Sweetest little girl on the planet. This is Lena, our charge nurse. Dr. Shen, another one of the night shift attendings, and Dr. Ellis, our senior resident.”

“It’s nice to meet you all,” you said, waving at each of them. 

Nova wiggles out of Jack’s arms before walking to you. She tugs at your hoodie before you give her the drawing. 

She walks over to Jack, who picks her up again. Jack analyzes the picture as she points to you and her in the picture. She points to Jack’s stick figure, “You. Dada.”

If it was possible to implode into confetti and goo from cuteness, consider Jack Abbot a deceased man. He looks down at Nova, “This is amazing, lovebug. I’m gonna hang it on my fridge so I can always see it. Thank you so much.”

He hugs Nova as she throws her arms around his shoulders. You smile at the sight of Jack and Nova bonding. You all bid the night crew a goodbye as you go to your car to have lunch. 

Lena, Ellis, and Shen all watch the three of you leave. Shen looks down at his Dunkin’ coffee, “Maybe my coffee is rewiring my brain, but did Jack just debut a secret family?”

Ellis squints, “I’m not quite sure what any of that was. Jack Abbot with a secret wife and kid? It tracks.”

Later in the week when Jack’s alone in his apartment, his eyes naturally drift to Nova’s drawing on the fridge. 

His heart thuds rapidly in his chest as he sees the stick figured labelled “Dada.” In the recent years, he’d grown used to the fact that maybe fatherhood was something that he’d never have the chance of experiencing. 

Sure, he always wanted a family of his own. He always wanted to come home and be greeted with his children running to tell him about their day. But how could he ever be a father when he was too busy prioritizing work over his own wellbeing?

However, seeing Nova’s picture and remembering your words, Jack allows himself to think that maybe it isn’t too late to finally be a father. 

For a moment, he allows himself to be selfish. He allows himself to imagine what it’d be like to be with you and Nova forever. By the end of the daydream, he finds that he really wants it be a reality. 

To be continued.

Taglist: @cosmicneptune @abschaffer2 @slvtformyman @naibaby @xxohsnapitspatxx

@accountforreading123 @danielle143 @butterpas2 @thebabykashmere @1dhoe93

@heyimmisunderstood @chubbyblackhottie

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@ifyoubewooedingoodtime @mirathebookworm @irissunshines @beas-mind @kellthegreatest @twilight0306 @expensiveazzqu33n @hi-im-dr-spencer-reid

@osoyums @jsamara52 @tinypalacehumanpsychic @anniebelsworld2

@spicypsionthunder @ynniksslirg

[chris-tredidation21]

I HAVE SPENT THE LAST 5 MINUTES GIGGLING OVER THIS!!!! OMG I LOVE THIS SO MUCH

[voidsagent]

Two Under Two - jack abbot x reader

the mother’s day fic is finally here !!

Pairings: jack abbot x attending!reader

Summary: jack & your sons surprise you with a day all about you for mother’s day !!

Warnings: none really; TONS of fluff, age-gap, established-relationship, mentions of pregnancy, soft dad!jack & medical inaccuracies.

Word Count: 2k+

Author’s Note: here’s (finally) my mother’s day fic !! i’m so sorry it was late!! i hope you all still enjoy it !! <3

The sound of sizzling bacon and a knife hitting the cutting board surrounded Jack in the kitchen, where he stood in front of the stove—chopping away at strawberries and grapes.

Your second and youngest son, Clay, strapped to his chest in a baby carrier he was quickly outgrowing. Too quickly for his poor old Dad’s liking. Still, Jack would put him in there until that day came.

He found himself humming softly, his nose nudging at Clay’s soft hair.

“What’dya think, Clay boy? Would Mama want bananas too?”, Jack asks aloud.

Clay looks at him with fierce determination. At almost one—the words are almost there—but not quite making their way out yet. Instead, Clay huffs a gurggly noise that sounds close enough to an answer for Jack.

He nods once; “Yeah, I thought so too.”

So Jack starts peeling a banana, cutting it up into bite size pieces and holding a piece of it out to his small son, who happily takes it with drool covered hands and gums at it with the few teeth he has. A happy shrill fills the kitchen.

Jack laughs, eyes wide; “Shh buddy, you’re gonna wake your Ma.”

Clay pays him no mind, going back to smacking on the now mushed banana that’s half against Jack’s shirt.

He moves through the kitchen like it’s second nature—mindlessly talking to Clay like he’s half expecting an answer back as he reaches for the pancake mix on-top of the fridge; when the sound of small bare feet padding down the hallway get his attention.

Your oldest son, Noah—who’s just barely two, comes padding out into the kitchen rubbing his eyes sleepily. The blanket he’s had since he was a newborn half trails on the floor behind him; fist gripped tightly around it. The tot finds Jack quickly, wrapping both arms around his lower leg and pressing his face into it.

“Morning, sweetie”, Jack says softly, ruffling the toddler’s deep auburn curls; “Did you sleep good?”

Noah lets out a soft and muffled “mhmph”, against Jack’s shorts, making him laugh.

Jack reaches for a spatula, making the toddler stand on his tippy-toes to see what he’s doing.

“Where, Mama?”, Noah asks.

“She’s still sleeping”, Jack says, reaching for the counter side toddler steps and putting them into place next to him; “Today’s a very special day for her. Clay thought we should make her pancakes…wanna help?”

Noah’s eyes light up; “Pancakes??”

Jack nods; “Mhm.”

“I help?”

Jack pats the wooden stairs next to him; “Cmon up, bud.”

Noah’s quickly standing next to Jack, level enough with his height that he can lean against his shoulder; now making faces at Clay.

Slow mornings like these never fail to make Jack’s heart clench.

“Goo’mornin’ brover”, Noah coos, leaning in to press a sloppy kiss against Clay’s nose.

Clay—minding his own business and not expecting the invasion—wipes the kiss off with slobbery fists and a scrunched nose.

“He no want kisses today”, Noah, slightly offended, announces to his Dad.

Jack laughs next to him; “I think he’s just getting hungry.”

Noah pats his belly, looking at his jammy top like it owes him money; “Me too!”

“Yeah?”, Jack says, arching a brow; “I can hear it growling from here…Daddy’s is too.”

That seems to make Noah content enough with questions for the morning, his attention following Jack’s hands as he flips another pancake onto a plate; the stack growing higher each time.

Jack turns to him with a question; “What do you think Mama would want in hers? Blueberries or bananas?”

Noah thinks for a long moment, and Jack finds himself thinking; ‘damn, that really is my face’—before giving his full attention back to his son.

“Mmm…chocate chips!”

Jack clicks his tongue; “Wasn’t an option, but ya know what? Yeah, we can do that.”

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

Twenty minutes later and Noah’s standing next to Jack, listening intently as he instructs him how to very carefully carry the very full breakfast tray back to your shared room. Jack was just going to make two trips, but Noah had insisted he was big and strong enough to carry it himself—and who was Jack to argue with a tiny version of his own stubbornness?

So instead he unclipped Clay from his chest, and adjusted him on his hip as he carried a cup of coffee in his other hand.

Inside the bedroom Jack reminded Noah to stay quiet with a raise of his brows—relieved to see you were still asleep.

The sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting gold rays over you and the bed. Jack set the coffee down on the night stand and opened one of the curtains; letting sun in to light up the room. You only stirred a little bit.

He helped Noah set the tray down at the end of the bed, before giving him a boost to his bum to help him climb up onto the bed next to you.

Noah looked at Jack with wide eyes, as if asking ‘Can I?’

Jack nodded once; “Go ahead…nicely.”

Noah patted your sleeping face carefully, poking at your nose as you stirred; “Mama! Wake up!”

Your eyes fluttered open, blinking for a few seconds as you adjusted to the light.

“Good morning, love bug”, You cooed, pulling Noah down into you to ruffle his hair the same way Jack had in the kitchen; “What’re you up to so early?”

“Helpin’ Dada!”

Your eyes flicked to Jack—Clay still on his hip and playing with his dog tags—smiling back at you with the face of a man who was dead tired and wouldn’t have it any other way. Not if it meant he got the three of you.

You sat up slowly—Noah immediately settling in beside you—as you took in the scene in front of you.

A full tray of pancakes, bacon, fruit and a mug of coffee prepared just how you liked it. Jack beaming behind it with a wiggly baby and a purple bag that wasn’t there two minutes ago. Neither was the bouquet of flowers he pulled seemingly out of nowhere when he set Clay down on the mattress.

“What’s all this?”, You ask, heart fond and clenching.

“For our favorite Mama”, Jack says it like it’s nothing, settling the tray over your legs; “The boys and I thought we’d surprise you.”

“I’m very surprised”, You say, gazing softly at them.

After all the years you’d been together, Jack still managed to surprise you every single day. Even in the most mundane things; like grocery trips or walks to the park. He’d pretend to forget something and return with the flowers you’d been eying in the store or a coffee from that new vendor along the sidewalk.

He texted you updates from work on the rare occasion you didn’t share a shift. He’d pick you up breakfast or make it as soon as you got home. He’d take the boys to daycare or your Mom’s house every morning so you could relax, even though you knew he was just as dead on his feet as you were. He never did anything halfway when it came to you. Or your little family.

Jack sat down on the edge of the bed, placing the small purple bag beside you and grabbing Clay carefully by the hips as he tried to crawl close enough to the tray of food he could tip it over. He grunted with all the protest a tiny gremlin can have as Jack lifted him into his lap; a squeal filling the room as he clapped his hands together and used them as a teether.

“Ah ah, Mama gets some first”, Jack tuts, giving his tiniest son a fake glare and raised eyebrows and a tilt of his head.

Clay grunted again in response—a loud smacking noise coming from his hand connecting with Jack’s chest—making the man try and fail to suppress a fake grunt and a laugh.

Still, you cut a small piece of pancake off of the stack and hold it out to Clay, who happily takes it and shoves it in his mouth.

“He’s spoiled”, Jack says, shaking his head; but his smile is nothing but fond.

“He was making grabby hands, I can’t tell him no!”, You protest.

“He knows you’ll give in.”

“Good.”

Noah, still sitting next to you, hums softly to himself and steals a piece of bacon off of your plate.

After you’ve finished breakfast, Jack nudges the purple bag towards you again; “Open your present, Mama.”

You pull the tissue paper out of the top, carefully unwrapping the rectangular object in your hands; body going still when you see what’s inside.

It’s a picture frame; Noah and Clay snuggled up with big smiles, sitting in your favorite flower field just outside the city. The same place Jack had taken you for your first date; and picked flowers from every anniversary since.

“Oh, Jack”, You breathe.

“Do you like it?”, He asks, bottom lip between his teeth.

You beam; “I love it!”

You lean forward—fingers carding through the curls at Jack’s nape—bringing him in for a kiss. You let it linger a little longer than you normally would, wanting to show Jack how much his thoughtful gift means to you.

When you pull back, he’s smiling wide at you, searching your eyes with his own before resting his forehead against yours; “Happy you day, Mama.”

“Thank you, baby”, You say softly, kissing him again.

Only this time, a loud squeal of “Ew!” from Noah echoes between you, breaking the kiss.

“I’ll remind you of that when you’re a teenager, kid”, Jack smirks.

“Mama picture?”, Noah asks, peeking over your lap to get a look.

You happily show him, pulling him into your side; “See, baby? My beautiful boys.”

You ruffle his hair once, kissing his head. Clay squeals in Jack’s lap.

“Clay’s one of my boys too”, You coo, ruffling his hair next.

Jack clears his throat, eyebrows raised comically.

You laugh; “My first boy.”

You kiss him again quickly, a small huddle of all three of your boys surrounding you.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

Later, after breakfast and lounging in bed cuddling, Jack loads the boys up in the car and drives you to your favorite corner cafe.

Clay sits on your lap, Noah on the other side of the table—making a mess of an ice cream cone—where Jack slides in next to him, passing you a cup of your favorite coffee.

“Bub, you’re making a mess”, You laugh, making Noah look up at you as you reach over with a napkin.

He dodges you with a squeal; “No, Mama!”

Jack just shakes his head, though his smile gives him away; “Might as well wait until he’s done.”

You sigh—defeated by a two year old—and hold your own cone out for Clay to lick off of. The tot on your lap’s face is way messier than his brothers; vanilla ice cream smeared on both cheeks, his nose, and somehow his hair. Both hands are sticky with the cold treat.

“I’m thinking it’s gonna be a bath night”, Jack laughs, making wide eyes and a face at Clay; “Huh, messy boy?”

Clay shrieks, and claps his hands together.

“I’m deaf, now”, You blink dramatically.

“Hey, he’s making sure his opinion is included”, Jack deadpans.

“The entirety of Pittsburgh knows his opinions.”

Noah plops his head against Jack’s shoulder, watching people go by as he scoops another bit of ice cream into his mouth.

“How’s yours bud?”, Jack asks, taking a mouthful off his own cone.

“So nummy!”, He says dramatically.

The minute you and Jack make eye contact, it’s over. You’re both breaking out into laughter before looking back at your oldest.

“So nummy?”, Jack asks, because he can.

Noah nods, dramatically rubbing his stomach; “SO nummy!”

You’re both done. That’s it, your son’s a comedian.

When the laughter dies down and the ice cream is gone, you’re headed back to Jack’s truck; where he scoops your bag out of your hands.

“Hey-“

“Ladies don’t carry their own bags”, He quips; “Especially on Mother’s Day.”

Yeah, your heart is a puddle on the floor now. You’d give that man the moon and as many babies as he asked—especially watching him load your own two boys into the truck with such ease and practice it makes your knees weak.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

That evening, your standing in the backyard—watching Noah run around his toddler playset—with Clay crawling furiously through the grass behind him. Yanking it up in fistfuls as he goes.

Jack appears at your side, pulling you in close to him with an arm around your waist and a kiss to your temple. He hands you a cup of tea like it’s nothing. You didn’t even have to ask for it.

“Did you have a good day, Mama?”, He asks, softly, brushing his scruff against your cheek.

“Mhm”, You hum; “The best day ever. Thank you, baby.”

You move your head to kiss him, lips meeting the way they do when you’ve memorized the way someone moves.

“You don’t have to say thank you, you deserve it”, Jack says, with a nose to your hair.

The backyard is quiet; just the two of you watching your boys play together. The occasional bird chirping or the sound of a car driving by playing like a broken record. Jack’s warm, his signature black tee that you swear is two sizes too small is soft. He shifts on his feet once, but you notice.

“Wanna sit down?”, You ask.

He knows what you mean without you having to say it. But still, he shakes his head.

“I’m ok.”

“Jack”, You say seriously; “You’ve been chasing the boys around all day, I know you’re sore.”

He sighs—nodding as he leads you over to the outdoor sofa—letting you curl into him as he unhooks his prosthesis. He groans in relief, settling back next to you.

“Ya know”, He says, his tone letting you know he’s testing the waters; “I’m gonna be way more stubborn if we have more.”

You laugh out loud at his honesty, it almost sounds like a scoff; “Is that so?”

He kisses your head again; “Just letting you know, babe.”

You laugh again, chewing on your bottom lip nervously as you watch the boys playing. Jack notices, because of course he does.

He angles his body more towards you; “What?”

You sit up; “How would you feel…about three under three?”

Your bottom lip is between your teeth again, trying and failing to bit back a smile.

You watch Jack’s face; the confusion as he thinks, and you see the second realization donnes on him.

“Are you serious?”, He asks low and soft, holding your hand in his like you might disappear. A look so innocent on his face.

“Maybe…”, You hum, still ducking your head in shyness.

Jack’s hand cupping your cheek changes that.

“We’re gonna have another baby?”, He asks, voice still soft and eyes so wide they might pop out.

“Yeah, Jack”, You say, before adding; “Surprise.”

“Oh my god-“, He laughs out, voice shaky as he pulls you close and kissing you with such love and intent it makes your skin tingle.

When he pulls back his eyes search your face, hands cupping your cheeks.

“W-When did you?…”, He trails off, brain still processing at a hundred miles a minute.

“Two weeks ago”, You say with a smile; “Remember that morning you dropped the boys at my parents and I asked for that sandwich from the corner deli? Was trying to figure out how to tell you. I’m about eight weeks.”

Realization hits Jack square in the face. He groans dramatically; “Oh my god, how did I not realize?”

You laugh, teasing; “Don’t know, Doctor Abbot.”

His laugh vibrates up through his chest, arm still around your shoulders as his hand drifts up under your shirt, splaying wide against the warm skin there. His thumb rubs circles absentmindedly.

“Three kids…”, He whispers, eyes still not leaving you.

“Technically we always agreed on four…”, You nuzzle under his chin; “We must be crazy.”

“Only about you”, His answer comes quick.

You smack his chest once, cheeks heating up; “Everyone at work is gonna lose their minds.”

“Or tell me to get off of you”, Jack quips.

“That’s true, too.”

“Which is never gonna happen, by the way…100 kids or not.”

“Jack!”

“What? Can’t blame a man for loving his hot wife.”

You kiss him, hard. Pulling a muffled sound of surprise from his lips that quickly turns into something vibrating lower. His hands grip your hips, pulling you into his lap.

“I love you, so much”, He breathes, eyes still closed—forehead pressing back against yours—thumb still rubbing at your belly that’ll soon start to grow again.

