caught between a lifelong obsession and the harsh reality of his reputation, you have to decide if one night with jackie jackson is worth the risk of sharing him with the rest of the world.
one, two, three
the obsession started the exact moment rebbie brought you through the front door of the hayvenhurst house. you were supposed to be rebbie’s friend, just a girl from the neighborhood hanging around, but your eyes never really stayed on her. they were always tracking the oldest jackson brother and his were always tracking yours.
you were just a little bit younger than jackie, right in that sweet spot where you were old enough to know exactly how fine he was, but young enough that daddy would kill you for having a boyfriend.
back then, you made it your mission to ensure he couldn’t ignore you entirely. what’s wrong with a little shameless flirting?
you practically lived at their house during the summers, lounging around their pool in a tiny, bright bikinis that did a terrible job of keeping you covered.
you’d catch him staring from the balcony or the edge of the patio, his jaw slightly tight before he’d shake his head and flash that smooth, blinding smile.
you got along with everyone—the brothers thought you were cool, mrs. jackson loved your manners, and the whole family took a massive liking to you.
then, everyone grew up. the brothers went on major tours, conquering the world, and you went off and built a life of your own. a career. the years flipped by, stretching the distance between those hot summer pool days and the present.
that is until, the jacksons had just gotten back from a massive tour, and jackie stopped by rebbie’s place to drop off a package. you happened to be sitting on rebbie’s living room couch, sipping tea. when the front door opened and he walked in, time just stopped.
he wasn't looking at a teenage girl in a skimpy swimsuit anymore. he was looking at a woman—curves fully formed, carrying herself with an effortless, breathtaking confidence. this was grown woman fine. and for you, seeing him was a physical ache. he was gorgeous, sculpted to absolute perfection, with that same magnetic energy that used to make your knees weak when you were sixteen.
the shift in the room was instant. jackie’s eyes locked onto yours, his usual smooth talk completely deserting him for a solid five seconds. he barely said two words to rebbie before he was completely focused on you, his voice deep and honey-slow as he asked how you’d been.
according to rebbie, the moment jackie left the house that night, he vowed he was going to have you.
by noon the next day, the campaign began. a massive arrangement of deep red roses arrived at your apartment, followed by a sleek silver box containing an elegant silk scarf. attached was a neat, handwritten card:
just one night, the two of us. xo, jackie
you traced the ink of his signature, your heart doing a violent flip against your ribs. the teenage version of you would have fainted on the spot. the current version of you wanted nothing more than to say yes, to feel his frame pressed against yours, to finally have the man you’d spent years dreaming about.
but you weren't a teenager anymore, and you knew the rules of the game.
jackie jackson was a notorious ladies' man. he was charming, brilliant, and possessed a smile that could manipulate the weather, let alone a woman's heart. he had women throwing themselves at him in every city across the globe. he was used to getting exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it, and you knew that "just one night" with a man like him would ruin you for anyone else forever.
you couldn't do casual with him. your love ran too deep, too native to who you were. if you couldn't have every single piece of him—his loyalty, his quiet moments, his exclusive attention, and his whole heart—then you didn't want him at all. hiding him from other women or sharing him with the world wasn't an option.
picking up the phone, you dialed the number left on the card. it rang twice before his smooth, velvety voice answered.
"hello?"
"the flowers are beautiful, jack," you said softly, leaning back against your kitchen counter, "but a ladies' man only gets to look.“
and with that, you hung up the phone before he could respond, leaving jackie completely stunned on the other end. he wanted you, bad. and he was going to get you.
the way white/non black people people write parker is so ….
first her hairstyle is called locs.
second, i thought we established that we don’t compare people’s skin tones to food? also, if she’s just mentioned in passing why need to mention her race at all? we all know parker is black you don’t need to write ‘and this strong BLACK doctor came to help me’ (yes, this is something i’ve read). there are so many other ways to describe her (hair, tattoos, personality, SKIN TONE, etc.) it’s ONLY with her, none of the other doctors (poc or not) are described like that.
lastly, i’m convinced none of them know how black people talk. why is this DOCTOR calling patients she just met ‘ma’ or ‘mamas’… just because you have a one track mind on how you think black people talk, doesn’t mean it has to show up in your fanfics.
Summary: Following the shooting, your life is left changed in ways you can barely comprehend, but Parker is there for you through it all.
Word Count: 7.38k
Warnings: no use of Y/N, mentions of blood, and a g*nshot wound are mentioned, mentions of PTSD,
Masterlist
Part one: Here
The first thing you notice is the beeping.
Steady. Rhythmic. Insistent.
It drags you up from the dark like a hook in your chest, pulling you toward consciousness whether you want it or not.
You don't want it.
The dark was easier. Quieter. Painless.
But the beeping won't stop, and neither will the voices murmuring somewhere beyond the fog in your head. Your eyelids feel like they've been glued shut. It takes three tries before you manage to crack them open, and when you do, the light is immediate and brutal.
You flinch.
"Hey, hey, easy."
Parker's voice.
Close.
You turn your head, or try to. Everything feels sluggish, like you're moving underwater. Your mouth tastes like copper and something chemical. Your throat is raw.
"Don't try to talk yet," Parker says, and now you can see her.
She's sitting in a chair pulled up beside your bed, still in her scrubs. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun that's half-collapsed on one side. There are shadows under her eyes so dark they look like bruises.
She looks like she hasn't slept in days.
Maybe she hasn't.
You blink at her, trying to make sense of where you are.
Hospital room. ICU, probably, based on the equipment crowding the space around your bed. Monitors stacked on a rolling cart. IV pole with multiple bags hanging. A ventilator in the corner, mercifully unused. The walls are that particular shade of pale green that only exists in hospitals, and the fluorescent lights overhead hum faintly.
Your left arm has an IV line taped down. Your right has a pulse ox clipped to your finger.
There's something in your nose.
Oxygen, you realize distantly. Nasal cannula.
You try to take stock of your body, but everything below your chest feels... distant. Muffled. Like it's wrapped in layers of cotton.
"You're okay," Parker says, and her voice cracks just slightly on the second word. She catches it, clears her throat. "You're okay. You're out of surgery. You're in the ICU."
Surgery.
The word lands like a stone in your chest.
You remember the gunshot. The sidewalk. Ms. Gunder's hands pressing down on your leg. The ambulance. The trauma bay.
Parker's face when she saw you.
You try to speak, but what comes out is a rasp that doesn't sound like your voice at all.
Parker reaches for the cup of water on the bedside table, angles the straw toward your mouth.
"Small sips," she says.
You obey.
The water is lukewarm and tastes faintly of plastic, but it soothes the rawness in your throat enough that when you try again, actual words come out.
"How long?"
"Eighteen hours since you went into the OR," Parker says. She sets the cup down carefully, like she's afraid her hands might shake if she's not deliberate about it. "You've been in recovery for about six hours. They brought you up here around four this morning."
You blink at her.
Eighteen hours.
"What time is it now?"
"Just past ten."
Morning, then.
You try to do the math, but your brain feels like it's been stuffed with gauze.
"The surgery," you manage. "Did it?"
"It went well," Parker says quickly. Too quickly. "You're stable. Your vitals are good. You're..." She stops. Swallows. "You're okay."
There's something in her voice that doesn't match the words.
Something careful.
Something scared.
You look at her more closely.
Her eyes are red-rimmed. Her hands are folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white.
"Parker," you say slowly. "What happened?"
"You were shot," she says, like you might have forgotten. "The bullet went through your femoral region. It missed the artery, which is the only reason you didn't bleed out on the street, but it damaged a lot of surrounding tissue. Veins, muscles, nerves. When they got you into the OR, they tried to repair what they could, but."
She stops again.
You wait.
The beeping continues, steady and indifferent.
"There were complications," Parker says finally. "Vascular damage was more extensive than they initially thought. They did everything they could to restore blood flow, but some of the tissue had already started to necrose. And there was a high risk of infection spreading if they didn't."
She cuts herself off, jaw tightening.
You stare at her.
Something cold is starting to creep up your spine.
"Didn't what?" you ask.
Parker closes her eyes.
When she opens them again, they're wet.
"They had to amputate," she says, and her voice breaks on the last word. "Above the knee. Your left leg. I'm so sorry."
The words don't make sense at first.
They're just sounds. Syllables strung together in an order that your brain refuses to process.
Amputate.
Above the knee.
Your left leg.
You look down.
The blanket is pulled up to your waist, but even through the thin fabric, you can see the shape of your body beneath it.
Two legs.
Except.
Except the left one is shorter.
Stops where it shouldn't.
Ends halfway down the bed in a bulk of bandages that your mind can't reconcile with the concept of your own body.
"No," you hear yourself say.
Parker leans forward, reaching for your hand.
You pull it away.
"No," you say again, louder this time. "No, that's not."
You try to sit up.
Pain explodes through your left side so violently that you cry out, and Parker is on her feet immediately, hands hovering over you like she wants to touch you but doesn't know where.
"Don't move," she says urgently. "You can't. You just had major surgery; you need to stay still."
"Let me see it."
"You need to."
"Let me see it!"
Your voice cracks, raw and desperate.
Parker stares at you for a long moment, and then, slowly, she reaches for the edge of the blanket.
"Are you sure?" she asks quietly.
You're not.
You're not sure of anything.
But you nod anyway.
Parker pulls the blanket back.
Your right leg is there, whole and familiar, an IV line taped into the top of your foot.
Your left leg is there too.
Until it isn't.
It ends just above where your knee should be, wrapped in layers of white gauze and surgical dressing. There's a drain tube snaking out from beneath the bandages, connected to a small bulb half-filled with dark red fluid.
You stare at it.
At the place where your leg should be and isn't.
At the empty space beneath the blanket where your calf, ankle, and foot are supposed to exist.
Your leg.
Your leg is gone.
The room tilts.
You can't breathe.
You're trying, but the air won't go in, won't fill your lungs, and the beeping is getting faster, louder, and Parker is saying your name, but you can't hear her over the rushing in your ears.
"I can't," you gasp. "I can't."
"Yes, you can," Parker says, and suddenly her hands are on your face, forcing you to look at her. "Yes, you can. Breathe with me. In through your nose."
She demonstrates, exaggerating the breath.
You try to follow.
Fail.
Try again.
This time, a thin stream of air makes it past the tightness in your chest.
"Good," Parker says. "Again. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
You do it.
And again.
And again.
Slowly, the rushing in your ears fades.
The room stops spinning.
You're left staring at Parker, whose face is so close to yours you can see the gold flecks in her eyes, the freckle just below her left eyebrow, the way her bottom lip trembles before she presses it flat.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so sorry."
You don't know what to say to that.
What is there to say?
Your leg is gone.
Your leg is gone.
Parker pulls the blanket back up gently, covering the bandages, and you're grateful for it even though you know it doesn't change anything.
Out of sight doesn't mean it didn't happen.
"The surgeons said you'll be able to get a prosthetic," Parker says, and she's slipping into doctor mode now, you can hear it in her voice. Clinical. Informative. Controlled. "Once the residual limb heals, you'll work with a prosthetist to get fitted. Physical therapy will help you regain mobility. People live full, active lives with above-knee amputations. You'll..."
"Stop."
Parker stops.
You close your eyes.
"I don't want to hear about prosthetics," you say quietly. "I don't want to hear about physical therapy or full, active lives. I just..."
Your voice breaks.
You don't finish the sentence.
You don't know how.
Parker sinks back into the chair beside your bed, and for a long time, neither of you speaks.
The monitors beep.
Somewhere down the hall, someone pages a doctor overhead.
A nurse walks past your room, shoes squeaking on the linoleum.
You keep your eyes closed and try not to think about the fact that your leg is gone.
You fail.
********
The first two days blur together.
Nurses come and go, checking your vitals, adjusting your medications, changing your dressings. You don't look when they do it. You turn your head away and stare at the wall until they're finished.
Parker is there almost constantly.
She leaves for her shifts. She has to, you know that. But every time you wake up, she's back. Sometimes she's in the chair beside your bed, laptop balanced on her knees as she catches up on charting. Sometimes she's curled up on the narrow couch beneath the window, asleep in her scrubs.
Once, you wake to find her standing at the window, forehead pressed against the glass, shoulders shaking.
You close your eyes and pretend you're still asleep.
You don't know what to say to her.
You don't know what to say to anyone.
Dr. Shen stops by on the second day. He's not your attending. That's Dr. Varma, a soft-spoken surgeon with steady hands and a calm demeanor, but he checks in anyway.
"You're looking better," he says, which is a lie, but you appreciate the effort.
"Thanks for not letting me die," you say.
"Thanks for not dying," he replies.
It's meant to be light, but it lands heavy.
He glances at Parker, who's standing near the foot of your bed with her arms crossed, and something passes between them that you don't understand.
Then he leaves, and you're alone with her again.
"You should go home," you tell her.
"I'm fine."
"You look like hell."
"So do you."
You almost laugh.
Almost.
"Parker," you say quietly. "You can't stay here forever."
"Watch me."
And she does.
********
On the third day, the pain gets worse.
Not the surgical site, that's manageable, controlled by the IV pain meds they're pumping into you every few hours.
No, this is different.
This is your foot.
Except you don't have a foot anymore.
You wake up in the middle of the night with a scream caught in your throat, because your left foot is on fire. The pain is so vivid, so specific, that you can feel exactly where it is: your toes are cramping, curling inward so tightly you're sure the bones will snap. Your arch is seizing. Your ankle is twisted at an angle that makes your stomach turn.
You reach down instinctively to grab it, to straighten it out, to make it stop,
Your hand meets bandages.
And nothing else.
The pain doesn't stop.
You sob.
You can't help it.
The pain is so real, so present, and your foot isn't there, and you don't understand how that's possible, how you can feel something so intensely when it doesn't exist anymore.
"Hey, hey, what's wrong?"
Parker is awake immediately, on her feet, and at your side.
"My foot," you gasp. "My foot, it's."
"Phantom pain," Parker says, and her voice is tight with something that might be guilt. "It's phantom limb pain. Your brain is still sending signals like your leg is there. It's normal. I should have fuck, I should have warned you this might happen."
"Make it stop," you beg.
"I can't," she says, and she sounds wrecked. "I can't—I'm sorry, I can't just—"
She reaches for the call button and jabs it twice.
A nurse appears within a minute.
"Phantom limb pain," Parker says before the nurse can ask. "Can we get her something? Gabapentin? Amitriptyline? Anything?"
The nurse nods, already moving toward the computer to put in the order.
Parker sits on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you, and takes your hand.
"I know it hurts," she says quietly. "I know it doesn't make sense. But it will get better. I promise it will get better."
You want to believe her.
You can't.
The pain continues for another twenty minutes before the medication finally kicks in, dulling the sensation to a distant ache.
By then, you're exhausted.
Parker is still holding your hand.
"I'm sorry," you whisper.
"For what?"
"For this. For being a burden."
"Don't," Parker says sharply. "Don't you dare apologize for getting shot."
"I'm a burden."
"You're not."
"I am," you insist, and the words are spilling out now, too fast to stop. "You're a doctor, Parker. You save lives. You don't—you shouldn't have to deal with this. With me. I can't even—I don't even have a fucking leg anymore, and you're sitting here holding my hand like I'm not completely broken, and I don't understand why you're still here."
Parker stares at you.
For a moment, you think she's going to cry.
Instead, she stands up.
"I need to go," she says, voice flat.
Your heart drops.
"Parker,"
"I'll be back," she says, already moving toward the door. "I just—I need a minute."
She leaves.
The door clicks shut behind her.
You're alone.
And you're sure—absolutely sure—that you've just ruined everything.
********
Parker comes back twenty minutes later.
Her eyes are red.
She sits down in the chair beside your bed, and for a long time, she doesn't say anything.
Then:
"I watched you almost die."
Her voice is quiet. Controlled.
You don't interrupt.
"I watched you come into my ER with a gunshot wound, bleeding out, and I couldn't do anything. Shen wouldn't let me treat you, which was the right call, but it didn't matter because I was useless anyway. I'm a doctor, and I couldn't save you."
"Parker,"
"Let me finish," she says, and there's an edge to her voice now. "You went into surgery, and I didn't know if you were going to come out. And then you did, but you were missing a leg, and I thought—I thought you were going to hate me for it. For not being able to stop it. For not being good enough."
"That's not."
"And now you're lying here telling me you're a burden," Parker continues, and her voice is shaking now. "You're telling me I shouldn't have to deal with you. Like I'm doing you some kind of favor by staying. Like I'm here out of obligation."
She leans forward, and her eyes are blazing.
"I'm not here because I'm a doctor," she says. "I'm not here because I feel sorry for you. I'm here because I love you, you idiot. I'm here because the thought of losing you made me feel like I couldn't breathe. I'm here because when I close my eyes, I still see you on that stretcher covered in blood, and I need to see you alive to make it stop."
You stare at her.
"I don't care that you lost your leg," Parker says, and her voice breaks. "I care that you almost died. I care that you're in pain. I care that you're scared. But I don't care that your body is different now, because you're still you, and I still love you, and if you ever—ever—tell me again that you're a burden, I will lose my mind."
She's crying now.
Actually crying.
You've never seen her cry before.
"I'm sorry," you whisper.
"Stop apologizing."
"I don't know what else to say."
Parker wipes at her eyes roughly, smearing tears across her cheeks.
"Say you'll stop trying to push me away," she says. "Say you'll let me be here."
You swallow hard.
"I'm scared," you admit.
"I know."
"I don't know how to do this."
"Neither do I," Parker says. "But we'll figure it out."
She reaches for your hand again.
This time, you hold on.
********
They move you out of the ICU on day five.
You're stable enough now for a regular room, which is both a relief and a new kind of torture. The ICU was isolating, but it was also controlled. Quiet. Private.
The regular floor is louder.
You can hear other patients through the walls. Hear the nurses chatting at their station. Hear the meal carts rattling down the hallway three times a day.
It makes it harder to pretend this isn't real.
Dr. Varma comes by every morning to check your incision site. She's kind but matter-of-fact, which you appreciate. She doesn't talk to you like you're fragile.
"Healing well," she says on day seven, peeling back the dressing to inspect the sutures. "No signs of infection. We'll keep you on antibiotics for another week, but I'm pleased with how this looks."
You don't look.
You still can't.
"When can I go home?" you ask.
"When you're cleared by PT," Dr. Varma says. "You need to be able to transfer safely and manage basic mobility. Another week, maybe two."
Two weeks.
It feels like a lifetime.
After she leaves, Parker helps you sit up,a process that's more complicated than it should be, now that your balance is completely off.
"Physical therapy starts today," she says.
You knew this was coming.
You're still not ready.
********
The physical therapist's name is Alex.
