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bottmless-pitt · 1 month ago

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I'll be right there. 1/2

CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of suicide, talks of self-harm, Reader attempted suicide. Jack Abbot x F!reader, Neighbor!Reader, Medical inaccuracies, blood, car trauma, mentions of Abbot's time in the military, brief descriptions of bruising, blood, and stitches. Angst with an ambiguously happy ending. Summary: Jack Abbot's new neighbor ends up in his Trauma rooms for all the wrong reasons. Can he break through to her before it's too late? Author's Note: Some real self-indulgent angst. I highkey love a reader insert with a tragic backstory to lean into. This is part 1, I'll be posting part 2 later this week! Part 2 will definitely be more fluff and smut than this, so no hard feelings if you'd like to read it later. Let me know your thoughts. All the kindness from the other piece is keeping me upright. Enjoy the self-indulgent angst!!!

The lights were too bright. It was stale in the cavernous halls of the PMTC’s emergency department. The smell of blood and cleaning fluid never fully left your nose, and the sounds of someone’s lowest moments seemed to echo out eternally.

Jack loved the chaos that working in the Pitt brings him, it’s grounding. After spending better part of a decade on the front lines, returning to civilian life was more than monotonous, it was dehumanizing. Jack had understood himself well in the thick of the battlefield, he worked quickly without hesitation or fear. He had a carefully built self-image that hinged on his ability to be useful to someone in crisis.

After losing a portion of his leg, being honorably discharged, and sent back to retire he had lost the only structure he’d ever known. He couldn’t figure out how to be useful in the stillness, where no one was crying out for loved ones or God-like figures to save them. He was aimless without the chaos.

So, he loved The Pitt, and its never-ending line of incoming traumas. He appreciated his role in the machine that cogged overhead, happy to do his part and keep moving. Some days were harder than others, some cases left him feeling threadbare and worn thin, but the silence that greeted him when he walked home left him more haunted than anything he’d seen at work in the past few years.

So, all in all, Jack didn’t complain about the work the way the rest of his team did. He never minded the patients that would kick and scream at him, nor did he care much when there were far too many people packed into the waiting room. Yes, in a perfect world none of this would happen, but he enjoyed that it kept him moving forward. He needed the momentum desperately.

On an off night, however, he can’t seem to get the itch scratched. They had breezed through most of the day-shift’s leftover cases, discharged who they could, and moved onto the next. All of his cases were being monitored, the chairs had slowed down significantly, and it was approaching the Night-shift lull.

He was starting to get antsy, and after the third lap checking in on his team, he collapsed into a chair next to his Charge Nurse, Bridgit.

“Don’t get too comfortable soldier.” She looked down at him from the top rim of her reading glasses. Jack only smirked, she quirked an unimpressed eyebrow back at him.

“Oh, you know me,” He leaned back into the chair, putting the lumbar support to the test. “I’m not comfortable unless I’m elbow deep in traumas.” He passively spun his chair side to side, looking less like the Emergency Department Attending and more like a teenage boy stuck at the family barbeque.

“More like elbow deep in trauma, period.” She shoots back, tapping him with her clipboard the way a teacher would readjust a student. That was Bridgit, she was the one really running this place, and Jack had no issues submitting to her power when she pushed him around a little. She opened her mouth to say something, when the phone behind her lit up. It only took a few hushed words before turning back to him, “Look alive kid, we have incoming, ETA 3 minutes.”

Jack springs up, walking away as she finishes gathering the troops. He’s outside in a flash, prepped and sterile before the sirens could even be heard in the distance. Ellis not more than three steps behind him, already gloving up ready to take on whatever she needs. Jack tilted his head back and gave a calm thumbs up as they see the flashing lights come up and over the horizon.

When the ambulance pulls up and the gurney is wheeled out, he sees a young woman, bloodied, bruised, but semi-conscious. He begins his medical assessment and taking the reins from the EMTs. He doesn’t get a glimpse of her face before he begins spouting orders.

“Let’s get her set up in Trauma 1, I don’t like blood loss here, prep to intubate but let’s see if we can’t assess the head trauma before we sedate her.” He led as Ellis trailed along the other side, following his orders exactly. “Hi there, I’m Doctor Jack Abbot, I’m a doctor at the Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center, we’re going to take good care of you.” He heard a small groan as the patient slowly turned their head towards him.

He saw you then, he’s shocked he hadn’t recognized you sooner, on the gurney laid out before him. His sweet, albeit quiet, neighbor who had never given him any trouble. His breath caught in his throat as your eyes seemed to recognize him, before rolling back in your skull and everything went dark.

Pittsburg was a bitch in February. The weather was unrelenting, and frost bitten. No one wanted to be outside for more than five minutes, let alone lug box after box up the small stairwell into the dusty old apartment upstairs.

So, when Jack, who snagged a rare weekend off, noticed his new upstairs neighbor was moving in he had no excuse not to help. That’s just the kind of guy Jack was, he wasn’t going to let a new neighbor move in without at least offering. He was thankful you had sense enough to hire movers, rather than try and do it yourself the way the last tenants had. (He had the pleasure of trying to sleep through three college aged guys try to carry a sectional up the stairs two Septembers ago.)

He didn’t fancy himself too much help, but the next trip he saw you coming down he poked his head out.

“Oh!” you squeaked, nervous to catch one of your new neighbors off guard, “I’m so sorry I didn’t see you come out.” You clarified.

“it’s no worries.” Jack stepped out and extended a hand, “I’m Jack, I’m in 1B.” He pointed his thumb back at the door that was clearly labeled behind him. You only smiled shyly and let out a polite laugh offering your name in return.

“I’m 2B, so I guess I’m right above you.” You spoke softly. “Is the moving too much noise? I’m so sorry, it was the only time slot the movers had left.”

Jack shrugged, he hadn’t really thought about it, with his sleep schedule being as backwards as it was. This was early for him if he was being honest.

“Not for me, no. I’m night shift at the hospital down the road.” He noticed your fidgeting, trying to keep an eye on the movers without being too rude. You were young, far too young for him, but it didn’t stop him from admiring your face. He especially noticed the crease that developed between your eyebrows when you saw the movers drop a box boldly labeled fragile.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to keep you, just wanted to see if you needed any help.” He conceded. Your head shot back to look at him, wide eyed, and a flush creeped up your spine.

“No, I’m sorry, I’m so distracted. The move’s been pretty chaotic.” Your shoulder slump, letting the weight of the moment hang heavy before taking a deep breath and regaining composure. You shoot him a smile, but he notices how it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “But I think we’re ok! And I don’t want to steal your night away.” She brushes off the comment.

He doesn’t reasonably believe you, but hey, moving can be tough and he doesn’t want to keep you longer than necessary. So, he throws a friendly smile, catching your eyes with an open intensity. “No problem, but if you ever need anything I’m down here.” He watches his words land, and you pause a moment before nodding again.

“Thanks Jack, and uh- “you peak back through the open front door to watch the movers for a moment, “same here. If you ever need anything at all.”

And that was the first and last time he’d spoken to you, until now. Until you were wheeled into his trauma room, covered in blood, multiple broken ribs, and an unidentified head trauma.

Jack was a talented doctor, a master at compartmentalizing in high stress environments, and acting fast in situations going south. He was a steady hand in an earthquake, proving his actions time and time again, both in the field and out of it. He was a good doctor, but seeing you laid up before him had his throat dry in an instant.

He couldn’t reconcile the shy neighbor he met only a few months ago is the same girl bleeding out on his table, and the last thing she heard was him promising to take good care of him.

For a moment, half a moment maybe, as your eyes slide shut, he lets the chaos around him rumble away, it couldn’t touch his shock. He let the nurses bark SATs and Ellis call out questions.

For a brief moment he allowed himself to be Jack Abbot, 1B, who just wanted to make sure his new neighbor was safe. Jack Abbot, 1B, who would always take her mail dropped into his box by accident up to her door and ring the bell. Jack Abbot who wanted to get a second chance at a first meeting, because he’s sure that if he could just be slightly more charming, he’d have gotten a chance to carry a box up the stairs and into your new home. That he would have a chance to leave you better than he found it. The Jack Abbot that was selfish, wanting a woman who was younger than him, who’d only ever spoken to him the once, but had never left his mind.

It wasn’t until one of the nurses brushed past him with a bag of O-Neg that he snapped out of it.

“Fuck, we need to get her intubated-“He announced, reaching for the tube, and before he can allow himself to think any further about what could happen to you, his mind shuts and he becomes Dr. Abbot again.

The first thing you feel when you come to, is a dull ache in your left side. Everything hurts, actually, but your left side outranks the rest by far. Your eyes don’t open right away, too heavy to try lifting them. You let the sounds of the monitor to your right keep time, beep… beep… beep. It would be comforting if the sheets didn’t itch, and your feet weren’t so cold, or if there wasn’t the sounds of people dying outside the doorway to your room.

When you opened your eyes, you immediately regretted it, your head blooming in fresh pain from the intensity of the lights. Immediately shutting them closed and letting out a groan. The lights shining overhead had you spinning, sending waves of pain down your body. It was never supposed to end here.

If you told yourself a year ago you ended up in the emergency room tonight, she’d probably laugh in your face.

It all started with your fiancé, or ex-fiancé, who couldn’t seem to decide if they loved you or not. Or at least that’s what they told you last December while you were picking out wedding cake flavors. It wasn’t that they didn’t love you, per-se, the reality is they didn’t love you enough to stop fucking their coworker. So, wedding is called off, which you lament but move on.

It's not until he kicks you out come January, with nothing but enough cash to stay at a shitty motel for a few weeks that things start to weigh you down. The small attic apartment in a townhouse in the heart of Pittsburg is a refuge. It takes most of your paycheck every month, and you have barely enough furniture to call it livable. It’s completely yours, though, and that’s not something you’ve ever had.

So, you keep going through the motions. Then you get fired from your job. Budget cuts, layoffs, restructuring is uttered. You suspect it has more to do with the Senior Manager that’s sporting the engagement ring that was yours just a few months prior. That’s when the spiral really begins.

You reach out to whatever family you have left and are met with cold indifference. They’re not unsupportive, but you aren’t the only one with problems. Any attempts to reach out to old friends lost to time are met with similar tepid support.

The dismissal is enough to keep you firmly bottled up for years.

You’re not really sure what the final straw was but looking up at the steep steps of your apartment building, you can’t bring yourself up the steps. Not when you know the only thing waiting for you is a stuffy apartment devoid of all life. You contemplate, for a moment, knocking on the downstairs neighbor’s door, but decide against it. You’re not sure what kind of doctor he is, but he always looks so tired when you catch him coming up the sidewalk in the mornings.

But after a long shift at your new dead-end job, you just decide it’s not worth it anymore. You couldn’t spend another night thanking your lucky stars to be living a life you despise. For the first time in a long time, you feel nothing at all. No sadness, no pain, just intense clarity. You turn on your heel, walk out into the cold, and hardly flinch when you take a step out into the busy street. The last thing you remember is the bright light of the oncoming traffic consume you.

You were never meant to end up here. You never meant for any of this. You open your eyes again and reach out for the call button.

You were by no means a medical expert, but you thought the button was more for Nurses rather than doctors. You hadn’t expected for Jack to poke his head into your room, but of course he had. Of course, Jack was an ER doctor, and of course he was in your room. Lest we forget what sick karmic luck exists.

“Hey there sleepy head.” He was calm, but you could feel his eyes racking down you with medically trained precision. How mortifying for your neighbor to be your doctor after a night like this. You want to curl up and hide, he reaches out for your hand.

“How are you feeling?” he tilts his head down at you.

“Hurts.” You manage to choke out, throat sore and rough, like sandpaper. He presses his lips in a tight line and nods his head gently.

“Understandable, you were in a car accident.” He reached over, fiddling with the equipment. “I’m adjusting your meds. You should feel less pain here in a minute.” You resist the urge to let out a chuckle, the physical pain was hardly the main concern, and you had a feeling by the unwavering gaze jack was giving you- he already knew that.

“Thank you.”

“No need to thank me.” He takes a seat on your bedside. “I spoke with some of the officers on the scene,” He fiddled with the thin paper sheet below you. “And they’re pretty concerned about you, kid.” He dropped his hand on top of yours, and you felt your whole body react.

His eyes boring holes into your skull as you try to squirm out from under his gaze. The pain meds slowly trickling in your system do little to help as you try to adjust. You cry out in pain when your skin, bruised and swollen, is stretched to its limit along your side.

“Easy there, you’ve got stitches.” Jack, Dr. Abbot, has his arms around you in an instant. He helps you turn until you’re lying on your side, and you allow yourself the comfort of curling up in protest.

“That better?” He asks, and you only nod. “Good.”

Jack makes no motion to move, he just sits with you, watches you like you’ll disappear any second. He opened his mouth a few times but ultimately spent the next few moments watching you.

It was a shameful feeling, to know your low got that low and now you’re sitting with your neighbor who probably thinks you’re totally insane for walking into oncoming traffic. He was some hotshot ER doctor. You were just some random person who’d come swan diving into his life headfirst and knocked themselves out on the bottom of the pool.

You couldn’t bear the agony of waking up without meaning again, and you don’t understand why this man, who owed you nothing, was sitting here with you. Your body begged you to say something, do something, anything, but your mind was numb.

You burrowed deeper into your own hands, and it wasn’t until you felt Dr. Abbot’s own hands petting your hair, that you realized you were crying. You felt your whole body sink into the thin mattress below you, like a faulty tire finally siphoning the last bit of air. Your body shook and your muscles ache around the constricted breaths.

“I know, let it out.” He encouraged, scooting closer to you.

“I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore.” You finally admit. In a strange way it feels better saying it to someone other than your own reflection. You can’t look at him, you don’t want to see the look in his eyes when he thinks it. You’re completely insane.

You don’t know how long he sits with you, letting your body heave its sobs. He stays, ignoring other patients, to sit with you. One hand on your head the other fiddles with the chain around his neck.

“I lost a leg, in Afghanistan in 2009,” His voice is calm, almost matter of fact, but waivers off like he’s reliving it. “And I thought that would be the hardest thing I ever had to experience.” He moved his hands away from you.

“I moved back home, thought about retiring, thought about working at a college as a professor. I liked teaching enough. I thought, the worst is behind me, just gotta move on.” He clears his throat, and you peak through to look up at him, lost in his own story. “I had a wife, I was going to settle down and figure out how to be there for her, but it wasn’t that simple. I had lost myself completely over there.

“I was a soldier my whole life, I trained to be a soldier first, medic second. I don’t think I remembered what civilian life really was. We used to sit around at base camp, talking about what we’d do when we got home, but once I was there it meant nothing to me anymore.” You took a shuddering breath, and he looked down at you, “I came back, and I had some really dark nights. I couldn’t move, I had no purpose, I was a soldier first, medic second, person third. I couldn’t be a soldier, I wasn’t cleared to be a medic, and I had no idea how to be a person anymore.

“There more than a few nights where I begged for everything to stop. I prayed for there to be an end to that feeling. So, I get it. Hey, I really do, but this is not the way out you think it is kid.” He put his hand on yours, and you felt his fingers curl around yours tightly, like he was holding onto something that was just on the brink of slipping him by.

“I don’t have anything,” You admit to yourself, “It’s not just things, I don’t have a life, I don’t have anything.”

He lets out a shaky breath, “You have me.” He tilts his head again trying to catch your reaction. Your breath gets caught in your throat, and distantly you hear the heartrate monitor increase. He only chuckles and reaches past you to turn the monitor off. “I mean it, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t know me at all.” You sound like a petulant child, but he lets you get away with it.

“But I want to.”

And when Jack puts it that way it’s so simple. He makes life sound easy to rebuild, and you want to yell and scream that it isn’t that simple. You want to shake him until he understands the wreckage he’s standing on top of isn’t just a broken-down building, it’s a radioactive wasteland.

“Here’s what I want to do, and you tell me if this is alright.” He stands, crossing his arms, then looking down at you. “I’m going to have a doctor come talk to you, and he’s going to set you up with a therapy program that’ll be a good fit for you. Might even get you on some medicine if they feel like it’s the right fit. I’m also going to give you my phone number, and I’m going to check on you before I leave for work and when I get home for a few weeks. I’m going to give you the number for my charge nurse as well, in case you can’t reach me.” He runs a hand down his face, and you can see the exhaustion pulling him down. You don’t offer an argument.

“I know it’s scary.” He admits to you, “To choose to get better, but you can, and I’ll be right here, alright?” He nods, and you nod with him.

“Okay,” you concede, exhausted form your own emotions.

“It’s rude,” He pats your shoulder, “to end up in a trauma on your friend’s shift you know.”

