Dr Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch x Reader x Dr Jack Abbot
Summary “The bravest thing a person can do is stay —
long enough to see that they were loved all along.” - MetalMonki
Poly Relationship/Idiots in Love
Warnings: Workplace Bullying, medical inaccuracies, tissues possibly required.
Authors Note: Well here it is the long awaited sequel to Against The Noise!
Eli’s first birthday somehow felt bigger than any of us had expected.
The kitchen in our new home was littered with colour swatches, half-deflated balloons, and a laptop open to a dozen tabs of wildly different cake ideas. I watched as Robby sat at the table with Eli perched on his hip, gently bouncing him while Eli gnawed determinedly on a wooden spoon like it was the most important job he’d ever been given.
Across from me, Jack leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching them with a soft smile he didn’t bother hiding anymore. I was cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by gift bags and a notebook, chewing the end of a pen as I stared at my list.
“Okay,” I said finally, looking up at them. “Be honest. Is a dinosaur theme too much?”
Robby snorted. “He’s one. He’d be just as happy with a cardboard box theme.”
Eli chose that moment to squeal in agreement, banging the spoon against Robby’s chest.
Jack laughed. “Traitor,” he told our son, then looked at me. “But no, dinosaurs are fine. Classic. Timeless.”
“Timeless,” I echoed dryly. “He won’t remember a single second of this.”
“No,” Robby said, his voice softer now, his eyes dropping to Eli’s curls. “But we will.”
The room stilled just a fraction at that. It always did, when Robby spoke like that—when the weight of everything we’d survived slipped quietly into the space between us.
I smiled, gentler now, and went back to my list. “Alright. Dino theme it is. Smash cake?”
“Absolutely,” Jack said. “I want photographic evidence of the mess. It’s needed for future blackmail.”
Robby shifted Eli to his other hip. “You’re evil.”
“I’m a father,” Jack corrected.
We fell into an easy rhythm after that—talk of guest lists, of parents flying in, of how many people was too many people for a one-year-old who still napped twice a day. It felt… normal. Domestic in a way that still occasionally startled me when I noticed it happening, and I could see it in Robby’s eyes, too.
It was Jack who broke the lull, casual but not careless.
“So,” he said, glancing between us. “Hypothetically.”
Robby arched a brow. I looked up immediately, suspicious. “I don’t like the word hypothetically.”
Jack ignored me. “Do you think Eli would want a sibling?”
The air shifted again—this time sharper, more deliberate.
I saw Robby stop bouncing. Eli frowned at the sudden lack of movement, then promptly grabbed a fistful of Robby’s shirt like he planned to sue for breach of contract.
I didn’t answer right away. I closed my notebook slowly, setting it aside. “That’s… a big question.”
“It is,” Jack agreed. He met Robby’s eyes, steady. “But not a bad one.”
Robby swallowed, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over Eli’s back. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Sometimes I think about it and it feels… impossible. Like tempting fate.”
Jack nodded. He understood that fear intimately.
“And sometimes?” I prompted gently.
Robby exhaled. “Sometimes I picture him chasing someone through the house. Someone smaller. Someone who looks at him like he’s their whole world.” His mouth tipped into a faint smile. “And that part doesn’t scare me at all.”
Silence followed, thick but not uncomfortable.
I reached out, resting my hand over Robby’s on the table. “I think,” I said slowly, “that Eli already has more love than most kids get in a lifetime. If we ever decided to add to that… it wouldn’t take anything away from him. Or from us.”
Jack’s gaze softened, something warm and resolute settling into his chest. “I like the idea of choosing joy,” he said. “Not because we’re trying to fix the past. But because we’re not afraid of the future anymore.”
Robby blinked hard, then huffed a quiet laugh. “You always say the heavy stuff like it’s nothing.”
Jack shrugged. “I’ve had practice.”
Eli, oblivious to the emotional weight of the conversation, chose that moment to let out a delighted shriek and slam the spoon onto the table, demanding attention.
Robby laughed fully this time, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Alright, alright. We hear you.”
I smiled at the sight of them—really smiled. “Whatever happens,” I said, my voice steady, “this family. It’s solid. No matter the size.”
I watched as Robby looked between us, something like peace finally settling into his bones. Looking at him, at Jack, at our son, I knew he felt it too.
For the first time in a long time, when I imagined our future, it didn’t feel fragile.
Eli’s first birthday party was exactly as chaotic as Robby had secretly hoped it would be.
The backyard was a mess of inflatable dinosaurs, streamers tied a little too enthusiastically to every available surface, and children of varying ages running in excited, barely controlled circles. Someone—Jack—had gone all in on the grill, while Y/N floated between guests with Eli on her hip, accepting smiles and congratulations like she was born for this life.
Robby watched it all from the edge of the yard for a moment, drink untouched in his hand.
His parents stood a little apart near the fence, his mother crouched down to Eli’s level as he toddled unsteadily between her and Y/N, arms outstretched and laughing like the world was nothing but sunshine.
“He’s perfect,” his mum said softly, standing as Robby approached. She brushed frosting off her fingers and smiled at him. “I still can’t believe he’s one.”
“Neither can I,” Robby admitted.
His dad clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve done good, son.”
The words settled deeper than Robby expected. He swallowed, nodding once.
They watched Eli for a beat—how easily he moved between people, how secure he was in the middle of all this noise and love.
It was his mum who spoke again, careful, measured. “Can we ask you something?”
Robby glanced at her, then at his dad. There was no tension in their faces. Just curiosity. Affection.
“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”
She took a breath. “Have you ,Y/N and Jack ever talked about… another baby?”
Robby didn’t stiffen. Didn’t bristle. He’d had enough time, enough healing, to hear the heart of the question instead of the fear behind it.
“We have,” he said honestly.
His dad nodded slowly. “We want you to know—Eli is our grandson. Fully. No conditions.”
“I know,” Robby said immediately, voice firm but warm. “I’ve never doubted that.”
His mum smiled, relieved. “Good. Because that matters to us.” She hesitated, then continued. “But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wondered what it would be like to see a little one with your eyes. Or your smile.”
Robby huffed a quiet laugh. “You mean stubborn and dramatic?”
“Exactly,” she said, smiling.
He leaned back against the fence beside them, watching Y/N help Eli smash his cake with gleeful destruction. “I don’t think it’s about biology,” he said slowly. “Not really. It’s about… choice. About whether we want to grow what we already have.”
“And do you?” his dad asked gently.
Robby’s answer came without hesitation. “I want a future that feels full. Not loud or crowded—just… full.”
His mum’s eyes softened. “And Y/N? Where do she and Jack stand on all that?”
Robby smiled faintly. “Eli’s our whole world right now. We’re not rushing anything. And if we ever do decide to have another baby, it’ll be something we all talk about. No pressure. No timelines.”