He's in his forties, built like he used to play football, with an easy smile and a no-nonsense attitude that reminds you of a coach.
"Alright," he says, rolling a wheelchair up beside your bed. "Let's see what we're working with."
You stare at the wheelchair.
"I don't need that," you say.
"You do if you want to leave this bed," Alex replies. "Come on. Let's get you up."
It takes three tries.
Your right leg is weak from days of disuse. Your left side is a mess of pain and absence and confusion, because your brain keeps trying to use a leg that isn't there anymore.
When you finally manage to pivot and drop into the wheelchair, you're sweating and shaking.
"Good," Alex says, like you've just accomplished something impressive. "That's good. Now let's go for a ride."
He wheels you out of your room and down the hallway.
You hate it.
You hate the way people glance at you as you pass. Hate the way the wheelchair feels too big and too small at the same time. Hate the way your left leg (the residual limb, Alex calls it, which is somehow worse than stump) throbs with every bump in the floor.
Alex takes you to the PT gym, a large room filled with parallel bars, exercise mats, and unfamiliar equipment.
"We're going to start simple," he says. "Today's goal is just to get you comfortable with transferring. Bed to chair, chair to bed. We'll work on upper body strength and core stability. The more stable you are, the easier everything else will be."
He makes it sound straightforward.
It's not.
Every movement is a negotiation with a body that doesn't work the way it used to. Your balance is gone. Your center of gravity is wrong. You reach for things that aren't there and nearly fall twice.
By the end of the session, you're exhausted and humiliated.
"You did great," Alex says.
You don't believe him.
Parker is waiting in your room when Alex wheels you back.
She takes one look at your face and doesn't ask how it went.
She just helps you back into bed and sits beside you in silence.
********
The nightmares start on day nine.
You're back on the sidewalk.
Keys in your hand. Bag over your shoulder.
The shouting starts across the street.
You turn.
The gunshot cracks through the air.
But this time, you see it.
You see the bullet leave the gun. See it cross the distance between you in slow motion. See it punch through your leg, tearing skin, muscle, and bone.
You see the blood.
So much blood.
You try to run, but your leg won't hold you.
You look down.
It's gone.
Just gone, severed clean at the thigh, and you're standing on a stump that's gushing blood onto the pavement, and you can't stop it, can't make it stop,
You wake up screaming.
Parker is there immediately, hands on your shoulders, voice cutting through the panic.
"You're okay, you're safe, you're in the hospital, you're okay,"
But you're not okay.
You're trying to move, trying to get away from the blood that isn't there, and your left leg won't respond because it's gone, and the realization hits you all over again like a physical blow.
You sob.
Parker climbs into the bed beside you, awkward and careful, mindful of your IV lines and the surgical site, and wraps her arms around you.
"I've got you," she whispers. "I've got you."
You bury your face in her shoulder and cry until you can't anymore.
When you finally pull back, Parker's scrubs are soaked with your tears.
"I'm sorry," you say automatically.
"Stop," Parker says, but there's no heat in it. Just exhaustion.
She just stays in the bed beside you, one arm around your shoulders, until you fall back asleep.
********
The nightmares don't stop.
They come every night, sometimes multiple times a night.
The shooting. The blood. The moment you realize your leg is gone.
Sometimes you're in the trauma bay, watching yourself bleed out while Parker stands frozen across the room.
Sometimes you're in the OR, awake and aware as they cut through your leg.
Sometimes you're home, trying to walk, and you look down to find both legs missing.
You start dreading sleep.
Parker starts sleeping in your hospital bed every night, cramped and uncomfortable, because you can't stand to be alone when the nightmares come.
On day twelve, Dr. Varma suggests a psychiatric consult.
"PTSD is common after traumatic injuries," she says gently. "There's no shame in getting help."
You agree because you don't know what else to do.
The psychiatrist is a woman named Dr. Kimani. She's younger than you expected, with box braids pulled back in a low ponytail and a calm, steady presence.
She doesn't make you talk about the shooting right away.
Instead, she asks about your life before. Your job. Your relationship with Parker. What you like to do in your free time.
It's only after thirty minutes that she says, "Tell me about the nightmares."
You do.
You tell her about the blood and the fear and the moment you realize your leg is gone.
You tell her about the phantom pain, the way your brain insists your foot is still there even though you know it's not.
You tell her about the panic that hits you sometimes out of nowhere, the feeling that you're back on that sidewalk and the bullet is coming, and you can't move fast enough to get away.
Dr. Kimani listens without interrupting.
When you're finished, she says, "What you're experiencing is a normal response to an abnormal event. Your brain is trying to process something traumatic, and it's going to take time."
"How much time?" you ask.
"That's different for everyone," she says. "But we can work on strategies to help. Grounding techniques for when you're feeling panicked. Cognitive behavioral therapy to address the intrusive thoughts. Medication if you want it."
You're not sure you want medication.
You're already on so many pills you've lost count.
But you agree to try the therapy.
It's something.
********
By day fourteen, you're strong enough to start working with the parallel bars.
Alex wheels you into the PT gym and positions the wheelchair at one end of the bars.
"Alright," he says. "Today we're going to work on standing."
You stare at him.
"Standing," you repeat.
"Standing," he confirms. "You've got one good leg. We're going to teach you how to use it."
It sounds impossible.
It is impossible.
But Alex is patient.
He shows you how to position your right foot, how to grip the bars, and how to push up using your upper body strength.
The first time you try, you don't even make it halfway up before your arms give out.
The second time, you get upright for about three seconds before your balance fails and you drop back into the chair.
The third time, you stay up for ten seconds.
It's the hardest thing you've ever done.
When the session is over, your entire body is shaking.
But you stood.
On one leg, for ten seconds, you stood.
Alex grins at you.
"Told you," he says.
********
Parker's breaking point comes on day sixteen.
You don't see it coming.
She's been holding it together so well, too well, maybe, and you've been so focused on your own pain that you haven't noticed the cracks forming.
It's late.
Visiting hours are technically over, but no one enforces that rule anymore for Parker. She's sitting in the chair beside your bed, scrolling through her phone, when you say it.
"You should go home tonight."
She looks up.
"I'm fine here."
"Parker, you haven't slept in your own bed in over two weeks," you say. "You need a break."
"I don't need a break."
"You look exhausted."
"So do you."
You sigh.
"I'm serious," you say. "You can't keep doing this. You're going to burn out."
"I'm not going to burn out."
"You're a doctor," you say. "You know what happens when people don't take care of themselves."
Parker sets her phone down, jaw tight.
"I'm fine," she says again.
"You're not," you say quietly. "And that's okay. You don't have to be fine. But you can't keep pretending,"
"Pretending what?" Parker snaps, and there's an edge to her voice now. "Pretending I'm not terrified every time I leave this room that something's going to happen and I won't be here? Pretending I don't feel guilty every single day for not being able to stop this? Pretending I'm not fucking furious that some asshole's domestic dispute cost you your leg?"
You stare at her.
She's on her feet now, pacing.
"You want me to go home?" she continues, voice rising. "Fine. I'll go home. I'll go home to our apartment, where your shoes are still by the door, and your jacket is still on the couch, and I'll sit there alone and think about how you almost died. How you should have died, statistically speaking. How if that bullet had been two inches to the right, I'd be planning your funeral instead of helping you with physical therapy."
"Parker,"
"Do you know what it was like?" she asks, and her voice cracks. "Watching you come into my ER? Seeing you on that table, covered in blood, and knowing I couldn't do anything? Shen wouldn't let me touch you, which was the right call, but it didn't matter because I was useless. I'm a doctor, and I couldn't save you."
"You didn't need to save me," you say. "The surgeons—"
"The surgeons cut off your leg," Parker says, and she's crying now. "They cut off your leg, and I couldn't stop it, and now you're having nightmares every night, and phantom pain and PTSD, and I can't fix any of it. I can't make it better. I can't give you your leg back. I can't take away the trauma. I can't do anything except sit here and watch you suffer."
She sinks back into the chair, head in her hands.
"I'm supposed to help people," she says, voice muffled. "That's my job. That's what I do. But I can't help you, and it's killing me."
You reach for her hand.
She lets you take it.
"You are helping me," you say quietly.
"I'm not."
"You are," you insist. "You're here. Every single day, you're here. You hold my hand when I have nightmares. You help me get back into bed when PT wears me out. You tell me I'm not a burden even when I feel like one. That's helping."
Parker looks up at you, eyes red and wet.
"I don't know how to do this," she whispers.
"Neither do I," you say. "But we're doing it anyway."
She laughs, but it sounds more like a sob.
"I love you," she says.
"I love you too."
She climbs into the bed beside you, careful as always, and you hold each other in the dark.
********
On day nineteen, Dr. Varma clears you for discharge.
"You're healing well," she says. "The incision site looks good. You're managing pain appropriately. PT says you're making excellent progress. I see no reason to keep you here any longer."
You should be relieved.
You're terrified.
"What if something goes wrong?" you ask.
"Then you come back," Dr. Varma says simply. "But I don't think it will. You're doing everything right."
After she leaves, Parker starts making lists.
Medications. Follow-up appointments. PT schedule. Home modifications.
"We need to move some furniture," she says, chewing on the end of her pen. "Make sure there are clear paths for the wheelchair. The bathroom's going to be tricky—we might need a shower chair."
"Parker."
"And we should probably get a bed rail, just in case. I can pick one up on my way home tonight—"
"Parker."
She looks up.
"I'm scared," you admit.
Her expression softens.
"I know," she says. "Me too."
"What if I can't do this?"
"You can."
"What if I fall? What if I can't manage on my own? What if,"
Parker sets down her pen and takes your hand.
"You're not going to be on your own," she says. "I'm going to be there. And yeah, it's going to be hard. It's going to be really fucking hard. But we'll figure it out."
You want to believe her.
You're trying.
********
They discharge you on a Tuesday morning.
A nurse brings a wheelchair,your wheelchair now, apparently, at least until you're fitted for a prosthetic,and helps you transfer into it.
Parker has already loaded your belongings into her car. There's not much. Some clothes. Your phone. The flowers Ms. Gunder sent that have long since wilted.
The ride down to the lobby feels surreal.
You've been in this hospital for nearly three weeks, and now you're just... leaving.
Parker pulls the car up to the entrance, and the nurse helps you transfer into the passenger seat.
It's awkward.
Your balance is still off, and you nearly fall before Parker catches you.
"I've got you," she says.
You believe her.
The drive home is quiet.
You watch the city pass by through the window, the same streets you walked down three weeks ago, back when you had two legs and no idea how quickly everything could change.
When Parker pulls up in front of your building, you stare at the steps leading to the entrance.
"We're on the third floor," you say.
"There's an elevator."
"I know, but,"
"One step at a time," Parker says. "Literally."
She's right.
You can do this.
You have to.
Parker gets the wheelchair out of the trunk and helps you into it, and together, you make your way inside.
The elevator is small and smells faintly of cleaning solution. The ride up feels like it takes forever.
When the doors open on the third floor, you half-expect everything to look different.
It doesn't.
Same ugly carpet. Same flickering light at the end of the hallway. Same scuff marks on the wall outside your door.
Parker unlocks the apartment and pushes the door open.
You wheel yourself inside.
And stop.
Because everything is different.
The coffee table has been moved. The armchair repositioned. There's a clear path from the door to the couch to the kitchen.
The bathroom door is propped open, and you can see a shower chair inside.
Your shoes are gone from beside the door.
"I moved some things around," Parker says quietly. "I hope that's okay."
You nod, not trusting your voice.
Parker closes the door behind you and locks it.
"Welcome home," she says.
You burst into tears.
********
The first week home is brutal.
Everything is harder than it should be.
Getting from the bed to the wheelchair. From the wheelchair to the couch. From the couch to the bathroom.
You're exhausted all the time.
The phantom pain is worse at home, maybe because you're not distracted by nurses and doctors and PT sessions. Your foot cramps. Your toes curl. Your ankle twists.
None of it exists.
All of it hurts.
Parker does her best.
She takes a week off work, uses up all her saved PTO, and then some to help you adjust.
She cooks. She cleans. She helps you shower, which is humiliating and necessary in equal measure.
She doesn't complain.
Not once.
But you can see the strain in her face. The exhaustion. The worry.
On day four, you have a panic attack in the bathroom.
You're trying to transfer from the wheelchair to the toilet, and your balance fails, and suddenly you're falling, and you can't catch yourself because your leg isn't there, and you hit the floor hard.
Parker is there in seconds, but the damage is done.
You're on the floor, sobbing, because you can't even go to the bathroom by yourself anymore.
"I can't do this," you gasp. "I can't, I can't,"
"Yes, you can," Parker says, and her voice is steady even though her hands are shaking. "You can. You just need practice."
"I don't want to practice," you say. "I want my leg back."
Parker's face crumples.
"I know," she whispers. "I know."
She helps you up, a process that takes far too long and leaves you both sweating,and gets you back into the wheelchair.
That night, you have the worst nightmare yet.
You're in the OR, awake and strapped down, and you can feel them cutting through your leg. You scream and scream, but no one stops.
Parker wakes you, and you cling to her like a lifeline.
"I'm here," she says. "I'm here, you're safe, I'm here."
You don't feel safe.
You don't think you ever will again.
********
On day eight, Parker goes back to work.
She doesn't want to.
You can see it in the way she hesitates at the door, keys in hand, looking back at you like she's not sure she should leave.
"I'll be fine," you tell her.
"Call me if you need anything," she says. "I mean it. Anything."
"I will."
She leaves.
The apartment is too quiet.
You try to distract yourself. Turn on the TV. Scroll through your phone. Do the exercises Alex gave you.
But the silence is oppressive.
You're alone with your thoughts, and your thoughts are not kind.
By the time Parker gets home that evening, you're exhausted from doing nothing.
"How was it?" she asks.
"Fine," you lie.
She doesn't believe you, but she doesn't push.
********
The nightmares continue.
Some nights, Parker wakes you before they get too bad.
Other nights, you wake up screaming, disoriented, and convinced you're back on that sidewalk.
You start dreading sleep again.
Parker starts looking more and more exhausted.
On week three, Dr. Kimani suggests medication.
"An SSRI might help with the intrusive thoughts," she says during your telehealth appointment. "And we can add something for sleep if the nightmares are interfering with your rest."
You agree.
You're desperate enough to try anything.
The medication helps.
Not immediately, but gradually.
The nightmares don't stop, but they become less frequent. Less vivid.
You start sleeping in two- or three-hour stretches instead of waking up every forty-five minutes.
It's not much.
But it's something.
********
Physical therapy becomes the structure of your days.
Three times a week, Parker drives you to the outpatient clinic, and you work with Alex on building strength and learning to navigate the world with one leg.
It's slow.
Frustratingly slow.
But you're making progress.
By week four, you can transfer from the wheelchair to the bed without help.
By week five, you can stand at the parallel bars for a full minute.
By week six, Alex introduces you to crutches.
"Eventually, you'll get a prosthetic," he says. "But in the meantime, crutches will give you more mobility."
Learning to use them is harder than you expected.
Your upper body strength is better now, but your balance is still a mess.
You fall.
A lot.
But you get back up.
Because what else can you do?
********
On week seven, you look in the mirror for the first time.
Really look.
You're in the bathroom, getting ready for a shower, and Parker is at work, and you're alone.
You peel off your clothes slowly.
Your right leg is thinner than it used to be, muscles wasted from weeks of limited use.
Your left leg ends just above where your knee should be, the incision site now a thick, angry scar.
The residual limb is swollen. Discolored.
It doesn't look like part of your body.
It looks like something foreign. Something wrong.
You stare at it for a long time.
Then you cry.
Not the panicked, gasping sobs of the nightmares.
Just quiet, exhausted tears.
You're mourning.
Not just your leg, but everything that came with it.
Your independence. Your sense of safety. Your belief that your body was something you could trust.
All of it, gone.
When Parker gets home that evening, she finds you on the couch, staring at nothing.
"Hey," she says softly, sitting down beside you. "You okay?"
"I looked in the mirror today," you say.
Parker goes still.
"And?"
"I don't recognize myself."
Parker takes your hand.
"You're still you," she says.
"I don't feel like me."
"I know," Parker says. "But you are. You're still the person who makes terrible jokes when you're nervous. Who cries at dog videos. Who leaves coffee mugs all over the apartment. You're still you."
You want to believe her.
You're trying.
********
On week nine, you have your first appointment with the prosthetist.
Her name is Dr. Lim, and her office is bright and cheerful in a way that feels almost aggressive.
She measures your residual limb, takes notes, and asks questions about your activity level and goals.
"We'll start with a preparatory prosthetic," she says. "Something basic to help you learn to walk again. Once your limb is fully healed and the swelling goes down, we'll fit you for a definitive prosthetic."
"How long will that take?" you ask.
"A few months," Dr. Lim says. "Maybe longer. Everyone's different."
A few months.
You've already been living like this for two months.
The idea of several more feels impossible.
But you nod.
What choice do you have?
********
The preparatory prosthetic arrives on week eleven.
It's strange.
A socket that fits over your residual limb, attached to a metal pylon and a basic foot.
Dr. Lim helps you put it on for the first time, adjusting the fit, making sure it's secure.
"How does it feel?" she asks.
"Weird," you say honestly.
It's not painful, exactly, but it's not comfortable either.
It's foreign.
"That's normal," Dr. Lim says. "It'll take time to get used to. We'll start with just wearing it for short periods. An hour or two at a time. Let your skin adjust."
You nod.
She helps you stand.
The prosthetic holds your weight, but it doesn't feel like a leg.
It feels like a tool.
Something you're using, not something that's part of you.
"Try taking a step," Dr. Lim says.
You do.
It's clumsy and awkward, and you nearly fall before she catches you.
"Good," she says, like you've just done something impressive. "That's good. Try again."
You do.
And again.
And again.
By the end of the session, you've taken maybe ten steps.
It's the hardest thing you've ever done.
But you did it.
********
Learning to walk again is humbling.
You're an adult, and you're learning something you mastered as a toddler.
Every step is a negotiation.
Shift your weight. Swing the prosthetic forward. Plant it. Transfer your weight. Repeat.
It's exhausting.
Your residual limb aches from the pressure of the socket.
Your right leg is doing twice the work it's supposed to.
Your back hurts from compensating.
But you keep going.
Because what else can you do?
Alex is relentless.
Three times a week, he puts you through your paces.
Parallel bars. Crutches. The prosthetic.
Over and over and over.
"You're doing great," he says.
You don't feel great.
But you're doing it.
********
On week fourteen, you walk from the bedroom to the kitchen without the wheelchair.
It's only about twenty feet.
It takes you five minutes.
But you do it.
Parker is there, watching from the couch, and when you reach the kitchen counter, she bursts into tears.
"I'm so proud of you," she says.