“Are we friends, Dr. Abbot?” You question.

“We are now.”

#bottomless-pitt #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr jack abbot #angst #sh trigger #tw sui ideation #the pitt hbo #jack abbot fic #jack abbot would probably be able to fix me faster than i could fix him so this is that #part 1 of 2 #self indulgent

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favefandomimagines · 4 months ago

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My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (f.l)

Summary: Y/N discovers a secret that could cost her and Frank everything

Request: @soflowra hiiii!!! could i request a frank langdon x reader where she finds out about the benzos and kind of confronts him? (thank youuuu!!!)

AN: I took some creative freedom with this one lol

The hum of fluorescent lights was constant in the ER, like the white noise of chaos. Monitors beeped, patients groaned, and somewhere down the hallway, someone was yelling about a broken femur. Dr. Frank Langdon thrived in the noise. It kept his mind racing, his hands moving, and the darkness at bay.

Y/N stood in the doorway of Trauma 2, arms crossed over her chest, watching him work. The moment was so typical of him—snapping orders, trauma gown tied loosely around his body, a half-empty Red Bull undoubtedly nearby. Sarcastic, fast-talking, brilliant. God, he was brilliant.

She was on her way back to OB when he caught her eye and winked.

“Should’ve been a trauma doc, sweetheart,” he called out as he approached her.

She rolled her eyes, fighting back a smile. “Maybe in my next life.”

They’d been together for a year. It started just after his divorce—messy, public, and the talk of the hospital for months. She wasn’t trying to be anyone’s rebound.

But with Frank, it didn’t feel like that. There was something real underneath all his walls and caffeine highs. Something warm. Vulnerable. Something he’d given only to her.

She loved him.

But lately… something felt off.

It started with charts. She was covering for another doctor in General that week—odd, yes, but she liked to keep her skills sharp. While reviewing a patient’s post-op pain management plan, she noticed the dose of hydromorphone seemed high. Not alarmingly so—just… off. She shrugged it off. Maybe it was an attending’s call.

Then another chart. Then two more. All written up by Frank.

Each time, the dosage ordered was slightly higher than what the patient had been administered.

She brought it up casually while they were at the nurses station after another OB consult he paged her for.

“Hey,” she said softly, “you ever accidentally order the wrong dose on a discharge script?”

His eyes flicked to hers. “What are you talking about?”

“I just saw a few that looked a little high. From you.”

He didn’t blink. “Pain is subjective, right? I go by instinct. Better to have it and not need it.”

She nodded. But her stomach curled, tight and uneasy.

By the end of shift, she couldn’t ignore it anymore. Frank was still Frank, still sarcastic and lightning-fast, still showing up to every shift extremely over-caffeinated. But there were cracks.

When she ran out to his car to grab her jacket, she found an empty oxy bottle in his car’s cupholder. Not prescribed to him, no prescription on it at all.

It was nearly midnight when she decided. She stayed late after her shift, combing through the hospital’s prescription logs. She knew the system. She knew the way people tried to hide it. She also knew what to look for.

Her heart cracked as the pieces came together.

He was stealing. Masking it under the chaos of the ER. Signing off on more than what was used. Logging it as administered. And no one else had caught it.

Not yet.

She confronted him later that night in the on-call room.

Frank was sitting on the edge of the cot, sipping from a fresh Red Bull and scrolling through his phone like nothing was wrong. He looked up, grinned. “Hey, baby. Didn’t think you were on tonight.”

“I’m not,” she said quietly, shutting the door behind her.

He frowned at her tone. “Everything okay?”

“I know, Frank.”

His expression didn’t change. “Know what?”

“I know about the pills. I know what you’ve been doing.”

Silence fell. Thick and suffocating.

He stood slowly, the can in his hand shaking just slightly. “I don’t know what you think you know—”

“Don’t,” she said sharply. “Don’t lie to me.”

He swallowed hard. “Y/N…”

“You’ve been altering scripts. Signing off on meds that were never given. I checked the logs. You think no one would notice?”

“I’m not a junkie,” he snapped. “A junkie couldn’t do what I do every day. I run trauma codes, I intubate drunk driving victims with one hand and hold pressure with the other. A junkie couldn’t do that.”

Her chest rose and fell in a slow, controlled breath. “You’re addicted, Frank. That’s what this is. And I don’t care how steady your hands are or how many lives you save—you’re still stealing. You’re still lying. And if Abby finds out…”

That stopped him. The sound of his ex-wife's name leaving the lips of the woman he loved.

“She will fight you for custody,” Y/N continued, her voice cracking. “And she’ll win, Frank. You think the board will let you near narcotics again? You think a court’s going to hand your weekends with the kids to someone diverting benzos from their hospital?”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.

“This isn’t just about us,” she whispered. “You have kids, Frank. They didn’t ask for any of this.”

He turned away, his shoulders tight, head bowed like the weight of the room was finally crushing him.

“I know,” he murmured. “God, I know.”

She swallowed the knot in her throat. “You want to tell me you’re not a junkie, fine. But what happens when Abby finds out? When the hospital files a report? What happens when you have to look your kids in the eye and explain why Daddy can’t come around anymore?”

His breath hitched.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” she added, softer now. “But this… this will destroy you, Frank. If you don’t stop it now.”

He didn’t say anything.

He laughed bitterly, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t get it.”

“Then help me understand.” she pleaded. “You lied to me, Frank. For months.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Why?” she whispered. “Why couldn’t you just tell me?”

Frank sat down again, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, and for the first time since she’d known him, he looked like he might break.

“After the divorce,” he said finally, voice hollow, “I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face. Everything I lost. And then the ER… it’s never-ending. One shift bleeds into the next. I needed to keep going. Just… keep going.”

She said nothing. Let him talk.

“So I started small. Just to take the edge off. Then I needed more. And I knew how to get it. Then we got together and you deserved more than the mess that I am.”

Y/N’s eyes burned.

“I’m not proud of it. I’m not… asking for forgiveness.”

She sat down beside him, but didn’t touch him. “So what now?”

He looked up at her, eyes red. “I’ll tell Dr. Robby. I’ll get clean. I swear. I just—” His voice broke. “I can’t lose you.”

She reached for his hand.

“Frank,” she said softly. “You need to get clean because you want to. Not for me. Not for this relationship. But for you.”

He nodded slowly, brokenly.

“But I’ll be there,” she said, “every step of the way. If you let me.”

He squeezed her hand. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Maybe not,” she whispered, “but you still have me.”

#imagine #imagines #the pitt imagine #the pitt #dr frank langdon x reader #dr frank langdon imagine #frank langdon x reader #frank langdon #dr frank langdon #frank langdon imagine

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kiwiatoll · 1 month ago

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ON CALL ROOM ᭢᭡ ksn

𝟏𝟐𝟔𝟓𝒾 ──── dom!sun f!rea ✿ smut ᵕ ᵕ med terms, fingering, voyeurism, reader likes sex A LOT ❞ 𝑫𝑰𝑨𝑹𝒀 ｡ ⠀

REBLOG FOR A KISS!? ʕ´ ᩙᩙ ` ʔ

GLOSSARY (med terms + others) — actual fic starts under these!!

attending⠀⦂ a fully trained, senior doctor who supervises residents and runs the show. you and sunoo are both attendings.

resident / intern⠀⦂ doctors in training. interns are first-years. residents are in post-grad programs and answer to attendings. think hierarchy: intern → resident → attending.

on-call room ⠀⦂ private (sort of) rooms where hospital staff nap between shifts or pretend to nap so they can fuck coworkers. (sunoo.)

rounds ⠀⦂ when doctors check on each of their patients, usually with a team of residents/interns. you lead them like a boss.

post-op ⠀⦂ the period or condition after surgery. post-op labs = bloodwork done to monitor recovery.

washout ⠀⦂ a surgical procedure done to clean out an infected wound or internal area. mentioned when you say the patient needs another one.

crp (c-reactive protein ⠀⦂ a blood marker for inflammation/infection. elevated = something’s wrong. you use it to show the intern how serious things are.

You’re three days post-call and still haven’t had a real night’s sleep.

It’s barely 3PM, but you’ve been running trauma rounds since before sunrise, trailing three exhausted residents down the hallway with your handheld open, tapping in discharge notes between bites of protein bar and caffeine hits. The smell of antiseptic and blood has long since faded into the fabric of your scrubs.

You stop outside 6B, eyes flicking to the chart. “What happened to Nguyen’s post-op labs?”

“Oh—uh—CRP still elevated. But trending down.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he might not need another washout?”

“Wrong.” You glance up. “It means we prep him for the OR before he crashes overnight. Call anesthesia.”

One of the interns groans softly behind you.

You ignore it.

Your brain’s already moving three steps ahead—picturing the next patient, the next scan, the way your fingers will wrap around a pair of forceps later tonight when you assist Dr. Yoon in a laparoscopic liver biopsy.

And still, somehow, underneath it all, you’re still thinking about sex.

Because you always are.

You’re not proud of it.

You’ve spent your entire life earning every title behind your name—MD, FACS, all the little letters that line your lab coat and mean nothing to the patients you pull bullets out of every day. You are brilliant. Composed. Unstoppable.

But beneath all that?

Insatiable.

You could be elbow-deep in someone’s thoracic cavity and still want to get railed the second you scrub out.

And for a while, Sunoo gave it to you.

Over the last year, you and Dr. Kim Sunoo. fellow trauma attending, cocky, golden, too-pretty-for-this-job Sunoo, developed an arrangement. A very physical one. Sex in the on-call room after shifts, blowjobs in the supply closet between traumas, fingers under scrub pants in the back of the staff elevator.

But lately?

He’s been pulling away.

Still nice, still cheeky, still smirking when your fingers brush in a consult—but exhausted. “Not tonight,” he’d said last week, brushing your hand off his thigh. “I need sleep.”

You should’ve taken the hint. He was tired. Burnt out. Rational.

You, on the other hand?

You just keep craving more.

The resident team peels off after rounds, leaving you blissfully alone as you enter the quiet haven of the on-call room. You drop your badge on the edge of the mattress, kick off your clogs, and set your laptop on the tiny side table. The screen glows with notes you haven’t finished—Sunoo’s post-ops among them.

You sigh, fingers tapping keys mindlessly, head lolling back. You should leave. You should go get real food. Maybe actually sleep for once.

Instead, you start to undress.

First the scrub top, peeled off with a stretch of your sore shoulders. Then your bra, loosened with one hand, flicked off and left dangling from a wall hook.

You don’t notice the rustle behind you.

Don’t notice the long body curled up on the far bed, facing the wall, one arm draped over his eyes.

Sunoo doesn’t speak.

He’d wandered in five minutes before you did. Pretended to nap. Said nothing when you walked in, too distracted to register another body in the room.

And now?

Now he watches you.

Eyes barely open, lashes fluttering, breath caught as you shimmy your scrub pants down your thighs and step out of them completely.

You mutter to yourself as you dig through your locker for a change of clothes. “Jesus, it’s hot in here.”

Sunoo’s cock twitches in his pants.

You sigh again. “Dr. Park could get away with walking in shirtless and no one would say a word.”

That catches his attention.

Your voice lilts, half-teasing. “Saw the hottest guy today might’ve been the only plus. The new vascular attending? Dr. Park? He could get it any time of the day.”

Sunoo stiffens behind you.

“He’s gorgeous,” you continue, laughing under your breath. “Like model-level hot. Everyone’s already obsessed. Even Chief Han was giggling.”

He swallows.

“I mean, imagine him bending me over the nurse’s station,” you murmur, slipping into a fresh pair of underwear. “I wonder if he’s thick—”

“That’s enough.”

You freeze.

Turn slowly.

Sunoo’s sitting up on the cot now, hair tousled, gaze dark. He looks flushed. Angry. Or something close to it.

“Sunoo?”

His eyes flick down your body, still half-naked in the dim light. “Do you always talk about other men like that when you think no one’s listening?”

You blink. “Were you watching me?”

“Can you blame me?”

You laugh, startled. “You’re the one who’s been ignoring me lately.”

“Because I was tired,” he snaps. “Not dead.”

There’s a pause. You step closer.

He stands.

And you can see it now, the tension in his shoulders, the bulge straining against his scrub pants, the way his jaw twitches when your fingers skim his arm.

You tilt your head. “Jealous?”

“Shut up,” he mutters.

You smirk. “You’re hot when you’re mad.”

He crowds you back until your thighs hit the edge of the bed. His hand snakes around your waist, the other tangling in your hair.

“You don’t get to act like that,” he growls, “when you’ve been throwing yourself at me for months.”

“You liked it.”

“I fucked you. Repeatedly. In every empty room on this floor. Of course I liked it.”

His lips are inches from yours.

“But if you ever, ever, say you want another man to fuck you, while undressing in front of me again?”

Your breath catches.

He smirks.

“You won’t be able to walk out of here.”

He fucks you like a man with something to prove.

You barely get a gasp out before he has you face-down on the on-call mattress, hips pinned, one hand shoved between your thighs. His fingers find your clit fast, rub circles that make your knees shake.

“I’ve barely touched you,” he breathes, “and you’re dripping.”

You whimper. “I’ve been needy.”

He chuckles, pulling your panties aside. “I know. You’ve been begging for this for weeks. Could barely make it through rounds without eye-fucking me.”

You push back against him.

“Desperate little thing,” he murmurs, lining himself up.

And then—he’s in.

Not thick, but long, long enough to knock the breath from your lungs, stretch you open slow and pretty until your mouth falls open in a broken moan.

Sunoo watches you from above, hand gripping your hips, cock pulsing deep inside you.

“You gonna moan for me?” he whispers. “Or are you still thinking about Sunghoon?”

You whimper. “N-no—fuck—Sunoo—”

“Say my name again.”

“Sunoo.”

“Louder.”

“Fuck—you bitch”

He fucks into you hard, sharp thrusts that leave you clawing at the sheets, sobbing into the mattress.

“I’m the one who gets to see you like this,” he growls. “Not him. Not anyone else. Me.”

You cum fast. Loud. Pathetically. He barely gives you time to recover before flipping you over and plunging in again.

You’re babbling now—his name, nonsense, pleas—and he eats it up. One hand pressed to your throat, the other rubbing your clit until your legs tremble violently.

“Can’t get enough, huh?”

“No—no—please—”

“You’re so fucking addicted to this.”

You nod, crying now.

He kisses your cheeks, your mouth, your jaw. He’s sweet when you break. Always. Despite the filth, the cockiness, he softens when you fall apart.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “That’s it. You’re mine.”

He finishes inside you, hips twitching, cum spilling deep. You moan at the warmth, at the way he stays buried for a second longer just to feel you twitch.

You’re both gasping when he finally pulls out.

And five minutes later, you’re half-asleep on the cot, limbs tangled, his hand lazily stroking your back.

“I still think Sunghoon’s hot,” you murmur.

Sunoo narrows his eyes.

You grin. “But he doesn’t have your dick.”

He smirks.

“I know,” he says. “It’s perfect.”

Cocky bastard.

TAGLIST ࿀ ׁ @gxwesn @gyarumindd @somuchdard @ssanhwatto @jinxedly @seokjinthescientist @hoonprksung @eunvyue @kkxheeluv @enhawonnie @ghost-of-minnie @underscorealastor @yazmike @tokkisluv

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sillyswriting · 4 months ago

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: ̗̀➛ dad johnny 'soap' mactavish

ㅤㅤ ㅤ ₊✩ˎˊ˗ johnny loves his bonnie's post-partum body

cw : smut, post-pregnancy insecurities, chubby reader

ㅤㅤ ㅤ collection ⋆ inspo ⋆ timeline

It was late. Too late to even be awake.

But your little one was sick. He had been for a couple of days, and it broke your heart to see such a small body cough so hard. You had even cried a little with him when his fever was high.

You didn’t know it was possible to love someone this much. From the moment he had been placed on your chest, you had loved him. Really, it had been from the moment you knew he was carefully resting in your womb, but you had truly felt it once you held him close.

Currently, he lay calmly in his crib, the baby monitor quiet on your nightstand. Of course, you were not alone. Johnny was right beside you, filled with as much worry and anxiety as you. It was hard to see his eight-month-old wee lamb cry this much—not out of hunger or fatigue, but out of pain. It had broken his heart too.

The last year had been hard. Between Johnny's recovery and your pregnancy, it had been a very stressful time. You were grateful it hadn't triggered a premature birth—that would have been devastating.

Now, Johnny was much better. His head wound had fully healed, leaving only moments of blanks in his memory, ones you and his team were happy to fill in. Of course, he had been discharged from the military permanently. Even if he hadn’t, the trauma would have made him quit anyway.

