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Supernatural Fics
Life is Good (for you): When Rae’s secret efforts to get some nutrition into the brothers’ diet is exposed, will Dean hit the fan? Or will she find an unexpected ally? [fluff] [platonic OFC Rae Himmel, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester]
Just Desserts: There’s a prankster at work among TFW. Let the punishment fit the crime….or the criminal. [fluff] [platonic OFC Rae Himmel, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Castiel]
Try to Remember: (part 1) (part 2)
A forgotten memory surfaces and breaks Rae’s heart. How will the boys, with their own heartbroken history, help her heal? [angst] [OFC Rae Himmel, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester]
Under the Influence:
When Rae gets hurt, one brother comes to the rescue. Will relocations and pharmaceuticals pry some growing feelings into the open for the other brother? [fluff] [OFC Rae Himmel, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Castiel]
The Box in Room 11: the story behind the mementos hidden in a brother’s room [angsty fluff] [Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester]
The First Bite: A small country store, the best pie in the county, and a boy looking for work. The story of how Dean fell in love with pie. [angsty fluff] [little Dean Winchester, little Sam Winchester, OCs, Bobby Singer] **trigger warnings: allusion to child abandonment, allusion to child endangerment, scared child
The Edge of Okay: A weary warrior fights an unseen battle, trying to hold herself together and hide her pain from the brothers. [angst] [Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester] ****TRIGGER WARNINGS*** anxiety/panic attack, self-harm, graphic descriptions of injuries
Overrated: In her world filled with annoying, overbearing boys, Binda just wants something of her own she doesn’t have to share. Will a kind, quiet merman have the answer? [fluff] [AU Merman!Castiel x Mermaid!OFC, Merman!Dean Winchester, Merman!Sam Winchester]
Easy as Pie: Dean thinks that the road to dessert is quick, easy, and unchallenged. You are about to prove him all kinds of wrong. [fluff] [Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, OFC Rae Himmel, Female Reader]
Bite Me, BitFit!: Dean is introduced to wearable fitness technology. It doesn’t go well. [fluff] [Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester]
Caught Red (or White) Handed: Someone thinks they’re very sneaky with their thievery. But the evidence is un-donut-able…[fluff] [Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester]
Pupply Love: When Uncle Dean takes his first solo niece-sitting gig, what could possibly go wrong? [fluff] [Dean Winchester, Castiel, Sam Winchester x reader & OC Erica: from the fic “Rainbows in the Storm” by @kittenofdoomage
Dream for a Mermaid: When she struggles under the weight of a lost goal, will her heart start buying the lies her head is spitting out? Or will she let her family speak the truth she needs to hear? [angst, fluff, **TW: anxiety/depression**] [Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Castiel, & platonic female friend]
Marvel Fics
Ticklish: written in partnership with @bucky-plums-barnes for her Daddy Wednesday theme day (Bucky Barnes x pregnant Reader)
Too Hot: written in partnership with @bucky-plums-barnes for her Daddy Wednesday theme day (Bucky Barnes x pregnant Reader)
Stark Tech for Baby Barnes: written in partnership with @bucky-plums-barnes for her Daddy Wednesday theme day (Bucky Barnes x pregnant Reader, Tony Stark)
The Pint-sized Protection Squad: Bucky Barnes, Alpha & Winter Soldier, thought he knew what scary was. Then, he came face-to-face with his Omega’s protection squad… [fluff] [a/b/o dynamics - Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader]
The Mini Messenger Service: The Pint-Sized Protection Squad calls Bucky on a mission with a very important message. [fluff] [a/b/o dynamics - Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader]
The Itty Bitty Babysitting Brigade: The Pint-Sized Protection Squad is back to show first-time dad Bucky the ropes. [fluff] [a/b/p dynamics - Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader]
The End & the Beginning: she’s running in terror from an unexpected threat. She finds the end of her fear in the most unexpected person. [angst] [Mobster Bucky Barnes x female character] [Warnings: mentions of violence, gunshots, implied murder]
Love in a time of COVID-19: Bucky won’t let anything get in the way of showing you he loves you & making you smile. [fluff] [Bucky Barnes x you, reader with Rheumatoid Arthritis]
The Last Action Hero: Inspired by @heli0s-writes “Bag of Tricks” world. In a scene straight from the apocalypse, Audra encounters the last action hero. “Chaotic Dumbass Reader (CDR)” Avenger is here to save the day, one aisle at a time. [fluff; bad language words & references to violence] [OFC, Bucky Barnes, & CDR]
The Hunting Incident: Alpine brings home a gift. It doesn’t go over well, with anyone - including the ‘gift’. [fluff] [Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Tony Stark & Alpine the Cat]
Quack: I have problems. Or just one problem. And it shines in all its ridiculous glory in front of several Avengers. [fluff] [You, Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, & Scott Lang]
Heroes Make Me Tired: I’m just trying to do my job - keep my team safe, keep my bosses out of court…and myself out of the looney bin. One of those is too tall an order. [fluff] [You, assorted Avengers]
Miscellaneous Fics
The Things We Don’t Ask For [RPF Tom Hiddleston x You]: I’ve lived my life standing on my own two feet. It doesn’t occur to me to ask for anything. But, just because I carry it well doesn’t mean my burdens aren’t heavy. [fluff, angst, mostly fluff]
To Be Your Hero [RPF Henry Cavill x You]: He plays a hero, running to the rescue on the big screen & TV. But what happens when you need a hero? [mentions of injuries, injured reader, angst, but lots of TLC fluff.]
Left of Bang [Captain Syverson x female reader]: You’re used to holding up the world for your family. But what happens when you need someone to hold up the world for you? [angst, reference to terminal illness, dying parent, hospital scene].
Warnings: discussion of some potentially heavy topics; I don’t know how Carnegie Mellon handles SH/SA cases — this is not a statement about CMU, just higher education in general
A/N: continuation of the Gremlin universe; grad student reader; set seven-ish years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); consider this your beach episode
Masterlist
—————————————————
“Oh, look. It’s your posse of lovers.”
You whip your head around to see who Chelsea’s referring to and blanch when you see Everett and Brendon walking into the auditorium.
“Quiet,” you hiss.
“What? I thought it was only a secret at the hospital and-, ow.”
She rubs the spot on her arm where you pinched her and glares at you. You glare right back, but not before taking a quick glance around to see if anyone overheard her. Only when you’re sure no one did do your shoulders drop from up around your ears.
“There are people here from PTMC,” you whisper-shout.
“How was I supposed to know that? No one showed up to my defense except my grandma and some RA hoping there would be free food. It’s not my fault all of Pittsburgh is here.”
She’s exaggerating, but it really is a lot of people. Way more than you were expecting. Dissertation defenses are open to the public, but there’s typically not a ton of people who want to listen to a non-mandatory academic lecture. It’s usually just the person defending and their committee, maybe a close friend or family member.
Right now, you’re still two committee members short, but Chelsea is here, and so is Dr. Nayar. Brendon and Everett just walked in together, much to the former’s distaste and the latter’s glee. Dr. Friede, the current head of PTMC’s Operational Research and Development Department, is talking to his assistant over in the corner, and you’re pretty sure that’s-
“Shit,” you squeak.
Chelsea’s eyes widen in interest.
“That’s only your second curse word this calendar year. I’m marking it down. What’s the date again-“
“That’s Gloria Underwood, the Vice President of Medical Affairs,” you say, only slightly hysterically.
“The who-a-what?”
“She’s really important, okay?”
Why she’s here, you have no idea. Nor do you know why one of the radiology attendings and an internal medicine fellow are sitting in the second to last row. There’s a handful of other CMU people here — Fritz and Harris from biomed, some computer engineering undergrads who are probably here against their will — but you’d expected that. Not all the PTMC personnel. Honestly, you’re surprised Brendon’s even here. It’s Monday, which means he’s supposed to be running consults all day, not trying and failing to get Everett to leave him alone over by the stage.
“Well look at the bright side. All these doctor people being here means it’s not suspicious that your harem is-“
“Chelsea Antoinette Alamilla.”
“How dare you middle name me in public. You’re lucky you present in fifteen minutes, or I would-, Peter! So nice to see you.”
Kavis walks up to the two of you, wearing a Christmas-themed bow tie even though it’s close to eighty degrees outside. He’s vibrating with energy, and he’s beaming at everyone and everything in sight.
“Ah, hello Chelsea! Wonderful day isn’t it? We-“
He continues talking, but you don’t really hear him. The clock is ticking down to 11:00, which means you’re only fourteen minutes away from arguably the most important presentation of your life. Your stomach feels like it’s sitting somewhere around your throat. Despite your social awkwardness, you’ve always kind of enjoyed public speaking, but not now. Right now you think you might puke or pass out. Maybe both.
You make up some excuse about using the bathroom and hightail it out of there. You duck into the back hallway, heart pounding and thoughts racing. The projector is set up, your laptop is connected, and you’ve already run through the slides twice to make sure your clicker works. There’s no reason for you to be panicking like this. You’ve practiced a thousand times, everything is set. So why is it so hard to-
“Breathe, imp.”
Brendon’s voice behind you makes you jump about a foot into the air, and you whirl around to find him smirking at you.
“Bren!”
“Running away? I think I’m parked closer than you if you want my keys.”
You shoot him an unamused look to hide the fact you actually considered it for a second. You’re freaking out in a way you never have before, and your body is locked in fight or flight.
“Very funny,” you mutter.
“Hey.”
His voice turns serious, and you immediately curl in on yourself. You’re being stupid. He performs high-risk surgeries and literally holds people’s lives in his hands, and here you are losing it over a PowerPoint presentation. He’s going to think you’re being ridiculous. He’s going to tell you get it together and-
“Sweetheart.”
Oh. That’s new. Well not technically, but he usually only calls you imp or gremlin or something equally unflattering unless you’re in bed together. It’s startling enough to hit pause on your internal breakdown, and you look at him like a deer caught in headlights.
“Come here.”
You should probably be concerned about how quickly your body obeys, but that’s a crisis for another day. Instead, you just walk straight into his arms and burrow into his chest like you’re trying to disappear. He holds you tight.
“I can hear you overthinking,” he murmurs into your hair.
“Am not.”
He snorts.
“Okay, fine. Maybe I am. But I just…I don’t want to mess up.”
“You won’t.”
He says it with absolute certainty, like he’s going to will it into existence with willpower alone. Honestly, if anyone could do it, it’d be him. But your anxiety and imposter syndrome are more than a match for his iron will, and you start nervously picking invisible lint off of his shirt.
“I don’t want to disappoint you,” you say so quietly it’s almost a whisper.
His hands, which had been rubbing slow circles over your back, stop. You cringe. You hadn’t meant to say that. But before you can apologize and lobotomize the memory from your brain, he grasps your upper arms and moves you back far enough that he can meet your eyes.
“Imp. You could never disappoint me.”
Said again with that unwavering confidence.
“But what if I fail and you-“
“Y/n.”
You freeze. He’s using that tone. The one that means he expects everyone around him to shut up and listen. The one that scares most other people but only kicks your libido into overdrive. Jerk.
“I don’t love you because you do or don’t have letters after your name.”
One hand comes up to rest on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lip. Your breath catches.
“I love you because you’re kind and patient-“
“Aww-“
“-and really fucking annoying.”
You stick out your tongue at him.
“You apologize too much and ramble when you’re nervous, but you’re smart and stubborn and strong. I don’t care if you pass this defense, even though I know you will.”
“But what if-“
“Even if you don’t, it won’t change anything.”
Your heart goes all gooey for a second. This is the sweetest he’s ever been to you, and it soothes you almost as much as it freaks you out. It’s obvious how much being nice costs him — he looks like he swallowed a lemon. Like a robot who’s reached the limits of its programming or a prisoner confessing under torture. You melt a little more at the thought of him going against every instinct he has to try and comfort you. Sweet man. Still, you can’t help it when you look at him and say-
“So are you saying you think I won’t pa-“
“For fuck’s sake, gremlin. Get inside.”
He pinches your side and shoots you a scowl that would likely make his residents cry. But a smile blooms across your face, and you feel your nerves settle. You might be panicked and nauseous and shaky, but it’s okay. Brendon can be steady enough for the both of you.
You take a deep breath and step back into the auditorium.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“You rocked that shit.”
“Chelsea, the kids.”
Chelsea glances glances over to where nine-year-old Patrick and three-year-old Paige have been playing trains on the carpet and shrugs.
“If your parents ask, you learned that word from Dr. Park, okay?”
Both children, who have met Chelsea before but never Brendon, nod easily and return to their toys. You groan. Patrick likely won’t say anything, but Paige is in her parroting phase. Her absolute favorite words are the ones that upset her parents, so there is a one thousand percent chance that she will be running around the house saying shit by the end of the night. You shake your head and drag Chelsea out of hearing range of the kids.
“Brendon’s going to kill you,” you mutter.
“Nah. That would upset you, and the man is so whipped I’m surprised he can pick out socks without consulting you first.”
You glance around frantically to make sure Brendon’s isn’t nearby. No matter what Chelsea thinks, you know down in your soul that he’s capable of murder. You also know that even if he wasn’t, he would make an exception for her.
“You promised to behave,” you hiss.
She looks half-repentant for half a second.
“You’re right, this is your night. I will resume tormenting the stick in the mud tomorrow.”
You shake your head, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. You’d meant it when you told Brendon you thought the two of them were extremely similar. Both of them had strong opinions about basically everything and everyone, and both said exactly what they thought no matter the consequences. It was probably a good thing they were like water and oil — if they worked together, they would be unstoppable.
“I’m going to see if Eileen needs help with anything,” you say. “You want to come?”
“Nope, but I will.”
You sigh fondly and start leading the way to the kitchen.
After your defense this morning, which you had apparently passed — you were so dazed, they could have taken you to the moon, and you wouldn’t have noticed — you’d spent the afternoon doing administrative things for your degree. But it’s evening now, and Peter is throwing you another one of his bird-themed celebration parties. His house is decorated with little paper birds and random throws of confetti his children insist are birdseed. It’s cute, ridiculous, and everything you need after the stress of the last few weeks.
Besides preparing for your dissertation, you’d spent the last almost month dealing with Jeremy and the fallout from the research gala. Meetings with Peter and Nayar and Yarrich, the department chair. Then Jeremy’s PI and HR and the Title IX Office. You’d been questioned and scrutinized to within an inch of your life, and at times it felt like you were the one who did something wrong.
You’d reported it to Peter immediately after it happened. Everett had witnessed it and submitted a written account that made it very clear he expected the university to take action. Then there was the fact that Jeremy was on PTMC’s visitor log multiple times when he had no academic or medical reason to be there. It should have been an open and shut case, but you were completely unsurprised when it wasn’t.
There were questions about your mental state and Everett’s — Were either of you drunk? Are you sure the two of you are remembering things correctly? Then there were the expected questions about Jeremy’s accusations — What is your relationship with Dr. Edwards and Dr. Park? Are you sure you’re not acting in a retaliatory manner against Dr. Hayes for brining to light your own actions? That last question had nearly given Brendon an aneurysm when you told him about it.
Your saving grace was Jack’s medical report. There was no way to he-said-she-said physical bruises on your wrist. Still, someone had dared ask if you were sure it was Jeremy who grabbed you, implying it was Everett instead. Everett, predictably, had been less than thrilled by the accusation. He was normally all smiles and charm, but he’d shown up at CMU in person and ripped the offending HR rep to shreds, complete with threats of a defamation lawsuit.
In the end, the university had been left with little choice. Jeremy had been given a no-contact order and was no longer allowed direct interaction with students. His classes had been handed to his TA, and he could no longer supervise the RA’s in his lab. He wasn’t being fired though. He’d been told his position would likely not be renewed the following year, but he would be allowed to finish out his current contract. Brendon’s response when you told him was I can still kill him if you want. Everett had offered to sue Jeremy into destitution. Peter had been livid and made a speech about the decline of moral rectitude in America. All of them were incensed that the consequences hadn’t been more severe. You, on the other hand, had expected it.
Jeremy was handsome, well-liked, and a man in a male-dominated field. It made you want to cry or scream or vomit, but you knew the only reason anything had gone your way at all was because three powerful men had backed you. Peter’s support was the reason your complaint had made it to HR. Everett was the reason HR hadn’t dismissed you outright. Jack was the reason they’d been forced to believe you. Without the three of them, you’d have gotten nowhere.
You’d spent your fair share of time alternately moping and seething over it. You’d even gotten drunk one evening with Chelsea and thrown darts at a picture of Jeremy‘s face. Brendon had had to pick you up that night, and he had been both surprisingly patient with you and unsurprisingly livid with Chelsea. The next morning, after your first — and last, you swore — hangover, you’d decided stewing on the situation wasn’t going to change anything.
The one good thing that had come out of all of it is that you can genuinely call Everett your friend now, and maybe Jack, to a lesser degree. But the way Everett had supported you and gone above and beyond in his defense of you had secured him a special place in your heart forever. Even Brendon, who still claims to hate Everett every chance he gets, secretly likes him.
Like your thoughts have summoned him, Everett chooses that moment to walk through the front door.
He’s dressed more casually than you’ve ever seen him — tan chinos and a white polo, with a pair of aviators pushing his inky waves back. He still looks unfairly good though. He spots you immediately and shoots you a megawatt smile before his eyes slide over to Chelsea, and his smile turns significantly more vulpine. Your immediate thought is oh no.
“Hey, doc,” he greets as he makes his way over to you. “Told you you’d pass.”
You thank him and accept his hug, even though what you’re really waiting for is-
“And you must be Chelsea. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
He offers her his hand, along with the most lethal grin on the eastern seaboard. Nine point nine out of ten women would crumble immediately. Chelsea does not.
“You must be Dr. Edwards,” she returns, completely nonplussed as she shakes his hand.
“Everett, please. Y/n tells me you’re a professor at Chatham — I would love to grab a coffee with you sometime, discuss-“
“Pass.”
Your jaw drops.
“Chelsea,” you hiss. “Be nice.”
“What? I’m just saving us all the trouble.”
Everett doesn’t even bat an eye.
“It’s alright, doc. Although I hope you’ll reconsider at some point,” he says, the second part aimed at Chelsea. “I’m told I can be pretty good company, even great on occasion.”
“Please. You look like you belong on the cover of one of those romance novels my grandma reads, the ones where they only fuck missionary, and the guy cries when he comes.”
“Chelsea.”
“Right, kids, sorry. Where they only engage in intercourse in the missionary position, and he cries when he ejaculates.”
Three things happen in rapid succession. One, you choke on absolutely nothing and start coughing your lungs up. Two, Chelsea offers to get you water and walks away without sparing Everett a glance. And three, Everett stares after her like a man staring after water in the desert. Like he just discovered religion or the meaning of life.
“Y/n,” he says faintly.
You’re coughing too hard to answer, but he continues anyways.
Summary - With Mama finally getting some rest, Andrew and Andie take charge downstairs. It isn't perfect, but by the end of the afternoon, everyone knows one thing for certain: Dada's got it.
Word Count - 4.8k
Only 2 chapters left...
By the time Aurora was two weeks old, the house had developed a system. Not a good system. Not a neat system.
Not one anyone would recommend in a parenting book unless the book was titled Everyone Is Tired And The Duck Is In Charge.
But a system.
There were nappies in the living room, the nursery, your bedroom, and, for reasons no one could fully explain, on the bottom stair.
There were muslins everywhere. On the armchair. On the back of the couch. Over Andrew's shoulder. In Andie's toy basket. Once, somehow, inside the fridge, which Andrew had discovered at midnight while looking for a bottle of water and then stared at for long enough that you had asked if he had found a body.
Baby Duck had a permanent place on the couch now, though that place changed depending on Andie's rules for the day.
The baby swing still existed in the corner, functional and deeply disliked.
The rules paper remained taped to the fridge, curling at the edges. Andie added to it whenever she felt the household was slipping into lawlessness.
Current rules included: No loud. No face. No steal Mama tea.
Dewan practice quiet. Mama sit. No bad feet. Luboo.
Andrew had pointed out that luboo was less a rule and more a statement. Andie had told him, "Still rule."
No one argued after that. You had learned many things since coming home with a newborn and a toddler.
One was that newborns could make sounds no human should be able to produce.
Another was that toddlers could smell weakness.
And the most important was that Andrew Cody could function on almost no sleep, but he could not tolerate watching you pretend you were fine when you were not.
Which was unfortunate. Because pretending you were fine had become one of your main skills.
You were in the living room on a grey afternoon, sitting cross legged on the rug in a position you had chosen optimistically and now regretted deeply. A pile of tiny clothes sat in front of you, half folded, half not, because every time you folded one thing, Aurora made a noise and you forgot what you were doing.
She was asleep in the bassinet beside the couch, face turned slightly to the side, one hand loose near her cheek.
Andie was sitting beside you, placing socks into pairs with the confidence of someone who did not understand matching.
She held up one yellow sock and one white sock.
"Pair."
You looked at them.
"Almost."
Andie frowned.
"Pair."
"They are both socks."
"Yes."
"That is definitely a start."
She placed them together with deep satisfaction.
"Good pair."
You nodded.
"Lovely pair."
Andrew walked in from the kitchen holding your water bottle in one hand and a plate with toast in the other.
He stopped when he saw you on the floor. His face changed. Not dramatically.
Andrew rarely did anything dramatically unless one of his daughters made a noise he did not recognise.
But the look sharpened.
"Why are you on the floor?"
You looked up.
"Folding."
"You have a basket."
"I have several baskets."
"On the couch."
"The couch is full."
He looked at the couch.
The couch held one blanket, two muslins, Baby Duck, a toy giraffe, one of Andie's books, and nothing else.
"That couch?"
You followed his gaze.
"Yes."
His eyes came back to you.
"You sat on the floor because the couch was full?"
"I was already down here."
"No, you weren't."
"You don't know my journey."
"I left you in the armchair."
"That was before the socks needed me."
Andrew set the plate and water bottle on the coffee table.
"Up."
You smiled.
"Is that for me or the socks?"
"You."
"And if I say no?"
"I'll pick you up."
You glanced toward the bassinet.
"Aurora is sleeping."
"I can be quiet."
"You are not subtle when you're annoyed."
"I'm not annoyed."
"You have a face."
He crouched in front of you, ignoring that entirely.
"You're pale."
"I'm tired."
"You're shaking."
"I am folding socks under intense pressure."
Andie held up two completely different socks.
"More pair."
Andrew looked at them.
"Good job."
You pointed at him.
"You are encouraging chaos."
He looked back at you.
"You need to rest."
"I am resting."
"You are on the floor."
"It's a restful floor."
"You couldn't get up yesterday."
"I could."
"You said, and I quote, 'I live here now.'"
Andie looked at you.
"Mama live floor?"
"No, baby."
Andrew held out his hand.
"Up."
You stared at it. Then at him.
Then sighed, because the annoying thing was that he was right, and the even more annoying thing was that he knew he was right.
You took his hand.
He helped you slowly, one hand at your elbow, the other hovering near your waist without gripping too hard. You were more steady now than those first few days, but your body still had limits, and you had been very creative about ignoring them.
When you were standing, Andrew did not let go right away. His eyes moved over your face.
"You dizzy?"
"No."
"Pain?"
"Sore."
"Bad?"
"No."
"Tired?"
"Always."
His mouth pressed into a line.
"You're going upstairs."
You blinked.
"What?"
"Bed."
You looked at the bassinet.
"She'll wake soon."
"I know."
"Andie needs lunch."
"I know."
"The washing needs moving over."
"I know."
"There are bottles to sterilise."
"I know."
You looked at him.
"You cannot just know everything and send me away."
"I can."
"No, you cannot."
"Watch me."
You stared at him. Andie stared at him too, thrilled by the sudden authority in the room.
Andrew picked up the toast and handed it to you.
"Eat this. Then bed."
"I don't need bed."
"You do."
"I can sit on the couch."
"No."
"That feels rude."
"You will sit on the couch and fold more things."
"I might."
"You will."
"Fine, then I will sit on the couch and not fold."
"You'll stare at the baby."
"She's my baby."
"She'll still be your baby after you sleep."
The words landed gently, but you still felt the guilt rise. You looked toward Aurora. She slept. Tiny chest moving.
Tiny mouth soft. Impossible to leave even for an hour. Andrew saw your face and softened.
"Hey."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"I just feel bad."
"For sleeping?"
"For leaving you with both of them."
Something shifted in his expression. Not hurt. Not exactly. More like the words had struck something old.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You're not leaving me with them."
You swallowed.
"You know what I mean."
"They're mine too."
The sentence was quiet. Flat. True. It caught you somewhere beneath the ribs.
Andrew's eyes stayed on yours.
"They're mine too," he said again, softer this time. "You don't have to be in the room for me to be their dad."
Your throat tightened.
"I know that."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Then bed."
You let out a shaky laugh because if you did not, you were going to cry over toast.
"You are so bossy."
Andie looked up at you.
"Dada rule."
Andrew nodded.
"Dada rule."
You looked at him.
"You have allied with the toddler government."
"She has good policies."
Andie lifted one finger.
"Mama sit."
Andrew pointed at her.
"Exactly."
"I am standing."
"Mama bed," Andie added.
Andrew looked smug. You looked at her.
"Traitor."
Andie smiled.
"I help Dada."
Andrew's smugness faded into concern.
"Oh."
You almost laughed. There it was. The danger. Andie helping.
Andie, who meant well with the force of a natural disaster. Andrew looked at her, then at you, then back at her.
"You want to help me?"
Andie nodded hard.
"I assistant."
You bit your lip. Andrew was silent for half a second longer than usual. Then he nodded.
"Okay. Assistant."
Andie climbed to her feet immediately, socks forgotten.
"I help Rora."
"Yes."
"I help Dada."
"Yes."
"I help Mama sleep."
Your heart softened. Andrew's eyes flicked to you.
"See?"
"I see."
Andie marched to the couch and picked up Baby Duck.
"Duck help too."
Andrew exhaled.
"Of course he does."
You lifted the toast and took a bite because three people and one stuffed duck were now apparently invested in your rest.
Andrew watched you chew. You gave him a look.
"Do not supervise my toast."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm making sure you eat."
"That is supervising."
"It's caring."
"It is aggressive caring."
He leaned down and kissed your forehead.
"Bed."
You sighed.
"Fine."
Andie clapped once.
"Mama sleep."
"Yes," Andrew said. "Mama sleeps."
"Quiet."
"Yes."
"No wake Mama."
Andrew nodded solemnly.
"No wake Mama."
Andie pointed at the bassinet.
"Rora no wake Mama."
Aurora slept on, uninterested in the law. Andrew looked at the baby.
"We'll discuss that with her."
You made it halfway up the stairs before turning back. Andrew had known you would.
He stood at the bottom with one hand on the railing, waiting.
"What?"
You frowned.
"I didn't say anything."
"You turned around."
"I forgot to tell you where the clean sleepsuits are."
"In the nursery drawer."
"The muslins?"
"Basket by the couch."
"The little socks?"
"Everywhere, apparently."
"What if she needs feeding?"
"I'll bring her up."
"What if Andie needs lunch?"
"I will feed her."
"What if she refuses lunch?"
"I will negotiate."
"What if Aurora cries while you're making lunch?"
"I will pick her up."
"What if Andie cries while Aurora cries?"
He looked at you.
"Then everybody cries."
You did not mean to laugh. It slipped out, pulling at your sore body. Andrew's face softened despite himself.
"I have them."
You breathed in.
"I know."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Do you?"
You looked past him. Aurora asleep in the bassinet.
Andie on the couch with Baby Duck, already whispering something to the toy about being assistants.
Your whole life downstairs. Your body felt too heavy and too empty all at once.
"I know," you said, quieter. "It's just hard."
Andrew came up two steps, enough to put his hand on your hip.
"Go lie down."
"I feel guilty."
"Feel guilty in bed."
You stared at him.
"That was not comforting."
"It was practical."
"It was very you."
His mouth curved.
"Yeah."
You touched his face.
He leaned into it for half a second, eyes closing in a way that made him look more tired than he would ever admit.
"You need rest too," you whispered.
"I'll rest after."
"You always say that."
"I mean it sometimes."
"No, you don't."
His eyes opened.
"I mean it today."
You did not believe him. He knew. He kissed your palm.
"Go."
Downstairs, Andie called, "Mama sleep now?" You looked over the railing.
"I'm going."
"Good," Andie said.
Andrew's mouth twitched. You pointed at him.
"Do not let her enjoy this too much."
"She's already gone."
Andie appeared at the bottom of the stairs, Baby Duck tucked beneath one arm, chin lifted with great importance.
"Mama no come down."
You raised your eyebrows.
"Oh?"
"Mama rest."
Andrew looked away, but you could see his smile.
"And what are you going to do?"
"I help Dada."
"With what?"
Andie looked at Andrew.
"What do?"
He looked suddenly less confident.
"We will figure it out."
You laughed softly. Then you turned and went upstairs before your body or your guilt could argue any louder.
For twelve minutes, everything was fine. Andrew knew because he checked the clock. Not because he was nervous.
He was not nervous. He was their father. He had this. Aurora was asleep in the bassinet.
Andie was sitting at the coffee table with a bowl of cut banana, a piece of toast, and Baby Duck placed beside her with his own empty bowl because apparently assistant work required snacks.
The house was mostly quiet.
The washing remained unfolded on the rug, but Andrew had decided that socks were not an emergency.
He stood in the kitchen, moving quietly as he filled your water bottle again for later, because you were going to wake up thirsty even if you insisted you would not.
Andie lifted a piece of banana toward Baby Duck's face.
"Duck no like."
Andrew looked over.
"Maybe Duck is full."
"No."
"No?"
"Duck waiting."
"For what?"
Andie looked at the empty bowl.
"Pasta."
"It's morning."
"Duck like pasta."
"Duck can have pretend pasta."
Andie sighed.
"Dada."
He looked at her.
"What?"
"Duck hungry."
Andrew stared at the stuffed duck. Then opened a cupboard and took out a small dry pasta shape.
He placed it in Baby Duck's empty bowl. Andie smiled.
"Good Dada."
Andrew felt absurdly proud of that. Then Aurora woke up. Not softly. Not in stages.
She went from sleeping to furious with no warning, one tiny squawk becoming a cry that filled the room faster than seemed possible.
Andie froze with banana halfway to her mouth.
"Rora loud."
"I know."
Andrew crossed to the bassinet. Aurora's face had turned red with effort, her fists waving near her cheeks.
"Hey," he murmured, bending over her. "Hey, angry girl. What happened?"
Aurora cried harder. Andrew checked the obvious things. Blanket clear. Breathing fine.
Nothing caught. No visible disaster. Still angry.
He lifted her carefully, one hand under her head, the other supporting her body, and settled her against his chest.
"There. Dada has you."
Her cry hitched, then continued directly into his shirt. Andie appeared beside his leg.
"Rora sad."
"She's okay."
"Rora loud sad."
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"I don't know yet."
Andie looked alarmed.
"Dada no know?"
Andrew paused. Important moment. He could feel it. If he panicked, she would panic.
If he pretended, she would know. So he kept his voice calm.
"Not yet."
Andie frowned.
"Find out."
"I'm going to."
Aurora cried again.
Andrew shifted her slightly and checked her nappy by touch, the way he had learned to do with increasing competence and decreasing fear.
"She needs changing."
Andie straightened.
"Assistant."
He looked down at her.
"Assistant gets nappy."
Andie ran to the basket, grabbed one, then ran back with the triumph of someone delivering medicine during wartime.
"Nappy."
"Good."
"Wipes."
"Yes."
She ran again. Came back with a muslin. Andrew looked at it.
"That is a muslin."
Andie looked down.
"Wipes."
"No."
She frowned.
"White."
"It is white."
"Wipes white."
"Good point. Different white."
She glared at the muslin as if it had deceived her. Andrew adjusted Aurora, who was now crying directly into his ear.
"Try again."
Andie ran back and returned with the wipes packet this time.
"Wipes."
"Good job."
Her chest puffed.
"Best assistant."
Andrew glanced down at her.
"Best assistant."
Aurora screamed. Andie's pride vanished.
"Rora no like."
"She does not."
"No cold."
"I'll be quick."
"No bad feet."
"I'll control her feet."
This was immediately proven impossible.
Aurora's legs kicked free the moment Andrew opened her sleepsuit, two tiny feet fighting the air with unreasonable determination.
Andie gasped.
"Bad feet."
"I know."
"Rule."
"She does not respect the rules."
Andie looked deeply offended.
Andrew changed the nappy with one hand braced lightly over Aurora's stomach and the other moving quickly, because he had become good at it in the way people became good at things they did fifty times while sleep deprived.
Aurora cried the entire time. Andie hovered near his knee, clutching the muslin.
"Rora sad."
"She's cold and annoyed."
"Make happy."
"I'm trying."
"Dada fix."
Andrew looked down at Aurora's furious face.
"I'm fixing."
Andie shoved the muslin forward.
"Here."
"Thank you."
"She need."
"She does."
Andie pushed it too close to Aurora's face. Andrew caught her wrist gently.
"Not near her face."
Andie froze. Her face changed. Not sad. Offended.
"I assistant."
"I know."
"You say."
"I did."
"You say best."
"You are."
"You say no."
Andrew heard the wobble. Small. Quick. Dangerous.
Aurora was still crying. The nappy tabs were not fastened. Andie was looking at him like he had demoted her in a profession she had invented ten minutes ago.
He took a breath. Then another.
"Assistant."
Andie's eyes stayed bright.
"What?"
"Best assistant still has to be gentle."
She looked at the muslin in her hand.
"Gentle."
"Yeah. You were helping. I know. We just keep it away from her face."
Andie sniffed.
"Because rule."
"Because rule."
"No face."
"No face."
Her shoulders lowered.
Andrew finished the nappy and zipped Aurora back up. She stopped crying for half a second, then started again, apparently offended that the process had ended without a formal apology.
Andie leaned close, carefully this time.
"No loud."
Aurora cried. Andie looked at Andrew.
"She no listen."
"She is very bad at rules."
Andie sighed.
"She learning."
Andrew picked Aurora up and settled her against his chest again.
"She's learning."
Andie patted Aurora's back with two fingers, gentle enough that Andrew almost broke apart right there.
"There," she whispered. "No sad."
Aurora cried once more. Then hiccupped. Then slowly began to settle. Andie's face brightened.
"I fix."
Andrew nodded.
"You helped."
"Best assistant."
"Best assistant."
She smiled. Andrew held Aurora against his shoulder and looked toward the stairs. He thought of you asleep upstairs.
Or trying to sleep. He thought about calling you. Not because he needed to.
Because his body still believed you were the centre he should return to when something felt too big.
But Aurora was quieting. Andie was smiling. The nappy was changed. No one was hurt.
He did not call you. He looked down at both girls and said, softly, "Dada has it." Andie looked up.
"Dada has Rora?"
"Yeah."
She touched his knee.
"Dada has Andie?"
His throat tightened. He crouched slowly, careful with the baby, until he was closer to her height.
"Always."
Andie stared at him. The word landed. He saw it. She looked down at Baby Duck tucked beneath her arm.
"Dada has Duck?"
Andrew's mouth curved.
"Duck too."
Andie nodded.
"Good."
Twenty minutes later, the snack bowl was on the floor. Not spilled badly.
Just enough that several banana slices had made a break for freedom. Baby Duck had acquired a bib.
Andrew was not sure how that had happened.
He suspected Andie had done it while he was trying to settle Aurora after another small fussing spell, but the timeline was unclear and he had chosen not to investigate.
The pasta shape in Baby Duck's bowl had been replaced by three raisins. Also unclear.
Andie sat beside him on the rug, eating toast with one hand while holding a muslin in the other like she was ready to respond to an emergency.
Aurora slept against Andrew's chest. Not deeply enough for him to risk putting her down.
Just enough that he had become trapped.
He was sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, one knee bent, one arm supporting Aurora, the other resting around Andie because she had backed into his side sometime after declaring that the rug was "too far."
The television was on low. He had not turned it on for Andie.
Andie had asked for it, then stopped watching after three minutes.
Now a cartoon dog was having a crisis no one in the room understood. Andrew stared at the living room.
The washing was still on the rug. The half folded socks had been mixed with Andie's plastic animals.
Your cold tea sat on the coffee table, untouched. Your toast plate still had crust on it.
The house looked worse than when you had gone upstairs. But both girls were quiet. That counted.
Andie leaned her head against his side.
"Dada."
"Yeah?"
"Mama sleep?"
"I hope so."
"No wake."
"No wake Mama."
"Rule."
"Rule."
Aurora made a tiny sound against his chest. Andie lifted her head.
"Rora wake?"
"Maybe."
"No. Sleep."
Aurora settled. Andie nodded.
"She listen me."
Andrew smiled faintly.
"She does sometimes."
Andie took another bite of toast. Then held a piece up toward Andrew's mouth.
"Dada eat."
He blinked.
"I'm okay."
"Eat."
"I'm holding your sister."
She pushed the toast closer.
"Dada hungry."
He took the smallest possible bite. Andie watched him chew with satisfaction.
"Good."
He swallowed.
"Thank you."
"You need water?"
Andrew looked at her. The words were familiar. Too familiar. He heard himself in them.
You too. The house speaking through your daughter.
"I'm okay."
Andie frowned.
"You say Mama need water."
"Mama does need water."
"Dada too."
He stared at her for a moment. Then nodded.
"Yeah. Dada too."
She reached for your water bottle. Andrew caught her hand gently.
"That's Mama's."
Andie paused.
"No steal Mama tea."
"Water too."
"Mama water."
"Yeah."
"Dada water?"
"In the kitchen."
Andie looked toward the kitchen. Then down at Aurora. Then back at Andrew.
"I get?"
"No, baby. Stay here."
"I assistant."
"I know. But you stay with me."
She considered this. Then settled back against his side.
"Dada stuck."
Andrew looked down at Aurora. Then at Andie tucked against him.
"Yeah."
Andie smiled.
"Both hands full."
The words hit him differently this time. Not like a title. Not like a thing to be frightened by. Just the truth.
Both hands full. Both daughters safe. You asleep upstairs. The house messy.
The day imperfect. And somehow, somehow, he was doing it. Aurora shifted in her sleep, mouth opening against his shirt.
Andrew watched her breathe. Andie's head grew heavier against his ribs. He felt the exact moment she began drifting.
She fought it, of course. Her eyelids lowered, lifted, lowered again.
"Not sleep," she mumbled.
"No?"
"No."
"Okay."
"Assistant awake."
"Very awake."
Her eyes closed. Andrew did not move. The cartoon dog continued its crisis.
The banner tape on the window caught a strip of grey afternoon light. Aurora slept against his chest.
Andie slept against his side. Baby Duck, wearing a bib, lay across his knee like a fallen soldier.
Andrew looked toward the stairs again. He still did not call you.
You woke slowly. That alone felt suspicious. There was no baby crying. No toddler yelling.
No Andrew saying your name in that careful voice that meant he was trying not to alarm you but had already become alarmed himself.
Just quiet. Not perfect quiet. The house still hummed. A floorboard creaked somewhere below.
The wind shifted against the window. But the urgent sounds were missing.
You blinked at the bedroom ceiling, disoriented by the fact that you had slept long enough to feel heavy with it.
Your body ached in the way it always did now, but less sharply than before. Your breasts were full, your mouth dry, your hair stuck to your cheek.
You turned your head toward the clock. Two hours. Nearly two full hours.
You sat up too fast and regretted it immediately.
"Idiot," you whispered to yourself.
Then you listened. Still no crying. No panic. No calling for you.
Your heart started moving faster anyway. Because quiet could be good.
Quiet could also mean disaster had taken a silent form.
You got out of bed carefully this time, one hand braced against the mattress, and pulled Andrew's hoodie around yourself before leaving the room.
The hallway was dim. Andie's door was open. Her bed was empty.
Your stomach dropped for half a second before you remembered Andrew had her. Andrew had them.
You moved down the stairs slowly, expecting some kind of scene. You found one. Just not the one you feared.
The living room looked like a small, very domestic crime had been committed.
The snack bowl was on its side on the rug, banana slices scattered nearby like evidence. Half folded baby clothes had been mixed with plastic animals. A muslin hung over the back of the couch. Another lay across Andrew's shoulder. Baby Duck was wearing one of Aurora's bibs and had three raisins in front of him on a toy plate.
The television played quietly to no one.
And in the middle of it all, Andrew sat on the floor with his back against the couch.
Aurora slept on his chest, one cheek squashed against his shirt, tiny body tucked safely beneath his hand.
Andie slept against his side, head heavy on his ribs, one arm thrown over his thigh. Baby Duck lay across his knee.
Andrew was awake. Barely, maybe. But awake. His eyes lifted to yours the second you appeared.
"You're up."
Your chest tightened.
"You didn't come get me."
"You were sleeping."
"For two hours."
"I know."
"You managed two hours?"
His mouth curved faintly.
"Almost."
You took in the room again.
"The house looks like a crime scene."
"We survived."
"What happened to Baby Duck?"
"Assistant uniform."
You pressed your lips together.
"And the raisins?"
"Payment."
"For what?"
"I stopped asking."
You covered your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. Andrew looked exhausted. Deeply. Beautifully.
There were shadows beneath his eyes. His hair was a mess from Andie's hands. A small damp patch sat on his shoulder where Aurora had either drooled or spat up. One of his legs had to be numb beneath Baby Duck and Andie's weight.
But his face was calm. Not peaceful exactly. He was too alert for that. But calm.
Steady. Full. You moved closer and sat on the couch behind him, careful not to jostle anyone.
"Are you okay?"
He nodded.
"Yeah."
"Really?"
His eyes softened.
"Really."
"You could have woken me."
"I know."
"Why didn't you?"
"You needed sleep."
"They needed you."
He looked down at Aurora, then at Andie.
"I had them."
There it was. Simple. Quiet. Everything.
Your eyes burned. Andrew saw it and tilted his head.
"Don't cry."
"You cannot say things like that and tell me not to cry."
