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mintensdoll · 1 month ago

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Sticky Fingers, Quiet Mornings

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

summary : Jack Abbot was built for crisis—night shifts, trauma codes, war. But fatherhood breaks him in all the best ways. Told in twelve toddler phases.

word count : 9,321

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI! toddler behavior and development, parenting themes, pregnancy (including trying to conceive), soft domestic smut, minor illness scare, marriage/relationship intimacy, emotionally vulnerable Jack Abbot.

Phase One: The Cling Era

7:04 PM on a Wednesday, and she thinks he’s leaving forever again

She doesn’t cry when he puts on his badge.

Or when he zips the fleece halfway up, or when he takes his coffee from the microwave with his non-dominant hand like he always does.

She waits.

Waits until he reaches for the door.

Then she breaks.

“No!” she wails, voice cracking. “No, no, no—Dada no!”

Jack stills mid-step.

He closes his eyes, shoulders stiffening as her bare feet slap against the floor behind him.

You’re standing at the sink watching the whole thing unfold like it has every night this week. Her in tears. Him halfway gone. You trying not to say the wrong thing and make it worse.

Jack turns, just in time for her to hurl herself into his leg.

It’s the right one. The one that isn’t real.

She doesn’t know that yet.

“Jesus,” Jack mutters under his breath. He drops to a knee, balancing on the other like muscle memory. “Hey. Hey. Come on, bean.”

She’s sobbing now—small body shaking, cheeks red and hot, tiny fists grabbing at the front of his scrub top like she can keep him from vanishing.

“Dada don’t go,” she whispers. “No go. No go.”

He wraps his arms around her. Sinks the rest of the way to the floor.

You exhale and kneel beside them, placing a steadying hand on Jack’s back. You feel the tension in him—how he holds her like she’s a patient coming apart in his arms, like every second of this is costing him something.

“I can’t keep doing this to her,” he says hoarsely.

“You’re not doing anything,” you say. “You’re going to work.”

“She thinks I’m dying.”

“She thinks you’re gone. That’s different. And she’s one, Jack. She doesn’t know how to name it yet.”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

Then he leans down and murmurs something into her hair. You can’t hear what. Just that his voice shakes at the edges.

By 7:22PM, he’s supposed to be gone.

Instead, he’s lying on the couch with her draped across his chest, her hands tangled in the collar of his fleece. He still hasn’t put on his boots.

“I’ve got five minutes,” he mutters. “If I’m late, Robby can start the shift with less sarcasm for once in his life.”

“She’s going to wake up the second you move,” you warn.

“I know.” His hand moves gently up and down her back. “She always does.”

You sit on the arm of the couch and stroke your fingers through her hair. “Want me to take her?”

“No,” he says. Quiet but firm.

A pause.

“Jack…”

He looks up at you.

And it hits you—how tired he is. How deep under the surface this ache runs. The discipline keeps him standing. The darkness keeps him working. But this? This small body asleep against his chest? It’s the only thing that unmans him.

“She didn’t cry like this before,” he says. “Before she knew what ‘bye’ meant.”

“She cries because she does know.”

He swallows. “That’s worse.”

“Not to her.”

He nods. Doesn’t say anything.

At 7:39PM, he finally lifts her.

She stirs but doesn’t cry, nose wrinkling as she blinks up at him like she can’t remember whether he’s staying or going.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “I’ll be back before you even know I’m gone. Okay?”

She stares. Says nothing.

Then—like clockwork—she bursts into fresh tears.

Jack clenches his jaw, sets her down on the ottoman, and crouches to lace up his boots.

You hover behind her, one hand braced on her back.

She screams when he opens the door.

“Dada!” she sobs. “No. Dada stay. Dada stay.”

Jack freezes in the threshold.

His shoulders curl forward like someone’s punched him.

Then, without looking back, he pulls his phone from his pocket.

The door closes.

By 8:15PM, she’s asleep in your arms—still sniffling, exhausted, the front of your shirt damp from tears.

You get a text just as you’re lowering her into the crib.

I should’ve handled that better. I made it worse.

She calmed down. She always does. You made it worse by being someone she loves so much she doesn’t know what to do with it.

I’ll be back before sunrise. Will you tell her that?

She knows. It’s why she screams.

I’d rather get shot again. This hurts worse.

He comes home at 6:56AM.

You’re already dressed—button-down tucked into slacks, second cup of coffee half-finished on the bathroom counter. The bedroom light is off, hallway dim in the early winter gray. You hear the door close, then the heavy sound of his boots being eased off.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just walks in slow—scrub top wrinkled, fleece half-zipped, exhaustion written in the slope of his shoulders. His bag drops by the bench. You meet him at the doorway, socked feet on the hardwood.

But he doesn’t stop.

He walks right past you and into her room.

You follow, quietly.

He kneels beside the crib and reaches one hand through the slats.

She doesn’t wake. But her body shifts instinctively toward the warmth, toward him, like something cellular inside her recognizes he’s home.

He stays there like that for a long time. Silent. Steady. Palm resting gently on her back like he’s holding something together—something fragile and unseen.

You watch from the doorway, still holding your travel mug.

After a while, he looks over at you.

He doesn’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

You cross the room, set your coffee down, and open your arms.

And Jack Abbot—combat medic, ER doc, man who finds comfort in the darkness but still comes home to the light—lets himself be held.

You wrap your arms around him like scaffolding. Let him breathe.

You hold him the way he held her.

Quietly. Fully. As the sky over Pittsburgh begins to pale.

Phase Two: The Nap Strike

Where Jack learns you can’t negotiate with toddlers—only surrender on your knees with crackers

The plan was simple: You’d sleep in. Jack would keep her occupied for the morning. Then you’d trade, and he’d crash until dinner. A peaceful, domestic arrangement—civilized, efficient.

But at 5:06AM, the plan dies.

Jack gets home early, for once—just before dawn, fleece zipped to his chin, exhausted but functional. The shift was unusually light. Just one drunk college kid, a laceration, a call that turned out to be a false alarm. He’d left before the sun came up, driving through a foggy Pittsburgh quiet that felt like it belonged to him. Like maybe he’d sneak in two hours of sleep before she woke.

But the second he walks through the door, he hears it.

Not crying. Not fussing.

Just one word, clear as a command: “Dada?”

He freezes. Keys in hand.

Then again: “DADA WAKE. DADA UP NOW!”

He glances at the monitor on the hallway table. Bright green bar bouncing. You’re still fast asleep, curled under the duvet, face soft, peaceful. Jack exhales, rubs a hand down his face, and nods like he’s accepting deployment.

“Copy that,” he mutters. “I’m up.”

By 5:18AM, he’s on the nursery floor with her in his lap, eating Cheerios dry from a plastic bowl.

She’s wide awake. Radiant with mischief. Hair like static. Onesie already unzipped halfway down her chest.

“You didn’t even try to go back to sleep,” Jack mumbles. “Didn’t even pretend.”

She offers him a Cheerio. He takes it. She laughs like it’s hilarious.

You don’t stir. You’ve been working ten-hour days, two audits back-to-back, and this was the deal: he takes the morning, you sleep until ten. She usually doesn’t wake until eight.

Today, she’s a menace.

At 6:01AM, Jack sends the first text.

target acquired status: hostile woke up demanding crackers and Bluey currently brushing my kneecap with her toothbrush

also i love her more than oxygen but i’m scared

By 6:47AM, he’s on his second attempt at a nap wind-down.

