{Fix It, Daddy - Dr Michael Robinavitch x F!Reader}
Your daughter becomes sick and is rushed to the ED
If you love small-town romance, found family, emotional firefighters, slow-burn love, and characters learning how to heal without having to be perfectly fixed, then I hope you'll give What The Fire Left a read. This story means so much to me, and I can't wait for you to meet Caspian, Corrine, and everyone in Alder Ridge. Available to read on Wattpad @fanficwritinggirl
The apartment was too quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Sick-kid quiet. The kind where cartoons played softly in the background, half-watched, and the usual tornado of four-year-old chaos had been replaced by a small lump on the couch under three blankets and one very dramatic stuffed rabbit. Rosie looked personally offended by the existence of illness. Which, honestly, fair. She was curled into the corner of the couch in dinosaur pajamas, cheeks pink with fever, curls messy from sleep, and clutching Mr. Bunny like he was the only thing holding society together. You stood in the kitchen measuring out another dose of medicine while trying to convince yourself the thermometer was lying. Again.
Robby, meanwhile, had checked her temperature four times in the last twenty minutes. Aggressively. He stood in front of Rosie now, arms crossed, watching her like she might spontaneously combust if he blinked wrong.
"She still feels warm."
You glanced over.
"She has the flu."
"She feels warmer."
"She is four degrees wrapped in blankets."
He frowned like that was medically suspicious. Rosie looked up at him with the tragic expression only sick toddlers and Victorian heroines could truly master.
"Daddy," she said in her tiny, scratchy sick voice, "I'm dying."
Robby sat down beside her so fast it was almost impressive.
"No, baby, you are absolutely not dying."
She leaned dramatically against his side.
"My nose is broken."
You snorted into the medicine cup.
"Your nose is stuffy."
"Broken," Rosie repeated firmly.
Robby nodded with complete seriousness.
"I agree. Very serious condition."
"Thank you," she whispered, like he alone understood her suffering.
Traitor. You walked over with the medicine.
"Okay, tiny plague victim. Drink this."
Rosie narrowed her eyes.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
She looked at Robby for backup. He betrayed her immediately.
"Yes."
Her tiny gasp of outrage deserved an award.
"Daddy!"
"Doctor's orders."
"You're a doctor."
"Exactly."
She stared at both of you like she was considering emancipation.
Eventually, after enough bribery involving popsicles and approximately seven dramatic sighs, she took the medicine and flopped back against the couch like a woman abandoned by the world. Robby smoothed her curls back from her forehead, pressing his lips there automatically. His expression softened in that way it only did with her. Quiet. Protective. Completely gone. You leaned against the doorway, watching them. This was your favorite version of him. Not Dr. Robinavitch. Not everyone's dependable, slightly terrifying attending. Just Robby. Barefoot. In old sweats. Arguing with a four-year-old about medicine like it was life or death. Which, to Rosie, it probably was. He looked up at you.
"She's still too warm."
"She has a fever."
"She's breathing faster."
"She's congested."
"She looks sad."
"She's four."
Rosie lifted one hand weakly.
"I am sad."
Robby pointed at her like Exhibit A.
"See?"
You laughed despite yourself.
"You have to go to work."
His expression shifted immediately. He looked back at Rosie, still curled up in her blanket nest, looking impossibly small.
"I hate leaving when she feels like this."
There it was. Not the doctor. Just Dad. You softened.
"I know."
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, already halfway regretting every professional responsibility he had.
"I know it's just the flu. I just…" He exhaled. "I hate being somewhere else when she needs me."
The honesty of it hit you right in the chest. Because that was Robby. He could handle trauma rooms and mass casualty incidents and impossible shifts without blinking. But one feverish four-year-old with pink cheeks and watery eyes? That wrecked him. You stepped closer, resting a hand on his arm.
"She needs you to keep your job so we can continue funding her incredibly expensive popsicle habit."
That got the smallest smile.
"Valid."
Rosie shifted upright just enough to look at him, blanket still wrapped around her like a tiny fever burrito.
"Daddy stay home."
And there it was. The emotional violence. Robby visibly melted. You watched it happen in real time. His whole face softened, and he looked like a man one tiny cough away from calling out for the rest of his life. Rosie added, quieter this time,
"Please?"
Illegal. Absolutely illegal. He looked at you like maybe the hospital could survive without him. Honestly? Debatable. You crossed your arms.
"Don't even think about it."
"She asked very politely."
"She is manipulating you."
"She learned from the best."
You smiled.
"She really did."
Robby sighed like the burden of fatherhood was tragically heavy and leaned down, pressing another kiss to Rosie's forehead.
"I have to go to work, bug."
She frowned.
"No."
"I know. I hate it too."
"Stay home."
He brushed her curls back gently.
"I'll come home early, okay? And Mommy's here. She's the boss while I'm gone."
Rosie looked at you. Then back at him. Then whispered like she was sharing classified information:
"Mommy meaner."
You gasped.
"Wow."
Robby, the absolute traitor, laughed.
"Honestly? Fair."
You pointed at both of them.
"I do everything in this house."
Rosie nodded solemnly.
"And mean."
Unbelievable. Robby stood, grabbing his bag from the chair by the door, but he hesitated like leaving physically hurt. Because it did. You walked him to the door while Rosie watched sadly from her blanket fortress.
"She'll be okay," you said softly.
He nodded, but not convincingly.
"I know."
"You can text every ten minutes if it helps."
"I was planning every five."
"That feels insane."
"That feels like excellent parenting."
You smiled. He leaned down and kissed you—quick, soft, familiar. Then quieter, against your forehead:
"Call me if anything changes."
"I will."
"Anything."
"I know."
He looked past you toward Rosie, still curled on the couch. Then back at you. Another kiss. Then he was gone. And the apartment felt too quiet again. From the couch, a tiny miserable voice called:
"Mommy?"
You turned. Rosie held up Mr. Bunny weakly.
"He's sick too."
You smiled softly, walking back to her.
"Yeah?"
She nodded.
"Emergency."
By noon, the apartment looked like a pediatric disaster zone. Half-drunk juice boxes. A thermometer abandoned on the coffee table. Three different blankets in active rotation. Mr. Bunny facedown on the floor like he'd also given up. Cartoons still played softly in the background, though Rosie had long since stopped paying attention to them. She'd migrated from the couch to your lap sometime around eleven and had stayed there like a feverish little koala. Hot. Sleepy. Miserable. You sat with her curled against your chest, one hand rubbing slow circles over her back while answering your fifth text from Robby in under two hours.
Robby: Temp now?
You: 101.8 Still hates medicine Still thinks she's dying
Three dots appeared immediately.
Robby: Dramatic. Inherited that from you.
You smiled despite yourself.
You: Rude. She also says Mr. Bunny is critically ill
Robby: Keep me updated on both patients
You shook your head, setting your phone down. Rosie shifted against you with a soft whine.
"Water, baby?"
She shook her head against your shoulder.
"No."
"You have to drink something."
"Nooooo."
The dramatic extension of the word told you she was still at least partially herself. Good. You pressed a kiss to her warm temple.
