heyoooo I'm Joanna, a 23 year old born and raised midwestern who loves da pitt just as much as some of you freaks do.
I don't necessarily know what I'll be posting, but I'm pretty sure it'll be a range of fluff, smut, and angst, or whatever else my little heart desires. I'll also write for pretty much anyone on the show. While I've pretty much exclusively written x reader, I do want to branch out into character x character for this account.
While I would love to sit down and write fanfiction all day, every day, it's not feasible for me. Please be patient when requesting as I generally write as inspiration hits. Also, check out my request guidelines for my yes and no's to writing :)
Some of my other works are on my other pages @anniebeemine (criminal minds, exclusively spencer reid) and @theshiniestgemstone (the righteous gemstones) if you'd like to check out some of my other work!!
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warm welcome home - john shen x fem!reader
warnings: pre-established relationship, unprotected penetrative sex
“Baby, scoot over.”
John’s voice came out rough with exhaustion, softened by the little smile tugging at his mouth. Fresh from the shower, his hair was still damp at the ends, curling slightly against his forehead. The faint scent of soap and hospital antiseptic still clung to him beneath the clean cotton of his dark pajama shirt. You only hummed in response, half-asleep beneath the blankets.
John chuckled quietly when you shifted exactly one inch toward the edge of the bed, lifting your arm lazily like that was somehow enough room for a grown man.
“Oh, wow. Thank you for your generosity.”
You cracked one eye open at his teasing before letting out a dramatic, inconvenienced sigh. Slowly, you rolled onto your side, making a bigger space for him while keeping your eyes closed the entire time.
“There,” you mumbled. “Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.”
The mattress dipped as he finally climbed into bed. The second he settled beside you, your body moved automatically toward him, like muscle memory. You draped yourself over him immediately, knees settling on either side of his hips while your chest pressed flush against his.
John let out a tired laugh through his nose, arms wrapping around you on instinct.
“Miss me?” he murmured.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a second longer than usual. Overnight shifts always left him feeling wrung out between the twelve hours of fluorescent lights, rushed footsteps, too much caffeine, and not enough rest. But this… this was the first moment all night his body actually started relaxing.
You nodded against him immediately. “So much, baby.”
His hands moved slowly over you, absent-minded and affectionate. One hand slipped down to intertwine with yours, thumb brushing repeatedly over your knuckles. The other settled low on your back beneath your shirt, tracing the familiar dip of your spine with gentle fingers. He felt your whole body soften against him.
“Long night?” you whispered.
John sighed softly. “You have no idea.”
“M’sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His voice dropped quieter. “This helps.”
You melted a little more at that, face buried into the warmth of his neck. His skin was warm from the shower, his pajama shirt soft beneath your cheek. You could hear his heartbeat slowing steadily under you.
For a while neither of you spoke. Then your hips shifted against his carefully, hesitant but needy all at once.
“Please?” you whimpered softly. “I tried before bed, but it didn’t work.”
John’s hand paused against your back for a second.
“Yeah?” he asked, voice lower now.
You nodded against him. “Just want you. Just like this.”
John shifted, pulling your sleep shorts to the side carefully. You whimpered when he ran a finger through your folds, hot and slick already.
“You musta really tried, huh?” He murmured, dipping a finger into you achingly slow. He traced each ridge of your gummy walls, drawing a mewl from your lips.
You whined at the intrusion, hips bucking on their own accord. “Yes.”
John kissed your temple. His hand slid up into your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp until he felt you melt further into him with a tiny sound. He slowly pulled his hand away to push his pajama pants down. You sighed when he slotted his cock between your lips, bucking his hips enough to gather your slick over the tip.
“Don’t tease,” you whispered against his neck.
John kissed your cheek. “On your back or here?”
“Don’t wanna move.”
He laughed again. “Alright. Lift your hips,” he mumbled, pushing your sleep shorts down over your thighs. You scrambled to kick them off quickly. You ran your pussy over his length, teasing your clip with the ridge of his tip.
“Now you’re teasing,” he chuckled, reaching down to notch himself at your entrance. He groaned when you sank onto him with no warning. “Oh, shit.”
You whimpered against his neck again at the stretch. His fingers dug into the flesh on your ass, spreading you open to accommodate his hips. He groaned against your shoulder, pushing your hips down.
“Fuck me,” you pleaded. “Hard.”
John planted both feet against the mattress, rocking his hips slowly. Each thrust punched a little squeak from your throat, aimed perfectly at every single spot that sent shivers up your spine.
“John,” you moaned as your fingertips dug into his shoulders. You meet each of his thrusts, bucking your hips in time with him.
He grunted in response, picking up his pace without hesitation. His greedy hands are grabbing at your ass now, guiding your movements, pulling you down harder onto him with each roll of your hips.
“I love when you do this,” you panted.
“Like when I take care of you?” He whimpered, slowing his pace.
You nodded into his shoulder. “Oh, fuck, John.”
“Like when I come home and fuck you to sleep?”
Your face flushed, but you can't deny it. You can feel how wet you are, hear it, you’d probably even be able to see the evidence of your arousal coating the hair at the base of his length. Each press of his hands against you brings you closer and closer to the edge.
“Slow,” you gasp, “I want to cum together.”
John kisses your temple, his words muffled against your hairline. “We will, I promise.”
The sounds of your pussy squelching around him makes you clench, making the lewd noise impossibly louder. You whine again, getting higher and higher. One of John’s hands slides back into your hair, tugging you to kiss him. You moan against his lips, unable to hold back. You try to pull away to warn him, but he moans against you again, lips working against yours to muffle the moan.
You pulse around him in time with your heartbeat until you can’t breathe, pulling yourself away. John cums with another drawn out groan, bucking his hips into you and using his one hand to keep your hips straight. You collapse on him, wrapping your arms around him as best you can, breathing heavily against his skin. John runs his hands over your skin slowly, calming himself down and chancing his breath until he tilts to get a better look at you.
“Better?” He teased. “Will you be able to sleep now?”
You nod shyly before getting ready to move to shift off of him. Instead, John keeps his arms around you. “This part’ll help me sleep.”
summary: when you're diagnosed with gestational diabetes, your husband takes it upon himself to help you out.
warnings: discussions of eating habits, pregnancy, suggestive at the end
“Come on, honey. You gotta talk to me sometime.”
You answered your husband with another glare, tightening your crossed arms over your stomach as if the motion alone could shield you from both him and the humiliating reality of the last hour. The seatbelt pressed awkwardly beneath your belly, your lower back throbbed from sitting too long in the clinic chairs, and your swollen fingers still bore the faint sticky feeling from the glucose drink they’d made you choke down earlier that morning. Outside the passenger window, the entrance to the women’s clinic blurred in the cold gray drizzle, nurses and patients drifting in and out beneath umbrellas while you sat in complete silence, simmering.
You stared hard at the entrance anyway, jaw tight.
“Honey,” John tried again, softer this time as he reached across the console for your hand. “Please?”
You gently pulled away before he could lace his fingers with yours. “Let me be mad at you.”
A long sigh left him. The car settled into silence except for the hum of the air conditioning and the faint crinkle of the plastic grocery bag sitting at your feer that was currently holding the all of the snacks you apparently weren’t trusted to eat anymore.
In the backseat, movement abruptly stilled as your toddler stopped halfway through climbing over his car seat. He had a toy dinosaur hanging from one hand and his sippy cup clutched in the other. He’d spent the last forty minutes entertaining himself while he and John waited for your appointment to end, blissfully unaware that his mother had just been informed her body had betrayed her over a cup of orange sugar sludge.
“Mama mad?” he chirped, peeking over the center console with wide eyes.
“Yes,” you answered before you could stop yourself. “Your daddy started it.”
John looked personally wounded. “Oh, that’s not fair.”
Your son immediately dropped his cup to grab a fistful of John’s sweatshirt shoulder, glaring down at him with all the seriousness a three-year-old could summon.
“Sweet treat?” he asked firmly.
A laugh threatened to escape you despite your mood, but John beat you to it, huffing a tired chuckle through his nose. “No more sweet treats, bud.”
The devastation that crossed your son’s face was immediate and profound. “Cake pop?”
“How about another day?” John offered weakly.
The pout deepened. “Mama promised after doctor.”
Your chest squeezed painfully at that. Before the appointment, before your blood sugar numbers had apparently detonated every dietary guideline known to modern medicine, you had promised him a cake pop after the doctor. You’d promised yourself one too. One stupid little reward for surviving another prenatal appointment where strangers measured your body and reminded you of all the terrifying things that could potentially go wrong. Instead, you’d sat on crinkly exam paper while a very kind nurse practitioner explained gestational diabetes with the careful voice people used around patients they expected might cry.
Not borderline. Not “watch your sugars a little more closely.” You had failed, according to John’s extremely unhelpful summary as he read your paperwork.
You still wanted to strangle him for using that word.
“Baby,” you sighed, rubbing one hand over your forehead, “Mama can’t have sweet treats anymore until your baby sister comes.”
Your son blinked at you in confusion, then slowly leaned forward until his little palm rested against the center of your bump. “Can she be born now?”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Not unless you want her to come out looking like a salamander.”
“Yuck,” he whispered immediately, recoiling in horror.
John snorted beside you, and you shot him another look sharp enough to cut glass.
The drive home passed under a cloud of miserable silence broken only by periodic negotiations from the backseat.
“One donut?”
“No, buddy.”
“Half donut?”
“No.”
“Tiny donut? Baby donut?”
“No.”
You sat there stewing while rain tapped softly against the windshield and your cravings became progressively more violent out of pure spite. The unfairness of it all gnawed at you. You weren’t someone who lived off junk food. You cooked balanced meals. You ate vegetables. You drank water. You took your prenatals religiously. Your husband was literally a doctor, for God’s sake. Your kitchen looked like the nutritional equivalent of a wellness blog most weeks.
But you liked things, as did John. You indulged in them all together from sugary iced coffees to powdered mini donuts. And most recently, the occasional late-night cosmic brownie while standing barefoot in the kitchen after he put your son to sleep.
Apparently those tiny joys had now become criminal offenses.
By the time you pulled into the driveway, your mood had curdled completely. You climbed carefully out of the car with one hand pressed to your aching lower back while John unbuckled your son, who immediately sprinted toward the front door shouting, “Snack time!”
You nearly burst into tears right there in the driveway.
The second the front door shut behind all of you, John transformed into the version of him that you knew well. His jaw would tighten and his eyes would stop that signature sparkle as he settled into his emergency department attending with a mission look. Unfortunately, he wasn’t focused on a patient now, but rather your pantry.
“John,” you warned as he rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.
“I’m serious,” he replied, already opening cabinet doors. “We need to clean this stuff out.”
“We absolutely do not.” Your voice softened as your mood passed as you realized how ridiculous you felt. “You don’t need to punish yourselves.”
“Honey—”
“No. We can compromise like normal people.”
“We are compromising. I’m leaving the peanut butter crackers.”
You stared at him in disbelief as he began pulling things out one by one. Family-sized bags of chips hit the counter first. Then the large box of cookies. He fished out boxes of the granola bars that were more sugar than anything and leftover snack cakes. He set boxes of cereal on the counter and even the hidden pack of Oreos he pretended never existed but you always felt the crumbs on his side of the bed. He raised his eyebrows as he held up the king sized chocolate bar you tucked behind the rice cooker.
You pointed accusingly, keeping your amusement at bay. “You have no right to mess with my emergency chocolate.”
“You literally married a physician.”
“That doesn’t give you search-and-seizure authority over my snacks.”
Your son wandered into the kitchen just in time to witness the massacre. He froze in place as John tossed a package of mini blueberry muffins into a garbage bag.
“Nooooo,” he whispered.
John crouched slightly, trying to soften the blow. “Buddy, Mama and baby sister need healthier foods right now.”
Your son clutched a box of frosted cookies protectively against his chest. “But they live here.”
You had to turn away because the laugh trying to escape was dangerously close to becoming a sob instead. John gently pried the cookies from tiny hands while your son watched in absolute despair. You watched in growing horror as your husband opened the doors and simply stared for a moment, like a man surveying a battlefield.
“Oh, come on,” you muttered defensively from your spot leaning against the counter. “It’s not that bad.”
John slowly reached for the giant caramel coffee creamer first, technically his purchase but you used more of it that he did. “This has twenty grams of sugar per serving.”
“So?”
“Honey.”
Next came the bottled frappes you kept shoved behind the orange juice for “emergencies,” which really meant mornings after sleepless nights with your toddler climbing into bed sideways like a tiny possessed octopus. Then the whipped cream canister disappeared into the trash too, earning another yelp from your son.
John ignored him, though the corners of his mouth twitched with guilt. He pulled out the roll of cookie dough next, pausing briefly as though even he understood the severity of this particular loss.
You pointed immediately. “Leave that one.”
“Honey.”
“I’m serious,” you said.
John chewed his lip before placing it back in the door. He picked up the box of Go-Gurts and your son finally stepped forward.
“No! Daddy no!” he cried, abandoning the dinosaur in his hands to sprint toward the fridge. “Mine!”
John crouched automatically, catching him before he could launch himself at the yogurt box. “Buddy, these have a lotta sugar.”
“They strawberry!”
“I know.”
“I need strawberry!”
You covered your mouth to hide your laugh because the genuine anguish in his voice was almost too much. John looked dangerously close to caving for half a second before he sighed heavily and tossed the box into the trash too. Your son stared after it in stunned silence. Then, to your confusion, John straightened and reached into his back pocket for his wallet.
You frowned. “What are you doing?”
Without answering, he crossed the kitchen and yanked open the junk drawer. The familiar metallic scrape of scissors sliding against pens and batteries made your stomach tighten immediately.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
“Just for good measure,” he muttered.
Your eyes widened as he pulled out his Dunkin loyalty card, the black one he guarded like a member of the family because it had years of rewards points stacked onto it from post-shift coffees and early morning drive-thru runs together.
“Baby, your points,” you gasped, pushing off the counter as quickly as your pregnant body allowed. “John!”
Your son, sensing fresh tragedy, whipped around immediately. “Daddy no! My Munchkins!”
John held the card over his head before either of you could grab it, looking maddeningly calm despite the outrage building in his kitchen.
“If my wife can’t have sugar,” he said firmly, “then I won’t either.”
“John, be serious. This is going too far.”
“I am serious.”
“You have, like, twelve free drinks on that card!”
“Sacrifices must be made.”
The scissors snapped shut, the card falling to the ground into two pieces. You stared at him in complete disbelief. Your toddler looked like he’d just witnessed an execution, his hands pressed to his cheeks. For one long second, the kitchen went silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the rain tapping softly against the windows.
“No more Munchkins?” Your son gasped, gripping your leg tightly.
You doubled over laughing before you could stop yourself, one hand braced against your belly while tears sprang instantly into your eyes. Hormones and exhaustion hit all at once until you were half laughing, half crying against the counter.
John pointed accusingly at you while your toddler sobbed dramatically against your leg. “This reaction is exactly why the cards had to go.”
You cackled, wiping tears of amusement from your eyes. “Baby.”
“If you’re suffering, I’m suffering,” he shrugged, kissing your cheek gently and pulled you into a hug.
“You're so romantic,” you murmured against his shoulder. “I love you.”
John sighed against the crown of your head. “I love you too.”
Your son looked up at John with watery eyes and asked the question weighing on all your hearts.
“…Can baby sister hurry up?”
+++
John slowly closed the door to your bedroom and set the monitor on his side of the bed. Rain still tapped lazily against the bedroom windows while you sat propped against the headboard in one of John’s old T-shirts, absently rubbing lotion over the tight curve of your stomach.
The mattress dipped a moment later as John finally climbed into bed beside you, exhausted from purging the rest of the kitchen of everything else you’d both been neglecting for months. .
“Finally asleep?” you murmured.
“Barely.” He groaned quietly as he settled onto his back. “He asked me if baby sister was going to apologize for the donuts.”
You snorted softly. John turned his head toward you in the dim light, his hair still slightly damp from his shower, T-shirt hanging loose over gray sweatpants. “I think I traumatized him.”
You reached for his hand. “Thank you, honey.”
A tired smile tugged briefly at his mouth before the room fell quiet again. The rain softened further outside. Somewhere downstairs, the ice maker cracked loudly in the freezer. You shifted deeper beneath the blankets with a small sigh. John rubbed a hand over his face.
After a long moment of silence, he muttered toward the ceiling, “I want a donut so bad right now.”
You groaned. “Me too.” You rolled onto your side to look at him fully. “I would commit crimes for a cinnamon roll right now.”
He dragged both hands down his face dramatically. “You’re evil.”
“You started this war.”
John turned his head slowly on the pillow until his eyes met yours in the dark. You watched the exact moment the thought crossed his mind, just as the same thought crossed yours. His gaze drifted lazily over your face before lowering slightly, lingering at your mouth.
“Well,” he said carefully after a beat, voice quieter now, “technically… not all sweet things are off limits.”
You laughed softly under your breath right before he kissed you.
John shifted closer without another word, one arm sliding carefully around your waist beneath the blankets, slow and familiar and warm. “Doctor’s orders,” he murmured against your temple. “Gotta keep morale up somehow.”
lend a hand, pt. 2 - john shen x reader
warnings: mild descriptions of injuries (cuts and blood), stitches, miscommunication, avoidance, talks of sex, nosy ahh jack abbot, smut (oral sex m. rec.) at the very end (it was what i started, but then decided it didn't fit in anywhere else)
part one
“Don’t worry, we’ll fix you up good as new,” you said gently, pulling the suture tray a little closer so you didn’t have to reach.
The little girl sat stiffly on the bed, shoulders tight, fingers curled into the edge of the sheet. Dried tear tracks marked her cheeks, though fresh ones threatened every time she glanced down toward her leg. The makeshift bandage made of a bedsheet was now bunched near her ankle, stained through.
“Okay,” you added, softer now, crouching slightly so you were more at her eye level. “I’m just going to check that the numbing medicine is doing its job.” You took a sterile pickup and lightly pressed along the edge of the wound. “Do you feel that?”
She shook her head quickly. “No.”
“Good,” you said with a small nod. “That’s exactly what we want.”
Her eyes flicked toward her leg again before she caught herself. “Can I look away?”
“You can look wherever you need to,” you reassured her. “Wall, ceiling, my shoe. Whatever works. If you want to lie down, I can lower the bed too.”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “I’ll stare at the wall.”
“Perfect choice,” you said, a hint of a smile in your voice.
That earned the faintest twitch of a smile from her as she turned her head decisively away. You turned your attention back to the wound, now fully exposed and irrigated. The laceration ran diagonally along her calf, extending upward toward her thigh. It was long, but thankfully superficial. No obvious involvement of deeper structures, no muscle exposure. Clean edges after irrigation, and no debris left behind.
You adjusted your gloves and reached for the needle driver, loading it carefully with a simple interrupted suture.
“So,” you said conversationally as you positioned your hands, “tell me about your school. I heard this was a sleepover situation?”
Rose nodded, still staring firmly at the wall. “My dance team.”
“Oh yeah?” you said, placing the first stitch with steady, precise movements of entering one side of the skin, following the curve, exiting cleanly on the other. “What kind of dance?”
“Mostly hip-hop,” she said, her voice steadier now. “But we do jazz too. And sometimes lyrical if we have competitions.”
“Wow,” you said, tying the first knot and cutting the suture clean. “That’s a lot of styles. You must be busy.”
You placed another stitch, carefully approximating the wound edges without pulling too tight.
“Yeah,” she said. “We practice like… three times a week.”
“Three times?” you echoed. “That’s more than I exercise.”
That got a tiny huff of a laugh out of her.
You continued the space, place, tie, and cut rhythm, working your way along the length of the laceration. Each stitch brought the edges together neatly, restoring the line of her skin.
“Is this your first sleepover with them?” you asked.
“No,” she said. “But it was the first time we played outside at night.”
“Ah,” you said. “Midnight softball. Very high-risk sport.”
She smiled a little more at that. “I didn’t even see the stick,” she added, her voice dipping slightly.
“I believe you,” you said, glancing up briefly before returning to your work. “Honestly, I probably would’ve tripped over it in daylight. You’re doing really well, by the way,” you added. “A lot of people don’t sit this still.”
“My mom says I’m good at holding still,” she said quietly.
“Well,” you said, finishing the last suture and trimming the thread, “your mom is absolutely right.”
You set the instruments down and leaned back slightly, inspecting your work. The wound edges were well-approximated, tension even, no gaping. Clean.
“Okay,” you said, peeling off your gloves. “All done with the stitches.”
Rose turned her head cautiously, eyes flicking down to her leg before widening slightly, not in fear this time, but in cautious curiosity.
“That’s it?” she asked.
“That’s it,” you confirmed. “We’ll get a dressing on there, and you’ll have a pretty cool scar to show off.”
She nodded, looking relieved more than anything. You cleaned the area once more, applied antibiotic ointment, and covered the sutures with a sterile dressing, securing it gently.
“I’m going to have another doctor take a quick look,” you said as you stepped back. “Just to double-check everything. It’s something we always do.”
“Okay,” she said.
You gave her a reassuring smile before stepping out of the room. The hallway felt a little thicker compared to the steady hum inside. You spotted Abbot at the desk, flipping through a chart with his usual focus.
“Hey,” you said, approaching. “Got a lac repair in 12. Kid named Rose. Calf to lower thigh. Pretty straightforward, I think, but can you take a look?”
He glanced up at you, then nodded, already setting the chart aside. “How many stitches?”
“Simple interrupted, about… twelve,” you said. “Clean edges, no deep involvement. She tolerated it well.”
“Alright,” he said, pushing off the desk. “Let’s see it.”
You fell into step beside him as he headed toward the room, your shoulders loosening just slightly now that the work was done. You fell into step beside him as he headed toward the room, your shoulders loosening just slightly now that the work was done. You reached the curtain first and pulled it gently to the side.
“Hi, Rose,” you said, your voice slipping easily back into that warm, reassuring tone. “Is it okay if my friend Dr. Abbot checks your stitches?”
She nodded right away, looking between the two of you with a small, brave smile. “Hi, Dr. Abbot.”
He winked as he snapped on a fresh pair of gloves, stepping closer to the bed with an easy confidence that always seemed to settle patients. “Well now,” he said lightly, leaning in to take a look, “what have we here?”
“Someone decided to play midnight softball,” you mused, folding your arms loosely as you watched. “But guess who was declared safe?”
Abbot huffed a quiet laugh as he examined the sutures, gently adjusting the edge of the dressing to get a better look. His movements were quick but thorough, eyes scanning the line of stitches.
“Well,” he said after a moment, straightening up and peeling off his gloves, “I’d say Dr. Y/L/N here did a very nice job.” He gave you a brief nod before turning back to Rose. “I’ll just have your parents sign a few things, and then we’ll send you on home.”
“I’m going back to the sleepover,” Rose said immediately, a little spark of excitement breaking through. Then she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. “Don’t tell my mom, but one of the girls’ older sisters got us a scary movie.”
Abbot mimed zipping his lips and tossing away the key. “Your secret’s safe with me, kiddo.”
Rose beamed.
“Alright,” he added, patting the edge of the bed lightly. “You’re good to go.”