He had stared death in the face, and she had let him go. He wasn’t ready to risk that again—not when he had people to live for, to protect.

You often found him absentmindedly grazing his fingers over his scar, especially during skin-to-skin time with your son. He would speak to him in hushed tones, telling stories about his teammates, calling them Uncle Simon, Uncle Kyle, and Grandpa John.

Your hormones had still been all over the place, and you teared up so fast it caught you off guard. But it had triggered something in Johnny, something deep and instinctual. Before you knew it, he had pulled you close, settling you against his chest, his warmth enveloping you.

And that’s how you ended up doing skin-to-skin with him, right next to your son—wrapped in the safest place you’d ever known.

As you finally settled down for the night next to your boyfriend, you let out the biggest sigh. You had been warned that the first months were the hardest, but eventually, it would all be worth it. But truly, no one had warned you about the heart-wrenching moments.

Gently, you felt Johnny's body getting closer to yours, enveloping you in his warmth. Normally, it would have made the butterflies in your stomach go crazy, even more so when you hadn't been intimate in months. But the mere feel of his hand getting close to your stomach sent panic straight to your brain.

Without thinking, you grabbed his wrist, stopping him before he could rest his hand on your stomach. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up. Your stomach wasn’t the same anymore. Stretched, softer, marked with the proof that you had carried life.

You hadn't meant to stop him, but your body reacted on instinct, as if he had hurt you. The look on his face was something you never wanted to see. It almost looked like he was living a betrayal. In his mind, it was one.

How could you ever think he would give any type of shit about a bit of fat? Your body had been home to his little boy for nine months, while you still cared for him.

He couldn't care less about stomach rolls and heavy hips. You were still the same person he loved so dearly, and if anything, the fact that you had grown life made him hornier than ever before. You had grown his baby.

Without thinking, he pulled you toward him, rolling you onto your back. You started protesting, but he cut them short with a nasty kiss—all teeth and tongue. It had been so long.

His entire body settled over yours, arms braced beside your head to keep from crushing you. You had always loved feeling his weight against you, just as much as he loved feeling yours. But you had changed—a lot. Your body didn’t truly feel like yours anymore.

And just as if Johnny could read your mind, he gently pushed your sleep shirt up, just enough to uncover your stomach. It was now riddled with stretch marks, little reminders that you were a mother now. And damn if they didn't make Johnny hard.

You let out a small whisper of his name, your eyes filling up with tears. You didn’t even know why. Johnny had never made a single negative comment about your body—if anything, he seemed to love you no matter what. But your brain liked to play tricks on you, whispering vile names, planting the idea that you were unattractive now.

You were about to try to get up when you felt your boyfriend’s lips on your stomach. They were so gentle, so soft. Looking down, you saw he was watching you, his eyes never wandering. And fuck, he looked at you like you were the eighth wonder of the world.

You might as well be.

As he made his way back up, his hands gently pulled your shirt over your head, baring you to him completely. His lips found the tears that had slipped from your eyes, pressing soft kisses against them, as if to erase every doubt clouding your mind. Then, he trailed his way to your ear, his breath warm, his voice thick with something deep and unshakable.

"Yer the bonniest lass I’ve ever laid eyes on, hen. A few mair kilos’ll never change that, nae chance."

To emphasize his words, he guided your hand down, pressing it firmly against the hard outline straining against his boxers. "Feel how you make me, mo ghràidh." It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

His hand covered yours, holding it against his stomach as if to prove a point. Over time, since leaving the army, his body had changed. His once razor-sharp physique had softened under your care—home-cooked meals, lazy mornings where you traced shapes over his skin instead of rushing out of bed, moments where he finally let himself just be. His stomach was rounder now, still firm underneath but cushioned with a layer of comfort. And you loved it. You had told him countless times how much it suited him, how it meant he was here with you, healthy, safe.

"Ye can love me fat, but yer brain can't register that I love yers?" Johnny asked, his voice gentle but laced with frustration. Not with you—never with you—but with the way your own mind had become your worst critic.

You hesitated, teeth pressing into your lip. "It's different," you mumbled, though even you weren’t sure how.

"How come?" he challenged, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. Eyes that saw you—not just your body, but everything you were. Everything he adored.

When you stayed silent, he smirked. "Exactly."

Making his way back, he gently rested his head on your bare stomach. "This grew our wee lamb, it was his home for months, keepin’ him safe an’ warm. How could ye ever think I’d hate the body that gave me the most precious thing?"

His words settled deep within you, wrapping around your heart like a warm embrace. You felt the soft brush of his stubble against your stomach as he placed another reverent kiss there, his hands smoothing over your sides, grounding you.

Johnny turned his head, pressing his cheek against your belly, his arms wrapping around your waist like he never wanted to let go. Your fingers threaded through his short hair, your chest tightening with emotion.

Just to be sure you understood, his gaze never left yours as he slid your panties off. Slowly, he parted your legs, settling himself between them.

His kisses grew softer as he started on your inner thigh, trailing upward until he reached your clit. It had been so long, and you were so sensitive—every touch sent a shiver through you. But it was the way he watched you, eyes locked onto yours, that made it impossible to focus on anything but the way his lips closed around the bundle of nerves.

He had always been good with his mouth—well, he was good with everything, really. Never once had he put himself above you. You had to come before he even thought about himself.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t rutting against the mattress, desperate for some relief as he took his time devouring you.

He wasn’t in a hurry. He had all the time in the world. One hand worked its way inside you, fingers curling just right, while the other rested on your stomach, rubbing and gripping as if he couldn’t get enough of you. He moaned against your clit at the feel of you, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

Leaving your stomach, his hand found your breast, his big palm cupping and kneading with a tenderness that sent warmth straight to your core. Your nipples had been overly sensitive since the baby, and the slightest stimulation sent a shock through you, triggering your orgasm without warning.

It crashed over you before you could even gasp out his name, your body trembling beneath him.

Johnny groaned at the way you pulsed against his tongue, lost in it, slurping hungrily like a man starved. He didn’t waste a single drop, making sure to take everything you gave him, his grip tightening as if he could hold you together through the overwhelming pleasure.

When he had enough of you—well, when you started gripping his hair a little too tight from the overstimulation—he finally let go, settling once again on your soft belly. He pressed gentle kisses there, unable to get enough of you. But he knew it was too much for now, so he made himself comfortable for the night.

"Johnny?" you murmured sleepily, still lost in the lingering pleasure, confused as to why he wasn’t fucking you into oblivion. His hard dick was still pressed against your thigh.

"Dinnae worry ‘bout little Johnny, bonnie," he chuckled softly, kissing your body once more. "Just close yer eyes."

You hummed, still dazed, your body melting into the mattress as sleep crept in. But the weight of him, the warmth of him, the undeniable press of his arousal against your thigh—it all made your heart squeeze.

"But—" you mumbled, barely coherent, reaching out to touch his face.

He caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Shh, ma love. The night was for ye." he whispered, voice thick with something deeper than lust. "Just wanted tae remind ye how fuckin’ perfect ye are."

His words settled deep, warmer than any blanket. And as he nuzzled against your stomach, grounding himself in you, you finally let yourself believe it.

Little did you know, Johnny was already scheming, eager to make your body a home for another one of his wee lambs. The thought of you round with his child again, glowing with the life you created together, had him nearly feral. He could already picture it—your soft curves growing fuller, your hands cradling the swell of your belly, his baby safe and warm inside you. Aye, he couldn’t wait.

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mamawasatesttube · 2 months ago

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not to be predictable but i keep thinking about this post as timkon... like WHERE is tim in a hospital bed being the worst patient known to mankind, throwing a whole tantrum because he doesn't LIKE being drugged and he wants to LEAVE and yes he KNOWS that's against medical advice but LISTEN HERE he KNOWS you have discharge against medical advice forms and he WANTS ONE, NOW--

and then kon walks in and his blood pressure on the monitor visibly decreases. no more yelling and grousing and bitching. instantly just oh 🥺 hi kon 🥺 kissy please? 🥺 👉 👈

#rimi talks #timkon #tim #kon #the thing about tim is that he is a wife guy. and kon is his beautiful wife who makes the world a brighter place.#if there was a knight emoji he would unironically use it and kon would laugh at him but also be like omg tim <3 fluttering his eyelashes

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richeeduvie · 2 months ago

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SHIFTING ✭ DRABBLE

When witnessing you "flirting" with Robby, Jack attempts to cope with the way you, or the feelings he has for you, are changing him.

✭��.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

THE LENGTHS PART ONE

PART ONE DESCRIPTION: Jack meets the new nurse Robbie's been fawning over, only to then take the next couple of nights to pathetically cope with what he's feeling for the peppy, sunny young woman he's just met.

��・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

Think of Jack Abbott not being able to help the man he's becoming because of you. There's almost a point where he wants to blame you, but he'd never do that. He could never do that. But there's the problem, as capable and beautiful as you are, he shouldn't think you're perfect. Or innocent. Even in love. Even when he can finally accept the way his bones tense and his blood rushes around you, even when he becomes brave and secure enough in himself to almost feel entitled to the way he thinks and feels about you. He shouldn't look at you with a reverence you'd only reserve for...God. Or Jesus. Either one.

This is not the man he is. Even when he's falling for someone. What exactly are you doing to him?

"You're biting your lip again. That's your "I'm about to yell at Robby through the margins of the chart" face. What is it?"

There's nothing like sound mechanical symphony of beeping monitors and overhead pages to aid in witnessing you flirting with Robby yet fucking again. It would've been a month ago that Jack's annoyance would've been chalked up to the slight unprofessionalism of you two distracting him and other staff, but Jack can...possibly admit it now, he thinks it's flirting, and it's getting to him.

It's just that, even if he likes you, why is it getting to him so fucking badly?

"Excuse me, I never yell at you through the chart. And I am also...just now...communicating feedback."

"...No. You never have. But I'm sure I'll agree with your passive-aggressive, very legible "feedback."

"I've been told my handwriting is perfectly readable and bubbly."

"Much like yourself. I agree."

You laugh, nudging Robby with your elbow. Dr. Robby to you. Always professional in name, even if you're practically turning Jack's best friend into mush.

Jack squeezes the clipboard in his hand when he stops hiding behind the corner. A month ago, even if your peppy conversations with others spread like wildfire over his chest, the guy would've never actually have stopped behind the wall to eavesdrop on said conversation...to collect more material to get pissed at.

He's not the same man he was a month ago, and he's certainly not the guy he used to be before he met you. But he guesses that's the point, every time you meet someone, you'll never be the same person you were the second before they walk through the door.

And every time you catch his eye and offer that blinding, casual smile, Jack has no choice but to think the person he's regressing into is worth it if it means he has you. You. You. You.

Awfully capable and genius and horrifically beautiful.

But still, Jack hates the twitch of his jaw when he realizes that smile you're giving him right now is a shared one. Not completely his. That it would've been if you just stuck to night shifts like he suggested.

"How’s that post-op gallbladder doing in 9?"

You salute him. Robby smiles something at him that's almost an amused disbelief. But why are you amused, brother? You know her so well, you work together in ease as if you've known her more than the four months she's been working in the Pitt.

"Stable. Labs are improving. I already rechecked his hemoglobin, too—holding steady."

"Good. Let me know if his belly gets tense or he spikes again. No heroic discharges."

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

Jack nods. Starts to walk away.

"That’s her way of saying, 'Don’t micromanage me, old man.' Am I on the nose or--”

Jack blinks to the floor when you laugh. He stops mid-stride and turns slightly.

"Stop, you’re gonna get me reassigned to nights."

Just enough to let his eyes linger on his best friend. The closest man he's ever known. One of the best doctors he's ever seen. Jack could hope that if you were another pretty and sickeningly wonderful girl, the grip of his fists would be just as tight as it is now, because the ridiculous hellfire of his pangy-fucky-jealousy wouldn't be the result of you and you alone. It'd be on him.

It'd be on the type of man he becomes when he...when he...

“What was wrong with your night shifts?”

“…Nothin, Dr. Abbott. Just riffing.”

"Well. Glad you two are enjoying yourselves."

...When he falls in love. Fuck him.

But this is not him. The way his voice goes flat and casual is not him, but it's what he says and what he feels because of you and you and you--this sunny little nurse who knows too much for her own good.

There’s a beat. A weird silence. Robby furrows his brow. You straighten instinctively, and Jack almost feels guilty, but that held confidence in his sharp, accusing quip is also who you're making him become. And maybe he'll be sorry for that.

"We are, yeah. Helps the shift go by faster."

"Right. I'll see you."

Jack walks off without another word. Sure. Maybe he'll be sorry for that tonight. Maybe he won't be when he gets home, because he'll be too close to blaming you when he thinks of every time you've smiled at him today, and he wonders--no, he thinks that you have to know.

"Did I miss something?"

"No… I mean, I don’t think so."

And Jack could be sorry when your voice betrays the uncertainty...when it almost sounds...hurt. He can't because he isn't there, but if he were-- if Jack saw how his comments spiked you, maybe he'd actually try to stop himself from the man he's becoming.

But he doesn't. So. He'll act like this all over again tomorrow. He's very proud of himself.

"Did you see her handle that psych hold last night? You know, when I was a kid, I was a huge fan of WWE...for some reason, and that's what it was. He was swinging that chair like he was in WWE and she--"

Jack pauses at the sound of your name.

"She kept her cool. And he was handled like that. I would've cried. Maybe."

"Enough with the goo-goo talk, Mel."

"You would've cried."

Mel says her statement to Santos in a way that isn't unkind, just flat.

"I--no! I would've been the last person to bawl. But...yeah, it's almost resent-able, the way it's like she's made of chamomile tea and ten hits of morphine."

"Um...I don't think, maybe--that resent-able's a word?"

"It’s wild, isn’t it? I know she’s a nurse, but every newbie follows her around like she’s an attending. It’s kinda hot."

"Um. I wouldn't say hot--"

"Work with me, Mel. Please. You're brilliant and no, HR is not right around the corner."

Jack can see Mel smile from where he's standing, as if it's worn with an "Oh, yeah. I can do this."

"Just be careful. I have a mind to think that, possibly, Dr. Robinavitch is already interested in her. Please don't tell anyone that I even think that. I don't--really even think that? It's more so an observation that could totally be misconstrued as--"

"Yeah, well...he probably wouldn't be the only one."

"...Who are we referring to?"

The girls leave with singular laughter, but Jack doesn't move. And again, he'd never linger on a conversation just to make himself...twitch, and get tense.

But here he is, his face calm with a breathing that's steady--but shallow, sharp. He stares at the floor as if trying to reason with himself. It’s nothing. They were joking. It was just talk.

But the words—not the only one—they keep echoing.

Who else? Who else but Robby and everyone fucking else?

His mind flashes to how you laughed with Robby earlier in the day, tossing a roll of gauze at his head. How you snuck a granola bar into Perlah's and Mohan’s scrub pockets, or the way you called Santos "Santi" while you patched her up and got her tested when she got stuck with a needle.

Everyone loves you. Everyone's drawn to you. But before, that would've only been an observation, something to tease you over. Not something to turn make his fist bleed.

He bled for people before, got his leg blown up for them. Killed for them, in a different life. But that was for country, and even though that’s a lie in itself, that made sense. There was purpose he found in that for a moment.

How is his rage and blood and...entitlement over you purpose? Even if he could ever...ever actually love you mutually? How could this all be worth something?

Who else?

"Abbott! What--what happened? What the fuck happened?"

Jack opens his fist. He didn't realize he was dripping onto the floor, that thin line made by the depths of his nails. He blinks at his wound, and barely at Dana.

"Jack, you alright?"

"...I guess it's time for sutures. I didn't mean to--wow. Did not mean to color the floor. Sorry, Dana. I'll call Ahmad, I think he's on tonight."

"...Jack--"

Jack begins to walk away, he can feel their charge nurse follow and fail to.

"Do not clean this up. That's not your job. Hell, it's not Ahmad's. I'll be back with towels."

Is that it? Would it feel any more...worth it if he did have you? Would he be easier on the man he's becoming if he had you? God, hopefully not. Hopefully he'd get his fucking act together, because look. Apparently, it's dangerous. Bloody.

Either way, he'd have to become worthy of having you in the first place, and that's never gonna fucking happen.

#hc's #drabble #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #jack abbott x reader #jack abbott x you #jack abbott x female reader #jack abbott fanfic #jack abbott fic #jack abbot/reader #the pitt fic #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #jack abbott #dr abbott x reader #dr abbott x you #jack abbot #pittposting

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miihealth · 10 months ago

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health monitoring devices for home are invaluable tools for older adults, offering both independence and peace of mind. Coupled with conversational AI in healthcare, these devices become even more powerful, providing personalized, user-friendly interactions that simplify health management.

