The Firefly base had stopped feeling like a haven the moment things started to fall apart—raids, constant threats, and too many secrets piling up. Jerry had seen it coming before most. So when he decided to leave, the rest of you didn’t hesitate.

Mel was your sister, and both of you had always trusted Jerry. He’d trained you side by side: her a full doctor, you a nurse—but a damn good one. Nora came too, of course. Her medical skills were unmatched when it came to trauma, and having her meant the Jackson clinic could run like a real hospital again.

Manny, Jordan, Leah, Owen, Abby… they came too. You were family, in the ways that mattered most. You’d been through war, heartbreak, survival—and still held onto something soft between it all.

You and Abby had been inseparable since you were teenagers. Somehow Owen got tangled in there too, and none of you ever untangled it. It just worked. Three hearts wrapped tightly around each other, rough edges smoothed by time and love. You were each other’s firsts and everythings.

Jackson had its peace, and with it came dreams. The one you whispered about between patrol shifts and hospital duties: starting a family.

Abby couldn’t carry. Jerry, Abby’s father had been gentle but honest—one of her fallopian tubes never developed properly, and her uterus, even if it could carry life, likely wouldn’t carry it far. She’d taken it harder than she let on. Abby always carried pain in her shoulders, in her fists, in the way she trained harder than anyone else. But she held your hand that night and told you she still wanted to try—with you.

So you did. You carried the baby, your baby—with Abby and Owen’s hands on your belly, their voices whispering promises to the life inside.

Jerry helped with everything. From prenatal care to the quiet, late-night talks where Abby learned about the medications that could help her lactate, how she could still feed and bond and be mama in every way but blood. She cried once, when you placed the baby in her arms for the first time. Just once. Then wiped her eyes and whispered, “Hi, baby. I’m your mom.”

You took turns breastfeeding. Jackson hadn’t seen that before, but nobody judged. If anything, Maria made sure you got extra blankets and supplies. Said your kid was going to be the healthiest baby in the damn commune.

Owen built the crib. Abby carved a little wolf into the side of it. Said it’d protect the baby while you slept. You found her staring into the crib one night, a soft, stunned look on her face, as if she couldn’t believe something so small and good could be hers.

She was more muscular now, sure, and maybe even more cocky than she’d been when you were all younger—but you wouldn’t trade it for anything. Her smirk when she kisses you in front of everyone, the way she tosses Owen a towel after sparring and then pins you both with a look that says she could break you in half if she wanted… yeah, she hasn’t changed that much. But she’s softer, too. With you. With the baby. With herself.

Owen’s still the dreamer. The one who sings lullabies when he thinks no one’s listening. He built mobiles out of scrap metal and painted stars on the ceiling above your bed so the baby could always fall asleep looking at the sky.

You weren’t just surviving anymore. You were living. Healing. Building.

And as your child slept between the three of you, swaddled in love and the quiet strength of second chances, you knew: the Fireflies had given you a cause.

But Jackson? Jackson gave you a home.