Chapter Text
SAMIRA
The shift starts with the stench of bleach and banana pudding.
The pudding’s from a psych patient who smeared it across curtain five. The bleach is from a nurse trying to pretend it’s all normal.
Samira hasn’t had coffee.
Hasn’t had anything, really.
Just two hours of sleep, a granola bar, and the leftover adrenaline of whatever nightmare she didn’t finish.
By 07:12, she’s vomiting into a trash bin again.
“You pregnant?” Santos asks, leaning against the wall like she’s got nowhere else to be.
Her voice is low. Dry. Amused.
Samira wipes her mouth with her sleeve, still doubled over, breath caught between gag and sigh.
“I ate something rotten.”
Santos shrugs. “Of course you did.”
She offers a glove box as a tissue replacement. Samira takes one.
They don’t say anything else. They never really have to.
The shift doesn’t spiral, but it doesn’t breathe either.
They lose an elderly man with a torn aorta.
A teenager OD’s in the hallway, no ID, eyes wide and flat like a broken mirror.
There’s a psychotic break in trauma three.
Langdon stitches up a nurse who tried to intervene.
It’s not PittFest.
But it’s enough to make Samira’s hands shake when she reaches for the next set of vitals.
By 6 p.m., her scrubs are wrinkled and damp, streaked with blood and something else she doesn’t want to name.
She’s restocking gauze when Robby finds her—alone in the supply closet, counting silently, like it matters.
“You keep finding the quiet corners,” he says.
She doesn’t look up.
“Someone has to.”
He nods. Then leans against the shelf across from her, arms folded.
“You’ve been here three years,” he says, watching her. “You’re good. You know that, right?”
She doesn’t answer.
“You’ve got instincts. Patients trust you. Staff respects you.”
He pauses. “I want you here. Not just temporarily.”
Her hand freezes above a box of IV kits.
“I’m offering you a permanent attending contract,” he says. “You’ve earned it.”
Samira blinks. Slowly.
Permanent.
Like roots.
Like an answer to a question she hasn’t dared to ask.
She nods, once.
“I’ll think about it.”
Robby smiles—tight, tired, knowing.
“Don’t wait too long. Places like this have a way of deciding for you.”
MEL
She never wanted children.
Not because she didn’t think she could be a mother—but because she knew she’d never stop fighting it.
Mel doesn't do softness. Mel is soft.
Doesn’t do warmth. Mel is the warmth.
She’s made of scar tissue and caffeine and long, dry silences.
And babies?
Babies cry. Babies need. Babies make you belong to something.
But then Frank touched her like she was his. Fucked her like her body wasn’t a question, but a claim. And everything got...complicated.
The first time he didn’t pull out, she let it happen.
Not by accident. Not out of forgetfulness.
She wanted it. Wanted to feel him spill inside her. To hold it. To keep it.
She told herself it was just sex.
Just instinct. Just dopamine. But she kept going back.
Kept letting him use her. Fill her. Breed her.
Because raw sex? That she understands.
Sweaty, breathless, hands-on-throat, bruises-on-thighs kind of sex? That’s her language.
That’s the only place she ever stops thinking.
And now she’s pregnant. Of course she is.
Her body’s always been efficient. Ruthless. She knew the second her breasts started aching. The second she gagged at the smell of antiseptic in trauma four.
This morning, her thighs are still sticky with his cum. Her cunt is sore. Used. Wet in the way that never feels clean.
She never thought she’d want to be owned. But when Frank growls her name, fists her hair, and stays inside her even after he’s come, she doesn’t push him away. She comes hardest when he finishes inside, when he doesn’t pull out.
When he stays inside her as she trembles and chokes on her own breath.
She had an IUD.
Had.
Copper. Efficient. Clinical.
Put in two years ago by a surgeon who didn’t ask questions. It was supposed to be ten years of safety. Ten years of never letting anyone get this close.
But it slipped. Or she missed the warning signs.
Or maybe—maybe her body wanted it gone. Maybe it made room.
She didn’t notice right away.
Too many night shifts. Too much blood. Too many times Frank came in her and she rolled over, not even bothering to clean up.
She should’ve gone to the clinic. Should’ve checked.
But Frank kept her so full.
Night after night.
On her knees. On her back. On the floor.
