Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The linoleum floor gleamed under Yazmina’s relentless scrubbing. The scent of industrial cleaner hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the smoky tang she usually associated with the firehouse. A silence, thick and unnatural, pressed in on her. The familiar rumble of the engines was absent, swallowed by the city's distant hum. All the trucks were out, responding to what had been dismissed as a “simple medical call.” A simple medical call that apparently didn't require her presence.

Yazmina, or Yaz as she preferred, pushed a stray wave of her brown hair, streaked with natural blonde, behind her ear. The movement tugged at the high collar of her dark blue undershirt. Habit. She always wore it, a second skin beneath her firefighter uniform. It concealed the maps of her past, the landscape of scars that covered her back and shoulders. Scars that whispered stories of a childhood best forgotten.

The 118's firehouse felt cavernous without the usual cacophony of activity. She could practically hear the echoes of her own loneliness bouncing off the stark white walls. Why did they always leave her behind? She possessed more qualifications than half the crew. Years in the army, years in the air force, a catalogue of firefighting certifications, and enough medical training to rival some paramedics. Yet, she was always relegated to cleaning duty, sidelined like a broken tool.

Was it her? Was it the way she looked? The jagged scar that bisected her left under eye, a souvenir from her father. Or the thick, dark lines that traced the through the middle off her lip, the result of a childhood accident she preferred not to remember? Maybe they saw her scars as a sign of trouble, a warning label they couldn't decipher. Maybe they simply didn't trust her.

Yazmina gripped the handle of the mop tighter, her knuckles white. Trust. A commodity she had never truly possessed. Her parents… they hadn't trusted her with anything except their rage. The flashbacks hit her hard. She was seven years old, tied to a radiator in the middle of winter, her arms searing as the heat rose, the air thick with her mother's despair. She remembered the metallic tang of blood, the frantic, slurred apologies, the hollow eyes that held no recognition. Her mother, broken and lost, had chosen a horrifying exit, leaving Yazmina to bear witness, to carry the weight of her final act.

The image of her mother's vacant stare burned behind her eyelids. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it away. It never worked. The horror replayed in an endless loop, a private torture only she could endure.

After her mother, there was her father. A kaleidoscope of drunken rages, broken promises, and near-miss accidents. He remarried quickly, a woman who saw Yazmina as nothing more than an inconvenience, a stain on her newfound luxury. Yazmina became the target of their combined cruelty, a silent witness to their self-destruction.

The firehouse floor seemed to morph into the stained linoleum of her childhood home. The smell of cleaner brought back the acrid scent of stale beer and unwashed laundry. She was scrubbing then too, always scrubbing, trying to erase the evidence of her father's binges, his violence. And always being punished for not doing it well enough.

A wave of nausea washed over her. She leaned against the mop, struggling to breathe. The 118 was supposed to be her escape, her chance at a real family. But instead, she found herself trapped in the same old cycle of distrust and isolation.

She straightened, pushing the memories back into the locked box where they belonged. She wouldn't let them win. She wouldn't let them define her. She was a firefighter, damn it. She was strong, capable, and resilient. She had survived worse.

The sound of sirens pierced the silence. The trucks were returning. Yazmina braced herself, her stomach churning. She knew what to expect: the camaraderie, the shared jokes, the backslaps, all of which would exclude her. She would be invisible again, a ghost in her own firehouse.

The bay doors rumbled open, and the trucks rolled in, their red paint gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The crew piled out, their faces flushed with adrenaline, their voices loud and animated.

"Easy peasy," one of them shouted, slapping another on the back. "Just a minor fender bender. Old lady got a little spooked."

Yazmina watched them, her green eyes narrowed. A minor fender bender? And they needed the entire company for that? The lie stung, proof that they didn’t trust her, didn’t want her on the team.

Captain Nash caught her eye. His expression was unreadable. "Yazmina," he said, his voice flat. "Good job with the floor."

It wasn't a compliment. It was a dismissal.

She nodded curtly, avoiding his gaze. "Anything else, Captain?"

"Just finish up. We'll grab some grub. You can clean up the kitchen after."

Her jaw tightened. Of course. She was the designated cleaner, the perpetual outsider.

As the crew dispersed, heading for the lockers and the showers, Yazmina resumed her task, the mop moving mechanically across the floor. She imagined herself throwing open the locker room doors and confronting them. Asking them why they treated her like this, what she had done to deserve their indifference.

But she knew she wouldn't. She couldn't. Confrontation was a luxury she couldn't afford. She had learned long ago that keeping her head down, enduring the pain, was the only way to survive.

She finished the floor, then moved to the kitchen, the silence pressing in on her once more. The discarded plates and cutlery lay scattered across the table, a testament to their easy camaraderie. She began to clear them away, scraping the leftover food into the trash.

As she tossed the cleaning rag into the hamper, the blaring alarm ripped through the quiet. A jolt of adrenaline, a firefighter’s instinct, shot through her. But before she could even turn towards the gear, Captain Nash's voice boomed, "Nerine! Stay put. Keep the place tidy."

Her shoulders slumped. It was always like this lately. Always sidelined, always cleaning up after everyone else. The frustration simmered, a slow burn just beneath the surface. She was just as qualified, just as capable, as anyone else here, hell she was more qualified thank half the firehouse. She'd proven herself in training, aced every test. But somehow, she was always relegated to the thankless tasks.

She watched through the large bay doors as the trucks roared to life, their sirens wailing a promise of danger and heroism. A pang of envy, sharp and bitter, twisted in her gut. She wanted to be out there, battling the flames, saving lives. Not stuck in the firehouse, scrubbing toilets and polishing floors. She wasn’t even a probie, he got more respect than she did round here.

Resigned, Yaz started on the next chore – restocking the medical kits. She meticulously checked each bag, replacing bandages, refilling vials, ensuring everything was ready for the next emergency. It was a meticulous task, and normally she found a small satisfaction in it. Knowing that the gear would save someone's life, potentially. But today, her heart wasn't in it.

Her stomach grumbled, a loud, insistent protest. She ignored it. Food was a luxury she hadn't earned today. At least, that's what she told herself. The truth was, food had always been a luxury. Growing up, there was never enough. And since she ran away at sixteen, trying to make a life for herself, it was always one of the first things to be sacrificed.

She glanced at herself in the reflection of the metal cabinet. The dark blue undershirt of her uniform clung to her frame, revealing the stark outline of her ribs. She was too thin, she knew. But between the cost of living in Los Angeles and the shockingly low pay she received from the LAFD, there wasn't much left over for groceries.

It wasn't right. She knew it wasn't. Firefighters in LA made good money, upwards of $90,000 a year on average. But her paycheck told a different story – a meager $32,342. It felt like she was being cheated, exploited. The only time she ever felt fairly compensated was during her years in the Army and Air Force, she was accepted there, had friends. That money, every single penny, had gone straight into a savings account, a safety net for a rainy day – or more likely, a catastrophic downpour.

She scrubbed harder at a stubborn stain on the countertop, her thoughts swirling with resentment and exhaustion. The clock ticked with agonizing slowness. Her shift ended in an hour. Just one more hour of being overlooked, undervalued, and underfed.

Then the migraine hit.

It started as a dull throb behind her eyes, a subtle pressure that she initially dismissed as fatigue. But it quickly escalated, morphing into a blinding, throbbing pain that radiated through her entire head. The fluorescent lights of the firehouse seemed to intensify, each flicker a fresh assault on her senses.

She stumbled to the locker room, clutching her head in her hands. The world swam before her eyes, the sounds of the firehouse – the distant hum of the radio, the faint creaks of the building – amplified into a cacophony of noise. She wanted to curl up into a ball on the floor and disappear.

She fumbled in her bag for the ibuprofen she always carried, swallowing two without water. It would take at least thirty minutes for them to kick in, thirty minutes of agonizing pain.

The return of the trucks only made things worse. The roar of the engines, the shouts of the firefighters, the clatter of equipment being unloaded – it all hammered against her skull. She could barely open her eyes, each flicker of movement sending a jolt of pain through her head.

She forced herself to stand, to greet the returning crew with a semblance of normalcy. She couldn't let them see her like this, weak and vulnerable. She plastered a fake smile on her face as Captain Nash walked past, offering a curt nod but no words of thanks.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, her shift ended. She clocked out, her movements slow and deliberate, trying to avoid any sudden movements that might exacerbate the migraine.

The walk to her car was an ordeal. The late afternoon sun felt like molten fire on her skin. The sounds of the city – the honking cars, the blaring music, the chattering voices – were like knives in her ears.

When she finally reached her beat-up sedan, she practically collapsed into the driver's seat. The vinyl was hot against her skin, but she didn't care. All she wanted was to escape, to find a dark, quiet place where she could shut out the world and let the pain subside.

As she drove home, the city lights blurring into streaks of color, she felt a wave of despair wash over her. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally. She was tired of being treated like she was less than, tired of struggling to make ends meet, tired of fighting a system that seemed determined to keep her down.

She just wanted to curl into a ball and drift off into a dreamless sleep and never wake up.

The thought was so dark and unwelcome yet it didn’t even shock her, because she was ok with death, she didn’t have anything to live for. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles white.

Yaz parked her sedan in her reserved spot, the concrete a familiar gray under the dim glow of the apartment building's security lights. A migraine pounded behind her eyes, each pulse a fresh wave of nausea. She reached for her purse and slowly climbed out of the car. The cool night air offered little relief as she walked toward the building's entrance, her head throbbing with each step.

Before she could reach the sanctuary of the lobby, a hand clamped over her mouth from behind. A rough, chemical-smelling rag pressed against her nose, stealing her breath. She struggled, kicking and flailing, but her attacker was too strong. Panic seized her as the world began to spin, her screams muffled against the fabric. Blackness swallowed her whole.

…

When Yaz regained consciousness, a wave of pain washed over her. Her head throbbed, but now it was accompanied by sharp stabs throughout her body. Dim light filtered through grimy windows high above, revealing the cavernous interior of what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. The air was thick with the smell of dust and decay.

She tried to move, but her limbs were heavy, unresponsive. She looked down, her stomach churning. She was only in her underwear, her skin bruised and scraped. A sharp, burning ache radiated from her lower body. The violation, the violation she had been put through was undeniable. It wasn't the first time this had happened.

Tears welled in her eyes as she took in the rest of her exposed and violated body. Every scar, every mark, every perceived imperfection was on display in the unforgiving light. She had always been self-conscious, but now, stripped bare in every sense of the word, she felt utterly exposed and vulnerable.

As her eyes adjusted, a figure emerged from the shadows. Her breath hitched in her throat. It was him. Her father.

Shock and disbelief warred within her. How? How had he found her again? She had spent years running, trying to create a life free from his control, his abuse. And now, here he was, the monster of her nightmares made real once more.

His face was twisted with a familiar rage. "You thought you could escape, didn't you?" he spat, his voice a venomous whisper that echoed in the vast space. "You thought you could just leave me?"

Terror choked her. This time felt different. There was a finality in his eyes, a chilling

determination that sent shivers down her spine. This time, she feared, he might actually end her.

Summoning every ounce of courage she possessed, she croaked, "Why? Why do you hate me so much?"

He laughed, a harsh, grating sound that sent another wave of pain through her head. "Hate you? You think this is about hate?" He stepped closer, his eyes burning into hers. "You really don't know, do you?"

He paused, letting the silence stretch between them, thick with unspoken malice. Then, he said the words that shattered everything she thought she knew about her life.

"I'm not your father."

The words hung in the air, impossible, absurd. But the conviction in his voice, the coldness in his eyes, made her believe him.

"What?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Your mother," he sneered, "she was a whore. A lying, cheating whore."

He launched into a twisted tale of betrayal and deception. Shortly before their wedding, her mother had an affair with a man named Owen Strand. When Owen found out she was engaged, he ended the relationship. Yet, the damage was done for Yaz's mother had fallen pregnant during her affair, with Yaz.

He continued, his voice laced with bitterness, "Do you think I was happy raising another man's child? No, that’s why she sent you to your real father, she had his bloody name out on the birth certificate, Nerine is your middle name, Strand is your real last name."

A whirlwind of fragmented memories stirred within Yaz. Fleeting images of a different house, a different life, a man with kind eyes and a warm smile, a woman with gentle hands and a loving embrace. A young boy, a brother. She had dismissed them as fantasies, the product of a damaged mind, the aftershocks of countless head traumas.

She had always brushed these recollections aside, attributing them to the serious head trauma she had sustained throughout her life. Her mind was a fractured landscape, prone to playing tricks on her.

But now, as she looked at the man who had claimed to be her father, the man who had inflicted so much pain and suffering, the images felt different. More real. More… true.

Then, she remembered the locket. A small, silver heart she had worn since she was a child. Inside were two tiny pictures: a man and a woman, their faces young and full of hope, holding a newborn baby and a small, three-year-old girl. Yaz.

She had always cherished the locket, a tangible link to a past she couldn't quite grasp. She had often wondered who the people in the pictures were, but she never connected them to herself, they were just faces who she wished would find her while she grew up in a foster home. As it turned out, she knew exactly who they were, her biological family.

A wave of longing washed over her, so intense it brought tears to her eyes. She had wished, countless times throughout her lonely childhood, that they would find her, that they would rescue her from the darkness. But they never did.

"Owen Strand," she whispered, the name a foreign sound on her tongue. "He's my father?"

The man sneered. "Don't get your hopes up. He thinks you’re dead. Your mother made sure of that. She wanted to break his heart just like he broke hers."

Yaz's mind raced. It was all starting to make sense. The flashes of memory, the locket, the feeling of being incomplete, of belonging somewhere else. She had another family. A real family.

But they didn't know she was alive. And now, trapped in this warehouse with a man who hated her, a man who wasn't even her father, she feared she would never have the chance to find them.

Despair threatened to overwhelm her, but a flicker of defiance ignited within her. She had survived so much already. She had endured years of abuse, years of running, years of living in fear. She wouldn't let this be the end. She had to find a way out. She had to find her real family.

"He wouldn't want you to do this," she said, her voice stronger now, fueled by a newfound resolve. "Owen Strand wouldn't want you to hurt me."

The man laughed, a hollow, empty sound. "You think I care what he wants? He stole everything from me. He stole my life."

Yaz blinked, the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of light slicing through the gloom of the abandoned warehouse. Her wrists throbbed, raw from the cheap zip ties that bound them to the cold metal chair. Her vision swam, a dizzying blend of shadows and the harsh glare of the bare bulb hanging precariously above. She focused on the man pacing before her, the one she’d been calling “Dad” for the last 28 years.

He wasn’t Dad. His real name was Mike, and the reality of that cut deeper than the plastic biting into her skin.

Mike stopped pacing, his features blurring in the dim light. “You understand, don’t you, Yaz? This is all for you. For us.”

His words were a twisted justification, a desperate attempt to paint his obsessive control as love. Yaz wanted to scream, to tell him how wrong he was, but her throat was dry and her fear a heavy weight on her chest. She’d always known something was off, a nagging feeling that she didn’t quite belong, but she’d never imagined the truth would be this brutal.

He was about to speak again when a deafening crash echoed through the warehouse. Mike froze, his eyes widening in panic.

“No,” he whispered, his voice laced with a chilling dread.

Then came the unmistakable shouts, sharp and authoritative. “Police! Freeze! Hands where we can see them!”

A SWAT team stormed through the main entrance, their weapons raised, their faces grim and determined. Mike, startled, stumbled backward, away from Yaz. They herded him into a corner, the click of handcuffs snapping around his wrists a stark punctuation to his lies.

Chaos erupted. The warehouse, once a silent prison, was now a whirlwind of flashing lights and shouted commands. Yaz’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of the raid. She tried to sit up straighter, to make sense of the scene unfolding before her, but her body felt leaden and unresponsive.

Suddenly, a familiar figure materialized through the throng of officers. Athena, the closest thing she had to a mother, was running towards her, a thick, warm blanket clutched in her hands.

“Yaz!” Athena’s voice was tight with concern.

Athena knelt beside her, her fingers nimble as she pulled a small knife from her belt and sliced through the zip ties binding Yaz's wrists and ankles. The plastic gave way with a satisfying snap, releasing the agonizing pressure. Athena draped the blanket around Yaz’s shoulders, its warmth a small comfort against the cold dread that had settled deep in her bones.

“How… how did you find me?” Yaz croaked, her voice barely a whisper.

Athena’s gaze met hers, her green eyes filled with relief. “I was tracking your phone. I knew Mike would try something like this.”

Yaz sagged against Athena, overwhelmed by a wave of exhaustion and gratitude. She didn’t understand how things had escalated so quickly, but she knew she owed Athena everything.

“We need to get you to the paramedics,” Athena said, her voice firm. “You’re close to passing out.”

The next few moments were a blur. Athena helped her stand, her arm a steadying presence as they navigated through the now-calmer chaos of the warehouse. The fresh air outside felt like a slap in the face, momentarily clearing the fog in her mind. She saw the flashing lights of an ambulance, the white-clad figures moving with purposeful speed.

They placed her on a gurney, strapping her in securely. The paramedics were asking questions, their voices a distant hum in her ears. She tried to answer, but her words came out slurred and incoherent. Her vision blurred, the edges of the world fading into a soft, indistinct gray.

She heard the shriek of sirens as the ambulance pulled away, the sound cutting through the night like a sharp knife. Then, darkness.

Yaz woke up days later, groggy and disoriented. Every inch of her body ached, a dull, throbbing pain that reminded her of the ordeal she had endured. She was in a hospital room, the sterile scent of antiseptic hanging heavy in the air. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting long, distorted shadows across the floor.

She was alone, but not for long. As she struggled to sit up, a wave of nausea washing over her, she heard voices.

“…she’s stable now. The surgery was successful, but she lost a lot of blood.”

“…I still can’t believe this happened. He’s been missing for years, then suddenly just appears.”

"I does happen Maddie, and it’s always a shock."

Yaz recognized the voices. Athena and Maddie, a close friend, were sitting beside her bed, their faces etched with worry. They were, she realized with a surge of emotion, probably the only two people in the world who truly cared about her. As well as Josh too, he had always been a great friend and always made her laugh.

She tried to speak, to let them know she was awake, but her voice came out as a weak, pained groan.

Their heads snapped up, their eyes widening with relief.

“Yaz!” Athena exclaimed, reaching for her hand. “You’re awake! How do you feel?”

Athena carefully lifted a cup to her lips, helping her take small sips of water. The cool liquid soothed her parched throat, easing the dryness.

“What… what happened?” she managed to croak, her voice still rough. “How bad is it?”

Maddie squeezed her hand reassuringly. “It was pretty critical, Yaz. You had internal bleeding, a couple broken rins, a broken ankle, and some significant tearing. But you’re going to make a full recovery. The doctors are amazed at how strong you are.”

Yaz closed her eyes, letting the information sink in. She had almost died. The realization sent a shiver down her spine.

After a moment of silence she asked softly, "Did you...did you hear anything in the warehouse? About...about my real family?"

Athena’s expression softened. She seemed to have anticipated the question. She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick manila file.

“I did,” Athena said quietly, handing her the file. “I’ve been doing some digging. This is everything I could find on Owen and TK Strand, as well as your adoptive mother Gwyn Morgan."

Yaz stared at the file, her heart pounding in her chest. Strands. The last name felt foreign, strange, yet somehow… familiar.

“Who are they?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Read it,” Athena said gently. “Take your time. And then decide what you want to do.”

Athena explained that she had confirmed that Yaz had lived with the Strands as a baby, for a couple of years. She had been kidnapped by her own mother, who had subsequently convinced everyone, including Owen and Gwyn, that Yaz had died.

Yaz opened the file with trembling hands. Inside were photographs, documents, newspaper clippings. Faces stared back at her from the pages: a man with kind eyes and a warm smile, a younger man with a determined gaze and a striking resemblance to the first. Owen Strand and his son, TK. Her father and brother.

The information in the file was overwhelming. Details of Owen Strand’s life, his career as a firefighter, the 9/11 hero. Information about TK, his own battles with addiction, his dedication to helping others. Newspaper articles about a missing 5 year old, presumed dead. A kid with familiar green eyes and brown wavy hair.

She spent hours poring over the file, absorbing every detail, piecing together the fragments of her past. A past that had been stolen from her, a past she had never known.

As Athena and Maddie prepared to leave, Athena turned back to Yaz with a hopeful look in her eyes. "We'll be back after our shifts to check on you. Get some rest, and please let us know if you need anything, okay?"

Yaz nodded, gratitude flooding her heart. "Thank you both. For everything."

After they left, Yaz was alone in the silence of the hospital room, the file on her lap, the images of Owen and TK burned into her mind. They looked like people she could love, like they could be the family Yaz had always dreamed of. But years had passed, and she had no way of knowing if they would even want her back.

She realized that, despite everything, she wanted to know them. She wanted to meet her father and brother, to see if the connection she felt looking at their pictures was real. She closed her eyes, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. She had a lot to think about. The idea of finding a family again was scary, but for the first time in a long time, she felt a glimmer of hope.

Owen and TK Strand lived in Austin, Texas under the same address, she had a choice that she had to make.

…

The fluorescent lights of the 126 Firehouse hummed, casting a clinical glow over the worn furniture in the break room. TK sat hunched on the couch, his gaze fixed on the photograph he held. It was a relic from a happier time: a family portrait featuring him, his dad, his mom, and a little girl with bright, mischievous eyes – his sister, Yasmina.

Yaz. Even the whisper of her name in his mind sent a pang through his chest. He'd only had two years with her, a fleeting snapshot of a lifetime, but the imprint she left on his heart was indelible. He remembered her infectious giggles, the way she would let him cling to her leg, demanding he be carried, the sloppy, peanut-butter-smeared kisses she’d plant on his cheek. He missed her. He missed the future they should have had together, the big sister-little brother bond that was tragically cut short.

Across the room, Owen, his father, leaned against the kitchen counter, a silent observer. His face was etched with a familiar sadness, a landscape of loss that TK knew intimately. He recognized that distant look in his dad’s eyes, the one that spoke of unspoken grief, of a void that could never be filled. Owen was thinking of Yaz too, no doubt. He was picturing her as she should have been, a vibrant young woman, not a ghost of memories.

Marjan and Nancy sat at the kitchen table, their heads bent in quiet discussion. They were trying to decipher the shift in the air, the palpable tension that hung heavy in the firehouse. Both TK and Owen were off, their usual banter replaced by a somber silence.

"Something's up with them, right?" Nancy whispered, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Marjan nodded, her brow furrowed. "Yeah. They've been like this all morning. Quiet, withdrawn… almost like they're grieving."

"Maybe they had a rough call?" Nancy offered, but the suggestion sounded hollow, even to her own ears.

Before the conversation could progress, Judd's booming voice cut through the air. "Alright, ladies, less gossip, more prepping the rigs! We got a city to protect, remember?" His tone was gruff, but there was a hint of something gentler beneath the surface.

Marjan and Nancy exchanged glances before reluctantly rising and heading towards the garage. Judd watched them go, then turned his attention to Owen, his expression softening. He knew that look on a man’s face. He’d seen it on his own enough times. It was the look of a soul carrying a burden too heavy to bear.

