Premise: Cassie’s always had a complicated relationship with dogs. And then Watson met Cassie.
Fandom: Open Heart
Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine); feat. Watson, Sophie & Eloise Ramsey
Rating/Category: Teen. Fluff.
Words: 2,305
A/N: One of my favorite headcanons in Lia Land is Cassie and pets. I mentioned it in pieces across fics & Pictagram comments over the years, but fully presented it during this MC Monday post. I finally managed to write the whole story. (Although how it's 2,300 words, I have no idea.)
Eight-year-old Cassie Valentine didn’t care if her twin brother, Max, teased her for being a crybaby. When a dog rejected you not once but twice (and not even the same dog!), what was a girl to do but cry.
First, it was Riley who’d lasted two weeks before running off. She’d rather hide behind a dumpster in a mean part of Seattle than come home. So, her mom had arranged for Riley to find a good home.
Then came Baxter, the cutest little French Bulldog. His adorable face made her want to pepper it with kisses. He was gone in a week.
She loved dogs so much, but it was just her bad luck that they didn’t like her. And all the hugging and kissing and affection in the world couldn’t make them change their minds.
Her parents and the dog expert they hired tried to explain to her that the dogs felt “smothered” by her—whatever that meant. All Cassie heard was she was unlovable.
Okay, well, maybe not completely so. Max, for his all his teasing, loved her completely. They were bound by Twin Code after all. And her parents were the best ones a girl could ask for.
Their dad had been teaching her and Max how to sail, and was so calm that Cassie felt like she could sail across the world. Meanwhile, her mom always had time to help her practice her ballet exercises, and cheered at every recital.
It was just the four-legged, furry, lovable animals that didn’t like her.
And wasn’t that the saddest thing in the whole wide world, she thought with a sigh so loud that Max didn’t make fun of her for being “dramatic.” Instead, he folded her in his arms, letting her cry it out until she felt better, if slightly embarrassed, at getting snot all over his new shirt.
That night, her parents sat her down on the living room couch and issued an edict that would define her relationship with pets. Meaning, she’d never have one.
And then, one day, she had twin girls of her own who desperately pleaded for a dog every chance they got.
They were as subtle as their father, thought Cassie.
Ethan Ramsey was direct—some said blunt—and still took things too literally at times.
He was a work-in-progress, but better now than when they first met all those years ago in a waiting room in Edenbrook Hospital; her a newly minted intern, him already a world-renowned diagnostician with a penchant for proving his point.
So, when Cassie showed him the slide deck Sophie and Eloise had prepared on why they should be allowed to adopt a dog, Ethan had taken one look and nodded sagely, “A well-supported thesis. And this feed-and-walk timetable is surprisingly efficient.”
“Not the point,” Cassie said in exasperation. “You know the rule, Ethan.”
“That was your parents’ rule,” he said, removing his eyeglasses to rub his eyes.
“Besides, you have me now. I’ll make sure it gets the—,” he paused, tilting his head to one side. “What did you call it the other day? Ah yes, the ‘patented Chief Ramsey experience.’” He curled his fingers into air quotes. “It’ll forget all about you.”
She rolled her eyes. “We actually want the dog to feel welcome, babe, not regret its life choices.”
“It can do both. Anyway, according to this very excellent presentation, it will be the girls’ dog. So, your parents’ edict still stands.”
“Fine!” Cassie threw up her hands in frustration. “But if the girls get their hearts broken when it runs away, I will take great pleasure in saying, ‘I told you so’.”
The black Cockapoo, who would come to be known as Watson, stared at the blue ball that had rolled near his hiding place and wondered what he was supposed to do with it. When no answer came, he nudged it away.
He really wanted to play with the other dogs in the park, but they liked to bark and he enjoyed long, deep thoughts. None of them lasted long, and he forgot them just as quickly, but it was the wonder of it all that stayed with him.
Watson had been at this place for a while now. And every little while, the humans with the kind eyes but sometimes impatient hands would take him and the others out to where other humans waited. Some screamed, others laughed, and still more ran everywhere.
There was fetching of balls or sticks, rolling and barking, and shaking of paws. And then they all came back inside for dinner and a good night’s sleep.
Some of his comrades never returned to the cold room with the tiny windows. But then more showed up the next day. And so it was for as long as he could remember.
This day, the sun was shining but not so bright that he wanted to close his eyes. Still, he lay down on his belly, resting his chin on his paws, watching everyone have fun. He wanted to just stay here and feel the breeze tickle his nose.
Two little girls bounced from one foot to the other, whispering in each other’s ears whenever he looked in their direction. They had dark hair and the same face. Curious, he thought.
He wasn’t sure why but he liked them. Maybe because they weren’t running around screaming like the others.
Watson’s ears perked as they walked toward him. He looked up from under his eyelids as they knelt before him, holding their hands out toward him, as if waiting for his permission.
He thought about it for a second and then blinked, nudging their hands with the top of his head. They smelled like sunshine and the yellow flowers that grew at the edge of the park. He woofed softly, enjoying how one of them scratched beneath his chin and giggled.
A tall man joined them, crouching beside them. The girls started talking excitedly while the man watched Watson with bright blue eyes, nodding and smiling when Watson moved close enough to be petted.
Now he wished he hadn’t gotten rid of the ball earlier.
Before he could find a way to convince them to play fetch with him, a woman with yellow hair appeared behind them, placing one hand on the man’s shoulder and the other on one of the girls.
She had the kindest eyes he’d ever seen in his life.
And then a big smile spread across her face, and he became wary. Oh no.
Watson had seen that smile before. It was usually followed by someone pulling on his ears or scooping him up and holding him tightly until he wriggled hard just to get free.
He inched back, ready to make his escape even as she kept her distance. She must have seen him because the smile disappeared and her eyes became sad.
Now, he worried that these humans—the first ones he’d liked in a long while—wouldn’t take him home after all.
The girls held up a ball, trying to get him to fetch. He barked, bouncing once, twice, and then the game was on.
As he ran back, dropping the ball at the girls’ feet and basking in their praise, he wondered where the woman was. He had thought she might be waiting until he was no longer paying attention to grab him.
But she just stood off to the side, leaning against the tall man, one arm wrapped around him. The man kissed her forehead.
She looked down, catching Watson staring at her. He waited, head cocked in anticipation of what she might do.
But she stayed where she was. That was…unexpected.
The two girls rushed in, and the woman opened her arms. They held her tight, angling their heads back to look up, smiling so widely that the woman laughed.
He would like to go home with them, thought Watson. But the woman didn’t want him after all.
Watson started to walk away, dragging his paws a bit in case they changed their minds.
They did.
As the tall man talked with the other humans who looked after him, and the woman still stood at a distance, the girls looped their arms around him.
“What should we call you?” they asked, watching him closely.
“I know,” one of the girls said. “Watson!”
