his four year old was supposed to be having dinner almost ten minutes ago, but the little boy simply whined about not being hungry. what did price do then? well—
“it’s okay, son. i’ll eat it then…” he fakes a tired sigh. “can you just try it for me? to see if it’s good enough for daddy?”
ever the kind kid – just like he raised him –, his son promptly nods. “i’ll try it for you, daddy.”
and then john gives him a spoonful of your cooking. you watch a few steps from the table as the kid hums in delight. “it’s good...” his small head turning so he can address you. “it’s really good, mummy.”
john takes the opportunity to pretend like he’s going to take a bite himself, only to be stopped by his adorable child. “uhm…daddy, can i have a bit more?”
john chuckles, he knows his family so well. he ruffles the boy’s hair lovingly, moving to feed him once again. “‘course, son.”
as he feeds the kid, he turns to your direction, a small smile playing on his lips. he mouths a “daddy’s got this” playfully, sending a wink your way. you just roll your eyes, involuntarily smiling at his antics.
I know it’s kinda like my ‘like father, like daughter’ story but yeah hope you guys enjoy!!
The sky was burning.
Drones swarmed overhead like angry hornets, and every Avenger was on the edge — bruised, tired, bloodied. Stark hovered above the battlefield, armor cracked and glowing red where it shouldn't be.
"We're getting our asses handed to us out here!" Rhodey shouted from across the comms.
"No kidding," Tony snapped. "I called for backup ten minutes ago. Where the hell is everyone?"
Suddenly, the low rumble of an engine thundered through the battlefield. It wasn’t a Quinjet. It wasn’t military.
It was music.
Heavy. Loud. Arrogant as hell.
“Back in black” by AC/DC blared through the air, echoing off the broken buildings. The sound cut through the chaos like it owned the place.
Tony’s head snapped toward the sound.
From the smoke, a shape began to form — sleek metal, smooth curves, glowing lights. A new suit. One no one had seen before. Silver and black, with sharp red lining and a glowing chest piece that mirrored Tony’s arc reactor — but shaped like a phoenix.
And then you dropped.
Hard.
The ground shook where you landed. A burst of repulsor energy blew a group of enemy bots off their feet.
You stood slowly, flipping your faceplate up to reveal a smirk only one other person in the world could wear that well.
Tony Stark stared, speechless.
“Sorry I’m late,” you said casually. “Had to find a speaker loud enough.”
Peter’s voice crackled over the comms, breathless. “Wait, wait, wait—is that—?”
Wanda, floating in the air beside Vision, blinked. “She brought a soundtrack to the battlefield?”
“She is her father’s child,” Steve said, shaking his head with a tight smile.
Tony finally found his voice. “Okay, not to make this moment about me—but she’s definitely making this moment about me.”
You grinned. “Only halfway.”
Without another word, you launched into the fight — repulsors humming, jets igniting. You moved through the chaos with the smooth, fearless motion of someone born for this. You weren’t just helping.
You were turning the tide.
Tony watched, hovering midair, heart clenching in a way no reactor could control.
You caught an enemy drone mid-flight, crushed it with your gauntlet, and flung it into a pile of others, sending sparks into the sky. Then you turned your head slightly toward him.
"Try to keep up, old man."
Tony let out a breath something between a laugh and a gasp.
“You’re grounded for that one,” he muttered, but the smile on his face was real.
Bruce, still hiding behind a van, peeked out and said, “Wow, Tony. That’s your kid?”
Tony didn’t answer right away. Just watched you flying beside him, light reflecting off your armor, a trail of smoke and brilliance in your wake.
Finally, he said it, quietly. Proudly.
“Yeah. That’s my legacy.”
Later that night, after the dust settled, you sat on the rooftop of a crumbling tower, legs dangling off the edge. Tony landed beside you, armor scratched, hair a mess, but eyes warm.
You offered him a drink from a metal canister — he sniffed it suspiciously.
“Water?”
“Hydration’s important, Dad.”
He looked at you, mock offended. “You flew in blasting AC/DC and tossing robots around like confetti — and now you’re giving me water?”
You just shrugged.
He chuckled softly, clinked his canister against yours, and for a moment, there were no enemies, no battles, no suits.
sorry I’ve been so busy lately but here @just-a-little-awkward
The living room was loud.
Paul was halfway through telling a story about the time Marshall accidentally FaceTimed him during a hair bleaching session—shirtless, confused, and mid-"does this look infected?"—and everyone was in tears from laughter.
You, however, were in the kitchen. Plotting.
You pulled out your phone, started recording, and with the straightest face you could manage, called out:
@just-a-little-awkward I don’t really know how I feel about this one but I tried my best to do the ‘sit on my face’ type thing
You didn’t mean to tease him.
Okay—maybe a little.
You’d been in the studio with him all night, tucked in the corner of the booth while he laid down verses, pacing with that predator swagger of his, jaw clenched, eyes flashing. There was something unshakable about Marshall when he was locked in—focused, sharp, in control.
You were supposed to be working. But the way his voice slid through the mic—gritty, commanding, vulgar in all the right ways—had you crossing your legs more than once.
You stretched, deliberately slow, your hoodie rising up just enough to tease the waistband of your shorts. You knew he saw. You’d felt his eyes snag on you, lips twitching like he was holding back a comment—or something filthier.
He finally pulled his headphones off, letting them hang around his neck, and walked toward you like he owned the floor under his feet.
You didn’t move. You just looked up at him, smug, pretending not to notice the way his eyes dragged over you like he was choosing exactly where he wanted to start.
“Somethin’ funny?” he asked, cocking a brow.
You blinked, all innocence. “No. Why?”
He leaned in, bracing his arms on the back of the couch, caging you in. You could smell his cologne—clean, expensive, and under it, him. He was close enough that your thighs brushed when you shifted. Close enough that you felt your heartbeat between them.
“You keep starin’ at me like you want me to do somethin’ about it,” he murmured.
Your smile was slow. “Maybe I do.”
That did it.
The look in his eyes shifted—hunger, heat, intent. One hand slid down to your thigh, fingers dragging over your bare skin with maddening patience, teasing just under the hem of your shorts.
"You been squirming all night,” he said, voice dark velvet. “Think I ain’t noticed?”
You swallowed hard, suddenly breathless.
“You think I don’t see the way you bite your lip when I drop my voice? Or how your legs cross every time I spit something nasty in that mic?”
You said nothing—couldn’t, really. He was so close your lungs forgot how to expand.
He smirked, leaned even closer, lips brushing your ear.
“I bet you’re soaked right now.”
You let out a shaky breath. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, the contact electric.
Then he said it. Low. Commanding. Like it was his idea all along. Like he was doing you a favor.
“Sit on my face.”
Your entire body lit up.
Your breath hitched, your thighs clenched, and you had exactly one second to recover before he added:
“Don’t make me say it twice.”
“Y-Yes, sir,” you breathed as he guided your hips, already moving, like gravity shifted and he was the new center of the universe.
“Mine” He says possessively
“All yours” you saying just after you let out a moan. Right then you knew no matter what he did you would always be in love
You never thought you’d be waking up in the same bed as Tony Stark—
Not because he didn’t seem like the kind of man who’d commit, but because he was… well… Tony Stark.
Genius. Billionaire. Playboy. Philanthropist.
You blinked awake to the morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Stark lakeside cabin. The sheets were warm. The room smelled like fresh coffee and motor oil, because of course Tony had insisted on building a mini-lab on the other side of the house. You stretched your legs, expecting empty sheets beside you—
“Morning, Mrs. Stark,” came a raspy voice from the doorway.
There he was: tousled hair, half-buttoned shirt, cup of coffee in one hand, tablet in the other. Sunglasses on indoors because it was Tony.
“Didn’t expect you to be up this early,” you said, sitting up. The sheets slid down, revealing one of Tony’s Black Sabbath tees on your frame.
“I didn’t sleep. I just watched you for like two hours like a total creep,” he replied with a straight face, walking over to hand you the coffee. “You drool when you dream about Italian food.”