His parents exchanged a glance—something unspoken passing between them—before his dad smiled.
“That’s all we needed to hear.”
His mum reached out, cupping Robby’s cheek the way she had when he was a kid. “We just want you happy. Truly happy.”
Robby leaned into her touch for a brief second, eyes closing.
“I am,” he said. And for once, the words didn’t feel like hope or promise.
From across the yard, Eli let out a shriek of delight as he smashed both hands into his cake, frosting flying everywhere. Y/N laughed, looking up—and her eyes met Robby’s.
And in that smile was every answer he didn’t need to say out loud.
By the time the last guest left and the backyard finally went quiet, the party looked like a small, joyful disaster zone.
Deflated balloons clung to the grass. Cake plates were stacked precariously in the sink. A lone plastic dinosaur lay on its side near the fence like it had fought bravely and lost.
Robby scooped Eli up from Y/N’s arms when his son’s eyelids started drooping in that unmistakable way—heavy blinks, head tipping forward, fingers curling into Robby’s shirt.
“Bedtime, buddy,” Robby murmured, kissing his temple. “You did great today.”
Eli hummed, already half gone.
“I’ve got him,” Robby said softly to Jack and Y/N. “Don’t start without me—but if I’m a while, you know why.”
Jack smiled. “Take your time.”
Robby disappeared down the hall, Eli’s head tucked under his chin, the soft sound of his voice fading as he talked to him the way he always did—like Eli was the only person in the world worth explaining things to.
The house felt different once we were alone.
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely, my gaze fixed on the dark hallway for a moment longer than necessary. Jack moved beside me, his presence a warm, solid comfort. He started on the dishes without being asked, the domesticity of it a familiar balm.
"He wore himself out," I said softly, my voice barely disturbing the quiet.
Jack nodded, his hands submerged in warm, soapy water. "Best kind of tired."
We worked in companionable silence for a minute—the gentle clink of plates, the running water—until Jack spoke again, careful not to shatter the fragile peace.
"Robby’s conversation earlier," he said. "With his parents."
My heart gave a little lurch. I glanced at him. "He told you?"
"He didn't have to," Jack replied, rinsing a plate. "I know his face."
A faint smile touched my lips. "They weren't wrong to ask."
"No," Jack agreed, his voice gentle. "And neither are you."
That got my full attention.
Jack turned the tap off, drying his hands slowly on a dishtowel. "Have you thought about it? Another baby?"
I didn't answer right away. My eyes dropped to the cool, smooth surface of the counter, then drifted back toward the hallway, toward the rooms where our son and the man we both loved were.
"Yes," I said finally, the admission feeling heavy and significant. "I think about it more than I admit."
Jack exhaled, a sound of deep relief. "Me too."
I studied his profile, the serious set of his jaw. "You're okay with that?"
"I'm okay with us," he said simply, turning to face me. "However that looks."
A new kind of silence settled between us—intentional, charged.
Then Jack lowered his voice, just slightly. "There's something else."
I raised a brow. "That sounds ominous."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "It's not. I promise. It's just… logistics. And care."
I tilted my head. "Go on."
Jack leaned back against the counter, his eyes thoughtful. "If we ever do this—if you decide you want to carry another baby—I don't want there to be any doubt in Robby's mind. Not even a whisper of old ghosts."
My breath caught, just a little. "Jack…"
"I know," he said quickly. "I know he's healed. But healing doesn't mean scars disappear."
I nodded slowly, my throat tight.
"So," Jack continued, choosing his words with the same care he used when handling our son, "if the next baby is Robby's biologically, we make sure of it. Quietly. No pressure. No grand announcement. Just… certainty."
My lips parted. "You mean—"
"I mean timing," Jack said gently. "Boundaries. I've already looked into it—there are fertility apps that track ovulation with near-perfect accuracy. We could use protection during your most fertile days when it's just us, and then plan a weekend with Robby during your peak window. No pressure, no performance anxiety, just… natural timing."
He paused, watching my face. "There are even ovulation predictor kits that are almost 99% accurate. We could use those to pinpoint the exact days. And if we wanted to be absolutely, absolutely certain, there's early DNA testing that can be done through a simple blood draw from you as early as ten weeks into the pregnancy. It's non-invasive, completely safe for the baby."
I stared at him, my mind reeling from the sheer detail, the meticulous planning. "You've really thought this through."
"I love him," Jack said simply, as if that explained everything. And it did. "And I love you. And I don't ever want him to look at his own child and wonder if the world cheated him again."
I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat.
"I wouldn't tell him," Jack added softly. "Not unless you wanted to. This wouldn't be a secret in the bad way. Just… a kindness."
I let out a slow breath, leaning back against the counter beside him, his shoulder a steady anchor. "You're trying to protect him from a pain he doesn't even know he's afraid of anymore."
From down the hall, Robby's voice drifted faintly—soft singing, barely more than a murmur. A lullaby he was making up on the spot for Eli. The sound wrapped around my heart.
I closed my eyes briefly, emotion tightening my chest. "If we do this," I said quietly, my voice thick with feeling, "it has to come from love. Not fear."
Jack looked at me, his gaze unwavering. "Always."
I opened my eyes and met his. "Then yes. We do it right. For him."
Jack smiled—not triumphant, not relieved. Just certain.
Down the hall, a door creaked softly as Robby finished tucking Eli in, unaware that in the quiet of our kitchen, the shape of his happiness was being guarded with both hands.
We never called it trying.
It started small. A shift in rhythm so subtle Robby didn’t notice it at first. Nights when Jack kissed my forehead instead of lingering. Moments when I gently redirected things with a smile and a squeeze of Robby’s hand—later, I’m tired, tomorrow.
Nothing that felt like rejection. Nothing that felt wrong.
Just a quiet narrowing of the window.
Robby chalked it up to exhaustion. To Eli’s sleep regressions. To the kind of domestic fatigue that came from being happy and busy and stretched thin in the best way.
In the background, Jack counted days.
marked dates on my phone with neutral little dots—nothing that looked like hope if someone glanced too closely. I learned my body in a new way. Listened harder. Noticed more. Jack never asked questions Robby could overhear. Never lingered too long in a doorway. If there was planning, it lived in glances and half-sentences and shared silences after Robby had gone to bed.
The first test was almost a joke.
I didn’t even tell Jack I was taking it. I stood barefoot in the bathroom early one morning, Eli still asleep, Robby snoring softly down the hall. I waited the required minutes, staring at the wall like wanting something too badly might scare it away.
I laughed under my breath. Shook my head. Of course.
I tossed it, washed my hands, went on with my day.
The second test hurt more.
That time I told Jack, holding it between us like something fragile and faintly embarrassing.