Fucked open until she was leaking down her thighs and shaking from overstimulation, only to beg him—beg him—to do it again.
She found out two weeks later.
Clinic bathroom. Cold light. Test clutched in her fist.
Positive.
And the IUD?
Gone. Expelled. Rejected. Evicted.
Her body had made the choice without her.
SAMIRA
The clinic room is colder than she remembers.
Sterile. White. Smells like bleach and paper towels and latex gloves.
Samira doesn’t ask many questions. Just looks at Mel’s chart. Takes her vitals. Pulls on gloves with soft snaps.
Mel sits on the table.
Back straight. Arms folded.
Like if she holds herself tight enough, she won’t fall apart.
“I just need the pill,” she says.
Samira glances up.
Mel keeps her voice flat.
“I’m still early. It’s fine. I haven’t taken anything else.”
A pause.
Then Samira says, calm, clinical—
“Let’s look first.”
Mel almost says no. But she doesn’t.
Because part of her already knows this is a trap.
A kindness. A cruel one.
Samira squeezes the gel onto her belly. Warm, then cold. The wand hums against her skin.
And then—a flicker.
On screen.
Small. Grainy. Alive.
No sound.No music. No heartbeat monitor playing out the rhythm of Mel’s insides.
But it’s there.
A shape.
And the notion of a heartbeat.
Mel blinks.
Her lips part.
Something in her jaw twitches.
Samira says nothing.
Just watches.
Waits.
“I thought I was sure,” Mel murmurs.
“I know.”
“I thought I was—” she swallows, “I thought I could just… ask for the medicine and leave.”
“You can,” Samira says gently. “Still can.”
Mel stares at the screen.
She doesn’t nod.
She doesn’t speak.
She just keeps looking.
Samira clicks the machine off. Wipes the gel from Mel’s belly. Tosses the gauze into the bin.
Then, softly—“You want to take a breath before you decide?”
Mel nods.
Once.
Still lying flat. Hands folded over her stomach. Where it’s still quiet. But not empty.
He’s in the break room. Lights dim. Mug half-full. Eyes on nothing.
She doesn’t knock. Just slides in, closes the door behind her.
He glances at her.
And something in his chest softens.
“Rough one?” he asks.
She shakes her head. Then nods. Then shrugs.
He stands. Crosses the room slowly.
Hands warm as he cups her jaw.
“You’re not floating,” he murmurs.
“I don’t know what I am,” she whispers.
He doesn’t kiss her. Just holds her face. Lets her breathe.
“Mel’s pregnant,” she says.
Jack nods. Not surprised. Not unkind. Then his arms wrap around her. Tight.
Not fixing. Not solving.
Just holding her steady.
They don’t speak for a while.
The lights hum. Jack’s arms stay around her. The world shrinks to warmth and breath and exhaustion.
Then, softly—“Who’s the father?” She asks.
His voice isn’t cold. Not gossiping. Just quietly interested.
Samira tilts her head against his chest. Hesitates. "You know?”
Jack nods.
“It’s Frank.”
Her body goes still.
Frank Langdon.
Mr. Smirks-at-death. Mr. Sleeves-pushed-up. Mr. Three-months-clean-and-counting.
Frank who jokes too loud and flirts with everyone but never stays long enough to mean it.
Samira pulls back to look at Jack. “Frank?” And the silent, how?
Jack just smirks. Shrugs. “You know how.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be an asshole.”
He grins wider. “Just saying. Not a mystery.”
Then quieter, more thoughtful:
“He had a wife. Had.”
That sticks in her chest for some reason.
Not the fact of it—most of them have pasts trailing behind like old trauma gowns.
But the way Jack says it.
Had.
As in: he divorced her.
As in: that chapter is done.
And now there’s… Mel?
Samira stares at the floor. At Jack’s boots. At the edge of her own thoughts.
She tries to picture them.
Mel and Frank.
Her mind runs the math. The mechanics. The vibe.
It's strange.
But—“They kind of make sense,” she says quietly.
Jack raises an eyebrow.
“They’re both survivors,” she explains. “Tired. Guarded. Hard on the outside but soft when you know where to look.”
He hums. “Sounds familiar.”
She shoots him a look.
Then—“I didn’t see it coming.”
Jack nods. “No one did.”