Bottle. Dark room. Soft hum of the ceiling fan.

She drinks three sips, fake yawns, and then—grinning—claps and yells “I WAKE NOW!”

Jack sighs and tries not to take it personally.

she is refusing to sleep just said “no nap daddy” and kicked her duck across the room i fear she’s possessed or worse toddler

You wake to twelve texts.

It's 9:13AM.

You stretch, blink blearily, and pad downstairs in your robe and socks.

The living room looks like a war zone: blankets piled like barricades, board books scattered like casualties. The TV is frozen mid-Bluey. A sippy cup lies abandoned under the armchair.

And Jack?

Jack is sitting cross-legged on the rug, hair wild, t-shirt stained with what might be applesauce. The baby is climbing him like a jungle gym. He’s not moving. Just letting her.

You lean against the doorframe.

“She didn’t nap?”

Jack looks up. Blinks slowly.

“She screamed the word ‘no’ at me twenty-eight times,” he says. “I counted. Then she told me ‘Dada go to work.’ Like she was firing me.”

You snort. “That’s brutal.”

“She called duck a traitor. Then kissed him and apologized.”

“She’s learning emotional regulation.”

“She’s learning psychological warfare.”

You reach for your daughter. “My turn.”

“No.” Jack stands, lifting her off his shoulders. “I’ll try again. If I don’t come back in twenty minutes, I’ve joined her cause.”

At 9:52AM, she finally falls asleep.

Jack manages it by holding her in the glider for a full 23 minutes—just rocking and breathing, watching her eyelids flutter and fight before finally dropping.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even shift his weight. Just sits there in the soft morning light, hands steady on her back, like he's still in the trauma bay, keeping vitals steady.

When you poke your head into the nursery, he just glances up.

“Got her,” he whispers.

“You okay?”

He nods, but doesn’t answer.

You kneel beside the chair. Press your cheek to his shoulder.

“She told you to go to work?”

Jack exhales. “Twice. Then smiled and said ‘bye-bye dada.’ Like I was already gone.”

“She doesn’t mean it.”

“She does,” he says quietly. “In that moment, she does.”

You reach up, tangle your fingers with his.

“She always wants you again after.”

“I know.”

He looks down at her—soft breath, small body, warm weight.

“She always comes back,” he murmurs.

You kiss his jaw. “That’s because you do, too.”

He falls asleep an hour later in bed, one hand still curled like he’s holding her. You slide in beside him, wrap your arm across his chest, and match your breathing to his.

Phase Three: “I Do It Myself”

Where Jack learns the real grief of fatherhood is not chaos—it’s watching her not reach for you

It starts with the shoe.

Saturday morning. You’re finishing dishes in the kitchen, the windows open to a Pittsburgh breeze that smells like wet concrete and spring.

Jack’s at the bottom of the stairs, crouched, holding her sneakers. She’s sitting on the fourth step, legs swinging, watching him with a look that’s already defiant.

“You wanna help me?” Jack asks, gently, holding out one Velcro shoe.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Okay.” He nods. “We’ll do it together.”

She snatches the shoe from his hand and slams it on the wrong foot.

Jack raises his eyebrows. “You sure that’s how it goes?”

“I DO IT,” she snaps, voice high and serious.

Jack lets out a long breath through his nose. “Alright. You do it.”

You lean against the doorframe, towel in hand, watching this unfold with careful silence.

She starts working the Velcro. Tongue sticking out. Absolute focus.

Jack waits.

And then, when she finally gets it on—upside down, strap crooked, toes curled—she beams.

“I DID it, Dada!”

Jack nods once. “Yeah. You did.”

He smiles. But you see it—the flicker. The quiet ache behind the pride.

That afternoon, he’s quiet.

You’re folding laundry on the bed while he reads the paper beside you, still in black sweatpants and a t-shirt from some long-ago charity 5K. But he hasn’t turned the page in twenty minutes.

You don’t push. Not yet.

It’s only when you come back with the second load that you catch him standing in the hallway outside her door, just… watching her.

She’s on the rug. Putting stickers on her duck. Quiet. Focused.

“She asked me to leave the room,” he says, not looking at you.

“What?”

“When I offered to help with the puzzle. She said, ‘Dada go. I do it myself.’”

You step up beside him. “Jack.”

“She said it twice. Not angry. Just… like a fact. Like she’d already decided.”

You rest a hand on his back. “She’s growing.”

He nods. “I know. That’s the job.”

A long pause.

“She still needs you,” you say.

He breathes out, slow and quiet. “Yeah. Just not all the time anymore.”

Later that evening, you catch him in the garage.

He’s standing by the workbench, holding one of her old shoes. The tiny white pair with the pink stripe she wore when she first learned to walk. You kept it because she scuffed the toes dragging them down the driveway after him.

He brushes a thumb across the sole.

You walk up behind him. Slide your arms around his waist.

“I didn’t expect it to feel like this,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like she’s already running. And I’m not supposed to follow.”

You hold him tighter. “You built her to run.”

He closes his eyes. “Yeah. But I thought I’d carry her a little longer.”

The next morning, she asks him for help again.

It’s small. Just a zipper. Her coat caught on the hem, stuck halfway up.

Jack kneels down, hands calm.

“You want me to—?”

She nods, silent this time. “Need help, Dada.”

He fixes it slowly. Carefully. Then stands.

“Thanks,” she says.

He nods, blinking hard. “Anytime, bean.”

You watch from the door as she slips her hand into his. Just for a second. Long enough to steady herself on the step.

Long enough to remind him:

She’ll always come back.

Even when she’s learning to go.

Phase Four: The Sick Day

Where Jack learns that the scariest moment isn’t watching someone code—it’s seeing “she’s not okay” on your phone when you’re twelve minutes away from home

You almost didn’t go.

It had been one of those weeks. You were late every day to work, and Jack had picked up a last-minute double on Thursday that ran until dawn. You both looked like people hanging on by threads—but he came into the bathroom that morning, caught you half-dressed and towel-drying your hair, and said:

“We need a night.”

You looked up, tired. “You’re gonna fall asleep in the booth.”

“Probably,” he admitted. “But I’ll be across from you while I do it.”

You smiled.

And that’s how you ended up here, in heels you haven’t worn since before her first birthday, brushing your fingers through your hair in the passenger seat of Jack’s truck while he drives you into Shadyside. He’s in dark jeans, a black dress shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Clean-shaven. Warm-eyed. His prosthetic shifts as he drives, but he doesn’t wince. He hasn’t said much since you left the house—just glanced over at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Say something,” you finally murmur, brushing your fingers over the hem of your dress.

He exhales through his nose. “I’m trying to be respectful,” he mutters. “But you wore that on purpose, didn’t you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “This? It’s from before I even met you.”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t know what it’d do to me.”

You grin, lean back. “You could say you like it.”

“I could. Or I could spend the next hour trying to focus on what you’re saying while imagining getting you out of it.”

You laugh. He does, too—quiet and real, the kind he only gives you.

The night is soft. Pittsburgh spring chill, but tolerable. The restaurant is warm. You share bread, clink glasses. He watches your hands when you speak. Brushes his knuckles against your wrist when he wants you to keep going.

“Your voice changes when you’re not exhausted,” he says suddenly, over dessert. “Like—lighter.”

“You saying I sound like a gremlin most days?”

“I’m saying you sound like you tonight.”