You're proud of you too.
********
On week sixteen, you have a good day.
Not a perfect day.
But a good one.
You wake up without a nightmare.
The phantom pain is manageable.
You get dressed by yourself, including putting on the prosthetic.
You make coffee.
You sit on the couch and watch the morning news, and for a few minutes, you feel almost normal.
Parker comes out of the bedroom, still in her pajamas, and stops when she sees you.
"You're up," she says.
"I'm up," you confirm.
She sits down beside you, and you lean into her.
"Good day?" she asks.
"Good day," you say.
She kisses the top of your head.
"I'm glad."
********
That afternoon, Parker pulls out a folder.
"I need you to update some paperwork," she says.
You look up from your phone.
"What kind of paperwork?"
"Emergency contact information," Parker says. "For your insurance, your bank, your employer. You still don't have anyone listed."
You stare at her.
"I thought, after everything, you should probably have someone," Parker continues. "And I was thinking... if you want... I could be your emergency contact."
It's such a small thing.
A name on a form.
But it feels enormous.
"You want to be my emergency contact?" you ask.
"I want to be your emergency contact," Parker confirms. "I want to be the person they call. I want to be the person who shows up. I want," She stops. Swallows. "I want to be your person."
You reach for her hand.
"You already are," you say.
Parker smiles, and it's the first real smile you've seen from her in weeks.
"So is that a yes?" she asks.
"That's a yes."
She pulls out the forms, and together, you fill them out.
Name: Parker Ellis.
Relationship: Partner.
Phone number.
Address.
It takes less than ten minutes.
But when you're done, something feels different.
Settled.
Right.
"Thank you," you say quietly.
"For what?"
"For staying," you say. "For not giving up on me. For being here even when it's hard."
Parker sets the folder aside and takes both your hands in hers.
"I'm not going anywhere," she says. "I know the last few months have been hell. I know it's going to keep being hard. But I'm not going anywhere."
You believe her.
For the first time since the shooting, you actually believe her.
"I love you," you say.
"I love you too," Parker says.
She leans in and kisses you, soft and careful, and for a moment, everything else falls away.
The trauma. The pain. The fear.
All of it fades, and it's just the two of you.
Together.
********
That night, you have a nightmare.
But this time, when you wake up, Parker is already there.
Can someone help me?! I have an idea for a fic for the "The Pitt" fandom: Reader works in the hospital (job is up to writer) and is dating Langdon (while he is in rehab. Also they have been together for a while) and Santos is trying to get reader to leave Landon before and after he comes back to the ER. Reader tells her that she is going to stay and help him get and stay better. This leads to tension between the two(reader and Santos), so now everytime they see each other Santos is making remarks and mean things while reader is minding her business. After a while reader has enough and decides to go to HR (or whatever writer chooses) and says that if Santos doesn't get transferred them reader will leave. *Also maybe we can add an appearance from Yolanda Garcia and Dennis Whitaker.*
summary - dennis' blue eyes are the calm in your storm.
cw - workplace assault, choking, men (derogatory)
a/n - lowk wanna do something like this for all the pitt babes. already have one kind of planned for robby. happy pitt finale🥲
---
You remembered too well what it was like to be new. Not just new, but new in one of the most stressful, fast-paced places in the world. The pitt, any ER really, was enough to send anyone spiraling.
There were a few days from your life that were ingrained into your memory, whether you wanted them to be or not. Senses heightened, vivid imagery, things you played over in your mind late at night when you couldn’t sleep. Some were hard. Like the day your grandmother died, or the day of the PittFest shooting. Others were less so, like your eighteenth birthday your brother flew in for from overseas, or the day you adopted your cat, or your graduation from nursing school.
Your first day working at the pitt was hard. Hard to live through, and hard to relive even years later. You were a new grad RN, fresh-faced and naive, ready to help patients and make the world a better place. However, you were also a twenty-two year old with no real experience and crippling anxiety.
That day, two different doctors yelled at you for accidentally feeding an NPO patient before surgery, you managed to lock yourself into the clean supply closet to be rescued by an agitated resident, and a patient projectile vomited into your face.
Worst of all? Dana, the charge nurse you had so quickly come to admire, looked into your teary eyes and told you to pull yourself together.
You cried all the way home and well into the night, sure that you were the most incompetent, ridiculously idiotic nurse on the planet, and everyone at your new job knew it.
You couldn’t help but freeze sometimes. You forgot common medication side effects, took three pricks to get a blood sample, and rushed off to get the “real” nurse for things you knew you knew. The weight of decision making and pure responsibility clouded your judgement and had you running for mommy.
The next few days were much better. You found that taking a deep breath and listing the facts helped you focus up. Your first patient that day was a grumpy old man who started yelling when you missed his vein. Apparently, he wanted a doctor to do it, not some stupid kid with no real degree. Shaken and embarrassed, you went to get Dana.
Stupid. Unqualified. Unteachable. Failure.
To your surprise, Dana didn’t say any of those things. She didn’t scoff, storm ahead, or chide you. Instead, she took your shoulders and fixed you with a hard stare.
“He’s a scared, most likely bigoted old man who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow,” she had said. “You’ve got four years of school under your belt. You’ve done this before. Don’t let him talk you into your own head, kid.”
Before you walked back into the room, you’d stopped. Your head was still spinning. You glanced around, searching for solid ground. It was an old exercise, one your drama teacher from middle school used to suggest for stage fright. Pick a color, and find it around the room.
You took a long breath. Green. Green pattern on the privacy curtain. Green shoelaces. Green water bottle at the nurse’s station.
When you opened the door, it was just how you left it. The patient was still yelling, and you still hadn’t found a vein, and you still had a full bag of normal saline to hang. But your heart was calm, and you got that IV in, gave him the call bell, and wished the grump a good day.
It wasn’t magically fixed after that, you still had plenty of difficult days, days that left you wondering where you really belonged. But every day got just a bit easier to manage, and within the year, you were unrecognizable. Cool, collected, and willing to ask questions.
You still remembered your first day as a hard day, and it was. But it was nice to look back on how far you’d come.
The day you met Dennis was a good day. Well, the first half, anyways. He was big eyed and shaking, eager to make a good impression but without an ounce of self confidence. He reminded you of you, on your first day all those years ago.
You took him under your wing, so to speak, giving him all the pearls of wisdom you could offer. He didn’t believe you when you told him about your first experiences, on about his third pair of scrubs. When the shooting was over, and you finally clocked out hours after you were meant to, you gave him your number. You told him to call you if he needed anything, and he did.
So, yeah, maybe your intentions weren’t purely professional, but to be fair, neither were his. At first the questions were understandable, like “what’s the hospital policy on line patency?” and “how do I get on Princess and Perlah’s good side so they don’t talk shit about me?” But after a while, it became obvious he was using every excuse in the book just to hear your voice or have your name light up his phone with a text.
“What type of coffee do you keep in the breakroom?”
“Should I call in if I have a fever?”
“I’m studying and I just wanted to double check — Tylenol and acetaminophen are the same thing, right?”
You humored him, albeit teasingly. And eventually he plucked up the courage to ask you out… albeit, over the phone.
“I’m having some trouble with telemetry strips again… maybe, if you were free, we could meet for coffee, and you could quiz me? If you wanted to.”
There wasn’t much talk of heart rhythms at that cafe. You’d ended the night with a kiss, and the rest was history. Almost a year later you were still together. Everybody knew, but nobody knew. You never talked about it at work, never let yourselves get touchy, never even called him Dennis, although there was a certain softness in the way you said Huckleberry that Trinity definitely didn’t share.
You were practically “out” with just one little exception. Management. You were sure fraternization amongst coworkers was frowned upon, no matter how many times you’d seen it with your own eyes. Trinity and Garcia, Robby and Heather, Robby and Noelle, you were sure something was going on with Robby and Abbot… really it was mostly Robby, the slut. But Dennis had only just been offered residency, and you loved your job. You didn’t want to risk it.
“I just think the longer we wait, the worse it’s gonna be if they find out,” said Dennis anxiously, one cold morning.
“Why would they find out?” you asked, pouring hot coffee into two travel mugs. “Unless someone ratted us out, which they won’t, or unless we were caught fooling around at work, which we have never and will never do.”
Dennis sighed, wringing his hands together.
“I just think, maybe, it makes more sense to appropriately document it with HR,” he said.
“God, you’re such a square,” you teased, and he rolled his eyes.
“It’s not like we’d be the first ones!” he said. “Look — I don’t want to pressure you into anything, but you’ve told me before that you’re never planning on leaving PTMC, right?”
“Probably not,” you agreed, pouring a hefty serving of cinnamon creamer into Dennis’ coffee.
“Right, well, I’m gonna do everything I can to get an attending position there, too,” he said. “And if we’re never leaving, and…” he got suddenly shy, eyes diverted to the kitchen floor. “I mean, I’d like to stay together, for as long as possible, so…”
You smirked, putting down the creamer and wrapping your arms delicately around your boyfriend’s pinkening face.
“Aw, Denny,” you said. “We’re not breaking up. Not if I can help it.”
He cleared his throat, not bothering to hide his timid smile.
“Well, good,” he said, hands brushing your waist. “So, if we aren’t breaking up, and we aren’t leaving, then we’ll have to do this at some point. I mean, what happens when we get married?”
Dennis knew he’d made a mistake the second that shit-eating grin took over your face. He stuttered, desperate to backtrack, but it was far too late, and who was he kidding? He meant it.
“I — if we do, if — or — I mean —”
His face was bright red. You were giddy.
“You love me,” you sing-songed, too happy over his discomfort. “You think I’m gorgeous, you think I’m sexy, you wanna marry me!”
“Alright, alright,” he said through your giggles, glancing anxiously at Trinity’s closed door. “Yes, I love you, very much, okay?”
“That’s so embarrassing,” you said, poking his tummy and making him yelp. “I can’t believe you have a crush on me, ew!”
Still, you pressed a lingering kiss on his lips. He pulled you closer by the hips, smiling into you and your familiar taste.
“By the way,” he said, when you moved your lips to his cheeks, “I got a reservation at Golden Gai for Saturday.”
You hummed happily, brushing some stray curls away from his face.
“Mm, putting that resident money to good use, huh?” you said.
“Finally,” he sighed, touching his nose to yours. “Just wait until I’m an attending, you’ll never pay for anything ever again.”
“I don’t know,” you said lovingly. “I think we’ll have to split some wedding costs. Realistically, I mean.”
Dennis could only nuzzle into your neck, face burning once again. You took a sip of coffee over his shoulder and checked your watch. Just as you realized the time, Trinity’s door opened and she came bustling out into the kitchen. The look and noise of disgust was instant, as she saw the two of you tangled up together. Dennis didn’t raise his head, just flipped her the bird.
“You’re roommate works nights, why can’t you go be gross at your place?” she whined as Dennis picked up his own coffee. “This is a common area, you know.”
“Because my cat freaks out if we shut the bedroom door, and he can’t see us have sex, that’s sick,” you said, chuckling as Dennis inhaled his sip of coffee.
“Um, ew?” said Trinity, rubbing her eyes. “I didn’t need to know that.”
“Oh please, you and Garcia rattle the walls,” you laughed, opening the fridge. “And I bet she never gives Dennis an apologetic Monster, does she?”
All transgressions were instantly forgotten as you tossed the can to Trinity. Her face cleared, shoulders relaxed, as she cracked it open.
“Well, maybe you should stay over all the time?”
“I thought so.”
***
“I’m starving.”
You collapsed next to Dennis, head in crossed arms. Wordlessly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a granola bar. You took it gratefully.
After a few bites, you found words.
“Hey, you’re free tomorrow at three, right?” you asked.
“No, we’re working,” he said.
“Right,” you nodded. “But you think you’ll be able to find a window? Because I told HR we’d be there by then.”
He shot you a look.
“You made a meeting with HR?” he asked. “You mean…”
“That’s right,” you said, poking his cheek. “For our anniversary, I got you a frightfully uncomfortable conversation with Linda from HR to talk about our intimate relationship. Happy one year!”
He laughed. He wanted to hug you, kiss you, tell you he loved you, but that would definitely be counterproductive. Especially if you were going to try and convince management that you had only just started dating. Instead, he gave you a high five.
“Thank you,” he said.
And as you were called away to south six, you realized that today would probably go into your good-day book. It was funny, how you could wake up on a random Tuesday, not knowing it would be a day to remember. Not knowing it would be a day, no matter your desire, that you would never be able to forget.
“Okay,” you said absently as you entered, eyes focused on the tablet in hand as you pulled the curtain shut behind you. “Mr. Hammarath?”
There was a grunt in response. You placed the pad on the cart and grabbed some gloves.
Mr. Hammarath was fifty-four, tall, and beefy. He had rough looking hands, like he worked with them, and mean eyes that followed your every move. You knew almost instantly that he wasn’t about to be easy, but you shook it off. Part of the job was offering the patient the benefit of the doubt.
“How are you feeling today, sir?” you asked.
“You know I’ve been waiting for seven goddamn hours?” he grumbled.
“I’m very sorry about that,” you said, giving your best apologetic smile. “I see you’ve got some chest pain. When did that start?”
“I already told all this to that other nurse,” he snapped. “When am I gonna get to see a fucking doctor?”
You took a deep breath.
“Once I run just a few more tests,” you said. “Has the pain changed at all since —”
“I’ve had enough fucking tests!” he said, growing more and more irritated by the second. “Can’t anyone tell me what’s wrong with me?”
You locked your eyes on your watch. It was gold. The face was pink. You’d had it since high school. It hadn’t failed you yet.
“Not without these tests, I’m afraid,” you said, rounding the bed to set up the monitor. “I’m gonna hook you up to an ECG, that will tell us about your heart rhythm. Then —”
“Don’t you think I know what a fucking ECG is?” he said. “I’ve had enough of ’em waiting around here.”
You ignored the outburst, just grabbed the pulse ox and held it out to him.
“If you could just put your finger in this —”
He snatched it from you before you could finish your sentence, jamming it onto his own finger. You were right, his hands were rough. He was probably strong, too. You glanced nervously at the sliver of glass you could see behind the curtain, but continued on with blood pressure. He stuck out his arm so quickly, his fist came within inches of your face.
You jerked back a bit, pulling the cuff tightly around his arm. You had dealt with more difficult patients than this. All you needed to do was diagnose this man with GERD and send him on his merry way.
A part of you wished Dennis was observing, though. You tried to imagine his calming presence in the tense room as you finished blood pressure, and wrapped up the rest of the vitals. You were happy to be done.
“Blood pressure looks good,” you said, tapping at his chart. “Heart rate, good, spO2 97%. So far you seem stable.”
“Oh, I’m fucking stable?”
You scratched your nails along the bottom of the tablet. The tablet was black, just like the monitor.
“So far,” you said evenly, grabbing a needle and an alcohol wipe. “But I need to grab some blood from you —”
The reaction was instant.
“No, no, no,” said Mr. Hammarath, jumping to his feet. “You’ve taken enough.”
On his feet, he towered over you, breathing like an angry rhinoceros and red in the face. You forced yourself to keep your feet planted where they were.
“If you have been having an undetected heart attack,” you started to explain slowly, lowering the needle, “it’s possible certain proteins would only show up late —”
“I don’t want anymore fucking needles,” he growled. “You keep that away from me.”
“Sir,” you said calmly. “You do not have to consent to any tests you don’t want. However, —”
It happened in a split second. You turned to place the capped needle onto the cart. Perhaps he misconstrued it as an advancement towards him, maybe he was just angry and looking to take it out on someone. Whatever the reason, you suddenly found yourself up against the cold wall with a crack, his large forearm pressed across your throat. Your hand, needle now long lost, he had in an ironclad grip, squeezing hard, certainly hard enough to cut off circulation.
Was this real? Ten minutes ago you were talking to Dennis. Now, you were staring into the spitting, fuming face of a man, a man who you knew nothing about but that he wanted to hurt you, and he was. You didn’t struggle like you normally would, thrashing and pulling until you reached freedom. You were frozen.
Your watering eyes swiveled desperately around the room, but you were alone, and the curtain blocked you from view. You could hear your pulse in your ears, that turned into a gravely rushing sound. You were running out of oxygen.
You opened your mouth, willing a scream, a yell, anything, to call attention towards you. All you managed was a dry squeak. Blindly, your free hand jerked out, away from you and towards whatever it could find. Your shaking fingers made contact with something hard. Vision blurring now, you scrambled for the object, whatever it was, and slowly they began to close around something. It was hard and flat, an edge.
Darkness was pressing in around you, pulling you from the room. With your last ounce of strength, you yanked your hand back towards you, with the intent of causing a commotion. If it worked, though, you didn’t know. Your head was filled with static. Your eyes were fixed upwards, away from the dark, angry irises glaring down at you.
The ceiling was white.
In the distance, you heard yelling. Or was that your imagination?
The ceiling was white.
Dennis’ eyes were blue.
***
Back home in Nebraska, if he could even call it “home” anymore, Dennis had no one. He loved his parents and his brothers the way any good kid would. He wouldn’t call them close, and he definitely wouldn’t say he regretted leaving.
Especially not after meeting you.
He had been nervous for his first day at the pitt, but those nerves were dwarfed by the ones you brought out. By the grace of god, his hopeless fumfering seemed to endear you somehow, and he spent the next two months trying to work up the nerve to ask you out on a proper date.
Oh, how many nights had he spent writing and rewriting texts, desperately trying to sound aloof, then devoted, then cool, only to scrap the whole thing? Agonizing and “simping”, as she called it, to Trinity became an evening ritual. He hoped you’d never find out, but she was the reason he managed to send that text he did, the one that started it all.
“Call her tonight, ask her out, or I’m setting her up with hot Jordan from my gym.”
He did, and you said yes, and the last year had been the happiest of his life. Never before, even with his awkward, month-long girlfriend in a high school of fifty kids, had he had someone who he loved so fiercely, and who loved him back just the same. Late nights spent together with you tucked under his arm, he couldn’t help but marvel at it as he watched you breath calmly in your sleep. How did he manage to have you, blazing, boisterous, quick-whitted you?
It was this thought that clouded his mind as he watched you head off to south six at Langdon’s request. Chest pain in fifties, been waiting for seven hours, troponins negative, strips clear. Just get some blood, vitals, ECG, you know the drill. You did. There were at least ten patients with chest pain admitted every shift, you could do the work up in your sleep. So, Whitaker didn’t think anything of it.
Until he heard the crash.
At first, he assumed it was a clumsy med student, or maybe someone had passed out again. Then came the yell. It was Emma’s voice, the new nurse, and she sounded terrified.
“Hula hoop!” she bellowed.
Even as Dennis jumped up to help, you were the last thing on his mind. He knew the statistic and had seen assaults happen many times before. But in no scenario, no wildest imagination, could he ever have conjured up the terrifying image he saw as he rounded the corner.