#post-discharge monitoring #new technology in healthcare #virtual health assistant #hospital at home #usa #healthcare #older adults #caregiver blog

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camficdiner · 1 month ago

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Jack Hughes, you're his rehab doctor, smut to soft, 1,5k words

☕ Cam’s Fic Diner – Order 003

This one came in sticky-sweet and full of tension — just how I like it 😌

Thank you for trusting me with your cravings.

Served warm, slow, and just a little bit dangerous. 💌

-your favorite server

💬 “More Than Muscle Memory”

✨description and prompts

•Character: Jack Hughes

• Prompt you’re his rehab doctor

•Trope: smut\ soft

•WC: ~1500

🛼✨🍒🧁

The hospital is in complete chaos when you start your shift, the dim orange hue of sunset casting long shadows across the white-tiled floors. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and fresh gauze, but there’s something else too—tension.

You walk in wearing your navy scrubs, a coffee in one hand and your tablet in the other, heading straight into the rehab section. You expect the usual quiet buzz, maybe the occasional moan from someone working through pain or a nurse tapping away at her computer.

Instead, you’re greeted by hurried footsteps, clipped voices, and wide eyes.

Weird for this hour.

You catch sight of your intern, Adam, leaning against the desk with his phone in hand, looking more overwhelmed than usual. Kind kid, smart too, but clearly rattled.

“Hey,” you ask, setting your coffee down. “What’s going on? Everyone’s acting like we’ve got a five-alarm emergency.”

Adam glances up at you, his mouth already partway open. He looks like he can’t believe what he’s about to say.

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

“The NHL superstar Jack Hughes is here,” he blurts. “He went under surgery a couple of hours ago. Shoulder injury. Nasty hit during the game.”

You blink at him, processing.

Jack Hughes. Of course. That name’s impossible to escape—even if you’re not a hockey fan. One of the brightest stars in the league, young, magnetic, constantly under the spotlight. And now… he’s here?

Your thoughts start racing.

“Oh…” you mutter. “That means, when he’s discharged from surgery and cleared, they’ll send him to me for rehab.”

You sigh, rubbing your temple.

“This is going to be a mess.”

Dealing with athletes during post-injury rehab was never easy. Especially not the elite kind. Stubborn, impatient, desperate to get back on the ice before their bodies were ready. You’ve had your fair share of fights trying to keep them from tearing stitches or ignoring pain signals.

“They’re sending him here now,” Adam adds, just as a nurse comes hurrying past, murmuring something into her radio.

Great.

You toss back the last of your coffee and mutter, “Let’s get this over with.”

You don’t expect him to look so… human.

Sure, he’s taller in person than you thought, even slightly slouched in the wheelchair they’ve brought him in with. He’s wearing a loose hoodie, one arm immobilized and strapped tightly to his chest. His cap is pulled down low, but you can still see those unmistakable blue eyes beneath the brim—bloodshot and tired.

He looks at you with the wariness of someone who’s been poked, prodded, and spoken over all day. The kind of fatigue you know too well.

“I’m Dr. Y/L/N,” you say, stepping forward. “I’ll be handling your physical therapy and rehab.”

He gives you a once-over, his expression unreadable. “Didn’t expect rehab to start tonight.”

“It’s just an intake,” you reply coolly. “Vitals, evaluation, and I’ll walk you through the next few weeks. Actual therapy starts once your surgeon clears you post-op. Should be within a few days.”

Jack nods, but you can already sense it—that edge athletes get when they’re out of control. You know he’s already counting down the days until he’s back on the ice.

You guide him into a quiet private room at the end of the hall. Adam follows behind, wheeling the portable monitor and supplies.

“I’ll take it from here,” you tell him. He nods and excuses himself, thankfully.

Once the door shuts behind him, you turn to Jack. He watches you like he’s trying to figure you out.

You pull on gloves and begin the intake, checking vitals, gently inspecting the bruising around his shoulder.

“Any pain right now?” you ask.

He shrugs with his good arm. “Only when I breathe.”

You crack a small smile. “That’s normal post-op. You’ll feel like you’ve been hit by a truck for a couple of days.”

“I was hit by a truck. His name’s Chris,” Jack mutters.

Despite yourself, you laugh.

He glances at you again—longer this time.

“You’re not like the others,” he says suddenly.

You raise an eyebrow. “What others?”

“Everyone else today either stared at me like I’m a zoo animal or didn’t talk to me at all. You’re just… doing your job.”

“Well, that is what I’m paid to do,” you reply, but something about his voice makes your stomach twist. You soften, just a little. “You’ve had a rough day. I’m not gonna add to it.”

Something shifts in him, just barely.

“Thanks.”

You look up and meet his eyes. There’s something there—fatigue, sure, but also warmth. Interest. Curiosity.

You ignore the spark in your chest and keep your voice professional.

“We’ll get started on your initial exercises later this week,” you say. “For now, rest. Let your body recover from the surgery. We’ll take it one day at a time.”

He nods. Then, smirking faintly: “You’ll go easy on me, right?”

“Not a chance.”

[Fast-forward: two weeks later]

Jack’s progress is steady. Too steady. You’ve had to slow him down three times already, and every session ends with some kind of verbal sparring match—him pushing, you holding him back.

But underneath it all, a rhythm is developing.

He flirts. You ignore it. (Mostly.)

He teases. You stay focused. (Barely.)

And when he touches your hand just a second longer than necessary, you pretend not to notice. (But you do.)

It’s subtle, but something’s building.

Until one late afternoon—empty clinic, golden light casting long shadows, just the two of you in the rehab room—things tip.

He’s shirtless, sweat clinging to his skin, chest rising and falling after a tough set of resistance work. You step closer to adjust the band he’s using, and his hand catches your wrist.

You freeze.

“I’m not just imagining this, am I?” he asks quietly.

Your heart stutters.

“This?”

He leans closer, still holding your wrist. “Whatever’s been going on between us.”

You could lie. You should lie.

But you don’t.

“No,” you say, barely a whisper. “You’re not imagining it.”

Jack doesn’t give you much time to second-guess.

He leans in, slow and sure, giving you every chance to pull away. But you don’t. His mouth brushes yours—gentle, almost cautious—and the warmth of it settles deep in your chest.

The kiss grows, unfolding between you like something inevitable.

When his hand slips to the small of your back, you press in instinctively, hands curling at the hem of his sweat-damp shirt. His skin is warm beneath your fingertips—so much muscle, all coiled and tense under your touch. The kind of body sculpted by relentless training and now humbled by injury.

But right now, he’s just Jack.

Not the NHL star. Not the patient.

Just a man kissing you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

He exhales against your lips. “Been thinking about this since the first day.”

You let out a shaky breath. “This is a terrible idea.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “Still want it.”

So do you.

You guide him back gently, your hands on his shoulders, lowering him onto the therapy table—this time not for rehab. He watches you, eyes dark and reverent, as you straddle his lap, careful of his injured shoulder. His good hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek like you’re something delicate.

“You sure?” he asks, even now.

“I’m sure.”

You kiss him again, slower this time. Deeper. His lips part for you, and your tongue brushes his, soft and wet and warm, your bodies shifting in sync. You slide your fingers beneath the waistband of his gym shorts, feeling the sharp intake of his breath.

“God,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You’re driving me insane.”

“You started it,” you say, a smile playing on your lips as you move down his neck, kissing gently along the column of his throat, tasting salt and skin and adrenaline.

His hand roams your waist, fingertips teasing the hem of your scrubs before slipping beneath. You guide him, helping him undress you with quiet urgency until you’re in nothing but your bra and panties, straddling him with flushed cheeks and wild heartbeat.

He looks up at you like he’s seeing something holy.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re beautiful.”

You kiss him harder, swallowing the compliment, needing him closer.

One hand trails down your thigh, then between your legs, testing the softness of your underwear, the damp heat building there. You shiver against his touch, hips rocking into his fingers.

He groans low, like the sound is pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Can I?” he asks, eyes flicking to your underwear, then back to your face.

“Yes,” you whisper.

He slips them to the side and slides a finger through your folds, slow and exploratory, learning your body by feel. You moan softly, fingers tightening in his hair.

“You’re so wet,” he says, voice tight with restraint.

You reach for him next, hand slipping into his shorts, wrapping around him—hard and hot and pulsing in your palm. He exhales a curse against your collarbone, thrusting into your grip.

“Condom?” you ask breathlessly.

He nods, fumbling one out of the small zipper pouch in his gym bag on the nearby chair—blushing slightly, despite everything.

“You came prepared?” you tease.

“Hopeful,” he says, grinning through a nervous laugh.

You help him roll it on with shaking hands, then position yourself over him. His hands steady your hips as you sink down, inch by inch, taking him inside slowly, carefully—he’s thick, the stretch making your thighs tremble.

Jack’s jaw clenches, breath leaving him in a rush. “Jesus. You feel incredible.”

You ride him slowly at first, your bodies slotting together like you were always meant to fit. He moves his good hand from your hip to your waist, pulling you down to kiss you again—messy and open-mouthed, lips dragging along yours as your rhythm builds.

His injured shoulder stays cradled to his chest, but it doesn’t matter. The rest of him is focused, strong, devoted entirely to the way you move on top of him.

It’s not just sex.

It’s connection.

The way his eyes never leave yours.

The way he whispers your name like a prayer.

The way he kisses your jaw every time your hips roll down just right.

You feel the orgasm creeping in like a tide—warm and slow and overwhelming.

“I’m close,” you whisper, forehead against his.

“Let go,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You fall apart around him with a soft cry, your body tightening as pleasure spills over you. Jack holds you through it, murmuring praises into your skin until he follows with a gasp, hips stuttering as he comes inside you, fingers digging into your waist.

For a long time, there’s only the sound of your breath.

You rest your head on his shoulder, mindful of his injury. He wraps his arm around your back, palm splayed wide.

Eventually, he speaks.

“Okay,” he says, voice light but sincere, “that was way better than any of the rehab I’ve done here.”

You laugh against his skin, still catching your breath. “You’re gonna have to keep this injury a little longer, huh?”

He kisses your forehead. “Only if it means more of… this.”

You hum softly, unsure where this is going—but somehow okay with that.

Because whatever this is…

It’s real.

And it’s just getting started.

Thanks for stopping by the counter 💌

If the story hit the spot, the tip jar’s by the register →

ko-fi.com/camficdiner 🍒

#jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes smut #jh86 imagine #jh86 x reader #jh86 #jack hughes fic #camficdiner

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mylovewasbulletproof · 7 days ago

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Catalyst pt 4

Jack Abbot x attending amputee reader

Here’s pt 3 if you missed it

Synopsis: your life post accident and your relationship with Jack

Here’s the final part of the catalyst series! I hope you’ve enjoyed it :)

warnings: hurt/comfort, injury recovery, side effects of skull fracture, medical inaccuracies, confessions of love

——————————————————————

Recovery was hard. It wasn’t like you expected it to be easy but it was so much harder than you imagined. Your intense therapy regimen began before you were even discharged, so that they could monitor you. It was during these therapies that complications began to show.

You were definitely still dealing with some residual dizziness, brain fog, headaches, balance and coordination issues.

The first time they put on your prosthetic and had you stand up, you nearly toppled over. Your center of balance was completely off. Luckily, Jack and your physical therapist were right next to you. His hands finding your waist easily.

Despite the fact that Gloria was going on and on about staffing, she let Jack take the first two weeks off when you came home. You couldn’t be on your own until a doctor fully cleared you and you had no family in the area. She didn’t really have a choice though, Jack threatened to call out every single day if he had to.

The day you went home felt like a personal win for everyone in your life: your doctors, coworkers, friends, yourself and Jack. Nobody really said it out loud but there were times when they weren’t sure you’d pull through. As much as you hated riding in a wheelchair it was nice not to have to think about where you were going. You still knew your way around the hospital but it made your brain tired to think too hard about anything.

Jack had parked your wheelchair next to the nurses station in the Pitt, explaining he wanted to bring the car around so you wouldn’t have to walk very far. He didn’t say it out loud but he also left you there so you’d have some socialization from people who cared about you and vice versa. During your stay, aside from Jack, you refused other visitors. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see your friends, you actually really did. It was that you didn’t want your friends to see you like this.

“Oh honey, it’s so good to see you!” Dana slid over on her stool, subtly doing so to remain at your eye level without crouching down

“Hi Dana. It’s nice to see you too” you smiled softly

“Can I give you a hug? It’s just been so different without you around”

You nodded, leaning forward slightly to initiate the hug.

“When you’re feeling up to it, I want to hear all about you and Jack” she whispered, before letting you go from the hug

“I think we both know how we feel but there’s too much going on right now”

Your conversation naturally ended as Michael and Jack walked back towards you.

“You look so much better than the last time I saw you” Michael says grinning

“And unfortunately you look just as ugly as ever” you tease

“I am so glad your sass has remained intact throughout this experience. Go home and get some rest. Call if you need anything, both of you” Michael looks between you and Jack

——————————————————————

The ride to Jack’s place was short and sweet. There had been several lengthy conversations about whose apartment was better suited for your recovery. It was ultimately decided that Jack’s place was better for several reasons: it was closer to the hospital for follow-ups and therapies, it had all of Jack’s personal medical supplies (which certainly made him feel better) and it was on the second floor instead of the 8th. The last reason was really the tie breaker. But you had agreed to let Jack go to your apartment and bring some of your favorite comfort items to make Jack’s place feel more like home. You were pleasantly surprised at how cozy his guest room looked with all of your things from home. You had fallen asleep pretty quickly after arriving to Jack’s. Your energy levels had yet to fully bounce back.

While you rested, Jack kept himself busy. Spending so much time at the hospital with you had left a lot of household chores unfinished. He had only been at his apartment to sleep or get more clothes. Jack was in the process of folding some laundry when he heard a soft sound coming from the guest room. He put aside his laundry before approaching your door. He just wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything if you were awake. By the time he neared the door he could make out your whimpers.

Making his way into the guest room, Jack moved quietly, trying to gauge if he needed to wake you from your sleep. It became pretty apparent that he would need to wake you up as you began to kick your legs and grab at the blankets.

“Y/n, sweetheart, it’s okay. You’re safe. It’s just a dream. I’m right here” he spoke softly knowing how jarring it can be to wake up suddenly from a nightmare or flashback

Jack continued to whisper soft reassurances, eventually deciding to offer you his hand. Your movements slowed before stopping completely, your brows furrowing like it was difficult to peel your eyes open.

“That’s it. You’re okay” Jack murmured, tension melting away as you grabbed his hand

Your eyes lazily peeled open taking a second to find his. When you did, you produced an equally lazy smile that had Jack’s heart stuttering.

“There you are, my girl. How can I help?”

You pulled his hand closer to your chest, speaking in an almost whisper, “hold me please”

Jack perched himself on the edge of the bed, using one hand to slide off his prosthetic (as you kept his other hand hostage). He found his spot behind you, as if it was something he’d done a million times before. There was no way to accurately describe how natural and calming it felt to be holding you. It was like you were the last missing piece to the puzzle of his life.

——————————————————————

It didn’t take long before Jack ultimately just went to sleep in your bed instead of waiting to hear you get upset. Your therapist would say that you were using Jack as a security blanket and that it would be difficult for you to sleep after you’re cleared to live independently. She didn’t realize that neither of you had any intentions of allowing things to return to exactly the way they were.

Your bond with Jack continued to grow as you faced the ups and downs of recovery.

On good days, Jack deferred to you. Sometimes you went on a slow walk around the neighborhood, his arm wrapped around your waist as a steady support in case you got dizzy. Other good days consisted of cooking, reading, really anything that made you happy.

Bad days were more challenging. Depending on your symptoms sometimes you were stuck in bed with Jack attending to your every need. He’d lie next to you, gently rubbing your back, trying to provide some comfort. The worst days were when you were determined to make it a good day even when your symptoms were flaring.

The weather was getting nicer and as a result, you were becoming a little bit stir crazy being stuck in the apartment. So you and Jack had made a plan to pack a picnic and spend the day at your favorite local park. You were really looking forward to it. So when you woke up that morning and the world was immediately spinning, you refused to let it cancel your plans. The hard part would be trying to hide your symptoms from Jack. Unfortunately he had developed the ability to read you like an open book.