Watson. He barked and wagged his tail to show he liked the name.
The woman with the yellow hair started laughing, the sound deep and bellyful, and Watson thought perhaps she liked him after all.
A short while later, he found himself sitting on the little girl’s lap, her hands holding him softly as he stared outside. The window was rolled down a bit so he could prop his chin on the edge.
The world outside was unfamiliar, and he barked at the other cars. That made the girls laugh.
Over the next few days, Watson settled into his new home. His bed was so soft that he often forgot what his life was like in the before.
The place also smelled different from his old home. It smelled…happy.
There were bright flowers in most rooms. And there was space for him to run outside at the back of the house. There was even a little house where he could take a nap.
The girls disappeared after their morning walk. They always came back in time for his next one, full of excitement and stories.
The woman with the yellow hair left too, though sometimes before the sun was fully awake. The tall man left even earlier.
But one of them always came back. And when they were both home, he would often hear laughter coming from behind the door of the room with the large bed.
There was another human, too. She talked to him as if he understood every word. She made the house smell like lemons, remembered to fill his water bowl, and scratched behind his ears before leaving.
As time passed, Watson kept waiting for the yellow-haired woman to pet him, hug him, call him a good boy. But she didn’t. He sometimes felt her gaze on him. Whenever he looked up, she turned away.
Sometimes she went into another room and stayed there for hours, sitting behind a desk, her feet tapping to the music, her eyes focused on a slim box in front of her.
The door was never fully closed, and he liked how the room smelled. The scent was never the same from one day to the next, but underneath it there was something familiar.
It reminded him of lying in the park, thinking his deep thoughts, feeling peaceful.
So, Watson started sneaking inside, cautiously at first in case the woman got angry. But she never did. He started by stretching out near the door, in case he had to run off quickly. Then, he moved a little closer, day by day, until he found his favorite spot was actually under the desk.
One day, he ran inside a little too fast, skidding on the floor before crashing against her legs. She froze, and Watson sighed, resting his face on his paws as he stretched out over her feet.
She was warm and soft, and he yawned. His eyes drifted shut, and he never felt the featherlight touch along his back a few minutes later.
As the days passed, Watson grew to love his new family even more. The tall man took him for walks when the girls couldn’t. He also gave him a treat after, often with a wink and a finger to his lips.
He liked evenings because everyone was home. Music playing in the kitchen, the girls and the woman laughing as they bounced on their feet, the tall man smiling at them.
Watson especially liked watching the woman hug the girls. Like when she walked through the door and they would rush into her arms. Or after one of them stood on one leg and spun around.
She never held them too tight, just long enough for them to get that bright look in their eyes.
One day, he decided he wanted to feel like that too. So, he started running toward the door whenever it opened and zooming around and around on the floor whenever the music came on.
The girls laughed and would pick him up to press their lips on top of his head. But the woman just smiled.
So, he started following her everywhere, whining and letting out a soft woof to get her attention.
One day, he jumped onto the couch where she lay stretched out, lost in whatever she was holding in her hand. He curled up across her legs and promptly took a nap while he dreamt that she was finally giving him a hug like she did the girls.
He awoke a while later, yawning loudly. His ears perked as she watched him in the same way she looked at the tall man and the girls.
Watson inched forward and nudged her arm. When she didn’t scratch behind his ears or rub his neck, he pushed against her hand, lifting it up with his head.
He let out a short, encouraging bark, his tongue lolling, panting in anticipation.
And then, finally, she moved. Holding his face between her hands, she leaned forward and gazed into his eyes, a soft smile on her lips.
And Watson did what all his comrades had done when they found their human back at the park. He swiped his tongue across her mouth.
She laughed, the way she had done when he first got his name, and then gently folded him into her arms.
Feeling warm and loved as her familiar smell filled his senses, he tucked his head against hers.
Fandom: Open Heart (Choices)
Relationship: Tobias/MC
Tags: Fluff, Established Relationship
Words: 200
For @fluffyjuly I dediced to write little double drabbles.
Here's Day 11 - Slushie | “Try it”
Also tagging @choicesficwriterscreations
Read on AO3
“What is that?”
Julia’s shift had just ended and Tobias had come to pick her up at the hospital.
He’d had the day off, and they were both excited to spend the evening together.
“Hello to you too.” He grinned.
Julia rolled her eyes. “Hi. What is that?”
“Pride Edition Slushie”, Tobias explained, holding the rainbow coloured drink out at her. “Try it.”
He fully expected her to take the cup from him, but instead, Julia leaned in, closing her lips around the straw and taking a sip, looking up at Tobias from beneath her eyelashes.
At the sight, he felt heat creep up his neck and his heart beat faster, and he swallowed drily.
Julia let go of the straw and licked a stray drop from her full bottom lip, and Tobias was transfixed, warmth pooling in his stomach.
“Delicious”, Julia commented, faux innocent, and Tobias had trouble suppressing a groan.
She knew exactly what she was doing, and Tobias could freely admit that he loved it.
Not able to resist any longer, he slipped his free hand around her waist to pull her closer and bent down to kiss her deeply, tasting the sweet drink on her tongue.
*warning* mention of severely premature infants and resuscitations and induced coma and stillbirth
Love In Every Heartbeat - Chapter 262 - Part 2 - What the Darkness Took
Joshua sat in the leather hardback chair beside Sophia’s SICU bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The room felt too quiet, too still, too wrong. The ventilator breathed for her in steady, mechanical cycles, lifting her chest and letting it fall again with perfect, unnatural rhythm. The tubing ran from the endotracheal tube secured at her mouth to the ventilator tower beside the bed, its screen glowing softly in the dim light.
Her sedation kept her under.
Her pneumonia kept her dependent.
Her body kept fighting.
Joshua didn’t blink. His leg trembled in uneven pulses. His breath stayed shallow, catching every few seconds like his lungs were still stuck in the NICU’s rhythm — the rhythm he’d been listening to downstairs, the one that had changed the moment the baby’s feeding cues started.
He could still see it when he closed his eyes: the tiny mouth fluttering around the OG tube, the faint rooting motion against the air, the way the baby’s hand kept drifting toward his face even though he didn’t have the strength to complete the movement. The nurse had called it hunger — trophic readiness — and had threaded donor colostrum through the syringe pump, letting it drip in slow, measured pulses through the tube taped to the baby’s cheek.
Joshua had watched every millilitre.
Watched the pump click.
Watched the baby’s chest rise with the ventilator as the feed ran.
Watched the nurse check the abdomen for distention.
Watched the monitor for any sign of intolerance.
And now, upstairs, the silence pressed against him, heavy and padded, as if the room didn’t know what had happened downstairs.
He stared at Sophia’s face — still, pale, unchanged — and felt the weight of the night settle deeper into his chest. The ventilator’s rhythm was steady, but it didn’t comfort him. It only reminded him that she wasn’t breathing on her own. That she wasn’t waking. That she wasn’t here with him in any way that mattered.