"I didn't say anything."
"You said I had them."
"I did."
"That is something."
His mouth softened.
"You cry a lot now."
"I had a baby two weeks ago."
"I know."
"You keep forgetting that when it's inconvenient."
"I never forget."
That shut you up. His eyes moved over your face. Not checking in a panicked way this time. Just seeing you.
"You look better."
"I slept."
"Good."
"You look worse."
"I had assistants."
You smiled.
"Plural?"
His gaze dropped to Baby Duck.
"One was mostly symbolic."
You reached down and brushed a hand over Andie's hair. She did not wake.
"Was she okay?"
"Yeah."
"She didn't get upset?"
"A little."
Your eyes moved to him.
"What happened?"
He shifted his shoulder carefully, keeping Aurora steady.
"She brought the wrong wipes."
You blinked.
"That was the crisis?"
"She thought I said she wasn't a good assistant."
"Oh."
"I fixed it."
Your heart softened.
"Of course you did."
He looked down at Andie.
"She asked if Dada has Rora."
Your breath caught.
"And?"
"I said yeah."
His thumb moved over Aurora's back.
"Then she asked if Dada has Andie."
Your throat closed.
"What did you say?"
He looked up at you.
"Always."
Oh. You pressed one hand to your mouth. Andrew's face shifted.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're doing the face."
"I'm allowed to do the face."
"What face?"
"The face of a woman who got two hours of sleep and came downstairs to emotional murder."
His mouth curved.
"Emotional murder?"
"Yes."
Andie stirred against him. Both of you froze. She mumbled something into his shirt. Andrew looked down.
"What, baby?"
Her eyes did not open.
"Dada has it."
Your heart broke clean in two. Andrew went very still. Andie sighed and sank back into sleep.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Aurora made a tiny sleeping noise against his chest. The television murmured.
The house held its breath around you. You looked at Andrew. His eyes were wet. Not crying.
Not yet. But close.
You slid off the couch carefully and lowered yourself beside him on the rug, ignoring the way your body protested because this mattered more.
Andrew frowned immediately.
"You should not sit on the floor."
"I know."
"Then why are you on the floor?"
"Because you're down here."
"That is not a good reason."
"It is the reason."
He looked like he wanted to argue, but Aurora shifted, and he adjusted her instead.
You leaned against his free shoulder carefully. For a while, you just sat there.
Your family in a pile on the living room floor. Mess everywhere. Sleep everywhere. Love everywhere.
You reached over and touched Aurora's blanket. Then Andie's hair. Then Baby Duck's ridiculous bib.
"You really did have it."
Andrew was quiet. Then he said, "I was scared for a minute." You looked at him.
"When?"
"When they both needed something."
You waited. He swallowed.
"I thought about calling you."
"But you didn't."
"No."
"Why?"
His eyes stayed on the girls.
"Because you needed sleep."
You touched his wrist.
"That's not the only reason."
His jaw shifted.
"No."
"What was the other?"
He looked at you then. Raw. Tired. Honest.
"I wanted to know I could."
Your chest softened.
"Oh, Andrew."
"Not for you," he said quickly. "Not like proving something to you."
"I know."
"For them."
You nodded.
"For me too, maybe."
Your hand tightened around his wrist.
"I know."
He looked back down at Andie.
"She trusts me."
"Yes."
"And Rora doesn't know anything yet, but she..." He looked at Aurora, sleeping against him with impossible trust. "She settles sometimes when I hold her."
"Because she knows you."
His throat moved.
"She's two weeks old."
"She knows you."
He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he looked at you.
"I missed a lot with Andie."
"I know."
"I'll always hate that."
"I know."
"But this." His eyes moved over both girls. "This I can do."
You leaned your head against his shoulder.
"Yes."
He breathed out slowly.
"I can have them."
"You do have them."
His mouth pressed together. You watched him fight it. The emotion. The old disbelief.
The part of him that still sometimes looked around a happy room as if happiness required someone else's permission.
But he did not look like he was waiting to be told to give them back. Not today.
Not sitting there with Aurora asleep on his chest and Andie tucked against him, with Baby Duck in a bib and banana on the floor.
He looked exhausted. He looked wrecked. He looked happy.
He looked like a man with both hands full and no intention of putting anything down.
Andie shifted again, little fingers tightening in his shirt. Andrew looked down.
"Hey."
She blinked sleepily.
"Mama?"
"I'm here," you whispered.
Her eyes found you.
"Mama sleep?"
"I did."
She smiled, drowsy and pleased.
"Good."
You laughed softly.
"Yes. Good."
"Dada did it."
Andrew went still again. You smiled at her.
"He did."
"Assistant help."
"You did?"
She nodded, eyes half closed.
"Best assistant."
"The best," Andrew said, voice rough.
Andie looked at him.
"Dada has Rora?"
He nodded.
"Yeah."
"Dada has Andie?"
His mouth trembled.
"Always."
She smiled.
"Dada has Duck?"
He looked down at the bibbed doll on his knee.
"Unfortunately."
Andie frowned.
"Dada."
He softened.
"Yes. Dada has Duck."
Satisfied, she closed her eyes again. You stared at Andrew over her head. He looked back at you.
For once, there was nothing to fix. Nothing to reassure. Nothing to explain. The girls had asked.
He had answered. And the house believed him. A few minutes later, Aurora started rooting against his chest.
Andrew looked down.
"She's waking."
You shifted.
"I can take her."
He glanced at you.
"You just slept."
"She'll want feeding."
"I'll bring her to you on the couch."
"You're pinned."
"I've escaped worse."
You looked at the toddler asleep against his side, the newborn on his chest, the duck on his knee.
"Have you?"
His mouth curved.
"No."
You laughed quietly.
Andrew moved with impossible care. Somehow, he transferred Baby Duck to the rug, eased Andie's head onto a cushion, kept one hand on Aurora, and still managed to help you back onto the couch before you could argue.
By the time he placed Aurora in your arms, she was fussing softly, not yet furious. Andie slept on.
Baby Duck lay on the rug in his bib, deeply undignified. Andrew sat beside you and rubbed a hand over his face.
You settled Aurora against you and looked at him.
"You should sleep now."
He looked at Andie on the floor. Then at Aurora feeding. Then at you.
"In a minute."
"You always say that."
"I mean it."
"You don't."
He leaned back against the couch, shoulder touching yours.
"I will."
You watched his eyes drift toward Andie again.
"You won't."
His mouth curved faintly.
"Probably not."
You rested your head against his shoulder.
"You know," you whispered, "this is not helping."
"What?"
"You being amazing."
He looked down at you.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I changed a nappy and gave a duck a bib."
"You let me sleep."
"That's not amazing."
"It is to me."
His expression softened. Aurora made a small sound as she fed. Andrew touched the edge of her blanket with one finger.
You looked at his hand. Then at Andie sleeping on the rug. Then at the mess around you.
"Dada had it," you whispered.
His eyes lifted to yours. For a moment, he looked like he might deny it. Like the words were too kind. Too large.
Too dangerous to keep. Then Andie sighed in her sleep, one hand reaching blindly until it found Baby Duck's foot.
Aurora settled closer against you. Andrew looked at both girls. Then back at you.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I did."
You smiled. He leaned in and kissed your forehead. The house stayed messy. The socks stayed unmatched.
The snack bowl remained on the floor. Baby Duck kept his bib.
And for once, no one rushed to tidy away the proof of what had happened there. Andrew had held both girls.
You had slept. The house had not fallen apart.
And somewhere in the ordinary wreckage of banana slices, muslins, nappies, rules, and one very patient stuffed duck, Andrew stopped looking like a man trying to earn his place in the room.
He was already in it. On the floor. On the couch. In every cry, every rule, every whispered promise.
Summary - With a new baby in the house, Andie takes her job as big sister very seriously… especially when it comes to making the rules.
Word Count - 4.5k
A/N - Only 3 parts left...
The first rule arrived before breakfast.
You were on the couch with Aurora tucked against your chest, one hand supporting the back of her tiny head, the other trying and failing to reach the cup of tea Andrew had set just far enough away that you could see it, smell it, and resent it.
It had gone cold. Of course it had. All tea went cold now.
Tea had become decorative.
Across the room, Andrew stood beside the changing basket with a clean nappy in one hand and a packet of wipes in the other, staring down at the supplies like they had personally rearranged themselves while his back was turned.
"Where are the small ones?"
You looked up.
"The small what?"
"The nappies."
"They're all small. She's a newborn."
He gave you a look.
"The smaller small ones."
"You mean the newborn nappies?"
"Yes."
"In the basket."
"I'm looking in the basket."
"Then they're probably in the basket."
"They're not."
You watched him move one muslin, two vests, a tiny pair of socks, a pack of wipes, three nappies, and a hat before he paused.
His face changed. You smiled.
"Found them?"
"No."
"Andrew."
He lifted the packet he had been holding the entire time.
"These are them."
You pressed your lips together. He pointed at you.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were going to."
"I would never."
"You absolutely would."
Aurora made a tiny sound against your chest, face scrunching into the beginning of a complaint.
Andrew's attention snapped to her.
"She okay?"
"She's fine."
"She made a sound."
"She's a person. They do that."
"She's a very small person."
You smiled down at her.
"That she is."
Before Andrew could cross the room to check for himself, Andie appeared in the doorway wearing one sock, pyjama bottoms, and the expression of someone who had woken up with a great deal of business to attend to.
Baby Duck was under her arm. Soft duck was clutched in her other hand. Her hair stuck up at the back.
She looked like a tiny manager arriving late to a meeting she had scheduled herself.
"Mama."
You looked over.
"Morning, baby."
"Dada."
Andrew looked down at her.
"Morning."
"Rora."
Aurora gave another small newborn grunt. Andie's eyes narrowed.
Then she walked into the room, stopped in front of you, and lifted one serious finger.
"No loud."
You blinked. Andrew's mouth twitched.
"What?"
Andie pointed at Aurora.
"No loud."
You looked down at the newborn sleeping against your chest.
"I'll let her know."
Andie frowned at you.
"No, Mama. Rule."
Andrew set the nappies down slowly.
"A rule?"
Andie nodded.
"Big sister rule."
Your heart softened immediately.
"Oh."
Andrew looked at you. You looked at him. A whole conversation passed silently between you.
After days of wobbling, clinging, asking if she stayed, asking if Aurora stayed, asking if Mama's arms came back, Andie had apparently reached a new stage.
Authority.
She climbed onto the couch beside you with great effort and no grace, then arranged Baby Duck against her stomach. Soft duck landed face down beside your thigh.
Andrew stepped forward to help. Andie held up her hand.
"No. Andie do."
He stopped. She finished climbing, sat beside you, and leaned toward Aurora. Not too close.
She had learned that.
"Rora," she whispered loudly. "No loud."
Aurora slept. Andie looked pleased.
"She listen."
Andrew covered his mouth with his hand. You looked down at Aurora's peaceful face.
"Apparently."
Andie looked up at you.
"More rules."
"Oh, are there?"
"Yes."
Andrew sat on the coffee table opposite her because clearly this had become important.
"What are the rules?"
Andie looked at him with the patient irritation of someone surrounded by amateurs.
"No loud."
He nodded.
"No loud."
"No wake Rora."
"That feels more like a rule for everyone else."
Andie nodded as if he had understood correctly.
"No face."
"No touching her face?"
"No touch face."
"Good rule."
"No take Duck."
You looked at Baby Duck.
"I don't think Aurora can take Baby Duck yet."
Andie's eyes sharpened.
"No take Duck."
Andrew nodded immediately.
"No taking Duck."
"No tiny angry face."
You lost the battle and laughed. Aurora stirred against you. Andie gasped, horrified.
"Mama loud."
You froze. Andrew looked delighted. You lowered your voice.
"Sorry."
Andie patted Aurora's blanket with one careful finger.
"Mama sorry."
Aurora stayed asleep. Andie nodded.
"Good."
Andrew leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"Any more rules?"
Andie thought about this deeply. The kind of thinking that used her whole face. Then she looked at him.
"Dewan quiet."
Andrew's mouth curved.
"That is a very good rule."
You nodded solemnly.
"Maybe the best one."
Andie pointed toward the front door as if Deran might burst through it at any moment.
"Dewan loud."
"He is," Andrew said.
"Bad loud."
"Sometimes."
"No wake Rora."
"No."
"No wake Mama."
You softened. Andrew did too.
"That's a good one," you whispered.
Andie turned back to Aurora.
"No wake Mama."
Aurora slept through being instructed.
Andrew stood and walked to the kitchen counter, picking up the notepad that usually held grocery lists and half written reminders. He came back with a pen.
Andie watched him suspiciously.
"What do?"
"Writing them down."
Her face brightened.
"Rules paper?"
"Rules paper."
You leaned back carefully into the cushion, holding Aurora against you as Andrew sat on the floor in front of the couch with the notepad balanced on his knee.
"Okay," he said. "Rule one."
Andie lifted one finger.
"No loud."
Andrew wrote it.
"No loud."
"Rule two?"
"No wake Rora."
He wrote that too.
"No wake Rora."
"Rule three?"
"No face."
He glanced at you. You smiled.
"No touch face," he translated.
Andie nodded.
"No take Duck."
He wrote that.
"No tiny angry face."
Andrew paused.
"That one might be hard for her."
Andie frowned.
"Why?"
"She's a baby."
"So?"
"She doesn't know her face yet."
Andie looked at Aurora. Then back at Andrew.
"Teach."
His expression shifted. Soft. Quiet.
Almost too much.
"Yeah," he said. "You can teach her."
Andie nodded, pleased with this.
"I big sister."
Andrew's voice went low.
"You are."
She leaned back against your side and tucked Baby Duck under her chin.
"No worry. I teach."
You swallowed.
"No worry?"
She nodded.
"I teach Rora."
Andrew looked at you. You did not say anything. You could not.
Because after days of seeing Andie's little heart bend around the new shape of the house, after watching her try to work out whether love could be shared without disappearing, this felt like sunlight through a cracked curtain.
She was not trying to send Aurora back. She was trying to bring her in. With rules, apparently.
But still. In.
The rules were taped to the fridge by ten in the morning.
Andrew had written them in his careful block letters, and Andie had decorated the bottom with three round shapes that she said were ducks.
One of them had four legs. One had a large circle coming out of its head. One looked haunted.
Andrew stared at them for a long moment before saying, "Good ducks." You looked at him. He did not look back.
Andie nodded proudly.
"Rule ducks."
"Important," you said.
"Very," Andrew agreed.
Aurora was awake now, lying in Andrew's arms with her face turned toward his chest, blinking in the strange unfocused way newborns did, as if the world was a blurry inconvenience.
Andie stood on tiptoe in front of them.
"She look."
Andrew glanced down.
"She does."
"Rora see rules?"
"Not from here."
Andie considered this a flaw in the system.
"Show."
Andrew turned carefully so Aurora faced the fridge. The baby blinked.
Andie lifted both arms like she was presenting a museum exhibit.
"Rules."
Aurora hiccupped. Andie gasped.
"She say yes."
You were sitting at the kitchen table with toast you had managed to eat half of while it was still warm, which felt almost like a luxury.
"I think she hiccupped."
Andie looked at you.
"No. Yes."
Andrew kept his face impressively neutral.
"You heard yes?"
Andie nodded.
"Rora like rules."
Aurora hiccupped again. Andie smiled.
"See?"
Andrew looked at the baby.
"Very supportive."
Aurora blinked. Andie took Baby Duck from the table and held it up.
"Duck like rules too."
Andrew looked at Baby Duck.
"I assumed."
You sipped water and watched them, trying to decide whether you were more tired or more happy.
It changed minute to minute.
Your body still felt tender in places you were trying not to think about too often. Your ribs ached from curling over feeds. Your eyes burned in the dull, constant way of someone who had slept in broken pieces too small to count.
But the kitchen was warm.
Andrew was barefoot, holding your daughter in one arm and the rules paper in place with the other because one corner of tape had already started peeling.
Andie was explaining conduct expectations to a newborn and a stuffed duck. Aurora had hiccups. It was not calm.
But it was yours. Andrew glanced at you over Andie's head.
"You okay?"
You smiled faintly.
"You've asked that four times since breakfast."
"Five."
"You're counting?"
He shifted Aurora higher against his chest.
"No."
"You are."
"I might be."
"I'm okay."
His eyes stayed on your face for another second.
"Really?"
"Tired. Sore. Okay."
He nodded, accepting that answer more easily than he would have three days ago, which you counted as growth.
Then Andie pointed at him.
"Dada."
He looked down.
"Yeah?"
"No tiny angry face."
You laughed into your cup. Andrew blinked.
"I don't have a tiny angry face."
Andie stared at him. You stared at him too. He looked between you both.
"I don't."
You raised your eyebrows. His mouth flattened.
"That is not what my face does."
Andie pointed at his forehead.
"Angry."
"I'm thinking."
"Angry thinking."
You set your cup down before you spilled it. Andrew looked at Aurora.
"You see what happens? You come home and everyone turns on me."
Aurora hiccupped. Andie nodded.
"Rora say yes."
Deran broke rule one within six seconds of arriving. To be fair, he tried not to.
You saw him through the front window as he climbed out of Craig's truck with a bag of groceries in one hand and a pack of nappies in the other. Craig said something to him before they reached the door, probably a warning, because Deran visibly lowered his shoulders and nodded like a man preparing to enter a sacred site.
Then Andrew opened the door. Deran whispered, "HELLO." Everyone froze.
Craig closed his eyes. Andrew looked at him.
"That was your whisper?"
Deran looked wounded.
"I made it softer."
"You made it lower."
Andie appeared behind Andrew like she had been summoned by the offence.
Her hair was clipped back on one side and escaping on the other. Baby Duck was tucked under her arm. She looked at Deran, then at the rules paper on the fridge, then back at Deran.
"Rule."
Deran immediately straightened.
"I know."
"No loud."
"I was not loud."
Craig stepped in behind him.
"You were loud."
"I whispered."
"You announced your whisper."
Deran looked down at Andie.
"I'm sorry."
Andie narrowed her eyes.
"Rora sleep."
Deran whispered again, much smaller this time, "Sorry, Rora." Aurora was not sleeping.
She was in your arms on the couch, staring vaguely at nothing and making tiny noises under her breath.
Andie pointed at her.
"Rora hear."
Deran looked toward the couch and lifted one hand cautiously.
"Hi, tiny legend."
Andie gasped like he had cursed in church.
"No."
Deran froze.
"What?"
"No tiny legend."
He blinked.
"That's affectionate."
"No."
Craig walked past him into the kitchen, smiling to himself.
Andrew took the grocery bag from him. Deran looked at Craig.
"I'm being policed."
Craig started unloading the food.
"You needed it."
"By a two year old with a duck?"
Andie pointed at him again.
"Dewan."
He shut his mouth. Andrew's shoulders shook silently. You looked down at Aurora.
"Your uncle is doing very well."
Deran brightened.
"Uncle?"
Andrew looked at him.
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm not making it weird."
"You got weird immediately."
Deran pointed at the baby.
"She thinks I'm important."
Aurora blinked. Andie looked at her sister's face, then at Deran.
"Rora no know you."
Craig laughed. Deran stared at Andie.
"That was brutal."
Andrew murmured, "Accurate." Deran looked personally betrayed by the entire family. You smiled so hard it hurt.
Craig came over with a container of food and set it on the coffee table.
"How are you feeling?"
Before you could answer, Andrew said, "Tired. Sore. Okay." You looked at him. He looked back.
"What?"
"Are you my spokesperson now?"
"You've said it six times."
Craig's mouth twitched. Deran peered at you.
"You do look tired."
Andrew's face changed instantly. Craig said, "Deran."
"What? She does."
You sighed.
"I just had a baby."
"I know. I'm saying you look like someone who just had a baby."
Andrew stared at him.
"That is not better."
Deran held up both hands.
"You look great."
You looked at him. He panicked.
"Strong. Like battle tired. Powerful tired."
Craig muttered, "Stop." Andie came closer to the couch and patted your knee.
"Mama beautiful."
Oh. Your whole face softened. Andrew did too.
Deran clutched his chest.
"She saved me."
Craig nodded.
"She did."
Andie looked at Deran.
"Mama strong."
Deran nodded immediately.
"Very strong."
Andie turned to Andrew.
"Dada say."
Andrew crouched beside her.
"I did say."
"Say again."
His eyes moved to yours. Warm. Steady.
Still able to make you feel seen even with your hair unwashed and Aurora's blanket damp against your stomach.
"Mama is beautiful," he said softly. "And strong."
Andie nodded.
"Most strong."
Andrew's mouth softened.
"The strongest."
Your throat tightened. Deran looked like he was going to cry again. Craig handed him a packet of wipes.
Deran frowned.
"What am I supposed to do with these?"
"Hold something useful."
The rules expanded after Craig and Deran arrived.
This was partly because Deran kept creating situations that required legislation.
He leaned too close to look at Aurora's face. Andie said, "No face." He moved back.
He touched the edge of Aurora's blanket. Andie said, "Ask." Deran looked confused.
"Ask who?"
Andie gestured to Aurora. Deran stared down at the newborn.
"Can I touch your blanket?"
Aurora made a tiny sound. Andie said, "No." Deran pulled his hand back.
"Was that no?"
Andie nodded.
"Rora say no."
Andrew leaned against the kitchen counter, holding a mug of coffee he had not managed to drink yet.
"She's her translator now."
Craig said, "She might be better at it than Deran."
"I am standing right here," Deran said.
"Quiet," Andie told him.
He lowered his voice.
"I am standing right here."
Craig gave you a look over the counter. You shook your head, smiling.
Aurora was half asleep in your arms now, tiny mouth open, one hand tucked near her cheek. She had fed, fussed, hiccupped, been admired, been protected from Deran, and was now entering the limp, heavy stage that made your arm ache and your heart hurt.
Andie crawled onto the couch beside you.
"Rora sleep?"
"Almost."
Andie leaned closer.
"Rora, sleep good."
Aurora did not respond. Andie waited. Then looked at you.
"She no listen."
"She's a baby."
Andie frowned.
"Baby not listen."
"No."
"Why?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked at Andrew.
He looked amused.
"Don't look at me. You're the one who said babies bend."
Deran looked over sharply.
"Babies what?"
Andrew pointed at him.
"No."
Craig said, "Ignore him." Andie was still waiting. You smiled down at her.
"Babies have to learn."
She looked at Aurora.
"Learn rules?"
"Yes."
Andie straightened with purpose.
"I teach."
Andrew's face softened.
"There it is."
You looked at him.
"What?"
He nodded toward Andie.
"Big sister."
Andie heard him. Of course she did.
"I big sister."
"You are," you said.
She sat up taller.
"Rora little sister."
"Yes."
"Rora no know rules."
"Not yet."
Andie patted her own chest.
"I know."
"You do."
She looked at Aurora with a mixture of pride and concern.
"I teach."
Andrew came over and sat on the other side of you, close enough that your shoulders touched. His hand rested lightly on your back.
Andie noticed.
"Dada watch."
"I'm watching."
"Mama watch."
"I'm watching," you said.
"Cwaig watch."
Craig leaned on the kitchen counter.
"Watching."
"Dewan quiet watch."
Deran held both hands up and whispered, "Quiet watching." Andie nodded, satisfied. Then she turned toward Aurora.
"Rora."
Aurora slept.
"Rora," Andie repeated, louder.
Andrew's hand came up.
"Quiet."
Andie whispered, "Rora." No response. Andie pointed at herself.
"Andie."
Then at the baby.
"Rora."
Then at you.
"Mama."
Then Andrew.
"Dada."
She twisted to see the kitchen.
"Cwaig."
Craig nodded. Then she looked at Deran.
"Dewan."
Deran put one hand over his heart.
"I'm included."
Andie turned back to Aurora.
"Say Dada."
Aurora slept. Andie frowned.
"Say Mama."
Aurora slept harder.
"Say Andie."
Nothing.
"Say Duck."
Deran whispered, "Starting with Duck might be realistic." Craig elbowed him. Andie leaned closer.
"Say luboo."
The room went very still. Andrew's hand on your back paused. Aurora made a tiny newborn noise.
Not a word. Not even close. Just a soft, accidental sound from somewhere between sleep and breath.
Andie gasped.
"She say."
Andrew stared at Aurora. You looked at Andie.
"She said luboo?"
Andie nodded, eyes bright.
"Rora luboo."
Oh, Andrew. His face changed completely. Not the big, obvious kind of change.
The small kind that meant it had gone straight through him.
He looked down at the baby in your arms, then at Andie, who was looking so proud of her little sister that she seemed to glow with it.
"She did?" he asked, voice rough.
Andie nodded again.
"Rora luboo Dada."
Deran turned away immediately. Craig looked down at the counter. Your eyes filled.
Andrew swallowed. Aurora slept, unaware she had emotionally destroyed the entire room. Andie patted the blanket gently.
"Good girl, Rora."
Andrew's eyes closed for a second. When he opened them, they were wet. You touched his knee.
He covered your hand with his. Andie looked at him.
"Dada happy sad?"
He let out a breath that almost became a laugh.
"Yeah, baby."
She nodded like this was familiar territory.
"Happy sad okay."
You smiled through tears.
"It is."
Deran sniffed. Craig said, "Do not make a noise." Deran whispered, "I'm trying."
Andie turned her head sharply.
"Dewan no cry loud."
Deran nodded, wiping his face.
"Silent crying. Got it."
By lunch, Andie had given Craig a job. Craig accepted it because Craig had survival instincts.
His job was to hold the rules paper while she added more.
Andrew had been removed from duty because he wrote too slowly, according to Andie, and because he had asked if "no tiny angry face" was enforceable.
Andie had not liked that.
Craig sat at the kitchen table with the notepad in front of him, pen in hand, expression solemn.
Andie stood beside him with Baby Duck tucked beneath her chin.
You sat nearby with Aurora asleep against your chest and Andrew behind your chair, one hand resting on your shoulder, thumb moving slowly back and forth.
Deran sat across the table eating toast he had made himself because no one had offered him anything quickly enough.
"What's next?" Craig asked.
Andie took a breath.
"No loud."
"We have that one."
"No face."
"Also have that one."
"No steal Mama tea."
Craig's eyebrows lifted. Andrew looked at you. You looked at your cold tea.
"That feels targeted."
Andie pointed at the mug.
"Mama tea."
Deran looked offended.
"I have never stolen your tea."
"No steal."
"I don't even like tea."
"No steal."
Craig wrote it down.
"No steal Mama tea."
Andrew leaned down near your ear.
"That rule is for me."
"You don't steal it. You replace it."
"Because it goes cold."
"Because I have a newborn."
"Both can be true."
You smiled despite yourself. Andie tapped the table.
"Rora sleep when Andie sleep."
Craig paused.
"That one might be difficult."
Andie frowned.
"Write."
He wrote it. Deran leaned over to read.
"That baby is absolutely not following that."
Andie glared.
"Dewan."
He leaned back.
"Sorry. Great rule."
Craig kept writing.
"What else?"
Andie thought hard.
"No tiny angry face."
"We have that."
"No bad feet."
Andrew blinked.
"What are bad feet?"
Andie pointed toward Aurora's blanket.
"Rora feet kick."
You smiled.
"She does kick."
"No bad feet."
Craig wrote it down, expression perfectly serious. Deran looked at him.
"You're really writing this?"
Craig did not look up.
"She asked me to."
"You're enabling a dictatorship."
Craig said, "A quiet dictatorship." Andie looked pleased. Then she turned to Andrew.
"Dada rule."
He looked down.
"I get a rule?"
She nodded.
"Hold gentle."
His face softened.
"I can do that."
"Mama rule."
You smiled.
"What's Mama's rule?"
Andie thought.
"Sit."
Andrew laughed. You looked at him. He did not even try to hide it.
Andie pointed at you.
"Mama sit. Mama tired."
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
"Oh."
Andrew's laughter faded into something softer.
Andie climbed onto the chair beside you, leaning carefully toward the baby.
"Mama no do too much."
You looked at Andrew. He looked wrecked.
"Who taught you that?" you whispered.
Andie pointed at him.
"Dada say."
Andrew looked down.
"I may have said that."
"Every hour," you said.
Andie nodded.
"Every hour."
Deran snorted. Craig wrote the rule down. Mama sit.
You stared at the words.
Something about seeing it there in Craig's neat handwriting, between no bad feet and no steal Mama tea, made your eyes sting.
Andie reached out with one finger and touched your sleeve.
"Mama okay?"
You nodded.
"Yeah. Mama's okay."
"Happy sad?"
You laughed softly.
"Happy sad."
She leaned closer and kissed your sleeve because your cheek was too far away and Aurora was between you.
"Okay."
Andrew bent and kissed the top of your head.
"Good rule."
You closed your eyes.
"The best one so far."
Andie heard that and beamed.
Aurora broke nearly every rule by three in the afternoon. She woke up when Andie was trying to nap.
She made a tiny angry face. She kicked one foot free from her blanket. She cried while you were drinking tea.
She grabbed Baby Duck's ear when Andie held him too close to her hand, and then refused to let go because newborn fingers operated with surprising, ruthless strength.
Andie stared in horror.
"Rora take Duck."
Andrew froze. You froze. Craig froze.
Deran, unfortunately, said, "Oh no." Andie looked at Aurora's tiny fist wrapped around Baby Duck's ear. Then at you.
Then at Andrew. Her face crumpled.
"Rule."
Andrew crouched immediately.
"She doesn't know the rule yet."
"Duck."
"I know."
"Rora take."
"She grabbed him."
"Take."
"Okay. She took him a little."
Andie's eyes filled.
"Bad?"
Andrew shook his head.
"Not bad."
Andie looked at Aurora, who was blinking sleepily while holding Baby Duck hostage.
"Rora bad?"
"No, baby. She's not bad."
Andie's lower lip trembled.
"Rule bad?"
"No."
You shifted Aurora carefully in your arms.
"Andie, look."
She looked at you.
"Remember how we said babies have to learn?"
Andie nodded slowly.
"Well, she is still learning. She doesn't know Baby Duck is yours. She just felt something soft."
Andie looked uncertain.
"Duck mine."
"Yes."
"Andie share?"
Andrew's face softened.
"You do not have to share Baby Duck if you don't want to."
Andie looked relieved.
"Mine."
"Yes," you said.
"But she can touch for a second if you say okay."
Andie watched Aurora's tiny fingers.
"She say okay?"
"No, sweetheart. You say okay."
Andie frowned. That was a lot of power. She looked at Baby Duck.
Then at Aurora. Aurora made a small sleepy sound and held tighter.
Andie sighed in a way that sounded painfully like you.
"Okay. Rora little."
Andrew's mouth trembled.
"She is."
"Little no know."
"No."
Andie leaned closer.
"Rora. Duck mine."
Aurora stared vaguely.
"Andie share little."
You smiled.
"That's very kind."
"Little share."
Andrew nodded.
"Little share."
Andie waited another moment. Then she said, "All done."
Andrew gently freed Baby Duck's ear from Aurora's fist. It took longer than expected because Aurora seemed to have inherited stubbornness from every possible side of the family.
When Baby Duck was finally free, Andie hugged him to her chest.
Then, after a second, she leaned forward and kissed the top of Aurora's blanket. Not her face. She knew that rule.
"Rora learn."
Andrew looked away. Deran whispered, "I'm going to lose it." Craig said quietly, "Do it in the kitchen."
Deran stood and walked into the kitchen. Andie watched him go.
"Dewan cry."
Andrew nodded.
"Yeah."
"Quiet?"
"So far."
Andie looked satisfied.
The teaching continued after that.
Once Andie had accepted that Aurora did not know the rules because she was little, she became much more patient.
Unfortunately, patient Andie was still bossy Andie.
She sat beside Andrew on the couch while he held Aurora upright after a feed, patting her back with the gentle rhythm he had learned through trial, error, and deep fear of doing anything wrong.
Andie had Baby Duck seated on her lap, facing the baby.
"Lesson," she announced.
Andrew glanced at you.
You were tucked into the armchair with a blanket over your legs, pretending not to be as invested as you were.
"Lesson?" he asked.
Andie nodded.
"Teach Rora."
"What are we teaching?"
"Gentle."
"Okay."
Andie took Baby Duck's paw and patted her own arm lightly.
"Gentle."
Andrew looked at Aurora.
"You getting this?"
Aurora stared at his shirt. Andie repeated the movement.
"Gentle."
Aurora burped. A loud one. Not newborn tiny.
Not delicate. A startling, grown sounding burp that made even Andrew pause.
Deran, from the kitchen, whispered, "Impressive." Andie gasped.
"Rora."
Andrew looked down.
"Well."
You covered your mouth. Craig closed the fridge slowly, shoulders shaking. Andie looked scandalised.
"Rule."
Andrew was trying very hard not to laugh.
"What rule?"
"No bad mouth."
You lost it. Not loudly, but enough that your shoulders shook and tears sprang to your eyes.
Andrew pointed at you without looking away from Andie.
"Mama is breaking no loud."
You pressed a hand over your mouth. Andie looked between you all, then at Aurora.
"No bad mouth," she repeated firmly.
Aurora looked deeply unbothered. Andrew nodded.
"We'll add it."
Andie narrowed her eyes at him.
"Now."
He sighed and reached for the notepad on the coffee table. You smiled into your hand. Craig leaned against the doorway.
"This is how legal systems begin."
Deran poked his head out of the kitchen.
"Can I suggest one?"
Andie looked at him.
"No."
He vanished again. Andrew wrote down no bad mouth and held it up.
"Done."
Andie inspected it.
"Good."
Aurora made another tiny sound. Andie leaned closer.
"Say luboo."
Nothing.
"Say Dada."
Aurora blinked.
"Say Mama."
Aurora sneezed. Andie's whole face lit up.
"She try."
Andrew looked at you. You nodded solemnly.
"Very close."
Andie patted Baby Duck.
"Good try, Rora."
Andrew's face softened so much you had to look away for a second.
There were moments in these days when the tiredness became everything. When your body ached.
When Aurora cried through a feed. When Andie needed you at the exact moment you could not move fast enough.
When Andrew looked haunted by the sound of anyone crying because his whole body seemed to believe he should be able to fix every hurt before it happened.
But then there were moments like this. Andie teaching a newborn how to say love you.
Andrew writing down nonsense rules with all the seriousness of a court clerk. Craig quietly refilling your water.
Deran crying in the kitchen because Aurora had burped and Andie had called it bad mouth.
Moments that were so ridiculous they could only belong to a family. Andrew's eyes found yours.
He seemed to be thinking the same thing. You smiled. He smiled back.
Small. Tired. Full.
Craig and Deran left before dinner this time. Craig insisted they should give you a quiet evening.
Deran insisted he had been quiet. Andie laughed. Not politely.
Actually laughed.
"Dewan no quiet."
Deran put a hand on his chest.
"You wound me."
Andie pointed to the fridge.
"Rule."
He crouched in front of her.
"Okay. I will try harder next time."
She considered him.
"Practice."
Craig made a choking sound. Deran nodded gravely.
"I will practice being quiet."
Andie patted his cheek.
"Good Dewan."
He stood too quickly and turned away.
"Oh, come on."
Craig smiled.
"You all right?"
"No."
Andrew opened the door.
"Bye, Deran."
Deran pointed at him.
"You have a very powerful child."
"I know."
"She patted my face."
"I saw."
"You people can't keep doing this to me."
Andrew's mouth curved.
"Bye."
Craig paused beside you before leaving.
"You sure you're set?"
Andrew answered, "Yes." You looked at him. He corrected himself.
"We're set."
Craig looked at you. You smiled.
"We're set."
He nodded, satisfied enough.
"Call if you need anything."
"We will."
Deran whispered loudly from the porch, "I'm being quiet." Andie shouted, "No!" Deran clapped a hand over his mouth.
Craig dragged him outside. The door closed. The house settled.
For a moment, it was just the four of you again. Aurora was asleep in the bassinet.
Andie stood in front of the fridge, looking at the rules paper.
Andrew came up beside you at the kitchen counter, where you were leaning because sitting had started to make you stiff and standing made you feel human for approximately thirty seconds at a time.
He slid one hand carefully to your lower back.
"You need to sit."
You looked at him.
"Andie did make it a rule."
"Smart kid."
"She got that from me."
His mouth curved.
"Bossy too."
"Also from me?"
"No comment."
You bumped his side gently with your elbow. He kissed your temple. Across the kitchen, Andie touched the paper.
"No loud," she whispered.
Aurora slept in the other room.
"No wake Rora."
Andrew's thumb moved over your back.
"No face."
You leaned into him.
"No take Duck."
Andie paused. Then looked toward the bassinet.
"Rora learn."
Your heart softened. Andrew's voice was quiet near your ear.
"She's not scared of her today."
You looked at him. His eyes stayed on Andie.
"No," you whispered. "Today she's managing her."
His mouth twitched.
"That's better."
"It is."
Andie turned around.
"Mama."
"Yes?"
"Rules good?"
You smiled.
"Very good."
"Dada?"
Andrew nodded.
"Very good."
Andie looked pleased.
Then she walked into the living room with Baby Duck and climbed carefully onto the couch near the bassinet.
Not too close. She sat with her legs stretched out in front of her, Baby Duck in her lap, and watched Aurora sleep.
You and Andrew stood in the kitchen doorway. Neither of you interrupted.
Andie leaned toward the bassinet and whispered, "Rora." Aurora slept.
"No loud. No sad. No take Duck."
You smiled. Andrew's arm slipped around your waist. Andie continued, voice smaller now.
"Sleep good."
Aurora's tiny hand shifted near her cheek. Andie softened.
"Luboo."
Andrew went still. You felt it through his arm. Andie looked up at the two of you.
"That rule."
You swallowed.
"What rule, sweetheart?"
She looked back at Aurora.
"Luboo."
Andrew's hand tightened at your waist.
"That's a good rule," you whispered.
Andie nodded.
"Best rule."
Aurora slept on, safely unaware that she had been given a whole set of impossible rules and one perfect one.
Andie leaned back against the couch cushion, satisfied.
"Big sister teach."
Andrew lowered his mouth to your hair.
"She's going to run this house," he murmured.
You looked up at him.
"Going to?"
His eyes moved to the fridge, then to Andie, then to the baby sleeping under the bassinet blanket.
A smile pulled at his mouth.
"Fair."
The evening light caught the leftover tape on the window. The rules paper curled slightly at one corner on the fridge.
Baby Duck sat proudly in Andie's lap, rescued, protected, and apparently legally represented.
Aurora slept through all of it.
Andie watched over her like a tiny, bossy guardian with one sock half off and a heart too big for her little chest.
Not replaced. Not pushed out. Big sister.
Andrew held you gently at his side, his thumb moving slow against your hip.
And in the soft, messy quiet of the kitchen and living room, the house made room for one more rule. Love stayed.
Even when it had to stretch. Even when it had to share.
Even when it came with ducks, bad feet, no loud, and a toddler whispering luboo to a baby who did not know yet how lucky she was.
Warning: No medical knowledge from the writer. Wildly inaccurate medical depictions, probably. Mentions of medical things and injuries. Intense behaviors from a Scorpio man in love.
Summary: Brendon Park feels like he’s being haunted by a pretty girl in scrubs who seems to always show up when he needs her.
Chapter Summary: stuck in the emergency department, you meet the most intense version of Dr. Park.
Part 21 | Masterlist
———————————-—
“Look who it is!” Dana exclaimed with open arms.
You side-eyed her with crossed arms.
“Sunny, if you really wanted to come back to work, you could’ve just told me,” she snickered.
You threw your head back in annoyance. The nurse behind you laughed softly as he pushed you in the wheelchair.
“We could’ve worked a double together, kid,” she stayed smiling at you.
“I didn’t mean to. I asked them to take me somewhere else.”
“What happened here?” She followed closely as they wheeled you into the hallway. Leaning in closer, examining your leg.
Your very bloody leg that had been sliced by a glass shard.
“A fight broke out in the bar and I was in the way when they started throwing things. Can’t remember much after that, too many things happened at once.”
“Did you hit your head?” She frowned in concern.
“I’m fine, just the -“
“Yes! She did!” Your friend yelled, coming in behind you with the rest of the group. “She smacked her head on a bar counter.”
“Got ratted out, kid,” Dana shrugged.
“Snitch,” you muttered.
“We’ll take care of ya.” Then turned to your friend group. “You can wait in the waiting room.”
“I’m fine,” you ignored the sting on your leg. “There was another girl there that really fucked up her leg. You guys really need to check on her.” You tried to turn to find her.
“Ok, ok,” Dana patted your shoulder soothingly.
“She was in a white sparkly dress and a “bride” sash,” you gestured across your chest.
Dana nodded and quickly turned around at the commotion behind you. Loud, squeaky footsteps came from the entrance. It was the police officers that broke up the fight in the bar. One of them zeroed in on you and made his way towards you.
Fantastic. You tried to hide your eyeroll.
It was the blond policeman who tried to interrogate you as soon as you were pulled up off the floor, not even giving you time to catch your breath. Even though you didn’t drink, he doubted your sobriety. All thanks to the asshole who doused you in beer.
“I still got questions for you,” he approached you, thumbs tucked over his belt.
“She sliced her leg open,” Dana stepped in and shooed him away, probably sensing your tense state. “She needs her head checked too.”
The cop grunted and walked away. Dana tuned to you with a smirk.
“Police got involved? Bachelorette party gone wild.” She joked.
And wild it was.
It all started because of that guy. The dude in a polo shirt who wouldn’t leave your group alone. He kept pushing and invading people’s spaces. Then he pissed off the group next to you and yelling ensued. Next thing you knew, glass shattered against the table and sliced through your leg. The shock made you slip and hit your head on the bar’s counter. You just remembered a lot of yelling and loudness around you after that. It was hard to tell from your spot on the floor.
You heard that a bride, who seemed to be also celebrating her bachelorette party, was dancing on the bar counter. Happily swaying until she was somehow shoved off and landed horribly on the floor, with her bone sticking out of her skin. You felt so bad for her.