You flung a hand out sideways, confirming that Jack was no longer in bed with you before attempting to get out of bed. Getting yourself into a seated position was a struggle and getting to the en-suite bathroom was even harder. With your hands braced out in front of you, you leaned on every piece of furniture between you and that bathroom. There were several times where you almost fell and you knew if Jack heard you fall, it would only be a matter of time before he realized you wouldn’t be able to handle leaving the apartment today. By the time you reach the bathroom, gripping both sides of the counter, you couldn’t even remember exactly why you had come to the bathroom in the first place. You decided that going the bathroom and brushing your teeth was probably the reason and begun to complete that routine.

You were pretty tired after getting ready for the day (which you found incredibly ironic). But you knew Jack had heard you fumbling around in the bathroom as he let you know from the kitchen that breakfast was almost ready. You sat on the edge of the bed, practicing some of the strategies your neurologist had recommended for when you got dizzy. It seemed to help enough that you felt confident walking down to the kitchen.

Jack greets you from the stove, not needing to turn around to feel that you were in the room. He knew better than to ask how you were feeling. You had put an end to that on a particularly bad day when you snapped at him when he asked how you were feeling after physical therapy.

“Good morning. When did you wake up?” You ask, knowing Jack had his fair share of sleeping problems

“Not too long ago, I wanted to start packing for our picnic” Jack shrugs, placing a plate with pancakes down in front of you.

Looking down at the plate and utensils, you realized Jack had already put your rubber grip on your fork. You were still having a hard time pinching items to hold them, which made it difficult to hold utensils. The rubber grip added additional surface area, allowing for your hands to do a slightly modified grip until your dexterity returned. Jack had been so attuned to every need you might have during your recovery period. He made sure you had access to all the adaptive equipment and modifications that you needed. And the way that he did it, so effortless, made you feel less like a burden. He acted as if all the extra things that you needed were a normal part of every day life.

After you both had finished eating, there were a couple of things that needed to be gathered from around the apartment before you could leave. Jack moved around the apartment with ease, taking care of some of the items more out of reach. You were tasked with filling up the metal water bottles Jack had wanted to pack. As you stood at the fridge, filling up the first water bottle, you were hit with a sudden wave of dizziness. The kitchen counter tilted violently next to the fridge, your hand shook, sloshing water over the sides of the water bottle. You were worried you might actually tip over, so you reached for the counter. In the process of steadying yourself the metal water bottle slipped out of your hand, crashing onto the kitchen tile with an extra loud clang.

You blinked — wishing away your brain injury and all the stupid residual side effects — and Jack was next to you, offering a steady hand on one side of your hip. His other hand cupped your cheek gently, tilting your gaze towards him, so that he could inconspicuously medically check you.

“You alright darling?” Jack asked

“M’fine. A little dizzy. Nothing new. Sorry I dropped the water bottle” you mumbled, turning to lean against the counter, burying yourself in Jack’s chest

“Nothing to worry about. Easily cleaned up. Are you sure you’re feeling up to the picnic?”

You groaned, trying to delay the inevitable conversation that was about to happen. You would try and convince Jack that you were fine, sometimes it worked but most times it failed. It’s hard to mask symptoms around a doctor, something you knew all too well. It wasn’t that you didn’t agree. There was still a logical, scientific part of your brain that could understand where Jack was coming from. If you were your own patient, you’d be giving the same advice Jack gives to you.

Much to Jack’s surprise, you agree that it isn’t the best idea to take a walk down to the park when you could barely keep yourself standing. You don’t even complain when Jack suggests that you rest in your bedroom with a warm compress on your eyes.

——————————————————————-

You must have dozed off for a while. The sun had shifted, casting long shadows of light onto the wall across from you. Feeling much better, you stretch before deciding to try and find Jack. He was always around somewhere. He hadn’t quite felt comfortable enough to leave you completely alone.

Your heart leaped as you emerged from the hallway into the living room. Jack had moved the coffee table and created a cozy picnic area. A blanket was spread across the carpet, pillows leaning up against the couch, along with the picnic basket and your favorite blanket.

“You seemed so disappointed that you couldn’t go on our picnic so I brought the picnic to you”

“I can’t believe you did this all for me. I’m so thankful for you. I don’t know that I would’ve survived everything that’s happened without you” you step closer to Jack, taking his outstretched hand

“I love you Y/N and I know the timing isn’t right and there are so many reasons why you shouldn’t want to date someone like me. But I’ve loved you since you walked in those doors your intern year and I’m tired of being quiet about it.”

As Jack pulled you closer, you took the next step, closing the distance between you and pressing a soft but passionate kiss to his lips before whispering, “I love you too”

#jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #the pitt #the pitt x reader

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clioerato · 4 months ago

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About Scars (on the face and the soul) Part 1

I've seen a lot of fanfics and fan arts where post-Upside Down Eddie struts around with badass facial scars. And sure — it’s cool, it’s hot, I love scars. I’ve got some myself (just not on my face). But here’s the thing: people seem to gloss over the fact that Eddie is a twenty-year-old, painfully single, possibly canonically gay guy living in a tiny town. And now he’s got a big, “ugly” scar across his face. Let’s not forget — most of that town already thought he was a freak, a weirdo, a satanist. Now, when he looks in the mirror, those insults aren’t just words — they’re his reflection. Who would want to be with him? With all his baggage, with that “ugliness,” with the nightmares that don’t end when he wakes up? We need to explore that side of the story more.

After everything that happened in the Upside Down, Eddie simply vanished.

The last time Steve saw him was in the hospital, though calling it a “visit” was generous—Eddie was unconscious, and all Steve could do was sit there, watching the twitch of his eyelashes and the gentle rise and fall of his chest. It calmed Steve, the way the ocean or a crackling campfire might calm someone else. He clung to the sound of Eddie’s breathing, to the warmth of his hand, letting himself drown in the relief that Eddie was alive.

There was only one thing Steve wanted more than that—he wanted Eddie to wake up. He wanted to finally talk about the endless, desperate flirting that happened between them in the rare lulls between saving the world. Steve had things to say. Things to offer, if Eddie was willing. They’d survived another apocalypse, and Steve wasn’t such a damn coward that he’d let something real slip away because of a crisis over labels. Especially not after all those late-night talks with Robin. Lots and lots of talks, if we’re being honest.

But the moment Eddie opened his eyes, everything fell apart.

First, he stopped allowing visitors. Nurses just shook their heads and said he’d insisted—only immediate family. And when he was discharged, he disappeared from the Party’s life as abruptly as he’d entered it. Not even Dustin could reach him. The trailer park was gone, and no one had a clear idea where the government had relocated him. But Steve had a guess.

Which is why he’d spent the last forty minutes knocking on every door in this block of identical gray houses, asking if anyone knew where Wayne and Eddie Munson lived. No luck so far.

He wasn’t desperate—really, he wasn’t. If Eddie didn’t want to see him, that was fine. They hadn’t made promises. Eddie had every right to cut him out. But Steve, who had been through four apocalypses now, knew what the aftermath could look like—panic attacks, nightmares, the cold, creeping terror that never really leaves. He knew those things well. He just wanted to make sure Eddie wasn’t drowning in them.

He lifted his hand to knock on yet another cardboard-thin door when it suddenly swung open—and Steve found himself face to face with a balding man. He recognized him instantly. He’d seen him during those long hours at Eddie’s bedside.

He and Wayne hadn’t talked much—NDAs, age gaps, entirely different worlds—but they’d found a quiet rhythm. Trading vending machine coffee, sharing energy bars, draping each other with hospital blankets when the steady beep of a heart monitor lulled them into sleep in front of Eddie's hospital bed.

Steve: Uh… Wayne? I’m really glad I found you. Is Eddie home? Wayne: Steve? How the hell—did Eddie call you? Steve (awkwardly): No, not exactly. I’ve been… looking. I needed to make sure he was okay. Is he? Wayne: Hm. Look, kid. I don’t know what the hell happened with you two, and if I hadn’t seen you in that hospital, I wouldn’t let you past the porch. But… it’s you. Maybe he’ll talk to you. I’ve got to head out for work now, but promise me—if it looks like seeing you’s doing him more harm than good, you call me first and then you go. Deal? Steve: Yeah. Of course. I promise.

Wayne nodded and pulled a pen from his jacket. No paper—so he just scribbled his work number across the back of Steve’s hand and stepped aside, giving him a silent nod to enter.

The apartment was... empty. Gray. Bare, like it had just been moved into. Maybe it had. Steve didn’t know. But he’d expected more life here—more of Eddie’s chaos, his color, his fire.

Steve (clearing his throat): Eddie?

Something clattered behind a closed door. Not quite an answer, but not silence either. Steve walked toward it and knocked gently.

Steve: Eddie? Can I come in? Eddie (strained): Steve? No. Don’t come in. Steve: Okay, man. I won’t, if that’s what you want. But... we’re worried about you. I’m worried. Are you really okay? Eddie (softly): I’m fine. Now leave. Steve: Look, I’m not going anywhere until you look me in the eye and tell me that. I’ll wait. Eddie: So what, if I don’t come out, you’re just gonna sit there forever? Steve (seriously): Yeah. Eddie: ...Sure you will.

(Twenty minutes later)

Eddie: You’re not giving up, are you? Steve (quiet but firm): No.

Another sound from behind the door. Shuffling. Hesitant steps. Then—a click. The door opened a crack, just a few inches. Steve instinctively moved forward before Eddie’s voice stopped him.

Eddie: I said don’t come in.

Steve: Sorry. It’s just... I’m glad to see you. Even a little.

He couldn’t see much—just a glimpse of Eddie’s eyes, the curve of his mouth. Not enough to make out details in the dim room, but enough to know: Eddie was alive.

Eddie (with a bitter laugh): Yeah. Sorry, big boy. You probably don’t want to stand too close. I’m fresh off a tour of Hell, now with added undead vibes. Real charming. We could cosplay Beauty and the Beast for Halloween. All the candy’s mine.

There was something in his voice Steve didn’t recognize. Bitter. Self-loathing. And it pissed him off.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Eddie flinched, turning away, shrinking into himself. Not meeting Steve’s gaze. The first thing Steve noticed was the cane. Then his eyes moved upward—met Eddie’s eyes, skimmed over his nose, those full lips—and relief crashed over him.

He was alive. Eddie was alive.

But then Steve saw what Eddie had tried to hide. Jagged red scars slashed across his right cheek, stretching to the corner of his mouth, up toward his eyebrow. What bandages had concealed in the hospital was now exposed in raw, brutal truth.

Eddie (choked, fighting tears): Get out. Steve: Hey—it's okay. What’s going on? Eddie, talk to me. Eds…? Eddie (angrily, desperately): You found me. Happy now? You see it? The limp, the scars, the phantom pain that never lets up? I’m stitched together with fear and agony. I was a freak in high school, and now I look the part. Forever.

Steve (gently): Eddie, shhh... Can I—can I touch you?

Silence. Steve thought Eddie might be holding his breath.

Steve (softly): I don’t know what this feels like for you. I can’t take it away or fix it. But I saw you fight. I saw you save people when you could’ve run. You saved Dustin—he’s alive because of you. That matters. That never stops mattering. You’re not just your body. You’re... everything else.

Eddie (hoarsely): Jesus, you’re good at speeches, Harrington. But you forget something—I have to live like this now. Who the hell is gonna want this?

(He gestures bitterly at himself.)

You know, I used to have this stupid dream that one day I’d find someone. Someone to share my life with. But that dream ended with this goddamn scar.

Steve (smiling): I didn’t even notice it at first. Is it weird to say... it kinda suits you? Very metal.

Eddie: …

Eddie (finally, almost in a whisper): You really didn't notice the scar? Steve: No. I noticed you were alive. And… I noticed I missed you like an idiot.

Eddie let out a breath, quiet and shaky, like he'd been holding it this whole time. He didn’t smile—not really. But there was something in his eyes, something that flickered and caught light, like the last ember refusing to go out.

Eddie (quietly): You’re late.

Steve took a step forward, then stopped, his voice just above a whisper.

Steve: I got here as fast as I could.

Another pause. A heartbeat. Eddie’s fingers tightened slightly on the handle of his crutch, knuckles paling. But he didn’t move away.

Eddie: You still... drive me crazy, you know that?

Steve (softly, with a half-smile): Yeah. I was hoping that part hadn’t changed.

Their eyes locked again—no fear this time, no pretending. Just the quiet, aching truth between them. And then, so slowly it was almost imperceptible, Eddie gave the tiniest nod.

Steve stepped forward, closing the distance until their noses brushed. His eyes locked onto Eddie’s, catching the dilated pupils and the faint flush rising to his cheeks.

And this time, Eddie didn’t stop him. ✨ If you like my stories and vibes, you can support me here: [Ko-fi]

#headcanon #ao3 fanfic #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #eddie x steve #writing prompt #stranger things #steddie fic #steve x eddie #steddie ficlet #ficlet #ao3 writer #ao3 author #writers

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yongility · 5 months ago

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NEO TV # i like me better when i'm with you ꗃ╭╯ jung jaehyun.

──────── chapter ⵌ9: the choices of a (dead) man.

𒄬 genre: slowburn / angst / suggestive / gang au / rich kid au / e2l

𒄬 warnings: drug use mention / gang activity / fights / use of weapons / adult language / nsfw scenes / illegal activities / mentions of cheating / toxic family enviroment / addictions / manipulation / insecurities / illegal street racing / death mentions / jeno is jaehyun's brother / lots of angst. for this ch I want to clarify that this is for fictional purposes, some things might not be accurate to real-life situations (like the witness program, yes I did my research but if I wanted to add it to the story or make it work it, I need to twist it).

𒄬word count: 5.6k

𒄬 a/n: wait— before you read this i want to say that next chapter (10) will be the end of the series (i'm positive i'll post an epilogue as a bonus scene), so we reached to the very and really climax of the story— i'm sorry teehee. I know I've put a lot of push and pull shit but what can I say? I'm a girl who loves drama. I'll make it better... maybe. But for real— i'd like to read what you think of the story so far and mostly because i'm posting two chapters in a week, something that rarely happens in this blog lol.

Three days before the exchange— the morning after Daeho's OD. 7:34 am.

Life sometimes felt like the ocean—constantly shifting, never still. (Y/N) wished, just for a moment, that her ocean could be calm. That the waves would soften, that the breeze would brush against her skin with warmth instead of chilling her to the bone. That the sand beneath her feet would bring comfort instead of uncertainty.

But life didn’t work that way.

Right now, her ocean was drowning her. The waves crashed violently against her chest, pulling her under, stealing the air from her lungs. The storm raged on, wild and merciless, leaving her lost in the chaos of her own mind.

Her gaze was hollow, unfocused, locked onto one of the sterile white walls of the hospital waiting room. The chair beneath her felt ice-cold, but it wasn’t just the temperature. It was the weight of the moment. The way her body trembled, the way her pulse hammered against her ribs.

Because no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop seeing it—the image burned into her mind, replaying like a cruel, unrelenting film.

Daeho, sprawled across the floor of their lake house.

His body unnaturally still. His lips chapped.

Her hands pressing against his chest, desperately searching for a pulse, feeling the faintest flicker of life beneath her fingertips. The suffocating helplessness. The sheer, gut-wrenching terror.

She had almost lost him.

A strangled sob broke free from her throat, and she quickly buried her face in her hands. Tears slipped through her fingers, hot and relentless.

She couldn’t lose Daeho. Not him. Not after everything.

Tick—tock.

… Toe.

Time had become meaningless. She had no idea how long she had been sitting there, how many hours had passed since the wail of sirens had filled her ears, since her screams had shattered the night.

When the doctor finally entered the waiting room, (Y/N) inhaled sharply, wiping her tears in a futile attempt to appear composed. She rose to her feet, her parents mirroring her actions, tension hanging heavy in the air.

“We’ve managed to stabilize Mr. Hwang.”

The breath she had been holding finally escaped her lips, shaking, unsteady.

“We found a significant amount of heroin in his system,” the doctor continued. “After stabilizing his breathing, we administered Naloxone to counteract the effects of the opioid. His body is still adjusting, but we will continue monitoring him closely. He might be ready to be discharged by tomorrow morning— we’ll let you know when you can visit.”

“Thank you, doctor,” (Y/N) whispered, her voice raw, almost breaking. “Will he be okay?”

The doctor hesitated. “Physically, yes. But overdoses… they rarely happen just once. If it’s reached this point, it’s likely to happen again unless he gets proper help. Not just medical, but emotional and professional support. That’s a discussion you need to have as a family.”

With a polite nod, the doctor excused himself, leaving the weight of his words behind.

(Y/N) exhaled shakily and leaned against the nearest wall, pressing her palm to her forehead.

She wasn’t prepared for the storm that was still approaching.