“I love you too, Jack.”

taglist: @melslavalampapp @kale-g @peaches-roses-sins @starsmoonn @vastscoutweapon @spooky-librarian-ghost @saqes0 @br8nita @missgurlpop @fanggq @dedicatedfangirl2001 @goblynnrockz @doubledinochiknnuget @4ria790 @follows-the-life-ahead @kissalready @trisarahtopssuh @musereadsstuff @yellrow @just-someone-broken @error-cant-function @melxtn @onlyheretowastetime @oliommy @averyhotchner @neversleepingever @starkgaryan @ilovechaiandyogurt @eleventhdoctorsangel @ubiquitous-corvids @bellacansleep @racingdino @pixie2k5 @calytrixsworld @emat-05 @fortjackson @faychak @irllyluvcheezits @kneelforloki @toxicwasteee @miahelen @love4lando @jinglesmells1337 @tlc3802 @cantbecreative @orphanbird95 @barnes70stark @graciiiaciii @merlin-288

if you wanted to be tagged but don’t see yourself here, it’s because your username didn’t come up when typed !! <3

[chris-tredidation21]

Omg omg this is so cute I fear my baby fever will be the end of me

[inkydelusions]

just one single glimpse of relief

part 1 wc: 4.6k pairing: girldad!jack abbot x wife!reader summary: after years of loss, you finally bring your daughter to this world to find the healing you’ve both earned. meanwhile, jack settles into his new role as a devoted girl dad. c.warning: pure fluff with some tension at some point but no heavy angst to worry about; established relationship (married); major medical trauma; mentions of miscarriage; mentions of pregnancy/pregnancy loss scare;jack abbot being the best girl dad ever a/n: sooo i've been thinking of turning this into a series where i write some shorter (maybe?) blurbs of jack being an amazing girl dad. what do you guys think? also, i haven't watched the latest episode yet but i definitely saw that clip of jack telling someone to shut the fuckup and all i have to say is it made me feel things.

with time, the sage green walls of the nursery started to feel like a quiet victory. now, every time the sun crawls across the floorboards, highlighting the soft textures of the crib linens and the organized rows of tiny shoes—most of which are gifts from friends and family—, it feels like a rebuke to the sterile air of the hospital, the coldness and excessive brightness of those terrifying white walls. you spend most afternoons here now, settled into the rocking chair, resting your hand on the high, hard curve of your stomach. sometimes you talk to your baby, telling her old stories of when jack and you first met, how he proposed to you and how much you enjoyed your honeymoon. 

you also tell her about her siblings, whispering what would’ve been their names through tears in the dim-lit bedroom. you find yourself lighter after talking about them out loud, like the heavy weight of their history has been lifted from your shoulders.

for a long time, neither you nor jack talked about it, the mere mention of your babies would turn the room ice cold, would tense your shoulders and make jack take in a ragged breath.

now, as you retell the story to the baby girl growing healthy inside you, it almost feels therapeutic.

“the first time it happened,” you murmur, fingers tracing swirls up and down your belly. “i thought it might be a sign. maybe i wasn't ready, or the time wasn’t right.”

that’s what you had told yourself as you stared deep into your own eyes in the bathroom mirror. that’s what your family told you when you called to let them know about the miscarriage.

“then came your brother.” you huff a laugh.

by the time the second baby had left you it was impossible to determine their sex yet, but jack had been convinced it was a boy. trust me, i’m a doctor. i know these kind of things, he’d say every time you reminded him the fetus wasn’t bigger than a strawberry yet.

“your dad was so sad when it happened.” you bite your lip, not wanting to infect your baby with your own sadness. “but he was so brave. for the both of us. because mommy wasn’t very strong at the time, you know. but daddy took care of her until she felt whole again.”

you think of those days when you couldn’t get out of bed, when the world felt too cold, too heavy and dark. too scary. jack was there every time you broke down, holding your shattered pieces together, risking getting cut in the process.

“you’re our little miracle,” you finally confess with your hands cradling your exposed belly. “thank you for holding on to mama.”

at thirty-eight weeks, your body feels like it’s being pushed to its absolute limit. the old aches from the accident—that deep, thrumming stiffness in your hip where the bone had once shattered—flare up with the added weight of the baby. still, the pain and discomfort act as a constant, physical reminder of how far you’ve come, a map of survival written in scar tissue and the rhythmic, heavy thumps of the life growing inside you.

meanwhile, jack is a ghost in his own home.

the night shift at the pitt is a brutal master, and even though he’s been trying to scale back, the er doesn’t care about birth plans. you hear him come in at 8:00 am daily, his movements heavy and exhausted. he usually finds you either in the kitchen, getting ready to start your day, or in the nursery, and before he even says hello, his hand is on your stomach. it’s an instinctive, medical check disguised as a greeting. he’s always looking for a faint kick, any sign of movement, a reassurance that the miracle he first saw on a grainy trauma bay monitor is still holding steady.

"you look tired, jack," you whisper one morning, tracing the dark circles under his eyes with your thumb. he’s still wearing his scrubs, the faint scent of antiseptic and sweat clinging to the fabric.

"i’m fine. don’t worry about me," he murmurs, leaning his forehead against yours. but his hands are slightly shaky, a tell-tale sign of a bad shift and too much caffeine. 

“how was work?” you ask, running your fingers through his hair. jack melts against you almost immediately.

“horrible,” he whispers. “we lost two patients.”

“do you want to talk about it?” your voice is a soft murmur against his forehead as you drop a gentle kiss against his skin.

jack shakes his head.  “don’t want you to start your day on such a depressing note.”

“that’s fine. i’m here to listen whenever you’re ready to talk.”

he leans closer, kissing your lips with so much love it makes your chest swell. you huff a laugh against his mouth, making jack smile softly.

“god, you’re too good to be true.”

“go get some sleep,” your murmur, pecking his lips one more time. “i need to run some errands. do you need anything from the store?”

“you shouldn’t be carrying weight, love.”

“jack, i’m going to pick up a couple of ingredients to make your mom’s casserole for next saturday.”

“still, i don’t like you going alone. what if…”

you interrupt his dark train of thought. “i’ll be fine, jack. i’m pregnant, not sick.”

“i know, baby. i know.”

still, he can’t shake the fear that weighs his bones down every time he thinks about everything that could go wrong.

it’s something he’s been discussing in his therapy sessions; the anxiety that has consumed his mind every day since the accident, a low-level hum following him every step. the same one that has him waking up in the middle of the afternoon, shaking, cheeks wet and heart beating hard in his chest. the fear that had him double checking every trauma that came in through the ambulance bay doors, praying he doesn’t have to see you laying in one of those gurneys ever again.

"i’m right here, baby," you remind him, noticing his deep frown, the cloud of worry darkening his hazel eyes. you cover his hand with your own, moving it to the spot where a tiny heel is currently digging into your ribs. "and she’s not going anywhere."

still, jack doesn't manage to fall asleep until he hears you come back. your faint steps around your shared home being the sweetest lullaby he’s ever heard.

you knew from the early stages of your pregnancy that it wasn’t going to be an easy one. you body had already been through enough, and after the accident, every little deviation from the norm was enough to scare both you and jack.

but, for months, everything had been under control. every test result came with a positive reassurance from your doctor. the baby was growing healthy and calm. although, your body grew heavier and more tired with every passing week.

one afternoon, you are laying on the couch when a sharp, sudden contraction ripples across your abdomen, making you catch your breath. you wait for it to subside, counting the seconds. it has been happening more frequently for the past week, a persistent reminder that the clock is ticking toward a deadline you aren’t quite ready for.

the floorboards upstairs creak and a few minutes later, jack appears in the doorway looking rumpled, his hair a chaotic mess, his eyes hazy with sleep.

"hey," he rasps, leaning against the doorframe. he’s wearing an old hoodie, the same one he wore in the icu while he sat by your bed and prayed for a miracle.

"hey," you smile, though it feels tight. "did you catch any sleep?"

"not nearly enough," he admits, walking over to seat next to you. with such love and care, he takes your legs, resting them on his thighs so he can massage your calves and your feet. "how is she doing? is she being quiet?"

"she’s actually practicing her kickboxing," you say, reaching to thread your fingers through his hair. "and my back is killing me."

he looks up then, the doctor mode flickers in his eyes before he can catch himself. he knows the statistics of post-traumatic pregnancies; he knows your pelvic fracture would make this final month a literal minefield of physical stress.

"i shouldn't go in tonight," he mutters, his thumb kneading your muscles.  "ellis can cover. or they can call robby."

"you've called out three times this month, jack," you remind him gently. "they’re already looking at you sideways. go. i’m fine. it’s just third-trimester misery."

"i hate leaving you," he whispers.

"we’ll be right here," you promise. a promise that had quickly become a daily ritual. enough to keep jack sane during those hours away from you and the baby.

two weeks later, your’re laying on the couch pretending to pay attention to the movie currently playing on the tv, when your blood pressure decided it’s had enough. you frown, feeling a deep headache that won’t quit and a prickling sensation on your feet. when you look down you notice the alarming swelling in your ankles that makes your skin feel two sizes too small. it’s not the usual pregnancy puffiness, but a sudden, tight heat in your ankles that makes your skin feel like it’s going to split. your head continues throbbing though out the day with a dull, persistent ache that even the herbal tea jack insisted on can’t soothe.

you know the sings, you know what this meant. it was one of the few things your doctor had warned you about during your most recent check up.

jack is at the hospital when you call him. and you try to sound calm as you talk to him, but the tremor in your voice gives you away.

“what is it?” he answers almost immediately. “is anything wrong?”

you list all the symptoms in great detail. you answer all of his questions and when you’re interrupted by a pained groan, the line goes silent, so silent that it’s terrifying. you can almost hear jack’s heart slamming against his ribs.

"don't move," he says, his voice dropping into that authoritative, calm register. an you know, just by hearing him, that he’s trying his best to remain calm for his own sake, to protect his sanity. "i’m sending an ambulance. no, forget that. i’m coming to get you. i’m five minutes out."

"jack, please don't drive like a maniac," you plead, remembering the screech of metal and the blinding headlights.

but he’s already gone.

the next hours fly by. you hear jack arrive home, calling your name until he finds you in the bedroom. he helps you to the car and drives you straight to the hospital. no waiting room, he calls for help the instant you step foot into the hospital. and walking through those double doors, jack can feel the weight of the memories; the sirens, the shouting, the way his world tilted when he saw you on that gurney months ago.

but this time you aren't a red tag. you’re a mother-to-be in a wheelchair, being pushed toward labor and delivery by a husband who looks ready to fight the entire medical establishment.

"bp is 170 over 110," a nurse says, her voice professional but tight. 

you’re laying on an exam table now, jack’s standing next to you, still in his scrubs and with his arms crossed over hs chest. right now, it’s very hard to tell doctor abbot from your husband.

"preeclampsia," dr. pauline, the same kind-eyed specialist who helped save the pregnancy after the crash, says as she checks your charts.. "your blood pressure is spiking, and with your history of pelvic trauma, we can't take any risks. we’re putting you on magnesium, and we’re going to start the induction. today."

"but i’m only thirty-seven weeks," you whisper.

"she’s cooked enough," jack says, his voice cracking. he looks at the monitor, the fetal heart rate is a steady thump-thump, like a ticking clock. "we need to get you both safe. please, sweetheart. let's just do this."

and there he is, the man who was rubbing your feet and showering you in kisses in the bath the other night. your husband.

you nod slowly, looking up at him with shiny eyes. “let’s do this.”

the induction is a slow, grueling climb. the magnesium makes you feel like you’re made of lead, your brain foggy and your limbs heavy. the contractions start as a low grumble and escalate into a rhythmic, soul-crushing intensity.

every time a nurse enters the room, jack’s eyes flick to the monitors, analytic and frantic. when the baby’s heart rate dips he’s the first one to notice. it’s a jagged line on the screen that reminds him of the flat ekg that sliced through the air during your code blue months ago.

jack stands up, hands shaking as he opens the door to call for doctor pauline. it doesn’t take the woman more than th ree minutes to reach you, but jack feels every passing second like a lifetime.

"her decelerations are deepening," he says. "why aren't we doing an amnioinfusion? or moving to a c-section? we need to do something!"

"jack," you wheeze, reaching for him through the haze of pain. "stop."

he doesn't hear you. he’s pacing the small room, his mind a minefield of medical statistics and worst-case scenarios. "if the placenta is abrupting because of the old trauma…”

"jack! stop being a doctor!" you scream as a contraction rips through you.

the room goes dead silent.

“just for a second, please. i need my husband right now. not doctor abbot. i need you, jack.”

jack freezes. he looks like he’s just been slapped. he glances at you then—sweaty, exhausted, and looking at him with a silent plea for peace—and his shoulders finally drop. the doctor mode he wears like a second skin finally cracks wide open for good, replaced by a man who is simply, desperately in love with his wife. he sinks onto the chair next to your bed, resting his warm hand on top of yours—that’s been gripping the bed railing in search of some comfort. he kisses your knuckles gently, closing his eyes.

"i’m sorry," he lets out a deep sigh. "i’m so sorry, love. i’m here. i promise."

and he stays with you for hours. when the nurses come in he doesn’t act as the attending he is, but as a father-to-be, as your husband. he keeps himself in line, letting you ask and answer all the questions, squeezing your hand to remind you he’s there, to remind himself that this is happening.

the induction is a long, grueling test of endurance, though. the magnesium makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out, your thoughts turning to sludge. the contractions ripple through you, intensified by the meds, and every time the monitor lets out a sharp beep, jack feels like jumping off his seat. 

"her heart rate is dipping with the contractions," jack snaps at a resident who had the misfortune of being in the room at the wrong time. "check the cord. why aren't we repositioning her?"

“jack…” you mutter through gritted teeth.

“sorry, love. it’s just…”

“i know.”

you grip his hand even tighter, cursing under your breath when the real show begins. jack looks around him, at the nurses, the doctors readying themselves for the delivery. you’re heaving next to him, trying to breath through the contractions, crying out in pain. meanwhile, jack has to remind himself that this is natural, this is how it’s supposed to be, even though hearing you wail and sob breaks his heart.

"you're the strongest person i've ever known," he tells you as you push. "you survived a semi-truck. you've got this, baby."

after a long, agonizing hour, with one final, bone-deep effort, the room suddenly fills with a sound that is louder than any siren. a sharp, angry, beautiful cry.

"it’s a girl," the doctor says, lifting a tiny, squirming bundle and offering her to you.

your cradle the baby against your chest. you can barely see her face through the tears, but you feel her warmth against your own skin, the gentle move of her chest as she breathes.

“we did it. jack, we did it.”

jack’s trying to control his own tears. he leans down to kiss your sweaty forehead, his lips lingering there as the world finally, truly rights itself.

“i can’t believe she’s really here.”

“she’s beautiful, jack,” you whisper, voice thick with tears and exhaustion. when you look up at him you find him staring at you with nothing but pure adoration in his eyes.

“thank you,” he murmurs, cheeks wet and lips quivering.

after the doctors finish checking everything is in order, they move you and the baby to the maternity floor. jack takes the opportunity to go grab his stuff from his locker and change out of his scrubs. and the sight that welcomes him when he finally comes back to your room makes his chest clench.

you look like the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, smiling down fondly at the bundle in your arm as you speak to your daughter with a soft, low voice.

“our little miracle,” he hears you say and his heart almost explodes.

you look up to him when you hear the soft click of the door closing behind him.

“how are you feeling?” he asks, siting down on the chair next to your bed.

“exhausted,” you mutter, but still try to gift him a tired smile. “here. hold her for a bit.”

jack opens his arms to receive his daughter, and even though he won’t admit it out loud, he trembles a little bit. your daughter doesn’t even flinch as jack pulls her close to his chest. if anything, she seems to cuddle closer.

“you did it,” he mutters, voice thick with tears. “you really brought out little princess to this world.”

“we did it, jack. i don’t know if i could’ve made it alone.”

when he looks up at you again there are unshed tears reaming his hazel eyes. his lips tug into a wobbly smile as he whispers, “i love you.”

“i love you too.”

for a while you drift back and forth between sleep and reality. but every time you glance at the chair beside you, you find jack cradling your daughter close to his chest; he talks to her in low tone, or he hums a calm tune as he rocks her gently.

you’re not sure what time it is when the door to the room opens and robby’s head appears. he’s wearing a grey hoodie over his work clothes, his glasses hanging from the neck of his shirt.

“hey,” he whispers as he enters the room. “how’s the abbot family doing?”

“i’m starving,” is the first thing you say. robby huffs a laugh, walking up to the side of your bed.

“a nurse will come by soon with something for you to eat,” he says. his hand lands on your shoulder,squeezing it gently. “how are you feeling? any pain? anything out of the ordinary?”

you shake yoru head. “the meds are doing wonders. i feel like i’m on a cloud.”

“good, that’s good. if anything starts hurting-”

you chuckle. “jack already gave me the talk. don’t worry.“

robby let’s out a heavy sigh, glancing at his friend on the other side of the bed. he notices the soft smile on jack’s lips as his eyes are glued to you and his heart swells for his brother. if there’s anyone who deserves this kind of happiness, that’s jack abbot. and robby couldn’t be more glad that he found it in you, in the little family you’re building now.

“congratulations, you two,” he murmurs.

you smile fondly at him. “thank you, michael.”

“thank you, brother.”

a few days later, you’re entering your home as parents for the first time ever. jack walks right next to you, carrying the bassinet seat where you’re daughter is sleeping peacefully. jack’s free hand rests on the small of your back as you step into your house.

“this feels…” you start. “so strange.”

jack hums his agreement. “let’s introduce the princess to her new home.”

he talks to the baby as he walks through each and every room of the house. she’s pretty much asleep, and there’s no way she can understand a single word he's saying, but that doesn’t stop you from joining him in explaining why you chose the sage green for the walls, or from pointing to the pictures hanging on the walls and joking about the stories behind them.

“and… there you go,” he mutters, putting her down onto the small crib, that's still way too big for her.

you’re still putting away some of the stuff you brought from the hospital—including the toys and other presents that yours and jack’s friends brought to your room in the past few days—when you look at him over your shoulder and you find jack smiling down at your daughter.

walking to his side, you slide one of your arms around his waist, resting your head on his shoulder. he drops a gentle kis on top of your head.

“she’s so quiet. so calm,” jack whispers.