Judd walked over to Owen, leaning against the counter beside him. "You alright, Captain?" he asked, his voice low and concerned.

Owen offered a weak smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just thinking about… things."

Judd nodded, understanding etched on his face. He didn’t need to know the specifics. He knew that life had a way of dishing out pain, and sometimes, all a person needed was someone to acknowledge that pain, to offer a silent presence in the midst of it.

Meanwhile, TK remained lost in the photograph, his thumb tracing the outline of Yaz face. He remembered the day it was taken, a sunny afternoon in the park. Yaz had insisted on wearing a ridiculous, oversized hat, and Owen had chased her around the playground, pretending to be a monster. It was a perfect day, a snapshot of a life brimming with love and laughter.

A life that was stolen too soon.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Judd standing beside him. "Hey, TK," Judd said, his voice laced with concern. "You okay, kid?"

TK shook his head, unable to find the words to express the swirling emotions inside him. He didn't want to burden Judd with his grief, but the loneliness was overwhelming.

"It's alright, son," Judd said, his voice soft. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. But just know that you're not alone. We're your family here, the 126. We got your back."

TK managed a small, grateful smile. He knew Judd meant it. The 126 was more than just a firehouse; it was a sanctuary, a place where he could be himself, even when "himself" was a shattered version of the man he wanted to be.

"Thanks, Judd," he mumbled, clutching the photograph tighter.

Judd squeezed his shoulder again. "Anytime, kid. Anytime." He then turned and walked towards the kitchen, where Owen still stood, lost in his own thoughts.

"Captain," Judd said, his voice firm but gentle. "Why don't you take a break? Go get some fresh air. I can handle things here for a bit."

Owen hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Maybe you're right, Judd. I just…" He trailed off, unable to articulate the heavy weight that pressed down on him.

"Go," Judd urged. "We'll be here when you get back."

Owen nodded again and headed out of the firehouse, leaving Judd watching after him with a mixture of concern and determination. He knew that both Owen and TK were hurting, and he wasn't about to let them suffer in silence.

He closed his eyes, picturing Yaz’ face, trying to conjure up the sound of her voice. He knew he couldn't bring her back, but he could keep her memory alive, he could honor her life by living his own to the fullest.

Back at the firehouse, Judd approached TK, who was still sitting on the couch, staring at the photograph. He sat down beside him, leaving a comfortable space between them.

"Losing someone… it changes you. It leaves a hole that never really heals. But you can't let that hole consume you, son. You gotta find a way to fill it with something else. Something good."

TK stared at the photograph, then back at Judd. "Like what?"

Judd shrugged. "Whatever makes you happy. Whatever brings you joy. Maybe it's helping people, maybe it's spending time with your friends, maybe it's just going for a walk in the park on a sunny day. Whatever it is, you gotta find it and hold onto it tight."

He reached out and gently placed his hand on TK's shoulder. "Your sister wouldn't want you to be sad, TK. She'd want you to be happy. She'd want you to live your life to the fullest."

TK nodded, tears welling up in his eyes. Judd's words resonated deep within him, offering a glimmer of hope in the darkness.

"Thanks, Judd," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

"Anytime, son," Judd said, squeezing his shoulder. "We're all in this together, remember? We're the 126. We're a family."

That evening, as the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the Austin skyline, the atmosphere in the 126 Firehouse was noticeably different. The tension had eased, replaced by a quiet sense of camaraderie. Owen had returned from his walk, his face still etched with sadness, but with a newfound determination in his eyes. He sat at the kitchen table, laughing with Marjan and Nancy as they recounted a funny incident from their last call.

TK was in the garage, helping Judd clean the rigs. He still held the photograph of Yaz close to his heart, but now, it was a reminder of the love he had shared, not just the loss he had suffered. He knew that the pain would always be there, a part of him, but he also knew that he wasn't alone. He had his dad, he had his friends, and he had the 126 – his family. They would all help him carry the weight, and together, they would find a way to move forward, to honor the memory of Yaz by living their lives to the fullest.

What they didn’t know is that they’d be getting a visit from her very soon.

Chapter Text

Yaz stared at the discharge papers, the sterile white a harsh contrast to the dull ache throbbing in her right hand. A week. A whole week spent within these walls, the scent of antiseptic clinging to everything, even her. Finally, freedom. Well, a limited kind. Six weeks in a boot, crutches her unwanted companions, and the constant gnawing pain a familiar shadow.

She’d signed the last form, her signature a shaky scrawl, when Athena appeared. The familiar blue of her cop uniform brought a strange comfort. Yaz, clad in her worn black leggings and a shapeless grey t-shirt, felt a surge of gratitude and a pang of guilt for relying on Athena so much.

“What are you doing here?” Yaz asked, her voice raspy from disuse and the lingering effects of the anesthesia.

Athena’s expression was soft, a stark contrast to the steel in her eyes when she was on duty. “I’m taking you home, Yaz.”

Home. The word felt foreign, a half-forgotten dream. Her apartment was just a place, a collection of furniture and half-finished projects, not a home in the truest sense. But it was hers, and right now, it was all she had. Too tired to argue, Yaz pushed herself off the bed, the movement sending a jolt of pain throughout her body. She grabbed the crutches, their cold metal a stark reminder of her current limitations, and followed Athena out of the room.

The walk to the elevators was slow and cumbersome. Yaz concentrated on placing each crutchtip carefully, her breath catching with each step. The hospital seemed to stretch on forever, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps.

As they approached Athena’s patrol car, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through Yaz's right hand. She instinctively clenched her fist, trying to quell the agony. The memory of the hammer, the cold steel against her skin, the sickening crunch of bone, flashed through her mind. It had happened when she was six. A brutal, senseless act of violence that had left her with more than just a mangled hand. It had left her with a deep-seated fear, a distrust that colored every interaction. The hand never healed right. It was a constant reminder that bad things happened, and they happened to her.

She'd learned to live with it, to mask the pain, both physical and emotional. But the years of pushing herself, of ignoring the warning signs, had taken their toll. Now, every joint in her body ached, a symphony of discomfort that threatened to overwhelm her.

She managed to get into the car without incident, grateful for Athena’s silent assistance. As they drove, Yaz found herself wrestling with a familiar dilemma. Should she reach out to her father and brother? They were in Austin, a world away from her life in LA. The fear of rejection was a heavy weight in her chest, a leaden feeling that threatened to suffocate her. What if they didn't want her? What if they had moved on from her ‘death’, built new lives without her? The thought was unbearable.

“Athena?” Yaz asked hesitantly, breaking the silence. “What do you think? About… family?”

Athena glanced at her, her expression thoughtful. “That’s a tough one, Yaz. Family can be… complicated. But I think you should do what feels right. What your gut tells you.”

Easy for her to say. Athena had a solid, loving family. Yaz’s was… fractured, broken beyond repair. Or was it? Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance. A sliver of hope that flickered in the darkness.

They arrived at her apartment building, the familiar brick facade offering a small sense of comfort. The elevator ride was silent, each floor a slow, agonizing crawl. When they finally reached her apartment, Yaz felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her.

Once she was settled on the couch, propped up with pillows, Athena turned to leave. “Do you need anything, Yaz? Groceries? Anything at all?”

“No, I’m okay,” Yaz said, managing a weak smile. “Just… get back to work. There are probably bad guys out there you need to catch.”

Athena smiled back, a genuine, warm smile that reached her eyes. “Call me if you need anything, Yaz. Anything at all.”

The door clicked shut, and Yaz was alone.

The silence of the apartment was deafening. Yaz stared blankly at the television screen, the flickering images blurring into meaningless shapes. Her mind was racing, a whirlwind of anxieties and what-ifs. She knew what she had to do. She couldn't keep running, hiding from her past. She had to face them, her father and brother, and find out once and for all if there was any hope for reconciliation.

She reached for her phone, her fingers trembling slightly. She searched for flights to Austin, cheap hotels, anything that would allow her to make this trip. Finally, she found an affordable option – a flight leaving in two days, a hotel in the city. She booked them both, her heart pounding in her chest.

She knew it wouldn't be easy. The journey would be painful, both physically and emotionally. But she couldn't keep living in the shadows, haunted by the past. She needed to know. She needed to give them, and herself, a chance.

Yaz hobbled into her bedroom, her boot clunking loudly on the wooden floor. She grabbed a duffel bag from the closet and began to pack. Just a few essentials – clothes, toiletries, her pain medication. She hated the pills, the way they dulled her senses, the way they reminded her of her past struggles with addiction. But she knew she would need them to manage the pain during the trip.

She’d figured out a system. She'd take the medication as prescribed, but she wouldn't refill the prescription. She’d deal with the withdrawal when she got back, a small price to pay for avoiding the slippery slope of addiction.

Yaz was lucky enough to have secured fifteen weeks of medical leave from The Chief. He, of all people, understood the importance of healing, both physically and mentally. After that, she’d have to go through the re-certification process, a series of physical and psychological evaluations to ensure she was fit for duty, even though most of her work was cleaning the firehouse.

…

Yaz shifted uncomfortably in her plane seat, the faint hum of the engines a constant backdrop to her swirling thoughts. A few hours ago, Maddie, Josh, and Athena had walked her to the gate, their faces etched with worry and unwavering support. She remembered hugging them tightly, each squeeze a silent promise to be okay, regardless of what awaited her in Austin. Their insistence on seeing her off had been a balm to her anxiety, a reassurance that the bond they shared wouldn't fray, no matter the outcome of this trip.

Now, staring out the window as the plane soared through the clouds, Yaz felt a knot tighten in her stomach. The medical boot on her right foot served as a constant reminder of the accident, the event that had unknowingly propelled her toward this confrontation. It was a physical manifestation of the disruption in her life, mirroring the emotional upheaval she was about to face.

A few minuets later, the plane touched down in Austin. Yaz navigated the airport with practiced ease, her crutches clicking against the polished floor. She hailed a cab, giving the driver the address of the hotel she had booked. The ride was a blur of unfamiliar streets and buildings, a stark contrast to the familiar landscape of Los Angeles.

The hotel lobby was a haven of cool air and muted sounds. Yaz approached the reception desk, her voice barely audible as she requested her room key. The receptionist, with a polite smile, handed her the key card. Yaz thanked her and made her way to the elevator, the metal doors sliding open with a soft whoosh. She pressed the button for her floor, the car gliding upwards.

Stepping out of the elevator, Yaz walked down the hallway, her crutches echoing in the quiet space. She found her room, swiped the key card, and pushed open the door. The room was impersonal, but clean and functional. She dropped her crutches onto the bed with a sigh of relief, then placed her duffle bag beside them.

Reaching for her phone, Yaz typed out a quick message to Athena, Maddie, and Josh, letting them know she had arrived safely. A wave of gratitude washed over her as she hit send. Their unwavering support was a lifeline in this sea of uncertainty.

The weight of the impending meeting settled heavily on her shoulders. She would face her brother and father, men she barely knew but were inextricably linked to her by blood. The thought of their rejection was a sharp, stabbing pain, but she knew she had to try. She couldn't live with the regret of never knowing, of never giving them a chance to be a part of her life.

The evening stretched before her, a long and lonely expanse. She changed into her pajamas, the soft fabric a small comfort against her skin. Sliding under the covers, she stared up at the ceiling, her mind racing with a jumble of emotions. Exhaustion finally claimed her, pulling her into a restless sleep filled with fragmented dreams.

…

Yaz woke up with a groan. The unfamiliar hotel room swam into focus, the generic artwork above the bed doing little to soothe her frayed nerves. It had been a week since she’d been rescued from that… place. A week since she’d last eaten a proper meal. The reflection staring back at her from the bathroom mirror was gaunt, the shadows under her green eyes too pronounced. She was lightheaded, weak, and knew she needed to regain the weight she had lost, and then some; the gym would be calling her name for weeks to come.

She took a long, hot shower, letting the water wash away the lingering grime and the memories clinging to her skin. She dressed in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved bodysuit, needing the extra layer of protection from her scars. She still didn’t have a plan, not really. She didn’t know when she would go to the firehouse, but for now, she needed to get her bearings. She needed to know the city, so she wouldn’t get lost again.

Hours later, her ankle throbbed, a persistent reminder of the injury that had landed her in the medical boot. She’d been so focused on memorizing street names and landmarks that she’d forgotten her crutches back at the hotel. She limped along the sidewalk, the burn in her ankle intensifying with each step.

Suddenly, a bright orange glow caught her attention. Rounding a corner, she saw it: a house consumed by flames. A woman stood in the front yard, held back by a man, her screams piercing the air.

“My children! They’re still inside!”

Yaz ignored the searing pain in her ankle and ran towards them. “Has 911 been called?” she yelled over the roar of the fire.

The man, his face etched with panic, replied, “They’re five minutes out!”

Five minutes was an eternity in a fire like this. “They don’t have 5 minutes, Where are your children?!” Yaz demanded, her voice sharp with urgency.

“Upstairs! The room farthest on the right!” the woman wailed.

Without hesitation, Yaz surged forward, ignoring the man’s desperate attempts to stop her. “Don’t go in there! It’s too dangerous!”

But Yaz was already moving. She dropped low, using her firefighter training to protect herself from the intense heat and smoke. She stumbled through the front door, the acrid smell assaulting her senses. The stairs were narrow and rickety, but she forced herself up, adrenaline masking the agony in her ankle.

She reached the top of the stairs and ran to the door on the far right. It was locked. With a surge of adrenaline, she kicked at the door with her good leg, the wood splintering and giving way with a resounding crash.

Inside, two young boys were huddled together on a bed, coughing and crying. Yaz rushed to their side. “My name is Yaz,” she said, her voice calm and reassuring despite the chaos around them. “I’m going to get you out of here, okay?”

She ripped off her jacket, handing it to the boys. “Put this over your faces. It will help protect you from the smoke.”

Without a second thought, Yaz scooped the boys into her arms, one on each hip. They were small, but the weight was significant, especially with her weakened state and injured ankle. She struggled to the nearest window, coughing as the smoke burned her lungs.

She managed to pry the window open and climbed through, stepping onto a small, lower roof adjacent to the window. The air was slightly clearer here, and she could finally hear the distant wail of sirens.

Then, she saw him. A firefighter in full gear, the number 126 emblazoned on his helmet, was approaching on a ladder. That number... it meant her father and brother could be on that truck.

The firefighter reached out, his expression grim. “Give me the kids,” he ordered, his voice muffled by his mask.

Yaz passed the boys over, one at a time, reassuring them that they would be safe. As soon as the second boy was safely in the firefighter’s arms, her ankle gave way. A sharp, searing pain shot through her leg, and she lost her balance.

Before the firefighter could react, Yaz slipped and slid down the roof, her hands scraping against the rough shingles. She managed to grab the edge of the roof, her fingers digging into the wood as she dangled precariously. With a final, desperate effort, she let go, dropping the remaining few feet to the soft grass below.

She landed hard, pain exploding in her ankle and back. She lay there for a moment, gasping for breath, the smell of smoke permeating everything.

Then, another figure appeared, also in full firefighter turnout gear, but with a red 126 on his helmet. He rushed towards her. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice laced with concern. He extended his arm, and Yaz gratefully grasped it, using his strength to pull herself upright.

She was in immense pain, and she knew the bruises and cuts she had sustained during her ordeal with Mike undoubtedly looked suspicious. The firefighter would be wondering what had happened to her. But she just mumbled, "I'm fine."

Suddenly, a man in a police uniform stormed over, his face contorted with anger. “What were you thinking?! You put yourself in terrible danger!”

Yaz stared at him, her mind racing. This was getting out of control. Taking a deep breath, she said, clearly and calmly, “My name is Yasmina Nerine. I’m a firefighter from the 118 in Los Angeles.”

Before she could say anything else, a paramedic appeared and steered her away towards the ambulance, her words lost in the growing commotion. Yaz glanced back at the firefighters, but they were already looking at her with an utterly shocked expression on their faces, like she was a ghost.

Owen Strand and TK Strand watched Yaz walk away with Michelle, the paramedic, both men frozen in place, their faces pale with disbelief. She looked just like they had imagined their Yaz, if she had the chance to grow up, she looked like she knew who they were.

Owen felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. This couldn’t be Yaz because their Yaz was dead.

TK was equally stunned. He exchanged a look with his father, but neither of them could find any words to explain it. Was it really her or were they both seeing things? But it was her, he knew it. He could recognize those green eyes anywhere, even if they were shadowed with pain and trauma.

The fire was still raging, and they were needed. But the image of Yaz, battered and bruised, was burned into their minds. They would have to figure out what was going on, they would have to find her and find out what had happened to her.

As Yaz sat in the back of the ambulance, being checked over by Michelle, she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. She glanced back at the fire, and her gaze locked with Owen's. His eyes were filled with a mix of concern and confusion, and she quickly looked away. She wasn't ready to face him, not yet.

She had come to Austin to meet them both but seeing them right there, she stuttered. They both looked like they were seeing a ghost and Yaz knew they both definitely remembered her even if she was 5 when she had last seen them. That gave her the push, tomorrow she was going too go to the firehouse, she had to get this of her chest, because their expressions were tearing her heart into pieces.

Chapter Text

The air in the 126 firehouse hung thick with a strange, unspoken tension. The usual banter and clatter of equipment were muted, replaced by a quiet unease. Last night's call had left a mark, a phantom echo resonating in the hearts of Owen and TK Strand.

TK sat at the kitchen table, pushing a half-eaten plate of pancakes around. His mind was replaying the image of the young woman they'd rescued from the car accident. Her resemblance to Yaz, his older sister, had been uncanny. The same vibrant green eyes, the same delicate curve of her jaw. But Yaz was gone. Dead at five years old. It was a painful truth etched into his soul, one he couldn't simply erase with wishful thinking.

Across the room, Owen stared out the window, his gaze lost in the Austin skyline. He, too, was haunted by the girl's face. A face that mirrored his daughter's, the daughter he had lost decades ago. The grief, though dulled by time, still lingered, a dull ache in his chest. How could someone look so much like Yaz? It was a cruel trick of fate, a painful reminder of what he had lost.

As if summoned by their shared thoughts, a young woman stood hesitantly on the threshold, her presence immediately commanding attention. She had brown, wavy hair that cascaded past her shoulders and striking green eyes that scanned the room with a nervous intensity. Her right leg was encased in a medical boot, forcing her to limp as she walked.

Paul, ever observant, was the first to react. He approached her with a friendly smile. "Can I help you?"

The woman hesitated, then took a deep breath. "Yes, actually. Are Owen and TK Strand here?"

Recognition flashed in Paul's eyes. "Hey, You're the girl from last night."

She nodded, a flicker of uncertainty in her gaze. "My name is Yasmina Nerine. And... well, I'm looking for Owen and TK Strand."

Paul's eyebrows rose in surprise. He gestured towards the kitchen. "They're right over there." He paused, curiosity getting the better of him. "Is everything alright?"

Yasmina swallowed hard. "I hope so. I... I have something important to tell them."

With a mix of trepidation and determination, Yasmina limped towards the kitchen. Owen and TK, sensing her approach, turned to face her. The air crackled with an unspoken energy, a sense of impending revelation.

"Excuse me," Yasmina began, her voice trembling slightly. "My name is Yasmina Nerine. And... this is going to sound strange, but I recently found out that my last name is actually Strand. And that... that you are my father and brother."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unbelievable. Owen and TK stared at her, speechless, their minds struggling to process the impossible claim. Yaz? Alive? After all these years? It couldn't be.

TK was the first to break the silence, his voice thick with disbelief. "That's... that's impossible. My sister, Yaz, she... she died when she was five."

Owen remained silent, his eyes fixed on Yasmina's face, searching for any sign of deception. But all he saw was a mixture of hope and anxiety.

Yasmina sensed their shock and confusion. "I know, I know it's a lot to take in. But I can explain everything. I have proof."

Before she could elaborate, the piercing shriek of the alarm shattered the moment. The familiar call to duty broke through the stunned silence. Owen and TK exchanged a look, a silent acknowledgment of the impossible situation they found themselves in.

Owen, torn between his duty and the overwhelming possibility that stood before him, reached out and grasped Yasmina's hand. "Please," he said, his voice laced with desperation. "Please, can you just wait here? In my office. Can you wait for us to get back? I... I need to hear everything you have to say." He couldn't bear the thought of losing her again, not after all this time, not before he even knew if it was true.

Yasmina nodded, her green eyes wide with understanding. "Okay," she whispered. "I'll wait."

Relief washed over Owen's face. He squeezed her hand one last time before releasing her. As the rest of the team scrambled to gear up, Owen and TK quickly pulled on their turnouts, their movements mechanical, their minds still reeling from Yasmina's revelation.

"Stay safe," Yasmina called out as they rushed towards the trucks.

Owen managed a weak smile. "We will."

As the engines roared to life and the trucks sped out of the firehouse, Yasmina turned and limped towards Owen's office upstairs. The room was small and functional, filled with framed photographs, commendations, and the everyday paraphernalia of a fire captain. She sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk, her heart pounding in her chest.

The weight of the situation settled upon her. Would they believe her? Would they even want her?

She had spent the last few days, trying to prepare herself for this moment. But nothing could have prepared her for the reality of standing face-to-face with them, of seeing the pain and disbelief in their eyes.

Now, all she could do was wait. Wait for them to return, wait for them to hear her story, wait to see if they would accept her, a daughter and sister long lost and now, miraculously, found.

Back at the scene of the emergency, Owen and TK battled a raging apartment fire, the heat and smoke momentarily eclipsing their personal turmoil. But even amidst the chaos, their thoughts kept drifting back to Yasmina, to the impossible possibility that she was truly their Yaz.

The fire was eventually contained, the residents rescued, and the team returned to the firehouse, exhausted and soot-covered. Owen and TK practically ran to his office, their hearts pounding with anticipation and trepidation.

The clanging alarm sliced through the air as Owen and TK stumbled back into the firehouse, adrenaline still coursing through their veins from the apartment fire. They practically ripped off their heavy turnouts, boots thudding against the floor, and without a word to the rest of the team, who watched them with puzzled expressions, they bounded up the stairs towards Owen's office.

The team, Marjan, Paul, Nancy, Judd and Mateo, exchanged confused glances. Owen and TK were usually more communicative, especially after a call. This sudden, unspoken urgency was unsettling.

Inside the office, Yaz sat perched on the edge of a chair, her brown, wavy hair cascading around her shoulders, her green eyes wide and a little apprehensive. Relief washed over TK as he saw her, and he instinctively moved to sit beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers, a silent offering of comfort. Owen took his seat behind the desk, his gaze fixed on Yaz, a mixture of hope and disbelief swirling within him.

"Okay," Owen began, his voice raspy.

Yaz took a deep breath, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "I have memories of... both of you. And Gwyn. But they feel... fragmented. Like dreams, maybe. I wasn't sure if they were real."

She recounted the confusing jumble of images that had been plaguing her – flashes of a younger Owen with a softer, less weathered face, the goofy grins she shared with a younger TK, Gwyn's warm, comforting presence. Each memory felt real, yet alien, belonging to a life she couldn't quite grasp.