There was Emma, looking pale, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. Just ahead of Dennis, Robby and Trinity dashed into the fray. Behind him, he could hear Ahmad rushing to the scene.
It was you. He caught just a glimpse of you pinned up against the wall, before your attacker was being yanked back. You slumped to the floor, unmoving, but your wrist was still trapped in the man’s grip. It took this, this link unbroken yet, for Dennis to take action. Trinity, Emma, Robby, and Ahmad were all struggling to keep hold of the massive man, who towered above even the attending’s head.
With a fire foreign to him, Dennis jumped atop Mr. Hammarath’s arm, prying at his fingers until they released you. He felt very hot, steaming, even as the man was pulled onto his back. Dana appeared with a syringe, but everything after that was unseen and unheard by Dennis. With the threat neutralized, his attention snapped onto you.
Careful of your neck, which had no bruises but already looked flushed and irritated, he cradled your head in his hands. You were out cold, not even stirring as he turned you onto your side to inspect the wet spot on the back of your head. His shaking hand came away red.
Staying coolheaded in a crisis was an essential skill to have as a doctor, but right now, Dennis felt sick to his stomach, and a little lost. He attempted to check your pulse, radial, then when he couldn’t keep his hand steady enough, carotid.
“I can’t —” he breathed, pressing under your jaw. “I — I can’t —”
All he could feel was his own pulse, thrumming painfully through every artery, every last inch of his body. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from your deceptively peaceful looking expression, now with a smudge of your own blood adorning the skin.
“Emma!” barked Dana, helping tie restraints. “Go assess!”
Emma quickly broke away from the group to join Dennis on the other side of you. Trinity followed her without a word.
Right, thought Dennis vaguely, as Trinity took out her stethoscope and pressed the diaphragm to your throat, airway.
“Clear,” said Trinity stonily, while Emma examined your wound. “No stridor, airway secure for now.”
“The head might need a stitch or two,” said Emma, holding a piece of gauze firmly in place. “But it’s just a laceration.”
Dennis thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he should move, give them full access. But he didn’t budge from your side, and they didn’t ask him to. They worked around him, speeding through.
“Pupils good, PERRL.”
“Reaction to pain.”
“Can you hear me? Open your eyes.”
Dennis watched intently, fixed onto your face. As Trinity tapped your cheeks hard, your eyelids began to flutter. He held his breath, bringing your hand to his chest. When they finally slid open, he could see the sclera was pink, in great contrast to your irises he knew so well.
As soon as they registered the light, they were falling closed again, scrunching in that familiar way he saw when you were waking up too early. But now, there was no accompanying dramatic whine, or grumpy smile, or arm reaching for him. The groan pulled from your throat was raw and broken, and immediately had you wincing.
Someone handed Trinity a cloth, Robby maybe, and she slid it carefully under your head. Dennis was scared to move, scared to speak, clutching your hand too tightly. He eased his grip as much as he could stand to. Trinity nudged him.
“Talk to her,” she said, watching him carefully.
Slowly and cautiously, he brushed a hand gently across your forehead. He could hear your breathing start to pick up.
“Sweetheart?” he said, hushed, swallowing thickly. “Can you hear me?”
Your eyelids fluttered again, but you couldn’t seem to keep them open. Someone clicked the overhead lights off. Your lips parted and formed a word, but there was no sound.
“What’s that?” he asked. “Try again.”
With difficulty, it seemed, you swallowed, then opened your mouth again. The sound that came out was barely a whisper, but he watched your lips move closely.
“Arm?” he asked.
He shifted his attention briefly from his face to your right arm, but when he tried to lift it, you hissed in pain. He quickly lowered it.
“We need to get her up,” said Robby. “Can someone get a board —”
Before anyone could make a move, Dennis slid his arms carefully under your shoulders and knees and lifted you easily onto a bed. Not the one your patient had sat on — the sanitation department would need to strip the whole room. Dennis tried very hard not to look at the spots of blood spattered on the wall as he helped wheel you out.
He placed a hand over your eyes as you fell under the lights of the corridor. People stared as they passed. Kiara and the nurses shook their heads darkly, muttering to one another. He was glad to stow you safely in a dim room with the curtains drawn, hopefully as far away as possible from the one who did this to you.
As Trinity got out the suture kit, Dennis’s fear began to grow into anger. He wasn’t violent, never had been. He was the boy who got teased for crying when the pigs got slaughtered, and who would take the time to trap and release spiders rather than squish them.
But that was before he had ever experienced life with you, and worse, thought for a short but very real moment that he was going to lose it. Life with no more you wasn’t life worth living.
As Trinity gloved up, he stopped her.
“I’ll do it,” he said coldly.
She raised a brow.
“Don’t worry about it, man, I got it,” she said.
He rolled the table away as she reached for a swab. His eyes had never looked so hard.
“I’m going to do it,” he said, grabbing his own pair of gloves.
“Whitaker,” said Robby firmly. “You know we can’t work on family members.”
He kept his head down, arranging his supplies.
“We’re not related.”
Robby crossed his arms, eyes filled with pity.
“Girlfriends. Partners.”
“We’re not technically dating, either,” he said sharply. “Not according to the hospital.”
Robby placed a hand on Dennis’ chest, not too pushy but not soft, either. Dennis shoved it away. Trinity looked on with worry.
“Dr. Santos will do the sutures,” said Robby, with an air of finality. “If you can’t handle that, then you need to step outside.”
“Are you kidding me?” he said, getting heated. “You think I’m leaving her, after she got attacked by a lunatic?”
“You don’t have to if you just calm down,” said Robby evenly. “You know she’s in good hands.”
“Dennis.”
The sound was so quiet they almost missed it. Dennis leapt to the other side of the bed, falling to his knees at your side. Your eyes were open just a slit and took a second to focus on his anxious face. Beyond his field of focus, Robby motioned at Trinity to start working.
“Hi,” he breathed. “Hi. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
You flinched as the cold antiseptic was brushed against your wound, and he grabbed your good hand. The other had been put into a splint while they waited for x-ray.
“Tiny pinch,” said Trinity.
Your face, already tightened with discomfort, barely changed as she inserted the lidocaine needle. Your eyes stayed locked onto his, however drowsy.
You muttered something he didn’t catch.
“What, honey?”
“Blue,” was all you said.
His heart clenched in a terrible ache at the sound of your voice, rough and scratchy and forced. It would likely only get worse as your vocal cords continued to swell.
“Blue?” he said, blinking. “Okay. Blue.”
He looked around the room, familiar with your ritual by now. It had saved him more than a few times as well, brought him back from the edge of panic.
“Blue… blue…”
The room was dim, the only light coming from the cracks in the curtain and the lamp Trinity used to see her work. He rubbed your hand soothingly as he searched.
“Robby’s hoodie,” he said. “Robby’s hoodie is blue. And Trin’s shirt, that’s blue. And…”
He raked the space over with his eyes, desperate. The fact was, these clinical rooms were awfully barren.
“The soap,” he said. “And — and the caps on the collection tubes.”
He held one up, but you didn’t look at it. Your eyes were still fixed onto his.
“Blue,” you said again. “You’re blue.”
He took a deep, trembling breath and leaned his forehead against your hand.
Just then, the door opened, and in walked Gloria. She didn’t look well, obviously nervous and a little frantic.
“I just heard,” she said in a low voice to Robby, who ushered her into a corner of the room. “What happened?”
“We’re not sure,” he said heavily. “We haven’t been able to ask her, she was knocked unconscious and seems a little hazy. Definitely a concussion, hard to grade since we don’t know if the LOC was from the blow or the choking.”
“Jesus,” said Gloria, rubbing her forehead. “The patient?”
“Behavioral two,” said Robby. “We had to administer a sedative to get him to calm down. No history of mental illness in his chart, no meds, no indication that he wasn’t acting in full awareness and intent.”
“Police?”
“Should be here soon.”
Dennis watched you as they spoke, wondering how much you were processing, and how much was lost in the daze. Trinity finished off the suture by clipping your hair up away from the injury at the base of your skull. He could feel her eyes on him as she cleaned up.
The door opened again, and Emma entered with some pills and a cup of water. As she got closer, Dennis noticed her eyes were rimmed a little red, as though she’d been crying. Poor Emma, he thought. You had become something of a mentor to her, when Dana wasn’t working, and he knew you took a liking to the sweet girl, and she to you.
Your eyes, which had closed again, were opened as Emma raised the head of the bed, just enough to facilitate swallowing.
“One thousand Ibuprofen,” she said, holding them up to your opened mouth, and following with the straw.
It was painful to watch. Your hand flew to your swollen neck as you swallowed, eyes squeezed as you forced the pill to pass. Your heart rate on the monitor spiked as you tried to breath your way through it, and let your head fall back onto the shitty hospital pillow.
Dennis stroked your knee, ignoring Gloria’s presence in the room. You rolled over onto your back, wincing all the way. First your shoulders, which were surely bruised, then your head, then your wrist. Trinity quickly grabbed an extra pillow to lift the braced arm.
“Thank you,” you croaked.
Emma nodded, looking tearful again.
“Of course,” she said, brushing a hair out of your face. “How are you feeling?”
You seemed to struggle to find the words.
“I…” you stopped to rub your throat. “I don’t know. Dizzy.”
“Hopefully the meds will help,” said Robby. “Where’s the pain?”
“Throat,” you said. “Head. Back. Arm. Everywhere.”
Trinity stepped forward and asked you to follow the pen. As she moved it, it was clear that your eyes were having trouble tracking the object. They jerked ahead, and in the end you had to close them, complaining of pain. Trinity pocketed the pen, looking somber.
“Definite saccadic pursuit,” she said. “CT, MRI.”
You didn’t seem to be listening. Dennis leaned forward, heart in his throat, and asked a dreaded question.
“Do you remember what happened?”
You stayed quiet for a long time, but he could tell by the way you moved your fingers, middle rubbing against thumb, that you were thinking.
“Chest pain,” you rasped eventually. “He was in… for chest pain.”
“Memory, good sign,” Trinity muttered to Robby, who nodded.
Dennis waited patiently for you to continue. It seemed to be hard work.
“He was angry,” you said, and Dennis had to bite his lip. “Been waiting… didn’t like needles.”
“Is that when he got violent?” asked Emma softly. “When you stuck him?”
You rubbed your eyes tiredly, looking distressed.
“No, he — I didn’t get that far,” you said.
Robby pulled Trinity’s stool forward and sat at your bedside. He looked slightly guilty as he continued questioning.
“Do you remember the attack itself?” he asked. “Did he hit you?”
Your heart rate was steadily climbing on the monitor in the corner of Dennis’ eye.
“I — I just remember his arm against my throat,” you said.
“After you sustained the laceration on your skull?”
“I — I —” your lip began to quiver as you hid your face in your hand. “I don’t know, I’m sorry.”
“Okay, no more questions,” said Dennis harshly, taking the tissue Emma handed him and wiping your tears as they fell. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to talk anymore, okay?”
The door opened yet again, revealing a scrawny looking kid with a fearful expression.
“Um,” he said. “I’m here to take a patient to radiology?”
“That was quick,” said Robby. “Good.”
The boy looked relieved, and rounded the bed to turn off the wheel brakes. Dennis began pulling up the side rails.
“I’m going with her,” he said.
Gloria looked at Robby with a hard-to-read expression, and he sighed, rubbing his neck.
“I think you’re more needed down here, Dr… Whitaker,” said Gloria, reading his badge.
“She just got attacked!” said Dennis incredulously, and Robby cringed. “Clearly security isn’t capable of protecting the nurses, and if I have to do it, I will.”
“The aggressor is well supervised and is no longer a threat,” said Gloria, calmly but with a bit of an edge.
“Forgive me for not having much faith in this hospital’s ability to protect its staff, when this is about the tenth incident I’ve personally witnessed in my one year of working here!”
“Okay!” said Robby raising his hands and stepping in between the supervisor and intern. “Dr. Whitaker, you may accompany the patient to radiology. Gloria, you and I should continue this discussion elsewhere.”
It was certainly an awkward group that meandered out of North two. Emma was quick to find shelter at the nurse’s station, perhaps fearing another shouting match.
The x-ray was unclear, but the MRI confirmed a hairline fracture in your radius bone. That had Dennis suppressing the urge to storm down to BH two and take matters into his own hands, but luckily your brain looked fine. No bleeds, no skull fractures, no longterm damage, just a nasty grade two concussion and two weeks off work.
When you returned to the pitt, now able to sit upright for more than a minute without vertigo, and with sunglasses provided by Princess, there were two officers waiting for you, and you were ready to talk.
“I’m proud of you,” said Dana, helping Robby as he did your cast (“The Chief Attending himself? I’m honored.”). “That asshole’s getting what he deserves. You did good, kid.”
“Thanks Dana,” you said, voice still sore and rusty. “But I’m willing to bet this isn’t his first rodeo.”
“Well, if anyone’s gonna bury him, it’s you,” she said confidently. “I bet he thinks twice before pulling some shit like that again. You gave him a nasty bruise when that cart fell over.”
“Did I?”
There was a knock on the doorframe, and Jack stuck his head in.
“Hey, Robby — woah, woah, woah, what the hell happened to you?”
“A man,” you said as he looked you over.
He clicked his tongue.
“It’s always a fucking man,” he said, sliding your sunglasses down your nose to peer into your eyes. “Tell me you’re pressing charges, Slugger.”
“Fuck yeah, I’m pressing fucking charges,” you said. “Fuck that guy!”
“He’s still in BH two,” said Robby. “Talking to the cops. And in case you were wondering, it was GERD.”
You humphed, and Dennis rubbed your shoulders.
“Well, the night shift’ll provide special treatment,” said Jack with a mischievous grin. “Hey, was this damaging enough to put you off of the day shift and join us?”
“Stop trying to steal my nurses!” said Robby.
“Only for a pay raise,” you said cheekily.
“I can get you that.”
“Well, in that case —”
“Nuh uh,” said Robby, giving Jack’s hip a good push in the direction of the door with his elbow. “Out!”
***
All things considered, it probably wasn’t your worst day at the pitt. And, although you wouldn’t voice it, you were quite happy to take a hit if it meant your fellow nurses wouldn’t. Emma had already been assaulted once (talk about a hard first day), and you were prepared to go toe to toe with anyone who messed with that sweet baby angel again.
And speaking of sweet baby angels, you were realizing as you were helped into the car, Dennis wasn’t about to leave you alone for at least two weeks. This was all good and well; you probably wouldn’t want to leave him for long if the situation was reversed, and you never minded alone time with him. But you would have to figure out a way to convince him not to miss two weeks of work, and pay, just to watch over you.
“How does your head feel?” he asked as he pulled out of the parking lot. “Any nausea? Dizziness?”
“It’s fine, just a little achey,” you said. “Really, Den. I’ll let you fuss all you want for the next week, but I’m okay. Okay?”
He huffed, gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.
“How can you say that?” he whispered. “Do you know what it was like in there? You lost consciousness, you were on the ground, you — you weren’t moving.”
Your left hand smoothed over his curls.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” you said.
“See it?” he said incredulously. “I’m sorry you had to live it. I should have been there. I should’ve noticed, or something, I mean you were —”
You shushed him gently, scratching his scalp.
“Don’t even go there, Den,” you said. “No one could possibly have known what was gonna happen. And what are you gonna do, come with me to every room with every patient I ever see, just in case something bad happens again?”
He cocked his head, considering.
“No,” you said quickly. “That was not an invitation. That’s crazy, and no.”
“Alright,” he said sadly. “It’s just — I don’t ever wanna see you like that again.”
You bit your cheek.
“Honey, you might,” you said. “It’s a hazard of the job. It shouldn’t be, but it is. You want to do something, then talk to Gloria, talk to the board. That’s the only way anything’ll change.”
He took your hand from his curls and held it on his thigh, fingers intertwined.
“I just love you,” he said, eyes burning. “So much. You know that, right?”
“I know,” you said with a smile. “I love you too.”
He lifted your hand to press a kiss to the back. You sat in comfortable silence for a while, then, as Dennis always did, he broke it with a blurted thought.
“We should move in together.”
Your eyes widened.
“What?”
“I mean,” he said, chewing his lip. “If you wanted to, I’d — I’d love that. To see you all the time. I know it’s kind of stupid, but… I don’t want to miss another second, ya know?”
You could tell he was nervous by the pink of his cheeks, visible even in the dark car, but he kept his gaze straight and his hand steady.
“Well, if we’re already getting married,” you said with a smile, “I guess it only makes sense that we live together, huh?”
He started to smile.
“Wait, are you joking?”
“I’m not joking Dennis.”
He turned to stare at you, moon-eyed. His smile was one of pure love and disbelief.
“So… we’re gonna live together? Just you and me?”
“Just us,” you said. “And Jericho, of course.”
“Can’t forget him,” Dennis muttered, still in awe.
Someone honked loudly from behind and jolted him into motion. He had to take his eyes off you, but he never removed his hand.
Jericho was all over you the minute Dennis helped you through the door, purring and howling, though you knew Dawn always fed him before she left. Dennis had to work around him to remove your coat and shoes, while you stroked his head and his ego.
You felt okay, a little too exhausted to fully comprehend the events of the day, but undeniably rattled. A patient had never knocked you out before, nor had been so easily able to overpower you, and as the memories returned more and more, you knew they would refuse to leave again. But with Dennis by your side? It certainly felt a little less daunting.
“You know what?” you asked as Dennis ordered some pizza.
i hate when i see black!reader fics and the a/n says “black reader in mind but no details” like bitch i need shea butter and knotless braids all over my fics lol. and what’s the point of making the fic for black readers if it’s not going to have any details.
if you’re a black fics creator and u do this, pls do better…
hiiii!! i love your writing!! can you please do a steve x henderson reader? but very angsty?!- reader isn’t invited to things- hell she doesn’t even know what’s going on in hawkins- dustin is being so mean to her, steve is pulling away- literally. reader reaches for his hand- he pulls away- she begins to notice the way he looks at nancy - the same way he used to look at reader 💔💔 maybe they don’t even notice reader has been taken by vecna until it’s too late
this was fun to write... i hope this breaks all your hearts... i mean
The Art of Disappearing
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The first time you realized something was wrong was when Dustin came home with a black eye and wouldn't tell you how he got it.
"It's nothing," he'd said, pushing past you to his room. "Just leave it alone."
"Dustin, I'm your sister. If someone's bothering you at school..."
"I said leave it!" He'd slammed his door in your face, and you'd stood there in the hallway feeling like you'd been slapped.
Dustin never talked to you like that. You were close, always had been. When your dad left, when mom worked double shifts, you were the one who made sure Dustin ate dinner and did his homework and had someone to talk to. You were more than siblings; you were best friends.