You gave her one last smile before stepping back, letting the curtain fall closed behind you as the two of you exited the room.
The second you were out in the hallway, your smile slipped. Jack fell into step beside you almost immediately, hands clasped behind his back like he had nowhere else to be and all the time in the world to investigate.
“So…” he drawled, glancing sideways at you, “care to explain?”
“Explain what?” you said with a small chuckle, already scanning the board ahead like you might find an excuse written there.
“Where’s your sidekick?” he asked, a faint, knowing smile tugging at his mouth.
“Don’t know,” you said, a little too quickly.
“You sure?”
You nodded, glancing into one of the rooms as you passed, checking on a sleeping patient just to anchor yourself to something real. “Yep. He’s a big boy,” you added, forcing your tone into something casual. “He can handle a shift without me velcro’d to him.”
“Uh-huh.” Jack’s skepticism was immediate, stretching the word thin. He blinked slowly, then tilted his head. “It’s not like… a fight or something?”
“Nope,” you muttered, wishing it were that simple. “Why?”
“Just thinking it’s a little odd,” he said. “When you need an attending, you usually go to Shen. But you’ve been coming to me all night.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Over half a shift, I might add.”
You pressed your lips together briefly. “Mixing things up.”
He nudged your arm lightly, aiming for playful. “Come on. You guys are like Batman and Robin.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you kept walking. “Please.”
“You’re Robin,” he added.
You shot him a flat look. “Rude.”
“Just because he’s an attending and you’re a resident,” he said quickly, like that explained everything.
“Can I be LEGO Robin?” you asked, completely deadpan.
Jack blinked. “What?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Your attention had already drifted past him, pulled across the department like muscle memory you couldn’t override. At the main station, Parker leaned casually against the counter, mid-conversation and laughing at something John had just said.
He looked… normal. Relaxed, even. One hand resting on the counter, the other gesturing slightly as he spoke, like nothing had shifted. Like two nights ago hadn’t happened. Like you hadn’t walked out of his apartment with your pulse racing and a flimsy excuse already typed out before the door had even closed behind you.
“John would have known what I meant,” you muttered, quieter now, almost to yourself.
Jack followed your line of sight, then glanced back at you, his expression sharpening just slightly as he picked up on the shift.
“Ah,” he said softly.
You straightened almost immediately, dragging your attention back to the present like it hadn’t just wandered off on its own.
“What?” you asked, a little too brisk.
“Nothing,” Jack said, though the look he gave you said otherwise.
You excused yourself quietly when one of the nurses flagged you down. Jack rounded the corner toward the main station, posture shifting seamlessly back into something more composed, more neutral. Parker was already there, leaning against the counter like she’d been waiting.
She glanced past him first, scanning for you, then looked back. “Well?”
Jack lowered his voice, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “They’re so sleeping together.”
Parker nodded immediately, like she’d already decided that. “And something went wrong.”
Jack bit the inside of his cheek, fighting a grin. “You kids and your gossip.”
“You love it, old man,” she shot back without missing a beat.
In truth, things had been weird since Saturday night.
Parker had planned a drag brunch Sunday morning, but both you and John mysteriously bailed. You’d texted something vague about food poisoning. He’d apparently claimed exhaustion. Neither of you checked if the other was going.
You didn’t even know he hadn’t shown up until Parker called you mid-morning, her voice suspiciously soft in a way that meant she was absolutely investigating.
“Do you need anything?” she’d asked.
You’d stared at your ceiling for a long moment before answering. “No. I’m good.”
You couldn’t face him, and apparently, he hadn’t been able to face you either.
You barely made it into the ED just before your shift started, slipping through the ambulance bay doors with your bag still half-unzipped, hair pulled back in a rushed attempt at looking put together.
Parker was right behind you.
She caught your elbow before you could make it more than a few steps inside and steered you sharply into the hallway, out of the direct line of sight of the main station.
“What the hell was that?” she hissed.
You blinked at her, already bracing. “I told you, I had a stomachache.”
She stared at you for half a second, then shook her head. “I mean you and Shen.” Her eyes narrowed, voice dropping even lower. “Did you guys fuck?”
“No,” you said immediately. “Absolutely not.”
It came out faster than you intended. Her brows pulled together. “You guys always come in together.”
You frowned, turning toward your locker and yanking it open a little harder than necessary. “I don’t need him to survive,” you muttered, getting ready to toss your backpack inside.
Your words echoed slightly in the metal as the door swung wider. On the shelf, right where it always was, sat a fresh iced coffee. Condensation beaded along the plastic, your usual order still cold. Behind you, Parker clocked the shift immediately but, to her credit, didn’t comment on it right away.
“Alright,” she said after a beat, softer now. “But just know I’m here. For whatever.”
You swallowed, closing the locker a little more carefully this time. “Thanks, P.”
By 6 a.m., exhaustion had settled into your bones in that deep, buzzing way that no amount of caffeine could fix.
Your feet ached like they were made of glass. Your thighs burned from crouching through a trauma that felt like it lasted hours, your back tight from tension you hadn’t had time to stretch out. The fluorescent lights felt harsher now, the beginning of a headache settling behind your eyes.
You’d run into John a few times. The first, you were stepping out of a patient’s room, chart half-formed in your head, when he passed by mid-conversation with Abbot. His hand came up automatically, patting your shoulder in that familiar, absentminded way.
“—and then we’ll just recheck labs—” he was saying, already moving past you.
The second time was quieter.
You were in the breakroom, leaning against the counter, chewing through a granola bar like it was a chore rather than food. The room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and whatever someone had microwaved an hour ago.
The fridge door opened. John stepped in, scanning the shelves before grabbing a Babybel cheese. He peeled the red wax halfway off before glancing over at you.
He lifted it slightly in greeting. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” you said, forcing a small smile, lifting your granola bar in response like it was a toast. “What was up with the screamer earlier?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he leaned back against the counter. “Don’t even get me started.”
There was a beat. Something almost normal settling between you.
Then, like it hadn’t taken any effort at all, he added, “You wanna grab breakfast?”
You nodded.
So now, not only were you exhausted from your shift, your muscles aching and your brain running on fumes, but you were also quietly, deeply terrified of breakfast. The last time he’d asked you to go, just the two of you, was about six months ago. You could still picture it clearly.
You’d been standing on the curb outside the ER, the sky still that early-morning gray where the sun hadn’t quite committed to rising yet. Your breath had fogged faintly in the air, hands shoved into your coat pockets as you debated whether you had enough energy to walk a few blocks.
He’d jerked his head toward the street. “C’mon.”
Jack had shown all of you the diner early on, probably within your first few weeks at PTMC. It sat a few blocks away, nothing fancy. Just warm lights, cracked vinyl booths, and a standing understanding that a few seats were always kept open for hospital staff coming off shift. Most mornings, it was just you, John, and Parker—half-delirious with exhaustion, laughing too hard at things that weren’t that funny, stacking plates of pancakes like it was a competitive sport. You’d leave buzzing just long enough to make it home before crashing.
It had snowed overnight.
A thin layer blanketed the sidewalks, untouched in some places, packed down in others. The hospital entrance had been cleared, but a few blocks out, it got uneven with the patches of ice hiding under fresh powder. Instead of turning back, John had walked ahead of you, deliberately stepping down the snow, flattening a path with slow, careful strides so you could follow without slipping.
“Your personal snowplow,” he’d said over his shoulder.
You’d rolled your eyes but stayed right in his footsteps anyway. At one point when you were attempting to step off the curb with John holding your hand, your boot hit a patch of ice hidden under the snow. You felt your foot begin sliding, forcing your free hand to fly out for balance, making things worse.
John gripped your sleeve tightly, pulling you towards him. For a moment, your faces were an inch apart. You caught your breath, suddenly grateful of the gum Parker had handed you before she disappeared into the night.
“Jeez,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “You think you’d be used to the weather by now.”
You let out a short, breathy chuckle, still feeling the ghost of the near-slip in your ankles like your body hadn’t fully caught up with reality yet. “Yeah,” you said, flexing your foot slightly as you tested your balance more deliberately now. “One would think.”
The final hour of your shift blurred together in the way only end-of-night hours could. Everything became procedural. You moved through it on autopilot, muscles remembering what your brain didn’t want to think about anymore.
You finished your last chart standing at the workstation, rolling your shoulders back once, then again, trying to shake off the fatigue settling into your spine.
“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, pressing your thumbs briefly into your eyes. Just long enough to reset.
Then you straightened, blinking hard. The shift was almost over. The second you turned away from the computer, a pair of hands landed on your shoulders.
You flinched hard.
“Jesus—” you snapped instinctively, twisting slightly before your brain caught up. Your eyes dropped immediately to the hands. You exhaled sharply. “You scared me.”
Cassie smirked at you. “Good. Means you’re awake enough to make it home.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself, pushing a loose strand of hair back behind your ear. “Debatable.”
Her eyes flicked over you for a second in that quick, assessing way attendings had even when they were off-duty in spirit. “Go home,” she said simply.
“Working on it,” you replied, already reaching for your badge.
“Mm-hm,” she hummed, unconvinced, then pushed off the counter. “Before you get another patient on your plate.”
By the time you finished handing off your patients, the weight of the shift had fully lifted and been replaced by that hollow, floaty feeling that came after running on adrenaline for too long. You signed out to the oncoming team, traded quick nods with a few nurses, and said your goodbyes in passing without slowing down.
Parker caught your eye from across the station and lifted a hand in a tired wave. You returned it.
John was already in the ambulance bay, leaning slightly against the wall just outside the doors like he’d been waiting without making it obvious. Hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, hair slightly messier than earlier in the night. He looked up as you approached.
“Hey,” he said, easy smile sliding into place like it always did when the shift ended.
“Hey,” you echoed.
For a second, neither of you moved. Just that brief pause between work and whatever came after.
Then he pushed off the wall. “Diner?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
You fell into step beside him without thinking about it. He held the diner door open when you reached it, stepping slightly to the side so you could go in first. The bell above the entrance chimed softly as warm light and the smell of coffee washed over you both.
“After you,” he said, gesturing lightly.
You rolled your eyes, but went in anyway.
Behind you, he followed.
You found a booth near the window, the vinyl seat creaking softly as you slid in, your backpack thumping lightly against the wall beside you. The diner was half-full with just enough people to fill the space with low conversation and the clatter of utensils, but not enough to feel crowded. Warm light pooled over the tables, a welcome contrast to the sterile brightness you’d just left behind. The familiar waitress spotted you almost immediately.
Nicole gave a small nod of recognition, already turning before she even reached the table. Within seconds, she was at the counter, pouring two thick mugs of chocolate milk like it was muscle memory.
John slid in across from you, stretching one arm along the back of the booth, shoulders loosening in a way they hadn’t all night.
“What’s up?” he asked, voice easy, like this was just another morning.
You shrugged, peeling your jacket off and shoving it beside you. “Not much. What’s up with you?”
“Nothing.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly. It was almost funny—how neither of you could quite look at each other at the same time. One of you would glance up just as the other looked down, like you were orbiting the same moment but never landing in it.
Nicole returned, placing the mugs in front of you with a soft clink. The chocolate milk was cold enough that condensation had already started to bead along the sides.
“Your usuals?” she asked, pen already poised over her pad.
You opened your mouth, but she was already nodding to herself, half-turned away.
“Yeah,” John said, amused.
“Got it,” she replied, already moving off toward the kitchen.
You watched her go, then let out a small laugh, wrapping your hands around the mug just for something to do.
“I think it’s kinda funny,” you said, finally glancing up at him, “that going to places where they know my order makes me feel bad about myself.”
John’s eyes lifted a second later, like he was timing it without realizing. “Tell me about it,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth. “The Dunkin’ crew got me a gift card for my birthday.”
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “That’s… honestly impressive.”
“It was personalized,” he added. “They spelled my name right and everything.”
“That’s how you know you’ve made it,” you said.
You took a sip of your chocolate milk, the sweetness cutting through the lingering taste of hospital coffee. “That reminds me,” you added, leaning back slightly. “When I was in college, there was this Taco Bell down the street I went to all the time. Like… an embarrassing amount.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“I didn’t even have to order,” you said, already smiling. “I’d just pull up, and they’d hear my car through the drive-thru speaker and go, ‘Is this the usual?’”
John laughed, the sound easy and unguarded. “That’s insane.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table now. “Do you remember when we went to the Jersey Shore house and you cried?”
You groaned immediately, dropping your head back against the booth. “Oh my god.”
“You did,” he said, pointing at you like he’d been waiting to bring this up again. “Full-on tears.”
“Well excuse me,” you said, straightening, “for getting emotional about the pop culture history that happened in that house.”
“Okay, well what about that time,” you countered quickly, leaning forward now, “we had to call Abbot because you forgot you were the designated driver?”
He winced, already shaking his head. “No. That wasn’t fair. You know how I get about the White Claws.”
“Yes,” you said, smug. “He had to pick us up mid bar crawl.”
“You were not helpful in that situation,” he said.
“I was thriving,” you corrected.
He huffed a laugh. “I have the picture Parker took of us with our heads in the bushes framed in my apartment.”
You blinked at him. “You do not.”
“I do.”
“John.”
“It’s in my living room.”
You stared at him, then shook your head. “That’s deeply concerning.”
“It’s art,” he said simply.
Nicole returned then, balancing plates along her arm with practiced ease. Pancakes stacked high, eggs, hash browns, everything exactly how you always ordered it.
“Careful, plates are hot,” she said as she set them down.
“Thanks,” you both murmured automatically.
For a while, conversation softened into something quieter, slipping between bites. The clink of forks against plates, the low hum of the diner, the occasional comment about the food.
You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you started eating. At one point, you glanced up mid-bite and caught him looking at you. It lasted maybe half a second before he dropped his gaze back to his plate. A moment later, you caught his eye again and there was a small streak of syrup at the corner of his lip. You couldn’t help it, you giggled.
“What?” he asked, immediately defensive, hand already coming up.
“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head, trying to hold it together.
He narrowed his eyes slightly, then wiped at his mouth anyway, checking his fingers. “Wow,” he muttered. “No loyalty.”
“None,” you said, still smiling.
Eventually, the plates were empty.
Nicole swung by, gathering dishes without interrupting, leaving behind the mugs and a receipt tucked neatly at the edge of the table.
“Take your time,” she said, already moving on.
And just like that, there was nothing left to do.
John leaned back again, one arm draped along the booth, the other resting loosely near his mug. You traced the rim of yours with your thumb, watching the faint ring of condensation it left behind, following it in slow circles like it might give you something to focus on besides him.
The silence stretched just a second too long. You exhaled softly, then broke it.
“I’m sorry for abandoning you the other night,” you said, your voice quieter now, more careful. You glanced up briefly before looking back down at your hands. “It just…”
John shook his head almost immediately, cutting you off before you could spiral into it. “It’s okay,” he said, softer than you expected. “I get it. Really.” He shifted slightly in the booth, his fingers tapping once against the table before going still. “It’s okay. I could have backed out just the same,” he added with a small shrug, “but I trust you.”
You blinked, your gaze lifting to him again, searching his face. “You do?”
He nodded once, steady. “Yeah.”
There was a small pause, his expression shifting.
“You know,” he continued, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “you ignoring my texts gave me a long time to think about you.”
Your cheeks warmed instantly, heat creeping up your neck before you could stop it. You leaned back in the booth, like the extra space might help, your hands retreating into your lap as if they needed somewhere to hide. John let out a quiet breath through his nose, glancing down for a second before looking back up at you.
“Do you remember when we went to that 30th anniversary special for that movie you like?” he asked, his tone lightening just a little.
You huffed a small laugh under your breath, already knowing exactly what he meant.
You’d begged someone, anyone, to go with you for weeks. Everyone had brushed it off, calling it one of those movies that was “so bad it’s good,” which meant no one actually wanted to sit through it. You’d finally cornered John after a shift, bribing him with snacks and the promise that it would be “culturally important.”
“You were sitting there,” he went on, smiling now, “and the entire movie you were whispering the lines to yourself.”
You groaned quietly, covering your face for half a second. “I was not—”
“You were,” he said, laughing softly. “Every line. Like you were afraid the actors were going to forget their cues.” You peeked at him through your fingers, already smiling despite yourself. “And then,” he continued, his voice softening again, “during that big speech at the end… I looked over. Just to make sure I heard what I thought I heard.”
He paused, holding your gaze now. “You were crying. That’s when I realized that I’m in love with you.”
You blinked. You just stared at him, eyes wide, your brain struggling to catch up as the words landed all at once. Your jaw went a little slack, like you’d forgotten how to respond entirely.
“Oh my god,” John blurted suddenly, dragging a hand down his face. “I just gave myself the ick. That was—” he winced, shaking his head. “That was so weird of me to say.”
You didn’t move. “That you’re in love with me?” you whispered, like saying it too loud might undo it.
“That’s not—” he started, then stopped, exhaling sharply. “That’s not what I meant. I mean—” he laughed nervously, running a hand through his hair. “That felt so man of me. Like I just dropped that.”
You watched him, something soft and disbelieving pulling at your expression.
“I mean,” he tried again, quieter now, more honest, “you’re… you’re this great friend. You’re helpful. You’re—” he cut himself off, shaking his head again. “The other night, when you left… I was getting somewhere when you were talking me through it.”
Your brows knit slightly, listening.
“I hadn’t settled on a person,” he admitted, glancing down at the table for a second before looking back at you. “But I saw you there.” He cleared his throat. “I saw you, and I freaked out.”
“Instant boner killer?” you said, a small, incredulous laugh slipping out before you could stop it.
John let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “No. Not even a little.” His smile softened. “I just… I kept pushing these feelings down because I didn’t want to make it weird.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “And then we did all of this.”
You laughed quietly, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. “Yeah,” you said, nodding faintly. “I was doing the same thing, I guess.”
He looked at you, curious.
“I felt it when you trusted me enough to let me in,” you continued, your voice softer now. “And then I was in your room, looking at your bookshelves, and it hit me that I only know, like… a tiny piece of your life.” You smiled a little, almost shy. “And in the same thought, I realized that I want to know everything about you.”
For a second, he just looked at you.
“Well,” he said, a quiet confidence settling back into his voice, “I guess that settles that.” He tilted his head slightly. “Can I take you out on a date?”
You felt your smile spread before you could stop it, softer this time, a little more careful. “Yeah,” you said. “I think that’d be really fun.” There was a small pause, then you added, “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” he said immediately.
“I saw your undergraduate thesis on your shelf,” you said, glancing down briefly before meeting his eyes again. “And I was wondering if I could read it.”
He let out a small laugh, already sliding out of the booth. “Do you want to come over?”
You smiled, pushing yourself up as well. “Good thing I left my bag there.”
He shook his head, amused, reaching for both of your backpacks without hesitation. He slung them easily over one hand like they weighed nothing, using the other to grab the door and hold it open for you.
“After you,” he said.
You stepped past him, the bell chiming softly overhead as you pushed out into the cool morning air. You barely had time to register the shift in temperature before his hand found yours, like it had always belonged there. His fingers laced with yours without hesitation.
You tried to hide your grin, but it tugged at your lips anyway, impossible to contain. You stepped just half a pace ahead of him, like that might disguise it.
Bonus (smut):
Three weeks of dates and sleepovers. You and John had decided to keep this to yourselves for the time being, resulting in almosts each time. In those three weeks, John still hadn’t cum. Not for lack of trying.
The first time things started to get heated, you were grinding against him on your couch. He hovered over you, braced on one arm. One of your legs was wrapped around his hips, nudging him closer and closer as your hips rolled against his. He whimpered when you pushed him away from your kiss, just to have enough space to unbutton his jeans.
Both of you flinched when your doorbell rang when Parker had come over unannounced with takeout. Another reason you wanted to stay a secret, neither one of you wanted to break the news to her.
The second time, John was nestled between your legs, kissing up and down your bare thighs. He hooked his fingers into the sides of your underwear when both of your phones began to ring with a notification about a massive car accident and a call for extra help.
But tonight, you’d gotten as far to kneeling between his legs. One of your hands held him at the base. You ran your tongue over the length of him.
“I w-won’t last,” he panted, holding your free hand tightly.
You wrapped your lips around him. His hips twitch as he fights the urge to buck forward, though you tried to tell him you were okay with it. You hollow your cheeks around him as you bob up and down slowly. John would probably let you do this to him for the rest of his life, and you wouldn’t be opposed. And though you know you’d do this again, you want to make it last.
“Oh, please,” John begged. “Oh, it feels so good.”
You pulled off of him with a pop, running your finger along the underside of his cock before dropping to his sack. His eyes fluttered shut as you kitten licked his tip, never once taking your eyes off of his face.
“Yeah?” You teased.
“Where do you want it?” He panted, barely opening his eyes to look at you.
“Where do you want it?” You breathed back, leaning back to get a better look at his fucked out expression.
“Keep goin’, sweetheart,” he hissed, sucking in a breath when you wrapped your hand around him again.
John lasted about two more minutes. He twitched on your tongue, whimpers slipping from his lips as he came. You moaned at the taste of him, slightly sweet, undoubtedly from his coffees. You clenched at the sight of him with his head thrown back, your stomach burning with need. He helped you into his lap as soon as he recovered his breath.
“How was that?” You grinned
“It’s my turn,” he responded, his hands running over your waist and hips, then to the button of your jeans.
“You up for it?”
He nodded. “I’ve got more in me, but I know how we can pass the time.” He hissed when he ran his tongue over his lip. “I think I bit myself.”
I love that the reader approached John's problem scientifically and nonchalantly in the beginning while John lost his mind about it, it was hilarious. But what I liked most was the gradual build up to the reader realizing the intimacy of the situation as she was inspecting his shelves, before finally looking at John and realizing that what they were doing was not in fact a normal scientific experiment conducted by friends.
The reader scrambling for an excuse to leave although she came fully intending to stay the night was also an amazing way to show the shift in the relationship between them, at least from the reader's side.
All in all it was an enjoyable read, thank you so much for sharing it with the world 🫶
EEEE I am so glad you liked it!! Framing this to put in my office asap <3
but trust, reader and shen will return in avengers: doomsday
lend a hand - john shen x fem!reader
warnings: talks about intimacy, masturbation and hook up culture, little bit ooc, mastrubation described
You tossed a chuckle over your shoulder, glancing back at the couple you’d just spoken to as they shuffled out of the room, the man walking stiffly while his partner hovered at his side.
“Why so quiet?” you teased, nudging Shen gently with your elbow as you fell back into step beside him.
He shook his head, lips pressed thin, eyes still a little too wide like he’d just returned from the depths of hell and wasn’t entirely convinced he’d made it all the way back. “Forgive me for having a little empathy,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
You snorted, unconcerned. “Hey, it happens. Maybe he’ll learn to let ’er sit on his face rather than risk another penile fracture.”
Shen made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a groan, turning his head away as if that might physically distance him from the mental image. “Jesus,” he mumbled.
The attending shook his head again, though there was the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, that’s probably all she’ll be getting from him for a while.”
You let out another short laugh, already swiping through charts on your tablet as you leaned against the desk. “Gross.”
“You started it,” he shot back, though his tone was weak, distracted. He leaned against the main desk beside you, arms folding loosely as his gaze drifted over the nurses bustling around the station. “Besides, having a broken y’know is like… the worst thing imaginable for a man.”
