kingliam2019

[kingliam2019]

Love In Every Heartbeat – Chapter 169 – Silent Battles and Slow Answers 

Silent lines of the monitoring machines draw a rhythm in the sterile hush, each beep a reminder that Pippa is suspended somewhere between presence and absence. Casey’s fingers tremble over Pippa’s blanket, her thumb tracing invisible patterns—anchors to a world where her daughter still breathes, where healing is possible.

Raf sits at the foot of the bed, posture rigid, his knuckles white on the edge of his chair. He whispers words meant only for Pippa to hear, soft hopes, prayers sent sailing through the clinical air. The nurse moves quietly, methodical in extracting the vials, her presence both intrusion and reassurance.

Since that third crash—the one that stilled Pippa’s heart again and sent her spiralling into this deep, unreachable sleep—time has lost its meaning. Day and night blur together for Casey, who has learned to read every flutter of eyelashes, every twitch of limb as a possible signal, a sign. Grief pools in the corners of her eyes and on the stiff fabric of her sleeves, but she remains, vigilant, determined not to miss the moment when Pippa might find her way back.

Ethan, when present, is a steady shoulder, a quiet force who negotiates with doctors and nurses, gathering updates, trying to extract hope from the ebb and flow of numbers and charts. But in the hours between rounds, it’s 

Casey and Raf, each holding their silent vigil, each with unspoken battles scrawled on their hearts.

There are no easy answers here. Only the slow, agonizing wait, and the steady thrum of love that persists against the odds—a heartbeat for Pippa when she cannot muster her own.

Casey reaches for Raf, her touch tentative at first, then firmer as her fingers lace with his. She knows the signs—the quiet retreat behind his eyes, the way his shoulders fold in on themselves as if bracing for a storm only he can sense. She won’t let that darkness reclaim him, not now, not when every heartbeat matters.

“Hey,” she murmurs, voice barely louder than the hush of the machines. “Talk to me. I can see the wheels turning. What’s scaring you?”

Raf’s gaze flickers, his jaw working, words resisting the surface. He stares at Pippa, the pale curve of her hand small and impossibly fragile atop the hospital sheet. For a moment, he is silent, the air thick with everything he cannot say.

Then, quietly, “I’m afraid I’ll lose both of you. I keep thinking—what if I fail again? What if I miss something, or I’m not strong enough, and this… this takes you too? I keep remembering that time—when everything got so dark I almost couldn’t come back. I don’t want to be that person again. Not for you. Not for them.”

Casey tightens her hold, her thumb tracing circles over his knuckles. She lets the silence stretch, lets him see that she isn’t turning away. “You came back,” she whispers. “You fought your way back to us. Raf, you are here. That’s what matters. And I need you here—really here—because I can’t do this alone. None of us can.”

His breath shudders out, a brittle exhale. He nods, eyes glistening. “I’m trying,” he admits, voice cracking on the words. “I just… sometimes I’m so scared I’ll disappear before I realize I’ve gone.”

Casey leans in, pressing her forehead gently to his, anchoring them both in the present. “Stay with me,” she says, not as a command but as a plea, heavy with love and the desperate hope that, together, they can hold the dark at bay.

And so, in the stillness of Pippa’s hospital room, their hands remain entwined—two souls battered, but unbroken, holding each other steady in the hush between heartbeats.

It scares her because she knows that if she lost Raf, she wouldn’t have the strength to keep fighting. And then where would that leave Pippa? The thought is a shadow at the edge of every brave face she wears, a cold wind that rattles her resolve. Casey’s grip tightens—not just in comfort, but in need. Raf isn’t only her anchor; he is the tether keeping her from drifting into hopelessness. Without him, the ground beneath her would dissolve, and all her promises to Pippa would be nothing but dust on hospital tiles.

She draws in a trembling breath, daring to meet his eyes, and lets herself be vulnerable. “I need you,” she says, the words fragile but unflinching. “Not just for me, but for her. We’re her whole world, Raf. If you go, I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to stay.” The admission hangs between them—a truth long kept at arm’s length, finally spoken, binding them tighter in the quiet storm of the night.

Somewhere in the tangle of hands and fears, hope kindles. It isn’t bright or certain, but it is enough for now.

A shiver goes through Casey as she hears the terrifying beep of an alarm calling a Code Pink—a child is coding.

Her head instinctively turns to Pippa and her monitors but Pippa’s numbers are steady.

Casey whimpers. “I thought—” The words catch in her throat, raw and aching. “For a second, I thought it was her. I thought we’d—” She can’t finish. The possibility is too sharp, too close. Her hand flies to her mouth, pressing back a sob, and she blinks fast, fighting tears.

Raf’s arm curls around Casey, as if drawing her back from the brink. His voice is rough but steady—a lifeline cast between grief and hope. “I know, Sweetheart. I know.” The words are more than comfort; they are a promise, trembling but true. He brushes a tear from her cheek with the back of his knuckle, holding her gaze so she can see the fierce determination burning there, the vow that he will not leave her to weather this storm alone.

He lets the silence settle again, this time a gentler hush. In the muted light and the uncertain hush of Pippa’s room, Raf grounds them both—reminding Casey, with every touch and every word, that they are still here, still fighting, and still together.

The door opens with a hush of rubber soles and quiet authority; a neurologist enters, flanked by a team of porters whose faces are etched with the practiced calm of those who ferry fragile lives along sterile corridors. He stands at the foot of Pippa’s bed, his presence gentle but commanding.

“We’re going to take Pippa for her MRI scan now,” he says, his tone soft and reassuring, as if the words themselves might buffer the world from harm. “We’ll be as quick and careful as possible.”

Casey swallows, searching his face for certainty, for the assurance she needs in a moment where trust is everything. 

A pang of longing tugs at her—how desperately she wishes Ethan were here, with his steady hands and encyclopaedic calm, the only one who ever seemed to know all the answers.

She squares her shoulders and keeps her voice even, but her anxiety glimmers at the edges. “I presume you know of the precautions that must be put in place to keep Pippa stable and comfortable? She must not be disconnected from the ventilator by any means necessary.”

The neurologist meets her gaze, a flicker of empathy softening his eyes. “Absolutely. The transport ventilator is ready—we’ll monitor her closely, every second. I promise you, she will not be disconnected.”

Casey nods. “Ok. And you are aware that Dr. Ramsey must see the images and be present for any consultations? I am prepared to go to the medical board if you discuss my daughter’s condition without Dr. Ramsey present.”

The edge in her voice leaves no room for ambiguity. The neurologist inclines his head, a gesture of respect for the boundaries drawn by desperation and love. “Of course. Dr. Ramsey’s involvement has already been arranged. No decisions, no conversations about Pippa’s care will take place without Dr. Ramsey and your consent. That is my word.”

Something in his certainty steadies Casey, a fragile trust taking tentative root. The porters move with practiced efficiency, prepping Pippa’s bed and lines with reverent care. Raf squeezes Casey’s hand, a silent reminder that she is not alone in this stand for their child.

Casey gently kisses Pippa’s hand, her fragile chest rising and falling with the help from the machine. “Mama and Daddy will be here waiting for you when you get back, baby. We love you so much.”

A final glance between Casey and the medical team—a silent pact, for vigilance and hope—passes before Pippa is wheeled from the room, monitors softly blinking, her world now in gentle, watchful hands.

As the door swings gently shut behind the departing team, Casey’s phone vibrates against her palm, its screen flaring in the dim quiet. She glances at it out of habit, but her brow creases the instant she sees who the message is from: Meredith. It’s rare—almost unheard of—for Ethan’s wife to reach out to her directly, and the unexpected contact brings a fresh ripple of unease.

Her mind spins through the possibilities. Could something have happened to one of Ethan’s girls? Orla, bright-eyed and eight, always brimming with questions; Louisa, just a year old, her world still soft around the edges. Or perhaps it concerns Ethan’s mother, Louise—a woman whose shadowed past once threatened to eclipse everything, yet who had, over the last fourteen years, rebuilt herself with quiet, relentless dignity.

Casey’s thoughts drift momentarily to those hard-won battles. Louise Ramsey, once nearly lost to heroin and cocaine, had not touched either since Ethan was eleven—the same year he finally welcomed his mother back into his life. It had been Casey, years ago, who urged him to open his heart, believing that forgiveness could lay the foundation for a new beginning. She had watched Louise, wary but determined, transform herself day by day, until the past became a scar rather than an open wound.

But why now, why this message? Anxiety prickles at the base of her neck. Casey steels herself and opens the text, bracing for whatever new worry this day might bring.

Casey’s thumb hovers for a heartbeat before she swipes the notification open. Please, let it be nothing dire, she thinks, guilt threading through her silent prayer. She knows it isn’t fair—she should wish all well for Meredith and the girls, that nothing in their world has come undone. Yet, in this moment, her need is raw and urgent; she needs Ethan here. She needs his presence, his steady logic and quiet strength, to anchor her through this unthinkable night.

If anything has happened—if he must leave, even briefly—Casey’s fragile composure will not hold. She wants, just this once, for the world to pause, for no other crisis to claim the one person who has always stood up with her for Pippa. As her eyes race over Meredith’s words, Casey aches with the hope that it’s a trivial question, a misplaced item, anything but a summons that would pull Ethan away. Selfish, maybe. Human, certainly. All she can do is hold her breath, waiting for the verdict that will decide whether she faces this vigil alone.

But the words that greet her are neither summons nor tragedy. They’re simple, direct—a message not of alarm, but of care. Hey Casey, just checking in. How is Pippa doing? I’ve been thinking of you all and hoping she’s okay.

Casey blinks, momentarily stunned by the gentleness threading through Meredith’s inquiry. Relief—sharp and dizzying—breaks the tension in her chest, chased swiftly by gratitude. She’d braced herself for a blow, for the familiar weight of bad news or urgent requests; instead, she finds a quiet, unexpected kindness.

Casey’s hands, still trembling with the residue of panic and hope, move over the screen. She types slowly, careful not to let the ache in her chest bleed into her words.

Thanks for checking in, Meredith. Pippa’s been taken for an MRI brain scan. They need to see if the cardiac arrest caused any brain damage. We’re just…waiting now, hoping for the best. I’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything.

She hesitates, then adds: Thank you for reaching out. It means a lot right now.

She sends the message, the silent weight on her heart fractionally lighter for having named the dread aloud. In the hush that follows, Casey finds a fragile comfort in the simple act of being seen.

But even relief is fleeting. The body, indifferent to crises of the heart, reminds her of its own frailties—a familiar sticky wetness makes itself known, a quiet but persistent discomfort. With a weary sigh, Casey registers that her sanitary towel has reached its limit, the tell-tale sensation a nudge toward mundanity amid the hospital’s charged atmosphere.

Her periods, while more regular since Felicity’s birth, remain unpredictable—sometimes skipping months, sometimes arriving with a vengeance, as if punishing her for letting her guard down. When they come now, they are heavier than ever, the pain so fierce it feels as though she’s being torn apart from within.

She often forgets in the days where she sits by Pippa’s side for up to eighteen or twenty hours a day, only snatching hours of sleep when she can take no more.

Casey levers herself up from the rigid hospital chair, her legs stiff and protesting. She leans close to Raf, voice low and careful: “I need to go to the toilet, my sanitary towel needs changing.” There’s no embarrassment in the words—only the blunt necessity of worn-out routines, the practicalities that persist no matter how the world tilts.

She reaches for the canvas bag tucked beneath her seat, fingers brushing over the soft, familiar fabric before curling around the smaller toiletry pouch nestled inside. The quiet rustle of plastic against cotton is almost soothing in its ordinariness. For a moment, she is not watcher or guardian, not poised on the knife-edge of hope and fear, but simply herself—tending to needs so basic, they anchor her to the world.

Raf nods, a silent acknowledgment, his eyes warm with understanding. Casey offers him a faint, grateful smile, then slips from the waiting room, clutching the bag to her chest as she seeks out the small, impersonal sanctuary of the hospital bathroom.

As she navigates the sterile corridor, Casey reflects—almost wryly—on the peculiar gratitude she feels for these ordinary discomforts. Medical training has long banished any vestige of embarrassment from such things; she knows the body's cycles are neither shame nor secret, but simple biology, a testament to rhythms both ancient and essential. If anything, she is thankful for them. Each month’s return, unpredictable as it might be, is a quiet reminder of the fertility that once shaped her life’s course, gifting her three radiant daughters.

And then, as if the universe wasn’t finished weaving blessings through the tangled lines of her family, there was Pippa—drawn into their world as though by some unseen hand, completing the mosaic in a way neither she nor Raf could have foreseen. In this odd, clinical moment—her arms full of cotton and plastic, her mind split by worry and routine—Casey is struck not only by the ache of uncertainty, but by the fullness of what she has been given.

She holds these truths close, letting them steady her as she closes the bathroom door behind her, ready to face both the ordinary and the extraordinary with equal parts courage and grace.

Stepping into the bathroom, Casey closes the door and crosses the tile with practiced precision, the hush of rubber soles barely audible. She places her toiletry bag on the counter, her hands steady, though her body aches with exhaustion and the sharp, insistent cramp that has gnawed at her all day. With mechanical efficiency, she peels back the layers—PPE, black jeans, underwear—until she is confronted by evidence of her body’s struggle: thick clots, slick and dark, more than she has seen in months. They sit in her sanitary towel like small, cruel coins, each one a blunt explanation for the waves of pain that have left her breathless.

She peels the heavily soiled sanitary towel away from her body, the adhesive tearing softly from the cotton of her pants. Wrapping it with methodical care, she drops it into the pedal bin beside the toilet—a small, necessary ritual that feels almost meditative in its focus.

Next, she opens the fresh towel, the crisp rustle of new plastic slicing cleanly through the hush. She presses it into place, smoothing it along the fabric with practiced motions, feeling, as always, the faint comfort of renewal, however fleeting.

It’s only then she notices—the pads of her fingers are streaked with blood, thin lines tracing across the whorls of her skin, vibrant against the pale wash of her knuckles. Weariness thrums through her, heavier than before, but she does not allow herself impatience. She runs her hands under the cold tap, watching as the bright red ribbons swirl and fade, disappearing down the gleaming porcelain. The stains are stubborn, settling into the creases of her palms for a moment before finally, reluctantly, releasing their hold.

She dries her hands slowly, savouring the momentary clarity and the sharp sting of coolness where the water has caught on her skin. The fluorescent lights overhead cast pale halos across the countertop, their glare somehow both antiseptic and reassuring. Casey draws a steadying breath, collecting herself, then reaches for her jeans, pulling them up with a practiced motion, the fabric scraping comfortingly against her skin.

Layer by layer, she reassembles her PPE—each mask loop, each tug at the cuffs of her gloves, another small shield built between the unpredictable world and Pippa’s tenuous safety. The ritual is familiar but never casual; it’s freighted with the knowledge that even her most careful movements are acts of protection, each barrier a silent promise against invisible threats.

Even a simple cold could develop into a major infection which could threaten Pippa’s life.

Casey gathers her things with a careful deliberation, slipping her toiletry bag beneath her arm and casting one last glance at the spotless counter, the empty pedal bin, the silent sentinel of the soap dispenser. She opens the bathroom door, her mind already leaping ahead—out of this sterile sanctuary, back into the humming uncertainty of the hospital corridors.

The walk to the Paediatric Intensive Care Unit is both too short and too long: her feet know the route by heart, yet each step is weighted with the anticipation of what she might find. The lights are a harsh, unwavering white as she passes beneath them, the scent of antiseptic clinging to her as if it might seep through her skin. At every turn, the hospital’s quiet orchestration of hope and sorrow presses in—voices hushed behind closed doors, the distant shudder of a trolley, the rhythmic hiss of ventilation.

She pushes open the door to Pippa’s room, feeling the familiar catch of her heart. Raf is waiting, perched on the edge of the small recliner by Pippa’s vacant bed, his posture rigid, his face drawn and pale beneath the bristle of his beard. His ankle is propped up on a makeshift pile of pillows, the swelling unmistakable even through the thin hospital sock. The strain etches deep into the lines around his eyes; his worry is a living thing, shivering in the air between them.

Casey slips inside quietly, setting her bag down beside the chair. She meets Raf’s gaze, offering the smallest, steadiest smile she can muster—an attempt to anchor them both against the undertow of waiting. The room feels suspended in time, each beep and flicker of the monitor a reminder of what hangs in the balance.

She settles next to him, their silence dense with questions and hopes unvoiced, both of them straining to listen for footsteps, for the turning of the door handle, for any sign that Pippa might soon be wheeled back from the Radiology department, bearing answers in the grainy grey shadows of an MRI scan. Until then, all they can do is wait, together.

Casey frowns, “Have you taken your Tramadol today? And have you eaten anything?”

Raf blinks, almost startled by the question, as if the thought of self-care had evaporated in the fluorescent haze of the ward. He glances down at his ankle, the bones blurred beneath swelling, and shrugs—a small gesture, defensive in its uncertainty. “I... I think I took one this morning,” he admits, voice rough with fatigue. “But breakfast—no. Didn’t feel like it.”

Casey’s lips tighten. She rummages in her bag and produces a granola bar, pressing it into his hand with gentle insistence. “You need to keep your strength up. Pippa wouldn’t want you falling apart.”

A silence settles again, softer now. Raf unwraps the bar, the crackle of plastic loud in the hush, and takes a tentative bite. Across the room, the monitor’s green numbers pulse steadily, a fragile metronome of hope. Casey leans back, her eyes flicking to the door, counting heartbeats, quietly measuring time until the next answer arrives.

Casey smiles and gently brushes a stray lock of hair from Raf’s brow, her touch light but lingering. “You need a haircut,” she teases, her voice a balm amid the static of the machines. “You’re starting to give Rafa Nadal a run circa 2008, for his money.”

A ghost of a smile flits across Raf’s face, the tension in his jaw loosening just slightly. Casey’s own mind drifts, carried back by memory’s tide to the first time she’d stumbled across Rafa Nadal— the Spanish footballer, a prodigy then barely nineteen, all messy hair and blazing intensity. At fifteen, Casey had watched him play for RCD Mallorca, his hometown team, before the world beckoned and Real Madrid claimed him at twenty-two. Seventeen years with the giants of Spain, his career a tapestry of triumphs and tribulations before he retired at thirty-nine, his legacy carved into stadium stone.

She remembers vividly the day she’d met Rafa Nadal in person, years later. His career was winding down, body battered by the beautiful game. She’d been the one to diagnose the herniated disc that would force his final bow, her hands gentle as she traced the invisible map of pain along his spine, her words careful and kind as she delivered news no athlete ever wants to hear. There had been a gravity in the room that day—a man poised between past glories and the great unknown, and her, a witness to both his vulnerability and resilience.

But at this stage of his life, Rafa had only one question that mattered—would he be able to play with his then two-year-old son? The trophies, the legendary matches, the roar of the crowd—none of it meant as much to him as the quiet hope of sharing sunlit afternoons on a patch of grass, guiding a small foot to tap a worn leather ball.

Casey had seen that fierce longing in his gaze, the vulnerability that had nothing to do with injury. She’d chosen her words with care, steady and honest, yet gentle as a hand on a fevered brow. Yes, there would be surgery. Yes, the months ahead would be marked by discipline and the slow arithmetic of healing. But she’d promised him, as truly as she could, that he would run again, that the simple joy of kicking a ball with his little boy would not be denied him.

It was not just prognosis—it was hope, and a kind of benediction.

The memory flickers away, replaced by the present—by Raf, here beside her, holding a half-eaten granola bar and blinking tiredly. She wonders at the odd ways the past finds its echoes in the now, a strand of hair, an old name, the ache of bodies refusing to forget. She squeezes Raf’s hand, her smile warm with shared history and hope.

It never bothered Raf—the crushes Casey had nursed for years on both Rafa Nadal and Enrique Iglesias, who she also adored, and who, as it happened, Raf partly resembled. It was a running joke in their marriage, the way Casey would sometimes squint at him and declare he could have been Enrique’s long-lost cousin if he just learned to sing. 

Raf played along, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation when she queued up “Hero” or “Bailando” while they cooked dinner, her voice always off-key but her enthusiasm irrepressible.

He’d tease her about her type—fierce, soulful, just a little bit scruffy—and she’d retort that at least she’d married her favourite. These old jokes stitched through their shared history, softening the edges of harder days. In moments like this, with the fluorescent lights and the low hum of machines, the memory of that playful affection felt like a life raft. Raf squeezed her hand back, letting himself settle into the gentle comfort of being known, flaws and all, and loved all the more for it.

Casey’s reverie is interrupted by the soft ping of her phone. She glances down to see Sienna’s name lighting up the screen—a bright punctuation amid the dim quiet of the hospital room. Sienna never texts lightly; her messages arrive with the weight and warmth of a well-loved novel, the sort you reread for comfort.

Tonight’s message is brief, uncertain: Still no sign. Should I be freaking out yet?

Casey’s chest tightens with a mingled surge of joy and worry. She can almost hear Sienna’s voice—half-exasperated, half-hopeful—threading through the words. Sienna, her best friend since university days, who has weathered so many storms with her. Sienna, who only eleven months ago had cradled her newborn son, Alexander, after a gauntlet of three rounds of IVF—a journey so fraught that the third attempt had felt less like a plan and more like a whispered last prayer.

Casey remembers that time keenly: the clinical chill of waiting rooms, Sienna’s brave face set against the bruising uncertainty, Lucas’s hand clasped in hers. The two of them, counting injections and pinching pennies, watching their savings dwindle despite Sienna’s department head salary—so much more than Casey would ever pull in, but never quite enough when hope became a number on a bank statement. She remembers the way Sienna had clung to hope with a grip fierce as any mother’s, even as each failure chipped away at both resolve and resources.

And now, so soon—could it really be happening again? A second child, a surprise, a gift neither planned nor dared dream of? The odds, the timing, the fear and wild, breathless hope—they all swirl together, impossibly delicate.

Casey’s thumb hovers over the keyboard. She wants to say, Wait and see, don’t panic, breathe. She wants to promise everything will be all right, that whatever comes, Sienna won’t face it alone. Instead, she simply writes, Still early. Whatever happens, I’m here. Love you.

She presses send, the words a lifeline tossed across the quiet day, an echo of all the ways women hold each other up when the future is uncertain, and sometimes, impossibly bright.

Raf notices the flicker of emotion across Casey’s face, the way her lips press together before she finally looks up. “Who’s that?” he asks, his voice gentle, a touch of curiosity threading through.

Casey meets Raf’s eyes, warmth flickering in hers. “Sienna,” she says, the name carrying a thousand stories between them. For a heartbeat, she debates letting the rest spill out—the anxiety on the other end of that message, the shadow of hope that is too fragile to name. She bites back the words, settling instead for the comfort of the present, the hospital’s hush wrapping them both in its odd cocoon.

She shrugs, half-smiling. “Probably just on her coffee break. You know her—never lets a crisis get in the way of caffeine.” The lightness in her voice is a deliberate veil, stitched tight over the fretful thrum beneath.

Raf, sensing more than she says, squeezes her hand again. “Let me guess—she’s roping you into another one of her schemes?”

Casey laughs, the sound echoing softly off tile and linoleum. “Not this time. Just… checking in.” She glances down at her phone, thumb brushing the glass as if she could send reassurance through touch alone. “She’s good at that.”

Outside, the afternoon light slants through the window, painting gold across Raf’s hospital blanket. For a moment, Casey allows herself to believe in small mercies: the steadiness of Raf’s hand in hers, Sienna’s persistent hope lighting up her phone, the ordinary magic of women who hold each other up through every storm. She tucks her phone away and leans back, letting silence settle, full of all the things she cannot say, and all the love she quietly offers—unspoken, unwavering, and endless.

Casey checks the time—two o’clock sharp, the hour marked out in her mind like an appointment she cannot afford to miss. She turns to Raf, lowering her voice. “Did you or one of the nurses put Pippa’s Clobetasol Propionate on her arms and shoulders?”

There’s a pause—the kind that says both of them are running down the same list, the same rituals, the same stubborn hopes. Pippa’s rash, that angry constellation of red blooming across her arms and shoulders, had first appeared during the worst days of her chemotherapy, before the T-cell aspiration. Relief had been promised in the little tube of ointment, its instructions simple: three times a day, every day, until the itch and burn gave way to smooth skin. But months had passed, the regimen kept with desperate diligence, and still the rash lingered, feverish and unyielding, as if Pippa’s body refused to forget.

Casey’s mind drifts to those nights—Pippa awake, fretful, unable to express the misery except to cry and wriggle, her small fists trying to scratch through the pain. Casey and Raf would take turns, soothing her, singing, coaxing her hands away, all the while applying the Clobetasol with gentle, circular motions, hoping for a miracle in a pharmacy’s promise.

Now, as the silence stretches, the weight of those months presses in, heavy with worry and memory. Even in her coma, Pippa’s arms bear the story: the stubborn rash, the rawness, the fight still etched on her skin. Casey’s question hangs between them, less an inquiry than a plea—for vigilance, for hope, for the right answer this time.

Raf shakes his head, lips tight. “I’ll check with the nurse on duty,” he murmurs, already half out of his chair, the urgency in his movements matching the quiet panic that thrums in Casey’s chest. She exhales shakily, brushing a hand across her eyes, and watches the sunlight catch on the metal bedrail, tracing silent prayers in the dust.

Casey frowns, her voice gentle but insistent. “Be careful or you’ll trip,” she says, catching Raf’s sleeve before he can dart away. There’s a note in her words—part command, part plea—that betrays the undercurrent of worry she carries for him, too. “This isn’t an emergency, babe. You can go at your normal, comfortable pace.”

The sharpness in her tone softens as she squeezes his arm, grounding them both. In the hush of the ward, urgency is a double-edged sword—sometimes it saves, sometimes it frays. Casey’s eyes linger on Raf, their familiar lines drawn tight with fatigue and devotion. She doesn’t want him swept up in her own anxieties, doesn’t want to watch him stumble just to chase a hope that’s never been simple.

Raf pauses, breathing out some of the haste. For a moment, the world steadies again: two people tethered by their care, holding space for each other’s limits as much as for their shared devotion. He nods, a small, grateful smile flickering across his face.

“I’ll be careful,” he promises, and in that simple vow Casey feels the quiet strength that’s carried them through countless nights and uncertainties—a reminder that, sometimes, the bravest thing is simply moving slowly, together.

When Raf returns, there’s a carefulness to his step—a promise kept. He settles into the chair beside Casey, the quiet hum of the ward folding around them like a blanket. “Spoke to the nurse,” he says, voice low. “Pippa’s ointment hasn’t been put on yet. They’ll apply it as soon as she’s back from her MRI—they’re expecting her any minute.”

At the mention of the scan, Casey’s heart skips. Hope and apprehension coil together, breath catching in her throat. She nods, clutching the reassurance like a talisman, thinking of Pippa in the narrow tunnel, cradled by whirring machines and distant voices. The idea of her small body, still and brave under the great humming arch, is almost too much to hold.

“All right,” Casey manages, her words a quiet truce with anxiety. She finds Raf’s hand again, grounding both of them in the moment—waiting, trusting the slow progression of care, believing in the return of their daughter and the measured, gentle hands that will tend to her skin. Time stretches and contracts as they wait, each second filled with silent wishes: for swift news, for smooth skin, for the smallest evidence that healing is possible.

The truth is, she just wants to see her baby, even if it means being confronted by Pippa on a ventilator.

It’s a longing that cuts through all the clinical reassurances, the polite updates, the parade of careful, competent hands. Casey’s need is elemental—a mother’s ache for proof of breath, for the warmth of a presence she can see and touch, for the simple knowing that Pippa is still here. No sterile corridor, no tangle of wires, not even the starkness of a machine’s rhythm can dull that ache.

Her eyes flick to the doorway, searching for any sign that the wait is over. She tells herself again that she can bear anything as long as she’s beside her child—even the sight of that small body made smaller by tubes and tape, even the air that comes and goes by another means. What she cannot bear is distance: not knowing, not seeing, not holding. The bravest thing, perhaps, is not endurance, not hope, but the simple insistence on being present, however harsh the scene, however fragile the grace.

Casey’s knuckles whiten around Raf’s hand. The world narrows to the possibility of the next moment, to the first glimpse of a nurse in the hall, to the hope that soon—very soon—she will be allowed to enter, to bear witness, to love Pippa in whatever form this day allows.

Tears suddenly spring to Casey’s eyes, her breath faltering. “I’m scared, Raf. What if—” The words tremble and dissolve between them, unfinished but understood. What if Pippa doesn’t wake up? What if all the gentle routines and vigilant hope are not enough? What if the next threshold they cross is one from which there is no returning?

Raf’s hand tightens around hers, his own eyes shining with grief he can barely contain. He doesn’t tell her not to worry, doesn’t try to mend the moment with false certainty. Instead, he lets the question hang in the air, raw and honest—a wound shared.

“If that happens,” his voice is rough, but steady, “then we’ll hold her. Together. However long we’re given, we’ll be with her. She won’t be alone.” He brings her hand to his lips, the gesture as much for him as for her. “I don’t know how we’ll do it. But we will. We’ll love her all the way through.”

Casey’s tears spill over, silent but relentless, tracing the lines of her exhaustion and courage. She folds into Raf, the two of them clinging to one another in the small, humming room. The future is a dark shape just beyond the door, but here, now, in the fragile present, they are together—waiting, hoping, bracing themselves for whatever love demands.

In the space between hope and fear, they draw breath. And in that breath, they hold on.

The door swings open, slicing through the hush with a startle that sends Casey upright in her chair. Ethan enters, the hospital light glinting off his glasses, white coat creased from too many hours and too little rest. In his hands, he holds a slim folder—an object as weighty as a verdict.

He glances at them, and in that brief moment, his expression carries both the gravity of a physician and the empathy of someone who has witnessed too much suffering. “Pippa’s MRI scan is over,” Ethan says, his tone gentle but unflinching. “I’ve looked over her results. There are a few areas we need to be cautious about, but we won’t know how she’s affected until she comes out of the coma.”

The words settle over the small room, not quite heavy enough to crush hope, but not light enough to lift the shadows either. Casey feels Raf’s hand tense in hers, and for a heartbeat, all her strength strains toward deciphering Ethan’s face, searching for some secret reassurance in the lines around his mouth, the furrow of his brow.

She wants to ask a thousand questions and none at all. The future, so recently a silent threat, now wears a new mask—one of waiting, again, but now sharpened by the knowledge of hidden dangers lurking in Pippa’s small, quiet body.

Casey draws a trembling breath. “But she’s… she’s stable? She’s still fighting?”

Ethan nods, stepping closer, his presence steadying. “Yes. She’s stable. The next few hours and days will tell us more. We’ll be with her every step. So will you.”

Casey closes her eyes, clutching that promise, and for a moment, lets herself believe in the slender thread of possibility—enough, perhaps, to keep holding on.

A thought rushes in, unbidden and desperate, before Casey can silence it. She finds her voice—fragile, almost apologetic—yet it trembles with longing. “I know you’ll probably say no, but is it possible for me to hold her? Has it ever been done before?”

Her words spill out in a ragged whisper, “I know…it’s allowed sometimes, when a child is being taken off the ventilator, so they can be in their parents’ arms as they slip away—”

The rest catches in her throat, the fear too raw, too true. The possibility that one day, a single misstep could bring that reality to their door presses hard against her ribs. Raf’s hand tightens in silent solidarity.