“We have to call Ortho for the bride with the tibial fracture,” Shen said sheepishly as he approached Dana at the desk.
Dana snickered, “we can try.”
You sighed in relief, as you were wheeled to the hospital bed.
That’s exactly what you were hoping for. For the safety and concern of that poor girl, nothing to do with the ortho department mention.
Besides, Park wasn’t on call today.
Which was great considering your current state. Your hair was sticky with beer, blood splattered on your leg and your eye makeup had smeared down your cheeks.
You’d hate for him to see you like this. The night didn’t need to get any worse than it was.
You just had a feeling deep down about tonight. You usually trusted your gut, you hated that you ignored it this time. You assumed your indecisiveness was because of the surgeon on your mind.
As you were swaying and pretending to be into the environment, your mind was elsewhere. In a car, in a parking lot, tracing the hand of a man who refused to leave your gaze.
You thought it was a silly work crush, but you found yourself replaying that moment in your head.
When you called him the other night, you weren’t sure why either. Roger had just left you stranded in an area you didn’t know and Park had been on your mind anyways.
You had a very delusional feeling he would answer your phone call. But somehow your delusions were right. He did answer and he sounded concerned about you. You almost accepted his offer for a ride home too. Maybe he still felt slightly responsible for you as his staff. Ex-staff.
You snuck out of the loud bar before midnight and pulled out your phone. With your finger hovering over Park’s phone number, tempted to dial it. But you couldn’t find a logical reason to do so. What would you even tell him if you called him?
“Hey, Park. I’m at a bar and I kinda wish I wasn’t here. I wish I was back in your car instead, because for a moment there I swore you were gonna kiss me. And I wish you would sweep me into those big arms of yours and take me away from here.”
That would scare him away.
Instead, you chose to stay quiet this time and not bug him. Then forced yourself back into that bar. You regretted it as soon as you felt the sting on your leg.
One of the student doctors walked in with a nurse through the door, interrupting your silent moment of regret, and slowly went to work. Checking for small pieces of debris. Asking you the standard questions for concussions. You knew how these thing usually worked. You’d be stuck here for a few hours.
You really regretted it now.
———
Dr. Park left the OR annoyed with his coworkers. False alarm. They were able to contact the surgeon that was actually on-call to work on the man who suffered from a distal radius fracture due to a bar fight.
Then Park was stopped just as he was trying to exit. Much to his dismay, he got roped into ED consultations. He could almost see the look you would give him if he refused it.
The distraction wasn’t working like it was supposed to. He still hadn’t figured out what to do.
Park wasn’t one to talk about his feelings. No matter how many deep talks his mother tried to have with him since he was young. He was one to skip around them or use as few words as possible to get his point across.
Instead, he always dove into what he knew how to do best.
Work.
That’s why he went to the ED. Taking his sweet time going down the stairs and making sure to put on his best annoyed look. It was matching his current emotion, anyway.
Park could sense the chaos that had just swept through the emergency department. Cops were at the entrance on alert, there was a lingering smell of alcohol, a janitor passed by with a bucket full of murky water, and most of the rooms seemed taken from where he could see.
What a mess.
This is what he meant when he was trying to deter you from working here, but you didn’t get it. You didn’t understand his perspective. Not like he explained it well, anyways. How could he explain his extreme concern for someone who wasn’t even his?
Still, he couldn’t believe this was the place you wanted to work in.
Shen caught his eye and pointed out the room to him.
After examining everything, Park held his phone up to his ear and listed off all the details to the scheduler. A female with an open tibial fracture, another victim of the supposed bar fight that happened earlier. OR was being prepped. They would take care of it upstairs.
Shen nodded at him as he turned around to walk away.
There.
He did the fucking consult. Just like you would’ve wanted him to, after you would’ve insisted.
Fuck. He really did miss you and missed hearing your voice.
He passed by the desk and the busy nurses, making his way to the exit. Not before bumping into a police officer, exiting one of the rooms.
The police officer stared him down, trying to intimidate him to move. Park lifted his chin in defiance. Two could play at this game. Park wasn’t one to be trifled with right now.
The cop slowly stepped to the side and turned away.
Idiot.
Park watched the cop walk away with confidence, as if he owned the building. Not even him at -
“Can I at least get something to drink?” He heard you say.
No.
His mind was playing tricks on him again. You couldn’t be here right now.
Reality forced him to shake his head and take a few steps forward before he heard it again.
“I’m just asking for a coffee!”
Your voice. Unmistakably you.
Quickly, he traced his steps back to the room the police officer just stepped out of, the door had been left slightly ajar. Without giving it a second thought, he swung the door fully open.
Your head lifted and your eyes widened.
“Park!” You exclaimed. “I thought you weren’t on-call today.”
You were really here. Right here, right now.
He couldn’t explain the relief that coursed through his body from seeing you again, especially after the miserable week he had. It was impossible to contain the twitch at the side of his mouth.
Until, he glanced down at your leg extended in front of you. Covered in dried blood and half-way done stitches.
You were here as a patient, he swallowed harshly at the realization. The feeling of his insides twisting returned, increasing with every step he took towards you.
“They called ortho for the other room. You should go check that out.“
“What happened to you?” His eyes darted all over your body.
“They called for a girl, she has an open tibial-
“But what happened to you?”
“Go to her first. I’m - “
“I checked on her already and she’s booked. What happened to you?” He asked in a cross voice.
“Oh, I’m fine,” you waved him off. “I just need stitches.”
Park looked down at your leg and put his hands on his hips. Exhaled loudly in disbelief.
“What moron left you like this?” He blurted out.
While muttering curses under his breath, he walked to the hand sanitizer, pumped it a few times and rubbed it on his hands thoroughly. Then grabbed a pair of gloves and pulled the stool closer with his foot.
“What are you doing?” You watched as he put on the gloves.
“Finishing your stitches,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I’d rather you don’t.”
“Why?” He frowned.
“Someone else was taking care of it already.”
It was a poor student doctor, who was fairly new. He started shaking the moment the cop entered the room and almost fainted as the cop kicked him out to question you.
“And you were left with an open wound,” he shook his head and grabbed the needle driver on the tray next to him.
“Ok, the policeman finally -“ the student doctor from earlier stopped at the doorframe. “Um..” he looked nervously at Dr. Park.
“I got it,” Park barely spared him a glance over his shoulder. “Since you couldn’t be bothered to do it,” he snapped at him.
“But I -“
“Out,” Park said tersely, throwing him one of his angry looks that left no room for discussion.
The student doctor turned beet red and walked out the door.
“Was that really necessary?” You asked, scoldingly.
He didn’t answer, just stared straight ahead at the wound in front of him. Like he was in the middle of surgery in his OR. Working quietly for a minute before you heard footsteps at the door again.
“Dr. Park. Nice of you to join us.” Dana said in jest as she walked through the door. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I got it,” he kept his eyes on your leg.
“Put that down. You don’t work here.”
“I’m almost done.”
Dana turned to you with raised eyebrows, you shrugged at her. You didn’t know what was going on either.
She crossed her arms and stared at him incredulously.
“Park, I will have you escorted out by security if you do not step away from her leg.” Her voice had lost the teasing edge, sounding much more threatening now.
He stopped his movements, hovering over your leg. Looking like he was considering the consequences. Then, reluctantly, placed the tool down on the tray and got up.
“You scared off that kid so bad he doesn’t want to come back in here,” she added with an eye roll. “So, now I gotta do it.”
She pulled the stool closer, grabbed the needle driver, and got to work.
Park leaned in close, to the point he was invading her space. Observing her movements like he was supervising one of his own residents.
Dana turned her head, pursed her lips and waved him off by flicking her hand twice. Back off.
He sighed and took two steps back, crossing his arms. Looked down at your leg, laser-focused on Dana’s work. The serious doctor stance.
“So,” Dana broke the silence. “How long have you two been dating?”
“We’re not -“ you both spoke at the same time, locked eyes and then looked away from each other.
Dana lifted her head and looked between you two.
“That’s adorable,” She pouted. “Not dating then?”
“Nope,” you shook your head and looked up again at Park who was already looking at you. A slight furrow in his brows, scanned your face then flitted his eyes back to your leg.
“Not yet, anyways,” Dana muttered under her breath. She cut the thread and sighed. “All done, kid. We’re waiting on your test results and you’ll be home in no time.”
She stood up and looked between the two of you again.
“You staying in here, Park?”
“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate.
She turned to you, a silent question on her face. Checking if you agreed with him staying.
You smiled at her and nodded. You missed his company anyway. Now that you were sewn back together, he’d get out of his automatic work mode.
She pursed her lips and turned back to Park.
“Stay away from the staff and the tools. You’re just her visitor right now.” She pointed a finger at him. “You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to report your ass to HR,” she shook her head as she closed the door behind her.
He swiftly approached you and sat down on the stool to examine your leg. Nodded once, satisfied with the result. Leaned forward on his elbows, closer to you.
“How’d this happen?” He met your gaze.
“Bar fight,” you shrugged. “You should see the other guy.” You tried to joke.
He narrowed his eyes at you, flattening his lips. Ok. Not in a joking mood yet.
“It was this guy who was harassing my group and wouldn’t leave us alone. Then he got into a fight with some people next to us and it turned into a whole thing. I wasn’t joking about the bar fight.”
“Is that why there’s cops out there?”
“Yeah,” you nodded. “I had to tell them the whole thing.”
He nodded thoughtfully and gestured with his chin at your leg.
“How’d you get hurt?”
“The guy tried to throw them a drink and I happened to be in the way. The glass sliced me. Then punches started getting thrown and I can’t remember much after I fell and hit my head -“
“Your head?” He stood up and stepped closer. Carefully grabbing at both sides of your head with his palms. “Got a headache? Dizziness?”
You would’ve actually felt dizzy at his closeness if you didn’t find his actions so funny. Huffing softly, you pushed both of his hands off of your head.
“You’re an ortho surgeon, remember?”
“Who examined you? Was it the scared one from earlier?” He put his hands on his hips almost angrily.
“It was a nurse practitioner who checked on me. I’m fine.”
Park sighed loudly and shook his head in disapproval.
What had gotten into him?
“You should press charges against that guy,” he lifted his head towards you.
“Park,” you tried to soften your voice.
“Did you get an x-ray?”
“For this?” you gestured at your leg, confused.
“There’s bruising.”
“Oh my God…” you threw your head back. “Clock out, Park. I didn’t break anything,” you said in annoyance. He had to be joking.
“Cover all your bases.”
“I’m fine. It was just -“
“You are not fine,” he looked at you with that intense gaze of his. “You are in the emergency room because you were injured and I -“ he cut himself off, rubbing the side of his face. His voice sounded exactly like that time in the break room. Full of intensity, anger, and…worry.
He took a seat on the stool again and stared at your leg. As if there was something else he could find wrong with it. You waved a hand in front of his view of your leg, he looked up at you with crazed eyes.
“I’m all stitched up already.” You tilted your head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. You’re being too intense right now.”
“I’m not,” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not being intense.”
“You are. A little too much for stitches. You’re acting all…” you stopped yourself.
“All what?”
“Worried.”
“I am worried.”
“Why would you be worried about me?” You jerked your head back. “I’m not scrubbing in with you tomorrow or anything.”
“I don’t worry about you as my coworker.”
“Fine ex-coworker,” you rolled your eyes. “Stop worrying.”
“Goddamnit!” He said your name exasperated. “I care about you!”
He sighed deeply and looked down. Placing a clenched fist onto the bed, right next to your leg.
“I worry because, ” he raised his head and met your gaze. “I care about you.”
His eyes searched yours, flitting back and forth.
Oh.
Your eyebrows raised in surprise and you blinked a few times. Processing what he said. You had no words or witty quips. It didn’t feel right. Not this time.
You slowly inched towards his clenched hand on the bed and grabbed it. Carefully opening his clenched hand and placing your own fingers on his palm. He looked down at your hand then back up at you. His palm closed around your fingers, holding firmly onto your hand.
A smile slowly spread on your face.
“Ok, Ms. Sunny.” Dana barged in as the door swung open. She looked between your joint hands, her lip slowly curling. “Am I interrupting something?"
“No.” “Yes.” you both spoke at the same time. You let go of his hand and placed your hand back on your lap. Park tsked and kept his hand next to your thigh.
“Right. That wasn’t strange at all.” Dana’s eyes drifted to you. “You have the BAC of a saint, no alcohol in ya. You’re clear to go.”
“I could’ve told you that.” You shrugged and turned to Park. “The cop thought I was drunk and lying.”
“What?” The frown on Park’s face returned as he stood up. Oh no. Not again.
“Calm down, John Wick. You’ve scared enough people today.” You joked. “I just want to go home.”
Dana smirked at your interaction, even tilted her head in affection. “With that kind of leg, you shouldn’t ride the bus.”
“I’ll take her home,” Park spoke up, putting his hands on his hips.
Dana turned to him surprised, eyebrows lifted.
“Surgeon and Uber driver. Color me impressed.” Dana laughed. “Wait outside, Dr. Park. We’ll wheel her out.”
Park hesitated and you nodded at him.
“I’ll bring the car.” He walked out, scratching his ear.
Dana watched him as he walked away. She turned to you, whistling in disbelief. Lifted a pretend fishing pole and wheeled it in.
“Catch a shark did ya?”
You couldn’t stop the smile on your face and looked down. Then grabbed your phone to unlock it. You should let your friends know.
“You sure you want him to take you home?” Dana asked, voice laced with concern.
You nodded.
“Yeah, I do.”
——————————————————-
A/N: the billboard said the end is near😁ok now THIS is the longest chapter I’ve ever written.
Summary - Being a big sister isn't as easy as Andie thought it would be. Between hurt feelings, cuddles, and a lot of reassurance, the Cody family starts finding their new rhythm.
Word Count - 4.9k
Comment to be added to the taglist.
The baby swing was finally built.
That felt like a bigger achievement than it should have.
It stood in the corner of the living room beside the armchair, no longer half collapsed, no longer a threat to the adults in the house, no longer an insult to Deran's pride.
Craig had fixed it two days after Aurora came home.
He had arrived with coffee, food, and an expression that said he was not emotionally prepared to discuss why the swing had one leg facing the wrong direction.
Deran had claimed he had "left it that way for airflow."
Craig had stared at him until he stopped talking.
Now, the swing existed. Properly. Safely. Triumphantly.
And Aurora hated it.
She sat in it for exactly four minutes before her face folded into a look of deep betrayal and her tiny body started working itself toward a cry.
Andrew was beside her before the first sound fully formed.
"She hates it."
You looked over from the couch, where you were tucked into the corner with your knees bent carefully and a pillow against your side.
"She doesn't hate it."
Aurora made a sharp, offended noise. Andrew looked at you.
"She hates it."
"She is three days old. She does not have complex opinions on furniture."
"She has that face."
"She has your face."
He leaned over the swing, one hand already at the buckle.
"She's uncomfortable."
"She was asleep two seconds ago."
"She woke up and discovered betrayal."
You smiled despite your exhaustion.
"That sounds like your face too."
Andrew ignored that and unbuckled her with the kind of care normally reserved for defusing explosives. Aurora's little arms jerked free the second he lifted her out, her mouth opening wide in preparation for a complaint she then seemed to forget halfway through.
The moment she settled against his chest, she quieted.
Of course she did. Andrew looked down at her.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I know."
You raised an eyebrow.
"You know what?"
He sat carefully on the other end of the couch, one large hand covering most of Aurora's back.
"She told me."
"She told you the swing betrayed her?"
"Yes."
"Strong communication skills for a newborn."
"Cody."
You huffed a laugh and winced a little.
Andrew's eyes snapped up.
"Pain?"
"Laughing pain."
"You keep doing that."
"You keep being funny."
"I'm not funny."
"That's what makes it worse."
Aurora made a tiny snuffling sound into his shirt. His attention dropped back to her immediately. One finger moved along the edge of her blanket, tucking it away from her cheek.
The house had changed again. It kept doing that.
First, it had learned how to be a home with Andie.
Then it had learned how to hold Andrew when he came back into it.
Then it had stretched around pregnancy, around waiting, around hospital bags and Braxton Hicks and Andie's too-big sock.
Now it was learning a baby all over again.
The rhythm was different this time. Louder. Stranger.
Fuller.
There were muslins in every room. Nappies downstairs and upstairs because Andrew had decided the baby might need changing in any location at any time. Bottles of water appeared beside wherever you sat because he kept placing them down and forgetting he had already done it. One strip of tape from the welcome banner still clung stubbornly to the front window, catching the light like the house itself had kept a small piece of the day she came home.
Andie had noticed it that morning and said, "Banner stuck."
Andrew had said, "I'll take it down."
Andie had said, "No. Rora welcome." So the tape stayed.
Because apparently that was how decisions worked now.
Andie stood in the middle of the living room, watching Andrew hold Aurora with the focused seriousness she usually saved for snacks being opened.
She had been good. That was the thing. Too good, maybe.
She had shown Baby Duck where the nappies lived. She had whispered when told to whisper. She had patted Aurora's blanket with one careful finger and said, "Gentle," before anyone else could remind her. She had told Deran, on his last visit, that he was "too loud for Rora ears," which had devastated him and delighted Craig in equal measure.
But she had been watching. You could feel it.
Every time Aurora cried and you lifted her.
Every time Andrew carried her upstairs.
Every time someone said, "Careful, baby," and Andie stepped back.
Every time your arms were full. Andie noticed.
She was two. Almost two and a half. Small enough to still need help with socks, big enough to understand that something had shifted, but not big enough to make peace with it.
She stood now with Baby Duck tucked under one arm, wearing pyjama bottoms and a jumper because she had objected to clothes with buttons that morning and no one had the willpower to argue.
Her eyes moved from Aurora to Andrew. Then to you.
"Mama?"
You looked at her.
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"Hold Andie?"
Your heart squeezed. Andrew looked over immediately.
You sat up a little, and the movement pulled low in your body. You tried not to show it, but Andrew's face tightened anyway.
You opened your arm.
"Come here."
Andie took one eager step.
Then Aurora made a fussy, hungry sound against Andrew's chest.
Your body responded before your mind could. The ache.
The pull.
The letdown that had become as much a part of you as breathing.
Andrew looked down at the baby.
"She needs you."
You closed your eyes for half a second. Of course she did.
Of course.
Because babies needed what they needed when they needed it, and the world did not pause for toddler hearts just because they were soft.
Andie stopped walking. Her eyes went from you to Aurora.
Then back again. You saw it happen. That little closing.
Not anger. Not yet.
Just hurt, small and confused and trying to find somewhere to sit.
You reached for her with your free hand.
"Baby, I just need to feed your sister first, okay? Then I can hold you."
Andie did not move. Her fingers tightened around Baby Duck.
"Mama arms Rora."
The words were quiet. Too quiet. Oh, God.
You felt it like a bruise.
Andrew saw your face and stood immediately.
"Andie."
She looked at him. His voice stayed soft.
"Mama's arms are busy right now."
Her chin wobbled.
You hated the sentence the second you heard it, and from the flicker on Andrew's face, so did he.
He crouched in front of her with Aurora still tucked against his chest.
"But mine aren't."
Andie looked at his arms. One of them was beneath Aurora.
The other curved around the baby's back.
She looked unimpressed.
"Dada arms Rora too."
Andrew paused. Fair.
You would have laughed if you did not feel like crying.
He adjusted Aurora carefully against his left arm, freeing his right just enough to hold it out.
"One arm for Rora. One arm for Andie."
Andie's eyes filled.
"Want Mama."
The words came out smaller this time. Andrew did not flinch.
He did not look hurt. He did not try to talk her out of it.
He just nodded like wanting you was reasonable, because it was.
"I know," he said. "You can want Mama."
And that made your eyes sting. You reached for her again.
"Andie, sweetheart."
She took one step back instead of forward.
"Baby Duck hold Andie."
Then she turned and walked toward the armchair.
Not storming. Not screaming. Just retreating.
Somehow, that was worse. You looked at Andrew.
His jaw was tight.
"I need to feed her," you whispered, guilt already thick in your throat.
"I know."
"She needs me."
"I know."
"So does Andie."
"I know."
The third one was softer. Not because he was annoyed.
Because he felt it too.
Aurora fussed again, more insistently now.
Andrew brought her to you without another word.
The handover was careful and quiet. You settled Aurora against you, trying to move gently, trying to breathe through the sore pull of your body and the sharper ache in your chest.
Andie climbed into the armchair and tucked herself into the corner with Baby Duck.
She faced the room. Not the wall.
That somehow hurt more too. She was watching you.
You smiled at her. She did not smile back.
Aurora latched and the room fell into the strange stillness of feeding.
Andrew stayed standing for a second, looking from you to Andie and back again.
Then he moved. Not to the kitchen.
Not to gather another water bottle.
Not to check a nappy bag or wipe down a surface or fix the swing that Aurora had already rejected.
He went to the armchair. He crouched beside it.
Andie looked away from him with dramatic toddler dignity.
Andrew rested one hand on the chair arm.
"Baby."
No answer.
"Hey."
Andie hugged Baby Duck tighter.
"Duck busy."
Andrew nodded seriously.
"Okay. Is Andie busy too?"
"Yes."
"What's Andie doing?"
Andie's lower lip stuck out.
"Sitting."
"Important."
You watched over Aurora's head, heart aching.
Andrew looked at Baby Duck.
"What's Duck doing?"
Andie sniffed.
"Holding."
"Holding you?"
She nodded once. Andrew's face softened.
"Good Duck."
Andie's eyes moved to him, cautious.
"Mama no hold."
Your throat closed. Andrew kept his voice steady.
"Mama wants to."
Andie looked at you. You nodded quickly.
"I do, baby. I really do."
Aurora's tiny hand flexed against you as she fed, utterly unaware that she had stepped into the middle of anyone's feelings.
Andie looked down at Baby Duck.
"Mama arms busy."
"Yeah," Andrew said. "Right now."
"Always?"
The word almost broke you.
Andrew was quiet for half a second. Then he said, "No."
Andie looked at him.
"No?"
"No. Not always."
"She always milk."
"Feels like it."
You let out a tiny laugh that turned into a watery breath.
Andrew looked at you, then back at Andie.
"She eats a lot because she's very small."
Andie frowned.
"I small."
"You are."
"Milk?"
Your eyebrows rose. Andrew's mouth twitched.
"You had milk when you were that small."
Andie considered this with the offended expression of someone being told history without consent.
"I baby?"
"You were."
"No."
"Yes."
"No, I Andie."
"You were baby Andie."
She looked at you. You nodded.
"You were my baby first."
Something shifted in her face. First. It mattered.
You had not realised how much she might need that word until it landed.
Andie's grip on Baby Duck loosened.
"First?"
"First," you said softly.
Aurora made a tiny noise against you. Andie looked at her.
"Rora second."
Andrew nodded.
"Rora second."
"Andie first."
"Yeah."
Andie sat with that. Then she looked at Andrew.
"You first?"
His expression changed. It was subtle. A small pause.
A tiny fracture in his breath.
Because no, he had not been first for Andie. Not really.
He loved her first in his heart, maybe. From a phone line. From a prison visit. From a place that kept him away from the ordinary beginnings. But he had not been first in the room, first in the hospital, first at home.
You saw him feel all of it. Then he answered carefully.
"I got to come home to you."
Andie frowned.
"Dada home."
"Yeah."
"You stay."
"I stay."
That was enough for her. Maybe not for him. But for her.
Andrew swallowed and reached out with his free hand.
"Can I sit with you?"
Andie looked at the space beside her, then at Baby Duck, as if consulting.
"Chair small."
"It is."
"Dada big."
"I can sit on the floor."
That was accepted.
Andrew sat on the floor beside the armchair, back against it, knees bent, close enough that Andie could touch his shoulder if she wanted.
For a while, she did not.
Then, slowly, she reached out and patted his hair. Once.
A tiny forgiveness. Andrew closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
You looked down at Aurora because looking at him hurt.
The day did not get easier exactly. It just kept going.
That was a thing people did not tell you about new babies, or maybe they did and you had forgotten because sleep deprivation ate information whole.
The day kept going. Aurora fed. Then slept. Then woke.
Then needed changing.
Then cried because changing was apparently an act of betrayal.
Then slept again.
Andie hovered around the edges, careful and uncertain.
Sometimes she was fine. Sometimes she was not.
She brought you a muslin and looked pleased when you thanked her. Then five minutes later, she burst into tears because Andrew told her not to put Baby Duck in the bassinet.
"She cold," Andie argued, devastated.
"Baby Duck is cold?"
"Yes."
"Baby Duck can have a blanket on the couch."
"Rora has blanket."
"Rora is a baby."
"Duck baby."
Andrew looked briefly at the ceiling.
You watched from the couch, too tired to intervene and too sore to laugh properly.
He crouched in front of her.
"Duck cannot sleep in Rora's bassinet."
Andie's face crumpled.
"Duck sad."
"Duck can sleep here." He picked up one of Andie's small blankets and laid it on the couch with absurd care. "See?"
Andie stared at the couch. Then at him.
"Duck pillow."
Andrew found a cushion.
"Duck pillow."
"Duck water."
"Duck does not need water."
Andie inhaled.
Andrew immediately said, "Duck can have pretend water."
He handed her an empty plastic cup. Crisis avoided. Barely.
You looked at him as Andie carefully tucked Baby Duck into the couch.
"You negotiated with a doll."
He stood slowly, rubbing a hand over his face.
"I negotiated with her lawyer."
You smiled. Andie turned.
"Duck say thank you."
Andrew nodded.
"You're welcome, Duck."
Andie pointed at him.
"Quiet. Duck sleep."
He pressed his lips together.
You looked away to hide your smile.
Aurora slept against your chest, milk-drunk and warm, her tiny mouth soft against the edge of her blanket. Her weight had become familiar quickly, and yet every time you held her, part of you still marvelled at the fact that she had been inside you only days ago.
Your body still felt caught between things. Empty and full.
Sore and grateful.
Tired beyond sense and too awake to rest properly.
Andrew noticed every shift you made. Every wince.
Every time your breathing changed.
At one point, when Andie was setting up an elaborate nap situation for Baby Duck and Aurora had finally allowed herself to be put in the bassinet, Andrew sat beside you with the careful air of a man approaching a wild animal.
"You need to lie down."
"I'm sitting."
"You've been sitting."
"That is close to lying down."
"No."
"I don't want to go upstairs."
"I didn't say upstairs."
"I don't want to move."
He considered that.
Then he stood, took the blanket from the back of the couch, and draped it over your legs.
You looked up at him.
"Subtle."
"Rest."
"I am resting."
"You are staring at the baby like she might disappear."
His voice was gentle. Your heart squeezed.
You glanced at the bassinet.
Aurora slept, tiny chest rising and falling.
"I know where she gets it from."
Andrew's face softened. He sat beside you.
"I do that?"
"You checked her breathing while she was hiccupping earlier."
"She could hiccup and stop breathing."
"She cannot."
"You don't know."
"I actually feel confident on this one."
His mouth twitched, but the worry stayed in his eyes.
You leaned your head back against the couch.
"I am tired."
"I know."
"And I want to sleep, but I also don't want to miss anything."
"You're not going to miss anything."
"I missed Craig fixing the swing."
"That was not a loss."
"I missed Deran being called bad by Andie."
"You've seen that before."
You smiled faintly.
"I don't want to miss her being this small."
Andrew was quiet.
When you looked at him, his eyes were on Aurora.
"I know."
Of course he did. Your hand found his. He held it.
For a minute, the house settled around you.
Then Andie appeared beside the couch.
"Mama?"
You opened your eyes.
"Yeah, baby?"
She held Baby Duck against her chest.
"Duck sleep."
"I saw. You did a good job."
Andie nodded, pleased.
Then she climbed onto the couch beside you. Or tried to.
Her knee hit the cushion. Her foot slipped. She grunted, determined.
Andrew moved to help her. She pushed his hand away.
"No. Andie do."
He held both hands up.
"Okay."
It took her several seconds and one dramatic breath, but she got onto the couch and tucked herself against your side.
Carefully. Too carefully.
Like she had been told so many times that Mama was sore that she was afraid touching you wrong would break something.
You looked down at her.
"Come here."
She froze. You opened your arm.
"This side is okay."
Her eyes searched your face.
"Not hurt?"
"Not hurt."
That was a slight lie. Andrew knew it. He looked at you.
You ignored him. Andie leaned into you slowly.
When you did not flinch, she relaxed more fully, cheek pressing against your shirt.
There. That was what she had wanted. Not all day.
Not in words. But there it was.
You rested your cheek on her hair.
"My first baby."
Her little body softened instantly. Andrew looked away.
Not fast enough. You saw the emotion cross his face.
Andie whispered, "Andie first."
"Yes."
"Rora second."
"Yes."
"Mama have two babies."
"I do."
Andie looked at Andrew.
"Dada have two."
Andrew's voice went soft.
"Yeah. Dada has two."
Andie pointed at Baby Duck on the opposite couch cushion.
"Duck have no babies."
"No," Andrew said. "Duck is currently resting."
"Duck tired."
"Everybody tired," you murmured.
Andie nodded solemnly.
"Everybody tired."
Aurora stretched in the bassinet and made a small squeaking sound.
Andie stiffened against you. Her eyes went to the baby.
You felt her body change before her face did. A tiny recoil.
Not because she disliked Aurora.
Because she knew what came next.
Because every sound from the baby seemed to pull someone away.
You held your breath. Aurora squeaked again.
Andrew looked at her. Then at Andie.
Andie looked down at your arm around her.
"Rora need?"
"Maybe," you said softly.
Andie's mouth tightened.
"Mama go?"
The guilt returned so fast it made you dizzy.
Andrew stood, but he did not go straight to Aurora.
He crouched in front of Andie first.
"Hey."
She did not look at him.
"Baby."
She still did not look. He reached out and touched her knee.
"I'm going to check Rora."
Andie's eyes flicked to him.
"Not Mama?"
"Not yet."
Her face shifted. Relief first. Then suspicion.
"You check?"
"Yeah."
"Rora cry?"
"If she cries, I'll pick her up."
Andie stared at him.
"You hold Rora?"
"Yeah."
She looked at you.
"Mama hold Andie?"
Your heart squeezed.
"Yes," you said quickly. "Mama holds Andie."
Andrew stood and went to the bassinet.
Aurora fussed again, louder now. Andrew leaned down.
"Hey, angry girl."
Andie lifted her head from your chest.
"Rora angry."
"A little," you said.
Andrew picked Aurora up, and she let out the cry she had been building toward.
Andie flinched. You tightened your arm around her.
"She's okay."
"Loud."
"I know."
Andrew shifted Aurora against his chest and bounced once, then stopped because she hated that.
"Not bounce," Andie instructed from the couch.
Andrew looked at her.
"No bounce?"
"No. Rora no like."
Aurora cried harder.
Andie nodded, as if this confirmed her expertise.
"Walk."
Andrew looked at you. You shrugged.
"She might be right."
He started walking slowly around the room.
Aurora cried for another few seconds.
Then softened into fussy little complaints.
Andie relaxed against you.
"See?"
Andrew turned with Aurora in his arms.
"You're good at this."
Andie's face brightened for the first time in an hour.
"I big sister."
"Yeah," Andrew said. "You are."
The pride in his voice mattered.
You saw it land in Andie's face. Not just a role.
Not just something adults had told her because it sounded cute.
Something useful. Something real.
She tucked herself closer to you.
"I help Rora."
"You do."
"I help Mama."
Your throat tightened.
"You do."
"I help Dada."
Andrew's mouth curved.
"You definitely do."
Aurora settled against him, still fussy but quieter now. He walked her around the living room, past the window with the leftover banner tape, past the half-dozing Baby Duck, past the swing she had rejected with great passion.
Andie watched him from under your arm.
Then, after a long minute, she whispered, "Mama?"
"Yes?"
"When Rora done, hold Andie more?"
You kissed her hair.
"Yes."
"All done?"
"All done."
"Two arms?"
You closed your eyes.
"Yes, baby. Two arms."
Andie nodded. Like that was the agreement she had needed.
The wobble came properly just before dinner.
Of course it did.
Because no toddler ever broke down when everyone was rested, hydrated, and emotionally available.
Aurora had been cluster feeding on and off for what felt like years, though the clock insisted it had been only an hour and a half. You were on the couch again, hair falling loose from the messy knot on top of your head, one of Andrew's shirts slipping off your shoulder, a half-eaten piece of toast on the coffee table because you kept forgetting to finish it.
Andrew was in the kitchen heating the food Craig had left.
Andie was on the floor arranging plastic animals in a line for Baby Duck to inspect.
Everything looked almost calm. Which should have warned you.
Aurora pulled away from feeding, then fussed, then latched again badly enough that you sucked in a breath.
Andrew appeared in the doorway immediately.
"You okay?"
"Yes."
"That sounded like pain."
"Because it was."
His face darkened.
"Bad?"
"No. Just a bad latch."
"Want me to take her?"
"She needs to eat."
He looked like he hated that answer.
Andie looked up from the floor.
"Mama hurt?"
You softened your face quickly.
"No, sweetheart. I'm okay."
Andie abandoned the plastic animals and stood.
"Hold Andie?"
There it was again. Small. Hopeful. Bad timing.
You looked at Aurora, then Andie.
"In a minute, baby."
Andie went still. Andrew set the spoon down in the kitchen.
You saw him do it. He knew.
Andie's face did not crumple this time. It hardened.
Not in a bad way. In a toddler way.
The way tiny people protected themselves from feelings they could not name.
"No minute."
Your heart sank.
"I know waiting is hard."
"No wait."
"Baby, I'm feeding your sister."
"No."
Her voice got louder. Aurora startled against you.
Andrew stepped out of the kitchen.
"Andie."
"No Rora milk."
Your breath caught.
Andie's eyes widened as soon as she said it.
Like even she had not known that was what was sitting inside her.
The room went silent except for Aurora's tiny feeding sounds.
Andie looked at Aurora. Then at you. Then at Andrew.
Her lower lip began to tremble.
"I bad?"
"Oh, sweetheart," you whispered.
Andrew crossed the room and crouched in front of her.
"No."
"I say no Rora milk."
"I heard."
Andie's eyes filled.
"Rora sad?"
Aurora, unhelpfully, chose that moment to fuss.
Andie's face broke.
"I make Rora sad."
"No," Andrew said immediately.
His voice was soft but firm enough to cut through the panic.
"No, baby. You didn't make her sad."
Andie started crying. Not loudly. Not the dramatic kind.
The tired, confused, heartbroken kind. That was worse.
"I bad sister."
You almost sobbed.
"No. No, you are not a bad sister."
Andrew sat on the floor properly now, right in front of her.
"You're not bad."
Andie cried harder.
"Want Mama."
"I know."
"Want Mama arms."
"I know."
"Mama arms Rora."
You looked down at Aurora, still half latched, half fussing.
Your own tears threatened.
"I'm sorry," you whispered.
Andrew looked up at you sharply.
"Don't."
You swallowed.
"But she needs me."
"They both do."
"I can't hold them both."
His face changed. Not because he had an easy answer.
Because he had decided there had to be one anyway.
He stood, reached for the pillow beside you, and shifted it against your side.
"Move a little."
"What?"
"Just a little."
You blinked at him.
"Andrew."
"Trust me."
"I do, but that sentence has started many disasters."
He gave you a look.
Even exhausted, even with Andie crying and Aurora fussing and food forgotten on the stove, you almost smiled.
You shifted carefully.
He helped, one hand at your back, the other adjusting the blanket so Aurora stayed supported. Then he sat beside you on the couch, close enough that his thigh pressed to yours.
Andie stood in front of him, crying softly, Baby Duck hanging from one hand.
Andrew opened his arm.
"Come here."
Andie shook her head.
"Mama."
"I know. Come here anyway."
She hesitated. Then stepped closer.
He lifted her onto his lap and turned her gently so she was tucked against him, but facing you. Her legs rested across his. Her head was close to your shoulder. Baby Duck ended up squished between Andrew's stomach and her pyjamas.
"There," he murmured.
Andie sniffed.
"Mama?"
You leaned down as much as you could and kissed her forehead.
"I'm here."
Her eyes searched yours.
"Mama hold?"
"With one arm," you said, your voice breaking slightly.
You wrapped your free arm around her shoulders.
It was awkward. It was not enough. But it was something.
Andie melted instantly.
Andrew held her from the other side, his arm firm around her middle, his other hand resting lightly near Aurora's feet.
Aurora fed. Andie cried quietly into your side.
You and Andrew held the space between them.
No one was comfortable. No one moved.
For several minutes, that was enough.
Andie's breathing slowed first.
Then Aurora's feeding settled.
Andrew looked down at both of them. You watched his face.
The concentration there. The tenderness. The exhaustion.
The way he was using every inch of himself to hold this little arrangement together.
One arm around Andie. One hand near Aurora.
Shoulder against you.
Knee pressed to the couch so no one slipped.
Both daughters needing. Both daughters held.
Andie lifted her damp face from your shirt and looked down.
She took in Andrew's arm around her.
His other hand near the baby. Aurora tucked against you.
You pressed close to him. Her brow furrowed.
"Dada full."
Andrew looked at her. Then down at himself.
His mouth softened.
"Yeah."
Andie sniffed.
"Both hands full."
His eyes went to yours. Something passed between you.
A whole story. Prison visits. Phone calls.
A baby he had first met under rules.
A house he had returned to late.
A second daughter he had carried through the door.
A toddler afraid of being replaced.
A newborn too small to know she had changed everything.
And Andrew sitting in the middle of it, full of the family he had once thought he did not deserve.
He looked down at Andie and brushed her hair back from her damp cheek.
"Yeah, baby," he said quietly. "Both hands full."
Andie looked worried.
"Too full?"
Your heart stopped for a second. Andrew shook his head.
"No."
"Too much?"
"No."
His voice was rough now.
"Never too much."
Andie stared at him.
"Dada can hold?"
"I can hold."
"Mama can hold?"
You kissed her forehead again.
"Mama can hold."
"Rora stay?"
"Yes."
"Andie stay?"
Andrew's arm tightened around her.
"Andie stays."
Baby Duck's head poked out from under his elbow.
Andie looked down.
"Duck stay?"
Despite everything, Andrew's mouth curved.
"Duck stays too."
Andie let out a shaky breath.
Then she put her head back against your side.
Aurora made a small sound, milk-drunk now, one hand resting open against you.
You closed your eyes.
For one brief second, everyone was touching.
Everyone was safe. Everyone was held. It was messy. Awkward.
Too warm. Your back hurt.
Andrew's arm was probably going numb.
Andie's tears had soaked through your shirt.
Aurora had one tiny foot pressed against Andrew's wrist.
It was not the kind of picture anyone framed.
But it should have been.
Dinner became toast, reheated pasta, and a banana that Andie insisted Baby Duck had "chosen."
No one corrected her.
The food Craig had left was saved for later because the timing had been ruined and Andrew had turned off the stove during the couch situation, muttering something about not burning the house down just because everyone had feelings.
Andie sat at the coffee table with her plate, still a little fragile but calmer now.
Aurora slept in Andrew's arms because the bassinet had apparently offended her again.
You managed three bites of pasta before realising you were more tired than hungry.
Andrew noticed.
"Eat."
You looked at him.
"You eat."
"I will."
"You are holding the baby."
"I can eat one-handed."
"You said that yesterday and dropped rice on her blanket."
"That rice was unstable."
"It was rice."
He glanced at Andie.
"Andie, was the rice unstable?"
Andie looked up, mouth full of banana.
"Rice bad."
Andrew looked back at you.
"See?"
"That is not evidence."
"Witness statement."
You rolled your eyes, but you took another bite because he was watching.
Aurora shifted in his arms. He looked down. Every time.
Every tiny sound.
You loved him so much it made you want to shake him.
Andie watched too. Not with the same tightness as before.
More curious now.
"Dada hold Rora."
"Yes," Andrew said.
"Mama eat."
"Yes."
"Andie eat."
"Yes."
"Duck eat."
Andrew glanced at the doll sitting face down beside a piece of banana.
"Duck is struggling."
Andie picked Baby Duck up and pressed the banana near its face.
"Duck no like."
"Smart Duck," you murmured.
Andie nodded.
"Duck like toast."
She placed a crumb on Baby Duck's stomach.
Andrew looked at you. You looked at Andrew.
Neither of you had the strength.
"Sure," he said.
Andie smiled. There she was. Not all the way. But enough.
You leaned back against the couch and let yourself breathe.
Aurora slept. Andie ate.
Andrew held the baby and pretended he did not want to check your plate every four seconds.
The house was still a mess.
The tape was still on the window. Your body still hurt.
But the sharpest part of the day had passed. Or softened.
Maybe that was all you could ask.
A little later, when plates had been abandoned and Andie had crawled onto the rug with her animals again, Andrew shifted Aurora carefully onto his chest and leaned back into the couch.
The baby's face tucked under his chin.
His eyes closed for half a second. You looked at him.
"Are you falling asleep?"
"No."
"You answered too quickly."
He opened one eye.
"I'm resting."
"That is what I say."
"I learn from you."
"You learn my worst habits."
He glanced down at Aurora.
"She asleep?"
"Yes."
"Andie okay?"
You looked at Andie.
She was lining the plastic animals beside Baby Duck and whispering, "Gentle, Rora sleep," to a giraffe.
"I think so."
His jaw loosened.
"Good."
You reached over and touched his arm.
"You did good today."
He looked at you.
"You did."
He did not answer right away.
Andrew did that sometimes when praise found him too directly. He did not reject it anymore, not like he used to, but it still had to work its way through old locked places.
Finally, he said, "I almost said it wrong."
"When?"
"Mama's arms are busy."
You softened.
"You corrected it."
"I hated how she looked."
"I know."
"I don't want her feeling pushed out."
"She won't."
His eyes stayed on Andie.
"You don't know."
"No," you admitted. "But I know us."
He looked back at you. You squeezed his arm.