“It’s early,” he said immediately. Too quickly. Too careful.
“I know,” I replied. I always did.
We didn’t tell Robby. There was no reason to.
Nothing had happened yet.
Weeks passed. Then another month.
The tests began to pile up in the back of a drawer—white sticks with their single stubborn lines. I started taking them in silence, then sitting on the edge of the tub longer than necessary. Jack learned the sound of my breathing when I was disappointed. Learned when to speak and when to just sit beside me.
Robby noticed other things instead.
How Jack always volunteered to take Eli out on errands.
How I suddenly became meticulous about schedules, about routine, about timing.
How certain nights were gently, almost invisibly off-limits.
“You okay?” Robby asked once, his hand warm at the small of my back.
I smiled up at him, soft and real. “Just tired.”
He believed me. There was no reason not to.
By the fourth negative test, I cried.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just tears slipping down my face as Jack wrapped his arms around me in the quiet kitchen, the house dark and still.
“I hate that this hurts this much,” I whispered.
“It means you care,” Jack said. “That’s not a bad thing.”
“But what if it never happens?”
Jack rested his forehead against mine. “Then we will still have a family. But if it does—I want it to be clean. I want it to be his. Without doubt.”
I nodded, pressing my face into his shoulder. “I know.”
We were careful. So careful.
Jack stepped back when he needed to. I followed patterns I never explained. Robby remained blissfully unaware, wrapped up in fatherhood and work and the comfort of a life that no longer felt like it could disappear overnight.
Sometimes he would watch Jack and me exchange looks he didn’t quite understand—too long, too loaded—and I’d see the flicker of something in his eyes.
But it never felt like exclusion.
It felt like… protection.
And still, the tests stayed negative.
Until one morning, 2 months after Eli’s 4th birthday, I sat on the bathroom floor long after the timer went off—heart pounding, hands shaking—staring at something so faint I thought I was imagining it.
So faint I almost missed it.
I didn’t smile yet. Didn’t cry.
I just pressed my hand to my mouth and whispered, “Please.”
Not Jack. Not Robby. Not even the part of myself that wanted to scream it into the walls.
I folded the test into a square of toilet paper and tucked it into the back of the drawer like it might vanish if I looked at it too hard. For two full days I moved through the house in a haze—looking after Eli, answering emails, laughing at Robby’s jokes—while my heart beat just a little too fast in my chest.
On the third morning, I took another test.
I didn’t set a timer this time. Didn’t pace. Didn’t look away.
Two lines appeared almost instantly—dark, bold, impossible to mistake.
I sank down onto the bathroom floor and laughed, pressing my free hand to my stomach like I could already feel something there.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay.”
I waited through bloodwork that came back perfect. Through the careful hush of an early ultrasound room where the technician turned the screen just enough for me to see the small, undeniable proof.
I cried then—silent tears sliding into my hair as I stared at the screen, one hand over my mouth, the other curled protectively against my stomach.
I left the clinic with the ultrasound photos tucked safely into my bag, my fingers brushing them every few steps like a secret I couldn’t stop touching.
Instead of going home, I went shopping.
The baby section felt brighter than I remembered. Softer. Full of promise.
I found the shirt first—soft cotton with bold lettering:
I added a newborn onesie—neutral, simple, impossibly small—and a soft wrap I could already imagine around a sleepy, warm little body.
At home, I laid everything out on the bed. I wrapped the onesie carefully, tucking the ultrasound photo and the positive test inside like sacred artifacts. I folded the shirt and set it aside, my heart racing.
Then I waited for the right day.
The kind of day that felt meant to be.
Jack and Robby both left early the following morning—work calls, rushed coffee, quick kisses. I smiled like nothing in the world had changed.
As soon as the door shut, I pulled Eli into a hug, pressing my nose into his hair.
“You have no idea,” I murmured. “How much you’re about to be loved.”
I held up the shirt. “Can you help me with something?”
Eli nodded eagerly, already curious. I helped him pull it over his head, smoothing the fabric down once it was on.
World’s Best Big Brother.
Eli turned toward the mirror and squinted at the words, sounding them out the way he’d been learning to do. Then his face lit up.
“That’s me!” he announced proudly.
I laughed softly. “That’s right. It is.”
I set the wrapped bundle on the coffee table.
Straightened it three times.
Then gave up and sat on the couch with Eli curled against my chest., both of us watching the door like it might open any second.
When it finally did, Jack came in first—tired, jacket half-off, calling my name.
Eli ran toward him, arms up, wearing the shirt.
Slowly, he crouched. “Hey, buddy,” he said, his voice already breaking. His eyes lifted to mine. “What does your shirt say?”
I nodded, tears shining. “Read it.”
Robby walked in just in time to hear Jack whisper, stunned, “World’s Best Big Brother.”
Robby laughed reflexively. “Yeah, okay, that’s cute—”
The tears. The smile. The way I nodded once, firmly, like I was anchoring myself to this moment.
“There’s more,” I said softly, gesturing to the coffee table.
Robby crossed the room in three steps. His hands shook as he unwrapped the bundle.
Then he sank down onto the couch like his legs had given out, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob tearing out of his chest.
“That’s—” His voice broke. “That’s mine?”
I knelt in front of him, my hands on his knees.
Jack sat beside him, one arm instantly around his shoulders, steady and solid.
Robby looked at Eli, at Jack, at me—his family—then pressed his forehead into my shoulder, crying openly now.
“I get a happy ending,” he whispered, like he still didn’t quite believe it.
I wrapped my arms around him.
“You already had one,” I said softly. “We’re just adding to it.”
Eli chose that moment to climb into Robby’s lap, sticky hands and all, patting his face like everything was exactly as it should be.
The house eventually settled.
It took a while. Too much laughter, too many tears, Eli refusing to go to bed because the energy in the room had shifted into something bright and electric he didn’t want to miss. Jack finally volunteered to take over bedtime, gently shooing Robby away with a squeeze of his shoulder and a look that said go breathe.
He found himself in the nursery without remembering walking there. Y/N had insisted on leaving it and moving Eli into another room when he grew to big for the cot. Robby had wondered why but didn’t question it.
The room still smelled faintly like baby powder and laundry detergent. The nightlight cast a soft amber glow across the walls, catching on the framed photos—Eli asleep on Robby’s chest, Eli gripping Jack’s finger, Eli wrapped in a blanket Y/N’s grandmother had made.
Robby lowered himself into the rocking chair slowly, like he was afraid the moment might crack if he moved too fast.
The ultrasound photo sat in his hand.
He’d slipped it off the coffee table without thinking, fingers curling around it instinctively, like he needed proof this wasn’t something his heart had invented.