“yeah. i almost can’t believe she’s the same one that was doing gymnastics in my belly a few days ago.”

that makes him laugh.

“are you hungry?” he asks, eyes still glued to your daughter.

“god, yes. i’m starving.”

he huffs a laugh. “i’ll get dinner started. you stay here and rest.”

later, as you two are lying on the couch, your daughter resting on your chest, cradled into a tiny ball, jack says he’s got something to tell you.

“what is it, baby?”

“i talked to robby yesterday about the possibility of switching into the morning shift,” he murmurs as he plays with your fingers, interlocking them with his.

“and what did he say?”

“apparently someone suggested it’d be a great idea to have two attendings in every shift, including mornings. and when they started discussing possible candidates for the role, robby mentioned my name.”

at that, your lips pull into a big grin. of course he’d suggest jack join him as the second attending for the morning shift. he knew how important it was for you to have jack by your side, specially now with the baby.

“and what do you say?”

“i think it’s a great opportunity. and i would’ve already said yes, but i wanted to talk with you first. see if that’s what you want.”

“of course it’s what i want, jack.” you reach out for him, cupping his face in your hand. “having our schedules align is the best option right now.”

his lips pull into a soft smile, already imagining what waking up to you every morning will feel like; sharing a cup of coffee before heading out for work, helping you out with the baby at night and getting her ready for daycare in the mornings. yes, that’s exactly the life he wants.

jack turns his head, dropping a gentle kiss on the palm of your hand. “then it’s settled. i’ll call him tomorrow to let them know i’ll be joining the morning shift after my leave.”

the following weeks are a blur of sleepless nights, heavy diapers, and exhaustion, but all the while jack is there, by your side. him, being the night-shift expert he is, has no issue taking over when you’re too tired, your body too sore to attend your baby girl’s cries. he’d murmur a kind don’t worry, i got it before dropping a kiss on your forehead and padding softly to the small crib by the foot of your bed.

he’s exactly as you’d pictured him as a dad: so attentive and careful, so loving and cautious. he holds your baby like he’s carrying the world in his hands, and he speaks to her like she’s palming his very heart in her tiny fist.

when he returns to the hospital after three months, the world seems entirely different. of course, it’s not his first time working a morning shift, but it’s the frist time he does so knowing once the clock strikes 7 pm he’ll be leaving, that he’ll be able to share dinner with you and help you give the baby a bath before bed.

“you’re looking pretty shiny for a new dad,” donnie says when he meets jack near the hub.

he only shrugs. “what can i say? turns out i’m really good at this whole parenting thing.”

“you don’t even have dark eyecircles, are you kidding me?” donnie leans close and jack frowns at him. “it’s not fair.”

dana, who’s been checking some charts in her desk nearby huffs a laugh. “how’s the mom doing?”

“oh, she’s perfect,” jack comments with a grin. “she makes everything easier.”

“god, you’re so in love. it’s disgustingly adorable, abbot.”

his grin only widens because, yes, he is so terribly in love with you. but also you make it really hard for him not to absolutely adore you.

that morning, you’d woken him up with a warm kiss and breakfast ready. he’d looked at you through half-lided eyes, a contented smile playing on his lips.

“morning, sweetheart.”

“morning,” you’d said, reaching to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “you’re late for the coffee run, doctor abbot.”

later, as he drunk his coffee you had realized how different this version of him looked. usually, when the two of you managed to coincide in the kitchen in the mornings he was wearing his scrubs and a weary frown. now, he was wearing a t-shirt and his pajama pants instead. and he moved around the kitchen with a contagious calm.

“i like this,” you’d confessed, leaning closer to kiss him. “the morning shift suits you, jack.”

jack blinks, finally snapping back to the sterile light of the hub and donnie’s narrowed, amused gaze.

“see?” donnie points a finger at him, turning to dana. “look at his face. he was just in some domestic trance or something.”

dana leans back in her chair, clicking her pen. “it’s called a 'happy home life,' donnie. i bet you looked the same on your first day after your paternity leave.”

jack laughs, the sound easy and unburdened. he reaches into his pocket as his phone buzzes with a notification. he doesn’t even have to unlock it to see the photo you sent: the baby asleep in the bassinet, a tiny hand curled near a familiar-looking stuffed animal, with your reflection caught in the window behind her, smiling.

“anyway,” jack says, sliding the phone back into his pocket, his expression softening in a way that makes donnie chuckle, shaking his head. “i’ve got rounds. and then i’m heading back.”

“to do what? change more diapers with a smile on your face?” donnie asks.

jack adjusts his stethoscope, already starting down the hall with a stride that lacks his usual tired limp or rushed urgency. for the first time in his career, the hospital doesn’t feel like his only world.

“maybe, yeah,” jack calls back over his shoulder, a playful spark in his eyes, “and honestly? i’ve never been more prepared for a shift in my life.”

donnie watches him go, shaking his head. “disgusting,” he mutters, though he was smiling.

dana just hums in agreement, returning to her charts. “maybe. but i’m glad to see him so happy. he deserves it.”

jack doesn’t hear them. he’s already rounding the corner, the memory of your morning kiss fueling him through the halls, counting down the hours until he could trade his scrubs back for those pajama pants and the quiet, contagious calm of home.

[chris-tredidation21]

I can't get over how cute this is OMG and the little domestic scene at the end 😭😭😭

[redheadspark]

Baby Abbot

Summary - You were the love of Jack Abbot's life. Then your daughter was born.

A/N - Let's be honest: Jack Abbot is a girl dad. I wanted to write something about it :). I hope you like it!

Warnings - Fluff with a small hint go angst and plenty of comfort. Talks of childbirth are there too!

“I think she has your nose.”

“God no. She has yours.”

“Not even!”

You smirked from your bed in the hospital room as your husband, Military Veteran and all-around badass Dr. Jack Abbot, was walking around the room very carefully with your infant daughter swaddled against his chest. Her light hair, fuzzy and already showing small signs of curls thanks to her father and his genetics, poked out from under the blanket as she gurgled against her father’s hold.

Your room was quiet, apart from your heart rate beeping on the monitor and the faint sound of the A/C kicking in. A few handmade cards and bouquets of flowers were on the shelf near the window that gave a stunning view of Pittsburgh during a sunset after heavy rain. Your phone was on the nightstand, as well as Jack’s; both phones were beeping like crazy with messages and notifications of the recent news of the birth of Baby Abbot.

Baby Abbot, the name of your daughter until you and Jack revealed her name.

“How are you feeling?” He asked you as he walked over with your daughter, who was slowly falling asleep against his chest. You hummed, feeling the fatigue now hitting you as he sat in one of the designated rocking chairs that came with the birthing rooms.

“Tired.Sore.A mixture of both,” You replied, watching your daughter as she was slowly blinking her newborn eyes and trying to fight off the sleepiness she was feeling. You must have looked just as haggard since you were the one in labor for nearly 13 hours with her.

“Get some sleep.I got her,” Jack hummed to you, not as a command but more of a request. You shook your head stubbornly.

“No, no, I wanna enjoy this. The three of us, how quiet it is before chaos ensues,” You explained, Jack smiling from what you said, “I think this will be the only time we’ll get. Once we get home, people will want to be over day and night.”

“Not a chance,” Jack said against your daughter’s head, breathing her in as his entire hand was against her back. His thumb was rubbing her head soothingly, “Unless they’re fully healthy and vaccinated, no one’s gonna visit for at least several weeks.”

“Please don’t turn into a hypochondriac, sweetheart,” You pleaded with him, though he shot you one of his “Attending” glares.

“Do you know the germ intake adults have? Not to mention the germs out there?” He asked you as he pointed to the window. You had to laugh. Leave it to Jack to be the worrying father since he was a doctor and was already thinking of scenarios that could happen. He was nose deep in Pregnancy books from the moment you told him he was going to be a father,observing you like you were a specimen whenever you craved a unique flavor or got the hiccups. Bless Him.

“It’s a literal….” Jack paused, tilting his head up a bit so your infant wouldn’t hear, “Fucking petry dish out there!”

“We’re not putting our daughter in a bubble all her life,” You explained, “But I see where you’re coming from. No visitors for now,”

“Until she’s three months old at least,” Jack said, “Her immune system needs to be strong before anyone else comes in the apartment. I’ll fight them off with a bat if I need to,”

You laughed, though you winced since you were still sore. You gave birth no more than a few hours ago, and after a check-up from your doctor, you were completely healthy and fine. Giving birth to your 7-pound 5-ounce little girl made you almost go into delirium. But thanks to your husband, he spoke up for you when you were in pain and made sure you were comfortable and at ease. He held your hand while you were pushing, never once leaving your side. There were a few times when he almost barked at the doctors, but you knew it was because he was in Dad mode, not in Dr. Abbot mode.

“You feeling okay?” Jack asked as he saw the discomfort on your face. You nodded.

“It’ll go away in a bit,” You reassured him, though he was unconvinced, “And before you asked, I don’t need relief right now. You already yelled at the doctors when they gave me my epidural during labor,” 

“That anesthesiologist is brand new to this hospital and his hand was shaking,” Jack grumbled as he shifted his hold on your daughter, “Not to mention he was barely out of Med School. There was no way I was going to watch him do that to you,”

“Well, the way you barked at him, he almost peed his pants,” You teased. Jack glared. There was a knock at the door, and you were looking confused since neither of you were expecting visitors at the moment. Your folks were going to fly in tomorrow, and his old military buddies would come to town next week for a mini-reunion. 

“Heya, mom and dad. Can I come say hi?”

You smile widely at the voice: Dr. Robby.

“Here, let me hold her,” you said to Jack. Jack got up, placing your now sleeping daughter in your awaiting arms as he rounded the bed and got to the door. You snuggled in with your daughter, watching her with admiration and love. Her round cheeks, long eyelashes, and bell-shaped lips. To you, she was literal perfection. Even as tiny as she was and she came into the world quiet as a mouse, you loved her all the same. She looked more like Jack than you realize, but you were grateful for it. She was radiant.

Then Jack opened the door, and Dr. Robby standing there with a big grin on his face as he looked at Jack.

“Hey, congratulations, Dad.” He hugged Jack in the doorway, and you watched as they embraced one another. You remembered when you told Robby you were pregnant, he was beyond overjoyed, not just of you but for Jack, too. He was also like Jack, being a worrywart over germs and your health throughout your time being pregnant. But he was still a good support system to you both, coming over two weeks ago to help Jack put the crib together in the nursery that used to be your office.

Watching two full grown men attempt to assemble a crib made you laugh so hard that you took video as both proof and as blackmail.

Robby came into the room after getting some sanitizer on his hands carefully and thoroughly before he walked over to your bed. You saw his smile, how he looked a bit happier and healthier since he had a heart-to-heart with Jack about his mental health. It made you happy to see him happy, and his eyes were now on your sleeping baby, and he stood still.

“Wow,” He breathed as Jack closed the door behind him to walk over and stand next to Robby. Robby looked at you with kindness in his eyes, “She’s gorgeous. Got her looks from you,”

“Wow, thanks,” Jack said sarcastically as he nudged Robby in the shoulder. 

“How’s Mom feeling?” Robby asked you as he gave you one of his doctor gazes, like you were one of his patients down in The Pitt.

“Sore, which is normal,” You answered, though Jack piped in.

“She’s tired too,” Jack added. You glared at him as he threw up his hands in self-defense. Robby chuckled.

“Very normal. You literally pushed a human out of you; no one is expecting you to be running marathons right now.” Robby reassured you, “But, if you need it, I have connections to some good stuff to make the pain tolerable.”

“Am I hearing you correctly, or did you just offer drugs to my wife and the mother of my child?” Jack asked with his arms crossed and an amused look. You giggled quietly, not wishing to wake up your daughter from her first official nap. Robby looked back at her, seeing her content and calm in your arms as you kept her close.

“She’s really small, Robby,” You hummed to him as he leaned down a bit more to get a better look at her, though keeping his distance, “7 pounds 5 ounces,”

“Tiny bit mighty,” Jack agreed, “Plus she was quiet when she was born. Got the doctors worried since she barely cried,”

“She got that from you,” You said to Jack in a teasing tone, yet he grinned and winked.

“Well, even the tiniest of babies can make a grand entrance,” Robby explained to the pair of you as he then stood back up and, reaching in his pocket, pulled out his phone and showed it to you two, “The entire crew down in The Pitt are on pins and needles; they wanna know everything.”

“Robby Robinavitch, I never took you as a gossip,” You said dramatically, though it was playful. Jack was stifling his laughter.

“Well, once they heard that she was born and I was coming up for a visit, they all told me to report. Dana is demanding news, and if I don’t deliver, she’ll have my head.”

“She didn’t text me,” you grumbled.

“Well, her second-in-command was in the middle of giving birth, and I doubt she wanted to disturb her and ask for pictures,” Robby reminded you. “They miss you behind the counter, and Jack on the Night Shift floor. But they offer you their congrats and well wishes.”

“I’ll be sure to see them today when I have the chance. I know Shen will want news to give the Night Shift,” Jack explained as he then gave Robby a smirk, “So, you wanna know her name?”

“You’d be the first one. Ever,” You added, Robby’s lights lit up a bit as he nodded his head.

“I’d be honored,” He answered.

“You’re the only one who’s gonna know, for now,” You informed Robby, “Not even my parents know. So you’re sworn to secrecy!”

“I’m even more honored,” Robby said lightly, “And I won’t say a word to anyone.I swear,”he crossed his heart then and there, making you and Jack lock eyes with one another. You both decided on a name about a week ago, sitting side by side at a local diner with your massive belly and a craving for ice cream at 2 am. When Jack mentioned his thought to you, you were shocked but happy.It seemed perfect, and you agreed right on the spot.It was keeping the secret that was the hardest.

“Robby, we want you to officially meet….Emma,” Jack introduced your daughter to him officially, walked over to sit next to you on the bed with a massive grin on his face. He looked at Emma, who was sleeping away, but her nose was against your collarbone since you held her close, as Jack looked back at Robby again.

“Emma Robin Abbot,”

Robby froze, shocked to hear the middle name. You both watched for his reaction, seeing that he was trying to hold back his own tears, as a soft smile was evident. The emotions were trying not to be seen; it was in Robby’s nature. But then again, he went through too much within the past year with his own inner battles. Either way, he was there for you two long before you and Jack got together and became a couple.

“We thought Robinavitch wouldn’t have sounded appealing for a girl’s middle name,” you lightly mentioned to him. Robby dryly laughed as he wiped some tears from his eyes aggressively, “But, we named her after you since you mean a lot to both of us, more than you know.”

Robby wetly chuckled and warmly smiled at you. He’s known Jack far longer than you, yet you considered him a brother to you when you came on as a nurse in the ER. He saved you from a few scrapes from aggressive patients and guided you when you stumped. When it came to Jack, he helped Jack when he too was in the darkness and leaned on him when he needed the help. 

You both adored Robby and were behind him with his mental health progress.

“I… don’t know what to say,” Robby said in a stammer.

“You don’t have to say anything, Robby,” You replied, giving Jack a small look and then smiling back at Robby, “But you can hold her, if you want.”

Robby’s eyes went wide, silently looking at Jack for permission. Jack nodded his head, trusting Robby with his own newborn before anyone else. Robby, carefully and with precision, walked over towards you with his hands open. You gently placed Emma in his arms, seeing how he held her like a pro and smiled in both relief and joy.

“Heya, Emma. I’m your Uncle Robby,” Robby said quietly to your daughter. She slept on, wiggling a bit from being in a new set of arms, but stayed asleep while Robby was slowly walking around the room. You and Jack watched with grins on your faces. Jack reached to take your hand in his as he was watching his best friend hold his little girl. You looked down at his hand, seeing his new silver wedding band on his ring glisten in the hospital light. He replaced his own wedding ring after he planned to propose to you, locking it away in his safe to not forget it, but to hold onto it as a remembrance of his past.

“It’s nice to finally meet you. You know, your folks are pretty cool, if I do say so myself. You’ll like them, trust me. Your mom is a wonderful woman, she’ll teach you how to read and how to be a force nature,”Robby said to Emma, your heart warming up from the kind words as Jack wrapped an arm around you to tuck you in his hold.

“Now, your dad, I’d keep an eye on him if I were you. He’s tough, but he’s a softie. You’ll learn how to ride a bike from him, but you’re not allowed on a motorcycle. Ever,” Robby kept talking, you giggling from the mention of motorcycles.

“Your dad is my best friend, and he helped me with great advice every now and again. So always go to your dad for questions and advice, he’s the best. He won’t steer you wrong, that’s a promise,” Robby spoke about Jack, who was watching next to you with his own grin, “And when you get older, and your folks start to annoy you, you come to me and tell me. I won’t tell them anything,”

“I’m already regretting naming her after you,” you said in a joking tone, but Robby’s grin never faded.

You woke up groggily, your head feeling a bit heavy and your body still aching. The pain was not as severe, thanks to the nap you were waking up from, but it was an ache more than anything. You blinked slowly, noticing that you were still in your bed and your head was heavily against the pillow. But there was no one else in the room. The heart monitor kept beeping, yet you were alone.

No Jack.No Emma.

You were about to panic, think something had happened. You saw Jack’s jacket draped on the back of the rocking chair, a soft light was seen from the bathroom attached to the room, and a beautiful view of Pittsburgh at night was evident. In your mind, something didn’t feel right since Emma’s bassinet was not in the room. It was parked on your left side near the window, but now it wasn’t. Yet as you were about to hit the “Call” button next to you, the door opened suddenly.

Jack came in, two plastic cups in hand, as he saw you. A soft smile was on his face.

“Look who’s awake! Hey, baby,” he said, closing the door behind him with a tap of his foot, and he walked over to you.

“Where’s Emma?” You asked suddenly, Jack, seeing the look of panic on your face as you spoke some more,“Why isn’t she here with us? Is she—“

“Hey, easy,” Jack hummed as he was perched on the side of the bed with you, handing you a cup that only had ice chips in it, “Emma’s fine. She’s just getting a check-up with the nurse.”