"We'll keep making room."
His throat moved.
He looked down at Aurora asleep against him, then at Andie on the rug.
"Both hands full," he murmured.
You smiled.
"Very full."
His mouth curved faintly.
"Good."
The simplicity of it hit you harder than it should have.
Good. Not scary. Not too much.
Not a fragile museum or hostile environment or one more thing to lose.
Good. He looked full. Tired, yes. Overwhelmed, definitely.
Still Andrew, still watchful, still ready to move at every sound.
But full in a way that seemed to settle into him rather than frighten him.
Andie crawled over then, dragging Baby Duck by one foot.
She stood beside Andrew's knee and looked up at Aurora sleeping on his chest.
"Rora sleep Dada."
"She is."
"Andie sleep Dada?"
Andrew looked at you. You lifted your eyebrows.
His mouth twitched.
"Come here."
He shifted carefully, making space without moving Aurora. Andie climbed onto the couch with your help and wedged herself under Andrew's free arm, cheek against his side, Baby Duck trapped between them.
"There," she said.
Andrew looked down at her.
"Comfortable?"
"Yes."
"Can you breathe?"
"Yes."
"Can Duck breathe?"
Andie lifted Baby Duck, inspected its face, then tucked it back in.
"Yes."
You watched them. Aurora asleep on Andrew's chest.
Andie tucked under his arm.
Baby Duck flattened between them like a loyal casualty.
Andrew unable to move even if the house caught fire.
He looked at you.
"What?"
You smiled.
"You're stuck."
"I know."
"You need anything?"
He looked down at both girls.
Aurora's tiny hand rested open against his shirt.
Andie's lashes were already getting heavy.
Baby Duck's beak was pressed into his ribs.
Andrew's eyes softened.
"No."
"You sure?"
His gaze lifted to yours.
For a second, you saw all of it there.
The man who had once been behind glass.
The father who had listened to his first daughter through phone calls and recorded stories.
The husband who had stood beside a birthing pool and heard his second daughter cry.
The man who now sat on your couch with both daughters asleep against him and did not look like he was waiting for someone to take them away.
"I'm sure," he said.
Your throat tightened. Andie's eyes fluttered.
"Dada?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"Too full?"
Andrew looked down at her.
"No."
She yawned.
"Good."
His mouth trembled.
"Yeah."
You reached over and rested your hand on his knee.
He covered it with his. For once, Andrew did not move.
Not to check the bassinet. Not to adjust the blanket.
Not to clean something. Not to prepare for the next thing.
He just sat there. Both hands full. Both girls safe.
The house messy around him.
The evening softening into night.
And when Aurora made one tiny sleeping sound and Andie stirred under his arm, he looked down at them both and smiled.
Small. Tired. Real.
Like maybe full did not have to mean something would spill over.
Maybe full could just mean full. And for once, he let it.
Summary - The first night home is messy, exhausting, and nothing goes to plan. But somehow, between crying babies, sleepy toddlers, and too little sleep, it already feels like home.
Word Count - 5.5k
Comment to be added to the taglist.
The first night home started with a banner slowly giving up in the front window.
It had stayed there all day, crooked and cheerful, taped across the glass in three uneven pieces.
WELCOME HOME RORA.
The final letter had started peeling just after dinner.
Deran had stuck it back up twice before he left, each time with the grim seriousness of a man performing emergency surgery on paper. Craig had told him to stop touching it. Andie had told him he was doing it wrong. Andrew had looked like he wanted to fix it properly but was holding Aurora at the time and unwilling to hand her over for something as minor as gravity.
Now, long after Craig and Deran had gone home, the banner sagged at one corner. No one fixed it.
There was no one left in the house with the energy.
The living room looked like a family of four had landed there and exploded softly.
A muslin was draped over the arm of the couch. One of Andie's socks sat in the middle of the coffee table like an offering. The baby swing remained half-built in the corner, still bearing the emotional damage of Deran attempting to assemble it. A tiny hat lay beside your water bottle. Baby Duck had been tucked into the crook of the armchair because Andie had declared that Baby Duck was "also tired from waiting."
The house was dim. Not quiet exactly. Never quiet.
The heating hummed low in the walls. The dishwasher ran in the kitchen because Craig had loaded it before he left and threatened Andrew with "actual violence" if he unloaded it to redo anything. Somewhere upstairs, Andie sighed in her sleep. Across the hall from her, Aurora slept in the cot beneath the yellow star sheet.
For the first time since leaving the hospital, the house belonged only to the four of you. No Craig making food.
No Deran crying into muffins. No one whisper-yelling from the porch.
No one asking if you needed water because Andrew had already asked six times and would probably ask a seventh before midnight.
Just you, Andrew, Andie, and the baby. Four. The number still felt too new to hold.
You stood at the bottom of the stairs in one of Andrew's shirts and a pair of soft pyjama bottoms, one hand braced low over your stomach, staring into the living room as though it belonged to someone else.
Andrew came up behind you with two glasses of water in one hand and the baby monitor in the other.
"What?"
You shook your head.
"Nothing."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"You do that when it's not nothing."
"I do not."
"You do."
"I am looking at the aftermath."
He followed your gaze. The muslins. The sock. The half-built swing. The crooked banner in the window.
His mouth twitched.
"Looks normal."
You looked up at him.
"This looks normal to you?"
"For us?"
You considered that.
"Fair."
He handed you the water.
"Drink."
"I knew there was another one coming."
"You've had a baby."
"I am aware."
"You need water."
"You're going to become unbearable."
His face was serious.
"I already was."
You laughed, and the laugh pulled at your sore body in a way that made you wince. Andrew noticed immediately.
His free hand moved to your waist.
"Pain?"
"Laughing pain."
"Stop laughing."
"Stop being funny by accident."
"I'm not funny."
"That is why it's funny."
He looked unconvinced but leaned down and kissed your forehead anyway. His mouth lingered there.
For a moment, both of you stood at the foot of the stairs with the house dim around you.
You could feel his tiredness through the warmth of him. Not just in his body. In the way he held himself.
Alert even now. Listening for the baby. Listening for Andie. Listening for you. You touched his arm.
"You know we're allowed to go to bed."
His eyes moved up the stairs.
"I know."
"You look like you're considering guarding the hallway."
"I could."
"Andrew."
"I'm not saying I will."
"You were thinking it."
"I think a lot of things."
"Terrifying."
His mouth softened.
"You sure you're okay?"
You exhaled. There it was. Not annoying. Not really.
Just Andrew trying to find somewhere to put all the fear that had followed you home from the hospital.
"I'm sore," you said. "I'm tired. My body feels like it was borrowed and returned with damage. But I'm okay."
His thumb moved gently at your waist.
"You'd tell me?"
"Yes."
"Before it got bad?"
"Yes."
"You promise?"
You looked at him, your teasing fading.
"I promise."
His shoulders lowered a little. Not completely. But a little. You leaned into him.
"I need sleep more than I need medical interrogation."
He nodded.
"Okay."
"You're still interrogating me with your face."
"I'll stop."
"You won't."
"No."
You smiled tiredly.
He took your hand and walked upstairs with you slowly, matching your pace without making a thing of it.
That was one of the ways he loved you now. By never walking too far ahead.
Both girls were asleep. That felt impossible. Suspicious, almost.
Andie was sprawled sideways in her little bed, one leg kicked out from beneath the blanket, Baby Duck tucked under her chin, soft duck abandoned by her feet. Her mouth was open slightly. Her hair was wild from bath time.
Andrew stood in her doorway with you for a moment.
"She asked if Rora stays," he whispered.
"I know."
"She asked if I stay too."
You slipped your fingers through his.
"You said yes."
His eyes stayed on Andie.
"I meant it."
"I know."
"I need them to know I mean it."
"They will."
He nodded, but the line of his jaw told you he was still filing the promise somewhere deep. Then you crossed the hall.
Aurora slept in the cot. Tiny. Almost ridiculously tiny against the yellow stars.
One hand had escaped the blanket near her cheek. Her face was turned slightly to the side, mouth soft, body tucked into sleep so new it still seemed like something she was learning.
Andrew moved to the cot rail and looked down at her. You watched him watch her.
He was different with her than he had been in the hospital. Still awed. Still nervous.
Still occasionally looking like he expected someone to come in and tell him he had misunderstood the rules.
But here, in the house, there was another layer. He had brought her home. He had crossed the threshold with her.
He had placed her in the rooms that would learn her.
And now he stood in the nursery in the first dark of her first night home, trying to understand how the world could contain both fear and happiness this large.
"She's breathing," you said softly.
His mouth moved.
"I know."
You squeezed his hand.
"Just saving you the check."
"I was going to check quietly."
"You were going to lean so far over the cot you would fall in."
"I would not."
"You nearly did earlier."
"I was looking."
"You were hovering."
"She made a noise."
"She sighed."
"She's two days old. Every sound is new."
Your heart softened.
"That is unfortunately very sweet."
He glanced at you.
"Unfortunately?"
"I'm tired. Don't make me sentimental."
His hand found the back of your neck, thumb brushing there once.
"Bed."
You looked at the cot. Aurora slept. Andie slept. The house held its breath.
"Yeah," you whispered. "Bed."
You got twenty-two minutes. Not that you were counting. Andrew was.
You knew because the second Aurora made her first real sound over the monitor, his eyes opened and he said, "Twenty-two minutes," in a voice that was both exhausted and deeply offended.
You blinked into the dark.
"What?"
"That was twenty-two minutes."
The sound came again. A soft fuss at first. Then a sharper one. Newborn displeasure through a tiny speaker.
Your body responded before your brain did. Milk let down, soreness pulled, exhaustion lifted just enough to remind you there was no such thing as sleeping through a newborn.
Andrew was already sitting up.
"I'll get her."
"She probably needs feeding."
"I'll bring her."
You pushed yourself up on one elbow and immediately regretted moving that quickly. Andrew saw it even in the dark.
"Slow."
"I am going slow."
"You're not."
"You have night vision now?"
"I have you vision."
"That was terrible."
"I'm tired."
"You get worse exhausted."
"I get honest."
He leaned over and kissed your temple before he got out of bed. The bedroom door opened.
The hallway light was dim, the kind you had left on for night feeds and toddler emergencies. You heard Andrew's careful footsteps cross into the nursery. Then the soft creak of the cot rail beneath his hand.
Aurora's fussing grew. Not screaming yet. Working up to it. You could hear Andrew's voice, low and gentle.
"Hey. Hey, baby girl. I'm here."
A pause. Then, with quiet concern, "You're very mad for someone so small." Aurora answered with a cry. A real one.
Sharp and outraged. You sat up fully, wincing, already reaching for the pillows.
Andrew appeared in the doorway a moment later with Aurora tucked against his chest. She looked impossibly small against him, face red, mouth open, one fist punching free of the blanket.
"She's angry," he said.
"She's hungry."
"She can be both."
"She's a Cody."
His mouth twitched, but the worry stayed.
He brought her to you and helped arrange the pillows behind your back before handing her over. Not because you could not do it. Because he needed to do something with his hands.
Aurora rooted frantically, furious that the world had not anticipated her need before she had it.
You settled her against you, breath hitching when she latched. Andrew noticed.
"Pain?"
"Just the start."
His face tightened.
"Bad?"
"No. Just..." You exhaled slowly. "New."
He stood beside the bed, not moving.
"Water?"
"Already here."
"Snack?"
"Not yet."
"More pillows?"
"If you add another pillow, I'll be sitting upright until Tuesday."
He looked at the pillows like they had personally failed. You smiled tiredly.
"Sit down."
"I'll change her after."
"You can sit before changing her."
"She'll need changing."
"Andrew."
He looked at you.
"Sit."
He sat.
On the edge of the bed, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours, one hand resting on the blanket near Aurora's feet.
The crying stopped now that she was feeding. The room softened. Not peaceful. Not entirely.
Your body ached. Your eyes burned. Your back already felt twisted from trying to support yourself. Aurora made little swallowing sounds, tiny and intense. Andrew watched her like every movement was both proof and threat.
But the house was quiet again. For maybe three minutes. Then the monitor on Andrew's side crackled.
Not the baby monitor. Andie's. A rustle. A thump. You and Andrew both went still.
Andie's sleepy voice came faintly through the speaker.
"Dada?"
Andrew's eyes closed. You whispered, "Go." He looked at Aurora.
"She's feeding."
"She has me."
He looked at you.
"You sure?"
"Andie's awake."
That was all it took. He stood and crossed the hall. You heard the soft push of Andie's door opening.
"Hey, baby."
"Rora loud?"
"A little."
"Rora sad?"
"She's hungry."
A pause. Then the sound of small feet.
"Want see."
"Not yet."
"Want see Mama."
You sighed, already knowing. Andrew murmured something too low for you to catch. Andie answered with a firmer, "Mama."
Then she appeared in your doorway. Hair wild. Eyes heavy. Baby Duck clutched to her chest.
Andrew stood behind her looking like a man trying to negotiate with a tiny sleep-drunk monarch.
Andie's lip wobbled when she saw you in bed with Aurora against you. Not jealousy exactly. Not yet. Something smaller.
Confusion. The room had changed while she was sleeping. Mama was in bed. Baby sister was there.
Dada was standing behind her. The night was not following the rules.
"Mama?"
Your heart twisted.
"Hi, sweetheart."
"Rora cry."
"She did. She was hungry."
Andie looked at Aurora with deep suspicion.
"Rora milk?"
"Yes."
Andie took one step into the room. Andrew crouched behind her.
"Quiet voice."
Andie whispered loudly, "Rora milk." You smiled.
"Yes."
Her fingers tightened on Baby Duck.
"Mama hurt?"
The question broke you more than you expected. Andrew's face changed. You kept your voice soft.
"Mama's okay. Just tired."
Andie looked at Andrew.
"Dada?"
"I'm okay too."
She looked at Aurora.
"Rora okay?"
"Rora is okay," you said.
Andie still looked unconvinced. Aurora made a small snuffling sound against you. Andie gasped.
"She talk."
Andrew's mouth twitched.
"She's eating."
"Eat talk."
"Apparently."
Andie came closer, one careful step at a time. Andrew moved with her, one hand hovering near her back.
She stopped beside the bed.
"Baby Duck see?"
"Baby Duck can see from there," Andrew said.
Andie lifted Baby Duck slightly.
"Duck quiet."
"Good."
"Rora loud."
"She's learning quiet," you said.
Andie frowned.
"Teach."
"Yes," Andrew said softly. "You can help teach her."
That seemed to please her.
She stood there for another minute, swaying slightly with sleep, watching Aurora feed with the solemn intensity of a toddler witnessing an important but confusing ritual.
Then her face crumpled. Not fully. Just enough.
"Mama hold Andie?"
Your throat tightened. Oh. There it was. The first little crack. Not a tantrum. Not anger.
Just a tiny girl realising Mama's arms were full. You looked down at Aurora, then at Andie.
"I want to, baby."
Andie's eyes filled. Andrew moved immediately.
"Come here."
She looked at him.
"Mama."
"I know." His voice was gentle. "Mama's feeding Rora right now. I've got you."
Andie's lower lip trembled.
"Want Mama."
The words landed hard. You blinked quickly, exhaustion and guilt rising in the same wave. Andrew saw it.
Of course he did. He looked at you first. Then at Andie.
Then he sat on the edge of the bed and lifted Andie carefully onto his lap before she could decide whether to resist.
She went stiff for one second. Then folded into him. Baby Duck squished between them.
Andrew wrapped one arm around her middle and kept his other hand resting near your leg, touching you too.
"There," he murmured. "Mama's here. I'm here. Rora's here."
Andie sniffed.
"Mama arms busy."
You wanted to cry.
"They are right now," you whispered. "But not forever."
Andie looked at you.
"Forever long."
"Very long," Andrew agreed.
You gave him a look. He lifted one shoulder.
"What? It is."
Despite yourself, you smiled. Andie did not. Her little face stayed serious.
"Rora always milk?"
"No," you said. "Sometimes she sleeps."
"She sleep a lot."
"She's supposed to."
"She cry too."
"Yes."
Andie leaned back against Andrew's chest, considering this unacceptable design.
"Baby hard."
Andrew's mouth brushed the top of her head.
"Yeah. Being baby is hard."
You looked at him. His eyes met yours. Tired. Soft.
A little devastated by the sight of both daughters needing something different at the same time. Aurora fed quietly.
Andie sat on Andrew's lap, one hand gripping his shirt, the other holding Baby Duck.
For the first time, the four of you were all awake in the middle of the night. No Craig. No Deran. No hospital staff.
No one else to soften the shape of it. Just your family, tired and raw and trying.
"This is harder with two," you whispered.
Andrew looked down at Aurora, then at Andie tucked against him.
"Yeah."
His voice was rough with exhaustion.
"But there's two of us too."
Your eyes burned. Andie looked between you.
"Two?"
Andrew kissed her hair.
"Me and Mama."
Andie lifted two fingers.
"Two."
"That's right."
She looked at Aurora.
"Rora one."
"Yes," you said.
"Andie one."
"Yes."
Andrew looked at you.
"That makes four."
Andie frowned hard.
"Four big."
You laughed softly.
"It is."
Andrew's hand moved over your shin beneath the blanket.
"Four is big."
Aurora finished feeding just after one in the morning. At least, you thought it was just after one.
The clock on the nightstand glowed blurry numbers that did not feel connected to real life anymore.
Andrew changed her nappy while Andie sat in the middle of your bed with Baby Duck and watched like a tiny supervisor.
"No cold," Andie instructed.
"I'm trying," Andrew said.
"Rora cold."
"She's not cold."
"She has legs out."
"I know."
"Put back."
"I'm putting them back."
Aurora kicked one skinny little leg with surprising strength. Andie gasped.
"Rora kick."
"She does that."
"Bad kick?"
"No," Andrew said. "Baby kick."
"Gentle kick?"
"Not really."
Andie nodded wisely.
"Like tummy."
Andrew's hands paused. You saw it hit him.
The memory of all those kicks under his palm before Aurora was born. Andie saying sister no gentle. The baby answering from inside your body.
Now she was here, kicking at air. Andrew looked at you. You smiled, tired and teary.
"Same girl."
His eyes softened.
"Yeah."
He fastened the nappy and adjusted the sleepsuit with more care than the situation required. Aurora squirmed, offended but not crying yet.
Andie leaned closer.
"Rora no like."
"No," Andrew said. "She does not."
"Tell her sorry."
Andrew looked at Andie. Then down at Aurora.
"Sorry."
Andie nodded.
"Good."
You pressed your lips together to avoid laughing.
Andrew carried Aurora back to you, but instead of handing her over right away, he stood there with her tucked against his chest, swaying slightly.
She fussed. He whispered to her. Low. Soft.
"You're okay. I know. Bad night. First night. You're doing good."
His hand covered nearly all of her back. Andie crawled toward the edge of the bed.
"Rora sad?"
"A little."
"Why?"
"She's new."
Andie seemed to understand that more than any adult explanation.
"New hard."
Andrew looked at her.
"Yeah."
"Rora miss tummy?"
You blinked. Andrew went still. Then his face softened completely.
"Maybe."
Andie looked at you.
"Mama tummy gone."
You glanced down at your body beneath the blanket.
"Not gone. Just different."
Andie frowned like this was a suspicious answer.
"Rora came out."
"She did."
"Tummy empty?"
Your throat tightened. Andrew looked at you carefully, but you nodded.
"A little empty."
Andie's face softened in that strange toddler way, empathy arriving without warning and without anywhere sensible to put it.
She crawled closer and placed Baby Duck gently against your side.
"Duck help."
You burst into tears. Not loud. Just sudden. Andrew moved instantly.
"Hey."
You covered your face with one hand.
"I'm fine."
"That is a lie."
"I'm tired."
"I know."
"And she gave me Duck."
"I saw."
Andie looked alarmed.
"Mama sad?"
You wiped at your face quickly.
"Happy sad."
Andie looked at Andrew. He nodded solemnly.
"Happy sad."
She seemed to accept this because adults were always saying ridiculous things.
Aurora gave a sharper cry against Andrew's chest. Andie startled.
"Rora sad too."
Andrew shifted her higher.
"She's trying to settle."
"Sing."
He looked at Andie.
"What?"
"Sing Rora."
You stared at Andrew. His face went blank.
"No."
Andie nodded firmly.
"Dada sing."
"I don't sing."
"You do."
"No."
"Bed song."
"That's different."
You sniffed, trying not to smile.
"It is not different."
Andrew gave you a look.
"You stay out of this."
"I am postpartum and emotionally fragile. You cannot talk to me like that."
His mouth twitched despite himself. Andie patted the bed.
"Sing, Dada."
Aurora cried again, offended by the delay. Andrew looked down at her. Then at Andie. Then at you. Defeated.
"Fine."
He started very quietly. Barely singing.
Mostly murmuring the song he used for Andie at bedtime, the one he had picked up over months of repetition until it became his without him noticing. His voice was rough and low, more breath than melody, but it filled the room anyway.
Aurora's crying hitched. Andie stilled.
You sat in bed with Baby Duck against your side and tears drying on your face, watching Andrew stand barefoot in the middle of your bedroom, singing badly to your newborn while your toddler listened like he was doing something sacred.
Maybe he was. Aurora quieted after a minute. Not asleep. But listening. Or soothed by the vibration of his chest.
Or simply surprised into silence by the existence of Andrew Cody singing at one in the morning.
Andie whispered, "Rora like." Andrew kept singing for another line before he answered.
"Maybe."
"I like."
His voice faltered. Only for a second. Then he kept going. Your heart hurt.
When he finished, the room seemed to stay soft around the last note. Aurora's eyes were closed again.
Andie leaned against your side carefully, Baby Duck between you.
"Dada good."
Andrew's expression shifted. You did not tease him. Not this time.
"You are," you said softly.
He looked at you. The baby slept against him. Andie yawned so hard her whole face disappeared. Andrew exhaled.
"Back to bed?"
Andie immediately said, "No." He raised an eyebrow.
"You're falling asleep sitting up."
"No."
Her head tipped sideways. Andrew looked at you. You nodded.
He handed Aurora to you carefully, then scooped Andie from the bed. She objected for half a second.
Then tucked her face into his neck.
"Rora stay?" she mumbled.
"She stays."
"Mama stay?"
"Mama stays."
"Dada stay?"
"I stay."
"Duck stay?"
"You're holding Duck."
"Oh."
He kissed the side of her head. You watched him carry her out. A moment later, you heard his voice across the hall. Low.
Patient.
"Into bed."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"You're asleep."
"No."
"Okay."
Silence. Then his footsteps came back. He paused in the doorway.
"She is asleep with her eyes open out of spite."
You laughed softly. Aurora stirred. You immediately lowered your voice.
"Don't make me laugh."
"You started."
"She started."
He came back to the bed and sat beside you. For a few minutes, you both watched Aurora sleep in your arms.
Then Andrew carefully brushed your hair back from your face.
"Your turn."
"My turn?"
"To sleep."
You looked down at the baby.
"She'll wake if I move."
"I'll hold her."
"She might want feeding again."
"Then I'll wake you."
You hesitated. He saw it.
"I can hold my daughter."
"I know."
"That wasn't a question."
Your eyes softened.
"I know you can."
"Then sleep for twenty minutes."
You huffed.
"Twenty-two?"
His mouth curved faintly.
"Maybe we get lucky."
You carefully transferred Aurora into his arms. She fussed once, then settled against him with the heavy trust of someone who did not know how much she was loved yet.
Andrew leaned back against the pillows beside you, cradling her safely against his chest while staying upright.
You watched him for a moment.
"You won't sleep like that."
"I know."
"Andrew."
"Twenty minutes," he said. "Close your eyes."
"You need sleep too."
"So do you."
"You are very annoying when you're right."
"I know."
You lay down carefully, facing him.
The room was dim. The banner downstairs was probably peeling further. Andie was asleep across the hall with Baby Duck. Aurora lay warm against Andrew's chest, making tiny newborn breaths.
You reached out and touched Andrew's thigh. He covered your hand with his.
"Okay?" he whispered.
You nodded.
"For now."
His thumb moved over your knuckles.
"For now is enough."
You closed your eyes.
You woke to crying. Not a little fuss. Crying. The kind that ripped you from sleep before you knew where you were.
For one terrifying second, your body forgot the order of things. Hospital. Home. One child. Two.
Then you opened your eyes.
The bedroom was dim. Andrew was not beside you. The clock said something that started with a three. Aurora was crying down the hall.
And Andie was crying too. You pushed yourself up too fast. Pain flashed through you.
"Shit," you whispered, then immediately felt guilty, as if language mattered at three in the morning.
Andrew's voice came from the hallway. Low but strained.
"I've got you. Both of you. Hey. Andie, baby, look at me."
You got out of bed slowly this time, one hand braced against the nightstand. The hallway light was on.
Andrew stood between the two bedroom doors with Aurora against his chest, crying hard now, face red and furious. Andie stood in her doorway clutching Baby Duck, tears sliding down her cheeks, overwhelmed and sleepy and frightened by the noise.
It was the first moment of the night that looked exactly as hard as it felt. Andrew turned when he saw you.
"You should be in bed."
"You have both girls crying in the hallway."
"I know."
The words came out rough. Not angry. Not at you. At himself. Because he could not fix both at once fast enough.
Aurora screamed against him. Andie covered one ear with Baby Duck.
"Rora too loud."
"I know," Andrew said. "She's upset."
"Make stop."
"I'm trying."
Andie cried harder. You stepped closer, body aching with every movement. Andrew immediately shook his head.
"Sit."
"No."
"You're hurt."
"I'm sore."
"You're shaking."
"I'm coming."
His face twisted. Not because he wanted to argue.
Because he did not have enough hands to stop you, hold Aurora, and comfort Andie. You reached Andie first. Slowly.
You lowered yourself to the hallway floor with a noise you would deny later. Andrew looked horrified.
"What are you doing?"
"Sitting."
"On the floor?"
"I live here now."
"That is not funny."
"It was a little funny."
Andie immediately moved into you, climbing halfway onto your lap with Baby Duck pressed between you. You wrapped one arm around her carefully, leaving space for your sore body, and kissed her hair.
"Hi, baby."
"Rora loud."
"I know."
"Rora sad."
"She's having a hard night."
Andie sniffed.
"Me too."
Your heart folded.
"I know."
Andrew stood in front of you with Aurora against his chest, walking half a step one way, then the other, trying to settle her without leaving either of you.
His eyes were dark with exhaustion.
"I changed her. She fed an hour ago. She won't settle. I don't know if it's wind or if she's hungry again or if—"
"Andrew."
He stopped. You looked up at him.
"She's a newborn."
His jaw tightened.
"I know."
"Sometimes they cry."
"I know."
"You don't have to solve it perfectly."
His face shifted like that was both impossible and necessary. Aurora cried again, sharp and furious. Andie flinched.
Andrew saw it. He crouched slowly in front of both of you, careful with Aurora.
"Hey," he said to Andie. "Look at me."
Andie peeked at him over Baby Duck's head.
"Rora mad."
"Yeah."
"Bad mad?"
"No." His voice softened. "Baby mad."
Andie sniffed.
"Baby mad loud."
"It is loud."
"Dada fix?"
Andrew glanced at you. Then back at Andie.
"I'm trying."
Andie studied him.
"Dada tired."
His mouth curved a little, sad and soft.
"Very."
"Mama tired."
"Yes."
"Rora tired."
"Yes."
"Andie tired."
You kissed her hair.
"Very."
Andie looked at Aurora.
"Everybody tired."
Andrew let out a breath that almost became a laugh.
"Yeah."
Everybody tired. That was the whole first night in two toddler words.
Aurora's cries began to break into smaller, angrier sounds. Andrew shifted her upright against his shoulder and rubbed her back with slow circles.
You watched his hand. Steady despite the exhaustion. Despite the fear.
Despite the fact that two daughters had needed him at once and he had not known which direction to turn first.
"You're doing okay," you said softly.
His eyes flicked to yours.
"I don't feel okay."
"I didn't say it felt okay."
His mouth moved. The echo of his own words from labour landed between you. He looked down briefly. Then nodded.
Andie lifted her head.
"Sing."
Andrew looked at her.
"Again?"
"Rora like."
Aurora cried. Andie nodded like this proved her point.
"Sing."
You leaned your head back against the wall.
"She's right."
Andrew stared at you.
"You too?"
"I am postpartum and on the floor. You cannot deny me hallway music."
He closed his eyes.
Then, because he loved all three of you beyond reason, Andrew Cody crouched in the hallway at three in the morning with a screaming newborn against his shoulder and started to sing again.
Quiet. Rough. Barely there. Andie leaned against you, thumb rubbing Baby Duck's ear.
Aurora cried through the first few lines. Then fussed. Then hiccupped. Then, slowly, the sound began to fade.
Andrew kept rubbing her back. Kept singing. Kept looking half embarrassed and half ruined.
You sat on the hallway floor with Andie warm against your side and watched him become the kind of father who did not always know what to do, but stayed long enough to find out.
By the time the song ended, Aurora was quiet. Not asleep. But quiet. Andie whispered, "See?" Andrew looked at her.
"You were right."
Andie nodded.
"I know."
You laughed silently. Andrew's eyes met yours. Tired. Tender. A little desperate. A little proud. You reached up.
He shifted closer so you could touch his knee.
"There's two of us," you whispered.
He looked from you to Andie to the baby.
"Yeah."
You smiled.
"And two of them."
His mouth curved faintly.
"Also true."
"We're outnumbered."
"Not yet."
"Andrew."
"What?"
"We are absolutely outnumbered."
Andie looked up.
"Four big."
Andrew nodded.
"Four big."
Aurora gave a tiny burp against his shoulder. Everyone went still. Then Andie gasped.
"Rora burp."
Andrew looked down at the baby.
"You had that in there the whole time?"
You started laughing. Quietly, because laughing too hard still hurt, but enough that tears came to your eyes.
Andie laughed because you laughed. Aurora startled, then settled again.
Andrew stared at all of you like you were impossible. Then he laughed too. A real one. Low and tired and helpless.
For a minute, the hallway was full of quiet laughter instead of crying. That felt like victory. Small. Ridiculous. Huge.
No one went back to sleep right away. That would have been too easy.
Instead, the four of you ended up in your bedroom, not sleeping, just existing badly together.
You sat propped against the pillows again, because the floor had been an ambitious mistake and Andrew had muttered about it the entire time he helped you up.
Andie sat beside your hip, wrapped in a blanket, Baby Duck tucked under her chin. She had been told this was not sleeping in Mama and Dada's bed. It was "one minute."
She had accepted this with the air of someone planning to extend negotiations.
Andrew sat on the other side of you, Aurora tucked upright against his chest, one large hand covering nearly all of her back.
The room was dim and warm. Everyone looked terrible. You had never loved anything more.
Andie's head drooped against your arm. Andrew noticed.
"Baby girl."
"No."
"You're asleep."
"No."
"You're drooling on Mama."
Andie lifted her head slightly, offended.
"No."
You looked down at the damp patch on your sleeve.
"Maybe a little."
"Baby Duck drool."
Andrew glanced at the doll.
"Baby Duck has been framed."
Andie yawned.
"Duck tired."
"So is Andie," you said.
"No."
Aurora made a tiny grunt against Andrew. Andie opened one eye.
"Rora tired too."
"Yes," Andrew said. "Everyone tired."
"Everybody tired," Andie corrected.
His face softened.
"Everybody tired."
You leaned your head against his shoulder.
"This is awful."
His mouth touched your hair.
"Yeah."
"I'm so happy."
"Yeah."
"I might cry."
"You already are."
"I know."
His arm shifted so he could hold Aurora securely while brushing his thumb over your cheek.
"You did good tonight."
You made a sound.
"Andrew, it is still tonight."
"You're doing good, then."
"I sat on the hallway floor and could not get up."
"You sat down because Andie needed you."
"I cursed at the nightstand."
"You were quiet."
"I cried because Baby Duck helped."
"That was fair."
You laughed softly. Andrew's eyes moved over your face.
"You're still the strongest woman I know."
"Do not make me cry again."
"You cry anyway."
"I do now. Apparently that's who I am."
His mouth curved.
"My crying girl."
"That does not sound as romantic as strong girl."
"I like both."
You looked up at him. He kissed you gently. Not long. Not enough to wake anyone who was finally drifting.
Just enough to remind you that beneath Mama and Dada and newborn and toddler, there was still you and him.
Andie's little voice came, half-asleep.
"No kiss. Rora sleep."
Andrew pulled back and looked down at her.
"Sorry."
You pressed your lips together. Andie closed her eyes.
"Dada loud."
"I was not."
"You kiss loud."
You lost the battle and laughed. Aurora startled. Andrew gave you a look.
"You woke her."
"You kissed loud."
"I did not."
Andie, eyes still closed, whispered, "Did." Andrew shook his head. But he was smiling.
A few minutes later, Andie was fully asleep. Baby Duck trapped beneath one arm. Andrew looked at her, then at you.
"I'll take her back."
"She'll wake."
"She might."
"She looks so peaceful."
"She sleeps in her bed."
"I know."
"You're the one who taught me that."
"I know, I'm being weak."
His face softened.
"You're tired."
"That too."
He shifted Aurora carefully into your arms for a moment, then lifted Andie. She protested faintly.
"No."
"Bed," he whispered.
"No bed."
"Little bed."
"Big girl little bed," she mumbled.
"That's right."
You watched him carry her out. Your first daughter in his arms. Your second against your chest.
The shape of it made your eyes burn again. When he came back, he paused in the doorway and just looked at you.
"What?" you whispered.
He shook his head.
"Nothing."
"Another lie?"
"Yeah."
You smiled. He came back to bed and sat beside you.
"Say it."
He looked at Aurora. Then at you.
"I missed this."
Your face softened.
"With Andie?"
He nodded.
"Not just the big things. The stupid things too."
You looked down at the baby.
"The crying?"
"The crying. The hallway. The not knowing what to do. Her asking if everybody's tired." His mouth moved. "All of it."
Your throat tightened.
"I wish you'd had it."
His eyes came to yours.
"I have it now."
You nodded. He touched Aurora's blanket.
"I hate that I missed it with her."
"I know."
"But I'm glad I know enough to notice it this time."
That undid you. Not loudly. Just enough that your breath shook. Andrew saw. He always saw. He kissed your forehead.
"Hey."
"I'm fine."
"That continues to be a weak lie."
"I know."
He looked toward the hallway.
"Andie's asleep."
"For now."
"Rora?"
You looked down. Aurora slept, milk-drunk and boneless in your arms.
"For now."
He exhaled.
"Do we try the cot?"
You looked at him.
"We try the cot."
The two of you moved like people handling a sacred object and a bomb at once. Andrew helped you stand.
You carried Aurora.
He hovered beside you, one hand near your back, the other near the baby, somehow trying to support both without touching either too much.
The nursery was dim. The yellow star sheet waited. You lowered Aurora into the cot slowly. So slowly your arms trembled.
Andrew's hand rested between your shoulder blades. Aurora's back touched the mattress. Her face scrunched. You froze.
Andrew stopped breathing. Aurora squirmed once. Then settled.
Both of you remained bent over the cot for several unnecessary seconds. Finally, you straightened.
Andrew's hand stayed on your back.
"She's asleep," you whispered.
He stared down.
"For now."
You smiled.
"For now."
Across the hall, Andie sighed in her sleep. The house quieted again. This time, it did not feel suspicious.
It felt earned.
You and Andrew stood in the nursery doorway, close enough that your shoulders touched, looking from one room to the other.
One daughter in the cot. One daughter in the little bed. Both asleep. Both home. Both yours.
Andrew whispered, "That was hard." You let out a tired laugh.
"That was one night."
His eyes moved to you.
"One first night."
You leaned into him.
"True."
He wrapped an arm around you, careful of the sore places, and kissed the top of your head.
"You okay?"
You thought about lying. Then did not.
"I don't know."
His arm tightened slightly.
"Okay."
"I'm happy."
"Yeah."
"I'm exhausted."
"Yeah."
"I feel like my heart is too big and my body is too small and the house is too loud and too quiet at the same time."
He was silent for a second. Then he said, "Okay." You looked up.
"That's all you've got?"
"I'm not arguing with that."
A laugh slipped out of you. He touched your face.
"We'll figure it out."
"You sound sure."
"I'm not."
"Comforting."
His thumb brushed under your eye.
"I'm sure I'll stay."
Your chest went still. He looked across the hall at Andie's room, then into the nursery at Aurora.
"Even when it's loud. Even when I don't know what I'm doing. Even when everybody's tired."
Your eyes filled.
"Everybody tired," you whispered.
His mouth curved softly.
"Everybody tired."
You rested your forehead against his chest. For a minute, no one needed anything. Not urgently. Not loudly. Not yet.
The banner downstairs kept peeling in the front window. The baby swing remained half-built.
There were dishes in the dishwasher and muslins on the couch and one sock on the coffee table that no one had the strength to move.
And upstairs, in the narrow stretch of hallway between your daughters' rooms, Andrew held you while the house breathed around all four of you.
The first night was not easy. It was not graceful. It did not make you feel like you suddenly knew how to be four.
But no one was alone in it. Not the baby crying herself red. Not Andie standing barefoot in the hallway with Baby Duck.
Not you on the floor with tears on your face. Not Andrew trying to hold every piece of the night in two tired hands.
When you finally went back to bed, Andrew walked beside you with one hand at your back.
Behind you, Aurora slept beneath the stars. Across the hall, Andie slept in her big girl little bed.
The house was quiet again. For now. And for now, that was enough.
Bond Type: I decided to do a little mixture of a one sided bond and dream bond (this will make more sense as we progress)
Pairing: Senior Resident Brendon Park x Public Relations Rep female Reader
Warnings: little bit of age gap with 30 year old Brendon and 23 year old reader, swearing (I’ll add more as we progress).
Author’s Note: Buckle up because this is going to be an emotional ride. This is probably going to be a little ooc Brendon from the two minutes we saw of him but still what we like of the intense man. Also, the dream recollection isn’t meant to be romantic when he’s younger (I don’t think that vibe comes off but I want that clear) you start having dreams early to learn about your soulmate before you ever truly meet them. I hope you enjoy this little adventure that keeps nagging at my brain.
Everyone’s dreams began at a different point in their lives. His parents were both twelve, his sister was twenty one and Brendon, he had been fifteen.
He still remembers his first one clear as day. He’d been on a swing in the park barely moving back and forth when you’d appeared in front of him with a gap toothed smile, big bright eyes and your hair in pigtails.
“Hi” His head tilted as he tried to estimate how much younger than him you were.
“Hi”
“Will you push me?” You’d asked shyly, your tennis shoe anxiously scratching a line into the wood chips underneath it.
“Of course” You’d hopped onto the swig next to him immediately.
He sighed softly to himself as your head fell back to watch as he stood up. Brendon’s growth spurt had started early that summer and had yet to stop. He’d already been skinny but now he was skinny and gangly and the boys down the street made fun of him constantly. His dad’s only comment was “do something about it then son” which really wasn’t helpful.
“I wanna go really high!”
“Hold on tight” Your squeal of excitement had him smiling in what felt like the first time in weeks.
He pushed you until his arms hurt and the sun was starting to set. Your soft laughs as you went higher egging him on as he watched your legs pumping to keeping going.
When you’d finally had your fill you jumped off the swing at its highest point, barely making it to the grass at the edge of the wood chips.
“You okay?” He made his way over to you leaning down to check.
“Did you see how high I got!” He helped you to your feet as you brushed grass off your knees.
“You were practically flying.” You looked around then.
“I should head home.” He nodded reluctantly.
“It’s getting late.” You were off with a soft wave as he sat back down on the swing he’d been on before.
When Brendon woke up the next morning he nearly fell out of bed as he remembered the dream. He’d never really thought about what it would be like to see his soulmate before, just knew it was something that would eventually happen but now he’d seen you and it finally felt real.
He ran down the stairs in the early morning light from his excitement.
“Brendon! Slow down” He headed towards the sound of his Mom’s voice coming from the kitchen.
“Mom!” She was looking at him over her coffee cup with a hip against the island countertop as he barreled into the kitchen.
“Shh Brendon, your sister is still sleeping” He rolled his eyes, Nat would sleep until noon if she was allowed to.
“Mom!”
“Yeah baby?”
“I had a dream!” That caused her to freeze for a moment and then set her coffee cup down while turning to give him her full attention.
“Oh Brendon! How was it? What are they like?” He paused for a moment as he thought.
“I pushed her on a swing….she’s young Mom, like younger than Nat.” His sister was would be turning thirteen in a few weeks.
“Was she kind?”
“She was, I dunno…..sweet?” He thought back on your laugh and smile as you went higher with each push.
“And you were?”
“Nice”
“Better have been” Her arm reached out and pulled him into a hug as she spoke, which was harder for her now that he was taller than her.
“Will I see her again tonight?”
“Mmhm” Her reply had something loosening in his chest. He’d never given it thought if you dreamed of your soulmate every night once your dreams finally began.
That was coming up on fifteen years ago and Brendon had yet to find you in the real world, it almost felt like he never would but you were still in his dreams every night so he knew you’d show up eventually.
“Sweet seats huh Bren?” His eye twitched beneath his sunglasses as he turned his head to look at Theo. He’d compare his sister’s fiancé to one of her Kindergarteners but that would be inconsiderate to the children.
“Mmhm” His Dad’s arm landed across his shoulders as he leaned in.
“Be nice….Bren” He could hear the amusement in his Dad’s voice. There were exactly two people he tolerated calling him Bren, his little sister and you in his dreams.
“I am”
Theo had suggested an outing for the three of them for a Pirates game a few weeks ago, man bonding Brendon was pretty sure was the term he used. His Dad had agreed for both of them before he had a chance to figure out a reason to be unavailable.
So here he was, front row behind the Pirates dugout, warm beer in his hand and Theo blabbing about Crypto something or other while he watched warmups.
“You really should look into investing Bren.” A sip of warm beer seemed like a better choice than responding when something caught his attention out the corner of his eye.