You angled your head, squinting at him. “You say that like you have experien—” You cut yourself off mid-sentence, eyes widening as realization hit. “Wait.” You sucked in a sharp breath, pivoting fully toward him. “This is juicy. Spill.”
Shen’s brows furrowed instantly, defensive. “No. No, it’s nothing.”
“Oh, it’s so not nothing,” you shot back, straightening as your full attention snapped onto him. You set your tablet down with a soft clack, crossing your arms with a grin that was already threatening to break into laughter. “You don’t get that weird about something unless it’s personal.”
“It’s embarrassing,” he muttered, suddenly very interested in the random chart he’d pulled up on one of the iPads lying around. He scrolled aimlessly, not reading a single word.
You bit your lip, fighting the urge to laugh outright. “Well, now you definitely have to tell me.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders tensing. “You’re being mean already.”
“I am not,” you said quickly, though your grin betrayed you. You forced it down, inhaling deeply and softening your expression as you reached out, placing a hand lightly on his forearm. Your tone gentled. “Listen, I just know you’re making a much bigger deal out of it than it needs to be.”
He glanced down at your hand, then back up at you, unconvinced.
“You can tell me wherever you like,” you added, voice quieter now, more sincere. “I won’t force you, but I’m here.”
He held your gaze for a long second, then huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Please, John,” you said immediately, slipping into mock desperation but keeping your voice low so no one else would overhear. You leaned in just slightly, eyes bright with curiosity. “I swear I won’t tell a soul.”
He arched a brow. “You? Not tell a soul?”
You pressed a hand to your chest in exaggerated offense. “Wow. First of all, rude. Second of all, I can absolutely keep a secret when it matters.”
He gave you a long, skeptical look.
You softened again, nudging his arm this time. “C’mon. You can’t just drop that kind of hint and then expect me to move on with my life.”
“I can, actually,” he said, though there was less conviction behind it now.
“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p’ as you shook your head. “Too late. You’ve opened the door.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly debating his options. “It’s not even a big deal.”
“That’s what everyone says before they tell a very big deal story,” you replied immediately.
He sighed, long and resigned, glancing around the station as if checking for witnesses. The nurses were busy, no one paying the two of you any real attention.
“Fine,” he muttered at last, lowering his voice. “But if you laugh—”
“I won’t,” you said quickly.
“You will.”
“I will try not to,” you amended, raising a hand like you were taking an oath.
He narrowed his eyes at you, then shook his head again, a reluctant smile threatening at the corners of his mouth despite himself. “You’re the worst.”
“And,” you said sweetly, leaning in just a fraction closer, “you’re still going to tell me.”
He hesitated one last time, then exhaled. “Okay. But you asked for it.”
Your grin spread, victorious. “I always do.”
John led you out to the ambulance bay, pushing through the heavy doors with his shoulder before continuing a few steps farther than necessary, like he needed the extra distance from ears, from light, from everything inside. The late air was cool, carrying the faint smell of exhaust and antiseptic. He stopped near the edge of the lot, hands settling on his hips before he dragged one through his hair.
“You swear you won’t tell?” he asked again, quieter this time, not looking at you.
You nodded immediately. “On everything I hold near and dear.”
He glanced at you, unconvinced but running out of exits. “If I make you uncomfortable, you have to promise that you will just walk away and pretend I didn’t say anything.”
You nodded again, softer now. “Okay.”
He could tell you were about to speak, probably to reassure him again or make a joke to lighten it, so he lifted a hand, stopping you before the words could come out.
“Just… let me say it,” he muttered.
You pressed your lips together and gave a small, understanding nod.
John exhaled heavily, the kind that came from somewhere deep in his chest. He shifted his weight, gaze drifting out toward the empty stretch of pavement like he might find the right words written out there.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. And then, finally he nodded slowly.
“I know what it feels like,” he said, voice low, “to have a broken dick.”
You blinked, but didn’t interrupt.
He huffed a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Not like that guy,” he added quickly, gesturing vaguely back toward the ER. “Nothing like that, thank God.”
He swallowed, jaw tightening.
“But it’s… it’s messed up. In my head.” He wrung his hands together, briefly meeting your eyes before looking away again. “Which somehow makes it worse.”
You stayed quiet, arms loosely folded, giving him the space he’d asked for.
“For the last few weeks,” he continued, slower now, like he was picking each word carefully, “my routine has been… off.” He let out a breath through his nose. “Like, you know how your body just does certain things automatically? No effort, no thought. It’s just normal.”
You nodded faintly.
“Yeah,” he said. “Not anymore.”
He shifted again, clearly uncomfortable now. Not just with the topic, but with saying it out loud. “It’s like everything just… stopped working the way it’s supposed to. And the more I notice it, the worse it gets.”
His hands dropped to his sides, fingers flexing slightly. “At first I thought it was just stress. Long shifts, no sleep, whatever. But then it kept happening. Or… not happening.”
He winced at his own phrasing, shaking his head again.
“And now?” he added, quieter, almost frustrated. “Now I’m in my own head about it all the time. Which, shockingly, does not help.”
A dry, self-deprecating smile flickered across his face.
“I mean, I see guys like that patient, and yeah, it’s objectively worse. But at least his problem is… fixable with some surgery and rest. Mine just feels like I broke something I can’t point to.”
He finally looked at you then, searching your face for a reaction. “So yeah,” he said, a little defensively. “That’s why I said what I said.”
There was a brief pause, the distant sound of a siren cutting through the quiet.
“And before you say it,” he added quickly, holding up a finger, “yes, I know how it sounds. I know it’s not the actual worst thing imaginable. But it feels…” he stopped, exhaling. “It feels pretty bad.”
His shoulders dropped slightly, like just admitting it had taken something out of him.
“I don’t get it.” You said it before you could stop yourself, brows pulled together as you stared at him, trying to reconcile the confident, composed attending you knew with the flustered, spiraling man in front of you.
Your name slipped from his lips, strained, almost desperate. “I haven’t cum in weeks,” he said, like admitting it out loud made it more real. “Close to two months.”
You sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening despite your best effort to stay neutral.
John groaned immediately, dragging both hands over his face. “Don’t! D-don’t do that,” he muttered. “That face? I can’t handle that face right now.”
But he kept going anyway, like once the door was open, he couldn’t shut it again.
“I’ve tried everything,” he said, pacing a few steps before turning back to you. His voice dropped, equal parts frustrated and embarrassed. “Lotion, no lotion. Phone, laptop. Different, uh… sources.” He gestured vaguely, clearly unwilling to get more specific.
You pressed your lips together, shoulders already tightening as you fought it.
“I even—” John stopped himself, then forced himself forward with a grimace, “I even drove four hours to my parents house one weekend. Dug through a box in my old room to find the stupid magazine that got me through puberty.”
That did it. You inhaled sharply, eyes squeezing shut as you turned your head away.
“Don’t,” he warned, pointing at you. “Don’t you dare—”
“An old dirty Playboy?” you choked out, voice breaking as you tried to contain it.
“Yes!” he snapped, throwing his hands up. “And it didn’t even work, okay? Not even a little!”
You clamped a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking now despite your best efforts.
“Like, mentally?” he continued, gesturing to his head, clearly committed to finishing his confession. “Sure. Everything’s there. Imagination’s fine. Great, actually. A-plus performance.”
He tapped his temple again, more insistently this time.
“But physically?” He dropped his hand, letting it hang uselessly at his side. “Nothing. It’s like my body didn’t get the memo.”
There was a beat of silence that lasted a little bit too long.
“Please don’t look at me like that,” he pleaded, catching your expression when you finally glanced back at him.
“John, please just stop talking,” you said quickly, turning away again and squeezing your eyes shut. “I’m trying not to laugh and you’re going to make me feel like an asshole.”
He stepped closer and gave your shoulder a light shove. “I’m serious!”
“I know, I know,” you said, half-laughing, half-groaning, dragging a hand down your face as you tried to compose yourself. You turned back to him, still fighting a smile. “So what, you’re just done trying?” A small chuckle slipped out despite you. “And besides, two months is nothing. You’re a full-time attending. You’re working insane hours, barely sleeping, and, what, unpacking a lifetime of religious guilt on top of it?” You shrugged lightly. “Give yourself some grace if you can’t pop a boner or two.”
He winced immediately, shoulders hunching. “I can do that part,” he muttered.
You blinked. “What?”
He gestured vaguely, clearly regretting continuing but unable to stop himself now. “That’s not the issue. It’s the… you know.” He grimaced. “The finish line. I can’t get there.”
There was a split second of silence.
“Oh my god,” you said, turning sharply away from him, one hand flying up as your shoulders started shaking again. “Walk away so I can laugh or go—just go—”
You took a few steps in the opposite direction, trying to regain control, but it was pointless now. “You’re such a dweeb,” you added, voice breaking with laughter.
“You’re really not helping,” he said flatly, though there was a hint of reluctant amusement creeping in despite himself.
“I know I’m not,” you admitted, waving him off without turning back yet. “I’m so sorry, I’m trying. Just please go before someone comes looking and finds us out here having this conversation.” You finally glanced over your shoulder, still grinning. “I’ll find you later. When I’m a better person.”
He shook his head, exasperated, but the tension in his shoulders had eased just a little. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, though there was no real heat behind it. As he turned to head back inside, he paused just long enough to glance back at you.
“You’re still not telling anyone,” he said.
You straightened, forcing your expression into something resembling seriousness, though your eyes still betrayed you. “Scout’s honor,” you said again, tapping your chest.
He narrowed his eyes. “You already broke that once.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did when you told Abbot I was late because of our coffees, not because of my grandmother.”
You held up a hand immediately, already grinning. “That one was on you. You’re on your third dead grandma.”
He stared at you for a long, unimpressed beat, lips pressed thin like he was deciding whether to argue or just accept defeat.
“…You’re a terrible person,” he muttered finally.
“And yet,” you shot back lightly, “I’m your favorite.”
He didn’t answer that, which was answer enough.
With one last exasperated shake of his head, he pushed back through the doors and disappeared inside, leaving you alone in the cool air.
The second he was gone, you doubled over, laughter finally spilling out freely into the empty ambulance bay. It echoed off the concrete, sharp and unfiltered now that you didn’t have to hold it in.
In the last few years John had known you, things had always been easy. Natural. Effortless in a way that was rare in a place like this. Even now, with him freshly promoted to attending and you still grinding through your final year of residency, not much had changed. If anything, the dynamic had just shifted enough to give you new material.
You, Parker, and John had started on the same day as three nervous, overcaffeinated interns trying not to look like they were drowning. Somewhere along the way, that turned into something closer to a unit. The kind of friendship that didn’t need explaining.
Parker had been bumped to day shift months ago, which meant you didn’t see her nearly as much, but she still lingered at shift changes, hovering just long enough to trade stories, steal snacks, and remind you both that sunlight existed. And then there were your weekly drag brunches, a sacred ritual none of you ever skipped unless someone was actively coding.
With John, though, it was different. You’d slipped into this rhythm of a kind of buddy-cop dynamic that made long shifts survivable.
You liked to insist your primary job duty was “keeping attendings humble,” which in practice meant talking just enough shit to keep them on their toes. You’d wander into trauma bays with commentary no one asked for, crack jokes five seconds too soon, and somehow still manage to read the room when it mattered. John complained about it constantly.
“You’re going to get written up one day,” he’d say.
“You say that like I didn’t have you in tears,” you’d shoot back.
And the truth was, for all his grumbling, he and Jack both leaned on it more than they’d ever admit. After the codes that didn’t turn, the families that broke in front of you, and the kind of nights that stuck, you were the one who cut through the heaviness. Not by dismissing it, but by giving everyone just enough space to breathe again. You didn’t let things rot in silence. You straightened up, rolling your shoulders once before heading back inside.
Thirty minutes later, John felt your presence before you even spoke. You had a way of moving through the department like you belonged everywhere at once, somehow loud and subtle at the same time. He didn’t turn right away, but his posture shifted slightly as you came up behind him.
You held out a coffee, nudging it into his line of sight. “Peace offering.”
He glanced at it, then at you, suspicious. Still, he took the cup carefully.
“I’m sorry for laughing at you,” you started, more sincere this time. “And it was really shitty, and I’m sorry.”
He studied your face for a second, weighing it, then took a sip. “You didn’t take it upon yourself and try to cure me, did you?”
You shook your head immediately. “Where would I even get one?”
There was a brief pause. Then, in perfect unison you echoed one another.
“Jack.”
You both looked at each other with a smile.
“Yeah, no,” you said, waving it off. “I’m not getting involved in stealing his prescriptions. I don’t really want to turn you into a Halsey song.”
“What?” John huffed a quiet laugh into his coffee.
You cocked an eyebrow. “Everything is blue, his pills, his h- oh, so you’re just uncultured.” You shifted your weight, leaning your hip lightly against the counter beside him. “Anyway,” you said, tone softening again. “You have an issue. What’s going on?”
He didn’t answer right away. John knew you wanted to go into psychiatry.You had the instincts for it, obvious in the way you listened, the way you asked questions that didn’t feel like questions, and in the way people opened up to you before realizing they were doing it. But the idea of sitting in a quiet room all day had driven you insane, so you’d stayed in emergency medicine. Somehow, that just made you better at both.
You didn’t force conversations. You made space for them.
“I really don’t know,” he admitted finally, quieter now.
You nodded slowly, eyes drifting for a second as you thought. “Any big changes recently?” you asked. “Your salary bumped, right? Maybe it’s stress from that. Are loan payments kicking in harder?”
He shrugged, one shoulder lifting. “Yeah, but I’m fine. I mean… objectively, I’m fine. I’m a single-income, no-kids household living like I have been, but with a good car.”
You hummed thoughtfully. “Okay. So not money.”
He shook his head.
“Anything from your parents? Work stuff? Did Gloria say someth—”
“No,” he cut in, a little too quickly. Then, softer, “No.”
You watched him for a beat, catching the shift but not pressing it.
“We just had a meeting,” he added instead. “About some of the time off I requested. She suggested a resort.”
You let out a slow breath, tilting your head back slightly. “A resort,” you repeated, like the word itself was exhausting.
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” you said finally. “Well… think about it, I guess.”
“I already do,” he replied, a little sharper than he meant to. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair again. “Way too much.”
You glanced at him sideways. “About the resort?”
“…About everything,” he admitted.
That made you straighten slightly, attention sharpening. “Everything, everything?” you asked gently. “Or like…oh my god, my brain won’t shut up, everything?”
He gave a small, humorless smile. “The second one, but it’s bleeding into the first.”
You nodded slowly, absorbing that. “Okay,” you said again, softer this time. “That’s something.”
He looked at you, brow furrowed. “Something?”
“Yeah,” you said, nudging his arm lightly. “Means it’s not random. Means there’s a thread somewhere.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue either.
You took a small sip of your own coffee, then glanced at him again. “We’ll figure it out,” you added, casual but certain.
John huffed under his breath. “We?”
You smiled faintly. “Yeah. Unfortunately for you, you told me. So now it’s a group project.”
He shook his head, but there was the ghost of a smile there now. “God,” he muttered. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
“Way too late for that,” you said lightly, bumping his shoulder.
For days following, you treated John like a science experiment with invasive questions. You’d shown up to shift two days later with a black-and-white composition notebook, the kind every kid had at some point in school, and slapped it down dramatically in front of him at the desk. On the front, in thick Sharpie, you’d written jerk-off log.
John had just stared at it for a full five seconds, then slowly lifted his eyes to you. “You’re kidding.”
You folded your arms, completely serious. “I am not.”
“You’re not actually going to make me write in this,” he said, pushing it an inch away from himself like it might bite him. “Or read it?”
You nodded once, firmly. “Maybe there’s something in your subconscious that you’ll spill on paper.”
He let out a short, incredulous laugh, rubbing his forehead. “This is really personal.”
You shrugged, unfazed. “No more personal than you looking at my rash.”
His head snapped toward you. “That is not the same thing.”
“This is purely for science,” you added, holding up a finger, “and bonding as best friends.”
He stared at you, lips pressed together, clearly trying not to smile despite himself. “There is nothing scientific about this.”
“There are prompts,” you said, flipping the notebook open and tapping the first page proudly.
He glanced down despite himself, and immediately regretted it. You had already dated the first few pages. There were bullet points.
Time of day.Mood.Stress level (scale 1–10).Attempt? Y/N.Outcome (pun intended).Notes (be honest).
He swallowed thickly, flipping the page like maybe it would get better. It didn’t.
“This is not the same as looking at a poison ivy rash,” he said flatly.
You tilted your head. “It was on my taint.”
The memory flashed easily between you about how you’d called him in a full-blown panic, voice tight and urgent all while refusing to explain over the phone. How he’d shown up at your apartment expecting something catastrophic, only to find you pacing in oversized sweats, muttering about “a situation.” It was embarrassing enough to bend over just to hear him laugh that it was a simple case of poison ivy in a very unfortunate place.
John looked down at the notebook again, then back at you, then down again.
He sighed, long and suffering, but there was no real resistance left in it. “Okay,” he said finally, picking it up like it weighed a hundred pounds. “I’ll write.”
You beamed.
“But,” he added quickly, pointing at you, “there will be no… nasty details.”
You held up both hands. “I don’t want nasty details.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I want data,” you corrected.
He narrowed his eyes. “Those are not mutually exclusive with you.”
You grinned. “Just fill out the prompts, Dr. Shen.”
He flipped it closed again, tucking it under his arm with a resigned shake of his head. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“You’re welcome,” you said sweetly.
“For what?”
“For fixing your life.”
He scoffed as he turned to walk away. “You’re unbelievable.”
You called after him, “I’m the only one trying to solve your problem.”
He didn’t turn back, but you caught the faintest hint of a smile as he disappeared down the hall, notebook in hand.
John tried for days.
He tried after long shifts, when the hospital finally quieted down and his apartment felt less like a place to live and more like a place to collapse. He’d stand under the shower longer than usual, leaning one hand against the tile like that might reset something.
His body had never given him trouble before. If anything, it has always been inconveniently reliable. Five minutes, maybe less, then done. Roll over, lights out, gone for hours like nothing had ever happened. Now it was like someone had rewired the system without telling him.
He’d lose track of time entirely, then catch himself halfway through the attempt, suddenly aware of the absurdity of it, the effort, the expectation. And just like that, the urge was gone. The interest would evaporate, replaced by frustration, or fatigue, or a weird, clinical detachment that made everything feel like a task instead of anything resembling instinct. He’d give up before anything even happened, annoyed at himself more than anything else.
He tried in the mornings too, when the apartment was still dim and quiet and he had a rare pocket of time before work. Fifteen minutes, maybe less. Enough time that it should have been simple. Instead, he’d end up checking the clock, thinking about traffic, thinking about patients, thinking about anything except the thing he was trying not to think about, and then he’d be running late.
By the end of the week, the notebook you’d given him sat on his nightstand like a taunting little experiment he didn’t know how to complete. He’d filled almost nothing out. A few half-hearted notes. A lot of question marks.
It wasn’t helping.
“Any progress?” you asked one day.
It was your turn for the coffee run, and you came into the department balancing a paper bag in one hand and a drink tray in the other like you were delivering critical medical supplies instead of caffeine. You set the bag in front of him with unnecessary ceremony, then slid his usual drink toward him. After a beat, you added another cup from the tray. You’d always get him something more experimental and overly complicated, the kind of thing you ordered just to see if he’d complain.
He eyed it immediately. “What is that?”
“Joy,” you said simply.
He gave you a look. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s coffee-adjacent. Just drink it.”
John exhaled through his nose, taking the regular cup first like a man choosing stability over chaos.
You leaned your hip against the counter, watching him. “So?”
He didn’t even pretend to misunderstand. He just stared into his cup for a second, then muttered, “No.”
You blinked. “No as in… no change?”
“No as in,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face, “it’s like… actually broken.”
You didn’t laugh this time. Your expression shifted slightly, just enough to take the edge off the teasing.
“Okay,” you said slowly. “That’s new wording.”
He shot you a look. “Super helpful.”
“I’m trying,” you said, holding up a hand defensively. Then, after a beat, softer: “Maybe you need someone to get out of your head.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
You gestured vaguely between the two of you, like the idea was obvious. “Like… external reset. You know how they say to get over someone you have to get under someone else?”
He made a face immediately. “That is not medical advice.”
“It’s not medical advice,” you agreed easily, “it's an emotionally backed theory.”
He let out a short, incredulous laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “How long has it been since you were with… what was her name? Monica?”
His eyes flicked up at you. “You know she hated when you called her that.”
“Yeah, well,” you said, shrugging, “she hated everything. She was basically a walking red flag in ‘siren eyes’ packaging. As if Dr. Google was bad enough, now we have theory this, theory that. Stupid names for features like siren eyes as if she wasn’t rolling her eyes back so much, I’m surprised they didn’t detach from the cord back there.”
That earned a reluctant huff from him, the kind that meant he was listening even when he didn’t want to be.
“And another thing! The looksmaxing? A mom brought her kid in because she thought he was getting beat up and he was beating himself with a-”
“Is there a point to this? Not to be self-centered, but I’m kinda desperate here.”
“But seriously,” you continued, leaning back against the counter, “remember when I made you go out with Parker and me after your breakup?”
John gave a slow nod.
It had been one of those nights that started with good intentions and ended with questionable memory gaps. You’d found him sulking in scrubs after shift, looking like a man actively losing a war with his own thoughts. So you did what you always did and you dragged him out anyway. Parker had been relentless. You’d been worse. Drinks appeared in front of him whether he ordered them or not. Someone had declared it “healing.”
And, as always, things had spiraled.
By the time the night blurred into neon lights and bass-heavy music, John had been on his feet on a crowded dance floor, uncharacteristically unsteady, laughing at something Parker said like the world wasn’t sitting on his shoulders. Fifteen minutes later, he’d stumbled out of the club entirely changed in trajectory, hand in hand with one of the waiters, who had looked equally surprised by the development.
The next morning, none of you had spoken about it directly. Which, in your friend group, counted as respectful silence.
“That’s what you’ve gotta do, man,” you said now, snapping him back to the present.
“I cannot go onto the dating scene like this,” he said immediately, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s just even more embarrassing.”
You tilted your head. “Like what? Mildly emotionally constipated?”
“I was going to say ‘not functional,’” he muttered.
“Same thing.”
He hadn’t had issues before. Not really. Not when he was younger, not when things were messy and uncomplicated and driven more by curiosity than anything else. Not with his first serious partner, not even with the three-year relationship that had ended in something slow and quiet and mutual exhaustion. That’s why it all felt wrong. There wasn’t a single thing he could grab onto and that is what is driving him insane.
You watched the shift in his face as he went quiet again, the way his gaze dropped briefly to the counter like he was trying to solve something that didn’t have clear variables.
“Still not happening,” he muttered.
You didn’t push right away. You just nodded once, like you’d expected that answer. Then you said, “I’ll do it.”
His head snapped up instantly. “Excuse me?”
You didn’t even blink. “You rubbed ointment on my taint for two weeks. I jack you off once. I think it’s a fair trade-off.”
The silence that followed was immediate and sharp.