Or you had been.
That was three weeks ago. Now Dustin barely looked at you. He spent all his time with his friends, Mike and Lucas and Will and Max, and whenever you asked what they were doing, he'd snap at you to mind your own business.
"It's just friend stuff," he'd said yesterday when you'd asked why he was going to the Wheelers' house again. "You wouldn't understand."
"I could if you'd explain..."
"Just drop it, okay? God, you're so annoying."
You'd watched him bike away, that familiar ache settling in your chest. The ache that had been growing steadily worse since Steve started pulling away too.
Steve. Your boyfriend of eight months. The boy who'd kissed you for the first time in his car after driving you home from work. The boy who'd held your hand and told you that you were the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Except now he barely touched you at all.
You'd noticed it starting about a month ago. Small things at first, he'd make excuses not to come over, would be distracted when you were together, would pull away when you reached for his hand.
Like yesterday, when you met him at Family Video during your lunch break. You'd reached for his hand across the counter, an automatic gesture, something you'd done a hundred times before, and he'd pulled back like you'd burned him.
"Sorry," he'd said, not meeting your eyes. "I just... I need to restock these tapes."
Robin had given you a look that might have been pity, and you'd left feeling small and confused and increasingly certain that something was very, very wrong.
The headaches had started around the same time.
Nothing major at first, just a persistent ache behind your eyes that Tylenol couldn't touch. But they'd been getting worse, accompanied by strange visions, flashes of things that couldn't be real. Your father, whom you hadn't seen in years, was standing in your room. The wallpaper peeling away to reveal something dark and twisted underneath. A clock chiming in the distance.
You'd mentioned it to Dustin once, asked if he'd been having weird dreams too. He'd looked at you with something like panic in his eyes and said, "No. And you shouldn't either. Just...just ignore it."
Then he'd left before you could ask what he meant.
You tried talking to Steve about it. Called him one night when the headache was so bad you could barely see, when you'd sworn you heard that clock again, chiming impossibly loud.
"Steve? Can you come over? Something's wrong and I..."
"I can't. I'm busy."
"Busy with what?"
A pause. "Just stuff. Look, maybe you should call your mom or something."
"My mom's working a double. Steve, please, I'm scared..."
"I have to go. I'll call you later."
He didn't call you later.
You spent that night alone, curled up in bed with the lights on, trying to ignore the feeling that something was watching you from the corners of your room.
The next day, you went to Family Video. Steve looked surprised to see you, which hurt more than it should have.
"Hey," you said, trying to smile. "I thought maybe we could do something tonight? We haven't hung out in a while."
"I can't. I have plans."
"Plans with who?"
"Just... friends. It's a group thing."
Your stomach dropped. "What group thing?"
"It's not... look, it's complicated."
"So un-complicate it. Steve, what's going on? You've been avoiding me, Dustin won't talk to me, and I feel like everyone knows something I don't."
Steve's jaw tightened. "It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?"
"It's... " He stopped, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "There's stuff happening that you don't need to worry about."
"Stuff involving my little brother? Stuff that has you acting like you can barely stand to be around me?"
"That's not... I'm not acting like..." Steve stopped again, and this time he looked at something over your shoulder. "Nancy. Hey."
You turned to see Nancy Wheeler walking into the store, looking beautiful and confident in a way that made your chest tight. She smiled at Steve, and you watched something shift in his expression, a softening, a warmth that you hadn't seen directed at you in weeks.
"Steve, we need to talk about... " Nancy stopped when she saw you. "Oh. Sorry, I didn't realize you were busy."
"I'm not busy," Steve said quickly. Too quickly. "What's up?"
And just like that, you'd become invisible.
You stood there while Steve and Nancy talked in low voices by the counter, their heads close together, and felt something crack in your chest. The way Steve was looking at her, God, you recognized that look. That's how he used to look at you. Like she was the most important person in the room. Like nothing else mattered.
When had he stopped looking at you like that?
Robin appeared at your elbow, her expression sympathetic. "Hey. You okay?"
"I'm fine," you lied.
"You're really not a good liar." She glanced at Steve and Nancy, then back at you. "Look, I know this is weird... "
"Weird is my boyfriend apparently having secret meetings with his ex-girlfriend while he can't find time to see me?"
"It's not like that. They're just... there's stuff going on that..." Robin stopped, looking frustrated. "I can't explain. But it's not what you think."
"Everyone keeps saying that." You grabbed your bag. "But no one will actually tell me what's really going on."
You left before Robin could respond, before Steve could notice you were leaving, before you started crying in the middle of Family Video.
That night, Dustin came home late. You were in the kitchen, nursing your third cup of coffee because sleep had become impossible with the headaches and the visions.
"Where were you?" you asked.
"Out."
"Out where?"
"Does it matter?" Dustin opened the fridge, not looking at you.
"Yes, it matters. You're my little brother. I'm supposed to know where you are."
"No, you're supposed to stop treating me like a kid." Dustin slammed the fridge door. "I'm not a baby anymore. I don't need you hovering all the time."
"I'm not hovering. I'm trying to make sure you're safe."
"Well, maybe I don't need you to keep me safe! Maybe I have other people for that!"
The words hit like a physical blow. "Other people? Like who?"
"Like Steve and Nancy and everyone else who actually..." He stopped, looking guilty.
"Everyone else who actually what?" Your voice was shaking. "Who actually cares about you? Is that what you were going to say?"
"I didn't mean..."
"No, you meant it. You meant that I'm not... that I don't..." You couldn't finish the sentence around the lump in your throat.
Dustin's face twisted with something like regret, but he didn't take it back. "I have to go to bed. I have plans early tomorrow."
"More secret plans?"
"They're not secret. They're just none of your business."
He left you standing in the kitchen, and you finally let yourself cry. Big, ugly sobs that hurt your chest and made your headache even worse. When had you become the outsider in your own family? When had your brother decided he didn't need you anymore?
When had Steve decided the same thing?
Your nose was bleeding when you finally went to bed. You wiped it away, added it to the list of things that were wrong, and tried to sleep.
The clock chimed all night long.
The next day, you saw them all together.
You'd gone to the store for your mom, taking the long way past the arcade because you'd thought maybe Dustin would be there. Instead, you found them in the parking lot: Dustin, Steve, Nancy, Robin, Max, Lucas, and Erica. All of them standing in a circle, talking in urgent voices, looking like they were planning something big.
Something you weren't a part of.
You stopped your bike just out of sight, watching. Steve had his arm around Nancy's shoulders, pulling her close as they looked at something Lucas was holding. Nancy leaned into him, comfortable and familiar, and Steve smiled at her the way he used to smile at you.
Your hands tightened on the handlebars. When had that happened? When had they gotten close again? And why hadn't Steve told you?
Dustin was laughing at something Max said, looking happier than he'd been around you in weeks. All of them together, a united group.
A group you weren't invited to join.
You started to bike away before they could see you, before they could know you'd been watching, before the hurt could show on your face. But as you turned, you heard Nancy say something that made you stop.
"... spreading. We can't wait much longer, or more people are going to... "
"We should tell her." Steve's voice, and your heart leapt. He was talking about you. He wanted to include you.
"Absolutely not," Dustin said immediately. "It's too dangerous. I'm not putting my sister at risk."
"But she's already..." Robin started.
"I said no!" Dustin's voice was sharp. "She doesn't need to know about any of this. We keep her out of it. That's the whole point of doing this... to keep people like her safe."
"Dustin's right," Nancy said softly. "The fewer people who know, the better. And she's been through enough without adding... this."
Been through enough? What did that mean? What didn't they think you could handle?
You biked away before you could hear more, pedaling hard, trying to outrun the hurt and confusion and the growing certainty that everyone in your life was lying to you.
The visions got worse that night.
You were in your room, trying to focus on homework, when the wallpaper started peeling. You watched, frozen, as it curled away to reveal that dark, twisted something underneath, vines, maybe, or veins, pulsing with a red light that made your head throb.
Your father stepped out of the corner, exactly as he'd looked the day he left. "You're not enough," he said in that flat, emotionless voice. "You've never been enough. That's why Dustin doesn't need you anymore. That's why Steve doesn't want you."
"You're not real," you whispered.
"Aren't I? Or am I just saying what everyone's too kind to tell you?" He moved closer, and you could smell his cologne, could see every detail of his face. "You're ordinary. Forgettable. The kind of person people don't notice when they leave. Dustin's moved on. Steve's moved on. Soon your mother will too, and you'll be completely alone."
"Stop."
"They're all together right now, did you know that? Planning things, saving the world, being important. And you're here. Alone. Like always."
The clock started chiming.
You pressed your hands over your ears, but the sound just got louder. Your father's voice mixed with it, listing every way you'd failed, every reason people left you, every proof that you were forgettable and ordinary and not worth keeping.
When you finally passed out, you were bleeding from your nose and your head felt like it was splitting open.
You woke up in your bed with no memory of how you got there. It was morning, Saturday morning. You had plans with Steve. An actual date that he'd agreed to, probably out of guilt, but you'd take what you could get.
You got dressed carefully, covering the dark circles under your eyes with makeup, trying to look like someone worth loving. The headache was still there, a constant presence now, but you ignored it.
Steve was supposed to pick you up at two. At 2:15, you called him.
"Hey, can't talk right now. In the middle of something."
"We have plans," you said. "You were supposed to pick me up fifteen minutes ago."
A pause. "Shit. I forgot. Look, something came up... "
"Something came up," you repeated flatly.
"Yeah, I'm really sorry, but I can't make it today. Rain check?"
"Steve, this is the third date you've cancelled."
"I know, and I'm sorry, but this is important."
"And I'm not?"
Another pause, longer this time. "That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like I'm the only thing in your life that isn't important anymore."
"That's not fair."
"You're right. What's not fair is my boyfriend ghosting me. What's not fair is my brother treating me like I don't exist. What's not fair is everyone in my life acting like I'm too fragile or too stupid or too something to be trusted with the truth!"
"It's not like that... "
"Then what is it like? Explain it to me, Steve. Please. Because I'm losing my mind trying to figure out what I did wrong."
"You didn't do anything wrong." His voice was tired. "It's just... everything is complicated right now."
"So un-complicate it. Let me in. Let me help with whatever's going on."
"I can't."
The finality in his voice made your chest tight. "Can't or won't?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes!" You were crying now, couldn't help it. "Yes, it matters! You matter! We matter! Or... or we used to. Did we stop mattering? Did I stop mattering?"
"Of course you matter... "
"Then act like it! Stop pushing me away! Stop looking at Nancy like..." You stopped, but it was too late.
"Like what?" Steve's voice had gone quiet.
"Nothing. Forget it."
"No, say it. Like what?"
"Like you used to look at me," you whispered. "Like she's the one you want to be with instead of me."
Silence on the other end. Long enough that you knew it was true, that your worst fear was confirmed.
"It's not... I'm not..." Steve stopped. "I should go."
"Steve..."
But he'd already hung up.
You sat on your bed, phone in hand, and felt something fundamental break inside you. The headache was so bad now that you could barely see. The visions were constant: your father, your empty room, everyone you loved walking away and never looking back.
The clock was chiming again.
You should call someone. Tell someone that something was wrong. But who would you call? Steve, who didn't want to talk to you? Dustin, who'd made it clear you were annoying? Your mom, who was always working?
There was no one.
You're alone, the voice in your head whispered. You've always been alone. They just finally figured out what you knew all along, you're not worth the effort.
You lay back on your bed, closed your eyes, and let the darkness take you.
It was easier than fighting.
They didn't notice you were gone until Monday.
Your mom assumed you'd left early for school. Dustin didn't check your room... why would he? You'd been avoiding each other for weeks.
Steve didn't call. Neither did anyone else.
It wasn't until your mom came home Monday evening and found your bed empty, your school bag still packed, that anyone realized something was wrong.
"Dustin!" she called. "Have you seen your sister?"
Dustin looked up from his homework, annoyed at the interruption. "No? She's probably at work or something."
"She's supposed to be home for dinner." Your mom's voice was worried now. "And her boss called asking why she didn't show up for her shift on Saturday."
Saturday. The day Steve had cancelled on you. The last time anyone had seen you.
"Maybe she's at Steve's?" Dustin suggested, but something cold was forming in his stomach.
Your mom called Steve. Steve said he hadn't seen you since the week before, when you'd come to Family Video. His voice sounded panicked when he asked, "Why? What's wrong? Is she okay?"
"I don't know," your mom said. "She's missing."
Steve was at your house in ten minutes, Nancy with him. They'd been together when your mom called... planning something, strategizing, doing all the important things that didn't include you.
"When's the last time anyone saw her?" Nancy asked, already in investigation mode.
"I saw her Saturday morning," your mom said. "She was getting ready for a date with Steve, but... "
"We didn't have a date," Steve interrupted, then stopped. "Wait. No. We did. I cancelled. I forgot about it, and then something came up and... oh God."
"What?" Dustin demanded.
"She called me. She was upset. We fought about..." Steve looked at Nancy, then away. "We fought. And I hung up on her. That was Saturday afternoon."
Two and a half days ago.
"She hasn't been to school," your mom said, checking her phone. "The school called today asking if she was sick. I thought... I thought she'd just left early this morning and..."
"Her car's still here," Steve said, looking out the window. "And her bike."
They all turned to look at Dustin, who was still standing in the doorway, his face pale.
"When's the last time you talked to her?" Nancy asked gently.
"I..." Dustin swallowed hard. "Friday night. We fought. I said... I said some things I didn't mean."
"What things?" Steve demanded.
"I told her she was annoying. That I didn't need her. That I had other people who..." Dustin's voice cracked. "Oh God. Oh God, what if something happened and it's my fault?"
"It's not..." Steve started, but he couldn't finish because he knew it might be exactly their fault.
Nancy's face had gone white. "The headaches. She mentioned having headaches, didn't she?"
Steve nodded slowly, remembering. "She called me one night. Said something was wrong. I told her to call her mom."
"Did she say anything else? Anything about visions or hearing things or...."
"A clock," Steve interrupted, his heart dropping. "She said she heard a clock chiming."
The silence that followed was deafening.
"No," Dustin whispered. "No, no, no. She can't be... we would have known! We've been watching for signs!"
"We've been watching other people for signs," Nancy said, her voice tight. "We never thought to watch her because..."
"Because we were too busy keeping her away from everything," Steve finished. "Too busy protecting her to notice she needed protecting from something else."
Robin burst through the door, out of breath. "I got here as fast as I... is it true? Is she really... "
"Missing," your mom said. "For two and a half days."
"Oh God." Robin looked at Steve. "The nosebleeds. She had them at the store last week. I thought it was just... I didn't think..."
They'd all missed it. Too caught up in keeping you away from the Upside Down to realize the Upside Down had found you anyway. Too focused on protecting you to see that you needed help. Too busy with their plans and secrets to notice you were falling apart right in front of them.
"We have to find her," Dustin said, already moving toward the door. "Now. Before he... before it's too late."
"Where do we even start?" Max asked. She'd arrived with Lucas, both of them pale and scared.
"Her favorite places," Steve said immediately. "Places she'd go to feel safe. The library, the park, anywhere she... "
He stopped, and everyone turned to see what he was looking at.
Your music. Your Walkman, sitting on the kitchen counter where you'd left it. The one defense against Vecna they'd all been using, the one thing that could bring someone back.
And you hadn't had it with you.
Steve grabbed it, his hands shaking as he pressed play. Your favorite song started, the one you'd made him listen to a hundred times, the one he'd pretended to find annoying but secretly loved because it made you smile.
"We'll find her," he said, but his voice was shaking. "We'll find her, and we'll bring her back, and I'll... I'll tell her everything. I'll explain about the Upside Down and Vecna and why we were keeping her away. I'll tell her I'm sorry and that she matters and..."
"And that you love her?" Nancy asked quietly.
Steve looked at her, then nodded. "Yeah. That I love her. That I never stopped, I just... I got scared and stupid, and I pushed her away because I thought I was protecting her, but all I did was..."
He couldn't finish.
They spread out across Hawkins, searching desperately. The library was empty. The park, the arcade, the movie theater, all empty. No trace of you anywhere.
It was Max who found you.
She'd insisted on checking the old cemetery on the edge of town...the one you'd told her about once, how you used to go there to think when everything got too loud.
You were there, lying in the grass between headstones, your eyes rolled back, your body seizing, blood running from your nose and ears.
"I FOUND HER!" Max screamed, and within minutes the others were there.
Steve dropped to his knees beside you, grabbing your hand...the hand he'd pulled away from so many times in the past weeks. "Princess, please. Please wake up. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
He put the headphones over your ears, turned the volume up as loud as it would go. Your favorite song poured out, but you didn't move, didn't respond.
"It's not working," Dustin sobbed. "Why isn't it working?"
"She's too far gone," Nancy said, her voice breaking. "He's had her for too long."
"No." Steve was crying now, clutching your hand. "No, she's going to be fine. She has to be fine. I can't...I can't lose her. Not like this. Not when I never told her...."
Your body arched, bones cracking audibly, and everyone screamed.
"DO SOMETHING!" Dustin shouted at no one and everyone.
But there was nothing to do. They could only watch as Vecna broke you, piece by piece, while your favorite song played and Steve held your hand and whispered "I love you, I love you, please don't leave me" over and over like a prayer.
They were too late.
They'd been too late the moment they'd decided to push you away, to keep you in the dark, to treat you like you were too fragile to handle the truth.
And now, watching you die in the grass while Steve finally said all the things he should have said weeks ago, they understood: they hadn't been protecting you at all.
They'd just been making sure you faced the darkness alone.
The issue I have with writers doing a "plus-size reader being insecure, so sex is the solution" trope is that it just sexualizes us. Insecurity can also stem from sexualization, just like it can from rejection. Plus-size people face objectification every day, and you're a part of it. It's also so unrealistic; if I'm feeling insecure about my body, the last thing I'd want is someone groping my naked body. Imagine if you were really thirsty and instead of someone giving water, they spit in your face and say, "Well, it's a liquid." That's what y'all are doing with those fic tropes. You're saying, "Oh, you have insecurities? Here's a fic about you getting your puss ate." Also, 99% of these authors who write plus-size characters like that are not plus-size themselves. So, instead of doing research or even talking to a bigger person, they write a crappy, half-assed fic that they think is so different. They praise themselves like they're fucking Liberace. I can give you a quick outline of these fics.
•reader tries on dress
•reader is insecure
•character comes in
•reader cries
•character and reader have sex.
You're like everyone else who treats us like we are not more than our bodies, you're just doing it in a performative way. You're not different, nothing you're doing is new, and if I'm being honest every insecurity->sex fic I've seen has been fucking trash.