“Holy shit” He’d stood before his brain had even caught up because there you were on the field handing something to a coach.
“Brendon?” He could hear the questioning tone from his Dad but the only thing that mattered was you were finally in front of him in person.
He watched as you headed back to the dugout and held his breath as you looked up to where he was standing. This was it! You looked directly at him for a brief moment and he was pretty sure he’d never had a smile this big on his face before.
And then you descended the stairs and were gone. There hadn’t even been a flicker of recognition on your face.
“Brendon?” His dad was standing next to him now looking at him the way he looked at patients to keep them calm as they discussed the next step in their treatment.
Summary - A drive home, a very excited big sister, and the beginning of life as a family of four.
Word Count - 7.2k
Comment to be added to the taglist.
The hospital let you leave with a baby. Again. That was still a ridiculous thing. You had done it once before, and still, as the nurse smiled and handed over discharge papers and reminded you about things you technically already knew, some tired, stunned part of you wanted to ask if everyone was sure. As if they might check one more clipboard and realise there had been a mistake.
As if the tiny girl sleeping in the clear hospital cot beside your bed was not actually yours to take home. Aurora Julia Cody slept through the entire conversation. Mouth soft. Hands tucked near her cheeks. Hat slightly too big. Entire face arranged in the offended peace of a newborn who had already decided the world was loud, cold, and badly organised. Andrew stood beside the cot like security. Not casual security either. Not a relaxed father waiting for final paperwork.
He stood there with his shoulders squared, hospital bag over one arm, eyes moving from the nurse to you to the baby to the nurse again. You watched him from the chair, sore and exhausted and amused in a way that made your chest ache. "You know she's not trying to steal her," you said softly.
Andrew looked down at you. "What?" "The nurse."
"I know." "You're looking at her like she has a getaway vehicle." His eyes flicked toward the hallway. You smiled.
"Andrew." "What?" "She works here."
"So did the people who kept bringing forms." "That is not suspicious." "It is when they keep asking for signatures."
"They're discharging us." His mouth moved like he wanted to argue and had decided, generously, not to. The nurse, who clearly had the emotional intelligence to survive maternity wards, simply smiled and said, "You're all set." Andrew nodded once. Formal. Grave. As if she had given him a mission.
The mission became the car seat. He had practiced with it before. Of course he had. He had checked the base in the car weeks ago. He had read the manual. He had watched videos with the sound low while you pretended to sleep beside him. He had tested the straps on one of Andie's dolls until Andie had walked in, gasped, and said, "Baby Duck no drive."
And still, the second he had to put his actual newborn daughter into it, every bit of knowledge seemed to turn into fear. He leaned over the car seat like it might explode if he breathed wrong. You sat back in the chair and watched him lift Aurora from the cot, careful as anything, his hand supporting her head, his body held too still.
"She bends," you said gently. His eyes came to yours immediately. "What?"
"Babies bend a little." His face said he hated that information. "That sounds bad."
"It's not bad." "She's small." "She is."
"Her arms are..." He stopped, looking down at the tiny sleeve near his thumb. "Look at her arms." "I am looking." "They're tiny."
"She is a tiny person." His jaw tightened. "She's too tiny for this."
"The car seat is made for newborns." "She's newer than newborn." You smiled despite yourself.
"That is not a category." "It should be."
He lowered her into the seat with the concentration of someone handling glass in an earthquake. Aurora made one small annoyed sound when her back touched the padding. Andrew froze. You froze only because he froze. "She's okay," you said.
"She made a noise." "She has opinions." "Did I hurt her?"
"No." "You don't know." "I do know."
His hand hovered over the straps, not touching them yet. The nurse stepped closer, kind but careful, clearly sensing that one wrong word would make Andrew decide the hospital itself had failed him. "She's fine," she said. "You're doing well. Just bring this strap over here."
Andrew nodded, but his eyes stayed on Aurora's face as he guided the straps around her. Every movement was slow. Too slow, maybe, but no one rushed him. Not the nurse. Not you. Not the baby, who made another tiny sound and then went back to sleep because apparently dramatic parental terror was boring. Andrew clipped the buckle. Then stared at it.
"Too tight?" The nurse checked. "No. That's good."
His brow furrowed. "Too loose?" "No. Good fit."
"But it's on her chest." "That's where it should be." He looked genuinely pained by this.
"It looks uncomfortable." "She'll be safe."
That word landed. Safe. He looked down at the baby and touched the edge of her blanket near her knee. You heard his breath leave him. Not fully. Just enough. You reached for him. He gave you his hand without looking away from Aurora. "She's safe," you whispered.
His fingers tightened around yours. "I know." "Do you?"
He looked at you then. His eyes were red from the last day and a half. From the birth. From the name. From Andie saying Rora like she had given the baby a second beginning. From not sleeping because every breath Aurora took seemed to need a witness. "I'm trying to."
Your chest cracked open. You squeezed his hand. "That counts." The nurse checked the car seat one final time, then smiled.
"You're ready to go." Andrew looked at Aurora. Then at you. Then at the car seat again. You could see it crossing his face, the impossible fact of it. They were letting him take her. No guard. No permission timed in minutes. No one standing between him and the door. Just his daughter in a car seat, ready to go home.
You stood slowly, one hand braced on the chair, the other low over your stomach because your body still felt strange without the weight of pregnancy pulling forward. Empty did not feel empty. Not exactly. It felt like your body had changed rooms before you had time to pack properly. Andrew noticed before you had fully straightened. His attention snapped from Aurora to you.
"Pain?" "Sore." "Dizzy?"
"No." "Need to sit?" "No."
"Sure?" You gave him a look. He took the bag from the chair before you could touch it. "I can carry something," you said.
"You are." You looked down at your empty hands. "Apparently not."
He glanced at Aurora in the car seat. "You carried her for nine months." Your throat tightened before you could stop it.
"That is unfair." "What?" "You can't be sweet while I'm wearing mesh underwear and holding hospital leaflets."
His mouth softened. "I can." "You shouldn't."
"I'm good at multitasking." "You are good at making me cry." He leaned down and kissed your forehead.
"Sorry." "You are not." "No."
The nurse wished you well again. You thanked her. Andrew thanked her too, quieter this time, and you heard the weight of it beneath the simple words. Thank you for helping her arrive. Thank you for letting me stay. Thank you for sending us home together. He did not say any of that. He never needed to. You heard it anyway. The walk through the hospital felt longer than it should have.
Andrew carried the car seat in one hand and the bag in the other, which would have looked effortless if you did not know him well enough to see the absolute concentration in the set of his mouth. He moved slowly because you moved slowly, never more than half a step ahead, stopping every time you did without making you ask. The car seat looked too big around Aurora. Or maybe Aurora looked impossible inside it. Tiny face. Tiny hands. Tiny body. Big name. Baby Rora, because Andie had decided that in the hospital room and no one had been foolish enough to argue with her. You glanced down at the car seat.
"She looks smaller out here." Andrew looked immediately. "She okay?"
"She's asleep." "She moved?" "No."
"She breathing?" "Yes."
He stopped walking anyway. You stopped too. Andrew set the bag down, crouched slightly, and watched Aurora's chest for a second. Up. Down. Up. Down. His shoulders eased. You should have teased him. You could not. Instead, you touched the back of his neck lightly. "She's okay."
He nodded, still looking at her. "I know." "You are going to say that a lot."
"Probably." "You are not going to believe yourself most of the time." "Probably not."
He straightened and picked up the bag again. The automatic doors opened, and the outside air met you. It was too bright. Too normal. Cars moved through the car park. Someone laughed near the entrance. A woman walked past holding flowers. Life had the nerve to continue after you had spent the last day and a half having yours remade. Andrew helped you into the passenger seat first.
You lowered yourself carefully, breathing out through the ache. His hand went to the doorframe above your head, his other hovering near your elbow. "You sure you're okay?"
"I'm okay." "You look pale." "I just had a baby."
His face tightened. "I know." "I'm allowed to look pale."
"I know." "You can worry, but don't make that face." "What face?"
"The one that says you're about to carry me back inside and demand they keep me for six more days." He looked down at you, serious. "Can they?"
"No." "Should they?" "Andrew."
His mouth pressed together. "You tell me if anything feels wrong." "I will."
"Not after you've decided you can handle it." You softened. "I will tell you."
His thumb brushed your cheek. "Promise?" "I promise."
He nodded, but he did not move right away. Instead, his eyes moved over your face. Not searching for pain this time. Not checking for warning signs. Just looking. You felt suddenly too visible sitting there in the passenger seat, hair unwashed, hospital clothes still clinging in all the wrong places, body aching, eyes swollen from crying and not sleeping.
"What?" you asked. Andrew shook his head once. "Nothing."
"That is a lie." His mouth softened. "You're beautiful."
You blinked. Then laughed, because the alternative was bursting into tears in the hospital car park. "I am wearing mesh underwear and I think there is dried baby sick on my shoulder."
His eyes did not move away from yours. "Still beautiful." "Andrew."
"I mean it." Your throat tightened. He leaned one hand against the roof of the car and bent slightly closer, careful not to crowd you, careful with you in a way that made your chest hurt.
"You just had our daughter," he said quietly. "You brought her here. You went through all of that, and you still looked at me like you were worried about how I was handling it." Your eyes burned.
"That's not—" "You're the strongest woman I know." The words stopped you. Andrew's jaw shifted like he was trying to keep his own voice steady.
"The most amazing woman I know. And I don't say that because you had a baby. I say that because I've watched you keep loving us through everything. Me. Andie. Her." His eyes flicked briefly toward the back seat. Then came back to you.
"You make room when there shouldn't be any left. You make home out of things I thought I'd ruined. And I don't know how you do that." Your lips parted, but nothing came out. He touched your face again, thumb moving gently beneath your eye.
"So yeah," he said, voice rough. "You're beautiful. Right now. Exactly like this." A tear slipped down your cheek. Andrew wiped it away. You gave him a shaky look.
"You are being very unfair in a public car park." His mouth curved faintly. "I know."
"You can't say things like that and expect me to function." "You don't have to function. I've got you."
That broke something soft inside you. You reached up and caught his wrist. "I love you." His face softened completely.
"I love you too." He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Then, softer, against your hair, "My strong girl." You closed your eyes. For one second, the hospital, the soreness, the car seat, the fear, all of it quieted. Then Aurora made a tiny sound from the back seat. Andrew's head lifted immediately.
You laughed wetly. "There she is." He looked from you to the back seat and back again.
"Both my girls need me." "You have three girls now." His eyes softened.
"Yeah," he whispered. "I do." Only then did he close your door. He placed Aurora's car seat into the back with almost terrifying care. He checked the base, the straps, the angle, the click, then checked them again. You turned your head to watch him.
"Andrew." "I'm checking." "I know."
He glanced up. "Too much?" You softened.
"No." He looked back at the seat. "Good."
Your eyes burned. He checked the handle, then brushed one finger over the edge of Aurora's blanket. "Ready?" he asked her quietly.
She slept. Andrew's mouth curved. "Strong answer."
You smiled. He closed the door gently and came around to the driver's side. For a moment, he did not start the car. He sat with both hands on the wheel, looking straight ahead. You looked at him. "What?"
He swallowed. "Nothing." "You have never had nothing on your face."
His fingers tightened once. You waited. Andrew looked into the rear-view mirror. At Aurora. Then back at the windscreen. "I didn't do this with Andie."
The words were quiet. They did not need to be bigger. Your chest went soft and sore. "No." "I came home to her."
You reached for his hand. He gave it immediately. "She was already there," he said. "She was."
His eyes moved to the mirror again. "I didn't put her in the car. Didn't bring her out. Didn't..." He stopped.
You held his hand tighter. Outside, someone pushed a trolley past. A normal sound. A ridiculous one. Andrew breathed in slowly. "I know I got other things."
"I know." "I know I got her after." "You did."
His jaw shifted. "But I get this one." Your heart broke and healed in the same breath.
"Yes," you whispered. "You get this one." He nodded once. Then again. Like he needed to feel the truth land. You lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles.
"Take us home." His mouth trembled. Then he started the car. Craig texted when you were ten minutes away.
Craig: Andie has asked if Rora is coming home nine times. Andrew glanced at the message when the car was stopped at a light.
"Only nine?" you said. Another buzz came almost immediately. Deran:
IT IS MORE THAN NINE Deran: CRAIG IS COUNTING BADLY
Then: Deran: SHE HAS THE SOCK
Andrew looked at you. "The sock?" You looked at the hospital bag by your feet. The side pocket was empty. Your mouth fell open.
"Oh my God." Andrew looked mildly alarmed. "What?"
"She took it." "Andie?" "She must have."
He stared at the road. Then his mouth started to curve. "She stole the sock." "She rescued the sock."
"She is two." "She is organised." "She is related to you."
You laughed. It hurt. You pressed one hand to your stomach and winced through the laugh. Andrew immediately looked over. "Pain?" "Laughter injury."
"Don't laugh." "Tell Deran not to text then." Another buzz.
Deran: SHE SAYS SOCK WAITED TOO You covered your mouth. Andrew's eyes softened. He looked into the mirror again. Aurora slept on.
"Sock waited too," he murmured. You smiled. "She's going to tell her."
"Rora?" "Yeah." "That the sock waited?"
"Yes." His mouth twitched. "Family history."
"It's important." "Apparently."
The drive home felt both too long and too short. Every road looked familiar and different at once. The corner shop. The turning near the beach road. The row of houses with bins still out. The little dip in the street that Andrew took so slowly someone behind you honked. Andrew ignored them completely. You looked over.
"You are going twelve miles an hour." "There's a dip." "She's strapped into a professionally tested car seat, not balanced on a spoon."
He glanced at you. "You want me to go faster?" "No."
"Then don't start." You smiled and leaned back against the seat. Behind you, Aurora made a soft noise. Andrew's eyes snapped to the mirror.
"She's fine," you said. "I know." "She squeaked."
"I heard." "You heard a squeak over the engine?" "Yes."
"Of course you did." Aurora settled again. Andrew did not relax until her chest rose clearly beneath the blanket. You watched his face in profile. He was tired.
More tired than he would admit. The day before had hollowed him out and filled him back up in different places. His eyes were red from the birth, the name reveal, Andie leaving the hospital, and probably from watching Aurora sleep instead of sleeping himself. But beneath the exhaustion, there was something else. A steadiness. Not easy peace. Andrew would probably never be an easy-peace sort of man. But something rooted. He was not catching up to this beginning. He was inside it. When you turned onto your street, your throat tightened.
"There it is," you whispered. Andrew slowed even more. The house came into view. Your house. Curtains open. Porch step repaired from months ago. A small pink chalk mark still on the path from Andie drawing circles two days before labour started. The front door closed, but not quiet. You could feel the waiting from the car.
Craig's truck was outside. Deran's car was crooked behind it. Of course. And there, stretched across the front window, was a banner. Not a neat one. Not even close. A strip of paper had been taped to the glass in three uneven sections. One side dipped lower than the other. The letters were large and wobbly, some clearly written by an adult hand and some attacked with toddler enthusiasm. WELCOME HOME RORA There were hearts. There were ducks.
There was what might have been a baby. Or possibly a potato. You stared at it. "Oh."
Andrew parked but did not move. His eyes fixed on the banner. The word home sat there in the window. Not quiet. Not subtle. Waiting for him. Waiting for all of you. Your hand found his. "They made her a banner."
His throat moved. "Andie made ducks." "I can tell."
"One of them has teeth." "That might be Deran's contribution."
Andrew laughed once. Small. Shaky. The front door opened before he had even unbuckled himself. Deran appeared first. Naturally. He stepped out onto the porch, put one finger to his mouth, then immediately turned back inside and whisper-yelled, "THEY'RE HERE." Andrew froze halfway out of the car. Craig's voice came from inside.
"Deran." "What? I whispered." "You announced it to the street."
"I'm excited quietly." "That was not quiet."
Then Andie appeared in the doorway. She was barefoot, despite Craig absolutely knowing better, wearing a yellow jumper and holding Baby Duck under one arm. In her other hand, she held the sock. The sock. The too-big, folded, ridiculous sock she had put in the hospital bag for her sister. She lifted it like proof.
"Sock wait!" You laughed and cried instantly. Andrew shut his eyes for half a second. Then he opened them and looked at her with such softness you had to look away. Craig came up behind Andie and put both hands gently on her shoulders.
"Stay there until Mama is out of the car." Andie bounced once. "Mama home?"
You opened your door slowly. "Mama home." "Dada home?"
Andrew came around from the back door with Aurora's car seat in his hand. "Dada home." Andie's eyes dropped to the car seat. Her whole face changed.
"Rora?" Andrew's voice went low. "Rora's home."
Andie gasped as if this had somehow not been the entire plan. "Rora house?"
You stepped carefully onto the pavement, one hand braced on the car, moving slowly because your body was not ready to be graceful yet. "Rora house," you said.
Andie looked at Craig. "Rora house." Craig nodded.
"She made it." Andie looked down at the sock. "Sock help."
Deran stood behind Craig with both hands pressed to his mouth. Andrew looked at him. "You okay?" Deran shook his head.
"No." Craig sighed. "He's been like this all morning."
"I'm emotional," Deran said, voice muffled behind his hands. "There are two of them now." "Two what?" you asked. "Tiny Cody girls."
Andie frowned. "I not tiny." Deran immediately pointed at her.
"Correct. Medium Cody girl." Andie nodded, satisfied. Andrew came around to your side first, car seat in one hand, his other hand free for you. You took it.
"I can walk." "I know." "You just want to hover."
"Yes." You smiled. He helped you up the path slowly. The whole house seemed to be holding its breath. The porch step creaked under Andrew's foot. The same porch step he had fixed.
The same porch where he had held Andie after coming home. The same door he had walked through after prison into a life already happening without him. Now he stood there with Aurora in the car seat. His newborn daughter. His second girl. Home from the beginning. The banner shifted slightly in the window, one piece of tape losing its fight against gravity. Deran turned and smacked it back onto the glass.
"Quietly," Craig hissed. "I'm saving the welcome." Andie moved forward, but Craig's hands held her gently in place.
"Wait," Craig murmured. Andie looked offended. "Rora come in."
"She is coming in." "Now." "In a second."
Andrew looked at you. You knew. You stepped slightly to the side, giving him the doorway. His eyes shifted to yours. "You sure?"
You smiled through the ache in your chest. "You bring her in."
His mouth parted. Nothing came out. Then he looked down at Aurora, sleeping inside the car seat, hat still too big, mouth still soft, entire life still unaware of what this meant to him. Andrew swallowed. He stepped over the threshold. The car seat crossed into the house. Andie clapped once. "Rora home!"
Deran made a sound that was definitely not a cough. Craig looked down. You stood in the doorway for one second, watching Andrew inside your house with your daughter in his hand. With Andie beside him. With the sock in her fist. With Craig and Deran pretending not to fall apart. With a crooked banner in the window and one duck drawing slowly peeling at the corner. This was not the big, dramatic moment people put in photographs. It was awkward. Crowded. You were sore. The hospital bag slid off Andrew's shoulder and knocked against the doorframe. Deran was crying.
Andie had no shoes on. Aurora slept through it. It was perfect. Andrew turned back to you. "Come in." Your eyes filled.
"I'm coming." He reached his free hand out. You took it and stepped inside. Home. The word landed differently now. Not because the house had changed. Because everyone inside it had.
Andie wanted to show Aurora everything immediately. Not some things. Not the important things. Everything. She stood in front of the car seat while Andrew set it carefully on the living room floor and began pointing with the sock. "Couch."
Aurora slept. "Duck." Aurora slept.
"Table." Aurora slept. "Banner."
Andrew looked up at the window. "Banner?" Andie nodded proudly.
"Rora banner." Deran straightened slightly. "I helped."
Craig said, "He wrote the R backwards first." Deran frowned. "It was artistic." Andie pointed at him.
"Dewan bad R." "You said it looked nice." "No."
Deran looked wounded. Andrew's mouth curved. Andie turned back to the car seat. "Dewan." Deran lifted one hand weakly.
"Hi." "Cwaig." Craig nodded solemnly.
"Hi, Rora." Andie looked at the baby. "Rora, that Cwaig."
Andrew sat on the edge of the couch beside the car seat, one hand still on the handle. "You're giving her the tour?" Andie nodded.
"House." "She needs to know." "Yes."
You lowered yourself carefully into the armchair because if you tried the couch you might never get back up. Craig noticed before you had fully sat and moved a cushion behind your back without making a production of it. "Thanks," you said softly.
He nodded. "You need water?" Andrew answered before you could.
"Yes." You looked at him. "I can answer."
"You were going to say no." "I was not." "You were thinking it."
"I was considering." Craig was already halfway to the kitchen. Deran still hovered near the door, holding the hospital bag like it had been handed to him and then forgotten.
"What do I do with this?" Andrew looked at him. "Put it down."
"Where?" "Anywhere." Deran stared at him.
"Anywhere is not a place." You smiled tiredly. "By the stairs."
"Great. A location." He set it by the stairs with deep seriousness. Andie pointed the sock toward the hallway. "Rora room."
Andrew looked at you. You looked at him. Already? Andie did not wait for adult emotional readiness. "Rora cot. Duck check."
Craig came back with water and froze. "Duck check?" Andie nodded.
"Duck check cot." Deran pointed at Craig. "That was your idea."
Craig accepted this without shame. "It was a good idea at the hospital." "It has become policy."
Andrew looked down at Aurora. "She's asleep." "Rora see room," Andie insisted.
"She is asleep," Andrew repeated gently. Andie considered this. Then leaned closer to the car seat. "Rora. Wake."
"No," three adults said at once. Aurora did not care. She slept. Andie frowned. "Rora rude."
Deran pressed his lips together. Craig looked at the ceiling. Andrew's mouth twitched. "She's tired." "Me too," Andie said.
"You refused a nap," Craig said. Andie looked at him like he had brought up private information in public. "No."
"Honestly, fair." You drank the water Craig handed you and tried not to laugh too hard. Andrew unbuckled Aurora carefully, and the car seat anxiety returned instantly. Not as big as before. But there. You saw it in the way his shoulders tightened when the buckle clicked. In the way he paused before lifting her.
In the way his hand slid beneath her head like he was afraid her whole body might forget how to be held. "She's okay," you said softly. Andrew glanced at you.
"I know." "She won't break because you take her out." His jaw moved.
"She looks breakable." "She's not."
"She's..." He lifted her carefully, and Aurora's little arm slipped free of the blanket. His eyes went straight to it. "Her arm." "She has two."
"It's just there." "That is where arms go." He gave you a look that would have been funnier if his eyes were not so worried. You softened.
"You're doing fine." He looked down at Aurora. She made a tiny irritated noise when her cheek landed against his shirt. Andrew froze. Then she settled. His whole body released in pieces. Andie appeared beside his knee.
"Rora mad?" "A little." "House loud."
Andrew looked at Deran. Deran raised both hands. "I have been quiet."
Craig said, "For you." Andrew settled Aurora against his chest. The entire room softened. It happened every time. The moment she was against him, everything in Andrew changed. His shoulders lowered. His face bent toward her. His hand curved around the back of her blanket, not clutching, not afraid, just there. Aurora's cheek rested against his shirt. Her mouth opened once, then settled. Andie stared.
"Dada hold Rora." "Yeah." "Rora like."
Andrew swallowed. "I hope so." Andie looked up at him.
"Rora luboo Dada." Andrew's eyes closed briefly. You looked away because you could not cry again this soon. Deran did cry. He turned toward the wall like that helped. Craig handed him a tissue without comment.
The nursery had been ready for days. Weeks, really. The cot stood against the wall with the yellow star sheet tucked neatly over the mattress. The changing table was stocked. The tiny clothes were folded. A soft lamp sat near the chair. Andie's old baby things lived beside new ones, a careful blend of what had been and what would be.
You had seen it ready. You had stood there with Andrew before labour started. You had watched him place one hand on the cot rail and one hand on your stomach. But it was different now. Everything was different now. Andrew carried Aurora upstairs first. Slowly. You followed behind him with one hand on the railing and Craig hovering two steps below you like a human safety net. Andie marched ahead, Baby Duck under one arm and the sock in her other hand. Deran came last, whispering, "This is a lot of stairs for an emotional tour."
"No one asked you to come upstairs," Craig said quietly. "I'm part of the delegation." "You're carrying nothing."
"I'm carrying feelings." Andie turned around on the landing. "Dewan quiet. Rora sleep."
Deran pressed one hand to his chest. "Right. Sorry." Andrew looked back at you as you reached the top.
"You okay?" "Sore." "Need to sit?"
"Soon." He did not like that answer, but he let it pass because Aurora shifted in his arms. Andie pushed open the nursery door. "Rora room."
The lamp was already on. Soft yellow light spilled across the cot, the chair, the folded blankets. Baby Duck had apparently been there recently because one of Andie's small toy cups was sitting on the rug beside the cot. Andrew stepped inside and stopped. You saw it hit him. He had stood in this room before. He had prepared it. He had survived it. But he had never carried a baby into it from the hospital.
With Andie, the room had already had a child in it by the time he came home. The cot had already been slept in. The sheets had already been warmed by a baby he had loved from behind walls before he ever got to stand beside her bed at midnight. This time, he crossed the room with Aurora against his chest. This time, he brought the baby to the cot. This time, he was not late. Craig noticed too. Of course he did. He stood in the doorway, quiet now. Deran did too, for once. Andie walked straight to the cot and lifted Baby Duck toward it.
"Duck check." Andrew's voice came out rough. "Okay."
You sat in the nursing chair because your legs were trembling, and not only from soreness. Andie stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the cot rail. "Duck see."
Craig reached down and lifted her carefully onto his hip. "Quick check," he said. "Rora is sleeping."
Andie held Baby Duck over the cot, not inside it, because she had apparently absorbed at least one safety rule in her life. "Duck says good."
Andrew looked at the cot. "Yeah?" Andie nodded.
"Good cot." His throat moved. "Good."
Aurora made a small snuffling sound against his chest. Andrew looked down instantly. "She's okay," you said gently. "I know."
He looked at you. The words were automatic now, but this time his face was different. Open. Too full. He crossed to you slowly and sat on the edge of the chair arm, careful not to crowd you too much, still holding Aurora. You reached up and touched the baby's blanket, then his wrist. "You brought her home," you whispered.
His jaw tightened. He nodded. The room blurred a little. "You brought your daughter home."
Andrew closed his eyes. Craig looked away. Deran looked at the ceiling and lost badly. Andie, unaware she was standing in the middle of an emotional catastrophe, said, "Dada bring Rora." Andrew let out a broken laugh. "Yeah, baby."
"Rora house." "Yeah." "Rora cot."
"Yeah." Andie looked at you. "Mama sit."
You laughed wetly. "Mama is sitting." "Mama tired."
"Very." "Rora tired." "Yes."
"Dada tired." Andrew nodded. "Very."
Andie looked at Craig. "Cwaig tired." "Little bit," Craig said.
Andie looked at Deran. "Dewan cry." Deran wiped his face.
"I'm tired too." Craig muttered, "That is not what she said." Deran pointed at him. "Not now."
Aurora stirred again, making a small hungry sound this time. You knew it immediately. So did your body. Andrew saw your face change. "Hungry?" "Probably."
He stood carefully and brought her to you. The handover was slow, practiced already in the way new parents became practiced through necessity and repetition and fear. Aurora's tiny weight settled into your arms, and something in you unclenched. She rooted against you, fussy now, face scrunching. Andie leaned forward from Craig's arms.
"Rora eat?" "Yes," you said. "Milk?"
"Yes." "Now?" "Now."
Andrew looked at Craig and Deran. Craig nodded before he spoke. "We'll take Andie downstairs." Andie immediately objected.
"No. See Rora milk." Andrew's voice went gentle but firm. "Not this time."
Andie frowned. "Why?" "Because Mama needs quiet."
"Mama okay?" You smiled at her. "Mama is okay. Just tired."
Andie looked unconvinced. Craig shifted her on his hip. "Come help me check if Deran put the bag in the wrong place." Deran frowned.
"You're turning her against me." "She has always had standards," Craig said.
Andrew watched them leave with Andie still peering back at the baby until the last possible second. Then the room was quieter. Not silent. You could hear Andie's voice downstairs almost immediately. "Bag wrong."
Deran groaned. Craig said something too low to catch. You looked down at Aurora. She fussed against you, tiny mouth searching, hands curled. Andrew crouched beside the chair. "You need anything?"
You looked at him. "Sit with me."
His face softened. He sat on the floor beside the chair without hesitation, one knee bent, shoulder against your leg. He rested his hand lightly on your ankle. For a while, neither of you spoke. Aurora fed. Your body ached. The house made familiar noises around you. Downstairs, Andie bossed Deran about the bag. Andrew sat at your feet in the nursery, looking at the cot, the door, the baby, you.
"She's home," he said finally. You looked down at him. "She's home."
"I keep thinking it should feel different." "How?" "I don't know." His thumb moved over your ankle. "Bigger."
You looked around the room. The star sheet. The lamp. The pile of clean muslins. The baby in your arms. Andrew on the floor. The sounds of Andie below. "It feels pretty big to me."
He looked up. "Yeah?" "Yeah."
His mouth softened. Then his eyes moved to the cot. "With Andie, when I first saw her room..." He paused. "It already knew her." Your chest tightened.
"The cot. The clothes. The chair. Everything already had her in it." You nodded. He swallowed. "This one gets to learn her while I do."
Oh. You looked down at Aurora, at the tiny movement of her cheek. "Yes," you whispered. "It does."
Andrew nodded once. Then leaned his head carefully against your knee. You rested your free hand in his hair. No one said anything for a while after that. There was nothing else that needed saying. By late afternoon, the house looked like a newborn had arrived and a toddler had been asked to help. There were muslins on the couch, despite the neat pile you had started with. There was a tiny hat on the coffee table.
There was a nappy packet open in the living room because Aurora had made a noise and Andrew had decided supplies needed to be available in every room immediately. There was one of Andie's socks on the stairs. Not the hospital sock. A different sock. Apparently socks had become ceremonial. Craig had made food. Not asked. Made it. Something warm and easy that you could eat with one hand while Aurora slept in the bassinet Andrew had pulled into the living room.
Deran had tried to assemble the baby swing despite no one asking him to and had ended up sitting on the floor reading the instructions upside down. Andie had appointed herself supervisor. "No, Dewan."
"I haven't done anything yet." "No." "Okay, but you can't just no the entire process."
Andie leaned over the instruction booklet. "Bad." Deran looked at Craig.
"She gets this from Pope." Andrew, who was adjusting the bassinet blanket for the fourth time, did not look up. "She gets standards from me."
"She gets bossy from you." Andrew glanced at him. "She gets accuracy from me too."
Craig smiled into his mug. You sat on the couch with your feet tucked up, watching the living room exist around your daughters. Aurora slept. Andie stood over Deran with Baby Duck in one hand and the sock in the other. Andrew looked calmer only when he was within arm's reach of both girls, which meant he had been moving around the house like a man tethered by invisible strings. Every time Aurora made a sound, he looked. Every time Andie climbed onto something, he looked. Every time you shifted, he looked.
You were starting to worry his neck would give out. "Andrew." He turned instantly.
"What?" "Sit down." "I am doing something."
"You are moving a blanket half an inch." "It was near her face." "It was near the edge of the bassinet."
"It could become near her face." Deran looked up from the instructions. "He's got a point."
Craig said, "You are holding the instructions upside down." Deran looked down. "Still?" Andie sighed dramatically.
"Dewan bad reading." You laughed. Aurora startled in her sleep. Everyone froze. Andrew moved first, then stopped himself halfway to the bassinet when Aurora settled again. You watched him force himself to stay still. It was painful and lovely. Andie noticed too.
"Rora okay," she told him. Andrew looked at her. "Yeah?"
Andie nodded. "Rora sleep." "She is."
"No touch." His mouth curved faintly. "No touch."
You leaned back against the couch, exhausted but smiling. Craig caught your eye from the kitchen doorway. "You good?" You nodded.
"Yeah." He did not look convinced, but he accepted it. Andrew did not. When Craig went back into the kitchen and Deran returned to losing a fight with the baby swing, Andrew sat beside you. Finally. His hand went to your knee first. Then your cheek.
"Really?" You smiled tiredly. "Really what?"
"You good?" You exhaled. "I'm tired."
His thumb moved lightly over your cheekbone. "Pain?" "Sore."
"Bleeding okay?" You gave him a look. His face did not change. "I'm asking."
"You're asking very directly." "You just had a baby." "I am aware."
"You promised you'd tell me." Your teasing softened. "I'm okay. Everything feels normal. Uncomfortable, but normal."
He nodded, but his eyes searched your face like there might be an answer hidden there you had not given him. You touched his wrist. "I promise."
He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. "Good." "You are allowed to enjoy being home, you know."
"I am." "You look like you're guarding a fragile museum." He glanced at Aurora.
"Andie has a sock weapon. Deran has tools. You are pretending not to hurt. Rora is making sounds I've never heard before." "So, fragile museum?"
"Hostile environment." You laughed softly. He kissed your forehead again. Deran finally gave up on the baby swing and announced, "This thing is emotionally hostile." Andrew glanced at the half-assembled frame.
"You put the seat on backwards." Deran stared. Andie whispered, "Bad." Craig took the instructions gently from Deran. "Come help me with plates."
Deran stood with relief. "Thank God." Andie followed immediately.
"I help." Craig looked down. "With plates?"
Andie nodded. "With one spoon," Craig said.
Andie accepted this important responsibility. The room thinned out. For the first time all day, it was mostly you, Andrew, and Aurora in the living room. Andrew's arm slid around you. You leaned into him. "You did it," you murmured.
He looked down at you. "What?" "You brought her home."
His eyes went to the bassinet. Aurora slept, one cheek squashed, tiny mouth open. "I carried the seat." "You brought her home."
His throat moved. "You keep saying that." "Because you did."
His hand slid over your shoulder. "Andie was here." "Yes."
"And Rora came in." "Yes." "And now both of them are here."
You smiled. "That is usually how coming home works." He did not laugh. Not really. His face was too full for it.
"Both girls," he said. "Both girls." He looked down at you.
"You okay with that?" "With both girls?" "With..." He searched for words. "Everything."
The soreness. The exhaustion. The way Andie had watched you feed Aurora and asked if you still had arms for her too. The way you had almost cried into Craig's food because the fork fell off the plate. The way your body was no longer pregnant but not yet familiar. Everything. You rested your head against his shoulder.
"I'm overwhelmed." His arm tightened. "Yeah."
"I'm happy." "Yeah." "I'm sore."
"I know." "I love them both so much I feel insane." His mouth touched your hair.
"Yeah." "And I miss being three already, which makes me feel awful."
Andrew was quiet for a second. Then he said, "I miss it too." You looked up. He was watching Aurora. Not regretful. Just honest. "It was good," he said.
You swallowed. "It was." "And this is good."
You nodded. "It is." "Both can be true."
You let out a tired laugh. "That sounds like something I would say to you." "I listen sometimes."
"Only sometimes?" His mouth curved. "Enough."
Aurora made a tiny sound in the bassinet. Not awake. Not asleep enough either. Andrew looked over. You both waited. She settled. You exhaled. He did too. From the kitchen, Andie announced loudly, "I have spoon." Craig answered, "You do." Deran said, "Powerful." You smiled. Andrew looked toward the kitchen, then back at Aurora.
"Our house is loud." "It was loud before." "Different loud."
"Better loud?" His eyes moved over your face. "Yeah."
You closed your eyes as his lips touched your forehead. "Better loud."
Craig and Deran left after dinner. Not without protest. Deran claimed the family needed overnight support. Craig pointed out that his version of overnight support would involve waking the baby by accident and eating all your snacks. Deran said that was hurtful and probably accurate. Andie hugged Craig's leg, then Deran's, then made Baby Duck hug them too. Aurora slept through their goodbyes. Deran took this personally.
"She doesn't even know I'm leaving." "She is two days old," Craig said. "She'll feel it emotionally."
Andrew opened the front door. "Bye, Deran." Deran pointed at him.
"You're very rude for a man with two daughters now." "Bye." Deran looked at you.
"You need anything, you call." You softened. "I will."
"I mean it." "I know." He looked toward the bassinet.
"Bye, Rora. Tiny legend." Craig touched the top of Aurora's blanket with two fingers. "See you soon, kid."
Andrew's face softened at that. After they left, the house went oddly quiet. Not truly quiet. Andie still needed a bath. Aurora needed feeding. There were dishes in the sink. The baby swing remained half-built in the corner, defeated and vaguely threatening. But Craig and Deran's absence opened space around the four of you. Your family. Just your family. The evening came slowly. Andie's bath was chaotic because she insisted Baby Duck was also tired from waiting and needed to sit on the closed toilet lid and supervise.
Aurora cried halfway through, which made Andie stand up in the bath and announce, "Rora need." Andrew said, "Sit," with enough force that Andie sat immediately, water sloshing around her. You fed Aurora in the bedroom while Andrew finished bath time. You listened to his voice through the wall. Low. Patient. Tired.
"No, you cannot sleep in the towel." A pause. "Because towels are for drying."
Another pause. "Baby Duck can watch the towel." A louder pause.
"No, Baby Duck does not need lotion." You smiled down at Aurora. "Your sister is negotiating."
Aurora's tiny hand flexed near your skin. "She's very good at it."
By the time Andie was in pyjamas, the house had reached that dangerous stage of tired where everything was either funny or devastating. Andie wanted to say goodnight to Aurora. Then to the sock. Then to the cot. Then to Baby Duck. Then to Aurora again. Andrew carried Aurora into Andie's room while you sat carefully on the edge of the toddler bed. Andie climbed under her blanket and immediately sat back up.
"Rora here?" Andrew lowered Aurora just enough for Andie to see. "Just for goodnight."
"Rora sleep here?" "No. Rora sleeps in her cot." "Why?"
"Because this is your bed." Andie looked around, as if confirming. "My bed."
"Yeah." "Rora cot." "Yeah."
"Andie big bed." "Little bed," you corrected softly. Andie frowned.
"Big girl little bed." Andrew's mouth curved. "Exactly."
Andie leaned forward. "Night Rora." Aurora made no response. Andie waited. Then looked at Andrew.
"Rora no manners." You laughed quietly. Andrew kissed Andie's head. "She's learning."
"I teach." "You will." "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." Andie lay down, clutching Baby Duck. Then, just as you thought she was settled, her little voice came again. "Mama?"
You leaned closer. "Yeah?" "Rora stay?"
Your chest tightened. Andrew looked at you. You brushed Andie's hair back from her face. "Rora stays." "With us?"
"With us." "All days?" You smiled through tears.
"All days." Andie nodded slowly. "Okay."
Andrew stood very still with Aurora in his arms. Andie's eyes moved to him. "Dada?" "Yeah, baby?"
"You stay?" Andrew's face changed. "Yes."
The word was quiet and absolute. "I stay." Andie's eyes fluttered.
"Good." It took another story, two songs, one Baby Duck rescue, and Andrew pretending not to know where soft duck was even though it was under his elbow, but eventually Andie slept. Really slept. You stood in the hallway with Andrew, both of you looking into her room.
Aurora slept against his chest now, tucked warm under his chin. Across the hall, the nursery waited. For a moment, neither of you moved. Both girls. One in the little bed. One in his arms. The house held both of them. Andrew whispered, "She asked if I stay." You looked at him. "I heard."
His eyes stayed on Andie. "I do." "I know."
"I mean..." He swallowed. "I stay." Your throat tightened. You touched his back. "She knows."
He looked down at Aurora. Then across at Andie again. "I want them both to know." "They will."
He nodded, but his face was still too serious. Too deep inside the promise. You leaned into his side carefully. "They will because you'll keep showing them."
He looked at you then. The hallway light softened the tired lines of his face. Aurora stirred under his chin, and he adjusted her instinctively, one hand supporting her tiny back. "I brought her home," he said.
You smiled through the ache. "You did." "And Andie was here."
"Yes." "And now they're both..." "Home."
His eyes shone. "Yeah."
You stood there together for another minute. Maybe more. Time had become unreliable since the birth. Then Aurora made a tiny hungry sound, and the spell shifted into practical life again. You both laughed quietly. "Your turn or mine?" you whispered.
Andrew looked down at her. "She probably wants you." "She always wants me."
"So do I." You looked up at him. His mouth curved faintly, but his eyes stayed soft. "That was smooth for a man holding a newborn."
"I'm tired." "You flirt better exhausted." "I do everything better exhausted."
"That is not true." "No." You leaned up and kissed him gently. Aurora squeaked between you. Andrew looked down.
"Sorry." You smiled. "She's offended again."
"She gets that from you." "You're brave tonight." "I'm holding a baby. You can't hit me."
"I can wait." His laugh was quiet and warm. You took Aurora from him carefully, and together you crossed the hallway into the nursery. The cot waited with the yellow star sheet.
Andrew helped settle the blanket. You lowered Aurora down once she was fed and drowsy again, slow and careful, both of you breathing like the movement required teamwork from your souls. She fussed once. Andrew froze. You touched her chest gently. "Shh, Rora."
Her face scrunched. Then softened. She slept. In the cot. In the room. In the house. Home. Andrew's hand found the rail. Yours covered his. Across the hall, Andie sighed in her sleep. Aurora's tiny breath moved beneath the blanket. One daughter in the little bed. One daughter in the cot. You and Andrew stood between them, tired beyond words, hands linked on the rail. The house was not quiet. Not really. It breathed around you. It creaked. It hummed. It held. Andrew looked from Aurora's sleeping face to Andie's half-open door. Then to you.
"Both girls," he whispered. You rested your head against his arm. "Both girls."
His fingers threaded through yours. "With us." "With us."