"Just a little."
After some negotiation that involved exactly two sips of apple juice and one promise of ice cream fraudulently offered for later, she settled again, heavy and warm in your arms. Too warm. You frowned. She'd been running a fever all morning, but now—now something felt off. Mothers knew things. Instinct before logic. You reached for the thermometer again. Rosie groaned dramatically.
"No more."
"Just one more."
"You said that last time."
"And yet here we are."
She gave you the saddest look a four-year-old had ever weaponized. Still—you checked. 103.7 Your stomach dropped. Okay. Not ideal. Not panic. Not yet. You adjusted her against you, trying to stay calm.
"Rosie, baby, can you look at me?"
She did, but slowly. Heavy-lidded. Too tired.
"Do you want to sit up a little?"
"No."
Her voice was weaker now. That—that made your pulse jump. You shifted forward, brushing damp curls off her forehead.
"Rosie?"
She blinked at you. Too slowly. Her breathing had changed. Faster. Shallower. You sat up straighter. No. No, no. Maybe congestion. Maybe fever. Maybe—She coughed, and it sounded wrong. Not dramatic. Just wrong. Like something in your body recognized danger before your brain caught up.
"Okay," you said softly, mostly to yourself. "Okay."
You stood, still holding her, and suddenly everything felt too quiet. Too bright. Too sharp. You carried her to the bathroom, steam from the shower filling the room while you sat on the closed toilet seat with her in your lap, hoping maybe it was just congestion. Maybe she just needed—Rosie's head lolled against your shoulder. Your heart stopped.
"Rosie."
Nothing. Not fully. She stirred, but sluggishly. Too sluggishly.
"Rosie, look at Mommy."
A tiny whimper. No real response. Fear arrived all at once. Cold. Sharp. Total. You grabbed your phone with shaking hands and called Robby. Straight to voicemail. Of course. He was probably in trauma. In a patient room. Saving someone. You called again. Voicemail. Again. Nothing. Your hands were shaking now.
"Okay," you whispered, even though your voice didn't sound like yours anymore. "Okay, okay."
Rosie made another weak sound against your chest. Her skin was burning. Her breathing too fast. Her body too heavy. Every parent had that moment—the one where your brain stopped saying maybe and started screaming now. This was that moment. You stood so fast you nearly dropped your phone. Hospital. Now. Shoes. Keys. Wallet. Blanket. Your brain became a checklist. Movement was easier than panic. You wrapped Rosie in the soft yellow blanket she always wanted when she was sick, grabbed Mr. Bunny because God forbid there be additional tragedy, and wrestled shoes onto your feet one-handed. Rosie barely protested. That scared you more than the fever. She was always loud. Always dramatic. Quiet Rosie was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. You buckled her into the car seat with hands that wouldn't stop trembling. She blinked up at you, flushed and glassy-eyed.
"Mommy?"
"I'm here, baby."
"Want Daddy."
The words nearly broke you.
"I know."
You kissed her forehead.
"I know. We're going to Daddy, okay? We're going right now."
She nodded weakly, clutching Mr. Bunny. You shut the car door and got in the driver's seat trying very hard not to panic and drive at the same time. It did not go especially well. You called Robby one more time as you pulled out. Still nothing. Your grip on the steering wheel tightened. The city blurred past too slowly. Every red light felt personal. Every second too long. In the backseat, Rosie coughed again. You looked at her in the mirror. Too pale. Too tired. Too still. Fear sat in your chest like something alive.
"Stay with me, baby," you whispered.
Half to her. Half to yourself.
"The hospital's close. Daddy's there. We're almost there."
Your voice cracked on the last word. Rosie's eyes fluttered.
"Okay."
And somehow that tiny, sleepy little okay was worse than if she'd cried. The Pitt came into view. Bright. Familiar. Never once this terrifying.
You pulled into the ambulance bay like someone fleeing a crime scene, barely remembering to park. The second the engine stopped, you were moving. Door. Blanket. Rosie. Go.
The automatic doors opened. And suddenly—everything changed.
The automatic doors opened, and suddenly the world got louder. Monitors. Phones. Voices. Footsteps. The sharp fluorescent brightness of the ED hitting all at once. Usually, The Pitt felt familiar. Safe, even. Today it felt terrifying.
You pushed through the doors with Rosie in your arms, the yellow blanket wrapped tight around her small body, Mr. Bunny trapped between you both. Her head rested against your shoulder, too still, too warm, her little hand weakly clutching your shirt. Your heart was somewhere in your throat. Everything felt wrong. Too bright. Too loud. Too slow.
"Hey—"
Frank. He was at triage, halfway through arguing with someone about paperwork when he looked up. The second he saw you, everything changed.
No joke. No teasing. No dramatic Frank commentary. Just immediate seriousness. His face dropped.
"Hey—hey, bring her here."
That alone made your fear spike harder. Because Frank being serious meant this was bad. Really bad. He was already moving toward you before you reached the desk, hands gentle as he touched Rosie's forehead, checked her breathing, looked at her flushed cheeks, then looked at you. And just like that, he wasn't Uncle Frank. He was Dr. Langdon. Sharp. Focused. Steady.
"What happened?"
"Flu," you said too fast, words tripping over each other. "She's had a fever all morning and it got worse and she's too sleepy and she won't really wake up and she's breathing weird and I—I called Robby but he didn't answer and—"
Your voice cracked. Frank nodded once. Calm. Grounding.
"Okay. Okay, I've got you."
Not I've got her. I've got you. And somehow that nearly made you cry. Because Frank—loud, ridiculous, impossible Frank—was suddenly the safest person in the room. He gently touched Rosie's cheek.
"Hey, Ro. Uncle Frank's here, okay? You're good."
Rosie stirred weakly, eyes fluttering.
"Unca Fwank…"
Frank physically looked like someone had punched him directly in the chest.
"I'm here, bug," he said quickly, voice softer than you'd maybe ever heard it. "I'm right here."
Then, louder—
"Mel! Dana!"
Both of them appeared almost instantly. Mel from down the hall, already pulling on gloves. Dana from the nurses' station, coffee abandoned somewhere behind her, expression immediately sharpening the second she saw Rosie. No jokes. No usual dry commentary. Just movement. Fast. Efficient. Terrifying. Dana stepped in beside you first, one hand gentle at your elbow.
"Hey," she said, voice low and calm. "Look at me."
You did. Barely.
"She's here. We've got her. Okay?"
You nodded. She squeezed your arm once. Grounding. Dana wasn't soft often. Which somehow made it matter more when she was. Mel was already checking Rosie over.
"Hi, sweetheart," she said softly, listening to her breathing, checking her pulse, the flush in her cheeks. "Hey, Rosie-bug, can you open your eyes for me?"
Rosie stirred weakly, more instinct than response. Mel's eyes flicked to Frank for half a second. Something passed there. Not spoken. But enough. We need a room. Now. Frank nodded before she even said it.
"Room four's open."
Dana was already moving.
"I'll get oxygen and fluids set up."