You rolled your eyes. “That’s rich coming from someone who talks in his sleep. Something about ‘nanotech’ and ‘Mark 99, but bigger and shinier.’”
He grinned, settling on the edge of the bed. “Ah, the poetic whispers of engineering genius. You're welcome.”
You took a sip of the coffee, your eyes softening. “You know, for someone who never wanted to settle down... you’re kind of perfect at this husband thing.”
Tony leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.
“I didn’t think I’d live long enough to deserve any of this,” he murmured, serious for a flicker of a moment. “But here you are. Still here. Still choosing me.”
You smiled, brushing a hand through his dark hair. “Every damn day.”
A beat passed before his lips curved into a smirk. “Does this mean I can convince you to test-drive the new suit with me?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Only if I get to name it this time.”
He feigned offense. “What’s wrong with 'Iron Wife?'”
You groaned. “You cannot be serious.”
“Too late. It's already in Jarvis' files.”
From the hallway, Morgan’s little voice called out, “Dad, Mom! Pancakes?”
Tony winked at you. “Saved by the kid.”
You laughed as you followed him out of the room, fingers brushing together until your hands locked.
Maybe life with Tony Stark wasn’t always peaceful—but it was always full. Of love, laughter, chaos... and the occasional suit malfunction.
The sky was thick with smoke. Another alien incursion — or maybe a rogue AI — Tony had stopped keeping track. Between time travel and parallel dimensions, this kind of Tuesday had become annoyingly normal.
“Cap, where’s the backup?” Tony's voice crackled through the comms, dodging a beam of energy that scorched past his helmet.
“Five minutes out!” Steve grunted. “We’re getting pinned down here.”
“Not good enough,” Tony muttered. “Friday, give me power to the right repulsor—”
Before he could finish, a blur of gold and red blasted down from the sky like a meteor, landing with such force that the concrete beneath their feet cracked.
“What the hell—” Tony blinked.
The suit was sleek. Sleeker than his. A newer model? It shimmered red and gold, but the design was slightly more angular, with a slimmer profile. The visor glowed blue, and arc reactors pulsed from both the chest and palms. Whoever was inside wasn’t just copying him — they knew his work.
“Who is that?” Natasha asked through the comms.
“No clue,” Tony replied, jaw tightening. “Friday, scan that armor. Who the hell is playing dress-up in my gear?”
Friday’s voice came through his earpiece.
“Scan blocked. Tech is Stark-based, but heavily encrypted. Not one of ours… at least, not officially.”
Before anyone could react, the mystery Iron pilot lifted off again and launched into the fight with brutal precision — cutting through enemy bots like a hot knife through butter. The moves were smooth but familiar. Not just practiced… trained.
Tony watched in stunned silence as the new armored fighter took out half the enemy force in under two minutes.
“Okay, this is really starting to freak me out,” he muttered, finally blasting the last bot out of the sky.
The battlefield fell quiet, save for the whirring of armor motors. The new suit hovered a few feet above the ground before landing gently in front of Tony.
“Alright, cool suit, nice moves,” he said, keeping a cautious distance. “Now why don’t you tell me who you are and where you got my designs?”
The helmet faceplate hissed, then folded back with a whisper of mechanical clicks.
Tony’s eyes widened.
“…Y/N?”
Your face was flushed from adrenaline and effort, hair pulled back tightly beneath the suit’s lining. Your eyes sparkled — not with fear, but with pride. And maybe a little defiance.
“Hey, Dad.”
He stared. Just stared.
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re gonna say something, or just glitch out?”
“You— That suit— What the hell were you thinking?!”
You winced. “There it is.”
Tony took a shaky breath, stepping closer. “You built that? You… You were in the garage at night. That was you rerouting the arc reactor blueprints, not Dummy. I knew something was off.”
“You always told me I was a Stark,” you said, folding your arms. “You just never expected me to prove it.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” His voice cracked slightly. “You could’ve been killed, Y/N.”
“I could’ve,” you agreed softly. “But you could be, too. Every time you go out there. And I’m not a kid anymore. You trained me. You taught me tech, physics, engineering — you made me love this stuff. Did you really think I’d just sit back while the world went to hell?”
Tony’s mouth opened, then shut again.
“I didn’t want to lie,” you added. “But I had to. You would’ve never let me try.”
“You’re damn right I wouldn’t,” he snapped. “Because I care more about you being alive than you being some kind of hero.”
You looked at him, quiet for a beat. Then:
“But I am one now. Whether you like it or not.”
Silence hung between you.
Then he sighed, rubbing his forehead beneath the helmet’s edge.
“Jesus. You’re just like your mother. Stubborn. Brilliant. Impossible.”
“And you love me anyway,” you grinned.
“Unfortunately for me.” He looked at the suit again, finally really seeing it. “The design… It’s beautiful. You improved on the Mk-49’s joints.”
“And added a stealth field. I took notes.”
Tony shook his head in disbelief. “You’re a freaking genius.”
“I wonder where I get it.”
He gave you a long look — then pulled you into a sudden, armored hug. You froze for a second, then hugged him back, metal clinking against metal.
“I’m mad,” he murmured into your shoulder. “But also proud. And still mad. We’ll circle back to that.”
“I figured.”
He pulled away slightly. “Next time, you tell me before suiting up.”
“Deal — if you promise not to bench me.”
Tony sighed. “You win this round, Stark Jr. But you’re on trial probation. One mess-up, and I’m installing babysitter mode.”
You laughed. “Fair.”
“And for the record,” he added, glancing at the ruined battlefield around them, “hell of an entrance.”
Later, back at the Tower...
Steve gave you a nod as you walked past in your suit, still cooling from the inside out.
“Nice job out there,” he said. “You handled yourself like a pro.”
“Thanks, Cap.”
Tony watched from the side, arms crossed, a strange smile tugging at his lips. A mix of anxiety and awe.
Rhodey walked over, nudging him. “You okay?”
Tony shrugged. “My daughter’s flying around in a million-dollar death machine.”
Rhodey smirked. “So basically, she's you with better hair.”
clark, who perks up when you call his name the way dogs react to hearing the word walk. pleasantly startled, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed energy in a six-foot-something frame.
clark, who insists on carrying all the groceries. so now you just walk beside him, one arm looped through his, watching him play pack mule with unconcealed joy.
clark, who sits beside you at the fountain, tearing bread crusts into little hunks for the doves.
clark, who taps your knee when he spots a squirrel in the park. stops mid-step and whispers, “look, look,” with the same excitement of one pointing out a comet—never mind it’s just a rodent with a peanut.
clark, who sets his lockscreen to a selfie of you both. candid, taken mid-laugh. your head resting against his shoulder, his smile half-formed, cheek pressed into your temple. he carries a printed copy in his wallet, too.
clark, who texts you pictures he’s taken. things that remind him of you, or things he knows you’d like. a cat loaf in a patch of sunlight, a diner chalkboard advertising your favourite pie, or a silly meme he figured you’d laugh at.
clark, who always ends up the big spoon, no matter how you start. even if you fall asleep facing him, curled into his chest. by morning, you’ll wake up with his arm around your waist.
clark, who really knows how to cook. real food, too—not just bachelor chow reheated in a pan. i’m talking soups from scratch or stews that simmer for hours. he doesn’t let you lift a finger unless it’s to taste-test something off the spoon.
clark, who hums commercial jingles around the apartment while doing chores, such as lifting the entire couch (with you still on it) so he can vacuum underneath.
clark, who carries you bridal-style to bed.
clark, who packs little sandwiches in wax paper when you work late. your name written in block letters across the front.
clark, who leaves post-it notes behind cabinets, in the pockets of your jackets. blue ink scrawled sideways. “i love you,” “you looked really pretty this morning.”
hey can you do me a sad Marshall x reader fan fic please!? X
This is another super sad one in my opinion lots of death talk just FYI....
Title: "It Was Green"
Marshall’s phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
It was the middle of the afternoon, a studio session that should’ve been a regular day, but when Paul’s name lit up his screen four times in a row, his stomach flipped. He grabbed it on the fifth ring, stepping out of the booth.
