LRPD - part fifteen sneak peek

full part up tomorrow

“Just delivered, bed three.” The tech yells down the hall, and Simon takes the turn so sharp he nearly crashes into you, both of you trying to move in the same direction. Your hands are full, blankets, tiny oxygen mask, vial of Pitocin.

“Shit. Sorry.” You blurt, catching your balance as you glance up.

He freezes. The things he’s thought about asking you are all mixing together and he can’t sort one from another.

Hi Daisy, how are you? Are you okay? I’ve been thinking about you. How is Riley doing? I’ve been worried about you. You look so tired, are you getting enough sleep? Do you need anything? Can I help?

It’s been years since that day in the NICU, maybe a year since you lost Tess, he’s not sure. He’s stopped counting, tried to stop fixating. Obsessing.

Days, weeks, months, they all feel like miles… but he still remembers every fleck of color in your irises.

So when you look up at him with a blank expression, something void of color, of life, of, his stomach twists. He wants to drop everything, drag you into his arms, shelter you, comfort you, care for you.

“Hey,” he tries. As gentle and careful as he can, the two of you still charging towards the code. You give him a bewildered look. Something confused, uncertain, blinking twice with your eyebrows creasing together.

It’s almost like you don’t recognize him and the idea is a cold plunge, a knife straight to his heart. He doesn’t blame you. Riley’s NICU stay was traumatic, stressful, emotionally and physically draining for everyone. He never managed to catch you on the unit either, maybe once or twice in passing but it was always wrong place, wrong time, wrong shift, working hours flip flopped. The brain has ways of changing those memories, shifting them, blocking them out. And he doesn’t think you even knew he was in the room with you the night Tess and Liam died. It stings, but there’s nothing he can do about it right now.

He motions to the vial in your hand. “For bed three?” You nod and rush right into the room, right past him without another word.

Fuck.

“The donors, Simon. I don’t need to remind you.” He grits his teeth.

“I know.” Makarov picks up the paperweight from the corner of his desk and rolls it in his palm before putting it down.

“HR tells me you’re married now. I assume your wife will be your plus one?” He almost laughs out loud. The idea of getting you to go to the gala is like the idea of trying to give a cat a bath.

“I will see if she has plans.” A knock on the door saves him, and when John steps through, his normally neutral expression turns cold and blank.

If anyone hates the CEO of the hospital more than Simon, it’s John.

“John.” Makarov sneers. It’s all that’s needed to send the slimy git packing, and he glares at John on his way out.

When the door clicks closed, he sighs.

“You ask her yet?” Simon rubs the back of his neck.

“No. Trying to figure out a way to prevent her from gettin’ out of it first.” John snorts.

“Good luck wit’ that.” Simon’s chair leans with his weight, tilting away from the desk.

“Could help me out you know.” John raises an eyebrow, crosses his arms and rocks on his heels. Waiting. “You could ask Ava.” He chuckles, but goes quiet, thoughtful. Simon watches him mull it over, toss it back and forth before finally deciding to catch it.

“Don’t think she’s quite ready for my expectations but I’ll do it, for you.” Expectations. Ava’s chaotic, messy life makes her almost as wild as Daisy, but with a lot less responsibility, the sense of which she has absolutely none.

She’ll have a hard time adjusting, but he’s sure John will get her right eventually.

“Appreciate it.”