You took the cup, holding it tightly in your hand. Jack could see you were still scared as he placed a hand on your arm.

“She’s okay, I promise, baby. She was due for a check up while you were napping. I told them to take her for a look over.You needed the sleep, and I wanted you to take it while you could,”Jack reassured you as he kissed your forehead. “I went along with the check-up until they kicked me out. Even with my Attending perks,”

You smiled, taking a few ice chips in your mouth to munch on as Jack smiled, seeing that you were a bit better.

“Is she doing okay?” You asked, worrying about your daughter since she wasn’t there with either you or Jack.

“So far she’s passing with flying colors,” Jack answered, “And I think the entire nursing staff wanted an excuse to dote on her. Not gonna lie, honey, our daughter is a celebrity around here. With a Night Shift Attending as her dad and a Charge Nurse as her mom, it was destiny.”

You finally smiled. Jack was trying so hard to bring you some relief as you then grimaced. You were finally feeling what your body felt like: aching, sweaty, and perhaps smelly. It hit you that it’s been some time since you properly took care of yourself since you came in within the early hours of your labor. The thick braid you had hours before looked in shambles, your skin felt gross, and the hospital gown you were in didn’t feel right anymore.

“I need a shower,” you groaned. Jack took both your cup and his to place on the tray next to two you as he then held out his hands for you.

“Come on, I’ll help you,” Jack said lovingly to you. You knew he was coming from a good place; he’s seen you roughed up a few times as a nurse and taking on more than you could chew in the Pitt. But in the moment, you didn’t feel appealing at all. Your body felt sticky, uneasy, and unusual, all simply from giving birth. A natural thing that millions do every day. Yet in your mind, you felt like you were out of your body.

“Jack..” You were about to argue with him, thinking you looked grotesque in your current appearance. It was seen on your face, the somewhat look of disgust on your face, and in your eyes. Jack hummed, placing his hands along your own to lace the fingers together to get your attention. You saw his eyes; he looked so warm to you, even with dark circles under his eyes.

“You just did one of the most amazing things I have ever seen, both as a Doctor and as your husband. I watched you bring our little girl into the world, our beautiful little girl. You did that on your own, the least I can do is help you shower,” Jack softly explained, you hearing the emotions in his voice as he was searching your eyes with his. You felt tears in your eyes, thinking of how much he did for you long before Emma made her debut.

He walked with you up and down the hallway through contractions, rubbed your back when you were in pain, and made sure your voice was heard with the doctor and nurses in the room when you were so close to pushing. He called your parents to tell them you were in labor and to reassure them you were fine.

Jack did more than just hold your hand: he saved you from insanity and never once let you go.

“Come on, honey,” he urged you, reaching over to move some of your tears with his thumb, “I got you.”

You nodded, sniffling and giving in. He grinned, helping you maneuver yourself to the side of the bed with your feet touching the ground. Once you were on your feet, you groaned in pain. But Jack slipped an arm around you and held your hand tightly as he walked you over to the bathroom. Your emergency bag was perched near the end of your bed, Jack grabbing it to sling over his shoulder before holding you close again. 

“Just so you know,” You said in a watery tone, Jack looking at you with a raised brow, ”I never would have one this without you with me, Jack.”

“And you are a fucking warrior,” Jack replied smoothly with a grin, “Still as beautiful as the day I met you.”

“Are you serious? Jack, I’m a fucking mess,” You countered.

“No, you’re not. Giving birth is a beautiful thing, and you made it look easy.” Jack stated, “Take the compliment, okay?”

You rolled your eyes, Jack rubbed your arm, and he finally got you in the bathroom. After carefully getting to sit on a chair, you watched in amazement as he got the shower at the right temperature. You leaned against the chair, another wave of fatigue hitting you hard. Jack then grabbed your pajamas in the emergency bag, as well as your hair brush and the shampoo and conditioner you liked, and smuggled them into the hospital.

Jack helped strip you down and bathe you for the next 10 minutes. He mostly stayed out of the way of the spray of the water, but he made sure to wash your hair gently. It felt intimate, really, you not caring that you were naked in front of him since he was your husband and he’s seen you go through childbirth without an ounce of hesitation. You weren’t surprised, given his occupation, but still, you loved him all the more.

“Almost done,” Jack said behind you while he massaged your shoulders with a small washcloth, a bit of soap along your skin to get some of the stickiness feeling off of you, “And I’ll make sure to get you some real food, none of the hospital food. It has no nutrition anyway. What do you think, pizza? Pasta?”

“Sushi,” you hummed, smiling at the thought, “I miss eating sushi. I think I can eat a whole restaurant worth of sushi,”

“Before you do that, I’ll order us some of your favorites so you can enjoy them with Emma and me,” Jack explained. You looked over your shoulder at Jack with an amused grin.

“Is that against the rules here in a hospital?” You asked, Jack giving you a playful glare.

“You have no faith in your husband in getting you the food you want? I thought you loved me,” He said sarcastically. You smiled, Jack grinning from the sight as he leaned over to kiss your cheek, “There’s that smile that I love. I hope Emma has the same smile.”

Finally, with your shower done, Jack helped dry you off with a fresh towel and slip you into new pajamas. You felt the intimacy in how he was slipping every piece of clothing on you. With your hair braided and out of the way, Jack once again helped you walk back into the main hospital room. Before you could make it to the bed again, a knock was at the door. You saw one of the nurses poke their head in.

“Oh, good, you got a shower in! And just in time, this little one was missing her momma,” The nurse said in a sweet tone, moving out of the way to bring in the mobile bassinet. You smiled widely at Emma, swaddled but alert as she was perched inside with a pink beanie on her head. The nurse wheeled her back to her spot on the left side of your bed before coming over to you.

“I’m here to do a check-up on you, check your heart rate, temperature, the works. It’ll be a few minutes, I promise,” She reassured you. Jack eased you into the nurses’s hold, whom helped you back in bed as Jack made his way to Emma. As the nurse did her checklist on you, your eyes drifted back to Jack, seeing him perch over Emma with a massive grin on his face. You loved the sight: Jack being a doting father and Emma already being wrapped around his finger with no hesitation. Carefully, he picked her up, having a small moment with her as your own check-up was wrapping up with the nurse.

“Alright, you are good to go. Both you and Emma are very healthy,” The nurse explained while you eased back in bed, “I would advise you to go on a walk every few hours, make sure you're eating, and drink plenty of water. Both you and Emma are on the right track in heading home by tomorrow night.”

“Do you think it’ll be good to get a few visitors in here between now and then?” You asked her, Jack looking over from his spot with Emma in his arms.

“I don’t see why not. How many did you have in mind?” The nurse asked tentatively.

“Not our entire department,” Jack reminded you, “Like…three people at most,”

“No more than three,” The nurse agreed, “We don’t mind visitors, we encourage it. But not too many since you are still recovering and your family needs time together,” 

You knew she was right. You wanted this time with Jack and Emma, since it will be few and far between by the time you take her home. While the nurse left you three in the room, Jack sat next to you on the bed, placing Emma gently in your lap. You grinned, scanning your daughter thoroughly and seeing how perfect she was.

“You giving the nurses grief already?” Jack asked her in his gentle gravel of a tone. Emma wiggled, you smiling as he laughed, “That’s my girl,”

“Hey!” You huffed while looking away from Emma to him, “She’s barely an infant, don’t start making her mischievous like you already.”

“Too late, it’s starting,” Jack smoothly replied as he gazed at you, “Those nurses are all about her, though. Can you imagine what it’ll be like when Dana sees her?”

“Or the residents? She’ll be too much of a distraction,” You agreed, “To the point of kicking us out,”

“No way in hell they’ll do that to Emma. Dana and Robby would never kick our girl out of there for being a distraction,” Jack reasoned.

“Maybe not, but she’ll kick you out for mean-mugging anyone who would get too close to Emma,” You reminded him. Jack paused, thinking about it and then nodding in agreement. You both fell silent, watching Emma as she was perched on your lap and feeling content in her blanket. Even though you were freely bathed and in new clothes, your mind was still racing with how this all happened in 2 days. The 2 days felt like 2 months, and yet they were so fast, as soon as Emma was born. She was whisked away to be weighed and checked over as you were recovering from childbirth.

Jack never left your side, but you saw his eyes shoot over to your newborn as she was monitored at the small station propped to the side by your doctor and a few nurses. Even as a doctor, you could tell he was beyond scared for his newborn, but you felt it in the way he held your hand; he wasn’t going to leave your side either.

“She’s already growing,” you hummed, then looking over at Jack, “I can’t believe she was inside of me no more than two days ago. And now she’s here, right here,”

“Here and safe with us,” Jack agreed. You kissed his cheek before he reached into his phone, “I’m gonna DoorDash our sushi from that 24-hour place we love near our house. You and Emma stay gorgeous, I’ll take care of it.”

You smiled widely at him, “I fucking love you,”

“Hey,” Jack hummed as he kissed the tip of your nose, “No cursing in front of our daughter.I don’t want her to pick up that habit.”

You giggled as he kissed your lips before moving out of bed. He leaned down to kiss Emma on the forehead, who squirmed in her swaddle and squeaked in response. You loved that sound, so pure and light. You focused on Emma as Jack took a few steps away. You watched her cheeks, her pristine skin, and even the shape of her nose. With a hand under her head and one under her body, he bought her up to be nose to nose with her, breathing in the moment with your daughter. She smiled, feeling fresh tears in your eyes as you simply looked at your new baby.

You saw glimpses of your future in that moment: Emma with her father’s curls and your laugh, Emma running in the park with you right behind her, Emma in her father’s lap as he read her bedtime stories with his thick glasses. It was all good, filled with love and affection for this little infant. But in that moment, you had Emma. A fever dream that came true. It was like she was the last piece of the puzzle that you both needed to complete.

You didn’t see Jack watch you after finishing his DoorDash order, nor did you see him take a picture of you and Emma being nose to nose with one another. He would send the picture to the Pitt group chat he got roped into thanks to Shen.

Momma and Emma Robin Abbot are perfectly healthy and doing great. My two best girls.

The End.

[chris-tredidation21]

Oh to make jack a girl dad

[pope-codys]

could i request ¹⁶⁾ fingers scratching at a scalp FOR ANDREW CODY PLS OMG. he deserves it bro 🙏 also i love ur writing so so much

he DOES deserve it! thank you for this prompt anon, i didn’t realize how much i miss writing andrew

summary: andrew realizes how much you and your daughter mean to him and what he'd do for you both

pairing: andrew 'pope' cody x single mom!reader

words: 2.6k

tags: FLUFF, soft!andrew cody, girl dad!andrew cody, andrew is not a step father - he's the father who stepped up

Andrew arrived home late, much later than he'd wanted.

The job that he'd pulled off with his brothers and nephew had gone on longer than he'd planned. After completing the job, debriefing with Smurf and splitting the cash, Andrew was stepping through your front door hours after he'd intended to be home. When he'd left in the afternoon and you asked about dinner, he told you to leave his plate in the fridge for him and he'd told your daughter he'd be home tonight.

Now it was almost midnight and Andrew felt like a liar. Yes, he was home tonight, but he'd missed dinner, and bedtime, and that sat like a lead weight in his stomach. He wasn't your daughters father but he liked being someone she could depend on. He didn't want to be like Baz, always snapping at Lena and brushing her off. He wanted your daughter to like him, to want to have him around, to be happy when he was there. And telling her he'd be back tonight and returning after she'd gone to bed made Andrew feel bad, like he was letting her down.

He'd thought about it every moment he was at Smurf's, his eyes watching the clock and seeing the seconds pass painfully slow before he was free to return to your house. He'd thought about you the whole drive over and how you'd also gone to bed without him. He imagined you sleeping alone in the big bed without him there, how you told him you always slept better when he was by your side and that Andrew wasn't there right now. He chastised himself the whole drive and let the horrible feeling twist in his chest until he was inside the house and had his eyes on you.

Except you weren't in your bedroom, you were asleep on the couch with your daughter asleep on top of you.

There was a small lamp on in the corner, filling the living room with a soft yellow glow and long stretches of shadow. There was a blanket haphazardly covering you both and the four year old girl was sprawled over you, her cheek smushed against your chest and her limbs in all directions. She was sleeping deeply, her mouth open and her breathing audible, but not quite a snore. Andrew approached as quietly as he could, setting his bag next to the coffee table and moving to stand over you. He noticed that the TV was on, the volume so low it was almost muted.

Andrew had been completely silent where he stood but you woke regardless, blinking awake like you could sense his presence. Your eyes shifted upwards to take notice of the man standing before you and you inhaled, quickly and audibly in shock before your brain registered that it was Andrew and not a threat.

"Hi." You whispered, mindful of the sleeping girl on top of you.

"Why are you out here?" Andrew replied, skipping over formalities and jumping to his burning question. You smiled softly at his bluntness.

"She wanted to wait up for you." You said as you rubbed your hand lovingly over her back. "You said you'd be back tonight and she didn't want to go to bed without saying goodnight to you. We fell asleep here." You watched your daughters sleeping form as you answered Andrews question, so it took you a moment to notice something was wrong with him.

At his silence you looked back up at Andrew and your heart sank into your stomach at the devastated look on his face. You saw the crease between his eyebrows, the downturn of his soft lips pressed into a wobbly line, and the stomach turning woe in his eyes. You reached out to him immediately with your free hand, taking his in your clumsy grasp.

"Andrew, stop it. Everything's fine-"

"I made a promise and I broke it." He hissed back, his voice low and angry. You knew the anger was directed at himself, it always was. Every negative emotion was always turned inward.

"You can make it up to her now." You suggested calmly, your hand squeezing his. "She'll be so happy you're here." Andrew hesitated, his breaths in and out his nose forced and harsh as he thought over his options. "It's better if you put her to bed than for her to wake up tomorrow morning to find you came home without waking her up."

Andrew nodded slowly at your reasoning as he thought it through. He ended up reaching out with a tentative hand to gently shake your daughter awake. She woke with a groan, having been pulled from a dream and only opened one of her eyes to see what was happening.

When she realized it was Andrew in front of her, the reaction was instantaneous. Her whole face lit up in excitement, her eyes wide and mouth open in a big smile that stretched her cheeks.

"Andrew!" She exclaimed, much more awake now, although still groggy. She pushed herself up using her hands and knees, much to your painful protest, and reached out to him. Andrew collected your daughter into his arms, hers going tightly around his neck as she hugged him close.

"You're home!" She said, her happy words muffled against his shoulder. You watched Andrew hold her close, one arm tucked under her and the other wrapped across her back. He pressed his face into her tangle of hair and closed his eyes for just a moment. You watched as the tension and worry melted off of Andrew once he had your little girl in his arms. His shoulders dropped down and his face relaxed into a momentary expression of relief.

"How about Andrew reads you a story and tucks you in Peanut?" You suggested as you moved to stand up.

"Yay, story," Your daughter exclaimed weakly, exhaustion doing its best to pull her back in. The warmth of Andrews hug was lulling her back to sleep and you knew there were only a few precious moments before she'd be asleep again.

"I'll be in bed when you're done." You said to Andrew as the two of you parted at your daughters bedroom door. Andrew pulled back the covers and set her down carefully into the bed, making sure to grab her favourite stuffed animal from the pile so she could hold it as she slept. Andrew picked a random book from the pile on the floor next to her bed and sat down next to your daughter to start reading.

Your daughter scooted over and pressed herself against Andrews side, making sure she was as close as possible with her head resting on his thigh. Andrew took a second to stare at the little girl, still taken aback that she wanted to be close to him at all times, even though your daughter did this any time Andrew was around. You liked to joke that you were both made of magnets and whenever Andrew was around, your daughter would be stuck to his side.

Andrew began reading, telling a tale of a hippopotamus who was not included in the fun activities the other animals were doing. It was a short story, but Andrew noticed quickly that your little girls eyes had fallen shut. Andrew paused, watching her to see if she'd already fallen asleep when she spoke up quietly, her eyes still closed.

"Keep reading Daddy."

Andrew stopped breathing.

He stared down at the top of your daughters head, his eyes wide and his heart beating erratically in his chest. Daddy. She called him Daddy. It slipped off her tongue easily like she wasn't sending a wreaking ball of emotion into Andrews chest.

She saw him as a father, a figure of stability and safety. She felt safe enough to fall asleep next to him, to reach out to him for comfort, to be excited by his presence. She saw him as another parent, another person in her life who could take care of her and make her happy, and as a suitable partner for you. One word and Andrew felt like she was asking him to be a part of your family.

All the blood and violence and death Andrew had inflicted in his life, he thought he was unworthy of love, of wonderful, happy things. But this small girl laid her head in his lap and clung to him as she slept and showed Andrew so much love and kindness like it was as easy as breathing. Like mother, like daughter.

Andrew felt loved - actually, truly loved - with no strings attached.

Andrew finished the story like your daughter asked but she was completely asleep by the end. Andrew didn't want to risk waking her by moving so he stayed sitting up on the tiny child sized bed instead. He wasn't going to sleep tonight anyways, he had a lot to think about.

You woke up around 4am to an empty bed. You'd fallen asleep without Andrew and now woke up without him as well. You pulled yourself out of bed, wrapped yourself up in a large sweater and shuffled down the hall in search of your boyfriend. You found him in your daughters room, sitting on the bed with your little girl tucked up against him. She was fast asleep and drooling on his pant leg.

Andrew had been staring at the wall in front of him, lost in his head, but you standing in the doorway broke his concentration. His blank expression turned to a soft one of recognition as he locked eyes with you. You smiled at him and gestured towards the living room with your head. Andrew responded by looking down at where your daughter slept on him and back up at you.