He didn’t know what he was looking at, not really. Blurry shapes. Grainy shadows. But he knew what it meant. He knew what that tiny flicker represented because he could still hear Y/N’s voice when she said yes. Could still feel Jack’s arm anchoring him to the couch when the world tilted into something impossibly good.
Robby traced the edge of the photo with his thumb.
“I didn’t think…” he murmured, voice barely there. He stopped, swallowing hard. “I didn’t think I’d get this.”
The rocking chair creaked softly as he leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Memories flickered through him—sharp, unwanted ghosts that used to live under his skin. The versions of himself that had learned to expect loss. To brace for it. To believe happiness always came with an expiration date.
But the house around him was quiet in that safe, settled way. The kind of quiet built from trust and routine and the soft hum of people sleeping in rooms down the hall.
He looked back at the ultrasound.
“Hey,” he whispered, feeling ridiculous and overwhelmed and completely sincere all at once. “I don’t know who you are yet.”
“But you’re already everything.”
He laughed under his breath, wiping quickly at his eyes. “You’ve got the best mum in the world. And Daddy Jack… he’s going to pretend he’s not going to spoil you, but he absolutely will. And Eli—” Robby’s face softened. “Eli is going to be the kind of big brother kids write stories about. Loud. Protective. Probably teaching you things he shouldn’t.”
His hand drifted unconsciously to his chest, pressing there like he was steadying something fragile and wild.
“I’m scared,” he admitted quietly. “Not of you. Never you. Just… of how much I already love you.”
The words hung in the air, raw and unguarded.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the photo like he could memorize it.
“I promise,” he said, voice stronger now. “You’re coming into a family that chose you before you even existed. That fought for every piece of this. You’re safe. You’re wanted. You’re ours.”
A soft sound came from the doorway.
Y/N stood there, leaning against the frame, barefoot and glowing in the dim light. She hadn’t meant to intrude—that much was obvious—but her eyes were glassy, her hand resting unconsciously over her stomach.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Robby shook his head immediately. “You didn’t.”
She crossed the room slowly, settling onto the arm of the chair beside him. He handed her the ultrasound without hesitation, their fingers brushing, grounding.
“You’re really okay?” she asked softly.
Robby looked at her for a long moment.
Then he smiled—soft, certain, steady in a way that felt new and ancient all at once.
“I’ve never been more okay in my life.”
Y/N leaned down, pressing her forehead to his.
Behind them, the house remained still. Safe. Full.
And for the first time, Robby wasn’t waiting for the happiness to end.
He was already planning how to hold onto it forever.
The house was quiet in that late-evening way that only happened after Eli had finally surrendered to sleep and Y/N had disappeared upstairs with a book she’d already admitted she probably wouldn’t finish.
I stepped onto the back patio, a cold beer in hand, and found Robby leaning against the railing, turning his own bottle slowly between his hands. The night air was cool, steady, grounding.
I settled beside him, offering my beer without a word. There was a rhythm to this silence, something that had grown between us over time—a careful respect that had slowly reshaped itself into family.
For a while, we just stood there.
“I keep waiting for something to go wrong,” Robby admitted suddenly.
I nodded. Not surprised. I’d been expecting it.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Me too.”
Robby huffed a small laugh. “That’s comforting.”
“It’s honest,” I corrected gently.
We drank in silence for a moment longer before he spoke again, voice softer now.
“When Eli was born…” His jaw flexed as he stared out into the yard. “I still hear the sirens sometimes. I still see the blood. I still see her not moving. I thought—”
“I thought I was going to lose both of them.”
I closed my eyes briefly. I’d remembered it just as clearly.
“I thought that too,” I admitted quietly.
Silence stretched between us, heavy with things neither of us liked remembering but both carried anyway.
“I’ve never told you this,” I continued slowly, tightening my fingers slightly around the neck of my beer. “But that night… you disappeared.”
I kept my eyes on the dark yard, giving him space instead of feeling cornered.
“I found you on the hospital roof,” I said softly. “You weren’t talking about losing them. Not really.”
“You were talking about how they didn’t need you,” I went on. “How Eli was my son. How Y/N loved both of us. How we were already a family… and you thought you were just someone standing in the background, waiting to be phased out.”
Robby looked away sharply, shame flashing across his face.
“You said they’d be okay if you stepped back,” I added gently. “That they might even be better off. That you didn’t want to be the thing that complicated their lives.”
The words hung between us like echoes neither of us had fully shaken.
“You talked me down,” he said hoarsely.
“I reminded you that you weren’t extra,” I said. “I reminded you that Y/N didn’t survive that crash just to build a life without you in it. And I told you that Eli was going to grow up knowing he had two dads whether biology said so or not.”
Robby pressed his lips together, eyes glassy now.
“I never want to have that conversation again,” I said quietly.
There was no anger in it. Just honesty. Just fear that had once sat like ice in my chest.
“Y/N and I agreed that when we were all ready to try for another baby…” I continued carefully, “we made sure this one would be yours biologically. Completely. No doubt creeping in later. No voice in your head telling you that you don’t belong in your own family.”
Robby blinked hard, trying to steady his breathing.
“You planned that?” he asked, voice rough around the edges.
I nodded. “Because I remember standing on that roof, watching you convince yourself you were optional. And I swore to myself I’d never let you feel like that again if I could help it.”
The night air felt impossibly still.
Robby stared down at his hands, bottle forgotten entirely now.
“You and Y/N protected me from something I didn’t even realize I was still carrying,” he said quietly.
“That’s what family does,” I replied simply.
A long silence followed—not empty, just full of things finally settling into place.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening in a way I hadn’t realized he’d been holding for years.
“You know what’s funny?” he said eventually, glancing sideways at me. “When she told me she was pregnant… it never crossed my mind to question anything. Not once.”
I smiled faintly. “Good.”
“I trust you,” he said simply. “Both of you. With everything.”
I looked away quickly, blinking once toward the yard lights.
“You’re already this kid’s dad too,” Robby added, nudging my shoulder lightly. “You realize that, right?”
I snorted softly. “I think I’ve been assigned emotional support chaos manager.”
“Exactly,” he said, grinning before his expression softened again. “You gave us Eli. You made sure I stayed when I almost walked away from something that was already mine. And now this… this feels like you making sure I never convince myself I don’t belong again.”
I lifted my beer, bumping it gently against his.
“You’ve always belonged,” I said.
The sliding door opened again, warm kitchen light spilling across the patio. Y/N stepped out, blanket wrapped loosely around her shoulders.
“You two being emotional without me?” she asked, amused.
“Never,” I said immediately.
Robby reached for her hand, pulling her gently between us, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“Just talking about how lucky we are,” he said.
Y/N smiled, resting her head briefly against his shoulder. “Good. Because you’re about to be even luckier.”