The door opened softly.
A night‑shift SICU nurse stepped inside, her voice low so she wouldn’t disturb the sedation. She studied him for a moment — the rigid spine, the locked jaw, the hollowed eyes fixed on Sophia’s face.
“Joshua,” she said gently. “You need to rest.”
He shook his head once.
“I’m fine.”
He wasn’t. She could see it instantly — the tremor in his leg, the way his shoulders were pulled so tight they looked painful, the way his breath kept stuttering like he was fighting to keep it steady.
“You’ve had a very hard night,” she said quietly.
Joshua didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on Sophia, as if looking away would make something happen — as if the NICU’s alarms could reach this room if he stopped watching her for even a second. As if he might hear the pump downstairs clicking through another feed, or the soft sound the baby made when his mouth fluttered again.
“You’re shaking,” the nurse said.
Joshua exhaled, a thin, uneven breath that sounded like it hurt.
“I’m not leaving her.”
“I’m not asking you to leave,” she said. “I’m asking you to breathe.”
Joshua’s fingers unclasped, then tightened again. His chest rose in a shallow, trembling inhale.
“She’s stable enough right now,” the nurse said carefully — the only reassurance she was allowed to give. “We’re watching her closely.”
Joshua swallowed hard.
“She’s not waking.”
The nurse didn’t contradict him.
“We take it one hour at a time,” she said. “That’s how we get through nights like this.”
Joshua closed his eyes, the tremor in his leg worsening for a moment before he forced it still. The nurse stayed beside him, watching the man who had been dragged through two units in one night, who had seen too much, who had lost too much, who was holding too much.
Sophia’s ventilator cycled steadily.
Her sedation kept her under.
The room stayed quiet.
Footsteps approached the room — fast, purposeful, urgent. Not SICU footsteps. NICU footsteps. Joshua recognized the rhythm instantly.
A NICU nurse appeared in the doorway, her badge still clipped to her scrubs, her face tight with urgency.
“Joshua.”
His head snapped up.
“You need to come downstairs.”
Joshua’s stomach dropped.
“What happened?”
“He’s having a rough patch,” she said. “We’re managing it, but you need to be there.”
Joshua stood too fast. His leg buckled. The SICU nurse caught his arm before he could fall.
“Easy,” she said. “Slow down.”
He didn’t slow down. He couldn’t.
His breath came in thin, broken pulls as he looked at Sophia — ventilated, sedated, unmoving — and then back at the NICU nurse.
“I can’t leave her.”
“You have to,” the NICU nurse said. “Just for now.”
The SICU nurse steadied him.
“I’ll stay with her,” she said. “She’s stable.”
Joshua swallowed hard, his throat tight.
The NICU nurse stepped closer.
“Joshua. We need to go.”
He looked at Sophia one more time — the rise and fall of the ventilator, the stillness of her face, the bandages across her abdomen — then forced himself toward the door.
His leg trembled violently.
His breath stuttered.
His vision blurred at the edges.
But he moved.
He scrubbed out of SICU with shaking hands, the water running over fingers that wouldn’t stay steady. He walked the corridor with uneven steps, waited for the elevator with his breath catching in sharp, shallow pulls. The elevator arrived. He stepped inside. The doors closed. The descent felt too slow, too quiet, too long.
He scrubbed into NICU with trembling hands, the antiseptic smell sharp in his nose. He dried his hands, pulled on the gown, the gloves, the mask. The NICU nurse led him forward.
They rounded the corner.
Joshua stopped.
His son’s incubator was surrounded again — not in the chaotic crush of a code, but in the tense, controlled urgency of a fight that could turn into one without warning. The oscillator vibrated in rapid, uneven rhythm. The ventilator hissed in sharp bursts. The monitors flashed red and yellow in alternating patterns, each alarm a reminder of how fragile the situation was.
A neonatologist adjusted the ventilator settings with quick, precise movements. A respiratory therapist monitored the arterial line. A nurse checked the IV pumps, her hands steady but her jaw tight. Another nurse held the syringe pump connected to the OG tube, the line still taped to the baby’s cheek from the earlier trophic feed. The syringe was paused now, the plunger locked in place — the feed stopped the moment the instability began.
Joshua’s breath broke.
“What’s happening?” he whispered.
“He’s having trouble maintaining his oxygenation,” the NICU nurse said. “We’re trying to stabilize him.”
Joshua moved closer, his leg shaking so badly he had to grip the side of the incubator to stay upright. The plastic felt cold under his hand.
The neonatologist called out numbers — oxygen saturation dropping, heart rate fluctuating, blood pressure unstable.
The respiratory therapist adjusted the oscillator amplitude. The ventilator hissed harder. The alarms grew louder, sharper, more insistent.
“Come on,” the neonatologist murmured. “Come on, little one.”
Joshua stared at the tiny body inside the incubator — impossibly small, impossibly fragile, chest rising and falling with the mechanical rhythm of the ventilator. The baby’s skin looked translucent under the harsh NICU lights. The IVH monitor glowed red. The arterial line pulsed weakly. The OG tube rested against his cheek, the tape slightly lifted at the corner from the earlier rooting motion — the faint hunger cue Joshua had seen before everything went wrong.
“Please,” Joshua whispered. “Please don’t stop.”
The neonatologist adjusted another setting. The respiratory therapist repositioned the tubing. A nurse silenced an alarm only for it to start again seconds later. Another nurse checked the baby’s abdomen with gentle pressure — confirming no distention, no feed intolerance, no residual pooling — even though the feed had been paused.
The numbers kept dropping.
Joshua’s breath came in sharp, uneven pulls. His hands shook violently. His spine felt like it was splintering.
“Let’s increase the mean airway pressure,” the neonatologist said.
The respiratory therapist nodded, adjusting the ventilator. The oscillator’s rhythm changed — deeper, more forceful, pushing air into lungs that didn’t know how to breathe.
The baby’s oxygen saturation dipped again.
Joshua’s knees buckled.
The NICU nurse caught his arm.
“Joshua,” she said softly. “He’s fighting.”
“He’s losing,” Joshua whispered.
“No,” she said firmly. “He’s fighting.”
The neonatologist leaned closer, watching the monitor with the kind of focus that looked like desperation disguised as medicine.
“Come on,” she whispered again. “Come on.”
The numbers held.
Not rising.
Not falling.
Just holding.
The alarms softened — not stopping, but easing. The ventilator hissed in steadier rhythm. The oscillator’s vibration evened out. The paused syringe pump remained still, the feed waiting for the moment he was stable enough to tolerate it again.
“Okay,” the neonatologist said quietly. “Okay. He’s stabilizing.”
Joshua exhaled sharply, painfully. His legs trembled. His chest felt torn open.
He pressed a hand to the incubator, fingers shaking.