“What?” he snapped, irritated.
Paul’s voice was grim. “You need to get to DMC. Now.”
Marshall’s heart dropped. “Who?”
“It’s Nathan. Car accident.”
Everything else blurred. He didn’t even hear the rest, just the words car accident ringing in his ears like a gunshot. He was already moving, grabbing his keys, barely remembering to grab his wallet. He drove like a madman, blowing past red lights, hands locked on the wheel so tight his knuckles went white.
He couldn’t lose Nate. He couldn’t. His brain wouldn’t let him think of anything else.
When he stormed into the ER, the front desk barely had time to point him down the hall before he was sprinting, chest caving in, breath punching out of his lungs. He found Nate sitting on one of the gurneys, hunched forward, hands in his hair, shirt soaked in red.
“NATE!”
Nathan’s head shot up, wide and panicked, face pale under freckles. He was shaking, lower lip trembling, pupils blown wide with shock.
“Marsh—” his voice cracked, “It’s—it’s not me—”
“What are you—what the fuck—” Marshall’s hands were already on him, turning him, checking his arms, his face, his torso. “Where’re you hurt? Where is it?”
“It’s not—” Nathan swallowed hard, voice breaking. “It’s not my blood.”
Marshall froze. Everything inside him seemed to collapse. His arms fell away from Nate’s shoulders like they’d been cut.
“What?” his voice was hoarse, more of a whisper.
Nathan looked up, tears pooling. “It’s…it’s her. It’s—she was with me.”
Marshall’s stomach plummeted. His knees almost buckled right there on the hospital floor.
“No,” he choked out, blinking rapidly, shaking his head, stepping back like it would make the words untrue. “No… no… she—why the fuck was she with you—why didn’t anyone—”
“She—she wanted to come with me—get lunch,” Nate’s voice cracked. “We were… light turned green, Marsh, it was green—car came outta nowhere—” his chest hitched, “it hit her side.”
Marshall’s whole world tilted, ears ringing, the air too thick to breathe. His hands gripped his hair, dragging down his face as his heart tried to break out of his chest.
“Is she—” the words caught in his throat like glass, “—where is she—where is my girl—is she breathing—”
“I—I don’t know—they took her in fast—they wouldn’t let me—she was—she wasn’t—” Nate’s shoulders shook, breaking apart right in front of him.
Marshall didn’t wait. He took off down the hall like his life depended on it—because it did.
His girl… his fucking girl… his whole world… and he didn’t even know she was in the damn car.
Marshall had never felt so useless in his life.
He slammed his palm against the nurses' station, voice raw, throat burning. “Somebody better tell me something. I need to know—I need to know if my wife is alive.” His voice cracked, fists curling so tight they shook.
The nurse flinched, eyes wide but her hands stayed steady on the keyboard. “Sir—Mr. Mathers—you need to calm down—”
“Fuck calm down!” Marshall snapped, chest heaving. “Tell me where she is—what’s goin’ on—I need to see her.”
A security guard was already moving closer, but Nathan appeared behind him, grabbing Marshall’s arm. “Marsh—Marsh, don’t get thrown out—please—” his voice was shaky, but his grip was firm.
The charge nurse walked over, holding up her hand to the security guard, speaking softer. “Your wife is in surgery… she was rushed to the OR the moment the ambulance got here. The doctors are working on her.”
Marshall’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. “And? What the fuck does that mean? Surgery for what? What are they fixing? How bad is it?”
The nurse hesitated, like she was debating how much she could legally say. “Critical. That’s what I was told. She… lost a lot of blood. They’re trying to stabilize her.”
Nathan made a broken sound behind him, but Marshall’s vision tunneled.
Critical.
Lost a lot of blood.
His throat closed up like a noose tightening, chest squeezed by something vicious. His baby—his girl—his whole fuckin’ world—and he hadn’t been there, hadn’t known, hadn’t protected her.
“How long… how long does surgery take?” His voice was quieter now, wrecked.
The nurse softened, her expression folding. “It depends on what they’re finding. It could be hours… but we’ll come get you as soon as the doctor has news.”
Marshall staggered back a step, like the floor swayed underneath him. Nate grabbed his shoulder, grounding him, and for once Marshall didn’t shake him off.
He couldn’t feel his legs. He couldn’t feel anything but panic.
“I just… I just wanna see her,” Marshall whispered.
“Soon,” the nurse promised quietly. “We’ll let you know.”
But “soon” didn’t mean shit when the love of your life was behind locked doors fighting to stay alive.
The seconds dragged like hours, each minute heavier than the last.
Marshall sat in a stiff plastic chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Nate was beside him, pale and silent, staring at the floor. Neither of them spoke much, words seemed useless when every breath just hurt.
Every so often a nurse would come out with little pieces of information—she’s still in surgery… still fighting… they’re doing everything they can… and Marshall would grip the arms of his chair so tight his knuckles went numb.
Then, after what felt like a lifetime, the doors swung open again and a nurse came jogging out, her tone sharper, more urgent. “Family of Y/N Mathers?”
Marshall shot to his feet before the last syllable finished leaving her mouth. “Here,” he rasped, voice like gravel. Nate stood too, hovering behind him.
The nurse’s expression was tight. “She’s lost a significant amount of blood. They’ve been working to stabilize her but she needs more for the transfusion—fast. Do either of you know if you’re O negative?”
Marshall’s stomach sank. “I—I don’t—” he shook his head, panic making his words stumble. “I don’t know—fuck—I dunno my type.”
“Same,” Nathan whispered, swallowing hard. “We never checked.”
“Come with me,” the nurse said quickly, already turning. “We’ll test you both now.”
Marshall followed blindly, like he was walking through molasses, heart banging against his ribs. The needle barely registered when it pricked his skin, the vials filling too slow for his liking. All he could think about was you, pale and broken, somewhere on a table fighting to breathe, and now you needed him. Of course you did—of course you’d need him and he didn’t even know his fuckin’ blood type.
Minutes ticked by. The nurse returned, her face grim. “Neither of you are O negative. I’m sorry.”
Marshall blinked, shaking his head. “No. No—check again—check again—I’ll give her everything, take every drop, I don’t give a fuck—”
“I’m sorry,” the nurse repeated, gentler now. “You’re both A positive. She needs O negative, it’s the only match for her. We’ve called for more units but we’re low—this accident… it wiped out the local supply.”
Marshall felt like the floor cracked underneath him. Like the world was tilting and he was drowning in it.
“But—but she’s gonna get it, right?” Nathan’s voice sounded small, like a kid again, scared. “They’re gonna get it here in time, right?”
The nurse gave a tight nod, but her eyes told the truth—they were trying, but they weren’t sure.
Marshall pressed a fist against his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut, every worst fear clawing up his spine.
You were bleeding out and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to save you.
The heavy doors to the ICU finally slid open, and Marshall was led quietly inside.
There you were.
Lying motionless in the hospital bed, your skin pale as porcelain, so thin that every vein showed beneath it like fragile glass. Tubes and wires were hooked up all around you — machines humming and beeping, keeping you alive more than your own body was.
Marshall’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t move at first, just stood frozen, staring at you like he might break if he blinked.
Then Nathan stepped forward.
His shoulders trembled as he reached out, trembling fingers closing gently around yours. The moment your hand touched his, something inside him shattered.
“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed, voice cracking and breaking like a fragile thing. “It was green. I swear it was green.”
He buried his face into your hand, silent tears soaking your skin, guilt tearing at his insides like a wildfire. The weight of it crushed him, knowing how close you’d come to the edge because of that single moment — that flash of a red light he thought he saw green.
Marshall’s jaw clenched tight, but he swallowed hard and stepped closer, wrapping his arms around Nathan’s shaking form.
“We’re gonna get through this,” Marshall whispered fiercely, voice low but steady. “She’s a fighter — my girl’s a fighter.”
But even as he said it, all he could do was watch, helpless, as the machines beeped steadily — waiting for your body to answer back.
Nathan wouldn’t let go of your hand.