Silence hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken questions.

Yaz continued, her voice gaining strength as she plunged into the heart of her revelation. "Last week... I was kidnapped." She paused, the word hanging in the air, heavy with its implications. "By my... step-father. He told me things. Things about my mother, Evie Jones."

The name struck Owen like a physical blow. He felt a wave of nausea wash over him as the ghosts of the past materialized before him.

"He said... he said my mother had an affair with you, Owen. Before she married him. And that when you broke it off because you found out she was engaged, she was angry. Bitter. Then she found out she was pregnant... with me." Yaz's voice trembled. "He said she saw it as a way to... break your heart like you broke hers."

TK squeezed her shoulder, offering silent support. The weight of the story, the sheer cruelty of it, was almost unbearable.

"He said... she gave birth to me, and then she... she left me with you, Owen. And after a couple of years, she... she took me back. She faked my death. Made you all think I was gone." Yaz's voice cracked, and tears welled up in her eyes. "He said she wanted to erase me from your life completely."

The words hung in the air, a devastating truth bomb detonating in the small office. Lost daughters, faked deaths, bitter revenge—it was the stuff of soap operas, not real life. But the raw emotion in Yaz's voice, the tremor in her hands, the sheer vulnerability in her green eyes, made it impossible to dismiss.

With trembling hands, Yaz reached into her bag and pulled out a worn, leather-bound birth certificate. She placed it on the desk, the faded ink stark against the polished wood. Beside it, she laid a delicate, heart-shaped locket, its silver surface dulled with age.

"This," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "I’ve had for as long as I can remember. Inside..."

She opened the locket, revealing a photograph. Of Owen, TK, and Gwyn and Yaz, all younger, faces beaming with a joy that had been cruelly stolen.

Yaz pushed the birth certificate and the locket towards Owen. "I don't know what to believe. I don't know if any of this is real. But... here it is. All of it." She leaned back in her chair, her shoulders slumping with exhaustion. "I'm not expecting anything from you. If you don't want it... if you don't want me... I understand."

Owen stared at the objects on the desk, his mind reeling. The birth certificate confirmed the name, the date, the place. The locket, with its faded photograph, was the undeniable proof he needed, he and Gwyn gave it to Yaz when she turned 3. The little girl in the picture… it was undeniably Yaz. He looked up at her, his heart aching with a mixture of grief, regret, and overwhelming joy.

"Yaz..." he began, his voice thick with emotion. "It's you. It really is you."

A wave of relief washed over Yaz. It wasn't rejection, it was acceptance, and most important it was reality.

TK's eyes widened. "You mean... she's really...?" He couldn't bring himself to finish the question, the answer already evident in Owen's face and the evidence laid out before them. He turned to Yaz, his face alight with excitement. "This is... this is incredible!"

Yaz looked at them both, her face a mixture of hope and trepidation. "I... I don't know what happens now."

"What happens now?" TK scoffed, jumping to his feet. "What happens now is we get to know you! We have a lifetime of catching up to do!" He paused, a hopeful look on his face. "Would you... would you come to dinner with us? Tonight? We can talk, and you can tell us more about you."

Before Yaz could answer, the piercing alarm sliced through the air once again, shattering the fragile bubble of hope and reconnection. Duty called.

"I... I should go," Yaz said, scrambling to her feet. "You have to go."

"Wait!" TK said, grabbing a pen and a notepad from Owen's desk. "Give us your number. We'll call you. We have to see you again."

Yaz scribbled her number, tearing the page from the notepad and leaving it on the desk. "Send me the address. And... thanks." She offered them a small, tentative smile, then turned and hurried out of the office, leaving Owen and TK standing in stunned silence.

They both ran to get their gear on, they were both relived and filled with joy that Yaz was back.

As they raced down the stairs, towards the waiting firetruck, the rest of the team watched them with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Owen and TK's faces were illuminated with a strange, almost euphoric light. They didn't have time to explain, not now. But they knew, somehow, that everything had changed.

After the adrenaline rush of the second call, Owen returned to his office, the image of Yaz's face burned into his mind. He sank into his chair, his gaze falling on the scrap of paper she had left behind. He picked it up, tracing the numbers with his finger, a smile spreading across his face.

He looked at the time she was free after work, already making plans to see her again.

"Welcome back Yaz," he whispered, a sense of peace settling over him. He had a daughter again. And this time, he wasn't going to lose her.

…

Yaz hesitated before raising her hand to knock. The weathered wood of the Strand's front door felt strangely foreign beneath her fingertips. She smoothed down the wrinkles in her blue denim jeans, a nervous habit she’d developed over years of uncertainty. Her black and white striped top, usually a source of comfort, suddenly felt too loud, too… her. She took a deep breath, trying to quell the frantic flutter in her chest. Just knock, she told herself. It's just a door.

Finally, she rapped lightly, the sound echoing in the sudden quiet of the evening.

The door swung open almost immediately, revealing TK, his face alight with a grin that could rival the sun. "Yaz! You made it! Come on in, come on in!" He gestured enthusiastically, practically vibrating with energy.

Yaz stepped across the threshold, a wave of unfamiliar warmth washing over her. The house smelled of something delicious, a mix of spices and something sweet, like baking bread. It wasn't the sterile, antiseptic smell she was used to; it was the smell of home. Or, at least, what she imagined a home would smell like.

The entryway opened into a cozy dining room. A table was set with plates piled high with food: crispy-looking fried chicken, creamy mashed potatoes, a vibrant green salad, and a steaming casserole dish she couldn't quite identify. Owen was already seated at the table, his expression a warm welcome.

"Hey, Yaz," Owen said, his voice calm and steadying. "Glad you could make it. Dig in when you're ready."

TK pulled out a chair for her, his excitement unwavering. "Sit, sit! We're starving!"

Yaz felt a knot of anxiety tighten in her stomach. This was it. This was the family dinner she'd always dreamed of, the one she'd only ever witnessed from the outside, looking in. She sat down gingerly, her movements stiff and awkward. Owen and TK mirrored her actions, and the clatter of silverware against plates filled the suddenly charged air. Yaz was slowly eating and trying not to vomit, that wouldn’t be a good impression, it was nice but she hasn’t eaten in a full meal in a few weeks.

"So," TK began, his mouth already full. "Tell us about yourself!"

Yaz blinked, caught off guard. "Um, well you know I’m a firefighter, I like ballet and ice skating."

"Ballet and ice skating?" Owen asked, his eyebrows raised in interest.

"Yeah, I learned when I was younger," Yaz replied, relieved to be talking about something familiar. "I would sneak off and teach myself."

"You’re a dancer, huh?" TK chimed in. "You must be amazing."

Yaz managed a small smile. "I’m not that good."

The questions continued, a gentle stream of curiosities about her life, her interests, her dreams. They asked about her favorite subject in school (history), her favorite book (An Emily Just Phycological Horror Series). She answered shyly at first, her voice barely above a whisper, but with each question, she felt herself slowly relax, the tension in her shoulders easing.

She also learned quite a bit about TK, he was gay and had worked alongside Owen firefighting since he graduated from the academy.

"So what did you do before becoming a firefighter, Yaz." Owen asked wanting to know more about the daughter that was stolen from him.

"Uh, I was in the army for 4 years and then the air force for 3," Yaz said unsure as to what they would think. "I enlisted when I turned 18 and pretty much didn’t stop until I almost died, then I went into firefighting. I’ve been doing it almost 3 years now." Yaz told them, she wasn’t used to talking about that aspect of her life, no one seemed to know she enlisted as no one at LAFD even looked at her file, nor at her certifications.

"So what’s firefighting in LA like? TK asked wanting to know the differences between Austin, New York and LA.

"I wouldn’t know."

"Why?" Questioned Owen.

"Well, my captain doesn’t exactly look at our files, which means he doesn’t know my certifications and is convinced I’m useless. And the rest of my team just judge me for my scars, my work, everything. It means I barely get to leave the station." Yaz said saddened at the thought.

"What certifications do you have?" TK questioned, wanting to know why his sister wasn’t treated very nicely,

"EMT, Advanced EMT, Rope and Rescue Technician, Hazardous Materials Operations. Quite a few more, plus my years in the army."

"Wow." Owen said shocked at how qualified she was, hell she was over qualified. "Have you ever thought about a transfer?"

"Yes…" Yaz said unsure if she should tell them. "But my captain always declines it, saying no one will want me, that I’m useless."

"Isn’t that like, discrimination?" Asked TK angrily.

Owen was furious and was wondering what it would take for her to move down here. "How long are you in Austin for?"

"Only two more days, " she laughed nervously while looking down. "I didn’t exactly want to stick around if things weren’t going to work out."

"You have to leave so soon?" TK said saddens hi]e wouldn’t spend much time with his sister.

"I mean I have 15 weeks medical leave, well 13 and a half now but I could stick around longer, if you want."

"Really?"

"Yeah, besides I could use some help training for my re-certification."

TK smiled glad his sister would stick around a little while longer. "Yeah! You can officially meet the rest of the team on our next shift."

Yaz just nodded and declared she needed to head home. Owen walked her to the door, "Do you need a ride?"

"No that’s ok, I’ll walk, the hotel isn’t too far away."

"I’ll see you soon," Owen said hoping she’ll stick around.

"Yeah, bye Owen." Yaz waved and started limping her way to the hotel.

Chapter Text

The clang of the firehouse bell still echoed in Yaz's ears as she and TK walked through the wide bay doors two days later. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and glinting off the polished chrome of Engine 126. Yaz felt a lightness she hadn't experienced in years, a fragile joy that made her want to cling to TK's side

They entered the kitchen, the heart of Firehouse 126. The aroma of coffee mingled with the lingering scent of last night's chili. But the warmth of the room seemed to freeze as Yaz and TK stepped inside. All eyes were on them. Judd, Mateo, Paul, Nancy, and Tim, were all seated around the table, their expressions a mix of curiosity and outright bewilderment. The laughter died in Yaz's throat.

TK, oblivious to the sudden tension, clapped his hand on Yaz's shoulder. "Guys, this is my sister, Yaz. Yaz, meet the best damn crew in Austin."

A wave of murmurs rippled through the room. "Sister?" Mateo echoed, his brows furrowed.

TK, finally noticing the heavy atmosphere, grinned nervously. "Yeah, Yaz. She's been, uh, traveling. A lot." He pulled out a chair for her, then another for himself, right beside her.

Yaz forced a smile, the muscles in her face aching with the effort. "Hi everyone. It's… great to finally meet you all."

The questions started almost immediately.

"Where do you work, Yaz?" Nancy asked, her eyes scrutinizing Yaz with a clinical intensity.

"She's a firefighter," TK interjected proudly, before Yaz could answer.

"Seriously? No way," Paul responded, impressed. "What's your favorite part of the job?"

"It's... challenging," Yaz replied vaguely, wincing internally.

"What's your favorite hobby?" Mateo chimed in.

"Ballet," Yaz answered, the word feeling foreign on her tongue. It was a lifetime ago, before everything changed.

"How long are you in Austin for?" Owen asked, his gaze unwavering.

"Probably a couple of weeks," Yaz said, trying to sound casual. "Just visiting."

Then came the dreaded question, the one she knew was inevitable.

"Why haven't we ever heard of you before?" Judd asked, his voice low and steady, cutting through the polite chatter.

Yaz felt a knot tighten in her stomach. The stares intensified, pressing down on her like a physical weight. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat.

TK, sensing her discomfort, jumped in, his voice a little too loud, a little too enthusiastic. "Yaz has been… off the grid for a few years. You know, doing her own thing. Now she's back, and we're catching up." He gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "Right, sis?"

Yaz managed a weak nod. "Right."

Everyone, except Judd, seemed to accept TK's explanation. They moved on to other topics, the conversation slowly returning to its usual easy banter. Yaz tried to join in, but her responses felt forced, hollow. She could feel Judd's gaze on her, unwavering, full of a knowing she couldn't explain.

Judd Ryder knew something was wrong. He’d known TK and Owen, and he remembered just a few days ago, the raw grief on Owen's face, the way TK had retreated into himself, he talked to him about how she died when he was w and she was 5. He knew that whatever was being hidden, it was big, and it wasn't good.

Yaz kept quiet as the others conversed. She couldn't meet anyone's eyes, her gaze fixed on the chipped Formica tabletop. The firehouse, usually a place of comfort and camaraderie, now felt like a cage. She longed to escape, to disappear back into the anonymity she had cultivated for so long.

The truth was a monster coiled in her gut, threatening to erupt. She couldn't even bring herself to think about Mike, the man she had known as her father for over two decades. The realization that he wasn't her father, that her entire life had been built on a lie, was a gaping wound that refused to heal. The memories of the latest kidnapping, the years of isolation and abuse, were like shards of glass lodged in her mind, each one a source of excruciating pain.

He wasn't her father. Just the thought made her nauseous. Her mother's infidelity had set off a chain reaction of unimaginable cruelty. Because of that single act, she had been ripped away from a loving family, stolen from Owen, TK, and Gwyn. They had mourned her, grieved her loss, while she was trapped in a living nightmare.

And then there was the guilt. The crushing, unrelenting guilt. Guilt for the pain she had caused her family, guilt for the years they had spent believing she was dead, guilt for the secrets she was now forced to keep.

She had to stay strong, though. For TK, for Owen, for herself. She had to pretend that everything was fine, that she was fine. She was fine, wasn’t she?

The shrill clang of the alarm bell ripped through the cozy atmosphere of Firehouse 126, instantly shattering the friendly chatter. Yaz, with her cascade of brown, wavy hair framing her face and vibrant green eyes wide, watched as the team sprang into action. Just moments ago, she'd been exchanging introductions and polite conversation with the crew, a whirlwind of names and faces blending together. "Nice to meet you, Yaz," she heard several voices call out as they scrambled for their gear.

TK, her brother, his face etched with a familiar blend of concern and duty, turned towards her. "You okay here alone for a bit?" he asked, his voice tight with worry.

Yaz managed a reassuring smile, even though a dull throb was already beginning to pound behind her eyes. "I'm fine, TK. Don't worry about me. Go help people."

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his firefighter instincts battling with his protective brotherly ones. Then, with a quick nod, he turned and joined the rushing throng. The trucks roared to life, the sirens wailed, and the entire firehouse vibrated with energy as they sped off to whatever emergency awaited them.

Then, silence. A heavy, almost oppressive silence that settled over the now-empty firehouse. Yaz was alone.

She didn't mind it, not really. In fact, a part of her welcomed the sudden quiet. The noise and forced cheerfulness had been grating on her nerves, exacerbating the tension that had been building inside her for weeks. The peace offered a fragile respite from the constant vigilance she'd become accustomed to.

But the relief was short-lived. The dull throb in her head intensified, morphing into a full-blown migraine. It was a familiar torment, a blinding, nauseating pain that had been plaguing her more and more frequently. She had no idea what was causing them. Maybe it was stress, maybe it was the after-effects of the surgery, maybe it was just… life.

Yaz knew she couldn't just sit there and let the pain consume her. She needed to do something, anything, to distract herself, to release the pent-up anger and frustration that simmered beneath the surface. She remembered TK mentioning a gym somewhere in the firehouse. A gym sounded perfect.

Ignoring the nagging ache in her ankle, she pushed herself to her feet. She'd ditched the cumbersome boot, opting for a more flexible ankle brace instead. She'd also stopped using her crutches, she knew she was probably doing more damage than good, putting undue stress on the healing bones and ligaments. But she didn't care. The crutches felt like a symbol of her weakness, and she was desperate to shed that image.

Finding the gym was easy enough, located at the end of a corridor on the second floor. It was a functional space filled with weights, a treadmill, and a solitary punching bag hanging in the corner. The punching bag called to her.

She walked towards it, her steps a little unsteady, and wrapped her hands with worn leather gloves she found lying nearby. The gloves smelled faintly of sweat and old leather, a comforting, familiar scent. She took a deep breath, trying to center herself, to focus all her energy on the task at hand.

Then, she attacked.

Her first punch was clumsy, hesitant. But with each subsequent blow, her movements became more fluid, more powerful. She rained down punches on the bag, each strike fueled by a raw, primal rage. She kicked, her braced ankle screaming in protest, but she ignored it, burying the pain beneath the fury.

With every hit, she saw his face. Mike. The man who had stolen her life, who had abused her, who had broken her in ways she was still struggling to understand. Each punch was a silent scream, a desperate attempt to exorcise the demons that haunted her.

She saw the deception in his eyes, the lies that had flowed so easily from his lips. She felt the violation, the disgust, the shame that had clung to her like a shroud. She remembered the fear, the constant, gnawing fear that had consumed her every waking moment. The sexual abuse replayed in her head, the mental abuse, the things he had said, the way he had made her feel worthless. The list went on and on, an endless litany of horrors.

She imagined his face swelling, bruising, breaking beneath her fists. She wanted to hurt him, to make him feel the pain she had endured. She wanted to erase him from her memory, to obliterate him from existence.

But even as she pummeled the bag, she knew it wasn't enough. The anger, the pain, the trauma, it was all still there, festering inside her. She was fighting a ghost, a phantom limb of her past.

Finally, gasping for breath, her muscles burning, she stopped. She staggered back, her body trembling, her vision swimming. Sweat dripped from her forehead, plastering strands of hair to her face. The punching bag swayed gently, a silent testament to her violent outburst. She leaned against the cool wall, trying to catch her breath. Her body felt weak, depleted. It wasn't surprising, really. She was still recovering from the kidnapping, from the trauma, from the surgery. It had only been two weeks since they'd rescued her, and despite her outward bravado, she was still incredibly fragile.

She closed her eyes, willing the migraine to subside. She knew she was pushing herself too hard, that she needed to rest, to heal. But she couldn't. She couldn't stand still. If she stopped moving, stopped fighting, she'd be swallowed by the darkness.

A sob escaped her lips, a small, choked sound that was swallowed by the silence of the gym. She was so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of hurting, tired of being broken.

"I'm fine," she whispered to herself, the words a hollow echo in the empty room. "I'm fine."

But she knew she wasn't. She was far from fine. And the thought of facing another day, another battle, filled her with a bone-deep weariness.

Taking long, measured breaths, Yaz attempted to calm herself. A sudden wave of dizziness washed over her, and she closed her eyes, pressing the back of her head to the wall. She slid down the wall and sat on the floor, her breathing ragged and heavy.

The memory of Mike sneaked into her mind, and Yaz couldn't help but let a few tears roll down her cheeks. She missed her old self, she missed being able to go for a run without pain, she missed being able to close her eyes without seeing his face.

She knew she had to get better, not just for herself but for her brother and father as well. She had only met them a few days ago and Yaz a;ready like them a lot, she didn’t mind Texas either, there was not trace of anything to do with her life in LA and she wished she could stay here longer. She knew she wouldn’t be able too, she doubted Owen and TK wanted her around that much and she was sure they’d be glad when she left.

She sat there for a few minutes, getting her breath back and wiping the tears from her eyes. Getting up was hard, as her body was aching, but she managed. Slowly and carefully, she made her was back to the kitchen, hoping she had some painkillers left in her bag. The firehouse was still empty when she got back, and she was glad she had some time before the team returned. She found the bottle of pills in her bag and swallowed two, hoping the migraine would go away soon.

…

The scent of smoke and sweat clung to the air inside Firehouse 126. The adrenaline from their latest call, a kitchen fire that threatened to engulf a whole apartment building, was slowly receding, leaving behind a heavy weariness.

Owen, his own gear stowed away, watched her for a moment. He noticed the slight tremor in her hands, the way she avoided eye contact. Once he was finished he walked over to Yaz, he sat down in front of her at the kitchen table, his expression softening with concern. “Hey, how are you doing?”

The question caught Yaz off guard. She wasn’t used to people, especially not authority figures, asking about her well-being. It felt… foreign. She paused, her green eyes widening slightly in surprise. It took a beat for her to find her voice. “I’m fine,” she mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

Owen didn't buy it for a second. He'd seen the way she'd flinched at all the loud noises lately. This wasn't just jitters. “Really? Because you don't seem fine. What's wrong, Yaz?”

She sighed, the sound heavy with unspoken burdens. She knew she couldn’t keep everything bottled up, not with Owen. He had a way of seeing through her defenses, a persistence that was both irritating and strangely comforting. In a quiet voice, barely above a whisper, she confessed, “I keep seeing him. Mike. I know he’s in prison, but that’s what I thought last time and apparently he wasn’t.”

She braced herself for disbelief, for the dismissal she was so accustomed to. Instead, Owen’s expression hardened, his eyes flashing with anger.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Yaz,” he said firmly, his voice low and steady. “You’re being very reasonable.”

Yaz looked down at the scarred surface of the table, a distant look in her eyes. She had told him and TK about the kidnapping, about the terrifying ordeal, when she first met them but she had carefully edited the details. There were shadows she couldn't bring herself to illuminate, not yet.

Owen's gaze swept over her, cataloging the subtle signs she tried so hard to conceal. The boot she had been wearing just days ago was now replaced with a brace, suggesting a more serious injury than a simple sprain. The way she got winded too easily, a concerning sign for a firefighter in peak condition. He knew there was more to the story, a story she was desperately trying to keep hidden.

He knew about her past, about the circumstances of her birth, his own mistake. It was his fault Yaz was born in the first place, and while Owen was glad she lived and grew up into an amazing young woman, she had been through lifetimes worth of trauma, trauma no one should ever have to go through.

He noticed the faint tear tracks on her cheeks, evidence of silent tears shed while they were out on the call. He could practically feel the weight of her pain, both mental and physical. He couldn’t stand the thought of her suffering in silence.

"How much pain are you in, Yaz? Where does it hurt?" he asked gently, his voice laced with concern.

Yaz knew he had already pieced together a good portion of it. There was no point in denying the obvious. With a sigh, she began to unravel the carefully constructed façade. She spoke of the internal bleeding that had required emergency surgery, the broken ribs that screamed with every breath, the blistering migraine that throbbed behind her eyes.

She stopped there, carefully omitting the most devastating detail. The tearing she had to do herself, the pain she felt in her heart, the despair that over took her mind. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words, to voice the violation that had shattered her world. She couldn’t tell him that she had been raped by Mike, not yet. It wasn’t something you told your father, especially one who had just discovered you were alive a few days ago.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken emotions. Owen’s face was a mask of barely suppressed rage and pain. He wanted to scream, to tear down the walls, to obliterate the man who had inflicted this suffering on her. But he knew that wouldn't help Yaz, she was already scared of him due to his outbursts, that wasn't something he wanted to add onto. He reached out, his hand hovering hesitantly before gently covering hers on the table. His touch was warm and reassuring, a silent promise of protection. “You should have told me, Yaz,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Yaz flinched slightly at his touch, his words resonating with a truth she had been denying for years. The idea of sharing the full extent of her trauma was terrifying, but the weight of the secret was crushing her.

“I… I couldn’t,” she stammered, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t want to burden you. You already have so much on your plate.”