Because she knew her aunt and uncle were already on their way. The moment they had been notified of the incident, they had taken the first available flight to Kwangya. And now, as they burst through the waiting room doors, their urgency made the air even heavier.

“I can’t believe this happened,” Daeho’s mother seethed, her voice laced with irritation rather than concern. “We leave him alone for one moment, and this is what he does?”

“The doctor just informed us that he’s stable,” (Y/N)’s father interjected, his tone calm, detached.

“That boy is nothing but trouble,” her uncle snapped. “We can’t control him anymore—do you have any idea what our business partners will think when they find out about this mess? The successor to our company overdosing like some street addict?”

(Y/N) felt something inside her snap.

Her breath hitched, her vision blurred—not from tears, but from sheer, unfiltered rage.

“That’s what you care about?” she whispered, her voice shaking with disbelief. “What do people think? Daeho almost died, and all you can think about is your reputation?”

Her mother’s sharp gaze snapped to her. “(Y/N), that’s enough.”

“No,” she shot back, stepping forward. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Daeho is lying in a hospital bed because of what you put him through! Because you treat him like an asset instead of a son! Because you suffocate him with pressure until he feels like the only way to breathe is through a needle in his vein!”

Her uncle’s eyes darkened. “And you? You’re just as guilty. You cover for him. You make excuses for him. You enable him.”

“My fault?” (Y/N) let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “I have been the only one who’s actually been there for him! While you ignored him, while you pretended he was fine, while you let him drown in his own pain, I was the one keeping him afloat! And now—now you want to act like you care?”

Her father sighed, rubbing his temples. “That’s enough. This conversation is pointless. We’ve already made a decision.”

(Y/N) froze, dread curling in her stomach. “What decision?”

“We’re sending Daeho to the States,” he said without looking at her. “He’ll be admitted into a rehabilitation center. He won’t return until his condition is under control.”

Her mother stepped in, her tone final. “And you will be sent to the States as well. You'll be transfer to a private school to finish your final year.”

(Y/N) felt the ground beneath her shift. “What? You can’t just ship us off to another country!” she snapped. “You can’t do this—especially not now! We’re months away from graduation—”

Her mother’s gaze was steely. “This is not up for debate.”

Her uncle folded his arms, voice dripping with disdain. “Frankly, it’s about time. You’ve been running around with that gang boy long enough.”

Her mother stepped closer, her grip tightening around (Y/N)’s wrist. Her nails dug into her skin as she hissed, “You are not throwing your life away over some delinquent.”

(Y/N) ripped her arm free, heart pounding, voice raw. “You can’t control me like this!”

Her father’s voice was cold. “If you don’t obey, you’ll lose everything. Your inheritance. Your connections. Consider this your last warning.”

(Y/N)’s hands trembled. She was trapped. Caged. And for the first time, she realized just how far they would go to keep her under control.

“Daeho wasn’t born an addict. You made him one. And you’d rather lock him away than admit that.”

Silence gripped the room, thick and suffocating. The weight of her words settled into the air like lead, pressing against every person in the room.

Her mother’s gaze hardened, her voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “Do you really think Jaehyun would choose you over his own survival? You’re just another burden to him.”

The words felt like a physical blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her vision blurred, her chest constricting so tightly she thought she might collapse. Her fingers trembled, curling into the fabric of her sleeves as if anchoring herself to reality.

A cold sweat broke across her skin. They weren’t just taking away her choices. They were stripping away everything—her autonomy, her future, her relationships. They were reducing her existence to something small, something controllable, something they could manipulate.

Her hands balled into fists, nails digging into her palms as she struggled to steady her breathing. Her mother’s words echoed in her skull, repeating over and over again, venomous and cruel.

“You don’t know anything,” she choked out, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her mother didn’t flinch. “And yet, here you are, ruining yourself for someone who would never do the same for you.”

The walls seemed to close in on her. The air felt too thin, too heavy. Her heart pounded violently against her ribcage, her mind spiraling into something dark and suffocating.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. But all she could do was stand there, frozen, trapped in the nightmare of her own making.

Three days before the exchange — the decision moment. 8:45 am.

The room was too quiet.

Jaehyun could hear everything—the distant hum of a vending machine, the faint murmur of voices from another room, the slow ticking of a clock mounted on the wall.

The air smelled like cheap coffee and paper—familiar, in a way that made his stomach turn.

This wasn’t his first time in a police station.

But it was the first time he had walked in on his own.

His gaze remained fixed on the wooden table, watching the reflection of the dim fluorescent light bounce off its surface.

The room wasn’t particularly warm, and yet, a single bead of sweat traced a slow path down his temple. He wiped it away with his thumb, but the sensation lingered—uncomfortable, suffocating.

Maybe it was because of the room itself—small, almost claustrophobic.

Or maybe it was because of why he was here.

This? Sitting in a police station? Even entertaining the idea of working with the people he had spent years running from?

For the first time in his life, Jung Jaehyun could admit he had finally lost his mind.

But then again, his life had already been dragged to hell. And when you were already drowning, did it really matter how deep you sank?

His shoulders tensed at the sound of a glass being placed on the table.

He didn’t look up.

Not until he heard the voice.

"I have to say, I was surprised to get your call."

Officer Baekhyun.

His tone was unreadable—neither mocking nor welcoming. Just curious.

He took a slow sip of his coffee before continuing.

"I had already made up with the fact that we’d have to take Neo Zone down without your help."

Jaehyun didn’t answer.

He pressed his fists against his thighs, trying to ground himself—trying to contain the storm inside him.

"And if you’re really going to be part of this," Baekhyun added, setting down his cup,”I'd expect a little more than you sitting there, staring at a glass of water. "

Jaehyun finally lifted his gaze.

Their eyes met.

Baekhyun wasn’t smiling, but there was something almost… understanding in his expression.

Jaehyun swallowed, his throat dry.

"It took… certain things to get me here." His voice was hoarse, like it had been ripped out of him.

He leaned forward slightly, hands pressing against the table.

"But before we start this— what I need from you is a promise."

Baekhyun waited.

Jaehyun swallowed, his throat dry. “No matter what happens—no matter what happens to me—" he exhaled, voice steady but empty.�� “My family is safe."

Baekhyun nodded.

"You can trust the program. I’ve put years into making sure it works."

Jaehyun let out a sharp, hollow breath.

“Trust is a luxury I can’t afford."

Baekhyun tilted his head slightly, watching him.

"Once trust is broken, it takes an entire village to rebuild it, right?"

Jaehyun’s lips curled slightly—not a smirk, not a smile. Just a bitter recognition of his own words being thrown back at him.

Baekhyun didn’t press further. He just studied him, waiting.

"What made you change your mind?"

Jaehyun leaned back, running a hand down his face.

"I realized that the only things keeping me alive—the only reasons I’ve been holding on—are slipping through my fingers."

His voice was eerily calm.

"The first time you came to me with this offer, I laughed in your face. I told you there was no way out. That the moment I turned my back on Neo Zone, I’d be a dead man."

He lifted his gaze, something dark and unshakable settling in his eyes.

"That’s still true."

A pause.

"But I don’t care anymore."

Baekhyun didn’t react. He just let the words sit.

Jaehyun’s hands curled into fists.

"Death isn’t what I fear anymore."

He let out a slow breath, and for the first time, his exhaustion was visible.

Not just physical. Something deeper.

"As long as my family… as long as the people I love are safe, nothing else matters." His voice barely wavered. “If I have to sacrifice myself to make sure that happens, then so be it."

Baekhyun let out a quiet sigh.

"It must have taken a lot to reach that conclusion."

Jaehyun didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

His eyes said enough.

The dark circles beneath them, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched every few seconds—like his body hadn’t caught up with the fact that he had already made his choice.

Yesterday’s events had destroyed something in him.

Jaehyun exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening on the table.

"My father died in front of me."

Baekhyun’s expression didn’t change, but the weight in the air thickened.

"I didn’t know who did it back then," Jaehyun continued. “I was just a kid. They said the reason was a fight between gangs. And Sooman… he took me in. Gave me a place, made me think I owed him my life. I trusted him. I thought—" Jaehyun let out a bitter laugh. “I thought it was the only place I belonged."

His jaw clenched.

"I was wrong."

Baekhyun said nothing, letting him speak.

"I didn’t find out the truth until Mark Lee told me. He found out Sooman was responsible for my father’s death… and Winwin’s accident." He exhaled, shaking his head.

"The moment he told me, I wanted to kill him."

Baekhyun raised an eyebrow.

Jaehyun scoffed.

"Mark and Lucas stopped me. Told me that no matter what, Sooman would always win. That if I tried to take him down, I’d be the one to die."

A pause. The air between them felt suffocating.

"They were right."

Jaehyun swallowed hard, his voice quieter now.

"And now, I’m losing my brother." Baekhyun frowned slightly. “I spent my whole life trying to keep Jeno from ending up like me.” Jaehyun’s hands clenched. “But he’s already slipping through my fingers. He’s sitting at Sooman’s table. He’s listening to his words. He’s—"

He stopped. He couldn’t say it.

Baekhyun sighed. “And that’s what brought you here.”

Jaehyun nodded slowly.

“When they killed my dad, Sooman didn’t hesitate—he took advantage of it. Pulled me in. Made me work for him. That was the rule: if you lived in Neo Zone, someone in your family had to be part of the gang. And that someone had to be me. Then my uncle Dong’s accident was staged… but Winwin wasn’t supposed to be there. Now that I think about it, I realize why—once my uncle was gone, Sooman would’ve done to Winwin exactly what he did to me. But it went wrong. Winwin was in that car when it happened, and now he’s in rehab, paying the price for something that was never meant for him. And now, watching Jeno get too comfortable around Sooman… I know how this ends. My fate will be the same as my dad’s. The same as my uncle’s. This exchange might be the end of me. And when it is, Jeno will take my place. Sooman will make sure of it. He’ll sink his claws into him, just like he did with me when I was eleven.”

A shaky breath filled the room.

"I walked into this room knowing that once I start down this path, there’s no turning back. Either Neo Zone gets me first, or the program does."

His gaze locked onto Baekhyun’s.

"But at least this way… I can make sure my death means something."

Baekhyun studied him carefully. Then, he reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded file. He slid it across the table.

Baekhyun reached into his jacket and pulled out another file—thicker than the first. He placed it on the table, his fingers lingering on the cover for a second before sliding it forward.

Jaehyun stared at it. His heartbeat was steady, almost eerily so, but something inside him twisted. He knew the second he opened it, the second he pressed pen to paper, he would be sealing his fate. There was no undoing this.

His hand hovered over the file before he finally flipped it open. Words blurred together on the pages—legal terms, agreements, conditions—but none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was the empty space at the bottom, waiting for his signature.

Baekhyun placed a pen beside it.

“Once you sign, there’s no going back."

Jaehyun let out a slow breath.

"There was never a way back to begin with."

He picked up the pen. His fingers were steady, but his chest felt hollow. The moment he pressed the tip to the paper, something inside him cracked. He signed his name in bold strokes, the ink bleeding into the paper like a wound that wouldn’t close.

It was done.

Jaehyun let the pen drop. The sound of it hitting the table was deafening in the quiet room.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Jaehyun let out a shaky laugh—one that held no humor.

"Feels like I just signed my own death warrant."

Baekhyun didn’t disagree. He only studied him, his fingers laced together as he leaned back in his chair.

"You don’t have to die, Jaehyun."

Jaehyun exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching.

"Don’t I?"

He shook his head, his voice raw.

"I don’t think you get it. My life was never mine to begin with. It belonged to Neo Zone. It belonged to the streets. Sooman owned my life— And now? Now it belongs to this deal."

He gestured to the papers with a bitter smirk.

"So tell me, Officer. Where do I fit into this equation? Because from where I’m sitting, I don’t see a future where I make it out of this alive."

Baekhyun sighed, but Jaehyun didn’t let him speak.

His hands curled into fists, his knuckles white.

"Do you know what it feels like to watch everything you touch turn to ruin? To know that no matter how hard you try, you only bring pain to the people you love?" His voice cracked. “I tried. I really did. But I lost Winwin. I lost Jeno. I lost her."

Baekhyun remained silent, letting Jaehyun spill out everything he had been holding in.

Jaehyun’s head dropped, his fingers pressing into his temples.

"And the worst part? I wanted to tell her. Wanted to explain. But what was the point? I think I hurt her enough… she’ll be better off without me."

Silence filled the space between them.

Baekhyun watched Jaehyun carefully. He had seen men break before—seen criminals collapse under the weight of their choices—

But Jaehyun? He wasn’t breaking. He was bleeding out slowly, and no one could stop it.

Baekhyun reached for the file, closing it with a quiet snap.

"We’ll do everything we can. But you need to be ready for whatever comes next."

Jaehyun scoffed, pushing back his chair.

"I’ve known my whole life that death is just around the corner”

He stood, shoving his hands into his pockets, his head tilted slightly toward the ceiling as he let out a slow exhale.

"Guess now we find out if I was right."

The fluorescent lights above hummed as Jaehyun was standing, his footsteps echoing like a countdown.

And for the first time in his life, he felt like a ghost of the man he used to be.

Baekhyun exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

"Three days. That’s all we have. You know what that means, right?"

Jaehyun nodded, jaw tight.

"We don’t have time.”

"Exactly." Baekhyun’s gaze darkened.

"We’ll have to work fast, under a tight curfew. Every move we make from this point on is calculated. One mistake, and you’re dead before we can even move in."

Jaehyun swallowed, the weight of it all pressing harder against his chest.

Baekhyun leaned forward.

"Your family will be taken care of. As of today, your family will be watched 24/7 without raising any suspicions so will know the morning of the exchange where their location is, my agents will get them to the airport. They’ll be flown out before anyone even realizes they’re missing. A new life, new names—no traces left behind. This is their only shot at safety."

Jaehyun’s fingers curled into fists.

"What about Sicheng? He’s at the Recovery Center, he’s— he’s not ready for discharge. I'm the one who takes care of everything related to his condition”.

Baekhyun breaths.

“I’ll make sure we can transfer him to another place in the country we’re putting your family in. He’s a consequence of Sooman's actions, so we can take care of it. He'll be close to your family."

Jaehyun hummed; nodded at Baekhyun's statement and sat down again a little bit more relieved.

Jaehyun nodded slowly, his heart pounding in his ears.

“How will this work? What will I have to do?”

"You’ll be wired, " Baekhyun continued. “A microphone hidden in your clothes, a tracker embedded in something you carry. We’ll be watching, listening, following your every move. The second we get confirmation, we strike."

"And the target?" Jaehyun’s voice was sharp.

"Sooman. No one else. One he falls down… it’ll easier to take Neo Zone down"

Silence stretched between them. The words hung heavy in the air, unspoken truths settling in Jaehyun’s gut like lead.

His throat tightened.

"That’s not enough."

Baekhyun narrowed his eyes.

"Jaehyun—"

"You don’t understand. " Jaehyun’s voice was tight, his nails digging into his palms. “Sooman doesn’t deserve a cell. He doesn’t deserve another day walking this earth. He needs to pay for what he’s done."

Baekhyun’s expression hardened.

"We do what’s possible, given the circumstances."

Jaehyun let out a bitter laugh.

"Right. The law has limits." He looked up, gaze sharp. “But I don’t.”

Baekhyun exhaled slowly, studying him for a long moment. Then, in a quieter voice, he asked.

"What will happen to me?"

The silence stretched.

Baekhyun sighed.

"We’ll do what we can. If everything goes as planned, we can work in your protection. A deal. If you’re making out alive and the Sooman situation it's taken care of … the judge can drop charges on you and we can take you with your family. But all of you have to go underground… no contact with your old life. But for you, there’s different possibilities the day of the exchange, you know what you’re walking into. You know what the odds are."

Jaehyun’s lips curled, something empty flashing in his eyes.

Either he makes it alive or dies in the spot.

"Yeah. I do."

"We focus on the mission first. For this to work, you have to go through with the exchange like nothing has changed. No hesitation, no second-guessing. If Sooman even suspects something’s off, he’ll take you out before we get a chance to act. So you can’t tell a soul about this. Not to Lucas. Not to Jeno… not to your girl. This stays between me, you and the agents for now.

Baekhyun reached into his jacket, pulling out another folded file. He slid it across the table.

"So then let’s make sure we do this right."

The day before the exchange — saying goodbye it's harder that it's seems. 5:05 pm.

Jaehyun’s heart felt heavier than it had in days. The weight in his chest was a constant, an unshakable reminder that tomorrow would be the end of everything he knew. His fingers brushed the GPS device tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket, the cold, metal surface reminding him of the irreversible decision he had made. He had signed the deal. There was no going back. The police had briefed him quickly—Baekhyun had a plan, but Jaehyun couldn’t care less about the details. He had no interest in the strategy or the steps anymore. Tomorrow, it would all come down to a single moment. The exchange.