You blink. He’s watching you like he’s storing you in memory.

You can feel it—the weight of his want. It’s not loud. Not overt. It’s Jack. So it lives in the way his hand stays over yours too long. The way he watches you laugh like it’s a privilege. The way his voice drops when he says, “I love seeing you like this.”

You lean closer. “Do I really look that different?”

“No,” he says. “You look like the girl I married. Just… undistracted.”

You kiss him across the table, slow and steady.

He grins into it. “You’re not gonna make me wait ‘til we’re home, are you?”

“Oh, I am.”

“You’re cruel.”

“You like it.”

He exhales, drops his head, grinning.

That’s when your phone buzzes.

You glance at the screen.

EMILY - BABYSITTER

hey she woke up crying really warm not calming down asking for Jack

Your blood goes cold.

Jack sits up instantly. “What?”

You hand him the phone.

He’s out of his chair before he’s finished reading.

“Jack—”

“Call her,” he says. “I’ll get the truck.”

He’s gone before you stand.

You fumble your coat on, call Emily as you hurry through the door. She answers quickly.

“She’s okay, just—she’s hot. She wouldn’t let me hold her at first. Then she cried for Jack and curled up. I took her temp. It’s 101.9.”

You’re already on the sidewalk.

“Okay. We’re on the way.”

Jack’s pulled up to the curb, window already down.

“She still crying?” he asks the second you get in.

“Not anymore. Just whimpering.”

He nods. Pulls into traffic with one hand on the wheel, the other already clenching his thigh. You reach over. He’s rigid.

“She’s had fevers before.”

“She’s never asked for me in the middle of one.”

“She just needed comfort.”

Jack doesn’t respond.

But his foot presses harder on the gas.

You get home in seven minutes flat.

Emily opens the door before you knock. “She’s upstairs,” she says. “I’m so sorry—she was fine when you left.”

You’re already climbing the stairs.

Jack’s ahead of you.

He opens her door and everything stops.

She’s in her crib, curled in the corner, tear-damp and blinking. The second she sees him, her hands shoot up.

“Dada…”

Jack’s across the room before you can exhale.

“Hey, baby girl,” he says softly. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

She lets out a sound—not quite a cry. Not quite a word. Just a noise of relief.

He picks her up like she’s glass.

She melts into him. Tiny hands clutching his shirt. Face pressed against his neck.

“Shh,” he whispers. “I got you.”

You hover nearby with the thermometer.

Jack sits on the glider with her still in his arms.

“101.6,” you whisper.

He nods. “I’m not letting go until it drops.”

You bring a bottle of Pedialyte. She won’t take it.

Jack hums low against her ear. “Come on, bean. Just a sip.”

She sips. Then rests again.

He holds her like that for forty minutes.

At 10:27PM, she finally sleeps.

Still on his chest. One hand tangled in his shirt.

You sit at his feet, watching her rise and fall with every breath.

Jack’s voice is hoarse. “She said my name like it hurt.”

“She needed you.”

He swallows. “I wasn’t here.”

“You came the second you could.”

“She asked for me. She asked—and I wasn’t already there.”

You press your head to his thigh.

He doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly: “You looked beautiful tonight.”

You glance up. “Jack—”

“You made me want to forget we had a kid for a second. That’s how bad I wanted you.”

You exhale.

“But the second that text came in—” His voice cracks. “Everything else went quiet. My whole body just—locked in. I didn’t care what it ruined. I just needed her in my arms.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, your head pressed to his leg.

“She’s okay,” you whisper. “Because you’re here.”

He looks down at you.

And the look on his face—it’s not wrecked. Not broken.

It’s reverent.

Like he’s watching the two people he loves most in the world just exist, and it’s almost too much.

You reach for his hand.

“Come to bed,” you whisper.

“In a minute,” he says. “I want to hold her a little longer.”

And so you leave them there—father and daughter, tangled in breath and heat and quiet.

Phase Five: The Hint

Where Jack breaks in the best possible way when you say five simple words: I want another with you.

You’re at Target on a Sunday afternoon. Late March. That kind of Pittsburgh cold where the wind feels like it might stay in your bones until June. Your daughter is in the front of the cart, legs swinging, cheeks pink, half a cheddar cracker crushed in her fist. Jack walks beside you, one hand on the handlebar, the other casually bumping your hip every few steps.

He’s wearing a black hoodie over a soft gray henley, jeans worn at the knees, the brim of his Pirates cap low over his brow. There’s stubble on his jaw and warmth in his voice every time he leans down to make her laugh. He looks tired—you both do—but it’s the soft kind. The good kind. The kind that means you made it through another week.

You’re there for laundry pods and maybe some coffee beans.

But you pass the baby aisle.

And your feet slow.

It’s instinct. Nothing urgent. Just that old ache. That memory of standing in this same aisle over a year ago, swollen and giddy and scared.

Jack clocks it instantly.

“What,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward the shelves, “just gonna do a fly-by on the baby aisle and not tell me?”

You smile. “I forgot how small the swaddles used to be.”

Your daughter makes a high, delighted noise. Jack reflexively reaches out, rubs her shoulder with one big hand, gaze still on you.

You pick up a pack of socks. Newborn. White with a yellow trim. You run your thumb across them. They weigh nothing.

Jack watches the way your fingers still.

“You miss it?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You nod. “Sometimes. Not the sleep deprivation. But the rest? Yeah.”

He takes a step closer. Lowers his voice to something rougher, more private. “You thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

You hesitate. Then, with a breath: “I want another.”

Jack goes completely still beside the cart.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” you say quickly. “We’re just now starting to feel like ourselves again. Your schedule’s a mess. We’re barely keeping the house in one piece. But—”

“Say it again,” he says. Voice low. Almost hoarse.

“Jack—”

“Please.”

You look him in the eye.

“I want another baby. With you.”

He closes his eyes like you just cut through him.

Then he breathes out.

“Put the socks in the cart,” he says. “We’re leaving.”

You blink. “We haven’t gotten anything.”

“I don’t care.”

You glance at the cart. “What about coffee?”

“I’ll drink air.”

You laugh under your breath. “You’re serious.”

He looks at you like he’s never wanted anything more. “You expect me to walk around and buy paper towels like you didn’t just say the one thing I didn’t know I needed to hear?”

You toss the socks in the cart.

Back home, she watches a movie with her duck and some yogurt melts while you and Jack tag team bedtime. Bath. Lotion. Soft pajamas with the feet. You reads two books and brush her hair. She fights sleep until the second you turn on the white noise.

At 7:43PM, the house is quiet. Hushed like a chapel after the candles have gone out.

You close her door with care, easing it shut until the latch clicks into place. One last check on the monitor. One last scan of the nightlight’s soft glow on her face.

And then—Jack.

He’s already waiting in the hallway like he knew you’d come looking. Hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbow, bare forearms folded, shoulder against the wall. The low light from the bathroom casts his face in half-shadow. His mouth is tense. His eyes—dark, unreadable—don’t leave yours.

“You still mean it?” he asks.

His voice is low. Strained. Not cautious—just holding back something too big to let out in a hallway.

You don’t hesitate. “I meant it all day.”

A breath hitches in his throat. He nods once, the movement tight. Swallows hard like he’s anchoring himself.

Then he walks past you. Slow. Steady. Not dragging his feet, not rushing. Just… certain. Like he’s walking toward something he’s already chosen. Something that changed the minute you said I want another baby.