He stayed glued to your side, fingers wrapped tightly around yours like if he held on hard enough you’d wake up. His thumb traced over your knuckles, jaw tight, breath shaky.
“It was just supposed to be lunch,” Nate whispered, voice hoarse and wrecked. “That’s it… just lunch. You… you shouldn’t be here… the light was green… it was green, I swear…” His head dipped, shoulders curling in as he blinked back more tears. “You gotta be okay. Please… please be okay…”
Marshall stood at the foot of the bed, fists clenching, chest aching with every goddamn beep of the monitor. He couldn’t stop looking at you — the bruises, the bandages, the ghostly stillness to your face — and it made him feel like his ribs were splitting apart.
The door creaked open and a doctor came in, clipboard tucked under his arm, eyes scanning the machines before glancing at Nate and then to Marshall.
“I’m here to set and cast her arm,” the doctor said softly, moving toward your left side. “It took the full impact of the airbag. X-rays show multiple fractures—radius, ulna, wrist—completely shattered.”
Marshall swallowed thickly, stepping closer. “Her… her arm?”
The doctor nodded, carefully starting to examine the limb, already prepping supplies. “From the EMT report… she shielded the driver's seat. Flung her arm across during impact. Most of the force traveled through her arm, into the airbag… that’s why his chest and head didn’t take the worst of it.”
Marshall’s lips parted, staring down at your limp, mangled arm — your wedding ring still sitting there, glinting softly beneath the bruises.
And then it clicked.
You were protecting Nate.
In the goddamn split-second when everything went to hell, your instinct was to shield Nate — to save him. You took the blow, you took the pain, you took the damage, just to make sure he didn’t get hurt.
Marshall’s breath hitched hard, blinking back the sting in his eyes. His heart twisted, guilt punching him square in the ribs. You were lying there, broken, hooked up to machines, because even in a nightmare, your first thought was protecting someone else.
Nathan crumbled even further, curling into your side, shoulders shaking as he muttered, “You shouldn’t have done that… you shouldn’t have—why do you always—” His voice broke, full of guilt.
Marshall couldn’t take it anymore. His chest caved in as he pressed his palm to your leg, swallowing a sob.
“Jesus Christ, baby… even then… you were takin’ care of somebody else,” Marshall whispered, voice raw. “And now you’re in this fuckin’ bed… and I can’t do shit.”
His hands fisted in the sheets as he fought the urge to break down.
You were supposed to be out having lunch. Laughing. Safe.
Instead, you were fighting for your life because your heart was too good.
The hours stretched, bleeding into days.
Every second was a fresh kind of torture, marked by the steady hum of machines and the soft hiss of oxygen keeping you alive. The critical window, the doctors said. The first seventy-two hours were everything. And every minute, Marshall felt like his heart was being shredded and stitched back together just to be ripped apart again.
Nathan barely moved.
He stayed planted right there, sitting by your bedside, clutching your hand like it was the only thing tethering him to earth. His head would rest against your arm when exhaustion overtook him, but even in sleep, he twitched and jerked, flinching every time a monitor beeped too loud or a nurse adjusted your IV.
Marshall couldn’t leave either. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think past the suffocating weight pressing down on him. He sat on the other side of you, knuckles brushing against your leg, thumb tracing circles into your blanket like it’d summon you back.
It wasn’t until the second day that it hit him.
The girls.
His baby girls didn’t even know. He hadn’t called them—hadn’t called anyone. He’d been so stuck in this frozen moment, watching your chest rise and fall under machines, that the rest of the world had fallen away.
With shaking hands, he finally called Hailie.
He couldn’t even remember what he said—just that his voice didn’t sound like his own, and Hailie had gone from confused to panicked in seconds, promising to get everyone there right away.
When they showed up—Hailie, Alaina, Whitney—Marshall couldn’t even lift his head. They came rushing into the room, but their usual energy felt swallowed by the sterile walls, their voices going quiet the second they saw you.
Hailie’s hand landed on his shoulder, but he didn’t react. His whole body was stiff, locked in place, like he was made of concrete.
He could hear them sniffle, whisper, trying to hold it together. Whitney sobbed softly against Nathan’s back, and Alaina stood silently by the foot of the bed, lips pressed together so tightly they went white.
Marshall stayed slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
Numb.
Like his body was in limbo.
Like every part of him was waiting—clinging to some impossible thread of hope that maybe the next minute, you’d open your eyes. Maybe you’d breathe a little easier. Maybe your hand would twitch back in his.
But you didn’t. Not yet.
And Marshall just sat there, heart breaking again and again, stuck in this brutal, endless waiting game.
---
It was late—Marshall couldn’t even tell if it was day or night anymore. The room was dim, only the monitors casting a faint blue glow across your face, making you look even paler than you were. Nathan was dozing off in the corner, head against the wall, the girls had left only hours before to shower and change.
Marshall hadn’t moved.
His hand stayed wrapped around yours like it’d fused there, the skin clammy, fingers motionless. Every beep was a countdown he couldn’t hear the end of.
The door creaked open, and soft footsteps approached.
Marshall didn’t look up right away—not until the voice broke through the silence.
“Mr. Mathers.”
He blinked, jaw tightening before lifting his head. It wasn’t the older doctor from the last shift, or the nurses he’d gotten used to. This was a younger guy—mid-thirties maybe—face drawn but professional, clipboard in hand.
Marshall straightened, instinctive dread creeping into his chest. “Yeah?”
The doctor inhaled, shifting his weight before speaking—measured, practiced. But Marshall could hear it… the shift in tone. The one people used when they were about to gut you.
“I’m Dr. Felton. I was asked to review your wife’s case after the last round of scans and labs.” He glanced at the monitor behind you, fingers tapping the clipboard. “There hasn’t been any improvement in her vitals since she was admitted. Her levels remain unstable despite transfusions, oxygen support, and medication interventions.”
Marshall’s throat bobbed. He gripped your hand tighter. “So… what—you—you gonna fix that, right? You gonna… fix her.”
The doctor’s lips pressed into a tight line before softening. “Mr. Mathers… I need to be honest with you.”
Marshall felt his body tense like a wire stretched too far.
“She’s surviving… but it’s because of the machines,” the doctor said quietly. “Her brain scans show minimal activity. Organ function is deteriorating—her kidneys are failing, her liver’s showing signs of shutdown, and her lungs are only functioning with mechanical assistance.”
Marshall’s vision tunneled.
“No—no, she just needs time,” he bit out, his heart punching his ribs. “She’s a fighter. She always—she just needs—”
“I know this is the last thing you want to hear,” the doctor interrupted gently, but firmly, “but your wife sustained catastrophic internal injuries. The blunt force trauma from the collision ruptured her spleen, caused internal bleeding in her abdomen, shattered her left arm… and the brain swelling hasn’t gone down despite every intervention we’ve tried.”
Marshall couldn’t breathe. His grip on your hand was trembling now.
“We can continue life support for a little longer,” the doctor said softly, “but there’s been no meaningful response. And based on her injuries, we believe if she could feel anything… it would be pain.”
Marshall squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenching so hard it hurt.
“I know this isn’t fair to ask… but there’s a decision to make,” Dr. Felton finished. “We can continue… for a little longer… or you can make the decision to let her go.”
The room spun. The world tilted sideways. His lungs wouldn’t work.
The doctor set the clipboard down quietly. “I’ll give you time. But I didn’t want to lie to you. She loved you enough to fight through the crash, but now… it’s about her peace.”
Marshall couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just sat there, broken, breathing through shattered glass, as the weight of those words crushed down on him.
The door clicked shut behind the doctor, leaving Marshall in a suffocating silence, the only sound the dull hum of machines keeping you tethered to this world.
He didn’t move for a long time. Couldn’t.
His hand stayed wrapped around yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles like it might bring warmth back into your skin. His eyes stayed locked on your face, drinking in every detail, every bruise, every bandage, every rise and fall of your chest that wasn’t even your own doing.
How the hell was he supposed to decide this?