Owen squeezed her hand gently. “You are not a burden, Yaz. You are my daughter. And I will always be here for you, no matter what.”

The words, spoken with such sincerity, finally broke through the wall she had built around her heart. Tears streamed down her face, silent tears of grief, pain, and a flicker of hope. She had never allowed herself to believe that she deserved this kind of unconditional love, this unwavering support.

“I… I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.

“We’ll figure it out together,” Owen assured her, his eyes filled with compassion. “One step at a time. You don’t have to be strong all the time, Yaz. It’s okay to lean on me.”

He pulled his chair closer, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into his embrace, allowing herself to be comforted, to be cared for. It was a foreign sensation, but one that felt strangely right.

For the first time in a long time, Yaz felt a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness. She was still scared, still hurting, but she wasn’t alone. She had Owen, and TK. They might not be able to erase her past, but they could help her navigate the future, help her heal, help her find her way back to the light.

As she sat there in Owen's embrace, surrounded by the familiar sounds of the firehouse, Yaz knew that the road ahead would be long and difficult. But she also knew that she wasn't walking it alone. And that, more than anything, gave her the strength to keep going. The weight on her chest began to lift, slowly at first, but slowly she was able to breath again, and felt maybe she could get through this. She was finally seeing what a real family is, maybe Owen and TK do want her.

Chapter Text

The Texas sun beat down on Firehouse 126, a stark contrast to the internal chill Yasmina sometimes felt. Three weeks. Three weeks since she'd arrived in Austin, a whirlwind of new faces, a new city, and a tentative hope she hadn't dared to nurture in years. Owen, TK, the whole crew – they'd been...good. Genuinely good. They'd included her, drawn her into their chaotic family dynamic, asked about her interests, and actually listened to the answers. It was a far cry from the icy reception she'd grown accustomed to at the 118.

Owen Strand sat in his office, the muted hum of the air conditioning a poor match for the turmoil churning in his gut. He scrolled through pictures on his phone, candid shots of the 126 crew at a barbeque, Yaz laughing with TK, her face alight with a genuine joy he hadn't seen in years. A pang of guilt twisted in his chest. He should have done this sooner. He should have known.

He picked up his phone, his fingers hovering over the dial button. This was a risk, a huge one. Yaz would be furious if she found out. But he couldn't stand by and watch her be systematically broken down, not when he had the power to do something about it. He took a deep breath and pressed the button, the phone ringing in his ear a hollow, echoing sound.

"Chief's office, this is Davis."

"This is Captain Owen Strand, Firehouse 126, Austin. I need to speak to the Chief."

A brief pause. "One moment, Captain."

The line clicked, and a moment later, a gruff voice filled his ear. "Strand? What can I do for you?"

"Chief Alonso, thank you for taking my call. I need to discuss a matter concerning one of your firefighters, Yazmina Nerine, stationed at the 118."

He could practically hear the Chief's mental gears turning. "Nerine...pull up her file. Is she your daughter, Strand?"

Owen swallowed. "Yes, sir. We...recently connected. And she has no idea I'm making this call."

"Right. Go ahead, Strand. I'm listening."

Owen laid it all out, the words tumbling out of him in a rush of pent-up frustration and paternal protectiveness. How Yaz was consistently sidelined on calls, relegated to cleaning duties while her colleagues went out to fight fires. The relentless criticism, the petty insults, the constant feeling of being an outsider.

"She's constantly left behind to clean and was also the only person to clean the trucks and restock the rigs when on A-shift. However, when she worked extra shifts with B and C-Shift she was allowed in on calls and they wouldn't make her do everything herself, but she wasn't often put on those shifts."

He didn't sugarcoat it, didn't try to soften the blow. He told the Chief about Yaz's repeated attempts to transfer, each one denied by Captain Nash. He painted a picture of a young woman, talented and dedicated, slowly being crushed by a system that seemed determined to hold her back.

The Chief was silent for a long moment. "I see," he finally said, his voice devoid of emotion. "This is...concerning. Captain Nash has always been a stickler for the rules, but this sounds like more than just strict adherence to protocol."

"With all due respect, Chief, it is. It's targeted. It's deliberate. And it's destroying her."

"While she's on medical leave, I'll launch an internal investigation. We'll pull security footage, interview the other members of the 118, see who's responsible and make sure they face the necessary consequences."

Relief washed over Owen, so potent it almost made him weak. "Thank you, Chief. I appreciate it more than you know."

"Don't thank me yet, Strand. This could get messy. And your daughter...she might not be happy you intervened."

"I know," Owen said, the weight of that possibility settling heavily on his shoulders. "But I couldn't stand by and do nothing."

He thanked the Chief again and hung up, the silence in the office suddenly deafening. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Relief, hope, guilt, and a gnawing fear of what Yaz would say when she found out.

He looked less like a fire captain and more like a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Guilt gnawed at him, a persistent ache that threatened to consume him.

He'd made a decision. A necessary one, he told himself. But still, the doubt lingered, a corrosive whisper questioning his motives, his loyalty, his very character. He'd contacted the Chief of the Los Angeles Fire Department. He'd relayed everything Yaz had confided in him and TK about the troubling incidents surrounding the 118. The Chief had been receptive, concerned, and had promised a full investigation.

Owen knew it was the right thing to do. The potential cover-ups, the questionable calls, the inherent dangers Yaz had described – they couldn't be ignored. He knew the bonds of family they shared, the unwavering loyalty they displayed. He was about to potentially break that, shatter the foundation of their unit.

His internal turmoil was abruptly interrupted by the click of the door. TK stood in the doorway, his usual easy smile replaced by a concerned frown. "Hey, Dad. You okay? You look like you're about to single-handedly extinguish a five-alarm fire with your bare hands."

Owen forced a weak smile. "Just...a lot on my mind."

TK stepped further into the office, his gaze unwavering. "Anything you want to talk about? You've got that 'I just kicked a puppy' look on your face."

Owen sighed, the weight of his secret becoming almost unbearable. He couldn't lie to TK. Not about this. He owed his son the truth. "I...I may have done something...not good."

TK, unfazed, pulled up a chair and sat down, his body language conveying a weary acceptance. "Okay. Lay it on me. What's the damage? Did you accidentally set the kitchen on fire trying to make gluten-free pancakes again?"

Owen managed a strained laugh. "No, nothing like that. It's...it's about the 118."

TK's expression sobered. "The 118? Yaz' firehouse? What about them?"

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "I spoke to the Chief of the LAFD. About what Yaz told us...about some of the calls, some of the...questionable things that have been happening." A tense silence filled the room. Owen watched his son, bracing himself for anger, for disappointment, for the inevitable accusation of betrayal. But instead, TK remained remarkably calm.

"And?" he prompted, his voice even.

"And...he's launching an investigation." Owen's voice was barely a whisper.

He braced himself for TK's reaction, but got something completely unexpected. Relief. It washed over TK's face, easing the tension in his shoulders.

"Good," TK said simply.

Owen was stunned. "Good? TK, I could have just thrown a grenade into their careers! They're going to hate me."

TK shrugged. "Maybe. But it needed to be done, Dad. If what Yaz told us is true – and I trust her judgment – then things aren't good over there. They could get worse. You did the right thing."

Owen ran a hand through his thinning hair. "But Yaz...how do you think she'll react when she finds out I went behind her back?"

TK leaned back in his chair, considering. "She'll probably be furious. At first. Yaz doesn't like people interfering in her business."

"So, I'm screwed," Owen stated flatly.

"Probably," TK conceded with a slight grin. "But she'll come around. Eventually. Yaz is tough, but she's also fair. She'll realize you acted out of concern, not malice. Give her time to process it."

Owen wasn't so sure. He imagined Yaz's fiery temper, her sharp tongue, the disappointed look in her eyes. He shuddered.

TK, sensing his father's apprehension, continued, "Look, Dad, the truth is, she deserves to know. The 118 deserves to be held accountable for what they put Yaz through. It sucks, but sometimes the right thing is the hardest thing."

He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. "You know, there's even a chance...if this investigation doesn't go well for the 118...Yaz might even consider moving here."

Owen stared at his son, his mind struggling to process the implications. "Moving here? To Austin? Why would she do that?" He was doubtful about it, but he wanted nothing more than to have both of his children safe, and to be able to keep an eye on them.

"Because she trusts us, Dad. She trusts you. And if things get too messy in LA, if she finally realises the 118 is compromised...she might need a fresh start. And where better than with family who have her back?"

The thought of Yaz leaving the 118, of her uprooting her life and moving to Austin, was both unsettling and...strangely comforting. He didn't want to lose anymore time with Yaz. Having her at the 126 would be a welcome addition.

But the circumstances that would lead to such a move were far from ideal. "I still feel terrible," Owen admitted, his voice heavy with guilt.

TK stood up and clapped his father on the shoulder. "Don't. You did what you thought was right. That's all anyone can ask. Now, go home, get some sleep, and try not to overthink it. You can't control what happens next. Just be there for Yaz when she needs you."

Owen managed a weak nod. He knew TK was right. He'd set the wheels in motion. Now, all he could do was wait and hope he hadn't made a terrible mistake.

...

Yaz traced the worn pattern on the firehouse table, the familiar scent of coffee and burnt toast a comforting backdrop to the turmoil in her mind. Firehouse 126. It had become a haven, a place of laughter and camaraderie, something she hadn't experienced since... well, since before everything went wrong.

She'd been welcomed into their fold, invited to game nights that crackled with competitive energy and shared meals that filled the cavernous space with warmth. She'd even forced a smile and participated, though a part of her remained stubbornly on the outside, observing, analyzing, never truly letting her guard down.

They were observant, that much was clear. The subtle glances, the unspoken questions lingering in the air. They saw the way she flinched at sudden noises, a reflex born from years of anticipating the next blow. Mateo's question about her scars – quickly deflected with a mumbled excuse about clumsy accidents. Nancy's gentle prodding about her appetite – she'd claimed a stomach bug.

But Judd, Judd was different. His gaze held a knowing weight, a quiet understanding that burrowed beneath her skin. It was unnerving, like he could see the ghost that haunted her, the little girl declared dead, the years of pain etched onto her soul.

She suspected TK had told him. He'd always been so open, so trusting, even after all this time. She'd seen the confusion flash in his eyes when they first met, the flicker of recognition struggling to surface against the years of believing she was gone.

She couldn't keep running. The weight of the secret, the constant fear of exposure, was crushing her. Steeling herself, she found Judd alone in the engine bay, meticulously polishing the chrome on the truck.

"Judd?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He looked up, his eyes kind but unwavering. "Yaz. What's on your mind?"

She took a deep breath. "TK... he told you, didn't he?"

A slow nod. "He did. A couple days before you appeared out of nowhere, he was... he was shaken up about it."

Relief washed over her, a small crack appearing in the dam she'd built around her heart. "He told you I was supposed to be dead."

Judd set down his polishing cloth, the silence heavy in the air. "He told me. And I gotta say, darlin', it's a damn complicated story. But I also know TK. He wouldn't tell me unless it was somethin' real, somethin' important."

"It's real," she confirmed, the words catching in her throat.

"Then tell me," Judd said softly. "Tell me what happened."

The story poured out of her, a torrent of suppressed memories unleashed. She spoke of her mother, she spoke of Mike, her stepfather, the man who chipped away at her spirit with every cruel word, every raised hand. Her voice trembled as she recounted the day they "lost" her – the fabricated accident, the official declaration of death, the suffocating weight of a new identity forced upon her at five years old.

"My mom... she went along with it," Yaz said, her voice flat. "She wanted to break Owen's heart, like he broke hers."

Judd remained silent, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of her emotions.

She continued, recounting the years of abuse, the constant fear that gnawed at her, the longing for the family she had lost – the family who thought she was dead. She explained the discovery, just weeks ago, an angry outburst and kidnapping from Mike revealing the truth, the carefully constructed lie crumbling around her. And then, the overwhelming need to find TK, to find Owen, to finally understand.

"I got on the next plane to Austin," she finished, her voice hoarse. "I had to know. I had to see them."

Judd took her hand, his grip firm and reassuring. "Yaz, that's... that's a hell of a story."

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. "They thought i was dead. They grieved me. And now I'm just... here. Disrupting everything."

"You're not disrupting anything," Judd said, his voice firm. "You're family. And family sticks together, no matter what."

"Owen..." she began, the name a painful weight on her tongue. "He just accepted me straight away and my head still hasn't wrapped around that yet."

Judd sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Owen... he's got his own demons. He's a proud man, Yaz. And the reason he's so welcoming, it's cause he loves you, even if he missed 20 years of your life."

"And TK?" she asked, her voice filled with uncertainty. "He speaks to me like he's fine but I feel like he's lying. Is he... okay?"

"He loves you, Yaz," Judd said, his voice filled with conviction. "He's confused, he's hurt, but he loves you. They both do. And I can tell you now, you coming back into their lives, is exactly what they needed, they've been happier than ever."

He then folded her into an embrace, it was warm and full, he was like a wall she could lean on, and for a moment Yaz felt safe.

...

The Los Angeles sun beat down on Yazmina back as she pounded the pavement. Her brown, wavy hair, usually a cascade of loose curls, was pulled securely into a bun, a testament to her focused energy. Her green eyes, usually bright and curious, were narrowed in concentration as she navigated the neighborhood. Sneakers hit the asphalt with a rhythmic thud, her gym set a comfortable second skin as she settled into her morning run. She was slowly gaining a sweat and wished she didn't have ugly burn scars all over her back, she wouldn't have to wear a jacket then.

Suddenly, the shrill ring of her phone cut through the morning quiet. Yaz slowed to a stop, her hand instinctively reaching for the device attached to her arm. The caller ID flashed: Chief Alonzo. Her breath hitched. What could the chief of the LAFD possibly want with her?

Hesitantly, she swiped to answer. "Nerine speaking. Good morning, Chief."

The voice on the other end was grave, official. "Good morning, Firefighter Nerine. I'm calling regarding your temporary placement at Firehouse 118."

Yaz's stomach clenched. Here it comes, she thought. A formal reprimand? A quiet dismissal?

"I received a call from Captain Owen Strand in Austin," Chief Alonzo continued, his tone measured. "He expressed concerns about the treatment you've been receiving at the 118. Following his call, an internal investigation was conducted."

Yaz's heart began to pound. Owen? Why would Owen do that? And what kind of investigation?

"The investigation confirmed that the concerns raised were... justified," the chief said, choosing his words carefully. "In fact, the treatment you endured was deemed entirely unfair and unjustified."

Yaz felt a wave of disbelief wash over her. Unfair and unjustified? It felt good to hear someone acknowledge what she already knew, but the validation was bittersweet.

The chief continued, "As a result of the findings, Captain Nash, Firefighters Han, Wilson, Diaz, and Buckley will all be suspended for fifteen days without pay."

Yaz gasped. Fifteen days? That was... harsh. Even though they deserved it, the idea of that many people being punished on her account made her feel uneasy.

"Furthermore," Chief Alonzo said, cutting through her thoughts, "I'm offering you options. You can remain at the 118, reassigned to a different shift, or you can request a transfer to another firehouse within the LAFD. The choice is yours, Firefighter Nerine."

Her mind raced. Stay at the 118? Even on a different shift, the air would be thick with awkwardness and resentment. Transfer to another station in LA? It would solve the immediate problem, but it felt like running away.

"Chief," she finally managed to say, her voice barely a whisper, "how long do I have to decide?"

"You'll need to make a decision before you re-certify, Firefighter," he replied. "That gives us time to sort out the paperwork. Think it over carefully."

"Thank you, Chief. Thank you for everything," she said, her voice laced with gratitude and confusion.

"You're welcome, Firefighter Nerine. We believe in fairness and professionalism in the LAFD. I expect your call in the next couple of days."

The line went dead. Yaz stood frozen on the sidewalk, her mind buzzing. Owen called the chief? Why? What was he thinking? And what was she supposed to do now?

The weight of the city seemed to press down on her. She needed clarity. She needed to talk to Owen. And more importantly, she needed to figure out if there was any possibility of a future for her in Austin. She needed to know what he and TK thought about her staying permanently.

With renewed determination, she started running again, her pace picking up. This time, her destination wasn't just a series of blocks and turns. It was the 126, a place that felt more like home than anywhere else in Los Angeles ever could.

As she ran, she mentally formulated the conversation she needed to have with Owen. She needed to understand his motivations for contacting Chief Alonzo. Was it simply an act of kindness, or was there something more behind it? And what about TK? He hadnt mentioned anything.

Reaching the outskirts of the 126's district, Yaz slowed her pace, catching her breath. The familiar brick building came into view, a beacon of warmth and camaraderie in the sprawling city. She hesitated for a moment, smoothing down her hair and trying to compose herself. This conversation would be crucial, and she needed to be clear-headed and honest.

...

Yaz knocked on the open door and slowly walked in, her brown, wavy hair pulled back in a tight bun, a few rebellious strands escaping to frame her face. Her green eyes, usually bright and full of energy, were clouded with a mixture of anger and confusion. Dressed in her familiar gym set and worn sneakers, she looked every bit the determined firefighter, but today, her posture was tense, her shoulders squared as if preparing for a fight.

"We need to talk," she stated, her voice firm as she closed the door behind her. She remained standing, a silent challenge in her stance.

Owen watched her, his expression a mix of concern and apprehension. He'd just gotten off the phone with Chief Alonzo, the weight of their conversation still heavy in the air. The investigation into the 118, spurred by his own report, had confirmed the unfair treatment Yaz had been enduring. It was worse than he had even imagined, a systemic issue of bias and exclusion masked behind old traditions and unspoken prejudices.

The Chief had informed him that Yaz had been given a choice: remain at the 118 on a different, less integrated schedule, or transfer to another house. Owen had desperately hoped, perhaps selfishly, that she would choose the latter, that she would see the 126 as a haven, a place where her talent and dedication would be appreciated, not undermined.

But now, seeing her standing there, bristling with indignation, he wondered if he had overstepped.

"Yasmina," Owen began, his voice calm, "please, sit down."

"No," she retorted, her eyes flashing. "I want to know why you went behind my back. Why you went to the Chief." She gestured emphatically, her hand slicing through the air. "This was my problem, my situation. I was handling it."

Owen leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. He understood her anger, her need to handle things on her own. Yaz was fiercely independent, resilient to a fault. But he couldn't stand by and watch her be worn down by the blatant disrespect at the 118.

"Because what you were going through wasn't acceptable, Yasmina," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "It needed to be dealt with. You deserve to be treated with the same respect as any other firefighter, any other member of that team. And frankly, you weren't getting it."

The fire in her eyes seemed to flicker, replaced by a glimmer of surprise. It was as if she hadn't expected that answer from him, as if she hadn't expected him to care. Owen realized with a pang that Yaz, despite her outward strength, still carried the scars of past disappointments, the ingrained belief that she had to fight every battle alone.

She was still learning that people cared about her a lot more than they let on.

"I...I thought..." Yaz stammered, her voice losing some of its edge. She looked away, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond Owen's shoulder. "I thought you just saw me as a problem. Someone who didn't fit in, who was causing trouble."

Owen's heart clenched. He stood up, rounding the desk and stopping a few feet away from her. He could see the vulnerability in her eyes, the uncertainty that she usually kept so well hidden.

"Yaz, that's not true," he said, his voice sincere. "I see you as an incredibly talented firefighter. You're brave, you're smart, and you're damn good at what you do. And yes," he conceded with a slight smile, "you can be a bit of a handful sometimes. But that's part of what makes you, you."

He paused, letting his words sink in. "The problem wasn't you, Yaz. The problem was the environment you were in. It was toxic, and it was holding you back."

Yaz remained silent, her expression unreadable. Owen could see the gears turning in her mind, processing his words, weighing her options.

Yaz perched on the edge of the chair opposite him, the springs groaning slightly under her weight. She fiddled with the zipper on her jacket, avoiding his gaze.

"Chief Alonzo... he offered me a transfer," she finally said, the words coming out in a rush, a dam finally breaking.

Owen's frown deepened. He'd been furious when he'd heard about the harassment Yaz had faced at the 118. Protective instincts roared within him, but he knew he had to tread carefully. This was Yaz's decision, her life.

"He said I could stay at the 118, different shifts, but..." Yaz trailed off, unable to articulate the feeling of isolation that prospect evoked. "Or I could transfer to another house... anywhere really... He said that after the investigation... maybe I'd want a change."

She finally met his gaze, her green eyes searching for something she couldn't quite name. Understanding? Acceptance? Permission? Maybe just a sign that he wouldn't judge her, no matter what she chose.

Owen didn't say anything, simply held her gaze, a silent promise of support. He understood the pressure she was under, the conflicting emotions tearing her apart. The 118 had been her dream. But the dream had turned into a nightmare. He hoped with every fiber of his being that she would consider joining the 126, becoming a part of their family, a team that had already embraced her as one of their own.

She paused, the silence stretching between them, thick with unspoken anxieties. Then, she sighed, a small, defeated sound. She looked around the office, gazing through the windows, the discarded gear scattered haphazardly, the faint echoes of laughter and banter coming from the common room. It was a mess, a beautiful, chaotic mess that somehow felt... like home.

"Would... would you and TK... let me stay?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "Here? Join the 126?"

Owen's face broke into a wide, genuine smile, the lines of worry momentarily erased. Relief washed over him in a tidal wave. He couldn't have masked his emotions even if he tried.

"Yasmina," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You are more than welcome here. We all want you here. The team would be glad you're staying. We were dreading you leaving, you know? We've... we've all grown to like you. A lot."

He reached across the desk and took her hand, his grip firm and reassuring. "This is your home too, Yaz. Always."

A shaky smile touched her lips, the tension slowly draining from her shoulders.

Yaz squeezed his hand, a genuine warmth spreading through her. The decision was made. She was staying. Here. With her father, with TK, with the rest of the chaotic, loving family that was the 126.

The news spread through the firehouse like wildfire. Jubilation erupted, a cacophony of cheers and whoops that startled a flock of pigeons roosting on the roof.

TK, ever the expressive one, rushed over and engulfed his sister in a bear hug. "Yes! I knew you'd make the right decision! We're so glad you're staying, Yaz! We're totally going to celebrate tonight! Pizza and terrible reality TV!"

Judd clapped her on the back, nearly sending her sprawling. "Welcome to the team, officially! Now, about those engine maintenance skills... we got a lot of work to do."

Even Mateo, offered a shy smile. "It's good to have you, Yaz."

Nancy beamed, "Welcome to the 126, Yaz! We needed more girls round here!"

"Yeah we did!" Shouted Marjan, as she high-fives Yaz.

The warm welcome, the genuine affection, washed over Yaz, melting away the lingering fear and uncertainty. She belonged here. She was home.

"What did I tell you dad!" TK whispered to his dad as they watch Yaz and the team.

"Yeah, yeah, you were right."

...

Yaz ran a hand through her perpetually wavy, brown hair, trying to smooth it down as she walked between Owen and TK. The fluorescent lights of the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on everything, a stark contrast to the warmth she felt in her chest. A warmth fueled by hope and… well, TK.