I groaned softly. “That sounded ominous.”
“First trimester fatigue is hitting,” she warned. “Which means one of you is making toast at 2 a.m. and I’m not accepting complaints.”
Robby laughed, pulling her closer. “Deal.”
I sighed dramatically. “I knew there was a catch.”
We stood there together under the quiet sky, shoulders brushing, hands linked, laughter soft and easy.
For the first time, none of us were looking over our shoulders at the past.
We were too busy building something ahead of us.
The shift had been almost laughably normal. That should have been my first warning sign.
I sat at the nurses’ station, one hand braced beneath the gentle curve of my belly while I reviewed patient notes. At twenty weeks, my bump was undeniable now—round, firm, stretching the fabric of my scrubs just enough that everyone had started hovering more than I liked. I’d gotten used to the constant reminders to sit, to drink water, to not lift things, to let someone else handle the heavy cases.
But I tolerated it… mostly because Jack and Robby had turned it into a silent competition of who could be the most overbearing without me snapping at them.
Eli played happily in the daycare just down the street. Life—somehow, impossibly—had settled into something resembling stability.
Which meant, of course, it couldn’t last.
A deep, sharp tug low in my abdomen made me inhale sharply and freeze mid-sentence while charting. My hand tightened instinctively over my belly.
“Y/N?” Dana’s voice floated from across the station, sharp with concern. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said too quickly. I shifted in my chair, trying to stretch out whatever muscle had seized. “Just… ligament pain. Probably stood too fast.”
Dana watched me for another long second, clearly unconvinced, before nodding slowly.
I tried to ignore the lingering ache.
I managed almost twenty minutes.
Then warmth spread between my legs.
Not a trickle. Not sweat. Something heavier. Wrong.
My breath hitched. I pushed back from the desk, heart immediately hammering as instinct took over. Years of medical training collided violently with the cold spike of maternal terror clawing up my spine.
Please don’t be blood. Please don’t be—
“Jack,” I called, voice breaking despite my effort to stay calm.
He was already turning, something in my tone snapping his attention toward me like a live wire.
“I…” My hand pressed harder into my abdomen. Another sharp rip of pain tore through me and I gasped, folding slightly. “I think something’s wrong.”
Jack was at my side before the last word left my mouth. Robby followed a heartbeat later, his expression shifting from casual concern to sheer panic as he noticed the way I was trembling.
The damp stain darkening the inside of my scrub pants.
Everything inside him went cold.
“We need a gurney,” he said, voice low and terrifyingly steady as he slid an arm around my shoulders. “Now.”
“I’m probably overreacting,” I whispered, already shaking, already knowing I wasn’t.
Robby grabbed a wheelchair without being asked. The metal clattered loudly as he shoved it toward us, hands unsteady.
“Sit,” he said, voice cracking. “Please, Y/N. Just sit.”
The ride down the corridor felt too long, too loud, too full of eyes.
Jack never stopped talking—quiet reassurances pressed into my hair as he crouched over the chair, one hand gripping mine like I might vanish if he loosened his hold.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “We’ve got you. You’re okay.”
Behind us, Robby was pushing too fast, his breaths ragged. I could feel the tension radiating from him, the same dark panic I’d seen in his eyes that night at the hospital. The smell of antiseptic, the echo of rolling wheels, the flashing overhead lights—it all blurred together, each sensation magnifying my own fear.
Not again. Not me. Not the baby.
We burst into an empty bay like a storm.
Hands took over. Voices layered on top of each other. Someone asked questions, someone else guided the wheelchair behind the curtain.
I felt Jack’s fingers slip from mine as they transferred me onto the bed, and a hollow ache hit my chest.
I hated how quickly I disappeared behind the drawn curtain.
I hated that Jack and Robby couldn’t follow.
Dana found them pacing ten minutes later.
Jack’s hands were buried in his hair, his shoulders locked rigid as he stared holes into the closed curtain. Robby was moving in tight, restless circles like a caged animal, his knuckles white where they kept clenching and unclenching.
“She’s in the best possible place,” Dana said gently, stepping between them like a grounding force. “OB and trauma are both with her. They’re assessing the bleeding and checking the baby.”
“Bleeding and checking the baby,” Robby repeated hollowly, like the words didn’t translate properly in his brain.
Jack swallowed hard. “What could cause this?”
Dana hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Sometimes scar tissue from previous C-sections can tighten as the uterus grows. If it stretches too far…” She exhaled. “It can tear. It doesn’t always mean the worst, but it is serious.”
Robby’s face drained of colour completely.
Before either man could respond, a voice cut through the tension like a knife.
“Well, this is dramatic.”
Frank Langdon leaned casually against the nurses’ station, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his mouth as his gaze flicked between them.
“Tell me,” he continued, tone dripping with false curiosity, “have you two actually figured out who the father is this time? Or are we still playing happy little patchwork family for appearances?”
Silence detonated across the hallway.
Jack’s head snapped up slowly, eyes darkening in a way that made Dana’s stomach drop. Robby froze mid-step, something violent and fragile cracking open behind his ribs all at once.
“Frank,” Dana warned quietly.
“Just saying,” he shrugged. “Must be confusing for the kids, growing up with three parents pretending everything’s—”
Dana barely caught his arm before he could cross the distance and swing. His entire body trembled with barely contained rage, breath coming in sharp bursts as he stared Frank down like he was seconds from breaking him apart.
“Say. One more word,” Robby ground out.
Frank scoffed, though there was a flicker of uncertainty now.
Jack stepped forward then, placing himself between them — not to protect Frank, but to anchor Robby before he detonated completely. His voice dropped dangerously low.
“You don’t get to speak about her,” Jack said. “You don’t get to speak about our kids. And you sure as hell don’t get to stand here while she’s fighting for our baby and turn it into gossip.”
The hallway had gone deathly quiet.
Frank opened his mouth, clearly debating whether his ego was worth the risk.
Dana didn’t give him the chance.
“Go home, Langdon,” she snapped. “Now. Before HR becomes the least of your problems.”
He rolled his eyes but retreated, muttering under his breath as he disappeared around the corner.
Robby sagged slightly once he was gone, hands shaking uncontrollably. Jack didn’t move away this time. He rested a steady hand against Robby’s shoulder — grounding, familiar, unspoken forgiveness layered in the simple contact.
“She’s going to be okay,” Jack said quietly, though the fear in his eyes betrayed how desperately he needed it to be true.
Robby nodded once, swallowing hard.
Behind the curtain, monitors beeped steadily.
And all they could do was wait.
Time stopped meaning anything.
Jack had memorised the crack in the floor tile near the curtain. Robby had counted the ceiling panels twice, then given up when his vision blurred too badly to keep track. Neither of them spoke. Not really. Every sound from behind the curtain made Jack’s pulse spike; every muffled voice sent Robby’s thoughts spiralling back toward that roof, that night, that certainty that he didn’t belong anywhere.