Everything happened fast after that. Too fast. Not fast enough. A nurse came with a pulse ox. Someone brought a wheelchair. You refused it immediately.
"I'm carrying her."
No one argued. Because no one with sense argued with mothers in crisis. Frank walked beside you the whole way. One hand at your back. Steady. Grounding. Dana was ahead of you already setting things up. Mel kept asking questions as you moved.
"How long has the fever been this high?"
"Since this morning. It was lower earlier but then it just—"
"Has she been drinking?"
"Barely."
"Any vomiting?"
"No."
"Any history of febrile seizures?"
"No."
"Okay."
You hated how calm they all were. Because it meant they knew how scared you should be. And somehow that was worse. Rosie whimpered softly against your shoulder.
"Mommy…"
"I'm here, baby. I'm right here."
You kissed her burning forehead and nearly broke all over again. Because she was so hot. Too hot. She'd never felt this hot. Once inside the room, everything got worse. Because stopping meant thinking. Thinking meant panic. Mel guided you to the bed.
"Let's get her up here."
You laid Rosie down like she might break. She looked so small in the hospital bed. Too small. Children should never look that small. Dana was already placing the pulse ox gently on Rosie's tiny finger.
"Hey, Rosie," she said quietly. "You're making this place look bad."
Rosie blinked at her sleepily.
"Hi Auntie Dana."
Dana's entire expression shifted for half a second. Tiny. Soft. Gone almost immediately.
"Hi, trouble."
Frank handed you tissues. You hadn't even realized you were crying. Great. Excellent. Love that. Mel was checking her lungs, adjusting oxygen. The monitor beeped too loudly. You hated it instantly. Rosie's lip trembled.
"Don't like it."
Your heart cracked clean in half.
"I know, baby. I know."
Frank leaned against the bed rail.
"Tell you what, when this is over, I'll personally smuggle you the good popsicles."
Rosie blinked at him.
"The red ones?"
"The illegal red ones."
That got the tiniest sleepy nod. Dana muttered while adjusting the IV supplies,
"Do not promise contraband to the pediatric patient."
Frank looked offended.
"She deserves quality care."
"She deserves licensed care."
"Tomato, tomahto."
And somehow, absurdly, that tiny bit of normal helped. Because if Frank was still Frank—maybe the world hadn't fully ended. Mel adjusted the oxygen and looked at you. Not as your friend. Not as Rosie's honorary aunt. As your doctor. And somehow that was scarier.
"We're going to help her breathe a little easier and get fluids going. I need you to stay calm for me, okay?"
You nodded immediately. Even though calm had left your body somewhere in the parking lot. Then—from across the department—you heard his voice. Robby. Somewhere behind you, coming out of trauma two, saying something to Dana's replacement nurse. Normal voice. Work voice. Unaware. And before you even turned—you knew. The second he saw you. The second he saw Rosie. Everything would change. You turned. He was halfway across the hall, chart in hand, still talking—until he looked up. Saw you. Saw Rosie. Saw the oxygen. Saw the fear. And stopped. Completely. The chart slipped slightly in his hand. His face changed in a way you never wanted to see again. Not doctor. Not attending. Not calm. Dad. Terrified dad. It happened in an instant. You watched the exact second his brain stopped being physician and became father. Dana saw it too. She stepped back quietly, giving him the space before he'd even asked for it. He crossed the room so fast it barely registered.
"What happened?"
And there it was. The crack in your composure. Because now he was here. Now you could fall apart. You looked at him and your voice broke instantly.
"She got worse—I didn't know, I thought it was just the flu and then she got so sleepy and she wouldn't wake up and she was breathing weird and I called and—"
"I know," he said immediately, both hands on you now, grounding, steady, even though you could feel the panic under it. "Hey, I know. I know. You did exactly the right thing. You brought her here. She's okay."
His eyes were already on Rosie. Burning. Checking. Assessing. Trying to be doctor and father at the same time. Trying and failing. Because this wasn't some kid. This was his kid. Rosie shifted weakly in the bed, eyes barely opening. And in the smallest, sleepiest little voice—
"Daddy…"
That was it. That was the sound of your husband's heart breaking in real time. Robby was at her side instantly, one hand brushing her curls back, the other holding her tiny hand like letting go wasn't an option.
"Hey, bug," he said, and his voice cracked right down the middle. "Hey, I'm here. I'm right here."
Rosie blinked up at him.
"Don't like it."
His face folded. Completely.
"I know, baby. I know."
She reached for him with weak little fingers. And every person in that room quietly stopped pretending this wasn't destroying them. Frank looked at the ceiling. Dana looked very hard at the monitor. Mel kept working. You stood there trying not to come apart completely. Because seeing Robby scared—really scared—was somehow worse than your own fear. Because if he was scared—then this was real. And that was terrifying.
Robby stayed at Rosie's bedside for exactly thirty seconds before Dana shut that down. It happened the moment he reached for the stethoscope hanging around his neck. A reflex. Instinct. Doctor before thought. Dana caught his wrist. Not hard. Just enough.
"No."
The room went still. Robby looked at her, already tense, already halfway in that dangerous space between physician and father.
"I can help."
"I know."
His voice sharpened.
"Dana—"
She didn't let him finish.
"No, Michael."
Not Robby. Michael. Which somehow made it heavier. Dana held his gaze, calm and unmovable, her voice low and firm.
"You are not her doctor right now."
The words landed hard. Robby's jaw tightened. Every instinct in him was fighting it. You could see it. He needed to do something. Fix something. Control something. That was how he survived everything. Action. Knowledge. Medicine. And right now all of that was being taken away. Dana softened, but only slightly.
"You are her dad."
Silence. Frank stood near the foot of the bed, unusually quiet. Mel kept checking Rosie's breathing, giving Dana the space because she knew Dana was right. Even Rosie, half-asleep and feverish, seemed still. Robby looked at his daughter. Small in the hospital bed. Flushed cheeks. Oxygen tubing. Tiny hand still wrapped around two of his fingers. And something in him gave. Not broke. Just… shifted. Because Dana was right. And he hated that she was right. You stepped closer then, your hand finding his without thinking. Warm. Tight. Familiar. He gripped it immediately. Harder than usual. Like he needed something solid to hold onto. You squeezed back. I'm here. Always. He let out a slow breath. Then nodded once. Barely.
"Okay."
His voice sounded rough. Not doctor voice. Dad voice. The one that only existed for you and Rosie. Dana gave the smallest nod back.
"Good."
Then, because she was still Dana:
"Now stop trying to work and stand there looking stressed like a normal parent."
Despite everything, that almost made you laugh. Almost. Robby swallowed hard.
"I hate this."
"I know."
And somehow that sounded like surrender. Dana stepped in then, practical as ever.
"Great. Since everyone is done having an emotional breakthrough, I need this arm."
She gently reached for Rosie's hand. Rosie frowned weakly.
"No."
Dana crouched beside the bed, suddenly softer.
"Unfortunately, tiny dictator, I need to put your IV in."
Rosie's lower lip trembled.
"No needles."
Frank immediately stepped forward.
"Counteroffer: if you survive this tremendous injustice, I will personally bring you the best contraband popsicle in the hospital."