'She's fine' you mouthed to him and pointed to the living room again before leaving him to follow you. You got settled on the couch and Andrew arrived a minute later after he carefully extracted himself from your daughters hold. Andrew joined you on the couch and laid down with his head in your lap without having to ask. Seven months of dating and Andrew was finally getting more comfortable in your space and with initiating contact without asking. At the start of your relationship he always thought his touch was unwanted and you worked very hard to show him that wasn't the case.

Andrew relaxed into the couch, lying on his side facing away from you. You ran your fingers through his hair, your fingertips scratching his scalp comfortingly as your other hand rested on his shoulder. Andrew reached up and took hold of your hand, pulling it from his shoulder to hold close. He nuzzled his face against the pillow you'd put in your lap and sighed contently as you continued to massage his head.

"I don't want to do any more jobs." Andrew said suddenly. Your fingers paused in his auburn curls as you were completely caught off guard by his statement.

"Really?" You asked, trying to not get too excited. You'd silently wanted Andrew to stop doing jobs since you met him a year ago. You didn't judge him for his crimes but rather the danger made you scared and sick with worry for him. You knew what happened to Baz and you were worried that could happen to Andrew. Any time he walked out the front door could be his last.

"She called me Daddy." Andrew said quietly, his voice breaking on the last word. That got your attention even more than him wanting to stop doing jobs. You leaned over him to make eye contact the best you could.

"What? When? When you were reading to her?" You didn't even try to hide your joy. You knew how much your daughter loved Andrew and this was proof that she wanted him around and saw him as a fixture in her life.

"Yeah, when I was reading to her."

"Andrew!" You exclaimed quietly, mindful of the sleeping girl down the hall. You gave Andrew a little shake of excitement. "That's wonderful! Is that why you want to stop doing jobs?"

"I got thinking about how much she means to me, how much you mean to me," Andrew rolled over onto his back so he could look up at you. "I don't want to do anything to risk this." Andrew squeezed your hand as his words sunk in. He wanted to stop completely and walk away from a life of crime. But to do that he'd have to walk away from a lot.

"Smurf would never let you just leave. You'd have to walk away completely." You asked carefully. It was a lot for Andrew to leave his family but it would be the only way to make a clean break. Smurf was relentless, she'd never pull her claws from Andrew willingly.

Andrew stared firmly at you, making sure he had your attention before he nodded solemnly. Your heart skipped a beat in your chest.

"You'd do that? Leave behind your family? What about your brothers?"

"They did fine without me when I was in prison. They're adults, if they want to break away from Smurf, they just need to find something worth leaving for." Andrew said, his gaze unbroken.

"We'd have to leave Oceanside, Smurf would never let you go that easily." You said, still testing the waters to see if Andrew was sure about his suggestion.

"We'd have to leave California." Andrew replied back, clearly having thought this through completely. He'd spent the last four hours sitting in your daughters room and making a plan in his head.

"I have a friend from college who comes from a family of Relators, they could find us a place in almost any state. We could start over wherever we wanted." You were starting to let yourself feel excited about the prospect of running away with Andrew and starting a new life away from the source of his baggage and trauma.

"We'll make a plan, get everything set up and leave."

"I-" You started, your thoughts going back to his brothers, the one thing in his life that he cared enough about to keep him here. "And you'd do that? Pack up and leave in the middle of the night with no warning? Cut all contact with your brothers? Leave them behind?"

"Of course. I'll write them each a letter and leave it for them here to find. I need to go no contact to keep Smurf away. I need us to be safe." Us. He needed us to be safe. It was finally sinking in that Andrew really meant it, he was going to leave Oceanside. Andrew was choosing a life of happiness and comfort. He was putting himself and his wants first for the first time in his life.

Andrew was choosing you.

"Mommy there's a swing!" Your daughter let go of your hand and ran across the yard to the large tree that sat outside your new home. There was a singular swing attached to a tree branch and it had stolen her attention. Andrew was still unloading boxes from the truck and you slid up next to him.

"That swing wasn't here when we toured the property." You said, a knowing glint in your eye. Andrew looked from you to where your daughter was seated on the swing and attempting to pump her legs enough to build momentum. Andrew shrugged and stood a little taller.

"I had some time last night after I got the keys. Thought the tree could use a swing." You smiled brightly at him and reached up to slide your hands through his hair, your nails scratching the back of his head. Andrew slipped his index fingers in the belt loops of your jeans and pulled you in close.

"I love you." You sighed against his mouth before kissing him soundly. Andrew kissed back, his lips molding perfectly with yours before pulling back to reply.

"I love you too." He leaned in for another kiss but got interrupted by a happy young voice that needed him for a very important task.

"Daddy, Daddy! Come push me!"

dividers by @ cursed-carmine

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[chris-tredidation21]

I'm wearing my glasses and yet I still can't see

[somethingeh]

Pop

belongs to the aces universe

pairing - jack abbot x reader

word count - 7.6k

summary - baby abbot needs a little push.

cw - vomiting, birth, pregnancy, labor, pain, epidural

a/n - ok i get rlly into births i actually think they're rlly fucking interesting, like just yesterday i learned about paravaginal births and??? why is that an option??? but dw it doesn't happen here. i had to include the miss congeniality easter egg, bc i started this yesterday (apr 25th) benjamin and shawn are my sister wives. samira doesn’t leave the pitt, she just leaves the day shift, obv. i had a lot of fun with this, and i hope you do too!!! time to find out if it's a ronan or isadora! phoebe or phoebo! <3

♡♡♡

Your nursery colors were green and yellow. It was calming, and neutral but not gray. There were little dragonflies embroidered into the curtains, and flowers on the rug, and vintage children's book art hanging on the walls. Jack kept his nephew’s first ever hockey stick leaning against the bookshelf, barely two feet long, determined to get your little baby out on the ice as soon as possible.

You liked it in there. It was nice. You could sit in the cushy armchair with your feet up, breeze blowing in through the open window, making the dragonflies fly. It was a right side better than suffocating on your back in a sweltering bed under the weight of your baby. And sometimes, on hard days, you looked over into the empty crib and pictured a little red haired infant, fast asleep under the galaxy mobile.

Jack often found you asleep in there. Sometimes he found you awake, and you would say, “Oh, hun, now that you’re here, mind folding these hand me downs we got from Dana?”

But not anymore. The nursery was done, painted, dried, decorated, and stocked with anything you could need. The cot in your room was set up, along with a cart of midnight postpartum essentials, of which you got a list from every childbearing woman in your life. You had pounds of frozen meals ready in the freezer. You had decided on names. You had deep cleaned and decluttered the entire apartment from head to toe. You were absolutely ready.

In every way but the physical, of course. Every appointment you had, it was firm, undilated cervix, sitting high, and perfectly healthy. You were incredibly grateful the baby was healthy, but by week forty, you would have been almost as grateful to hear any note of progress.

But nada. Zip. No action.

You tried to stay positive, to remind yourself how lucky you were to be making it to term. Hadn’t you seen dozens of preemies in your line of work, who needed extensive, invasive care or worse, who didn't make it at all?

No matter how guilty it made you feel, though, you couldn’t quite help the annoyance that crept into your brain more and more with each day you spent still pregnant. You were truly becoming the stereotype of the angry pregnant lady, waddling around with a scowl, complaining about sweat, and not being able to see your toes.

“I hate this,” you said, two days after your due date. “The baby is healthy, the baby is ready, I’m certainly ready, so what’s the fucking hold up?”

You had had your forty week check up just that past Wednesday, where Jill was too happy to report that your cervix was wide, thick, and hard as a rock.

“I’m sorry,” said Dana, looking up from her charts. “Sometimes the baby just comes on their own damn schedule. You better get used to that.”

You grunted, pulling at your scrubs. Dana’s lips quirked in sympathy.

“Why don’t you head home?” she said. “There’s only an hour left in the shift, and you can start your maternity leave at forty weeks, can’t you? I’m sure Gloria couldn’t fault you for that if she got a look at you.”

“No way,” you said, slamming your computer keys harshly. “Jack’s taking twelve months off when the baby comes, only three of those are paid, and I need to save.”

“You’re fine,” Dana dismissed. “Jack has spent the last decade and a half making doctor money, taking overtime, and never taking a day off. He buys the same t-shirts and jeans every few years, toiletries, food, and that’s pretty much it. I know that guy’s got savings.”

“Yeah, I know, but I still —” you cut yourself off with a sharp gasp.

Your muscles were tightening, cramping more than you’d ever felt before. Dana took off her glasses.

“Woah,” you said, as the pain spread from the front to your back. “That’s new.”

“Braxton hicks?” asked Dana cautiously.

You shook your head.

“I don’t think so,” you breathed, rubbing your belly. “No, this is — worse.”

Dana rolled her chair right up next to yours, swiveling you to be knee to knee. She had an excited glint in her eye.

“Do you think, possibly, it could be…?”

You tried not to smile too wide. The pain was worse than it had ever been, but you could still talk through it.

“I don’t know, maybe,” you said. “D’you think?”

“Why not?” she said. “Start timing them!”

You pulled out your phone, fingers shaking slightly in excitement.

“Sixty-two seconds,” you said when it was done. “It lasted sixty-two seconds.”

“Good start,” said Dana, patting your knee. “Keep track of ’em, and who knows. The betting board might be cleared by this time tomorrow.”

It took everything in you not to squeal from pure excitement. You rested your phone open next to your computer, trying to focus back on work. Your eyes frequently flicked over to it, checking the time. It was five, ten, fifteen minutes before anything else happened. The same clenching pain, spreading from front to back, rolled over you.

“Another minute,” you said happily to Dana when that too had passed. “Sixty-four seconds, that time.”

“Want anything, kid?” she asked. “Heating pads, tylenol?”

“No thanks,” you said. “They’re not too bad yet.”

By the third contraction, Jack was walking through the door.

“Jack!” you said loudly, attempting to jump up, getting halfway through the motion, and sitting back down. “Jackie, a contraction!”

His face changed instantly from warm fondness, to worried shock. He picked up his pace, hurrying around the partition to kneel in front of you. His eyes were wide.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “How long?”

“One minute, with fifteen in between,” you said, showing him your phone. “What do we do? Should I go home now?”

He took your phone, thinking.

“Why don’t I give you a ride,” he said finally. “You can shower and eat, in case this is the real thing. How’s that sound?”

You thought it sounded good, starving and grimy as you were, so you gave everyone your excited goodbyes, loaded into his car, and went home. It took some convincing to get Jack to leave you. You had to remind him that he was scheduled to work in about fifteen minutes, and Robby wouldn’t be happy if he wasn’t there for shift change, before he kissed you goodbye.

You almost relished in the ache as you started your shower, positioning your phone right outside the door. You were so desperate for this pregnancy to end, you could work through the pain. As you were rinsing conditioner from your hair, another contraction started to hit. But as you reached through the glass door to document it, you saw that the timer read twenty minutes and counting.

Twenty minutes. The contractions had gone from fifteen minutes apart, to twenty. That wasn’t that unusual, was it? Things could be irregular in the beginning, but it would even out, right? But as you heated up some pasta for dinner, the increments between episodes became longer and longer. When a whole hour had passed without one, you knew it had been a false start.

Your heart was sinking as you texted Jack.

Contractions slowed down :( I don’t think it’s happening

His bubble popped up almost immediately.

I’m sorry honey. Want me to bring you waffles from Rosie’s in the morning?

You smiled.

You know me too well

You went to bed that night disappointed, but determined. You were starting to second guess your assessment that the cramps weren’t braxton hicks, but whatever they were, it was a first. It meant progression.

The next day at work you did some home remedy research. Castor oil was a no go, for obvious reasons, but there were still plenty of non medicinal measures that couldn’t hurt to try.

“Spicy foods, curb walking, uphill sprints,” Javadi read over your shoulder as you showed the list to Robby. “Dates, raspberry leaf tea…”

“You don’t really think any of these work, do you?” said Robby skeptically.

You glared at him.

“Until you have to start wearing adult diapers because you pee a little every time you bend down, kindly keep your opinions to yourself, Michael,” you said, and Javadi tried to stifle her snort. “That just cost you lunch. I require one extra hot jalfrezi with chicken.”

He didn’t dare argue, just snapped his mouth shut and went to make the order with his tail between his legs.

After your eye watering meal, one bite of which had Robby red as a tomato and wheezing into a straight mug of creamer, you decided to take a trip outside. You took Victoria with you, partly because the possibility of falling down and not being able to get back up was high, but also because the terror in her eyes every time you wobbled was slightly amusing.

You walked along the curb in the ambulance bay for as long as you could justify being away from the hub. By the end of it, you were panting, exhausted, and didn’t feel any closer to labor. You huffed and puffed your way slowly back inside, Javadi trailing awkwardly behind you.

“Any luck?” asked Dana.

You could only shake your sweaty head.

“Not yet,” you said, texting Jack, “but you never know.”

Please get dates!!!

A few hours later, when he was awake, he responded.

The fruit?

You rolled your eyes.

Obviously the fruit

He sent you back a thumbs up.

No one was convinced at the efficacy of your little tricks, but they all wished you luck as you waddled out to Jack’s truck. You could tell, as you updated him, that Jack had doubts of his own, but he was smart enough to stay silent while you munched on your dates.

“They’ll work,” you said. “They have to.”

Sure enough, later that night as you bounced on your yoga ball, you felt a now familiar sensation at the base of your belly.

“Fucking finally!” you said to no one in particular, perhaps Romeo where he lay snoozing on the couch.

You called Jack, and he answered on the second ring.

“What’s up?”

“Tell Robby he’s an idiot,” you said smugly. “Guess what I’m having right now?”

“A contraction?” he said. “Really?”

“Really,” you said. “It’s only the first one, but I just wanted to let you know to keep your phone close.”

But it seemed you sounded the alarms a bit too soon. The same contractions, now two minutes long, still fifteen apart, kept you up until one in the morning. They were helped by some nasty heartburn, no doubt from your ambitious spice level at lunch, but soon enough, they began to subside.

You groaned as you texted Jack.

Don’t say anything to Robby, the contractions have stopped >:(

He’s still an idiot though

At the very least, you had the day off. The last thing anyone needed was you, forty weeks pregnant, and running on five hours of sleep. By the time you woke up, Jack was beside you, snuffling snores.

The third night you felt contractions coming on, you were hardly as excited. You had Jack time them, but, as you expected, they fizzled out around midnight.

Each night, around seven or eight, contractions would start. Then, like clockwork, between the hours of twelve and one, they stopped. You wanted to pop a pill and go to bed, not bothered tracking something that was surely temporary, but Jack insisted.

“You never know when it could be the real deal!”

But it wasn’t the real deal, night after night. You were a zombie at work, snappy and grouchy, so much so that by the time you were forty weeks and five days, you were kicked out.

“You’re gonna regret this, Dana,” you growled as Jack pulled you towards the parking lot. “You’re gonna rue the day!”

With your newfound freedom away from the hospital, you kept up with your activities. Though, not the spicy food. That you’d learned your lesson from. Your days were filled with curb walking, dates, and teas. At least two hours a day you sat on your ball and pumped. You had even had sex every night, though it was hardly sexy. You couldn’t really move, so Jack had to prop up your hips with two pillows. It was helped, however, by Jack himself. You’d never seen the man so insatiable as when you were pregnant.

By the time you made it to your forty-one week appointment, you were itching for progress. You kept your fingers crossed tightly, hoping against hope as Jill performed her exam.

“You’re about one centimeter dilated,” said Jill apologetically.

You let out a helpless cry. Jack rubbed your shoulders.

“It’s still an improvement,” he reminded you.

“And you’ve softened a bit,” said Jill. “Most importantly, you’ve still got a good amount of amniotic fluid, so baby’s okay. I would like to do an NST, just because you’re past due. I’d also just like to offer you induction. It is typically recommended at this point—”

“No thank you,” you said firmly. “I’ve only heard horror stories, uterine ruptures, infection, hemorrhage —”

“I know you know how unlikely those things are, so I won’t tell you,” said Jill gently. “I figured you would say that, but how do you feel about a membrane sweep?”

“Great, amazing, do it now,” you said, and she chuckled.

The membrane sweep was certainly uncomfortable, but not exactly painful. Once it was over, you were strapped in for an NST and Jill tried to reassure you.

“It’ll probably be any day now,” she said. “Hopefully things will progress quickly from here, but if they don’t there are things you can do to help.”

“Curb walking? Spicy foods? Sex? Dates? Yeah, we’ve done them all,” you sighed. “Just tell me — how do I tell the difference between prodromal contractions and real contractions?”

Jill looked regretful.

“Oftentimes, you can’t,” she said. “You just have to keep monitoring, and wait for them to get closer together.”

All in all, it was a blue sort of afternoon. Even a big cookie from your favorite bakery wasn’t able to cheer you up. Upon returning home, you draped yourself over Jack on the couch. He practiced his braiding on you while you watched Law & Order, snacking on dates. You were beginning to become sick of them.

As planned, contractions started rolling in around nine. At first, they were average, easily breathed through. Then, they started to pick up. Not in duration, but in severity. Jack pulled your new braids away from your face as you hunched in on yourself, tense and unfortunately moist.

“Honey?” he asked. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“Bad,” you gasped. “Worse.”

“Okay,” he said, stroking your forehead. “Do you want to sit on your ball?”

You managed a nod, so he helped transfer you over to the blue ball. You started moaning, rolling your hips in great circles while he clutched your hands from his seat on the coffee table. As the clock struck half past one, he dared to speak.

“You know, if it’s this bad,” he said quietly, “maybe —”

“Don’t say it,” you snarled. “Don’t even think it.”

You were past the point of foolish hope. Without at five hours of clear, worsening contractions that reached five minutes apart, you weren’t even considering it a possibility. It wasn’t feasible to prepare every single time.