Ethan’s gaze softens, something fatherly flickering beneath the physician’s steadiness. He kneels to their level, voice pitched low, careful. “Casey, I wish it were as simple as that. Sometimes, when a child is very fragile, we do allow gentle holding, even while they’re on support. But it depends on a lot—their stability, the lines and wires, what her team judges safe. It isn’t only reserved for goodbyes.” He offers a small, worn smile, a flicker of hope among the clinical caution. “There are moments, sometimes, when touch is healing. If Pippa grows stronger, if her breathing and blood pressure hold steady, we can talk with her team. We want her to feel her parents’ love, not just the machines.”

Casey nods, tears brimming anew, a different kind of ache sharpening inside her. She can almost feel the phantom weight of Pippa’s small body resting against her chest, the impossible hope of warmth and heartbeat and breath. 

For now, it remains just out of reach—a promise, not yet broken nor fulfilled.

Raf leans in, pressing his forehead to hers, and together they weather this fresh surge of wanting, of near and not-yet. In this tiny, humming room, their yearning becomes another thread of possibility, weaving through the silence as they wait, loving her all the way through.

Raf swallows tears, “Is there anything we can do? We have been holding her hands and talking to her, and reading her stories.”

Ethan’s answer is gentle, never hurried. “You’re already doing so much. She hears your voices—familiar, loving. She knows you’re here. Even small things help: your touch, the way you speak to her, telling her about the world outside these walls. If you want, bring in her favourite blanket or something that smells like home. Sometimes, we play soft music, or record messages for when you can’t be at her side. All of it matters. Love is woven into the care we give, and she feels it.”

Casey nods, and Raf manages a trembling, grateful breath. The room shifts, just a little: less like a battleground, more like a vigil. The fragile, relentless hope persists—anchored by the quiet, tireless ways they love her, holding on in every way that is left to them.

Casey reaches into the canvas bag resting by her feet, her hands trembling with the weight of so many days and nights spent here. “We’ve got her purple butterfly blanket,” she says softly, as if naming it conjures comfort into the air. “I asked one of the nurses to wash it yesterday. She even took it home with her—didn’t just toss it in the hospital machine. She said she wanted it to smell like real laundry, like home.”

The blanket emerges, vivid and familiar: a tumble of lilac and indigo wings dancing across worn, beloved fleece. It’s the one Tommy found in New York for Pippa—Tommy, who’d crossed half a continent on tour and returned bearing a gift for a little girl barely two, tucked behind a smile that said he’d thought only of her. In the years since, the blanket has wound its way through every hospital stay, every long night, every sharp moment of comfort needed when nothing else would do. It’s become a talisman, as essential as medicine or oxygen, as recognizably hers as the dimple in her chin or the way she crinkles her nose when Raf sings off-key.

Casey’s fingers smooth the fabric almost reverently, tracing butterflies whose edges have faded from so many washes, so many clutched-fisted dreams. “For the last three years, she’s adored it,” she murmurs, voice catching at the memory of all those nights—blanket curled in small arms, a shield against the cold and the strange. “It’s her comfort…through all of this. Hospitals and needles and medicine and fear. This blanket has been the one thing she can always count on.”

She drapes it gently over the edge of the bed,  as close as she’s allowed, and suddenly the room feels different—less sterile, less foreign. The scent of home, the softness of old fleece, the flutter of purple wings: they are hope, stitched and worn and carried forward. Raf’s hand finds hers, and together they watch the butterflies settle, bright and brave, ready to keep loving her in every way they still can.

Casey knows Ethan isn’t one for making promises he can’t keep, not when a patient—or a family member’s life is in his hands. That’s part of why she trusts him, even when she’s desperate for certainty and every shadow on the monitors claws at her nerves. He speaks with the careful honesty of someone who’s mapped the edges of hope and knows which ledges will hold, and which will give way beneath the weight of longing.

She can see the gravity in his eyes, the way he never rushes or looks away, holding her gaze with a steadiness that feels like shelter. His reassurances are never platitudes, never the easy comfort of a promise he isn’t sure he can deliver. Instead, he offers the truth—gentle, but unflinching.

In this place, that truth is a rare and precious thing. It means when Ethan says Pippa feels their love, that she hears their voices and knows she is not alone, Casey can believe it. Not because it’s what she wants to hear, but because he would never say it unless he knew, somewhere deep, that it was real.

So, Casey lets herself lean into that truth, holding it close like she holds Raf’s hand, like she drapes Pippa’s blanket across the bed: as an act of faith. In this room, with its measured beeps and its quiet sighs, hope becomes something built on honesty—something fragile, perhaps, but never false.

Casey looks at Raf, “We need to put Pippa’s cream on her arms and shoulders now. Which means we need to open her pyjama top, but we need to be careful of the electrodes and leads and wires that are tracking her heart rhythm.”

She stands up and walks over to where Pippa’s battered blue bag waits, slouched against the foot of the bed—a vessel heavy with vials, syringes, and the tangled lifelines of necessity. It holds every single medication Pippa requires, each bottle and blister pack a silent testament to the relentless vigilance of their days. The bag’s seams are stretched and frayed, worn by constant opening and closing, by the urgency of midnight searches and the hurried packing for ambulance rides.

Casey kneels beside it, deft but weary, fingers brushing past saline flushes, an inhaler, a crumpled packet of wipes, and a meticulously labelled pill organizer. She rummages until she finds the tube of clobetasol propionate, the label beginning to peel at the edges. She isn’t sure if this is the fourth or fifth tube since the rash bloomed across Pippa’s skin three and a half months ago—the weeks run together, measured not in days but in doses and flare-ups, in the slow, stubborn fading of angry red patches.

She squeezes the tube gently, checking there’s still enough left, then glances back at Raf. There’s a rhythm in these small rituals now, a choreography they’ve learned wordlessly: one of them steadies Pippa’s arm, the other unscrews the cap; together, they make their way around the leads and sensors that map the fragile shape of hope, one heartbeat at a time.

The moment hangs—a hush of anticipation—until Casey’s phone, wedged somewhere beneath a folded cardigan and a sheaf of hospital discharge summaries, starts to ring. The sound is sharp against the quiet, startling in this space so carefully composed around gentle beeps and murmured reassurances.

Casey frowns, steroid cream already cool and smooth against her fingertips, the task only half-done. She turns towards Ethan, who stands close by, just as Raf fumbles with the buttons on Pippa’s pyjama top, his hands careful not to disturb the delicate web of wires and sensors.

“Ethan, can you please answer that?” her voice is tight, balancing apology and urgency.

He nods, crossing to the chair where her phone buzzes insistently, the caller ID glowing in the low light. He glances at the screen and lifts his eyes to meet hers. “It’s your mother,” he says quietly, understanding without needing to ask the weight this call might carry.

Casey’s brow furrows a little deeper. “Could you please tell her that I’ll call her back in five minutes, when I’ve finished putting Pippa’s steroid cream on?” Her voice is gentle but decisive, a mother’s priorities in sharp focus.

Ethan gives a reassuring smile and swipes to answer, his tone soft as he speaks into the phone, relaying Casey’s message with the same careful honesty that steadies them all. In the small, crowded room, the ordinary act of answering a call becomes another thread in the tapestry of love and vigilance—a reminder that outside this cocoon of vigilance and small hopes, life presses on, waiting, just for a moment, at the threshold.

Casey turns to Pippa, “Here we go my darling. Your cream for your arms and your shoulders, that should make the itch calm down.”

Although Pippa cannot respond, her eyelids fluttering only in dreams, Casey speaks as she always does—words a lifeline thrown out across uncertain waters. She murmurs gentle reassurances, each syllable a small anchor, as she smooths the cool cream along tender skin, careful not to press too hard, careful not to let any wire slip or lead tug free.

It does not matter that no answer comes. Inside the hush, with the muted beeps and Raf’s steadying presence, Casey finds her own solace in the act. The room, thick with the scent of antiseptic and the low hum of machines, grows softer around the cadence of her voice. To speak to Pippa—her darling, her brave girl, her silent fighter—is to remember she is still here, still tethered by hope and love, no matter how far beneath the surface she drifts.

For Casey, these words are as much a promise as a comfort. She believes that somewhere, in some quiet fold of sleep, Pippa might still feel their warmth, and that love, spoken aloud, can reach even the deepest silence.

When she has washed her hands and put away the cream back in the bag where she is certain it is for the next time she needs it at bedtime—eight o’clock, the same time as Pippa’s final tubal feed of the day—Casey dries her hands and reaches for her phone. She scrolls down her recent calls, past the late-night, terror-filled calls to Ethan and the incoming calls from Sienna, until she finds her mother’s number.

Casey waits as the call rings out, her thumb pressing with unconscious insistence against the cold plastic, until at last Sandy’s voice comes through.

Sandy’s voice, warm but a little frayed at the edges, comes through the line. But before she can muster a greeting, Casey’s words tumble out in a rush—a dam broken by too many held breaths. “Hi Mom, sorry I couldn’t talk. Pippa had to have her steroid cream put on her arms and shoulders. This rash from her chemotherapy just isn’t shifting. It’s been three and a half months.”

The words rattle along, urgent and apologetic, as if Casey could keep the ache and worry at bay through the sheer force of her speech. She fills every pause, layering explanation on explanation, unable to let silence settle or leave room for questions she might not have the strength to answer.

On the other end, Sandy listens—phone pressed tight to her ear, her own news of Isabelle’s recurring night terrors balanced precariously on her tongue. But Casey barrels on, too quick, too full, her voice a shield against the darkness that threatens at the edges.

Sandy waits, patient, holding her burdens close, knowing the rhythm of these calls—how sometimes, love means letting the words spill out unchecked, leaving her own worries for another time.

There is a long, trembling silence, the kind that only comes when pain is too raw for easy words. Through the phone, Sandy’s voice gathers itself, gentle but edged with sorrow: “They are getting worse, Casey. She says she and Pippa are playing in the woods and suddenly Pippa starts to fade away. I think Belle is trying to describe Pippa dying. Her fears that she’ll lose her sister and her best friend.”

The words land with a shuddering finality, and for a moment Casey cannot breathe. The edges of the room blur. 

She looks at Raf—his eyes, haunted, never leaving Pippa’s unconscious form—and her own spill over, tears tracking silently. She thinks of Isabelle’s small, trembling body, the way she curls herself tight and cries for her sister, waking up drenched and afraid, the fear so big it spills out in the night and soaks the bed.

She aches to be there, to gather Isabelle up, to press kisses into her tangled hair, to whisper the kind of promises a mother must make even when she’s not sure she can keep them. To tell her girl that Pippa is still here, that the woods are just a dream, that sisters don’t fade, not truly—not if love is fierce enough.

But distance is a wall, and all Casey can do is let her grief pour out, hot and helpless, as Sandy waits on the other end, holding space for both their heartbreaks. The world in this moment is too wide, and every word feels like a thread stretched thin between rooms, between beds, between the ones who fight and the ones who dream.

Casey wipes her cheeks, voice rough. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I wish I could be there. I wish—” She cuts herself off, the wish too familiar, too sharp. In the hush that follows, hope and sorrow live side by side, and the sound of Isabelle’s night terrors lingers, an echo neither mother nor daughter knows how to chase away.

Sandy’s answer is a hush, a rustle of movement—then her voice, thick with tenderness. “She’s right here, sweetheart. Give me a moment.” There’s the muffled sound of Sandy shifting the phone, the distant notes of a cartoon theme song, the static-flutter of a child’s world in the background.

Casey blinks hard, willing herself to be steady as the screen fills with the familiar living room, soft afternoon light filtered through the curtains. There, nestled in a patchwork blanket, Isabelle curls, her small hands wrapped around the beloved polar bear, the faded white fur pressed against reddened cheeks. Her hair tumbles in sleep-mussed spirals, and for a moment, the ache of absence and the balm of love collide in Casey’s chest.

“Belle?” Casey whispers, as if her voice could bridge continents. The child blinks, confusion and hope warring in her eyes, then a tremulous smile cracks the shadows. Raf moves closer behind Casey, his own face unguarded, voice catching: “Hey, little bear. We miss you so much.”

Isabelle’s lower lip wobbles, then she squeezes her polar bear tighter, the cartoon’s colours reflected in her wide, shining eyes. “Mama? Daddy?” Her voice is soft, but it cuts through the miles.

“We’re right here, baby.” Casey’s voice shudders but steadies, gathering up all the warmth she can find. “We love you. So, so much.”

For a moment, time holds its breath; grief and hope twine together, thrumming through the glowing screen. Somewhere, beyond the walls and the monitors and the endless, uncertain waiting, love endures—reaching out in pixelated light, fierce and unbroken.

Isabelle clutches her polar bear and her threadbare blankie, knuckles white, though Mia sometimes teases her—soft and sly—that she’s far too old for such things. But now, the comfort of old softness, the memories stitched into the faded fabric, are all she has. Her eyes, still swollen from sleep and worry, dart between the screen and the doorway as if Mama might walk in, arms open, any moment.

“Mama home soon? Pippa play?” she ventures, her voice thready with hope and longing.

Casey feels the question like a stone in her chest—her daughter’s faith, so fragile, so bright it hurts to hold. The lump rises in her throat, threatening to choke the answer before it comes. She turns the phone away, her hand trembling, stealing a glance at Pippa’s motionless form on the hospital bed, so small and still beneath harsh white sheets. She can’t let Isabelle see, not like this.

“I don’t know, sweetie,” Casey manages, her voice barely above a whisper. “Your sister’s still very poorly.” The words falter, each one a promise she cannot shape, a truth too heavy for a child’s world yet too urgent to hide. For a breathless second, it’s just the hush of static, cartoon melodies mingling with the pulse of worry, and the unspoken wishes stretching between them, thin as gossamer, strong as love.

Isabelle whimpers, her sapphire blue eyes—so achingly like Casey’s—filling with tears. “Bedtime scary without Mama cuddles.” The words tremble in the hush, as if they might shatter under their own fragile weight. Casey’s heart contracts; on the screen, her daughter’s face is a moonlit echo of her own, all vulnerability and longing.

Raf moves to rest a gentle hand on Casey’s shoulder, grounding her as she fights the pull of her own tears. “I know, sweetheart,” Casey murmurs, voice a silken thread. “It’s hard. I wish with all my heart I could be there to tuck you in and hold you close.”

She watches as Isabelle burrows deeper into the patchwork cocoon, the polar bear clutched tight—a talisman against the night. The distance feels wider than ever, but Casey gathers every bit of warmth and steadiness she can muster and pours it into her words. “We’ll imagine I’m right there, okay? I’m sending you the biggest, softest hug in the world. And Daddy too. Can you feel it?”

Isabelle nods, a watery smile flickering through the tears, and for a moment, hope glimmers. The promise of reunion—of comfort returned—hangs tenderly between them, a silent lullaby humming through the wires and the dark, lonely room.

Somewhere in the background, a sharp bark rings out—Maple, their sprightly Maltese poodle, her presence as constant as breath. Casey’s heart twists with bittersweet affection at the sound. Maple, Raf’s impossible, joyous surprise on her thirty-first birthday, has always seemed to know when a soul is splintered. Even now, the little dog’s bark feels like a reminder that the world beyond hospital corridors and sleepless, anxious nights continues to turn.

Casey’s thoughts flicker, searching for another heartbeat—Hope, their golden retriever pup, all oversized paws and tumbling energy. At just fifteen months, Hope’s exuberance is matched only by her knack for disappearing at the quietest moments, trailing off to secret corners with a well-loved toy or, sometimes, curling up beside Isabelle when the dark grows too deep.

For a fleeting instant, Casey’s mind drifts back—beyond these jagged days, to a sorrow even quieter and more private. She remembers the way Maple nestled wordlessly against her after the loss of Oliver, the baby whose heartbeat stilled before his first breath. Maple had seemed to understand, pressing warmth into Casey’s side as she wept, steadfast through the hollow hours when grief was a silent storm.

Now, listening to the sounds of home—Maple’s bright yelp, the hush that hints at Hope’s gentle watch—Casey draws a trembling breath. Love, she realises, is stitched through every corner of their lives, in loyal paws and soft fur and the silent promises of comfort, ready to fill the spaces that sorrow leaves behind.

Soon, Sandy’s gentle voice filtered through the speaker, her tone patient yet purposeful. “Come on, Isa, time to say goodbye now—we need to go and pick up Mia and Felicity from school.” The words, so ordinary in their routine, brushed quietly against the heartache in the room.

Isabelle let out a shaky sigh, eyes flicking to some comfort just offscreen as Sandy hovered beside her, arm wrapped in reassuring promise. “Love you, Mama,” she mumbled, voice small and brave.

Casey pressed her palm to the glassy surface of her phone, wishing it could bridge the ache, could carry her warmth all the way home. “Love you more, sweetpea. I’ll see you soon, I promise.”

With that, the call ended—Isabelle’s face a fading moon, the square of her window shrinking back into silence. For a moment, Casey sat listening to the echoing hush, the distant lilt of Maple’s bark now replaced by the muted soundtrack of the ward. The ache of goodbye was a familiar companion, but in its wake, she felt the small, flickering steadiness of hope—fragile, luminous, and just enough to carry her through another night.

Casey lowers the phone and turns to look at Raf. “I hate this.” She gazes at Pippa, “I just want this Hell to be over. For Pippa to be ok. And for our family to be together again. Worrying about normal things, like forgetting to put Mia’s favourite t shirt in the laundry or running out of Belle’s favourite cereal.”

She gazes at Pippa, “A life that isn’t revolving around cancer and timed medications and staying in hospital for months at a time.”

Her voice cracks. “I want to give Pippa a normal childhood and give Mia and Felicity and Isabelle back their parents. Because they need us too.”

Raf is silent, his face shadowed by exhaustion and something deeper—guilt, maybe, or simply the unnameable ache of helplessness. He reaches for Casey’s hand across the sterile sheets, his grip tight, anchoring. For a few heartbeats, neither speaks; there is only the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the soft, uneven breaths of Pippa asleep in her crib.

“I know,” Raf says finally, his voice rough. “I want that too. I’d give anything for it. For just one day where it’s all noise and chaos and the hardest thing we face is who gets the last pancake.”

Casey manages a hollow laugh, tears glinting. “I’d burn every pancake in the house for that.” She swipes at her eyes, the gesture half angry, half tender. “How do we keep going, Raf?”

He looks at her then, really looks, and the weight of all the days and nights they have survived is there in his gaze. “We keep loving them. We keep showing up. We let Maple and Hope steal socks and bark at the mail. We call home and promise the girls we’ll be there—soon. We keep hoping, even when it’s just a flicker.”

Casey nods, weary but steadied, and glances over at Pippa, her tiny chest rising and falling. “Just a flicker,” she whispers, settling back into the chair, her hand still entwined with Raf’s. And in the hush of the hospital night, surrounded by machines and memories, she holds on to that fragile promise—a thread of hope stretched, but unbroken.

As her phone vibrates again, stubbornly, Casey gives in and picks it up. 

For a second, Casey stares at the screen, the name burning against her palm: Sophia. Her twin, her mirror, her oldest friend—now a stranger on the other end of too many unanswered calls. The phone vibrates a second time, insistent, as if the device itself aches with the urgency of Sophia's need to be heard.

Casey wants to let it ring. To hurl it away, to sink it beneath the waves of sterile light and hospital fatigue, to silence the memory of glossy pages smeared with their private hell. The image rises unbidden—a photo she never took, would never have wanted. Pippa’s small bald head, eyelids bruised, mouth slack around the ventilator. That moment, sacred and terrible, meant only for the hush of their family. And now it belonged to everyone, devoured by strangers, dissected by headlines, perhaps even mocked. Would anyone be so cruel as to laugh? Casey’s heart recoils from the thought, yet she knows the world well enough not to answer.

But what gnaws sharper than any stranger’s gaze is the betrayal from within her own blood. Sophia. The aunt who once traced hearts on Pippa’s back, who painted Mia’s face in butterfly swirls, who claimed the title of protector as fiercely as any parent. How could she? How could love twist itself into something sharp and secretive, a weapon wielded not in malice but in desperation—or was it something else? Money? Attention? Or just the ruinous allure of telling the world a story that wasn’t hers to tell?

Casey’s thumb hesitates over the answer icon. She wants to shout, to demand, to beg for a reason that makes sense, a reason that could somehow stitch this fracture closed. But no explanation can unprint the photograph. No apology can return their suffering to the privacy of their own hearts.

She closes her eyes and inhales, feeling Raf’s hand still wrapped around hers—a reminder of everything they are fighting for, of the fragile thread holding them to hope. Then, with a tremor in her voice and a storm behind her ribs, Casey answers at last, bracing herself for the voice she knows as well as her own, and for a conversation that might never bring peace.

Suddenly the door swings open, the hush fractured by the rush of air and footsteps. Dr. Mei Lui enters—her presence composed and gentle, yet commanding in its quiet authority. She is an Infectious Disease specialist, her vowels still touched by the soft inflections of Pingyao, Shanxi Province, though she’s called America home for two decades now. Her monolid eyes are dark brown, nearly black, and luminous with compassion; her smile is small but genuine, as if she knows exactly how fragile hope can be in a room like this.

Sophia is forgotten in an instant—her name a pale echo compared to the reality at the foot of the bed. Casey instinctively clutches Raf’s hand, bracing herself as Dr. Lui closes the door behind her and approaches, folder pressed to her chest.

The badge clipped to the doctor’s coat glints beneath the fluorescent lights. An Infectious Disease specialist. The title alone sends a cold ripple up Casey’s spine, sharper and more immediate than any headline or memory. For a heartbeat, the world stills, the worry in the air stretching like thin glass.

Dr. Lui pauses, reading the room as expertly as she might read a culture slide, her gaze flicking over Casey, Raf, and finally to Pippa—her small form surrounded by machinery and love. She offers her smile again, the kind that says she’s walked through too many hospital nights herself, and sets the folder gently on the bedside table.

“I’m Dr. Mei Lui,” she says, her voice mellow, “and I’m here to help take care of Pippa.” She gives them a moment, letting the words settle, her presence at once reassuring and grave—a harbinger of answers, perhaps, or at the very least, of the truth they’ve been both dreading and desperately needing.

Casey’s hand shakes as Dr. Lui clasps it in her own. “Thank you for coming. I must ask, why are you here? Have Pippa’s blood tests waved up something serious that you were needed? Have you spoken to my colleague Dr Ramsey who has come here to consult on Pippa’s care? I had specifically made it clear that he must be involved in any Diagnostic aspect of Pippa’s care.”

There is a hush—a pause that blooms and stretches, every breath in the room suspended on the cusp of Dr. Lui’s reply. The doctor’s grip is deliberate, neither rushed nor patronizing, but quietly anchoring, as if she knows all too well the way grief can make hands tremble and voices waver.

Dr. Lui’s gaze meets Casey’s, unwavering, her words weighted with calm. “I understand, Dr. Ford. I’ve reviewed the instructions and have been in contact with Dr. Ramsey; he and I have exchanged notes this morning. I’m here because some of Pippa’s most recent panels suggest there’s an emerging infection her body’s unable to fight on her own. Nothing definitive yet, but enough flags for us to be vigilant. I promise, Dr. Ramsey will remain closely looped in on all our decisions.”

Her eyes flicker with empathy, sensing Casey’s need for both reassurance and control. “This isn’t an easy moment. I want you to know that we’re all working together. I’m not here to upend the plan, only to help clarify what’s happening and guide the next steps—side by side.”

A faint shiver passes through the room: the machinery whirs, Raf’s thumb strokes the back of Casey’s hand, and Pippa’s shadowy form lies at the heart of it all. The future remains uncertain, but for now, the circle tightens—a knot of hope and fear drawn closer by the gravity of a child’s need and the fragile alliances forged to protect her.

Casey’s words hang in the hush like a plea and a challenge, the measured cadence of a doctor’s mind tangled in a mother’s raw hope. Dr. Lui inclines her head, understanding etched in the small lines at the corners of her eyes.

“Of course,” she says quietly. She draws the folder closer, thumb pressing the edge as if weighing its contents before the truth. “We haven’t found a single definitive cause—not yet. The patterns we’re seeing in Pippa’s panels are concerning, but they’re not speaking with one clear voice. There are markers for bacterial infection, yes—her white cell count is elevated, and her CRP is climbing. But there are also signs that her immune system is struggling in ways atypical for a simple pneumonia or urinary tract infection.”

She glances at the monitor, at Pippa, then back to Casey. “Sepsis is our gravest worry—an infection overwhelming her body, pushing her heart and organs past their limits. It’s likely that’s what caused her cardiac arrest, though without a single positive culture, we’re chasing shadows. The echo of infection is there in every test result, but it’s not showing itself to us yet. We’re running more advanced panels—fungal, viral, even rare bacteria. We’re not leaving anything to chance.”

Her voice is gentle but unflinching. “I know you understand the language of uncertainty, Dr. Aveiro. I wish I could give you a name, a target. For now, our plan is broad-spectrum antibiotics and close monitoring, while we push the lab for answers. If I see a shift in her symptoms—anything that opens a door—I’ll walk you through it, step by step. And Dr. Ramsey is reviewing every new result as they come in.”

She lets the silence return for a heartbeat, acknowledging the pain it brings but refusing to fill it with false comfort. “You and Raf deserve the truth. I promise you, nothing is being hidden. While we search for what’s hurting Pippa, we are fighting for her as fiercely as you would for any of your own patients. We’re in this together.”

Her gaze lingers on Casey, steady and unwavering. The gravity of uncertainty remains, but so too does a thread of hope—stubborn, fragile, and fiercely alive.

Casey nods, her voice steady but laced with urgency. “Myself and Dr. Ramsey suspected Pippa may have pneumonia, or possibly pleural effusion, as in the days before her T-cell infusion she had a wet cough, as if there was fluid in her lungs. I want the fluid tested.”

Dr. Lui listens intently, her posture attentive, fingertips pressed lightly to the folder as if anchoring herself in the moment. “Absolutely,” she replies. “I share your concern. We’ll order an ultrasound to check for any effusion, and if there’s fluid present, we’ll sample it for analysis—cell count, Gram stain, culture, and cytology if indicated. It’s important we don’t overlook any possibility, especially given the trajectory of her symptoms.”

She meets Casey’s gaze, intent and collaborative. “Thank you for raising this. Sometimes the smallest details—like a change in cough, that feeling of heaviness—are signposts we must follow. I’ll coordinate with radiology and keep you informed of every result as soon as it’s available.”

The soft hiss of the ventilator fills the pause. Raf’s grip tightens imperceptibly, drawing comfort from the clarity of the conversation. Beyond the flicker of monitors, Pippa remains at the centre, their shared hope and worry crystallizing into this latest, vital step.

For a moment, the path through uncertainty feels less like stumbling in the dark, and more like a team—hands joined, eyes open—advancing together toward an answer.

Casey turns to Pippa, her words soft but fierce, “Don’t worry baby, Mama’s fighting for you.”

She gently cups Pippa’s small hand, resting atop the blanket just as she’s always liked, a childhood comfort carried into these stark hospital hours. “Mama and Daddy are right here my darling. Just hold on and come back to us.” Her thumb traces a slow circle over delicate knuckles, memorizing the shape of hope.

The cotton headscarf, patterned with faded blue daisies, frames Pippa’s bare head, a tender attempt to shield her from the clinical chill. Grief wells up in Casey, sharp and helpless, not just for the stillness of her little girl, but for the battles Pippa has never chosen—each needle, each beeping alarm, each quiet, uncertain night.

Raf shifts closer, reaching across to lay his hand over theirs, a silent promise threaded in the warmth of his palm. 

Together, they form a circle around Pippa—fragile, unbreakable in its love.

The world narrows to this bedside: the hush of the machines, the soft rise and fall of Pippa’s chest, the ache and defiance in Casey’s voice. Vulnerable, yes, but not alone. Here, love becomes a vigil, a force as determined as any medicine, willing their daughter back across the invisible threshold.

In that hush, Casey leans low and whispers again—words meant only for Pippa, words she trusts will carry through the haze of fever and dreams: “We’re right here, sweetheart. We’re not letting go. Come back. Come home.”

Casey looks at Raf, her eyes searching his for a reassurance they can’t quite share, just as the door opens and Ethan steps quietly into the room. His presence brings a fleeting sense of steadiness, a reminder of the broader team encircling their fragile hope.

She glances up, exhaustion held at bay by determination. “Dr. Liǔ is ordering an ultrasound to check for fluid on Pippa’s lungs,” Casey says, her voice clear but laced with worry. “I told her what we suspected—that it could be pneumonia or pleural effusion. She said if there’s fluid, they’ll extract it and run tests.” 

Casey’s gaze flickers from Ethan to Pippa’s frail figure, then back. “Should I ask for Pippa to be placed on antibiotics immediately? There’s an infection her body is struggling to fight. We just don’t know what it is yet.”

The question hangs in the air, heavy with urgency and love—a mother’s plea for certainty amid a storm of unknowns. 

Raf’s hand remains on hers, grounding them both as they await Ethan’s answer, the room holding its breath with them.

Ethan remains motionless for a beat, the gravity of Casey’s words settling over him. 

His gaze flickers to Pippa, then back to Casey, his own worry etched in the faint creases at the corners of his eyes. “Let’s get her temperature first,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady—the same timbre that has steadied Casey through the chaos of so many long nights across years of shared wards and whispered reassurances.

Raf’s crutches make a soft thunk as he navigates to the foot of the bed, retrieving the thermometer with practiced care. He hands it to Ethan, who kneels beside Pippa’s pillow, brushing a stray strand of her hair back before tucking the thermometer gently beneath her tongue.

The seconds drag. Each digital beep pulses through the silence—a metronome for the anxiety that fills the room. Casey reaches to squeeze Pippa’s foot through the thin blanket, desperate for any sign that her presence can anchor her daughter in this world just a little longer.

Ethan checks the display. “104.4°,” he announces quietly—fever, relentless, mounting. He glances at Casey, then at Raf, and the decision forms behind his eyes before the words follow. 

“We shouldn’t wait. I’ll put in the order for broad-spectrum antibiotics now. If the cultures give us something more specific later, we can adjust, but she needs cover—immediately.”

Casey turns to Ethan, her eyes searching his face for something more than clinical certainty. “I think we are dealing with a case of hospital-acquired pneumonia,” she says, voice tight with a mixture of accusation and anguish. “Is there grounds for an official complaint? Or am I just going to be wasting precious time and energy?”

The words hang, sharp and restless, in the hush. Ethan meets her gaze, compassion and caution warring in his expression. He draws a slow breath before answering, weighing every syllable. “If this truly is hospital-acquired, there are protocols—we’d need to confirm onset after forty-eight hours and document the risk factors. It’s not wasting time if you want to pursue it, Casey. But right now, Pippa comes first. Let’s stabilise her; then, if you still want to file, I’ll help you with the paperwork myself.”

Raf shifts his stance, silent but attentive, the room once more banding together around the fragile hope lying feverish in the bed. For a moment, the question fades, replaced by the singular, urgent purpose of saving Pippa—complaints and formalities left for another dawn.

Casey turns to Raf, wanting, but also needing his input on this, “What do you think? This is a huge decision and I’m not going to do anything unless you agree we should.”

They had always sworn that anything serious that involved their daughters required both to agree before anything was set in motion.

Raf’s brow furrows as he shifts his crutches aside and settles on the edge of the chair, close enough to see the fear glittering behind Casey’s resolve. He takes a moment, breath coming in and out, slow and steady. “We promised,” he says quietly, his own voice rough with sleeplessness and the weight of too many nights like this. “Nothing big without both of us choosing it.”

