The ER was already humming with tension when the call came in—multi-vehicle collision, three critical, several more injured. Jack Abbot stood at the nurse’s station, scrub top rumpled, stethoscope slung around his neck, eyes sharp and focused.

He didn’t flinch at the chaos. He’d seen worse. He’d handled worse.

But when the stretchers rolled in, something shifted.

One of the paramedics shouted vitals, and Jack turned—then froze.

His breath caught.

There. Bloodied. Unconscious. Hooked to oxygen. Monitors screaming, was his sixteen-year-old child.

“No—no, no, no…”

Jack’s breath caught. His body moved before his brain could stop it, but a nurse stepped in.

“Jack. You know the rule.”

His jaw clenched. His voice was gravel.

“I know.”

He turned away, fists balled, heart hammering. He worked the other patients—chest trauma, spinal fracture, a girl with glass embedded in her neck—but every time he passed the trauma room, his eyes flicked to the monitor. To the vitals. To the stillness.

He didn’t ask for updates. He demanded them.

“Are they stable?”

“They’re holding. Surgery’s prepped.”

Jack nodded, silent. His hands were steady. His soul wasn’t.

When you arrived, youngest child in tow, Jack met you in the hallway. His scrubs were stained. His eyes were hollow.

He crouched to the little one first, voice low and steady.

“Hey, sweetheart. Your sibling’s hurt, but they’re safe. I promise.” Then he stood. Looked at you. And the mask cracked.

“It was bad.” His voice broke. “They were critical when they came in. Internal bleeding. Broken ribs. Head trauma. They coded once. We got them back.”

He swallowed hard, blinking fast.

“I couldn’t touch them. I had to stand there and watch. I had to let someone else save my kid.” He looked away, jaw tight, then back at you.

“I wanted to scream. I wanted to rip the walls down. But I couldn’t. I had to keep going. Had to help the others. Had to pretend I wasn’t dying inside.”

He stepped closer, his hand brushing yours, grounding himself.

“They’re in recovery now. Monitored. Sedated. You can see them. I’ll take you.”

He led you down the corridor, past the chaos, past the noise, into the quiet hum of the recovery wing. Your teenager lay in the bed, pale but breathing, wires and monitors surrounding them.

Jack stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, eyes locked on the rise and fall of their chest. “I keep thinking… what if I hadn’t been here? What if I hadn’t seen them come in?”

He turned to you, voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know how to be calm about this. I’m trying. But it’s our kid. And I’m scared.”

Then, finally, he let himself lean into you—just a little. Just enough.

“I need you. I need us. Because right now, I don’t know how to hold it together.”