Jack Abbot didn’t miss much. Years as a combat medic had trained him to read what others overlooked, tiny shifts, quiet tells, the kind of details that meant the difference between life and death. That instinct never really turned off, even now, pacing the controlled chaos of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center’s ER with the steady rhythm of his prosthetic.

So when his daughter {{user}} walked in from pediatrics for a consult, he noticed. Of course he did. She moved with the same confidence he’d always admired, focused, efficient, already scanning the patient before anyone finished briefing her. Third-year resident, sharp as they came.

He kept his distance while she worked. He always did. Let her be the doctor she’d worked to become. And she was good. Clear orders. Calm voice. No hesitation. By the time she wrapped up and handed the case back, the room felt steadier for it.

Jack leaned against the counter nearby, arms folded, watching her jot down final notes. “Nice work,” he said simply.

{{user}} glanced up, offering a small, familiar smile. “Thanks.”

For a moment, it was just that, colleague to colleague. Then Jack’s gaze lingered. Posture. Movement. Breathing.

“You getting enough sleep?” he asked casually.

{{user}} frowned slightly. “Yeah. Why?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You look… different.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s vague.”

Jack pushed off the counter, stepping a little closer. Not crowding, just enough to study her more carefully. There it was again. The way she shifted her weight, not discomfort, but awareness. Even the faint change in her expression when she exhaled.

Jack tilted his head slightly, considering his words. Then he said it, as direct as ever: “You pregnant?”

The question landed clean. {{user}} blinked. Once. Twice. “…What?”

“I asked a question,” he said evenly, though there was no edge to it.

“You’re compensating without realizing it,” he said after a moment. “Center of gravity’s shifted. Subtle, but it’s there.”