His gaze drops briefly to Pippa, her cheeks flushed with fever, then lifts again. “I don’t want to waste time chasing blame when she’s still fighting, but I also… I don’t want to let it slide if something went wrong that shouldn’t have.” His hand finds Casey’s, squeezing it with as much strength as he has left. “Let’s get her through this first—really through it. Then I’ll stand with you, whatever we have to do. But right now, she needs every bit of us. Agreed?”

His words settle between them—an anchor, a reminder, and a promise all at once. For now, action narrows to the next moment, the next breath, the three of them holding fast to each other until the fever breaks.

Casey reaches out, gently smoothing a wrinkle from the scarf, her fingertips lingering for a heartbeat longer than needed. The hiss and sigh of the ventilator fill the quiet, a mechanical lullaby for a child who dreams behind closed, fever-bright eyes.

Somehow the headscarf covering her bare head makes her look more vulnerable than if she wasn’t wearing it, at least in Casey’s eyes.

It is tied at the nape of Pippa’s neck, just covering her scalp—a thin barrier between delicate skin and the cool air, the print bright but powerless to shield her from the gaze of the world or the ache of her own fragility. Casey’s fingers ache to smooth it again, to do something, anything, that might protect Pippa from what even antibiotics and vigilance cannot banish. The scarf seems to amplify her daughter’s smallness, her vulnerability writ large in the contrast between patterned cloth and the pale, fevered skin beneath.

And as the machines whisper and the hospital light pools against the sheets, Casey holds on—not only to Pippa’s hand, but to hope, and to Raf, and to that fragile, shared promise that nothing, not fear or anger or the sharpness of grief, will move them from her side.

The hours drift with slow, treacherous certainty. In the fluorescent hush of the ward, a nurse gently adjusts the lines at Pippa’s wrist, second-guessing nothing, her hands practiced and kind. The dual IV—piperacillin and tazobactam—spools into the vein beneath the translucent skin of Pippa’s arm, each drop a measured hope against the threat coiled in her chest. Hospital-acquired pneumonia: the words ring, too clinical for the terror they carry. Here, resistance isn’t just a medical term, but the silent enemy working against the medicine, against time.

Casey sits beside Raf, shoulders hunched forward, fingers tracing restless patterns in her lap. The longer they wait, the sharper the edge of possibility grows: that antibiotics may not be enough, that the infection might slip past every defence. Raf, usually so solid, watches the monitor as if willing the numbers to obey. They both know—too well—how quickly things can turn from hopeful to dire.

When the porter arrives to wheel Pippa downstairs, the sudden movement of staff jars the quiet vigil. Raf rises, adjusting his crutches with a wince, and Casey stands, smoothing Pippa’s headscarf one last time. 

The ventilator hums along, trailing behind the bed like an anxious shadow as the nurse carefully monitors the IV lines and monitors. “Mama and Daddy will be waiting for you when you get back baby.” 

As the doors swing closed behind Pippa’s bed and the staff’s footsteps fade down the corridor, Casey sinks back into the hard plastic chair. For a moment, her hands hover uncertainly, then reach for Flopsy—the stuffed rabbit left behind in the rush, its faded fur dulled by hospital air and the steady wear of Pippa’s small, determined hands.

Casey pulls the battered rabbit close, pressing her face briefly into the once-silky ears, now matted and thin. A faint scent clings to Flopsy, not quite Pippa’s anymore; it’s the sharp, sterile tang of the ward, layered with the ghost of childhood sweetness and the ache of long days spent waiting for improvement that sometimes never arrives. Another four months, nearly, that Pippa has kept Flopsy near—four months of whispered stories, dampened tears, and hope clung to as tightly as the toy itself.

Casey holds Flopsy in her lap, her thumbs worrying at the stitching in the rabbit’s paw, tracing the small places where the thread is loosening, where love has worn through fabric to memory. She cradles the soft toy in the hollow of her arms, as if channeling something steady and gentle back towards Pippa, wherever she is now in the labyrinth of the hospital. It’s not much, but it’s something to hold onto—a small, palpable comfort as the minutes grind forward, each one a pulse of longing, love, and hope.

Frowning, she looks at the thread. “I’m worried about the day we might need to replace her. Kids aren’t stupid, least of all Pippa.” The thought weighs heavier than the rabbit itself, settling beside the ache in her chest. There’s a certain honesty in the way Flopsy is falling apart, a testament to every night spent clutching, every comfort sought and found.

Casey runs her thumb over the loosened seam, imagining—dreading—the conversation she may someday have when Flopsy’s ear finally detaches or the stuffing spills, irretrievable, onto these grey linoleum floors. She wonders if it would matter, really, if the rabbit is gently mended or quietly replaced. Pippa, with her fierce clarity, would surely know the difference; she would see through any patchwork subterfuge.

Maybe, Casey thinks, that’s what love is: choosing to keep holding on, threadbare and imperfect, rather than pretending loss hasn’t happened. She presses her lips to Flopsy’s worn head, breathing in that mixture of hospital and child, and wills herself to believe that the small, battered rabbit—and the faith that binds them all—might last just a little longer.

Raf reaches for her hand, “Maybe we can find a way to get her mended?”

Casey startles at the gentle touch, warmth blooming despite the chill of the air and the tension coiled in her muscles. 

She glances at Raf, searching his face for something steady, something possible. For a moment, there is only the hush of machines and the long shadow of uncertainty.

“Maybe,” she says, voice scraping up from somewhere brittle. “But not so new she wouldn’t recognise her. It has to be… Flopsy, still.” She squeezes Raf’s fingers, grateful for the pressure, the shared worry. “We can’t just patch her up and pretend nothing’s changed.”

Raf nods, a faint, sad smile flickering. “We’ll keep her story in the seams. Make sure every stitch remembers. Like a quilt—old loves, new threads.” His gaze drifts to the open door, where Pippa disappeared moments before, then back to the faded rabbit in Casey’s lap. “She’ll know. But maybe that’s okay.”

Casey exhales, uncertain and hopeful at once. She imagines sitting with a needle and thread, hands joined, mending Flopsy together—Pippa’s laughter echoing in the memory, the rabbit’s patched ear a tiny testament to endurance. If love is anything, it’s this: refusing to give up on what’s worn, what’s fragile, what’s needed most.

“Yeah,” she whispers, “we’ll try.”

Gazing at Flopsy in her hands, Casey feels the question tremble inside her: how much more can Pippa take? How much further can her body go before it—she—frays beyond mending? The rabbit’s threadbare ears feel like a metaphor, too close, too true. “What if I’m right?” she whispers, barely trusting her own voice to carry the words. “ICANS can be fatal, Raf. We keep hoping, but there are days I think—what if we’re just…darning holes in something we can’t save?”

Raf’s hand tightens around hers, silent for a long, heavy moment. The machines tick on in the background, indifferent. Casey thinks of all the ways she’s learned to count hope: in lab results, in pale smiles, in the way Pippa clings to Flopsy even now. But the numbers don’t tell the whole story. Nor do the experts, or even the gentle lies she tells herself at night.

“Maybe all we can do is keep going,” Raf says softly, his words the faint outline of a promise. “Hold on to her story—theirs, ours—even if it gets smaller, even if it hurts.”

Casey nods, her eyes prickling. She strokes Flopsy’s battered fur, letting the ache seep through her bones. “We’ll mend what we can,” she says. “And love her as long as there’s loving left to do.”

The minutes have stretched thin by the time Ethan finally appears, the hospital’s institutional hush broken only by the creak of the door and his tired footsteps. He looks older than he did that morning—his tie loosened, hair mussed, the skin beneath his eyes shadowed and bruised by worry.

Casey sits up, hope and dread tangled in her chest. Raf, still holding her hand, straightens with her.

Casey meets Ethan’s gaze. “Any news? What did the MRI say? Are the other tests back for the ICANS?”

Ethan hesitates in the doorway, his lips parting, then pressing shut again as if he’s searching for the gentlest version of the truth. For a moment, the silence feels cavernous, filled with the hum of machines and the distant shuffle of hospital life.

He slides into the room, weary but careful. “There’s something on the MRI,” he says at last, voice low, steady for their sake. “It’s not worse, but it’s not better either. The swelling hasn’t gone down. They’re still watching her closely.” He glances at Raf, then back at Casey, as if trying to anchor himself in their hope.

“As for the bloodwork—some of it’s back. The markers are up a little, but we don’t know yet if that’s temporary. They’re running more tests tonight, just to be sure.” Ethan’s hand curls around the back of a chair, knuckles white. “We’re not out of options. The team’s meeting in the morning to talk through next steps.”

Casey swallows. The words land somewhere between relief and fear—another day of not losing, but not winning either. She squeezes Raf’s hand tighter, feeling the weight of waiting settle around them all.

“We’ll stay with her,” she manages, voice a thread. “We’ll keep stitching hope together, one hour at a time.”

Casey bites her lip, gripping Raf’s hand more tightly, the ache in her chest sharpening as memory and fear collide. 

She barely recognises her own voice when it emerges—small, hoarse, edged with dread. “Dr. Liǔ mentioned sepsis,” she manages. “Is that… is that something they’re looking at? It can’t be. Can it? Not again?”

Ethan’s shoulders slope, the question carving new lines into his brow. He moves closer, lowering himself into the chair he’d gripped, as if the answer itself requires steadiness. “They’re watching for it,” he admits, the words careful. “They’re checking every hour—cultures, vitals, all of it. With the swelling, the immune response, it’s something they have to rule out. But right now, there’s no definite sign. Nothing conclusive. We’re not at that bridge.”

Raf rubs his thumb over Casey’s knuckles, silent but solid. The fluorescent hospital light shimmers on his lashes as he watches her, waiting for her to breathe.

Casey nods, a little too quickly, the air tight in her lungs. “Okay. Thank you. I just—needed to know.”

Ethan’s gaze lingers, softening. “We’re not giving up on her,” he says quietly, as much for his own sake as for theirs. “Not for a second.”

Casey nods, “Any idea of what time they’ll be bringing her back upstairs?”

Ethan shakes his head, the smallest frown flickering. “They said maybe in an hour, if her numbers stay steady. They don’t want to rush moving her until they’re sure.” His gaze drifts to the clock on the wall—each minute measured, heavy with its own uncertainty. “I’ll check again before then, see if there’s an update. I know it feels endless.”

Raf shifts, hands still cradling Casey’s, his voice quiet but resolute. “We can wait. We’ll be right here.”

Ethan manages a tired smile—thin, but real. “I’ll make sure you know the minute she’s on her way up.” The words hover between them, a fragile promise, enough to steady the air for now.

Casey’s shoulders slump. “It’s already been two hours. And her next tubal feed is due soon and her antibiotics too.”

A silence settles, thick and restless. Ethan glances at his phone, the screen dark, as if searching for an answer in its reflection. 

“I know,” he says, voice low, almost apologetic. “They’re tracking the schedule downstairs—she won’t miss her dose or her feed. I’ll double-check with the nurses, make sure they’re ready the moment she’s back.”

Casey nods, swallowing down the knot rising in her throat. The clinical regularity of tubes and medications is somehow both a comfort and a terror; she clings to it, the measured certainty of times and doses, as if it’s a lifeline.

Raf squeezes her hand again, anchoring them both. “We trust you,” he says, steady and sure, directing the words at Ethan but meaning them for everyone in the room.

Ethan stands, rolling back his shoulders as if he can shake off the weight of waiting. “Give me five minutes. I’ll bring you news—good or bad.”

He leaves, the hush closing in behind him, and Casey finally lets herself exhale, chest still tight but her grip on hope refusing to loosen.

Five minutes slip by, slow and thick, before the door clicks open—a nurse, crisp and careful, steps inside holding a folded sheet of results.

She pauses at the threshold, catching sight of Casey curled in the armchair by the window, phone clutched tight. 

On the flickering screen, a much-younger Pippa giggles as Hope, all oversized paws and eager eyes, bounds clumsily after a chew toy. Casey’s shoulders tremble with silent tears; her gaze never leaves the luminous image of her daughter, bright and unburdened, a halo of resilience framing her thin smile even amidst the shadows of those first rounds of chemotherapy. Back then, even as Peripheral Neuropathy tethered her legs, Pippa’s spirit ran wild—her laughter ringing out, undimmed.

The nurse softens, steps forward with a gentle hush of shoes. “Casey?” Her voice is quiet, but it lands like a lifeline. “I have Pippa’s latest blood work—for the T-cell infusion.” She hesitates, glancing around. “Is Raf—?”

“He just stepped out,” Casey manages, pressing the edge of her thumb beneath her eye. Her voice is raw, but she forces a grateful smile. “You can tell me.”

The nurse nods, unfolding the paper, and draws up a chair. For a moment, beside the quiet glow of the video, they both wait—hope and dread suspended between numbers and memory.

Casey swallows a lump of fear in her throat. “How do they look?” She reaches for a box of tissues. “Any signs of her cancer markers going down?”

The nurse’s eyes flicker to the page, scanning the columns and curves, then settle on Casey with a measured, cautious hope. “There’s improvement,” she says, voice gentle but clear. “Her LDH levels are lower than last week, and the blasts—their numbers have dropped, too. The T-cell counts are holding steady, which is what we want. It’s not a miracle overnight, but it’s progress.”

Relief rushes through Casey in a trembling sigh, mingling with the ache that never truly leaves. She presses a tissue to her eyes, not caring if the nurse sees. On her phone, Pippa’s laughter plays on, soft and bright—a reminder that for today, hope is something more than just a word.

Casey nods. “Thank you. We’re still carrying on the daily blood tests, or is it ok to switch to weekly blood work?”

The nurse’s lips tilt into a thoughtful line, glancing back at the numbers. “Given how stable things are looking, the team will probably discuss moving to less frequent draws—maybe every few days, stepping down to weekly if she keeps trending well.” Her words are careful, but carry a certain hope—a promise that the worst may be receding, even if only inch by inch.

She meets Casey’s eyes, reassuring. “I’ll check with Dr. Menon right after this and let you know, but it’s a good sign we can even ask that question.”

Casey feels the tension in her body start to ebb, just a little. For the first time in what feels like forever, tomorrow holds the possibility of gentler routines.

She smiles gratefully, “Thank you.” The nurse’s answering smile is soft, the kind reserved for those who have weathered too many storms. For a moment, the room grows quiet—filled with the hush of machines, the low loop of Pippa’s laughter, and something newly fragile but determined: hope. Casey folds the tissue in her hand, feeling the weight of possibility settle gently inside her chest.

The nurse stands, tucking the report away. “I’ll be back soon with an update,” she promises, her voice a gentle tether in the dim. As the door swings shut behind her, Casey allows herself a single, steadying breath. In the half-light, she closes her eyes and listens—not just to Pippa’s bright voice on the video, but to the subtle, persistent beat of better days edging closer, one slow, brave step at a time.

Casey goes back to watching the video on her phone, letting the gentle cadence of Pippa’s laughter seep through the ache that still lingers in the corners of her mind. The images flicker over her face—Pippa’s hands waving, a bright, toothy grin, the faint squeak of a plastic toy in the background. For a moment, she lets herself believe that things might finally be shifting.

The door opens with a soft click. Raf limps in, shaking off the chill of the corridor, bracing himself as if he expects the same old weight to be waiting. Casey looks up, offering a small, tremulous smile that holds more hope than she’s dared show in days.

“We’ve got some good news,” she says, voice gentle but edged with a new kind of energy. “Pippa’s LDH levels and the blasts have dropped. Her T-cell counts are steady too.”

For a long heartbeat, Raf simply stands there, the words hovering in the air as if he’s afraid they might shatter. His shoulders sag, just a little, tension leaking away. “Are you serious?” he asks, voice rough with disbelief and relief.

Casey nods, her hands trembling around the phone. She wants to laugh, to cry, to do both at once. “It’s not a miracle yet, but…it’s something. The nurse thinks they might let us space out the blood work soon. Maybe even switch to weekly if things keep trending up.”

Raf exhales, a breath he’s been holding for too long. He crosses the space between them and sits, their knees almost touching. Together, they watch Pippa’s video, letting the sound of her laughter fill the gaps left by fear.

After the last few days, they’ve needed any good news they can get to grab on to. This—these numbers, these tiny changes—feel like lifelines.

They sit there in the hush, the phone cradled between them, and let hope take root, quiet and persistent, in the soft glow of the screen and the steadier rhythm of their hearts.

Casey glances at the clock, her mind drifting to Ethan. What’s keeping him? For a fleeting second, she wonders if he’s been caught up in the ongoing confusion—mistaken for one of the doctors again, as had happened, much to her amusement, during her own intern year. Back then, it was an inside joke, something to laugh about in the break room. Now, with every minute stretching taut, it’s just another knot of frustration in her chest.

She tries to picture him now, maybe cornered by a harried nurse with a chart or an anxious family in the hallway, nodding apologetically and explaining, no, he isn’t on call. Back then, Casey would have found it hilarious. Now, she just wants him here, beside her, where the world feels a little more navigable.

She sighs, letting the thought slide away, focusing instead on the warmth of Raf’s presence and the fragile hope blooming in the room. But beneath it all, a small thread of impatience tugs at her, waiting for Ethan’s familiar face to round the corner, for their small world to feel whole again.

Just then, the door opens and Ethan steps in, his hair windblown and his expression brightening as he takes in the room—Raf, Casey, the hush that feels less heavy than before. Casey looks up, arching an eyebrow. “You haven’t been mistaken for a doctor working here again, were you?” she says, her face surprisingly straight, though he can almost sense the ghost of the laughter she would have let loose in another lifetime—a different set of days, a different kind of exhaustion.

Ethan smirks, dropping his backpack by the door. “Only twice,” he replies, slipping into the familiar banter. “I set a new personal record for redirecting lost families. I think I should get a badge.”

Something eases in Casey’s face, the lines of worry softening, and Raf lets out a low, grateful chuckle. The room feels a touch lighter, as if Ethan’s arrival has nudged the axis of things. He moves closer, settling in beside them, the easy camaraderie knitting itself back together.

“Next time, wear a clown nose,” Raf suggests, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Ethan grins. “Tempting. But you know, I’m not sure that would help my credibility—or the hospital’s.”

Casey smirks, “It’s fine—you don’t work here, so the hospital’s credibility shouldn’t be something you worry about.”

Ethan laughs, the sound loosening the last bit of tension in the room. “You say that now, but wait until they put up my picture at reception,” he teases.

Raf feigns horror. “Not unless they let you sign autographs. Or at least give you a mug.”

The banter bounces between them, easy and familiar, drawing smiles that feel remarkably effortless after so many fretful hours. Casey leans back, letting the moment linger, the warmth of their gathered voices weaving an invisible thread that ties them all together.

For a moment, they are all together, the three of them, in this small, hopeful space. The silence that follows is different now—not anxious, but companionable. It is threaded with the memory of inside jokes and the newness of good news, with the possibility that, for tonight at least, hope outweighs fear.

Casey sighs, “Pippa’s T-cells are steady and her LDH levels have dropped, her blasts too.”

She says it softly, almost as if she’s afraid to break the spell of comfort that’s settled over them. But the relief in her voice is unmistakable—a fragile hope, perhaps, but hope all the same. Raf’s eyebrows shoot up, his posture straightening as the weight he’s been carrying for days seems, at last, to shift.

Ethan lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “That’s… that’s really good, Case.” His words are quiet, reverent, as if acknowledging the preciousness of good news in a place so often haunted by uncertainty.

Casey gives a small, wry smile, running a hand through her hair. “Yeah. For once, the numbers are on our side.”

A hush settles again, but it’s a softer one—full of gratitude, possibility, and the tentative shape of tomorrow. Raf grins, nudging Casey’s shoulder. “I think that calls for a celebration. Or at least some really bad vending machine coffee.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Casey says, her voice lighter than it’s been in days. And for the first time in a long while, the laughter that follows isn’t just a memory—it’s real, and it fills the room, bright and buoyant, carrying them forward into whatever comes next.

She stands up, “Why don’t I go and get it?” Turning to Ethan she frowns, “If only you’d brought your beloved Jura coffee machine, it’d actually be drinkable and not taste like watered down rain water.”

Raf looks at Casey but thinks better of asking how she could possibly know the difference.

Ethan grins, mock-wounded. “You wound me, Case. I thought I masked my snobbery well enough to fly under the radar.”

Casey just arches an eyebrow, already halfway to the door. “You underestimate my powers of observation. Besides, you talk about that machine like it’s your firstborn.”

“Only because it’s the only thing that gets me through double shifts,” Ethan calls after her, laughter threading through his words.

There’s a comfortable pause, the kind that follows well-worn routines and the unspoken promise of more good moments to come. For a fleeting instant, the world outside the break room walls fades away, replaced by the simple, ordinary magic of shared company and hope’s quiet return.

Giggling to herself, Casey rummages in her handbag for coins—clattering a few onto her palm, the familiar metallic weight oddly reassuring—and slips quietly out of Pippa’s room. She hopes, with a silent wish, that by the time she returns with the—well, “coffee”—her little girl will be back, and perhaps the world will feel just a bit lighter.

The corridor’s fluorescent lights hum above as Casey walks towards the doors leading out of the PICU. She’s halfway down the hall when a nurse intercepts her, gentle and bright-eyed. “On a coffee run?” the nurse asks, a knowing smile curving her lips.

Casey nods, letting her coins jingle. “Yes. If you can call that rain water from the vending machine coffee.”

The nurse’s smile widens, full of the easy camaraderie that forms in hospital corridors. “I can go and get you proper coffee from the nurses’ break room. We have a new coffee machine installed. Just tell me your order and I’ll get it for you.”

Casey blinks, momentarily disarmed by the small kindness—a ray of warmth on a day already turning for the better. “If you’re sure, two Espresso Romanos and an Espresso Doppio, please. I really appreciate your kindness.”

The nurse’s nod is brisk and reassuring. “You got it. I’ll be back in a minute.”

As the nurse disappears around the corner, Casey leans against the wall, letting gratitude sink in. Sometimes hope arrives in unexpected forms—a good number, a shared laugh, or a stranger’s offer of decent coffee. For now, that’s enough.

Demi hands over the steaming cups, her hands steady despite the faint tremor of a long shift. The aroma, rich and dark, curls up toward Casey’s face—so much more inviting than the metallic tang of vending-machine brew. “You’re welcome,” Demi replies, her tone soft but unwavering. “If you ever need a real coffee fix again, you know where to find me.”

Casey’s fingers wrap gratefully around the warmth, the paper cups pressed gently to her chest as if cradling something precious. “You’re a lifesaver. I owe you one.”

Demi shrugs, an easy smile lingering. “We all help each other out. That’s how we get through the long days.”

For a moment, the sterile corridor feels transformed—less like a place of waiting and worry, more like the inside of a friendly kitchen, where small gestures matter and kindness multiplies. Casey watches as Demi slips away, her footsteps light and sure, leaving behind the comforting scent and the reminder that sometimes, the smallest acts can lift the greatest weight.

With renewed spirit, Casey pushes off the wall and heads back toward Pippa’s room, balancing hope in both hands, ready for whatever comes next.

She slips quietly into the hospital room, balancing the trio of coffees, her heart buoyed by the small grace of the moment. Pippa’s bed is empty—just as expected—but her favourite blanket is bunched at the foot, a telltale sign that she’s still off with the doctors.

Casey clears her throat, drawing Raf and Ethan’s attention. The two men glance up from their quietly murmured conversation, concern etched into their faces.

“I’ve got good news—no rainwater coffee,” she announces with a conspiratorial smile, lifting the cups. “I bumped into a really kind nurse who went to the nurse’s break room and made proper coffee.”

Raf lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “Now that’s service. I think we all needed a little luck today.”

Ethan grins, reaching to take his steaming cup. “You’re a legend, Case. Thanks.” He inhales deeply, the rich scent of fresh espresso seeming to chase away, just for a moment, the edge of worry that hangs in the air.

Casey hands Raf the other cup. “It’s not much, but it’s something real. Demi—nurse with a superhero streak—sorted us out.”

There’s a brief silence as they each take a first sip, the heat and flavour grounding them, drawing everyone a little closer. Beyond the window, the city slips into late afternoon, the sterile room softening, just a little, under the weight of shared gratitude.

Ethan’s voice breaks the quiet. “Any word on Pippa?”

Casey shakes her head gently, her smile growing more tender, more fragile. “Still with the doctors. Finishing up the tests after her MRI. I’ll check in again soon.”

Raf places a steady hand on her shoulder. “She’s in the best hands. And so are we, thanks to you.”

Casey’s laugh is light—unexpected, but welcome. “Let’s hope the coffee’s magic, for all our sakes.”

Together, they settle in to wait, the simple comfort of good coffee and good company keeping hope alive, one small, steady moment at a time.

Casey lifts her cup and lets the lemony brightness of her Espresso Romano cut through the tension, its bittersweetness matching the hope and fear twisting in her chest. She tries to focus on the warmth settling in her hands, grounding her in the moment, while outside the window, shadows stretch across the city’s concrete bones. 

Soon, she tells herself. Soon Pippa will be back, and she and Raf will finally know what they’re up against—what their daughter, impossibly small and brave, is fighting. For now, Casey clings to this one small certainty: the quiet strength of waiting, and the fragile comfort of not waiting alone.

Ethan looks at the magazine Casey got days ago, the magazine with that God damn photo of Pippa on the front. “What the fuck is this? Who took this and how did it get into the tabloids?”

Casey puts her half-drunk coffee down. “My sister took the photo but I still don’t know if she is responsible for it getting into the hands of the tabloids.”

She looks at Raf and takes his hand. “I know one thing, if she did sell it there’s no going back. It’s unforgivable.”

Her hands shake. “I need to confront her properly over it but I just don’t have the energy or head space for it now. Not when Pippa’s—not to use the sick verbiage they have, at death’s door. She needs me to fight for her.”

The silence that follows is brittle, sharp-edged. The magazine sits between them on the hospital table, an accusation inked in glossy colour, impossible to ignore. Raf’s thumb traces slow circles over Casey’s knuckles, as if he could smooth the tremor from her bones with his touch.

Ethan’s jaw works, anger and sympathy tangling in his eyes. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, voice low. “Right now, Pippa comes first. Everything else...we deal with when we have to.”

Casey nods, blinking hard. There are too many battles and only so much strength; she gathers herself, every breath an act of defiance against the fear and betrayal pressing in. For now, there is coffee and company, and the steady, stubborn pulse of hope. The magazine’s headline glares up at her, but she wills herself to look away, holding on instead to Raf’s hand and the silent promise that, whatever truth waits in her sister’s answer, she isn’t facing it alone.

Casey exhales, a thin, wavering thread of a laugh escaping her. “Thank you, Ethan. I know you’re trying to help. I just…” She rubs her brow, the pressure of her fingertips grounding her. “It’s already everywhere. Even if you pulled every copy out of every newsagent, it wouldn’t erase it. The internet doesn’t forget, does it?”

Raf squeezes her hand, gentle but insistent. “Still, maybe it’s worth fighting. If only so they know you’re not just going to let it go.”

Ethan nods, expression tightening with a kind of protective resolve. “Doesn’t have to be today. But whenever you’re ready, just say the word.”

Casey nods, almost imperceptibly. “It’s not just the headlines, or the shelf space, or the hashtags.” Her voice is soft, almost lost in the hush of the hospital room. “It’s Pippa’s life. Her story. And someone just took it from her.”

They sit with it—the ache, the impossible tangle of anger and helplessness, the knowledge that some things can never be undone. For a long moment, the room is silent but for the distant thrum of hospital machinery and the occasional clink of a coffee cup. Outside, the city is indifferent, shadows lengthening, the world spinning forward whether or not they’re ready to keep pace.

Finally, Casey looks up, resolve flickering in her eyes. “Maybe we can’t put the genie back in the bottle. But we can decide what happens next. For Pippa.”

Ethan manages a small, fierce grin. “That’s all we can do. And whatever you choose, I’ve got your back.”

The doors swing wide with a mechanical sigh, and suddenly the gravity in the room shifts. Nurses wheel Pippa in, her small frame half-lost beneath the blankets, the ventilator trailing beside her like a ghostly companion. The hum and click of medical machinery fill the doorway, a procession of wires and hope.

Casey is on her feet before she remembers standing, the chair scraping softly behind her. “Welcome back, baby girl,” she breathes, her voice tremulous but steady enough for Pippa’s sake. She moves to the bedside, brushing a stray curl from Pippa’s forehead with a tenderness that aches all the way down to her marrow.

Raf and Ethan fall into place behind her, quiet sentinels. Raf’s arm finds Casey’s waist, anchoring her as she reaches for Pippa’s hand—small, warm, impossibly alive. For a moment, the beeping monitors become the only music they need, a cadence of possibility.

Pippa’s eyes flutter beneath heavy lids, her lashes trembling as if straining to catch the sound of Casey’s greeting. 

There’s no guarantee she can hear, not yet, but Casey leans in anyway, her whisper fierce as a promise. “We’re here, Pip. We’re all right here.”

Outside, the city blinks on its neon lights. Inside, hope glimmers—fragile, stubborn, refusing to be extinguished.

A nurse appears at the threshold, her mask creasing with kindness. “Dr. Liǔ wants to speak to you both. And Dr. Hargrove too.” Her words hang in the air, delicate as spun glass.

Casey’s heart jolts. Dr. Liǔ—infectious disease. She glances at Ethan, scanning his face for reassurance or foreboding, but finds only the same taut uncertainty she feels threading through her veins. Does this mean there’s finally an answer? Relief and dread collide, a silent tempest in her chest.

For a beat, she can’t move, torn between the hope that someone has named the beast haunting Pippa’s body and the fear of what that name might mean. She squeezes Pippa’s hand once, gently, grounding herself in the warmth of her daughter’s skin. “We’ll be right back, Pip,” she murmurs.

Ethan’s hand finds her shoulder as they step into the fluorescent-lit corridor. The hush of the room gives way to the quiet urgency of hospital life—the swift footsteps, the muted voices, the sense that at any moment, everything can change.

Casey steels herself. If the specialists want to talk, maybe answers are close. Maybe, at last, a path forward begins to take shape out of the fog.

Raf nods, determination in the set of his jaw as he shifts his weight, balanced awkwardly but resolute. With every deliberate movement, Casey feels his presence steady her, a silent signal that she’s not facing the unknown alone. 

She threads her fingers through his for a heartbeat, drawing a breath she didn’t know she needed. The corridor’s sterile light seems less harsh with him beside her.

Casey turns to Ethan, her voice ragged at the edges. “Can you stay here? I don’t want Pippa to be alone.” She tries for composure, but the words hitch, grief and love tangling in her throat. “I know she’s in a coma, I know it’s silly, but she hates to be alone.”

Ethan’s eyes soften, and he nods with gentle certainty. “I’ll be right here. Promise.” He settles into the chair by Pippa’s bedside, his presence a quiet buffer against the emptiness.

Casey manages a grateful, watery smile before squaring her shoulders and stepping into the hallway, Raf’s crutch clicking softly beside her. Together, they move toward whatever truth waits—terrified, hopeful, and, above all else, united.

The conference room is cold in that administrative way, all beige chairs and a table too large for comfort. Casey and Raf slide into seats opposite Dr. Liǔ and Dr. Hargrove, who are framed by the pale rectangles of hospital windows and the buzz of the fluorescent ceiling.

Dr. Hargrove’s face is grave, lips pressed thin, concern radiating in the lines etched beside their eyes. Dr. Liǔ’s gaze is steady, clinical but not unkind. For a heartbeat, Casey feels the world slow, the air thick as syrup.