John stared at you like his brain had temporarily stopped rendering new information. “Absolutely not,” he said finally, voice flat, but there was a faint crack of disbelief underneath it.
You shrugged. “Worth offering.”
“Wor-” He cut himself off, dragging a hand down his face again. “Do you hear yourself right now?”
“Constantly,” you said. “It’s a problem.” You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the counter. “Look,” you said more quietly. “I’m not actually trying to make your life weirder. I’m trying to get you out of your own head.”
His gaze flicked to you again.
You tapped the counter once. “And if I made you uncomfortable, feel free to ignore it and pretend it never happened.”
“I will,” he said automatically.
+++
John had never been one to try and impress you. You were his best friend. That had always been the baseline.
On your first day, you hadn’t said a single word that wasn’t necessary for the shift. No nervous chatter, no overexplaining, none of the usual intern noise that filled every quiet corner of the hospital. Just clean, efficient communication. It wasn’t until the end of the shift that you finally shifted out of that clinical mode.
The two of you ended up outside the ambulance bay as the sun started to rise, the sky bleeding pale orange over the tops of the trees. The parking lot was still damp from overnight rain, the air sharp in a way that made everything feel slightly unreal.
You stood there for a second, shoulders dropping for the first time all day, and let out a long breath like you’d been holding it since orientation.
“What a shift, huh?” John had said, watching you carefully.
You turned toward him, exhaustion still written all over your face, but you lifted your hand anyway. “Got through the first day,” you grinned.
He met your palm with his, a light tap that barely counted as a high-five but somehow felt like agreement anyway.
You didn’t stop talking after that.
By the time you reached your car in the parking lot, you were rambling, words spilling out in a tired, excited stream about expectations versus reality. About how you thought everyone would be meaner, more like the horror stories people told in med school. How you’d mentally prepared yourself for battle and instead gotten… teamwork. Humanity, even in the middle of everything.
John leaned against a post nearby, listening more than he spoke, watching the way you talked with your hands even when you were exhausted. Watching how you kept going anyway. He blinked at you once, like he was recalibrating something. You were tired. Obviously. Your scrubs were wrinkled, your hair falling out of place, your voice slightly hoarse from a full shift of constant chatter.
You stopped at your old Honda Civic, keys already in your hand, and gave him a small shrug. “Either way,” you said, unlocking it, “I’ll see you tonight.”
Which was exactly what you had told him again that morning at the end of shift.
Only this time, it had come after a very long text exchange about boundaries, logistics, and John trying, unsuccessfully, not to feel like his entire life was being turned into a group project.
He still wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up agreeing to any of it.
Now, hours later, that agreement had arrived at his apartment in the form of you yelling through his door. “Open the door.”
He sighed, already rubbing a hand down his face before unlocking it. “You have a key.”
“Yeah,” your voice shot back immediately, muffled through the wood, “but do you see hands to open the door?”
He opened it to find you standing there with a grocery bag hung from one hand, visibly overstuffed. A backpack was strapped on your back like you were about to leave for a week-long expedition instead of a night at a coworker’s apartment. Another larger bag was in your other hand.
“Moving in?” he asked flatly.
You stepped inside like you owned the place, immediately brushing past him. “That,” you said, shifting the bags onto his kitchen counter with a relieved exhale, “is all your clothes from my apartment. And some of my roommate’s old stuff if you want to go through it.”
John blinked. “You raided your roommate’s closet for me?”
“What can I say? He has style.”
You were already unpacking the second bag. “Takeout,” you added. “And some pajamas for me.”
That made him pause. “Pajamas?”
You nodded, completely serious. “And my skincare. And other stuff.”
His gaze flicked between the bags and you. “You think I won’t go through with it?”
You finally looked at him properly then, hands resting on the counter like you were bracing yourself for a normal conversation in a very abnormal situation.
“I never said that,” you replied. “I just thought I wouldn’t totally screw myself over if it didn’t happen.”
John leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms crossing loosely over his chest as he watched you start organizing his space without asking permission, as if it was just another shared workbench in the ED.
“You realize this is insane,” he said.
You didn’t look up. “You realize we work in an emergency department.”
“That’s not an argument.”
“It is if you think about it long enough,” you said. “C’mon. It’s not firecrackers under a lawn chair or some freak accident. It’s just a friend being a good friend. I won’t even look at your penis. I promise.”
John felt his cheeks warm up. John ran a hand over the back of his neck, tension creeping back in. “It’s just… this isn’t something you fix with a… group project. This is solo work.”
You gave him a look. “You literally work in a trauma center. Everything you do is a group project.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because people are dying,” he said immediately.
You nodded once. “And right now, no one is dying. Just your ego a little.”
You tilted your head. “Look,” you said again, quieter. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I told you I wouldn’t. I meant it. And to do that, I won’t look at your penis in the eyes,” you added flatly.
John closed his eyes for half a second. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you said, as if this was a normal professional boundary conversation and not whatever universe you two had wandered into.
He opened his eyes again, still clearly stuck somewhere between disbelief and resignation.He shook his head, looking at the bags on his counter, the takeout, the absurd pile of your belongings already invading his apartment like they belonged there.
“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered.
You smiled faintly. “You love me.”
One episode of Boy Meets World later and two more servings of pad thai, the apartment had settled into that oddly intimate hum that comes with midnights.
John sat against the headboard, sweatshirt discarded somewhere off to the side, his T-shirt slightly wrinkled from restless shifting. A thin strip of skin showed at his waist where the fabric had ridden up, unintentional and unnoticed. He looked like he’d been sitting in his own thoughts for too long. You were beside him, not touching, just there. Sitting on your heels with your hands folded neatly in your lap like you were about to start a very serious, very clinical procedure and not whatever this had slowly turned into. The air between you felt… careful. Like both of you were afraid that moving wrong would tip everything off balance.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
John’s foot twitched once under the blanket. Then again. His grip tightened slightly on the comforter before loosening. You could hear him breathing more than anything else.
Finally, his voice broke the silence.
“Do… do you want me to just take it out?”
You blinked once, then nodded immediately, forcing yourself to keep your tone steady. “Um, yeah. I guess..”
He raised an eyebrow.
Then, quieter, you added, “Just… show me what you usually do. How you handle it. I’m sorry, I know that sounds—” You exhaled sharply through your nose, a faint, self-conscious laugh. “There’s no way to say this that doesn’t sound weird.”
His mouth twitched like he might agree, but he didn’t interrupt.
You shifted slightly, still keeping your hands in your lap. “I’m not… judging anything,” you clarified quickly. “This is just information. Like troubleshooting. That’s it.”
John swallowed, nodding once. “Okay.”
He hesitated for another second, then shifted his weight and adjusted his pajama pants with slow, awkward precision, like even the movement itself felt unfamiliar under the circumstances. The confidence he usually carried in every other part of his life was nowhere in sight here. You kept your eyes on his face instead of anywhere else, exactly like you said you would.
“Okay,” you said softly, more to anchor him than anything else. “You’re in control of this. Just… do what you normally would.”
He let out a slow breath through his nose, nodding again, shoulders slightly hunched as he tried to settle into something that clearly wasn’t settling.
You broke your promise nearly instantly, gaze frozen on the way he was palming himself over the thin fabric. A soft sigh slipped from his lips, forcing you to drag his gaze to his face. His neck had already started to flush.
“I.. I can’t,” he whispered, stopping his movements.
You adjusted the way you were seated, facing him, your thigh against his. “Just close your eyes.” You swallowed nervously. “Would it work better if I did it for you?”
He blinked. “Uh, I-I don’t know,” he admitted. “I can keep trying.”
“Okay. Close your eyes and just think,” you said, nodding encouragingly. “Imagine yourself with your dream person in front of you.”
John nodded, eyes fluttering shut. He rolled his shoulders and settled against the headboard again.
“What do they look like? Smell like.” You picked at the hem of your t-shirt. “What would you like them to do?”
Another sigh slipped from his lips.
“Now that you have your person… imagine what they’re wearing. Jeans? A skirt? Can you see their legs?”
John nodded, eyes tightening. “Can I take it out now?”
“Whenever you feel comfortable,” you said. “I’m not looking.”
While John shuffled out of his pajama bottoms, you focused elsewhere. Beside the window stood a bookcase. The bottom shelves were littered in textbooks and manuals. There was a bound book labeled as his undergraduate thesis, something you’d probably beg him to read in a few weeks.
“Imagine their hand is yours,” you whispered, smiling at the figurines and funko pops on the higher shelves, covering the books and DVDs on the shelf. “That they’re the ones stroking you.”
John cleared his throat, eyes still shut. His mind hadn’t settled on anyone in particular, but this was seemingly working. He could feel the pit in his stomach begin to warm. He worked himself thoroughly from base to tip, running his finger over the head like he’d figured out worked best.
Your eyes traced the CD cases, trying to read the spines. Michael Jackson. Earth, Wind, and Fire. Red Hot Chili Peppers. “Now, think about where you are. Laying in bed, your person between your legs, working you carefully.”
A groan fell from his lips, his muscles relaxing as he imagined a set of hands clasped over his thighs, teasing him. His other hand dragged over his thigh, fingernails scratching at his skin. He hissed when he felt the sting of going too fast.
In an unstoppable, instinctual reaction, you looked at him. The back of your neck flared with the flush of embarrassment at the sight of John so exposed. Your eyes focused on the red line marking his otherwise smooth skin. His shirt had ridden up in the process, revealing the smooth plane of his abdomen. His muscles weren’t defined, but you’d seen the way he could effortlessly lift patients. His skin looked soft, like he never missed a step in his full body skin care. Probably the lotion you’d recommended him a few months ago. He moaned again, losing himself further into the moment. Your mind went blank at the expression on his face, jaw slack as he stroked himself gently.
“I’m going to step out,” you whispered.
He nodded. “Okay.”
You slipped out of his room as quietly as you could, easing the door shut behind you until the latch clicked softly into place. The second you were alone in the hallway, the air felt different.
Never, in all the years you’d known John, had you been in his bedroom. You’d been in his kitchen, his living room, had leaned against his counters during late-night study sessions and early-morning debrief, but this part of the space is new. Even now, standing there, it felt like you’d crossed into something private in a way that had nothing to do with what was happening and everything to do with him.
Your eyes drifted briefly to the closed door, then down the hall to the one across from it. The boxes he consistently complained about holding too much shit. There were still parts of him you didn’t know.
Your heart thudded hard in your chest, loud enough that it felt like it echoed in your ears as you made your way down the hall, each step a little too quick, a little too restless. By the time you reached the couch, your hands didn’t quite know what to do with themselves. You sat, then shifted, then finally forced them into your lap like that might steady something.
You stared straight ahead. This was your idea.
You exhaled, shaky, then leaned forward suddenly, grabbing your phone and keys like you needed something desperately. Your vision blurred slightly as your thumbs moved too fast across the screen, typing out the first excuse you could think of before you could overthink it.
Just found your account and devoured your fics, absolutely loved all of them and I look forward to whatever you post next 🥰🥰 thanks for posting your work ❤️
you're too sweet!! I'm working on more, so do be on the lookout <3
part two to this fic :)
warnings: mild descriptions of childbirth
“Baby, hand me a diaper. Please.”
John snorted softly, already crouching down and pulling open the cabinet beneath the bassinet with one hand, the other still hovering like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of either of you. “For you or for him?”
You huffed a quiet laugh, shifting the tiny, warm weight in your lap. His little legs kicked weakly against the blanket, stiff and jerky, like he was still figuring out how his body worked. You smoothed a hand over his belly, thumb brushing the swaddle. “Oh, honey,” you cooed, voice dropping instinctively. “Your daddy’s about to get kicked out and sent back to work.”
John let out a breath that was half laugh, half something shakier, and stood, diaper in hand. “That feels like a threat.”
“It is a threat,” you replied, smiling, though your voice softened again as the baby squirmed. “I know, baby boy. I know.”
John stepped carefully around the wires snaking across the floor, his movements slower than usual. When he reached your side, he hesitated for a second before settling in beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.
Up close, you could still see his eyes glassy, lashes damp, cheeks faintly flushed. It would’ve been concerning if it hadn’t become, at some point, a little endearing. Maybe even a little funny.
John had started crying the moment the nurse said she was going to get the doctor. Not tearing up, but rather full-on crying. He’d squeezed your hand so tightly you were pretty sure he’d lost circulation before you had. And through every contraction, every breath, every strained push, he’d been right there wide-eyed, emotional, and whispering encouragement like he was the one trying to get through it. You weren’t entirely sure if his tears had been from awe, fear, or the fact that you’d nearly crushed his fingers when things got intense.
You remembered lying there afterward, your body heavy and distant, the world muffled and bright all at once. A nurse pressed firmly against your abdomen, explaining something you barely processed, while across the room your son cried under the warm glow of the heater as they cleaned him off.
“Baby,” you’d whimpered, your voice small, reaching blindly until you found John’s hand again.
He’d looked down at you like you were the only solid thing in the room, one hand clamped over his mouth as he tried not to cry so loudly.
“Do you need a hug?” you’d teased weakly, your lips twitching.
He hadn’t even answered. He just leaned down immediately, burying his face into your shoulder like he needed to anchor himself there and he hadn’t really stopped crying since.
He cried when they placed your son in your arms, his breath hitching audibly as he watched you cradle him. He nearly broke when the nurse told him to take his shirt off for skin-to-skin, fumbling with the fabric like his hands didn’t belong to him. He cried when it was just the three of you for the first time, the room suddenly too quiet.
He cried when the baby cried. He cried when the baby stopped crying. He even cried watching him latch onto the bottle for the first time, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe something so small could already know how to survive. In six years of knowing him, you had never seen this side of John.
Now he was blinking rapidly over a diaper change like it was a life-altering event.
You shifted slightly, watching as he carefully, almost nervously, started to unwrap the blanket.
“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, like he was coaching himself. “We can do this. This is just… basic maintenance.”
You snorted. The second the diaper came off, he froze.
“Oh my God,” he whispered, eyes widening.
You leaned your head back against the pillow, too tired to hold in the laugh that bubbled up. “Jesus Christ, kid,” you muttered, shaking your head. “What have your parents been feeding you?”
John looked at you, scandalized. “Is that… is that normal?”
“I hope so,” you said, grinning. “Because I don’t think there’s a return policy.”
The baby kicked again, louder this time in his protest, letting out a small, offended cry. John immediately softened, his whole expression shifting.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured, voice gentler now, steadier despite the lingering tears. “It’s okay. We’re figuring it out, alright? We’re new at this too.”
You watched him carefully maneuver through the last steps of the diaper change, his hands still a little unsure but improving with every second. He bundled everything up with exaggerated caution, like the diaper might explode if he moved too fast, all while quietly cooing under his breath.
“There we go… yeah, that’s better,” he whispered, almost to himself.
You leaned forward, gathering your son back into your arms and wrapping him snugly into his swaddle. The fabric folded around him like a cocoon, and almost instantly, his fussing quieted into soft, sleepy huffs. John huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he watched you. There was still a kind of disbelief in his face, like he couldn’t quite process that this tiny human was his son.
“When do you think Jack’s coming with our bags?” you asked, glancing toward the door as if it might magically open on cue.
John shrugged, leaning one hip against the counter. “No clue. I did text him and tell him to grab coffee on his way up.” He paused, patting his pockets before grimacing. “Right before my phone died. So… hopefully that message actually sent.”
You groaned softly, letting your head fall back against the pillow for a moment.
Despite working just a few floors below, and your lockers being stocked with everything you could possibly need, somehow the two of you had managed to outsmart yourselves. In a burst of over-prepared nesting energy, you’d packed all the essentials into the baby bag.
Which was now sitting, completely useless, on your living room couch.
John had insisted on bringing it that evening. You had insisted that bringing it would “jinx it” and send you into labor mid-shift. Technically, you weren’t wrong.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t superstition that did it, it was performing CPR on an unconscious patient that had sent your body into overdrive. Not exactly how you’d pictured the moment.
“Please tell me you ordered me one too,” you whimpered, turning your head toward him with the kind of desperation usually reserved for actual emergencies.
Nearly a full year without coffee. It had started as a simple resolution to cut back a little, be healthier, prove you didn’t need it. Then life got busy, and suddenly weeks turned into months. And just when you were finally ready to ease back into your daily stop at Dunkin’, you found out you were pregnant. And then came the guilt, so you stopped completely and resorted to sipping water while inhaling the scent of his drink.
John’s mouth curled into a grin, a little mischievous, a little proud of himself. “Medium iced. Extra cream, two sugars,” he said. “And,” he lifted a finger dramatically, “a donut for you.”
Your eyes nearly watered. “I married the right man.”
“I’ve been saying that for years,” he shot back easily.
You adjusted the baby in your arms, careful of the wires, before looking up at him again. He was already watching, his gaze flicking between your face and the baby like he couldn’t decide which one to memorize first.
“Can I hold him now?” he asked, softer this time. Not hesitant exactly, but careful. Like he understood this wasn’t something to rush.
You smiled, shifting slightly as you guided the tiny bundle toward him. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Come here.”
He slid his hands beneath the baby with exaggerated care, like he was handling something sacred, something fragile beyond words. When you finally let go, his arms instinctively tightened just enough to keep your son close.
His eyes filled again within seconds.
You laughed softly, reaching over to brush your thumb beneath one of them. “Unbelievable,” you murmured. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
John shook his head, smiling through it this time as he gently rocked the baby. “I can’t help it.”
“Yeah,” you said, settling back against the pillow, watching them both. “I can see that.”
Another half hour slipped by in that strange, stretchy way time worked in hospital rooms before your first visitor finally arrived who didn’t bother knocking.
“Don’t panic, it’s just your favorite people,” Jack announced from behind the curtain, his voice carrying in a way that made you laugh before you even saw him. The curtain swished open a second later, revealing him with Robby and Dana right behind, all three of them looking a little too awake for the hour and a little too curious for your current state.
Robby had both coffees in his hands like they were sacred cargo, carefully making his way to the windowsill and setting them down with exaggerated caution. John was already moving, clearing space on the small couch and pushing aside a blanket and a stack of hospital papers. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he said, though his attention kept flicking back to you and the baby like a magnet.
Jack stepped forward first, handing John the baby bag along with both of your backpacks, the straps tangled together from being carried all at once. “Your entire life, as requested,” he said. “Including the stuff you definitely forgot you packed. And I fed your dog so he should be good.”
John let out a relieved breath. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“I know,” Jack replied easily, already drifting into a quiet conversation with him about the chaos downstairs, the shift you’d both abruptly left, and how many people were asking questions.
Meanwhile, Robby and Dana made their way to your bedside, their energy softening as they got closer.
“How ya feelin’?” Dana asked, her voice gentler now, reaching out for your hand.
You took it without hesitation, squeezing tightly. Her hand was warm. “Good,” you said, exhaling a little. “Sore. Tired. I’ve been up and walking a bit, but someone,” you tilted your head toward John, “thinks I should be taking it easy.”
John didn’t even hesitate. He stopped mid-sentence, turning over his shoulder with a look that was equal parts protective and mildly offended. “You should be. You just had a baby.”
Robby stepped a little closer, folding his arms as he looked down at the baby, his expression softening in a way you didn’t see often. “Well, congratulations,” he said. “Hit me with the stats.”
You adjusted your hold, carefully propping your son up a little higher so they could all see him properly, like you were presenting a prized ham at the county fair.
“Seven pounds, eight ounces,” you said proudly. “Twenty one inches even. He didn’t cry right away. No, sir, he took his sweet time, but he’s just dramatic with a near-perfect APGAR.”
“Takes after me,” John chimed in immediately, not missing a beat.
You didn’t even look at him. “Crybabies,” you muttered under your breath to Dana.
She laughed softly, glancing between the two of you. “Oh yeah?”
You nodded once, solemn. “Absolutely.”
“Jack,” you said, suddenly remembering, your head turning toward him. “My donut?” You paused, immediately catching yourself. “Not that I exp—”
Jack was already digging through one of the backpacks, shaking his head with a grin. “Relax. I know what’s at stake here.”
He pulled out a crinkled paper bag and handed it over like he was completing a very important transaction. You took it with both hands, no hesitation, already opening it before it fully settled in your lap. The smell hit you instantly
Inside: a breakfast sandwich, still warm, and a donut.
You didn’t even pretend to pace yourself.
“Jack Abbot,” you murmured reverently, already taking a bite of the donut, eyes closing for a second as you processed it. “You can have our second born.”
“Noted,” Jack replied. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Behind you, John carefully slid your son from your arms, his movements still cautious but more natural now, like he was starting to trust himself. Your body protested the sudden emptiness for a second, arms instinctively wanting to reach back, but you let yourself relax instead, focusing on the food in your hands and the people around you.
John adjusted the baby against his chest, supporting his head with one hand, the other resting protectively along his back. He glanced around at the small group, a proud, slightly overwhelmed smile spreading across his face.
“Alright,” he said, his voice softer now but carrying easily. “Who wants to hold him first?”
“I’ve got him,” Dana said, already moving closer.
John nodded, carefully transferring the baby into her arms, his hands lingering for just a second longer than necessary to make sure she had a good hold. “Support his head,” he added automatically, even though she already was.
“I know,” Dana smiled, adjusting the baby against her chest with practiced ease.
Still, John hovered for a beat before finally stepping back, his eyes glued to them like he physically couldn’t look away.
Jack, meanwhile, had already grabbed your coffee from the windowsill, slipping the straw through the lid before bringing it over. He held it steady while you leaned forward, both hands still occupied with the crinkled bag in your lap.
You didn’t even try to be subtle. Your first sip was borderline desperate.
“Careful,” Jack muttered, laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna inhale it.”
You pulled back just enough to breathe, eyes closing briefly as the taste hit you.
“That good?” John asked, glancing over the second the baby was fully settled in Dana’s arms.
You nodded quickly, already leaning in for another sip, a little bit of melted cheese from your sandwich still caught at the corner of your lip. “Mm-hm.”
Jack made a face. “Wow. Not even gonna pretend to share the moment, huh?”
You shook your head. “Blame him. Our first date was at a Dunkin.”
Robby raised his brows. “Romantic.”
“It was,” you shot back, though your smile softened at the memory. “He showed up twenty minutes late and still had the audacity to order before me.”
“I was nervous,” John defended, already reaching over to take the cup from Jack’s hand, careful not to spill a drop as he settled onto the edge of the bed with you. “And you were intimidating.”
“I am not intimidating,” you muttered. “You’re just mad that I did that intubation that day.”
“I was impressed,” he murmured back. “And I just knew I had to lock down that sweet, competent doctor.”
John grinned to himself, lifting the cup and taking a sip like he’d earned it. Then, far too casually, he added, “Maybe we should name him after Ben Affleck.”
The room went quiet for exactly half a second. You turned your head slowly, fixing him with a look so sharp it could’ve cut glass. Jack laughed outright, Robby leaned back against the wall shaking his head, and even Dana let out a soft chuckle, careful not to jostle the baby.
“Absolutely not.”
John, completely unfazed, just nodded like he expected the response, taking another sip of your drink. “We’ll talk about it.”
babysitter 'nity - mom!wife!reader x michael 'robby' robinavitch
summary: a forgotten anniversary and robby needs a babysitter on a friday night with a short notice. good thing he has a fat wallet and puppy dog eyes
warnings: none :)
Robby is ready for bed.