His phone buzzed weakly in his pocket, and for the first time in days, he noticed it. Swallowing thickly, he pulled it out, not expecting anything… until he saw it.
A missed call. From you.
That morning.
His thumb hovered over the notification, heart thudding. You always called on his long studio days, just to ramble while you got ready, to hear his voice while you did your hair, to make him smile like an idiot before he walked into the booth.
His throat tightened as he hit play.
And then… there you were.
“Hey, babe,” your voice chirped through the quiet room, soft and sweet, alive—God, so alive. “Just wanted to let you know I’m going to lunch with Nate! That little Thai place I like—you know, the one where they put too much peanut sauce but I don’t even care because it’s so good?”
You giggled through the speaker, the sound sharp in the sterile quiet. “Anyway, I was debating—like… do I want Pad See Ew or that spicy curry… but you already know I’m getting the chicken Pad See Ew, let’s be real…”
Marshall’s breath shook, head dropping forward as you rambled through options, like you were talking right to him, happy, bright… alive. Fifteen minutes of you talking to fill the silence, just like you always did, giving him a piece of you even when you weren’t right there.
His eyes clenched shut as the call neared the end, dreading it, needing it.
“Oh! Nate’s outside, I should go…”
A soft shuffle, your smile clear in your voice.
“I love you!”
Click.
Marshall’s chest cracked open, the sob ripping out of him before he could stop it. His hand fisted in the blanket by your hip, tears streaming down his face, throat raw from holding it all in too long.
How was it possible? How could your voice still be so full of life while your body…
His forehead pressed to the edge of your bed, hand squeezing yours like it could somehow change the outcome.
I love you.
The last thing you’d ever said to him.
And now… he was supposed to decide whether to let you go.
---
Marshall didn’t sleep that night.
He didn’t even close his eyes. Just sat there, staring at you, listening to every beep, every soft mechanical hiss that kept you breathing. His fingers never left yours, and his other hand never let go of the phone, your last message playing on a loop in his head until it was memorized, etched into his bones.
You were his whole world. His soft place to land. His perfect, sensitive girl who cried at sad commercials and got too attached to stray animals. Who always smelled like vanilla and stole his hoodies when he was gone too long. You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve to be kept alive in a bed, broken, just so he could avoid the ache of letting you go.
You’d never want this. Not you.
So when the morning light crept through the cracks in the blinds, Marshall pressed a kiss to your knuckles and made himself stand. His legs felt like lead, his chest hollow, but his steps were steady.
It was time.
He found the girls first in the family waiting room—eyes bloodshot, clutching shitty vending machine coffee like it was the only thing keeping them upright. Hailie stood first, and she knew just by looking at him.
Her lip wobbled, but she nodded, already tearing up. Alaina closed her eyes, biting back a sob, and Whitney just covered her mouth, crumbling into the chair.
But Nathan—Nathan was different.
When Marshall walked back into your room where Nate sat curled over your hand, Marshall’s voice was quiet, broken but sure. “I’m gonna talk to the doctor… about letting her rest.”
Nathan’s head shot up so fast it nearly snapped his neck. His eyes were wide, frantic, already shaking his head. “No… no, no, you can’t—she’s gonna be fine,” he choked, standing abruptly, knocking the chair back. “She’s gotta be fine, Marsh—she’s gonna wake up, you’ll see…”
Marshall swallowed hard, fists clenching to keep himself upright.
“Nate—”
“No,” Nathan snapped, voice cracking, stepping back like Marshall had slapped him. “She’s just… she’s… you said she’s a fighter—right? You said—” his chest heaved, panic written all over his face, “—you said she’s gonna pull through—”
Marshall’s jaw trembled, throat closing. “Not like this… Nate.” His voice was soft, ragged. “Not… not full of machines… not trapped in this much pain.”
“She—” Nate’s hands shook violently, pressing to his hair, pulling at it like it’d keep him grounded, “—she was fine that morning, she was—she called you, she was smiling, she was alive… she can’t… she can’t just be gone…”
Marshall blinked hard, a tear falling before he could stop it. “I know.”
Nathan broke, backing away from the bed, pacing like he couldn’t breathe. “No… no, she’s supposed to be fine, man. This wasn’t… this wasn’t supposed to happen.” His voice cracked on a sob. “It was just lunch… it was just lunch…”
Marshall felt himself crack, but forced his steps forward, hands landing heavy on Nate’s shoulders, grounding him, even as everything inside Marshall felt like it was dying too.
“I know, kid,” he whispered, voice thick. “But we… we gotta do right by her now.”
Even if it meant breaking the last pieces of himself.
The walk to the doctor’s office felt like walking into an execution chamber.
Marshall’s limbs were numb, heavy, his chest tight enough he wondered if he’d even make it through the door. The girls trailed behind him in silence, red-eyed and pale, while Nathan stayed curled in the corner of your room, his sobs muffled into his sleeve.
Dr. Felton was waiting, somber, understanding written in every line of his face. He didn’t pressure Marshall, didn’t speak over him—just listened when Marshall’s voice, hoarse and cracking, made the call.
“I… I can’t keep her trapped like this,” Marshall whispered, voice nearly choking him. “Not my girl… not… not like this. She wouldn’t want it.”
It was the hardest sentence of his life.
The doctor nodded solemnly, hands folded in front of him. “I’ll make the arrangements,” he said gently. “We’ll remove life support, and… we’ll make sure she’s comfortable. She won’t be in pain.”
Marshall blinked fast, his jaw flexing to keep it together.
Dr. Felton hesitated before adding, “You should know… the body doesn’t always let go immediately. Especially in younger, healthier people. Her heart might keep going for a little while… a few hours, maybe until the end of the day. It’s just… the body trying to hold on.”
Marshall’s throat squeezed shut, and his vision blurred. Of course you’d fight. Even broken. Even with nothing left. Of course you’d try to stay. His perfect, soft girl—who always held on longer than she should. Who fought for everyone else.
But now… now he had to be the one to let you go.
“I wanna be there… when it happens,” he managed to say, his voice hollow.
“You can stay with her for as long as you need,” the doctor assured him.
Marshall just nodded, teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached, swallowing back the scream building in his chest.
When he got back to your room, Nathan wouldn’t look at him—just turned into the wall, shoulders shaking. The girls stayed close, whispering quiet I love you’s and touching your hair, your legs, as if to hold on just a little longer.
Marshall sat down beside you, fingers lacing through yours, pressing his forehead to your arm.
“Alright, baby…” he whispered, voice breaking all over again. “You… you can rest now.”
Even if it felt like his whole world was ending.
When the doctors came back in, everything blurred.
Marshall stayed glued to your side, hand wrapped around yours, pressing shaky kisses to your fingers as they moved around you, quiet and careful. The girls stood nearby, silent, tears streaking their faces while Nate sat crushed into the corner, arms locked tight around his middle.
It started with the machines.
The hiss of the ventilator slowed… then stopped. The rhythmic rise and fall of your chest halted, replaced by your own fragile, uneven breaths — shallow, weak, but yours.
The monitor that tracked your heartbeats was turned down, the beeping reduced to a low whisper, until finally… silence. Wires were gently peeled off your skin, IVs removed, machines powered down one by one until the room was still.
No buzzing. No humming. Just you.
You. Fragile. Bruised. Broken. But you.
And that—that was what gutted Marshall the most.
Because stripped of all the machines, you looked just like you always did. Like the woman who’d giggle over coffee, who’d curl into his chest on cold mornings, who’d hum under her breath while brushing her hair. You looked like the woman who’d kiss his cheek while rambling about Thai food, who’d cry at those dumb ASPCA commercials, who smelled like vanilla and soft lotion and home.
His chest caved in, tears burning down his cheeks as he brushed your hair off your forehead, fingertips trembling.
“You’re still so fuckin’ pretty, baby…” his voice cracked, “You still look like… you.”
His lips pressed to your temple, breathing you in like it was the last bit of oxygen he had.
And it was.
Because when all the wires and machines were gone, it was just you.
And that was the part that shattered him beyond repair.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
Except for the heart monitor.