“Thank you for coming,” Dr. Liǔ begins, voice low and precise. “I’m afraid it’s not good news. Pippa is showing signs of ICANS—Immune Effector Cell-Associated Neurotoxicity Syndrome.” They pause, letting the gravity settle. “I’m sure you’re aware of what it is in your role as a Diagnostician, Casey.”

The word alone—ICANS—drops between them like a stone. Casey’s mind reels, clinical knowledge sparking alongside maternal terror. She knows the symptoms, the risks, the razor-edge path they’re now forced to walk. The air feels thinner, the hum of the hospital distant and cold.

“I… Yes,” Casey manages, voice almost a whisper. “Encephalopathy. Seizures. Sometimes cerebral edema.” Her hands knot together, nails digging crescents into her palms. “Is it—how severe?”

Dr. Hargrove glances at Dr. Liǔ, then lays a chart gently on the tabletop. “It’s early, but the neurological changes are there. She’s not seizing, but her EEG shows slowing, and her reflexes are… concerning. We’re running immunosuppression and neuroprotective protocols, but we wanted to prepare you.”

Raf shifts beside her, the rubber tip of his crutch squeaking against the linoleum. “What does this mean—what happens now?”

Dr. Liǔ’s voice is soft but unyielding. “We’ll monitor closely, adjust her treatment as needed. Most patients respond, but there are risks—swelling, complications. The team is here, around the clock.”

Casey feels the room tilt, facts and fear colliding, but she holds fast to Raf’s hand beneath the table. “Thank you,” she says, voice trembling but resolute. “Please—do everything. She’s… she’s so loved.”

Outside, somewhere down the hallway, a monitor beeps steadily—a fragile thread of hope pulling them on.

The door clicks shut behind them, and the corridor yawns, too wide, the waxed floor spilling pale reflections. Casey’s hand finds the wall, steadying herself as though the gravity of the news might tip her right through the linoleum. Raf is at her side, his crutch a measured metronome against the hush.

Her steps falter, a hesitant choreography that matches the uneven rhythm of Raf’s gait. The fluorescent light throws harsh shadows across the corridor, and Casey’s breath hitches—ragged, catching on the sharp edge of fear.

She wants to ask a thousand questions—about cytokines, about steroids, about what else they can do—but the words knot uselessly in her throat. They walk, silent, letting the sterile corridor swallow their grief. The hospital is a place of protocols and illumination, but right now, its certainty feels like a distant shore.

Raf squeezes her hand, his own expression carved from worry and stubborn hope. “We’ll get through it,” he says, more to fill the void than to reassure. The phrase hangs in the air, exhausted and unconvincing, but Casey squeezes back anyway.

They reach the family waiting room, where the chairs are arranged in neat, apologetic rows beneath posters promising compassion. Casey collapses into the nearest seat, elbows on knees, head in trembling hands. She tries to summon her diagnostic mind, to compartmentalise, but Pippa’s face—a tangle of curls, a crooked grin—rises before her, and all the neat partitions topple.

As Casey walks out of the room, her balance as bad as Raf’s as she processes the news. “It’s potentially fatal,” she whispers, tears already spilling.

@kingliam2019 @tessa-liam @alj4890 @katedrakeohd @liaromancewriter @texaskitten30 @silver-rings-and-rabbits

[kingliam2019]

By The Horns: Part Nine

Attn: This one got a bit longwinded but it’s a turning point and I’ve been on a roll lately sooo I hope y’all enjoy!

Word Count: 3,297

Pairing: Bull Rider Sy x OFC Collins Cooke (CC)

Summary: Sy and Collins grow closer.

Warnings: 18+, Face riding, coming untouched, fingering, squirting, p in v sex, multiple creampies, mirror sex

Previous Part:

Part Eight

The next morning Collins wakes up tangled in Sy’s sheets. When she reaches out for him she finds the bed empty. A frown crosses her face before she realizes the smell of bacon is permeating the house. She gets up and tends to herself before digging in her bag for her underwear, and opting to snag one of Sy’s shirts, a threadbare Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt that just brushes her knees.

She finds him at the stove shirtless in his boxer briefs. “Nice ass,” she says as she wraps her arms around him from behind. She can feel him chuckle as she presses a kiss to the middle of his back. Her hands roam over his chest and she smiles to herself at the way his skin ripples beneath her touch. “Darlin if you don’t want burnt bacon you best cut that out… just for a minute anyway,” he says before turning and taking Collins in his arms.

“Since when did you decide you can tell me what to do Syverson?,” Collins chides playfully. “Oh I’d never dream of it baby, just warnin’ because your hands on me is an absolute distraction,” he tells her. “I see,” Collins says before raking her nails through his chest hair. “I like this,” she then says. “My chest?,” he questions. “That too but I mean… the hair,” she admits. “Baby I think that pussy eatin’ short circuited your brain. You ain’t ever been this complimentary,” he smirks.

“Maybe it did,” she says as she looks up at him, and instantly he’s hard as a rock. “What are you doin’ to me woman,” he groans. “Cut the stove off and I’ll show you what I want to do to you,” she purrs. “Goddammit,” he huffs before hastily cutting everything off and following her to his bedroom. Collins strips before instructing him to do the same. “Lay on the bed,” she tells him. When she straddles his face he nearly comes all over himself.

“Fuck baby,” he mumbles before going to work. He can’t help himself. As she rides his face his hands roam and hips thrust against nothing. Before it’s over Collins has slid down and collapsed from the intensity of her orgasm, and he’s shooting cum all over his stomach and her ass. “Did you just come without being touched?,” she asks. Sy can only nod, cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Hot,” she murmurs before kissing his lips.

He tangles his fingers into her hair and kisses her passionately. “You’re gonna be the death of me Collins Cooke,” he whispers against her lips. “I won’t allow that. You’ve got me now. Can’t have you goin’ and dyin’ on me,” she says as she gets up. “Where you goin’?,” he questions. “Goin’ to shower and clean up your mess before havin’ that breakfast. You comin’?,” she asks. Sy shakes his head before following after her like a puppy.

“Whatcha wanna do today baby?,” Sy asks as Collins sits in his lap and has breakfast. “I dunno. Maybe…,” she trails off just before Walter comes barging in. “Oh— oh shit. You’re still here,” Walter says before coming on in anyway. “Well this is my boyfriend’s house Walter. Figure I can be here all I want,” Collins sasses. She misses the way Sy absolutely beams at the mention of being her boyfriend because Walter comes and snatches a piece of bacon from her hand.

“Hey!,” she says angrily. “You’re a little brat, you know that? I’m not afraid of brats though,” Walter says with a shit eating grin before taking more bacon from her plate. “I’m gonna kick your ass,” she insists. “Now baby I can’t let y’all fight,” Sy says. “Why not? He’s always pickin’ on me,” she huffs before crossing her arms. “Because I think you might hurt him, and if he accidentally hurt you I’d be ready to commit murder. You don’t want me murderin’ Walt now do you?,” Sy says. “I guess not,” Collins says with an eye roll.

“What’s brought you here so early?,” Sy asks. “Well, you know you gotta ride two Saturdays from now… I just wanted to warn you they’re bringing back Rex. I am sorry if I caught you two at a bad time, but I really do enjoy messing with CC so,” Walter shrugs. “Who’s Rex?,” Collins asks, noticing how still Sy has gone. “The meanest bull in the circuit,” he replies. “Can you ride him?,” she then asks. “I’m pretty sure I can, but you know as well as I do it ain’t guaranteed which bull you get. Not likely we’ll draw him, right?,” he says, eyes meeting Walter’s. “Probably not. Just thought I’d tell you. I guess I need to call before just dropping in these days, huh?,” Walter questions. “Probably,” Sy agrees, looking down at Collins.

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” Walter says before getting up to leave. “Should I be worried?,” Collins then asks. “Naw little darlin’. Everything’s gonna be fine. Now… like I asked, whatcha wanna do today?,” he reiterates. “Can we just cuddle? Watch some tv maybe?,” she asks. “Anything you want,” he tells her. He gently runs the back of his fingers over her cheek before leaning in for a kiss. “I love you,” he tells her. “Sy—,” she begins before he shushes her. “Don’t say it till you’re ready baby. It’s okay,” he assures her.

She wants to.. God does she want to say it. It’s on the tip of her tongue as he carries her over to his couch, but that small fear still holds her back. She can feel it blossoming within her though. His insistence, his devotion to her… it’s been unwavering. He’s made her feel safe, and cared for, but it just won’t fall from her lips, not yet. It makes her feel like shit in a way. Sy’s laid back on the couch, her face on his strong chest as she tries to fight back tears. Sy doesn’t notice, Collins just tucked beneath his chin.

His hands massage her back softly, more content than he’s been in years. Just having her close, having her be his is enough, and he meant what he said, she shouldn’t say it until she’s ready, until she’s sure. Until then he’s happy to wait. “I wanna take you out on a date next weekend. I should be takin’ you on more as it is,” he comments. “You’ve taken me on plenty, honey,” Collins says softly. His arms tighten around her. “Maybe, but I wanna take you to that fancy Italian place. Have our Lady and The Tramp moment,” he says, making her giggle. “I think you just wanna see me in a fancy dress,” she goads. “That’s just a plus,” he comments.

“I’d be happy to go,” Collins says, looking up at him. “Good because I already made reservations,” Sy tells her. Collins scooches up and kisses him tenderly. “And what if I’d said no?,” she questions. “I was figurin’ you’d go. Been pretty lucky with you so far baby. I’m just gonna keep pressin’ it,” he tells her. They spend the rest of the day together before Sy finally brings himself to take her home.

“I didn’t wanna let you leave,” he says as he holds her at her doorstep. “I enjoyed spending the day with you too Sy,” she replies, making him smile. “Lunch dates this week?,” he questions. “Any day you want. Momma and Daddy took vacation and told me to do the same,” Collins says. “Sooo everyday?,” he asks playfully. “If you’re lucky,” she says with a kiss before going inside.

That week Sy shows up at her door, either to take her out bring lunch to her house, and before they know it Saturday… their date night is here. Sy shows up in a suit, roses in hand and nearly passes out at the sight of Collins. Her hair is half up, black dress with a slit that fits her just right, red lip and shoes. She looks so good. “Those for me?,” she smiles at Sy’s stunned expression. “These are for you,” he says as he holds them out. Collins can’t help but giggle. “Come in here so I can put these in a vase,” she tells him.

He watches her, same dreamy look on his face, as she puts her flowers in water. She walks over to him and takes his face in her hands. “You gonna make it Syverson?,” she questions. “I might,” he replies with a dopey smile. “Well let’s go then,” she tells him. She takes him by the hand and out the door. Sy helps her up into his truck before driving to the restaurant. It’s a miracle they make it there, him having a hard time taking his eyes off her.

Sy’s nervous all dinner, in honest disbelief that he’s here with Collins and she’s his. They eat, having causal conversation as usual, things having become so easy between the two of them… like they’d been together all along, trying each other’s food and enjoying the company between the two of them. They’re sat there for a moment, Collins’s small hand in Sy’s as he kisses it when she speaks softly to him.

“Are you ready to go home with me?,” she asks. “I’m goin’ home with you?,” he smiles. “Mmhm. I’m ready… I’m ready for you to make love to me,” she tells him, taking his breath. “Collins baby we don’t have—,” he begins. “I want to feel how much you love me Sy, and I— I want you to feel how much I love you too,” she says, eyes brimming with tears. “Darlin’ don’t cry,” he says, furiously swiping away at any that dare to fall. Collins scoot in closer to him, clinging to him desperately. “Tell me you will Sy. I want this. I want you,” she tells him.

“I will. I want you too baby. Come on,” he says as he stands, taking her with him. He pays before heading out to his truck. Collins moves the console, making it where she can sit in the center seat next to him. She tucks her face into his neck and holds him tight. It had been eating at her all week, the feelings she had for him could be nothing other than love, and while loving again made her fearful in ways, she shouldn’t be, not with Sy. He’d done nothing but prove to her again and again that he was hers, totally and undoubtedly.

When they pull into her driveway Sy pulls her back just enough to let his lips crash into hers. “You’re sure baby?,” he asks before she climbs into his lap. “Yes. I— I need you,” she insist before kissing him again. He opens the door and quickly carries her inside before taking her to the bedroom. Collins sheds her dress and heels as Sy rips his clothes off. Once bare, Collins jumps into his arms, kissing him like it’s the last thing she’ll ever do. “Need you,” she murmurs. “I gotta get you ready baby,” he says before putting her down.

He sits on the bed and pats between his legs for her to sit. She does, letting her back rest against his strong chest. Her hands run up and down his thick thighs, kneading at the furry skin. Sy cups her breasts before letting one hand trail down between her legs and through her slick slit. “Fuck baby you’re soaked,” he husks as he teases her puffy clit for a moment. He lets his middle finger slide back down and sink into her.

His cock jumps at the feeling of how tight she is, and her comment about how he was ever going to fit comes back to mind. His arm wraps around her before sitting her up on his thigh, leaning her back slightly and adding a second finger. When he curls his fingers Collins cries out. “That’s it ain’t baby? That’s your spot huh?,” he asks. “Y— yeah,” she shudders, trying to grab his cock. “Not yet baby. Let me take care of you,” he tells her as he speeds up his movement.

“Ahhh,” she moans, unable to protest. Collins wraps her arms around him, trying to tuck her face into him. “Don’t hide from me. Lemme see you,” he insists. When she meets his eye she explodes, white bursting in her vision as her arousal pours from her. He gently works her through it before sliding his fingers out. Collins trembles in his arms as he kisses her softly. “You did so good for me darlin’,” he praises. “What the hell did I do?,” she asks breathlessly. “You squirted,” he smirks. “I’ve never done that,” Collins admits, cheeks flushing red.

“Darlin’…,” he breaths before quickly moving her around and burying his face between her legs. “You— ahhh. Mmm,” she whimpers. Collins was going to ask did he not think that was gross but with the way he’s lapping and absolutely slurping on her pussy is all the answer she needs. She comes again, thighs shaking around his head. “Sy pleeease,” she pants. “Tell me whatcha want darlin’. Lemme hear you say it,” he says as he slides the head of his cock through her cunt.

“I want… you to put your cock inside me,” she says through breaths. “Yeah?,” he questions. “Make love to me Sy,” she tells him. He grabs his cock and lines up before leaning over top her. “Take a deep breath baby,” he says before leaning down to kiss her. Collins claws at his shoulders as he eases in, the sting of the stretch making her mind cloudy. “Easy up darlin’,” he says before kissing her cheeks. She minds her nails, opting to let her hands sit at the base of Sy’s neck, the two of them looking each other in the eye when he finally hits bottom.

Sy sits still, letting the two of them get used to the feeling. “You okay?,” he asks, caressing her face. “Yeah, just a bit…,” she says before he cuts. “Tight as fuck?,” he chuckles, making Collins do the same. “Thank you,” he then says. “For what?,” she questions. “Letting me show you how much I love you, for showing me how much you love me,” he tells her. Collins brow furrows. He’s inside of her but they’re not even properly having sex yet.

“This took a tremendous amount of trust baby. I’m honored,” he then says. “Really?,” she asks. He looks down at her face, so many emotions dancing across her features. It both breaks his heart and makes it swell at the same time. “Yeah because I don’t deserve it at all, but I’m not gonna question it. You’re everything to me,” he admits. “You do deserve it. You do,” she says before pulling him down for a kiss.

“I need you to move honey. I wanna come on your thick cock now. See if I can be good for you again,” she says, making him shudder. “You can’t say things like that baby,” he replies as he starts thrusting gently. “I can say whatever I want,” she answers before her eyes roll back. “Look at me. I wanna see your face while you make all them pretty sounds for me, and definitely when you fall apart for me,” he tells her, and damn if it isn’t the hottest shit she’s ever heard.

“I like that,” she tells him. “Yeah? I like knowing all the things you like baby. Don’t ever stop tellin’ me. You like this?,” he asks as he thrusts into her a little harder. “Fuck yes,” she squeaks. Collins wraps herself around him, basically hanging off him while he fucks into her. He cups the back of her head, supporting her neck before letting out a guttural moan. “Fuck you feel so good. Never felt anything like this,” he manages.

Collins’s pussy is clenching and pulsing around his cock, driving him crazy, but it’s not just that. The way she’s looking at him… no one has ever done that. Like they actually see HIM. “Faster Sy. I’m so close,” she begs. He speeds up, both of them moaning louder and louder. “Please tell me I can cum inside you Collins. I— fuck… I dunno if I can pull out. Feels too good,” he tells her. “Yes… yes,” she screams just as she begins pouring on his cock.

The feeling of him dragging against her walls, rubbing her gspot just right, the way his hairy body is scrubbing all over her, her nipples and clit particularly, has her pussy gushing and pulsing uncontrollably… unendingly. It snatches the cum right out of Sy with such force it takes him by surprise. He collapses on top of Collins, arms wrapped tight around her as his hips push forward, entire lower half convulsing from how good his orgasm feels.

When it stops he’s still so damn hard it hurts. “Again,” Collins demands. “Gonna be sore baby I—, he stops short when she starts sliding her pussy up and down his cock. He sits up, and starts mimicking her motions, watching how her body trembles beneath him and how fucking good they look connected like this. He pulls out, making Collins pout momentarily. Before she realizes she’s in his lap, slid down his cock. “Hold on to me,” he says.

She reaches back and circles her hands around his neck before he stands, hooking his hands beneath her thighs, spreading her open, and taking her over to the mirror in the corner. “Look at that baby. Watch while I make love to you. See how good your little pussy looks stuffed with my cock,” he tells her. “Syyy,” she whines, his words making her pussy clench. “Fuck you look so pretty like this. Why don’t you touch your clit for me baby. Look how puffy she is. Needs some attention,” he tells her.

Collins usually would feel embarrassed about something like this, but Sy is making her feel so good she doesn’t care. She reaches down and rubs circles over her clit, adding to her pleasure. “That’s it. Doin’ so good for me again baby,” he says. She said she liked him talking to her and he can tell she really does by the way her pussy leaves a creamy ring around the base of his cock. “Harder,” she tells him. “Anything you want darlin’. Hold on,” he says.

She tightens her grip before he starts pounding into her. Her legs twitch and tense in his hands letting him know she’s close. “Keep playin’ with that pretty little clit baby. I can tell you’re close. So am I. Gonna fill you full,” he says just before Collins tumbles into the abyss yet again. He can’t help but watch as her eyes screw shut, head thrown back in pleasure as her cum spurts out of her and onto the mirror. It makes his balls draw tight to his body and his cock tense. When he starts unloading the feeling makes Collins moan. She swipes at her clit furiously, greedily taking another orgasm for herself. “That’s my girl,” Sy growls as he works them both through it.

He carefully backs up and sits down, legs feeling weak. When he does Collins spins in his lap, resting her head on his sweat slicked chest. Sy rubs her body soothingly before she cups his face. “I love you,” he tells him. “I know baby. I love you too,” he says as he rests his forehead against hers. “Thank you for not giving up on me Sy, even though I’d given up on myself,” she then says. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted darlin’. I’m never givin’ up on you,” he says before kissing her lovingly.

[kingliam2019]

By The Horns: Part Nine

Attn: This one got a bit longwinded but it’s a turning point and I’ve been on a roll lately sooo I hope y’all enjoy!

Word Count: 3,297

Pairing: Bull Rider Sy x OFC Collins Cooke (CC)

Summary: Sy and Collins grow closer.

Warnings: 18+, Face riding, coming untouched, fingering, squirting, p in v sex, multiple creampies, mirror sex

Previous Part:

Part Eight

The next morning Collins wakes up tangled in Sy’s sheets. When she reaches out for him she finds the bed empty. A frown crosses her face before she realizes the smell of bacon is permeating the house. She gets up and tends to herself before digging in her bag for her underwear, and opting to snag one of Sy’s shirts, a threadbare Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt that just brushes her knees.

She finds him at the stove shirtless in his boxer briefs. “Nice ass,” she says as she wraps her arms around him from behind. She can feel him chuckle as she presses a kiss to the middle of his back. Her hands roam over his chest and she smiles to herself at the way his skin ripples beneath her touch. “Darlin if you don’t want burnt bacon you best cut that out… just for a minute anyway,” he says before turning and taking Collins in his arms.

“Since when did you decide you can tell me what to do Syverson?,” Collins chides playfully. “Oh I’d never dream of it baby, just warnin’ because your hands on me is an absolute distraction,” he tells her. “I see,” Collins says before raking her nails through his chest hair. “I like this,” she then says. “My chest?,” he questions. “That too but I mean… the hair,” she admits. “Baby I think that pussy eatin’ short circuited your brain. You ain’t ever been this complimentary,” he smirks.

“Maybe it did,” she says as she looks up at him, and instantly he’s hard as a rock. “What are you doin’ to me woman,” he groans. “Cut the stove off and I’ll show you what I want to do to you,” she purrs. “Goddammit,” he huffs before hastily cutting everything off and following her to his bedroom. Collins strips before instructing him to do the same. “Lay on the bed,” she tells him. When she straddles his face he nearly comes all over himself.

“Fuck baby,” he mumbles before going to work. He can’t help himself. As she rides his face his hands roam and hips thrust against nothing. Before it’s over Collins has slid down and collapsed from the intensity of her orgasm, and he’s shooting cum all over his stomach and her ass. “Did you just come without being touched?,” she asks. Sy can only nod, cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Hot,” she murmurs before kissing his lips.

He tangles his fingers into her hair and kisses her passionately. “You’re gonna be the death of me Collins Cooke,” he whispers against her lips. “I won’t allow that. You’ve got me now. Can’t have you goin’ and dyin’ on me,” she says as she gets up. “Where you goin’?,” he questions. “Goin’ to shower and clean up your mess before havin’ that breakfast. You comin’?,” she asks. Sy shakes his head before following after her like a puppy.

“Whatcha wanna do today baby?,” Sy asks as Collins sits in his lap and has breakfast. “I dunno. Maybe…,” she trails off just before Walter comes barging in. “Oh— oh shit. You’re still here,” Walter says before coming on in anyway. “Well this is my boyfriend’s house Walter. Figure I can be here all I want,” Collins sasses. She misses the way Sy absolutely beams at the mention of being her boyfriend because Walter comes and snatches a piece of bacon from her hand.

“Hey!,” she says angrily. “You’re a little brat, you know that? I’m not afraid of brats though,” Walter says with a shit eating grin before taking more bacon from her plate. “I’m gonna kick your ass,” she insists. “Now baby I can’t let y’all fight,” Sy says. “Why not? He’s always pickin’ on me,” she huffs before crossing her arms. “Because I think you might hurt him, and if he accidentally hurt you I’d be ready to commit murder. You don’t want me murderin’ Walt now do you?,” Sy says. “I guess not,” Collins says with an eye roll.

“What’s brought you here so early?,” Sy asks. “Well, you know you gotta ride two Saturdays from now… I just wanted to warn you they’re bringing back Rex. I am sorry if I caught you two at a bad time, but I really do enjoy messing with CC so,” Walter shrugs. “Who’s Rex?,” Collins asks, noticing how still Sy has gone. “The meanest bull in the circuit,” he replies. “Can you ride him?,” she then asks. “I’m pretty sure I can, but you know as well as I do it ain’t guaranteed which bull you get. Not likely we’ll draw him, right?,” he says, eyes meeting Walter’s. “Probably not. Just thought I’d tell you. I guess I need to call before just dropping in these days, huh?,” Walter questions. “Probably,” Sy agrees, looking down at Collins.

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” Walter says before getting up to leave. “Should I be worried?,” Collins then asks. “Naw little darlin’. Everything’s gonna be fine. Now… like I asked, whatcha wanna do today?,” he reiterates. “Can we just cuddle? Watch some tv maybe?,” she asks. “Anything you want,” he tells her. He gently runs the back of his fingers over her cheek before leaning in for a kiss. “I love you,” he tells her. “Sy—,” she begins before he shushes her. “Don’t say it till you’re ready baby. It’s okay,” he assures her.

She wants to.. God does she want to say it. It’s on the tip of her tongue as he carries her over to his couch, but that small fear still holds her back. She can feel it blossoming within her though. His insistence, his devotion to her… it’s been unwavering. He’s made her feel safe, and cared for, but it just won’t fall from her lips, not yet. It makes her feel like shit in a way. Sy’s laid back on the couch, her face on his strong chest as she tries to fight back tears. Sy doesn’t notice, Collins just tucked beneath his chin.

His hands massage her back softly, more content than he’s been in years. Just having her close, having her be his is enough, and he meant what he said, she shouldn’t say it until she’s ready, until she’s sure. Until then he’s happy to wait. “I wanna take you out on a date next weekend. I should be takin’ you on more as it is,” he comments. “You’ve taken me on plenty, honey,” Collins says softly. His arms tighten around her. “Maybe, but I wanna take you to that fancy Italian place. Have our Lady and The Tramp moment,” he says, making her giggle. “I think you just wanna see me in a fancy dress,” she goads. “That’s just a plus,” he comments.

“I’d be happy to go,” Collins says, looking up at him. “Good because I already made reservations,” Sy tells her. Collins scooches up and kisses him tenderly. “And what if I’d said no?,” she questions. “I was figurin’ you’d go. Been pretty lucky with you so far baby. I’m just gonna keep pressin’ it,” he tells her. They spend the rest of the day together before Sy finally brings himself to take her home.

“I didn’t wanna let you leave,” he says as he holds her at her doorstep. “I enjoyed spending the day with you too Sy,” she replies, making him smile. “Lunch dates this week?,” he questions. “Any day you want. Momma and Daddy took vacation and told me to do the same,” Collins says. “Sooo everyday?,” he asks playfully. “If you’re lucky,” she says with a kiss before going inside.

That week Sy shows up at her door, either to take her out bring lunch to her house, and before they know it Saturday… their date night is here. Sy shows up in a suit, roses in hand and nearly passes out at the sight of Collins. Her hair is half up, black dress with a slit that fits her just right, red lip and shoes. She looks so good. “Those for me?,” she smiles at Sy’s stunned expression. “These are for you,” he says as he holds them out. Collins can’t help but giggle. “Come in here so I can put these in a vase,” she tells him.

He watches her, same dreamy look on his face, as she puts her flowers in water. She walks over to him and takes his face in her hands. “You gonna make it Syverson?,” she questions. “I might,” he replies with a dopey smile. “Well let’s go then,” she tells him. She takes him by the hand and out the door. Sy helps her up into his truck before driving to the restaurant. It’s a miracle they make it there, him having a hard time taking his eyes off her.

Sy’s nervous all dinner, in honest disbelief that he’s here with Collins and she’s his. They eat, having causal conversation as usual, things having become so easy between the two of them… like they’d been together all along, trying each other’s food and enjoying the company between the two of them. They’re sat there for a moment, Collins’s small hand in Sy’s as he kisses it when she speaks softly to him.

“Are you ready to go home with me?,” she asks. “I’m goin’ home with you?,” he smiles. “Mmhm. I’m ready… I’m ready for you to make love to me,” she tells him, taking his breath. “Collins baby we don’t have—,” he begins. “I want to feel how much you love me Sy, and I— I want you to feel how much I love you too,” she says, eyes brimming with tears. “Darlin’ don’t cry,” he says, furiously swiping away at any that dare to fall. Collins scoot in closer to him, clinging to him desperately. “Tell me you will Sy. I want this. I want you,” she tells him.

“I will. I want you too baby. Come on,” he says as he stands, taking her with him. He pays before heading out to his truck. Collins moves the console, making it where she can sit in the center seat next to him. She tucks her face into his neck and holds him tight. It had been eating at her all week, the feelings she had for him could be nothing other than love, and while loving again made her fearful in ways, she shouldn’t be, not with Sy. He’d done nothing but prove to her again and again that he was hers, totally and undoubtedly.

When they pull into her driveway Sy pulls her back just enough to let his lips crash into hers. “You’re sure baby?,” he asks before she climbs into his lap. “Yes. I— I need you,” she insist before kissing him again. He opens the door and quickly carries her inside before taking her to the bedroom. Collins sheds her dress and heels as Sy rips his clothes off. Once bare, Collins jumps into his arms, kissing him like it’s the last thing she’ll ever do. “Need you,” she murmurs. “I gotta get you ready baby,” he says before putting her down.

He sits on the bed and pats between his legs for her to sit. She does, letting her back rest against his strong chest. Her hands run up and down his thick thighs, kneading at the furry skin. Sy cups her breasts before letting one hand trail down between her legs and through her slick slit. “Fuck baby you’re soaked,” he husks as he teases her puffy clit for a moment. He lets his middle finger slide back down and sink into her.

His cock jumps at the feeling of how tight she is, and her comment about how he was ever going to fit comes back to mind. His arm wraps around her before sitting her up on his thigh, leaning her back slightly and adding a second finger. When he curls his fingers Collins cries out. “That’s it ain’t baby? That’s your spot huh?,” he asks. “Y— yeah,” she shudders, trying to grab his cock. “Not yet baby. Let me take care of you,” he tells her as he speeds up his movement.

“Ahhh,” she moans, unable to protest. Collins wraps her arms around him, trying to tuck her face into him. “Don’t hide from me. Lemme see you,” he insists. When she meets his eye she explodes, white bursting in her vision as her arousal pours from her. He gently works her through it before sliding his fingers out. Collins trembles in his arms as he kisses her softly. “You did so good for me darlin’,” he praises. “What the hell did I do?,” she asks breathlessly. “You squirted,” he smirks. “I’ve never done that,” Collins admits, cheeks flushing red.

“Darlin’…,” he breaths before quickly moving her around and burying his face between her legs. “You— ahhh. Mmm,” she whimpers. Collins was going to ask did he not think that was gross but with the way he’s lapping and absolutely slurping on her pussy is all the answer she needs. She comes again, thighs shaking around his head. “Sy pleeease,” she pants. “Tell me whatcha want darlin’. Lemme hear you say it,” he says as he slides the head of his cock through her cunt.

“I want… you to put your cock inside me,” she says through breaths. “Yeah?,” he questions. “Make love to me Sy,” she tells him. He grabs his cock and lines up before leaning over top her. “Take a deep breath baby,” he says before leaning down to kiss her. Collins claws at his shoulders as he eases in, the sting of the stretch making her mind cloudy. “Easy up darlin’,” he says before kissing her cheeks. She minds her nails, opting to let her hands sit at the base of Sy’s neck, the two of them looking each other in the eye when he finally hits bottom.

Sy sits still, letting the two of them get used to the feeling. “You okay?,” he asks, caressing her face. “Yeah, just a bit…,” she says before he cuts. “Tight as fuck?,” he chuckles, making Collins do the same. “Thank you,” he then says. “For what?,” she questions. “Letting me show you how much I love you, for showing me how much you love me,” he tells her. Collins brow furrows. He’s inside of her but they’re not even properly having sex yet.

“This took a tremendous amount of trust baby. I’m honored,” he then says. “Really?,” she asks. He looks down at her face, so many emotions dancing across her features. It both breaks his heart and makes it swell at the same time. “Yeah because I don’t deserve it at all, but I’m not gonna question it. You’re everything to me,” he admits. “You do deserve it. You do,” she says before pulling him down for a kiss.

“I need you to move honey. I wanna come on your thick cock now. See if I can be good for you again,” she says, making him shudder. “You can’t say things like that baby,” he replies as he starts thrusting gently. “I can say whatever I want,” she answers before her eyes roll back. “Look at me. I wanna see your face while you make all them pretty sounds for me, and definitely when you fall apart for me,” he tells her, and damn if it isn’t the hottest shit she’s ever heard.