You follow.

Your bedroom is dim—streetlamp light bleeding silver across the floor through the blinds. The ceiling fan hums. One of his socks is still on the floor from this morning. The bed’s half-made. You couldn’t care less.

Jack closes the door behind you. Turns.

“You meant it,” he says again. Not a question this time. A quiet reckoning.

You nod. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

Something shifts in him. Like tension letting go of the wire it was wrapped around. But it doesn’t unravel. It sharpens. Refines. Focuses.

Jack steps in. Crosses to you with the deliberate calm he brings to the edge of chaos. Hands at your waist. Palms warm. Fingers curling in slowly like he’s still making sure you’re real.

“You have no idea what that did to me,” he murmurs.

“I think I do.”

He doesn’t kiss you right away. Not yet. Just stares—eyes flicking over your face, down to your lips, your throat, then back up again. Like he’s memorizing something he already knows by heart.

Then finally—

He kisses you.

It’s slow. Deep. Intentional. A breath pulled between you. Tongue tracing your bottom lip like he’s tasting the weight of the words you said. His hands slide up your sides, under your shirt, over skin he’s touched a thousand times but still reveres like it’s holy.

You pull his hoodie off. Then the t-shirt beneath. He lets you undress him like you’re the only one allowed. The muscles of his chest tense when your fingers brush over the old shrapnel scar near his ribs. You trace it like always—gentle, silent, familiar—and he shivers like he did the first time.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

He undresses you next. Not rushed. Not greedy.

Careful.

When he lays you down on the bed, it’s with both hands braced against the mattress. His knee follows, then the shift of his weight above you. His prosthetic comes off silently at the foot of the bed—second nature by now. He doesn’t draw attention to it. He doesn’t need to.

He settles between your legs, hands sliding up your thighs, coaxing them open. You let him.

“Tell me again,” he says.

“I want another baby,” you whisper.

His eyes flutter closed like you just took the air out of his lungs.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Jack groans—low and wrecked—and bends down to kiss your chest, your stomach, the inside of your hip. He takes his time. He doesn’t tease. He worships. Because that’s how he fucks when he’s in love. With reverence. With purpose.

He presses his forehead against your belly like he’s already imagining it growing inside you.

Then he comes up. Mouth to yours. Breath mingling. And when he finally pushes into you, it’s slow. Deep. Every inch earned.

He holds there. Doesn’t thrust. Just… feels. Eyes locked on yours. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheek like he’s grounding himself in you.

“You want this,” he breathes.

“I want you,” you answer. “Everything. Always.”

He starts to move. Measured. Pressed in deep. Every roll of his hips a declaration. Every breath shuddered through clenched teeth. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight. You hold on.

You arch up to meet him. He sinks deeper.

“You feel—fuck—so good,” he grits. “You always do.”

“Don’t stop,” you whisper.

“I’m not gonna,” he swears, voice ragged. “I’m never gonna stop.”

Your bodies slide in sync, sweat beginning to slick your skin. His mouth finds your collarbone, your throat, your mouth again. Every kiss hungrier. Every breath closer to breaking.

“You don’t know what it does to me,” he whispers. “Hearing you say that.”

“I want you to come inside me,” you whisper back. “I want another baby.”

He groans—loud this time, broken—hips stuttering.

Jack changes pace. His grip tightens. He kisses you harder, needier. His hips grind deeper, deeper—until you’re gasping, clawing at his back, his shoulders, his sides. His name tumbles from your lips like a prayer.

“I love you,” he says against your mouth. “God, I fucking love you.”

And then you’re coming—tight, trembling, body arching into his. He fucks you through it, breath caught in his throat, rhythm faltering. His eyes stay on yours until the very last second, until he’s gone too—coming deep inside you with a sharp gasp and a whispered, “That’s it—take it, baby—take all of me—fuck—”

His whole body shakes with it.

When it passes, he doesn’t collapse. He lowers himself gently. Holds himself over you, still buried deep, still trying to catch his breath.

You stroke the back of his neck. He presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then your mouth.

Then he breathes.

Quiet. Steady. Like the war’s over.

You lie there tangled together for a long time. You don’t move. You don’t speak.

Eventually, Jack brushes a strand of hair from your face and says softly, “We’re really doing this.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes shine. A little red-rimmed. A little overwhelmed.

But when he kisses you again, it’s not about doubt.

It’s about forever.

Because Jack Abbot doesn’t love with fireworks or grand speeches.

He loves like this.

With hands. With breath. With the quietest yes in the world.

And when he finally falls asleep beside you—arm slung around your waist, heartbeat steady against your back—it’s not the end of anything.

It’s the beginning.

Phase Six: The Leap

Where your daughter says it first—and Jack, who never needed proof to believe, still stands there like she handed him the future in one sentence.

It’s June now.

Since Target—since you stood in that aisle holding newborn socks like a secret you hadn’t dared speak—two and a half months have passed. You’re not pregnant. Not yet. And neither of you has said the word "waiting," but it clings to everything.

You’re still trying.

And Jack’s still Jack—stoic, steady, quieter when he wants something most. But he’s watching you like he might miss something if he blinks. His touches linger. His gaze trails. He always has his hand on your back now—the middle of it, the place he holds when you’re tired or overwhelmed or standing still for too long.

Your daughter is seventeen months old. Wild-haired, loud-laughing, stubborn as hell. And lately, her favorite word is why.

This morning, Jack gets home from a long night shift just as you’re cleaning up breakfast. You’re in the kitchen loading the dishwasher, hair still wet from your shower, your daughter padding around barefoot in a peanut butter-streaked onesie.

The moment she hears the door open, she lights up.

“DADA!”

Jack barely gets his boots off before she runs full-speed into his legs.

He drops into a crouch with a groan. “Hey, bean. Miss me?”

She nods solemnly. “Mama tired.”

He glances at you over her head. “That true?”

You shrug. “I mean, I didn’t sleep through the 3AM thunder tantrum, so... yeah.”

Jack smirks. Stands with her in his arms, presses a kiss to your cheek. “She kick you again?”

“She kicked you and then rolled onto my neck like a scarf.”

He winces. “That tracks.”

You hand him a mug of reheated coffee. He takes it, leans against the counter, and watches her toddle off toward the living room with her duck.

You lean into his side. He doesn’t say anything, but he kisses the top of your head. That’s how he says thank you for keeping her alive when I wasn’t here.

You hear her talking to her toys while Jack drains half the mug.

Then:

“Duck is baby. Duck is my baby.”

You smile.

Then:

“We get baby soon?”

You freeze.

Jack sets his mug down slowly.

You both glance toward the doorway at the same time.

She’s got her duck wrapped in a tea towel. Rocking it, arms clumsy but careful.

“We get baby,” she says again. “I help.”

You look at Jack.

He looks like someone took all the air out of his lungs.

“She say that before?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“She say it to you?”

“No,” you whisper. “Not once.”

He stares at her for a long beat. Then turns to you.

“She knows something we don’t?”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Jack steps toward the living room, kneels beside her, hands braced on his thighs. “You want a baby, huh?”

She nods.

Jack glances back at you.

You shrug, blinking fast.

He turns back to her. “You think you’d be good at that? Helping?”

She nods solemnly. “I give duck bottle. I share blankie. I help.”

Jack smiles. Not his ER smile. Not his fake one. The real one. The one you fell in love with.

“You’d be amazing.”