Rosie sniffled.
"The red one?"
"The illegal red one."
Dana sighed.
"I work with children."
"You chose this life," Frank said.
"I absolutely did not."
Despite everything, you laughed—a broken, tired little sound. Robby looked at you for half a second, and there it was again: that silent thing between you. I'm barely holding it together. Me too. Your fingers stayed laced with his. Neither of you let go. Rosie reached weakly toward him.
"Daddy stay."
He was beside her instantly.
"I'm not going anywhere."
He climbed onto the edge of the bed without hesitation, one arm carefully around her while Dana worked. Rosie buried her face against his chest.
"I don't like this place."
He kissed the top of her head.
"I know, bug. I know."
Dana glanced up.
"Offended, honestly. We worked very hard on this place."
"No offense," Rosie mumbled.
"Some offense taken."
Mel checked her lungs again, her expression unreadable in the way that made you want to scream. You stayed close, your hand resting against Robby's back now, slow comforting circles between his shoulder blades. Grounding him. Trying to ground yourself. Samira appeared quietly in the doorway then, having clearly heard enough to know this wasn't a normal visit. Her eyes went straight to Rosie. Then to you. And immediately softened. She crossed the room and wrapped you in a hug before you could pretend you didn't need one. And that—that nearly undid you more than anything else. Because Samira hugs were dangerous. Too kind. Too safe.
"I'm okay," you whispered.
Samira pulled back just enough to give you a look.
"Lying."
You gave a watery laugh.
"Probably."
She brushed your hair back gently.
"She's in the best place she can be."
You nodded. Even though that didn't make it easier. Samira stepped to the bedside, smiling softly.
"Hey, Rosie-girl."
Rosie cracked one sleepy eye open.
"Auntie Samira."
"There she is."
Rosie looked around blearily. Then asked, in the smallest voice—
"Where's Uncle Jack?"
And there it was. The tiny knife straight to everyone's chest. Because of course she noticed. Of course she expected him too. Samira smiled, warm and easy even as her eyes softened.
"He's at home sleeping, baby. Night shift means Uncle Jack turns into a very grumpy vampire during the day."
That got the tiniest sleepy smile.
"He grumpy."
"He is extremely grumpy."
Frank nodded solemnly.
"Medical fact."
Samira leaned down closer.
"But he told me if you were brave, he'd come by later with snacks and probably let you boss him around."
Rosie considered this.
"Okay."
"Thought so."
Dana was threading the IV line now, focused and careful.
"Everyone in this child's life is exhausting."
"Correct," Frank said.
Rosie looked up at Robby again. Still feverish. Still too warm. Still too tired. But calmer now. Because he was there.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah?"
Her tiny fingers curled in his scrub top.
"Don't go to work."
And there it was again. That quiet devastation. Robby closed his eyes for one second. Just one. Then opened them and kissed her forehead. His hand found yours again where you stood beside the bed. Firm. Certain.
"I'm not going anywhere."
And this time—everyone in the room believed him.
For a little while, things almost felt manageable. Not okay. Never okay. But quieter. Rosie was settled with oxygen, the IV finally in after what Frank dramatically referred to as "the betrayal of modern medicine," and the fever had stopped climbing—for now. She was still too warm. Still too pale. Still curled against Robby like if she let go, the world might end. Which, honestly, felt reasonable. He stayed half-sitting on the edge of the bed, one arm around her, fingers absentmindedly tracing slow circles against her back. His other hand found yours whenever he could reach it. Like if either of you let go, something terrible might happen. You understood that feeling. You were sitting in the chair beside the bed now, exhaustion settling heavy into your bones, your free hand smoothing Rosie's curls back every few minutes just to reassure yourself she was still there. Still breathing. Still here. Mel came back in with updated labs, quiet and focused. Robby looked up immediately. Too quickly. Doctor reflex. Dad panic. Mel noticed.
Of course she noticed.
"She's dehydrated," Mel said gently. "Which we expected. Her lungs are tight, but not alarming. We're staying ahead of it."
Not alarming. You clung to that. Not alarming. Good. Safe. Okay. You nodded like your body remembered how. Robby asked, voice too controlled,
"And the fever?"
"We're watching it."
Which was not an answer. He knew that. You knew that. Mel knew that he knew. But she held his gaze anyway. Steady.
"She's okay, Michael."
He nodded once. Didn't look convinced. Neither were you. Frank reappeared carrying a juice box like it was a sacred offering.
"For the patient," he announced.
Dana, behind him, didn't even look up from Rosie's chart.
"She is four and currently on fluids."
Frank looked offended.
"She may desire options."
"She desires chaos because you raised her wrong."
Frank pointed at Dana.
"That accusation is both rude and completely accurate."
Mel, adjusting Rosie's blanket, said without looking up,
"You absolutely encourage bad behavior."
Frank grinned.
"She thinks I'm fun."
"She thinks glitter glue is a personality trait."
"Which is why she and I understand each other."
That got the smallest smile from Mel—the kind she tried to hide and absolutely failed at. Rosie stirred against Robby's chest, blinking slowly.
"Unca Fwank?"
Frank was at the bedside immediately.
"Yeah, Rosie-girl?"
She stared at him for a long second with the heavy seriousness only sick children possess.
"You old."
Silence. A beat. Then Mel snorted. Dana turned away suspiciously fast. You laughed so suddenly it startled you. Even Robby let out a tired, helpless laugh into Rosie's hair. Frank placed a hand over his heart.
"Wow. Brutal. I show up with medical-grade juice offerings and this is the thanks I get?"
Rosie blinked.
"Wrinkly."
"Unbelievable. I'm being bullied by a toddler."
Mel, still fighting a smile, murmured,
"She's not wrong."
Frank looked personally betrayed.
"Et tu, King?"
"Especially me."
And somehow, absurdly, that helped. Because if Frank was still being dramatic and Mel was still pretending she wasn't amused—maybe the world hadn't fully tilted off its axis. Samira slipped back in a little later with your phone charger, your abandoned bag, and the kind of quiet care that made her impossible not to love.
"I raided your life," she said, setting everything down beside you.
You looked up at her like she'd handed you emotional support itself.
"I might actually cry."
"Acceptable."
She squeezed your shoulder. Rosie cracked one sleepy eye open.
"Auntie Samira…"
"There she is."
Rosie blinked slowly.
"Where's Uncle Jack?"
And there it was. The tiny knife straight to everyone's chest. Because of course she noticed. Of course she expected him too. Samira smiled, warm and easy even as her eyes softened.
"He's probably breaking at least three traffic laws trying to get here."
That got the tiniest sleepy smile.
"He fast."
"He drives like he has no respect for the law or other people."
Frank nodded solemnly.
"Medical fact."
Samira smiled, brushing a curl off Rosie's forehead.
"He's on his way. And he's probably bringing enough snacks to qualify as a health code violation."
Rosie considered this.
"Good."
"Very good."
Dana was threading the IV line now, focused and careful.
"Everyone in this child's life is exhausting."
"Correct," Frank said.
