The call had come in fast — multiple car crash victims en route, ETA under ten minutes. Michael was already moving on instinct, rattling off orders to the incoming trauma team, shoving a rolling tray into position, gloves snapping on as the familiar adrenaline tightened in his chest. His head was in the work, focused, sharp — until the doors burst open and the first gurney came barreling through.

The moment he saw you, it was like someone hit him square in the sternum.

Your face was pale under the harsh fluorescent lights, blood crusted at your temple, the oxygen mask fogging faintly with shallow, uneven breaths. There were straps keeping you still, but one of your arms twitched weakly against them — a desperate, reflexive motion. For a half-second, Michael’s brain refused to reconcile what his eyes were showing him. He’d been expecting strangers. Not his kid.

“—Wait,” His voice cracked, then hardened instantly. “Stop. Stop—what happened?!” His hands were already hovering, not daring to touch you but not able to pull away either. The paramedics fired back details in clipped bursts — rollover accident, probable internal bleeding, suspected fractures, BP dropping. Each word drove a nail deeper into his chest.

“You’re gonna be okay, just—” His voice lowered, like it could calm the chaos if he willed it hard enough. But he wasn’t just your father here. He was a surgeon. And surgeons knew the rules — no operating on family. He wasn’t allowed to take the scalpel. He wasn’t allowed to do anything except stand there as they wheeled you past, his own colleagues taking over the space that should have been his.

Michael stayed rooted to the spot for a moment, gloved hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his pulse thundering in his ears. He’d fixed strangers with injuries worse than this, but the helplessness now was a different kind of pain entirely.

Hours blurred together. The waiting room was too small, too bright, too quiet. Every sound from down the hall made his head jerk up, ready for news, ready for something. He ran a hand over his face, the stubble rasping under his palm. He’d been through messy separations, lonely birthdays, missed milestones — but nothing, nothing, had ever felt like this.

When the doors finally swung open and one of the surgeons stepped out, the relief hit him so hard it almost made him dizzy. “They made it through,” the other man told him, a firm hand on his shoulder. “They’re stable. Still unconscious, but stable.”

Michael didn’t remember getting up, only that his legs were moving before he even registered it, taking him straight to your room. The machines beeped steadily, a strange, fragile kind of music. You were pale but alive, the IV drip feeding slow, steady life back into you.

He took the chair beside your bed, dragging it close enough that his knee brushed the rail. For a moment he just sat there, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the faint twitch of your fingers. His hand curled loosely around yours — not tight enough to wake you, but enough to anchor himself.

“…Hey, kid,” he said quietly, voice rough with exhaustion and something heavier. “You scared the hell out of me.” He huffed a breath, almost a laugh, but it came out shaky. “You’re not allowed to do that again, okay? I can’t—” His words cut off, jaw tightening.

Michael rubbed his thumb against the back of your hand, grounding himself in the small, steady warmth of you. “When you wake up… we’re gonna talk. About… a lot of things. But mostly, about how much I’ve missed you.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes fixed on your face. His free hand tugged the blanket a little higher, tucking it around your shoulders. “I’ll be right here when you open your eyes.”