“He’s still here,” the neonatologist said.
Joshua closed his eyes, tears slipping down his face.
The NICU staff stepped back slowly, their movements careful, their eyes still on the monitors.
Joshua stayed where he was — hand on the incubator, breath shaking, chest tight, leg trembling — staring at the tiny life inside the plastic box.
The numbers held.
The alarms softened.
The ventilator kept breathing for him.
The paused feed waited.
Joshua didn’t move.
He stayed frozen in the brightness, in the terror, in the fight that had almost taken everything from him, listening to the fragile rhythm of a life that had barely survived the night.
Joshua didn’t know how long he stood there. Minutes, maybe. The NICU lights were too bright, the air too cold, the alarms too sharp. His hand stayed pressed to the incubator, fingers trembling against the plastic. His breath came in uneven pulls, each one catching like his lungs were still stuck in the rhythm of the oscillator.
A nurse approached quietly, her voice low.
“Joshua… you should sit.”
He didn’t move.
She didn’t push. She just stayed near him, watching the way his shoulders shook, the way his jaw locked, the way his eyes stayed fixed on the tiny chest rising and falling with mechanical precision.
Another alarm chirped — softer this time, a warning rather than a crisis. The neonatologist adjusted a setting, her movements calm now, controlled, steady. The respiratory therapist checked the arterial line again, confirming the numbers were holding. A nurse glanced at the paused syringe pump connected to the OG tube, checking the line for any backflow — making sure the earlier trophic feed hadn’t left residuals that could complicate the instability.
Joshua’s breath shuddered.
“He scared us,” the nurse said softly.
Joshua swallowed hard, his throat tight.
“He scared me,” he whispered.
The nurse nodded once, her expression gentle.
“He’s still here.”
Joshua’s hand tightened on the incubator frame, his knuckles whitening. He leaned closer, staring at the tiny face beneath the ventilator tubing, the fragile skin, the impossibly small features. The OG tube rested against his cheek, the tape slightly wrinkled from the earlier rooting motion — the tiny hunger cue that had made the nurse pause the feed when the alarms started.
“He’s so little,” Joshua said, voice breaking.
“I know.”
“He’s so… small.”
“I know,” she repeated, softer this time.
Joshua’s chest tightened painfully. His leg trembled again, the tremor running up through his hip and into his spine. He felt like he was shaking apart, like the night had splintered something inside him that couldn’t be put back together.
The neonatologist stepped around the incubator, her voice quiet but steady.
“He’s stable enough for now,” she said. “We’ll keep monitoring him closely.”
Joshua nodded, but it didn’t feel like agreement. It felt like surrender — the kind that came from exhaustion, fear, and the weight of too many hours spent between two floors that kept taking pieces of him.
The neonatologist studied him for a moment.
“You should take a break,” she said gently.
Joshua shook his head.
“I’m not leaving him.”
“You don’t have to leave,” she said. “Just sit. Breathe. Let your body catch up.”
Joshua didn’t sit. He didn’t breathe deeply. He didn’t move at all. He stayed frozen, hand on the incubator, eyes locked on the tiny chest rising and falling with the ventilator’s rhythm.
The neonatologist didn’t push him. She stepped back, giving him space.
A nurse adjusted one of the IV pumps. Another checked the oscillator tubing. The respiratory therapist documented the latest readings. A NICU nurse checked the baby’s abdomen again — gentle pressure, confirming no distention, no residual pooling, no signs of feed intolerance. The syringe pump remained paused, waiting for the moment he was stable enough to resume the slow drip of donor colostrum.
The NICU moved around him in quiet, controlled motions, the kind that came after a crisis — the kind that felt like the unit was exhaling.
Joshua didn’t exhale.
He stayed rigid, breath shallow, chest tight.
The NICU nurse who had brought him downstairs stepped beside him again.
“Joshua,” she said softly. “You need to sit.”
He didn’t respond.
She placed a hand lightly on his arm.
“Come on,” she said. “Just for a minute.”
Joshua’s fingers slipped from the incubator frame. His knees wavered. The nurse guided him to the nearest chair, helping him lower himself before his legs could give out completely.
He sat, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, breath shaking.
The incubator was still in front of him.
The ventilator still hissed.
The oscillator still vibrated.
The monitors still glowed.
The paused feed still waited.
But he wasn’t standing anymore.
He wasn’t holding himself upright.
He wasn’t pretending he was fine.
He stared at his son, the tiny body fighting inside the plastic box, and felt the weight of everything pressing down on him — the SICU, the NICU, the crash C‑section, the blood loss, the resuscitation, the ventilators, the alarms, the fear, the exhaustion, the night that wouldn’t end.
His breath broke again.
The nurse stayed beside him, silent, steady, present.
Joshua didn’t look away from the incubator.
He couldn’t.
Joshua leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, breath trembling. His vision blurred again. His chest felt hollow. His spine felt brittle.
He didn’t hear the footsteps at first.
He didn’t hear the elevator doors open.
He didn’t hear the sharp inhale from the corridor.
He only heard his own breath — thin, uneven, breaking — and the faint, paused click of the syringe pump beside the incubator, the plunger still locked from when the trophic feed had been stopped during the instability. The OG tube rested against his son’s cheek, the tape slightly wrinkled from the earlier rooting motion — the tiny hunger cue that had come before everything fell apart.
“Joshua?”
He froze.
The voice was familiar.
Too familiar.
Too raw.
He lifted his head. Jonah stood at the edge of the nurses’ station, chest heaving, hair disheveled, face pale, eyes wide with terror. He looked like he had run through the entire hospital without stopping. His breath came fast, uneven, panicked.
“Joshua,” Jonah said again, voice cracking.
Joshua stared at him, unable to speak.
Jonah stepped closer, each movement slow, careful, terrified. His eyes flicked to the glass wall — to Sophia’s ventilator, to the tubing, to the sedation, to the stillness — and something inside him shattered.
“Oh God,” Jonah whispered. “Oh God… Joshua…”
Joshua swallowed hard, his throat tight.
Jonah reached him, crouched beside the chair, and placed a trembling hand on his shoulder.
“What happened?” Jonah whispered.
Joshua’s breath caught.
“She nearly died,” he said, voice breaking. “She… she almost died.”
Jonah’s eyes filled instantly.
He looked through the glass again — at the ventilator cycling, at the sedation keeping her under, at the stillness of her face — and his breath broke.
He reached for Joshua, pulling him into a tight, desperate embrace.
Joshua didn’t resist.
He collapsed into Jonah’s arms, breath shaking, chest breaking open, the weight of the night finally spilling out of him.
Jonah held him, one hand gripping the back of his head, the other around his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him, anchoring him.
He stayed with him — in the brightness of the nurses’ station, in the terror, in the stillness of the SICU — holding the man who had been dragged through two floors of hell, who had nearly lost everything, who had nothing left to stand on.