Summary: you’re leaking through your shirt, your newborn won’t stop screaming, and you’re about to have a breakdown behind the Haas motorhome when Oscar stops — not to judge, but to gently ask if he can hold her. What starts as one quiet act of kindness becomes the slow, steady building of something you never thought you’d be allowed to want: a family, a partnership, and a love that shows up even when the world tries to tear you down
It’s just past 9 a.m. on Friday, and the paddock is already thick with engine noise and espresso breath. Behind the Haas motorhome, half-shielded by a stack of equipment cases and a trailer that smells faintly like burnt rubber and Red Bull, you stand rocking a howling baby in your arms. One hand on Maisie’s damp back, the other awkwardly wiping at your soaked shirt with the sleeve of your team polo.
You’re leaking through the thin white fabric — perfect. And Maisie won’t stop screaming. Won’t latch, won’t sleep, won’t be soothed. Your hair is stuck to your neck with sweat, and your brain feels like it’s being grinded down by the steady thrum of noise, exhaustion, and adrenaline. You haven't slept more than two hours in a row in weeks, and you're so tired you actually feel nauseous.
“Shhh, baby, come on, please, please,” you whisper, voice trembling as you bounce on your heels in that desperate rhythm new mothers know like instinct. But it’s not working. She’s red-faced, tiny fists flailing. You taste salt in your mouth before you even realize you're crying.
You spin slightly so no one from the paddock can see. You crouch by a crate, still holding her, and your arms ache. You press your forehead to hers.
“Maisie, I can’t do this right now,” you whisper. “I really … I really can’t.”
You’re trying so hard not to let it happen, not here, not where Ayao could walk out and see you, where Ollie might glance your way and panic because his engineer looks like she’s about to have a nervous breakdown in the shadows. But the moment you blink, fat tears fall hot and fast down your cheeks. Your shirt is soaked in milk and baby spit-up and your own sweat, and you smell like panic.
Maisie wails louder.
Then a shadow shifts. A pair of sneakers steps into your periphery. Someone stands still for a beat. You glance up through blurry eyes.
Oscar.
Not his usual casual wave or distracted half-smile. Not walking past like everyone else does. He just stops.
You straighten instinctively, embarrassed. “It’s fine. We’re fine.”
Your voice breaks on “fine.” You bite your lip hard enough to hurt.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just bends his knees slightly, meeting your eyes like he’s asking for silent permission.
“Can I-” He gestures toward Maisie. “Do you want me to hold her?”
You stare at him.
It’s not the offer that surprises you, it’s how he says it — no pity, no wide-eyed discomfort. Just calm. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world to stumble upon your colleague’s meltdown behind the garage and offer to hold her shrieking newborn.
“She won’t stop,” you whisper, voice cracking again. “She’s been crying for hours and she won’t eat and I-”
You stop before you say something you can’t take back. Like I don’t know what I’m doing. Like I think I made a mistake. Like I’m scared out of my fucking mind.
Oscar doesn’t rush you. He just extends his arms, patient.
You hesitate because this is insane, isn’t it? Handing your six-week-old daughter to a guy you’ve exchanged maybe five entire sentences with?
But your arms are trembling and your shirt is sticking to your chest and your brain is fraying at the seams.
You let go.
He slides her gently from your arms, holds her with a natural ease that makes you blink. Maisie fusses, kicks a little. Oscar bounces her slowly, rhythmically. Like he’s done this before. Or just understands something about how to stand still in chaos.
You sit on the crate, shoulders caving, head in your hands.
“I didn’t even brush my teeth,” you mumble. “I’ve been up since three.”
Oscar doesn’t respond with any kind of platitude. He just hums a little — off-key, quiet. Some soft nothing melody under his breath as he rocks Maisie.
Miraculously, she begins to settle.
You glance up.
“What are you doing?” You whisper.
“Just … the white noise thing. Babies like movement, sound. Predictability.” He shrugs one shoulder. “At least, that’s what my sister swears by.”
“You have a niece?”
“Three. And one nephew. Big, chaotic family.”
Maisie lets out a soft snuffle, nuzzles into his hoodie. The silence stretches between you, not heavy, just present.
“I was supposed to be back next month,” you say eventually. “But Ayao called. Said Ollie needs stability. Said this is the biggest season for Haas in years. No pressure or anything.”
Oscar glances down at Maisie. “And so here you are.”
“Here I am,” you echo. “Breastfeeding between race strategy meetings and pretending I’m fine.”
He nods, slow. “It’s a lot.”
You huff a broken laugh. “That’s the understatement of the year.”
The back of your shirt sticks to the crate as you lean back. The fabric of your bra digs into your ribs. You need a shower, a nap, a meal that isn’t caffeine and a half-eaten granola bar.
But Maisie is quiet. Oscar’s holding her like she’s something precious, not a burden. Like she’s weightless in his arms.
You shift forward, resting your elbows on your knees. “I think people assume I’m some kind of superhero. Like … I chose this, so I must be equipped for it. Strong enough. Smart enough.”
“And?” He asks.
“And I’m not.”
Oscar doesn't argue. He doesn't try to reassure you. He just looks at you like he hears you.
“That guy,” you say, voice dropping. “The father. He split the second I said I wasn’t getting rid of her.”
Oscar’s jaw tightens just slightly.
You wipe your eyes with the heel of your hand. “He said I was ruining both our lives. Guess I didn’t disagree.”
Maisie stirs. Oscar shifts his hold, cradles her tighter. She sighs.
“I think you’re doing the opposite,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
He nods toward the tiny sleeping bundle in his arms. “You’re not ruining anything. You’re building something. Doesn’t mean it’s not hard. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck sometimes. But you’re showing up. That matters.”
A beat of silence.
Your throat tightens. “You don’t even know me.”
Oscar meets your eyes. “Maybe not. But I see you.”
And something about the way he says that — so quiet, so simple — undoes something in you.
For the first time in weeks, you don’t feel like a ghost in a firestorm.
You feel human.
You exhale shakily. “Thank you.”
He gives a small smile. “No worries.”
You sit like that for a while longer. Just listening to the muffled chaos of the paddock, the thrum of engines, distant laughter from the Red Bull side of the motorhome. But none of it feels as loud as it did ten minutes ago.
You glance at your watch.
“Shit,” you mumble. “I have to brief Ollie in fifteen. I look like I got hit by a truck.”
Oscar’s already shrugging out of his hoodie. “Here.”
You blink. “You’re giving me your hoodie?”
He grins, just a bit. “I have like ten. Plus, yours is-” He eyes your shirt. “A little … compromised.”
You laugh, actually laugh. “That’s a polite way to say soaked in breastmilk.”
Oscar slips the hoodie over your shoulders. “Didn’t want to make it weird.”
You tug it on. It smells like fabric softener and something vaguely citrusy. Comfortable. Soft.
You reach out for Maisie, carefully lifting her from his arms. She makes a tiny noise, then settles against your chest like she knows the worst has passed.
“Thanks,” you say again.
Oscar steps back, nods once. No grand goodbye, no lingering look. Just-
“I’ll see you around,” he says.
You watch him disappear back into the paddock.
Later, when you’re back in the garage running numbers and Ollie’s cracking jokes in that endearingly terrible way he does, you keep thinking about it. The calm way Oscar looked at you. Not like a disaster. Not like you were someone to fix.
Just like someone he was willing to stand beside.
And for the first time since Maisie was born, you think that maybe you’re not alone in this.
***
It starts with coffee.
Not in a grand gesture kind of way. Not with fanfare or any implication. Just a paper cup set gently beside your laptop on Saturday morning, no words, no eye contact. You glance up from your monitor, bleary-eyed and still in the same ponytail as yesterday. Oscar’s already walking away, a lanyard slung low around his neck, earbuds in.
You frown at the cup. There’s a little scrawl on the lid.
Extra shot. Not judging.
- Oscar
You don’t drink it right away. You stare at it for a minute too long, suspicious, unsure. Then Maisie stirs in the carrier strapped to your chest, snuffling softly in her sleep, and your own brain gives a protest of fatigue so loud you actually wince.
You take a sip. And then another.
It’s perfect.
You don’t say anything. But the next day, there’s another.
***
By Thursday in Jeddah, you’ve built a little routine. You don’t admit it’s a routine, because that would imply you’re relying on it. You’re not. You’re surviving. That’s all.
You make it through the technical brief with Maisie tucked against your chest and Ollie mouthing an apology when she lets out a heroic fart halfway through your summary of long-run pace. You finish your notes while gently bouncing one knee. You pump in the bathroom between sessions, crouched over with your AirPods in, listening to Ollie’s sector times.
And sometime between your third and fourth coffee, Oscar appears again.
This time, he doesn’t leave the cup.
He just kind of … hovers.
You’re standing behind the pit wall, Maisie in your arms again, this time vaguely awake and doing her best to gnaw her fist off. You’re trying to adjust her hat with one hand and keep your headset from slipping with the other when you feel him beside you.
“Hey,” he says, not too close, not too loud.
You glance at him. “Hey.”
Oscar points to Maisie’s tiny hat. “Little crooked.”
“Yeah,” you murmur, gently fixing it. “She’s a wiggler.”
There’s a beat of silence. He’s not looking at you, not really. Just standing with his hands in his pockets, eyes on the track.
“You want me to hold her while you sort that out?”
You hesitate.
“Just if it helps,” he adds quickly. “You don’t have to.”
Maisie coos softly, and something loosens in your chest.
“Yeah, okay,” you say.
He takes her like he did the first time — without fuss, without spectacle. She gurgles, eyes wide, then promptly spits up down the front of his hoodie.
You flinch. “Oh God, I’m so sorry-”
Oscar blinks down at the mess. “She’s claiming me.”
You snort. “You say that now. Wait till she pees on you.”
He chuckles, shifting her to his other arm. “Price of admission.”
You glance sideways at him. “You’re weirdly good at this.”
He shrugs. “Like I said. Lots of nieces. My sister would throw me the baby and vanish for forty minutes. Sink or swim.”
“Still,” you murmur, “most guys would run for the hills.”
Oscar meets your eyes. “I’m not most guys.”
You look away before he can see how hard that hits you.
***
By Melbourne, Maisie has a blanket.
You find it on your seat after debrief — soft, fleece, pale blue with tiny orange cats and cartoonish koalas printed all over it. No note. No explanation. Just a tag stitched into the corner that reads “Made in Australia.”
You hold it up, stare at it for a minute. Maisie, kicking her legs on the playmat you’ve shoved into the corner between two toolboxes, lets out a delighted screech.
Oscar’s nowhere nearby. But the next day, he waves a little when he passes you outside the garage.
You raise the blanket slightly in one hand.
He grins and keeps walking.
***
“You two are kind of … a thing now?”
The question comes from Ollie, out of nowhere, tossed like a pebble while you’re both hunched over tire wear data late at night.
You blink. “What?”
He looks at you, chewing his lip. “Oscar. He’s always around. And he brought Maisie that stuffed wombat. And the bouncer. And he held her for, like, forty minutes after FP2 while you were screaming at data.”
You frown. “He’s just … being nice.”
Ollie leans back, arms crossed. “Sure.”
You narrow your eyes. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Just … nice is usually once. Maybe twice. Three times max. After that, it’s something else.”
You go back to the screen. “I don’t have time for something else.”
Ollie’s voice is gentler when he speaks again. “Yeah, but maybe you deserve it anyway.”
You pause.
He doesn't push. Just taps a few keys and murmurs, “Sector three’s still our weak spot,” like you didn’t just have your emotional armor dented by a twenty-year-old with bedhead.
***
The thing is — you like the silence with Oscar.
You like the way he doesn’t fill space with questions or commentary or sympathy. You like that he lingers near the coffee station outside the Haas motorhome some mornings like it’s completely normal, even though his own team’s is fifty feet away. You like that he talks to Maisie like she’s a person when he holds her.
“What do you think, huh?” He murmurs once, cradling her by the garage while you argue with Ayao. “Should I go softs or mediums for the start? Blink once for softs.”
Maisie blinks.
“Well, that’s settled then.”
She squeals. He smiles like it’s the best sound in the world.
You glance at him as you shoulder your headset. “You know she’s not actually giving strategy input, right?”
“Speak for yourself,” he says. “We’ve got a bond.”
You roll your eyes, but your mouth twitches.
He sees it.
***
Still, you don’t let it get too far. You don’t text him first. You don’t invite him over when Maisie wakes up at 2 a.m. and you’re so tired you can’t see straight. You don’t admit how often you catch yourself watching him from across the paddock.
You’ve learned what it costs to need someone.
And you can’t afford it again.
***
“I think you’re scared,” Ollie says one night, unprompted, while he’s balancing a sandwich in one hand and Maisie’s bottle in the other. You’re watching him like a hawk.
“I think you’re twenty,” you reply. “What do you know about it?”
“I know I’ve seen you trust him with her,” he says. “And I know you keep pushing him away before he can get close to you.”
You cross your arms. “This is not your business.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “Still.”
Maisie gurgles.
“I just don’t want you to be lonely,” he adds softly.
You close your eyes.
***
It’s Miami when you finally break.
It’s hot — sweltering — and Maisie’s developed a rash from the heat and you forgot her extra formula packet in the hotel and she’s screaming again, just like she did in Bahrain. You’re in the garage, behind a stack of tool chests, willing yourself not to cry.
Again.
And then-
Oscar.
Again.
“Hey,” he says, softly. “Come here.”
You want to argue. You want to say no, say you’ve got it handled, say she’s your daughter and it’s your job.
But you’re so tired.
And he’s there.
You let him take her.
You lean against the wall and cover your face with both hands.
Oscar just sways gently, holding Maisie close, whispering something too quiet for you to hear.
Eventually, you look up.
He’s already watching you.
“You don’t have to do this,” you say. “You don’t have to keep showing up.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you?”
He shrugs. “Because I want to.”
You stare at him. “That’s not a good enough reason.”
Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Says who?”
You don’t answer.
He bounces Maisie once more. She’s finally calm again.
“You’re allowed to let someone be on your side,” he says, so quietly it’s almost a whisper. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”
Your throat tightens. “I don’t know how to let people in anymore.”
“Start small,” he says. “Start with coffee.”
You laugh, even though your eyes are stinging.
He passes Maisie back to you. She’s warm and soft and heavy and yours. But you don’t feel quite as alone with her now.
Oscar lingers for a second. His fingers brush yours.
“I’ll be around,” he says, stepping back.
And you believe him.
***
The hallway is dim, washed in that awful yellowish hotel lighting that makes everything feel lonelier. Cold air seeps from the vents above, and you’re standing barefoot in the carpeted corridor with Maisie burning hot against your chest, wrapped in Oscar’s koala-cat blanket. It’s 3:07 a.m., and your hands won’t stop shaking.
You keep pressing your cheek to her forehead, but it doesn’t help. She’s still too hot. She’s whimpering now — small, pitiful sounds like she’s trying not to cry but can’t help it. You’ve already tried the emergency paracetamol, the cool compresses, the lukewarm bath in the hotel sink. Nothing. Her eyes are glassy. Her body limp.
“Please,” you whisper into her sweat-damp hair. “Please be okay.”
You tried to call someone — anyone — but the local numbers led to voicemails in German, and Google Translate can only do so much when your brain is going haywire. There’s no pediatric ER for miles. No familiar accents. And you’re not even sure you’re doing this right. She’s never been this sick before.
You feel like you’re suffocating.
And then-
Footsteps. Fast ones.
You flinch, turn slightly.
Oscar.
He’s in sweats and a hoodie, barefoot too, his hair a disheveled halo and his eyes wide when they land on you. He takes one look at your face — no makeup, tears drying on your cheeks, Maisie panting softly against you — and freezes for a second.
Then he’s moving.
“What happened?” He asks, already reaching to touch her forehead. “What-”
“She’s burning up,” you say, voice breaking. “I’ve tried everything, I don’t — I don’t know what else to do.”
Oscar’s hand rests on Maisie’s back. “How high?”
“Thirty-nine point six,” you say, clutching her tighter. “I gave her the meds but she won’t cool down. She’s not crying anymore, and that’s not — she always cries. She should be crying.”
Oscar’s already pulling out his phone. “We’ll find somewhere. Hold on.”
You watch as he paces a few steps down the hall, murmuring into the receiver, tapping into some international McLaren lifeline. You catch bits — “infant,” “high fever,” “urgent,” “no local language,” “expat facility” — before he spins around.
“There’s a clinic thirty minutes from here,” he says, moving toward you. “Expat-run. English-speaking staff. Open overnight. They’ll take her.”
Your knees almost give out. “Really?”
He nods. “Come on. I’ll drive.”
***
The car ride is quiet except for Maisie’s soft whimpers. You’re in the backseat with her bundled in your lap, and Oscar’s gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. The headlights cut through the rural Austrian night, sharp and pale.
You don’t speak until you’re nearly there.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
He just nods.
**^
The clinic is small, tucked off a cobblestone road, humming with soft fluorescent light and the faint beep of machinery behind closed doors. The moment you walk in, a nurse with a kind face and a thick American accent takes Maisie from your arms. You hate letting go, but you do. Oscar keeps a hand on your back.
“She’ll be okay,” he says.
You’re not sure how he knows. But the way he says it makes you believe it anyway.
They take her to the exam room. You’re told to wait.
And suddenly, all the adrenaline leaves your body.
You sink into one of the cheap vinyl chairs in the waiting room, hands clutched uselessly in your lap. You stare at the far wall, trying to keep your breathing steady. The pale green paint is chipped near the floor. There’s a soft humming coming from the ceiling vent.
Oscar doesn’t sit right away. He paces.
You glance at him.
“She’s in good hands,” you murmur.
He nods, but he keeps pacing.
His hoodie is half-zipped, and something small and fuzzy peeks out from inside. You squint.
“Is that her stuffed wombat?”
Oscar stops. Looks down. “Yeah,” he says sheepishly. “Grabbed it before we left. Thought she might want it.”
Your throat tightens.
“She’ll like that,” you whisper.
He finally sits beside you, still holding the elephant close.
A silence stretches between you — thick, heavy, but not empty. You feel it in your ribs, in your hands, in the deep ache behind your eyes.
You glance at Oscar again. “Why are you here?”
He frowns. “Because Maisie’s sick.”
“No, I mean …” You trail off, stare at your lap. “Why do you keep … showing up?”
Oscar shifts slightly toward you. “You ever thought maybe you’re allowed to be shown up for?”
You press your lips together. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then:
“It doesn’t have to.”
You look at him. Really look at him. His tired eyes. The way he’s holding that stupid elephant like it’s sacred. The way he’s angled slightly toward you, knees brushing yours.
“I don’t know how to let anyone in,” you whisper. “Not really.”
Oscar’s voice is soft. “I don’t need all the way in.”