He barely registered Baekhyun’s words as they filtered through his mind. His lips mouthed the necessary responses, nodding absently as his thoughts swirled in a haze of guilt and uncertainty. Mic’d up. Ready. Or so he told himself. But the truth was, he wasn’t ready at all. Jaehyun’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, the ticking sound of time growing louder with each passing second. It was almost time.

Without another word, Jaehyun left the police station, heading towards the recovery center to see Winwin. Every step felt like it weighed more than the last. The burden of everything—the deal, the exchange, the lies—pressed down on him like a heavy fog.

Jaehyun stood at the door to Winwin’s room, his hand hovering over the cold, metal handle. He wasn’t sure if he had the strength to face his friend again. His chest tightened with the knowledge that this might be the last time he would see him, the last chance to say something that mattered. The silence inside the room felt suffocating, like it was pressing against his chest. Jaehyun could feel it, the years of trauma, the pain that still hung in the air like a storm waiting to break. He took a deep breath, his heart hammering in his chest. This was it. There was no going back.

Inside, Winwin sat motionless by the window, staring at nothing. The dim light from the hallway barely filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows on the floor. Jaehyun stepped inside, his footsteps quiet, unsure of how to break the silence. He didn’t expect Winwin to say anything. He hadn’t expected a greeting, a word of comfort. It was always like this—for the past year always had been.

Jaehyun hesitated, his mouth dry, his throat tight. He had visited Winwin so many times, but this felt different. This was the final visit.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Jaehyun said softly, his voice thick with the weight of the words. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, but the truth hung heavy in the air.

Winwin didn’t respond. His eyes remained distant, unfocused. Jaehyun took a step closer, but the distance between them felt like an abyss. Winwin’s gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the window, lost in his own mind, his own world. Jaehyun’s throat constricted, the words getting caught there. He wanted to say so much more, but he couldn’t.

“So will you,” Jaehyun continued, his voice hoarse. “By tomorrow—your transfer will be arranged. You’ll be leaving. You’ll be safe with my family in another place. I’m sorry for this— but it’s for the best. This is all I can do to mend what I’ve done— A new life for you… for them. Far away from Neo Zone.”

His voice cracked slightly, but he forced the words out. Winwin needed this. He deserved peace. He deserved to get out of this hell. Jaehyun’s heart twisted, but he couldn’t afford to let that emotion show. Not now. Not here.

“The only thing— the only thing I hoped for was to see you smile once more,” Jaehyun said, his smile faltering slightly. “But I hope you can do that, even if I’m not here to see it.” “You’re my best friend, Winwin. No decision I make will change that.”

He let out a small, ironic laugh, reaching for the chair beside Winwin’s wheelchair and sitting down. The cold, sterile room felt heavier now, the weight of his words hanging in the air. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t say goodbye. Not yet. So he stayed, silently. He listened to Winwin’s slow, rhythmic breathing, feeling the lump in his throat growing. He had no more words left. All he could do was stay and let the silence speak for him.

For hours, he stayed there, watching over his best friend, just being there. He didn’t know what to say anymore. Nothing he said would make a difference. As he sat there, the realization began to sink in. He gently took Winwin’s hand in his own, an unspoken gesture of goodbye, of love, of everything they had been through together. And then, in a moment that felt almost unreal, he felt it—a slight, almost imperceptible squeeze. Winwin’s fingers tightening around his, a small, fragile grip that spoke louder than words ever could.

And at that moment Winwin couldn’t say it, but Jaehyun knew what that grip meant: I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.

But the truth was, only Jaehyun knew the reality of the situation. Only one of them would truly be fine. And that one person wasn’t Jaehyun.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Jaehyun stood up, his legs heavy with the weight of everything. He looked down at Winwin one last time, but there was nothing left to say. He couldn’t stay forever. He had to leave. He had to face what was coming tomorrow. He couldn’t change it.

Jaehyun left the room quietly, stepping into the hallway without a glance back. There was nothing to look back on. The silence was deafening, but it was the only thing that made sense.

The night of the exchange — words spreads too fast and then the call that changed everything. 9:52 pm.

The night was thick with silence.

Not the peaceful kind. The kind that meant something was wrong.

Jaehyun sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. The visit to Winwin had drained him in a way he hadn’t expected. He thought seeing him would bring some kind of calm. Instead, all he felt was the weight of time slipping through his fingers.

Tomorrow.

Everything came down to tomorrow.

A deep breath. He pressed his fingers to his temples, letting his mind go blank. He just needed a few hours of stillness before the storm hit.

Then, his phone rang.

The name on the screen sent a cold spike down his spine.

Sooman.

Jaehyun exhaled slowly before answering.

"Didn’t expect you to call me personally." His voice was even. Careful.

"You think I’d let someone else handle this conversation?" Sooman’s tone was smooth, casual—too casual. "That’d be a little disrespectful, don’t you think?"

Jaehyun’s grip on the phone tightened.

"What do you want?"

Sooman chuckled softly. "Straight to the point, as always. I like that about you, Jaehyun. Makes this easier."

A pause. Then—

"We’re moving the exchange up. It’s happening tonight."

Jaehyun’s heart slammed against his ribs.

"What?"

"You heard me." Sooman’s voice didn’t change. If anything, it sounded amused. Like he was enjoying this. "You’ve got an hour."

Jaehyun’s jaw clenched. "That wasn’t the plan."

"Plans change."

Silence stretched between them.

Jaehyun forced his breathing to stay even, to not let the panic show.

"Why?"

Sooman hummed. "What kind of question is that?"

"A fair one."

"No, Jaehyun. A nervous one."

Jaehyun’s teeth ground together. This was a test. Sooman wanted to see how he’d react.

"Something wrong?" Sooman continued, voice laced with mock concern. "You’re not having second thoughts, are you?"

Jaehyun swallowed down the instinct to snap back.

"I need time to get things in order."

"You have time." Sooman’s voice darkened, amusement fading. "One hour. That’s more than enough for someone like you. Unless, of course… you’re not up for it?"

Jaehyun’s hands curled into fists. He could feel the noose tightening around him, but there was no way out.

"I’ll be there."

A beat of silence. Then, Sooman let out a slow, satisfied exhale.

"Good. I’d hate to think you weren’t still on our side."

The call ended.

Shit, shit, shit—- SHIT.

Jaehyun lowered the phone, staring at the screen as the weight of the situation crashed down on him.

One hour.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this.

Baekhyun wasn’t ready.

The plan wasn’t ready.

He wasn’t ready.

His family wasn't out of the country yet...

This wasn’t just an inconvenience. It was a trap.

Jaehyun shot to his feet, shoving a hand through his hair. He needed to think. Fast.

There were only two options:

Go in alone, pretend nothing had changed, and pray he could get out alive.

Call Baekhyun, warn him that everything just went to hell, and risk blowing his cover.

Neither option was good.

But one of them meant walking straight into Sooman’s hands.

Jaehyun grabbed his jacket, his movements stiff, mechanical. He didn’t hesitate—he couldn’t.

He dialed Baekhyun.

"Jung."

"The exchange—" Jaehyun inhaled sharply. "It’s happening tonight."

Silence.

Then, Baekhyun cursed.

"How long?"

"One hour."

"Shit."

Jaehyun heard movement on the other end—papers shifting, a chair scraping against the floor.

"That’s not enough time." Baekhyun’s voice was tighter now, full of barely contained tension. "We planned for tomorrow— the team isn’t in position yet."

"Then you better work fast." Jaehyun grabbed his keys. "Because this is happening whether you’re ready or not."

Baekhyun exhaled sharply. Jaehyun could almost hear him thinking.

"Can you stall?"

Jaehyun’s jaw clenched. "No."

Baekhyun muttered something under his breath—something that sounded a lot like "Fuck."

Then, he said something Jaehyun wasn’t expecting.

"Do you want to make it out of this alive?"

Jaehyun’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

Did he?

He exhaled slowly. “Just do your job, officer."

A beat of hesitation.

Then, Baekhyun muttered, "I need you to keep the GPS device with you at all times. If you're able to activate your mic before you go in, do it. I’ll send my agents to look for your family and take them. I’m coming to you”

Jaehyun hummed. “"My family’s safety it’s my priority. Whatever happens next, I’ll figure it out”

“See you on the other side."

Click.

Jaehyun stared at his phone for a second before shoving it into his pocket.

He took one last look at his reflection in the rearview mirror.

For a second, he swore he didn’t recognize himself.

Tonight, Jung Jaehyun either walked out alive—

Or he didn’t walk out at all.

a/n: NOT PROOFEAD! I know, i know i'm the worst— i just keep making Jaehyun suffer, but hey! what's a story without drama? I'd really love to hear some feedback from you, what you're thought about the story is— what do you expect to happen with Jaehyun, with (Y/N)? You can do it in the comments of in here.

taglist is open! if you want to be added just lemme know;)

taglist: @peachfulnight @gojoscumslut @bluedbliss @dear-97 @girlwholovespreppyattire @hana-off-icial @cigarettesafterjae @bts-iris @dojaejung @methneo @kriizztin @mrsuhnshine @pieddpiperr @completelyjae @kanekisheart @daegalismybiasinnct @spicyryujin @dear-97

(idk why some of the tags just don’t work out!)

Feel free to send any asks here if you want!

82 notes · View notes

lightdancingwords · 24 days ago

Text

Second Chances: Forever - Part Thirty of ?

Pairings: Beau Arlen x Y/N Female reader

Series Summary: A chance meeting in the grocery store brought a whirlwind of change to Beau Arlen’s life—change he had no issues with whatsoever. A second chance at life, love, family—a second chance at forever.

Word Count: 4,491

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, angst, medical drama, pregnancy drama

A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

NOTE: Please see THIS LINK for updates on the posting schedule! Thank you!

❗Also❗ There's a poll, dear readers! Help me decide what Beau and Y/N will have with this baby!

Addendum: I have a tremendous favor to ask all my readers. Please read THIS POST for more.

Divider: credit to @sweetmelodygraphics

Chapter Thirty: In the Quiet, In the Dark

A gentle knock came just after seven-thirty, just as the quiet of morning had fully settled into the room.

Y/N and Beau both looked toward the door. Neither moved quickly—they didn’t need to. For once, there was no panic behind the knock.

“Come in,” Y/N called, her voice a little hoarse from sleep.

The door opened to reveal Nurse Sadie, the early shift LPN they’d come to know over the last few mornings. She was middle-aged with kind eyes and a lanyard full of Disney pins, and she entered with the calm grace of someone who’d seen enough not to be startled by anything.

“Mornin’, Mama,” she said with a smile. “Morning, Dad.”

Beau gave a quiet nod. “Mornin’, Sadie.”

“Sorry to interrupt the snugglefest,” she teased gently, wheeling in her cart, “but I’ve got marching orders: vitals, monitor check, and a little preview of good things to come.”

Y/N raised a brow as Sadie set down her clipboard. “What kind of good things?”

The nurse’s smile widened just a touch. “Let me get your blood pressure and then I’ll spill the beans.”

Beau helped Y/N sit up slightly, steadying her as Sadie wrapped the cuff around her arm. The machine clicked and whirred as it inflated. Y/N watched the screen, her heartbeat oddly loud in her ears even though everything else was quiet.

Beau watched her instead.

A few seconds passed, and then the numbers came up.

Sadie grinned. “One twenty-eight over seventy-eight. That’s the best it’s been since you got here.”

Y/N blinked. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious.” Sadie typed it into the tablet. “Which brings me to the second piece of good news. Dr. Harrell already reviewed your overnight monitor and labs. The contractions are gone, labs are clean, and baby looks beautiful. So as long as the scan this morning checks out…”

Her smile softened.

“You’ll be going home today.”

Y/N’s breath caught. She looked at Beau, eyes wide and wet with shock.

“Home,” she whispered.

Beau reached for her hand, squeezing tight. “You hear that, darlin’? You did it.”

Sadie gave them both a moment before she continued, gently attaching the monitor leads. “We’ll still want you on strict bedrest. No heroics. No stairs. And you’ll be back here every few days for a checkup. But… yes. You’ve earned your discharge.”

Y/N let her head fall back against the pillows. “I didn’t think I’d make it to this part.”

Sadie smiled, her movements efficient and gentle. “That’s how a lot of moms feel. And then one day, the tide just turns. Quietly. Like this.”

She gave the belly monitor a last adjustment. The baby’s heartbeat sang out on the speakers—steady, fast, strong.

“There’s your fighter,” Sadie said. “Still hangin’ in.”

Y/N closed her eyes, tears slipping down the sides of her face. “I just want to take them home.”

“You will,” Sadie promised. “Today.”

She finished her checks, gave Beau a reassuring smile, and left as quietly as she came.

The door shut with a soft click.

And in the silence that followed, Beau leaned in and kissed Y/N’s temple.

“Start thinkin’ what kinda soup you want tonight, darlin’,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Because I’m makin’ it. And then I’m settin’ you up on that couch like a damn queen.”

Y/N laughed through her tears, holding his hand tight.

“Let’s go home.”

By nine o'clock, the scan room was cool and dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the ultrasound monitor and the filtered daylight coming through the blinds.

Y/N lay back against the exam table, gel already spread over her belly. Beau sat beside her, holding her hand in both of his, his thumb sweeping slow circles over her knuckles. He hadn’t let go since they left the room. Neither had she.

The sonographer, a petite woman named Lauren with a calm voice and sure hands, adjusted the probe and smiled as the image lit up the screen.

“Okay, there’s baby,” she said warmly. “Heartbeat looks strong. Movement’s excellent. Head is still up, which isn’t unusual for this gestational age. Plenty of fluid, placenta looks great. Measurements are right on track—baby’s around four pounds, give or take.”

Y/N exhaled a soft breath of relief. She hadn’t realized how tense her body was until that moment.

Beau stared at the monitor like it held the secrets of the universe.

Lauren clicked a few more images, tapping her keyboard lightly. “I’ll send this up to Dr. Harrell, but… this is exactly what we hoped to see.”

She wiped Y/N’s belly with a warm cloth and helped her sit up gently. “Congratulations. You’re going home with a baby still where they belong.”

Y/N blinked back tears and smiled. “Thank you.”

Back in the room, they barely had time to settle when a knock came—firmer this time. Then the door opened and Dr. Harrell stepped in, crisp and direct as always, but with the faintest smile beneath his salt-and-pepper beard.

“I’ve seen the scan,” he said without preamble. “And it confirms what we suspected. The preterm labor has fully resolved—for now.”

Y/N nodded slowly, still gripping Beau’s hand.

Dr. Harrell stepped closer, his tone warming. “I want to be honest. That doesn’t mean it’s over. This pregnancy is still high risk. Your blood pressure could spike again. The contractions might return. But if you follow the bedrest orders closely, and we monitor you every few days, we have a real chance at getting to at least 36, maybe even 37 weeks.”

Beau looked down at Y/N, then back at the doctor. “You think we can make it that far?”

“I do,” Harrell said. “Because you’re doing everything right. And because that baby is strong—and so is Y/N.”

She swallowed. “So I’m cleared?”

Harrell nodded. “You are. We’ll start the paperwork. You’ll get instructions, a follow-up scheduled, and a direct line to my office. If anything feels off, I want to know immediately. But yes—you’re going home.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. “I didn’t think I’d hear you say that.”

Dr. Harrell’s expression softened. “Most of my job is managing numbers and patterns. But sometimes… it’s just about waiting for the right moment. And this is yours.”

He looked between them one last time. “Go home. Let your kids crawl all over you while you lie flat on the couch. Let people feed you. And let your body rest. That’s how we win this fight.”

He turned to leave, then paused. “And Y/N? You’re tougher than you think.”

The door closed behind him.

And for the first time in days, it was real.

They were going home.

The paperwork was in motion.

Discharge orders signed. Instructions printed and stapled in triplicate. The nurse had already returned with a log sheet and an overly cheerful handout titled How to Rest Without Losing Your Mind.

But before anything else… Y/N wanted a shower.

It wasn’t vanity. It wasn’t even comfort.

It was about reclaiming something.

Something her body had given, and carried, and feared it might lose.

She sat on the edge of the bed in the quiet hospital bathroom, a wide towel wrapped around her chest, her belly round and pink above her thighs. Beau knelt in front of her, carefully turning on the handheld nozzle, testing the warmth on his wrist like he’d done a hundred times before—when Eliza had fevers, when Caleb was new and screaming, when she was sore after long days and late nights.