You were proven right, at nearly three in the morning, when the contractions once again quieted down. You could tell that Jack was struggling. The pain in his eyes was hard to ignore as he watched you curl in on yourself in agony. Hopeless, was the word, and it wasn’t helped by his being a doctor.

“Seven days,” he whispered into your hair as you drifted in and out of sleep. “Can’t be more than seven days.”

It definitely felt like more. You were becoming nocturnal, kept awake by contractions that never led anywhere, and sleeping it off well into the afternoon. It was like being back on night shift, but instead of patients, you got debilitating cramps and sweating.

It appeared that the membrane sweep really hadn’t helped, at the next appointment only three days later. You were still only one measly centimeter dilated. You cried all the way home out of pure exhaustion.

Jack did everything he could to try and help. He drew warm baths, gave food rubs, always had the kettle ready for a hot water belt. But even food was becoming uninteresting to you, with nausea and fatigue plaguing you most of your waking hours.

You tried to stay positive when you started losing the mucus plug, even more so when it appeared bloody. You called Jack into the bathroom and shoved your dirty underwear in his face.

“The bloody show?” you said.

“I think so,” he replied.

It was exciting. You tried to let it be exciting. But some part of you must have known deep down that it wasn’t the time quite yet, and the days crept on. Jack finally decided to start his sabbatical when parting in the evening coincided with your cramps. He couldn’t stand to leave you folded over the kitchen table, swaying side to side in a futile attempt to work through the pain.

He had you drinking protein shakes and walking in circles around the apartment, just to get the bare minimum out of the way so you could spend the rest of the time sleeping. You were more like a zombie than a person at that point. You would wake, but you were never alert. You went through the motions, the routines, but without Jack, you wouldn’t have been any more active than a garden snail.

“Jill, you gotta give me something,” you said at your next appointment, just one day before the forty-two week mark.

You looked horrible. Bags under your bloodshot eyes, unwashed hair, barely able to stay upright for exhaustion. Jack wasn’t great either, mostly from pure stress at watching you being put through the wringer. He looked at Jill imploringly. She sighed sympathetically.

“Unfortunately, I believe the only thing I can offer at this point is Pitocin,” she said. “In fact, I think I need to highly recommend it.”

You leaned back against Jack. He swept your hair back and rubbed your shoulders.

“Do you think you’d be open to that now?” he said in a hushed tone.

You huffed weakly.

“I don’t know,” you said. “I — I don’t like it, but I can’t spend another day like this, I really can’t.”

Jack buried his nose in the crown of your head, trying not to lose it.

“How about this,” said Jill delicately. “We make an appointment for tomorrow evening, give you guys the whole day, and if nothing happens, you come in. You’re almost three centimeters, you have made progress this past week, which means the drip probably won’t do anything drastic. We need to speed you along. How does that sound?”

You weren’t ecstatic, but you agreed. You knew it would be dangerous for both you and the baby to stay stagnant for much longer. Still, it wasn’t exactly what you imagined as you ate your last meal in the afternoon the next day. You expected to wake excitedly in the night, and rush to the hospital. That period of “I think this is it” extending into “this is really happening right now.” All elements of surprise were zapped out of your trip to the ward. You weren’t excited, more morose, as you stared gloomily out of the window.

Jack was clearly excited, under the surface. He gripped your leg tightly on the drive, other hand tapping anxiously on the steering wheel. He tried not to show it, though, for you.

“I know this isn’t what you had in mind,” he said as he pulled you out of the car. “But just remember, we’re meeting our baby soon. Right? And then all the pain can be over.”

You took a heavy breath. He loaded up with all the bags. That was at least one good thing about having a planned birth; you could prepare.

“I don’t know,” you said in a glum voice, taking glum steps towards the glum side entrance. “I know he has to come out at some point, but it doesn’t feel real. I think I’ve stopped allowing myself to accept it, after all the false starts.”

You had gone right back to referring to the baby as “he” the past few weeks. Jack didn’t want to talk too much about it, just settled in resolutely to being a boy dad. You had stopped believing in another possibility as well, but it didn’t really bum you out the way it did him.

Jack pressed a kiss to your plump cheek.

“I know,” he said. “But try to believe it, baby. He’ll be in your arms before you know it.”

You grumbled while he let you through the familiar door.

“He better come out fat.”

Jack smiled.

“Yeah? How come?”

“Because he’s gotten so much extra time!” you exclaimed. “He better have been using that to get me some chunky baby rolls.”

Jack just chuckled as the two of you made your slow, painful way through the entrance to the ER. You figured you’d be better to cut through to the staff elevator rather than go in through the civilian entrance up on the OB floor, and you might as well say a quick hello-goodbye to the sorry plebs stuck working.

Indeed, you received quite the strong reaction from the hub as you toddled up.

“Look who it is!” said Dana, immediately encircling you in her arms. “Mom and Dad!”

You snorted as the others gathered round, fussing.

“Look how big you are!

“Can you believe today’s the day?”

“Think pink! Baby Princess is almost here!”

Princess squished your belly carefully, looking intense. After a while, she nodded smugly.

“That’s at least an eight-pounder,” she said happily. “Just like I predicted!”

“Well I should think so,” you said. “Two extra weeks of stealing my nutrients should do that.”

Robby stepped forward, looking exhausted, but he offered you a polite cheek kiss anyways.

“Looking stunning as always, Nurse Abbot,” he said, with a hint of jest in his tone. “The glow is overpowering!”

You fixed him with an unamused stare, and at least a week’s worth of sleep gunk in the corners of your eyes.

“Do you want something from me, Robinavitch?”

“Of course not,” he chided.

“What’s your bet?” you asked suspiciously. “Are you counting on me holding out for another three days or something?”

“Oh, no, no one expected you to go this long,” he said. “However, if the baby comes out with your hair, nine pounds, and a boy, I’ll be very happy.”

You rolled your eyes, and Jack started ushering you away from the mob.

“Goodbye Robby, I hope you lose!” you called behind you.

“Good luck!” said Dana.

“You can do it!” said Mel.

“Bring us a baby girl!” said Princess.

You could only wave halfheartedly as the elevator doors closed.

It was easy to be playfully annoyed at Robby downstairs, or sassy in the car, but the second you stepped into your reserved room, your delivery room, the panic took over. There was a large bed, and a convertible chair for Jack to sleep on, just like you pictured. But they wasted no time in hooking you up to a CEFM, and within the hour, a nurse had shoved a suppository up your vagina. You didn’t feel much like laughing at anything.

“And that’s —”

“Dinoprostone,” the nurse answered your boyfriend, while you tried to adjust. “0.3 milligrams. We’ll start the Pitocin in an hour or two.”

You let out a sigh as she left, pulling at your gown. You weren’t happy. Sitting there, sans underwear, on a Chux pad, waiting with anticipation for what would probably be the most painful, agonizing experience of your life, you felt the walls closing in a bit.

You glanced at the clock above the door. It was almost eight o’clock. Robby and Dana were probably just leaving, and Shen and Samira would be taking over. You soured at the thought that they’d probably be cozy in bed again before you had your baby. Hell, the way things had been going so far, you wouldn’t be surprised if you were barely five centimeters by that point.

“You wanna watch a movie, honey?” Jack asked quietly, watching your sullen face.

You rolled your head to the side so you could see his, though it looked much sweeter. You stroked a hand over his scruff.

“Yeah,” you said forlornly. “Miss Congeniality?”

He nodded diligently and extracted his laptop from one of the bags, setting it up in record time. To both of your surprise, you promptly opened your arms for him to join you on the bed. He did so, moving carefully so as to not upset your gown, or your monitor, or you. You weren’t at the point where you were cursing him or hated the sight of his face. In fact, you quite liked him at that moment. Better to take advantage of it before things progressed and he got the luteal phase side of you. 

“I love you,” you said.

He sounded a little taken aback in his reply.

“I love you too, baby.”

You fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt.

“I just needed to remind us both, before I start hating you,” you explained.

“Of course,” he said.

You sat in the quiet for a while, half watching the movie you knew like the back of your hand. Within a few minutes, Jack’s gentle touch and steady breaths coaxed your eyes closed. On the brink of sleep, only one thing nowadays could really bring you back. 

“Contraction,” you mumbled, as Gracie threw Matthews into a headlock.

“Do you want to move?” he asked.

“No,” you breathed, letting the now familiar discomfort wash over you. “Just stay.”

“Okay,” he said, pecking your forehead. “I’m right here. You know who else is here for you?”

“Who?”

“Benjamin Bratt,” he said. “Benjamin won’t let you down.”

You hummed, a hint of a smile on your lips as you forced your eyes open. Benjamin Bratt was your lifelong celebrity crush, and your friends had wasted no time pointing out some similarities between him and the father of your child when you’d revealed it.

“Of course he won’t,” you said, stroking a finger down his face on the screen.

As the usual contractions passed, you couldn’t help but feel a bit foolishly disappointed. Some small illogical part of you hoped that the prostaglandins would be enough of a push for your body to ramp it up on its own; but the pains were no different than they had been all week.

At a quarter to ten, Jill came in and checked you.

“Just about three centimeters dilated,” she said, to your agitation, “but about ninety percent effaced, so, progress.”

You huffed. Even your TV husband couldn’t distract you from the fact that you weren’t getting anywhere, no matter the positive spin Jill tried to pull. She didn’t seem to want to mention that you were also “just about three centimeters” the last time she saw you, over twenty-four hours previous.

“So now you start the drip?” you asked, and Jack squeezed your hand.

“Yes, now we start,” she said, while a nurse prepared the bag to hang. “Just a low dose, and then if nothing happens, we can gradually increase it. Sound good?”

“Sounds great,” you said, through gritted teeth.

She provided you with a peanut ball to put between your legs and then you were left in wait. Jack rubbed your back and instructed your deep breathing, while you tried to focus on the screen and not the pain.

To your brief respite, the pitocin didn’t intensify the contractions the way you expected them to. After an hour of absolutely zero action, Jill upped the dosage. Still, while they grew closer together, they felt no different. You could breathe through them quite well, and even talk if you felt determined. Maybe you had a high threshold, maybe you were desensitized after all the sleepless nights, maybe it was a bit of both, but what ended up nagging you the most was the hunger.

“Jackie,” you whispered between contractions, around midnight.

“What, baby?” he whispered back, though you were alone in the dark room.

“Can you go get me a soft pretzel?”

He stopped sponging your sweaty forehead, eyes narrowed in amusement.

“A soft pretzel?”

You nodded innocently.

“With plenty yellow mustard, please.”

He rang the washcloth out over the basin, looking half humorous, half distressed.

“Honey, I don’t think —”

“And a hotdog!” you interjected, eyes going wide. “Just get one of every condiment, actually. And I’m picturing a soft serve in a hat. Chocolate vanilla swirl. Okay?”

He wiped his damp hands off on a clean towel and cradled your face.

“Sweetheart, I will get you all of that and more,” he said earnestly, “just as soon as this baby’s outta you.”

“Oh, okay,” you sniffed. “So you don’t love me anymore. I get it.”

It was such a ridiculous notion, he couldn’t help laughing. You tried to smile back, but your face was suddenly crumpled in discomfort as another contraction hit you. Jack checked his watch, then the monitor.

“Five minutes,” he said desperately. “They’re getting closer together, honey. We’re moving.”

“They’re fine,” you hissed. “They’re only, like, double the pain of a bad period. It’s no big deal.”

Jack sent you a look you couldn’t see.

“Your periods get this bad?” he asked in horror. “Even half this bad? How do you get anything done?”

You couldn’t answer, just shook your head, as if to say what are you gonna do?

There wasn’t much, but damn it if Jack wasn’t going to try. 

“You wanna try some massages?” he asked. “Some from lamaze class?”

You shook your head again.

“Okay… how about the birthing comb Perlah gave you?”

You didn’t immediately dismiss it, so he quickly dug into the bag and pulled it out. You opened your hand and he lined the teeth up with the crease of your palm. You squeezed hard. He watched you closely.

“Woah,” you said, eyes blinking open. “That’s — really cool actually.”

“It’s helping?” he asked.

“Yeah, a little,” you said.

You took some deep breaths, massaging the bamboo tines into your tissue. Jack allowed himself some breaths as well, seeing the line between your brows soften a bit. He’d never dare complain after the weeks you’d had, but his brain felt a bit like a wrung out sponge. He could deal with sleep deprivation, he almost thrived on sleep deprivation, but seeing you, in agony, so exhausted you could barely eat a full meal? That was wearing down on him.

“Wait, what time is it?” you said suddenly. “Is it past midnight?”

Jack glanced at his wrist again.

“Closer to one,” he said, “why?”

Your lips turned down a bit.

“Nothing,” you sighed. “It’s just that… Ronan is a Scorpio.”

Jack glanced at his phone with befuddlement.

“Is that bad?” he asked. “Wait, aren’t I a Scorpio?”

“Yes,” you said. “Which is fine, it’s great, but now you’re both Scorpios. Scorpio men.”

He waited for you to explain, but you didn’t, so he just gave you a confused apology kiss.

When the contractions got to be three minutes apart, Jill came in to have a look.

“How are we holding up?” she asked, snapping on gloves, while Jack helped you place your feet in the stirrups. “Contractions manageable?”

“Oh, yeah, they’re great,” you deadpanned. “I’m loving how they’re basically back to back now. Real fun.”

“Well,” she said, looking sorry, “you’re still only almost five centimeters, and we’d like you to be closer to seven.”

You guffawed.

“Of course I am,” you croaked, rubbing your tired eyes. “Not even five, almost five, for fuck’s sake.”

“We are moving, hun, just slowly,” she said, patting your knee. “We’re going to break the waters now, though, and things should pick up after that.”

You nodded flatly, unconvinced, at that point, that anything could possibly speed things up. It was mildly uncomfortable as Jill stuck the amnihook up to your sore cervix, but a second later, you felt a small pop and a sudden gush of fluid. You craned your head up to peer over your bump.

“Is that it?” you asked. “It’s broken?”

“That was it,” said Jill, handing the soiled hook and pads off to a nurse. “Now, you’ll probably continue to leak as the baby moves, so we’ll keep this Chux here under you, and don’t be surprised if things pick up quick. Most times mothers start pushing within hours of the amniotomy.”

“Bet I’m an exception to the rule,” you muttered darkly.

However, despite your pessimistic attitude, things did pick up. Quickly, and painfully. In comparison, the early labor felt like child’s play once you had experienced the stabbing sensation that trapped you now. You watched the sunrise from the window, bent at a ninety degree angle with your arms on the sill. You were no longer cracking jokes; you let out rhythmic moans, while Jack squeezed your hips together.

“Let it out,” he said quietly. “You’re doing so good. So, so good, baby.”

You still clutched the comb in your hands, but any effect it had had earlier was now lost. You were slick with sweat and shaking. As the contraction leveled out, you took great, heaving breaths.

“I think I’m gonna puke,” you breathed, and Jack jumped up.

He guided you back to the bed so your weak knees could collapse, and held a bag up to your mouth. You spit into it, that familiar metallic taste flooding your tongue as you prepared. It was mostly bile that came up as you retched, with no food left in your rumbling stomach. When you were done, you sat back on your bum and braced your arms in front of you.

“I’m never… doing… this again,” you panted. 

“Okay, love,” said Jack, adjusting your hair where he had tied it back the first time you’d vomited. “You never have to.”

Did he want more kids? Yes. But more importantly, he wanted you happy and safe. If you said you were done, you were done. Besides, he’d be lying if he said he would be up to seeing you in this much pain again. He kissed your warm cheek.

“I need the epidural,” you said. “Can we get that?”

Jack had never moved faster in his life. Once Jill was free, and you were back in position, she checked you.

“Seven centimeters,” she said. “Very good.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Thank you universe.”

Jack all but crushed your hand between his.

“She was wondering about the epidural —”

“Certainly,” said Jill. “We can absolutely get anesthesiology in here, but I should remind you, it could very possibly slow down your progression. Is that a trade you’d be willing to make?”

They both looked at you. You felt about ready to cry. You were finally getting somewhere, would an epidural be setting you up for another twelve hours?

But in the end, you knew, you wouldn’t be able to get through birth without a couple hours of good sleep under your belt. So, you agreed to see the doctor.

It was definitely the right choice, you thought, once the drugs kicked in. Feeling the numbness spread through you was like going to sleep after a double, or sinking into a hot bath in winter time. The relief was palpable.

“Oh my god,” you moaned. “Oh my god, I had forgotten what it was like to not have contractions.”

Jack was relieved too, watching you munch on ice chips, eyes closed.

“You should get some sleep,” he said, stroking your forehead between your eyes. “You need rest.”

“So do you,” you said. “Hey — have you taken your leg off at all since we’ve been here?”

He thought. He had been far too preoccupied with you to notice the dull ache radiating up his right knee. He shrugged, but you were already back to your sass, however sluggishly.

“It’s almost been twenty-four hours, Jack Abbot,” you reprimanded. “Take it off and get in bed.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said lovingly.

He had to admit, it was a relief in its own right, removing the leg and the socks. He hadn’t even realized how much it had been bothering him, but you had always been on top of those things, the things he let fall to the back burner. Just like how he reminded you to eat on stressful days, or prepared hot water bottles when you were on your period. You looked out for each other.

Pulling his other shoe off, he carefully crawled into bed next to you, engulfing you in his arms. You weren’t sure how long you slept. All you knew was that upon waking, Jill was between your legs for a check.

As she covered you back up with the blanket, she could barely contain her smile.

“Ten centimeters. Are you ready to have a baby?”

♡♡♡

You’d thought, somehow, foolishly, that the pushing would be easy compared to the weeks of torture. Especially with the epidural keeping you almost completely numb, how could it be worse?

But now you were approaching your third hour of pushing, and they still couldn’t even see the baby’s head. The pain was barely an afterthought, but every upper muscle in your body was tense and tight from repeated use, and you were running out of energy.