He bent and kissed your hair. Down the hall, the living room still held the half-built swing, the abandoned muslins, the sock on the coffee table, the crooked welcome banner in the window, the proof that life had not become neat just because it had become beautiful. Inside the nursery, Aurora slept beneath the stars. Across the hall, Andie slept with Baby Duck tucked under her chin. And in between both rooms, Andrew stood with you, no longer arriving late to a life already begun. This time, he had brought his daughter home. This time, all of you were here.
pairing - brendon park x f!reader
wc - 1.95k
summary - three weeks into working as a nurse at the pitt, you meet brendon park for the first time. unfortunately, no one warns you of his shark teeth before you step close enough to be bit.
cw - i don't think there are any. reader is a sweetheart, but tends to be an anxious rambler. i tried to lean into canon park, so he's lowkey absent and clipped in his words, but i thought this might be an interesting one to write, haha.
a/n - pls notice that park is cinnamon and is spice and she is sugar and is sweet 😫 happy day four of park the shark week! this was the hardest day for me so far, but i hope you all still enjoy it, hehe.
shark divider from @sisterlucifergraphics
You hurry into the emergency department as fast as possible, juggling four trays of baked goods stacked as high as your head. The scent of cinnamon and sugar fills the air, hitting the nurse’s station before your coworkers even spot you struggling to maneuver in the busy space.
Princess rushes over, and you can see her grin even through the stack of dessert. “I could marry you,” she says, grabbing two of the trays and falling into step beside you.
You hear Dana sigh with exaggerated resignation, and it’s not long before she’s at your side. “What did you do now?”
You bite your bottom lip, hiding a smile. “I might have made cinnamon rolls, and the recipe might have gotten a little bit out of hand.”
Whitaker’s head lifts the second he hears the words cinnamon rolls fall from your lips, and you don’t miss the way he and Victoria both stand up from their charting immediately. They hurry over, and the man looks like he’s in awe as he asks, “Are they for us?”
“Who else would they be for?” You question, heading toward the staff lounge to display the treats. “I can’t eat forty-eight cinnamon rolls by myself.”
“You made forty-eight cinnamon rolls?” Emma gasps, her hand squeezing your shoulder gently. You’d fallen into an easy friendship with the girl in the past three weeks of working at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. The first day you’d spent in the unit was full of anxiety, and you’d been grateful to see someone like Emma, so close in age to you, fitting in the emergency room seamlessly, despite her chipper nature. It had made you relax, particularly when she’d complimented the pink ribbon you’d tied in a bow around your ponytail before work.
“Yeah…” you breathe, “I probably went overboard, but I wanted everyone to be able to have some. I had a lot of extra ingredients for the cream cheese frosting anyway, so I thought I might as well go big.”
You stop in front of the table in the center of the lounge and gently place the trays of cinnamon rolls down, careful not to jostle them. Dana stacks the extra boxes off to the side and chuckles when she finds the tiny sheet of ingredients, running her thumb along one of the little sketches of vines you’d decorated the edges with. “You made labels?”
Nodding, you reply, “I don’t want people to eat it if they’re allergic. Or not eat it because they’re scared they might be.”
She clicks her tongue, but her smile is fond when she murmurs, “Never change, kid.”
The emergency department is busy. Busy enough that you’ve had to readjust the ponytails securing your braids three times by eleven. Busy enough that you barely have time to use the restroom. Busy enough that you don’t notice Mel King walking up to you, holding a cinnamon roll in her hand, a beaming smile on her face as she says, “They’re shaped like flowers!”
You giggle, watching as she takes her first bite.
You’d brought baked goods to work a few times, and it warmed your heart to watch your coworkers find joy in them. Sure, you enjoyed baking and would do it either way, but it was nice to know that the things you were making could at least have a tiny impact on the people around you, especially when work could be overwhelming and exhausting.
The rest of the morning passes by in a whirlwind: triage, trauma, and charting biting at your heels when you dare pause for a break. You haven’t found time to check in on the cinnamon rolls in the staff lounge, but you can’t help but feel satisfied each time one of your coworkers passes you and mutters something about the dessert.
By five, the mood in the department shifts, as if you’ve entered the silent but deadly eye of a hurricane. Perlah appears at your elbow as you stock a supply cart while talking to Earl about sandwiches, her face stern. She doesn’t bother with a greeting, instead opting to pull you towards bay eleven.
“We need an extra set of hands in here,” she mutters under her breath, her stride fast and focused. “Robby’s in there with ortho. You need to stay on top of this one. Keep sharp. Listen to what the surgeon is asking for, take notes on the chart, yeah?”
You don’t have time to look at the chart on the tablet she thrusts into your hands before she pushes the door open, tugging you gently into the heavy atmosphere of the medical bay.
You stare at the man in front of you, circling the hospital room like a predator watching its prey. He’s huge, surely several inches over six feet, and you don’t miss the strength in his arms as he crosses them over his chest, the dark blue fabric of his scrubs stretching to accommodate the muscle.
Everyone is silent, and you join them in the quiet, instead deciding to ponder the reason Perlah had pulled you into the room when you hadn’t had anything to do with this case.
Truthfully, it didn’t seem like a second nurse was needed, but it was only your third week on the job, and you weren’t going to make any waves by questioning the nurses who had been working at the hospital for nearly as long as you’d been alive.
The man, Dr. Park, as Perlah had muttered quietly to you when the surgeon had turned his back on the two of you, spoke confidently to Robby, your attending nodding in agreement. You only caught pieces of his words: surgery tomorrow, not urgent, something that sounds like “send her upstairs.”
The room seems to breathe when he exits, a soft chatter picking up again, but your eyes stay trained on him. You hesitate, looking towards the hallway that leads upstairs, to the staff lounge, then back to the man walking down the corridor.
Dr. Park is nearly out of your sight as he begins to round the corner, but you seem to surprise him when you murmur, “Hi!”
He turns on his heels, looks at you, eyes trained on your face in a way that is entirely too intimidating to keep your voice steady while you say, “I’m sorry to interrupt you in the middle of the workday.”
He’s so still. Eerily still and serious, as if he doesn’t move unless there is a purpose. You shift your weight, uncomfortably aware of the stark contrast between the two of you.
You’re in your hospital-issued dark-grey scrubs, but your undershirt is a lavender that matches the shade of your stethoscope. Your hair is pulled into braids, the bottoms secured with a tiny white ribbon, and despite your enjoyment of the outfit, you can’t help but feel a bit childish when the gaze of the orthopedic surgeon falls upon you.
Still, you give a soft smile. “I just wanted to let you know that there are cinnamon rolls in the staff lounge if you want any!” He is silent, and it does nothing to help your nerves. He’s so close, so large, so handsome.
It makes you feel sick.
“I made them yesterday night, and...and there is an ingredient sheet too, in case you’re allergic to anything and want to check. I don’t want anyone to get sick, of course. Though I realize that we’re in a hospital and if you’re going to have anaphylaxis you might as well have it here, and-”
It takes Park interrupting you for the rambling to stop. “I don’t really eat dessert.”
He’s not loud. He isn’t cruel; he’s just…flat in tone. He speaks so matter-of-factly that it sounds like he’s telling you the sky is blue. “I’ll have to pass.”
“Oh, okay,” you nod, swallowing. Your smile falters when you murmur, “No worries.”
He gives you a tiny nod, and you scramble to add, “You can take some for your team, if you’d like?”
God, you feel like a bumbling idiot. What the fuck is wrong with you?
His eyes flick briefly toward the staff break room before falling back on you. “Have a good evening, nurse…” he looks down at your ID badge and adds your name with a tentative twitch of his lips
“You too, Dr. Park.”
He doesn’t look back when he leaves. The doors to the stairs close behind him, and you feel like your tennis shoes are stuck to the ground.
“Oof,” Whitaker mutters, appearing next to you out of thin air.
“What?” You breathe, looking up at him. He looks exhausted, though you can’t blame him. It has been a long day, and with only two hours left in the shift, everyone seems to be dragging their feet, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the night shift.
He nudges your shoulder, and you frown, chewing on your bottom lip. “You okay? You look sad.”
“Do I actually?” You mumble, walking back to central with the resident doctor at your side. Your hands fiddle absentmindedly with the ends of your stethoscope.
“You absolutely look sad.” Dennis shrugs, pressing his lips together in a familiar expression that brings the corners of your lips up just a hair.
“I just thought he’d like a cinnamon roll.” You scratch the back of your neck at how ridiculous you feel. “I wasn't trying to be weird or anything.”
“You weren’t.” He assures.
Dana walks over, throwing her arm around your shoulder and tugging you into her side. It feels motherly, and you thank the universe for her, for her being the one to lead you through this stage of your life. The job, the department, all of it. “What happened to my girl?”
Whitaker points towards the doors of bay eleven, the patient being tended to by Frank and Perlah as they prep her to be transported to the orthopedic rooms. “Park.”
The charge nurse groans, giving your arm a tight squeeze that calms your dejectedness more than it should. “What did he do now?”
“He doesn’t eat dessert apparently,” you grumble, rolling your eyes at the thought of it. Who doesn’t eat sweets? Surely one can live a balanced life and still indulge.
“That’s it?”
“He said it kind of…” Dennis searches, his hands waving around like you noticed he so often did. “Shark-ish.”
“Nobody warned you, did they, sugar?” Dana sighs, reaching over the desk to grab her water.
“About what?” It seems like every day in the emergency department comes with new information to be learned. You expected it, sure; starting your first nursing job was bound to bring new experiences, but not to this extent.
“Dr. Brendon Park. Park the Shark.” Whitaker answers, “Known to be terrifying.”
“He wasn’t terrifying,” you chuckle. Eerily composed, yes, but terrifying wouldn’t be the word that would come to your mind. “He was really serious, though.”
“He denies the existence of joy in the hospital,” Dennis responds. Dana laughs into her water, and you let their teasing be a balm to the disappointment of meeting the surgeon.
Lying back in bed, you sigh, finally feeling relaxed after your twelve-hour shift. You were off tomorrow, with plans to sleep in and maybe go shopping for a new book as a treat – if you successfully manage to clean your apartment first, that is – and you felt giddy at the idea of being free.
You’re musing over that potentially being the ultimate experience of adulthood when your phone buzzes, notifying you of a text message. You click on it, eyes furrowing as you read the words.
How the hell did Park the Shark manage to get your phone number, and why was he messaging you at nine-thirty at night?
Interlude: But I guess I would know if I’m dating someone, right?
Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you
Summary: An afternoon at the indoor playground with Robby and Lizzie.
A/N: I'm no longer updating the taglist because Tumblr has been glitching way too much lately. If you don't want to miss any updates, feel free to turn on notifications for my posts! <3
Link to "You stole my cart" master list (1)
Link to "You stole my cart" master list (2)
Previous chapter: We’re here to take something off your plate
--- --- ---
You:
Feeling a little under the weather and Jack is asleep. Can you take Lizzie for a couple of hours?
Robert Robinavitch:
Yeah, sure. Give me an hour, then I’ll pick her up.
You:
Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.
Robert Robinavitch:
I’m a doctor. I’m a lifesaver by definition.
You:
Yeah, but you’re also a pain in the ass and still not a hemorrhoid.
:)
The indoor playground was controlled chaos. Bright plastic climbing frames stretched toward the ceiling in impossible colors, enclosed by black safety netting. Children shrieked from every direction. Somewhere a tiny ride played the same cheerful melody over and over again - much like in a horror film. The air smelled faintly of coffee, pizza, disinfectant and the unmistakable scent of worn socks.
Robby spent a full three minutes choosing a table. Not because he cared about the table per se but he wanted to sit where he could see the slide, the climbing bridge, the ball pit and the play kitchen all at once. He instantly noticed two blind spots - and liked neither of them.
Lizzie got swept into the chaos in an instant. Within seconds she ha found a boy near her age, who took her hand and helped her climb the slide. Robby followed her every movement.
Tiny sneakers, green dinosaur shirt, ginger curls - good, she was still there.
Every couple of minutes she looked over to Robby, a little anxious - just to start grinning when she noticed him in the exact same spot, waving. “RARA!”
He waved more. “Hey, Elizabeth.”
She shrieked. “DADDY DUPID!”
He tilted his head - and mentally filed it under “toddler language”. A while later, when he helped her onto a spring horse she looked up at him with big eyes. “Daddy dupid” she repeated, solemnly.
“I don’t know what that means, Elizabeth” Robby replied with an apologizing smile. “But I know your daddy is at home, sleeping. So don’t worry about him, okay?”
She glanced at him, then nodded slowly. “‘kay.”
Five minutes later she disappeared into the ball pit again with a couple of other toddlers. He smiled amused then quietly pulled out his phone and opened his browser.
What does dupid mean?
No results. He frowned.
dupid toddler meaning
Nothing.
dupid child language
→ “Do you mean developmental language disorder?”
Robby stared at his screen. “I fucking hope not” he mumbled to himself, then put the phone away again. “I guess she’s just inventing words now.”
A while later.
Robby was already at his third cup of coffee and his butt was officially asleep by now. He shifted slightly and flinched. He watched his goddaughter toddling over to a woman sitting on the floor with her son, building bricks. She stared at the woman for a solid ten seconds without blinking.
The woman looked up at her and smiled awkwardly. “Um… hi?”
Lizzie beamed by the sudden attention and raised both her arms enthusiastically. “Daddy dupid.” With that she ran away.
The woman blinked, smiled and shook her head before turning her attention back to her son.
Five minutes later Lizzie came back. “Daddy dupid” she whispered in a conspiratorial tone.
The woman had to hide her laugh.
She stood up and walked over to Robby, Lizzie toddling behind her like a duckling. “Excuse me…”
Robby tilted his head. “Yeah?”
“Um, I just thought you should know - your daughter has been telling everyone you are stupid.”
Robby frowned. “She’s been saying what?”
“Daddy stupid” the woman repeated with a shy smile and an apologetic shrug.
Robby burst out laughing. “Oh my God - THAT’s what she’s saying!” he managed between laughs. “And I was thinking she was- oh my God, I’m sorry - never mind.” He wiped tears from his eyes. “I tried for the last hour to figure out what she’s saying. I already thought she was just inventing words.”
Lizzie stepped closer, a little shy, and climbed onto his lap. She sat down and stared at the woman with big eyes, her hand clutched into Robby’s shirt.
Robby pulled her closer, pressing a quick kiss onto her hair. “She doesn’t mean me, by the way.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, she means her other dad” he said with a shrug. “I mean - her dad” he corrected quickly. “I’m not her dad. I’m just her godfather. Her dad is my best friend. And apparently he’s the stupid one.”
The woman started laughing. “Okay, I see.” She scanned him over briefly. “Do you want to have a coffee with me?”
Robby looked up, surprised. “Um, I still have one.” He gestured toward his plastic cup. “But you can keep me company. I guess that little devil here will abandon me in ten seconds.”
The woman laughed then sat down next to him. “Yeah, that tracks.”
Lizzie blinked and glanced at her. Then she straightened and climbed from Robby’s lap with surprising speed. She disappeared toward the ball pit without a second glance back.
Robby shrugged. “See?”
The woman chuckled then leaned slightly back in her chair. “She’s adorable.”
“Yeah.” Robby looked at his hands, a smile on his face. “She is.”
“She keeps everyone entertained” the woman continued, sounding clearly amused.
He glanced at her. “That’s one way to put it.”
Another chuckle. “So… are you just here for your goddaughter or are there a couple of your kids running around too?”
Robby’s smile fell a little. “No.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t have any of my own.”
“Oh.” She looked at him. “But you’re married?”
Robby shook his head.
“But you have a girlfriend, right?”
He hesitated. He opened his mouth, closed it and shrugged. “I don’t know.” He saw the confusion in her face and figured he owed her some kind of further explanation. “There’s this woman I like.” Another shrug. “We kissed on New Year’s Eve but that’s… about it.”
“And neither of you has asked the other out since?” the woman asked slowly, like she was carefully choosing her words.
“No.” Robby let out a sigh. “I don’t know. We’re texting. Occasionally. But it’s not like I’m dating her. At least - I don’t think so.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I’ve been out of the dating game for a while but I guess I would know if I’m dating someone. Right?”
The woman chuckled softly and placed her hand on his arm. “Usually my answer would be yes but you’re a guy so…” She winked playfully. “But do you want to date her?”
“Yes.” The answer came immediately. “But… I’m not sure she wants to date… me.”
She squeezed his arm gently. “She kissed you.”
“Yeah.” He looked at her, his face scrunched in a tormented way. “But that was one kiss fueled by cocktails and fireworks. So… maybe it didn’t mean anything.”
“Why don’t you just ask her out?” She pulled her hand back.
“Mhm.” He clutched his hands around his coffee cup again, turning it slightly. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should just bite the bullet and do it. Then you have some clarity.”
Robby nodded slowly. “Mhm.”
“RARA!” Lizzie stood in front of him, her eyes wide, tears glistening. “Rara, ouch.”
His attention snapped immediately toward her, looking her up and down. “What’s wrong?”
“Ouch” she whimpered, pointing to her knee.
He lifted her onto his lap, rolling up her trouser leg and noticed a small graze on her shin. “Oh, baby, what happened?”
Her lip wobbled and she pointed roughly toward the slide.
The woman smiled and got up. “I leave you to it. If you want to have a coffee later just give me a shout.” She waved and wandered back to her son.
Robby nodded once, his attention fully centered on Lizzie. “That’s not too bad, Elizabeth.” He gave her a kiss on top of her head. “It’s just a scratch. Does it hurt?”
She swallowed hard. “Dana” she whimpered.
“Do you want me to make it better?” He wiped away the tears running down her cheek.
She nodded. “Dana” she sniffled again.
“Okay.” Robby nodded and straightened. With exaggerated concentration Robby moved his hand in small circles above the scrape, his fingers wriggling slightly as if performing some complicated medical procedure only he understood.
Lizzie watched him intently, waiting for the words she already knew by heart now.
“Check it, clean it, kiss it too. That’s what doctors always do” he said with utter seriousness, then booped her nose gently. “See? All better now.”
Lizzie shrieked delighted. She threw her hands around him and cuddled him. Robby hugged her and closed his eyes for a moment.
“See? You’re okay now, little Missy” he said quietly. “Everything will be okay in the end.”
--- --- ---
You wanna keep reading? - Next chapter is coming soon, I promise!
{Here When She Comes - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}
Summary - This time there are no prison walls, no second-hand memories, and no moments missed. Just Andrew, the woman he loves, and the daughter he gets to meet from her very first breath.
Word Count - 5200ish
You are going to want your tissues for this one. Comment to be added to the taglist.
By the time you reached the hospital, the contractions had stopped being polite. They had started quietly. At home. Between folded clothes and dishes in the sink. Between Andie asleep upstairs and the hospital bag waiting by the front door with her too-big sock still sticking out of the side pocket. They had started in the middle of ordinary life, which somehow made them feel even more unreal. Not in the morning with soft light and time to prepare. Not after a tidy breakfast or a final calm check of the bag. No. They had started while Andrew was rinsing plates and you were on the living room floor pretending you were not too pregnant to sit there. They had started while your first daughter slept with Baby Duck tucked under her arm.
Now they came lower. Heavier. Closer. You sat in the passenger seat with one hand braced beneath your stomach and the other gripping Andrew's hand every time the pain built. He drove with a focus so intense it made the car feel smaller, his jaw set, his eyes moving between the road and you whenever traffic allowed. The sky was still half-dark. Not night anymore. Not morning either. That strange grey hour where the whole world looked like it was holding its breath.
You had a contraction three minutes from the hospital. Andrew knew before you said anything. He saw your hand tighten around the door handle. Saw your body go still. Saw the way your breath caught in your chest and did not come out properly.
"I've got you," he said.
"You're driving."
"I've still got you."
You would have laughed if your body had not been too busy becoming one giant ache. The contraction rolled through your back and down low, making your legs tense and your fingers curl against your own thigh. Andrew reached for you at the red light, his hand finding yours, thumb pressing hard into your palm.
"Breathe," he said, voice low. "That's it. Slow."
You shut your eyes.
"I hate the car."
"I know."
"I hate roads."
"I know."
"I hate whoever invented speed bumps."
His mouth tightened. "I'll find them."
A breathless sound escaped you. Not quite a laugh. Enough. The contraction eased, leaving you damp-eyed and tired. Andrew lifted your hand to his mouth before the light changed and kissed your knuckles. Just once. Quick. Fierce. Then he drove.
The hospital bag sat in the back seat. You could see it in the mirror when the car passed under a streetlight. Dark bag. Side pocket open just enough for Andie's sock to peek out, pale and ridiculous and perfect. You stared at it. Andrew noticed, because Andrew noticed everything.
"Sock made it," he said.
You let out a wet little laugh. "Good. Very important."
"Vital."
"She would ask."
"I know."
His hand tightened on the wheel. For a second, you saw Andie again. Sleep-warm in Craig's arms. Baby Duck clutched under her chin. Eyes too big for her little face.
All come back?
Your chest squeezed. Not from a contraction. Andrew glanced at you.
"She's okay."
"I know."
"Craig's got her."
"I know."
"Deran is probably already teaching Baby Duck something dangerous."
That did it. A proper little laugh broke through the tears in your throat.
"Probably."
Andrew's mouth curved faintly. Then another contraction began, and the laugh disappeared.
He parked closer than you expected. You did not ask how. You suspected his face had made a space open through force alone. By the time he came around to your side of the car, the contraction had taken enough of you that you did not care about the cold early morning air or the fact that your hair was stuck to your cheek. Andrew opened the door and crouched in front of you.
"Can you move?"
You nodded. Then immediately shook your head.
"Not yet."
"Okay."
He did not rush you. He did not tell you you were almost there. He did not look toward the hospital doors like the room inside mattered more than the body in front of him. He put one hand on your knee and the other on the side of your stomach, not pressing, just there. His eyes stayed on yours.
"I'm here."
You breathed through your teeth. "I know."
"I'm here."
You closed your eyes. That time, you understood he was not only telling you. He was telling himself. The contraction eased. Andrew helped you out of the car slowly, one arm around your back, the other holding your hand. He reached for the hospital bag and slung it over his shoulder like he would personally fight anyone who suggested taking it from him. The sock still stuck out. He left it. You loved him so much you almost cried again.
Then another pain rolled low in your belly, and you stopped in the middle of the hospital entrance with one hand gripping his jacket. Andrew stopped with you instantly.
"Okay," he murmured. "Here. Lean on me."
"I'm going to scare people."
"Let them be scared."
"Andrew."
"What?"
"You cannot threaten the hospital."
"I didn't."
"You thought about it."
His arm tightened around you. "A little."
You pressed your forehead to his chest as the contraction built. His hand moved to your lower back, the pressure firm and exactly where you needed it.
"That's it," he whispered into your hair. "You're doing good."
"I don't feel good."
"I didn't say it felt good." His mouth brushed your temple. "I said you're doing good."
Your fingers dug into his sleeve. You breathed. He stayed. The automatic doors opened and closed behind you. People moved around you. A woman at reception looked over with immediate concern. Andrew did not move until your body let you. When the contraction passed, he kissed your forehead.
"Ready?"
"No."
His face softened. "Ready enough?"
That hurt. The good kind. The kind that had followed you from your living room, from the hospital bag by the door, from Andie's sleepy voice. You nodded.
"Ready enough."
Andrew answered every question like he had been studying for this exact moment for months. Which, to be fair, he had. When the midwife asked what time contractions had started, he answered. When she asked how far apart they were, he answered. When she asked about movement, you answered first, and Andrew added, "She's been moving. Strong." When she asked about your waters, bleeding, pain level, the contractions, the drive, he stayed beside you with one hand on your back and the other holding yours, giving information only when you looked at him or when your body was too busy to let you speak.
He did not take over. That mattered. You noticed. Even through the contractions. Even through the foggy edge of pain and adrenaline and the strange unreality of being in a hospital room before sunrise. He stood beside you like a wall and let you be the one in charge of your own body. That was Andrew at his best. Not soft because he was gentle. Soft because he was controlled. Because every protective instinct in him wanted to take over and he kept choosing not to.
Another contraction started while the midwife was fitting the bracelet around your wrist. You turned toward him automatically. Andrew's arms came around you.
"Back?" he asked.
You nodded. He pressed the heel of his hand into your lower spine, exactly where you needed it, and you leaned into his chest. The bag slipped slightly on his shoulder. He ignored it. The sock brushed against your arm. You laughed once, broken and breathless.
Andrew looked down. "What?"
"The sock."
He looked at the side pocket. His mouth twitched.
"She'd be mad if we lost it."
"She would."
"Can't start the baby's life with Andie mad at her."
You squeezed your eyes shut as the contraction peaked. "You say that like it won't happen by day two."
"Day one," he said, and kissed the top of your head.
The midwife smiled, but not in a way that made you feel watched. Just gently. Like she understood that this was how families carried themselves into new shape. Through jokes. Through socks. Through one man holding his wife like he would hold the walls up if she asked. When the contraction passed, you sagged against him.
"Good," he whispered. "That's good."
"Stop saying good."
"Okay."
"Say it again later."
His mouth brushed your forehead. "Okay."
They kept you.
That was the first thing that made it real inside the hospital. Not the room. Not the bracelet around your wrist. Not Andrew placing the hospital bag carefully beside the chair. Not the midwife's calm voice. The words did it.
"You're staying."
Andrew's hand tightened around yours. Not enough to hurt. Enough to tell you he understood the same thing you did. You were not going home pregnant. The next time you left this place, your daughter would be outside your body. The thought made your breathing change. Andrew noticed. His eyes came to yours.
"Hey."
You blinked hard. "I know."
"You okay?"
"No."
His face softened. "Yeah."
You almost laughed. "Yeah?"
"No, I mean..." He brushed his thumb over your knuckles. "Yeah. That makes sense."
A contraction started before you could answer. You turned toward him automatically, and he was already there. One hand around yours, the other at your back, his body close enough that you could press your forehead against his shoulder. The hospital room became background. Soft voices. Moving feet. The monitor. The bag placed beside the chair with Andie's sock still visible. Andrew's shirt beneath your cheek. His mouth near your hair.
"Breathe with me," he whispered.
You did. Because he asked. Because he was there. Because every contraction seemed to pull the world down to the small places his hands touched you. When it passed, you sagged against him. His lips pressed to your forehead.
"You're perfect."
You huffed, half-laugh, half-sob. "I am absolutely not perfect right now."
"You are to me."
Your eyes burned. "Don't be nice. I'll cry."
"You're already crying."
"I'll cry more."
His thumb brushed under your eye. "Okay."
"You are impossible."
"I know."
The midwife came back after a few minutes, gentle and calm, and asked if you still wanted to use the birth pool if everything stayed straightforward and the room was ready. You answered before thinking too hard.
"Yes."
Andrew went still beside you. Not dramatically. Not enough that anyone else would have noticed. But you felt it through the hand holding yours. The midwife explained what would happen, voice steady, practiced, reassuring. You listened. Andrew listened harder. You could practically feel him absorbing every word, sorting it into safe and unknown and things he would research later if the baby did not decide to arrive first.
When she left you to settle for a bit, Andrew did not speak right away. You looked at him.
"What?"
His eyes moved from your face to your stomach and back again.
"You're sure?"
"About the water?"
He nodded.
"Yeah."
Your chest softened despite the pain. "Andrew."
"I know you wanted it." His jaw moved once. "I know you talked about it."
"I did."
"And they said it's okay."
"Yes."
"I heard."
"I know."
He looked down at your joined hands. "I don't know enough not to be scared."
Oh. That was so honest it made your heart ache. Another contraction threatened low in your back, but it had not fully arrived yet. You used the small space before it to lift your free hand to his face.
"You're worried about her."
His eyes came to yours. "Yeah."
"I wouldn't do anything that put her at risk."
"I know."
"Do you?"
His answer came immediately. "Yes."
Your thumb brushed his cheek. He swallowed.
"I know you."
The contraction began then. You leaned forward. Andrew moved with you. No more words for a minute. His hand went to your lower back, pressure steady while the pain gathered and held. You gripped his other hand hard enough that he probably felt it in his bones. He did not flinch. When the contraction eased, he kissed your forehead. Then your temple. Then the back of your hand.
"If you want it," he said, voice rough, "I'm with you."
You looked up at him. "I want it."
He nodded. "Then I'm with you."
Time loosened after that. It did not pass normally. It came in contractions and spaces. Pain and rest. Andrew's hands. Andrew's voice. The room shifted around you, but he stayed constant. He helped you walk when walking helped. Held your hips when you leaned over the bed. Pressed hard into your lower back when the pain wrapped there. Fed you sips of water through a straw and did not comment when you snapped, "I know where my mouth is," then cried two seconds later because you felt bad. He only kissed your forehead and said, "I know."
At some point, the folder with Andie's picture came out of the bag because you asked to see it. Andrew opened it carefully, keeping the paper flat the way she had instructed. The pink circle stared back at you. Baby sister, according to Andie. With too many legs because "kick." You laughed until a contraction swallowed the sound. Andrew held the picture where you could see it when the pain passed.
"She drew her with seven feet," he said.
You breathed out shakily. "Accurate."
"She'll be proud."
"Andie?"
"Baby sister."
You smiled tiredly. "Of the feet?"
"She's been using all of them."
Another contraction rose before you could answer. You reached for him blindly. He took your hand with both of his.
"I've got you."
The words had become less of a sentence and more of a place. Somewhere you could go. Somewhere that did not take the pain away but made it less lonely. The next hour blurred. You remembered walking. Stopping. Leaning into Andrew in the middle of the room while the contraction took over. You remembered his hand at the back of your neck. His mouth near your ear.
You remembered saying, "I can't do this for hours," and him answering, "Then we do this one." You remembered hating him for being reasonable. You remembered needing him for exactly that. You remembered the midwife telling you that you were doing beautifully, and Andrew saying, immediately, "She is," like the compliment belonged to you and he would defend it from anyone who tried to soften it.
You remembered his hands shaking once when he thought you were not looking. Just once. He turned away to get water, and his fingers trembled against the bottle cap. You saw. He knew you saw. For a second, the room went quiet between you.
"You okay?" you asked.
He looked at you, then down at the bottle. "Yeah."
"Andrew."
His eyes came back to yours. "I'm scared."
The honesty cut straight through the contraction haze.
"Me too."
He came back to you immediately, bottle forgotten for a second, hand cupping your cheek.
"But you know what?" you whispered.
"What?"
"You're still here."
His face moved. Something old. Something wounded. Something healing badly and beautifully at the same time.
"Yeah," he said.
You covered his hand with yours. "That's what I need."
His thumb moved along your cheek. Then the next contraction started, and you reached for him with both hands. He came closer. Instantly.
"Then I'm here."
By the time the pool was ready, you were shaking with exhaustion and anticipation. The contractions were closer now, heavier, demanding more of you. The room had gone dimmer. Or maybe you had simply stopped noticing the edges of it. The midwife checked the water, spoke softly, made sure you still wanted it. You nodded. Andrew looked at your face. Not the water. Not the room. You.
"If you change your mind—"
"I won't."
"If you do."
You squeezed his hand. "You'll help me out."
"Yes."
"I know."
His mouth pressed into a line. The fear was still there. But so was trust. That mattered more. He helped you undress with a tenderness that made your eyes fill. Not because you felt exposed. Because he looked at you like there was nothing about you that could ever make him look away. Not the sweat. Not the shaking. Not the stretch marks or the bump or the way your body had become something raw and powerful and beyond politeness. His hands were careful. His eyes were reverent.
"You're staring," you whispered, because humour was easier than being loved that openly.
His gaze lifted to yours. "You're beautiful."
"I am in labour."
"I know."
"That is not the same."
"To me it is."
The contraction hit before you could respond. You bent into him, hands clutching his shirt, and he held you through it standing there beside the pool.
"I love you," he whispered against your hair. "I love you so much. You're doing so good. I've got you."
You shook your head. "I can't."
"You are."
"Andrew."
"I know." His lips pressed to your forehead. "I know, baby. I'm here."
When it passed, he and the midwife helped you into the water. The warmth wrapped around you. For one blessed second, your whole body softened. Not pain-free. Not even close. But lighter. Supported. The weight of your stomach shifted in the water, and you let out a sound that was almost relief. Andrew's eyes searched your face.
"Better?"
"A little."
He nodded like that mattered more than anything else in the world. He knelt beside the pool. One sleeve was already pushed up. The other got wet almost immediately because you reached for him and he gave you his hand without hesitation. His fingers slid between yours under the water. Warm. Solid. Soaked. He did not care. His thumb moved over your knuckles.
The room settled into a quieter rhythm. The midwife nearby, calm and watchful. The water around you. The hospital bag in the corner. The grey morning light slowly turning pale at the window. Andrew beside you, one hand in yours and the other brushing damp hair back from your face every time it fell forward. You leaned against the side of the pool, head turned toward him. He kissed your forehead. Then your temple. Then the back of your wet hand. Again and again. Not frantic. Not performative. Just constant.
"I'm right here," he whispered.
You nodded. "I know."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I know."
"You're perfect."
You closed your eyes. "You keep saying that."
"Because you keep being it."
A laugh broke out of you, small and cracked. Then a contraction rose, and you gripped him hard. The water shifted around you. Your body pulled low, deep, strong. Andrew leaned closer, his face inches from yours.
"Look at me."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can."
"I hate you a little."
His mouth twitched, eyes wet. "That's okay."
"I don't."
"I know."
"I love you."
His face changed. "I love you too."
The contraction peaked, and words disappeared. Andrew pressed his forehead to yours, his hand still locked with yours beneath the water.
"That's it," he whispered. "You're doing it. You're doing so good. So good."
You shook through the end of it. When it passed, you sagged forward, breathing hard. He kissed your forehead again.
"You're perfect."
"I am so tired."
"I know."
"I want her here."
His eyes softened and broke all at once. "Me too."
The words were barely there. Me too. Not abstract anymore. Not someday. Not soon. Now. His daughter was coming. This daughter. This cry he would hear. This first breath he would not have to imagine. You saw the thought land in him. It moved through his face like grief and awe at the same time.
"Andrew?"
His eyes snapped back to yours. "I'm here."
"You looked far away."
He shook his head. "No."
"You did."
"I'm not." His grip tightened. "I'm here. All the way."
All the way. Your throat tightened. A contraction began to build again, but you held his gaze as long as you could.
"Stay with me now."
His jaw shifted. "I am."
"I know it hurts."
His eyes flicked over your face. "What?"
"You. Andie."
He went very still. You squeezed his hand under the water.
"Stay here."
He closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them, he was back. Fully. His forehead touched yours.
"Here," he said. "With you."
The next contraction took you before you could answer. This one was different. Lower. Stronger. It pulled a sound out of you that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than your throat. The midwife's voice came through the haze, calm, guiding, telling you to listen to your body. Andrew's hand held yours. His other hand brushed your hair back. Again. Again. Again.
"You're bringing her here," he whispered. "You hear me? You're bringing our girl here."
You cried then. Not because of fear. Because of the words. Because with Andie, there had been no Andrew beside you saying our girl while you worked to bring her into the world. Because this time, there was.
"I can't," you gasped.
"You are."
"I can't."
"You are." His voice shook, but it did not break. "You're doing it right now."
"Don't let go."
"Never."
"Promise?"
"Every second."
Your body took over after that. There was less room for thought. Less room for time. The water moved around you. The room narrowed. The midwife's voice stayed soft and sure. Andrew stayed beside you, soaked to the forearm, eyes fixed on your face like you were the only thing holding the world together. Maybe you were. For those minutes, you felt like you were.
He whispered through every wave.
"I love you."
"You're so good."
"That's it."
"I'm here."
"She's close."
"You're doing it."
"I love you so much."
At one point, you gripped both his hands and pressed your forehead to his, and he kissed you through your shaking breaths. Not on the mouth exactly. Your forehead. Your cheek. The corner of your brow. Anywhere he could reach. Anywhere that said, still here. Your hair stuck to your face. He brushed it back. It fell again. He brushed it back again. You would remember that later more clearly than almost anything. His fingers gentle against your temple while your body did the hardest thing it knew how to do.
The moment she came, the world seemed to hold itself still.
There was water. A soft rush of movement. The midwife's hands, steady and sure. Your own broken gasp. Andrew's breath stopping beside you. For one impossible second, there was silence.
Then she cried.
Sharp. Furious. Alive.
The whole room changed.
Andrew made a sound you had never heard from him before. Not a sob exactly. Not a word. Something torn loose from the deepest part of him. Your daughter was lifted to your chest, wet and warm and impossibly small, her cry turning into another outraged little sound against your skin. You looked down. The world blurred.
"Oh," you said, or maybe you only breathed it. "Oh, baby."
Andrew was frozen beside you. His eyes were wide, fixed on her. Tears were already on his face. Not hidden. Not wiped away. Falling freely.
"She's here," you whispered.
His mouth moved. Nothing came out. You looked at him through tears.
"Andrew."
That did it. He blinked, and the rest of him seemed to come back into his body all at once. His hand lifted, shaking, and hovered near your daughter's back. Like he was afraid to touch something so new. So real. You nodded. He touched her with one finger. Just the middle of her back. Barely there. Her skin was slick and warm beneath his fingertip. His face broke.
"Hi," he whispered.
Your chest heaved. The baby cried again, smaller now, pressed against you. Andrew leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours and hers.
"Hi, baby girl."
You sobbed. He touched her again, a little braver. Her shoulder. The dark wet hair against her tiny head. Her back where she trembled and breathed and existed.
"I heard you," he whispered.
Oh. You closed your eyes. A sob shook through you. He had. He had heard her. Her first sound. Her first furious proof of life. No one had told him later. No one had described it through a phone. No one had sent a video he would watch after the fact until the sound burned into him like a borrowed memory. He heard her. He was there. Andrew's hand covered yours where it held her.
"I heard you," he said again, softer.
The baby quieted against your chest. As if she knew. For a while, there was nothing else. Just her. Just the little slippery weight of her against you. Just Andrew's shaking hand over yours. Just his tears falling unchecked while morning opened slowly beyond the window. You bent your head and kissed the top of her tiny head. She smelled like water and birth and something new you could not name.
"Hi," you whispered. "Hi, sweetheart."
Andrew made another broken sound. You looked at him. His eyes were fixed on you now. On the baby. On the place where your daughter's cheek rested against your skin.
"You did it," he said.
His voice barely worked.
"You helped."
He shook his head. "No."
"Andrew."
"No." He looked at you like you were something sacred and terrifying. "You brought her here."
You cried harder. He kissed your forehead. Then the baby's head, so gently his mouth barely touched her.
"I love you," he whispered.
You did not know which of you he meant. All of you, maybe.
Afterward came warmth. Towels. Soft voices. The strange shaking exhaustion that made your whole body feel both hollowed out and impossibly full. Andrew stayed close through all of it. He looked like a man who had been remade and did not yet know how to move in the new shape.
The baby stayed on your chest, tucked against your skin, her tiny face turned toward your heartbeat. She made little sounds every now and then, offended murmurs that made Andrew look down immediately. Every time.
"She's okay," you whispered once.
"I know."
"You don't look like you know."
"I'm learning this one too."
You smiled tiredly. Your hand moved weakly over the baby's back.
"She's so tiny."
"She's perfect."
"You said that about me."
"Both."
You looked at him. His eyes were on your face now. Red. Wet. Wide with love and shock.
"You did it," he said again, quieter this time.
"You keep saying that."
"Because you did."
"You were there."
His face changed. You had not meant to make it hurt. But maybe some hurt could not be separated from joy anymore.
"I was," he said.
You reached for him with your free hand. He took it immediately.
"I kept looking for you," you whispered.
His forehead creased. "What?"
"During it. Even when I couldn't... think properly. I kept looking for your hand."
His eyes filled again. "You had it."
"I know."
"You always had it."
"I know."
His mouth pressed to your fingers. The midwife eventually asked if Andrew wanted to cut the cord when it was time. He looked at you first. Always you. As if this, too, needed your permission. You nodded. His throat moved.
"Yeah."
His hands shook a little. Not badly. Enough that you saw. Enough that he knew you saw. He did it anyway. And when he came back to your side, you reached for him. He bent down and pressed his forehead to yours.
"All the way," you whispered.
His eyes closed. "All the way."
The first time Andrew held her, the room had gone quiet again. Not empty quiet. Full quiet. The baby had been checked and wrapped and returned, soft and warm and drowsy now, her tiny face scrunched in displeasure at having been born into a world with air and lights and people who kept touching her feet. You were back in bed, exhausted beyond anything you had words for, hair damp, body aching, heart wide open and raw.
Andrew stood beside you. Waiting. Not asking. Never wanting to take before you gave. You looked down at your daughter, then up at him.
"Take her."
His face changed. "You sure?"
"Andrew."
He swallowed. You smiled, tears burning again.
"Hold your daughter."
The words hit him. You watched them do it. A nurse helped settle the baby into his arms, though Andrew barely needed guidance. He was careful by instinct. Terrified by love. Steady because she needed him to be. And then she was there. In his arms. His daughter. Not handed over in a visiting room. Not passed to him under someone else's rules. Not placed in his hold for a few impossible minutes while a clock counted down and a guard watched from the corner.
No one counted. No one stood by the door. No one watched his hands like they were temporary. She was simply placed in his arms because he was her father. Andrew stared down at her. For a moment, he did not breathe. Then he sat carefully in the chair beside your bed, cradling her against his chest like the world had narrowed to the weight of six or seven pounds.
"Hi," he whispered again.
The baby's mouth moved. Her eyes stayed closed. He let out a broken little laugh. You watched through tears.
"I'm your dad," he said.
His voice cracked on the last word. Your hand covered your mouth. Andrew looked at her like he wanted to memorise every part of her before anyone could take memory from him.
"I was here," he whispered.
Not to you. Not really. To her. To himself. To the empty place left by Andie's beginning.
"I was here when you came."
The baby shifted in his arms, turning slightly toward his voice. Andrew's tears fell onto the blanket. He did not wipe them away. You could not stop crying. He looked up at you then. His face was open in a way it rarely was. Wrecked. Overwhelmed. So full of love it seemed almost painful. You reached for him. He leaned closer with the baby in his arms.