It wasn’t loud anymore—not the sharp, jarring beeps from before—but it was there, soft and slow, each beat spaced out with too much silence in between.
Each sound stretched the grief like a wire pulled taut.
Marshall sat closest to you, elbows on the bed, one hand still wrapped around yours like he could anchor you here just a little longer. His other hand cupped your cheek, thumb tracing over your skin, memorizing every inch. You were warm—but not in the way you used to be. Not in the way that meant life was blooming underneath.
Hailie sat cross-legged at the foot of your bed, her hands in her lap, eyes red-rimmed but dry now. Like the tears had all run out and left something hollow behind. Alaina stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder, the other covering her mouth to muffle the soft sounds that kept slipping out against her will.
Whitney had curled herself up in the corner, head buried in her knees, quiet but shaking.
Nathan hadn’t said a word in over an hour.
He sat beside the window, facing you, eyes locked on your face as though willing you to twitch, blink, move—anything. His hands gripped the edge of the chair, white-knuckled, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.
And Marshall…
Marshall didn’t move.
He barely breathed. Every single beep of that monitor was a blessing and a curse.
Because it meant you were still there—your heart still trying, your body still clinging to the impossible.
But it also meant he had to keep watching.
Keep waiting.
Keep hurting.
You weren’t awake. You weren’t coming back. The doctors had said as much. But your heart kept beating, like it didn’t understand yet what had happened. Like it hadn’t gotten the message that it was time to stop.
The monitor beeped again.
Then silence.
Then another slow beat.
It was like death was taking its time, just to be cruel.
Marshall bent over, pressing a kiss to your knuckles again, his voice barely above a whisper, cracking down the middle.
“You don’t gotta fight anymore, baby. You did enough. You did so much.”
Another beat.
Another breath.
The grief didn’t come in waves anymore. It just sat in the room with them—thick, choking, patient—waiting with them for the moment when the sound finally stopped.
The sky outside had turned orange, then gray, and now it was ink-black again.
You were still breathing. Barely. Each breath rattling out of your chest like it was a battle, your heart refusing to stop even as the rest of you was broken and quiet. The beeps on the monitor stretched longer between each sound, but they were still there—faint, stubborn.
Marshall never left your side.
His fingers curled around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles in slow circles, voice soft and steady even as his heart splintered in his chest.
“It’s okay, baby… you don’t have to stay for me,” he whispered, brushing your hair back. “You… you took care of everybody your whole life… you don’t gotta keep fightin’. I’m gonna be okay… the girls’ll be okay… Nate’ll be okay. You can rest now, angel.”
The words tore out of him, but he kept speaking because it was the only thing keeping him upright.
But the second he said it, Nate shot up like someone lit a fuse.
“Stop.” Nate’s voice cracked, ragged and sharp. “Stop talking like that.”
Marshall blinked up, throat tight. Nate stormed toward the bed, his chest heaving, voice getting louder.
“You’re acting like you want her to die,” Nate spat, pointing a shaking hand at him. “She’s still fighting. She’s still here. She should fight. She needs to fight.”
“Nate—” Hailie whispered from the other side of the room, her voice low, tired, trying to cut in—but Marshall was already rising from the chair, shoulders shaking, something inside him snapping.
“You think this is what I want?” Marshall’s voice roared, exploding into the quiet like a thunderclap. His whole body trembled, face twisted in something between agony and fury.
“You think I want to be here? You think I want to tell her it’s okay to let go? I don’t want any of this!” His voice cracked mid-sentence, a sob catching in his throat. “I don’t want this room. I don’t want these machines. I don’t want the doctors telling me there’s no hope.”
His chest heaved, tears spilling over.
“I don’t want to be left… with a fucking voicemail,” Marshall shouted, his hand slamming against his own chest like it could stop the bleeding inside. “I should’ve skipped the studio… she—she asked me to stay for breakfast, and I—I left anyway. I should’ve fucking stayed.”
His knees nearly buckled under the weight of it, hands dragging down his face as sobs ripped through his chest, raw and ugly.
“I should’ve stayed, I should’ve been there… I should’ve…” his voice gave out completely, crumbling into broken breaths, shoulders shaking as he folded back over your bed, his forehead pressing into your arm, clinging to you like you were his last lifeline.
Nobody said a word.
Because there was nothing left to say.
Nathan didn’t say another word.
His jaw clenched, tears blurring his eyes as he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, the door swinging open hard enough to bang against the stopper. His footsteps echoed down the hall, fading out until the only sound left was the faint, stubborn beeping of your monitor and the quiet gasps of Marshall’s broken breathing.
Marshall didn’t follow.
He couldn’t.
His hand stayed wrapped around yours, knuckles white from the grip, his forehead resting against your arm, lips brushing your skin with quiet, wrecked apologies.
“I’m right here, baby,” he whispered. “Always.”
The girls stayed too—silent shadows surrounding your bed. Hailie sat just across from her dad, red eyes watching you like she was willing you to breathe easier. Alaina paced softly near the foot of the bed, and Whitney stayed curled up in the corner, arms around her legs.
Time dragged.
It wasn’t until nearly dawn that the door creaked open again and a nurse came in quietly, glancing over the monitors like they’d done a hundred times before. But something changed this time—her forehead creased, lips tugging into a slight frown as her eyes lingered longer than usual on the screens.
She leaned in, pressed a few buttons, rechecked the lines connected to you, and then straightened, her expression tightening.
“I’m gonna grab Dr. Felton,” she said quickly, her voice quiet but clipped with urgency, already turning on her heel and leaving before anyone could ask anything.
Marshall blinked, stiffening, wiping his hand down his face as his heart thudded in his chest. Hailie glanced between him and the door, frowning.
“What… what’s that about?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” Marshall rasped, his throat like sandpaper.
A minute later, the door opened again—Dr. Felton and two nurses came in with fresh IV bags and more supplies. The doctor’s expression was calm, but his eyes were sharper now, more focused as he walked up to the monitors.
“Her vitals have shifted,” Felton said evenly, adjusting the IV stand. “It’s… subtle, but her heart rate has increased slightly. There’s more responsiveness in her brainwaves. Not enough to mean consciousness… but enough that it’s a marker.”
Marshall swallowed, fingers twitching against yours. “Marker of what?”
Felton met his gaze, honest and steady. “Pain.”
A chill settled in the room, thick and heavy.
“Her body’s reacting… not in a way that indicates recovery,” the doctor clarified gently. “But enough that we believe some of the reflexive pathways are responding to stimuli—likely pain from the injuries, the trauma.”
“So… she’s… hurting?” Hailie’s voice broke at the end, small and fragile.
“We can’t say how much she’s aware, if at all,” Felton replied. “But we’re going to increase her comfort meds. Get ahead of it. She doesn’t need to feel any more of this.”
Marshall’s throat closed, the air thickening in his lungs. He pressed a shaky kiss to your hand again, nodding numbly.
“Yeah,” he rasped, voice splintering. “Yeah… take care of her.”
Felton gave him a soft look. “We will.”
As the IV bags were switched out, fluids running faster into your veins, Marshall just stayed right there, forehead pressed to your hand.
You’d spent your whole life caring for everyone else.
And now it was their job to make sure your last moments didn’t come with pain.
Day two passed like a slow bleed.
The sun came and went, barely noticed behind drawn blinds and the rhythmic hum of machines that had become part of the room's breath. Marshall hadn’t moved from your side. Not to eat. Not to rest. Just sitting there, hunched forward, holding your hand with a kind of reverence like he was afraid you'd slip away the second he let go.
Your skin was still pale. Your eyes still closed. And even though the IVs were loaded with every painkiller and sedative they could safely give you, the monitors told a different story.
Your brainwaves were rising.
Not in a hopeful way. Not like recovery. Not even in a way that made sense.
Just… reacting.
Agitated. Distressed.
Like you were trapped in your own body and screaming.
Marshall could barely look at the numbers anymore.
The door creaked open sometime midafternoon. A shadow lingered in the doorway a moment before moving. Nate stepped in slowly, shoulders slumped, looking like he hadn’t slept since the day of the crash. His eyes were bloodshot, face drawn, and guilt still poured off him like a storm cloud.