You had Jack holding up one leg, a nurse holding the other, and a third person out of sight was wiping your forehead. You had had to ask, or scream at, someone to remove the ticking clock from above the door. Your eyes kept drifting towards it, and your heart filled with more and more despair as the minutes slid by.

“C’mon, honey, one more push,” Jack was chanting next to you, holding your thigh flush against your chest. “One more, you can do it!”

You fell back against him with a harsh cry as the contraction subsided. Perspiration was dripping down your flushed face, and you were panting like you’d just finished a sprint. 

“I can’t,” you gasped. “I can’t do this any more. It’s not working.”

“The baby is moving,” said Jill from the other side of your bump. “They’re taking their time, but you’re doing really, really well, okay? Keep going, we should be seeing a head soon.”

“Did you hear that?” said Jack soothingly. “It’ll be over soon. You’re so close.”

You felt so close to slipping into sleep, and yet possibly less comfortable than you ever had been before. You felt your eyes beginning to sting. Maybe it was a good sign; throughout everything, you still hadn’t shed a tear. Could the cracks in your exterior mean this was almost at an end? Or were you really ready to give up?

“Here comes the next contraction,” said Jill. “Ready?”

“Big breath,” said Nurse Marta. “Chin to chest — good…”

You bared down with all your might, and the pressure was building.

“Hard, hard hard hard!” said Jill. “Good job, mom! I can just barely glimpse the head.”

Jack pressed a flurry of kisses to your knee, and if your eyes were open you would have seen his already beginning to tear.

“Oh my god,” you muttered as that contraction too passed.

“Can I see?” he asked cautiously. “The head, can I try to see?”

“We lost sight when she relaxed,” said Jill, eyes glued to the monitor. “But on the next contraction, we should begin to crown.”

“Okay,” he said breathlessly. “Okay, one more, and we find out who wins, Robby or Princess, right?”

“Better be Princess,” you grumbled.

You ran a limp hand over Jack’s curls.

“You’ll catch him, right?” you said. “When he comes out?”

“Yeah, baby, of course, I’ll be right there,” he said. “I promise. I mean, I love Jill, but —”

You almost laughed, or got as close to it as you possibly could with how winded you were. Jill spoke up, smirking slightly herself.

“Okay, about twenty seconds to the next contraction,” she said. “And I need you to really push hard, okay? Hard as you can.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

“Alright,” she chuckled, “ready? Go.”

You pushed, and pushed, and pushed. All the blood rushed to your head, and your grip in Jack’s hair only tightened, accidentally bumping his chin against your knee, but he didn’t say anything. It was kind of funny — you were usually in a very different place when you did that.

“You’re so good, you’re so so good, honey,” Jack muttered quickly, unable to keep himself from peering over to watch. “Good, good, you’re so strong, you” — his breath stuttered — “I see the head! Oh, it’s red, the hair — Ronan —”

You let out a strangled sort of sound, half laugh, half cry.

“We’re crowning, I’m gonna need you to stop pushing,” said Jill. “Okay, stop pushing, and breathe, alright? Pant, deep and fast —”

You began to feel a bit lightheaded as you followed her instructions.

“Okay, now push again — good — and relax.”

You groaned, arms shaking and jumping all over the place. Hesitantly, you removed a hand from Jack’s hair.

“Can I feel?”

“Of course,” said Jill. She took your trembling hand and guided it down. “Feel the hair?”

That was it. That was the little push those tears needed to begin leaking from your eyes. It was the most bizarre feeling, not being able to sense touch against your own legs, but knowing that the head you felt was part of you this second. And the next, it would be separate. A whole little human.

“There’s a lot, huh?” said Jack in a wavery voice.

“Jack, if you want to catch, now’s the time,” said Jill, holding out a packet of sterile gloves. “You ready?”

He snapped them on in record time, though was reluctant to leave your immediate side.

“I’m right here,” he said, both for you and for him. “I’m still here next to you.”

“I know,” you said, taking up the hand of the nurse that replaced him.

“Push, mama, push,” Jill chanted from over Jack’s shoulder, watching carefully as he cradled the emerging head.

“You’re doing amazing!” said Jack, fully crying now. “Keep going!”

You did. By the end of the minute, the head was all the way out.

“I see him, I see him!” said Jack frantically. “He’s coming! One more push, just one!”

“Tell me what’s happening, okay?” you asked. “I wanna know.”

“Okay, honey.”

Your nurses pushed you up. It was time for the final contraction. Or, what would hopefully be the final contraction.

“Push!”

You put all your remaining strength behind that last push, tears now joined in the sweat running down your cheeks.

“Here come the shoulders,” said Jack. “Good job! Okay, great job, honey, they’re coming — okay, one, and — c’mon, Ronan, you can do it — c’mon — okay, yes! Yes, yes, yes, so good, okay, and the little arms, and the belly, and —”

There was a sudden release of pressure, and almost immediately, a sharp, strong cry rent the air. You were sobbing in earnest now, but still Jack held onto your baby while they wailed. You couldn’t see them, but you could see his face, transfixed, unmoving. You didn’t like the look. Worry began to creep in.

“What?” you asked wetly. “What’s wrong? Is he okay?”

“It’s” — Jack’s breath caught in his throat — “it’s a girl! It’s a baby girl.” 

Your anxiety cleared, and you sighed in relief, a full body shudder as he gingerly lifted the little baby, your daughter, to your chest. Your eyes were as wide as his were, staring in awe at the little creature on your bosom.

“Hi,” you whispered, while Jill rubbed her vigorously with a cloth. “Hi, baby. You’re here.”

Jack, now gloveless, and hysterical, wrapped his arms around the both of you. Her whole tiny head was covered in sticky but unmistakable dark red hair. And it seemed Santos was right — she did have her dad’s nose. His everything, really.

“Isadora,” Jack said reverently through his tears. “You’re perfect.”

“You got your girl,” you said to Jack, eyes not parting from your Izzy for one second.

“Everyone’s gonna freak,” he said, stroking her head.

It wasn’t until later, with the cord clamped and cut, the placenta delivered, and the postpartum room moved into, you realized.

“Wait,” you said, watching Isadora curl sleepily into her father’s bare chest. “I just remembered something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, turning smug. “Princess got everything right. Robby lost.”

Jack began to match your smile.

“Way to go, Izzy,” he said. “First hour on earth, and you’re already beating Uncle Robby’s ass, huh? Atta girl. Just wait til you play him at hockey. He sucks.”

Your eyes, which had never fully dried, were beginning to tear up again. You knew it was to be expected with your hormones out of whack, but he was just holding her, for christ’s sake.

“C’mere,” you said lazily, beckoning him towards your bed. “You wanna call him up? Gloat in his face? I kinda do.”

“Nah,” said Jack calmly, settling in at your side. “I think for now it should just be me and my girls.”

You were sent home the next day, with an appointment for Izzy in the books and relatively minimal soreness, considering. Izzy was quickly proving herself to be a good eater, and a good sleeper.

“There we go, honey,” Jack cooed at her, setting her down in your arms. “All fed, all burped, all changed.”

He perched on the arm of your nursing chair. For once, it was exactly as you pictured. The breeze through the open window making the dragonflies fly, Jack by your side, and a little red haired baby resting in the green and yellow nursery.

---

requests open!

[chris-tredidation21]

This is so good!!! U can tell U put a lot of research and effort into this, it's so detailed without it being graphic

[miserymorgue]

linger | j. abbot

pairing jack abbot x lawyer fem!reader

summary you join PTMC as their slightly uptight, sharp hospital lawyer and catch the attention of night shift attending jack abbot.

tags/warnings age gap (mid 20s/mid 40s), slow burn (no burn yet soz, just talky), fluff, workplace romance(?), bit a flirting bit of tension too who is she!, reader's a bit girly - skirts, pink, that vibe, bit dorky think amy santiago from b99 lowkey

wc 3.8k

When Jack first saw you, he thought you were too… squirrely.

A little too polished. Way too awake for 7:05AM.

He leaned over to Parker, muttering just for her to hear. "She's gonna get eaten alive."

Parker scoffed a chuckle at that, the rest of the crew seemed to be thinking the same, furrowed brows as you stood out under the harsh fluorescent hospital lights .

“Team, I just wanted to introduce our newest recruit with legal. She’ll be working closely with the ER—handling complaints, risk management, patient disputes,” Gloria said, as the early morning day shift hovered around the nurses’ station. “She’ll be reviewing incident reports, advising on liability, and stepping in when anything escalates.”

A couple of them groaned quietly at that. Gloria ignored it.

“She’s your first point of contact for anything legal or ethical. Reports to the head office, but she’s based upstairs. Available during the day—and on nights if needed.”

You stood beside her, posture straight, hands clasped neatly in front of you—fingers fidgeting just slightly against each other, like you’re holding them there on purpose. Hair slightly messy in a way that felt unintentional, Mary Jane heels, peppered with pink and off-whites, skirt and all. Bright eyes. A smile that was just a touch too careful.

“Really nice to meet you all,” you said, well rehearsed, polite as ever. “I’ve interned at VA hospitals, children’s hospitals, so I’ve dealt with a... diverse range of people” You paused, a small, self-aware breath. “I’m just, you know, here to help keep things from turning into lawsuits, basically.”

That got a few more looks.

Gloria continued—something about OFIs—but most of them had checked out. Some nodded politely, some looked half-dead from night shift, others clung to their coffee like it was life support.

PTMC has a... somewhat sliming legal team. The budget is already parsed through to not be given to nurses and other staff.

Your eyes moved across the group, taking them in, assessing.

They landed on Jack. Just a second longer. Then moved on.

He frowned faintly, not thinking much of it as he leaned toward Ellis.

“Think she’ll last?” he murmured.

Parker shrugged, zipping her bag. “Maybe. Looks a bit uptight.”

“Probably why Gloria likes her,” he muttered.

He glanced back—caught you looking again.

You looked away quickly this time, your smile slipping for half a second before it reset, a little tighter.

★★★

He didn’t see you again for a few weeks.

He heard about you, though.

From both shifts. Little things.

You’d diffused a situation with a patient’s family threatening legal action. Sat in on a complaint review and apparently tore apart the timeline in ten minutes. Got someone to rewrite an incident report because, according to a nurse, “it read like a drunk text.”

You, in fact, had not been eaten alive. Despite the carefully put-together, polite, slightly squirrelly exterior, you were apparently… well-suited for PTMC.

Robby had filled him in one morning, leaning back in his chair with his coffee, eyes wide as if he were still in disbelief. “It’s ridiculous,” he said. “Some guy comes in complaining I nearly got his wife killed over the flu. He wants to sue for millions. I go up to her office—he’s there, she’s there—and twenty minutes later, it’s sorted. I even get to go back with time off because she noticed I’d been on sixteen hours. Nothing to hold against me, nothing to hold against the hospital.”

Jack furrowed his brows, amused, impressed, confused all at once. “Seriously?”

“Yup,” Robby said, leaning back further. “All my years here, I don’t think I’ve worked with a lawyer this young who can actually handle the shit we put up with without even cracking. Gotten used to... ambulance chasers and Gloria's pitbulls.”

Parker quickly changed her attitude on you when she'd come right up to your shared office, solely with the intent of trying to figure out where she could change her contract. You managed to negotiate her a pay rise with Gloria after a figuring out she'd had a particularly rough shift.

You existed somewhere in the building. Just not in the Pitt, not usually.

Until one night.

Sometime past 3AM, he's finishing a report when he hears you before he sees you. The soft, precise tap of heels against linoleum.

“Hey, sorry—um, I’m looking for Doctor Abbot?”

A nurse pointed across the floor. “Right over there, sweets.”

“Thanks!" You say quickly, already heading his way.

He straightened slightly as you approached.

“What can I do for you?” he asks, closing out his tab.

You smile, a little breathless but contained. “Hi—sorry, I don’t think we’ve properly met.” 

You hold your hand out.

He hesitates—not long, just enough to take you in properly this time.

Your hair’s come a little loose now—flyaways catching the light, a hint of frizz where it’s fallen out of whatever you did to tame it hours ago. There’s pen ink smudged across your fingers, even faintly along your forearm, like you’ve been working faster than you can keep up with.

Still neat. Still put-together. Maybe not quite holding as the night ticked away.

Your skirt sits just right, tailored and careful, and your button-up—something soft, a little too pretty for this place—has its sleeves pushed up to your elbows. Practical, but not by design. Like you didn’t plan to be here this long.

He shakes your hand. You give your full name, your title, crisp and practiced.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Know who you are.” He stepped around you, already moving. You followed immediately, hot on his heels. “Heard plenty.”

“Great,” you say, a small laugh. “Good things, I hope.”

“Bit late for you, isn’t it?” he mentions, stopping at a screen.

You nearly walk into him.

He glances down as you caught yourself, just a fraction too close before you stepped neatly to his side, smoothing your skirt like it didn’t happen.

“Right, uh—” you mutter, then recover. “Well. Sleep’s for losers.”

“That’s what I keep telling the day shift,” he remarks.

That got a real smile out of you. He couldn’t help but think of it as a win. This close, he can smell your perfume. It's far from the smell of sanitiser and every kind of bodily fluid of the ER. It's sweet, something with strawberries maybe. Whatever it is, it's made him want you around longer.

“Anyway,” you continue, reining yourself back in, “I realised we hadn’t actually met. You know, properly. I’ve been working mostly with Dr. Robinvatich—reviewing incident reports, flagging potential liability issues, sitting in on complaint escalations—so I thought it made sense to acquaint myself with the night attending as well. I've heard a lot about you as well.”

“Good things, I hope,” he echoes, scanning the screen, arms crossed over his chest.

Then he looks at you. You're already looking at him—open, curious, intent. He holds your gaze a second longer than necessary. A precise beat passes as his own curiosity gets the best of him. Bright eyed, seemingly angelic young lawyer... at PTMC.

“How old are you?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Sorry?”

“You mentioned you interned around. Don’t know many lawyers who do that unless they’re fresh out.”

“Right—yeah. I’m 24,” you answer. “I went straight into law school, then did about a year of hospital placements. I do want to specialise further—medical law, likely. I actually enjoy working with doctors, mostly, they can be… an acquired taste, but—” you gave a quick, self-conscious smile, remembering who you were speaking too. “—I think I’ve got the stomach for it.”

You stop, eventually, maybe a beat too late. "I didn't... I'm 24, is the point. Qualified, I swear it."

"I don't doubt it." He nods.

He watches it happen again—the shift. The way your confidence dips when you realise you’ve said too much.

Amused, he bites back a smile.

“You?” you add quickly. “I mean—how old are you? I heard you were military, so—”

“Guess.”

You let out a small laugh. “Older than me.”

“By a bit.”

"...40?" You try.

"Flattery will get you far, kid. 45." He corrects, chuckling at that. "But I'm not qualified for this. Just put on gloves and they let me at it."

You grin and nod. "'Course. You've got the look down. Could've convinced me."

He tilts his head a bit at that. He opens his mouth to respond, before he's interrupted.

“Abbot! Need you over here. Kid’s got some… centipede or some shit in his ear,” Parker calls out from Central 4.

Parker's face relaxes when she sees you, she calls your name out and gives a small wave. You give a polite wave back.

He exhales through his nose, already halfway moving. “Alright, be right there.”

He looks back at you, like a kid he’s been stuck with supervising.

“You’re welcome to… hang around,” he adds, a little rough around the edges. “Nurses won’t bite. Unless you ask ‘em to.”

There’s the faintest hint of something in his tone—dry, but not entirely joking.

You nod, a little too quickly. “Cool. Yep. I’ll just be… around here. I did actually need to speak to you about something, so, whenever you have the chance."

He gives you a once-over—quick, but not careless—then heads off, already scrubbing sanitiser into his hands. "I wouldn't wait up, sweetheart." He tells over his shoulder to you.

Your hand tightens slightly around the notebook in your hands at the petname.

It takes a while till you get the chance to chat with him again.

A call comes in, barely minutes later—car accident, five people, a few blocks out—and suddenly the whole floor shifts. People moving faster, voices sharper, stretchers rolling in before you’ve even fully registered what’s happening.

You stay. You tell yourself it’s observational. Useful. Context for your job. You probably should've just ditched for your own office at some point, leave the doctors to do their work. But it’s quiet in your office. You share it with two other people, and they aren’t exactly staying back till 3AM. 

You keep out of the way, mostly. Hover near the station, ask the occasional question, get a few curious looks in return.

At one point Shen ends up next to you, mid-charting, clearly thinking out loud.

“So if a patient refuses treatment but they’re being, like… objectively stupid about it—”

“That would not legally be discrimination,” you tell him, glancing up from the notes you’re pretending to read. “But it would be rude to tell them that they're being stupid... even if they are.”

He snorts. “Great. Good to know.”

“Also,” you add, a little primly, “document this. You’d be shocked how often ‘we told them’ doesn’t actually appear anywhere.”

“Got it, thanks,” he mutters, typing faster.

Across the room, Jack catches that.

Just a flash of it—your posture, the way you tilt your head when you’re explaining something, hands clasped like you’re holding yourself in place. Eventually, once the worst has passed, as it reaches 5AM, he manages to find his way back over to you.

Inbetween the flashes of bodies around you, people quickly going between patients, bandages, surgeons coming down to move patients.

"What did you wanna talk to me about, again?" He recalls to you as he's filling out a chart.

"Patient, three days, Ronny Jones. Remember him?" You ask quickly with this second of spare time he seems to have, notebook out.

"...Broken arm?" he tries.

"Yes. And..." You trail off as you try to translate your own handwriting.

He looks over at your notebook, squinting at your scrawl. You might not be a doctor but you have the handwriting of one, he notes. “...Compound fracture of the distal radius, open reduction internal fixation yesterday. Why? Something off with the chart?”