Rosie looked up at Robby again. Still feverish. Still too warm. Still too tired. But calmer now. Because he was there.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah, bug?"
Her tiny fingers curled tighter in his scrub top.
"Fix it."
And there it was. The knife. Because she said it so simply. Because to her, Daddy fixed things. Broken toys. Nightmares. Scraped knees. This should be no different. Robby closed his eyes for one second. Just one. Then opened them. You felt his hand tighten around yours. He kissed her forehead gently.
"I'm trying, baby."
And somehow that was worse. Because you could hear it—the helplessness. The desperation. The fact that if he could take this from her and carry it himself, he would do it without hesitation. For a few minutes, there was peace. Hospital peace. The strange kind. Machines beeping softly. Muted voices in the hall. The rise and fall of your daughter's breathing. Robby's thumb brushing over your knuckles. Your hand still resting against his. Just enough to say: I'm here. I know. Me too. And then—Rosie's body jerked. Small at first. Then again. Sharper. Wrong. You sat up immediately.
"Robby."
He was already moving. Rosie's breathing changed. Too fast. Too shallow. Then—the monitor alarm screamed. Everything happened at once. Dana was at the bedside before the second beep. Mel was already reaching for the oxygen settings. Frank's voice cut through the room—
"Get respiratory—now."
Rosie's little body trembled again and your entire world dropped out from under you.
"Rosie—"
Your voice didn't sound like yours. Robby had both hands on her now, trying to keep her still, trying to keep himself still.
"Hey, hey, bug—look at me. Rosie, look at Daddy."
But her eyes were glassy. Too unfocused. Too far away. Your legs moved before your brain did. You were there. At the bed. At her side. Your hand on her leg. Her hand. Anything.
"Baby, Mommy's here, Mommy's here—"
The fever. Too high. Her body too hot. The possibility hit you all at once. Febrile seizure. The thought made your blood run cold. You looked at Robby. And that—that was the worst part. Because he knew it too. And for the first time that night—you saw real fear. Not controlled concern. Not doctor focus. Fear. Pure. Sharp. Paralyzing. And if Robby was scared—truly scared—then terror became something alive inside your chest. Dana's voice was calm. Too calm.
"We've got her. Stay with me."
Mel was adjusting meds, Frank already beside her without being asked, handing her exactly what she needed before she said it. A practiced thing. An us thing. Everyone was doing everything. And somehow it still felt like not enough. Rosie made a small, broken sound. And Robby—your steady, impossible, always-in-control Robby—looked like he was trying not to break apart right there beside her. He pressed his forehead briefly to hers. One second. Just one. And whispered, so quietly you almost missed it—
"Please, baby."
And that was the moment. The one you'd remember forever. Not the monitors. Not the panic. That. Your husband begging your daughter to stay. And nothing in the world had ever felt scarier.
The seizure stopped. And somehow—the silence after was worse. No alarms. No shouting. No frantic movement. Just the sound of everyone trying to breathe again. Rosie lay still in the hospital bed, tiny and flushed and terrifyingly quiet, her little chest rising too fast, too shallow. Too still. Your whole body was shaking. Your hand was still wrapped around her leg, like if you let go this would somehow become real. Maybe it already was. Maybe you were still waiting to wake up. Robby stood frozen at her bedside, one hand locked around Rosie's tiny fingers so tightly it looked painful. His other hand braced against the bed rail like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Because no one wanted to be the first person to break whatever fragile thing was holding the room together. Then Mel stepped closer, checking her pupils, her breathing, listening to her lungs again. Calm. Steady. Like the world hadn't just tilted off its axis. Finally, softly—
"She's postictal."
You blinked. Your brain felt slow. Heavy. Mel looked at both of you this time.
"She's okay. She's exhausted. Her body needs a minute."
Okay. That word again. You nodded like you understood it. You didn't. Not really. Because okay still felt impossibly far away. Dana adjusted the monitor, eyes on the numbers.
"She's coming back down."
Frank stood near the door, arms crossed so tightly it looked like he was physically holding himself together. For once, no jokes. No commentary. Just watching. Samira had appeared beside you at some point and you hadn't even noticed. Her hand was warm against your back. Grounding. Keeping you upright. Rosie made the smallest sound. Barely there. A weak little whimper. And every person in the room turned toward her like the world had started again. Your heart stopped. Then started. Too fast. Her eyes fluttered. Slowly. Heavy. Confused.
"Daddy?"
That—that was the moment Robby nearly broke. He moved so fast it hurt to watch, leaning over her immediately, one hand brushing damp curls from her forehead.
"I'm here, bug. I'm right here."
Her sleepy eyes searched again.
"Mommy?"
And that was yours. You were there before the word had fully left her mouth, your hand cupping her warm little face, brushing tears and sweat and curls away all at once.
"I'm here, baby. I'm right here."
Her lip trembled.
"Tired."
And there it was. The smallest word in the world. The biggest relief you'd ever felt. Robby swallowed hard beside you.
"I know, baby."
She reached weakly for both of you. No hesitation. Robby climbed onto the edge of the bed and carefully pulled her against him despite the wires, the oxygen, the monitors. Careful. Like she might shatter. Maybe she already had. Maybe all three of you had. You climbed up beside them, ignoring the awkward angle and the hospital equipment and everything else that didn't matter. Rosie curled between you both immediately, one hand fisted in Robby's scrub top, the other reaching for yours. Like she needed proof. That both of you were real. That both of you were staying. You took her hand and kissed her forehead with shaking lips. Still here. Still yours. Still breathing. And suddenly—you couldn't breathe. The adrenaline hit all at once. The crash after the fear. Your hands shook harder. Your chest hurt. Your eyes burned. Because she was okay. Because she hadn't been. Because for one horrible second you thought—No. You couldn't even finish the thought. Robby looked at you. And because he knew you—really knew you—he saw it instantly.
The panic. The aftermath. The collapse. His hand found yours across Rosie without a word. Warm. Certain. Anchoring. You held on like drowning people held on to wreckage. Dana stepped back slightly, finally letting herself exhale. Mel rubbed a hand over her face. Frank looked at the ceiling like he was personally negotiating with the universe. Nobody said it. But everyone had felt it. How close fear had gotten. Mel checked Rosie again, gentler now.
"Her fever spiked too fast. That likely triggered it. We're staying ahead of it now."
You nodded. Maybe. You weren't sure. You couldn't feel your body properly. Only adrenaline and relief and leftover terror. Robby hadn't looked away from either of you. Not once. Dana glanced at him. Then, quieter than usual—
"Michael."
He looked up. Barely.
"They're okay."
Two words. Simple. But they cracked something open. His face shifted. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just enough. Enough that you saw it. Enough that Dana saw it. Enough that Frank looked away. Robby nodded once. Then once more like maybe the second one would make it true.
"Okay."
But his voice broke anyway. And because sometimes kindness looked like pretending not to notice—Mel busied herself with the chart. Frank made himself useful somewhere else. Dana adjusted the IV for absolutely no reason. Samira squeezed your shoulder. And the room gave him that small mercy. A minute to be a father instead of a doctor. A minute to be scared. A minute to breathe. Rosie shifted sleepily between you both. Her voice barely more than air.