“I like that,” she tells him. “Yeah? I like knowing all the things you like baby. Don’t ever stop tellin’ me. You like this?,” he asks as he thrusts into her a little harder. “Fuck yes,” she squeaks. Collins wraps herself around him, basically hanging off him while he fucks into her. He cups the back of her head, supporting her neck before letting out a guttural moan. “Fuck you feel so good. Never felt anything like this,” he manages.

Collins’s pussy is clenching and pulsing around his cock, driving him crazy, but it’s not just that. The way she’s looking at him… no one has ever done that. Like they actually see HIM. “Faster Sy. I’m so close,” she begs. He speeds up, both of them moaning louder and louder. “Please tell me I can cum inside you Collins. I— fuck… I dunno if I can pull out. Feels too good,” he tells her. “Yes… yes,” she screams just as she begins pouring on his cock.

The feeling of him dragging against her walls, rubbing her gspot just right, the way his hairy body is scrubbing all over her, her nipples and clit particularly, has her pussy gushing and pulsing uncontrollably… unendingly. It snatches the cum right out of Sy with such force it takes him by surprise. He collapses on top of Collins, arms wrapped tight around her as his hips push forward, entire lower half convulsing from how good his orgasm feels.

When it stops he’s still so damn hard it hurts. “Again,” Collins demands. “Gonna be sore baby I—, he stops short when she starts sliding her pussy up and down his cock. He sits up, and starts mimicking her motions, watching how her body trembles beneath him and how fucking good they look connected like this. He pulls out, making Collins pout momentarily. Before she realizes she’s in his lap, slid down his cock. “Hold on to me,” he says.

She reaches back and circles her hands around his neck before he stands, hooking his hands beneath her thighs, spreading her open, and taking her over to the mirror in the corner. “Look at that baby. Watch while I make love to you. See how good your little pussy looks stuffed with my cock,” he tells her. “Syyy,” she whines, his words making her pussy clench. “Fuck you look so pretty like this. Why don’t you touch your clit for me baby. Look how puffy she is. Needs some attention,” he tells her.

Collins usually would feel embarrassed about something like this, but Sy is making her feel so good she doesn’t care. She reaches down and rubs circles over her clit, adding to her pleasure. “That’s it. Doin’ so good for me again baby,” he says. She said she liked him talking to her and he can tell she really does by the way her pussy leaves a creamy ring around the base of his cock. “Harder,” she tells him. “Anything you want darlin’. Hold on,” he says.

She tightens her grip before he starts pounding into her. Her legs twitch and tense in his hands letting him know she’s close. “Keep playin’ with that pretty little clit baby. I can tell you’re close. So am I. Gonna fill you full,” he says just before Collins tumbles into the abyss yet again. He can’t help but watch as her eyes screw shut, head thrown back in pleasure as her cum spurts out of her and onto the mirror. It makes his balls draw tight to his body and his cock tense. When he starts unloading the feeling makes Collins moan. She swipes at her clit furiously, greedily taking another orgasm for herself. “That’s my girl,” Sy growls as he works them both through it.

He carefully backs up and sits down, legs feeling weak. When he does Collins spins in his lap, resting her head on his sweat slicked chest. Sy rubs her body soothingly before she cups his face. “I love you,” he tells him. “I know baby. I love you too,” he says as he rests his forehead against hers. “Thank you for not giving up on me Sy, even though I’d given up on myself,” she then says. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted darlin’. I’m never givin’ up on you,” he says before kissing her lovingly.

[kingliam2019]

Growing up with Eastern European parent's, my sister's and I when we got a cold or the flu, we were given a hot bath, a cup of hot tea with a shot of Blackberry Brandy ( in the tea) and sent to bed with cotton PJ's and layered in blankets. We were better by the next night. Hope you are on the mend soon. Summer colds suck.

so I'm sick af and have been dosing with cold+flu meds every 4 hours

dayquil/nyquil wasn't doing dick so I got liquid mucinex fastmax day/night. took a shot of that and well, I'm not coughing every five seconds and my nose isn't running anymore (for the most part *sniffle*)

should have remembered that from when I worked retail. mucinex fastmax saved my ass more times than I could count when I got sick and couldn't afford to take off work

[kingliam2019]

SAVE A HORSE RIDE AUGUST

Hell of a Ride

Attn: Smutty little August idea I had. I hope y’all enjoy.

Word Count: 888

Pairing: August x Reader

Summary: There’s something you want, but will August let you have it?

Warnings: 18+, oral (male receiving), dick riding, titty sucking?, squirting, teasing, creampie, aftercare

You straddle his hips, his hands grabbing, kneading harshly at your ass. He’s shoved them beneath the skirt you wore to dinner, the two of you only making it as far as the couch when you get inside his apartment. His lips glide over your throat, mustache tickling your skin. You feel him tense, readying himself to flip you and fuck you senseless. “W— wait,” you stammer.

“Wait?,” he questions, eyes darkening. You never ask him to wait, you never want him to, but lately… there’s something you have been wanting. Something he’s never let you have. “Let me ride you August,” you plead, fingers tangled into the back of his curls. “That’s what you want Princess?,” he coos. “Mmhm. I’ve never done it before and I really want to,” you admit. “On one condition,” he says as he palms at your thighs. “Okay,” you say tentatively. “Once you start, you have to finish. No whining, no excuses. If you can’t well…,” he trails off.

You know it means punishment, but you don’t care. You’re determined. “Yes, sir,” you nod. You stand and undress before taking his clothes off as well. You kneel a moment, unable to resist the shiny beads of precum on the tip of his cock. “Mmm,” you hum in contentment. “You like that?,” he asks. You hum again just before he grabs the back of your head and gags you. The sensation of it makes your eyes water. When he pulls you off he wipes a tear away. “Me too,” he murmurs before pulling you into a harsh kiss.

Before it’s over he’s pulled you back into his lap by your throat. “You wanted to ride me, now do it. I want that tight little cunt of yours wrapped around me,” he rasps. You line him up before easing your way down. He’s so big it’s always a bit of a stretch, but once you’re set you can hardly breathe. You wiggle your hips experimentally and gasp. The angle is sharp. He’s so deep like this it’s ridiculous.

You brace yourself on his shoulders before getting into a squatting position. After a few moments you find your rhythm. The only disadvantage is you can’t quite get the speed you’re used too, but still you come with your nipple sucked harshly into August’s mouth. He groans against you, and before he thinks much of it, his arms lock around your waist and he begins thrusting into you at breakneck speed.

“Uhhhh,” you keen over and over as his increased speed makes you gush all over him. He releases your breast with a pop before smirking up at you. “I like you like this Princess. Fuck. Can’t help myself. Fucking take it,” he growls. He sucks the opposite nipple into his mouth and keeps throttling you. Your clit rubs against his pubic hair just right and within moments you’re gushing again.

“Fuuuck,” you whine. He shoves his fingers into your mouth before removing them and slipping them through your asscheeks. You feel his middle finger pressing against your puckered hole before it gives way. He slides it in deep then out and back again while he keeps his pace. Your eyes roll back at all the sensations he’s pulling from you. His cock in your pussy, his finger in your ass, his mouth sucking at your breasts.

It’s so much you don’t even realize how your hips are pressing hard back against him until you’re cumming so hard you nearly pass out. “Fucking hell,” he groans before pulling out and putting you on your knees against the back of the couch. He slips back into your pussy. He puts his back against your chest and fucks you so hard all you can hear is skin slapping against skin.

His hand finds your throat as the other begins pinching at your clit. “You on top was nice baby girl, but this… this is my favorite,” he groans. “August,” you moan as you come again. “That’s it,” he husks before he starts grunting into your ear. “I might cum on your ass,” he manages. “No… please no,” you beg. You feel him smile against you. “That’s my girl. You want my cum?,” he asks. “Yes sir. Need it,” you whine. “Fu— fucking take it,” he says as he slams deep.

Your thighs shake as his cock thrumming inside you sends you into another orgasm. By time he’s spent you’re absolutely trembling in his arms. “Shhh Princess I’ve got you,” he says soothingly. When he eases out you whimper at the loss. “I know,” he says a with a kiss to your shoulder before carrying you to the bathroom. He sits you on the toilet and starts a warm bath.

“Did you go?,” he questions as he comes to help you. “I— I can’t,” you stammer. “Relax,” he says as he leans down to caress your body. He finally calms you down enough for you to go so he can put you into the bath with him. “I’ve got you,” he says again as he holds you in his arms. “You’ll let me ride you again right?,” you sleepily mumble into his chest, making him laugh. “Of course,” he replies before kissing the top of your head. “Thank you,” you say before leaning up to give him a kiss.

[kingliam2019]

if you were a fictional character

make this picrew of yourself

take this quiz

Thanks for the tag @dontlookatme121 ! This was so fun 💕

omg I'm hot? 😏

Very pressure tags 🤣: @ak-vintage @peepawispunk @80ssong @kilamonster @bergamote-catsandbooks @probablyreadinsmut @kedsandtubesocks

[kingliam2019]

Oh this is getting intense

Running From My Past Part 3

Summary: Liam and Riley are in love and are preparing for their wedding but what happens when Riley's past threatens to destroy that happiness? Will they still say I do?

Riley’s eyes go wide with panic “No no no no no no no no that’s impossible she can’t be”

“She cam to my apartment asking if I knew where you were”

“Oh no it’s only gonna be a matter of time before”

“No she can’t”

Liam having heard everything gently takes the phone from her “Rita this is Liam please we need to discuss what to do about this she’ll call you back and please keep us updated on anymore news”

“I will”

Liam hangs up then turns to Riley who’s shaking “Hey it’s ok love”

“Liam what if she”

Liam quickly pulls her in his arms “She’s not gonna do anything I’m gonna make sure of it I’m gonna do anything in my power to protect you” Liam pulls out his phone “Yes Bastien? Take down every news of our engagement immediately I don’t want it on tv magazines or any newspaper and I need a security team for Riley immediately” He hangs up then pulls Riley closer “Don’t worry love she won’t get anywhere near you”

“Thank you Liam”

“I think it’s best you don’t show your face in public for a while we don’t know what could happen”

“You’re right Liam”

Liam smiles as he kisses her softly “I love you I’m gonna protect you with my life”

“I love you too”

Liam holds her tightly “I’ve got to meet with Bastien and discuss this go meet with your therapist”

“I will that’ll help” Liam kisses her cheek as he gestures to a guard to escort her

Bastien enters the room moments later “You wanted to meet your majesty?”

“Hope you’re working on everything getting taken down?”

“Yes we’ve been in contact with the press they keep asking questions about it what’s going on?”

Liam sighs “Riley may have a stalker on her hands one of her friends told us that the person came looking for her”

“My God”

“I know she’s told me about it and the person is dangerous”

“Who’s the person your highness?”

Liam sighs “Look that’s not my place to tell you it’s up to Riley to tell you if she wants but it’s very traumatic for her the other night she had a very bad dream and was screaming no in her sleep”

“This is very serious”

“Exactly I don’t care what you gotta do just shut the press up I don’t want Riley’s face or name anywhere while this dangerous person is on the loose looking for her”

Bastien nods “This is a matter of security they will shut up and we’ll find them I’ll make sure security is tightened around here”

“Good Riley’s safety is important here”

Bastien nods then starts making calls on his phone

****

Riley walks out the therapist office sighing She can’t be looking for me I’ve cut her out years ago she’s not gonna come near me again

“Riley there you are love” She smiles as Liam approaches “How are you are you ok?”

“I’m fine Liam just rattled”

“It’s ok love everything is gonna be fine now for the wedding planner it’s best to have every meeting here”

“That’s fine Liam”

“Good I’ve got a designer waiting for you about the dress and suits”

Riley smirks “You can’t see my dress Liam”

Liam chuckles holding his hand up in surrender “I’m not gonna peak I swear”

“No peaking until the wedding Liam”

“I agree now let’s go meet her”

They walk into the parlor where the designer smiles as she waves “Hello your highnesses”

“How are you sorry to call you here last minute”

“It’s fine but why didn’t we”

“It’s a security matter that’s all protocol”

“Oh I understand” She turns her gaze to Riley grinning “So nice to meet you Riley I’m Natasha”

“Nice to meet you Natasha”

“Oh my friends call me Tasha you may do the same” She pulls out a folder “Now here are the designs for your suits and dresses what do you think?”

Liam and Riley flip through the folders and smile

“This is wonderful Tasha I love these designs”

Liam grins as he hands the folder back to her “You may proceed with the designs”

“Oh I’m glad you love it this is gonna be so amazing”

Riley’s phone buzzes and she pulls it out her eyes go wide and she turns to Liam “Liam…”

“What is it?”

She shows him the text and his eyes go wide “Um Ms. Natasha can you give us a moment”

“Oh of course”

They step out the room “Bastien!”

He comes running down the hall “What’s wrong?”

Liam shoves the phone in his face “Look!”

Bastien reads the text and his eyes go wide with horror

Got you number from your stupid little friend who was dumb enough to leave her phone out where I could see it you think you can run away and leave me you’re gonna regret this girl

Bastien throws the phone on the ground and stomps on it till it’s broken beyond repair “Don’t worry Lady Riley I’m getting you a brand new phone with a private number”

Liam pulls Riley close “I need that security team now and no one enters here without my permission”

“Of course your highness”

Liam turns to Riley “Are you ok love?”

“I’m more than ok” She clenches her fist “I’m ready to fight no more being afraid”

Tags: @indiacater @choicesgodfanatic @princess-geek @iaminlovewithtrr @gkittylove99 @kingliam2019 @iaminlovewithtrr @twinkleallnight @whenyourheartskipsabeat @the-soot-sprite @busywoman

[kingliam2019]

Love will always find a way

Don’t Mind If I Do

Attn: Inspired by the Riley Green song. I hope y’all enjoy.

Word Count: 710

Pairing: Sy x Reader

Summary: Sy lets you go, but will he find his way back?

Warnings: angst, alcoholism, ptsd

There he sat… deep in the bottle once again. Drink after drink after drink…. Rinse and repeat. Then there was you. So beautiful, so understanding, and yet… Sy could tell it was breaking you. Chipping away at that sweet exterior he’d always loved so much. He couldn’t take it, so he pushed you away.

His last deployment had been the hardest of his entire career. It left him fighting demons, ones too dark for you to even imagine. You did your best for him, but he didn’t deserve it so one day he sent you away. “I don’t understand,” you sobbed in his driveway. “I know you don’t darlin’, but you just… deserve so much better. Right now I can’t give you that,” Sy told you. He tried to reach out and dry a tear when you jerked away harshly. “How dare you. How fucking dare you,” you screamed.

He knew he deserved it. You’d been with him nearly half your lives. You’d loved him, waited faithfully through every deployment. He’d had every intention of coming home and proposing, he’d even chosen the ring before he left, but now… he was so broken he just couldn’t break you too. “It’s kinder to let you go darlin’ can’t you—,” he tried before you stopped him. “I can’t believe you,” you hiccuped before getting in your car and driving away.

That night he drank himself damn near to death he imagined. He loved you so much, but he loved you enough to let you go. Over the next few months he kept trying to convince himself it was for the best, hell he even tried to convince himself he didn’t love you anymore, but it was just a lie. Finally he’d had enough of his own shit. He cleaned all the liquor out of his house. He was going to quit… to be better.

He’d been doing well for a while. He stopped drinking, stopped thinking about you so much. Until one particular night. He couldn’t stop thinking about you. He thought just maybe if he built up a little courage he could show up at your house. He didn’t make it that night.

Another week went by and he fell back into his old vice. Whisky over ice, then another, and another until finally he couldn’t stand it anymore. He knew he couldn’t drive so he took off walking the two miles to your house. When he got to your front yard, he was surprised to find you sitting on the porch, drink of your own in hand. When he got to the walkway he couldn’t help but fall to his knees.

You approached him tentatively, before running a hand over his buzzed head. His eyes fluttered shut as he let out a breath he’d been holding. “Darlin’ i— it’s been killin’ me. I—,” he stammered. “I’ve been waiting for you,” you told him. His hands reached out to pull you close before his arms circled your waist. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed into you. “I know baby,” you replied. You didn’t at first. You were hurt and angry, but with time, reflection, and support from family and friends you realized how bad things actually were.

Before his deployment he was the ideal partner. Always so giving, so loving, and passionate. Whatever he’d been through had to be horrific. It had to change him in ways you couldn’t truly understand because your Sy never would’ve let you go, but deep down you knew you still loved him and he loved you. You could only have hoped for this moment when he’d find his way back to you.

“I— I hope you don’t mind me showing up like this, but I still love you darlin’. I’m gonna be better. I need you,” he breathed as he looked up at you. “I still love you too Sy, never stopped,” you told him. He then rose from the ground and pulled you tight against him. “Feels so good to hold you,” he murmured into your hair. “Come in. You can hold me some more,” you said before leaning back and kissing him tenderly. He let you take him by the hand, then into your home and bed where he could hold you all night long.

[kingliam2019]

Unforgivable Breach: Casey and Raf Condemn Celebrity Tabloid Over PICU Photo Leak

Casey and Raf are left furious after a photo of Pippa hooked up to a ventilator taken by Casey’s sister hits a celeb gossip magazine

@katedrakeohd @kingliam2019 @tessa-liam @lovealexhunt @liaromancewriter @potionsprefect @silver-rings-and-rabbits @dutifullynuttywitch

[kingliam2019]

Tech Tuesday: The Double G's

Summary: The G's are aggitated and it's upsetting everyone in the department.

Warnings: None. Please let me know if I missed any!

Previous

Tech Tuesday Masterlist

Everyone in the department is tense. The G's being quiet and not interacting with others is nothing new but there's an indecipherable aura about them today that's scaring everyone. As much as Sy wants to stay lost in his own thoughts, he knows he's got a job to do. Sighing, he refills his coffee and heads over to their shared cubicle.

The air around them seems to have a negative charge. It makes Sy think of the quiet before an explosion and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. But he still approaches with quiet calm, using his coffee cup as a shield to deflect the worst of it.

"Alright, you two," he crosses his arms. "What's goin' on with ya?"

The G's both fight the urge to glare at him. He is in charge, he is only looking out for the department. It is not his fault that they are scary.

Geralt takes a breath. "We're upset about something."

"Something personal," G adds.

"I figured as much," Sy retorts. "But it's affectin' everyone else here, so I gotta ask if there's somethin' I can do to help y'all out."

The G's look chagrined at his words.

"This is new territory for us," G starts.

"Our sour moods are usually ignored or dismissed," Geralt explains.

"We are upset with another person in the department," G adds.

"But it is personal, not professional, so we do not think the office is the place to address it," Geralt clarifies.

Sy nods. "Okay, I can understand that. Have y'all tried talking to them in the break room? Maybe during lunch? Yeah, you're still in the building, but it's your legally required downtime."

G raises an eyebrow at Geralt, I told you.

Geralt gives a little nod back at him, You did.

G shifts in his seat, Are you going to be okay with the break in routine?

Geralt lets out a little sigh, It's for the good of everyone we address this soon.

The G's make eye contact with each other and give a nod before turning back to Syverson.

"We will talk with him during his lunch break," G confirms.

"Thank you for the help," Geralt adds with a sincere nod.

The break room is significantly more occupied than they like. They eat at off times specifically to avoid this scenario, but their need is strong. They quickly find their target and sit across from him and Bubbles.

"Drysdale," Geralt growls.

"We need to talk," G explains.

Ransom's eyes widen and he looks nervous but he doesn't challenge them.

"You used us for a deception," Geralt complains.

"You did not ask us to cover for you," G glares.

"Using the D&D group to lie about your whereabouts is unacceptable," Geralt quietly grumbles, eyes never leaving Ransom's.

"We know you did it to avoid hurting your friend, but you still did it without asking us," G clarifies.

Ransom nods, looking sad, as Bubbles gives the G's understanding looks.

"You're right," Ransom agrees. "That was wrong of me, and I'm genuinely sorry. I've apologized to Bubbles, but I haven't apologized to the D&D group so let me do that now."

Ransom sits up straight and takes a breath to steady his nerves before making eye contact as best he can with both men.

"I'm sorry," he says, sincerity written all over his face. "I'm sorry for not thinking about the consequences of my actions, for not asking if you'd be willing to help cover for me. I shouldn't have used the D&D group to cover for my...indiscretions. Not without permission." The G's nod and Ransom takes it as an acceptance of his apology. "Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

"You hurt the entire group, so you will make it up to everyone," Geralt demands.

"You will provide drinks for every session until we say otherwise," G explains.

"That's a far easier punishment than I was expecting," Ransom comments.

The G's give each other a look before turning back to him.

"We understand that social norms can be difficult to understand and learn," Geralt sympathizes.

"Your journey is different from ours, but we recognize a fellow student," G discloses.

"We also recognize that improvement does not come through negative reinforcement," Geralt adds.

"Making you suffer more for your forgiveness would be counterproductive," G nods.

Ransom looks like he might start crying.

The rest of the day, the atmosphere in the department is a lot more relaxed.

Next

Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @ellethespaceunicorn; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @iwudbutnah; @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @kingliam2019; @kmc1989; @late-to-the-party-81; @lokislady82; @peaches1958; @peyton-warren @ronearoundblindly; @stellar-solar-flare

[kingliam2019]

Poor liv

The Royal Romance Chapter 13

Riley heads out the door after eating breakfast and meets with Bertrand

He nods to her “Riley there you are I’m here to prepare you for today’s events at the Apple Blossom Festival”

Riley grins “I’m way ahead of you I ate an apple tart for breakfast with apple cider and whipped apple butter so I think I’m about as ready as I can be”

Bertrand rolls his eyes “I don’t care about your food consumption I care about how you’re gonna to appear today you should care too the best dressed lady will be crowned the Apple Queen”

Riley grins widely and claps her hands “What’s that?”

“It’s an amusing tradition where the festival goers vote on who will run the Apple court you’d get extra publicity the favor of the actual Queen and the ability to boss people around for an hour”

Maybe I can do that to Olivia the look on her face Riley smirks “The best dressed huh? Something tells me you’ve got an outfit in mind?”

Bertrand nods and he quickly guides her to the manor to the boutique

“There’s no time to lose” He goes through the racks “Through a series of promises and threats I was able to obtain a historically accurate rendition of a Cordonian peasant’s best gown from the country’s most prestigious stage production company available on delivery” He holds the dress up smiling “With this dress you’ll be sure to win the title of Apple Queen”

Riley quickly changes into the dress then looks in the mirror “Are you sure it’s not too silly?”

Bertrand waves a hand dismissively “Nonsense!” He smiles “It’s perfect you can thank me later”

Riley looks at the mirror one last time then smiles “Ok I’ll wear it” She blushes Long as Liam loves it that’s all that matters

Betrand nods “Come we’re over due to meet Maxwell”

They leave and head to the Apple Orchard to meet Maxwell He grins when he sees them approaching

“Hey Riley ready to show off your baking skills?”

Riley smiles “Yeah my friends always loved when I made them things for parties and gatherings” She looks at him confused “But why would my baking skills matter out here in the orchard?”

Maxwell smiles “Because the next event of the Apple Blossom Festival involve baking an apple pie for the queen”

Riley’s eyes go wide “For the Queen?!”

Bertrand nods “Yes today is all about gaining the queen’s favor as we draw closer to coronation she’ll be testing all potential candidates be careful what you say around her”

Maxwell nods “It also helps if you win the pie baking contest”

Riley nods “Roger that!”

Maxwell smiles “But you wont be baking alone it’s a team event so you can rely on some of the ladies if you need to some of them are absolutely amazing bakers”

Riley grins “I’m sure Hana can whip up a pie even if she was blindfolded”

Maxwell grins “Maybe you can get her on your team”

Riley sighs I hope so don’t really wanna end up with someone like Madeline or Olivia she shudders as Maxwell takes her to where the ladies are gathered

Bertrand whispers sternly “Make house of Beaumont proud!”

Riley nods as Queen Regina enters with a flock of bodyguards

“Greetings ladies I’m glad to see everyone here again we will soon be dividing into two to partake in the apple pie baking contest I have decided that Olivia will captain one team and Madeline the other ladies please select your teams”

Riley sighs as Olivia and Madeline pick their teams Great I’m probably gonna end up with Madeline there’s no way that Olivia will

Olivia gives a wicked grin “Look at the two strays come on Riley I’ll adopt you you’re not as mangy as Hana”

Riley clenches her fists This bitch she’s only picking me so she can boss me around She smirks There’s no way I’m gonna let her leave Hana with Madeline She grabs Hana by arm and pulls her closer “If you adopt one of us you adopt two of us”

Olivia frowns “2 undesirables on one team that’s just vile”

Madeline sighs “I don’t really care you can have both of them”

Riley grins “Hana’s with me!” She pulls Hana over to the team

Hana grins “Yes I am!”

Riley whispers “I’m not doing this contest without you”

Hana smiles “I don’t know what to say”

“How about thank you for saving from being with Madeline Riley”

Hana’s eyes widen “Madeline can’t be that bad”

Riley raises an eyebrow

Hana giggles “Ok she is”

They both laugh as Olivia comes with a basket of apples and slams them down on the table “Riley Hana cut apples that’s should be a simple task that even you can handle get to work”

Riley rolls her eyes as they cut apples “Ok the recipe says we should measure 2 cups of apples”

Hana nods “But we’re doubling the size of the pie so we should add 4 cups”

Riley smiles “I’ll do the measuring you do the spices”

Hana smiles as they put everything together

Hana grins “That looks perfect!”

Riley nods “Thanks I’ll tell Olivia we’ve done our job” Riley walks over to her “Hey Olivia!” She startles as she hides two shakers behind her “The apples are ready”

“Oh good”

Riley frowns “What are you doing”

“Official captain business”

Riley rolls her eyes “Anyone told you you’re a bad liar?”

Olivia groans “Fine I’m switching the salt and sugar labels for the other team now that you know you can spare me your moralizing and leave I don’t have much time”

Riley whispers furiously “You’re aware that the queen is eating it right? Unless you want to be arrested for poisoning her I suggest you don’t do that”

Olivia sputters “It’s just salt and sugar they wont!”

“Oh I see Penelope coming back” She sighs “Too bad you can’t do your plan”

Olivia turns and see Penelope grabbing the salt and sugar she turns back to Riley eyes narrowing “You distracted me on purpose”

Riley smirks “And it worked let’s go”

Riley walks back to the table with a red faced Olivia following

****

Liam stands with the crowds as he watches the ladies bake he smiles as he watches Riley I can’t wait to eat the pie she bakes wish it was only her baking it

Drake stands next to him “How’s it going?”

“It’s going well”

“Who’s you think is gonna win?”

“Lady Ril-” Liam coughs “I mean Lady Olivia’s team”

“Cause Riley’s on it yeah I can see that look she just stopped Olivia from doing something stupid”

Liam sighs “Olivia never learns” His eye catches hers and he gives her a small nod Good Riley win this the right way I have faith in you

“She’s the only one who takes no crap from Olivia I respect that Regina should have made her leading the team”

“Believe me when I say I tried but she was set on Madeline and Olivia” He smiles “But at least she’s having fun” He watches her as she gets the steaming pie out the oven Her beauty radiates in that costume how is possible for her to outshine the sun?

His thoughts are interrupted by Regina “I declare Olivia’s team the winner!”

Liam grins as Riley and Hana hug and the crowd claps I knew she could do it

Regina turns to the crowd “Now as is tradition we will honor one distinguished best dressed lady as this years Apple Queen this is a ceremonial position for the people to decide last year it was our very own lady Madeline”

Madeline grins “And I very much appreciated the honor”

“As for this year citizens of Cordonia who do you wish to honor with this title?”

Maxwell steps out the crowd and begins chanting “Riley! Riley!”

Drake joins in “Riley!”

Soon the whole crown chants “Riley”

Regina smiles “I think we have a clear winner Lady Riley will be this years Apple Queen”

Liam chuckles as he whispers to Maxwell “Nice job”

“Hey anything for her to win right?” Maxwell gives a wink

Liam smiles as he watches Regina guide her through the apple queen ceremony watching as she makes Hana her cup bearer and he laughs when Riley makes Drake her court jester She loves messing with him As the crowd claps as she plants a tree Regina calls Liam over

“Thank you gracious Apple queen and for your final honor”

Liam kneels before her “I believe you are entitled to a kiss my queen”

Riley smirks at him “Get up here and kiss me”

Liam stands smiling “As my queen commands” He kisses her cheek tenderly then whispers “It’s taking everything within me not to kiss you senseless”

Riley giggles “I would love it if you do”

“Find me later and I’ll promise I’ll fulfill that for you”

****

Riley blushes as Liam walks away

Regina turns to her as the crowd disperses “It’s time I head back to the manor but please feel free to enjoy the festival as the reigning Apple Queen past queens have been popular at the Apple bobbing contest”

Riley smiles “Thank you ma’am” As Regina leave Maxwell runs up to her

“There’s are glorious Apple Queen”

“Thanks for your support I heard you cheering out there”

Maxwell grins “Well someone had to do it but anyway that’s not why I’m here I might be able to get you some alone time with Prince Liam today I happen to know he’s in the manor conservatory right now waiting on some noble I could distract them for you”

Riley smiles “Thanks Maxwell do it”

Maxwell nods “The conservatory’s on the other side of the estate grounds I’ll take care of them rest”

Riley nods and heads over to the conservatory as she steps in Liam turns and smiles

“Lady Riley what an unexpected surprise and are you wearing an authentic peasant costume?”

Riley nods “Bertrand said it’s historically accurate”

Liam smiles “Well you look fantastic”

“Thank you!” Riley walks up to him “I hope I’m not disrupting your schedule too much”

 Liam shakes his head “No I’m just supposed to meeting my mother’s friends to discuss the flowers” He grins “But I’m very excited to see you instead”

Riley smirks “Maxwell is distracting your other appointment”

 Liam grins “Then he’s a very good friend indeed”

Riley sits next to him “You’ve been busier than usual lately”

Liam sighs “Yes since my father announced his abdication at the regatta I’ve been suddenly overrun by nobles wanting to well congratulate isn’t the right works but they want to spend a few moments with the soon to be king”

“Ah”

Liam stares at the fountain “My coronation seemed like a distant future evet but now it’s actually happened in a couple of week I’ll be king of Cordonia I thought I’ll have more time”

Riley takes his hand “Liam you’re ready for this”

“You say it so certainly you make me believe you”

“You should I’m usually always right”

Liam sighs “It’s strange to think that so many people will counting on me depending on me”

Riley smiles “I don’t think they could ask for better hands you may not be able to see yourself clearly but I do you’re kind compassionate and responsible but most of all you’re always thinking about others”

Liam smiles “Those in power have a responsibility to use their power of those who have none”

“And that’s why it’s so important that you’re going to be king”

Liam nods “I know there’s so much still undecided but let’s say you were my selection you’re such a free spirit Riley” He sighs “But there are expectations that come with being queen royal events life at palace children do you see your place at my side?”

Riley grins “As long as I’m with you I’m ready for anything”

Liam smiles “That means a lot to me Riley

“I mean it”

Liam takes her hands “Meeting you in New York was one of the best things that ever happened to me you changed my life”

“I’ve going from waiting tables to waltzing with a prince my life has changed too thanks to you”

Liam smiles “Riley whatever happens know that I’m grateful for the time we’ve spent together” He looks at a light pink rose bush and picks one and hands it to her “Have you ever heard of the Juliet rose also known as the 5 million dollar flower”

Riley’s eyes go wide “Please don’t tell me it costs that much”

Liam chuckles “Heh not quite it rumored the man who created it spent 15 years and 5 million dollars to do so”

“He spent 5 million dollars to make a flower? That’s a beautiful story and dedication”

“Truly it must have been a labor of love” He smiles “I hope you enjoyed the festival”

“I’ve never seen so many apples!”