“Yep,” you say, flipping a few pages. “I was reviewing the incident report. It says he was discharged yesterday afternoon, but the orthopedic note says he needs post-op neurovascular checks every four hours. The discharge paperwork doesn’t reflect that. Liability risk if he comes back with... compartment syndrome or some sort of nerve compromise. I just need clarification—was the follow-up actually ordered, or did someone skip it?”

Jack straightens his back slightly, clearing his throat, tapping his pen onto his palm quickly. “Uh, the ortho team documented it in their EMR, but it didn’t make it onto the discharge instructions for nursing. That’s on me for not double-checking before signing out... Not ideal.”

You scribble quickly, biting your lip. “Right, okay. So legally, if Ronny returns with a preventable complication and the discharge instructions didn’t match the physician orders… technically, that’s a risk. Could be framed as a deviation from standard of care. I just want to make sure we document the corrective steps. Maybe an addendum or clarification note?”

Jack pauses, glancing at you, then back at the chart. He can’t really argue with that.

“Yeah, that’ll—” he nods once. “Sounds right. You need me to… sign anything, or—?”

“Yeah, once I draft it,” you say, already halfway through another note. “I’ll bring it down. I just—” you hesitate for a second, then add, almost as an afterthought, “I use my favourite printer. The formatting comes out cleaner.”

There’s a beat.

“…You have a favourite printer?”

You pause, pen hovering, like you’ve just realised how that sounds.

“…Mhm.”

Another beat. Jack exhales a quiet, amused breath, shaking his head. “Yeah. ‘Course you do," He says. "Good catch on the Ronny guy. Slipped my mind entirely."

You smile at that. "Thanks"

He shakes his head slightly, looking around the ER, seeing he is very much needed away from this conversation, as Emery calls out a code for their stroke patient past Central Six.

“Alright. I’ll put in the clarification note, and send an updated discharge instruction to nursing. That way, if he comes back with any problems, documentation's all straight.” He tells.

You relax a fraction, but only a fraction. “Perfect. Thanks, Doctor Abbot. I… I just want to make sure nobody gets blindsided.”

Jack smirks, stepping back into the flow of the ER. “Yeah, yeah. You’ve got that covered, kid.”

You watch him move through the chaos, sharp and efficient, and scribble a few more notes. Even in the middle of an ER storm, he’s methodical. Impressive. And exhausting.

You end up just finishing your work in a space set up for you at the nurses' station, making conversation whilst you write up documentation templates. You had to keep your head down at points to stop seeing people be brought in with their leg half off, crying and panic from people. Hearing doctors call out a million different solutions.

By the time it slows, it’s morning.

Not properly morning—grey light bleeding through the windows, fluorescent lights still doing most of the work—but enough that the edge comes off everything.

7AM creeps in quietly, Day Shift enters with ease.

People start peeling off.

Handovers. Half-finished coffees abandoned. The kind of tiredness that settles into bones.

Jack finishes his last chart, shoulders heavier now that he’s standing still. When he finally steps away from the computer, he spots you again. Still here.

Perched on the edge of a chair, one leg crossed over the other, heels dangling slightly off your foot now like you’ve given up on pretending to be fully put together. Your hair’s loose in places. There’s a crease in your skirt you probably don’t know about. You’ve managed to move most of your work down here, laptop out as you scramble something in your notebook.

You look… exhausted.

He walks over.

“You always stay this early,” he asks, voice low, “or am I just lucky?”

You look up, a second slower than before, like your brain has to catch up.

“Oh—hi.” A small blink. Then you straighten a bit, reflexively. “No, I—this is not standard practice. I promise I don’t just linger.”

“Shame,” he says.

If you had another brain cell available after being up for too long, you’d think that was a flirt. You hesitate, then huff a quiet laugh, rubbing at your eye before you remember you’re wearing makeup and stop halfway through.

“Yeah, well,” you murmur, “I got a bit sidetracked.”

He nods, glancing out over the floor.

“You saw the fun part.”

“That’s one word for it,” you say. Your voice is softer now, a little less tightly wound. “I think I prefer reading about it, actually.”

“Give it time,” he replies. “You’ll start missing it.”

You look at him like he’s insane. “I sincerely hope not. That looked stressful as fuck. Excuse my language.”

That gets a faint smile out of him.

A beat passes.

You shift slightly, slipping your heels back on properly, smoothing your skirt like you’re putting yourself back together piece by piece.

“I should probably head out,” you say. “Before I fall asleep on one of these chairs and become a liability issue.”

“Mhm,” he nods. “Paperwork on that’d be a nightmare.”

You smile—small, but sincere. “It was nice meeting you. Thanks for letting me… you know. Linger.”

“Any time,” he shrugs. “You alright to get home?”

“Uh-huh,” you say, standing, gathering your things. “Bus is always late, so.”

He nods, slowly. Watches you for a second too long—hair a little out of place now, smudged ink still on your wrist.

He speaks before he can overthink it.

“I’ll give you a lift.”

You blink. “No, really, I don’t—”

“—It’s no trouble. I insist,” he cuts in, not harsh, just firm. “Grab your things. I’ll be right outside.”

You hesitate.

It’s subtle—just a second. Fingers fidgeting with the edge of your notebook, your teeth catching your lower lip like you’re weighing it properly.

He notices that. Of course he does.

“…Fine,” you say finally, a little quieter. “Sure. Thank you, I mean.”

He gives a short nod, like it’s already settled, and turns to head out.

★★★

The morning air is colder than it looks.

He waits outside, sitting on a bench, arms folded, watching the automatic doors slide open and shut. Staff trickling out. Shift changes. The usual.

Then you.

You step out, messenger bag slung over your shoulder, pausing for half a second when you spot him—like you weren’t entirely convinced he’d actually be there.

He stays seated on the bench..

“You always take this long,” he asks, “or just keeping me waiting for fun?”

You huff a quiet laugh, walking over. “I was considering making a run for it, actually.” 

“Yeah?” he pushes himself up, a slight hitch in the movement, subtle, but there.

You notice it without really thinking, hand coming out instinctively, light on his arm for a second. “Oh—sorry, I—”

He steadies, more out of habit than need, glancing down at your hand briefly before looking back at you. “You wouldn’t get far in those shoes anyway.”

You pull your hand back, smoothing it over your skirt like you didn’t just do that. The two of you start toward his truck.

You glance down at your heels, then back at him.

“Watch it. These are Louboutin,” you point out as he opens the passenger door for you.

“My point stands.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile as you slide into the seat. He shuts the door behind you, walks around, gets in.

The car’s quiet when it starts. Low hum of the engine, early morning stillness bleeding in through the windows.

You give him your address—quick, efficient. He nods, pulls out.

A few minutes pass. You aren’t too far from the hospital. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly. Just… new. All your time working around doctors, and not one of them has ever offered to drive you home.

You sit a little straighter than you need to. Hands folded in your lap, then not, then back again—like you can’t quite decide how you’re meant to exist in this space.

"You don't seem forty five." You remark, seemingly out of nowhere.

He glances at you briefly, then back to the road, slowing at a red light.

“Is that right?” he hums.

“My dad hit fifty the other day,” you add. “He’s way grumpier.”

A beat.

“You’re a ray of sunshine in comparison.”

That gets something out of him—barely there, but real. The corner of his mouth pulls, just slightly.

He hums. “Give it time.”

You smile faintly at that, glancing over.

Up close like this, it’s different. You notice things you didn’t before—grey through his hair, not just at the sides. The lines around his eyes. The way he sits, solid, like he’s used to holding himself together through long hours. His arms. Just... he has nice arms, you note.

Your gaze drops—brief, unintentional—to his hands on the wheel.

You look back out the window quickly.

“You don’t act like it either,” you add, a little softer, like you’re correcting yourself.

“Act like what?”

“Forty five,” you say. “I mean—” you huff a small breath, already backtracking, “not that forty five is old, obviously, I just—”

He glances at you again, something almost amused there.

“No, really, go 'head,” he insists.

You press your lips together, trying not to smile. “I’m saying that… you know, you’re… I don’t know, a person. I’ve met a lot of doctors your age, they lose a lot of that humanity as they…”

“Get old as shit?” He finished as you trailed off.

“Yeah, that,” You sigh.

He nods, actually appreciative of that. “Never a met a lawyer who hangs around the Pitt willingly.”

You shrug. “It's lonely upstairs.” You say simply.

The light turns green. He pulls forward.

You shift slightly in your seat, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, then immediately smoothing your skirt again like you’ve remembered yourself.

You go on, a little stiff. “Besides, it’s part of the job. I should understand what actually happens down there. Not just what ends up in reports.”

“Mm.”

“I mean, if I’m going to defend you people,” you add, a little more animated now, “I should probably know what I’m defending.”

“You people,” he repeats.

You wince slightly. “That came out wrong.”

“Did it?”

You look over at him, trying to read if he’s serious. He’s not giving you much.

“I just mean—doctors,” you say. “Not… you specifically.”

“You don't wanna defend me?” he wonders, teasing.

You snicker at that. You look at him properly this time. There’s something in your expression, curious, a little thrown, interested.

“Are you always this charming at seven in the morning?” You ask, sarcastic.

“Only when I haven’t slept,” he says.

“Ah. So this is you at your worst.”

“Pretty much.”

You nod, like you’re filing that away. “Good to know.”

A small silence settles again, but it’s lighter now. Easier.

The car slows as he pulls up outside your place. You unbuckle, but linger for half a second, fingers still on the seatbelt.

“Thank you,” you say. “Really, Doctor Abbot, I appreciate it. The lift, I mean.”

He nods. “Get some sleep. And just… Jack’s fine, sweetheart.”

“Alright. Thanks, Jack.”

You step out, shutting the door behind you.

He watches you briefly, making sure you get into the apartment building before driving off, your perfume lingering around his car.

part two | strawberry

a/n: omg hi first the pitt fic… girls i truly finna be in the pitt, like put me in coach !! okay so havent seen season 2 yet. ANY of yall spoil shit for me i'm throwing a fit. i'm rewatching s1 now w my friend who hasnt seen, then we doing s2 together. i dont know much except that robby got a motorbike for whatever reason. anyway. this is just a lil cute thing, workshopping this. def wanna do like a little series of this or somethin like. idk. if yall are feeling it cool, if not.. im probably gonna do it regardless. i def wanna make a little moodboard for this lawyer girly reader, i fuck w her vibe heavy. im also in law school so manifesting this. except i dont wanna do health law that shit is messy. ok anyway ! have a good day/night :3

edit like 2 mins late: made a little moodboard for her if ur curious !

[chris-tredidation21]

I can't wait for the rest of the series to come out !!!

[voidsagent]

Stay This Little - jack abbot x reader - drabble

Pairings: jack abbot x reader

Summary: A lazy morning with Jack & your tiny new baby boy !!

Warnings: mentions of post-partum/birth, talks of ER/ED, explicit language, TONS of fluff, a little angst, age-gap, slow burn, yearning/longing, soft dad! jack & medical inaccuracies.

Word Count: 1k+

Author’s Note: just a little drabble of dad! jack that’s been sitting in my brain for a few days !! <3

The early morning warmth clung to you after your shower, sleep still pulling at your eyes as you slid one of Jack’s t-shirts over your head. You did your best to wake yourself up—pulled your damp hair back and washed your face—a deep tiredness filled your body that felt like even eight uninterrupted hours couldn’t fix. But you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jack was still asleep when you woke up, mouth parted and a similar exhaustion etched across his face. Still he looked relaxed, peaceful. You let him sleep in when you decided to shower, he needed it as much as you did; you knew he’d do the same for you without even a whisper of a second thought.

The steam from the shower engulfed you before dissipating as you opened the bathroom door to step out into the bedroom. Golden light spilled around the room. The faint smell of coffee. You stopped in your tracks at what you saw before you.

Jack was awake now—hair tousled with sleep as he laid in bed—the top half of his body propped up on pillows against the headboard. Your son laid curled up on his bare chest, impossibly tiny.

One of Jack’s large hands sat over the baby’s back, almost engulfing his small body completely. His other hand absentmindedly patted softly at your son’s bottom—almost instinctively, like he didn’t even need to think about it.

Your heart ached.

Feet shuffling across the room, you eased yourself back in bed, winching slightly at the sudden movement. Jack clocked it.

“You ok?”, He asked softly, brow furrowed and voice still deep and gravely.

You nodded; “Just still a little sore.”

He hummed softly in response, still watching you carefully; “How was your shower?”

“It felt amazing”, You breathed.

Post-partum was no joke, taking more out of you than you had originally thought. A body wide soreness that settled deep in your bones. The tiredness that joined it. But you took it in stride; you weren’t alone.

Jack was there. Every late night feeding; he was sitting up before you could move, scooping your son up to pass him carefully over to you. Midnight diaper changes? He was on it, prosthetic put back on at a speed he didn’t know he had in him; your son carefully balanced against him as he cooed softly to him.

If your son was wide awake at 3am? Jack happily stayed up with him, walking him down to the nursery and rocking him, patting his bottom softly again. He’d whisper stories about the two of you softly in his hair; stories from work that the tiny bundle against him had absolutely no clue what any of it meant. But that didn’t stop him from staring up at Jack with wide unfocused eyes. You’d found them both asleep in the rocking chair more than once.

Jack was there for it all.

Your hand brushed his arm as you settled back into the mattress, watching them with a swell in your heart and chest.

The tiny boy against Jack’s chest was half awake; teetering between sleep and full consciousness. His tiny brow furrowing every few moments as he looked at you with hazel eyes identical to his dad’s, trying hard to focus on you.

His mouth opening to an ‘o’ shape every so often—round, chubby cheek pressed against Jack’s chest. A tiny face that could only be described as being stolen directly from Jack, watching you intently.

Jack was quiet beside you, mouth and nose brushing softly over your son’s dark auburn hair; whisps of tiny curls tickling his skin. Ghosts of soft kisses being pressed against downy skin. He breathed in deeply, the smell only fresh newborn’s had invading his senses. He’d sit here all day if he could.

His eyes were distant, however, in that way they always were when he was thinking hard; looking at no specific spot in particular as he mindlessly kept rubbing softly against your son’s head; hand still patting his butt in sync.

“What’re you thinking about?”, You asked, hand running softly over his shoulder.

He snapped out of his daze, eyes darting up to you in a quick motion before he furrowed his brows. You couldn’t help noticing how much he looked the baby doing the same against his chest.

“It’s just…”, He sighed; “Nothing it’s probably stupid, nevermind.”

“Jack”, You say softly, “Come on, honey, you can tell me.”

He huffed again, his eyes glossy now.

“Just…someday he’s not gonna be small enough to lay here like this with me anymore…or he won’t want to.”

His voice is barely a whisper at the last part.

The look on his face breaks your heart into pieces.

“Oh baby”, You coo, thumb softly rubbing over his cheek; “He’s a week old. He’s not going anywhere.”

Jack didn’t answer right away, the look still etched on his face did the talking for him.

Eventually he huffed again; “He’s already bigger, heavier too.”

You couldn’t help but laugh; “By like a few ounces, maybe an inch.”

“That’s halfway to being taller than me.”

The smile on your face doesn’t waver as you run your hands through his salt and pepper curls.

“He loves his daddy so much already. I promise you, and that’s not going to change. Not even when he gets older. He’ll just show you in different ways”, You tell him, voice still soft.

Jack grunts, seemingly still dissatisfied by the idea of his baby getting any bigger.

“It might not always be by laying on your chest, but in other ways as he grows”; You squeeze his chin gently between your finger and thumb; “By tossing the ball around in the backyard, riding bikes with you. Holding your hand while walking, sitting on your shoulders. Asking you for help with girls and tying his first tie, asking you to tie his shoes and teach him how drive. It might be different things, but it’ll all be showing the same thing.”

Jack’s silent, breathing soft and lifting your son still cuddled on his chest ever so slightly.

“You’re too good at that, you know”, He mumbles.

“I try”, you shrug, but the smile on your face widens; “You’d do the same for me.”

He looks at you fully now, eyes tracing your face before he leans in carefully, pressing his lips softly against yours with a content sigh.

“I love you, so much. Thank you”, He mumbles against your lips.

He doesn’t need to voice what he’s thanking you for; for you, for giving him the tiny boy on his chest, for reassuring him—for all of it.

“I love you too.”

A dissatisfied noise comes from your son, making you both look down at him. He’s fully awake now, hazel eyes dancing over both of your faces.

“We love you too, tiny”, You coo, brushing a soft kiss against one of his round cheeks.

You run a finger over the skin there, still soft and squishy, delicate.

His covered hands smack softly against Jack’s chest, his face rubbing against his skin as he tries desperately to lift his head up enough to look up at Jack.

Jack moves on instinct, cupping the back of the small boy’s neck to help him, smiling when their eyes connect on each other. The baby squealing and cooing to itself in a language only he could understand.

“Hi buddy”, Jack coos back, “Just wanted some attention, huh? Daddy’s got you, bub.”

He lets a beat pass and then; “Promise you’ll slow down with growing a little, ‘kay? You’re gonna make your old man keel over before he’s ready.”

The baby grunts as if he’s agreeing.

You laugh; “He’s still gonna grow, Jack.”

A mischievous smile spreads on his face, and you can see the moment the thought pops into his head as he shrugs.

“Guess we’ll just have to have another then.”

You smack his arm playfully; “Only if you keep holding them like this.”

Sitting curled up next to him like that, watching him cradle your son on his chest so carefully and with enough love for a lifetime; you’d give him twenty more babies if he asked.

Content with the two boys next to you—you curls up under the covers and rest against Jack—cuddling into his warmth as he drapes one of his arms around you and pulls you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. You run your fingers over your son’s cheek again, watching him look up at Jack with wide and unfocused eyes—and decide yeah, the rest of the world outside can wait.

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if you wanted to be tagged but don’t see yourself here, it’s because your username didn’t come up when typed !! <3

[chris-tredidation21]

*me on my way to marry jack abbot and make him a dad*