It’s the only thing that’s been on his mind for the last few hours. The idea of curling up with his wife, two kids fast asleep down the hall, and the quiet, familiar rhythm of home pulls at him stronger than anything else. He can already picture the dim glow of the bedside lamp, the soft creak of the hallway floor, and the inevitable shuffle of small feet as at least one of the kids makes their way into their bed before midnight. It’s a routine he used to joke about, but tonight it feels like the only reward worth chasing.
After a dozen traumas, a handful of smaller cases that still managed to make him question some people’s insurance decisions, and a small mountain of charts he’s already worked through, he’s beyond exhausted. It’s the kind of fatigue that settles into your bones, not just your muscles. His coffee went cold hours ago, abandoned somewhere between rooms, and the adrenaline that carried him through the worst of the shift has long since drained away, leaving only the quiet ache behind.
He takes a few beats to stare at the analog clock hung high on the wall, its face faintly yellowed with age. The second hand ticks forward with stubborn precision, each movement loud in the otherwise low hum of the department. It feels almost mocking, like it knows exactly how badly he wants time to move faster and refuses out of principle.
6:01.
So close to the end of his shift, and yet not close enough. His phone buzzes softly in his pocket. He fishes it out, smiling instinctively at the text from you, above it a photo of his girls smushed together. He opens it to the entire conversation.
Robby: please tell me the girls are tired tonight
You: think so! Can’t wait to see you
Robby: me too. You’re all mine tonight.
You: <3
He exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, fingers dragging down past tired eyes and over the beard you refused to let him shave.
Then the distant beeping of a monitor snaps him back, followed by the murmur of voices at the nurses’ station. The hospital doesn’t pause just because he’s tired. It never does.
“Dr. Robby,” Javadi says, her voice cutting gently through his thoughts. She’s smiling, but there’s an apology tucked into it, like she already knows she’s about to delay his escape. She hands him another chart, the screen slightly smudged with fingerprints. “Can I have you look at this one?”
He nods automatically, muscle memory kicking in before his brain can protest. His hand tightens briefly around his stethoscope, the familiar weight grounding him as he takes the chart.
“Sure,” he says, his voice rough but steady.
When they reach the patient’s room, Robby takes a breath and squares his shoulders. The exhaustion doesn’t disappear, but it shifts, tucking itself somewhere in the background where it belongs.
He's in and out of the room in minutes, efficient in that way that only comes from years of doing the same motions over and over. A few questions, a quick exam, reassurance where it’s needed. He scribbles a note, gives a nod, and moves on.
“Hey, brother,” Robby greets, shifting the tablet under his arm. Javadi brushes past with a mumbled thank you as she enters another room.
“Hey,” Jack grins, pushing off the counter and glancing around the emergency department like he’s taking it all in for the first time. “Ready to make a quick escape? Where you takin’ her tonight?”
“Bed,” Robby blurts without thinking, already half-turning toward the nurses’ station. “You ready for handoff?”
Jack freezes for a beat, then lets out a low laugh. “Woah, man. I don’t need any of your raunchy details about you and the missus.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly as if something isn’t adding up. “Though another godchild’ll be fun.”
Robby huffs, too tired to play along properly, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah. Not happening tonight.”
Jack doesn’t laugh this time. Instead, he watches Robby for a second longer than usual, something curious flickering across his face.
“Just… bed?” he asks, a little slower now.
Robby shrugs, already flipping through the next chart. “Man, I’ve been on my feet for twelve hours. I’m taking my wife out on a hot date with our pillows and maybe five uninterrupted hours of sleep if we’re lucky.”
Jack lets out a quiet hum, lips pressing together like he’s holding something back. He glances down at his watch, then back up at Robby.
“Bold strategy,” he says lightly. “Real memorable.”
Robby barely looks up. “That’s the goal.”
Jack exhales through his nose, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “You uh… you sure there’s nothing you’re forgetting?”
That finally gets Robby to look up, brows knitting together. “Like what?”
Jack just shrugs, pushing off the counter again. “Hey, not my marriage.” He lifts his hands in mock surrender, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Just figured, you know… some nights are supposed to be a little less ‘fall asleep in scrubs’ and a little more… planned.”
Robby frowns slightly, something in his expression shifting. He searches his memory for a second, coming up frustratingly blank.
“Jack,” he says slowly, “what are you talking about?”
Jack grins wider now, clearly enjoying himself. “Man, I’m just saying if you walk through that door empty-handed tonight, you better hope she’s as tired as you are.”
“Empty-handed?” Robby chuckled, though it came out thinner than he meant it to. “What are we, speaking in code?”
“Isn’t it your anniversary?” Jack shook his head, half-amused, half-disbelieving. “All I’m saying is that Robby the Romantic should maybe make an appearance tonight.”
Robby didn’t hear the rest.
It hits him all at once in a fast, brutal, undeniable punch to his gut. The quiet mention from his wife earlier in the week that he’d nodded through while tying his shoes before taking the kids out on a walk. The vague plan he’d told himself he’d “figure out later” while keeping his toddler from eating a ladybug she’d found on the ground.
Later is now and he has absolutely nothing.
His stomach drops so hard it’s almost physical, like missing a step in the dark. The exhaustion is gone, replaced by a sharp, electric panic that shoots straight through his chest.
Jack’s voice snaps back into focus. Robby blinks, already reaching for his phone, thumb hovering over the screen like it might save him.
“Yeah,” he says quickly, too quickly. “Yeah, I—uh—”
Jack takes one look at him and bursts out laughing. “Oh, you are so screwed.”
“Don’t,” Robby mutters, already scrolling, brain firing in a dozen directions at once. “Just—don’t.”
Dana, make sure everything’s covered.”
Robby exhales, something between relief and dread. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“I know,” Jack says easily. Then, as Robby starts to move, he adds, “Hey, make it good, yeah? You don’t forget this one and get away with takeout.”
Robby shoots him a look that says he knows exactly how bad this is, then turns on his heel and heads for the quieter corner of the nurses’ station, already typing. He has some connections, perks of saving lives here and there. A few months ago, he’d treated a large laceration for one of the finest chefs in Pittsburgh and had given him a voucher, dinner for two on any night of his choosing, no exceptions.
Robby exhales, running a hand through his hair as he opens another app. Flowers. It’s the bare minimum, but it’s something. His thumb moves fast, picking the first arrangement that looks intentional rather than desperate, anything that says I tried instead of I panicked.
For the delivery instructions, he hesitates for just a second, then types: Leave outside the gate. Do not bring to the porch. Do not knock.
If they make it to the porch, the kids will see them first. And if the kids see them, the whole surprise is blown before he even gets home. He hits confirm before he can overthink it.
He needs a babysitter next. Usually he’d call Jack or you’d call your sister, though Jack is here and your sister is studying abroad for two months. He pockets the phone, finally looking up, and immediately starts scanning the floor.
He needs time. At least an hour buffer to get home, change, maybe look like a husband who didn’t completely drop the ball. Then hopefully, whoever is the lucky winner, will arrive just on time. His eyes track across the department until he spots her.
“Santos,” he calls, already heading her way.
She’s at a workstation, finishing up notes, posture just starting to relax in that end-of-shift way.
Robby slows just enough to not look completely frantic, though he’s pretty sure he’s failing.
“Hey,” he says, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to urgent. “You still out at seven? I need a favor.”
“It’ll cost you,” she said flatly, not even looking up from her chart. Her tone was dry, automatic, like she’d said the exact same thing a hundred times before and meant it every single one.
Robby huffed a breath, dragging a hand down his face. Of course it would. Nothing in this place came easy, not even favors.
“I have two hundred bucks,” he said quickly, leaning one hand against the workstation like he needed the support. “It’s yours if you watch my kids tonight.”
That barely got her attention.
“You’re kidding,” she scoffed, finally glancing up at him with a raised brow. “On a Friday night? Before an entire weekend off?” She clicked something on the screen, still working as she talked. “What if I have plans?”
Normally, this is where he’d fire back. Something about a last-minute date with Dennis, or a dramatic reenactment of one of her karaoke nights, or a teasing jab about Yolanda that would earn him a glare and a huff.
“Please,” he said, quieter this time. “Just this once.”
Robby looked at her with those wide, exhausted, slightly panicked eyes that made it clear he was desperate. Trinity paused mid-type, fingers hovering over the keyboard. She studied him for a second longer than she meant to, like she was trying to figure out if this was some elaborate bit.
She sighed, leaning back slightly in her chair, rolling her eyes like she was deeply inconvenienced.
“Fine,” she said at last. “How long?”
Relief hit him immediately, shoulders dropping an inch. “About midnight? Maybe a little earlier if things go right.” He pulled his phone out again, rereading your last text like it might change. “I think my wife is putting them to bed now, so honestly you’re just there to make sure the house doesn’t burn.”
“Mm,” Trinity hummed, unconvinced. “Kids wake up. That’s kind of their thing.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, already nodding, “they’re good kids. Promise. The older one’ll probably try to negotiate for extra screen time, but just say no and she’ll respect it. Eventually.”
She snorted softly at that.
“And the little one?” she asked, turning back to her chart but clearly listening now.
Robby smiled despite himself, some of the tension easing. “She’s… spirited. But sweet. You’ll like her.”
Trinity clicked her pen shut, finally swiveling her chair to face him fully. “Okay,” she said, holding up a finger. “Ground rules. I don’t do diapers.”
He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re safe. We’re past that stage.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Mostly?”
“Well…” he winced, then shrugged. “The little one still needs help wiping sometimes, but she’ll be fine. She’s mostly independent. Just… don’t let her convince you she suddenly forgot how.”
“Fantastic,” Trinity deadpanned. “Exactly how I wanted to spend my evening.”
“I’ll throw in another fifty,” he offered immediately.
Now she smiled a little. “Now we’re talking.”
“Seriously,” he said, softer now. “Thank you.”
Trinity waved him off, already turning back to her screen. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t make me regret it. And text me the address, I’m not memorizing anything after this shift.”
+++
“Hi, Trinity,” you grinned, stepping forward and pulling her into a hug before she had time to brace for it.
She returned it stiffly, arms hovering for half a second before settling awkwardly around you, still never quite ready for the affection even after meeting you a handful of times over the months she’d been at PTMC.
“Hi, Mrs. Robinavitch,” she said, clearing her throat slightly as she stepped back. Her eyes flicked past you and caught sight of her boss lingering just behind your shoulder. Her brows lifted. “Wow… you clean up nice.”
Robby let out a dry, sarcastic laugh, glancing down at himself like he didn’t quite recognize the guy in the pressed slacks, crisp button-up, and shoes polished enough to reflect the hallway light. He tugged lightly at his collar. “Yeah, well… don’t get used to it.”
Behind him, two small figures ducked halfway out of sight, shoulders shaking with poorly concealed giggles that echoed softly against the walls. One of them let out a tiny snort before quickly clapping a hand over her mouth.
Robby glanced back over his shoulder. “Girls,” he said, trying to sound stern, “say hi to Trinity.”
The taller one sidestepped out first, smoothing down the front of her pajamas like she was preparing for a formal introduction. She smiled brightly, confidence leading the way. “Hi, Mrs. Trinity.”
Trinity blinked once at the title but let it slide.
The little one followed more cautiously, one hand gripping her sister’s sleeve while the other clutched tightly at the fabric of Robby’s pant leg. She peeked out from behind him, eyes wide and curious. “Hi,” she echoed, softer, almost shy.
You smiled warmly, gesturing toward each of them. “This is Stephanie,” you said, nodding to the older girl, “and Lillian.”
“Lily,” she corrected in a whisper, immediately dissolving into giggles as she cupped both hands over her mouth like she’d just shared something scandalous. Her eyes darted up at Trinity, then back to her dad, like she was checking if she’d done it right. She gave a small tug on Robby’s leg, lifting one arm expectantly.
He didn’t hesitate, bending down to scoop her up with practiced ease, settling her against his hip. “Bedtime is in ten minutes,” he said, bouncing her lightly once. “Right after the movie is over. No negotiations tonight.”
Trinity glanced between them, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “Do I need to do anything special or…?” she asked, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway, already mentally preparing for whatever chaos might come with two kids and a day shift hangover.
You shook your head, turning briefly toward the mirror by the door. You smoothed your hair, adjusted an earring, then leaned in closer to Trinity, lowering your voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “They go down easier with a book,” you said. “We’re reading Narnia right now and it’s on the nightstand.” You nodded toward the hallway. “Stephie can show you.”
Stephanie straightened immediately, giving an enthusiastic little salute. “C’mon, Mrs. Trinity,” she said, already turning and motioning down the hall. “I wan’ show you my dolls. An’ my book. An’ my nightlight. It’s pink but sometimes it’s purple.”
Lily twisted in Robby’s arms to look at Trinity, then pointed dramatically down the hallway like she was guiding an expedition. “An’ my room too,” she added, then buried her face into Robby’s shoulder, giggling again.
Trinity hesitated for just a second, glancing back at Robby like this is really happening, then sighed under her breath and followed the girls. “Alright,” she muttered. “Lead the way.”
Stephanie grabbed her hand without warning and tugged her along.
As they disappeared down the hallway in a flurry of small voices and overlapping explanations, the house settled into a softer quiet near the front door.
Robby shifted Lily slightly on his hip, watching them go, then looked over at you.
“Daddy, down,” Lily said.
She slid down the front of his body in a practiced, wiggly motion, little socks brushing against his slacks as she landed with a soft thump. Without a second thought, she darted down the hallway after her sister, her laughter trailing behind her as it blended into the growing commotion.
“Should we say goodbye?” you asked, glancing back toward the hallway, already half-turning like you might call out to them.
Robby didn’t even hesitate. “No.”
His hand had already found the small of your back, warm and steady, guiding you gently but firmly toward the door like if he slowed down even a second, the whole plan might unravel.
“You sure?” you pressed, a hint of amusement in your voice now as you let him steer you, slipping your purse higher onto your shoulder.
“They’re distracted,” he said simply, reaching past you to grab the door handle. “That’s the window. We take the window.”
+++
Trinity tolerates children most of the time.
Every once in a while, one will get assigned to her in the ED with a stomach ache, a broken arm, something contained and clinical, something with a clear beginning and end. She knows how to kneel to their level, how to soften her voice, how to make a glove balloon or distract them during an exam. This is way different.
This is bedtime routines and negotiation tactics and tiny humans with endless energy reserves and opinions. This is… sustained exposure. And she’s already questioning her life choices.
“Mrs. Trinity,” Stephanie chirps, already settled in bed but very much not acting like someone ready to sleep. Trinity had finally convinced them to climb into bed after over an hour of playing. She’s propped up against her pillows, a little water bottle tucked snugly at her side like it’s essential equipment.
“You can just call me Trinity,” she says gently, leaning against the doorframe before stepping further into the room. “No ‘Mrs.’ I’m not married.”
Stephanie frowns at that, clearly unimpressed with the logic. “But I call my teacher Mrs. Bertram because I respect her,” she says, very matter-of-fact, like she’s just dismantled Trinity’s entire argument.
Trinity blinks, caught off guard. “Well, you don’t have to call me Mrs. because you and I—”
“Are friends?” Stephanie gasps, eyes lighting up as she pushes herself upright, suddenly very awake again.
Trinity hesitates for half a second, realizing there’s probably no going back now.
“…Friends,” she agrees.
Stephanie squeals, kicking her legs under the blanket. “Then call me Stephie! And that’s Lily.”
Lily is across the room in her own toddler bed, tucked beneath a soft pink tulle canopy that drapes like something out of a storybook. One arm is wrapped around a stuffed animal, the other splayed out dramatically as she fights a losing battle against sleep. Her eyes are heavy, blinking slower and slower, head tipping slightly to one side before jerking back up.
She tuckered herself out halfway through what had been a very serious “dinner party,” the miniature tea set still abandoned in the corner. Trinity glances at the scene, then back at Stephanie, recalibrating.
“Alright, Stephie,” she says, pulling the book from the nightstand. “One chapter. Maybe two if you don’t interrupt every other sentence.”
“I don’t interrupt,” Stephanie says immediately.
Trinity raises a brow.
“…that much,” Stephanie amends.
They make it about three pages before the questions start.
“Why is he doing that?” “Wait, who’s that again?” “Do you think I could go to Narnia?”
Trinity answers what she can, skips what she can’t, and keeps reading anyway, her voice evening out into something softer, steadier. Eventually, the questions slow. Then stop. She glances down and Stephanie’s eyes are closed, her breathing even, one hand still loosely gripping the edge of the blanket.
“G’night, ’Nity,” she murmurs sleepily, barely conscious.
Trinity pauses, something small and unexpected tugging at her chest.
“Goodnight, Stephie,” she says quietly, closing the book and setting it back on the nightstand.
She checks on Lily, who is fully out now, sprawled in a way that seems uncomfortable and gently pulls the blanket up a little higher.
Then she slips out, easing the door mostly shut behind her.
She makes her way to the living room, glancing briefly toward the kitchen. You and Robby had promised free reign with a quick help yourself to anything text, but one look is enough to make her pause. There are little stools pushed up to the counters, drawers slightly ajar with neatly organized, child-safe utensils. Everything is smaller, rounded, and intentional. Montessori, obviously. Thoughtful and functional, yet completely useless to someone who just wants to make something quick without thinking about it.
She exhales. “Yeah, no.”
Instead of digging through it and risking reorganizing someone’s entire system, she pulls out her phone and orders takeout, using her two favorite features: priority and past orders.
With her order placed, she settles into the couch, kicking off her shoes and tucking one leg under herself. The TV flickers on low, more for background noise than anything else, as she starts scrolling through her phone.
One minute turns into ten. Ten into thirty and by the time she glances up again, nearly an hour has passed.
That’s when she notices a small rustle behind the couch. A little brunette ponytail bobbing just high enough to give itself away. Trinity narrows her eyes slightly.
“What’re you doing up?” she asks, not even turning around fully.
Stephanie pops up like she’s been caught mid-mission and flops dramatically onto the couch beside her with a heavy sigh. “I’m bored.”
Trinity stares at her for a second. “You were asleep.”
“I woke up.”
“That’s… not how bedtime works.”
Stephanie shrugs, entirely unconcerned.
Trinity leans her head back against the couch. “You know when I’m bored, I go to sleep.”
Stephanie turns to glare at her like she’s just said something deeply offensive.
“…Okay,” Trinity mutters, realizing she’s getting nowhere. She checks the time on her phone.
9:28.
Close enough.
“What do you want to do then?” she asks, sighing but already resigned.
Stephanie perks up instantly. “Can we play a game?”
Trinity eyes her, weighing her options, then nods once. “Only for a few minutes. Then you have to go back upstairs. No arguments.”
“Okay!” Stephanie agrees immediately.
Trinity narrows her eyes slightly. “I mean it.”
“I mean it too,” Stephanie says, already sliding off the couch and grabbing her hand.
Trinity lets herself be pulled up, shaking her head under her breath. “Five minutes,” she repeats.
“Ten,” Stephanie counters.
“…Five.”
“…Eight.”
Trinity sighs. “You are exhausting.”
Stephanie gasps. “Uncle JJ says the same thing!”
+++
Another thirty minutes pass, though to Trinity, it feels like at least three hours and at least ten years off her lifespan.
What started as a “five-minute game” had spiraled into a chaotic, rule-bending attempt at Monopoly where Stephanie kept inventing properties and Lily kept trying to stack all the tiny houses into a tower. At some point, the banker money ended up under the couch, and Trinity stopped even pretending she knew who was winning.
Lily had woken up the moment Stephanie launched herself off the couch in a dramatic demonstration of “how far I can jump if I really try,” the thud echoing down the hallway like a starting gun.
Now fully recharged from her earlier nap, Lily had padded into the living room, hair mussed, eyes bright, immediately inserting herself into the game like she’d been there the whole time.
“Trinity,” Lily murmured now, halfway through what had devolved into a very loose interpretation of Monopoly. She was kneeling on the rug, clutching a handful of mismatched game pieces. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Trinity froze for half a second.
“…Do you need help?” she asked carefully, already bracing herself.
Lily nodded, no hesitation, and reached out for Trinity’s hand like this was the most natural thing in the world.
“Okay,” Trinity muttered, pushing herself up off the floor. “Alright. We’ve got this.”
She let Lily lead her down the hall, mentally running through everything she remembered, and everything she didn’t, about helping a small child in the bathroom.
Behind them, the living room fell quiet.
Left unattended, Stephanie sat still for exactly three seconds before her attention drifted elsewhere. Her eyes flicked toward the kitchen, then toward the front door.
She hopped up, bare feet padding softly across the hardwood as she made her way over to the counter. The cookie jar sat there, practically calling to her. She climbed onto a stool, twisted the lid, and snagged a cookie with the precision of someone who had done this before. Crumbs already forming at the corners of her mouth, she wandered toward the front door, curiosity pulling her along.
She peered out the window for the family car. Nothing.
But the white bag did catch her attention. She didn’t hesitate. The door creaked open just enough for her to reach out, grab the bag, and drag it inside with both hands, the plastic rustling loudly in the quiet house.
“Food,” she whispered to herself, impressed.
She hauled it to the counter, digging through it with growing excitement. She took a bite of something and immediately made a face. It was ice cold.
Determined, she climbed back onto the stool, stretching to grab a pot from the cabinet. It clanged loudly as she set it on the stove, completely unfazed.
One by one, she dumped everything in, mixing it all into one ambitious, questionable combination. She reached for the dials on the back of the stove and froze at the sharp gasp behind her.
“What are you doing?” Trinity demanded, crossing the room in two quick steps. She scooped Stephanie off the stool before she could even respond, setting her firmly back on the hardwood floor.
Stephanie blinked up at her, unfazed. “I’m hungry,” she shrugged. “Can I have some?”
Trinity just stared at the pot. Then at the boxes. Then back at Stephanie. For a moment, she had absolutely nothing.
“…Why are you in different pajamas?” Stephanie asked, head tilting as she looked her sister over.
Lily blinked, eyes still glassy, cheeks flushed. She shifted uncomfortably. “I had a accident,” she admitted softly.
Trinity exhaled, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “We changed her,” she said, glancing between them. “So she should be okay. I’m sorry, Lily. That was my fault.”
Lily’s lip wobbled. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but the tears came anyway.
“I miss my mommy,” she wailed, voice cracking as she reached blindly for Stephanie. Trinity’s shoulders dropped slightly.
“Hey,” she said, softer now, crouching down in front of her. “Hey, it’s okay. She’s coming back, alright? You’re okay.”
Lily sniffled, but didn’t look convinced.
Trinity glanced at the disaster on the stove, then back at the girls.
“…Alright,” she said, pushing herself up. “New plan.”
She turned back to the counter, taking a breath as she surveyed Stephanie’s… creation. “We’re not cooking like that,” she added, shooting Stephanie a look.
“I was helping,” Stephanie insisted.
“Mm. We’re gonna help a different way.”
Trinity salvaged what she could, separating the food back into something resembling normal portions and actually heating it properly this time. Within a few minutes, the kitchen filled with warmth again, the smell of food bringing a noticeable shift in the room.