Liam grins “The festival is one of Cordonia’s many little charms” He sighs “Well I don’t know how long Maxwell can stall the nobles he can’t entertain all of my appointments”

Riley smirks “He can try” She steps closer to him “I believe you said something about kissing me senseless” She wraps her arms around him and kisses him deeply his arms come around her and tighten around her waist pulling her closer

His mouth travels down her neck as she sighs he rests his forehead against hers “We better stop or I never leave you”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Liam grins as he kisses her again

****

Olivia walks around I wonder where Liam is he could join me in the festival and we can have some fun She stops when she sees the conservatory and hears voices “Riley…” Is that Liam’s voice? She peaks in and sees Riley and Liam making out tears well in her eyes and she walks away

Tags: @choicesgodfanatic @indiacater @princess-geek @iaminlovewithtrr @busywoman @iaminlovewithtrr @kingliam2019 @tessa-liam @gkittylove99 @twinkleallnight

[kingliam2019]

One of them needs to fly there and get answers

Love In Every Heartbeat – Chapter 167 – The Last Hope’s Edge  

*warning* mentions of cancer and epilepsy and near death experiences and induced coma

Casey leans in, pressing her lips softly to Pippa’s forehead, letting her warmth linger there. “I’m right here, sweetheart, I promise,” she whispers, her voice trembling with love and determination. The soft hum of the hospital room fades beneath the sound of Pippa’s ragged breaths, and Casey tightens her embrace, as if to shield her from anything that might bring pain.

Dr. French’s gentle hands move with practiced tenderness, careful not to startle Pippa further. The clear liquid begins its slow journey, and Casey keeps her gaze fixed on her daughter, willing her own courage into Pippa’s small, shaking frame.

“You’re the bravest girl I know,” Casey murmurs, rocking just a little, soothing the fear with the soft rhythm of her touch. “Close your eyes if you want, love. I’ll tell you about the butterflies in the garden outside, the ones we watched last spring—their wings were just as bright as your smile.”

Pippa’s breath hitches, but she nods, clutching her mother’s hand tightly. In that circle of arms and whispered promises, hope presses in gently—quiet, fierce, and undiminished beneath the pale hospital lights.

Only a few minutes later, Pippa tugs at Casey’s sleeve. “Mama, I’m thirsty. Apple juice?”

Casey blinks, caught for a second by the simplicity of the request—the ordinariness of it, shining bright in the hush of monitors and IV drips. Relief flickers through her as she nods, smoothing a hand gently over Pippa’s bare, warm scalp. Not as hot as before, she notes, and gratitude blooms quietly in her chest.

Raf hobbles over to the bed where Pippa’s lying curled up in Casey’s arms. “How long does this usually take?” His voice is gentle but edged with anxiety, the kind you can’t quite smooth away, no matter how steady you try to sound. Casey can tell he’s obviously worried about how much their little girl has gone through today already after the blood transfusion.

She shifts just enough to meet Raf’s worried gaze, brushing Pippa’s hand with her thumb. “Not too long,” she assures him softly, her voice carrying calm for him as much as for Pippa. “Dr. French said maybe another hour, then we’ll see how she’s feeling.”

Raf’s hands, still marked faintly by old calluses, hover over the rail before he finally rests one on Casey’s shoulder—a silent thank you, a plea for reassurance. The three of them sit in fragile stillness, the tick of the clock and the faint rush of fluid their quiet, shared heartbeat.

Pippa turns her cheek against her mother’s arm, eyelids fluttering. “Will you stay here, Daddy?” she whispers.

Raf nods and reaches for Pippa’s bruised hand, tenderly rubbing her knuckles. “Always.”

For a moment, the room feels smaller, drawn close by the promise in Raf’s voice—a bubble of certainty against the uncertain world outside. The hush is broken only by the soft, steady drip of fluid and the distant murmur of nurses in the corridor. Pippa lets out a shuddering sigh, as if some invisible weight has lifted, her small hand relaxing just a little beneath Raf’s gentle touch.

Casey catches Raf’s eye, gratitude and exhaustion flickering in her expression. She leans into him, the three of them pressed together in a quiet mosaic of hope and fear and fierce, stubborn love.

“Maybe, when we get home,” Raf says softly, brushing a stray curl from Pippa’s forehead, “we’ll plant something for those butterflies you love. That way they’ll always come back, just for you.”

Pippa’s lips curve in the faintest of sleepy smiles. “Okay. But you have to help water them, Daddy.”

Raf squeezes her hand. “Promise,” he says, and in that word is every wish he’s ever had to keep her safe.

Pippa drifts off in Casey’s arms, clutching Lolly Lamb, smiling at her velvety fur on the new toy. Her head lolls against Casey’s chest, her bare scalp a map of veins under translucent skin. Outside, the corridor hushes for a moment, as if the whole world is pausing to listen to her breathing—the measured in, the gentle out.

Casey gazes at Pippa, grateful she’s managed to fall asleep after the last two nights where she had been awake for most of it as she vomited and struggled with fevers of 103º. “We’ll need to ask if a nurse or a porter will take Pippa’s wheelchair up to her room. I’m not waking her which means I’ll need to carry her upstairs.”

She speaks softly, her words more a thought drifting into the stillness than a request, but Raf hears and nods—already picturing the gentle transfer, the careful cradling of their daughter’s sleep-heavy form. For now, though, neither moves, unwilling to disturb the rare peace that’s settled over Pippa’s face. Casey tucks the edge of the blanket a little closer around her, brushing a kiss over her crown.

Outside, the corridor stirs back to life, but within their small pocket of quiet, everything else can wait.

Despite the ache radiating through her abdomen, pelvis, and spine—a relentless thrum she’s come to know by name—Casey already knows it will be her arms that carry Pippa. Endometriosis draws invisible claws through her body with every movement, but Raf, brave and yearning, is barely mobile himself, his crutches propped against the wall like a silent witness to all they cannot change. There is no question, really; the decision is stitched into the fabric of their days, a quiet agreement woven through pain and love and necessity: when there’s no one else, it will always be Casey.

She sits a moment longer, watching the gentle rise and fall of Pippa’s chest, feeling the slow burn in her own body, gathering herself for what is needed. The world outside resumes its ordinary hum, but in here, in this hush, she draws a breath, steels her resolve, and lets her hand rest for a heartbeat on Raf’s shoulder—a silent reassurance that, together, they will bear what must be borne, no matter the cost.

Casey keeps a watchful eye on her phone, the alarm for her next morphine dose set—a small, necessary anchor in the undertow of worry. She cradles Pippa closer, her fingers trembling as she strokes the back of her daughter's tiny hand, the IV line a frail, lifeline thread between hope and dread.

“This has to work.” The words slip out, barely more than a whisper, as she stares at the slow, measured drip—each bead of medication a silent plea, a promise she cannot control. The fluid coils down the tube and disappears into Pippa’s vein, and Casey’s breath catches, her whole body taut with fear. She turns, desperate, to Raf, her eyes glossy with panic, her bottom lip quivering as if she might shatter. “It will work, won’t it?”

Raf’s own face is pale, drawn, but he reaches for Casey’s free hand, his grip unwavering despite the tremor in his own body. “It will,” he says, the words spoken as a vow rather than a certainty. He squeezes her hand again, grounding them both. “We’re doing everything we can. That has to be enough.”

Casey blinks back tears, forcing herself to believe him—because she has to, because Pippa needs her to. For a moment, everything narrows to the quiet hiss of the drip, the soft sound of Pippa’s breathing, the warmth of Raf’s hand in hers. The unknown presses in, but together, in this moment, they hold it at bay.

A sob bubbles up from her chest. “I can’t do it. I can’t let her slip away. There has to be something else.”

Even though it isn’t the end yet, Casey still fears hearing the worst. The words hang in the air, raw and trembling, echoing the ache twisting in her heart. She clings to Pippa, as if the sheer force of her love might tether her daughter to this world a little longer, keep her safe within the fragile boundaries of breath and hope.

Raf’s hand tightens around hers, silent tears streaking his cheeks. “We’re not giving up,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible but steely beneath the sorrow. “We’ll ask for more options. We’ll fight for them to try everything.”

Casey nods, though her throat is tight, barely letting air through. The thought of surrender is unimaginable; the very idea of letting go is a cliff she cannot approach. For now, she lets the fear crest and crash, lets herself tremble in the dim hospital hush, and then, little by little, she gathers the pieces of herself again—because she must.

The shadows shift as a nurse passes by, her footsteps soft and careful, unwilling to disturb this fragile, flickering moment. Within the cocoon of Raf’s embrace, Casey feels the rise and fall of hope and dread, the storm and the shelter. She presses a kiss to Pippa’s forehead, the promise unspoken but fiercely held: she will not stop searching, not until every light has gone out.

Deep down, Casey knows that if Ethan—steady, unflinching, impossibly thorough—says there’s nothing left to try, then that is, in all the language of science and medicine, the truth. She knows the weight of his word, the careful honesty that shapes each syllable when he stands at the edge of hope’s unravelling thread. Yet knowledge and surrender are not the same. Even as she braces herself for the surety in Ethan’s eyes, she clings to her own wild, desperate determination: to search beyond the horizon of every answer already given, to ransack the margins for some overlooked possibility, some miracle hiding where none have thought to look. If there is breath left in Pippa, then there must be hope—she will not let go, not while one fragile chance remains, not while her love still has the strength to fight.

For fourteen years, she has absorbed every word from her mentor—each lesson, each caution, every nuanced truth of medicine—until his voice became the quiet compass guiding her hands and heart. She owes the doctor she is to his steady wisdom, the relentless curiosity he instilled, the unwavering ethics he modelled when hope was a whisper and certainty a luxury. In any other moment, she would have clung to his pronouncements as gospel.

But now, as Pippa lies so small and still, Casey finds herself standing at the knife-edge between reverence and rebellion. The need to do everything—absolutely everything—for her daughter blazes brighter than any doctrine, eclipsing even the faith she has carried in her mentor’s every word. Sometimes, love demands she press against the boundaries he set, to defy the finality in his eyes and stake her claim in the impossible. To be Pippa’s mother means risking the sin of hope, even if it means disregarding the rules she has spent her career revering.

It isn’t a betrayal; it’s the only way she can keep breathing. In this crucible of fear and devotion, Casey must hold both truths at once: the wisdom that shaped her, and the wild ache that refuses to give in. And so, for her daughter, she keeps searching, questioning—reaching beyond the limits, beyond even the voice that taught her how far those limits could stretch.

The silence hums—a fragile truce between exhaustion and the stubborn pulse of hope. Casey’s stomach twists, not just from worry, but from the hollow ache gnawing at her ribs. She lets her gaze drift to the battered canvas bag at her feet, half-hoping for a distraction. Her fingers rummage through the jumble of tissues, hospital paperwork, and half-forgotten pens, but all she finds are the telltale wobble of jello cups and Pippa’s drinks. The rest is emptiness.

Weariness tugs at her, and for a brief moment, the simple, everyday need for food feels almost unthinkable next to the weight of the room. But hunger is insistent, and somehow, tending to it feels like a small assertion of normalcy—a reminder that beyond the curtain of worry, life demands to be lived.

“I’m hungry. I’m going to go to the store on the ground floor and get a snack. Do you want anything?” Casey asks, her voice soft as she glances at Raf. Behind her words is a plea for distraction, the gentle offering of something ordinary to bridge the chasm of fear.

Raf blinks, as if waking from a deep, inward place, his grip loosening fractionally on her hand. The question hovers between them—mundane, merciful, and necessary in the shadow of the unimaginable.

Carefully, Casey slips off the bed Pippa is napping on, careful not to wake her. “I’ll have a look and see what I can find,” she smiles and squeezes Raf’s hand. “Oh. Have you taken your Tramadol today?”

Raf starts to answer, pauses, then gives a rueful shrug, his gaze momentarily dropping to the scuffed linoleum. “I think I forgot. Or maybe I just didn’t want to—everything feels so dull already.” His voice is quiet, edged with exhaustion, but there’s a faint, grateful warmth flickering beneath the worry in his eyes.

Casey lets herself linger for a heartbeat, drawing strength from the gentle pressure of his hand in hers. “Promise me you’ll take it before I get back?” Her words are a thread pulling him back toward the rituals that keep them tethered to the world outside this room: medication, food, sleep—acts that feel almost ceremonial in their ordinariness.

He nods, offering a half-smile that is more apology than reassurance. “I will. As soon as you go.”

She hesitates, wanting to say more, to wrap him in the same fierce protection she’s determined to give Pippa, but there’s no language that can carry all she feels. Instead, she brushes her thumb along his knuckles, then turns toward the door, the fluorescent hallway beyond holding both the promise of a brief reprieve and the inevitability of return.

As she slips into the corridor, she spares a final look at the quiet sprawl of the room—Pippa’s peaceful breaths, Raf’s hunched shoulders, the thin circle of light that binds them all together—and steels herself for the ordinary task ahead. Even here, in the heart of crisis, there are snacks to fetch and medicines not to forget; and in carrying out these small errands, Casey clings to the life she’s fighting so hard to save.

The corridor’s hush is quickly replaced by the soft whir of the elevator. Casey steps inside, the doors gliding shut with a clean, metallic sigh. She steadies her handbag on her shoulder, thumb tracing absent circles on the worn leather strap, the motion as much a comfort as a distraction. The elevator’s mirrored panel catches her reflection—drawn, tired, and marked by the worry she tries so hard to contain.

Descending, her mind churns with irritation—a hot, restless flicker beneath the surface. Raf, with his quiet stoicism and the way he seems to court discomfort, refusing the dull mercy of painkillers until agony forces his hand. She knows the script by heart; it was there from day one, woven into his half-smile and the stubborn tilt of his chin. 

He’s always been like this, always pushing himself past reason, as if endurance could somehow render him untouchable.

The doors open at the ground floor, spilling her into the low hum of hospital life. She shoulders past the quiet bustle, the antiseptic tang laced with the faint aroma of coffee and packaged pastries from the corner store. Even as she threads her way through the aisles, her annoyance lingers—sharp, protective, and threaded with love. She wants to shake him, to make him see that pain doesn’t make him stronger, that vulnerability is not defeat.

But she also knows herself—her own streak of defiance, how she bristles at advice, how she would rather swallow discomfort than appear fragile. Perhaps that’s why she fell so hard, so quickly; recognising in Raf an echo of herself, a mirror held up to her most infuriating habits, softened by the tenderness that grows between them, persistent as wild grass in cracked concrete.

At the magazine rack, Casey pauses, her fingers hovering over glossy covers. She lets herself breathe—just for a moment, letting the ordinary clatter of the world fill her ears, steadying her before she faces the long climb back upstairs. In these small acts—choosing a snack, picking up a magazine, carrying hope in stubborn, ordinary ways—she steels herself to return, to keep fighting for them all.

She drifts toward the magazine rack, scanning the familiar spines, and her hand hesitates over the latest issue of That’s Life—a frivolous, pastel promise of distraction. But it’s the next glossy cover that freezes her pulse: Spotlight Gossip, bold headline shouting Heartbreak As Model’s Niece At Death’s Door. The photograph is worse: Sophia, radiant and composed, cradling Pippa, whose headscarf blooms vivid pink against the sterile backdrop. Casey recognizes the image instantly, plucked without permission from Sophia’s public Instagram—the private made spectacle, their pain served up for passing strangers.

A spike of fury tightens her chest. How dare they? How dare they cut and paste her family’s rawest moment into glossy, casual cruelty? She snatches the magazine, grip white-knuckled, heart drumming with indignation and grim necessity. She has to show Raf. He needs to know—she needs to know—if Sophia had spoken to the press, or if her sister’s accounts have been hacked. Already her thumb itches toward her phone, rehearsing the message she’ll send: Did you tell anyone? Did you post anything new?

She forces herself not to crumple the magazine, tucks it beneath her arm, and turns to the snack aisle. The mundane act of choosing crisps and biscuits becomes ritual, her hands moving automatically, stacking familiar packets into a basket. She adds a bottled juice for Raf and a chocolate bar she knows he’ll pretend he didn’t want. 

The basket’s weight grounds her, its ordinariness a counterpoint to the swirling storm inside.

Even as she moves through the checkout, she feels the magazine’s edges biting into her palm—a physical reminder 

of just how exposed they truly are. She steels herself for the conversation waiting upstairs, for the protective instincts that bristle and burn, for the quiet togetherness she’ll need to repair what the world has so carelessly laid bare.

The cashier’s fingers are deft and gentle as she counts the change, but Casey’s attention has already snagged on the battered plastic bucket beside the till—a hand-lettered sign taped to the front, Neuroblastoma Support Fund, the letters bleeding at the edges from too many wiped-down mornings.

She can feel something in her chest tighten, old grief meeting new resolve. As the cashier hands her coins back, Casey nods toward the bucket, her voice barely above the supermarket hum. “Could you put the change in the collection?”

The cashier’s expression softens, sorrow and understanding flickering across her features. “Of course.” The coins drop with a scatter of sound, sharp and bright, into the nest of others. It isn’t much—two crisp bills, the clink of silver—but it feels like a lifeline, a small act against the tide.

Casey gathers her things, magazine still pressed to her ribs, basket exchanged for a thin plastic bag. For a moment, the noise of the shop recedes, replaced by the steady thump of her heart and the memory of Pippa’s laughter, sweet as summer rain. She wonders if Pippa understands how many strangers are rooting for her, how their quiet generosity weaves a net beneath her every fall.

With a final nod of thanks, Casey slips into the corridor, the world outside a little heavier and a little lighter all at once. The donation is too small to change anything, she knows, yet it’s something she can do—one drop of kindness in a day that has demanded so much fiercer love.

She would empty her pockets every day, sign every petition, tell and retell Pippa’s story until her voice ran hoarse if it meant sparing one child an ounce of pain, one parent a sleepless night haunted by beeping monitors and whispered updates. The cost of hope, she thinks, has never been measured in pounds and pence, but in the steadiness of love that refuses to break, no matter how the world chisels away at it.

As she steps into the cool hush of the stairwell, her resolve sharpens. Some battles—like the one waiting for her upstairs—are private and raw. But this other fight, the one for futures and second chances, is built on community, on the quiet army of strangers and neighbours dropping coins into battered buckets. It is a shared promise, small but shining, that they will not let each other fall alone.

Upstairs, the world sharpens into fluorescent glare and the sour tang of antiseptic, the hum of machines threading through the stillness. Pippa is awake, propped against the crumpled hospital pillow, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with fever. The infusion line has been removed, but her stay in this liminal holding bay—between treatment and respite—must stretch another hour or two before she is allowed to return to the quieter comfort of Paediatrics and her own small bed.

Raf sits by her side, a steadying presence in the midst of uncertainty. He wipes her mouth gently with a cool, damp flannel, every motion careful, as if she might break beneath his hands. With the other hand, he strokes her bare scalp, his thumb tracing tiny circles, and rubs her bony back, where the ridges of spine and shoulder blade rise too sharply under the fragile skin. Each retch wrings something inside him, each heave of her thin body a silent plea he cannot answer.

The nurse’s frown softens as she kneels beside Pippa, her hands sure but gentle, eyes searching Raf’s face for a flicker of doubt. “Palonosetron it is, then,” she murmurs, scribbling briskly in her chart, her presence a small anchor amid the chaos of hospital routines.

“Has she had her dose today?” The question hangs in the air, tinged with both routine and urgency.

Raf shakes his head. “Not since this morning. She kept it down for a while, but—” His voice falters, the memory of hope dissolving into the grim chorus of retching and restless sleep.

The nurse nods, understanding more than he can put into words. “We’ll draw it up now. It will take the edge off.” She rises, her footsteps muffled on the linoleum as she disappears into the corridor, leaving behind a faint promise of relief.

Pippa turns her head, eyelids fluttering, and manages a wan smile for Raf, the kind that says she’s still fighting. He squeezes her hand, wishing he could bottle comfort the way the nurses bottle medicine—measured, precise, guaranteed to soothe.

A few minutes later, the nurse returns with a syringe cradled in her palm and a cup of water poised beside it. She kneels again, meeting Pippa’s gaze directly. “All right, darling. This will help soon. Sip the water slowly after.”

Pippa swallows the medicine with a practiced grimace, then leans back against the pillow, her breaths ragged but hopeful. Raf wipes her lips, his touch trembling with gratitude.

The nurse straightens, pausing at the door. “You’re both doing brilliantly. I’ll check in again soon.” Her words drift behind her, a gentle benediction.

Raf glances at Pippa, waiting for the subtle slackening of her shoulders, the easing of the lines around her eyes. In the hush that follows, hope unfurls itself once more—fragile, persistent, shining between the beeps and the shadows.

Outside the ward, the world continues in its indifferent rhythm. The elevator dings at the end of the corridor, and Casey steps out, clutching a crinkling plastic bag that swings against her knee with every stride. The sharp scent of antiseptic prickles her nose. She moves past the nurses’ station, barely registering the low murmur of voices, her mind churning with anger at the memory of that photo—Pippa’s hollow eyes, her pale, uncertain smile frozen forever in a moment she never consented to share with strangers. Rage simmers at the thought of Sophia’s impulsive post, the careless mistake that spread Pippa’s vulnerability far beyond the circle of trust.

Casey’s fingers tighten around the handles of the bag. She’d meant well, agreeing to let Sophia post it, trusting the privacy settings she never truly understood. Now, the magazine headline—so glib, so cold—echoes in her head. “Heartbreak As Model’s Niece At Death’s Door.” As if Pippa were just a story to be consumed, not a daughter whose every breath was fought for, cherished, and counted.

She steels herself at the threshold of the room, heart pounding, hoping for the soft hush of sleep, for Pippa’s eyelids closed in peace. But she knows, with a certainty deeper than instinct, that relief is never so simple. Casey draws a steadying breath and pushes open the door, bracing herself for whatever she will find on the other side.

The sound—raw and wrenching—cuts through Casey’s hopes like glass. She’s at the bedside in an instant, plastic bag already forgotten, her hand on Pippa’s quivering shoulder, the other smoothing sweat-damp skin from the nape of her neck.

“Oh baby. It’s ok.” The words tumble out, desperate to soothe as Pippa retches again, the effort wringing tears from both mother and daughter. Raf, his face drawn with helpless worry, offers what little comfort he can, his broad palm moving in steady, helpless circles along Pippa’s spine.

“How long?” Casey demands, her questions tumbling out, voice frayed with panic. “How long has this been going on? Has she had a dose of Palonosetron?” Her medical precision returns, cutting through the haze of emotion, but her hands shake as she searches the bedside for the telltale vials and syringes.

Raf barely manages, “Not since this morning. The nurse gave her some, but—” He falters, glancing at the nurse’s empty chair as if willing her to materialise with answers and relief.

Casey’s anger at the outside world is eclipsed—forgotten entirely—the magazine headline, Sophia’s careless mistake, all evaporated in the face of her child’s suffering. She presses a cool cloth to Pippa’s brow, murmuring soft encouragement, the gentle cadence of bath time stories and lullabies threading between her anxious questions.

The late afternoon hush has fractured, replaced by the dry, staccato rhythm of retching and the low thrum of worry in the air. Bath time approaches, but the familiar rituals feel impossibly distant now, suspended in the uncertain space between one breath and the next. In its place, love takes the shape of small gestures: a hand held, a basin steadied, the whispered promise that, somehow, it will all be okay.

Casey’s eyes blaze with a mixture of anger and concern. “I’m going to give her another dose. It’s safe to do so if she vomits within thirty minutes of the dose being given.” 

She goes into the blue bag that stores all of Pippa’s medications, the one Casey had bought when Pippa first came home with her and Raf at eighteen months. Since then the bag has come everywhere with Casey and Raf when they needed to take Pippa anywhere for the possibility of her needing medication on the go. 

Casey finds the 30ml syringe and the bottle of Palonosetron, carefully drawing up the dose with a silent prayer that it will ease her little girl’s nausea. “Don’t worry my darling, Mama will make it better.”

Filling the syringe with the clear liquid, she silently prays that Pippa will keep this dose down. Doubt flickers through her—should she give Pippa some Omeprazole first? Her mind ticks through the protocols, the advice she’s half-memorised from months of long hospital nights.

“Give me two minutes, I’m going to ask a nurse if I should give Pippa some Omeprazole before her Palonosetron. Can you just keep soothing her?” she murmurs, pressing the filled syringe into Raf’s steady hand. He nods, his thumb tracing gentle circles across Pippa’s spine, anchoring both of them.

Casey slips quietly from the room, pulse still racing, her trainers barely whispering on the linoleum. The fluorescent hallway seems impossibly bright after the dim hush of Pippa’s bedside. At the nurses’ station, she catches the eye of the evening nurse—a familiar, compassionate presence during these relentless weeks.

“Sorry,” she says, voice raw but urgent, “should I be giving Pippa the Omeprazole before her Palonosetron if she’s still vomiting?” The nurse checks the chart, nods with the brisk efficiency of someone who has weathered many nights like this.

“Yes, if she can manage to swallow it. It’ll help protect her stomach and might make the Palonosetron easier to keep down.” She offers Casey a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, the quiet promise of a little extra support.

Relief and purpose return in equal measure as Casey strides back to the room. She finds Raf humming under his breath, Pippa’s eyes fluttering half-open, clinging to the sound like a lifeline. Casey draws up the Omeprazole, her hands steadier now, and kneels by the bed, hope threading through every careful movement.

“Alright, sweetheart,” she whispers, wiping a bead of sweat away from Pippa’s forehead, “let’s try this together. One step at a time. I promise—I’m right here.”

Casey measures the Omeprazole with deliberate care, the pale liquid swirling gently in the 15ml syringe. She checks the dose twice, then sits beside Pippa, smoothing a hand through her sweat-damp hair. The uncertainty in the room seems to fade, replaced by a quiet focus as Raf looks on, his eyes catching Casey’s with a flicker of hope.

“Here we go, baby. Take this one first. It will protect your tummy before you have your medicine to stop you feeling sick.” Casey’s voice is gentle, a thread of calm spun through every word.

She coaxes the syringe to Pippa’s lips. Pippa’s eyes, shining and heavy with exhaustion, search Casey’s face for reassurance. Casey smiles, warm and unwavering, murmuring soft encouragements as Pippa swallows the liquid, a small shudder shivering through her frail body.

“There you go, sweetheart. That’s it.” Casey strokes her daughter’s cheek, offering the soft comfort of touch as Pippa nestles into the pillow.

“Just a few more minutes, and then the next medicine,” she promises. The room settles into a hush, the thrum of the hospital muted behind the closed door, as hope—small but steady—settles alongside them.

Casey’s heart twists at her daughter’s words, grief mingling with the unsteady hope she’s tried so fiercely to nurture. Pippa’s voice is no more than a rasp, and her eyes—shadowed and shimmering—fill with helpless tears. “I don’t feel well, Mama. I want to go home. I want to see Hope.”

The mention of her puppy, Hope—the exuberant Golden Retriever who, just last year, had tumbled into their lives with muddy paws and boundless affection—lands like a plea and a promise in the stillness. Pippa’s bald head bows as the sobs begin, tiny shoulders trembling under the soft hospital blanket. Casey gathers her into a gentle embrace, cradling the fragile weight of her daughter against her chest, smoothing her back in slow, rhythmic circles.

“I know, sweetheart,” Casey murmurs, her own voice thick with feeling. “We’ll get you back to Hope soon. She’s waiting for you at home, wagging her tail, missing you every day.” She presses a kiss to Pippa’s temple, willing comfort into the space between them. “Right now, we just need to help your body get a little stronger. One day at a time, remember?”

Pippa nods, tears streaking her cheeks, her breath hiccupping as she clings to her mother’s words. Casey rocks her gently, both of them holding on to the hope that home—and Hope—are waiting just beyond this stretch of unknown, ready to welcome them back into the golden light.

As the minutes slip by, Casey quietly gathers the remnants of their long day: Flopsy, Pippa’s beloved plush rabbit, now slightly bedraggled from hours of comfort; the colouring book with its half-finished pages of rainbows and castles; and the stubby pencils scattered across the bed.

She tucks these into Pippa’s canvas bag with practiced care, pressing the worn bunny’s soft ears so they peek from the top. Next, she collects the plastic sack of drinks, magazines, and snacks—crumpled wrappers bearing silent testament to the hours spent waiting out blood transfusions and the slow ticking of hospital time.

With gentle efficiency, Casey loops the handles of both bags onto the back of the waiting wheelchair, making sure nothing will slip off in the shuffle between rooms. The simple act of tidying feels like reclaiming a fragment of normalcy, a mother’s ritual amid the clinical drift of the day. Pippa watches, eyes half-lidded but attentive, finding comfort in the familiar rhythm of her mother’s hands.

The small preparations are finished just as the lull in the ward deepens, and all that remains is the soft anticipation of movement—toward rest, toward another tomorrow—carried in the quiet weight of their gathered things.

Two hours later, as the clock strikes seven and the hospital corridors begin to hush with evening, Pippa is finally allowed to return to her room on the Pediatrics ward. The day’s weariness has settled deep in her bones, leaving her limp and feverish in Casey’s arms. Raf limps beside them, his crutches tapping a staccato rhythm along the linoleum, one step behind.

In the fluorescent-lit corridor, Casey spots a kindly porter—a man with a broad, gentle face and a badge that reads “Martin.” She shifts Pippa’s weight carefully, her own arms aching, and approaches him with quiet urgency.

“Excuse me, could you help us?” she asks, offering a tired smile. “My daughter has a wheelchair, but she’s almost falling asleep, so I’m carrying her. And my husband—he’s got a torn tendon in his ankle and has been on crutches.”

Martin’s eyes soften with understanding. “Of course,” he replies, moving to take hold of the wheelchair. He adjusts it so it glides silently alongside Casey, ready for whenever Pippa stirs.

Pippa, her arms looped around Casey’s neck, is too exhausted even to protest. She clings to her mother, face tucked into the familiar crook of shoulder and collarbone, breathing in the scent of home that lingers there. Her eyelids flutter; the world has narrowed to the warmth of Casey’s embrace and the promise of her own bed waiting just down the hall.

As they move together—Casey carrying Pippa, Raf hobbling at her side, and Martin gently steering the empty wheelchair—a quiet solidarity settles over them. For a moment, the challenges of the day feel lighter, buoyed by kindness and the certainty that, even in this place of uncertainty, they are not alone.

In quiet moments between the bustle of appointments and the hush of nighttime wards, Casey marvels at the unexpected grace woven through their journey. Not only here in Madison, but in Edenbrooke and in the labyrinthine corridors of Sant Joan de Deu in Barcelona, they have been met by the gentle dignity of those who spend their days caring for strangers. Nurses who remembered Pippa’s favourite story, doctors who explained complicated options in careful, patient English, orderlies who carried an extra blanket or conjured up a smile with a coin trick—all had offered more than professionalism. There was a kindness, a generosity of spirit, that seemed to transcend language, borders, and the perpetual ticking of hospital clocks.

It is this—these countless small mercies—that has steadied them when the distance from everything familiar has felt its greatest. For Casey, it has become a quiet blessing: to discover that, though they are far from home, they are enfolded in a network of care, stitched together by the warmth and humanity of people whose names she may never remember, but whose acts of compassion linger, luminous and unforgettable.

In the hush and hum of the elevator, Martin’s sympathetic smile bridged the quiet between them. “How long have you been here? I take it from your accent you’re not a local?”