"Daddy came."
Then, after a beat—
"Mommy too."
And that—that destroyed everyone. You let out a broken laugh that turned into tears all over again. Robby pressed a kiss to the top of her head and closed his eyes.
"Always," he whispered.
Always. Not sometimes. Not if he could. Always. And maybe that was the truest thing he'd ever said. Hours later, after the meds, after the fever finally started coming down, after the worst of the fear had loosened its grip—Rosie slept. Really slept. Heavy. Safe. Exhausted. She looked impossibly small in the hospital bed. Tiny fingers still curled around the ear of Mr. Bunny. Flushed cheeks softer now. Breathing steadier. Better. Not perfect. But better. And right now—better felt like everything.
The room was finally quiet. Not emergency room quiet—that never really existed. There were still monitors beeping softly somewhere down the hall, footsteps passing outside the door, the low hum of the hospital carrying on whether your world had stopped or not. But inside this room—quiet. Rosie was asleep. Really asleep. Curled on her side in the hospital bed, one hand still wrapped around Mr. Bunny's ear, curls messy against the pillow, cheeks still pink from fever but softer now. Her breathing was steady. Even. The most beautiful sound in the world. You sat on one side of the bed. Robby on the other. Neither of you had really moved in the last hour. Like standing watch. Like if you looked away, something bad might happen. Exhaustion sat heavy in your bones, but sleep felt impossible. Every time Rosie shifted, your heart stopped. Every single time. Your fingers rested lightly against her ankle over the blanket. Proof. Still here. Still warm. Still yours.
Across from you, Robby sat leaning forward, forearms on his knees, still in scrubs, watching her with that same look he'd had all day. Like he was trying to memorize the fact that she was okay. Like if he watched hard enough, he could keep her that way. You reached across the bed and touched his hand. He turned it over immediately, fingers threading through yours like instinct. For a while, neither of you said anything. There wasn't much left to say. Finally, quietly, you asked:
"Are you okay?"
Robby let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.
"No."
Honest. Immediate. You nodded.
"Yeah. Same."
He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles.
"I keep replaying it."
You knew exactly what he meant. That moment. The monitor. The shaking. The fear. The worst few minutes of your life. You looked down at Rosie.
"I thought we were losing her."
Saying it out loud made your throat close. Robby's jaw tightened.
"So did I."
There it was again. That honesty he only gave you when things were too big for pretending. He leaned back slightly, scrubbing a hand over his face.
"I've told parents their kid was going to be okay. I've stood in those rooms and watched them wait for me to say the right thing."
His voice was low. Rough.
"And today I was standing there realizing if someone else was in my place, I'd hate them for how calm they sounded."
You gave the smallest, saddest smile.
"Dana was very calm."
"She was infuriatingly calm."
"She threatened you."
"She was right."
"She usually is."
"Unfortunately."
That got the tiniest smile from him. Then it faded. He looked at Rosie again.
"When she said fix it…"
Your chest hurt. Because yes. That.
"She looked at me like I could."
"You would have if you could."
He swallowed hard.
"Yeah."
Quiet. Then quieter:
"I would've taken all of it. Every fever she'll ever have. Every bad night. Every scared second. I would've taken it all if it meant she never had to feel like that again."
You stood and walked around the bed. No hesitation. Just the need to be closer. You sat beside him and leaned into his side, his arm coming around you automatically. Familiar. Safe. Home.
"She knows that," you said softly.
He frowned a little.
"She's four."
"She knows you show up. She knows when she's scared, you're there. She knows Daddy fixes monsters and bad dreams and broken toys and scary hospitals."
You looked up at him.
"That matters."
His hand moved to your hair. Slow. Thoughtful.
"I should've answered my phone."
There it was. The guilt. You pulled back enough to look at him properly.
"No."
"I should have."
"You were working."
"I still should've answered."
"You were saving someone else's kid."
That stopped him. Because that was the truth. The brutal, impossible truth of who he was and what he did. You touched his face. Gentle.
"This is not your fault."
His eyes closed for a second. Just one. Like he needed permission to believe that. A soft knock came at the door. Neither of you moved. Jack stepped in quietly, hoodie over scrubs, looking like he'd come straight from trying to pretend he wasn't worried. He'd clearly already found Samira first—he had that look, the one that said he knew enough and hated all of it. His eyes went straight to Rosie sleeping in the bed. Then to both of you. Softer.
"How is she?"
No jokes. No sarcasm. Just Jack. Robby looked back at Rosie before answering.
"Better."
A pause.
"Scared the hell out of us."
Jack nodded once. Like that was enough explanation. Because it was. He walked over, setting a coffee beside you and a small plastic bag on the chair.
"For you," he said. "Samira said neither of you have eaten like functioning adults."
You looked inside. Crackers. Juice. Hospital gift shop nonsense. Perfect.
"She's a snitch."
"She's correct."
Also true. He stepped closer to the bed, looking down at Rosie with that soft expression he'd never admit to having.
"She asked for me?"
You smiled tiredly.
"First thing she asked Samira."
That hit him. You saw it. Small. Quick. But there. He rubbed the back of his neck.
"Yeah, well. She's got standards."
Rosie shifted a little in her sleep, tiny hand tightening around Mr. Bunny. Jack reached into the bag and quietly pulled out a stuffed giraffe wearing a ridiculous little hospital t-shirt. You stared.
"Of course you bought that."
He looked offended.
"What kind of uncle would I be if I showed up empty-handed?"
"Probably still her favorite."
"Obviously."
He set it gently beside her pillow. For when she woke up. No big speech. No big moment. Just there. Like he always would be. And somehow—that meant everything.
A couple of hours later, the room felt lighter. Not normal. Not quite safe enough for that yet. But lighter. The sharp edge of panic had dulled into something softer—exhaustion, relief, the strange fragile calm that comes after surviving something you were sure would break you. The fever had finally started coming down. Her breathing was easier. The monitors had stopped sounding like threats. Mel had explained that because of the seizure and how high the fever had spiked, they were keeping Rosie overnight for observation upstairs in pediatrics. Which, while terrifying in its own way, also meant she was stable enough to leave the chaos of the ED. That mattered. That helped. For now, though, she was still here—waiting for a room upstairs to open. Safe. Watched. Still yours. And for the first time all day, everyone in the room had started acting like they believed she was actually going to be okay. Rosie was still asleep, sprawled dramatically across the hospital bed like she had personally fought death and found it inconvenient.
Mr. Bunny had been joined by the stuffed giraffe Jack brought, both tucked under one arm like emotional support staff. Frank had declared himself "off-duty but still emotionally available," which mostly meant he'd stolen the chair in the corner and was pretending not to nap. Dana had finally left after threatening Robby one last time to stop trying to read his own daughter's chart like she wouldn't notice. Samira had promised to come back with actual food and not just crackers pretending to be dinner. Mel had gone to check on another patient, after reminding Frank—for at least the third time—that being pregnant did not, in fact, make her medically decorative. He had disagreed. Loudly. Jack was leaning against the wall drinking bad coffee and looking like he intended to stay there until someone physically removed him. And Robby—Robby was still beside Rosie. Of course he was. One hand resting lightly over her blanket-covered leg like proximity alone could keep her safe.