He didn’t say anything as he crossed the room. Just lowered himself into the empty chair on the other side of your bed and stared at you for a long, aching moment.
Then—quietly—he muttered, “I shouldn’t’ve left. I was mad. That was stupid. I’m sorry.”
Marshall didn’t respond right away, just kept his eyes on your face. You still looked like you. Still smelled like that warm vanilla perfume you wore every day. Still wore that soft pink lip balm he always smudged when he kissed you too hard.
Eventually, Marshall said, “I don’t blame you.”
Nate let out a bitter, broken laugh. “Yeah? Well, I do.”
Silence fell again. The only sound was the steady beep… beep… beep of the heart monitor. But even that felt strained now. Slower. Shallower.
It wasn’t long before Dr. Felton came in again, a grim expression shadowing his face.
“We’ve increased the meds three times in the last twelve hours,” he explained, voice low but firm. “And still, her brain activity is increasing. It’s not hopeful—it’s reactive. She’s not improving. None of her other vitals are stabilizing. No lung improvement. No motor response. Nothing in the brain stem.”
Marshall looked at him sharply. “So what are you saying?”
Felton exhaled, clearly exhausted. “I’m saying… it’s likely she’s in more pain now than she was yesterday. And we’ve nearly maxed out what we can safely give her. At this point, we’re doing more harm than good trying to guess what she feels.”
Nate rubbed a hand down his face, silent tears tracking his cheeks. “How is that possible?” he whispered. “How can her body be that broken and still feel pain?”
Felton hesitated. “Sometimes… it’s the strongest hearts that hold on longest. Even when they shouldn’t have to.”
Marshall couldn’t take it anymore. He stood, hand still locked in yours, but his body pacing slightly, restless with grief he couldn’t process.
“You said the sedatives were to keep her comfortable.”
“We still believe they are,” the doctor said gently. “But the readings suggest she’s not as unconscious as we hoped.”
“So she’s hurting,” Marshall muttered. “She’s just... laying here in the dark hurting.”
Felton didn’t argue.
Didn’t have to.
Because that was the truth—the brutal, unfair truth none of them could stomach.
You were still fighting. Still hurting.
And the people who loved you most were left watching, helpless to stop it.
By the time the second night fell, the room felt like a cocoon of quiet grief, wrapping tighter around all of them.
The monitors still beeped, your heart still stubbornly thudding away, but it was slower now—erratic in places—and every rise in your brainwaves twisted the knife deeper into Marshall’s ribs.
He stayed slumped in the chair beside you, your hand cradled against his mouth, his thumb brushing your knuckles in a rhythm only he could hear. His lips trembled as he whispered into your skin, voice hoarse, breaking more with every word.
“Baby… I’m so sorry,” he murmured, swallowing hard. “I should’ve stayed that morning. You asked me to stay, and I— I should’ve just… I should’ve blown off the studio. You… you always knew what mattered.”
His eyes squeezed shut, pressing a tear-streaked kiss to your hand.
“I should’ve kissed you more before you left. Told you how beautiful you looked… God, you were always so beautiful… I should’ve—” His voice cracked hard, shaking with grief. “I should’ve hugged you longer. Held you tighter. Made you late on purpose… anything.”
Hailie moved without a word, crossing to the other side of the bed. Her eyes were glassy, but steady, as she slipped her fingers gently through your hair. The same way you always did for them when they were sick, stroking soft, repetitive lines meant to soothe.
Her lips wobbled, but she kept her movements slow, like she could somehow comfort you, even now.
“You were the best thing that ever happened to me,” Marshall whispered raggedly, rocking slightly in his seat. “You gave me… peace… when I didn’t even know what that was. You made every stupid little day better just by bein’ in it.”
Alaina stood by the door, phone in hand, doing what you used to always do—taking charge when no one else could. She filtered through the flood of messages, answering family updates with short, clear texts, keeping the noise away from Marshall. Every time a nurse came in, she was the one they spoke to, nodding, shielding her dad from every question, every chart, every update he couldn’t stomach anymore.
Marshall didn’t notice.
Didn’t care.
His whole world was lying in front of him, slipping further away with every beep.
“You made me better, you know that?” his voice dropped to a whisper, raw and full of things he’d never get to say again. “You made me… me… and I don’t know how the fuck I’m supposed to breathe without you.”
Hailie’s fingers combed through your hair with heartbreaking gentleness while Marshall’s tears soaked your hand, his whispered apologies and broken promises filling the space that used to be your laughter.
And all Alaina could do was hold back her own tears, standing guard over a man being torn apart by the love of his life leaving him piece by piece.
---
It had been a week.
Seven brutal, endless days since the machines were turned off—seven days of heartbreak stretched thin over quiet, restless hours. Every morning felt like it might be the last, and every night they whispered their goodbyes again just in case.
Yet somehow… you stayed.
Your heart, fragile and uneven, kept fighting. The brainwaves, though faint, remained. And the pain… they’d managed to ease it, bringing your numbers to a dull, stubborn rhythm. But you hadn’t moved. You hadn’t opened your eyes. You hadn’t spoken. Not a twitch, not a sound.
Until Tuesday.
Early afternoon light leaked through the blinds, casting soft streaks across your bed. The hospital room was quieter than usual. Hailie had just stepped out for coffee, Alaina was texting on the far side of the room, and Nate was curled into the recliner in a restless half-sleep.
Marshall stayed where he always was—right by your side, head bowed over your hand, murmuring quietly, voice tired but steady. His thumb rubbed lazy circles against your skin as Dr. Felton adjusted your vitals monitor, checking the IV flow and the slow rhythm of your heart.
“Her BP’s a little more stable today,” Dr. Felton muttered, mostly to himself, pen hovering over the chart. “It’s… something.”
Marshall blinked, barely processing the words. Every little shift felt like a false hope lately, a cruel game of inches.
Then it happened.
Barely louder than a breath, soft enough that Dr. Felton almost missed it.
“...Marshall…”
Everything stopped.
Marshall’s head shot up, heart slamming against his ribs. His fingers tightened around yours, breath caught in his chest.
“...Marshall…”
It was weak, cracked, and so fragile it sounded like the air itself, but it was there—your voice.
“Doc—” Marshall rasped, already leaning in closer, panic and hope tangling in his chest. “Doc—she—did you hear that?”
Felton’s eyes snapped from the monitor to you, shock flashing across his face. He leaned in quickly, stethoscope forgotten around his neck, hands moving to your wrist, checking, verifying.
“Hey—hey, sweetheart, you with us?” Felton asked gently, his calm cracking around the edges.
Your eyelids didn’t flutter, your body didn’t move… but your lips parted again, a whisper clinging to the air.
“...Marsh…”
“Jesus Christ,” Felton breathed, standing straighter, already reaching for the call button. “She’s responsive—she spoke, I need neuro in here now.”
Marshall’s heart felt like it might explode. His hand trembled around yours as he cupped your cheek with the other, pressing in close, his forehead nearly touching yours.
“I’m here, baby… I’m here…” his voice broke completely, tears falling freely. “I’ve been right here the whole time… I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
And for the first time in a week, the room wasn’t drowning in silence. It was filled with your voice—weak, broken… but alive.
Dr. Felton was already pressing his stethoscope to your chest, calling out orders through the intercom, nurses flooding in as the room shifted from quiet grief to controlled chaos. Monitors were adjusted, more scans ordered, but all Marshall could see—all he could feel—was you.
Your lips parted again, dry and cracked, but working.
Your fingers twitched against his palm, then tightened—barely, weakly, but enough to feel you hold on to him for the first time in over a week.
“Baby… baby, I got you,” Marshall whispered, his voice raw, leaning in so close his forehead brushed yours.
“Okay, sweetheart, I need you to answer me, alright?” Dr. Felton’s voice was calm but urgent. “Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”
Your head shifted ever so slightly—too weak to lift, but your brows pinched together, body tense, every movement strained.