Casey gave a weary shake of her head, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “No. I’m originally from California, but I’ve lived in Boston for the last fourteen years. I moved there to work at Edenbrooke under Ethan Ramsey.”

Martin’s eyebrows rose, recognition flickering in his gaze. “Sounds like you learned from the best. Ethan’s name gets around—especially in America.”

A faint smile played on Casey’s lips, pride and fatigue mingling in her expression as she shifted Pippa’s weight in her arms. “I took over leading the Diagnostics team from Ethan in 2023, when I finished my residency.”

The elevator chimed, the doors parting on another empty corridor painted in the pale glow of evening. Pippa slumbered on, oblivious to the exchange, her breath shallow but even. Raf, quiet but attentive, pressed forward with his crutches, close enough that Casey could feel the gentle reassurance of his presence.

Martin pushed the wheelchair ahead, glancing back with a warmth that made Casey’s resolve feel newly girded. “You’re a long way from home,” he offered, not as a statement of pity but as a gentle observation.

Casey nodded, swallowing against the sudden well of emotion that always seemed closer at hand since the hospital became their world. “Farther than I ever imagined, sometimes. But—” she caught herself, smiling ruefully, “sometimes you find home in places you never expected to.”

The elevator settled at their floor, and Martin held the doors as the little procession moved out—Casey, Pippa nestled close, Raf steadying himself, and the waiting wheelchair. The ward was quieter now, lights dimmed for the night, and the soft click of their footsteps seemed to echo the hope that pulsed quietly beneath every hardship.

As they emerged into the familiar hallway, Casey felt the weight of gratitude settle alongside her exhaustion. 

Family, she realised, was not always defined by where you were from, but by the hands that reach out along the way—the stranger who offers help, the colleague who becomes a mentor, the team that welcomes you as their own.

And as Martin offered them a final nod and disappeared down the corridor, Casey held her daughter a little tighter, heart buoyed by the unexpected kinship of those who, for a moment, made the journey lighter.

The quiet hush of the ward followed Casey as she carried Pippa into her room, the soft overhead lights casting gentle halos on the pale walls. Clustered at the foot of the bed, a small parade of beloved faces waited—Winnie the Pooh, Tigger, Piglet, Eeyore, and, nestled proudly at the centre, Tilly the puppy with her velvety ears and stitched-on smile. They seemed almost to be holding vigil, their button eyes bright with welcome.

With practiced care, Casey moved past them and leaned over the bed, easing Pippa down onto the familiar sheets. Pippa barely stirred, only the faintest sigh escaping her lips as Casey tucked the pastel blanket up to her chin, letting her small hand rest atop the plush fur of Tilly’s paw.

Casey brushed a gentle kiss across her daughter's brow, breathing in the faint scent of shampoo and hospital soap mingled with something ineffably Pippa—sweet, warm, fiercely loved. “Sweet dreams, my precious girl,” she whispered, her voice a promise and a prayer.

She lingered for a moment, fingers smoothing a stray lock of hair from Pippa’s cheek, then straightened, heart aching and full all at once. Around the bed, the stuffed animals watched over her daughter as faithfully as any guardian, silent companions through the long nights and hopeful mornings.

Casey dimmed the lights, letting the room settle into its nighttime hush, and paused in the doorway. The hush was a fragile thing, made softer by the rhythmic breathing from the bed and the gentle weight of love that filled the space. Tonight, as every night, Casey found herself grateful for the small, enduring magic of these quiet rituals—the ones that made even the hardest journey feel a little less lonely.

Raf lingered at the threshold, cane tapping softly on linoleum as he angled a reassuring glance back. “I’m going to the bathroom but I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said, half-grinning in that way meant to dispel worry.

Casey nodded, the weight of the day stitched into the gentle curve of her smile. “Ok, babe,” she replied, her voice a low hush so as not to disturb Pippa’s sleep.

As the bathroom door clicked shut down the hall, the quiet enveloped Casey anew. She stood for a moment in the half-light, letting the hush settle around her shoulders like a shawl. The steady drip of a sink somewhere, the distant thrum of hospital machinery—these sounds had become the rhythm of their nights, as familiar as the rise and fall of Pippa’s breathing.

She lingered in the doorway, gaze drifting back to her daughter’s peaceful face, and for a fleeting moment time seemed suspended between the soft heartbeats of home and hope. In this cocoon of stillness, even the uncertainties beyond the ward’s walls felt manageable—a little less sharp, a little more bearable.

Soon, Raf’s uneven footsteps would return, and the quiet would shift again, reshaped by shared presence and weary comfort. For now, Casey allowed herself this small, fragile peace, holding close the preciousness of the ordinary: love, sheltering them all in the gentle hush of the night.

Casey’s gaze flicked up to the hospital clock looming above the door—7:45pm, its red digits unwavering, counting out the evening minute by minute. Almost eight. The hour, like an appointment with ritual, signalled the winding down of another day suspended in medical twilight. She smoothed a gentle hand over Pippa’s fine hair, then turned to Raf.

“Can you please flush out Pippa’s Hickman line and get out her feeding bag and feeding syringe while I go to the patient kitchen for her formula?” Her voice was soft but purposeful, the cadence of someone who’d repeated these requests so often they’d become a strange kind of liturgy.

Raf nodded, his gaze steady and true. “Of course I can. I’ll have everything set out for you when you get back, including her feeding bag and your gloves.”

With a practiced ease that masked the pain in his ankle, Raf manoeuvred himself on his crutches to where Casey lingered at the foot of Pippa’s bed. He paused, searching her face, and then—carefully, as if this small act might anchor them both—he reached to cup her cheek in his calloused palm and pressed a kiss, feather-light but sure, to her brow. “You don’t have to do this alone. It will take more than an injured ankle to stop me giving our girl the care she needs. I love you.”

The words, so quietly certain, found their way past all the weary barricades Casey had built. Her smile trembled, tears welling bright in her eyes. “I love you too. I always have and I always will. Until my last breath.”

The door whispered shut behind Casey, and she stepped into the corridor, the muted light casting her shadow long and slim on the polished linoleum. Each footfall was measured, the soft hush of her trainers almost lost beneath the distant rattle of trolleys and the occasional burst of laughter or grief from neighbouring wards. The hospital, in its perpetual dusk, felt both endless and intimate—a place suspended between hope and heartbreak.

Turning the corner, Casey found the patient kitchen already bustling. At least five other parents clustered around the fridge, hands full of bottles, containers, medicine syringes, their voices low and careful, as if afraid to disturb whatever fragile peace they’d managed to create for themselves. One mother, dark circles etched deep beneath her eyes, rummaged for formula with practiced desperation; a father in blue scrubs hovered, clutching a cartoon-bright lunchbox, his thumb anxiously tracing the name sticker on its lid.

Casey slipped into the queue, posture tense. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and offered a polite, tight-lipped smile to the nearest parent, but no one was really in the mood for small talk. The hum of the fridge, the clink of plastic lids, and the sighs of impatience made up their own quiet symphony. Casey tapped her foot, not quite impatient but restless, her thoughts drifting inevitably to Pippa, imagining the monitors still faithfully tracing each heartbeat, Raf's steady hands preparing everything with his careful method.

Her gaze moved from face to face, a silent catalogue of exhaustion and muted determination. She wondered, not for the first time, about the stories that had led them all here: the diagnoses whispered in sterile rooms, the nights spent pacing hallways, the endless hope pressed into every gesture. There was no hierarchy of suffering here, no comparison of wounds—just parents, united by the unspoken language of worry and waiting.

As a space finally opened by the fridge, Casey drew herself up, breathing deep, and slipped forward to retrieve Pippa’s formula, hands steady despite the ache in her chest. This, too, was love: the quiet endurance, the waiting, the willingness to stand in line again and again so that hope, however fragile, could keep flickering on.

The corridor’s hush folded around Casey as she made her way back, hands curled tightly around the chilled bottles  of formula. Every step was a countdown, anticipation tightening in her chest—ritual returning, love persevering, even as the ache in her shoulders threatened to settle deep in her bones. She caught herself rehearsing the motions she knew by heart: the slow unfastening of Pippa’s pyjama top, the gentle application of the Clobetasol Propionate, careful to soothe the angry red blotches that had marched down her little one’s arms and over her shoulder in the last days.

Finally with the formula pressed cool against her palm, Casey returned down the hushed corridor, her mind spinning ahead to what must come next. The ache in her shoulders deepened as she reminded herself—gently, grimly—that she’d have to undress Pippa, to coax away the soft pyjama top and start applying the Clobetasol Propionate. She pictured the angry red rash that now claimed both of her daughter’s arms and the curve of her right shoulder, the way it seemed to flame brighter with each passing day.

She nudged the door open with her elbow, the bottles clinking softly, and stepped inside. The sight that greeted her cut deeper than she’d braced for: Pippa hunched forward in bed, her bald head low, cheeks blotched scarlet with tears and fever, sobbing in great shuddering sighs. Raf sat beside her, his brows drawn in helpless worry, one hand trying to gently intercept Pippa’s small fists as they clawed at her shoulder.

“Itchy, Daddy, need to scratch,” Pippa hiccupped, voice breaking, her fingers desperate for some relief.

Casey’s heart clenched. She set the bottles aside and knelt by the bed, her hands gentle but sure as she whispered, “I know, sweetheart, I know it’s so itchy. Let me help.” Her voice, tender and unwavering, was the anchor all three of them needed. She met Raf’s eyes, reading the same sorrow and determination reflected back.

With practiced tenderness, Casey coaxed Pippa’s hands away, threading her own between her daughter’s trembling fingers. She stroked Pippa’s knuckles, letting her presence be its own reassurance. Then, with infinite care, she began unbuttoning the pyjama top, her fingers steady even as her heart broke to see the fresh rash snaking along soft skin. Each blotch felt like a tally of all she couldn’t shield Pippa from.

“Let’s put on the special cream, love,” she murmured, reaching for the Clobetasol. Pippa’s breathing hitched with every touch, but she didn’t resist—only whimpered, eyes squeezed shut, trusting her mother’s hands even as the misery threatened to swallow her whole.

Casey smoothed the ointment across the angry patches, fingers deft and cool, her words a steady stream of comfort: little stories, promises that the stinging would ebb, that they would get through this together. Raf rested a hand on Pippa’s calf, grounding them both, his presence a silent vow that none of them would face the storm alone.

For a moment, the room was a world apart from the hospital’s endless dusk—a space held together by love, by the unspoken devotion that bore them through each fresh ache and challenge. And as the cream glistened on Pippa’s skin and her sobs softened to tired snuffles, Casey pressed a kiss to her daughter’s brow, willing every ounce of hope and strength she had into that touch. This, too, was love: steady, fierce, and unyielding, shining even in the face of pain.

Casey rose, her movements measured, and crossed to the small stainless steel sink tucked into the corner. The tap sputtered, then ran clear and cold over her trembling fingers. She scrubbed, methodical, the faint medical scent of Clobetasol clinging like a memory she wished she could rinse away. The ache in her shoulders had crystallised into a knot at the base of her neck.

Glancing over her shoulder, she caught Raf’s anxious gaze still fixed on Pippa. “I need to take her temperature,” Casey said, reaching for a towel. Her voice, though level, betrayed the shiver of worry she couldn’t quite quell. “Did you notice how warm she is? I think the fever’s worse tonight.”

Raf nodded, already pushing to his feet, careful not to jostle Pippa. “I felt her forehead—it was hot, but I thought maybe she’d settled down.”

“Could you sit with her?” Casey asked, softer now. “And fill her feeding bag with five hundred mil of formula? We’ll use the syringe and hook it up to the Hickman.” She offered the words as if stringing beads on a thread—each step both a comfort and a burden, a way to keep moving.

Raf nodded again, his movements quiet, already reaching for the formula packet resting on the windowsill. The familiar rustle and snap of powder pouring into the bottle was almost soothing, a small ritual carved out of chaos. He glanced at Pippa, whose lashes fluttered against flushed cheeks, her breaths uneven but calmer now.

While he measured out the milky liquid and twisted the cap, Casey knelt by the bedside drawer, fishing out the thermometer with hands still quivering from tension. She pressed a kiss to Pippa’s temple, whispering, “Just a quick beep, love. Then you can rest again.”

Pippa’s eyes flickered open, glazed with exhaustion and the haze of fever, but she managed the smallest nod. Casey slid the thermometer gently under her arm, counting the seconds in silence while Raf prepared the feeding bag, his fingers steady despite the worry etched across his brow.

The thermometer beeped—a crisp, clinical sound that shattered the hush. Casey drew it free, squinting at the tiny screen. Her heart thudded as if the numbers themselves could bruise: 103º. Not the shadow of a fever. Not the gentle reassurance of 98.2. She pressed her lips together, hand trembling as she showed Raf.

“It’s 103º,” she said, the words scraping raw in her throat. “We need to get a nurse. This isn’t a slight fever—it’s life threatening.”

A faint, fever-misted voice reached Casey through the blur of her own panic. “Puppy on a rainbow swimming in the sky,” Pippa murmured, her words lilting and strange, tumbling into the hush like a bright marble down a darkened hallway.

Raf hesitated, torn between the instinct to stay close and the urgency of action. “Go,” he said, his voice little more than a rasp. “I’ll stay with her. Just—go, Casey.”

Casey barely heard herself respond, already on her feet, the world narrowing to the blur of white walls and the too-bright glare of the corridor beyond. Each step away from the bedside felt unnatural, as if she were leaving part of herself behind, but she forced her legs to move faster, her footsteps echoing in the hush. Pippa’s fevered words still pulsed in her ears—a surreal song threading through her thoughts, sharpening her fear.

The lights overhead blurred into a white river as Casey sprinted, her shoes skidding on the linoleum. She barely registered the distant beeping of call bells and the muted shuffle of nurses’ clogs behind closed doors. Panic clawed higher. She darted a glance left, then right, desperate for a white coat, a reassuring badge—any sign of authority.

At the far end of the corridor, a nurse in navy scrubs appeared, her ID badge glinting as she bent over a trolley of IV bags. Casey’s heart lurched—here was her lifeline. She skidded to a halt, breathless, voice shaking but urgent.

“Please,” she gasped, clutching the edge of the trolley for balance. “You have to help me. My daughter’s got a fever of 103º. She has cancer and had a T-cell infusion earlier today. She also suffers from epilepsy, and if her temperature stays this high, she’s at risk of a seizure—and if it gets higher, she could die.”

The nurse’s eyes sharpened, all fatigue swept away in an instant. “Room number?” she demanded, already keying something into a handheld device.

“Two fourteen. Please, she’s so hot—she’s barely lucid. Her name’s Pippa.”

The nurse’s footsteps matched Casey’s galloping heart as they raced back down the corridor together. The trolley was abandoned, its wheels spinning aimlessly. At the door, the nurse signalled Casey aside and swept into the room, her presence suddenly enormous—her hands brisk, her voice calm as she called for a crash kit and paging the paediatric registrar. Raf looked up, hope and fear warring in his eyes, keeping one hand on Pippa’s shoulder, the other tangled in the tubing of the feeding bag.

“Let’s get her on oxygen,” the nurse said, already sliding a mask over Pippa’s mouth and checking her vitals. “Hold her steady for me. Casey, you did exactly the right thing coming to get help. We’ll do everything we can.”

Casey hovered at the foot of the bed, her breath coming hard and shallow, eyes darting to the glowing monitor beside Pippa’s pillow. Numbers flickered and slid downward—too fast, too uncertain for her to track. Was it the oxygen saturations sinking, or the heart line trembling lower with each beat? She couldn’t tell; she only knew the numbers were falling, alarmingly, and a cold horror surged through her veins.

“Something’s wrong—she’s dropping,” Casey whispered, her voice hoarse, unsure to whom she was speaking: the nurse, Raf, herself. The nurse moved her hands quickly and spoke in a quiet, urgent tone while giving updates to the hallway. The room seemed to shrink around them, the monitor’s soft chime growing louder, more insistent, until it was the only sound in Casey’s world.

Casey’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. She blinked, trying to focus on Pippa’s face—her daughter’s lips now tinged with blue, her eyelids fluttering. Please, let it stabilise. Please, let them fix this. But the numbers continued their downward march, and all Casey could do was watch, helpless, as hope and terror warred inside her chest.

Once again, all Casey can do is watch as the room fills with people, she hardly knows but must trust as her little girl slips away. Voices rise and braid together—commands, acronyms, numbers that mean the difference between crisis and hope. Casey catches the tail end of a heart rate—eighty, then seventy-four—before it’s lost in a flurry of shouted blood pressures and oxygen stats. A doctor bursts in, not much older than Ethan, maybe a shade taller if he stands straight, strands of hair falling over his brow as he surveys the scene, eyes sharp and unblinking.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Someone get the parents outside,” he calls, not unkindly, but with the authority of someone who’s seen too many impossible moments. Gloved hands reach gently for Casey’s arm. Raf’s eyes find hers; he’s pale, lips pressed tight, refusing to let go of Pippa until the last possible second.

An older nurse draws near, her manner gentle but firm, and takes Casey’s arm. “Come on, lovely, this isn’t something you need to see.”

Little does she know that it’s something Casey has seen too many times before, and something she has been in charge of just as many times. The choreography of crisis—the arc of a body failing, the sudden, silent communion of a team—was, for Casey, as intimate as breath. She recognised the tension in the air, the flutter of panic held at bay by skill and the brittle thread of hope.

But here, stripped of her badge and stethoscope, she is just another parent, exiled to the corridor by well-meaning hands. Her name, which in other wards might spark a glance or even a murmur of recognition, means nothing in this fever-bright moment. No matter how well known she has become over the last decade, no one can see past the smudged circles beneath her eyes, or the raw, animal edge of her fear.

To them, she is simply Pippa’s mother—helpless, grieving, waiting. She lets herself be led away, her mind replaying the monitor’s descending numbers, the staccato of orders and the breathless hush before the crash. She feels the urge to intervene, to steady her own child’s slipping pulse, to reach for certainty in the science she trusts. But her hands remain empty, her authority suspended by the gravity of love.

The corridor is awash with the pale hush of fluorescents, every sound receding until there’s only the pulse of her grief. The nurse steers them gently through a door Casey barely registers, into a small, familiar room—one she’d only occupied once before, the morning after Sophia had caught the sunlight and hope in Pippa’s eyes, immortalising them both in a photograph that now stares back from newspaper sheets and glowing screens. Today, the room feels brittle, the air saturated with memory and dread.

No sooner has the door whispered shut than Casey’s composure buckles. She lets herself collapse into a plastic chair; arms wrapped tight around her chest. The nurse sets a box of tissues on the table, then leaves with a soft, apologetic nod, drawing Raf quietly after her.

Casey’s sobs break open, raw and shuddering. “I promised she would be in my arms when she slipped away,” she chokes out, her voice hoarse, echoing against the sterile white walls. The confession trembles between them, heavy with all the love and all the terror she can hold.

Raf sinks to his knees beside her, reaching for her hand. His grip is warm, trembling, a desperate anchor in a world listing out of balance. Casey presses her palm to her mouth, gasping, afraid to give her terror voice, lest it make this ending real. All she can see is the monitor’s icy numbers, the blue tint of Pippa’s lips, the memory of a promise she can’t bear to break.

The silence is thick, broken only by the distant shuffle of footsteps and the quiet hum of the hospital’s living machinery. Photographs—of that sunlit morning, of Pippa’s laughter—skitter unbidden through her mind. And beneath it all, the relentless ache: what if this is the end? What if all she can do now is wait and remember, empty-handed, as her daughter slips out of reach?

For the next half an hour, time contracts into a single, endless moment. Casey and Raf sit side by side, their hands entwined, knuckles white with the effort of holding on. Every minute stretches thin, snapping beneath the weight of desperate hope and silent calculation. They both know—too keenly, with the grim clarity experience affords—how long most doctors will persist with resuscitation. Twenty minutes, maybe thirty, if the team is determined or if there’s some flicker of reason to keep pushing. To these doctors, Casey is just another anxious parent, her child just another case amidst the tide of suffering that surges through the hospital each day. They do not know the years behind her name, the nights she poured herself into saving strangers, the countless times she herself led teams to the edge of exhaustion for a child whose chances were measured in heartbeats.

Unlike Ethan or Tobias—colleagues who would have seen Casey’s daughter, not just the chart or the failing numbers—these doctors do not know her. They will fight for Pippa, yes, but only as far as the protocols demand, as far as the thin line that separates hope from futility. No further. Pippa has become, in this terrible calculus, another patient. Casey aches at the knowledge, even as she understands it, even as she knows she would have made the same call in their place. Still, the distance between the parent and the physician feels like a chasm, swallowing every plea she cannot voice.

In the hush of that small room, every second reverberates with the memory of Pippa’s laughter and the low, relentless chant of the code team echoing through the walls. For thirty minutes, all Casey and Raf can do is wait—counting the slow ticks of the clock, bargaining silently with the universe, wishing for someone to see Pippa the way they do, to see her as more than a diagnosis, more than another battle lost to the night.

In Pippa’s room, the code team hovers in a tense, orchestrated flurry. The doctor’s gloved hands move with brisk certainty—preparing the paddles, measuring each desperate breath against the unforgiving silence. For a moment, the only sounds are the chorus of beeping monitors and the metallic rasp of a cart being drawn closer. Then, with a measured, clinical command, the doctor calls for everyone to clear.

A nurse’s voice, thin and taut, answers from the foot of the bed: “Thirty-three minutes.” There’s a hesitation—a shared glance, heavy with the knowledge that time is devouring hope. Still, the doctor’s hands do not slow. He signals for Epinephrine, and the nurse draws the dose with practiced urgency. The syringe’s plunger plunges, a bright line of possibility in the blur of motion.

But the doctor doesn’t withdraw, doesn’t let the weary cadence of the code run its final note. Instead, he studies the small body beneath the tangled wires, the faintest flutter where a pulse might linger, and something—call it intuition, defiance, or a quiet faith—roots his feet to the ground. “Five more minutes,” he says, voice low but certain, halting the rhythm of resignation that has begun to settle over the room.

The team hesitates. There’s a subtle shift—shoulders tensing, a nurse’s gaze darting to the clock, another pair of hands readying for one more round. The doctor’s eyes never leave Pippa’s face, searching for a flicker, a sign, any whisper of resistance against the dark. For those five minutes, the world narrows to the circle of light over the hospital bed, to the memory of laughter caught in sunbeams and the fragile courage that holds the line between hope and surrender.

In the small waiting room, Casey and Raf sense the change—a ripple in the current of dread, an extension of possibility. Through the hush, Casey feels the trembling thread of hope stretch taut, asking one more question of the universe. Five more minutes. Sometimes that’s all it takes for a miracle to slip between the beats of a failing heart.

Finally, after forty agonising minutes, the door cracks open—a wedge of cold fluorescent light in the hush of the waiting room. Casey looks up, her eyes swollen, rivers of tears carving silent tracks down her cheeks. Every inch of her knows what should come next, the script written on the faces of so many parents before her: the sorrow, the soft apologies, the gentle severing of hope.

But the words do not come.

Instead, the doctor stands in the doorway, mask lowered, eyes wide and shining with something fierce and astonished. His voice is soft, unsteady—almost as if he, too, needs to believe it. “We got her back.”

Casey stares, breath strangled in her chest. For a second the world holds itself still, suspended between disbelief and wonder. It is Raf who moves first, his grip breaking from hers to press trembling fingers to his mouth, a sob escaping him—half relief, half disbelief. Casey tries to form a word, but her lips only tremble, the tears spilling faster, the weight in her chest finally giving way to something lighter, wilder, trembling with gratitude and shock.

She stands, unsteady, and the doctor nods—a quiet affirmation, a promise renewed. Around them, the machinery of the hospital seems to soften: the beeping slows, the lights blur, the noise recedes beneath the tidal rush of breath and heartbeat. All that matters is the impossible truth threading through the silence: Pippa is still here.

Somewhere, behind glass and monitors, a small hand has found its way back. Forty minutes stretched the line between hope and loss until it nearly broke, but not quite. Not tonight.

Casey clings to the words—We got her back—as if they are a lifeline, as if she can still feel the pulse of her daughter’s laughter rising, defiant, against the dark.

Casey’s voice is broken and barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

The words hang in the air—fragile, almost weightless, yet carrying the whole gravity of a world rebuilt in an instant. The doctor bows his head, touched by a humility that deepens the lines around his tired eyes. There’s nothing else either of them can say, not yet; language, always so quick to fill moments, falters here in the face of something both sacred and raw.

Raf steps closer, one arm anchoring Casey before he, too, finds his voice. It comes out cracked, threaded with awe. “We thought—” He cannot finish, but the doctor’s gentle nod fills in the silence. They all know what was nearly lost.

For a moment, the three are bound together by gratitude and exhaustion and the quiet astonishment of love outlasting despair. Beyond the door, the world carries on—night shift calls, trolley wheels rattle, distant laughter and grief pass each other in the endless hospital corridors—but within their small orbit, time pauses, reverent.

Casey presses trembling fingers to her lips, as if afraid the hope will vanish if she breathes too hard. Somewhere, a nurse moves with gentle purpose, ready to guide them towards Pippa, towards the fierce miracle that has become their new reality.

And as Casey leans into Raf, tears mingling with laughter at the corners of her mouth, she realises that gratitude is not something easily spoken. It is lived, held in the trembling space between heartbreak and wonder. In that moment—nothing else matters but the promise that, tonight, hope held fast.

Shaking her head as she lets go a breath of relief, Casey looks up at the same nurse who led her away from Pippa’s bedside. “When can we see her? She’s never alone, she’ll be scared.”

The doctor is still standing nearby, his presence both reassuring and solemn. “We’ve had to put Pippa on a ventilator for now,” he says, gentle but unflinching. “But if things improve we’ll take her off it in twenty-four or forty-eight hours.”

Relief and fear crash together in Casey’s chest. She nods, clutching Raf’s hand as though she might anchor the future by holding on tightly enough. The nurse, sensing the fragile hope that has taken root, offers a soft, encouraging smile.

“It’s okay to sit with her,” the nurse says, voice low and steady. “She’ll know you’re there—even if she’s sleeping, even if she’s still.” The promise is a lifeline, and Casey clings to it, daring to imagine the weight of her daughter’s small hand in hers once more.

Raf brushes a tear from Casey’s cheek, his own eyes shining with the ache of hope. Together, they follow the nurse down the corridor, the world narrowing to the rhythm of their steps and the whispered prayers that carry them forward. They are not sure what tomorrow will bring, but tonight, the possibility of more tomorrows is enough.

But as they follow the nurse, every footstep seems to echo with memory—of nights in distant cities haunted by hospital lights and silent alarms. In Barcelona, Raf’s pain had consumed him, turned inward until the world narrowed to a point of unbearable grief. Not long ago in Boston, before Pippa’s CAR-T cell therapy began, Casey had watched him fracture under the weight of hope slipping through their fingers, his anguish a shadow she couldn’t chase away.

Now, with Pippa behind the glass, her chest rising and falling in time with the machine’s gentle hiss, Casey feels the old terror rising. What if this is too much for him, again? What if the sight of their daughter in that fragile state reopens wounds barely closed, pulls Raf down into the same black pit—one she is no longer sure she can pull him from? The fear is sharp enough to steal her breath, sharper still for how fiercely she loves them both.

She squeezes Raf’s hand, as if by holding on she can anchor not just herself but him, the two of them bound together while standing on the edge of so much loss. Inside her, panic and love twist together. She cannot lose Pippa, but the thought of losing Raf—of watching him vanish into despair—leaves her equally undone.

The corridor seems impossibly long. The nurse’s kind voice is a distant buoy. Casey steels herself, forcing a calm she does not feel. She will be brave, because hope demands it. For Pippa, for Raf, for the fragile thread of family that this unyielding night has not yet severed.

Each footfall is heavy, echoing off linoleum, the hush of the ICU a landscape of waiting and unspoken hope. Raf is beside her, but Casey feels as if she walks alone—her thoughts thick with fear, every breath a silent plea. The world beyond the glass has receded, shrunk to the fragile boundary of this room and the fragile life within it.

The sound of the ventilator seems impossibly loud as Casey steps towards Pippa’s bedside, but somehow it’s as if the distance between her and her little girl grows longer with each step she takes. As if some invisible force is pulling her further away from where she desperately needs to be.

The words quiver in the air, threadbare and earnest, barely more than a whisper lost in the hush of machines. Casey’s palm trembles as she cups Pippa’s tiny hand, her thumb stroking the delicate rise of knuckles, warm but unresponsive beneath her touch. The ventilator’s measured sighs become a strange lullaby, a pulse between hope and fear.

Raf lowers himself into the chair beside her, his hand never leaving hers, and together they lean into the vigil. The room’s chill seeps into Casey’s bones, but she clings to the ritual of presence—of skin against skin, of stories murmured through clenched tears. She tells Pippa about the garden at home, about the dog that waits for her laughter, about the sunlight that will one day spill across her pillow again. Her voice is raw, but she refuses to let silence win.

Time unspools, viscous and unhurried. Nurses drift in and out, their movements gentle, almost reverent. Raf’s head bows, his lips pressed to Pippa’s small fingers as if in silent prayer, and Casey guards the hope that somewhere beneath the surface, their daughter can feel them—can gather their nearness into her dreams.

“Mama and Daddy are here,” she repeats, her voice steadier now, willing each syllable to anchor Pippa to this world, to call her back across the fragile threshold of sleep. For as long as it takes—hours, days, a lifetime—Casey will not let go.

Casey’s phone vibrates in her handbag—a muted, persistent rattle she cannot bear to answer. It is no one she wants to speak to, not now. She presses her lips together, holding on to Pippa’s hand all the tighter as if the tremor asked a question she dared not voice.

Casey tightens her grip, feeling the raw ache of his words settle in her chest. She wants to reassure him, to conjure some certainty from the wreckage of their hope, but all that comes is a trembling hush. “She’s stronger than we know,” Casey says, the words brittle, almost breaking. “She has to be.”

Raf’s gaze flickers, a storm of fear and longing behind his eyes. His fingers trace Pippa’s wrist as if learning her smallness anew, memorizing the fragile warmth that clings to her body. “What if it’s not enough?” he whispers, voice so low she nearly misses it.

Casey swallows, the urge to cry pressing sharp and insistent at the back of her throat. She leans in, forehead touching Raf’s, drawing strength from the closeness, from the shared ache that binds them. “Then we hold her, and each other. And we don’t let go. Not for a second.”

The silence that follows is heavy, full of all they cannot say. Still, beneath the machines and the hush, a stubborn ember burns—love, fierce and refusing to be snuffed out, even when hope feels impossibly thin.

As she watches Pippa, Casey whimpers, a childlike murmur slipping from her lips. “I want my Mom.”

The confession shivers through the quiet room, fragile and unguarded, and for a moment Casey feels herself smaller than she has in years—reduced to longing, to the ache for comfort only a mother’s arms could offer. She squeezes Pippa’s hand, as if her own need might somehow lend strength to her daughter, as if grief and hope could be braided together in this hush.

Raf’s arm tightens around her shoulders, and Casey lets her eyes close. The memory of her mother’s lullabies, her steady hands, flickers just out of reach. She wants to believe that love—hers for Pippa, her mother’s for herself—lingers in the air, weaving through the sterile hum of machines. And so, with her cheek pressed to the back of Pippa’s hand, Casey breathes through the ache, letting her whispered longing settle into the silence, a plea carried on the lull of the ventilator: for strength, for mercy, for the simple grace of being held.