Then the curtain shifted.
Both of them snapped to attention.
The doctor stepped out — mid-40s, calm, practiced, the kind of person who had learned how to deliver terrifying news without letting it show on their face. Her expression wasn’t grim, but it wasn’t light either.
“Jack,” she said, eyes flicking to Robby. “And…?”
“Robby,” he supplied quickly.
She nodded. “I’m Dr. Keller. I’m overseeing her care.”
Jack’s throat tightened. “Is she—?”
“She’s stable,” Dr. Keller said immediately, cutting him off with gentle firmness. “The baby has a strong heartbeat.”
Robby exhaled so hard it felt like his lungs collapsed inward. His knees almost buckled. Jack reached out without thinking, gripping his forearm just enough to keep him upright.
“But,” the doctor continued, and the word landed heavy between them, “we did identify the cause of the bleeding.”
They both leaned in instinctively, bracing.
“She has a uterine wall tear along the previous C-section scar,” Dr. Keller explained. “As her uterus expanded, the scar tissue didn’t stretch the way it should have. It partially separated, causing internal tearing and a slow bleed. There was also a small amniotic fluid leak.”
Jack’s face went pale. “Is… is that—”
“It’s serious,” she said plainly, “but it’s not catastrophic.”
Robby swallowed hard. “What does that mean?”
“It means we caught it in time,” Dr. Keller said. “Right now, the tear is small enough that we can repair it.”
Jack stiffened. “Repair it how?”
“Surgically,” she replied. “We’ll take her to the OR shortly. I’ll place reinforcing stitches along the tear to support the uterine wall and reduce the risk of further separation.”
Robby’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “She’s going to be okay?”
“Yes,” Dr. Keller said, meeting his eyes steadily. “We expect her to recover well from the procedure.”
Jack closed his eyes briefly, relief crashing through him so hard it made him dizzy.
“But,” the doctor added again — and this but felt heavier — “the remainder of this pregnancy will be considered high risk.”
Jack opened his eyes. “How high?”
“Very,” she said honestly. “She’ll be on strict bed rest for the rest of the pregnancy. No work. Minimal movement. No lifting. We’re talking bathroom privileges and brief seated showers only. She’ll require frequent monitoring, regular ultrasounds, and there’s still a risk of preterm labor.”
“No work?” Jack echoed quietly.
Dr. Keller nodded. “Not a single shift.”
Robby’s jaw tightened, emotions colliding — fear, guilt, an overwhelming sense of here we go again. “She’s not going to take that well.”
The doctor allowed herself a small, knowing smile. “I’ve already gathered that.”
Jack huffed out a breath that was half a laugh, half a broken sound. “That’s… yeah. That tracks.”
“She’s asking for you,” Dr. Keller continued. “Before we take her back. She’s awake, alert, and aware of what’s happening.”
Robby’s head snapped up. “Can we see her?”
“Yes,” the doctor said. “Just for a few minutes.”
She paused, then added gently, “She’s scared. She’s trying very hard not to show it.”
Jack’s chest tightened painfully.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Dr. Keller nodded and stepped away, leaving them standing there in the aftermath.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Robby pressed both hands into his face, shoulders shaking as the reality finally hit him — not the terror anymore, but the relief. The almost. The narrow escape.
“I thought…” His voice broke. “I thought we were going to lose them. Again.”
Jack stepped closer, resting his forehead briefly against Robby’s temple. “We didn’t,” he said firmly. “She’s still here. The baby’s still here.”
Robby swallowed hard. “I can’t do that again, Jack. I can’t stand in another hallway and—”
“You won’t,” Jack interrupted, gripping his shoulder. “Because we’re doing this together. Every appointment. Every rough day. Every stubborn argument about bed rest.”
A weak, shaky breath escaped Robby. “She’s going to hate bed rest.”
Jack let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. “Oh, she’s going to be furious.”
“But,” Jack added softly, “she’s alive. And so is our kid.”
Robby nodded once, wiping his eyes roughly.
“Let’s go see her,” Jack said.
And for the first time since the blood, the panic, the snide comment, Robby believed — just a little — that maybe this family could survive this too.
The room was dim when they stepped in.
Machines hummed quietly at my bedside, monitors casting a soft glow over my face. I felt small in the hospital bed, hair pulled back messily, color drained, but my eyes stayed sharp—too sharp, like sheer will was holding me together.
The moment the door opened, I looked up.
“There you are,” I said, voice steadier than I felt.
Jack crossed the room first, taking my hand carefully, like he thought I might break if he moved too fast. “Hey,” he murmured. “We’re right here.”
Robby lingered for half a second longer—just long enough for doubt to flicker—before I reached out with my free hand, curling my fingers around his wrist and tugging him closer.
“Don’t stand over there,” I said quietly. “Come here.”
He moved instantly, leaning in until his forehead rested against mine.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You don’t get to apologize,” Robby said, voice rough. “Not ever. Not for this.”
Jack brushed his thumb over my knuckles. “Doctor filled us in,” he said gently. “Surgery, bed rest, the whole… situation.”
I couldn’t help a twitch at the word bed rest. “I heard ‘bed rest’ and immediately thought about how much I’m going to hate everyone.”
Robby huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if it wasn’t so close to breaking. “Yeah. That sounds like you.”
I squeezed his wrist slightly, grounding myself—and grounding him.
“Before they take me,” I said softly, eyes flicking between the two of them, “there’s something I need to tell you.”
Jack’s heart skipped. “Okay.”
Robby straightened just a fraction. “You’re doing that voice.”
I smiled faintly. “I know.”
My hand drifted down to my belly, protective even now.
“We had the anatomy scan last week,” I continued. “I didn’t want to tell you yet because… I don’t know. I wanted to make a big thing out of it.”
Robby’s chest tightened. “Tell us what?”
I looked up at him—really looked—my eyes shining despite the fear sitting behind them.
The words fell softly, gently, like something precious I was placing between us.
Jack blinked. “A… a girl?”
I nodded. “She’s perfect. Everything measured exactly where it should. She’s stubborn already. Wouldn’t stop moving long enough for the tech to get clear images.”
Robby let out a broken sound, half laugh, half sob. He pressed his forehead to my shoulder, breathing me in like he needed proof I was still here.
“A little girl,” he whispered, awe threading through his voice. “We’re having a daughter.”
Jack’s throat closed. “Guess the universe decided Eli needed someone to protect.”
I smiled, letting a little laugh escape. “World’s best big brother, remember?”
Robby lifted his head, eyes wet but glowing now. “I don’t care what happens next,” he said quietly. “Bed rest, stitches, rules, schedules. I don’t care. I just need you to come back from this.”