Sophia’s ventilator cycled steadily behind the glass.
The monitors glowed softly.
The unit moved around them.
Sophia’s ventilator cycled steadily behind the glass.
The monitors glowed softly.
The unit moved around them.
Jonah held Joshua as the night pressed in from every direction, the weight of two floors of terror settling into the narrow space between them. Joshua’s breath trembled against Jonah’s shoulder, thin and uneven, the kind that came from hours of fear and exhaustion. Jonah kept his arms around him, grounding him, steadying him, anchoring him in the brightness of the nurses’ station.
Joshua didn’t speak at first. His chest rose in shallow, fractured pulls. His fingers stayed locked together, knuckles white, elbows braced on his knees. His spine stayed rigid, as if any movement might splinter him.
Jonah shifted, lowering himself to sit on the floor beside the chair, one hand still on Joshua’s shoulder, the other braced against the side of the seat.
“You’re shaking,” Jonah said quietly.
Joshua exhaled, a thin, painful sound.
“I can’t stop.”
Jonah didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t try to pull him upright or tell him to breathe or tell him it was over. He stayed beside him, steady and present, letting Joshua’s weight lean toward him without forcing anything.
The SICU nurse at the station glanced over, her expression softening. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t approach. She simply watched the two men — one broken open, one holding him together — and returned to her charting.
Joshua’s breath caught again.
“I thought I was going to lose her,” he whispered. “I thought—”
Joshua leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, breath shaking so hard it barely made it out of his chest. Jonah shifted closer, shoulder against Joshua’s arm, grounding him without pulling him away from the glass.
The ventilator cycled.
The monitors glowed.
The SICU moved in quiet, controlled rhythm.
Joshua didn’t move.
Jonah stayed beside him, breathing with him, anchoring him in the brightness of the nurses’ station while the night held its breath.
Joshua lifted his head slowly, eyes fixed on Sophia through the glass. Her chest rose with the ventilator’s rhythm, steady and mechanical. Her face remained still under sedation, lashes unmoving, lips parted around the endotracheal tube. The bandages across her abdomen were stark against her skin.
He stared at her for a long moment.
Then his breath broke.
“Please don’t leave me,” he whispered, voice cracking open.
Jonah froze.
Joshua leaned closer to the glass, shoulders shaking, breath trembling in thin, uneven pulls.
“Please… come back to me.”
His voice fractured on the last word.
Jonah reached for him, but Joshua didn’t turn. He stayed locked on Sophia, eyes burning, chest tight, breath breaking in shallow, painful stutters.
“She needs to come back,” Joshua whispered. “He needs her. Our son needs her.”
Jonah’s breath caught.
Joshua pressed his palm to the glass, fingers trembling.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t leave us.”
The ventilator cycled.
The monitors glowed.
The SICU lights hummed softly.
Joshua’s hand stayed on the glass, breath shaking, shoulders trembling, the plea hanging in the air like a fracture waiting to break.
And then—
The rhythm changed.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Not with an alarm.
Just a shift — a subtle, wrong shift — in the pattern of the ventilator’s cycle.
Joshua stiffened.
Jonah lifted his head.
Sophia’s monitor flickered.
A nurse at the station looked up sharply.
The ventilator hissed again — but the timing was off, the chest rise delayed, the rhythm fractured.
Joshua’s breath stopped.
“Jonah,” he whispered.
The monitor beeped once — a single, high‑pitched warning.
Then the line stuttered.
Then it flattened.
The alarm erupted.
“Code in SICU Room Twelve!”
Joshua lurched to his feet, nearly falling. Jonah caught him, but Joshua tore forward, slamming into the glass with both hands.
“Sophia!”
The SICU doors burst open.
Nurses ran.
A doctor sprinted.
The crash cart slammed against the wall.
“Start compressions!”
Joshua’s knees buckled. Jonah grabbed him before he hit the floor, pulling him back, holding him upright as the SICU team flooded the room.
The monitor screamed.
The ventilator cycled uselessly.
The doctor pressed hard on Sophia’s sternum, counting under her breath.
“Clear!”
Sophia’s body jerked.
Joshua’s breath shattered.
Jonah held him tighter, arms locked around him, grounding him as the world broke open again.
The monitor flickered — a jagged attempt at rhythm — then nothing.
Flatline.
The alarm filled the unit.
Joshua’s voice cracked, raw and broken.
“Please—please—please—”
Jonah pressed his forehead to Joshua’s temple, holding him as the SICU team fought to restart Sophia’s heart.
The night didn’t break this time.
It collapsed.
The alarm detonated through the SICU, sharp and violent, ricocheting off the walls.
“Code in SICU Room Twelve!”
Joshua lunged toward the doorway, but a nurse caught him instantly, arms locking around his shoulders.
“Joshua — you can’t go in. You have to stay out.”
He didn’t hear her.
He fought her grip, reaching for the doorframe, fingers shaking, breath breaking.
“Sophia!”
The crash team flooded the room — nurses, respiratory therapists, a physician already pulling on gloves. The crash cart slammed against the wall. The ventilator cycled in frantic, useless rhythm.
Joshua pressed both hands to the glass, palms flat, breath fogging the surface.
Inside, Sophia lay motionless beneath the bright overhead lights.
Her plait — the same one her stylist braided for the March 8th photoshoot — lay over her shoulder, loosened from the crash C‑section but still intact, strands slipping free around her face. It looked heartbreakingly familiar, a soft, human detail in the middle of the violent medical chaos.
“Start compressions!”
The doctor climbed onto the stool beside the bed, hands locking over Sophia’s sternum, pressing down hard, forcing her chest to rise beneath the ventilator tubing.
Joshua’s knees buckled.
The nurse tightened her hold, pulling him back from the glass.
“Joshua, you can’t be in the doorway — you have to stay back.”
He didn’t move.
He didn’t breathe.
He stared through the glass, eyes locked on Sophia’s still face, the plait shifting slightly with each compression.
Jonah reached him from behind, arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him back from the glass, grounding him as the SICU team fought to restart Sophia’s heart.
“Clear!”
Sophia’s body jerked.
The monitor flickered — a jagged, fragile attempt at rhythm — then flattened again.
The alarm screamed.
Joshua’s voice tore out of him, raw and broken.
“Please—please—please—”
Jonah tightened his hold, pulling him back another step, keeping him upright as the world shattered in front of them.
“Another round.”
“Push epi.”
“Resume compressions.”
Sophia’s chest rose only when the ventilator forced it.
Her heart did not.
Joshua pressed his forehead to the glass, breath shaking, tears slipping down his face.
“Please don’t leave me,” he whispered.
Jonah’s grip tightened.
Joshua’s voice cracked open completely.
“Please… come back to me.”
Inside the room, the doctor didn’t stop.
“Clear!”
Sophia’s body jerked again.
The monitor flickered — a single, fragile blip — then flattened.