The three of you fit together awkwardly. Perfectly. Your fingers brushed your daughter's blanket. Then Andrew's wrist.
"She knows," you whispered.
His mouth trembled. "You think?"
"I know."
He looked back down. The baby made another small sound. Andrew smiled through tears.
"She's loud."
"Deran will be thrilled."
"Don't say his name near her yet."
You laughed. It hurt. You did not care. Andrew looked back down at her and shifted the blanket near her cheek with one careful finger.
"She has your mouth," he said.
"She is six minutes old."
"She does."
"She has your glare."
"She has not opened her eyes properly."
"I can tell."
You smiled. "She has Andie's outrage."
His laugh broke softly. "Yeah?"
"Absolutely."
He looked down at the baby again.
"Andie's going to lose her mind."
"Andie's going to try to give her Baby Duck immediately."
"She can't."
"I know."
"She can show her."
"She can show her."
His eyes lifted. "Not today?"
You knew what he meant. The meeting. The first time Andie saw her sister not as a bump or a promise or a pink drawing with seven feet, but as a real, breathing baby. You were already tired enough that the thought made you cry.
"Maybe later," you whispered. "Or tomorrow. Let's just..."
"Yeah."
He nodded immediately. "Just us first."
You smiled. "Just us first."
The words settled. Not family of three anymore. Not exactly family of four all together yet. This in-between room. You, Andrew, and the daughter who had just arrived. Andie waiting at home with Baby Duck and Craig and Deran and one enormous promise.
All come back.
Soon. But not yet. For now, Andrew held the baby. You watched. And the world was small enough to survive.
Andrew waited longer than you expected before texting. Not because he forgot. Because he could not quite seem to put her down, and because every time he looked at his phone, he looked back at the baby like he did not want a screen between them. Eventually, you touched his wrist.
"Craig."
His eyes lifted.
"Andie."
The softness in his face changed. Right. Home. The waiting. All come back. He shifted carefully, holding the baby in one arm with the kind of concentration usually reserved for dangerous materials, and picked up his phone. His thumb hovered over the group chat.
Emergency Contact Chaos.
For once, he typed first.
Andrew:
She's here.
The reply came almost immediately.
Craig:
Everyone okay?
Andrew looked at you. You nodded, exhausted and smiling. He typed:
Andrew:
Yeah.
Then, because he had apparently forgotten who else was in the chat, Deran exploded.
Deran:
SHE'S HERE?????
Deran:
WHY DID YOU JUST SAY YEAH
Deran:
IS SHE TINY
Deran:
SAY MORE WORDS
Andrew stared at the screen. You laughed softly.
"Poor Deran."
"No."
Another message.
Deran:
ANDIE IS ASKING IF BABY SISTER CAME BACK
Your eyes filled instantly. Andrew read it. His face shifted. He looked down at the baby. Then at you. Then he typed slowly.
Andrew:
Baby sister came.
Craig replied:
Craig:
She smiled.
Deran:
Deran:
SHE SAID SOCK GO??
Andrew looked at the hospital bag sitting beside the chair. The sock still stuck from the side pocket. He let out a breath that almost became a laugh.
Andrew:
Sock came too.
Deran:
Deran:
THANK GOD
Craig:
Craig:
Tell her we love her.
Andrew looked down at your daughter. His thumb moved over the edge of the blanket.
"She already knows," he murmured.
You smiled. "Tell them anyway."
He typed:
Andrew:
She cried right away.
There was a pause. Longer than expected. Then Craig:
Craig:
Good girl.
Deran:
Deran:
I'M NOT CRYING
Craig:
Craig:
He is.
Deran:
Deran:
SO IS ANDIE
Then:
Deran:
NO SHE'S JUST EMOTIONAL SUPPORTING ME
You laughed and cried at the same time. Andrew's mouth curved. Then he set the phone aside. The next messages could wait. For now, there was this room. This bed. This baby.
The morning had fully arrived outside the window. Pale light touched the edge of the blanket around your daughter, the side of Andrew's face, the damp strands of hair still clinging to your temple. You were exhausted. Aching. Emptied and filled all at once. Andrew sat beside you with your second daughter in his arms, one hand supporting her head, the other curved around her body as if he could protect her from everything by holding carefully enough.
You watched him watch her. He looked younger somehow. And older. Like the night had taken something from him and given something back at the same time.
"She's really here," you whispered.
He nodded, eyes still on her. "Yeah."
"You're really here."
That made him look at you. His face shifted. The baby moved softly in his arms, one tiny hand pressing against the blanket. Andrew looked back down.
"I know."
You reached over and touched his wrist.
"With Andie," you said softly, "you came after."
His jaw tightened. "I know."
"This time..." Your voice broke.
He looked at you.
"This time," you whispered, "you were first."
The words undid him. Not loudly. He did not sob or turn away. He just lowered his head over your daughter and cried quietly, his mouth pressed to the edge of her blanket, one hand holding her close. You let him. There was no fixing that. No softening it. No making the first time less lost. There was only this. This daughter. This room. This first cry still fresh in his ears. This tiny weight in his arms before grief could turn the moment into something second-hand.
When he lifted his head, his eyes were red again.
"Thank you," he said.
Your face crumpled. "Andrew."
"I mean it."
"You don't have to thank me for having our daughter."
"I'm not."
You went quiet. His hand shifted around the baby.
"I'm thanking you for letting me be here."
Oh. Your chest broke wide open.
"You were always allowed."
His eyes held yours. "I know."
But you both knew allowed and able were not the same thing. You both knew what walls and glass and time and consequences had taken before. You both knew that this moment was not simple. That was why it mattered.
"You stayed," you said.
His mouth trembled. "Every second."
"You heard her."
His eyes dropped back to the baby. "I heard her."
"You held my hand."
"Every second."
"You're holding her now."
He looked at you again. "Yeah."
You smiled through tears. "Then don't thank me."
His thumb moved over your daughter's blanket. "What do I say?"
You looked at him. At the baby. At the morning.
"At some point?" you whispered. "You say welcome home."
Andrew looked down at the tiny sleeping face in his arms. For a moment, he did not speak. Then he bent his head and kissed her forehead. So softly. So carefully.
"Welcome home, baby girl."
Your eyes closed. The hospital room stayed quiet around you. With Andie, he had met fatherhood through glass, rules, phone calls, visits, and all the hours already lost. This time, his daughter's first cry was still in his ears. This time, her weight was warm in his arms before anyone could tell him what he had missed. This time, when she came, Andrew was there. All the way.
synopsis: Sometimes Brendon Park is a very stupid man.
warnings/notes: Omegaverse dynamics. Reader is an ortho surgery fellow. Another attending is a dick to reader. Flangst, my beloved. let me know if i missed something. First time writing Park. @thedamnqueenofhell requested this one for my One Big Bash.
wc: 3.3k
Eight weeks.
That’s how long you had been putting up with one Dr. Keith Jacobs.
You were no stranger to the prejudice and assumptions that came with you being an Omega studying to become a surgeon. You’d dealt with them in undergrad, in med school, and throughout your residency. Now you were a surgical fellow six weeks out from that attending position. Already offered and accepted here at PTMC.
Jacobs was an alphahole of the first order. Not a day went by without him taking the opportunity to make a snide comment, to attempt to tear you down. You ignored him as you had everyone who came before him and as you would everyone who came after him.
But the longer he went without getting the response he clearly wanted, the sharper and more hateful his comments became. You knew it wasn’t entirely due to your designation. No, Jacobs was here as temporary coverage, to fill the spot Dr. Simmons left with her retirement. The spot you’d been hired to fill. He undoubtedly thought if he chased you off, he could keep the job. Asshole.
Unfortunately for him, today you were tired. Exhausted really, functioning only off spite and copious amounts of caffeine. You’d been on call the last three nights. And while you’d only had to come in for one surgery, you never slept well when you knew you could be summoned at any moment. So today, you weren’t putting up with his shit.
You sat at one of the computers finishing up your notes for the surgery you’d finished fifteen minutes ago. Jacobs stood nearby chatting with one of the trauma surgeons, though his voice was pitched to carry straight to you.
“I just don’t understand why they would even give her a fellowship. Omegas are naturally better at following than leading. The designation is wired for support roles. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just interesting that PTMC is encouraging it.” He dropped his voice just a fraction but still loud enough to be heard by you and anyone else that happened to be around. “They can’t possibly think that she’ll be a successful attending.”
You stood, hands braced on the desk and stared him down. “Just because I am an Omega, doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole to me and I just take it.” You leaned closer to him and his eyes widened slightly. “Shove your designation up your ass.”
The department was silent as the few witnesses took in the both of you. Even those who hadn’t heard the entirety of what had been said, knew that it had to have been too far, too much. You were level-headed and calm in even the worst situations. It came from a lifetime of biting your tongue. Well, you were done.
Jacobs’ face turned a brilliant shade of red as he opened his mouth to respond. It snapped shut as someone said your name.
Just your name, but it was enough when it was Brendon Park saying it. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t sharp. Just that calm, even tone he used when he wasn’t busy reprimanding the med students and residents.
Your face flooded with heat. A combination of embarrassment and anger, you supposed. You turned and found him standing a short distance away. His scrubs were impeccable even though it was nearing the end of the shift. Of course, they were. Just like his hair was still gelled back with nary a strand out of place. His jaw was sharp enough to cut. His blue eyes gave nothing away as they assessed the situation.Head of the department. Alpha. And all together perfect for you, even if he’d never be yours.
He didn’t say anything else, simply tilting his head toward the hallway that led to his office and waited. Once you moved to follow, he led the way. The corridor felt longer than it had any right to be. You kept your chin up even if your hands were shaking. Jacobs might be an alpha asshole but he was still your superior. Technically. Telling him to shove anything up his ass probably wasn’t the most intelligent thing you’d ever done.
Park didn’t say a word nor did he look back to make sure you were following. His office door was open and he gestured for you to enter first. He followed and closed the door behind you. You glanced around the office, finding no changes from the last time you were here. The office was sparse but it was all him.
And here, you could detect the slightest hint of warm cedar. His scent was dampened but stronger here than anywhere else and you knew he probably changed his scent patches here when needed. You attempted to breathe shallowly, not wanting this man to get any further under your skin than he already was.
He didn’t sit behind the desk. He leaned against the front of it, arms crossed, posture casual. You realized he was trying to keep this from feeling like a disciplinary meeting and you appreciated it. Some of the tension bled from your shoulders.
“What was that about?” he asked.
You told him all of it. From the first comment about how omegas have no place in the OR to the one he’d made last week to a nurse about your scent being distracting and maybe you should consider a stronger scent patch. Then the suggestion, made twice in the last month, that you’d gotten your fellowship placement because some alpha had put in a good word to get into your nest.
As you spoke, your voice regained its steadiness and the shaking in your hands ceased. You watched his face as you spoke. His expression didn’t change but his jaw tightened, a muscle twitching under the skin. His eyes remained on yours, not looking away even once. He listened without interrupting. When you finished, you felt lighter than you had in weeks.
Park studied you for a moment. “When did this start?”
“His second day.”
His gaze narrowed slightly at that before returning to normal. “Why didn’t you report it?”
You sighed. “I didn’t want to be that omega. The one that couldn’t take a few comments from an alpha. I only have six more weeks before he’ll be gone. I thought I could ignore it.”
“You could have said something to me if you didn’t want to involve HR.” His voice had softened.
“I could have, yes.”
The silence stretched for a beat. “But you didn’t.”
“No, sir.”
He nodded just once, a short downward movement of his chin. An acknowledgement of what you’d told him.
“Finish your rounds and go home,” he said.
That was it. No platitudes. No promises. Just a dismissal.
So, you left.
When you returned for your next shift two days later, you found Jacobs’ name gone from the department board. You glanced at the wall lined with the photos of the surgical attendings. There was no longer a picture of Jacobs smirking from the end of the row. It was if he’d never been there at all. The corners of your lips curled up into a smile.
Park was already at the nurses’ station when you arrived, reviewing his charts for that day’s surgeries. He didn’t look up when you approached. When you said good morning, he responded with nothing more than a short nod, his eyes meeting yours for half a second before returning to the chart.
Gratitude washed through you. Park had handled it. He hadn’t questioned your sincerity, hadn’t taken an alpha’s word over yours. He’d simply assessed the problem and took care of it. And that feeling you’d been shoving down for months welled up. The feeling you got whenever you watched him operate, when you took in the set of his broad shoulders, when he approved of your work with a simple ‘good.’
You were six weeks from being his colleague instead of his fellow. Six weeks from the hierarchy between you becoming something simpler. You had promised yourself you would wait.
That evening you broke that promise.
You decided on brownies. Something that would keep for a couple of days without refrigeration. That he could take a bite of when he had a moment. But you didn’t make the quick ones you could throw together without a second thought. No, these were a layered concoction that were rich without being too sweet. Dark chocolate and raspberry and cream cheese.
The apartment filled with the rich aroma. Once they’d cooled you packaged them carefully in a glass container. You stuck a note to the lid. A simple Thank you for believing me followed by your name. You resisted the urge to add a little heart after it.
You rested your palm against the lid and took a deep breath. An omega bringing food to an alpha was not a casual act of gratitude. It carried weight. It was a courting gesture. It was the kind of thing that said, I value you, I appreciate you, you’re worth me spending my time on. You knew what you were doing. Had known as soon as he asked for no accolades for his actions that were going to do it.
The next morning you arrived an hour early for your shift. Even Park didn’t arrive that early. You set the container on his desk, carefully in the center where he would see it first thing. Then you left, your heart in your throat, and went to prepare for your day.
Brendon found the container just before 6:30. He always arrived a half an hour early for his shift, wanting a chance to review the day’s OR schedule. He paused, setting down his bag, eyes on the container and your familiar scrawl. His brow furrowed as he read the note. Of course he believed you. Why would he do otherwise?
He’d worked with you for years. Watched you grow from a shy resident into a competent, confident surgeon. Jacobs was just some asshole filling a spot that was rightfully yours.
He lifted the lid. The deep, rich aroma of good chocolate flooded his senses, his mouth instantly watering. A pulse of possessive warmth started low in his belly and spread outward, making the hair on his arms stand up. His scent changed before he could stop it, the cedar deepening mixing with the underlying spicy smell of a pleased alpha.
He stood very still for a moment and let himself feel it.
Then he shut it down. Hard.
The last thing you needed was an alpha reading too much into a thank you. You had just spent weeks being insulted and humiliated on a daily basis by another alpha. You didn’t deserve the unwanted attentions of another.
If he ate this food, if he accepted this gesture, he would not be able to maintain the distance he’d built between you shift by shift. He closed the container, carried it to the breakroom and left it on the table. Then he went back to his office, closed the door and did not come out for twenty minutes.
You found it when you stopped by to get a cup of coffee between procedures. Your glass container, still half full of brownies sitting on the table. Crumbs littered the area around it.
You stood just inside the doorway of the empty breakroom and took a deep breath. Then another. Then you picked up the container and carried it to your locker. That night when you got home, you threw the whole thing in the garbage. Then you walked away.
As the days passed, you changed. You knew it but didn’t care enough to correct it. You spoke less in rounds. You kept your eyes anywhere but on Park when he was speaking. You stopped lingering at the nurses’ station to talk to him after your work was finished or between procedures. It was the only thing you knew to do. He had made his position clear and you weren’t going to push when you weren’t wanted.
Park changed too. His interactions with you became shorter, the tone more formal. Not cold, never that, but careful in a way he hadn’t been before. He stopped standing quite as close to you in the OR. Quit making small talk.
The distance between you grew enough that it was noted by others in the department. It was brought up to you exactly once and your cold dismissal was enough to keep them from asking again. No one was brave enough to broach the topic with Park.
It was fine, you told yourself, meaning it less with each passing day.
The shift was a brutal one.
You’d nearly lost a patient on the table. A tib-fib fracture that shifted, nicking the artery. For the longest ninety seconds of your life, the blood had come faster than you could clamp it. Your hands remained steady through all of it. As you found the bleed, as you repaired it, finished the surgery and closed. The patient was stable and in recovery now.
Your hands waited until after to shake. You stood at the sink, too hot water running over your trembling fingers. You pressed your forehead against the cool tile and breathed. Once you were more certain of yourself, sure the anxiety had ebbed enough to not be read on your face, you headed back to work.
At the end of the day, you were still carrying it there in the middle of your chest. As you passed the nurses’ station on your way out you heard the distinct sound of Park’s laugh.
Not the short exhale he gave when he found something mildly amusing. No, this was a real laugh. Low and easy, the way you’d only heard a handful of times. You stopped walking without meaning to, eyes searching him out.
He stood nearby with one of the floor nurses. Cindy, a pretty unmated omega that made residents trip over their own feet when she graced them with a smile. She had her hand on Park’s arm as she smiled up at him. And he let her. He stood there in his stupid purple scrubs with his stupid perfect hair while his eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed at something another omega had said.
He didn’t move her hand.
You kept walking and didn’t look back again. You swiped your badge to clock out then got on the elevator to head to the parking garage. You pushed through the doors to your level. You did not let yourself think about it until you were sitting in the driver’s seat of your car, engine off. The world mostly quiet around you.
And oh gods that hurt. It was one thing to know he didn’t want you. Another entirely to discover he wanted someone else. You sucked in a shaky breath as your fingers scrabbled to get a purchase on the scent patch on your wrist. First your left, then the right, ignoring the sharp pull of the adhesive against your skin.
You tossed them into the trash you kept on the passenger side of your car. Then you removed the larger one on your neck, at the junction of your throat and shoulder. The one that did the most work. Your omega scent began to bleed back into the air around you. The feeling of relief was immediate as your muscles loosened.
You braced your hands on the steering wheel and dropped your forehead to rest against them. You closed your eyes. And you cried.
Quiet sobs filled your car as your shoulders shook with the action. You were exhausted. You’d been holding onto everything so tightly. Pretending the rejection of the only alpha you’d ever really wanted hadn’t affected you in the least. Pretending you could keep things professional. That you could work with him every day without it tearing you up inside.
Your body had finally reached its limit and broke. Tears warmed your cheeks and dripped onto the wheel. You didn’t try to stop them. You could fall apart here in the quiet of the parking garage. Gods knew you wouldn’t be the first person to break in employee parking. You just needed to let it out, then you could pull yourself together and drive home. No one would ever know.
You barely registered the yank of your car door opening. Then hands were on your shoulders, turning you and pulling you out of the seat before you could even fully process what was happening. And then you were against his chest.
For a moment you panicked until that warm cedar scent flooded your nose. Brendon. His arms went around you, one hand resting on your back, the other cradling your head. His touch was gentle, grounding and…not meant for you.
You pushed against him, putting distance between you, minimal as it may be. His hands shifted to hold onto your upper arms.
His gaze raked over you, looking for injury maybe. “Who made you cry?” His voice was rough, urgent. “Tell me and I’ll take care of it.”
You shook your head and huffed in disbelief. You had cried so many times over this man. This alpha that wasn’t yours. “It was you, Brendon. It’s always been you.”
His hands stayed on you but he went still. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then, quietly, “Me? What did I do? Please tell me so I can fix it.”
“You can’t fix it. Sometimes things just hurt and you can’t fix them,” you insisted then sucked in a bracing breath. “You’re allowed to not want me, Brendon, but it will take me a while to get over your rejection. It’s just how it is. I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable.”
His brow furrowed. “Rejection?”
Maybe he wasn’t as smart as you thought he was. “You left my gift on the breakroom table for everyone to eat. That usually counts as a rejection, yes.”
He stared at you, eyes wide with something that looked like panic. “The brownies. You were courting me?”
You blinked. “What did you think I was doing?”
“Saying thank you.” His voice was so quiet you barely heard him.
“Brendon Park.” His name dripped with disbelief as it rolled off your tongue. This stupid, idiot alpha. But just because he didn’t understand, didn’t mean he suddenly wanted you. You opened your mouth to say something else but he interrupted by cradling your face in both of his hands.
His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones. His eyes were dark, blue almost swallowed by his pupils. His scent grew warmer, headier with contentment and something that felt like want.
“I’m sorry, Omega.” His voice was low and rough. “We can discuss what an idiot I am later, but right now I need to kiss you. You smell divine and it’s making my head swim.”
And then he did.
His mouth was warm and softer than you’d imagined. And you had imagined it. So many times. His hands slid from your face to the back of your neck and he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for as long as you had. Perhaps that careful distance he’d maintained between you had cost him something too.
You kissed him back. Your hands found his chest, clutching onto his scrubs to pull him closer. He chuckled against your lips. The world around you disappeared until all that was left was his mouth on yours and his scent in your lungs.
When he pulled back, his breathing was uneven. His forehead rested against yours, his thumbs still tracing your skin. “Five weeks until you’re an attending. I can wait five weeks.”
You laughed, the sound bright and relieved. “I couldn’t.” You closed your eyes and just enjoyed the moment before you pulled back to look at him. “I don’t want to wait, Brendon. I’ve been waiting. I already have the position. We can be discrete but don’t make me wait.” When he didn’t immediately respond, you added, “Please, alpha.”
in which jack abbot is the first to notice you, the wallflower resident of the ER.
contents; fem!reader, insecure reader, jack being a total sweetiepie, mentions of financials struggles, probs medical inaccuracies, i know nothing abt working in a hospital, english is my third language so maybe some grammatical errors!
a/n; another part is here !! also saw that we hit 1k follows overnight which is CRAZY!!! thank you all SO SO SO much, the 1k special fic will come out in the following days <3 much love!!!! ps. comment to be added to the taglist for any upcoming parts of this <3 if ur already in the taglist, no need to comment again :3
masterlist ♡ buy me a coffee! ♡
previous part here
You're stood in the ambulance bay, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes wide in horror as you stare at the streets ahead. It's pelting down rain. The streets are flooding, and you forgot your umbrella.
The thin jacket you've pulled over your scrubs won't do much to shield you from the rain, and the old pair of sneakers on your feet would let the water in immediately. And they wouldn't have time to dry before your next shift.
Not to mention, the walk from the hospital to your house is long. Walking for thirty minutes in pouring rain, only means that you'll end up sick.
"Nasty weather today." Jack hummed, as he came to a stop next to you, his own backpack slung over one shoulder, mimicking yours. His lips pursed a little, as he zipped his jacket up halfway, before moving to dig an umbrella out of his bag, "You waitin' for a ride, or something?"
Your eyes focused on the raindrops slamming into a puddle down the streets, before you gave him an awkward nod. "Uh...just waiting to see if maybe the rain calms down a little."
Jack stills for a moment, his brows furrowing a little, as he turns to look at you a little better. His attentive eyes look over your form, internally scoffing at the thin jacket you were wearing. Silly girl, you'd get sick wearing that.
"You're walking?" He spoke quietly, words fading into a small whisper. He was far more attentive than you'd like. Where you try to cleverly lie through your teeth by using carefully selected words, he deconstructs the entire sentence immediately.
Knowing there's no use in lying, you offer him a meek nod, arms wrapping around your torso. "Yes, I'm walking. But my apartment isn't that far. It's fine, really. I like walking." Like clockwork, the desperate need to justify even the most mundane tasks came out.
Jack clicked his tongue, immediately shaking his head, "No, that won't do."
Your brows pressed into a tight furrow, head snapping up to look at him. "Er...excuse me, sir?" You tilted your head in confusion.
"I said...that won't do." He spoke clearly, turning his whole body to face you. "I can't have my favorite resident walking home in pouring rain, wearing this thin, tiny jacket, and getting sick."
His favorite resident. His. Favorite. You.
A small smirk quirked up the corner of his lips, as he saw the familiar redness bloom over the apples of your cheeks. It was so easy to get you flustered, he couldn't help but want to do it all the time.
"Doctor Abbot-"
"Jack."
"Hm?"
"Call me Jack."
Your cheeks turned a shade of red they had never been before. "Okay, Jack. I was just going to say it's really fine. I can walk. I don't mind."
He shook his head, already moving to shrug off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders, and pulling the hood up to protect your hair. "That's nonsense. I've got a perfectly working car and am in no hurry to get to my boring apartment. Just let me drive you. Just this once."
His jacket smelled exactly like him. A perfect mix of manly and...warm. It was big on you, which made sense. Jack was huge. You were surprised that his shirt sleeves weren't ripping from the size of his biceps. Not that you stared. You did.
"Fine." You gave in, your hands curling into the sleeves of the jacket. You could've argued back and forth, but it would've been no use. Jack might be even more stubborn than you, and somehow always manages to get his way.
With a smile, he opened his umbrella and held it over you both, beginning to guide you into the parking lot, where his car was waiting.
Like a gentleman, he opened the passenger door for you, holding the umbrella over you the entire time, until you were safely situated in the car. Only then did he close he door, shake off the umbrella and drop it in the backseat, before rounding the car and sitting in the passenger seat.
His car was clean. Smelled delicious, like fresh laundry. As soon as he started it, soft rock, maybe something from the 90's? started humming through the car. It was the exact kind of music that fits a guy like him. You wouldn't be surprised if some country-ish songs made their way in there, too.
"Thank you for this, Dr Ab- Jack." You quickly corrected yourself, giving him a timid smile. Your backpack was settled on your feet, careful not to get on the floor of his car. As if any proof of you being in his car was a crime. Like taking space was unimaginable.
He simply nodded, before handing his phone, quietly asking you to put your address into the GPS, which you did, cradling his phone with both hands. God forbid if your hand slipped and you dropped his phone. After you type out the address, you carefully hand him his phone back, and he sets it in the phone holder, before shifting into drive.
Most of the ride is quiet, comfortable. Jack knows you aren't the chattiest person, especially after a long shift. So, he made no moves to push you to talk. His eyes kept shifting over to you, though. Watching what you paid attention to. He saw the way you stared at a bakery all the way until it wasn't visible anymore.
He'd keep that in mind.
Sooner than he'd like, he was pulling up outside your apartment complex. You could feel a small cloud of shame hover over your head, knowing that he's seeing exactly what you're seeing.
With tons of student loan debt still hanging over your head, your apartment was...something. It was a worn-down building complex, paint chipping and peeling, leaky pipes, dodgy heating systems, non-existent AC, an elevator that doesn't work...all of it. But it was a roof over your head.
Jack could see you shrink in on yourself. Even through your limited interactions, where he did most of the talking, he took pride on the fact that he'd definitely gotten good at reading you. He could see dozens of emotions swirling in your sad eyes, and he ached to soothe them away.
"Can I walk you in?" He blurted, watching you start to open the car door. You hesitated, hand stilling on the door handle.
Seeing the confusion in your eyes, he tried to offer you a comforting smile, "It's dark out. You're tired. And god knows who or what is hiding out here. There's weirdos everywhere. Plus, it'd make me feel a lot better if I knew you were safe and sound."
That all-too-familiar pink blush covered your cheeks, and you couldn't help yourself, as you gave him a small nod. "Y...yeah. That'd be okay. Thank you.."
You two got out of the car, and he walked calmly beside you, as you entered the apartment building. You could see his eyes crinkle a little as you climbed the staircase. And you could even see his hand dipping down to rub at his leg, before letting go.
"Well, this is me..." You hummed, standing in front of the door to your apartment. "Thank you again for the ride, Jack. I um- I can pay you for gas, er...just um...let me know how much?"
His brows furrowed. Oh, you sweet girl. You think that small ride would cost you? What kind of people have you been around?
"Nonsense." He shook his head, giving you a warm smile, "I wouldn't charge you for a ten minute ride. I wouldn't charge you for a ride, period. This is what friends do, yeah?"
He dipped his head a little lower to meet your gaze, an encouraging smile on his lips, "Yeah?"
You nodded, hand squeezing the strap of your backpack, the other hand clenched around your keys. "Yea...yeah. Okay." The apples of your cheeks glowed red, as you turned around to unlock the door. "Thank you for the ride. And um...yeah. See you tomorrow."
He smiled, giving you a quick nod, "See you tomorrow."
The door closed behind you, and Jack stood there for a few moments longer, feeling a warmth bloom in his chest. A warmth he hadn't felt for a long time.
Can you do park reader who lives in his apartment building and has guide dog for whatever reason you want and the dog comes to his door when reader falls in the hallway thanks love your stories
You turn to your left and see your next-door neighbor.
Brendon Park.
He was stupidly handsome and such a nice guy.
You always see him at different times of the day because he’s a surgeon down the road at ptmc. It’s also a nice perk to live next door to a doctor, which he insisted you knock if you ever need him day or night.
“Hey Bren, going out or just getting back?”
He smiles as he leans against his door “Just getting back. A long nap is calling my name. Hopefully I’m up by lunch. Where are you and Meesh headed?”
Meesh, a nickname for Misha, is a 4 year old golden retriever. He’s also your service dog of almost three years now.
You had been diagnosed with POTS as a teenager and over the years it had gotten a little more intense. This had led to you passing out while out by yourself one day and had hit your head. Luckily a passerby called EMS and you were taken to the hospital and treated.
It happened more frequently after that and your parents decided a service dog was non-negotiable since you lived alone.
You’ve lived next to Brendon for about a year now and even though he’s a doctor, you’ve never told him of your condition. You just didn’t want to seem incapable or weak around him.
Obviously he knew you had some sort of medical condition as you had Misha but he’d never ask unless you were to bring it up first.
“We’re headed to the new farmer’s market downtown. I’ve heard good things and I've been dying to check it out.” you laugh
“Oooo there's a jam stand there that sells raspberry peach jam, here–” he pulls $40 from his wallet “Could you grab me two jars? I’ve not been able to go with my schedule lately.”
You shake your head with a smile “Bren, I’ll get them. You don’t have to pay me.”
He raises an eyebrow and holds the money out.
“Uh uh, take this and keep the rest for the troubles.”
You tap your chin dramatically “How about I’ll take it when I bring the jams back, fair deal?”
He tilts his head with a chuckle.
“You drive a hard bargain woman but okay, when you get back.”
You wave to him as you walk Meesh to the elevator.
Brendon watches you go even after the elevator doors close.
He bites his lip at the thought of seeing you again later.
Shaking his head he finally unlocks his door and walks in.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
After a whole day in the hot Pittsburgh heat, you’re finally making your way back to the apartment building.
You hold your tote bag on your shoulder, the two jars of jam securely tucked in it.
As you walk towards the elevator you notice a sign on the doors
‘Elevators out of service until tomorrow.”
“Fuck” you say quietly.
Guess you’ll be taking the stairs.
You’re on the sixth floor so it’s not terrible but the trek up there still won’t be easy.
After a few minutes you realize the air conditioning isn’t great in the stairwell and you’re starting to sweat a lot.
You end up stopping on the fourth floor to sit down for a few minutes.
You’re pretty out of breath and start to feel a little dizzy.
Just two more floors.
When you go to stand up Meesh is at your side and is trying to lay on your lap, keeping you sitting.
You then realize he’s alerting you to your fast heart rate. A potential episode starting.
Normally this is when you’d stay seated and rest a bit but you don’t. Gently you pet him while trying to catch your breath.
“I-It’s okay Meesh. Just t-two more and I’ll sit w-when we’re upstairs.”
You knew better than to ignore him and not immediately take it easy but you were almost home.
Meesh whines a little as he desperately tries to get you to stay sitting but you get up anyway and continue up the stairs.
Finally you’re only a set of stairs away from the sixth floor door. As you go to take a step, it feels like the ground is shifting. Your movements feel sluggish as you take another step.
Shit. I need to sit right now.
Your hands shake as you try to grab your phone from your purse. Meesh is back at your side nudging you and again trying to get you to sit.
Without looking you take another step but the dizziness throws you off balance, sending you tumbling down the few stairs to the platform below.
Your bag hits the ground, scattering all your belongings somewhere you can’t see.
“M-Meeshhh” you try to call for him. He looks torn to find something to help and staying to help comfort you.
Then in a split second he’s racing up the stairs to the hallway door. The inside of the door is one you push to open from both sides.
Luckily, in training Meesh, he had been taught how to open a few different types of door handles for retrieving water, medicines, and other things.
It doesn’t take long for him to figure this one out and as soon as it starts to open he’s squeezing through the opening and runs to your apartment door.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Brendon’s enjoying his post-shift nap when a noise pulls him from his sleep.
He looks up from the couch and listens quietly.
There’s a scratching sound.
Are there rats in the walls?
He goes to lay back down when he hears whining.
“What the f—“
Then there’s a loud bark that sounds close by.
He then moves from the couch and towards the front door.
Cracking it open he sees golden fur by your door.
Brendon opens the door wider and sees Meesh scratching at your door.
“Hey Meesh!” he stays where he is since he’s well aware to not touch working dogs.
Speaking of working, where were you?
He walks out further and doesn’t see you but he notices Meesh’s frantic behavior.
“Where’s your mommy buddy?”
Meesh runs to Brendon and frantically paws at Brendon and then runs down to the door leading to the stairwell.
Brendon’s eyebrows furrow as he observes the dog's behavior.
Then it hits him.
Shit.
In a training seminar he was taught that if a service dog is alone, to follow them. That some dogs were trained to find help if the handler was injured or suffering a medical emergency.
You could be in trouble.
He immediately runs to where Meesh is and pushes the door open.
Peering down the stairs, his heart stops.
You’re at the bottom of the stairs on your side looking like you passed out. Your stuff is everywhere and Meesh is trying to comfort you and lay on your chest.
“Sweetheart, hey!” He yells as he makes his way to you quickly.
He notices your labored breathing and that your eyes are barely open.
“Hey sweet girl, what happened? Are you okay?”
He gently feels around your head and takes note of a bump on the side where you likely hit your head.
“B-Bren?” you slur out a little
His hand engulfs your face as he looks you over.
“It’s okay sweetheart, we’re gonna head to ptmc right now.”
You shake your head as you try to sit up.
“Sorry baby you can’t get up. Just stay still.”
“No Bren,” you mumble “no ambulance.”
He grabs your attention, looking into your eyes.
“Hey, hey I know but you’re hurt. So either the ambulance takes you or I do.”
You squint your eyes at the pounding headache and try to curl into him “Take me please.”
——
Brendon had quickly gotten his keys and then grabbed you and Meesh, making his way to ptmc.
He wished he had a picture of Dana’s face when he had come in with you in his arms and a dog glued to your side.
The three of you were a sight to see amongst his friends and colleagues.
Quickly Robby had been called down to your room to assess you.
Brendon stayed glued to your side with your hand in his as they evaluated you, taking in all the information Robby talked about.
You had POTS?
Fuck, he wish you would’ve told him so he could’ve helped better.
—--
About an hour later you were more coherent and able to register where you were.
“Bren?” you whisper as you see him to the side of you.
Your voice gets his attention and he looks over, his hand immediately stroking the side of your face gently.
“Hey sweetheart, you feelin better?”
You take a mental inventory of how you’re feeling.
“Yeah,” you nod “what hap—Meesh! Where is h-“
Brendon hushes you softly “He’s right here.”
He motions towards the dog that’s been attached to him and head in his lap since you guys arrived.
You nod shaky as you try to calm your racing heart.
“You had an episode, POTS. Guess you already knew but they think it was likely brought on by the heat and the exertion from climbing the stairs.”
You start to recall the events in your head.
“Yeah I-I remember it. Meesh alerted to the symptoms but I just wanted to make it to the apartment first. I should’ve listened to him. I’m sorry to drag you into all of this.”
Brendon squeezes your hand “Hey it’s okay. I’m glad I was home to help. But I’m gonna give you my number and next time the elevator is out or you don’t feel good, you use it and call me. I don’t care if I’m asleep or not home. You call me and I’ll come get you, okay?”
You shake your head “Bren, I can’t d-“
“Promise me sweetheart?” his face pleading with you.
You contemplate it and then nod, squeezing his hand.
“Okay, I promise “
He brings your hand to his mouth and places a kiss there.
“Perfect.”
You look around “Where’s my bag?”
Brendo turns and takes it off the back of his chair.
“I gathered what I saw on the stairs earlier but if something’s missing, tell me and I’ll go back and look for it baby.”
Rummaging through the bag you pull out what you were looking for, holding them out to him.
“You really got them?” his grin gets wider as he carefully takes the jars of raspberry peach jam from you.
Some stories begin with fate. Others begin with two stubborn people who keep ending up in the same room. This is one of those stories. Jack Abbott x Original Character | Romance | Angst | Slow Burn
word count: 7.4k
warning: slow burn, weather related ignorance, fluffy, and cute moments
Author note: I've changed the POV from second to third to help create more cohesive writing; please don't hate me for it. Every like, reblog, comment makes my little heart so happy.
Pittsburgh’s first official nor’easter of the season arrived with considerably less drama than promised.
For nearly two days, the local news had treated the approaching weather system like an invading army. Animated bands of blue and purple crawled across maps during every available segment, meteorologists debated projected snowfall totals with grave expressions, and residents were repeatedly advised to prepare for deteriorating conditions.
By the time Adeline needed to leave for her shift, however, the storm had produced little more than a thin dusting across lawns and rooftops. The roads remained wet and dark, traffic moved at its usual pace, and the occasional snowflake dissolved against the pavement before it had time to become threatening.
It was, by every reasonable measurement, barely snowing.
Adeline still refused to drive.
She stood near the front window of her apartment for several minutes, arms folded beneath her chest as she studied the street below. A sedan passed without difficulty. Then another. Neither slid into a parked vehicle, spun helplessly through the intersection, nor disappeared into a ditch.
Those facts should have reassured her.
Instead, Adeline remembered every winter-driving video she had ever watched online, all of them featuring people who presumably believed the road was perfectly safe immediately before their vehicles began moving sideways.
Taking the train, she decided, was not fear.
It was intelligent risk management.
That conviction survived until she stepped outside.
Her camel-colored cashmere coat had seemed sensible while hanging inside her closet. It was long, soft, warm, and expensive enough that Adeline had always considered it one of her better purchases. It was also entirely unsuited for wet snow. The coat had no hood, and each flake that landed along the shoulders melted into a dark, spreading mark that made her silently calculate what professional cleaning would cost.
She wrapped a thick cream scarf around her neck and pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves, both choices made more for appearance than protection. The scarf allowed the wind to find every opening around her collar, while the gloves absorbed moisture until her fingertips felt stiff and vaguely numb.
Her cowboy boots had been the worst decision, although she would not have admitted that even under oath.
They were real boots. Dark brown leather, beautifully worn, fitted perfectly to her feet after years of use, and sturdy enough to have survived mud, livestock pens, summer storms, and long days on uneven West Texas ground. Adeline saw no reason they should suddenly become decorative simply because she had crossed state lines.
The first sloping sidewalk outside the train station corrected that assumption.
Her heel slipped without warning.
One foot moved forward, the other followed, and Adeline caught herself by wrapping both arms around a parking meter. She clung to the frozen metal for several humiliating seconds, heart beating much faster than the situation deserved, while two pedestrians in heavy waterproof boots moved around her without so much as slowing.
She released the meter carefully and straightened her coat.
The sidewalk had been poorly designed.
That was all.
By the time the automatic doors at PTMC opened, snow had dampened the shoulders of her coat, wind had pulled loose strands of auburn hair from beneath her scarf, and every step in the cowboy boots had become a deliberate negotiation with gravity.
Warm air spilled over her from the entrance vents. Adeline stopped beneath them and briefly closed her eyes, allowing the heat to reach her face before she attempted to present herself to anyone who knew her.
“You made it.”
Dana’s voice carried from the desk near the entrance, threaded with enough amusement that Adeline opened her eyes reluctantly.
Dana sat behind the computer with one elbow resting against the counter, watching her with open satisfaction. Robby stood beside her holding the handoff sheet, but he had lowered it enough to study the damp coat, flushed cheeks, and scarf wrapped around Adeline as though she had crossed several miles of tundra rather than three city blocks.
“Obviously,” Adeline replied, although the scarf muffled the word and stole most of its intended authority.
She pulled the fabric away from her mouth.
Robby glanced through the glass doors behind her, where a few harmless flakes drifted through the hospital lights and melted against the driveway.
“We were beginning to think we needed to organize a search party,” he said. His tone remained mild, but the way his eyes returned to her boots warned her that he had already noticed too much. “Did you walk here from Texas?”
Adeline glared at him while unwinding one end of the scarf. “I took the train.”
Dana sat straighter. “You took the train because of this?”
She gestured toward the doors. Adeline followed the movement despite herself and saw nothing more alarming than a thin white line gathering along the edge of the grass.
“The roads could have gotten worse,” she said, forcing confidence into the explanation. “I made a reasonable decision based on the forecast.”
Robby hummed thoughtfully, the sound carrying far more judgment than an argument would have. “You avoided driving because you believed the weather was dangerous, then walked from the station in cowboy boots.”
“They are boots.”
Dana’s gaze dropped toward the pointed toes and modest heels. Her mouth twitched.
“They are very nice boots.”
“They are also practical.”
“For cattle,” Robby said.
Adeline’s eyes narrowed. “They have survived worse conditions than anything Pennsylvania has produced tonight.”
The statement would have sounded more convincing if she had not shifted her weight at that exact moment and felt one heel slide slightly against the wet tile.
She caught herself before either of them noticed.
Or at least she hoped she had.
Dana looked down and then slowly raised her eyes again.
“Did you fall?” she asked.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Robby folded the handoff sheet against the counter and waited.
Adeline stared back at him, refusing to volunteer anything. His patience lasted longer than hers.
“I used a parking meter for balance,” she finally admitted.
Dana pressed her lips together. Her shoulders began to shake.
“The sidewalk was sloped,” Adeline added, as though the structural explanation might restore some dignity. “And apparently no one in this city believes handrails are important.”
Robby lowered his head, hiding a laugh behind one hand. “You nearly died in half an inch of snow.”
“I did not nearly die.”
“You arrived looking emotionally altered.”
“I am cold.”
“It is thirty-three degrees.”
“The wind makes it colder.”
Dana glanced toward the weather display on her monitor. “Six miles an hour.”
“It was stronger by the station.”