TK, of course, was currently glued to her side, radiating a low hum of discontent. “But Yaz,” he whined, his voice bordering on a dramatic tremor, “why do you haveto go back now? Can’t you let Athena pack for you? Or Josh? Or Maddie? Anyone but you?”

Yaz sighed, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. He was being ridiculous, but the clinginess was endearing, a tangible expression of the connection they’d forged in the past few weeks. She squeezed his hand. “TK, I have to. I need to say goodbye properly. Athena’s been my rock for years, Josh and Maddie… they’re my friends. And besides, someone has to make sure my things survive the move.”

He pouted, his brown eyes, so like warm chocolate, pleading. “Three days is a long time to be away from you.”

Owen, bless him, chuckled, clapping TK on the shoulder. “You’ll survive, kid. Think of it as Yaz going on a reconnaissance mission. She’s scoping out the new territory for us.”

Yaz appreciated Owen’s attempt at levity. Leaving Austin, even for a few days, felt heavier than it should. She’d only just started to feel like she belonged, like she was building something real.

They reached the gate. The usual airport cacophony – rolling suitcases, chattering voices, the muffled announcements – swirled around them. Yaz’s stomach tightened. She really didn't want to leave.

“Okay, this is it,” she said, forcing a bright tone. “I promise, I’ll be back in a few days. It’ll fly by.”

TK pulled her into a tight hug, burying his face in her hair. “Text me the second you land,” he mumbled. "And every hour after that."

“I will,” she promised, squeezing him back just as fiercely. She pulled away and turned to Owen, who offered a warm, paternal smile.

“You be careful out there, Yaz. And don’t get go getting into any crazy LA adventures without us.”

She laughed, a genuine, heartfelt sound. “No promises..” She hugged Owen tightly, feeling the reassuring strength of his presence. He’d been a steady force in her life since she'd arrived, offering support and guidance without being overbearing. He was a good father, and she was grateful for him.

“Alright, my flight’s boarding,” she announced, trying to sound more confident than she felt. She grabbed her small duffel bag, adjusted the strap on her shoulder, and turned towards the gate agent. She handed over her ticket, a wave of nervousness washing over her as she stepped onto the jet bridge.

As she walked down the narrow passage, she glanced back at Owen and TK. TK was still staring after her, a forlorn expression on his face. Yaz offered a small wave and a reassuring smile before disappearing into the plane.

Finding her seat, she settled in by the window. The plane was already filling up with passengers – business travelers, families with young children, college students heading home. Yaz fastened her seatbelt.

The familiar pre-flight announcements droned on, and soon the plane began to taxi down the runway. As they picked up speed, Yaz felt a surge of adrenaline. This wasn't just a quick trip to pack up her belongings. This was a step towards a new chapter, a chance to build a life she actually wanted.

For years, Yaz had drifted, bouncing from one job to another, one fleeting relationship to another. She loved LA, but something was always missing. A sense of purpose, a feeling of belonging, a connection that went beyond surface level.

Then she met Owen, and subsequently, TK. Suddenly, Austin felt like more than just a temporary escape. It felt like home. A place where she could see herself putting down roots, a place where she was surrounded by people who genuinely cared about her.

She thought about TK’s easy smile, his infectious enthusiasm, his unwavering support. He made her laugh, he challenged her, and he saw her for who she truly was, flaws and all. He made her feel… alive.

The plane lifted off the ground, soaring into the bright blue sky. Yaz watched as the city of Austin shrank below, replaced by a patchwork of fields and trees. A wave of emotion washed over her – sadness at leaving, excitement for the future, and a fierce determination to make it all work.

For the first time in a long while, she had something to fight for. Something worth working for, something that filled her with hope and purpose.

The three-hour flight stretched into an eternity. Yaz tried to distract herself by reading a book, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Austin, to Owen and TK, to the life she was building.

Finally, the plane began its descent into Los Angeles. As they touched down on the runway, Yaz felt a familiar pang of nostalgia. This city had been her home for so long, but now it felt… different. Like a chapter that was coming to a close.

She navigated through the crowded airport, retrieved her luggage, and stepped outside into the warm California sunshine. A wave of familiar scents – exhaust fumes, blooming jasmine, and the salty tang of the ocean – washed over her.

Yaz stepped out of the sliding glass doors of LAX, the California sun hitting her face like a warm welcome, even though her stomach was twisted in knots. Back in Los Angeles. It should have felt like coming home, but home wasn't a place anymore; it was a feeling, a connection. Owen and TK. They were her home now, not this sprawling city of concrete and broken dreams.

She tugged her duffel bag higher on her shoulder and started walking in the direction of her apartment. She needed the fresh air, the anonymity of the crowds, anything to keep the memories at bay. The flight had been turbulent, not just in the air, but inside her head too. Every bump, every dip, had thrown her back to that darkness, that fear.

Reaching into her pocket, she grabbed her phone. She wanted to hear Owen's voice, to reassure herself that they were real, that this wasn't just another nightmare. Before she could unlock the screen, a hand clamped over her mouth, rough and suffocating. A coarse cloth pressed against her face, and the world tilted. The familiar scent of chemicals filled her nostrils, and a wave of dizziness washed over her.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. ‘Not again,’ she thought, the fear a cold fist squeezing her chest. Then, darkness.

Chapter Text

Yaz woke up to a searing pain that ripped through her body. Disoriented, she blinked, trying to focus on the blurry shapes around her. The air was cold against her skin. Her skin. She was only in her underwear. Panic clawed at her throat.

Flashes assaulted her: the cold, sterile room, the metallic tang of blood, the agonizing violations. Her breath hitched, and she squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the memories. But they were relentless, each one sharper and more brutal than the last.

She was lying on a cold, concrete floor, the rough surface digging into her skin. Her hand and ankles tied tightly behind her back. Blood. It was everywhere. Matting her hair, staining her skin, soaking into the floor beneath her. She could feel the sticky warmth of it between her legs, a sickening reminder of what had happened. She could feel throbbing pain in her abdomen, between her legs, her head. She was severely injured, she knew that much.

A sound broke through the fog in her brain. Footsteps. Heavy and deliberate, approaching. She tried to scramble away, but her limbs were heavy, unresponsive.

A man stepped into her line of sight. He was tall, maybe around thirty, with a cruel smirk playing on his lips. He wasn't a stranger. Recognition sparked in her mind, a horrifying realization. He was familiar, like a recurring nightmare.

“Well, look who’s awake,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

Yaz’s voice was hoarse, a mere whisper. "Who… who are you? What do you want?"

He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that sent shivers down her spine. "Why spoil the fun? Where's the sport in that?" He squatted down, his face inches from hers, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger. "I was told you'd be stronger than this. Disappointing, really."

He stood up, and Yaz tried to push herself away, but her body screamed in protest. He moved with a terrifying casualness, retrieving something from a nearby table. A knife.

He casually ran a thumb along the blade, testing its sharpness. Yaz’s breath hitched as he walked back towards her. He knelt again, pressing the cold steel of the blade against her chin, forcing her to look up at him.

"You were such fun before," he whispered, his voice dripping with a perverse delight. "So full of fight. I wonder if you've learned your lesson yet." With his other hand, he grabbed at the elastic waistband of her underwear, and dragged it down.

Yaz screamed, a raw, desperate sound that echoed in the cavernous space. She struggled, kicking and thrashing with what little strength she had left. But he was too strong, his grip like iron.

His eyes hardened. "Quiet, little bird. You're ruining the game." He pressed harder on the knife, the sharp edge drawing a thin line of blood on her chin. "Don't make me angry."

Yaz whimpered, tears streaming down her face. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the inevitable.

Suddenly, the pressure on her chin eased slightly. She dared to open her eyes, just as he flicked the knife down, across her cheek, with sudden, vicious speed.

Agony exploded across her face. She screamed again, a high-pitched, animalistic sound. She clawed at her cheek, her fingers coming away sticky with blood. A deep gash marred her skin, a permanent reminder of this horror.

He stood up, his face impassive, as if he'd just swatted a fly. He walked over to the side of the room, and Yaz watched in horror as he picked up a baseball bat. It was old and worn, the wood scarred and stained.

He walked back towards her slowly, deliberately, the bat held loosely in his hand. Yaz knew what was coming. She closed her eyes, and waited.

He raised the bat above his head, and then brought it down with a sickening thud. Darkness consumed her again.

…

The knot in TK's stomach tightened with each passing hour. Yaz's plane had landed in Los Angeles six hours ago, a fact he'd confirmed with a nervous check of the flight tracker. But his texts weren't going through. Her phone was off. A wave of icy dread washed over him. Yaz always kept her phone on, especially after landing in a new city.

He chewed on his thumbnail, the anxiety building into a full-blown panic. He needed to talk to someone, anyone. He bolted from his room, the floorboards groaning under his frantic steps. He found his dad in the living room, staring blankly at the muted television.

"Dad," TK blurted out, his voice cracking. "Yaz landed hours ago, but I can't reach her. Her phone's off. I… I don't know what to do."

Owen's face, normally a comforting landscape of strength and resilience, mirrored TK's fear. He'd been trying to reach Yaz himself, a casual "just checking in" text, but he'd received no reply. He masked his own growing concern, forcing a calm tone.

"Okay, TK, breathe. Maybe her phone died. Maybe she's just settling in. Let's not jump to conclusions."

But TK wasn't buying it. He knew Yaz. This wasn't like her. "No, Dad, something's wrong. You know it is. We have to do something."

Owen ran a hand through his hair, the lines on his forehead deepening. He was as worried as TK, maybe even more so, but he knew he had to be the anchor. "Alright, what do you suggest?"

"Maybe Carlos or Grace could ping her location, or get one of her friends' contact information?" TK's voice was laced with desperation. "Someone must know something."

Owen nodded, relief flooding him that TK had a plan, even if it was a shaky one. "Okay, let's go see Carlos."

The police station was a familiar, yet unwelcome, setting for TK. He hated seeing Carlos in this environment, the sterile fluorescent lights and the constant hum of activity a stark contrast to their warm, comfortable home.

They found Carlos at his desk, a mountain of paperwork threatening to engulf him. He looked up, his face softening as he saw TK and Owen. "Hey, what's up?"

TK didn't waste time on pleasantries. "Carlos, I need your help. It's Yaz. She landed in LA this morning, and I can't reach her. Her phone's off, and I'm freaking out."

Carlos's brow furrowed with concern. "Have you tried calling her or her friends?"

TK explained, his voice trembling slightly. "I don't know who it is, and I can't find her contact information anywhere. Would you be able to find Athena Grant's contact information? She's Yaz's friend in LA."

Carlos didn't hesitate. He knew the fear in TK's eyes, the desperate plea for help. He tapped away at his keyboard, his fingers flying across the keys. Within moments, he had the information they needed.

"Here you go," Carlos said, handing TK a slip of paper with Athena Grant's number. "I hope everything's okay."

"Me too," TK mumbled, dialing the number with shaky hands.

The phone rang three times before a crisp, professional voice answered. "Sergeant Grant."

"Hi, Sergeant Grant, my name is TK Strand. I'm Yazmin's brother. I'm calling because I'm trying to get in touch with her, but her phone seems to be off. I was hoping you might know where she is."

A pause, a beat of silence that stretched into an eternity. "I'm afraid I haven't heard from Yazmin today either, Mr. Strand. That's concerning,"

TK's heart sank. If Yaz hadn't even shown up for work, something was definitely wrong. "Have you tried reaching out to her?"

"Yes, several times. I even went to her apartment earlier, but she wasn't there. The apartment was exactly as she left it, but no sign of her. Honestly, I'm getting worried."

The weight in the room seemed to double. Three pairs of eyes met, each reflecting the growing dread.

Athena cleared her throat. "There's something else I need to tell you, Mr. Strand. I hesitated to mention it, but given the circumstances..."

TK braced himself for the blow. "What is it?"

"A few days ago, I discovered that Yazmin's stepfather, Mike Jones, had contact with a man named Jack Smith. The only thing is he used a private cell he somehow managed to sneak in, which means something bad might have happened Yaz. Smith has a history of violence, he also has harmed Yaz before, and I'm concerned that Jones might have hired him to… to hurt her.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. TK felt the blood drain from his face. Mike Jones. The man who had made Yaz's life a living hell for years. The man she had finally managed to escape.

Owen gripped TK's shoulder, his knuckles white. He knew the story of Yaz’s upbringing. He knew the darkness she had fought so hard to overcome. The thought of her being back in that situation, in danger, was unbearable.

"Do you have any leads on this Jack Smith?" Owen asked, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage.

"I have officers out looking for him, but so far, we haven't had any luck," Athena replied, her voice laced with frustration. "He seems to have vanished. I'm doing everything I can, Mr. Strand, but I need you to understand that Los Angeles is a big city. Finding someone who doesn't want to be found is..."

"Difficult," TK finished, his voice barely a whisper. He knew exactly how difficult it was.

A heavy silence descended upon the room, broken only by the hum of the police station. The four of them stood there, united by their fear and their determination to find Yaz.

Carlos, his face grim, spoke first. "Okay, we need to think strategically. Athena, you have resources on the ground in Los Angeles. We can use my connections here to run background checks, look for any patterns, anything that might give us a lead on Smith's whereabouts."

"And what about Mike Jones?" Carlos asked. "Can we bring him in for questioning?"

"I'm working on it," Athena said. "But he's lawyered up, and without concrete evidence, it's going to be difficult to get anything out of him. I need to find Smith first."

…

Yaz's eyes fluttered open, the world swimming into focus. The harsh light of the warehouse stung her eyes, and a dull throb pulsed behind her temples. Her head felt heavy, her hair matted and stiff with dried blood. Panic clawed at her throat as she tried to sit up, a sharp jolt of pain ripping through her body. Severe injuries. The thought was a cold splash of reality.

Her legs were free, at least, but the zip ties around her wrists had been tightened to the point of agony. Her skin was raw and chafed, the plastic digging into her flesh with every movement. She had to get free.

With a groan, Yaz managed to push herself into a sitting position. The warehouse was cavernous and dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of dust and something metallic, something like blood. Her gaze swept across the vast space, searching for any sign of life, any clue as to where she was, or how she had gotten here. Nothing. She was alone.

Hope felt like a distant shore, almost impossible to reach, but she knew she had to try. She had to call for help.

On shaky legs, Yaz stood up. The world spun for a moment, and she gripped her head, fighting the dizziness. She needed to stay focused. She needed to survive.

Her gaze landed on a table in the center of the warehouse. It was laden with weapons - knives of all shapes and sizes, glinting menacingly under the dim light, and a disturbing array of guns. A shiver ran down her spine. What kind of monster would do this?

Driven by a desperate need to escape, Yaz stumbled towards the table. She picked up a knife with a thick, serrated blade. The metal was cold and heavy in her hand. It felt wrong, alien, but she pressed on, her mind racing.

She turned around, her back to the table, and with a surge of adrenaline, began sawing at the zip ties. The plastic was tough, unyielding. She applied force, her muscles screaming in protest, sweat beading on her forehead. Slowly, painstakingly, the ties began to fray.

Finally, with a snap, they broke apart. Freedom flooded her veins, but the relief was short-lived. As soon as she brought her wrists to her face, her legs gave way, sending her crashing to the cold concrete floor.

She examined her wrists, her breath catching in her throat. The plastic had left deep slashes in her skin, the wounds oozing blood. She pressed her lips together, fighting back tears. She couldn't afford to break down. Not now.

Yaz looked around the room once more, and her eyes fell upon a pile of clothes in the corner. Her clothes. Crawling on her hands and knees, she made her way towards them. Putting on her jeans and top was a painful ordeal, each movement sending a fresh wave of agony through her body. As she pulled her top over her head, she felt a searing pain in her back. A lingering pain that she couldn't ignore.

With trembling fingers, she reached around and touched the area. Her hand came away sticky with blood. A deep gash, she realized, running all the way down her back, mingled with the rough scars of old burns. Her stomach clenched. She had to stop the bleeding.

Searching desperately, Yaz found a piece of old, tattered cloth nearby. She carefully wrapped it around her left shoulder, extending it down to her lower back on the right side, and tightened it as much as she could. A groan escaped her lips as she did so, the pain almost unbearable.

A feeling, a chilling certainty, began to creep into Yaz's mind. She felt as though she had met her tormentor before, in a very similar situation to this. The memory was hazy, fragmented, but the fear was real. Then, a name surfaced from the depths of her memory – Jack Smith.

Jack Smith. He had been hired by Mike, to torment her when he wasn't available. Mike was a possessive, controlling man, and Yaz had finally managed to escape his clutches. But now... now she had no doubt that Jack had been hired by Mike once again.

A wave of nausea washed over her, and she knew she was close to passing out. She had no idea how long she had until her kidnapper came back. Time was running out. She collapses in a heap of pain.

The air in the warehouse hung thick and heavy, a cloying miasma of dust, decay, and something else… something metallic and sharp that Yaz knew, with a sickening certainty, was blood. Her own blood. She blinked, trying to focus her green eyes, but her vision swam. Brown waves of hair, stiff with dried blood, stuck to her forehead, obscuring her already limited view. Every breath sent a jolt of pain through her body, a symphony of agony that echoed the terror clawing at her throat.

How long had she been here? Time had become a blurry, indistinct mess. All she knew was the overwhelming need to escape. To get away from the darkness, from the pain, from him.

She attempted to sit up, but a searing pain in her ribs stopped her. Groaning, she remained still, her heart hammering against her bruised chest. The warehouse was a cavernous space, filled with shadows that danced and writhed like malevolent spirits. Broken machinery lay scattered around, silent witnesses to her torment. The air reeked of neglect and despair.

Suddenly, her gaze snagged on something – a glint of plastic reflecting the weak light filtering through a grimy window. A phone. An old, rotary phone mounted on the wall near a water stained desk. Hope, a fragile, trembling bird, fluttered in her chest.

Ignoring the waves of nausea and pain, Yaz pushed herself to her feet. The world spun, and she swayed precariously, her legs threatening to buckle beneath her. She stumbled forward, using the wall for support, each step a monumental effort. The concrete floor scraped against her bare feet, adding another layer of discomfort to her already overloaded senses.

Finally, she reached the phone. Her fingers, clumsy and trembling, fumbled with the receiver. It was heavy, cold, and unfamiliar in her grip. With a deep breath, she dialed 911, each number a victory against the encroaching darkness.

The ringing seemed to last an eternity. Then, a voice, crisp and professional, cut through the silence. “911, what’s your emergency?”

Yaz swallowed, her throat raw. She managed a weak, pain-filled sigh of relief. “Maddie…”

There was a pause, a beat of stunned silence. Then, the voice on the other end, now laced with urgency and disbelief, crackled back. “Yaz? Yaz, is that you? Oh my god, where are you? What’s happening?”

Maddie. Hearing her voice, a beacon of sanity in this nightmare, brought a fresh wave of tears to Yaz's eyes. She tried to speak, but only a choked sob escaped her lips.

“Yaz, honey, stay with me. I need to know where you are. Can you tell me your location?” Maddie's voice was firm but gentle, a lifeline in the storm.

Yaz struggled to focus. “I… I don’t know. Some kind of warehouse. Old… abandoned.”

Maddie, on the other end of the line, was already working, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she attempted to ping the phone. She efficiently asked the routine 911 questions, pushing past the protocol, desperate to get Yaz the help she so desperately needed. “Okay, Yaz, listen to me. I’m trying to find you. Can you look around? Is there a door? Any way out?”

Yaz forced herself to scan the cavernous space. Her gaze landed on a heavy, metal door at the far end of the warehouse. It was partially obscured by stacks of decaying boxes, but it

was there. “Yes,” she croaked. “There’s a door… over there.”

“Okay, good. Can you get to it? Slowly, Yaz, just take it easy.” Maddie's voice was calm, but Yaz could hear the frantic energy beneath the surface. “Do you hear anything? Any movement?”

Yaz listened, holding her breath. The only sound was the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of water somewhere in the depths of the building. “No,” she whispered. “Nothing.”

“Alright, Yaz. Go to the door. But be careful. If you hear anything, stop. Understand?”

Yaz nodded, then realized Maddie couldn’t see her. “Yes,” she said, her voice barely audible.

She released the phone, letting it dangle precariously, and began to move again, her body screaming in protest with every step. She reached the door, her hand hovering over the cold, metal handle.

“Yaz, are you there? What do you see?” Maddie’s voice was a constant presence, anchoring her to reality.

“I’m at the door,” Yaz said, her voice trembling. “I’m going to open it.”

“Wait! Yaz, wait! Are you sure you don’t hear anything? Anything at all?”

Again, Yaz listened. Silence. Except for the pounding of her own heart. “No,” she said. “It’s quiet.”

She reached for the handle, her fingers closing around the cold metal.

Suddenly, a hand clamped down on her wrist, a vise-like grip that sent a jolt of terror through her.

Yaz gasped, whirling around.

Jack.

His eyes, usually warm and hazel, were now cold, dark pools filled with a terrifying rage. His face was twisted into a grotesque mask of anger.

Yaz shuddered, a primal fear seizing her. “Jack…” she whispered, her voice barely a breath.

He didn’t say a word. He simply yanked her towards him, his grip bruisingly tight. He threw her against the wall, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. Pain exploded in her head, and she saw stars.

He grabbed her again, dragging her across the floor, her bare feet scraping against the rough concrete. She kicked and screamed, her voice raw with terror, but he was too strong.

“What’s happening? Yaz! Yaz, what’s going on?!” Maddie’s voice screamed from the phone, the sound distorted and tinny in the vast space.

Maddie desperately tried to trace the call, her fingers flying across the keyboard. The signal was weak, bouncing off the dilapidated buildings surrounding the warehouse. She cursed under her breath, knowing every second counted.

Jack dragged Yaz towards the center of the room. He threw her onto the ground, the impact jarring every bone in her body. He grabbed a roll of duct tape from a nearby toolbox and quickly taped her wrists together, once more.

“Maddie!” Yaz screamed, her voice hoarse and desperate.

“Yaz! I’m here! I’m trying to find you! Just hold on!” Maddie’s voice was thick with tears, her own fear mirroring Yaz’s.

Jack ignored her pleas. He grabbed a knife from the same toolbox, the blade glinting menacingly in the dim light. He ran it slowly, deliberately, against her stomach, the cold steel a stark contrast to her burning skin.

Yaz screamed, a primal sound of pure terror.

Maddie, on the other end of the line, broke. Hearing her friend's scream of pain overwhelmed her, a tidal wave of horror washing over her. Yaz was more than just a 911 call; she was her friend, her confidante, the little sister she never had.

“Jack! Stop it! Please! Just let her go!” Maddie pleaded, her voice cracking with emotion.

Jack didn’t respond. He pressed the knife deeper, drawing a thin line of blood across Yaz’s abdomen.

Yaz screamed again, each cry tearing at Maddie’s heart.

Finally, the trace was complete. The address flashed on the screen: 14 Ravenwood Lane. An old, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. A desolate, forgotten place.

Maddie barked orders into her headset, dispatching officers and SWAT, but they were too far away. It would take at least twenty minutes for them to arrive. Twenty minutes that Yaz might not have.