“I could do it,” she murmured. “I don’t want to make you—”

“Darlin’,” he said gently, glancing up at her. “You fought like hell for this baby. You don’t owe anyone a damn thing—not even the water in that tap.”

She blinked fast, trying not to cry for the tenth time that morning.

He checked the spray one more time, then nodded.

“Alright. Let’s do this slow.”

With one hand steady at her lower back and the other guiding the warm water over her legs first, then her arms, Beau washed her like it was sacred.

Not rushed. Not clinical. Just present.

He lathered soap in his hands, warm and fragrant, and ran it gently over her shoulders, her back, the underside of her belly. She leaned into his touch, her breath hitching once, not from pain—but from the way he looked at her.

Like she was precious.

Like she wasn’t just someone he loved—but someone he would honor with his hands, even now, when she felt swollen and sore and not at all herself.

“Still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said quietly, rinsing her off with long, slow passes of the spray.

“You’re just saying that,” she whispered, voice cracking.

Beau sat back on his heels, water dripping from his arms, his eyes never leaving hers. “I have never just said that.”

Her lips trembled.

He reached for a towel and wrapped it around her with careful hands. Helped her stand. Dried her off. Supported her weight as she stepped slowly back into the room.

Once dressed in soft cotton and clean again, Y/N sank back onto the hospital bed while Beau knelt to gather the last of their things. The duffel bag. The blanket Margaret had dropped off. The drawing Eliza had sent—now folded safely in her discharge folder.

He zipped the bag, stood, and looked at her.

“You ready?”

She nodded.

He offered his hand.

She took it.

And just like that, they stepped across the threshold—into the hallway, into the wheelchair, into the light, into the first real breath of after.

The ride home wasn’t long—barely fifteen minutes from the hospital to the house—but it stretched out like a sacred thing, slow and quiet and full of the kind of reverence only earned after fear has finally started to loosen its grip.

Beau had insisted on taking the back roads.

Not for traffic.

Not for speed.

Just because the long way gave them more sky. More trees. More quiet.

Y/N reclined carefully in the passenger seat, her seatbelt fastened low and wide across the curve of her belly, a folded blanket tucked between the pressure points for comfort. The early afternoon light poured through the windshield, warm and golden, dancing along her skin.

Beau’s hand stayed on her thigh the whole drive—his left hand on the wheel, his right resting over hers, fingers splayed protectively like they could somehow hold her whole.

Neither of them spoke for the first few minutes.

Y/N watched the familiar roads pass—old oaks draped in moss, the little gas station with the crooked sign, the field where Eliza had once declared she saw a wolf prince waiting for his crown. It all looked the same. But it felt different.

It felt like coming back from something no one else had seen.

Eventually, she broke the silence. “It’s strange.”

Beau glanced at her. “What is?”

“How the world just… kept going. Like it didn’t pause when we did.”

He nodded, gaze returning to the road. “World don’t stop for grief or joy. We gotta carry both and keep walkin’.”

She turned her head slightly, watching him. “You’re good at that.”

He snorted gently. “Not always.”

“You are now.”

Beau’s fingers tightened just slightly over hers. “You scared me, Y/N.”

“I know.”

“More than anything’s ever scared me before.”

She swallowed. “I was scared too. For me. For the baby. For you. For the kids.”

Beau glanced at her again, then returned his eyes to the road. “You never have to go through that alone. You know that, right?”

“I do,” she said, soft but sure. “I knew it the whole time. Even when it was awful. Even when I couldn’t say it.”

He nodded once, his jaw working.

A long silence followed.

Then Beau said, “We’ll get the couch ready. Pillows, blankets, that damn heating pad you hate but always ask for when it hurts.”

Y/N smiled. “Mom’s probably already fluffed everything twice.”

“Eliza’s gonna climb all over you.”

“I’ll allow it,” she murmured.

Beau chuckled under his breath. “Caleb’s gonna lose his damn mind. Probably throw a spoon at your face in excitement.”

“I missed that spoon.”

Beau squeezed her hand again. “You scared me, darlin’. But you came back. And we’re gonna make it all the way now.”

She let her head rest back against the seat, her eyes fluttering closed for a breath, her body finally beginning to believe they were safe again.

“We’re almost home,” she whispered.

Beau looked at her—at her profile bathed in sunlight, at the faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, at the strength it had taken to get here—and nodded.

“We are.”

And with the gravel crunching beneath the tires and the house just around the bend, Beau slowed down—not to delay, but to honor it.

Because some homecomings deserve to be felt in full.

The driveway was full.

Y/N’s SUV parked off to the side. Margaret’s SUV a little crooked but steady. Sidewalk chalk led all the way from the porch to the curb, declaring in wide, looping letters: WELCOME HOME, MAMA + BABY!!!

Beau turned off the engine and looked at Y/N. She sat still for a moment, one hand resting gently on her belly, the other already gripping the door handle, as if afraid to believe it was real.

He reached over, brushing a knuckle down her cheek. “We’re home, darlin’.”

Y/N nodded, eyes misting. “Okay. Let’s go in.”

Beau moved quickly around to her side, helped her from the truck like she was made of porcelain. She wasn’t. But after everything, they both treated this moment like something holy.

As soon as they stepped onto the front walk, the door burst open.

“MAMA!!”

Eliza barreled out, arms already wide, a wolf mask perched sideways on her head. Emily came right after her, holding Caleb on her hip—his chubby legs kicking excitedly at the sight of the truck.

Y/N braced herself. “Easy, baby—Mama’s belly—”

Eliza skidded to a halt just in time, practically vibrating with joy. “You’re really home! For real?!”

Y/N crouched slowly, carefully, arms open. Eliza threw herself in for a hug, wrapping around her like a vine, warm and trembling.

Beau stood just behind them, his eyes soft, Caleb already reaching for him from Emily’s arms.

“Da!” Caleb squealed. “Mama! ‘Sa!”

Margaret appeared on the porch, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her eyes already glassy. She didn’t come rushing—just stood there and watched them all, her expression carved from something fierce and proud and deeply maternal.

“Welcome home, sweetheart,” she called gently to Y/N.

Y/N looked up at her, holding Eliza tightly. “We made it, Mom.”

Emily stepped forward with Caleb now squirming in her arms. “He’s been saying ‘mama’ all morning. I think he knew.”

Beau reached out and took his son, tucking him close. “Hey there, trouble. You miss your old man?”

Caleb smacked a hand on Beau’s beard and giggled.

Y/N slowly rose, Eliza still clinging to her hand.

“I saved your place on the couch!” Eliza said seriously. “No one’s allowed to sit there. Not even Sir Growls-a-Lot.”

“Well, that’s high honor,” Y/N smiled.

They moved as a cluster—family gathered around, ushering her inside like a returning queen. The scent of something warm and buttery drifted from the kitchen. A blanket fort had been half-dismantled in the living room, and a sippy cup rolled lazily across the floor.

And somehow, it was perfect.

Beau helped her lower onto the couch—carefully propped with pillows, a quilt already spread over the arm. Eliza climbed up beside her without asking. Caleb was already pulling at Beau’s hair, babbling nonsense.

Y/N closed her eyes, let her head fall back, and exhaled.

Home.

Margaret stepped forward, gently brushing Y/N’s hair behind her ear. “You rest. We’ve got everything else.”

Emily handed over a glass of water with a wry smile. “Already argued with Grandma about who’s making dinner. So you know—same as always.”

Beau knelt beside the couch and looked up at her. “You good?”

She nodded. “I’m… whole. Tired. But whole.”

He kissed her temple, then rested a hand on her belly. “Let’s stay that way.”

And in that little living room, full of toys and blankets and soft noise and brighter love, they did.

The house had settled into its afternoon hush.

Caleb was asleep, curled in the crook of Beau’s arm in the recliner. Eliza was in the kitchen with Emily, fiercely focused on gluing pom-poms to what she called a “Queen Mama Crown.” The soft background sound of a nature documentary drifted from the television—something about wolves and wind and the hidden strength of a pack.

On the couch, Y/N lay reclined, supported by carefully stacked pillows, her legs elevated and her belly rising steadily with each breath. The air smelled like clean laundry and chamomile tea.

Margaret sat at her side, not bustling, not hovering—just there, the way she had been every day for the past few weeks. Her presence wasn’t loud, but it was constant. Strong.

She held a warm mug in her hands and looked quietly at her daughter.

“You scared the hell out of me, sweetheart.”

Y/N didn’t look away. “I scared myself.”

Margaret’s gaze softened. “I heard you call out Beau’s name that night. I was halfway down the stairs before the lights even came on.”

Y/N swallowed. “Everything was happening so fast. And I just kept thinking—this can’t be it. Not now. Not like this.”

Margaret reached over, her hand covering Y/N’s where it rested over her belly. “You’ve always been strong, but that night…” Her voice faltered for a second, then steadied. “I have never been so terrified watching you leave. I wanted to follow you right into the ER, but I knew—Beau had you. I had to stay here with the kids.”

Y/N’s eyes glistened. “I’m glad you did. Eliza needed you. Caleb… he didn’t understand what was happening, but he felt the shift. I didn’t want them to wake up to silence.”

Margaret shook her head slowly. “I didn’t sleep at all that night. Sat in the rocker in the nursery. Watched the sunrise with Caleb in my arms and kept praying I wouldn’t lose my baby while she was trying to bring hers into the world.”

That made Y/N’s breath catch. She turned her hand over and laced her fingers through her mother’s. “I’m so sorry, Mom.”

“Don’t be,” Margaret said immediately, firm but kind. “You’ve been through something brutal. And you came back to us. You’re still here. The baby’s still here. That’s what matters.”

Y/N was quiet for a long moment. “I’ve never felt more fragile in my life. But also… more protected.”

Margaret smiled faintly. “That’s what it means to be surrounded by people who love you. Beau’s been your shield. Emily’s stepped up without blinking. Eliza’s turned into a whole tiny general. And Caleb—well, he’s a wrecking ball, but a sweet one.”

Y/N laughed through her tears. “He really is.”

Margaret’s voice dropped to a quieter register. “I know it’s hard to let yourself rest. But that’s all I want for you right now. Just rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N blinked fast, then leaned over slowly, resting her head against her mother’s shoulder.

Margaret adjusted without needing to be asked, cradling her daughter with one arm and holding her hand with the other.

“I’m glad you were here,” Y/N whispered. “That night. Every day since.”

“I wouldn’t have been anywhere else,” Margaret replied softly. “You’re still my baby. And you still need your mama.”

They stayed like that for a while, quiet and close.

Because love, when it has held you through the worst, doesn’t need many words.

It just stays.

The sun had begun to soften, slanting low through the living room windows, casting warm light on scattered toys and a forgotten juice box. Caleb was still asleep in the nursery now, Eliza finally settled with Margaret for a “rest-your-eyes” session in the big recliner.

The house, for the first time all day, was quiet.

Beau stepped into the kitchen and found Emily there, elbows on the counter, head bowed over her phone. A mug of tea had gone cold beside her.

She looked up when he entered and gave him a small smile. “Mom’s asleep?”

He nodded. “Out like a light. Took some convincin’, but Margaret worked her magic.”

Emily chuckled, then folded her arms and leaned back against the counter. “I’ve never seen her that exhausted.”

Beau leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, the tension in his frame subtle but still there. “She’s been carryin’ more than just the baby.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the last few days still hanging between them.

Then Beau spoke, his voice low. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

Emily blinked. “For what?”

“For holdin’ this house together when we were gone. For takin’ care of Eliza. Caleb. Your grandma. All of it.” His voice was slow, thick with that quiet emotion that never needed to be loud to mean everything. “You didn’t just help. You showed up.”

Emily shrugged, but it was a little watery. “I couldn’t just sit around while everyone was scared.”

“You could’ve shut down,” Beau said gently. “And no one would’ve blamed you.”

“I’m not a kid,” she said, a little sharper than she meant to. Then softer, “I mean… not anymore.”

Beau’s eyes met hers. Steady. Grateful. “No, you’re not.”

Emily held his gaze for a beat longer, then looked down. “Eliza kept asking questions. I didn’t know how to answer all of them.”

“You did good,” he said.

“She’s smart. She knew. I kept thinking—if something happened to Y/N… I don’t know what I would’ve told her.”

Beau stepped forward then, not all the way, but enough that the space between them was less formal.

He rested a hand on the counter beside her mug. “You would’ve told her the truth. Gently. Like you always do.”

Emily glanced up at him again, her brown eyes sharp and tired. “Did you think it was going to happen? That we were going to lose her?”

Beau exhaled slowly. “I don’t think I’ve ever prayed harder in my life. Not even in the worst calls back in Texas.”

Emily nodded slowly, her expression unreadable. “She came home.”

“She did,” he said.

“And the baby’s still okay.”

Beau nodded. “Strong little thing.”

Emily looked down at her mug. “I love her, you know.”

Beau didn’t miss a beat. “I know. She knows too.”

Then, after a moment, he added, “You’re part of this family, Em. Not because we signed papers. Not because of names on forms. But because you choose us. Every day. That means more than you’ll ever know.”

She swallowed hard. “Sometimes I don’t know if I’m doing enough.”

“You are,” he said, firm now. “You are.”

Emily blinked quickly and nodded, brushing a tear away with the edge of her sleeve. Then she stood straighter. “Okay. Enough feelings. Want help getting Mom set up on the couch properly for the evening shift of strict bedrest?”

Beau smiled. “Let’s do it.”

And just like that, they returned to the rhythm of a house filled with love and noise and second chances.

But in that small space between counters and mugs and quiet truths, something had shifted.

Family had gotten just a little deeper.

The house had gone still.

Eliza was finally asleep upstairs—her wolf mask tucked under one arm, her “Queen Mama Crown” displayed proudly on the bookshelf like a family heirloom. Caleb had fussed a little before crashing hard, arms flung wide in his crib, stuffed raccoon clutched tight to his chest. Margaret had retired with a novel and a heating pad. Emily had vanished into the guest room, muttering something about noise-canceling earbuds and needing “emotional silence.”

And in the master bedroom, the lights were off.

The room was dim, lit only by the glow of the hallway nightlight. The fan spun overhead in a lazy rhythm, stirring the cool air around them. Y/N lay on her left side, pillows arranged with clinical precision under her knees, behind her back, and cradling her belly. Beau was beside her, lying on his back, his arm under her head, his body curved protectively along her spine.

For a long while, neither spoke.

They just listened—to the creak of the house settling, the faint rustle of wind outside, the heartbeat of a family exhaling after holding its breath too long.

Beau finally broke the silence, his voice low and gravel-soft. “You comfortable, darlin’?”

Y/N shifted slightly, her hand drifting to his chest. “As I’m gonna get.”

“Pain?”

“Just pressure.” She exhaled against him. “The kind that says, You’re not in a hospital bed anymore, so don’t get cocky.”

Beau chuckled quietly. “Noted.”

They lay in the hush a little longer.

Then Y/N whispered, “Today felt like coming back from the edge.”

Beau’s hand drifted down her arm, his touch lazy, reverent. “That’s ‘cause it was.”

“I wasn’t sure we’d get here,” she said. “Not just home… but this. Quiet. Safe. With you.”

“I never let go of the rope,” Beau murmured. “Even when it felt like it was slippin’. I held on.”

“I know you did.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, letting his lips linger in her hair. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”

She snuggled in closer, letting her fingers curl into the hem of his shirt, grounding herself in the warmth of his body, the steady thrum of his heart. “I don’t ever want to be that afraid again.”

Beau’s voice was firmer now, but still gentle. “We’re gonna do everything we can to make sure we don’t have to be. But if life throws another storm at us…” He paused, resting his hand on her belly. “We’ll face it the same way. Together.”

She blinked against sudden tears, not from fear this time—but from the weight of being so deeply known. So protected.

So loved.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For holding me. For not pushing. For everything.”

Beau smiled in the dark. “Always, darlin’. Ain’t a version of life I want where I’m not beside you.”

She leaned up just enough to press a kiss to the edge of his jaw. “I love you.”

He turned his head and kissed her back—soft and slow, lingering like he had all the time in the world. “I love you more.”

They settled again into the silence, his hand resting warm and steady over her belly.

And in that breath between exhaustion and dreams, they drifted—wrapped in moonlight, memory, and the kind of love that doesn't demand anything.

Only stays.

Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2

@foxyjwls007, @katastrophicmind, @globetrotter28, @deansimpalababy, @daisychaingirl

@nancymcl, @deans-baby-momma, @kickingitwithkirk, @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick

@hobby27, @hellsbratonthet

Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Comment here and I'll add you! And check out my other stories that are currently being written!

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