You sat beside him, your shoulder against his, both of you too drained to pretend personal space mattered. The afternoon light coming through the hospital blinds made everything feel strangely softer. Quieter. Rosie stirred. Just a little. A sleepy frown. A shift under the blanket. Every adult in the room immediately noticed. Like a pack of emotionally unstable meerkats. Frank sat up. Jack straightened. You and Robby were already there. Her eyes blinked open slowly. Heavy with sleep. Confused for a second. Then—
"Daddy?"
Robby leaned forward instantly.
"Hey, bug."
Her voice was rough with sleep.
"Why'm I here?"
Well. That was a question. You exchanged a look with Robby. The universal parent look of: how honest are we being today? Robby chose carefully.
"You got really sick, remember? Your fever got too high, so Mommy brought you here so we could help."
Rosie frowned like she disapproved of this entire experience.
"Bad hospital."
Dana would have been offended. You smiled softly, brushing curls from her forehead.
"Very rude of it, honestly."
She looked around the room slowly. At Frank. At Jack. At the giraffe. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"That mine?"
Jack pushed off the wall immediately.
"Yes. I brought tribute."
She held her hand out with the authority of a tiny queen.
"Gimme."
"Excellent. Demanding already. She's feeling better."
He handed it over solemnly. Rosie inspected the giraffe. Approved. Then her sleepy eyes landed fully on him.
"Uncle Jawk."
Jack smiled.
"Yeah, bug?"
She lifted the giraffe slightly.
"You good uncle."
That—that nearly killed him. Frank made an offended noise from the corner.
"Excuse me? I also brought emotional support and superior charm."
Rosie looked at him.
"You old."
Jack lost it. Actually laughed, loud and helpless. Robby dropped his head for a second, shoulders shaking. You were openly laughing now. Frank pointed dramatically.
"This is targeted abuse."
"Wrinkly too," Rosie added helpfully.
"Unbelievable. I save lives."
Jack wiped at his eyes.
"She's my favorite person."
"Traitor," Frank muttered.
Rosie settled back against the pillows, giraffe tucked under one arm. Then she looked around again.
"Where Auntie Mel?"
Frank answered immediately.
"Bossing everyone around. Very pregnant. Very scary."
From the doorway, Mel's voice:
"I can still hear you, Frank."
Perfect timing. She walked in carrying a chart and the kind of look that said she was deciding whether murder was worth the paperwork. Rosie brightened immediately.
"Auntie Mel!"
Mel softened instantly, walking to the bedside and brushing a hand over Rosie's hair.
"There she is. Feeling better?"
Rosie nodded once. Then very seriously, she pointed at Mel's stomach.
"Baby okay?"
And there it was. Mel smiled—real and warm.
"Baby's okay, sweetheart. Just like you."
Rosie seemed satisfied with that. Critical information received. She nodded once.
"Good."
Robby was trying and failing not to smile. You kissed Rosie's forehead.
"How are you feeling now?"
She considered it.
"Tired."
"Fair."
"Hungry."
Better. Definitely better. Frank stood immediately.
"I was born for this moment."
"You were absolutely not," Jack said.
Frank ignored him.
"I shall retrieve the sacred red popsicle."
And disappeared before anyone could stop him. Rosie watched him go, then snuggled deeper into the pillows, sleepy but calmer now. She looked at all of you—her strange collection of hospital aunties and uncles and exhausted parents—and smiled. Small. Real. Safe. And just like that—the whole day felt survivable.
By the time Rosie was finally moved upstairs to pediatrics, the sun was starting to set. The frantic terror of the day had faded into something quieter. Not gone. Probably never gone, if you were being honest. But quieter. The pediatric floor felt different from the ED. Softer. Less chaos. More quiet voices. More pastel walls trying very hard to convince children hospitals were fun. Rosie, now significantly recovered and therefore significantly bossier, had strong opinions about all of it.
"This room pink."
"Yes," you said, helping settle her into the new bed.
"Too pink."
Jack, carrying approximately twelve unnecessary things behind you, nodded solemnly.
"She's right. It lacks edge."
Frank, who had somehow followed despite being repeatedly told to go home, pointed at the cartoon frog mural.
"That frog has seen things."
"It's judging me," Jack agreed.
"It should."
Rosie giggled. Real giggled. And the sound of it nearly knocked the breath out of you. Because there it was. Your girl. Still your girl. Robby was handling admission paperwork with the kind of intensity usually reserved for trauma cases, because if he stopped moving, he might have to feel things again. Dana had texted three separate threats reminding him he was not allowed to secretly practice medicine on the pediatric floor. He had ignored all of them. Naturally. Mel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the whole circus unfold with tired amusement.
"You all know she is, in fact, allowed to rest without a committee present."
"No," Frank said immediately.
"Incorrect," Jack added.
Samira, arriving with actual food and better judgment than everyone else, sighed.
"This is why none of you are allowed in civilized society."
Rosie, from the bed:
"Stay."
And that was that. Nobody argued with the patient. Hospital law. A little while later, Princess and Perlah appeared—both out of scrubs, both very clearly off shift, and both looking like they had absolutely no intention of staying away once they'd heard Rosie had been admitted. Princess walked in first, holding a small stuffed unicorn and a level of offended concern usually reserved for major crimes. Perlah followed with juice boxes and snacks like she was responding to a humanitarian crisis.
"There's my girl," Princess said immediately, crossing to the bed.
Rosie brightened.
"Auntie Princess!"
Princess leaned down, kissing her forehead.
"I leave for one day off and you start scaring people?"
Rosie pointed at Frank.
"Uncle Fwank old."
Princess didn't even blink.
"Correct."
Frank looked around the room.
"This is harassment."
Perlah stepped in next, gentler, smiling as she brushed Rosie's curls back.
"Hi, sweetheart. Heard you gave everyone a very dramatic day."
Rosie accepted the juice box with the seriousness of a CEO accepting a merger.
"I sick."
Perlah nodded.
"Yes, baby, we noticed."
Before anyone could recover, Santos and Whitaker appeared in the doorway—both freshly off shift, still carrying that exhausted end-of-day energy. Whitaker pointed into the room before she even stepped inside.
"Absolutely not. Why are half of the ED staff in pediatrics for one four-year-old?"
Jack, from the chair:
"Because she's important."
Frank raised a hand.
"And because she's funny."
Whitaker narrowed her eyes.
"This is how hospitals collapse."
Santos walked in behind her, smiling softly at Rosie.
"I was trying to leave like a responsible adult, but apparently that wasn't allowed."
Rosie sat up a little.
"Auntie Santos!"
"There she is."
Santos leaned down, squeezing her hand gently.
"How're you feeling?"
Rosie held up the stuffed giraffe.
"Got giraffe."
Whitaker nodded seriously.
"Excellent. Medically necessary."