Joshua’s breath shattered.
Jonah held him upright as the alarm filled the unit, as the night collapsed around them, as Sophia’s plait lay still against her shoulder beneath the bright SICU lights.
The ventilator cycled.
The monitors glowed.
The crash team worked in relentless rhythm.
And Joshua stood outside the glass wall, held back by Jonah’s arms, watching the woman he loved fight for her life again — this time without breath, without pulse, without rhythm.
*warning* mention of premature and stillborn babies and near death experiences.
What the Darkness Took
Joshua sat in the leather hardback chair beside Sophia’s SICU bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The room felt too quiet, too still, too wrong. The ventilator breathed for her in steady, mechanical cycles, lifting her chest and letting it fall again with perfect, unnatural rhythm. The tubing ran from the endotracheal tube secured at her mouth to the ventilator tower beside the bed, its screen glowing softly in the dim light.
Her sedation kept her under.
Her pneumonia kept her dependent.
Her body kept fighting.
Joshua didn’t blink. His leg trembled in uneven pulses. His breath stayed shallow, catching every few seconds like his lungs were still stuck in the NICU’s rhythm — the rhythm he’d been listening to downstairs, the one that had changed the moment the baby’s feeding cues started.
He could still see it when he closed his eyes: the tiny mouth fluttering around the OG tube, the faint rooting motion against the air, the way the baby’s hand kept drifting toward his face even though he didn’t have the strength to complete the movement. The nurse had called it hunger — trophic readiness — and had threaded donor colostrum through the syringe pump, letting it drip in slow, measured pulses through the tube taped to the baby’s cheek.
Joshua had watched every millilitre.
Watched the pump click.
Watched the baby’s chest rise with the ventilator as the feed ran.
Watched the nurse check the abdomen for distention.
Watched the monitor for any sign of intolerance.
And now, upstairs, the silence pressed against him, heavy and padded, as if the room didn’t know what had happened downstairs.
He stared at Sophia’s face — still, pale, unchanged — and felt the weight of the night settle deeper into his chest. The ventilator’s rhythm was steady, but it didn’t comfort him. It only reminded him that she wasn’t breathing on her own. That she wasn’t waking. That she wasn’t here with him in any way that mattered.
The door opened softly.
A night‑shift SICU nurse stepped inside, her voice low so she wouldn’t disturb the sedation. She studied him for a moment — the rigid spine, the locked jaw, the hollowed eyes fixed on Sophia’s face.
“Joshua,” she said gently. “You need to rest.”
He shook his head once.
“I’m fine.”
He wasn’t. She could see it instantly — the tremor in his leg, the way his shoulders were pulled so tight they looked painful, the way his breath kept stuttering like he was fighting to keep it steady.
“You’ve had a very hard night,” she said quietly.
Joshua didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on Sophia, as if looking away would make something happen — as if the NICU’s alarms could reach this room if he stopped watching her for even a second. As if he might hear the pump downstairs clicking through another feed, or the soft sound the baby made when his mouth fluttered again.
“You’re shaking,” the nurse said.
Joshua exhaled, a thin, uneven breath that sounded like it hurt.
“I’m not leaving her.”
“I’m not asking you to leave,” she said. “I’m asking you to breathe.”
Joshua’s fingers unclasped, then tightened again. His chest rose in a shallow, trembling inhale.
“She’s stable enough right now,” the nurse said carefully — the only reassurance she was allowed to give. “We’re watching her closely.”
Joshua swallowed hard.
“She’s not waking.”
The nurse didn’t contradict him.
“We take it one hour at a time,” she said. “That’s how we get through nights like this.”
Joshua closed his eyes, the tremor in his leg worsening for a moment before he forced it still. The nurse stayed beside him, watching the man who had been dragged through two units in one night, who had seen too much, who had lost too much, who was holding too much.
Sophia’s ventilator cycled steadily.
Her sedation kept her under.
The room stayed quiet.
Footsteps approached the room — fast, purposeful, urgent. Not SICU footsteps. NICU footsteps. Joshua recognized the rhythm instantly.
A NICU nurse appeared in the doorway, her badge still clipped to her scrubs, her face tight with urgency.
“Joshua.”
His head snapped up.
“You need to come downstairs.”
Joshua’s stomach dropped.
“What happened?”
“He’s having a rough patch,” she said. “We’re managing it, but you need to be there.”
Joshua stood too fast. His leg buckled. The SICU nurse caught his arm before he could fall.
“Easy,” she said. “Slow down.”
He didn’t slow down. He couldn’t.
His breath came in thin, broken pulls as he looked at Sophia — ventilated, sedated, unmoving — and then back at the NICU nurse.
“I can’t leave her.”
“You have to,” the NICU nurse said. “Just for now.”
The SICU nurse steadied him.
“I’ll stay with her,” she said. “She’s stable.”
Joshua swallowed hard, his throat tight.
The NICU nurse stepped closer.
“Joshua. We need to go.”
He looked at Sophia one more time — the rise and fall of the ventilator, the stillness of her face, the bandages across her abdomen — then forced himself toward the door.
His leg trembled violently.
His breath stuttered.
His vision blurred at the edges.
But he moved.
He scrubbed out of SICU with shaking hands, the water running over fingers that wouldn’t stay steady. He walked the corridor with uneven steps, waited for the elevator with his breath catching in sharp, shallow pulls. The elevator arrived. He stepped inside. The doors closed. The descent felt too slow, too quiet, too long.
He scrubbed into NICU with trembling hands, the antiseptic smell sharp in his nose. He dried his hands, pulled on the gown, the gloves, the mask. The NICU nurse led him forward.
They rounded the corner.
Joshua stopped.
His son’s incubator was surrounded again — not in the chaotic crush of a code, but in the tense, controlled urgency of a fight that could turn into one without warning. The oscillator vibrated in rapid, uneven rhythm. The ventilator hissed in sharp bursts. The monitors flashed red and yellow in alternating patterns, each alarm a reminder of how fragile the situation was.
A neonatologist adjusted the ventilator settings with quick, precise movements. A respiratory therapist monitored the arterial line. A nurse checked the IV pumps, her hands steady but her jaw tight. Another nurse held the syringe pump connected to the OG tube, the line still taped to the baby’s cheek from the earlier trophic feed. The syringe was paused now, the plunger locked in place — the feed stopped the moment the instability began.
Joshua’s breath broke.
“What’s happening?” he whispered.
“He’s having trouble maintaining his oxygenation,” the NICU nurse said. “We’re trying to stabilize him.”
Joshua moved closer, his leg shaking so badly he had to grip the side of the incubator to stay upright. The plastic felt cold under his hand.
The neonatologist called out numbers — oxygen saturation dropping, heart rate fluctuating, blood pressure unstable.
The respiratory therapist adjusted the oscillator amplitude. The ventilator hissed harder. The alarms grew louder, sharper, more insistent.