“Yaz, listen to me!” Maddie shouted into the phone, her voice desperate. “You have to fight him! You have to! I know you can do this! Just hold on!”

Maddie could only hope that Yaz could hear her, that she had the strength to fight back. She closed her eyes, picturing Yaz in that desolate warehouse, fighting for her life. It was a gruesome image that she would likely never be able to forget. But she couldn't collapse, she had to stay strong so that she could save her friend.

The cold bit through Yaz's thin clothes, a stark contrast to the burning agony lancing through her leg. Dried blood matted her hair, partially obscuring her vision. Her green eyes, usually bright and full of life, were now wide with terror, reflecting the flickering fluorescent light above.

Jack. The name clawed at her mind, a venomous whisper accompanying each agonizing breath. He was a monster, a twisted parody of a human being. He had been taunting her, playing with her like a cat with a dying mouse.

Another slash. The knife ripped through the air, narrowly missing her face. She scrambled backward, her injured leg screaming in protest. The old, abandoned warehouse offered no sanctuary, only echoing shadows and the metallic tang of fear. Every rusted pipe, every crumbling brick, seemed to mock her desperate attempts to escape.

He kept coming. Relentless. A predator driven by a hunger she couldn't comprehend. He wanted to see her break, to watch the life drain from her eyes.

She dodged again, but this time, the blade connected. A burning line erupted across her shoulder. Yaz cried out, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the warehouse. She tasted blood, metallic and thick in her mouth.

She was growing weaker, her movements sluggish. The duct tape binding her wrists felt like a shackle, each tug a fresh wave of pain. But she knew she had to try. She had to fight. Maddie was listening. She had to survive for Maddie.

Summoning the last reserves of her strength, Yaz focused on the duct tape. She twisted, strained, and pulled, the plastic biting into her skin. Agony shot through her shoulders, threatening to overwhelm her. She groaned, a guttural sound ripped from her throat. Finally, with a desperate, tearing rip, the tape gave way.

Freedom. A sliver of hope pierced the darkness.

But Jack was on her in an instant, a manic glint in his eyes. He lunged, the knife raised high.

Then, a deafening roar shattered the silence. A gunshot.

Maddie sat frozen at her desk, every second stretched into an eternity. She gripped the edges of her deskso tightly her knuckles turned white.

"Yaz! Yazmina!" Maddie yelled out in anguish.

Maddie shook her head silently, her eyes glued to the screens in front of her.

Heavy breathing. The sound of a struggle. Maddie's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear.

Then, a sob. A broken, heart-wrenching sound that tore through her.

"I...I shot Jack," a voice whispered, barely audible. Yaz.

Relief washed over Maddie, so potent it almost buckled her knees. He was down. Yaz was alive. She closed her eyes, a silent prayer of thanks escaping her lips.

But the reprieve was short-lived.

A gurgling sound. Gasping. Groaning.

"Yaz? Yaz, what's happening?" Sue practically screamed into the phone, her voice cracking with panic. Maddie had never heard her scream like that, ever.

The heavy breathing intensified. A shifting sound. Then, a sickening thud.

Maddie’s blood turned to ice.

Then, a sudden pressure, a force that lifted Yaz off the ground. Her back slammed against the cold, rough brick wall.

Her hands were clawing at her throat, trying to dislodge the grip that was slowly crushing her windpipe. Her vision blurred, the warehouse spinning around her.

Jack. He was still alive.

The last vestiges of hope flickered and died.

Suddenly, a cacophony of noise exploded around her. A door crashed open, splintering wood flying in all directions.

"POLICE! FREEZE! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!"

A wave of bodies in black swarmed into the warehouse, weapons drawn, laser sights dancing across Jack's figure.

"DROP HER! NOW!"

One of the officers, a hulking figure in tactical gear, assessed the situation in a split second. Jack was unarmed, his hands locked around Yaz's throat. He didn't hesitate. He lunged, tackling Jack to the ground.

Yaz crumpled, collapsing against the wall, then sliding down onto the cold, unforgiving floor. Air. She desperately gasped for air, her lungs burning. Her throat throbbed, each swallow a searing pain.

Paramedics were on her in an instant, their movements swift and practiced. They pulled her onto a gurney, their faces grim. She tried to focus on them, to tell them what happened, but the world was fading. The last thing she saw was the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights before darkness claimed her.

Maddie heard the chaos through the phone. Shouting, commands, the crackle of radios. Then, silence. An agonizing, deafening silence.

Athena woke over the radio, calm and professional, broke through her paralysis. “The scene is now secure. Yaz is being transported to the hospital."

Maddie ripped her earpiece out, tears streaming down her face. She was alive. Yaz was alive. But at what cost?

…

The jarring ring of his phone sliced through the tense silence of the living room, ripping TK away from the spiraling vortex of anxiety that had consumed him since Yaz disappeared. He’d been glued to the couch, next to Carlos, his mind a relentless loop of worst-case scenarios. He desperately wanted to be in LA, tearing the city apart until he found his sister.

He glanced at the screen. The name that flashed back at him made his heart leap into his throat. Yaz.

“Yaz!” he blurted out, answering the call with a frantic hope that felt both fragile and overwhelming. “Yaz, are you okay? Where are you?”

But the voice that answered was not the one he longed to hear. It was feminine, but unfamiliar. “Hello, TK? My name is Maddie Buckley. I’m a friend of Yaz’s.”

The bottom dropped out of TK’s stomach. Maddie Buckley. The name felt vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “Maddie? What’s going on? Where’s Yaz?”

“TK, I… I work as a 911 dispatcher here in LA. Yaz called 911 from a warehouse. She was being held by a man named Jack Smith. He’s been arrested.”

Relief, sharp and sudden, threatened to buckle his knees. They found her. She was alive. But Maddie’s hesitant tone held him back from fully embracing the wave of hope. "Critically injured" echoed in his mind.

“What… what do you mean, ‘was being held’?” TK’s voice hitched, fear tightening its grip once more.

Maddie took a deep breath. “I can’t reveal too much information until the investigation is closed, TK. But… Yaz is critically injured. The doctors are unsure of her outcome.”

The words hit him like a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. He felt himself swaying, the room blurring at the edges. His grip on the phone tightened, knuckles white. He needed to know more, everything. "What happened to her, Maddie?"

Just then, Owen walked into the living room, his face etched with the same worry that gnawed at TK’s insides. He must have overheard the tail end of the conversation.

“Maddie,” TK managed to choke out, ignoring his father for the moment, “Please, what hospital is she in? We need to be there. Now.”

Maddie rattled off the name of a hospital in downtown LA, her voice laced with a professional detachment that couldn't quite mask the underlying concern. She added, before hanging up, “I’m so sorry, TK. I really am.”

The line went dead, leaving TK dangling in a void of dread and uncertainty. He crumpled, sinking into Carlos’s waiting arms. The carefully constructed dam of control he’d been building for days shattered, and a sob tore through him.

“TK! What is it? What’s wrong?” Owen’s voice was sharp with urgency. He knelt beside them, his eyes searching TK’s face.

“They found her,” TK gasped, the words tumbling out in a rush. “They found Yaz. But she’s…she’s in critical condition. We need to go. We need to go now.”

Carlos, ever the pragmatist in moments of crisis, was already on his phone. “I’m checking for flights to LA.”

Owen stood, his face grim. “What hospital is she in?”

TK relayed the information Maddie had given him, his voice trembling.

“Okay,” Owen said, his tone clipped with a familiar command. “Carlos, find a flight. I’ll pack a bag.” He turned and headed towards the stairs, his shoulders squared with determination.

TK stared at Carlos, his brain struggling to catch up. “Wait, what are you doing? 2 tickets should be fine, I’ll go, I need to see Yaz”

Carlos looked up from his phone, his expression softening. “I found a flight that leaves in ten hours. Three seats.”

TK blinked, his mind momentarily blank. Three seats? “Three? Where are you going?”

Carlos reached out, gently cupping TK’s face in his hands. “You didn’t think I was going to let you go through this alone, did you?”

The simple gesture, the quiet reassurance in Carlos’s eyes, was enough to break down the last of TK’s defenses. He launched himself at Carlos, burying his face in his boyfriend’s chest, clinging to him like a lifeline. He didn’t deserve this kind of unwavering love and support.

The next ten hours were a blur of frantic packing, hushed phone calls, and strained silences punctuated by occasional bursts of raw emotion. Owen, despite his own anxiety, remained a pillar of strength, organizing their travel arrangements and offering quiet words of comfort. Carlos, as always, was a steadfast presence, providing a grounding force for TK's spiraling emotions. Sleep was impossible, and the weight of what awaited them in Los Angeles hung heavy in the air.

The flight was an exercise in agonizing anticipation. TK found himself replaying every memory he had of Yaz, clinging to the good times, desperately hoping for more. He imagined all the things he wanted to say to her, the apologies he needed to make for any time he’d fallen short as a brother.

As the plane began its descent, TK’s anxiety reached a fever pitch. He gripped Carlos’s hand so hard his knuckles turned white. He looked out of the window and noticed that it was raining, as if the gods themselves were crying. He also realized that this was the first time he was going to see LA, but he didn’t care, he just wanted to see Yaz.

The drive to the hospital felt like an eternity. The neon-lit streets of Los Angeles blurred past the windows, a stark contrast to the sterile, antiseptic environment they were about to enter.

The hospital was a labyrinth of corridors and hushed whispers. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and fear. After what felt like miles of walking, they finally reached the ICU waiting room.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room hummed, a low, persistent drone that amplified the anxiety clinging to the air. Carlos, TK, and Owen stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces etched with a worry so profound it felt physically heavy. They were a study in contrasts: Carlos, his usual confident demeanor replaced with a raw vulnerability, TK, radiating a nervous energy he couldn't contain, and Owen, his strong frame rigid with barely suppressed fear.

Maddie and Athena approached them, their own faces mirroring the collective dread. “I’m Maddie Buckley, we spoke on the phone,” Maddie said, her voice soft but firm, extending a hand to each of them.

Athena followed suit, her gaze sharp and assessing, offering a brief, professional nod. "We're so glad you're here."

The formalities felt surreal, a thin veneer of politeness stretched over the gaping void of their shared concern. "Yaz is still in surgery," Maddie continued, her voice wavering slightly. "They… they don't really know anything more than that right now. Just that… she might not make it."

The words hung in the air, stark and brutal. TK's breath hitched, a silent sob escaping his lips. He felt a familiar hollowness open up inside him, the gaping wound of loss he thought he'd managed to cauterize. His sister. Gone for so long, a phantom limb he barely remembered.

And now, after finally finding her, after building a fragile bridge of connection, she was being snatched away again. This time, not by circumstances, but by deliberate cruelty.

Owen's thoughts echoed TK's, a painful counterpoint of paternal fear. Yaz, his daughter, had already faced so much adversity, so much pain. She was a fighter, a survivor. But this… this felt different. This felt like a battle she might not win. He clenched his fists, a surge of protective rage warring with the crushing helplessness that threatened to engulf him.

They sat down, the sterile chairs offering little comfort. TK’s leg bounced nervously, a relentless rhythm of anxiety. The minutes stretched into an eternity, each tick of the clock a hammer blow against their hope. His thoughts were a kaleidoscope of fragmented memories: Yaz's hesitant smile when they first met, the awkwardness of their early conversations, the gradual blossoming of a sibling bond he’d almost given up on. And now, all of it threatened to be extinguished.

Owen stared blankly at the floor, his mind replaying the phone call TK took from Maddie. The details were still fuzzy, laced with the shock and disbelief. Yaz, kidnapped. Yaz, found brutally injured. Yaz, fighting for her life. The rage threatened to consume him, a burning desire for retribution against the man who orchestrated this nightmare, the man who’d dared to hurt his daughter.

Carlos sat quietly beside TK, his hand resting gently on his partner's knee. He understood, perhaps better than anyone, the depth of TK's pain, the fear that gnawed at him. He knew that words were inadequate, that platitudes would ring hollow. So he offered only his presence, a silent anchor in the storm of their shared uncertainty.

Two hours crawled by, an agonizing stretch of silence punctuated only by the occasional hurried footsteps of hospital staff and the muffled announcements echoing through the corridors. They were trapped in a limbo of waiting, suspended between hope and despair, their fates hanging precariously in the balance.

Then, finally, a figure in a white coat appeared in the doorway, her face etched with professional empathy. "Family of Yazmina Nerine Strand?" she called out, her voice calm but firm.

The five of them surged to their feet, a collective movement born of desperation. The doctor’s gaze swept over them, assessing their relationship to the patient. She took a deep breath, and began.

"Yazmina sustained multiple injuries," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "She has several deep gashes on her stomach and back, which were unfortunately slightly infected. Her right leg is broken and has been put in a cast. She has a stage four concussion, torn ligaments in both her shoulders, multiple lacerations on her face and hands, and severe internal bleeding, which we have managed to repair."

The words were a litany of horror, each injury a fresh stab of pain. TK swayed slightly, his hand instinctively reaching for Carlos, who steadied him with a reassuring grip. Owen's face hardened, his jaw clenching as he absorbed the brutal reality of Yaz's condition.

Maddie stepped forward, her voice laced with concern. "Can we see her?"

The doctor nodded slowly. "She'll be coming off anesthesia soon. We can allow two visitors at a time in the ICU." She gestured for them to follow her, leading them down the long corridor, the rhythmic beep of monitors growing louder with each step.

They stopped outside a room marked with a number. The doctor turned to them, her expression softening slightly. "She's stable for now. But it's going to be a long road to recovery." She paused, her eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. "I'll let you know when she's awake." With a final nod, she opened the door and stepped back, leaving them to face the reality that awaited them inside.

The room was small and sterile, dominated by a mechanical bed surrounded by blinking machines and snaking tubes. And there, lying pale and still amidst the pristine white sheets, was Yaz. Her face was bruised and swollen, crisscrossed with cuts and abrasions. Her chest rose and fell with the rhythmic assistance of a ventilator, the only sign of life in the otherwise motionless figure.

The sight was a punch to the gut. TK felt his breath catch in his throat, a wave of nausea washing over him. He stumbled forward, his hand reaching out to touch Yaz's arm, the skin cool and clammy beneath his fingers.

Owen followed him, his heart aching with a pain he hadn't felt since the early days of his own cancer battle. He'd always prided himself on being a strong, capable father, someone who could protect his children from harm. But now, standing here, helpless and heartbroken, he felt like a failure.

"I… I don't know what to say," TK whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

Carlos stepped forward, placing a hand on TK's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Just be here," he said softly. "That's all that matters."

Owen nodded in agreement, his eyes fixed on his daughter's face. "She needs to know we're here for her," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "That we're not going anywhere."

For a long moment, they stood in silence, their grief and fear mingling with a fierce determination. They were a makeshift family, bound together by love and loyalty, and they would face this challenge together, united in their unwavering support for the young woman lying before them.

As the first rays of dawn began to filter through the hospital windows, painting the sterile room with a pale, hopeful light, they knew that the road ahead would be long and arduous. But they also knew that Yaz was a fighter, just like her father, and that with their love and support, she would find the strength to heal, to recover, and to reclaim her life.

Chapter Text

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was a cold, stark counterpoint to the warmth Owen desperately tried to conjure within him. He sat beside Yaz, her hand swallowed in his own, the fragile bones beneath her skin a constant, painful reminder of her vulnerability. TK and Carlos were slumped together on Yaz's right, a tangled mess of limbs and exhaustion. Their trust in each other was evident, their proximity offering a silent comfort that Owen envied. Maddie and Athena had left hours ago, their faces etched with worry, promising to return. Now, it was just him and the machines, the sterile scent of antiseptic hanging heavy in the air.

He leaned his forehead against the back of her hand, the rough skin a stark contrast to the softness he remembered from when she was a baby. A baby he hadn't raised. A baby whose life had taken a dark, twisted path he was only beginning to understand. The past three months had been a crash course in Yaz. Her subtle flinches when someone raised their voice, the way she instinctively scanned her surroundings, the haunted look in her eyes that vanished as quickly as it appeared. He'd glimpsed the shadows of her past, the trauma she carried like a second skin, and it filled him with a rage he could barely contain. He understood now the sheer force of her bravery, her quiet strength blooming in the face of horrors he recoiled from imagining.

A dry, raspy whisper broke through the monotonous beeping. "Dad..."

Owen's head shot up. His heart lurched in his chest, a painful, hopeful spasm. Yaz’s eyes were fluttering open, squinting against the harsh fluorescent light. Her face was pale, bruised, and swollen, but her gaze, though clouded with pain, was sharp and clear. The single word hung in the air, a fragile, precious thing. He had dreamt of hearing it, had yearned for it with an ache that resonated deep in his bones. And here it was, spoken with such weakness, such trust.

For a moment, he was frozen, caught in the tidal wave of emotion. Then, he gently placed her hand back on the bed, careful of the IV lines snaking across her skin, and moved to stand beside her head.

"Hey," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Hey, ‘mina. How are you feeling?"

Yaz mumbled, the sound barely audible, "Like hell."

Owen's heart clenched. He hated seeing her like this, so broken, so vulnerable. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead, wincing at the angry red lacerations that marred her skin.

"I know, honey. I know. You've been through a lot."

Her eyes flickered around the room, confusion warring with pain. "How bad...how bad is it?"

He hesitated, searching for the right words, the gentlest way to deliver the truth. "You have some gashes on your stomach and back, Yaz, they were slightly infected, but the doctors cleaned them out. Your right leg is broken, it's in a cast. You have a stage four concussion, torn ligaments in both your shoulders, multiple lacerations on your face and hands, and... you had some severe internal bleeding. But the surgeons fixed it, they were able to stop the bleeding."

He watched her face, searching for a reaction. She just blinked, her expression strangely blank.

"What happened to Jack?" she whispered, her voice barely a breath. The question was laden with fear, with the expectation of more pain.

Owen's jaw tightened. He wanted to rip Jack apart, to make him pay for every single tear, every single bruise, every single moment of terror he had inflicted on Yaz. But he forced himself to remain calm, his voice steady.

"The officers are dealing with him, Yaz. He's in their custody." He said as his hand stroked her tangled curls.

A flicker of relief crossed her face, quickly followed by a lingering fear. It was a grim reminder that the scars he left behind would run deeper than the ones on her skin.

"He won't... he won't hurt me again?"

"Never," Owen promised, his voice fierce. "Never again. I won't let him."

He needed to tell the doctor she was awake, but he didn't want to leave her side. "I'm going to get the doctor, okay? I'll be right back. Just stay here and rest."

He reached for the dimmer switch by the door.

As the harsh glare receded, Yaz visibly relaxed, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. The small act of control, of making her environment a little more bearable, seemed to offer her a sliver of comfort.

He squeezed her hand one last time before turning to leave. "I'll be right back, ‘mina."

Stepping out into the brightly lit hallway, Owen took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. He felt like he was walking on eggshells, afraid of shattering the fragile peace that had settled over Yaz. He flagged down a passing nurse and explained that his daughter was awake, feeling a surge of pride at using that word, "daughter."

Back in the ICU room, Yaz's head throbbed with each beat of her heart. She cautiously turned her head to the left, a sharp pain shooting through her neck. Two figures were huddled together in the chairs. She recognized TK instantly, her brother's familiar face a welcome sight. The man beside him was someone she'd only seen in pictures, someone TK had mentioned often but she hadn't had the chance to meet: Carlos, the hot police officer. She hoped Carlos was treating TK like he deserved.

She studied them, taking in the way they leaned on each other, the peaceful expressions on their faces. They looked good together, happy. A warmth spread through her chest, a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, she too could find that kind of peace, that kind of happiness.

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was a constant, oppressive presence in the sterile ICU room. It had been hours since the accident, hours of agonizing waiting and breathless fear. Now, though, a fragile sense of relief permeated the air.

Yaz shakily whispered TK’s name. The sound, raspy and weak, sliced through the heavy silence. Both men, Carlos and TK, sat up, looking exhausted and shocked. The worry etched on their faces was a stark testament to their ordeal.

TK immediately rushed over, his long limbs eating up the space between them. He squeezed Yaz into a hug, careful not to jostle her too much. She groaned slightly in pain, but hugged him back, her grip weak but reassuring. When TK pulled back, his words tumbled out in a rush of pent-up anxiety, "Yaz, you scared me so much! We were so worried! Don't you ever—"

Yaz winced, her head pounding. "TK," she mumbled, "too loud."

Carlos, who had been a silent observer in the corner, pulled his boyfriend back into the chair he was occupying before. He placed a gentle hand on TK’s shoulder, offering a silent reminder to be calm. Then, he turned to Yaz, offering a warm smile. "Hi, Yaz. I'm Carlos. It's good to see you awake."

Yaz managed a weak smile in return. "Hi, Carlos." She was starting to grow sleepy, the medication they'd given her already beginning to fog her brain.

Just then, Owen and a doctor walked back into the room. Owen moved to his daughter's left, his face etched with concern. The doctor, a woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, began her assessment.

"How are you feeling, Yaz?" she asked, her voice gentle but professional.

Yaz felt like crap. Every inch of her body ached, and a dull throbbing pulsed behind her eyes. "Like I've been hit by a truck," she croaked.

"Well," the doctor said with a small, sympathetic smile. "You're probably going to feel that way for a while. Just take it easy." She shined a penlight in Yaz's eyes. Yaz winced, trying to pull away from the bright light.

"We need to keep you here for at least two weeks," the doctor continued. "We need to monitor you closely for any complications. And," she paused, her expression turning serious, "you cannot sleep for at least 24 hours. Concussion protocol. We need to make sure you're not showing any neurological signs of worsening."

Yaz groaned inwardly. Two weeks in a hospital bed? And no sleep? This was going to be a nightmare.

"You'll also need someone to help you out when you're discharged," the doctor said, glancing at Owen and TK. "You won't be able to do much on your own for a while. You'll need help with basic things, like cooking, cleaning, and getting around."

Owen nodded firmly. "We've got that handled."

Yaz immediately protested, her voice weak but determined. "Dad, I'll be fine! I can take care of myself. You guys should go back to Texas."

Owen shot her a look that clearly said, ‘Are you crazy?’ TK was dumbfounded that his sister would even suggest they wouldn't help her.

The doctor cut in, sensing the brewing argument. "A nurse will be around every few hours to check up on you," she said, addressing Yaz. "We'll be keeping a close eye on you." With that, she gave a small nod and left the room, leaving the three of them alone.

Once the door shut, Yaz renewed her protests. "Seriously, guys, it's okay. I can manage. You don't have to stay here and babysit me."

Owen sighed, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Yaz, honey, you were tortured. You can't even sit up without help. We're not going anywhere."

TK nodded in agreement. "Are you kidding me? We just got you back! We're not leaving you alone. Besides," he added with a playful grin, "who else is going to watch all your trashy reality TV shows with you?"

Yaz tried to smile, but the effort was exhausting. "But you have work," she said, directing her gaze at her father. "So do you, TK, besides you have Carlos."