“Okay,” she said, setting plates down on the table. “Sit.”
Lily climbed up more slowly, still sniffly but distracted. Stephanie immediately dug in, clearly over the entire emotional arc of the last ten minutes. They ate together at the table. Trinity sat across from them, half-expecting another crisis at any moment.
Eventually, Lily leaned against the table, eyelids drooping again between bites. Stephanie slowed down too, her earlier energy fading into something relatively calm. She dimmed the lights as they wandered back into the living room, the house settling into a softer glow. Lily was the first to give in, practically melting against Trinity the moment she picked her up. Trinity adjusted her grip, surprised at how small and warm she felt, carrying her carefully to the couch. Stephanie followed, dragging her feet, but climbing up without protest this time.
Trinity set Lily down, then guided Stephanie beside her, pulling a blanket over both of them as they instinctively curled toward each other, their little limbs tangling and heads leaning close.
“…Will a movie help you fall asleep?” she asked quietly.
Trinity reached for the remote, lowering the volume as something soft flickered onto the screen. Stephanie shifted under the blanket, a small, restless sound slipping out of her.
“Trinity…” she whined softly, dragging the word out as she turned her head toward her. “Sit with us.”
Trinity, who had just started to lower herself onto the armchair across the room, paused mid-motion. She looked at the couch. Then at them. Then back at the couch like she was calculating the risk.
“You’re fine,” she said lightly. “You’ve got each other.”
Stephanie’s face scrunched immediately. “Pleeease.”
Lily, already half-asleep, reached one arm out blindly in Trinity’s direction, her fingers opening and closing in a sleepy grab. “Sit…”
Trinity exhaled slowly through her nose. Still, she crossed the room, perching stiffly on the edge of the couch like she might bolt at any second. There was a clear inch of space between her and the girls, her hands folded awkwardly in her lap. It lasted about ten seconds.
Stephanie scooted closer first, like it was inevitable, pressing into her side without asking. Lily followed, shifting until her head found Trinity’s thigh like it belonged there.
“…Okay,” she murmured, adjusting slightly so Lily was more comfortable, one hand hovering awkwardly before finally settling, light and unsure, against her shoulder.
For a while, none of them spoke.
Stephanie’s attention stayed fixed on the screen, eyes wide but heavy. Lily’s breathing evened out, slow and steady, though she was still awake enough to listen.
“I wish I was a princess,” Stephanie murmured eventually, voice soft and thoughtful, like the idea had just drifted into her head.
Lily yawned, snuggling closer without opening her eyes. “With a prince,” she added sleepily.
Trinity glanced down at them, one brow lifting slightly. “A prince, huh?” she said, her tone quieter now, softer than it had been all night.
Stephanie nodded against her arm. “Yeah. So he can rescue me. And we’d live in a castle and have fancy dresses and…” she trailed off, clearly picturing it.
Lily hummed in agreement. “And he’d carry you,” she mumbled.
Trinity huffed out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh.
“You know,” she said after a second, “princesses don’t actually need princes.”
Stephanie’s head tilted slightly. “They do too.”
“No,” Trinity said gently, shaking her head. “They don’t. They’ve got castles, sure—but they also run kingdoms. They make decisions. They take care of people. They don’t just sit around waiting for someone to show up.”
Stephanie frowned a little, considering that.
“But the prince helps,” she insisted, though her voice was softer now, less certain.
“Maybe,” Trinity allowed. “But he’s not the important part.”
Lily shifted, her small hand curling into the fabric of Trinity’s shirt. “Then what is?”
“You,” Trinity said simply. “What you do. Who you are. That’s what matters. You can be whatever you want. A princess, astronaut, doctor, a pirate, maybe.”
“A pirate princess?” Stephanie asked, perking up slightly.
“Sure,” Trinity said, a hint of amusement slipping through. “Why not.”
Lily let out a soft, sleepy giggle. “I be a… a… sleepy princess,” she mumbled, already drifting.
Stephanie yawned, the idea clearly settling in her mind. “I think I’d be a princess that… does stuff,” she said, eyes barely open now.
The room fell quiet again, the movie continuing unnoticed in the background. Stephanie’s breathing evened out, her head tipping gently against Trinity’s arm. Lily was already fully asleep, warm and still. She just sat there, one hand resting lightly against Lily’s shoulder, the other tucked awkwardly near Stephanie, eyes still on the screen but unfocused now.
+++
“How were they?” Robby asked, gently swaying where he stood so Lily wouldn’t wake, her head tucked into his shoulder, one arm draped loosely around his neck.
Trinity slipped carefully out from under Stephanie, easing herself free inch by inch like she was defusing a bomb. “Monsters,” she said flatly, though there was no real bite to it.
Robby chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, that tracks.” He adjusted Lily slightly, then paused, sniffing faintly. “…My kid smells like Chinese takeout,” he added, amused. “But nothing a bath can’t fix.”
Trinity huffed a quiet laugh, already scanning the room for her things. She found her shoes near the door, slipping them on quickly, then grabbed her purse from the chair.
“I’ll see you at work on Monday,” she said, glancing between the two of you.
“You can sleep in the guest room,” you offered, stepping a little closer, still soft from the night out.
Trinity shook her head immediately, already reaching for the door. “Noooo. I’m going home.” She paused, then looked back at Robby. “And keep your money. They weren’t all that bad.”
Robby raised a brow, clearly unconvinced, but nodded anyway. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” she said, already halfway out. “But I’m charging double next time.”
“That’s fair,” he replied.
She gave a small wave and slipped out into the night, the door clicking shut behind her.
Robby glanced down at Lily, then toward the hallway. “Alright,” he murmured. “Let’s get you to bed.”
He carried her upstairs, moving carefully through the dim hallway, pushing open her door with his foot. The room was dark except for the faint glow of a nightlight, casting soft shadows across the walls.
He lowered her into bed as gently as he could, adjusting her blanket around her small frame. As he did, his hand brushed against something—crumbs.
He paused.
Frowning slightly, he swept a few of them aside, glancing around the bed like he was trying to piece something together. “…Huh,” he muttered under his breath, but didn’t dwell on it. He pressed a quick kiss to her head and slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.
Back in the living room, Stephanie was still curled up on the couch, one arm flung over her face, the other tangled in the blanket.
“Hey,” Robby said quietly, crouching beside her. “Time for bed, kid.”
Stephanie stirred, scrunching her nose as she blinked up at him. “Daddy?” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep. She lifted one hand to shield her eyes from the light. “Carry me.”
He smiled faintly. “I guess.”
He scooped her up, blanket and all, her head immediately dropping against his shoulder as they made their way upstairs. He set her down in bed and felt more crumbs. He brushed them away, reminding himself to wash their sheets tomorrow. His hand brushed under the pillow, something crinkling. Slowly, he reached down, pulling out a slightly crushed wrapper from a fortune cookie.
He stared at it for a second, then let out a quiet breath through his nose, equal parts amused and suspicious. He slipped it into his pocket, shaking his head lightly, already deciding this was a mystery for tomorrow, but a little snack tonight.
“What did you get up to tonight?” he asked casually, brushing a few more crumbs off her blanket.
Stephanie shifted, curling onto her side, already halfway back to sleep. “We had cookies,” she mumbled. “And food. We played tea party…”
Her voice trailed off into a yawn.
“…g’night.”
Robby watched her for a moment, smoothing a hand over her hair before pulling the blanket up a little higher.
“Night, kid,” he said softly.
He turned off the light and stepped out, closing the door behind him.
bonus
Trinity woke up like she’d been hit by a truck. She wondered why she’d woken up so suddenly.
“Trinity!”
She groaned, burying her face deeper into the pillow.
“Trinity, your phone is blowing up!”
“Fuckleberry, I swear to—” she started, voice rough, but the door swung open before she could finish.
Dennis stood there, fully dressed, holding her phone out like it was a live grenade. “It’s been going off for like ten minutes,” he said. “I thought someone died.”
She pushed herself up slowly, squinting at him. “If someone died, I’d go back to sleep,” she muttered, reaching for the phone.
He handed it over. “It’s Robby.”
That got a slight reaction.
Trinity frowned, blinking down at the screen as her brain struggled to catch up. “Why is he texting me this early?”
“You tell me,” Dennis said, already backing out of the room. “I’ve gotta get over to Amy’s.”
The door clicked shut behind him. Trinity sat there for a second, staring at her phone. Then she unlocked it to see dozens of texts. Before she could even begin to piece together a response her phone started to blare again.
Trinity stared at the FaceTime request for a long second, deeply reconsidering every life choice that had led her here. Then she sighed and hit accept.
“Trinity!” Stephanie squealed, her face way too close to the camera.
“I wanna talk to her!” Lily screeched somewhere in the background.
The phone jerked violently, a blur of ceiling, hair, and movement before settling on a very close view of Lily’s forehead.
“Can you come over and play today?” Lily breathed directly into the camera, her voice loud and echoing.
Trinity leaned back slightly, wincing. “I—hi. Good morning to you too.”
“Yeah!” Stephanie popped back into frame, shoving Lily aside just enough to be seen. “We want to play pirate princesses!”
Lily nodded aggressively, still too close to the camera. “Pirate princesses,” she repeated. “Like you told us!”
“Girls! Where is my phone?”
Both girls immediately dissolved into giggles, clutching the phone tighter like they’d just been caught in the act.
“Hurry up!” Stephanie whined, bouncing slightly where she stood. “Can you come over? Please, please, please.”
Then Lily joined in. “Please, please, please.”
There was a sudden rustle, the phone jerking downward as a larger hand tried to reclaim it.
“Okay—give me that—” Robby’s voice, closer now.
“No!” both girls shouted in unison, twisting away.
The camera swung wildly before settling again, this time at an angle that caught half of Stephanie’s face and the top of Lily’s head.
Trinity let out a long sigh, her resistance clearly crumbling.
“…I’ll think about it,” she said.
“Think about it?!” Stephanie gasped, scandalized.
“Pleeeease,” they both tried again, softer this time, dragging the word out.
Robby chuckled off-screen. “Door’s open if you want to come over.”
Trinity rolled her eyes, though there was no real resistance left in it. She shifted against her headboard, already knowing she’d lost this battle the second she answered the call. Trinity let out one last, long-suffering sigh, dragging a hand down her face before giving in completely.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll be there after lunch.”
“YAY!” Stephanie shouted.
“Pirate princesses!” Lily echoed, nearly dropping the phone in her excitement.
“Alright, alright,” Robby cut in, finally managing to get a hand on the device, though both girls still clung to it like it might disappear. His face came into view, hair slightly messy, coffee in hand, looking far too entertained by all of this.
Trinity squinted at him. “This is your fault.”
“Yeah,” he admitted easily. “But they like you.”
“I better get a raise before anyone else,” she mumbled before hanging up and climbing out of bed to start getting ready.
i had two like ideas for this that i think you could do really super well,
1. military dad abbot, teen reader is constantly sneaking out on base. they come home to see him sitting in their bed, fear of god is put into them. could include mrs abbot if you feel like essentially making an oc
2. right after mrs abbot passes away, reader is a bit older like 18-20 mark. they would of just moved out of the house but now that their dad is alone for the first time in years, they move back in. “you look just like your mother.” i feel sad.
AHHHHH these were so fun to write!!
Here's the links to them:
One
Two
original request: right after mrs abbot passes away, reader is a bit older like 18-20 mark. they would of just moved out of the house but now that their dad is alone for the first time in years, they move back in. “you look just like your mother.” i feel sad.
warnings: death, grief, lying to parents, implied death during childbirth
“Dad?”
Jack barely shifted, vision swimming as he tried to focus on you in the doorway. The light from the hallway framed you in a dull glow, soft and hesitant, like even it wasn’t sure it should intrude. You stood there in worn sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, your arms loosely folded, not defensive, just… steady.
“Yeah?” His voice came out rough, unused, like it had been sitting in his chest too long.
Jack hadn’t really left the bed in the last month. Not properly. Not in any way that counted. One month since his wife had passed. One month since the world had split clean down the middle, leaving everything before it unreachable and everything after it… hollow. The house didn’t feel like a house anymore. It felt like a place where something had been interrupted mid-sentence.
The holidays had come and gone like a blur he hadn’t agreed to be part of.
Thanksgiving had been perfect. That’s what made it worse.
The three of you had been packed around the table, plates too full, laughter overlapping itself. You had been glowing—talking a mile a minute about your third semester, your new apartment, your roommates, the way you said “my place” like it still surprised you. You’d gone on about your classes, your professors, the dumb jokes your friends made, and how you’d told all of them about your baby brother like he was already here.
“Early Christmas gift,” you’d said, grinning, nudging your mom’s arm. She’d rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, one hand resting absentmindedly on her stomach.
You talked about taking the summer off. About how he’d be five, maybe six months old by then and how you were going to take him to the park, show him everything, like the world was something you could introduce him to piece by piece. Your mom had laughed and said people would think he was yours.
You’d just shrugged, smiling like you didn’t mind.
Jack hadn’t known then that he’d replay that moment over and over, like if he looked at it enough, he might find a way to step back into it.
You were gone for two weeks after that. Finals. Late nights, stress, coffee, the usual rhythm of your life continuing forward.
And then the phone call.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut briefly, like the memory might soften if he didn’t look at it directly. It never did.
By the time Christmas came, it was just the two of you.
The house filled up in bursts. Robby had come, like always, letting himself in without knocking. The Pitt Crew rotated through with arms full of store-bought food, loud voices that tried a little too hard to sound normal. Frozen meals had been stacked in the freezer like some kind of quiet offering. They stayed for a while, sat around, told stories, avoided certain topics with an unspoken agreement, then trickled out again.
Every time the door closed, the silence came back heavier. Grief did strange things to time. It stretched and folded in on itself. Days blurred together until Jack couldn’t tell if it had been hours or weeks since he’d last gotten up. He’d wake up exhausted. He’d fall asleep exhausted. Somewhere in between, you’d appear.
Like now.
You’d started knocking. Not loudly, not urgently. Just enough.
“Time to eat,” you’d say, like it was routine. Like it was normal.
You never sat on the bed. Not once. You always stayed on the floor, back against the wall or knees pulled to your chest, deliberately leaving your mother’s side untouched. It was a small thing, but Jack noticed. He noticed everything you didn’t say.
You’d talk sometimes. Other times you’d just sit there in silence, watching him until he picked up the fork. He knew what you were doing. You weren’t just keeping him company.
You were making sure he stayed.
This past week, something in him had changed. Jack had started sitting up more. Letting his feet touch the floor. The ache in his chest was still there, constant and deep, but it wasn’t swallowing him whole every second. He pushed himself up now, slow and stiff, one hand bracing against the mattress. His head throbbed with the tears he’d cried earlier. By the time he was able to drag himself out of bed without the gentle insistence of you or Robby, the tears had run dry.
“What’re you thinkin’, kid?” he asked.
You lingered in the doorway for a second longer, like you were deciding something, then shrugged and turned toward the kitchen. “I’m in the mood for salmon.” There was a pause as you stepped into the hall, then you added, a little lighter, “I love your friends, but I don’t think I can do another frozen lasagna.”
Jack huffed out something that almost resembled a laugh. It caught in his throat, unfamiliar, but it was there.
“Yeah,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face. “Think we’ve got about six more of those.”
“Seven,” you called back. “Uncle Robby brought two.”
Jack looked around the room. It still felt wrong. It probably always would. He pushed himself to stand, unsteady at first, then steadier. He reached for his crutches
“Hey,” he called, voice carrying weakly down the hall.
“Yeah?” you answered.
“…We got lemon?”
“Yeah, Dad. We’ve got lemon.”
+ + +
“When did you learn how to cook?”
You glanced up from the pan, a small, almost mischievous smile tugging at your lips. “I’m an adult, Dad. I’ve been experimenting.”
Jack let out a quiet breath that almost turned into a laugh. It felt strange in his chest, like using a muscle he hadn’t touched in weeks. “Robby sent you a cookbook, didn’t h—”
“Yes.” You didn’t even let him finish, already reaching for a plate. “Are you finished?”
Jack blinked, looking down at his empty plate like it had surprised him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten that much, let alone that quickly. “…Yeah,” he said, slower this time.
You nodded, efficient, gathering his plate along with yours. You ran the water, letting the pan soak, the faint scent of lemon and butter still hanging in the air.
Jack stayed at the table for a moment longer, watching you move around the kitchen. Watching how natural it looked on you. When had that happened?
His eyes drifted to the calendar pinned to the wall. New years had come and gone already. The date sat there, every one before it crossed out.
“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat, his voice catching slightly. “When is your tuition due?”
You shrugged without turning around. “I don’t know. I haven’t gotten it in my email yet.”
“Just tell me when you do.”
“Okay.”
Jack leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking softly under him. He let his gaze unfocus, and like it had been doing so often lately, his mind drifted, wondering how you’d gotten to be so grown up.
He could still remember the day you got your scholarship. The way you’d tried to play it cool, like it wasn’t a big deal, but your hands had been shaking when you handed him the letter. He’d read it twice before looking up at you, and you’d just been standing there, waiting for his reaction. He’d never been prouder.
Twelve hours away. Too far, if anyone had asked him back then. But he never would’ve said no. Not to you. Not to a future you were carving for yourself.
And now, sitting there, all he could see wasn’t the college student you’d become, but the baby he’d brought home from the hospital.
Your car seat had been behind the driver’s seat. It had just made sense at the time. Easier for your mom to reach back if you cried when she sat in the front. Jack had once read that it was also the safest space, he driver’s side nearly always instinctively protected by the driver.
It had become your spot.
Car seat turned into a bigger one, then a booster, then eventually nothing, but you still sat there. Always there. Even when you were old enough to sit anywhere else, you stayed behind him. He could see you in the rearview mirror eventually, your face peeking up, eyes curious, always watching.
Sometimes you’d reach forward and poke the back of his neck when you got bored.
“Dad,” you’d say, drawn out, just to get his attention.
Jack hadn’t questioned it when you stayed home longer than expected. You were grieving. Of course you were. He saw it in the way you disappeared into your room, in the quiet that followed you, in how you moved through the house like you were trying not to disturb something fragile.
But then January ended.
And February came anyway.
“Hey,” Jack said one afternoon, stepping into the dining room. You were sitting at the table, phone in hand, thumb scrolling absently. A half-eaten bowl sat in front of you.
You looked up. “Hey.”
He hesitated, then pulled out the chair across from you. “I think we need to talk.”
You straightened slightly. Just a little. But he noticed. “About what?”
Jack rested his hands on the table, fingers lacing together. “Why aren’t you at school?”
Your expression didn’t change much, but something behind your eyes did. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.” His voice stayed calm, but there was an edge now. “You’re not going to lose your spot, right?”
“No. It’s fine.”
Jack exhaled, jaw tightening. “You haven’t paid your bill either. I tried logging into the portal and I couldn’t get in.”
You stood before he could say anything else, picking up your bowl and turning toward the kitchen. “I said it’s okay.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, following you now.
You set the bowl in the sink, your back to him. “I took care of it.”
Jack’s chest tightened. “Took care of it how?”
You finally turned around.
“I transferred to stay home,” you said, like it was nothing. “It’s fine.”
For a second, he just stared at you.
“What?” The word came out sharper than he meant it to. “What about your scholarship? Your friends?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” You moved to step past him.
He caught your arm just enough to stop you. “Hey. No. Why?”
You pulled back slightly. “Dad, seriously. I don't want to talk about it.”
“Why?”
The word hung there, heavier this time. You looked at him, and for a second, he saw everything you’d been holding in.
“I don’t know if you noticed,” you said, your voice shaking despite your effort to steady it, “but Mom died.”
It hit like a blow. Jack flinched, the words cutting deeper than he expected, even though he knew them to be true. He shook his head. “You know she wouldn’t want you to have transferred. You had your eye on that program for years.”
“Please don’t.”
“I’m serious. Call them. Ask if you can get back in. I want to be there when you—”
“I’m worried about you!” you cried, the words breaking out of you all at once.
Jack froze.
“I won’t let you kill yourself by—” your voice cracked, frustration spilling over into something rawer, tears spilling freely.
“Hey,” he said quickly, softer now. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“You!” you shot back. “You didn’t talk for twelve hours. You didn’t eat for two days. Uncle Robby had to shake you out of a panic attack because you wouldn’t listen to me.” Your breathing hitched. “I left my scholarship because I care about you and I'd rather be here than be worried sick over there. Uncle Robby paid my tuition this semester so you don’t have to worry.”
“Honey. I’ll be fine. You should be living your li-”
“I’m not sorry for caring.”
Jack opened his mouth, then closed it again. Whatever he thought he was going to say didn’t matter anymore. His face crumpled before he could stop it. The sound that came out of him scared even him. He stepped forward and pulled you into him, arms wrapping tight, like if he held on hard enough, he could keep both of you from falling apart completely.
“I’m sorry,” he choked, the words muffled against your shoulder. “I’m so sorry…”
You stiffened for a second, then gave in, your hands gripping his shirt as everything you’d been holding back finally broke loose. The tears came fast, hot, unstoppable. For weeks, you’d been holding it together and all of a sudden you didn’t have to.
The two of you stood there, clinging to each other in the middle of the kitchen, grief pouring out in waves neither of you could control. After a while, Jack pulled back just enough to look at you. His hands stayed on your shoulders. His eyes searched your face, taking in every detail like he was afraid he might forget.
“You look…” his voice broke again. He shook his head, a wet, uneven breath escaping him. “You look and remind me so much of your mother,” he whispered.
His thumb brushed under your eye, wiping away a tear you hadn’t noticed fall.
“And she would’ve been so proud of you,” he added, quieter now.
original request: military dad abbot, teen reader is constantly sneaking out on base. they come home to see him sitting in their bed, fear of god is put into them. could include mrs abbot if you feel like essentially making an oc
I left mrs. abbot pretty ambiguous for this one and I know that there will be a follow up to this one.
Warnings: mentions of miscarriage, teen rebellion, mrs. abbot mentioned
“Jack, please come to bed.”
“No.” He barely turned to look at his wife, his voice flat, worn thin from hours of waiting. His eyes stayed fixed on the dark window across the room, as if staring hard enough might make something happen. “Do you know what time it is?”
She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, her patience fraying. “Do you know what time it is?” she shot back, softer but sharper.
He huffed under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Too late for our kid to be out,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
Mrs. Abbot sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. She muttered something under her breath and then waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Okay. Fine. I’m going to bed,” she said, pushing herself off the frame. “Wake me if something happens.”
Jack didn’t answer. He just nodded faintly, already somewhere else in his head.
The house settled into a quiet that felt too loud. The hum of the heater kicked in, a low, steady drone. A clock ticked somewhere down the hall, each second stretching longer than the last.
Jack wasn’t sure how long he waited there, perched stiffly on the edge of the baby blue sheets. The fabric was wrinkled beneath his hands, still faintly warm from earlier. It felt foreign now, like he didn’t belong in the room at all. He picked at his cuticles, tearing at the skin without really noticing, his mind looping the same thoughts over and over.
He tried rehearsing it again.