“Come on,” the neonatologist murmured. “Come on, little one.”
Joshua stared at the tiny body inside the incubator — impossibly small, impossibly fragile, chest rising and falling with the mechanical rhythm of the ventilator. The baby’s skin looked translucent under the harsh NICU lights. The IVH monitor glowed red. The arterial line pulsed weakly. The OG tube rested against his cheek, the tape slightly lifted at the corner from the earlier rooting motion — the faint hunger cue Joshua had seen before everything went wrong.
“Please,” Joshua whispered. “Please don’t stop.”
The neonatologist adjusted another setting. The respiratory therapist repositioned the tubing. A nurse silenced an alarm only for it to start again seconds later. Another nurse checked the baby’s abdomen with gentle pressure — confirming no distention, no feed intolerance, no residual pooling — even though the feed had been paused.
The numbers kept dropping.
Joshua’s breath came in sharp, uneven pulls. His hands shook violently. His spine felt like it was splintering.
“Let’s increase the mean airway pressure,” the neonatologist said.
The respiratory therapist nodded, adjusting the ventilator. The oscillator’s rhythm changed — deeper, more forceful, pushing air into lungs that didn’t know how to breathe.
The baby’s oxygen saturation dipped again.
Joshua’s knees buckled.
The NICU nurse caught his arm.
“Joshua,” she said softly. “He’s fighting.”
“He’s losing,” Joshua whispered.
“No,” she said firmly. “He’s fighting.”
The neonatologist leaned closer, watching the monitor with the kind of focus that looked like desperation disguised as medicine.
“Come on,” she whispered again. “Come on.”
The numbers held.
Not rising.
Not falling.
Just holding.
The alarms softened — not stopping, but easing. The ventilator hissed in steadier rhythm. The oscillator’s vibration evened out. The paused syringe pump remained still, the feed waiting for the moment he was stable enough to tolerate it again.
“Okay,” the neonatologist said quietly. “Okay. He’s stabilizing.”
Joshua exhaled sharply, painfully. His legs trembled. His chest felt torn open.
He pressed a hand to the incubator, fingers shaking.
“He’s still here,” the neonatologist said.
Joshua closed his eyes, tears slipping down his face.
The NICU staff stepped back slowly, their movements careful, their eyes still on the monitors.
Joshua stayed where he was — hand on the incubator, breath shaking, chest tight, leg trembling — staring at the tiny life inside the plastic box.
The numbers held.
The alarms softened.
The ventilator kept breathing for him.
The paused feed waited.
Joshua didn’t move.
He stayed frozen in the brightness, in the terror, in the fight that had almost taken everything from him, listening to the fragile rhythm of a life that had barely survived the night.
He didn’t know how long he stood there. Minutes, maybe. The NICU lights were too bright, the air too cold, the alarms too sharp. His hand stayed pressed to the incubator, fingers trembling against the plastic. His breath came in uneven pulls, each one catching like his lungs were still stuck in the rhythm of the oscillator.
A nurse approached quietly, her voice low.
“Joshua… you should sit.”
He didn’t move.
She didn’t push. She just stayed near him, watching the way his shoulders shook, the way his jaw locked, the way his eyes stayed fixed on the tiny chest rising and falling with mechanical precision.
Another alarm chirped — softer this time, a warning rather than a crisis. The neonatologist adjusted a setting, her movements calm now, controlled, steady. The respiratory therapist checked the arterial line again, confirming the numbers were holding. A nurse glanced at the paused syringe pump connected to the OG tube, checking the line for any backflow — making sure the earlier trophic feed hadn’t left residuals that could complicate the instability.
Joshua’s breath shuddered.
“He scared us,” the nurse said softly.
Joshua swallowed hard, his throat tight.
“He scared me,” he whispered.
The nurse nodded once, her expression gentle.
“He’s still here.”
Joshua’s hand tightened on the incubator frame, his knuckles whitening. He leaned closer, staring at the tiny face beneath the ventilator tubing, the fragile skin, the impossibly small features. The OG tube rested against his cheek, the tape slightly wrinkled from the earlier rooting motion — the tiny hunger cue that had made the nurse pause the feed when the alarms started.
“He’s so little,” Joshua said, voice breaking.
“I know.”
“He’s so… small.”
“I know,” she repeated, softer this time.
Joshua’s chest tightened painfully. His leg trembled again, the tremor running up through his hip and into his spine. He felt like he was shaking apart, like the night had splintered something inside him that couldn’t be put back together.
The neonatologist stepped around the incubator, her voice quiet but steady.
“He’s stable enough for now,” she said. “We’ll keep monitoring him closely.”
Joshua nodded, but it didn’t feel like agreement. It felt like surrender — the kind that came from exhaustion, fear, and the weight of too many hours spent between two floors that kept taking pieces of him.
The neonatologist studied him for a moment.
“You should take a break,” she said gently.
Joshua shook his head.
“I’m not leaving him.”
“You don’t have to leave,” she said. “Just sit. Breathe. Let your body catch up.”
Joshua didn’t sit. He didn’t breathe deeply. He didn’t move at all. He stayed frozen, hand on the incubator, eyes locked on the tiny chest rising and falling with the ventilator’s rhythm.
The neonatologist didn’t push him. She stepped back, giving him space.
A nurse adjusted one of the IV pumps. Another checked the oscillator tubing. The respiratory therapist documented the latest readings. A NICU nurse checked the baby’s abdomen again — gentle pressure, confirming no distention, no residual pooling, no signs of feed intolerance. The syringe pump remained paused, waiting for the moment he was stable enough to resume the slow drip of donor colostrum.
The NICU moved around him in quiet, controlled motions, the kind that came after a crisis — the kind that felt like the unit was exhaling.
Joshua didn’t exhale.
He stayed rigid, breath shallow, chest tight.
The NICU nurse who had brought him downstairs stepped beside him again.
“Joshua,” she said softly. “You need to sit.”
He didn’t respond.
She placed a hand lightly on his arm.
“Come on,” she said. “Just for a minute.”
Joshua’s fingers slipped from the incubator frame. His knees wavered. The nurse guided him to the nearest chair, helping him lower himself before his legs could give out completely.
He sat, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, breath shaking.
The incubator was still in front of him.
The ventilator still hissed.
The oscillator still vibrated.
The monitors still glowed.
The paused feed still waited.
But he wasn’t standing anymore.
He wasn’t holding himself upright.
He wasn’t pretending he was fine.
He stared at his son, the tiny body fighting inside the plastic box, and felt the weight of everything pressing down on him — the SICU, the NICU, the crash C‑section, the blood loss, the resuscitation, the ventilators, the alarms, the fear, the exhaustion, the night that wouldn’t end.
His breath broke again.
The nurse stayed beside him, silent, steady, present.
Joshua didn’t look away from the incubator.
He couldn’t.