She looks satisfied. Goes back to tucking Duck under the towel.

Later, when you’re sitting on the porch with the monitor between you and Jack’s hand over your knee, he breaks the silence first.

“You think it means anything?”

“What, her saying that?”

“Yeah.” He stares at the sidewalk. “Think it’s a sign?”

You lean into him.

“I think she wants what we want. Even if she doesn’t really know what it means yet.”

He nods. Quiet.

Then: “I want it too. Still.”

You smile. “I know.”

His thumb rubs a slow circle into your skin.

“And if it takes a little longer?”

You look at him.

“Then we keep trying.”

He looks at you like you just handed him the whole world.

And maybe you did.

And tonight, in the thick June air, with your daughter sleeping and the windows open and the moon beginning to rise—he pulls you into his side like a vow.

And you know.

You’re already building something bigger than all of you.

Phase Seven: The Firecracker Phase

Where your toddler discovers volume, Jack works through sirens and trauma codes, and you find out you’re pregnant during the loudest day of the year.

It’s July Fourth, and Pittsburgh is already simmering by 7AM.

Jack left before the sun came up. The night shift blurred into a day shift—holiday coverage at the Pitt means more chaos, less sleep, and barely enough time to microwave a sandwich.

Your daughter woke up early. Earlier than usual. Climbing onto your ribs at 5:42AM and whisper-shouting: “MAMA! SUN! IT’S SUN!”

She’s eighteen months old, in her loud phase.

She yells at squirrels. She yells at blueberries. She yells when you zip her dress wrong and when the fridge door beeps too long. Jack calls it the firecracker phase. Fitting, you think. She’s pure sound and spark.

By 8:15AM, she’s stripped to a diaper and has climbed inside the laundry basket. She’s yelling at her duck to put on sunscreen.

You’re on your third glass of ice water and your stomach feels... off. Not wrong. Not sick. Just not yours.

You text Jack:

update: she’s arguing with the dryer. i think she’s winning.

He replies:

two chest tubes, one firework injury, a drunk guy threw up in trauma bay C. tell her to save me a popsicle.

You send back a thumbs up, then pause.

You walk to the bathroom, heart in your throat.

There’s one test left in the drawer.

It’s expired.

You take it anyway.

Your daughter is yelling “FIRETRUCK” at the top of her lungs when you see it.

A second line.

Faint. Blurry. Real.

You sit on the closed toilet and stare. Then laugh. Then cry. Then wipe your face because your daughter is now in the hallway, asking her duck if he wants juice.

You lift her. Hold her close.

She pulls back. “Mama? Why cryin’?”

You kiss her head. “Happy cry. You were right, baby.”

Jack doesn’t get home until after five.

He walks in, exhausted. He smells like antiseptic and sun.

She runs at him, barefoot, her little star-print shorts twisted sideways. “DADA!”

Jack drops his bag and lifts her like she weighs nothing. She screams with joy. He buries his face in her hair.

“How’d she do?” he asks.

You smile. “She only tried to drink from the hose twice. And she learned a new word.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Popsicle. But she says it like ‘pop-SICKLE.’ With a vengeance.”

He grins. “That tracks.”

You take her gently from his arms. “Go shower. I left something for you on the bed.”

He finds it when he steps out.

The test. This time, a new one. Two solid lines.

He stares.

Then walks into the hallway, towel around his waist, the test in his hand.

You meet him halfway.

“You sure?” he whispers.

“I bought two more. OB appointment’s scheduled.”

He drops the test and just pulls you into him. Breath hot, body warm from the shower, arms trembling.

“It’s real,” he says. Like he still needs the words out loud.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “It’s real.”

You stay like that a long time.

Eventually, your daughter peeks around the corner and shrieks, “FIREWORKS TIME!”

Jack wipes his face. “Guess we’re not telling her yet.”

“She already knows.”

He looks at you.

You nod. “She said we were getting a baby. Weeks ago.”

Jack exhales a breath that turns into a laugh.

Then he kisses you once. Soft. Deep. Full of promise.

“Let’s go light a sparkler,” he murmurs.

And the three of you step outside.

Already a family of four.

Another heart, not yet visible, already beating between you.

Phase Eight: The Slowdown

Where the world doesn't stop, but you and Jack do—because everything feels a little heavier, a little brighter, and somehow more fragile than before.

It’s late-July, and the heat hangs thick over Pittsburgh like a wet towel.

The pregnancy symptoms are creeping in now. Not full force, not yet—but enough to slow you down. You’re queasy in the mornings. Lightheaded when you stand too fast. Jack keeps offering to carry the laundry basket like it’s a boulder.

He’s different now, too. Not dramatically—but in the little things.

He double-checks that the baby gate is locked even though your daughter hasn’t touched it in weeks.

He puts a pillow behind your back whenever you sit, even on the porch swing.

He kisses your shoulder while you’re brushing your teeth and says, “Don’t overdo it today,” with the same tone he uses for bleeding trauma patients: calm, sure, absolute.

You don’t tell him you already feel overdone most of the time.

Your daughter has slowed, too—but only just. She’s still seventeen months of pure emotion, pure motion. But she senses something’s shifted.

She follows you more closely.

Climbs into your lap without asking.

Sits quietly beside you on the floor with her duck when you’re stretched out, trying not to vomit.

One afternoon, Jack finds the two of you lying on the cool tile of the kitchen floor. You in an old tank top and boxer shorts, your daughter curled against your chest like she’s trying to be smaller for you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, sweat still drying on his collarbone, keys still in his hand.

Then he steps forward, kneels, and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

You look up. “We needed the cold.”

He nods. “You both look good here.”

You snort. “We look like puddles.”

He shrugs, settles beside you on the floor. “Then I’ll melt with you.”

Later that night, your daughter finally falls asleep after an hour of climbing the crib like a jungle gym.

Jack comes out of her room and collapses beside you on the couch, one hand already reaching for your thigh.

He rests his head against your shoulder. Breathes in.

“How you feelin’?” he asks.

You exhale. “Like my stomach’s mutinying.”

He nods. “You’re still glowing.”

You laugh. “I think that’s sweat.”

Jack leans in. Kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then lower.

“It’s all glow to me.”

You turn your head. Meet his eyes.

He’s serious. Not teasing. Just Jack—all warmth and ache and reverence.

You run your hand through his hair. “I love you.”

He nods. “I know. Me too.”

And in that moment, with your body sore, your baby sleeping, and the air humming with summer weight, Jack wraps his arms around your waist like it’s still March. Like he’s still shocked he gets to keep you.

You don’t talk about tomorrow. Or what’s coming.

You just stay there, quiet, in the stillness of everything new.

Because the world won’t slow down.

But for now, Jack does.

And he pulls you with him.

Phase Nine: The Echo

Where your toddler starts mimicking everything, and Jack learns that sometimes the future comes in twos.

It’s September in Pittsburgh, and your daughter is twenty months old.

She repeats everything.

Your tone, Jack’s sighs, snippets of overheard phone calls, the phrase “Jesus Christ” (which she uses while looking for her missing sock, and which Jack now pretends he’s never said).

It’s a mimicry phase. Every sentence you speak is an audition. Jack’s been calling her a baby parrot. You just call her loud.

Tonight, she yells “OH MY GOD” when she finds her duck in the laundry basket.

Jack glances over his shoulder from the kitchen. “That one’s you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “She also said ‘bullshit’ this morning.”

He pauses. Nods. “Okay, that one’s me.”