“I will,” I promised, cupping his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Jack leaned in, resting his forehead against mine from the other side. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“I know,” I whispered. “But she’s strong. And so am I.”
The door creaked open softly.
Perlah paused just inside. “They’re ready for you.”
I tightened my fingers around both of theirs, holding on to everything I could.
“Hey,” Jack said gently. “We’ll be right here when you wake up.”
Robby pressed a kiss to my hair, lingering longer than necessary. “Come back to us,” he murmured. “Both of you.”
I smiled up at him—soft, fearless, full of trust.
And as they wheeled me away, I let myself feel it—the fear, the love, the promise. My little girl was already fighting to join our family.
The doors swung shut behind me with a soft, final sound.
Robby stood there long after they closed, staring at the blank stretch of hallway like if he stayed still enough, she might come back through them. Jack didn’t rush him. Didn’t touch him yet. Just stood close — close enough to catch him if he tipped too far into his own head.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time dissolved into the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant echo of carts rolling by.
“She said she’d be fine,” Jack murmured eventually.
Robby nodded, but the motion was automatic. Meaningless.
“This is different,” Robby said quietly. “When Eli was born, everything happened so fast. There wasn’t time to think. This…” He swallowed. “This feels like waiting to see if the universe takes something from me again.”
Jack leaned against the wall, arms folded loosely. “You didn’t lose them then.”
“No,” Robby agreed. “But I learned how close it can get.”
Jack glanced at him. “You’re still here. So is she. So is your daughter.”
Robby flinched at the word — not from pain, but from how right it felt.
“My daughter,” he echoed softly.
The waiting room emptied and refilled around them. Dana checked in once, squeezed Robby’s shoulder, murmured something reassuring. Princess brought bad coffee they didn’t drink. Robby stared at the clock like it had personally betrayed him.
When the surgeon finally appeared, Robby was on his feet before Jack even registered movement.
“She’s out of surgery,” Dr. Keller said. “The repair went well. The tear is reinforced, bleeding controlled. She’s in recovery now.”
Robby’s breath left him in a rush so sudden it made him dizzy. He had to sit. Jack dropped beside him immediately, one hand bracing his knee.
“Can we see her?” Robby asked.
“In a few minutes,” the doctor replied. “She’s groggy, but stable. The baby’s heart rate never wavered.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Thank you.”
When they finally led Robby back alone — Jack insisting, quietly, that he go first — the room felt unreal. Too quiet. Too fragile.
She was pale, lashes resting against her cheeks, chest rising and falling steadily. IV lines traced her arms. Machines blinked and beeped, indifferent to the way Robby’s heart cracked open at the sight of her.
He pulled a chair close, sitting carefully, like any sudden movement might undo the stitches holding their world together.
“Hey,” he whispered. “It’s me.”
Her brow twitched faintly, but she didn’t wake.
Robby’s hand hovered for a moment before settling gently on her belly — protective, reverent. Like he was afraid to claim the space, even now.
“You scared me,” he murmured softly. “Both of you did.”
His thumb brushed a slow, soothing circle through the thin hospital blanket.
“I know I’m not supposed to stress you out,” he went on quietly, voice thick, “but I need you to know something anyway.”
He leaned closer, resting his forehead near her side, breath warm against the fabric.
“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere. Not like I almost did before. Not ever again.”
His voice wavered, but he didn’t stop.
“You don’t have to be brave all the time,” he said to the small life beneath his hand. “I’ll do that part. I’ll do the scary stuff. I promise.”
“And if the world ever makes you feel like you don’t belong…” His fingers pressed just a little firmer, grounding himself. “You come find me. Because you are wanted. You are loved. You are ours.”
A soft sound escaped her lips — barely there, but enough.
Her eyes fluttered open slowly.
“There you are,” she murmured weakly.
Robby startled, then laughed under his breath, tears spilling freely now. “Hi,” he said. “Welcome back.”
She shifted slightly, wincing, but smiling all the same. “You talking to her?”
He nodded, brushing his knuckles gently over her belly. “May have promised her the world.”
She exhaled softly. “Good. She’s going to hold you to it.”
Robby leaned in, pressing a careful kiss to her forehead. “I’m okay with that.”
Outside, the world kept moving — alarms, charts, schedules — but in that small room, with his hand over his daughter and his heart finally steady, Robby knew one thing with absolute certainty:
The house changed shape around her recovery.
Furniture shifted. Pillows multiplied. A bell appeared on the bedside table — courtesy of Jack, who claimed it was “practical,” and Robby, who used it exactly once before confiscating it because she would not stop ringing it for snacks she could reach herself.
Bed rest turned the master bedroom into mission control.
Robby learned the rhythm of it faster than anyone expected. Morning meds. Water refills. Ice chips at exactly the right size. The way she needed three pillows under her left side but only two under her right. He tracked her appointments on a colour-coded calendar stuck to the fridge and walked Eli to daycare with the same solemn seriousness he used to reserve for trauma calls.
Eli adapted in his own way.
He brought her books and stacked them on her stomach like offerings. Pressed his ear to her belly and announced, very seriously, that “baby sister is sleeping.” Declared himself Head Blanket Manager and took the job far too seriously.
“You’re doing great,” Jack told Robby one afternoon, watching him move through the room with quiet efficiency.
Robby shrugged, adjusting the tray table. “I almost lost her once. I’m not messing this part up.”
She reached for his hand, squeezing gently. “You’re allowed to breathe too.”
He smiled at her, soft and unguarded. “I am. Right now.”
Nights were the hardest — and somehow the sweetest.
Eli asleep between them on movie nights. Jack half-dozing in the armchair with paperwork he pretended he’d finish. Robby stretched out on the floor beside the bed sometimes, one hand resting over her belly, the other tucked around Eli’s foot when the nightmares crept in.
He talked to their daughter constantly.
About how her brother was already her fiercest protector. About how her mom was the bravest person he knew. About how she was wanted so badly the universe tried to scare them — and failed.
Sometimes she’d kick, sharp and insistent.
“That’s her,” he’d murmur, grinning. “That’s my girl.”
One afternoon, months later, as sunlight spilled through the curtains, Jack found Robby asleep with his head against her side, Eli curled into his chest, one arm draped protectively over her belly.
He stood there for a long moment, chest tight with something dangerously close to peace.
Because this — the quiet chaos, the laughter, the careful routines, the fear replaced by belonging — was the happy ending Robby never thought he was allowed to have.
Not empty—never empty—but steady. Monitors hummed softly. Morning light filtered through the blinds, warming the pale walls. Everything moved at an unhurried pace, as if the world had decided to be gentle for once.