Casey clutches Raf’s hand and leans over to stroke Pippa’s fingers. “What caused the cardiac arrest?” she murmurs, her mind going through every reason for her little girl to have a heart attack.

A fever of 103º, the way Pippa’s skin burned beneath Casey’s palm—yes, infection could do it, tip a child’s body into chaos. But as she rifles through every clinical note, every late-night conversation with worried nurses, another possibility claws at her: the T-cell infusion. The hope they clung to, the therapy that was supposed to save Pippa, could it have turned traitor?

She presses her lips to Pippa’s knuckles, fighting the useless guilt that simmers beneath her ribs. Had they consented too easily, trusted too hard in medicine’s promise? Or was it just the fever, a rogue microbe undoing everything?

Raf’s thumb circles her wrist, silent, waiting—his own questions folded tightly in the furrow of his brow.

“It could have been the fever,” she says, voice thin. “Or… maybe the infusion.” The words hang there, heavy with accusation and grief, and Casey aches for answers, for absolution, for some certainty to banish the gnawing doubt before it hollows her out completely.

But Pippa sleeps on, her breaths measured by the machine, her parents braced between hope and fear, searching the silence for reasons where there are none.

Her fingers tremble as she unlocks her phone, navigating through a haze of unanswered messages and notifications she can’t bear to read. Sophia’s name hovers at the top—a bright badge of concern from a world that existed before everything ruptured—but Casey swipes it away, heart pounding as she scrolls for the solace of Ethan’s number. He’ll know what to do. He always has.

She hesitates, thumb poised above the call button, her mind flickering to the dark house in another city where Ethan sleeps, perhaps with his phone on silent, perhaps with one ear still tuned to Orla’s midnight calls or Louisa’s restless whimpers. She knows too well the fragile peace of a household with a toddler—the hours of coaxing, the whispered threats and soft lullabies, the way sleep can dissolve at the slightest jolt.

For a moment, guilt prickles her resolve. Is her need enough to justify breaking someone else’s night? But desperation sharpens her, and she remembers the way Ethan’s voice has steadied her before, the clarity he brings like a light in a storm. She weighs her choices: a call that might rouse the whole house, or a page—urgent but silent, a flare sent up for help.

Casey presses the pager app instead, her message concise but edged with panic: “It’s Pippa. Please call—urgent.” 

She presses send, the word “delivered” blinking back at her, and lets her phone rest in her lap, all her hope funnelled through the thin thread of a message, waiting for the answer that might not come soon enough.

She closes her eyes, breathing shallowly, clinging to the hush and the steady rhythm of Pippa’s machines, trying not to imagine the blue-lit screen across town, the footsteps down a hallway, the soft click of a door and a father’s whispered apology as he slips out to take a call that means everything.

Across three time zones and the hush of a sleeping city, Ethan’s night fractures beneath the thin, insistent glow of his phone. The old wooden floor is cool against his bare feet as he slips from beneath the warmth of the covers, heart ticking up with the dread he’s learned to respect but never quite dull. Casey’s name flickers on the screen—urgent, unambiguous—the sort of message that only comes when something’s gone wrong, or is about to.

He reads it twice, the words burning through the fog of sleep: “It’s Pippa. Please call—urgent.” Already, his mind is spiralling through protocols and probabilities, tracing clinical pathways in the dark. T-cell infusions, even autologous ones, aren’t supposed to do this—not after the observation window, not when things have seemed stable. But Casey wouldn’t panic, not unless she needed to.

He draws a steadying breath and gently peels himself off the mattress, careful not to disturb Meredith, whose hair fans across her pillow in the half-light. The bed dips as he stands, prompting a soft, drowsy question from the shadows. “Work?” Meredith murmurs, voice caught between concern and habit.

Ethan lingers, phone gripped tight, the taste of worry sharp at the back of his throat. He bends close, brushing a whisper against her temple. “It’s Casey. I need to call her back—something’s up with Pippa.” The words settle between them, heavy with the weight of too many nights like this, too many emergencies that spill across time zones and loved ones.

Meredith’s hand finds his, squeezing once in silent solidarity before she lets him go. He pads down the hall, the house creaking softly around him, and steps into the faint blue glow of the kitchen. Here, with the refrigerator’s hum and the distant pulse of city traffic, he dials Casey, bracing for the tremor in her voice, already composing the questions he’ll ask, the reassurances he’ll offer, the notes he’ll scribble as dawn edges closer.

The call connects—two families linked by hope and fear and the thin lifeline of a phone’s beacon in the night.

Ethan paces his open-plan living room, toes catching on the fringe of the faded rug, the hush of the city pressing against the windows. It’s only barely past midnight, but sleep feels like something that happened to someone else, hours—or years—ago. He presses the phone harder to his ear, voice rough with fear and the heaviness of what-ifs. “Casey? What’s wrong? Is Pippa ok?”

There’s no apology like there usually would be from Casey, only sobs.

He hears Casey’s sob down the line and then there’s a silence before she replies. “No. Pippa had another heart attack. We nearly lost her, Ethan. The doctor worked on her for forty minutes. She’s in PICU on a ventilator.”

The words hit him like a cold wave, chilling him from the inside out. Ethan’s knuckles whiten as he grips the phone, the rush of the refrigerator’s hum now impossibly loud. Forty minutes. His mind latches onto it, replaying the number as if endurance alone could undo time. He forces his voice steady, though every instinct is to drop the phone and run, as if sheer proximity could save them.

“Casey, I’m so sorry. Is she stable now? What do they think caused it?” He tries to keep the questions soft, measured, but dread coils tight in his chest.

A shaky breath, then Casey’s voice, ragged and small. “They’re running tests. Her labs are all over the place. They said arrhythmia, but—Ethan, I thought she was gone. I watched them—” Her voice falters, swallowed by a tide of grief and exhaustion.

He squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You did everything right. I’ll call the team here. We’ll go over everything together, okay? I’m here, Casey. I promise you’re not alone in this.”

The line crackles with all the words they don’t say—the fear, the helplessness, the fragile hope that threads between them as the night outside draws on, unbroken and impossibly long.

In their bedroom, Meredith lies wide awake, her eyes tracing the familiar shadows on the ceiling. The muffled cadence of Ethan’s voice drifts through the closed door, a low murmur carried by worry. She can’t hear his words, but she feels them, feels the ache behind them like a bruise blooming in her own chest. Sleep won’t come. Not tonight—not with the weight of the unknown pressing so heavily against the silence.

The floor is cool beneath her feet as she slips from bed, careful not to disturb the hush that coats the house. Through the hall’s dimness, past the photographs of birthdays and sunlit afternoons, Meredith finds herself at Orla’s door—drawn by an instinct deeper than reason, an unspoken thread that hums between mothers in the darkness.

She pauses, hand on the knob, then opens the door just wide enough to peer in. Orla, nearly eight, sleeps tangled in a riot of blankets, a soft halo of childhood dreams undisturbed by the night’s turmoil. Meredith’s breath catches. All she can do is watch the gentle rise and fall of her daughter’s chest and hope—fiercely, desperately—that on the other side of the city, another little girl is drawing breath just as steady.

A prayer escapes her, barely a whisper: “Please let Pippa be ok.” She stands in the doorway, sentinel and supplicant, heart aching for the child she barely knows and the mother who waits, somewhere, for morning to bring mercy.

She lingers in the doorway, shadowed by hallway light, and catches the glint of Ethan’s hand shaking as he taps in the familiar number on the house phone, his cell still pressed hard to his ear. Casey’s voice, thin as a radio signal barely tuned, rises and falls in the hush, too distant for Meredith to catch the words, but heavy with anguish all the same.

Meredith crosses the room, her steps silent on the worn floorboards, the weight of unspoken dread gathering behind her ribs. She stands beside Ethan as he waits, his eyes tracking the blinking light on the base of the phone, jaw clenched with the effort to hold himself together.

“What’s happened?” she mouths, worry etched deep across her brow.

The second line clicks through. Ethan meets her gaze, his own face pale and drawn in the dim hallway light. He swallows, his voice hoarse from a barrage of bad news. “Pippa’s had a heart attack. It took forty minutes to bring her back. She’s on a ventilator. It’s touch and go if she’ll survive the night.”

For a moment, Meredith is motionless, the world narrowing to the harsh, clinical edges of those words. The simple enormity of forty minutes—of a child’s heart stilled and coaxed painfully back—hangs between them, heavier than any silence. She reaches for his free hand, their fingers threading together, the only anchor in a world suddenly unmoored. In the hush, they listen to the distant hospital sounds bleeding through the line, and to each other’s breathing, steady but fragile, hope and terror wound tight as the night itself.

The shrill ring of the house phone jolts through the hush, a thin thread of connection stretching across states and hospital corridors. Ethan, hunched on the plush couch, presses the receiver to his ear just as the second line clicks and Tobias’s voice—familiar, steady, but tinged with sleep—cuts through.

“Ethan, what’s going on?” Tobias asks, confusion and worry muddling his words. Somewhere, the beeping of monitors and the low hum of a distant intercom bleed into the background: the signature sounds of a night shift at Edenbrooke, a world away but suddenly immediate.

Ethan draws a ragged breath. “Tobias, I’ve got Casey on the other line. Pippa had a heart attack.” The words still feel foreign, brittle in his mouth. “The doctors in Wisconsin are running tests. She’s on a ventilator in PICU.”

For a moment, the line is silent except for the faint shuffling of Tobias finding his bearings, the distant bark of a nurse’s laughter, a cart squeaking down a polished hallway. “Oh, God.” Tobias’s voice drops, all pretence stripped away. “Is she stable?”

Ethan closes his eyes, pressing his thumb hard against his temple. “It’s touch and go. They said it took forty minutes to bring her back.” His voice falters, thick with fear he cannot name. “She’s so little, Tobe. She’s just a kid.”

Tobias breathes out slowly, the weight of his own years in paediatrics settling across the miles. “I’m here, Ethan. Whatever you need. Just tell me what’s happening and I’ll help however I can.”

Somewhere behind Ethan, Meredith stands in the dim light, watching, her arms crossed tight against her chest. The night stretches before them, long and uncertain, but in the web of voices—friends, family, strangers in white coats—there is a fragile glimmer of hope, stubborn and shining, refusing to be extinguished.

There’s another pause, this one heavy with the unspoken questions crowding the line. Then Tobias clears his throat, gentling his voice with a familiarity that cuts through the static. “Ethan, can you put Casey on speaker? I’d like to talk to her too, if she’s able.”

Ethan hesitates, glancing over at Meredith, who nods silently, her eyes shining with something fierce and determined. With careful hands, Ethan fumbles with the phone, pressing the button that bridges the miles into one fragile, shared room. The hollow click is oddly loud.

A breath, and then, “Casey? Tobias is here with us now. He wants to talk.” His words are gentle, the smallest of lifelines tossed into a sea of uncertainty.

Casey lets out a sigh. “Good. I’m desperate and you two are the only ones I trust.” Her voice is raw, trembling between hope and exhaustion, a thin reed nearly lost beneath the circuitry of the call. For a moment, no one answers—there’s just that shared silence, thick with things they cannot say, and the gentle wheeze of air conditioning in the background.

Tobias is the first to find words. “You’re not alone, Casey. We’re right here. Tell us what you need.”

The line crackles. Casey’s breath catches, and when she speaks, each word lands heavy, deliberate. “I need you to tell me what happens next. Pippa’s so small—I can’t... I don’t know what to do. They keep talking in circles and I’m scared I’ll miss something important. I just—” Her voice breaks, the raw ache of fear spilling through.

Ethan, feeling the room shrink down to the quiet pulse of connection, leans in. “We’ll figure it out together,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to hold this alone, Case. Not tonight.”

In the hush that follows, it’s as if the three of them are stitched together—not by answers, but by presence, by the fragile promise that whatever comes, they’ll face it as one.

Casey whimpers, her eyes riveted to the shifting tableau beyond the glass as doctors and porters begin to file in, the muted squeal of trolley wheels a jarring undertone to Pippa’s fragile stillness. The room swells with quiet urgency, filling with Pippa’s medical team—Dr. Margret Green, her Neurologist, already conferring in low tones with Dr. Kimber Edwards, the Oncologist, and Dr. John Wood, the Cardiologist whose furrowed brow betrays his concern even at a distance. Each name, each role, is a thread in the tense tapestry of hope and dread that knots itself tighter around Casey’s heart.

Casey’s hands tremble as she clutches the phone, her voice a thin, frantic thread. “Her medical team have just arrived,” she manages, the words tumbling out in a rush edged with panic, “along with porters. They’re taking her for an echocardiogram and an MRI of her brain. They’re worried there’s damage to her heart, that she could be vulnerable to another cardiac arrest. And the lack of oxygen... they think it could have left her with irreparable brain damage.”

The words splinter, escaping in a sob she tries and fails to smother. For an instant, the world on both ends of the call collapses to the raw ache in her voice, the terrible clarity of what hangs suspended in this moment. Meredith’s arms tighten around herself, knuckles paling. Ethan draws in a shaky breath, the weight of Casey’s fear heavy in his chest.

On the line, Tobias doesn’t rush to fill the silence. Instead, his presence anchors them: gentle, steady, refusing to flinch from the truth. “We hear you, Casey,” he says quietly. “We’re right here. Whatever they find, whatever happens—we face it together.”

Casey presses her forehead to the cool glass, the room behind her awash in fluorescent hush and the shuffling of feet. For now, all she can do is hold on, every second stretching, taut and luminous, waiting for news that could tilt their world forever.

@kingliam2019 @tessa-liam @peonierose @princess-geek @alj4890 @potionsprefect @silver-rings-and-rabbits @katedrakeohd

[kingliam2019]

Of investments and returns - parts masterlist

Pairing: CEO!Sy x Dahlia Lewis (OFC; physical appearance only vaguely described, so you can imagine her the way you want)

Series summary: Due to global economic troubles, Sy was forced to sell most of his company's shares to investors. Much to his displeasure, the investors commissioned a business consultancy to check the company for potential savings and optimization. Dahlia Lewis is one of the unwelcome visitors. And she will soon begin to get under his skin in a different way.

Warnings: 18+, NSFW. Fluff, angst, and smut. Detailed warnings are given in the individual chapters.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Epilogue (finished)

[kingliam2019]

Welcome, everyone! (Except if you’re under 18, in which case, I ask you to leave and not interact. My stories are written for adults only.)

Otherwise, I hope you’ll find something you like on here. Please consider leaving me a comment or reblog the fic if you liked it. Thank you so much!! 🫶

I do not agree to my work being copied, translated or republished!

August Walker

Behind The Curtain: August and you enjoy the ending of a night out in the city of love. Smut with a pinch of romance. 2nd person POV.

Promises: You have a special Christmas gift for August, and you have to deal with the consequences. Fluff, tiny bit of smut. 2nd person POV. [Bonus drabble]

Captain Syverson

A Long Way From Home: Sometimes, it can take a while to find a place where you belong - especially if the place and the people you once called home no longer exist. But chances are, you’ll stumble across new places and people along your way. And maybe you will arrive after all. Angst, fluff and smut, 3rd person POV. Series masterlist (finished)

Of investments and returns: Due to global economic troubles, Sy was forced to sell most of his company’s shares to investors. Much to his displeasure, the investors commissioned a business consultancy to check the company for potential savings and optimization. Dahlia Lewis is one of the unwelcome visitors. And she will soon begin to get under his skin in a different way. Fluff, angst and smut, 1st person POV. Parts masterlist (finished)

Sweet Things: Morning coffee with Sy. Fluff, 2nd person POV.

Geralt of Rivia

Where You Are: Your husband goes into a battle that will fundamentally change your life and his. Will you find your way back to each other? Viking AU. Fluff, smut and angst. 2nd person POV. Series masterlist (ongoing)

Henry Cavill RPF

Ice and fire: You meet Henry after you got stood up on a date, and you end up in the sack. Can something that started as a one-night stand become something more? Fluff and smut, 1st person POV.  Part 1  Part 2 Part 3  Part 4 (finished)

The sweetest temptation: Henry practices his lines for a new commercial. And you like it :) Fluff and smut, 2nd person POV.

What you need: Henry gives you what you need after having a shitty week. Fluffy fluff and fluffy smut, 2nd Person POV.

Walter Marshall

Adaptions: Johanna “Jo” Collins and Walter Marshall have grown up in the same small town. Their parents are friends, and they’ve known each other for as long as they can remember. When both of them are back in town to visit, they meet again after many years. And although their lives have taken major turns in the meantime, some things may never change. Or will they? Fluff, smut and a little angst. 1st person POV. Parts masterlist (finished)

Angel: Porn without plot. Smut with a pinch of fluff, 2nd person POV.

Furry Cupid: Walter makes new friends. Silly fluff. 3rd and 2nd person POV.

Hideaway: Walter and you are madly in love and he takes you to a surprise vacation. Tiny bit of angst, fluffy fluff, smut. 2nd person POV. Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 (maybe ongoing, maybe not)

​The light side of the night: You’ve just moved to a new city to start a new job as a transcriptionist at the local police department. Before your first day at work, you meet Detective Walter Marshall and this encounter leaves its mark. On you. And on him. This story is about how you find each other. And about how one can get in your own way sometimes. Slowburn. Fluff, angst and smut, 2nd person POV. Parts masterlist (finished)

Jason Crouse (Jeffrey Dean Morgan)

Through his eyes: Relationship headcanon. Fluff and smut, 2nd person POV

[kingliam2019]

I struggle to find my own posts so here I will add the links as each new chapter is published x

CHAPTER ONE - Favours

CHAPTER TWO - Journey

CHAPTER THREE - Trek

CHAPTER FOUR - Home

CHAPTER FIVE - The Next Morning

CHAPTER SIX - Flesh

CHAPTER SEVEN - Sketch

CHAPTER EIGHT - Breathe

CHAPTER NINE - Sliding

CHAPTER TEN - Apart

CHAPTER ELEVEN - Back and Forth

CHAPTER TWELVE - Wet

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Honesty

CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Taking Charge

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Party Penny

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Keep Calm

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Headspace

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - The Tests

CHAPTER NINETEEN - Confess

CHAPTER TWENTY - Home again

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE - Happy Place

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO - In Charge

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE - Princess

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR - Clan

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE - Answers

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX - Snapped

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN - Reveal

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT - Wait

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE - Expectations

CHAPTER THIRTY - Eggshells

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE - Preparations

Here's a link also to the Spotify Playlist that accompanies this story - Widow's Pique Playlist

[kingliam2019]

Sleep in peace

The news of Malcolm-Jamal Warner’s passing was so tragic. I loved him as Theo Huxtable. I loved him on The Resident. He was the best part of 7b on 911. May he rest well, and may his family eventually find peace. Prayers to his wife and baby ❤️

And it’s forever and always fuck tmz

[kingliam2019]

Ooooo drama

Someone New 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include angst, pining, romcom tropes, and some darker elements later in the series. Some triggers may not be specifically tagged. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This fic will contain explicit content. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You've had a crush on your best friend for years, but you're slapped in the face with reality when he takes things to the next level with his girlfriend.

Characters: Steve Rogers, Thor

Note: please enjoy the first chapter!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

“No, no, not the pink, red,” you cup your hand over your ear pod, “exactly what it says on the order sheet.” 

Were anyone to see you, sitting in the dirt, with a brush in hand, all alone, they might think you’re a bit out there. You, talking to the air, dusting off a clump of soil, orchestrating your own voice with the bristles. You dip your head as you focus on what the voice in your ear is saying. 

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” you argue, “I put in the order weeks ago. A red bow. I have the receipt– I mean sure, pink or red doesn’t matter to me but it’s not my birthday.” 

“We’ll see what we can do,” the woman relents. It’s not exactly a triumph but as close to as you can hope. If it’s pink, you’ll just have to take the fall. The damn fondant will be devoured by the night’s end anyhow. 

You hang up with a double tap on the ear pod and your playlist resumes. You go back to trying to uncover the shape caked in layers of muck, turning the brush to chip away the rougher bits with the pointed tip. The work is tedious but it has to be. You can’t risk damaging the relic nestled inside. 

The abrupt chiming of your ringtone once more sounds through the bluetooth earpiece. You huff and hit the pod with the heel of your hand. You greet the call with only your name. 

“Are you still on site?” Your boss, Arturo asks. 

“Yep, still here,” you still your hand and twist your arm, pulling back the end of your glove to see your watch, “just a bit longer. You know I have that thing tonight.” 

“Uh, yes, I recall,” he says dully as you hear paper shuffling, “you got time to chat?” 

“Sure,” you keep the cluster of dirt and the brush in one hand and use your other to push yourself to your feet, “I just gotta catalogue this before I finish the day.” 

“Well, I have good news and bad news,” he begins as you carefully walk between the cordoned off patches. The whole place is a maze of where and where not to step. You go into the tent and put down the half uncovered idol. It’s brittle, made of hide and yew, with a bit of bone. “Lucia is pregnant.” 

“Oh? That’s great,” you furrow your brow, wondering what that has to do with you. 

“Means she can’t travel for a while. She’s adverse to long term commitments at the moment so…” 

“So…” you trail off as you label the mound of dirt and make notes for the next day. 

“So, you want her assignment?” 

“Which one?” You peel off your gloves and shake off the excess filth. 

“Norway. It can be a bit dingy but the landscape is nice.” 

“Norway? For how long?” You close up the ledger and tuck it away on the shelf. You pass between the tables of artifacts as you pull out your phone. 

“Could be a while but I figured you never get to go very far. You’ve been pent up in-state for so long, you could use the vacation.” 

“Oh? Well, I…” you scroll through your phone and see the notifications. Emails confirming delivery, messages asking if everything is sorted. “I’d have to think about it…” 

It’s evasion more than indecision. You know you don’t want to go. You can’t go. Your whole life is here. You have an apartment and friends and… Steve. Your best friend.  

“Make sure you do think about it. It’s a great opportunity. Especially for a junior anthropologist. Lucia won’t be on leave forever.” 

“I know. I’ll think about it.” 

You hang up and pluck the earbud out. Ugh, you’re covered in dirt and dust. You don’t have time to go home and shower. You knew you wouldn’t. You have to be at the venue before everyone else. You can change there and try to wash up in the sink. Whatever, no one’s going to be looking at you anyway. It’s Peggy’s night. Yay. 

You lock the fence and tug one last time to make sure it’s secure. You drag your boots across the thinning grass to your car parked on a stretch of gravel. You drop inside and hit start. You connect to the bluetooth and get some tunes going. You buckle your seat belt as you check the mirrors. You’re probably going to have to speed there. 

You back out as the music blares from the speakers. It’s not loud enough to drown out your thoughts. Why did you agree to this? Peggy doesn’t even like you. Oh, but she likes Steve. She is his girlfriend and you are only his best friend. You’re supportive. You keep your mouth shut and smile. 

Ugh. You squeeze the wheel until your knuckles hurt. You know why you offered to help plan the surprise. You’re pathetic but you’re not delusional. It meant you got more time with him. There hasn’t been much of that since Peggy came along, not just the two of you. 

Classic, isn’t it? In love with your best friend. Friends since college. Friends forever, you vowed naively, thinking that forever would never come. Nothing lasts that long, you can only hope to outlast Peggy. 

And if you don’t, maybe this crush will finally run its course. 

💟

Red and white streamers decorate a long table set with trays. There’s a banner over it that reads ‘Happy Birthday, Peggy’, and a stack of gifts already forming in the corner. Guests drift in with anticipation as you hurry around to check off all the items on your list. 

You fix a small vase of flowers, trying to hide the droopy one in the back, and tug a wrinkle out of a tablecloth. You smile and wave at those who are early as you weave between them. You pull out your phone and lean it on the clipboard angle in the crook of your elbow. They’re on their way, okay. Keep it cool. 

As you come to the kitchen door, you nearly collide with someone else. Sam touches your arm gently as he keeps you from tripping backward. You gasp and hug the clipboard with a wobbly grin. 

“Hey,” you greet breathily, “you’re here.” 

You look down at the guest list and check him off. 

“Ah, figured I’d make an appearance,” he kids, “Rogers would take it pretty rough if his best pal wasn’t here.” 

“Please, don’t start that with Bucky again,” you warn as you point the pen in his direction, “the two of you, in fact, are seated separately.” 

“No fun!” He whines dramatically. 

You scrunch your lips at him and peer around. Yes, none of this has been fun. Caterers, servers, tables, space, food! Yes, you were going to check on the cake. Your sole squeaks as you twist sharply and go to slam your hand into the door. 

“Hey,” Sam blocks your way with his arm, “before you disappear, you’re still wearing your boots.” He points to your feet, “in case you’re wondering about the snail trail.” 

He sweeps his finger up in a gesture alluding to your previous path. You glance over at the dirt littered in your stead then down at your dusty boots. You sigh and hang your head back. 

“Fuck!” You snarl. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll find a broom,” he assures you, “while you take a breath. You need it.” 

“I can’t, Sam, they’re already on their way. I still have to get everyone in their place and… quiet,” you scowl, “ugh, this is gonna be so bad. I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“So… why’d you do it?” He asks as he drags his hand away from the doorframe. You look at him and blink slowly. You shrug. 

“I’m a good friend,” you insist. 

He gives a skeptical hum and nods, “sure are,” he grumbles, “too good, if you ask me.” 

You throw up your hand before turning into the kitchen. You don’t have time to worry about him. Is he jealous that you’re helping Steve so much? Or does he know something else? You don’t let the seed sprout as you nearly cry out at the sight of the cake. 

A pink bow. Jeez. Of course. You check the cake off your list, nearly tearing through the paper. It’s better than nothing, even if Peggy never settles for less than the best. 

There’s no time to complain or send it back. Your phone vibrates again. Five minutes. Your heart is racing. Why? This isn’t even your party. You just want it to be perfect for Steve. You hate to disappoint him. Ever. 

You really shouldn’t care that much but you do. Like so many other things in your life. 

💟

The crowd can't keep quiet. There's a low buzz that ripples through the guests. A wave of anticipation that's spread like a deadly virus. 

You feel a nudge in your side and peek over as Bucky sends Sam a sneer and wriggles in place. Those two never let up. You hiss at them to quit and they look as guilty as a pair of unruly children. 

"He keeps tickling me," Bucky whispers. 

"No, I'm tryna fix his hair, look at this mess," Sam flicks a strand away from Bucky's cheek, "this is a nice event, Buck, not your living room." 

"Both of you," you warn.  

"You're bitching at me when Indiana Jones here brought the dig with her," Bucky mutters. 

You look down. Dammit. You still didn't change out of your boots. You roll your eyes. It's not about you. It's Steve's night. Er, Peggy's.  

You shake out your nerves and shake your head, "you two," you step behind Bucky and insert yourself between the men, "behave." 

"Yes, mom," Sam snickers as Bucky groans and tries to smooth the few shanks that have slipped free of his low ponytail. 

You exhale and give an exasperated look to the door. You really can't handle them on top of everything else. You just want this night to end already. All your hard work and you won't even get to enjoy any of it. 

"Everybody," Natasha hisses as she runs away from the doorway, "they're coming." 

The group quiets, as much as they can, a collective bated breath as you wait and listen. The lull is unbearable as the heat of the bodies around you pricks sweat down your neck and across your scalp. The door begins to open, almost as if in slow motion, and as the guest of honour is revealed, you cry out. 

"SURPRISE!" The eruption of the chorus has your head spinning as Peggy gives a melodramatic swoon, grabbing at Steve's arm as she leans on him heavily. 

She parts only to fan her eyes and squeal. "Oh my god, you guys!"  

She teeters on her heels as people holler happy birthday and her group of girlfriends flutter over to wrap her up in a cacophony of giggles and preening. You smile, a bittersweet twitch in your cheek as you watch her spin back to Steve and pull him into a kiss.  

You're happy for them really, proud to see all your effort come to fruition, but you just feel so hollow. For an instant, you think it should be you right there, gushing in glee over the celebration of another year, with Steve beside you.  

You gulp down the jealousy and wiggle your nose to ward away the tears. That's a stupid thought. If it hasn't happened in more than a decade, it's not going to happen now. 

💟

As the guests disperse into their own conversations, you finally manage to wade through to the happy couple. You approach with a small wave at Steve. He doesn't see you, he's watching Peggy as she chats with Natasha. 

"Hi," you call above the din, "so, you like it?" 

Steve turns to you, confusion stitching his forehead before he registers your questions. He nods and gives a smile, "it's amazing, you did so good!" 

The sparkle in his eyes, the perfect line of his jaw, the way he's looking at you, it makes your heart rend. You tilt your head and dig your toe into the floor bashfully, "thanks. I'm so happy to see it come together." 

"Um, the cake," he brings his index finger up, "I was hoping to bring it out soon." 

"Er, yeah, it's back in the kitchen. About that–" 

"Great," he claps your shoulder and brushes by you, "just gonna put the finishing touches on it." 

"Hm, what do you–" 

He's gone before you can finish your question. You deflate just a little, setting your feet flat as you sway aimlessly. The motion hooks Peggy's attention. You give a sheepish smile as you wring your hands. 

"Oh, uh, just came over to wish you a happy birthday," you chirp, "are you enjoying it?" 

"Ah, I didn't see you here, I thought maybe you were busy…" she gives a pointed look to your boots, "working." 

"Um, yeah, no," you fidget, "always happy to come support you two." 

"Where is Steve?" She gazes past you, shouldering by dismissively, "he was just…." 

Right. You nod and flit away in embarrassment. You can't say you ever got along with Peggy. Where you're accommodating, she's a bit too demanding. Different people, but you don't dislike her. You just don't mesh. Or perhaps it's just that you don't get what Steve sees in her. Especially when you're right there. 

Enough. This isn't about you or your stupid dumb heart. Just smile and go with it. 

The kitchen door swings open, a noise barely discernible above the hue, and the rattling wheels of a cart underline the steady drone. A lull washes over the crowd as they part. You move with the tide and face the sudden divide. 

A hush falls over the room as Steve pushes the cake across the floor. He stops before Peggy as she faces him, another feigned pout of surprise. He grins proudly at her as you stare curiously at the top of the cake. 

"Oh, pink?" She comments on the fondant bow as her eyes flick over to you. She quickly corrects herself an admires the double tiered dessert, "Steve, it's so pretty." 

You know she hates the colour. You recall the one time you wore a pink bow in your hair and she made a similar comment. Cute, she remarked in her roundabout way in her oh so sophisticated accent. 

You manufacture a smile and step closer as Steve beckons to the guest. Tension stills the air, almost paralyzing the crowd. You squint at the heart shaped box perched atop the bow. 

"Is this for me?" Peggy asks if it's not obvious. 

Steve nods, his cheeks tinting pink, as you notice how he wipes his palms on his pants. Peggy delicately takes the box from the pedestal of fondant and your ribs ache from the pounding of your heart. You curl your fingers until your nails dig into your skin as you watch him kneel beside her. 

She doesn't notice as she opens the box on its hinges. Her lips part and she stares at the contents. She looks over at Steve to find him on his knee and she claps her hand over her mouth. Her eyes gleam as she whimpers his name through her fingers. 

The scene hazes behind your tears as you stare wide eyed. Your ears ring as Steve's voice is dulled by your shock. 

"Margaret Elizabeth Carter," Steve's timbre warble just a bit, "will you make me the happiest man on earth?" 

You don't wait for her answer. You already know it. It's the very same you give in every outlandish dream you've ever had of your happy ending. You spin and storm through the crowd, blind with horror and self-pity. 

Surprise! Your whole world is crashing into pieces.