She’s not just talking more. She’s listening. Watching. You can’t fake calm anymore—not when she sees through you. She knows when you’re sick, when you’re tired, when you’re worried. And lately, you’ve been all three.

It’s a Friday when Jack comes home early. You’ve both been waiting for this OB appointment all week.

“Ultrasound?” he asks, dropping his keys and pulling you in.

You nod. “Ten minutes and we need to leave.”

You kiss your daughter goodbye. She’s home with your neighbor and her favorite puzzle. You promise snacks when you’re back.

The exam room is quiet except for the hum of the monitor.

Jack holds your hand.

The OB clicks through the screen slowly. You watch the flicker. Then hear it: that heartbeat, strong and steady.

And then.

Another.

The OB smiles. “Well. That’s two.”

You blink.

Jack tilts forward slightly. “I’m sorry—what?”

She rotates the screen. “Two heartbeats. Two sacs. Two babies.”

You stare.

Jack says nothing.

“Twins?” you whisper.

“Twins,” the OB confirms.

Jack releases your hand. Then grips it again, harder.

“I need to sit down,” he mutters. “Am I sitting?”

You laugh, watery. “You’re sitting.”

He exhales. Runs his hand through his hair.

“Twins,” he says again.

You look at him. “Are you okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. I just—I thought we were building a house and someone handed us a cathedral.”

You choke a little on your breath.

Jack stands. Presses a kiss to your forehead.

Then your stomach.

“We can do this,” he says softly. “Right?”

You nod. “We already are.”

That night, back home, your daughter sits between you on the floor, building towers of foam blocks.

Jack watches her.

Then glances at you.

“You think she’ll lose her mind?”

You smile. “Not at first. But once there’s double snacks involved? She’ll be on board.”

Your daughter drops her duck. Crawls into your lap.

Then turns to Jack.

“Two babies in Mama belly,” she says, matter-of-fact.

Jack blinks.

You freeze.

“How did—”

She pats your stomach. “I heard it.”

You and Jack look at each other.

He nods slowly. “Yep. Definitely yours.”

You laugh until you cry.

And Jack pulls both of you close.

Because now it’s real.

Because she heard it first.

And because Jack Abbot—who once found comfort in the dark—just got handed three reasons to stay in the light.

And he’s never letting go.

Phase Ten: The Stay-At-Home Phase

Where your daughter needs more of you than ever, and Jack Abbot—so stupidly, steadfastly in love—says the one thing you needed to hear.

It’s October now.

Your daughter is twenty-one months old and riding a new wave of toddlerhood: clingy autonomy. She wants to do everything herself but also needs your hands on her at all times. She puts on her socks (wrong), brushes her teeth (mostly the air), then turns around and demands: “Mama hold you.”

Not a request. Not a question.

She won’t nap unless you’re in the room. Won’t eat unless you sit beside her. Throws a shoe if you go to the bathroom without her.

Jack calls it her “velcro era.”

“She just loves you,” he says, watching her cling to your leg while you make toast. “Can’t blame her. I’m a little obsessed myself.”

You smile, tired.

It’s been weeks of juggling. You’ve been logging hours for work during naps, squeezing in emails between tantrums and laundry and diaper refills. Jack picks up extra shifts when he can, but even he can see it wearing on you.

One Wednesday night, after she finally falls asleep draped over Duck like a dramatic artist in repose, you and Jack sit on the back porch. The air smells like woodsmoke and damp leaves. Your tea goes untouched.

Jack runs a thumb over the back of your hand.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I’ve been thinking.��

You raise a brow. “That’s never good.”

He grins. Then softens.

“I think maybe it’s time. For you to pause work. Just for now.”

You inhale. Let it out slow.

“I’ve thought about it,” you admit.

“She needs you more right now,” Jack says gently. “And you’re exhausted. I can see it. You’re growing two more people. And still somehow doing it all.”

You blink, overwhelmed.

“I can carry this for a while,” he adds. “Pick up shifts. Fill in the gaps. I don’t care how many hours I have to pull. We’ve got savings. We’ll be fine. I just... I want you to breathe.”

You study his face. The sincerity. The kind of love that never asks you to earn it.

“You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure,” Jack says. “This is us, right? We adapt. We show up. And right now, showing up means me making space for you.”

You lean into his chest. His arms wrap around you like they were waiting for this exact moment.

“I’ll tell them tomorrow,” you whisper. “I’ll take the leave.”

Jack kisses the side of your head.

“Good.”

The next day, your daughter won’t let you out of her sight. She drags a blanket onto your lap while you answer your last work call and pats your belly. “Mama stay home now?” she asks, wide-eyed.

You smile, nod. “Yeah, baby. I’m home.”

She beams. Climbs up and holds your face in her hands.

“Love you, Mama.”

You cry right there in the middle of the floor.

Jack comes home to find you both asleep under a pile of stuffed animals.

He doesn’t say anything. Just takes a photo.

Later that night, he slides into bed behind you. His hand rests gently over your belly.

“You didn’t step back,” he whispers.

You shift, tuck your face into his shoulder.

“You stepped in. And I’m so damn proud of you.”

You fall asleep to his heartbeat behind you.

And the tiniest kicks just beneath your ribs.

Because Jack Abbot is in love.

With you. With her. With all of it.

And he’s not letting go.

Phase Eleven: The Season of Yes

Where your daughter becomes opinionated about absolutely everything, calls Jack "Jack-Jack" like the toddler from The Incredibles, and everything in the house is louder, funnier, and more loved than it’s ever been.

It’s November now.

Your daughter is twenty-two months old and firmly convinced she is the executive director of the house.

She chooses the playlist in the car (“No sad songs! Only happy happy!”). She picks everyone's breakfast item (“Mama gets toast. I get 'nana. Jack-Jack gets pancake, only pancake, that’s it.”). She vetoes your outfit choices, corrects Jack's driving from the backseat, and calls meetings with her stuffed animals that last longer than your actual Zoom calls.

The name “Jack-Jack” started last week after you let her watch The Incredibles. It stuck immediately.

At first, she shouted it mid-bath: “JACK-JACK GET THE TOWEL!”

Now it’s part of her daily vocabulary. “Jack-Jack, open juice.” “Jack-Jack, watch me run so fast.” “Jack-Jack, no more peas. Too squishy.”

Jack pretends to grumble. “I’m Dad, not Jack-Jack,” he mutters once, trying to sound stern as she runs through the hallway yelling it. But you catch the smile he hides behind his coffee every time she says it again—especially when she giggles right after. He secretly loves it. Loves all of it.

You’re five months pregnant, the twins growing faster than expected, and while you’re finally past the nausea, the fatigue has made a comeback. Your daughter seems to sense it.

This morning, you woke up to her whispering beside your bed: “Jack-Jack say let Mama sleep. But I miss you.”

You blinked awake, found her already climbing up beside you with Duck under one arm and a banana in the other.

She snuggled close. “I hold Mama.”

At the farmer’s market that weekend, she picks a small crooked gourd, declares it “my pet baby,” and names it Sandwich.

“This is Sandwich,” she tells the woman selling cider. “He go home with us now.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “We adopting produce now?”

You shrug. “We already adopted Henry the pumpkin.”

Jack nods solemnly. “You’re right. Can’t leave Sandwich behind.”

She carries it in her arms all the way back to the car.

That night, Jack makes dinner while you lie on the couch with your daughter stretched across your belly, talking to the babies through your shirt.