Owen waved his hand dismissively. "Work can wait. You're more important." He turned to Carlos, giving him a grateful look. "And Carlos is more than willing to stay and help out, aren't you?"

Carlos squeezed TK's hand. "Absolutely. TK told me how close you two are. I wouldn't dream of letting him go through this alone."

Yaz looked at the three of them, her heart swelling with a mix of love and frustration. She appreciated their concern, she really did. But she was fiercely independent, and the thought of being dependent on them for everything, even for a short time, was unsettling.

"I just don't want to be a burden," she mumbled, her voice barely audible.

Owen knelt beside her bed, taking her hand in his. "You're not a burden, Yaz. You're our family, We love you, and we want to be here for you. That's what family does."

TK nodded, his eyes filled with genuine affection. "Yeah, Yaz. And besides, you owe me, this perfect to create memories."

Yaz couldn't help but chuckle, despite the pain. "Okay, okay," she relented. "You guys win. But I'm warning you, I'm a terrible patient."

"We can handle it," Owen said with a reassuring smile. He stood up and stretched, his muscles stiff from hours of sitting in the uncomfortable chair. "Now, how about I go get us some coffee? And maybe something for you to eat, Yaz. Bland, of course. Hospital food isn't exactly known for its culinary delights."

"Coffee sounds amazing," TK said. "I'll come with you, Dad. We can grab Carlos something too."

As Owen and TK left the room, Carlos pulled up a chair closer to Yaz's bed. "So," he said, his voice gentle, "TK tells me you're a ballerina."

Yaz managed a small smile. "I dabble."

"He also said you're a huge sci-fi nerd," Carlos continued, his eyes twinkling. "Star Wars, Star Trek, the whole shebang."

Yaz groaned. "He really knows how to embarrass me."

Carlos laughed. "Don't worry, I'm a fellow nerd. We'll have plenty to talk about while you're stuck in here." He paused, his expression turning serious. "Just focus on getting better, Yaz. We'll take care of everything else."

Yaz looked at Carlos, really looked at him. She saw the genuine kindness in his eyes, the easy warmth of his smile. She understood why TK had fallen for him. He was a good guy.

"Thank you, Carlos," she said, her voice filled with sincerity. "For being here. For helping us."

Carlos squeezed her hand gently. "Anytime, Yaz. We're family now. And families stick together."

As the beeping of the heart monitor continued its steady rhythm, Yaz felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her. The pain was still there, but it was dulled now, overshadowed by a sense of comfort and security. She was surrounded by people who loved her, who cared about her, who were willing to do anything to help her get through this.

The next few weeks were going to be tough, no doubt about it. But she wouldn't be alone. She had her family, her chosen family, by her side. And that, she realized, was all that really mattered.

Sleep tugged at her eyelids, heavy and insistent. She fought it for a moment, remembering the doctor's orders. But the medication was too strong, the exhaustion too deep. With a sigh of resignation, she closed her eyes, surrendering to the darkness.

…

The fluorescent lights of the ICU hummed, a sterile symphony that seemed to amplify Yaz's throbbing headache. She vaguely registered the familiar click of the door, the rustle of paper bags, and the low murmur of voices. Her eyes felt glued shut, her limbs heavy and unresponsive. Each breath was a painful reminder of the mangled metal she'd been pulled from just days ago.

"Yaz?" Owen's voice, usually a comforting baritone, felt like a jackhammer in her skull. He was close, she could feel his presence. Then, a sharp snap directly in front of her face.

Yaz groaned, her eyelids fluttering open with monumental effort. Owen's face swam into focus, his brow furrowed with concern, but there was also a familiar glint of playful exasperation in his eyes.

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty," he said, "You gotta stay awake. Doctor's orders, and mine. We brought reinforcements."

A light chuckle followed, and Yaz recognized the sweet, slightly nervous timbre of TK's voice. "Yeah, Yaz, you've been out for hours. We brought enough caffeine and sugar to keep a small army awake."

Yaz sighed dramatically, a puff of air escaping her swollen lips. "I was anaesthesia, that’s barely rest. This is torture," she mumbled, her voice raspy and weak. "My body aches, I'm in unbearable pain, and my head feels like it's about to explode. I can barely move."

TK’s laughter was softer this time, tinged with sympathy. “We know, Yazzy. We know. But you’ll getting stronger every day. And we're here to help."

Owen placed a hand on her arm, his touch firm and reassuring. "He's right. You're a fighter, Yaz. You've got this." He gestured towards the door. "And look who else is here to cheer you on."

Carlos stood framed in the doorway, a small, hesitant smile on his face. He held a bouquet of brightly colored sunflowers, their faces turned towards the light.

The sight of them, her small, chaotic, mini-family, brought a flicker of warmth to Yaz's chest, a tiny spark in the overwhelming darkness of pain. She might be broken, battered, and barely functional, but she wasn't alone.

"Hey," Carlos said softly, his eyes filled with genuine concern. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I was run over by a bus," Yaz croaked, then winced. "Several buses."

Carlos chuckled, relief evident in his expression. "Well, you look… better than the last time I saw you. The sunflowers hopefully bring you some joy."

Owen busied himself arranging the get-well offerings on the small table beside the bed. He produced a large iced coffee, a box of donuts, and a container of Pad Thai. "Thought we’d save you from the crap hospital food. Fuel for recovery," he declared, holding up the coffee. "This should help you stay awake. And the Pad Thai is your favorite, even if you can only manage a few bites."

TK carefully adjusted the pillows behind Yaz's back, propping her up slightly. "Easy, easy," he murmured, his touch gentle. "Don't want to pull anything."

Yaz closed her eyes for a moment, letting the familiar comfort of their presence wash over her. It was a stark contrast to the sterile coldness of the ICU, the constant beeping of machines, and the lingering fear that haunted her waking hours.

"Thanks," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You guys are the best."

Suddenly, Owen's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and a small smile touched his lips. It was the 126. He answered, and the familiar, chaotic faces of Paul, Marjan, Nancy, Mateo, Tim, and Michelle flooded the screen. They were all gathered around the table at the firehouse, a sea of warmth and concern directed towards Yaz.

"Hey, Yaz! How are you holding up?" Marjan's voice cut through the sterile silence of the room.

A small, strained smile flickered across Yaz's face. "Hey, guys. I'm... here."

The others chimed in with similar greetings, expressions of hope and worry warring on their faces. The 126 was family, and Yaz, even in her current state, was fiercely loved and protected by them.

Mateo, bless his innocent heart, broke the carefully constructed illusion of normalcy. "Wow, Yaz, you look... different." He said, his brow furrowed in concern. "Are you okay?"

A collective groan rippled through the digital firehouse. Marjan smacked Mateo playfully on the arm. Nancy hissed, "Mateo!" Even the usually stoic Tim rolled his eyes upwards.

Yaz managed a weak chuckle. "It's fine, guys. Really." But the effort visibly exhausted her. "If I were there, I'd probably hit him. But right now, the thought of even lifting my arm makes me want to cry."

Owen shot Mateo a pointed look. "Mateo, maybe let's focus on sending Yaz positive vibes instead of commenting on her appearance, alright?"

Mateo, thoroughly chastened, mumbled an apology. "Sorry, Yaz. I just… I hope you feel better soon."

The conversation continued, skirting around the edges of the obvious discomfort. They talked about shifts at the 126, the crazy calls they'd been on, anything to distract Yaz and lighten the atmosphere. The connection to the firehouse, the familiar camaraderie, was a lifeline in the sterile, isolating environment of the ICU.

But eventually, the firehouse bell rang, signaling the end of their virtual visit. "Duty calls," Owen said, a hint of resignation in his voice.

"We gotta go," Michelle added, her face etched with concern. "We’re sorry we aren’t there, Yaz. You just focus on getting better."

"Yeah, Yaz," Paul chimed in. "We're all thinking of you."

"And Mateo promises to not comment on your appearance next time," Marjan said with a wink, earning another playful swat from Mateo.

The call ended, leaving a void in the room. The silence felt heavier than before, amplified by the lingering images of their cheerful, concerned faces.

Yaz sighed, the sound raspy and weak. "I didn't realize someone could be that loud on FaceTime," she said, a faint smile playing on her lips.

TK chuckled. "Oh, trust me. That's them on their best behavior. They're always chaotic, but they mean well."

Owen squeezed Yaz's hand gently. "They love you, Yaz. We all do."

"I know," she said softly, her eyes drifting closed. "It's just… tiring."

The exhaustion was palpable, radiating from her like a physical force. The medications, the pain, the emotional toll of the incident that landed her in the ICU – it was all taking its toll.

The fluorescent lights hummed, a relentless, irritating soundtrack to Yaz’s misery. Every beep and whir of the machines connected to her felt like a physical blow. Her head throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that radiated down her neck and into her shoulders.

"When can I sleep?" Yaz said, her voice raspy and strained. Her throat felt like sandpaper. Her eyes, constantly assaulted by the too-bright light, burned with exhaustion.

TK, perched on the edge of a stiff plastic chair, checked his watch. He looked drawn, the worry etched on his face clear despite his attempt to maintain a reassuring front. He understood this need for rest. It was an escape from the pain, the fear, the sterile reality of the ICU. "The nurse said the next time she comes to check up on you, and that will be in roughly… fifteen minutes."

Yaz growled, a low, guttural sound of frustration. Fifteen minutes felt like an eternity. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the relentless assault on her senses. She focused on taking slow, deep breaths, willing time to move faster. Every second ticked by with agonizing slowness.

Owen, who had been pacing quietly by the window, stopped and turned. He saw the pain on Yaz's face, the sheer exhaustion that clung to her like a shroud. He knew her stubbornness masked a deep vulnerability. He crossed the room and gently squeezed her hand. "Just hang in there, Yaz. Fifteen minutes. You can do this."

Carlos, sitting by TK, offered a small, encouraging smile. He didn’t know Yaz very well. He knew her strength. He knew she could endure just about anything. But even he could see the exhaustion threatening to overwhelm her. He kept his gaze locked on the hallway, subtly checking for the nurse, willing her to appear.

The silence stretched, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the whirring of the IV pump. Yaz focused on her breathing, trying to find a sliver of calm in the storm raging within her. She thought of the incident, Him, a moment of pure terror that had changed everything. She pushed the memory away, focusing instead on the present, on the need to get through the next fifteen minutes.

Finally, blessedly, the door creaked open. The nurse, a kind-faced woman with tired eyes, entered the room. She approached Yaz's bedside with a practiced efficiency, her movements smooth and precise. She checked Yaz's vitals, adjusted the nasal cannula, shone a small light into her pupil.

"You remember those words I told you," she said, her voice gentle but firm, testing her cognitive function.

Yaz swallowed, her throat still raw. "Apple, tree, dog," she repeated, the words feeling heavy on her tongue.

The nurse nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Everything looks fine. You can sleep now. Get some rest."

With that, she adjusted the blanket around Yaz's shoulders and left the room, the door clicking softly behind her.

Yaz let out a shaky sigh of relief. The tension that had gripped her muscles slowly began to dissipate. She was free to sleep. At least for a little while.

She tried to get comfortable, shifting slightly in the bed. Every movement sent a jolt of pain through her body. The injuries were a constant reminder of what had happened, of how close she had come to…

Owen stepped forward and gently helped her properly lay down. He adjusted the pillows behind her head, ensuring she was as comfortable as possible. "Get some rest, Yaz," he said softly, his voice filled with concern. "We're here."

Yaz looked at him, her eyes filled with gratitude. She managed a weak smile. "Thanks dad," she whispered.

She closed her eyes, focusing on the steady rise and fall of her chest. The pain was still there, a dull throb that pulsed through her body, but it was manageable. She prayed she wouldn’t have a nightmare, that her mind would allow her some respite from the trauma. She desperately prayed the pain away.

Slowly, painstakingly, sleep claimed her. It was a fitful sleep, filled with fragmented images and fleeting moments of panic. But it was sleep nonetheless, a temporary escape from the harsh realities of her situation.

Owen watched her sleep, his heart heavy with worry. He pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down, his gaze fixed on her pale face. He was determined to stay by her side, to protect her in any way he could.

TK and Carlos exchanged a look, a silent acknowledgment of their shared concern. They knew Yaz was strong, but they also knew she was vulnerable. They would be there for her, every step of the way.

The ICU room remained quiet, the only sounds the rhythmic beeping of the machines and the soft, shallow breaths of the woman lying in the bed. Outside, the world continued to move, oblivious to the drama unfolding within those sterile walls.

As the minutes ticked by, Owen thought about Yaz, her bravery, her unwavering spirit. He knew she would fight, that she would overcome this challenge. But he also knew she needed their support, their love, their unwavering presence.

He reached out and gently took her hand, his fingers entwining with hers. He squeezed gently, a silent promise that he would be there for her, no matter what.

The night wore on, long and arduous. Owen remained by Yaz's side, a silent sentinel guarding her sleep. TK and Carlos took turns leaving to grab coffee and food, ensuring that someone was always there to watch over her.

As the first rays of dawn crept through the window, Yaz stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She looked around the room, her gaze landing on Owen.

"Dad?" she whispered, her voice still raspy.

"I'm here, Yaz," he said softly, squeezing her hand. "How are you feeling?"

She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. "Sore," she said. "But… better. I think."

Owen smiled, relief flooding his face. "That's good. Just take it easy."

Yaz opened her eyes again, a flicker of determination in her gaze. "I will," she said. "But I'm not going to stay here forever."

Owen nodded, knowing that was exactly the kind of thing she would say. Yaz was a fighter. She wouldn't let this break her.

He knew the road to recovery would be long and difficult. But with the support of her friends, her family, and her unwavering spirit, she would get through it. And when she did, she would be stronger than ever. They would all be there, ready to celebrate her resilience, to support her as she rebuilt her life. The hum of the ICU was ever present, but it was now mixed with a feeling of hope. A hope for a future where Yaz was back to her old self again.

Chapter Text

Yasmina stared at the lukewarm mashed potatoes, the fluorescent hospital lights reflecting dully off the congealed gravy. Lunchtime. Another meal she didn't deserve. Another opportunity to shrink, to disappear. A week and a half. That's how long she'd been trapped in this sterile, white box since they'd found her. Rescued her from... him.

It felt like a lifetime.

Owen and TK were constant fixtures, their faces etched with a concern that both warmed her and chafed at her skin. Carlos had been a reassuring presence in the beginning, but duty pulled him back to the realities of being a cop. She understood, and was glad TK had him when she was in bad shape. Maddie, Josh, Athena – they'd all squeezed in visits, brief moments of normalcy in the chaos that had become her life.

She'd been pushing Owen and TK to go back to Austin since day one. "I'm fine," she'd insisted, the lie tasting like ash in her mouth. The truth was a monster lurking beneath the surface. She hadn't been sleeping, the nightmares a relentless replay of Mike's face, his hands... Everything. She flinched at sudden sounds, her senses perpetually on high alert. And then there were the strange episodes, the ones she'd been desperately trying to conceal. Moments of weakness, a limb going rogue, a sudden, terrifying blankness. She'd dismissed them as exhaustion, the toll of the trauma. Her nurses, she suspected, were starting to piece things together.

Her father and brother were trying so hard to protect her. Their over protectiveness was suffocating her, she needed to leave, she needed to be alone, she didn't deserve them. Yaz's lip was trembling, she needed to calm down before she had another episode, she didn't want them to think that she was sick or anything.

Yasmina prodded the potatoes again, her appetite nonexistent. Maybe if she just ate when someone was watching, she could... She could start now, right? She didn't deserve this food, this… comfort. She didn't deserve any of it.

Suddenly, her left hand felt... wrong. Weak. The fingers twitched, then flailed, completely out of her control. Panic flared, hot and sharp. She tried to grip the plastic fork, but her hand wouldn't obey. It jerked, spasmed, a puppet with severed strings. A wave of dizziness washed over her, blurring the already sterile room. She gasped, a strangled sound lost in the muted hum of the hospital. The world tilted, then dissolved into black.

...

The pounding in her head was excruciating. Like a jackhammer relentlessly assaulting her skull. Yasmina blinked, trying to focus. The room swam back into view, the familiar white walls, the faint scent of disinfectant. Owen was there, his face drawn with worry, his hand a comforting weight on her arm.

"Dad?" she croaked, her voice raspy. Yaz still wasn't sure when he went from Owen to dad but she was glad, though she still didn't deserve it.

Owen's gaze snapped to hers, relief flooding his features. "Hey, sweetheart. You're awake."

Confusion clouded her mind. Why did she feel so weak? Why the throbbing pain? Fragments of the episode flickered at the edge of her memory, disjointed and terrifying. But she couldn't grasp them, couldn't make sense of the fear clawing at her throat.

Owen seemed to read her confusion. His grip on her arm tightened reassuringly. "You had a seizure, Yaz. A PNES seizure."

"A what?" she mumbled, her tongue thick and clumsy.

"Psychogenic non-epileptic seizure," he explained, his voice carefully measured. "The doctor said it's caused by psychological factors, not abnormal brain activity. It's... it's related to your trauma, Yaz."

He paused, searching for the right words. "They're associated with underlying psychological distress, trauma, or other mental health conditions."

Trauma. The word hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Trauma was an understatement. Trauma was too neat, too clinical for the horrors that had unfolded.

Owen continued, his eyes filled with concern. "The doctor wants to talk to you in the morning. Explain everything in more detail. You just need to rest now, okay?"

Rest. The very idea felt impossible. Rest meant closing her eyes, and closing her eyes meant confronting the darkness that waited there, the relentless replays of Mike's abuse, the fear that clung to her like a second skin.

She looked up at her father. The lines of exhaustion and worry were etched into his face, but his eyes softened when he looked at her. How could she put him through any more pain, more worry?

"I take it I'm not gonna be released any time soon," she slurred, the words thick and clumsy on her tongue.

Owen's expression tightened, his lips pressed into a thin line. "We just want you to be safe, Yaz. We want you to get better."

Better. Could she ever truly be better? Could she ever escape the shadow of what had happened? The scars on her face, the burn scars on her skin, the memories that burned even deeper... They were all a part of her now, an ugly, indelible mark.

She felt the panic tightening its grip, squeezing the air from her lungs. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want the pitying glances, the constant concern. She just wanted to disappear, to fade away until there was nothing left but silence.

She stared at the ceiling, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. She didn't want to sleep. Didn't want to face Mike's face in her dreams. Didn't want to feel his hands on her skin, the crushing weight of his depravity.

"I don't want to sleep," she whispered, the words barely audible.

Owen squeezed her hand. "I know, sweetheart. I know. But you need to rest. I'll be right here. I won't leave you."

His words were meant to be comforting, but they only amplified the feeling of being trapped. Trapped in this hospital room, trapped in her own broken body, trapped in the nightmare that had become her life.

She closed her eyes, exhaustion finally winning the battle. But even as she drifted into sleep, she knew there would be no escape. Mike was there, waiting in the shadows, his presence a constant, malevolent force that would haunt her for the rest of her days.

...

Yasmina woke up the next morning. The night before, she had been too exhausted to protest Owen's presence, and she knew she wouldn't have won even if she had tried - her father was just as stubborn as she was.

TK sat by her side, his face etched with worry lines. Not long after Yasmina woke up, her doctor came by to explain the diagnosis. Yasmina had been experiencing psychogenic nonepileptic seizures, and the most effective treatment for this condition was psychotherapy. The doctor suggested Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), but Yasmina was also encouraged to try Prolonged Exposure Psychotherapy. In addition, the doctor prescribed antidepressants, specifically Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors (SSRIs) or Serotonin and Norepinephrine Reuptake Inhibitors (SNRIs), as they help inhibit the reabsorption of serotonin by neurons.

Yasmina felt overwhelmed and worried. She had never really spoken to anyone about the traumas of her past, and the thought of doing so now made her feel even worse. She was still in LA, a place she wanted to leave as quickly as possible. She longed to go to Austin with Owen and TK, but she knew she needed to focus on her recovery first.

Determined to heal and move on, Yasmina agreed to give it a try. She hoped that by undergoing psychotherapy and taking the prescribed medication, she would be able to leave LA soon and start a new life with Owen and TK.

…

The fluorescent lights of the hospital room hummed, a monotonous drone that seemed to amplify the sticky silence. Yaz sat propped up against the stiff pillows of her hospital bed. The pale white hospital gown swallowed her frame, emphasizing its fragility. Her green eyes, usually vibrant, were clouded with a dullness that mirrored the tasteless mush she was listlessly pushing around her tray with a plastic fork. Brown hair, streaked with natural blonde highlights, framed a face marred by trauma.

Lost in the labyrinth of her own thoughts, Yaz barely noticed the rhythmic beeping of the machines monitoring her vitals. A day had passed since… since everything. The memories, fragmented and sharp, were like shards of glass constantly threatening to pierce the fragile shield she was trying to build around her mind.

A soft knock on the open glass door startled her. A man stood there, holding a chart, his expression kind and professional. He was tall, with neatly combed brown hair and a reassuringly gentle smile. “Yasmina?” he inquired, his voice calm and even. “I’m Dr. Elias Thorne, I’m a psychiatrist. May I come in?”

Yaz nodded slowly, her gaze wary. She gestured with a slight tilt of her head towards the plastic stool beside the bed. “Please.”

Dr. Thorne settled onto the stool, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He glanced down at her chart, his eyes scanning the notes. “Yasmina,” he repeated, then looked back at her. “Is there anything specific you prefer to be called?”

“Yaz,” she replied, the word barely a whisper. “I prefer Yaz, especially when I don’t… know someone well.”

Dr. Thorne’s eyebrows rose slightly, a flicker of interest in his eyes. “That’s… interesting. Usually, people reserve nicknames for those they trust, for those they’re close to. It seems the opposite is true for you.”

Yaz flinched inwardly. He was already probing, poking at the carefully constructed walls she had erected to protect herself. She averted her gaze, fixing it on the bland, unappetizing food.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, Yaz,” Dr. Thorne said gently, his voice devoid of any pressure. “But talking about it, about what happened, can be a powerful part of the healing process.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Yaz squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, fighting back the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. She knew he was right. She knew that she couldn't keep all this locked inside forever, but the thought of unraveling the tightly wound knot of pain and fear was terrifying.

Finally, she spoke, her voice barely audible. “He’s… he’s the reason I don’t like people I don’t know calling me Yasmina.” The pronoun hung in the air, a heavy, unspoken accusation. She couldn't bring herself to utter his name, couldn’t bear to give him that much power.

Dr. Thorne remained silent for a moment, allowing her words to settle. “Who is ‘he,’ Yaz?” he asked softly, his voice laced with compassionate understanding.

Yaz’s chest tightened. The memory of him loomed, a dark shadow threatening to engulf her. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak. “He… he raised me.”

“He raised you?” Dr. Thorne prompted gently. He was treading carefully, but his determination to understand was palpable. “Can you tell me more about who he is?”

Again, Yaz hesitated. The name was a poison on her tongue, a brand seared into her soul. She looked away, her eyes fixed on the sterile white wall. “He’s… he’s my stepfather.” The word felt like a shard of glass in her throat.