Your breathing stutters.
“Just enough,” he says. “Enough to help.”
You nod, because anything else will make you cry.
And then you let your head fall against his shoulder.
At first, it’s just to rest. Just to be still. But the moment you feel the warmth of him — solid and steady and there — you shatter.
The sob hits without warning. Loud and messy.
Oscar doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Just shifts a little, lets you curl into him, wraps his free arm around your shoulders and holds you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I was so scared,” you whisper through the tears. “I thought I was going to lose her.”
“I know,” he says.
“I didn’t know what to do.”
“But you did. You found help.”
“You found it.”
He presses his cheek to your hair. “We found it.”
You cry harder.
He lets you.
Eventually, your breathing slows. Your body sags against his. His hand rubs gently up and down your arm.
You don’t lift your head. You just sit there, eyes closed, heartbeat syncing with his.
After a while, you hear it — the nurse returning. A soft knock on the doorframe.
“She’s okay,” she says, smiling. “It’s a virus. Very common. Scary, but it’ll pass. We’ve brought her fever down and she’s sleeping now. You can see her soon.”
You nod, eyes wet again. “Thank you.”
Oscar exhales slowly, the kind of breath you hadn’t realized he was holding too.
When the nurse leaves, you finally pull back. Oscar wipes at your cheek with the cuff of his sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur.
“For what?”
“For losing it. For dragging you out here. For-”
“Don’t,” he interrupts gently. “Don’t apologize for loving her.”
You blink at him.
His eyes soften. “That’s all this is. You love her.”
You nod.
He looks down at your intertwined hands — when had that happened?
“I’ll stay,” he says. “As long as you want.”
You squeeze his fingers.
“Okay,” you whisper.
And when he leans back in the chair, still holding your hand, and closes his eyes for the first time since the hallway, you let your head rest on his shoulder again.
This time, there are no tears.
Just breath.
And something — quiet, safe, and slow — starting to grow.
***
Maisie is better by the time you return to the paddock in Spielberg. Her fever broke two days ago, and her laugh has come back — bright and gurgly and loud, like it never left. She squeals when she sees Oscar in the McLaren garage that morning, fist reaching for his hoodie like it’s a homing beacon.
And for a second, things almost feel normal.
Until they don’t.
***
You’re summoned after FP1. The message is clinical, phrased like a calendar alert:
You don’t bring Maisie. You already know it’s not that kind of meeting.
When you enter, the air feels stiff. Ayao is seated at the head of the table, arms folded. Beside him: Amanda from HR, the one with the always-too-tight bun and a clipboard of sins. Matt from aero’s there too, for some reason. No one looks up when you walk in.
“Take a seat,” Amanda says.
You do.
Ayao opens the meeting without preamble. “We’ve had a number of concerns raised about the perception of professionalism coming out of the garage.”
You stare at him. “Whose perception?”
“We’re not at liberty to name names,” Amanda says, flipping her page.
You blink. “You want me to defend myself against anonymous accusations?”
Ayao sighs. “This isn’t personal.”
You laugh — sharp, incredulous. “It feels pretty damn personal when I’m being told that caring for my baby in public is unprofessional.”
Matt clears his throat. “It’s more about optics. Media coverage. Sponsor comfort. There’s been chatter about crying during sessions, about … Oscar Piastri being seen holding the baby more than once.”
You stiffen. “So now it’s a problem that someone was helping?”
“No one’s saying that,” Amanda replies, voice syrupy. “We just want to make sure you understand the boundaries.”
You lean forward. “You forced me back six weeks postpartum. There was no childcare or extended maternity leave offered, no accommodations. I’ve been pumping in storage closets. I’ve been writing run plans while nursing. I’ve been making Ollie’s car faster every single weekend without fail. And now, now, you want to talk about boundaries?”
Amanda stays silent. Ayao sighs again.
“You’re one of the best engineers we’ve had,” he says gruffly. “But you have to admit this arrangement isn’t … sustainable.”
Your voice drops. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s an invitation to reassess,” Amanda says brightly. “We’re recommending a temporary suspension. Time off. Unpaid, for now.”
You feel it, that cold, hollow pressure in your chest. “So you’re punishing me for surviving?”
“No one’s punishing anyone,” she replies. “We just want what’s best for the team.”
You stand up. Slowly. Deliberately.
“What’s best for the team,” you repeat. “Copy that.”
You turn for the door — only to find it already swinging open.
Oscar.
He must’ve been standing right outside, just behind the thin wall of the motorhome. His face is taut, eyes stormy. He steps in like he belongs there, not waiting for permission.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, voice low.
Ayao frowns. “Oscar-”
“No,” he snaps. “You don’t get to do this behind her back. You don’t get to act like she’s the problem.”
Amanda bristles. “This doesn’t concern you-”
“The hell it doesn’t.”
His voice rings out across the room.
You freeze. Everyone does.
He moves closer, jaw tight. “I’ve watched her hold this team together with duct tape and willpower for months. I’ve seen her run telemetry with one hand while rocking a baby with the other. I’ve seen her outthink every other engineer in this paddock while getting three hours of sleep and zero support. And now you want to frame it like she’s a liability?”
Oscar turns to Amanda, then to Ayao. “She didn’t compromise professionalism. You did. When you brought her back without leave. When you gave her zero resources. When you set her up to fail and she still didn’t.”
No one breathes.
Oscar takes a breath, voice softer but still steel. “You’re lucky to have her. And if you can’t see that, it says more about you than it does about her.”
You blink. Your vision goes hot.
Amanda shifts in her seat. “Oscar, with all due respect-”
“No. No respect,” he says. “Not if this is how you treat the people who work the hardest.”
The silence afterward is thunderous.
You stare at him.
And he stares right back.
***
Later, outside the motorhome, the sun is high and the wind carries the scent of burnt rubber and Alpine air. You don’t say anything at first. Neither does he. You’re standing on the gravel, heart still racing.
Finally, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” Oscar says, quiet. “But I couldn’t not.”
You study his face.
“You meant it?” You ask, voice small.
His brow furrows. “Of course I meant it.”
“No one’s ever stood up for me like that.”
Oscar’s mouth presses into a line. “Well. Get used to it.”
You let out a breath that feels like it’s been stuck in your lungs for months.
“I don’t know what to say,” you whisper.
“Don’t say anything,” he replies. “Just let me be here.”
You reach for his hand.
He takes it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And this time, you don’t stop him.
***
Maisie is nestled against Oscar’s chest, her bottle cradled in his hands like it’s some sacred artifact.
The hotel room is quiet — dimly lit, post-race haze lingering in the air like warmth after a storm. Outside, the Austrian hills are dark silhouettes, and the paddock has long since gone to sleep. But in here, it’s just the hum of the minibar fridge, the soft coo of a milk-drowsy baby, and the low murmur of Oscar’s voice.
“She’s getting better at this,” he says, angling the bottle just slightly. Maisie lets out a tiny, satisfied sigh, eyelids fluttering. “She doesn’t try to wrestle it out of my hands anymore.”
“She trusts you,” you say, sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed. “That’s rare.”
Oscar glances up. “From you or her?”
You smile, but there’s a flicker of something behind it. “Both.”
He doesn’t press. Just looks back down at Maisie, stroking her soft hair gently with one finger.
You let yourself watch them for a beat too long. Oscar with her is something you still don’t know how to process. There’s no performance in it. No ego. Just patience. A kind of steady quiet you haven’t seen in years, maybe ever.
He shifts slightly. “My mum used to do this thing,” he says. “She’d sing when I was sick. Not lullabies, just whatever was stuck in her head. Once it was ABBA for three days straight.”
“Solid choice.”
“Yeah,” he says, smiling faintly. “She was always good in a crisis. Not the loud kind of good. Just … consistent. The sort of person who makes tea before asking what’s wrong.”
You lean back against the headboard, pulling your knees up. “You talk about her like she’s still your whole foundation.”
“She kind of is,” he says. “I used to think I’d never be anything like her. That I was too much in my own head. Too closed off.”
He shifts Maisie in his arms so she’s lying on her back in the crook of his elbow, eyes fluttering closed.
“I didn’t think I’d want this,” he says softly. “Any of it.”
Your breath catches. “Want what?”
“This,” he says. “You. Her. A life that isn’t just cars and data and press conferences.”
Your throat tightens. You look away, focus on a scuff mark on the wall. “Oscar-”
“I know,” he cuts in gently. “I’m not saying it expecting anything.”
You glance back at him. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is steady. “I used to think racing was it. That it had to be. I spent so long building my world around it that I didn’t leave room for anything else.”
You swallow. “And now?”
He exhales slowly. “Now I find myself looking for you in the other garage when I get out of the car. I look for Maisie in the paddock. I check your run plan even when I don’t need to. I … I notice the empty space when you’re not around.”
Maisie makes a soft, contented noise. Oscar smiles down at her like it’s the first time he’s ever seen something this small, this complete.
“Don’t,” you say suddenly, too loud in the quiet room.
Oscar looks up, startled. “What?”
You sit up straighter, heart pounding. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them. Unless you’re ready for what that actually means.”
He frowns, bottle still in hand. “I do mean it.”
“I don’t have space for something that might fall apart.”
“Neither do I.”
You run a hand through your hair, tired and restless all at once. “This isn’t a normal relationship, Oscar. I have a kid. A whole human who depends on me. I’m not just someone you can fall for in a hotel room and forget in the next country.”
His voice is calm. “Do I seem like someone who forgets?”
You look at him. Really look at him.
Oscar in the soft hotel light, holding your baby, hair slightly messy, socks mismatched. No script. No audience. Just him.
He sets the bottle aside. Gently shifts Maisie into the portable bassinet by the bed. She doesn’t stir.
Then he sits beside you.
He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t lean in.
He just says, “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. And I know it’s messy. I know it’s not ideal. But when I imagine my life in five years, ten years — you’re in it. So is she.”
You blink hard. “I can’t promise you anything.”
“I’m not asking for anything but time,” he says. “Time to show you I mean it.”
You breathe out slowly. His hand is close to yours on the bedspread. You stare at it.
Then, tentatively, you reach over.
Fingers brushing.
Skin to skin.
You lean in before you think better of it, and when his lips meet yours, it’s slow, careful, like touching something you both don’t want to break.
It doesn’t last long. You pull back too fast, heart racing.
He doesn’t chase it. Just searches your eyes.
You shake your head, barely above a whisper. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” he says.
And then, quieter, “Me too.”
But neither of you moves.
And when Maisie sighs in her sleep, both of you glance over at the same time.
Like instinct.
***
It starts the way bad dreams always do.
With someone saying your name in a voice you haven’t heard in nearly a year. A voice that doesn’t belong here — doesn’t belong anywhere near this place, this life, your daughter.
“Y/N.”
You stop mid-step, heart in your throat. The pit lane is buzzing, teams moving in post-qualifying rhythm, but all of it fades to static when you see him.
Tall, sharp-suited despite the heat, sunglasses perched like he’s posing for some glossy magazine profile. The same smug, rehearsed look that used to make your skin crawl now triggers something colder. Harder.
He smirks like nothing’s changed. “Been a while.”
You take one step back. Just one. Reflex.
“I’m working,” you say tightly. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m exactly where I should be,” he replies, glancing around like the paddock is a film set built just for him. “Figured it was time I saw my daughter.”
“Don’t you dare,” you say, voice low, trembling. “You don’t get to say that.”
He holds up his hands mockingly. “Come on. I’m not the villain here. I’ve been thinking — maybe we started off on the wrong foot.”
“By abandoning me when I wouldn’t get an abortion?” You snap, arms folded tightly across your chest. “That foot?”
“I’ve matured,” he says smoothly. “Got a new job, joined a fatherhood group on Facebook. Did the work.”
You stare at him. “You did the work where, exactly? While I was in labor alone? While I was nursing through team meetings? While I was begging HR not to dock my pay for taking a week off after childbirth?”
“I want to be involved now.”
Your laugh is sharp, humorless. “No, you want to be seen being involved.”
Something flickers in his eyes. The mask slips just a little.
He leans in, lowering his voice. “I’m prepared to go through legal channels if I have to.”
You stiffen.
“What did you just say?”
“I’ve spoken to lawyers. Paternal rights, shared custody,” he says with a shrug. “They’re confident. You work full-time, travel constantly. No partner. Not exactly a stable environment, is it?”
You go still. The blood rushes in your ears, drowning out everything else.
Then a voice cuts through.
“Is there a problem here?”
Oscar.
He’s walking toward you fast, purposeful, not even pretending to hide the tension in his shoulders. He glances between the two of you, his eyes landing hard on the man beside you.
You exhale, shaky. “Oscar-”
“Who’s this?” Your ex asks, with a smirk that instantly makes you want to punch something.
Oscar doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves so he’s squarely between the two of you. Physically blocking him from you.
“I think you should leave,” Oscar says calmly.
The ex scoffs. “Excuse me? This is between me and the mother of my child.”
“She told you to leave. That should’ve been enough.”
“Oh, what are you now — her bodyguard?”
Oscar’s jaw flexes. “Something like that.”
Your ex chuckles. “Cute. So this is the new guy? The one playing house with my kid?”
You take a step forward, but Oscar lifts a hand behind his back in a subtle, don’t. He’s trying to de-escalate. Trying to stay calm. You can feel it radiating off him like heat.
“She’s not your kid,” Oscar says, voice deceptively soft. “You gave that up when you walked out.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“No,” you say, finding your voice again. “I do.”
Your ex straightens, that charming mask slipping into something darker. “I will get visitation. I have a right.”
Oscar’s entire posture shifts, a beat away from something dangerous. “You think threatening her with a lawsuit in the middle of the paddock is a good start?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Public pressure works wonders, doesn’t it? Imagine the headlines.”
You feel like you might throw up.
Oscar sees it. He turns back, finally, placing a steady hand on your lower back.
“We’re done here,” he says.
Your ex lifts his sunglasses back into place like this is all some business deal.
“We’ll see,” he says, and walks off like he’s won something.
***
You don’t cry until the door closes behind you.
You press your back against the wall, blinking hard, breathing harder.
Oscar’s already there. “Hey. Hey.”
“I can’t-” Your voice cracks. “I can’t go through this. I can’t — he’s going to make my life hell.”
Oscar reaches for your hand without hesitation. “Then he’ll have to go through me first.”
“That’s not how this works,” you whisper, shaking your head. “He’s not bluffing. He’ll sue. He’ll drag me to court and spin some narrative about how I’m an unfit mother and they’ll listen because he’s charming and rich and-”
“Y/N.”
You look up.
Oscar’s expression is calm. Unshaken.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
You close your eyes. “He’s not doing this because he wants her. He’s doing it because he hates that I’ve done this without him.”
Oscar’s quiet for a long moment. “We’ll get a lawyer. One who specializes in custody law. You won’t have to face him alone.”
You nod, slowly.
Then — quiet, broken — “What if I lose her?”
He pulls you into him without hesitation.
“You won’t.”
***
By the next day, it’s everywhere.
Whispers in the paddock. Twitter threads. Paparazzi photos of Oscar blocking the ex. Even one fuzzy, zoomed-in shot of you crying in the garage.
And Haas?
Haas disappears.
There’s no follow-up meeting. No support. No PR control.
Ayao won’t make eye contact in the hospitality tent. Amanda from HR offers you a tight-lipped smile and tells you to “keep things professional on camera.” You ask if the team will provide legal support, and she glances at her notes like she doesn’t know what that word means.
Ollie corners you outside the motorhome. “They’re icing you out.”
You shrug. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” he says. “They owe you.”
You smile, tired. “They never saw me as part of the equation. Just a variable to manage.”
He frowns. “They’re cowards.”
You glance at him. “Thank you.”
Ollie scratches the back of his neck. “If you ever need someone to watch Maisie while you scream into a pillow, I’m free after media duties.”
You almost laugh.
Almost.
“Thanks, Bear.”
He nods. “We’ve got your back. The people who matter, anyway.”
And for the first time all day, you believe it.
***
The sky over Zandvoort is still half-asleep.
Muted pinks stretch lazily over the water, turning the sea into a pane of brushed glass. Wind lifts the salt air gently, the world hushed in that rare, weightless pause before the day officially begins.
You sit on the cold sand in one of Oscar’s hoodies, sleeves pulled over your hands. Your shoes are back near the boardwalk. You don’t even remember kicking them off.
Behind you, the paddock will start waking soon. Engines will cough to life. Radios will crackle. Haas will want to know where you are.
But not yet.
“You’re not supposed to be awake,” comes a soft voice behind you.
You glance over your shoulder.
Oscar is walking toward you, Maisie tucked in one arm, wrapped up tight in a soft cream blanket. The one with the little orange cats and koalas printed all over it. The one he picked out.
She’s sleeping again, tiny hand fisted in the edge of the fabric.
“I heard the door,” he says. “And when I realized you weren’t in bed, I figured you were either fleeing the country or walking into the sea.”
You attempt a smile. It doesn’t quite land. “Still deciding.”
Oscar sits beside you carefully, mindful not to jostle Maisie.
“She settled right away,” he says. “Probably knew where you were.”
You don’t answer.
He shifts slightly, shoulder brushing yours. His warmth is quiet, familiar now.
Oscar looks out at the waves. “You want to talk?”
You shake your head.
But that’s a lie, and you both know it.
He waits.
Then you say, “I drafted my resignation letter last night.”
Oscar’s gaze snaps to you.
“You what?”
“I can’t do this,” you whisper, voice shaking despite the stillness in the air. “I can’t keep fighting every second. I’m exhausted, Oscar. I’ve been running on fumes since Maisie was born, and now with the lawsuit and the team icing me out — what’s left?”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
You keep your eyes on the ocean, because if you look at him, you might fall apart.
“I had a dream last week,” you say, trying to steady your voice. “I was at a race, and I couldn’t find her. No one would help me. Everyone just kept telling me to focus on strategy.”
Oscar says nothing, but his hand finds yours. Doesn’t squeeze. Just holds.
“And I keep thinking — maybe they’re right. Maybe this isn’t sustainable. Maybe I’m selfish for trying to have both.”
He exhales slowly. “You’re not selfish.”
“I’m a single mom. With an infant. Traveling twenty-five weekends a year. Fighting with lawyers. Fighting for space in a sport that was never built for people like me.”
“You’re also brilliant,” he says quietly. “And resilient. And completely irreplaceable on the pit wall.”
You shake your head. “That doesn’t matter when the system is designed to grind people down.”
“I mean it,” he says. “You belong here. You’ve earned this. Don’t let them take it from you.”
“I’m so tired, Oscar.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know how to be everything.”
He shifts Maisie carefully in his arm and wraps his free arm around your shoulders, pulling you against him.
“You don’t have to be everything,” he says into your hair. “Just be you. And let the people who love you fill in the rest.”