“I gonna teach you dancing,” she says. “But no jumping until Mama says.”

She pauses. Then calls toward the kitchen: “Jack-Jack! Babies hear me?!”

Jack leans into the doorway with the spatula still in hand. “They definitely hear you, kid.”

“Okay,” she says, satisfied. “Me sing for babies?”

Jack winks. “It’s their favorite thing on Earth.”

Later, she insists Jack wear a crown made of pipe cleaners and old stickers. He does. He wears it the entire time he does dishes, and for the full length of bedtime storytime.

She curls up beside you while he reads, thumb in her mouth, and whispers: “I love Jack-Jack.”

You kiss her forehead. “Me too.”

That night, Jack joins you in bed long after she falls asleep. You’re curled on your side, one hand resting on the curve of your belly.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur.

He nods. “Just... full.”

You shift to face him.

“Not just your belly,” he adds. “I mean me. This whole house. Her. You. Them.”

You smile sleepily.

“You okay with being Jack-Jack forever?”

He exhales a soft laugh. “Best name I’ve ever had.”

He kisses your hand. Then your stomach. Then your cheek.

“We’re saying yes to everything these days,” he murmurs.

You nod. “That a problem?”

“Not even close.”

The wind rattles the windows softly.

Your daughter shifts in her sleep down the hall.

And Jack wraps himself around you like gravity.

Phase Twelve: The Birthday Girl Phase

Where your daughter turns two, you skip the party, and Jack Abbot becomes her favorite travel buddy, bodyguard, and forever person.

It’s January in Pittsburgh, grey-skied and salt-streaked, and your daughter is officially two years old.

No balloons. No cake-fueled chaos. No distant relatives asking if she remembers their name. Instead, you and Jack book a cabin two hours north—a hush of pine trees and snow-heavy quiet, where the only agenda is stillness and each other.

The morning you leave, Jack is up before you. Already dressed. Already double-checking the bag of snacks and backup onesies and ginger chews you swore you didn’t need. The air outside is cold enough to make your breath visible, but he’s working barehanded as he loads the trunk, face flushed pink, shoulders set.

Inside, your daughter sits on the floor beside her little suitcase narrating to Duck. “Duck need socks. Duck need book. Duck need warm blankie. Mama too.”

When Jack steps back in, she yells like a general: “JACK-JACK DRIVE US! IT’S TRIP DAY!”

He looks at you over her head and mouths, “Tour guide. I’m a damn tour guide.”

You smile. “You’re also the emotional support pack mule.”

He grins. “Sexy.”

The drive is quiet. Frozen fields, iced-over rivers, sleepy back roads. Jack keeps one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles. Your daughter hums in the back seat. You doze off somewhere past Zelienople.

The cabin is tucked between trees and lined with old timber and big windows that pour light across the floors like syrup. There’s a stone fireplace and a kitchen just small enough to feel like a movie set.

Jack puts a hand on your back. “Not gonna lie—I’d live here forever.”

That afternoon, you make grilled cheese while Jack carries your daughter around the cabin pointing at everything like a museum guide.

“This is the couch. This is the magic fire place. This is the cabinet Mama says not to slam. This,” he says, lifting her over his head like Simba, “is Duck’s kingdom now.”

She shrieks with laughter.

Later, you all eat lunch in socks and pajamas. She demands to sit on Jack’s lap and feed him bites of sandwich. He lets her. Doesn’t flinch when she wipes mustard on his cheek.

You don’t tell him, but you take a photo.

That night, she curls into his lap beside the fire, wrapped in a fleece blanket and sticky with marshmallow from the lukewarm cocoa he stirred just the way she likes.

“Jack-Jack, you read,” she mumbles.

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t Mama read last night?”

“She tired. Babies make her sleepy. Jack-Jack do it.”

He looks at you. You nod.

He reads slow, voice like gravel dipped in honey. When she falls asleep on his chest, he keeps going. Finishes the book in a whisper.

Hours later, the fire is low, and you’re both curled under a blanket, your legs over his, your head on his shoulder. The twins kick once, low and soft. Jack feels it.

He shifts, then slides off the couch to kneel in front of you, forehead pressed gently to your belly.

“We don’t need perfect,” he murmurs. “We just need this. You. Her. Them. The quiet.”

You thread your fingers through his hair. “We have it. We have everything.”

He looks up. His eyes are glassy in the firelight.

“You give me too much,” he says.

You shake your head. “I give you us.”

He kisses your belly. Then your hands. Then your mouth.

And that night, you fall asleep wrapped in all of it.

At dawn, your daughter wakes and yells across the cabin: “JACK-JACK MAKE PANCAKES! IT’S STILL MY BIRTHDAY!”

Jack groans into the pillow.

“I’m Dad, not Jack-Jack.”

But he’s already up.

Flipping pancakes in his boxers. Singing a song he makes up as he goes. Smiling like a man who’s realized he’ll never be alone again.

And he wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Because she’s two now.

And he is completely, irrevocably, hers.

2K notes · View notes

mintensdoll · 1 month ago

Text

Sunday Sunlight

michael “robby” robinavitch x f!reader

summary: a glimpse into a slow cozy day with you and your growing little family

word count: 1.8k

content warnings/tags: 18+ only, girl dad!Robby, toddler fic, mentions of unspecified age gap, reader is pregnant, cozy & sweet fluff, husband!Robby & married goodness, introspective moments (thoughts of self doubt and internal struggle), parenting themes, jealous Robby with a splash of protective tenderness, soft domesticity vibes, light baseball discussion

a/n: my first ever fic for the Pitt & I’m so grateful getting to write it for the A Doctor A Day Writing Challenge [ #5 “tell me the truth, am I losing you for good?” + black] thank you so much @letsgobarbs @clubsoft & @ananonymousaffair for hosting this! And a sweet extra thanks to @jolapeno for cheering me on & giving me the push to post this

Robby didn’t believe his days could ever look like this. Soft warm spring light fills a cozy living room. The faint sounds of the Pirates game is on the tv -

And his daughter happily takes his full focus.

Her toys litter the carpet with no regard for any foot traffic and frankly, Robby doesn’t care that much either.

Your little girl is happily engrossed with the toddler hospital checkup playset Abbot got her this year for her birthday. She’s been obsessed with it, barely knows what she’s doing, but Robby can’t tear his eyes away from her.

Especially now as she readily tries to fix her Winnie the Pooh bear lying ready for examination on the pull out countertop.

Her face scrunched up in deep concentration looks exactly like yours as her chubby little hands clumsily put on the stethoscope.

“What’s your diagnosis, doc?” Robby asks her while he slowly sits up to move closer to her.

“Sick.” She quips simply, and his lips twitch amused.

“Did you check his heart? Make sure he’s okay.” He gently touches the center of the stuffed bear’s chest. Immediately his daughter, instead of using the stethoscope, leans down to press her ear against his chest.

Robby can’t help it, he laughs.

“Good, that’s a good start.” He reassures her.

Gently, he moves the colorful child sized stethoscope to sit on her properly. She eagerly roams the diaphragm all around the fuzzy bear’s tummy, diligently searching for something with it.

“Try to find the heartbeat.” He tells her patiently.

Robby then makes the familiar heart beat thump himself with a hum. Her eyes bloom surprised, becoming little bright stars.

She’s so smart, so damn quick. Immediately her sharp gaze flickers up, realizing it’s him making the noise and not the bear.