Too stern, and the conversation would slam shut before it even started. He knew that look of defense. Just way too distant, gone before he could reach it. Too lenient, and his point wouldn’t land. It would be brushed off, turned into a joke and forgotten by morning. Too forgiving… and he’d lie awake the rest of the morning staring at the ceiling, hating himself for choosing comfort over responsibility.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders sinking. Maybe he’d already messed this up. Maybe you were too far gone to be saved.
For a brief moment, he considered giving up and just crawling into bed beside his wife, pulling the covers over his head. He was good at pretending none of this was happening. Pretending things were simpler than they were.
The soft scrape of the window cut through the air. Jack’s head snapped up.
The latch shifted, slow and careful, like someone trying not to be heard. The window slid open inch by inch, the faint whisper of wood against the frame a soft screech. He didn’t move as he watched carefully.
A foot appeared first, cautiously testing the edge of the sill. Then another leg followed, swinging over with more confidence. The figure slipped inside with practiced ease. Jack’s jaw tightened.
He had always known a one-story house was a bad idea. At the time, it had seemed harmless and convenient, even. But now, watching this unfold, he felt that old thought return with a sharper edge. He just hadn’t expected it to become this kind of problem.
He stayed where he was, silent, watching.
You shuffled across the plush carpet, your steps light but careless, like you thought the house was asleep. There was a faint smirk tugging at your lips, the kind that came from getting away with something small, something harmless, something you thought no one would notice. Your hand reached out, fingers brushing along the wall until you found the chain for the closet light.
The small bulb flickered on, casting a dull glow across the room. The smirk dropped instantly, like it had never been there at all when you noticed him.
Jack didn’t move. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, watching you with a look that was far too calm.
“Busted.”
Neither one of you could have pointed to the exact moment it went wrong. You only that it had, and that lately, it always seemed to. The arguments didn’t have clear beginnings anymore. They just… existed, simmering under the surface until something small cracked them wide open.
Jack found himself wondering, not for the first time, when conversations had stopped being conversations. When every exchange turned into a standoff. When every question turned into an accusation. He stood there now, watching you pace, arms tight, voice sharp, and there was a disorienting sense of unfamiliarity that settled over him. This wasn’t how he remembered you.
Somewhere between scraped knees and bedtime stories, between school pickups and quiet car rides, something had shifted. He just couldn’t figure out when, or how, or why he hadn’t seen it happening in real time.
The overhead light had been turned on at some point and cast everything in stark detail. Between shouts and snaps, Jack noticed the tension in your shoulders, the way your jaw clenched before you spoke, the restless energy in your movements. Jack noticed all of it, and it unsettled him more than the words themselves. Because beneath the anger, beneath the defiance, there was something else there. Something he didn’t recognize, or maybe something he didn’t want to name.
Independence, sure. Frustration, obviously. But there was a hardness to it now, a sharp edge that hadn’t been there before. And that’s what he couldn’t place. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, buying himself a second, trying to piece together how the kid he knew had become someone who looked at him like this. Like he was on the outside of something he didn’t even realize he’d been pushed out of.
“I just don’t get why you’re riding my ass,” you snapped, your voice cutting through the room as you crossed your arms tighter, your foot hitting the floor with a force that made the sound echo. It wasn’t just irritation. All of it was layered, built up for weeks, like this argument had been waiting for an excuse to come out. “It’s like you’re waiting for me to screw up.”
Jack let out a short, disbelieving laugh, but it came out rougher than he intended. He pushed himself to stand, unable to sit still anymore, his body mirroring the agitation in his thoughts.
“You’re out however late with God knows who,” he shot back, gesturing vaguely toward the window, toward the night, toward everything he couldn’t see or control. “And you expect me to just ignore it? Pretend that’s normal?”
“We’re on base,” you fired back instantly, your expression twisting with frustration, like the answer should’ve been obvious. “This place would go DEFCON 2 before they let me out of here. I’m not disappearing into some sketchy part of town.”
“That’s not the point,” Jack said, more forcefully now, though even as he spoke, he could feel the conversation slipping away from him. It wasn’t landing the way he wanted it to. Nothing was.
“You’re sixteen,” he repeated, slower this time, like maybe grounding it in something factual would help. “Sixteen. You don’t have any reason to be out until four in the morning.” He stopped pacing, turning fully toward you, searching your face for something familiar. “Where have you been? That’s all I’m asking.”
“And I’m not telling you.”
The immediacy of it hit him harder than the words themselves. Something in his chest tightened as his mind ran to the darkest parts of the world he could think of. He’d seen some shit in his time, lost his leg in the process. A rough recovery, but a recovery nonetheless. There’d be a slimmer chance of recovery if you were smoking something out of a pipe under a bridge.
“You and Mom have this stupid fucking plan for my life,” you continued, the words coming faster now, spilling over themselves before you could stop them. “And I’m sorry I can’t live up to it. Maybe one of my four older siblings would’ve been better, but you got stuck with me instead.”
Jack didn’t react right away. He couldn’t.
The words didn’t just land, they lodged themselves in his chest. For a second, it felt like the room had tilted, like something fundamental had shifted under his feet. Four lives that had never made it far enough to become anything more than quiet grief and whispered conversations late at night. Small plaques on boxes that were the first things packed away during every Change of Station. He had spent years convincing himself he’d processed those losses, that he’d filed it away into something manageable, something that didn’t bleed into the life he still had standing right in front of him.
He swallowed, but it didn’t help. There was a hollow, sinking feeling in his chest, like something had been pulled loose without warning. And layered on top of that, more confusing, was the question that kept circling back, louder each time: Where did that come from? Not just the comment. The thought. The idea that you believed it. That you had been carrying it long enough for it to come out like that.
He searched your face again, this time more intently, as if the answer might be written there somewhere. But all he saw was anger and frustration. A kind of exhaustion that didn’t belong to a sixteen-year-old.
And that scared him more than anything else.
You kept going, words tumbling out faster now, fueled by momentum and emotion you clearly hadn’t meant to release all at once.
“I’m tired of it! Okay?” you said, your voice rising, cracking at the edges despite how hard you tried to hold it steady. You started pacing, mirroring him without realizing it, hands moving as you talked. “I’m not a baby. I don’t need fucking rainbows on my walls and on every single thing I own. I don’t need you hovering over every decision I make like I’m going to break if you let go for five minutes. I can go out with my friends and come back in one piece. I can do what I want when I wa—”
“Enough.”
The word cut through everything with a precision that neither of you could ignore.
Both of you turned toward the doorway. Your mother stood there, one hand gripping the frame, her posture rigid in a way that made it clear she had been listening longer than either of you realized. Her eyes were glassy, tears gathered but held in place, her expression caught somewhere between hurt and resolve. She looked at both of you, but there was something heavier behind her gaze.
“Jack,” she said, her voice steady in a way that only made it more serious. “Take the door off.”
For a moment, Jack didn’t move. Not because he disagreed, but because he was still trying to catch up. Still trying to reconcile the conversation he thought they were having with the one that had actually unfolded. Still stuck on that one sentence, echoing louder than everything else.
“You can’t do th—” you started, the fight still there, though thinner now.
She nodded once, cutting you off without raising her voice. “No keys. No phone. No car.” Each word was deliberate, measured. “You’re home by five every night. You leave for school, and you come back on the bus.”
“Mom! That’s so unf—”
“You want to act like you’re grown?” she interrupted, sharper now, stepping further into the room. “Then you can start acting like it. You’re old enough for a job. You buy your own groceries. You pay a portion of the bills. You go to school. It’s up to you.”
“Mo—” Your voice faltered, just slightly.
She didn’t soften. Not this time. Even as a tear finally slipped free, tracking down her cheek, her expression held firm. “Do you want to keep going?”
The room fell quiet again.
But this time, the silence wasn’t empty.
It was full of everything that hadn’t been said soon enough and everything that had been said too late.
“You will not disrespect me in my home,” she said, and this time her voice wavered, just enough to betray the strain underneath. “If you don’t want to go to school, fine. Then you won’t live under this roof.” She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself, even as her hands trembled faintly at her sides. “I want your decision in the morning.”
The moment just… ended, without resolution, without comfort. Just three people standing in the same room, separated by something none of them knew how to cross.
The house settled into a tense, fragile standoff for the next four days.
It wasn’t loud. There were no more shouting matches, no slammed doors. It was quieter than that. Like everyone was moving around something sharp, trying not to make it worse.
Jack and his wife went to work each day like nothing had changed, slipping into routines that suddenly felt rehearsed. They spoke in low voices in the mornings, exchanged glances over coffee that said more than either of them wanted to admit out loud. They kept close tabs without making it obvious, checking the time you got home, noticing the way your shoes lined up by the door, the absence of late-night movement in the house.
The weirdest part was that you had adjusted.
You’d shaped up without a word. No arguments. No complaints. No attitude.
When they asked about your decision, you ignored them both. You sat at the table, flipping through a worn copy of Nietzsche, the pages turning at a steady pace that looked convincing enough. But neither of them missed the way your eyes didn’t track the lines, the way your gaze drifted too often, unfocused. You weren’t reading.
Every afternoon, the same pattern repeated. The bus would hiss to a stop outside, and you’d step off without looking back, your shoulders squared, your expression neutral to the point of emptiness. You’d walk into the house, drop your bag by the wall, and head straight for your room, pausing only long enough to push aside the thin curtain that had replaced your door.
Jack hated it more with each passing day.
It swayed slightly every time you passed through it, a poor imitation of privacy, offering none of the separation it pretended to. It didn’t block sound. Didn’t hold space. It was a reminder, constant and visible, of the line that had been drawn.
You stayed in there until dinner every night.
The three Abbots ate in near silence each night, the clink of silverware against plates sounding louder than it should. Jack would glance up every so often, watching you without meaning to, searching for some sign that this wasn’t as bad as it felt. But you kept your head down, movements precise and efficient. You ate what was given to you, drank your water, and when you were finished, you stood without a word, carried your plate to the sink, rinsed it, and left it to dry.
Your light was off by seven every night, just like she’d said.
That’s when it got worse.
Because Jack just couldn’t believe how much that door had done to muffle everything before. He hadn’t realized how much sound it absorbed, how much it softened, how much it hid. Now there was nothing between him and the reality of it.
The first night, he thought he imagined it. The second night, he knew he hadn’t.
Quiet sniffles, barely there at first. The kind you might miss if you weren’t listening for them. But once he noticed, he couldn’t un-hear it. Couldn’t ignore the uneven rhythm of your breathing, the soft, broken sounds that carried too easily through the thin barrier of fabric.
Each time, something in his chest tightened, sharper than before. By the second night, the third since the fight, he couldn’t take it anymore. He tossed the covers off abruptly, the motion sudden in the otherwise still room. His feet hit the floor, already moving before he could talk himself out of it. He didn’t make it very far before his wife’s hand shot out, gripping his bicep firm enough to stop him. He froze, looking down at her in the dim light, confusion and frustration written plainly across his face.
“Let them cry it out,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep but steady in its intent.
Jack stared at her, incredulous. “Like an infant?” he whispered back, the words edged with disbelief. It felt wrong. It was wrong. This wasn’t the same thing.
She shifted closer, curling into his side, her grip loosening but not disappearing entirely. “They’ll understand eventually,” she said quietly, though there was something heavier behind it. “Just like you will.”
He stood there for a beat, listening to the little cries and whimpers that were slowly quieted as you drifted to sleep. Then slowly, reluctantly, he sat back down. Pulled the covers over himself again. Stared up at the ceiling while the quiet sounds from down the hall continued, softer now, but no less present.
By night five, Jack was unraveling. He lay on his side, his pillow wrapped tightly around his head in a futile attempt to block it out. Not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much. Because every small sound felt like it was being dragged straight through him, carving something raw and aching in its wake.
He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tight, trying to ignore it.
When his wife shifted beside him and got out of bed, he barely registered it at first. He assumed she was heading to the bathroom judging by the quiet creak of the floorboards.
Then her voice, softer than he’d heard it in days. “What’s wrong, honey?”
The response came instantly in the form of a loud, unfiltered sob that ripped from somewhere deep. It hit Jack like a physical blow, sharp and immediate, knocking the breath from his chest. He sat up slightly, his heart pounding, every instinct screaming at him to go in there, to fix it, to do something.
“I’m sorry,” you blubbered, the words breaking apart as they came, thick with tears. “I’m sorry, mommy.”
“Hm, mommy?” Mrs. Abbot teased gently, and he could hear the shift in her tone. The bed creaked as she settled beside you, the quiet sounds of movement telling him she’d pulled you close. “I don’t hate you, honey.”
“I said some really fucked up shit,” you admitted, your voice muffled now, like your face was pressed into something.
Jack closed his eyes, his grip tightening around the pillow until his knuckles ached. He turned his face into it, but it didn’t stop anything. Tears slipped free anyway, quiet and steady, tracking down his temples and pooling in his ears. He didn’t bother wiping them away.
“Shhhh,” she cooed softly, her voice low and steady, the way it used to be when you were younger, when comfort came easier. “I know you may not think so, but I remember what it was like to be your age.” There was a faint rustle, like she was smoothing your hair back, grounding you in the moment. “Things are changing. Things feel weird. You’re stuck between wanting to be a kid… but needing independence at the same time.”
You sniffled, trying to catch your breath, the sound uneven and raw.
“Did you know I ran away?” she added after a beat, her tone almost thoughtful, like she was reaching back into something she didn’t visit often.
“What?” you asked, the word small, disbelieving, like it didn’t quite fit with the version of her you knew.
“Mm-hm,” Mrs. Abbot murmured, gentle but certain. “I did.” There was the faintest hint of a sad smile in her voice now. “Packed a bag, waited until everyone was asleep, climbed right out my window just like you did.” She let out a quiet breath, like the memory carried more weight than she usually let on. “It felt exciting at first. Free. Like I’d finally gotten out from under everything.”
Jack shifted slightly in bed, staring into the dark, listening more closely now. This wasn’t a story he’d ever heard before.
“It was fun for the first day,” she continued softly. “I thought I had it all figured out. No rules, no one telling me what to do.” Her hand must’ve stilled for a moment, because the room felt quieter somehow. He could picture her staring at nothing, lost somewhere in the past. “Then I realized I had no way to make money. Nothing to my name. No plan beyond just… leaving.”
You shifted, the fabric of the bed creasing softly beneath you.
“My parents didn’t even notice I was gone, y’know,” she added, quieter now.
Jack’s jaw tightened slightly at that. He had never been particularly fond of his in-laws. Their hands-off, almost indifferent way of parenting had always rubbed him the wrong way. He couldn’t imagine not noticing.
“I was gone for a week, sweetheart,” she said, her voice dipping just enough to show how much that memory still lingered. “A whole week.” Another sniffle broke through, yours this time, softer now but no less present. “I didn’t think much of it back then. I told myself it didn’t matter. That I didn’t need them to notice.”
“But I did,” she admitted quietly. “I just didn’t know how to say it.”
The room seemed to hold its breath.
“I never really thought about it again,” she continued, her voice steadier now, though still soft, “until I realized you were sneaking out.” There was a faint shift, like she pulled you closer, anchoring you there with her. “And then all I could think about was you out there. Alone. Thinking you had it all under control… and not realizing how quickly that can fall apart.”
Jack swallowed hard, his throat tight, his chest aching with something he couldn’t quite put a name to. He could hear the fear in his wife’s voice.
“All of the things I saw in those four days…” she trailed off, her voice catching just slightly. “I just imagined you there. Seeing those things. Running into the kinds of people I did, thinking you’re fine until you’re not.” Her hand must’ve moved again. “And I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t reach you.”
Your breathing hitched again, quieter now, like you were trying not to cry as hard.
“I love you, honeybee,” she said finally, the words simple but heavy with everything behind them.
Jack pressed his face further into the pillow, his eyes burning, his chest tight in a way that made it hard to breathe evenly.
“We’re not always going to see eye to eye,” she continued softly, her voice steady in a way that wrapped around you instead of pushing against you. “And maybe we do have too tight a leash on you sometimes.” Her hand moved gently, absentmindedly, like she was smoothing your hair the way she had when you were little. “But I want you to know that I love you. Your dad loves you.” There was the faintest pause, and then a small, almost amused exhale. “He’s been trying to take you out for ice cream for days, and I keep telling him no.”
Even through the tears, a weak, breathy response slipped out of you. “Rude.”
Jack let out a quiet, broken huff into his pillow at that, something between a laugh and a sob. He hadn’t realized she’d noticed. Or that she’d stopped him on purpose. He pressed his eyes shut tighter, the sting behind them only growing.
“And what you said…” she went on, her tone shifting just slightly—not harsher, but heavier, more deliberate. “About my miscarriages…” Her hand stilled for a moment, like she was choosing her next words carefully, holding them with care before letting them go. “Do you know what got me through them?”
You didn’t answer.
“The fact that I got you,” she said gently.
Jack’s breath hitched.
“Did you know you were born smiling?” she added, a softness creeping into her voice that hadn’t been there all week.
There was a quiet, incredulous sniff from you. “What?”
“Mm-hm,” she hummed, and this time there was a smile in it, faint but real. “Your dad says you came out smiling before you even cried. Scared the nurses half to death.” She let out a quiet, fond breath. “They kept checking you, making sure everything was okay. But you were fine. Just… happy to be here.”
In the dark, Jack’s face crumpled.
He remembered that moment with startling clarity, a memory he’d never forget and relive each time he thought about it. He’d laughed, shaky and overwhelmed, while everyone else hovered in concern.
“Every bump and bruise you got,” she continued, her voice softer now, drifting into something almost reflective, “every scraped knee, every time you came home with dirt on your clothes and that look on your face like you’d just conquered something…” Her fingers moved again, gentle, grounding. “The stitches. The casts. All of it.”
You shifted slightly, your breathing evening out just a little as you listened.
“They remind me,” she said quietly, “that you are strong. That you’re capable of picking yourself back up, no matter what knocks you down.” A pause. “That hasn’t changed.”
The room fell into a softer silence this time.
Jack lay there, unmoving, the pillow still pressed to his face though he wasn’t trying to block anything out anymore. He just listened, every word settling into him, reshaping something he hadn’t realized had gone so rigid.
“Go to sleep,” she said softly. “I’ll be right here when you wake up, baby.”
Jack turned onto his side, finally pulling the pillow away from his face, staring into the dark instead of hiding from it. His eyes still burned, his throat still tight, but there was something steadier underneath it now.
Hi! May I request John Shen x pregnant!reader where she's an attending and goes into labor during a trauma?
so i realized about halfway through that ellis is a resident, not an attending, but close enough, y'know. not much backstory, but established relationship and expecting :)
It wasn’t uncommon for attendings to be at odds.
Between patients, their needs, personal needs, the bureaucracy of the American healthcare system, and whatever else The Pitt decided to spit out, tensions run high. It’s a high stress environment not meant for the faint of heart. And Dr. John Shen’s professional opinion is that it is also not a place for pregnant women, much less one who is nearly crowning and can barely make breakfast without getting winded.
“Well, if it isn’t Mama Bear,” Dana cooed, arms open for her signature tight embrace. “Why aren’t you at home?”
“I could ask the same thing,” John muttered from behind you, already moving past with both of your bags slung over his shoulder. He didn’t even pause, heading straight toward the lockers like he needed distance before he said something sharper.
“What’s got his scrubs in a bunch?” Dana chuckled, her arm slipping comfortably around your shoulders as she guided you toward the hub at the center of the emergency department.
You waved him off. “He thinks I should be at home, but why would I want to be there if he’s not?”
She hummed. “Clingy stage, hm?”
You nodded, a little sheepish but not denying it. “Something like that.” You shifted your weight, one hand instinctively resting against your belly. “Where do you want me?”
“Oh, honey, I think you’re going to regret asking that question.”
The group chat had blown up. Some (mostly your husband) were trying to argue that if day shift could survive with one attending, surely night shift could survive with two instead of three. You had smirked when Shen rolled over in bed that evening, his hair a mess and his jaw slack with disbelief as he read your message out loud.
“‘I can come in’?” he repeated, incredulous.
You were already halfway off the mattress, one leg hooked over the side as you tried to sit up. “Help me up, baby,” you said, reaching back for him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The entire drive there had been the same biting comments. John was mostly attempting to convince you to take it easy, that you should be resting. Technically, you were on slower, lower hours. Accommodations for more sitting time and longer breaks.
You rotated around triage the first few hours of your shift, working with the less urgent patients. It was a nice change of pace from traumas and whatever other cases were straining enough to get their own rooms. It was a slower pace, one that allowed you to sit more often, to breathe between patients instead of sprinting from one crisis to the next.
In fact, as you leaned back slightly in your chair between patients, one hand resting over the steady curve of your abdomen, you could admit it was kind of nice.
For once, no alarms were blaring. No one was shouting for a crash cart. No trauma bay doors were flying open with the force of urgency. Just the low hum of monitors, the occasional murmur of voices, and the steady rhythm of an ER functioning exactly as it should.
“How are you feeling?”
You glanced up at your husband, already reaching for the edge of the desk to help haul yourself upright. The movement was slower than it used to be, more deliberate, but you refused to make a thing out of it.
“Fine.”
John didn’t look convinced. Not even a little.
“Fine like fine,” he pressed, folding his arms across his chest, “or fine your feet hurt? How’s your back?”
You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. You lifted the hem of your scrub top just enough to reveal the thick band wrapped snugly beneath your belly.
“Belly band is working overtime,” you said lightly.
His gaze lingered for a second longer before he glanced around, scanning the area out of habit. Miraculously, for once, no one was within earshot. No nurses passing by, no residents hovering, no patients calling out.
It gave his voice space to soften.
“You know I respect you,” he said quietly, stepping a little closer, “but please just… take it easy.”
“I am,” you mumbled, already easing yourself back into the chair. “I promise I’m okay.”
“Are you?” His eyes dragged over your face, studying you in that way that made it impossible to hide anything for long. “Because you look exhausted.”
You exhaled slowly, tilting your head back for a moment before meeting his gaze again.
“I don’t know how you can be so calm about this,” he continued, voice tightening just slightly. “You’re ready to pop any day now.”
You sighed, already tired of having the same conversation.
“I’m fine,” you said again, gentler this time. “If anything happens, you’re here. I’m surrounded by people who work great under pressure, and there’s a maternity ward a few floors above us.” You gave him a pointed look. “And you and I both know that most women with their first go past their due date.”
“I hear you, but I just—”
You lifted a hand, cutting him off as your eyes flicked past his shoulder.
“Abbot.”
Jack had been lingering just close enough to absolutely be listening, even if he was doing a poor job pretending otherwise. He straightened slightly when you called him out, caught somewhere between guilty and amused.
“You know how to deliver a baby, right?” you asked.
He blinked, his gaze bouncing from you to John and back again, immediately clocking the tension.
“I’m not getting in the middle of whatever this is,” he said carefully.
You shook your head, expression perfectly composed
“There’s a patient who might need it if OB doesn’t pick up the damn phone,” you said, the lie sliding out smoothly.
“Oh.” Jack’s lips pursed as he considered that, his posture shifting into something more professional. He nodded after a second, one shoulder lifting in a casual shrug. “Then yeah. I do.”
John rolled his eyes, completely unconvinced and still staring you down like he could will you into compliance.
“This is your last shift,” he said flatly. “That’s it.”
You held his gaze for a beat, then nodded, easy and agreeable.