Javadi appeared last, quieter than the rest, carrying a coloring book someone had clearly forced into his hands. He looked at the room, then at the sheer number of people gathered around one tiny hospital bed. Then deadpan:
"I leave for ten minutes and the entire emergency department relocates."
Even Robby laughed at that. A real one. Small. Tired. But real. Princess crossed her arms.
"Well obviously. She's our favorite patient."
Frank looked offended.
"She is not a patient. She is management."
"Worse," Mel said.
Rosie, entirely pleased with herself, sat surrounded by stuffed animals, snacks, and what was quickly becoming an illegal number of visitors. You stood there for a moment just taking it in. The noise. The teasing. The ridiculous amount of people who loved your daughter enough to show up. Who stayed. Who made hospitals feel less like hospitals. Robby came back from the nurses' station and stopped in the doorway, taking in the crowd with one long look. Then:
"Why are there somehow more of you?"
Princess smiled sweetly.
"Support."
Whitaker added,
"Surveillance."
Perlah:
"Snacks."
Jack:
"Vibes."
Frank:
"Justice."
Javadi:
"Poor boundaries."
That one made everyone laugh. Even Mel. Especially Mel. Rosie looked up at Robby.
"Daddy, they stay."
He looked at the room full of people who had absolutely no intention of leaving. Then at his daughter. Then sighed. Defeated.
"Yeah, bug. I gathered that."
She smiled, deeply pleased with herself. Then, sleepier now, she reached for both of you.
"Mommy stay. Daddy stay."
You sat beside her immediately.
"We're staying."
She nodded. Satisfied. Then, after a long pause:
"Uncle Jawk stay too."
Jack looked deeply honored. Frank made another offended noise.
"This favoritism is getting ridiculous."
Rosie pointed at him with sleepy authority.
"Uncle Fwank go home."
The room dissolved. Even Whitaker laughed. Frank clutched his chest.
"I have been exiled from my own found family."
Samira patted his shoulder.
"Gracefully accept defeat."
He sighed dramatically.
"For her, I shall endure."
Rosie was already drifting back to sleep again, smiling against your shoulder. Safe. Warm. Here. And surrounded by entirely too many aunties and uncles—it somehow felt exactly right.
The room was quiet again by the time visiting hours had become more of a suggestion than a rule.
Eventually, everyone had been bullied into leaving. Frank had gone last, dramatically announcing that Rosie would "never financially recover" from missing him, while Mel stood beside him looking deeply unimpressed. At one point, as he kept talking, he reached for her hand without even thinking, his other hand briefly resting against her stomach like second nature before she rolled her eyes and told him to stop being dramatic. He did not. Naturally. Jack had promised to come back in the morning with better coffee and worse opinions, and while he was talking, Samira stood beside him with that familiar patient look, their hands linked together like it was the most natural thing in the world. She apologized for him without sounding even slightly sincere. Princess and Perlah had kissed Rosie goodnight like honorary aunties with full legal rights. Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi had finally been chased home after lingering far longer than necessary. Dana had texted three separate warnings that said essentially the same thing.
Go home. Eat something. Stop being insane. Robby was ignoring that too. Naturally.
Now it was just the three of you. Rosie asleep in the hospital bed, one arm around Mr. Bunny, the giraffe tucked beside her like backup security. The soft glow of the hallway lights spilled into the room. The monitors beeped quietly. Steady. Safe. The best sound in the world. You sat in the chair beside her bed, your hand resting lightly over the blanket near her foot. Robby sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched, both of you too tired to pretend otherwise. For a while, neither of you said anything. Just watched her breathe. Just existed in the relief of it. Finally, quietly, Robby said,
"They'll monitor her overnight. Keep an eye on the fever, make sure there's no more seizure activity."
You nodded. You already knew, but hearing him say it still helped. Made it feel real. Manageable.
"If her fever stays under control and she keeps drinking fluids, they'll discharge her tomorrow."
Tomorrow. Such a small word. Such a huge relief. You let out a breath you felt like you'd been holding since noon.
"Tomorrow sounds nice."
"Tomorrow sounds perfect."
Silence again. Softer this time. You looked over at him. His hair was a mess. His scrubs were wrinkled. He looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than being tired. But he was here. Still here. Still holding it together. Barely. You reached for his hand. He took yours immediately, like instinct. And before you could stop yourself—
"I should've brought her in sooner."
The words came out quiet. Too honest. Robby frowned immediately.
"What?"
"I thought it was just the flu. I kept thinking if I got fluids into her, if I got her fever down, if I just—"
Your voice caught.
"I kept telling myself not to panic. And what if I waited too long?"
There it was. Your guilt. The awful, ugly what if. Because mothers carried those too. He turned fully toward you.
"No."
You looked away.
"What if I missed something?"
"You didn't."
"I should've known sooner."
His hand tightened around yours.
"Hey."
That voice. The one that made you look at him. The one that meant listen.
"You got her here. You knew when it mattered. You trusted your gut and you brought her in."
His eyes were steady. Certain.
"You did exactly what she needed."
Your throat tightened. Because part of you still didn't believe it. Because fear liked to rewrite things after the fact. He softened.
"She's upstairs because of you. She's sleeping because of you. She's okay because you moved when it counted."
That hit. Hard. You looked over at Rosie. Sleeping. Safe. Still here. And suddenly your eyes burned all over again.
"I was so scared."
Your voice was barely there. Robby nodded.
"I know."
Not fixing it. Not dismissing it. Just knowing. And somehow that made it worse. You leaned closer, your shoulder pressing into his.
"I thought if something happened to her, I'd never forgive myself."
His arm came around you immediately. Instinct. Like breathing.
"Nothing happened."
"But it almost did."
Quiet. Honest. True. He rested his cheek briefly against your hair.
"Yeah."
And for a second, neither of you said anything. Because sometimes there wasn't a better answer than the truth. Finally, you whispered,
"She asked you to fix it."
His hand moved over yours. Slow.
"She asked for both of us."
That broke something open. Because she had. Daddy. Mommy. Both. Not one carrying it alone. Never one carrying it alone. You looked up at him. Small. Tired. Certain.
"I love you," he said.
Simple. Quiet. Like truth. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just real. The kind of words said after surviving something. Your eyes stung instantly. Good. Excellent. Love that. You smiled anyway.
"I love you too."
His thumb brushed across your knuckles. Slow. Familiar. Then he leaned over and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Gentle. Lingering. The kind of kiss that said everything words didn't. Thank you. I'm sorry. I'm here. We're okay. You closed your eyes for a second and let yourself breathe. Really breathe. For the first time all day. When you opened them again, Rosie shifted softly in her sleep but didn't wake. Still safe. Still okay. You leaned into Robby then, letting your head rest on his shoulder. His arm tightened around you automatically. Like home. Like the only place in the world that made sense. Together, you sat there in the dim hospital room, watching your daughter sleep. Listening to the steady beep of the monitors. Holding hands. Breathing. Tomorrow would come. The fever would break. Rosie would go home. Life would keep moving. But for now—for this quiet little moment in the middle of the storm—this was enough.