Neither of them answered immediately. Their expressions did it for them.
Adeline gathered the trailing end of her scarf and turned toward the hallway. “I have decided I do not like either of you.”
Robby returned his attention to the handoff sheet, although the smile remained in his voice. “Locker room first. You’re dripping on the department.”
Adeline looked over her shoulder and gave him another glare before walking away, her steps careful enough to betray her despite every attempt at nonchalance.
Their laughter followed her down the corridor.
The department itself offered no evidence that the forecast deserved concern. Day-shift staff discussed dinner plans as they completed their final charts. One nurse complained that her children’s school had canceled classes too early, while another planned to stop for groceries after work. The televisions mounted around the department showed weather maps, but few people looked at them for more than a passing moment.
The entire city appeared to have agreed the storm was overhyped.
Adeline intended to agree with them as soon as she regained feeling in her fingers.
The locker room felt overheated after the walk, its stale warmth turning every layer she had worn into an immediate burden. She dropped her bag onto the bench and tugged at the wet leather gloves. The material clung to her fingers, forcing her to peel each one away slowly before draping them over the edge of the locker.
Parker sat several feet away changing into her scrub shoes. She glanced at the gloves, then at the darker patches spreading across Adeline’s coat.
“You wore cashmere in wet snow.”
It was not a question.
Adeline looked down at the coat and frowned. “It was barely snowing when I left.”
Parker raised one eyebrow. “You took the train because you were too worried to drive.”
“I was not worried. I was cautious.”
“Those are usually neighboring emotions.”
Adeline chose not to answer. She began unwinding the scarf, only for one corner to catch around a button near the collar of her coat. She pulled at it once, felt the fabric tighten, and exhaled sharply through her nose.
Parker watched the struggle in silence.
“I have it,” Adeline warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were preparing to.”
Parker’s expression softened into a smile. “You’ve spent too much time with Abbott.”
Adeline’s hands paused briefly against the scarf.
The comment should not have affected her. It was casual, barely more than an observation, but warmth rose beneath her already flushed cheeks anyway. She focused on freeing the fabric from the button and refused to look toward Parker until it finally came loose.
Beneath the cashmere coat, she wore a rust-colored cardigan, a cream sweater, a fitted thermal shirt, and her navy scrub top.
Parker stared as the coat came off.
“How many layers are under there?”
“Enough to survive the walk.”
“You nearly lost to a sidewalk.”
“That was the boots, not the layers.”
“So you admit the boots are a problem.”
Adeline hung the coat inside the locker, smoothing the damp cashmere with both hands. “I admit Pittsburgh has unnecessarily aggressive pavement.”
Parker made a quiet, thoughtful sound, the kind people used when indulging someone who had become unreasonable. Adeline shot her a warning glance before unbuttoning the cardigan.
The locker-room door opened as she pulled the cream sweater over her head. The fabric caught briefly around her face, and by the time she emerged, her hair had expanded into a halo of static.
Ellis stopped just inside, one hand still resting on the door.
For a long moment, Ellis surveyed the damp coat, wet gloves, discarded layers, and cowboy boots. Then Ellis looked at Parker.
“Did something happen?”
“She encountered weather,” Parker explained.
Adeline pushed the sweater down onto the bench. “I walked through snow.”
Ellis glanced through the narrow window in the door. “There are approximately twelve flakes outside.”
“It is officially a nor’easter.”
A quiet hum came from Ellis, neither agreement nor disagreement, before the surgeon’s attention returned to Adeline’s boots.
“Are those cowboy boots?”
Adeline’s posture stiffened. “Yes.”
“In snow.”
“They are still boots.”
“Technically,” Ellis said, “but so are roller skates.”
Parker laughed, and Adeline’s cheeks grew hotter.
“They have survived rain, mud, livestock, and every form of bad weather West Texas has to offer,” she said, hearing her accent thicken around the edges as irritation pushed against her restraint. “They did not suddenly become useless because Pennsylvania decided to throw frozen water at me.”
Ellis’s gaze dropped to the smooth leather soles. “Have they survived ice?”
Adeline crossed her arms. “There was no ice.”
“You hugged a parking meter,” Parker said.
Adeline turned toward her slowly. “I told you that in confidence.”
“You told Dana and Robby in the middle of the department.”
“That does not make it public information.”
Ellis looked between them, visibly trying not to smile. “What happens if the storm gets worse?”
“It won’t.”
The certainty in Adeline’s voice sounded defensive even to her.
Parker leaned against the lockers and studied her more closely. “You didn’t pack anything, did you?”
Adeline began removing the thermal shirt, avoiding Parker’s eyes. “I packed for work.”
“A change of clothes?”
“No.”
“Extra socks?”
“No.”
“A charger?”
“My phone is charged.”
“For now.”
Adeline tossed the thermal shirt into the locker. “I am working one shift. I am not moving into the hospital.”
Ellis set a garment bag on the bench. “And if the train shuts down?”
The question landed more heavily than the earlier teasing.
Adeline looked toward the narrow window, where the snowfall remained light and entirely unimpressive. The train was not going to shut down. The roads were not going to disappear. Her shift would end in the morning, and she would return home with nothing worse than damp cashmere and wounded pride.
“It won’t,” she repeated, although the words carried less conviction.
The door opened again before either Parker or Ellis could challenge her.
Jack stopped in the doorway with a coffee in one hand. His gaze settled on Adeline first, then moved slowly over the pile of clothing covering the bench. The slight narrowing of his eyes told her he was assembling the situation before anyone spoke.
Adeline lifted one finger toward him. “Whatever you are thinking, keep it to yourself.”
Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and took a slow drink. “I was wondering whether the locker room had been looted.”
“It is called layering.”
His gaze passed over the cardigan, sweater, thermal shirt, scarf, and cashmere coat. “You appear to have layered for four separate climates.”
Ellis picked up one of the wet leather gloves and held it toward him. “She wore these in the snow.”
Jack studied the glove and then looked at Adeline. “Those are driving gloves.”
“I wasn’t driving.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “That is not the defense you think it is.”
Parker gestured toward the cowboy boots. “She wore those too.”
Jack’s attention dropped to Adeline’s feet.
The amusement in his expression deepened slowly, making her wish she could hide the boots inside the locker without taking them off first.
“They are boots,” she said before he could speak.
Jack hummed, his gaze lingering on the worn leather soles. “You keep emphasizing that word as though it settles the argument.”
“It should.”
“They have no traction.”
“They have history.”
“History doesn’t keep you upright.”
“They have kept me upright for years.”
Parker coughed pointedly.
Adeline swung her glare toward her. “I did not fall.”
“No,” Jack said, his voice calm enough to be infuriating. “The parking meter intervened.”
She turned toward him. “How do you know about that?”
“Your voice carries.”
“It does not.”
“It does when you’re defensive.”
Adeline’s mouth tightened. She wanted to answer, but every response available to her would only prove his point. Instead, she faced the mirror and attempted to smooth the static from her hair.
It refused to cooperate.
The strands lifted around her crown and clung to her cheeks, growing worse each time she dragged her fingers through them. She could feel the three of them watching, which only made her movements more frustrated.
“I hate winter,” she muttered.
Parker collected her shoes and stood. “You hate being wrong.”
“I am not wrong.”
“You are damp, underprepared, and arguing on behalf of cowboy boots.”
“That is not the same thing.”
Ellis picked up the garment bag. “I should go before the weather becomes dangerous.”
Adeline glared at the surgeon.
Ellis left with a quiet laugh, and Parker followed shortly afterward, pausing only long enough to pat Adeline sympathetically on the shoulder.
“Good luck with the static.”
The door closed behind them.
Adeline remained in front of the mirror, aware of Jack standing several feet behind her. His presence felt different without the others in the room, heavier somehow, no longer diluted by their laughter.
She tried once more to smooth her hair.
A strand near her crown lifted immediately.
Jack made a low sound in his throat.
Adeline met his eyes through the mirror. “Do not laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You are considering it.”
“Possibly.”
She pressed both palms over the top of her head. “Is it better?”
Jack studied her with the seriousness of someone evaluating an X-ray. “No.”
Adeline let her hands fall. “Then stop looking.”
He did not.
Her reflection showed auburn strands moving around her face, cheeks still pink from the cold and humiliation. She looked irritated, tired, and nothing like the composed physician she intended to be when she entered the department.
“Fine,” she said. “I will look electrocuted all night.”
Jack pushed away from the doorway.
Adeline watched him through the mirror as he crossed the locker room. The teasing had not entirely left his expression, but it softened as he drew closer. He placed his coffee on the bench beside her bag and stopped behind her, near enough that she could feel the warmth of him without being touched.
Her annoyance faltered.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping.”
The answer was simple enough that she almost laughed. Jack rarely offered help without disguising it as criticism, and hearing the word said plainly made her suddenly uncertain where to put her hands.
“You do not know how to fix hair.”
“No,” he agreed, lifting one hand. “But I understand static.”
His fingers stopped just above her head.
The pause was brief, but Adeline recognized the question inside it. He was giving her the chance to step away.
She remained still.
Jack’s hand settled lightly against the crown of her head. His touch was careful at first, fingertips moving slowly over the lifted strands, smoothing them in the direction of the natural waves instead of pressing them flat. The concentration in his reflection caught her off guard. His brow furrowed slightly, as though the task had become something worthy of real attention.
Adeline’s breath grew shallow.
The locker room seemed suddenly too quiet. She could hear the distant ringing of a telephone beyond the door and the faint movement of his sleeve as he passed his hand over her hair again.
A loose strand remained against her cheek.
Jack caught it gently between two fingers. His knuckles brushed the warm skin near her temple as he tucked the strand behind her ear.
Adeline stopped breathing entirely.
His eyes met hers in the mirror.
For one suspended moment, neither of them moved.
The gesture was harmless. It could have been explained as exactly what it was: a coworker fixing another coworker’s hair after a sweater had left it full of static. Yet the warmth of his hand remained near her ear longer than necessary, and his gaze held hers with an awareness that stripped the moment of anything casual.
Then his fingers lowered.
“Better,” Jack murmured.
His voice had changed, the dry amusement quieter now.
Adeline swallowed and turned her attention toward her reflection. Her hair remained slightly wild, but the worst of the static had been smoothed away.
“You actually fixed it.”
Jack reached for his coffee. “You sound surprised.”
“I have seen your hair.”
He gave her a flat look through the mirror. “Careful.”
The corner of her mouth lifted despite herself. “Thank you.”
Jack held her gaze for another second before stepping back. The distance returned between them, deliberate and necessary, although Adeline could still feel the ghost of his fingers near her temple.
His attention dropped toward the cowboy boots.
“You still need real shoes.”
The softness vanished so abruptly that she stared at him.
“You ruin every decent moment.”
Jack lifted the coffee to his mouth. “I am trying to prevent a workplace injury.”
“You are trying to irritate me.”
He considered that and hummed. “Both can be true.”
Adeline reached for one of the wet gloves.
Jack backed toward the doorway, amusement returning now that several feet separated them.
“Handoff starts in five minutes, Trouble.”
“I know.”
His gaze moved once more over the damp cashmere coat and the belongings scattered inside her locker. The teasing in his expression faded slightly.
“You really didn’t bring anything else?”
“No. Because I am going home after my shift like a normal person.”
Jack looked toward the narrow window. The snow continued falling in sparse, harmless flakes.
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, almost beneath his breath.
Adeline’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
He opened the door, one hand resting against the frame. “When this turns out to be a terrible decision, try to remember that several people warned you.”
“It is not going to turn into anything.”
Jack studied her for a long moment, his gaze moving from her stubborn expression to the cowboy boots and back again.
Then he nodded slowly.
“Of course not.”
Adeline threw the wet glove.
Jack moved behind the door before it reached him, his quiet laughter following him into the hallway.
She stood alone in the locker room, glaring at the space where he had been. Her irritation remained, but beneath it lingered something warmer and much more difficult to dismiss.
Adeline turned toward the mirror.
Her fingers rose to the strand he had tucked behind her ear.
Outside the narrow window, the snow continued to fall lightly, soft and harmless against the darkening sky.
For the moment.
For the first several hours of the shift, the storm remained background noise.
The emergency department filled with the ordinary collection of illnesses and injuries that arrived on any winter night. A middle-aged man fractured his wrist after climbing onto his roof to clear snow from a satellite dish that had never stopped working. An older woman came in short of breath after discovering that the battery in her portable oxygen concentrator had not been charged. Two college students arrived together after one attempted to slide down an outdoor staircase on a cafeteria tray while the other recorded him.
Nothing about the cases suggested the city was entering a genuine emergency.
They suggested only that people became inventive when trapped indoors by a weather forecast.
Adeline moved between the rooms with the steady rhythm she had built over years of emergency medicine. She examined, ordered, reassessed, and discharged, allowing the organized chaos of the department to swallow her attention.
Her coffee waited beside her workstation when she returned from her first patient.
Large. Two creams.
Her name was written along the side of the cup in black marker.
She glanced toward Jack, who stood across the department reviewing an X-ray with Bennett. He did not look toward her or acknowledge the coffee.
Adeline wrapped both hands around the warm cup and took a drink.
They had never discussed the ritual, and she had no intention of beginning now.
Nearly every television in the department had been tuned to the same local station.
At first, the reports blended easily into the surrounding noise. Meteorologists repeated projected totals, discussed the temperature, and reminded viewers to remain cautious as the storm moved closer to the city. Adeline heard the words without listening to them.
In Room Seven, a meteorologist stood before a map that had grown darker since the beginning of the shift. The pale blue surrounding Pittsburgh had deepened into purple, and the banner beneath him now read WINTER STORM WARNINGinstead of the earlier advisory.
Adeline stood beside the bed examining the wrist of the man who had fallen from his roof. She tested his sensation and capillary refill while his wife watched the television over her shoulder.
“They’re saying it’s moving faster than expected,” the woman said.
Adeline continued examining the hand. “They say that every time it snows.”
“My sister lives north of the city. She already has six inches.”
“Pittsburgh does not have six inches.”
“Not yet.”
Adeline’s fingers paused for the smallest fraction of a second against the patient’s palm.
She resumed the examination before either of them noticed.
“Can you feel this?” she asked, pressing along his index finger.
The patient nodded.
“This?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That is more clinically relevant than your sister’s yard.”
The patient smiled, although his wife’s attention remained fixed on the screen. Footage showed snow beginning to collect across roadways in counties north of the city, covering lanes that had been visible less than an hour earlier.
Adeline straightened. “Radiology will take you shortly. Keep the wrist elevated and do not eat or drink anything in case orthopedics needs to reduce the fracture.”
The television volume rose as the anchor interrupted the forecast with reports of several accidents along a highway north of the river.
Adeline pulled the curtain closed behind her as she left.
Jack stood near the doorway.
“You’re ignoring it,” he said.
She kept her gaze on the chart in her hand. “I’m working.”
“Those things are not mutually exclusive.”
“The weather is not my patient.”
“Not yet.”
Adeline looked up.
His expression remained neutral, but there was something irritatingly patient about it, as though he were waiting for the evening to prove a point on his behalf.
“The storm was supposed to start hours ago,” she said.
“It did.”
“That was barely snow.”
“It is snowing harder now.”
“That does not make the original forecast accurate.”
Jack looked toward the windows beyond the station.
Adeline followed his gaze despite herself.
The sparse flakes from the beginning of the shift had thickened into steady snowfall. White had begun gathering along the edges of the parking lot faster than the pavement could absorb it, and the lamps outside no longer appeared sharp. Each one glowed inside a widening halo as snow swept through the beams.
“It makes your boots worse,” Jack said.
Adeline pressed the chart against his chest as she moved past him. “I hope your next patient bites you.”
His quiet laugh followed her toward the station.
Bennett sat at one of the computers reviewing laboratory results while Shen finished a call with pharmacy. A backpack rested beneath Bennett’s chair, a sweatshirt looped through one strap and the top of a toiletry bag visible through the partially open zipper.
Adeline noticed it only because she nearly stepped on it.
“What is all that?”
Bennett glanced down. “My overnight bag.”
“For one shift?”
“My roommate is from Erie. She told me never to trust a winter forecast that changes more than twice in twelve hours.”
Adeline looked toward the duffel sitting near Shen’s workstation.
“You brought one too?”
Shen lowered the phone. “My wife packed it.”
“For one shift?”
“For the storm.”
Adeline turned slowly toward Jack.
He stood beside the tracking board entering orders, but the slight movement at the corner of his mouth told her he had followed the entire conversation.
“You have a bag,” she accused.
“Yes.”
“How long did you pack for?”
“Two days.”
Her irritation sharpened. “All of you believed this?”
“We listened,” Bennett said.
“I listened.”
Jack finally looked at her. “You argued with the forecast.”
“The forecast was wrong when I arrived.”
“It is becoming less wrong.”
Adeline glanced toward the windows. Snow now fell thickly enough that the far edge of the parking lot had begun to fade.
“It will slow down.”
Jack hummed and returned to his chart.
The sound crawled beneath her skin.
“Do not use that tone.”
“I didn’t use a tone.”
“You used the one you use when you think I’m wrong and are waiting for circumstances to humiliate me.”
“That is a remarkably specific tone.”
“You use it frequently.”
“Circumstances frequently support me.”
Bennett lowered her face toward the computer, although her shoulders moved with a contained laugh.
Adeline pointed toward both of them. “I have patients.”
“That seems likely,” Jack said. “We are in an emergency department.”
She left before she decided to waste a perfectly good cup of coffee by throwing it.
By midnight, the weather had become more difficult to ignore.
Every television in the department showed the same live footage. Snow gathered across major roads faster than crews could clear it, and cars moved through intersections with the hesitant, uneven progress of animals testing unstable ground. A reporter stood near an interstate entrance with snow coating the hood of her jacket while emergency lights flashed behind her.
Several highways had reduced speeds. Two counties had restricted commercial traffic. Emergency dispatch warned of longer response times because ambulances were struggling to reach untreated side roads.
In Room Eleven, an elderly woman sat upright beneath a hospital blanket while an albuterol treatment misted around her face. Her daughter occupied the chair beside the bed, holding both of their coats and watching the television with increasing concern.
“They’re talking about closing the interstate,” the daughter said. “We live forty minutes away.”
“Your mother is not ready for discharge,” Adeline replied.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Adeline listened to the woman’s lungs again. The wheezing had improved, but it remained prominent at both bases.
“If the roads are unsafe when she is medically stable, we will work out a plan. Right now her breathing is the immediate concern.”
The patient lifted the nebulizer mask. “They canceled schools tomorrow.”
Adeline replaced it gently. “Schools cancel when three snowflakes form an organized group.”
The patient’s daughter looked at her more closely. “You’re not from here.”
“West Texas.”
“That explains it.”
Adeline straightened. “Explains what?”
“You don’t know when to be scared of snow.”
Adeline glanced toward the television.
Behind the reporter, a vehicle sat sideways across two lanes while responders worked around it. Snow blew through the emergency lights, briefly swallowing the road from view.
“I know exactly when to be scared,” Adeline said.
The daughter nodded toward the television. “And this isn’t it?”
“Not yet.”
Adeline stepped into the hallway and nearly collided with Jack.
He raised one eyebrow.
She lowered her voice. “Do not.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was wondering when your official threshold begins.”
“When the weather becomes dangerous.”
“The interstate might close.”
“It will reopen.”
“Transit could shut down.”
Her expression tightened.
Jack had found the weak point, and the faint shift in his face told her he knew it.
“That is unlikely,” she said.
“You sound confident.”
“I am.”
“You also thought cowboy boots had snow traction.”
Adeline’s eyes narrowed. “Go bother another physician.”
“I’m trying. You keep appearing.”
She walked away with the firm, rapid stride she used whenever retreat needed to look like purpose.
At one in the morning, several municipalities activated emergency operations centers.
At two, hospital security issued a notice advising staff not to move their vehicles because plows could no longer keep the employee lots consistently clear.
At three, the governor appeared on every television in the emergency department and declared a state of emergency.
Adeline was irrigating a laceration when the announcement began. The patient, a restaurant manager who had cut his palm while helping his kitchen staff close early, stared over her shoulder at the screen.
The governor urged residents to remain indoors, avoid all nonessential travel, and prepare for widespread disruptions through the following day. Snowfall rates had exceeded earlier projections, while high winds were producing near-whiteout conditions along exposed roadways.
“State of emergency sounds serious,” the patient said.
“It allows the state to use resources more quickly.”
“It also means the roads are bad.”
“Both things can be true.”
“You going home after this?”
Adeline focused on examining the wound for tendon involvement. “Eventually.”
“How?”
She looked at him.
The man nodded toward her cowboy boots, which were visible beneath the stool.
“Those have leather soles.”
Adeline returned her attention to his palm. “Everyone in this hospital has become far too interested in my footwear.”
“I manage a restaurant,” he said. “I spend twelve hours a day worrying about people slipping on wet floors. Those boots have no tread.”
Adeline slowly raised her eyes.
“I am going to place six stitches in your hand,” she said. “This would be an excellent time to stop evaluating my occupational safety choices.”
He wisely became quiet.
When she stepped back into the hall, the department felt different.
The patient volume had not decreased, but movement beyond the clinical work carried a more urgent purpose. Nurses gathered around computer terminals reading hospital alerts. Environmental services workers rolled cots toward unused conference rooms. Security officers moved between departments, confirming which entrances would remain open and which would be locked once travel conditions became too dangerous.
A notice appeared across every hospital workstation.
SEVERE WEATHER OPERATIONS ACTIVATED. ALL DEPARTMENTS PREPARE FOR STAFF HOLDOVER AND EMERGENCY RECALL.
Adeline read the message once.
Then she closed it.
Bennett stared at her from the next computer. “You cannot dismiss the emergency plan by clicking the X.”
“I acknowledged it.”
“You closed it in less than two seconds.”
“I read quickly.”
Shen approached carrying two cups of coffee. He handed one to Bennett and kept the other for himself.
“They’re setting up sleeping areas on the sixth floor,” he said.
“For patients?” Adeline asked.
“For staff.”
“We are not sleeping here.”
Shen looked toward the windows.
The snow struck the glass almost horizontally now, driven by gusts strong enough to shake the bare branches near the employee entrance.
“We may be.”
Adeline returned to her computer. “Morning shift will be here in three hours.”
No one answered.
She looked around.
Bennett had found something suddenly compelling in her laboratory results. Shen drank his coffee. Jack stood several feet away reviewing imaging, his expression carefully neutral.
Adeline pointed toward him. “Do not stand there silently agreeing with them.”
“I was reading.”
“You also think we’re staying.”
“I think the hospital activated emergency staffing protocols.”
“That does not mean all of us.”
“You closed the portion explaining that.”
“I understood it.”
“Clearly.”
Adeline reopened the alert and scanned it more carefully.
The notice directed department leadership to identify essential personnel who would remain through extended operations while the hospital initiated a recall of staff able to travel safely.
Her attention paused on the word leadership.
Jack’s mouth shifted.
“Robby is responsible for physician staffing,” he said.
“He likes me.”
“Robby also finds this funny.”
“He will be reasonable.”
Jack looked toward the wet coat hanging inside the open locker-room doorway.
“Of course.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Then stop giving me reasons.”
The department became busier before the argument could continue.
Patients arrived in waves as people attempted to travel before the roads became impassable and discovered they were already too late. A delivery driver came in with chest pain after spending nearly an hour trapped inside his vehicle. Two teenagers were transported after their car slid into a guardrail. A woman eight months pregnant arrived frightened by contractions that began while she and her husband were trying to reach a hotel closer to the hospital.
Adeline no longer had time to monitor the storm even if she had been willing to admit concern.
She worked beside Jack and Shen, taking new patients as quickly as beds became available. Bennett repaired a scalp laceration under Jack’s supervision before joining Adeline to evaluate the pregnant woman while obstetrics struggled to assemble enough staff upstairs.
The storm remained present through everything.
Snow struck the windows with a faint, persistent hiss. Ambulance radio traffic became increasingly fractured as units reported delayed response times and blocked streets. Every time the automatic entrance doors opened, wind forced powdery snow several feet across the tile before staff pushed it back outside.
Sometime after five, Adeline passed the staff entrance and saw that the familiar city beyond it had disappeared.
She stopped.
The parking lot remained visible only in fragments. Cars had become rounded white shapes, their windshields and roofs buried beneath several inches of snow. Plows moved through the lot, but the paths they cleared began filling almost immediately. Beyond the hospital grounds, the road was indistinguishable from the sidewalks and surrounding grass.
On the television near triage, a reporter shouted over the wind while footage showed abandoned cars lining an interstate ramp. Officials were now requesting that drivers already inside safe buildings remain there rather than attempting to continue.
Adeline folded her arms.
“It got bad fast.”
Parker’s voice came from behind her.
Adeline did not turn. “The forecast changed.”
“It changed in the direction you didn’t like.”
“That still means the original forecast was inaccurate.”
Parker moved beside her and looked through the glass. “You’ve been aggressively avoiding that window for most of the shift.”
“I have been treating patients.”
Parker’s gaze dropped toward the cowboy boots.
Adeline felt it without looking.
“Do not,” she warned.
“How are they holding up?”
“They are currently inside.”
“That was not my question.”
Adeline walked away.
The morning shift began arriving shortly before six, not together but in scattered pieces, each person carrying evidence that they had taken the forecast more seriously than Adeline had.
McKay appeared first, pushing through the staff entrance in a waterproof coat with snow pants pulled over her scrubs and a large backpack strapped securely across both shoulders. She had been forced to abandon her vehicle several blocks away after traffic stopped moving, but the heavy winter boots on her feet had allowed her to complete the walk without embracing any municipal property.
King arrived fifteen minutes later carrying a duffel bag, a sleeping bag, and a grocery sack filled with snacks. Langdon followed a few minutes afterward, snow melting across the shoulders of his coat as he carried a travel mug and a neatly packed bag containing extra clothes, toiletries, and a paperback tucked into the outer pocket.
Robby entered through the ambulance bay last, his hair damp with melting snow and a weatherproof duffel hanging from one shoulder. He looked tired, cold, and entirely unsurprised by what waited outside.
Adeline watched each of them arrive with a growing sense of personal betrayal.
Everyone had luggage.
Everyone had proper shoes.
Everyone, apparently, had possessed the foresight to imagine that a widely publicized winter storm might interfere with their ability to leave the hospital.
Robby set his bag beneath the central workstation and looked over the exhausted night staff. “Everyone still functioning?”
Bennett answered with a tired noise that could have meant anything, while Shen lifted his coffee in acknowledgment. Jack remained beside the computer finishing a note, his calm unaffected by the sight of another prepared coworker entering the department.
Adeline stared at Robby’s duffel.
He noticed.
“Three changes of clothes,” he told her before she could ask, his mouth already beginning to curve. “And yes, I brought a charger.”
Adeline glared at him.
King began unpacking several pairs of clean socks beneath the station. McKay placed a package of hand warmers beside them, and Langdon mentioned that he had brought cards in case the hospital remained on emergency operations through the following night.
The growing collection of supplies seemed almost theatrical.
Adeline slowly took stock of what she possessed.
Her cashmere coat remained damp inside the locker. Her leather gloves were probably ruined. Her cowboy boots had become an ongoing department-wide joke, and the phone in her pocket had dropped below forty percent because she had assumed a fully charged battery was the same thing as preparation.
She had no change of clothes, no toiletries, no charger, no food, and no way to return home now that transit had been suspended.
She felt Jack look at her.
Adeline turned sharply.
He stood several feet away with one hand resting beside the keyboard, his expression carefully neutral. That restraint irritated her more than open laughter would have.
“Do not,” she warned.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he returned to his chart without speaking.
He was learning.
Unfortunately, the faint movement at the corner of his mouth revealed that he was still thinking everything she had forbidden him to say.
Before Adeline could confront him, the nursing supervisor entered the department with a hospital administrator. Robby moved toward them, and the ordinary morning handoff dissolved before it began.
Staff were called toward the tracking board while the supervisor unfolded a printed list. Around them, patients continued to arrive and monitors continued to sound, but a tense quiet settled over the physicians and nurses gathered near the station.
“Travel conditions have deteriorated faster than expected,” the supervisor said. “The city has restricted nonessential traffic, multiple transit lines have been suspended, and ambulance access is limited. The hospital has activated emergency staffing protocols and issued a recall for employees who can report safely.”
Adeline looked toward the windows.
There was no longer a city beyond them, only white movement and the reflected pulse of emergency lights.
“Anyone currently inside the hospital should expect to remain until formally relieved,” the supervisor continued. “Rest areas and meal distribution are being organized. Department leadership has identified the physicians necessary to maintain coverage through the storm.”
She handed the list to Robby.
He read it once before raising his voice enough for the group to hear.
“Night-shift holdovers are Abbott, Henson, Bennett, and Shen. Day coverage will be me, King, Langdon, and McKay. We’ll rotate teams so everyone gets rest, but no one on that list leaves without approval until conditions improve or recalled staff can safely reach the hospital.”
The announcement did not surprise anyone except Adeline.
Bennett sighed and adjusted the strap of her packed bag. Shen immediately began discussing possible coverage rotations with King. McKay started distributing hand warmers, while Langdon asked where the designated sleeping areas would be.
Adeline remained beside the tracking board, surrounded by competent adults who had prepared for exactly this possibility.
She looked down at her cowboy boots.
The disappointment she felt toward them was unexpectedly personal.
Robby continued explaining the initial rotation, but Adeline heard little of it. Her thoughts had become fixed on the practical humiliations waiting for her: borrowing toiletries, sleeping in scrubs she had already worn through a full shift, washing underwear in a hospital sink, and attempting to charge her phone through the generosity of someone who had listened to the forecast.
When the group dispersed, Jack approached quietly and stopped beside her.
He did not immediately tease her.
That alone told her how transparent her distress had become.
“You all right?” he asked.
Adeline folded her arms, then released them when she realized the defensive posture answered for her. “I have nothing.”
Jack glanced toward the supplies gathered beneath the station before returning his attention to her.
“I noticed.”
The words were dry, but his tone was not cruel. The humor that had followed her clothing choices through the entire night had softened into something steadier.
Adeline rubbed one hand across her forehead. Exhaustion had stripped away most of her ability to pretend she was merely annoyed.
“I thought the forecast was exaggerated,” she admitted. “I thought the trains would keep running, the morning shift would arrive, and I would go home like normal. Now I have no clothes, no charger, no toothbrush, and a coat that may never recover emotionally or financially.”
Jack looked toward the locker room, where the damp cashmere remained hidden behind a metal door.
“The coat will survive.”
“You did not see the water marks.”
“I’ve seen worse injuries.”
She gave him a tired glare, but there was little force behind it.
Outside, a plow passed through the ambulance lane. The path disappeared beneath fresh snow almost as quickly as it was cleared.
Adeline watched it happen. “My apartment is full of everything I need, and it might as well be in Texas.”
Jack followed her gaze toward the entrance. He was quiet long enough that she turned toward him, expecting another comment about her boots.
Instead, his expression had become thoughtful.
“I’ll take you.”
The offer was so direct that Adeline initially assumed she had misunderstood him.
“Take me where?”
“To your apartment.” Jack nodded toward Robby, who stood at the far end of the station coordinating the emergency rotation. “Once handoff is finished, I’ll get approval for a supply run. You pack clothes, toiletries, a charger, proper shoes, and whatever else you need. Then we come straight back.”
Adeline stared at him.
Beyond the windows, the wind drove snow almost horizontally across the parking lot. The reporter on the television behind them urged anyone already in a safe building to remain there. Emergency vehicles moved with slow care along the entrance road, their flashing lights softened by the storm.
“You cannot drive through that because I forgot socks,” she said.
Jack’s gaze remained on the windows. “It isn’t because you forgot socks.”
The simplicity of the answer made her chest tighten.
He shifted his weight, the movement slight but enough to remind her that he had already worked an entire night on his prosthetic and had to be as exhausted as she was. Still, he looked as though the decision had already been made.
“My truck has four-wheel drive, snow tires, traction mats, emergency gear, blankets, food, and a shovel,” he continued. “Your apartment isn’t far, and we’ll turn around if the roads become unsafe.”
Adeline searched his face for the dry amusement that usually protected him whenever he did something kind.
It was still there, faintly, but it did not lessen the seriousness beneath it.
“You packed all of that?”
“I prepare for foreseeable problems.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That was almost a comment about me.”
“It was entirely a comment about you.”
Despite herself, Adeline laughed. The sound came out tired and quiet, but it eased something inside her.
Jack’s expression softened in response.
“You do not have to do this,” she said, lowering her voice.
“I know.”
The answer settled between them.
He did not claim that anyone would make the same offer. He did not disguise it as hospital policy or suggest that transporting her was merely part of managing essential staff. He understood perfectly well that he was under no obligation to help her and had chosen to do it anyway.
Adeline looked away first, suddenly interested in the tracking board.
“How long do I get to pack?”
“Ten minutes.”
Her head turned back toward him. “Absolutely not.”
“Fifteen if you do not argue during the drive.”
“I need clothes, toiletries, hair products, and possibly several minutes to reconsider every choice that brought me to Pennsylvania.”
“The existential crisis stays here.”
“That alone takes ten minutes.”
Jack hummed, appearing to calculate. “Fifteen.”
“Twenty.”
“Fifteen, Trouble.”
The nickname came gently this time, without the teasing edge he usually attached to it.
Adeline felt her resistance begin to weaken.
“If the roads are worse than you expect, we turn around,” she said. “I am not letting you drive us into a snowbank just because I failed to purchase sensible footwear.”
Jack nodded. “Agreed.”
“And we come directly back.”
“Agreed.”
“No unnecessary stops.”
He glanced toward her boots. “We may stop if I see a store selling traction.”
Adeline glared at him, but the expression could not hold. Fatigue and reluctant affection softened it before she could prevent either from showing.
“This does not mean you were right about the boots.”
Jack lowered his gaze deliberately toward the worn brown leather. “They required assistance from a parking meter.”
“They still got me here.”
“The parking meter deserves partial credit.”
Her accent thickened with irritation. “I swear, old man, if you mention that damn parking meter one more time—”
Jack’s mouth curved. “You’ll what?”
Adeline opened her mouth, prepared to threaten him with something appropriately dramatic, but the warmth in his expression stopped her.
“I hate you,” she muttered instead.
The amusement around Jack’s eyes softened.
“No, you don’t.”
He said it quietly, without smugness and without looking away.
The certainty of it moved through Adeline more effectively than any flirtation could have. Her pulse stumbled, and warmth climbed into her cheeks despite the exhaustion weighing on every part of her.
He was right.
That was irritating enough.
Worse was the realization that he knew he was right.
Jack picked up the chart he had left beside the tracking board and tucked it beneath one arm.
“Find a bag,” he said. “I’ll talk to Robby.”
He turned toward the opposite end of the station, where Robby stood reviewing the coverage plan. After several steps, Jack glanced back over his shoulder.
His eyes found Adeline immediately.
Then he winked.
It was quick, confident, and far too effective. Before she could gather herself enough to respond, Jack turned away and continued toward Robby.
Adeline remained beside the tracking board, briefly incapable of movement.
Bennett looked up from the nearby workstation. Her gaze moved from Adeline’s face to Jack’s retreating figure before a slow, knowing smile appeared.
Adeline raised one finger toward her.
Bennett returned her attention to the computer without saying anything, though a quiet hum escaped her as she began typing.
Across the department, Jack stopped beside Robby and spoke in a low voice. Robby listened, looked toward the windows, and then glanced across the station at Adeline.
His gaze dropped to her cowboy boots.
Adeline closed her eyes.
Jack had mentioned them.
Of course he had.
When she looked again, Robby was nodding, his expression caught somewhere between concern and amusement. Jack said something else that made him laugh before the two men turned toward the hospital administrator.
Adeline watched Jack begin arranging the trip with the same quiet confidence he brought to every difficult situation. He had not asked whether she trusted him to get her through the storm. He seemed to understand that she already did.
That realization should have frightened her more than the roads outside.
Instead, as snow swallowed the city beyond the hospital windows, Adeline felt the tightness in her chest begin to ease.
The storm was still dangerous. Leaving PTMC remained a questionable decision, and depending on Jack had become far too natural for her comfort.
But she was no longer afraid of the drive.
She was afraid of how safe she felt knowing he would be beside her.
I had the realization that a previous request i sent would probably come off as really rude, and im so sorry! I made it really late, but thats no excuse!
Your writing it honestly great, and I was wondering if you could write a story about a ED nurse reader who Park has a crush on, but the reader is engaged, so he never bothered acting on it, or telling a soul.
But one day, he finds out she single, they broke up ages ago, and shes thinking about doing online dating, only for Dr. Park to slide in like, forget that, date me!
Sadly, you weren’t available, if the engagement ring not from him unfortunately you were wearing wasn’t a dead giveaway.
But today you’re not yourself.
Your usually smiley face is in a frown and he could’ve sworn he saw you wipe your eyes a few times.
If you were his he’d make sure to hold you close and wipe your tears for you.
But all he can do is watch from a distance and hope you’re okay.
——
Brendon makes his way through the pitt towards Dana to ask her some charting questions when a conversation catches his attention.
“Yeah, she told me and Samira that he not only was a cheating bastard but that he also called off the engagement and blamed her for it.”
Brendon peers around the corner where he sees Trinity who is filling Dennis in on your recent life events.
“Damn” Dennis says with his eyes wide “He fumbles one of the hottest nurses and then makes her the problem? Yeah, definitely a bastard.”
Trinity nods her head rapidly “I feel so bad. She’s the sweetest person and deserves the man of her dreams which clearly wasn’t that fucking dickhead.”
Brendon moves back behind the hallway corner now armed with this new information. He definitely has a chance now.
He goes to walk away when he accidentally bumps into you.
“Shit! Sorry Brendon” you apologize as you use his arm to steady yourself.
His hand had instinctively gone to your waist to help keep you upright.
“No worries but be careful, I would hate to see you break something and end up in my O.R.” he chuckles as his hand slips from your side.
You playfully roll your eyes “Oh Brendon, I think I’d be your most entertaining client if that did hap–”
Brendon gives you his full attention as he takes in every word you say, no matter how simple.
As he’s listening, the movement of your hand on his bicep catches his attention.
Your engagement ring.
It's gone.
Seems like Santos and Whitaker were right.
If that was the case, he’d have to make his move soon enough before someone comes along and gets your attention first.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
It’s been a month since Brendon saw you without an engagement ring. In that time he had mulled over ideas of how he could ask you out.
He had waited a month to give you time to process things and hopefully be willing to open up your heart again.
He’s leaning on the desk counter lost in thought about you, just writing on a sticky note when a hand lands close on the counter.
The action startles him slightly and he quickly covers the note as he looks up and his eyes meet yours.
“Hey Bren!” you greet him with a smile “Whatcha up to?”
He can feel his face blush a little hoping you didn’t see the note.
“Hey sweetheart, just enjoying some downtime before the next string of consults.”
Sweetheart? Shit.
He didn’t even mean to use that term of endearment. It had just slipped out.
It obviously doesn’t bother you, if anything your smile grows a little bigger.
He keeps talking to avoid the slip up which he meant for sure.
“How bout you? Anything new with you?”
You pull your phone out as you lean your arms across from him.
“Nothing much. I did recently decide to jump back into the dating scene.
Brendon’s heart skips a beat.
No. No, you can’t.
He hasn’t even attempted to ask you out yet.
“Trinity and Samira suggested Tinder or Hinge. I’m not so sure though, it’s pretty intimidating. Who even wants the girl who couldn’t keep her fiancee happy, right?”
You try to joke and make light of the events from last month.
It breaks his heart to hear you think of yourself that way.
Luckily, the chance to express his feelings has presented itself and he can’t wait another minute if he doesn’t want to lose you to a dating app.
“Well, let’s think of it this way” he says
“You could make an account and meet a bunch of useless guys or…” he takes your phone and lays it face down to get your full attention
“You could give a real good guy a chance. Maybe one who’s a pretty good ortho surgeon. One that really fucking likes you. But what do I know, I just feel you should have some choices.”
Your jaw drops slightly at his words.
Was the Brendon Park confessing his feelings for you?
One of the hottest guys ever, wanted you?
You lean forward a bit with a playful smirk “Okay sooo, if I gave this alleged ortho guy a chance, where do you think he'd take me on our first date?”
Brendon steps a bit closer to you “I think he'd prefer to keep that a surprise but for your peace of mind I think he’d take you to coffee and would enjoy hearing you talk about any and every thing, he'd love that actually. Maybe take a stroll through downtown Pittsburgh for a bit. Followed by lunch at a surprise location. Then he’d take you home and hope he’d get lucky with a second date. Maybe a kiss too? If not then that's okay, he’s very patient and would hate to mess everything up.”
You stare at him, completely smitten with a damn near permanent smile.
“I don't think he could mess things up even if he tried. The date sounds phenomenal too. Seems like a real gentleman. Hopeless romantic too.”
Brendon leans closer to you, his elbows on the counter “Only for you sweetheart.”
You bite your lip as your face heats up.
“Flattery will get you everywhere Park.”
He steps closer and hesitantly grabs one of your hands.
“Good thing the only place I want to be is with you.”
You cover your face with your other hand trying to hide the giddiness you feel.
“So, what do you say, gorgeous?” he asks “Give an old man a chance?”
You playfully push his chest as you laugh.
“You’re hardly old Bendon but yes, I’d love to go out with you.”
He gently squeezes your hand “Meet me out front after your shift and I’ll walk you out.”
“I’ll be there Park.” you wave as he walks backwards towards the elevators.
“Better be!” he yells as he disappears around the corner.
You smile to yourself as you go to walk away but something catches your eye.
It’s a post-it note.
‘ He must’ve forgotten it ’ you think
Picking it up, you turn it over and pause at the words.
Your name is written at the top with some doodles and below, it reads:
‘You’re so damn pretty’
You hold it against your chest and the smile never leaves your face.
Oh Brendon… I have a feeling you’re going to be a good one.