“Scout’s honor.”
The way his eyes narrowed told you he didn’t believe you for a second. And truthfully, you should have known better than to relish in the calm.
The doors burst open with a force that snapped the entire department to attention, paramedics wheeling in an unconscious patient.
“Trauma incoming!”
Everything shifted in an instant. Chairs scraped back, voices sharpened, movement accelerated towards the doors.
“Where’s Shen?” someone called.
“In a consult,” another voice shot back.
“Abbot?”
“Tied up in two!”
You hesitated for exactly half a second before your brain turned itself into doctor mode. You reached for a pair of gloves from the station on the wall, already turning towards the stretcher.
“I’ve got it,” you said, already moving. Thankfully, no one had time to stop you.
“Thirty-two-year-old male, MVC, unrestrained. Lost his pulse en route, we got it back once—”
“Transfer on three!”
You were at the bedside before your brain could catch up, muscle memory taking over. Gloves. Positioning. Assessing. Calling out what you saw, what you needed.
“Get me pressure, no manual.” You looked around, catching everyone who was in the room with you. “And where’s respiratory?”
Your body moved like it always had, but there was a beat in your back that made you falter.
You positioned your hands over the patient when it came time, locked your elbows, and began. Everyone worked around you. Information was shouted into the air. Your responses were robotic, relying on the information you committed to memory all those years ago. Adrenaline pumped through your veins and you remembered why you missed it so much. Why you’d spent all shift fighting with your husband, because you need to be here. You need to help.
You lifted just enough for the count.
“Lady Shen,” Nazely gasped beside you, her voice cutting through the noise just enough to register. “You need a break.”
You counted again, breath tighter now, adjusting your stance instinctively. “I know,” you said, voice strained but steady. “I feel it.”
The next roll of pressure between your hips bade your breath hitch, sweat dripping down your temples. The next break came, and this time you stepped off the stool.
A hand touched your arm, another guiding your shoulder. You traded places automatically, shifting to the side, eyes still locked on the patient.
“Epi’s in.”
“Charging to 200.”
“Clear!”
You focused on the monitor, on the numbers, on anything that wasn’t the low, persistent ache now settling into your pelvis. Your eyes fluttered shut for half a second before it passed. You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself against the edge of the bed, forcing your attention back where it belonged.
By the time the patient was stabilized and rushed off to the next step, you felt it. The adrenaline ebbed first, leaving behind a hollowed-out kind of fatigue that settled deep in your bones. Your arms felt heavier, your back tighter, your legs just a little less reliable than they had been an hour ago.You leaned against the nurse’s station, one hand braced on the counter, the other instinctively cradling the underside of your belly as you exhaled.
Nazely was there within seconds. She rolled a chair over without a word, positioning it carefully behind you like she’d done this a hundred times before.
“Oh, thank you, sweetie,” you murmured, easing yourself down with a soft groan you didn’t quite manage to hide. Your palm stayed pressed to your abdomen, fingers splayed. “Just five minutes.”
She hovered for a second, her expression tightening ever so slightly.
“Should I go get Dr. Shen?”
“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “No, it’s just… a lot of physical exertion for someone who hasn’t done cardio in months.” You tried for a smile, something reassuring. “I’m good.”
Nazely didn’t look entirely convinced, but she nodded anyway, taking a step back.
The pressure hit again before she made it ten feet.
It rolled through you low and deep, tighter this time. Less discomfort and more like something with a purpose. You sucked in a breath, your fingers curling slightly against your belly.
“Okay,” you muttered under your breath.
You pushed yourself up from the chair, thighs trembling in a way that had nothing to do with the earlier exertion.
“Traitor,” you grumbled, one hand bracing your lower back as the other stayed firm over your stomach. “You better not be trying to prove your dad right.”
As if on cue, a small, deliberate kick fluttered just beside your belly button.
You huffed out a quiet laugh despite yourself.
“Yeah, yeah. I house you. I feed you. You made me take out my belly ring, kid,” you muttered, shaking your head. “The least you could do is cooperate. I hope you know that your dad may seem fun on the outside, but he’s a big ball of crazy.”
Another faint movement answered you. You reached for another chart at the triage desk, fingers brushing the edge of the paper before another hand landed over yours.
“You said you were fine.” John’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through everything else.
You didn’t look at him right away. “I was,” you shot back, a little sharper than intended. “At the time.”
He blinked, processing, his grip tightening just slightly before he shifted his stance to get a better look at your face.
“How far apart?”
You exhaled through your nose, glancing around like you might find an escape route in the chaos of the department.
“Nothing bad,” you said. “Just… like Braxton Hicks, but worse.”
His expression changed instantly. “We’re going upstairs.”
“N—”
“Oh yes you are,” Jack cut in, appearing at your other side with his arms crossed like he’d been waiting for his moment. His tone was lighter, but there was no real room for argument. “Just go upstairs. Let them check, and then—”
“I might as well just yank my pants down right here,” you snapped, finally looking between the two of them. “You guys are stepping on my dignity.”
A couple of nearby nurses very deliberately pretended not to hear that. Both men shared a look over your head.
John sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Usually that’d work,” he said dryly. “You keep making your period face. I know you're in pain.”
You opened your mouth, ready to argue, ready to push back but then you felt your pants get heavier. A sudden, unmistakable warmth spread between your thighs, quick and overwhelming as it soaked through fabric and began trailing down toward your knees. Your jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
For a second, the noise of the ER dulled, like someone had turned the volume down just for you. You didn’t need to look down.
“I’m going,” you said tightly, already shifting your weight, already moving. “But not because you told me to.”
John’s hand was at your back immediately, steady and guiding, his earlier frustration replaced by something sharper, more focused.
Jack stepped aside, then reached out to clap John on the shoulder as you passed. “Good luck,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth despite the situation. “I’ll call Robby.”
John didn’t even slow down as he steered you toward the elevators, his attention fully locked on you now.
You cut him off before he could say anything. “Don’t. If you give me a lecture, I’m keeping you out of the room and the first time you see our baby is going to be through the glass.”
“I was going to say,” he murmured, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your temple, “that we’re having a freakin’ baby.”
The words landed differently than anything else he’d said all day. He pulled you a little closer as the doors slid shut, sealing you both into the brief, humming quiet of the ride up.
“I’m sorry,” he added, his voice lower now. “For… all of it. I got a little pushy.”
You exhaled, some of the tension slipping from your shoulders despite the tightening still rolling through your body in waves.
“I know,” you said, quieter. “You’re annoying, but you mean well.”
He huffed out a breath that almost passed for a laugh, his forehead dropping briefly against yours.
“Annoying,” he repeated. “That’s what you’re going with right now?”
“Mm-hmm,” you nodded, eyes fluttering shut for a second as another contraction built, stronger this time. Your grip on his hand tightened. “Top-tier irritating.”
“Good to know,” he said softly, thumb brushing over your knuckles as he felt the shift in your posture. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m right here with you.”
reader comes home from a friends to find jack and robby on the couch passed out with like idk baseball on
in the morning they wake them both up with a wet paper towel to the face
“….are you fucking my dad?”
okay, totes misread the prompt, but this was too good not to try and fix. The faintest hint of Rabbot goin on here hehe
“No, no, no, no,” you muttered, yanking a pair of jeans from your dresser.
The button snagged on the corner of the drawer. You pulled harder, impatient, and the fabric finally gave in with a jerk that sent you stumbling backward into the edge of your bed. Your heel came down on something small and round and before you could even swear, your foot slid.
You caught yourself on the mattress, heart jumping, and then you saw the neon yellow streaks smeared across the white carpet. The uncapped highlighter lay nearby like evidence at a crime scene, right where you’d apparently passed out the night before.
“Fuck!” you hissed, rubbing at the stain with your sock. The color only spread, blooming wider. You stopped, exhaling sharply. “Okay. That’s an after-school problem.”
You shoved your legs into the jeans, grabbed the first hoodie you could find, and hopped into mismatched socks before jamming your feet into sneakers. Your backpack lay half-open on the floor with papers spilling out, a textbook hanging halfway in. You stuffed everything inside in frantic handfuls, zipping it crooked as you slung it over your shoulder.
Outside, the bus hissed.
“I’m coming!” you shouted, rushing to the window and shoving it open just enough to stick your head out.
No one looked. Not a single head turned. A couple of kids laughed at something on a phone. Someone had earbuds in. The driver didn’t even count who’d climbed on. You watched, helpless, as the big yellow Twinkie-on-wheels pulled away from the curb and lumbered down the street, disappearing around the corner. Your shoulders dropped.
“Great. Just great.”
Missing the bus was bad enough. But now you’d have to ask your dad for a ride, on the one morning he could actually sleep in.
You bolted downstairs anyway, your backpack thumping against your spine with every step.
“Dad,” you called, breathless, spotting the back of his head over the couch, “I missed the bus.”
The kitchen was a disaster zone. Crumbs were scattered across the counter, a cereal bowl and some plates abandoned in the sink. You grabbed a banana from the bunch, already speckled brown, peeled it halfway, and scooped up a handful of dry cereal straight from the box.
Not breakfast, but close enough.
“Dad! I’m serious. I’m sorry, all that bullshit about responsibility. I need a ride to school.”
You leaned over the back of the couch and froze.
Your dad was half-curled on one end, blanket twisted around his legs. Jack was sprawled on the other, tucked in close, one leg bent awkwardly where it rested under your dad’s back. His prosthetic leaned against the couch like it had been kicked off sometime in the night and forgotten.
They were dead asleep.
You sighed, long and suffering, then turned back toward the kitchen. You ripped a few paper towels off the roll, ran them under the sink just long enough to soak through, and squeezed them once. Before you could rethink it, you marched back and tossed one onto your dad’s face.
Then another onto Jack.
“What the fuck?” your dad snapped, jerking upright and ripping the damp paper towel off his face.
Jack groaned softly, barely waking, brushing his away with a sluggish hand before curling further into the couch like a cat refusing morning.
You crossed your arms. “Are you guys fucking?”
Robby blinked at you, still waking up. “What? No. We fell asleep watching a movie.”
“Okay, whatever. We can talk about it later. I need a ride.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, already shifting like he was about to stand. “Can I at least get a please?”
“Oh, pretty please, Father Michael Robinavitch, may I have a ride to school?” you shot back, tossing his keys at him and nudging his slippers closer with your foot.
He caught the keys with a small grin. “Yes,” he said, pushing himself up, “you may.”
You spent most of the drive leaning your forehead against the cool window, watching houses blur past while your dad launched into the exact same lecture you’d heard a hundred times before.
Responsibility. Punctuality. Planning ahead.
And, because he couldn’t help himself, patients.
“What if I’m late for work and—”
“There’s a ten-car pileup, a building collapse, and a flood all at the same time,” you finished flatly, not even looking at him. “Yeah. I know. Society collapses. People perish. It’s basically all my fault.”
He sighed, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at it. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” you shot back, turning your head just enough to glare at him. “I was trying to be responsible and work on my project—”
“Which should have been done two days ago,” he cut in, glancing at you briefly, “and not the night before.”
“—and two someones decided that a Pirates game was somehow a productive study environment,” you continued, talking right over him. “Because nothing says ‘focus’ like yelling at a TV and arguing about offsides.”
He huffed out a laugh under his breath, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
You let a beat pass, then tilted your head, eyeing him. “But seriously, Dad… are you and Jack…”
“No,” he drawled immediately, like he’d been expecting it. “And that is none of yo—”
“Are you at least being safe?” you pressed, turning fully toward him now. “With sex and your feelings?” You bit your lip, trying not to grin. “Because emotional safety is just as important as wrapping it before tapping it.”
“Okay,” he said, holding up a hand, half laughing now. “We are not having this conversation at 7:45 in the morning.”
“7:43,” you corrected automatically.
He gave you a look.
“He’s always over. You brought him to my parent-teacher conference. He tried to ground me last week, dad.”
“He what?” Your father laughed.
“Yeah! When I was out late with the rest of the team.”
He shook his head. “Was that the morning I went to check on you and you told me you had an early morning field trip?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t know he’d be coming home from a shift and he made me take a breathalyzer. Who carries a pocket breathalyz- No. Better question. Why was he at our home at 7:30 in the morning?”
“Drop it,” he chuckled, though the look on his face meant he was serious.
You opened your mouth to keep going, because honestly, this was too easy, when something in your brain clicked into place.
You froze. “…Dad.”
“What.”
You sat up slowly. “…I forgot my backpack.”
He inhaled, clearly preparing to deliver something loud and well-deserved, the car chimed. Both of you froze as the dashboard lit up, and the robotic voice cut in, bright and painfully cheerful.
“From Jack: Where’d you go? We were supposed to get breakfast?”
You quirked an eyebrow. “And you expect me to believe you, dad?”
He sighed your name. “I’m telling you to leave it.”
“No. I’m serious. Jack, love the guy, is texting you like a clingy boyfriend.”
He didn’t even hesitate. He just shot you a flat look, already reaching for the turn signal. “Do you want your backpack or not? I will make you walk the rest of the way.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he turned the blinker on, you settled in for the second lecture you knew by heart. To not meddle in his love life.
“Well if it isn’t the honorary nightcrawlers,” Abbot grinned, already opening his arms for whichever twin decided to grace him with their presence.
The emergency room looked miraculously less crowded than you’d ever seen it. The harsh fluorescent lights still buzzed faintly overhead, casting everything in that sterile, too-bright glow, but there were fewer stretchers lining the halls and less urgency in the air. Even so, nurses moved quickly from station to station, their sneakers squeaking softly against the polished floors, while a couple of med students hovered nearby, trying their best not to look as uncertain as they clearly felt.
“More like night-runners,” you chuckled, nudging a sleepy Audrey gently toward him. “I’m pretty sure they ran a marathon in the hallway tonight and still refuse to go down.”
“Oooh,” he grunted playfully, catching Audrey with ease and dipping her just an inch, enough to make her blink in mild surprise but not protest. “What are your parents feeding you?”
Audrey stared at him for a second, processing, her hair a little wild from the long evening. “Milk. Cookies.”
“Cookies?” he gasped dramatically, eyes widening as he reached for Anthony’s hand and gave it a gentle, conspiratorial shake. “Your dad isn’t gonna like that.”
“Speaking of, that stays between us,” you said quickly, your voice dropping as your eyes instinctively scanned the room for your husband. You shifted Anthony higher on your hip, swaying automatically as he tucked his face into your neck, his small fingers fisting lightly in your shirt. “Where is he?”
Jack tilted his head, already stepping backward toward the nurse’s station. “I’ll go grab him. Last I saw, he was talking to a patient.”
He set Audrey carefully in one of the waiting chairs. She didn’t sit so much as fold into it, curling up on one edge with her knees tucked close, her small body nearly slipping through the gap under the armrest. She blinked slowly, then lifted her hand and pointed at Anthony.
“Hug.”
You couldn’t help but smile, easing Anthony down beside her. The moment he was within reach, Audrey leaned in, wrapping her arms around his neck with sleepy insistence. He returned it, though only halfway, his head drooping against hers as if the effort alone was enough to exhaust him further.
“You must be really tired, hm, guys?” you murmured softly, pulling another chair closer so you could sit right in front of them.
Anthony made a small, noncommittal sound, his eyes already half-closed. His cheek squished against Audrey’s shoulder, and she, ever stubborn even in exhaustion, tightened her hold just a little as if anchoring him there.
You reached forward, brushing some hair back from Audrey’s face, then smoothing Anthony’s hair where it had stuck up in every direction. Up close, you could see the signs of the long night written all over them with their smudged cheeks, heavy eyelids that came right before they crashed completely.
“Yeah,” you whispered, more to yourself than to them, your voice softening. “I thought so.”
You waited a few minutes, digging through your purse until your fingers found both pacifiers. You handed them out like a peace offering, then gently draped your hands over their eyes, shielding them from the harsh fluorescent lights that seemed far too bright for how late it was. John always insisted on sound machines and not tiptoeing around when they slept. Life doesn’t stop just because you’re tired, he’d said more than once. With him working overnights and the world continuing on while he tried to rest during the day, he’d learned how to sleep through just about anything.
Your children, however, had clearly not inherited that particular skill yet. Every few minutes, one of them would squirm, pushing your hand away just enough to peek out at the room to watch the nurses passing by, the distant beeping monitors, the unfamiliar space before settling back against the other like they couldn’t quite commit to sleep.
“I know,” you murmured each time, your voice low and soothing as you adjusted them again. “I want you guys to sleep too.”
“Daddy,” Anthony mumbled around his binky, the word soft and slurred with exhaustion.
“He’s coming,” you promised, brushing your thumb along his cheek.
You had just started to think they might finally drift off when fingers walked lightly up your spine, quick and familiar. Your shoulders jumped before you turned, already knowing. John stood there, smiling down at you, his eyes warm and just a little amused, like he’d been watching for longer than he’d admit.
“They’re up a little past their bedtime,” he said casually, glancing at his watch. “It’s almost midnight.”
“I know. I’m desperate” You let out a breath, equal parts relief and exasperation. “I tried everything, honey. Baths. A movie. I let them just lay there and figure it out until I realized they weren’t going down. We did relay races in the hallway,” you added, giving him a pointed look.
“Song,” Audrey demanded suddenly, pointing a small, accusatory finger at her father. “No song.”
John blinked once, then nodded like she’d made a very valid point. “You’re right, little lady. I forgot the song.”
Your brows pulled together. “The song?” You stared at him, incredulous. “I spent all night trying to get them to sleep because you left early and couldn’t do the stupid song?”
He just shrugged, entirely unbothered, hands settling on his hips. “What can I say? I’m an entertainer.”
“Oh, you’re something,” you muttered, gripping your purse a little tighter as you stood.
“And that something,” he shot back easily, already reaching down, “is your wonderful husband who is about to work his magic.”
He scooped one child into each arm with practiced ease, Anthony curling immediately into his shoulder while Audrey rested her head against his other shoulder, her grip on her brother still stubborn even as her eyes drooped.
“How about we find a nice quiet place? Hm?” he murmured to them.
You followed as he led the way down a quieter hallway of the emergency department, your footsteps softer now against the tile. The noise of the main area faded behind you, replaced by a low, distant hum. He nudged open the on-call room with his shoulder.
It wasn’t much, just a small, dim space with a couple of narrow cots, thin blankets folded at the ends, and the faint scent of detergent mixed with hospital air, but it was much quieter. Good enough for two toddlers who usually squirmed until you let them down to run freely.
John stepped inside and lowered them carefully onto one of the cots, guiding them down like they might shatter if he moved too fast. You watched as he crouched, slipping off their shoes one by one and placing them neatly at the foot of the bed.
They barely stirred. You reached over and flipped off one of the lights, leaving the room half in shadow. The remaining light cast a soft, muted glow, just enough to see by without being harsh. The shift in the room was immediately quieter, like the world had finally decided to slow down for them.
The song was ridiculous.
You weren’t entirely sure how or when it had started, but somewhere along the way it had become a nightly ritual. It was an off-key, slightly jumbled adaptation of a nursery rhyme, stitched together with nonsense lyrics and paired with an even more ridiculous dance that involved far too much shoulder shimmying and exaggerated footwork.
And yet, it worked every time.
More than that, it did something to you, too. Watching John be so completely unselfconscious and fully committed, you were reminded, in the quietest, most unexpected way, just how much you love your husband. How, somehow, each time he did this, you managed to fall a little more head over heels for him all over again. You leaned back against the wall, arms loosely folded, just watching.
John shook and shimmied his way through the song, adding little flourishes like he was performing on a stage instead of in a dim, half-lit on-call room. His voice dipped and rose dramatically, eyebrows lifting at all the right moments like he was telling the most important story in the world.
The twins watched him with heavy-lidded eyes. Anthony flicked absently at his own ear with one hand, the other curled tightly into Audrey’s sweater like he needed to make sure she was still there. Audrey lay on her back, hands tucked under her head, her curls fanned out across the thin pillow. Her eyes fluttered, fighting to stay open just long enough to catch the next movement, the next note.
A faint smile tugged at both of their mouths.
And suddenly, your chest ached. Your nose burned as the realization hit you quietly but firmly that one day, this would end. One day, this ridiculous song and dance that had driven you to the brink of exhaustion tonight would be something they rolled their eyes at. One day they’d be too old, too cool, too distant, and they’d turn away when John offered, maybe with a groan, maybe with embarrassment. One day, they wouldn’t need this. And maybe, if you weren’t careful, you’d miss it.
Your gaze drifted from them back to him, softening.
When you’d gotten married, you’d agreed on two children. It had been a practical decision, mutual and easy. You’d met here, in this very emergency department, stealing glances through glass windows between trauma cases, exchanging quick, knowing looks before snapping back into the urgency of your work.
Your first real date had come after a brutal shift, both of you still half-running on adrenaline and bad coffee. He’d proposed on the roof within a year, the words tumbling out of him before he could stop them, his face flushing as he tried to backtrack and promise you something more thought out, something better planned. You’d said yes anyway.
You remembered how wide you’d smiled, so wide that your cheeks hurt, especially when he admitted that he hadn’t actually bought the ring yet.
Two kids had made sense. Full, but not overwhelming. They’d always have each other, someone to lean on when you couldn’t be everything at once.
When they arrived, your maternity leave stretched into vacation days, then sick days until eventually you made the decision not to return. You’d traded the chaos of the emergency department for a smaller clinic in town. Less adrenaline, less unpredictability. More evenings like this… even if they were messy and exhausting.
“’Gain,” Anthony murmured softly, pointing a drowsy finger at John. “Please?”
John’s movements slowed immediately. He glanced down, noticing Audrey’s breathing had evened out, her body completely still now.
“Alright,” he said gently. “One more time.”
This time, the performance softened. The dancing was smaller, the voice quieter, like he was easing them the rest of the way instead of pulling them along. Halfway through, he faltered slightly, glancing down again to see that Anthony had finally given in. His hand had gone slack against Audrey’s sweater, his head tilted just enough to rest comfortably against the mattress, his breathing slow and steady. John let the song trail off, unfinished.
The room fell into a soft, comfortable silence. You stepped closer, leaning your head against his shoulder, both of you standing there for a moment, just watching the gentle rise and fall of their chests.
“Can you believe we made them?” you whispered.
John huffed quietly, a smile tugging at his lips. “And probably in this room.”
You pulled back just enough to swat his arm. “Stop.”
But he wasn’t entirely wrong.
This room had once been your escape. Back when you were newlyweds, when stolen moments between cases felt like the only thing keeping you grounded. The twins had been born just fourteen months after your wedding.
Life had moved fast, and felt like it was moving faster every day.
“Do you need help carrying them out?” he asked softly, already glancing toward the door.
You nodded. “Your mom’s outside in the car. I’m sure she’d like to see you.”
His mother had officially retired a month after the twins were born. Since then, she’d become a constant presence. Especially on nights like these, when John was working and you were overwhelmed and running on very little sleep.
Eventually, you’d built her a small cottage in the backyard. Just enough space for her independence for her weekly poker nights and quiet mornings, but close enough that she was always there when you needed her.
“I’ll carry Anthony for you,” he said after a moment. “Just… give me a few minutes.”
You didn’t argue. Instead, you leaned into him again, your hand slipping lightly into his.