You let yourself lean into him. Just for a moment. The weight of his arm around you, the soft warmth of the baby’s blanket, the steadiness of his voice — it grounds you more than anything has in weeks.
“You think I can still have a life?” You ask, not looking up. “Not just … survive it?”
“I don’t think,” he says. “I know.”
You close your eyes.
The sun is rising now, full and gold and beautiful. You watch it shimmer over the water, spreading slow light across the waves.
Maisie stirs gently against Oscar’s chest. He cradles her with practiced ease.
“You look like a dad,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.
Oscar pauses. “I’m okay with that.”
You glance at him.
He’s already looking at you.
You study his face — the soft lines of morning light catching on his cheekbones, the subtle tiredness around his eyes. The way he holds Maisie like she’s something that matters. Not just to you, but to him.
“I’m scared,” you say.
He nods. “Me too.”
You draw in a shaky breath.
“Are you sure this isn’t too much?” You whisper. “Me. Her. The lawsuits. The chaos. The burnout.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
You stare at the sea again.
The waves come in, gentle and consistent. Over and over and over.
You’re still terrified.
But for the first time, there’s something else there too.
Hope.
***
The courtroom smells like printer ink and recycled air.
The kind of place that’s designed to feel neutral, but instead just feels cold. The kind of place where people like your ex are emboldened by polished shoes and pre-written statements.
You're sitting at the front, heart beating like a dull drum in your ears. You haven’t slept properly in three days. The skin beneath your eyes is bruised with fatigue. But you're here. You’re still here.
Maisie is with Oscar in the hallway — quiet, away from the noise. She doesn’t understand what’s happening, of course. She’s seven months old, teething, enamored with ceiling fans and the sound of Oscar’s laugh. But her presence is an anchor. Her existence a protest.
Your lawyer — Oscar’s lawyer, technically, the one Mark Webber connected you with — leans in.
“They’re going to bring up your travel schedule again,” she murmurs. “Stay calm. We’ll counter with your support network and evidence of consistent care.”
You nod, jaw clenched.
The judge is reviewing a document, glasses low on his nose. Your ex sits across the aisle, legs crossed, every hair perfectly in place. He wears that same old smug expression that says he still thinks this is about him.
He doesn’t even glance your way.
“Let’s continue,” the judge says.
***
By the time Ollie takes the stand, your palms are damp.
He looks too tall for the witness box, lanky and wide-eyed in his navy suit. He fiddles with the mic like it’s a simulator switch.
“State your name for the record,” the clerk prompts.
“Olliver Bearman,” he says. “Driver for Haas F1 Team.”
“Do you know the respondent?” Your lawyer asks.
Ollie nods quickly. “Yeah. She’s my race engineer.”
“And how would you describe her performance in that role?”
Ollie straightens in the chair, suddenly composed in the way he is before a race start.
“She’s the best I’ve ever worked with,” he says. “Insanely sharp. Totally unflappable. She’s saved my ass more times than I can count — sorry, can I say that?”
A few chuckles ripple across the gallery. The judge allows it with a wave of his hand.
Your lawyer smiles. “Has being a mother interfered with her ability to fulfill her professional responsibilities?”
“Not at all,” Ollie says, emphatically. “Actually, it’s kind of the opposite. I don’t know how she juggles it all, but she does. And Maisie is safe, happy, loved. Everyone in the paddock knows it. She’s got this … I don’t know, gravity about her. It makes people better just being around it.”
You blink rapidly. Look down at your lap. The warmth behind your ribs almost makes you dizzy.
Your lawyer clears her throat gently. “One final question, Ollie. Have you ever seen the petitioner interact with the child?”
Ollie shakes his head. “Nope. Never. First time I saw him was when he tried to corner her outside the garage like it was a hostage negotiation.”
The judge lifts an eyebrow. “Noted.”
***
When the ruling comes, it’s mercifully swift.
You hear the words sole custody and best interest of the child and established caregiving structure, and the rest just fades. Like someone’s turned down the volume on the whole world.
Oscar is already standing beside you by the time you realize you’re crying.
He doesn’t say anything. Just wraps his arms around you from behind and presses a kiss to the side of your head, Maisie giggling between you, gnawing happily on his collar.
You turn into his chest, burying your face there.
It’s over. You won.
***
Haas doesn’t call you. They post.
A soft-statement graphic goes live two days later across all platforms. White text on a neutral background.
“In light of recent events, we recognize the urgent need for stronger parental support in motorsport. Haas F1 Team is committed to building an environment where working parents are supported, not punished. Effective immediately, our HR policy will be amended to include-”
You stop reading after that.
You don’t need their apology. You needed their backbone. But still, you forward the post to the lawyer, just in case.
Maisie’s asleep on your chest, warm and soft and drooling. Oscar’s on the couch, one leg propped up, watching something on his laptop with half a smirk.
You stare at him for a long moment.
He glances up.
“What?” He asks, grinning.
You shift slowly, careful not to wake Maisie.
“I need to say something,” you say, voice low.
He closes the laptop. “Okay.”
You sit up a little straighter. Maisie sighs in her sleep.
“I’m not good at this,” you begin. “Any of this. I’m used to surviving. Not … building something.”
Oscar just watches you.
“And now that this thing with the custody is done … I need you to know that you can walk away. I wouldn’t blame you.”
His expression doesn’t change.
You press on, forcing the words out. “I don’t want to drag you into something you didn’t sign up for. I can’t promise I’ll ever be soft or simple or easy. I come with a child. With sleepless nights and diaper bags and a dozen things I can’t drop just because we want a quiet evening in.”
Oscar shifts forward, elbows on his knees.
“You done?”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
He leans in.
“I knew what I was walking into the day I saw you behind the Haas motorhome,” he says. “You, covered in spit-up, leaking milk, shaking and still holding it together. I didn’t see chaos. I saw a force of nature.”
You open your mouth. He cuts you off.
“I didn’t want easy, Y/N. I wanted real.”
You stare at him, the back of your throat aching.
He reaches over and brushes a strand of hair from your face.
“And you,” he murmurs, “are the most real thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You laugh — choked and teary and a little ridiculous.
Maisie stirs, lets out a soft coo, and Oscar immediately leans down to kiss her forehead. Like he’s been doing it forever.
You look at him.
You look at them.
And for the first time in months, you let yourself breathe.
***
The roar of the crowd is deafening.
You can barely hear yourself think over the sound of it — thousands of fans on their feet, flags waving, cameras flashing, all of it a chaotic, beautiful blur. But what cuts through the noise, sharp and clear, is the grin on Ollie’s face as he hoists the first-place trophy into the air.
He’s trembling. Giddy. Champagne-soaked and speechless.
And beside him, on the left step — Verstappen, of course — and to his right, Leclerc, already popping his bottle, laughing as the spray arcs into the air like fireworks. You squint against the sunlight bouncing off everything. It smells like victory and sugar and sweat.
Ollie glances down at you from the top step and gives a pointed little nod. You raise your hands in mock warning.
Don’t you dare.
But he does.
He aims the bottle like a sniper and lets loose, hitting you square in the chest with a direct stream of cold, sticky champagne.
You yelp, ducking your head as a second wave hits you from Max, then Charles, then Ollie again — relentless and laughing like a kid on Christmas morning.
The crowd eats it up.
You’re standing just off to the side of the driver’s steps, clutching the Constructors’ trophy in one hand, hair dripping, the front of your team polo soaked. But the grin on your face is involuntary, wide and stunned and completely unfiltered.
You haven’t smiled like this in a long time.
***
Oscar lifts Maisie up as high as he dares, careful to keep her secure in his arms. She squeals in delight, her tiny fists waving in the air like she understands exactly what’s happening.
“See that?” He whispers against her soft cheek. “That’s your mum.”
She coos, eyes fixated on the woman in the middle of it all, surrounded by noise and color and glory — and looking completely in her element.
The paddock below is chaos. McLaren mechanics cheer just as loudly as Haas, media swarms the fences, but Oscar only sees you.
You’re soaked, still laughing, eyes glinting under the sun. And somehow, even with your hair plastered to your cheeks and a streak of champagne on your neck, you’ve never looked more untouchable.
He presses a kiss to Maisie’s head.
“Pretty cool, huh?”
Maisie gurgles in reply.
***
The garage is still echoing when you finally make your way back down the steps, trophy in hand. Your cheeks ache from smiling. Your lungs feel new, like they’ve never been this full.
The Haas crew erupts as you reappear.
Ollie catches you first, nearly tackling you in a hug.
“You did it!” You yell against his shoulder.
He pulls back, dazed and laughing. “We did it. Jesus, you — you’re incredible. Did you see it? The overtake in Sector 3?”
“You think I wasn’t screaming like a lunatic on the pit wall?”
He grins even harder. “I heard you in my helmet. I think you might’ve caused permanent hearing damage.”
You roll your eyes. “You’ve given me permanent anxiety. Seems fair.”
More arms around you, more voices. Then suddenly Oscar’s there too, Maisie tucked in the crook of his arm, a muslin cloth half-draped over his shoulder, and you swear the second you see them, the noise fades.
Your fingers wrap around his arm without thinking.
“You saw?”
Oscar lifts Maisie slightly. “We saw everything.”
She’s got her fingers in her mouth, eyes heavy but wide with interest.
“She loved the part where you got soaked,” he adds, mock serious. “We might need to talk about your champagne defense strategy. Pretty weak.”
You laugh. “I had no chance. Ollie’s a menace.”
Oscar steps in closer, voice lower now, the two of you suddenly in your own quiet little space amid the buzz.
“I meant it,” he says, looking down at you. “That’s your world up there. You looked-” He shakes his head. “You looked like you belonged to it.”
You glance down, suddenly shy, even after all these months.
“I forgot what it felt like to win,” you admit softly. “Like really win.”
Oscar leans in, forehead nearly brushing yours.
“Then get used to it,” he says. “You’re not going anywhere.”
***
Later, after media and debriefs and a whirlwind of handshakes and team photos and Maisie falling asleep in your arms mid-interview, you find yourself in the back of the hotel suite, barefoot, hair towel-dried, wrapped in one of Oscar’s hoodies.
Maisie is finally asleep in the bassinet. The night is soft and quiet. Just the low hum of city noise outside and Oscar sitting on the floor, back against the edge of the bed, legs stretched out.
You lower yourself beside him.
For a long moment, neither of you says anything.
He takes your hand without needing to ask.
“You know,” he murmurs eventually, “some people wait a lifetime for the kind of love you gave me by accident.”
Your heart stutters.
You study his profile, the curve of his cheekbone in the dim light, the way his thumb grazes your palm absentmindedly.
You lean in until your temple rests against his shoulder.
“And some of us didn’t think we’d ever be allowed to want it,” you whisper.
Oscar’s breath hitches just slightly.
He turns his head, presses his lips to your hair. His voice is barely audible when he speaks next.
“You were never an accident,” he says. “You were the start of everything.”
You close your eyes, the weight of it all pressing in — the months, the heartbreak, the fight, the fury, the long nights and longer days. The sleepless mornings. The late-night telemetry. The courtroom. The loneliness. The stubbornness.
And him.
Always him.
You squeeze his hand.
“Stay?” You ask.
Oscar smiles into your hair.
“Always.”
***
The first time she ever walked, it was toward a set of tires in the Haas garage.
Oscar had been kneeling nearby, arms outstretched, completely ignored as she toddled past him to lay both sticky palms flat on the tread. “Ty,” she had said proudly — her first word that wasn’t “Mama” or “Up.”
Now, twenty years later, she’s strapping herself into a Formula 1 car.
Maisie Piastri.
The name printed in white letters across the side of the cockpit is almost too much to process. It doesn’t matter that you’ve had months since she signed to prepare for this. It doesn’t matter that you’re standing beside Oscar, his arm looped tight around your waist, both of you grinning too wide and talking too fast as you crowd around your daughter while she slides on her gloves like it’s just another race.
But it’s not. It’s her debut.
“Make sure you don’t leave too much on the out-lap,” you say at the same time Oscar blurts, “Don’t forget, you can play with diff mid-corner if it starts biting.”
Maisie groans. Loudly. “Guys. Seriously. You’ve been giving me the same speech since Tuesday.”
“And we’ll keep giving it until you tattoo it on your forehead,” Oscar says, ducking to adjust the shoulder strap on her suit like she isn’t perfectly capable of doing it herself. “You’re nervous. That’s fine. You should be.”
“I’m not nervous,” Maisie lies.
“You’re bouncing your knee so hard the mechanics are flinching,” you point out.
Maisie rolls her eyes. “That’s adrenaline. It’s different.”
Oscar snorts. “Same chemical. Different packaging.”
You reach over to double-check her helmet’s fit — mostly out of habit. She bats your hand away, but gently.
“I’ve got it, Mum.”
“I know you’ve got it,” you say, smiling. “But it’s still my job to check.”
Maisie’s eyes soften for just a second. She’s twenty, but it hits you all at once that she’s also still the baby who once fit on your chest like a heartbeat. Still the toddler who napped in a travel cot while telemetry scrolled across your screen. Still the girl who cried after her first DNF in Formula 3 and buried her face in Oscar’s hoodie while pretending she wasn’t crying at all.
Oscar reaches out, nudges the side of her helmet.
“Hey. You’ve earned this, yeah? Just remember — first laps are about survival, not glory.”
Maisie raises a brow. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“I didn’t say I was good at it,” he grins. “I’m saying you should be.”
Maisie exhales through her nose. Her fingers clench, then relax on the wheel.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Okay. I’m ready.”
You both step back as the McLaren crew begins final checks. The papaya livery gleams under the lights. The crowd noise is already rising above the paddock like a tidal wave.
Maisie’s engineer calls out something through her headset. She nods, one gloved hand lifting in a thumbs-up. The engine hasn’t started yet, but the moment feels electric already.
Oscar reaches for your hand.
You squeeze.
“Go fast, baby,” you murmur.
Maisie glances at you — just for a second, just long enough for her eyes to soften.
Then she turns forward again. Locked in. Composed. And in the next moment, the mechanics push the car toward pit exit, and your daughter disappears into the blur of motion and color.
***
Back in the McLaren garage, Sadie and Jonah are bickering about snacks.
“She said she liked the sour ones,” Jonah insists, holding up a crumpled packet of gummy worms.
“You bought the wrong brand,” Sadie fires back. “You’re literally ruining her career. She’s gonna lose the race and it’s your fault.”
You slide into the row of seats between them with a heavy sigh, leaning back into the cushions like your bones finally gave up holding you up.
Oscar drops into the seat beside you. He looks better than you feel — calmer, probably only because he’s already chewed his nails into oblivion.
“She hasn’t even completed the formation lap,” he says under his breath. “I already feel like I’ve aged ten years.”
You glance at him. “I don’t know how your parents did this.”
“I think I owe them an apology. Actually, many apologies.”
Sadie leans over. “Mum, when Maisie wins, can I hold the trophy?”
“She’s not going to let you near it if you keep accusing Jonah of sabotage,” you reply, reaching to smooth her ponytail.
Jonah smirks. “She can’t help it. She’s dramatic. Like Dad.”
Oscar snorts. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not dramatic,” Sadie declares, dramatically.
Jonah gives you a look. “Case in point.”
The formation lap begins. Maisie’s on the screen now — third row, P6, visor down and shoulders squared like she’s about to walk into battle. The world is watching her, but to you, she’s still just your girl in a tiny kart at age five, too small for her own race suit, begging to “go again” even when her fingers were red from the cold.
Oscar leans forward. His hand finds your knee, anchoring.
“She’s going to be brilliant,” he whispers.
You nod, eyes never leaving the screen.
“I know.”
***
The lights go out, and for a moment the world holds its breath.
Maisie nails the launch.
There’s a moment — just a moment — where she darts down the inside into Turn 1 with the kind of confidence that makes engineers sweat and fans scream. Your stomach drops like a stone.
“She’s going for it,” Oscar breathes.
You clutch Sadie’s hand. She doesn’t complain.
“Go, Maisie, go,” Jonah murmurs.
The car emerges clean. She gains a position.
And then another.
Oscar grabs your hand and laughs — an unrestrained, disbelieving sound full of adrenaline and joy and pride that’s too big to name.
“God, she’s really doing it.”
***
By the end of Lap 10, she’s in fourth.
By Lap 20, she’s overtaken for third.
You can’t feel your legs anymore. Or your lungs.
The entire garage is humming with tension. No one’s pretending they’re not watching the rookie now.
And even as she drops to P4 on Lap 39 — tyres fading — you can see the fight in her. The Piastri in her. Not just in her name, but in the way she refuses to roll over.
She crosses the line P4. Just outside the podium. But no one’s disappointed.
Because she raced like hell. She proved she belonged.
She made it hers.
***
After the race, you’re in the back of the McLaren motorhome, helping Sadie refill her water bottle while Jonah scrolls Twitter for reactions.
Oscar’s got his phone pressed to his ear, talking to Mark about Maisie’s first post-race press session.
“Yeah, yeah — no, she’ll handle it fine. Just make sure they don’t try to trap her into answering questions about me. She’s not here because of her father.”
“She is, though,” you say softly when he hangs up. “Because of us. Because we didn’t stop.”
Oscar turns toward you, expression gentle.
“Because she didn’t stop,” he says. “We gave her the space. She built the road.”
You nod, brushing invisible lint off your shirt. “Do you ever think about that first day?” You ask. “Behind the motorhome?”
Oscar laughs, startled. “Constantly. That baby wouldn’t stop screaming.”
“That baby just overtook a two-time world champion around the outside.”
You both pause.
Oscar slips an arm around your waist and kisses your temple.
“I’d still take her screaming in my arms over anything else,” he says. “But today? Today was magic.”
You rest your head on his shoulder.
Maisie appears a few minutes later, still in her race suit, hair damp with sweat and adrenaline, trophy-less but glowing.
Sadie screams. Jonah claps. Oscar clutches his chest like he might combust.
You walk straight up to her and cup her face.
“You were flawless.”
“I was fourth.”
“You were flawless,” Oscar says, stepping in to pull her into a tight hug.
Maisie groans into his shoulder but hugs back.
“God, you two are so intense,” she mutters. “It was just one race.”
“It was your first race,” you say, brushing sweat-soaked strands of hair from her cheek.
Maisie looks away, embarrassed, but smiling.
And then, quieter: “Thanks for being here.”
“Always,” you say. “That’s the deal.”
You look over at Oscar, at your two younger children, at the years that stretched and bent and burned to bring you here.
And for once, you let yourself stand still in the middle of it all and just feel it.
The winning. The becoming.
The love you never thought you’d be allowed to want.
Oscar looks at you like he’s still just that boy behind the Haas motorhome — stunned that someone like you let him in.
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