Dr. Felton glanced at the monitor. “Okay… okay… Can you tell me where you’re hurting?”
Your chest hitched, breath uneven, before a broken, whimpering sound spilled from your lips. Your head tilted toward the voice you’d always trusted most.
“...Marshall…” you breathed, voice so soft it nearly disappeared under the hum of machines.
Your fingers clutched at his like it was instinct—like even shattered and bruised, your body knew. Knew who was safe. Knew who could fix it. Knew him.
“Hurts… Marshall… hurts…” you whispered, fragile and pained, but aware.
Marshall’s throat locked, tears blurring his vision as he pressed a trembling kiss to your forehead. “I know, baby, I know… I’m here, I got you… you just hold on to me, alright? I’m not going anywhere. I got you, I swear.”
Dr. Felton swallowed hard, catching Marshall’s eye. “She’s in pain, but she’s conscious… she’s fighting,” he said quietly, almost in disbelief.
And even as Marshall’s chest cracked open all over again, this time it was different—because for the first time in days, your grip was there… your voice was there… you were there.
And no way in hell was he letting go.
The lights dimmed in quiet urgency, the fluorescents overhead replaced by a softer glow to ease the strain on your fragile body. Dr. Felton gave quiet instructions to the nurses, voices fading to background noise as the room shifted into something gentler—something more reverent.
Your girls stood frozen just feet away, wide-eyed and breathless.
Hailie’s hands were pressed to her mouth, tears falling freely, her chest trembling as she took in the sight of you—broken, battered… but alive. Alaina stood behind her, one hand braced on the bed rail, jaw tight as she blinked rapidly, trying to keep it together. Whitney hovered near the foot of the bed, gripping the corner like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Nate stood just off to the side, eyes bloodshot and rimmed with disbelief. He couldn’t stop staring—not at the monitors, not at the machines—but at you. At your hand curled around Marshall’s like a lifeline, like instinct, like you knew even through the haze that he was there.
Dr. Felton stepped forward cautiously, testing your vitals again, running his penlight across your lashes. Your eyelids fluttered weakly but stayed closed, your brows twitching like even light caused pain.
“Okay… I’m going to need to check your reflexes now, just for a minute,” Felton said softly, glancing at Marshall. “I need your arm.”
Marshall gently tried to loosen his grip, slowly pulling his hand away—but your fingers clutched tighter, a strained whimper breaking from your throat.
“...no… Marshall… stay…” you whispered, weak but insistent, clutching him like letting go wasn’t an option.
“Baby—baby, it’s just for a minute, just—” Marshall’s voice cracked, his heart shattering all over again when you shook your head, a small, broken no escaping your lips.
Your fingers, weak and trembling, clung to his like it was the only thread keeping you here. Your lips trembled, breath ragged, but you refused to let go.
Dr. Felton’s brows furrowed, eyes shifting between you and Marshall, voice gentling further. “Let’s wait. Just a minute more,” he said quietly to the nurse. “Her awareness is more important than reflexes right now.”
Marshall’s jaw flexed, lips pressing to your temple again, hand firm in yours. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, baby. You just hold on. You just stay with me, alright? That’s all you gotta do.”
And around you, your family stood silent, in awe, watching the impossible unfold—watching you fight, whispering for your husband like he could fix everything, refusing to let go.
And maybe… somehow… you knew he would.
---
It took time—every minute feeling like a lifetime. The lights stayed low, voices stayed soft, and the nurses continued their careful work around you. Marshall never moved, never let go, his thumb still tracing shaky circles on the back of your hand. The girls stayed close, huddled together near the end of the bed, and Nate hadn’t sat down again, frozen in place, watching with quiet desperation.
Then… it happened.
Your lashes fluttered. The tiny muscles around your eyes twitched, your brows drawing in slightly, like the weight of your body was something you were finally starting to fight against.
Marshall’s breath caught. His grip stayed firm but gentle, his other hand brushing your hair back, voice barely a whisper. “C’mon, baby… just a little more… I’m right here.”
With what little strength you had, you forced your eyelids to lift, just enough for the soft hospital light to blur your vision. Everything was hazy, your body felt heavy, distant… but faces slowly came into focus.
Your eyes shifted, searching.
Not for the doctor. Not for the monitors.
Past Marshall.
Past the girls.
And when your gaze landed on Nate—standing stiff and pale near the window—your lips parted in the faintest breath of relief.
“...you’re okay…” you whispered, hoarse and weak but full of pure, bone-deep relief. Like you’d been trapped somewhere dark, somewhere painful, but that—seeing him standing, breathing—was the first thing that loosened the vice around your chest.
Nate’s chest caved before anyone could stop it.
His face crumpled, shoulders collapsing under the weight of guilt and fear and now something worse—your kindness. Your relief over him, even as you lay shattered in a hospital bed.
He let out a broken sob, stepping forward as his hands pressed to his face, his body shaking so violently it nearly dropped him to the floor.
“God… God,” he choked out, tears falling freely. “It should’ve been me… you were— you were supposed to be safe—”
Marshall tightened his hold on your hand, swallowing against the lump in his throat, blinking back fresh tears as you blinked slowly, your focus dim but steady.
“... ‘s not your fault…” you breathed, barely able to push the words out, but meaning every bit of it.
Nate crumbled into the chair beside you, head bowed, hands trembling as he cried openly, and Marshall leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to yours.
“See, baby?” he whispered, his voice raw but steadier now. “You’re already takin’ care of everyone again.”
And around you, the heaviness in the room cracked—because for the first time in days, hope didn’t feel so impossible.
The days that followed felt like a strange, drifting haze—half-awake, half-fighting.
Everything hurt. Even breathing pulled at broken ribs. Your left arm was bound tight in a hard cast, fingers swollen, skin bruised. Your legs ached, your chest burned, and every inch of you felt like it had been stitched back together just enough to survive. But you were alive, and that was more than anyone had thought a week ago.
Dr. Felton had been gentle but honest, walking you and Marshall through every injury. Shattered arm, three cracked ribs, fractured pelvis, internal bruising, a minor brain bleed that miraculously resolved itself, and a list of cuts, contusions, and surgical repairs too long to count. The recovery wouldn’t be quick. It wouldn’t be easy. There would be surgeries down the line, physical therapy, and months before you’d feel anywhere close to whole again.
But you were here.
And that was enough.
The girls lingered, refusing to leave at first. Hailie helped sponge-wash your face and brush your hair while Alaina coordinated every medical update, and Whitney stayed curled in the chair beside you, telling quiet stories just to make you smile through the haze of pain meds.
Eventually, though, you convinced them to go home—rest, you’d whispered. You were okay. And you knew you wouldn’t be able to relax until you knew they were safe, too.
“You’re sure?” Hailie asked tearfully, kissing your forehead.
“Yeah,” you rasped. “I promise.”
Nathan held out the longest, hovering near the window, guilt still bleeding from every glance. It took everything in you to gently coax him to go home, to shower, to sleep in his own bed for a night.
“You need to be good for me when I get out of here,” you’d said, managing the faintest grin despite the ache in your jaw. “That means sleep. A real shower. No more falling apart in visitor chairs.”
He let out a half-laugh, wiping his eyes. “You’re already bossing me around. Knew you’d bounce back.”
But Marshall—he wouldn’t budge.
Even when the girls kissed you goodbye and promised to be back the next day. Even when Nate reluctantly grabbed his keys. Even when the nurses tried to suggest he’d be more comfortable at home.
Marshall’s response was instant, final, absolute.
“Not goin’ home without you, baby,” he said, his voice low, tired, but steady as he shifted his chair even closer, tucking your fingers into his big hand like it was the only thing keeping him breathing. “Already told Paul I was ready to have the fuckin’ place put on the market.”
Your lip quivered, tears welling all over again, but it wasn’t from pain.
“Marshall…”
“Not negotiable,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Where you go, I go. House don’t mean shit if you ain’t in it.”
And with your heart bruised but steady, your body battered but alive, you finally closed your eyes—not because you were scared, but because you felt safe.
Safe in the grip of the man who’d never let you fight alone.