“Papa!” She cries indignant.

“Not me, mister bear.” Robby innocently replies, tapping the poor plushie patient.

So stubborn, a trait she definitely inherited only from you and not an ounce from him, his daughter shoves the poor bear away and stomps towards Robby where he sits on the edge of the couch, opposite to where you sleep.

Seven months pregnant again and peacefully napping, lightly snoring even though you swear you don’t, you’re the picture of ease and steal Robby’s heart all over again.

When his little girl eagerly arrives at his side, Robby reminds her to stay quiet to make sure you get to rest.

Bubbling with curious eagerness, his daughter nods then presses her tiny hands against his face, checking for a fever the same way he does when she’s sick.

Robby feels as if his heart just might melt from his ribs.

It seems like only yesterday she was keeping you and him awake at all hours of the night as a newborn, so tiny in his arms as Robby went through singing two lullabies to get her to sleep. Now his baby is readily growing as her own little person, bright and curious.

“Check my heart.” He says with a watery grin while she tries listening to his chest.

Then, as if remembering something, she perks up and scurries back to the playset. His eyes perk up seeing her grab an otoscope and hurry back to him.

A burst of pride swells in his chest.

“Papa, say ah!” Gathering a composed sternness, he holds back a laugh while his daughter uses the toy otoscope, used to examine the ears, to check his throat.

But listening to his little girl, he does as told and she peeks inside examining him with the toy.

Then she makes a face, scrunched up and confused.

“What?” He questions curious now.

As caring and sweet as his daughter is, Robby knows exactly how mischievous she’s becoming. The smirk and tiny giggle she gives, he knows she’s up to something.

“What d’ya find, doctor?” He asks her again. She pays her father no mind and grabs a pack of play bandaids from the kit.

Wearing the most amused smirk she hurries back to him, the colorful stereoscope bouncing against her neck. Determined and with a firm step, his daughter arrives before him.

Patiently she then places one of the bandages on his lips. Her diagnosis? For him to stay silent.

“All done!” She announces bright, giggling proud, like she’s made the most hilarious inside joke.

Robby’s lips fight hard against a grin and the bandaid. He moves to take it off when his daughter spots him.

“Nah uh, papa! Rest.” She says with a firm head nod, he blinks stunned at her.

“Bossy… definitely your kid.” Your warm sleepy voice emerges. Gently you sit up from your nap, shoving away the small blanket.

You look so fucking god in his old black penguins hockey t-shirt, especially with your belly growing more and more. Slowly sitting up, you reach for him. Like you’re the extension of him, effortless and without any question, Robby gently draws you towards his side letting you now rest your head against his thigh.

“Mama!” Your daughter cries happy and loud, sliding towards you on the couch.

“I help papa!” She declares.

“Good job, sprout. You’re the doctor of the family now.” You playfully poke her nose.

She giggles triumphant. Robby then watches his little girl throw her small body over your tummy, hugging you and the baby as much as she can.

“Sissy, I help.” She’s been eagerly announcing everything to her little sister once she learned the baby could hear everything.

You finally glance up at Robby grinning at him. Noticing the bandaid on his lips, you gently peel it away before your daughter notices.

“Yeah you do, baby. You’re already such a good big sister wanting to take care of everyone.” You gently tell her through a yawn.

Robby wonders if this moment could shatter at any moment, like it’s too pure and good for him, too precious to believe it’s his.

But when your hand moves to rub his arm, your touch grounds him.

His eldest daughter suddenly squeaks happily, and you snicker. The baby must have kicked.

“Your baby sister is playing kickball in my tummy. Gonna give us a check up now too?” You offer, sitting up more. You now lean against Robby’s shoulder, and he happily welcomes your warmth.

Your daughter now babbles scurrying to the playset and grabs a random wooden spatula that somehow managed to sneak into her toy collection.

Deeming that important to her care, your little girl scurries back and presses her face against his black shirt.

“Sissy, no kick mama.” She orders.

You burst out laughing, and Robby covers his with a quick cough.

“I think she’s got the making of a good physician already,” you tell him.

“Her bedside manner could use some work.” Robby snorts, and you snicker.

Top of the 5th inning and Pirates are still tied zero to zero against the Astros. His daughter now yanks the playset closer to the couch allowing Robby to examine more of the tools.

He’s always been impressed by this thing. It’s rather accurate, makes him appreciate whoever made it.

��They even got the right buttons on the EKG machine, it’s pretty crazy.” He says messing with the toy set.

“I don’t know what kind of kid would want to be playing with this and not legos or barbie dream house or something else.” He lets the comment slide out a bit low.

Robby’s already torn when he thinks of his little girl’s future - if she’ll end up wanting to practice medicine or not. If that colorful stethoscope she wears will one day match his, black and professional.

A quiet sigh escapes you letting your hand rub his back now.

“She plays with both… plus I think she likes knowing she gets to pretend to be a grown up and help people like you.”

He lets your words sit gently and decides not to keep digging into this tangled topic.

“I still can’t believe there’s even multiple syringe and scissor options.” He chuckles, changing the subject.

“Might as well have included some clamps and blood bags.” Robby adds and then picks up one of the toys.

It takes him a moment to realize he's been rambling out loud mindless thoughts about this damn toy set for the game to be in a new inning now.

You’ve gone quiet now, and his eyes flicker down to you leaning against his chest.

“Alright,” he begins with a sigh.

“Tell me the truth… am I losing you for good?” He means it half jokingly.

Robby still can’t believe how lucky he is to have you, his absolutely gorgeous sweetheart. He’s holding his breath still, waiting any minute for you to wake up and realize you got stuck married to an old man like him.

Hell, just last week Robby had to calm himself down when the cashier had no fucking shame flirting with you, even as you wear Robby’s ring on your finger and have his second baby growing in your belly.

It’s almost as if a part of him is waiting to fully lose you, let you slip away from his fingers.

Your hand curls against his face now, rubbing against his bearded jaw as you draw him closer.

You place the softest kiss on his lips.

“Not at all,” you tell him gently. “If anything you hook me in more and more, Robinavitch. You’re stuck with me.”

A warmth collides in his chest like an unleashed sea.

Robby smirks, humming content as he places a kiss against your head.

“Love ya, kid.” He warmly tells you, sliding his arm around you.

And he does.

He adores you so damn much, didn’t think it was possible to love you any more but you love to prove him wrong.

His eldest daughter, now bored with the doctor's playset equipment, currently sits on the carpet floor fiddling with a colorful whale toy.

The pirates, now up to bat, suddenly hit a home run. Even through the tv, the ball is sent flying with a solid whack.

Robby cheers appreciatively, and your daughter immediately perks up eagerly scrambling to him with excited eyes as she bounces holding onto his arm.

“Papa, good?” She asks, picking up the excitement from the game.

“Yes baby girl, very good.” He grins.

“See,” you pat his leg affectionately, “No need to worry about her.”

“You’re gonna play baseball for the Pirates right, sprout?” You ask your daughter.

“Yup!” She says bright, probably not even realizing what she’s agreeing to as her focus stays on the TV.

That makes him laugh.

He’s never felt older and younger all at once, like a multitude of lifetimes has collided into him a beautiful cosmos shining bright.

All his girls together right before him, and he’s never felt luckier.

Robby wants to carve out this moment forever, letting it crystallize around him and soak in this warmth. One he wants to embrace and never let go.

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