Joshua leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, breath trembling. His vision blurred again. His chest felt hollow. His spine felt brittle.
He didn’t hear the footsteps at first.
He didn’t hear the elevator doors open.
He didn’t hear the sharp inhale from the corridor.
He only heard his own breath — thin, uneven, breaking — and the faint, paused click of the syringe pump beside the incubator, the plunger still locked from when the trophic feed had been stopped during the instability. The OG tube rested against his son’s cheek, the tape slightly wrinkled from the earlier rooting motion — the tiny hunger cue that had come before everything fell apart.
“Joshua?”
He froze.
The voice was familiar.
Too familiar.
Too raw.
He lifted his head. Jonah stood at the edge of the nurses’ station, chest heaving, hair disheveled, face pale, eyes wide with terror. He looked like he had run through the entire hospital without stopping. His breath came fast, uneven, panicked.
“Joshua,” Jonah said again, voice cracking.
Joshua stared at him, unable to speak.
Jonah stepped closer, each movement slow, careful, terrified. His eyes flicked to the glass wall — to Sophia’s ventilator, to the tubing, to the sedation, to the stillness — and something inside him shattered.
“Oh God,” Jonah whispered. “Oh God… Joshua…”
Joshua swallowed hard, his throat tight.
Jonah reached him, crouched beside the chair, and placed a trembling hand on his shoulder.
“What happened?” Jonah whispered.
Joshua’s breath caught.
“She nearly died,” he said, voice breaking. “She… she almost died.”
Jonah’s eyes filled instantly.
He looked through the glass again — at the ventilator cycling, at the sedation keeping her under, at the stillness of her face — and his breath broke.
He reached for Joshua, pulling him into a tight, desperate embrace.
Joshua didn’t resist.
He collapsed into Jonah’s arms, breath shaking, chest breaking open, the weight of the night finally spilling out of him.
Jonah held him, one hand gripping the back of his head, the other around his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him, anchoring him.
He stayed with him — in the brightness of the nurses’ station, in the terror, in the stillness of the SICU — holding the man who had been dragged through two floors of hell, who had nearly lost everything, who had nothing left to stand on.
Sophia’s ventilator cycled steadily behind the glass.
The monitors glowed softly.
The unit moved around them.
And just beyond Jonah’s shoulder, the NICU nurse quietly checked the paused syringe pump again — confirming the line was clear, the OG tube secure, the baby’s abdomen still soft — waiting for the moment he was stable enough to resume the slow drip of donor colostrum.
Jonah held Joshua as the night finally broke around them.
The likelihood of Ethan knowing some of the women from the real housewives of Rhode Island cast is low but NOT zero, and it works perfectly for my “Ethan is a secret bravo fan” headcanon
*warning* mention of severely premature infants and resuscitations and induced coma and stillbirth
Love In Every Heartbeat – Chapter 262 - HOUR TO HOUR — THE ROOM THAT WON’T LET GO
Joshua didn’t remember leaving the SICU. He didn’t remember the elevator ride. He didn’t remember walking through the NICU doors. All he remembered was the cold, the machines, and the tiny body lying under the polyethylene wrap.
He stood near the isolette, close enough to see every fragile rise of his son’s chest, but not touching anything. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, fingers curled tight, knuckles white from the effort of keeping them still. The ventilator hissed in steady intervals, each breath too shallow, too fragile, too thin.
A nurse adjusted the transcutaneous monitor. Another checked the ventilator tubing. Someone whispered something about blood gases. Joshua didn’t respond. He barely heard them. His world had narrowed to the small, unmoving limbs inside the isolette and the cold air that made his shoulders shake.
He didn’t know how long he stood there. Minutes. Hours. Something in between. The NICU lights shifted the way they did when the unit moved deeper into the day, but Joshua didn’t look up. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink.
“Joshua… you need to sit,” a nurse said softly.
He didn’t answer.
She didn’t push. She stepped back, giving him space — the kind of space NICU nurses gave parents who were breaking.
Joshua’s legs trembled. His breath caught. His chest felt hollow. He finally stepped back from the isolette, not because he wanted to, but because his body wouldn’t hold him upright anymore.
He walked toward the NICU doors, slow and uneven, each step heavier than the last. When he reached the glass, Jonah was still there.
Jonah hadn’t moved. He hadn’t sat. He hadn’t left. He stood exactly where Joshua had last seen him — tense, worried, breath tight, eyes fixed on the door like he was waiting for something he didn’t know how to ask for.
Joshua stepped out into the hallway. The cold NICU air followed him.
Jonah straightened immediately.
“Josh.”
Joshua didn’t speak. His breath shook. His hands shook. His shoulders shook.
Jonah stepped closer.
“Josh… talk to me.”
Joshua swallowed. The movement felt sharp, painful, like something inside him was tearing.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Jonah’s voice softened.
“Josh… please.”
Joshua pressed a hand to the wall, steadying himself. His vision blurred. His breath fractured.
Jonah reached for his arm.
“Josh… what’s wrong?”
Joshua inhaled — shallow, uneven. He forced the words out.
“He’s a boy.”
Jonah froze.
Joshua’s voice broke.
“My son… he’s a boy.”
The hallway went silent.
Jonah didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stared at Joshua — at the tremor in his hands, the hollow look in his eyes, the way the truth seemed to tear something open inside him.
Joshua swallowed again, breath shaking.
“I didn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t. Sophia never knew. She collapsed without warning, and she hasn’t woken. She thought she was carrying Emily. That was the last thing she believed.”
His voice cracked — a small, fractured sound that came from somewhere deep and ruined.
Jonah’s expression changed — not shock, not confusion, but something heavier, something that came from the place older brothers kept their fear.
“Josh…”
Joshua shook his head.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
Jonah stepped closer, voice low.
“Josh… why didn’t you tell me?”
Joshua looked down — at the floor, at his shoes, at anything that wasn’t Jonah’s face.
“I didn’t want anyone to know until Sophia woke.”
Jonah swallowed hard.
“Josh… she’s not waking.”
Joshua’s breath broke — a small, sharp sound. He pressed a hand to his ribs, as if he could hold himself together physically.
Jonah reached for him again.
“Josh… come here.”
Joshua didn’t move. He couldn’t. His legs felt locked. His chest felt tight. His throat felt closed.
Jonah stepped forward and pulled him into a rough, uneven embrace — not gentle, not soft, but the kind of hold older brothers used when the world was falling apart.
Joshua didn’t resist.
He collapsed into it — shoulders shaking, breath fractured, hands gripping Jonah’s shirt like he needed something solid to keep himself upright.
Jonah held him tighter.
“Josh… I’m here.”
Joshua’s breath broke again. He didn’t speak. He didn’t explain. He didn’t say anything else.
He just stayed there — in the hallway outside NICU, in his brother’s arms, with the truth finally spoken and everything else still hidden.