Y/N lay propped against pillows, breathing evenly, one hand clasped in mine, the other resting in Jack’s. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. My thumb traced slow, grounding circles over her hand, trying to transfer everything I felt—love, calm, fear, hope—through skin.
Jack was on her other side, calm and solid, murmuring encouragements in a voice that never wavered.
“You’re doing perfect,” he said quietly. “Exactly what you need to be doing.”
Y/N huffed a soft laugh between breaths. “You sound like you’re coaching a marathon.”
Jack smiled. “You’re crushing it.”
I leaned in, pressing my forehead gently to hers. “We’re right here,” I whispered. “Both of us. You’re not doing this alone.”
She met my gaze, eyes steady, full of trust. “I know.”
Labor unfolded the way it was supposed to—slowly, deliberately, without panic. No alarms. No rush. Just breathing, reassurance, and time passing in gentle increments.
When the nurse announced it was time, Jack adjusted her pillows without being asked, helping her sit just right. I stayed anchored at her side, voice low and constant, counting breaths, reminding her when to push and when to rest.
“That’s it,” I murmured. “You’ve got her. Just like that.”
Jack squeezed her hand. “One more. You’re so close.”
And then—a soft cry filled the room.
The doctor smiled. “You have a daughter.”
The nurse placed her carefully against Y/N’s chest, small and warm, impossibly real.
“Oh,” Y/N breathed, tears spilling freely now. “Hi, baby.”
My knees threatened to give out. Jack’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying me without comment, without fanfare.
“She’s beautiful,” Jack said, voice thick but steady.
I nodded, unable to speak, eyes locked on the tiny human curled against Y/N’s heart.
“Come here,” she whispered, reaching for me. “Come meet her.”
I leaned in slowly, reverently, one hand braced on the bed, the other hovering until Jack gently guided it forward.
“She’s yours,” Jack said quietly. “She’s been waiting.”
My finger brushed her tiny hand.
She curled her fingers around it.
The sound that tore from my chest wasn’t restrained—it wasn’t meant to be. I laughed and cried at the same time, forehead dropping to Y/N’s shoulder as Jack rested a steady hand between my shoulder blades.
“Hi,” I whispered shakily. “I’m your dad.”
Jack leaned in too, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Y/N’s head, then to my temple.
“You did it,” Jack murmured. “All of you.”
And in that moment, all I could do was breathe her in, memorize every detail, and silently promise her—my daughter, my Eliana—that I would always be here, right where I belonged.
Later, when the room had settled again and the world had gone quiet around them, Robby sat in the chair with his daughter against his chest, her weight grounding and warm.
Jack adjusted the blanket around both of them, careful and deliberate, like this mattered — because it did.
Eli stood nearby, solemn and proud in his World’s Best Big Brother shirt, watching with wide eyes.
Robby looked up at Jack, gratitude written openly across his face.
“We’re really a family,” he said softly.
Jack smiled, something deep and peaceful in his eyes. “We always were.”
And this time — there were no sirens, no fear, no bargains made with the universe.
Just love, held gently, and finally allowed to stay.
The house was different with her in it.
Quieter somehow—even with the soft newborn sounds and the shuffle of feet at all hours. The air felt fuller. Warmer. Like something had settled into place that had always been meant to be there.
We brought her home in the late afternoon.
Eli insisted on carrying the diaper bag. Jack carried too many things at once. Y/N moved slowly but steady, one hand always brushing the carrier as if she needed constant proof.
And me… I carried Eliana.
I didn’t let go until we were inside the nursery.
The room was painted a soft cream, sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains. A wooden crib sat beneath the window, a small mobile turning lazily overhead. The air smelled faintly of baby lotion and fresh cotton.
Y/N had fallen asleep within the hour, exhaustion finally claiming her. Jack lay beside her, one protective arm draped over her waist.
Eli had given his sister a very serious goodnight kiss and announced he would “guard the hallway.”
And for the first time since we’d brought her home, I was alone with my daughter.
I sat in the rocking chair, her tiny body curled against my chest, her head tucked perfectly beneath my chin like she’d always known that spot was hers.
“Eliana,” I whispered, testing the name again.
She stirred, eyes fluttering open just for a moment.
Brown. Soft. Wide and curious—the same warm, doe-like eyes I’d spent my life seeing reflected back at me in mirrors and windows.
“Oh,” I whispered, voice breaking. “There you are.”
She blinked slowly, unfazed, already drifting back toward sleep, but the truth had landed and there was no unseeing it.
“My God has answered,” I murmured. “You know that?”
I rocked her gently, slow and steady, the chair creaking softly in rhythm.
“I didn’t think I was the kind of person who got answers,” I admitted quietly. “For a long time, I thought I was the kind of person who lost things.”
My thumb brushed over her impossibly small hand. She flexed her fingers, catching on the fabric of my shirt.
“I almost walked away from this life once,” I confessed, voice low but steady. “I stood on a roof and convinced myself everyone would be better without me.”
I swallowed, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.
The room felt sacred in its stillness.
“Your mom fought for me, your Daddy Jack fought for me too” I continued. “Your brother needed me. And your dad—” I let out a soft breath of laughter at the word, still amazed by it “—your dad learned that staying is braver than leaving.”
I shifted her slightly, just enough to see her face again. Her lashes were dark against her cheeks now, eyes closed—eyes I already knew would one day look back at me with questions, laughter, trust.
“You are not an accident,” I told her. “You are not a question mark. You are not something we’re pretending about.”
My voice grew softer, steadier—certain.
“You are wanted. You are chosen. You are the answer to every fear I ever had about whether I belonged somewhere.”
Eliana made a small sound, her hand curling tighter against me.
I smiled through the tears I didn’t bother wiping away.
“I don’t know what kind of world you’ll grow up in,” I whispered. “But I know this—you will never doubt that you are loved. Not for a second. Not on my watch.”
I leaned back in the chair, holding her close, memorizing the weight of her.
“I’ll stay,” I promised her softly. “Every time it’s hard. Every time it’s scary. I will stay.”
The nursery door creaked open just slightly.
Jack stood there quietly, watching. Not interrupting. Just witnessing.
I met his eyes, and for once there was no fear there. No doubt. No fragile edge threatening to tip me backward.
I looked back down at my daughter.
“Eliana,” I whispered again.
Outside, the house settled into night. Eli’s soft footsteps padded down the hallway before stopping outside the nursery like a tiny, determined guard. Y/N shifted in her sleep.
And in the rocking chair, wrapped in lamplight and love, I held the answer to a prayer I’d never dared to say aloud—and saw myself reflected back in her eyes—and knew, finally, that I was exactly where I was meant to be.
@fertilise-me @piccasoe @neonpurplestars89-blog @elliott-calls @shadowkl10