Dr. Thorne nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering. “Your stepfather. Okay. Can you tell me about your relationship with him, Yaz? What was it like growing up with him?”

The dam finally broke. The words poured out of her, a torrent of pent-up pain and fear. She spoke haltingly at first, her voice trembling, but gradually, as she began to trust Dr. Thorne’s non-judgmental presence, her words gained strength. She spoke of the constant fear, the feeling of walking on eggshells, the way he would control every aspect of her life. She spoke of the casual cruelties, the belittling remarks, the way he would isolate her from her friends and family. She still left out the worst of it, the details that clawed at her insides.

Dr. Thorne listened patiently, his expression unchanging. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer platitudes or empty reassurances. He simply listened, creating a safe space for her to finally speak her truth.

“He… he always insisted on calling me Yasmina,” she continued, her voice thick with emotion. “He said it was a ‘beautiful name,’ a ‘proper name.’ He hated when anyone called me Yaz. He said it was… disrespectful.”

The memory of his voice, cold and derisive, sent a shiver down her spine. She remembered how he would correct people, his tone sharp and condescending, insisting on the full, formal name. It was just another way he controlled her, another way he stripped her of her identity.

“So, ‘Yasmina’ became associated with him, with that control, with that fear,” Dr. Thorne said softly, summarizing her feelings.

Yaz nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. "Yes. It felt like… like he owned the name. Like it was his. When other people call me Yasmina, especially people I don't know, it feels like he's still there, like he's still… in control."

Yah took a shaky breath trying to hold her teas in as she continued. "My name is the one thing I can control, it’s the one thing I can reclaim that he took from me."

Dr. Thorne nodded his head, the rhythmic scratching of his pen the only sound in the sterile room. He wrote diligently in his notepad, capturing the nuances of Yaz’s demeanor. After a moment, he lifted his gaze from the page, his eyes, kind and observant, met hers. "Yaz," he began, his voice gentle, "can you tell me a little about the burn scars on your arm?"

Yaz's breath hitched. The simple question, so innocently posed, detonated a hidden bomb within her. Dr. Thorne made a quick note of her reaction, his professionalism unwavering. He saw the subtle flinch, the tightening of her jaw. He knew he'd touched a raw nerve.

Yaz felt a wave of ice wash over her. Her limbs stiffened, her fingers clenching into fists beneath the thin hospital blanket. She was completely frozen, a statue carved from fear. The words caught in her throat, refusing to form. The clinical white walls of the room seemed to close in on her, suffocating her.

She didn't know why this was happening. Why a single, seemingly innocuous question had triggered such a visceral reaction. Memories, fragmented and hazy, flickered at the edge of her consciousness – the searing heat, the blood pooling out from her mother wrists. But the images were fleeting, indistinct, like trying to grasp smoke.

Her breathing grew quick and shallow, a ragged gasp for air that did little to ease the growing pressure in her chest. The world around her began to darken, the harsh fluorescent lights dimming until they were just pinpricks in the encroaching blackness. Her vision tunneled, the edges blurring, the face of Dr. Thorne, once so reassuring, now a distorted mask of concern.

She tried to speak, to push past the suffocating fear that gripped her, but no sound escaped her lips. Her head swam, and a low hum resonated in her ears, drowning out the world. Her body slowly jerked and twisted. The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her whole was Dr. Thorne's face, etched with a mixture of worry and professional detachment, as he reached for the emergency call button.

The room spun, the cold tile floor rushing up to meet her. Then, everything went black.

Chapter Text

Yasmina blinked, her vision swimming into focus. The sterile white of the hospital room swam into view, the faint scent of antiseptic stinging her nostrils. To her right, a figure was slumped, draped awkwardly over the edge of her bed. It was Owen. His dark hair was a mess, falling over his forehead, and his face, usually so full of easy smiles, was etched with worry. He clutched her hand, his grip tight, even in sleep.

Guilt twisted in Yasmina's chest. He looked exhausted. She must have had another seizure. Another psychogenic nonepileptic seizure, the doctors called them, as if the fancy name somehow lessened the impact of the violent convulsions that ripped through her body, leaving her drained and broken. One minute she'd been in the sterile, brightly lit room with the psychiatrist, Dr.Thorne , discussing... what had they been discussing? It was all a blur. The next, darkness, followed by the jarring, uncomfortable re-entry into consciousness.

A low groan escaped her lips, a sound born of pain and frustration. The seizure had been particularly brutal this time. Her muscles screamed in protest, every nerve ending a live wire. It didn't help that she was already a tapestry of aches and burns beneath the flimsy hospital gown.

Owen stirred, his head snapping up. His eyes, bloodshot and heavy, met hers with raw, unfiltered concern. "Yasmina? You okay?" His voice was thick with sleep.

She wanted to reassure him, to tell him she was fine, but the lie wouldn't form. Every inch of her protested the effort. "Everything hurts," she managed, her voice raspy and weak.

Owen squeezed her hand gently. "The doctor said... your doctor said the psychogenic

nonepileptic seizures can cause chronic pain and migraines. They can be managed with... with Tramadol and Codeine."

Yasmina's stomach clenched. She turned her head away, the sterile white of the wall a welcome distraction from his concerned gaze. Opioids. The very word tasted like ash in her mouth. She hated the thought of having to take them, of being reliant on them to function. Especially not after... what had happened before.

The memory, sharp and unwelcome, flashed through her mind. Mike. His smirking face, the casual way he'd offered the pills, the hazy, numbing relief they provided. She'd been so young, so desperate to escape the turmoil in her head.

She'd allowed it because she liked how they shut her thoughts up for a few hours.

Owen seemed to sense the shift in her, the subtle tightening of her muscles. "What's wrong, 'Mina?" He asked softly, his voice laced with concern.

She closed her eyes, fighting back the wave of nausea that threatened to engulf her. "I can't... I can't take opioids, Owen. Not after last time." The words were barely a whisper, laced with a vulnerability she rarely allowed herself to show.

"Last time?" Owen's brow furrowed, his grip on her hand tightening. His eyes searched her face, urging her to explain.

She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak. "I don't want to get addicted again," she whispered, the words heavy with the weight of her past. "He... he forced me to take them. He kept giving them to me. And I..." She trailed off, unable to articulate the shame and self-loathing that still clung to her. Mike had taken advantage of her vulnerable state, exploiting her desire for escape.

The silence in the room stretched, thick and heavy with unspoken pain. Yasmina braced herself for judgment, for the disappointment she was sure would be etched on Owen's face. But instead, she felt his grip on her hand soften, replaced by a gentle, reassuring pressure.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was filled with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes. "Oh, Yaz..." He brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead, his touch feather-light. "I didn't know."

His words were a balm to her wounded spirit. Relief washed over her, chasing away some of the fear and anxiety that had been gnawing at her insides.

"I know it's a lot to tell me," Owen continued, his voice low and soothing. "But I'm here for you, Yaz. We're all here for you." He was of course referring to TK as well as his support was always reassuring.

He paused, taking a shaky breath. "While you're here, the hospital will help manage the dosage. They won't just give them to you without careful monitoring. And when you leave... when you leave, I promise, me and TK, we'll help. We'll make sure you're okay. We'll keep you accountable."

His words were a lifeline, a promise of support and understanding that she desperately needed. She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the genuine concern etched on his face. He wasn't judging her. He wasn't disgusted. He was simply there, offering his unwavering support.

A fresh wave of emotion washed over her, a complex mixture of gratitude, relief, and a hesitant hope. Maybe, just maybe, she could get through this. Maybe she could finally confront her demons without succumbing to them.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Thanks dad."

He smiled, a small, weary smile that still managed to light up his face. "Anything for you, 'Mina."

The silence returned, but this time it was different. It was a comfortable silence, filled with a sense of understanding and shared vulnerability. Yasmina closed her eyes, allowing herself to lean into the comfort of Owen's presence.

...

The sterile scent of antiseptic stung Owen's nostrils, a constant reminder of the prison his daughter was trapped in. Yasmina, his 'Mina, lay in the hospital bed, a pale imitation of the vibrant young woman she once was. Her brown hair, usually a cascade of waves, was dull and matted against the crisp white pillow. Her green eyes, normally sparkling with mischief and intelligence, were hidden behind closed lids. Even in sleep, a faint furrow marred her brow, a testament to the invisible wounds she carried.

Owen's heart ached as he cataloged the visible scars. The delicate curve of her lips was bisected by a jagged line, a permanent reminder of the violence she had endured. A thin, pale scar bisected her left undereye, pulling slightly at the corner, giving her a perpetually melancholic expression. He knew, too, what lay hidden beneath the shapeless hospital gown: burn scars that snaked across her back, neck, and arms, a cruel mosaic etched onto her skin.

He wished, with a ferocity that scared him, that he could absorb her pain, take it into himself and leave her whole again. Yaz had always been his sunshine, a beacon of hope and laughter in his life. She'd been through too much already, even before this nightmare.

He and TK, had been so excited for Yaz to move to Austin. But then, the call had come. The frantic voice on the other end, the chilling details, the agonizing wait. He hated how much she was suffering, how much he couldn't protect her.

A soft knock on the door broke through his grim thoughts. He looked up, expecting a nurse, but instead, a man with kind eyes and a weary smile stood in the doorway.

"Mr. Strand?" the man asked, his voice gentle. "I'm Dr. Thorne, Yasmina's psychiatrist. May I have a word with you?"

Owen nodded, his gut tightening. He knew this conversation wasn't going to be easy. He followed Dr. Thorne out into the hallway, the rhythmic beeping of machines a constant, oppressive soundtrack.

"I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me," Dr. Thorne began, his expression serious. "I wanted to discuss Yasmina's progress, and some potential future considerations."

Owen braced himself. "What's wrong, Doctor?"

Dr. Thorne hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Before we delve into that, I wanted to confirm something. If I understand correctly, you don't reside in Los Angeles, do you?"

"No," Owen replied, a knot forming in his stomach. "My son, TK, and I live in Austin. Yaz was...supposed to be moving there. And then this whole...kidnapping thing happened." The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

Dr. Thorne nodded, his gaze compassionate. "I see. Mr. Strand, Yaz has recently been through a severe trauma, compounded by previous events in her life. She's exhibited incredible resilience, but the road to recovery will be long and arduous."

Owen swallowed hard, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. "What are you saying, Doctor?"

"I'm saying that Yasmina needs a stable and supportive environment to heal. She needs to feel safe and secure. Given the circumstances, and the events that transpired here in Los Angeles, I believe a change of scenery could be immensely beneficial to her recovery."

Owen's mind raced, piecing together the doctor's veiled suggestion. "Are you saying...you think she should leave LA?"

"I am," Dr. Thorne confirmed. "And I would strongly recommend considering transferring her care to a hospital in Austin. Being closer to you and your son, away from the environment where she experienced this trauma, could significantly improve her mental and emotional well-being."

The idea struck Owen with a jolt. Leaving LA. Taking Yaz away from the city that had become synonymous with her pain. It made sense, logically. But the thought of uprooting her again, of potentially disrupting any progress she had made, filled him with trepidation.

"I...I don't know, Doctor," Owen stammered, running a hand through his hair. "It's a big decision. I need to talk to Yaz. See what she thinks."

"Of course," Dr. Thorne said, his voice softening. "I understand. I'll be back in a few hours to check on Yaz. Perhaps you can give me your thoughts then." He offered Owen a reassuring nod. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Strand."

As Dr. Thorne walked away, Owen felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over him. Relief that there might be a path forward, guilt for even considering pulling her away from her friends and what little normalcy she had left, and a profound, bone-deep weariness.

He walked back into Yasmina's room, the sterile silence amplifying the turmoil in his head. He sat down in the chair next to her bed, his gaze fixed on her still face. He could see the faint rise and fall of her chest, a fragile reminder of her life, her fight.

He wanted to tell her everything, to lay out the doctor's recommendation and ask for her opinion. But the words caught in his throat. He couldn't bear to burden her with another decision, another uncertainty. She looked so peaceful, so vulnerable. He decided to let her sleep, to give her a few more moments of respite before facing the daunting reality of her future.

He thought about the possibility of disrupting her therapy, of forcing her to start over with new doctors, new routines.

He knew that whatever decision he made, it had to be for her. He had to put her needs first, even if it meant sacrificing his own desires. He had to trust that she would find her way, that she would heal, no matter where she was.

He reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. Her skin was cool and smooth beneath his touch. He closed his eyes, whispering a silent prayer for her strength, for her peace, for her future.

He would talk to her later. He would listen to her fears, her hopes, her dreams. He would support her, no matter what she chose.

For now, he would just sit here, beside her, and wait. He would wait for her to wake up, to open her green eyes and see him there, a constant presence in her life, a reminder that she was loved, she was cherished, and she was not alone. He decided he would let Yaz keep LA for a while longer, let her decide what her next steps were with no pressure, no expectations. It was her life and she deserved to have a say in what happened to it.

...

Yasmina blinked, the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital room assaulting her eyes. A low, rhythmic beeping hummed around her, a constant reminder of her fragile state. Slowly, consciousness returned, bringing with it a dull ache that radiated from every inch of her body. She shifted slightly beneath the crisp white sheets, a small whimper escaping her lips as a sharp pain shot across her back.

Her vision swam into focus, and she saw her father, Owen, sitting in the worn armchair beside her bed. He was staring out the window, his brow furrowed in that familiar way that meant he was deep in thought. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the worry etched into his features. He had his ‘thinking’ face on, she knew it well – the one he wore when dealing with a particularly difficult fire, or when he felt helpless to fix something.

"Dad?" Her voice was raspy, barely a whisper.

Owen startled, turning his head sharply. His eyes, usually bright and full of life, were clouded with concern. Relief washed over his face as he saw she was awake. "Yaz! Hey, kiddo. How are you feeling?" He reached for her hand, his fingers warm and calloused against her own.

Yasmina tried to offer him a reassuring smile, but the movement pulled at the scar that bisected her lip, a raw, puckered line that served as a permanent reminder of that day. The burn scars on her back, neck and arms throbbed faintly, and a dull ache pulsed beneath the scar that bisected her left under eye.. She was a patchwork of scars, inside and out.

"Okay, I guess," she mumbled, her green eyes, usually vibrant, now dulled with exhaustion. "What's wrong? You look like you're trying to solve world hunger."

Owen sighed, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. He hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "Dr. Thorne came by a little while ago. He... he has some recommendations."

Yasmina's heart sank. Recommendations. That usually meant more tests, more procedures, more time trapped within these sterile walls. "What kind of recommendations?"

Owen took a deep breath. "He thinks... he thinks it might be beneficial for you to be moved to a hospital in Austin. They have a specialized rehabilitation program there. He thinks it might help you recover faster, help with the seizures"

The thought of leaving Los Angeles, of distancing herself from everything she knew, was both terrifying and strangely appealing.

"It's a long shot, but Thorne seems to think it's worth considering. They've got some cutting-edge therapies, specialists who deal specifically with trauma. But," he quickly added, "it's entirely your decision, Yaz. I won't push you. If you want to stay here, we'll stay here."

He paused again, his gaze meeting hers. "He also mentioned that being in a different environment, away from... everything that happened here, might be good for your mental state."

Yasmina knew what he meant by "everything." The constant presence of firefighters, the well-meaning but suffocating concern of her father and brother. The reminders of her father, knowing he could escape prison and come after her, or even send someone else.

A wave of exhaustion washed over her. All she wanted was to escape, to disappear, to find some semblance of peace in the aftermath of the tragedy. Austin, with its promise of anonymity and specialized care, suddenly seemed like a beacon in the darkness.

"I want to go," she said, the words spilling out before she could fully consider them. "I want to be transferred."

Owen's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You do? Are you sure, Yaz? It's a big decision."

"Yes," she insisted, her voice gaining strength. "I'm sure. As long as it'll get you and TK off my back and back to work. You guys have been here for weeks. You are going to lose your jobs because of me!"

A mirthless smile played on her lips. She knew it was a harsh thing to say, but the truth was, she couldn't bear to see them sacrificing their lives for her any longer. She needed them to go back to being firefighters, to saving lives, to doing what they were meant to do. She could not let the guilt of what happened eat at them as well.

Owen chuckled, but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. He knew she was pushing him away, trying to protect him from the burden of her pain. "We're not going anywhere, kiddo. We're here for you, no matter what."

"I know," she said softly, her gaze softening. "But I need this, Dad. I need to try to get better, to figure things out. And maybe... maybe being in a different place will help."

"Okay," Owen said, his voice firm. "If that's what you want, then that's what we'll do. I'll talk to Thorne, get the paperwork started. Are you absolutely certain, Yasmina?"

She nodded, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. "Yes, Dad. I'm certain."

Owen squeezed her hand, his grip tight and reassuring. He stood up from the armchair, his shoulders straightening with a newfound sense of purpose. "Alright. I'll go find the nurse, let her know. You just rest, okay? Try to get some sleep."

As he turned to leave, Yasmina called out, "Dad?"

He stopped and looked back at her, his eyes filled with love and concern.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Owen smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes. "Anytime, kiddo. Anything for you."

He disappeared out the door, leaving Yasmina alone in the sterile silence of the hospital room. The fluorescent lights seemed a little less harsh now, the rhythmic beeping a little less oppressive. 

Chapter Text

Yasmina stared at the pale white wall, the monotonous hum of the machines a constant soundtrack to her confinement. Five days. Five days she'd been stuck in this sterile room in an Austin hospital. Five days of well-meaning faces, concerned inquiries, and a suffocating sense of being cared for.

Owen and TK had finally returned to work, faces etched with worry as they promised to visit as soon as they could. The rest of the 126, along with Carlos and Grace, had formed a rotating roster, ensuring Yaz wasn't alone during visiting hours. Each visit was a mix of awkward small talk and genuine concern, leaving Yaz feeling more and more bewildered. Why did they care so much? She didn't deserve any of it.

A wave of nausea crashed over her, sudden and fierce. Her stomach churned, and a cold sweat broke out on her forehead. Panic flared in her chest. She ripped the IV line from her arm, ignoring the sharp sting, and yanked the heart monitor leads from her chest, the adhesive pulling painfully at her skin. Without a word, she bolted for the tiny bathroom attached to her room, the linoleum cold beneath her bare feet.

The retching came in uncontrollable spasms. She gripped the edge of the toilet, her knuckles white, as her body emptied itself. The metallic tang of bile filled her mouth, and tears streamed down her face.

A soothing hand gently pushed the hair away from her face. "Easy now, Yaz, just breathe," a calm voice said.

When the spasms finally subsided, Yaz looked up, her eyes bloodshot and her face pale. It was Nurse Flores, the woman who had been tending to her since she'd arrived. Nurse Flores was in her mid-forties, her face a roadmap of kindness and experience. Her presence was a small comfort amidst the sterile environment.

"You okay, honey?" Nurse Flores asked, her voice laced with concern as she helped Yaz to stand.

Yaz stumbled to the sink, splashing cold water on her face. The cool water offered a temporary reprieve, but the nausea lingered, a dull ache in the pit of her stomach.

Nurse Flores watched her, her brow furrowed. This wasn't the first time Yaz had experienced these sudden bouts of sickness. They were becoming more frequent, more intense, and Nurse Flores was growing increasingly worried.

"Yaz," she said softly, "have you thought about what we talked about? About running some tests?"

Yaz avoided her gaze, focusing on the swirling water disappearing down the drain. "Tests for what?" she mumbled, knowing exactly what Nurse Flores was implying.

"A pregnancy test, Yaz. It's a possibility we need to rule out."

Yaz's head snapped up, her green eyes wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief. "A pregnancy test? Are you serious? It's... it's probably just a bug. Or the medication. Or... stress."

Nurse Flores sighed, her expression softening. "It could be any of those things, Yaz. But we need to be sure. You went through a lot in LA and these episodes... they're not normal, and they're becoming more frequent. We need to find out what's causing them. And if there's even the smallest chance you might be pregnant..."

"But," Yaz stammered, "would it even... show up? I mean, it's probably too early, right?"

Nurse Flores nodded slowly. "It might be too early for a definitive result, but it's worth a try. A blood test would be the most accurate, but even a urine test could give us an indication. It's better to know, Yaz, than to keep guessing."

Yaz walked slowly back to the bed, her legs feeling like lead. Nurse Flores followed, grabbing some gauze pads to wrap the puncture wound on Yaz's arm where she'd ripped out the IV.

"Okay," Yaz said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "Okay, I'll do it. But... you can't tell my dad. Or TK. Please. They can't find out."

Nurse Flores pressed the gauze firmly against Yaz's arm, her gaze unwavering. "Yaz, honey, I understand you're scared. But you can't keep things bottled up like this. Your dad and your brother... they care about you. Hiding things from them, especially something like this, is only going to make it harder on you. It can affect your mental health."

Yaz winced, both from the pain in her arm and the truth in Nurse Flores' words. She knew the nurse was right, but the thought of telling her family, of confessing the possibility of a pregnancy, sent a wave of panic through her. Her dad would be disappointed, TK would probably be furious... and what about her career? Being a firefighter was everything she'd ever wanted. How could she possibly balance that with being a mother?

"Just... please," she pleaded. "Just don't tell them. Not yet. Please, Nurse Flores."

Nurse Flores looked at her, her expression a mixture of concern and understanding. She knew Yaz needed support, but she also knew that pushing her too hard would only make her retreat further.

"Alright, Yaz," she said softly. "I won't say anything... for now. But promise me you'll think about talking to them. And promise me, no more ripping out IVs, okay? You're going to hurt yourself."

Yaz nodded, her eyes fixed on the floor. "I promise."

Nurse Flores smiled gently and started prepping the area on Yaz's other arm for a new IV line. As she worked, she spoke softly, distracting Yaz from her swirling thoughts. They talked about the weather, about the latest episode of some medical drama, about anything and everything but the unspoken possibility that hung heavy in the air.

As the new IV line was secured, Nurse Flores said, "I'll be back in a few minutes with a cup. Just... do your thing, and leave the cup on the counter in the bathroom. I'll take care of it."

Yaz nodded, her throat tight. She watched as Nurse Flores left the room, and a wave of loneliness washed over her. She was surrounded by people who cared, by colleagues who had become like family, but she felt utterly, desperately alone.

She got up and walked to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She found the cup Nurse Flores had left on the counter and stared at it, her heart pounding in her chest. The thought of what that cup might reveal sent a shiver down her spine. If it was positive she'd be pregnant with... Jack's baby, she didn't know what she'd do.

After she provided the sample, she placed the cup on the counter, her hand trembling. She leaned against the sink, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Whatever the result, she knew her life was about to change.

The minutes stretched into an eternity. Yaz jumped when she heard a soft knock at the door. Nurse Flores entered, her expression unreadable.

"The test came back," she said quietly, holding a piece of paper in her hand.

Yaz's breath caught in her throat. She couldn't speak, couldn't bring herself to ask the question that hung in the air.

Nurse Flores looked at her, her eyes filled with empathy. "It's positive, Yaz. You're pregnant."

The words echoed in Yaz's ears, a deafening pronouncement that shattered the fragile peace she'd been clinging to. The room seemed to spin, the hum of the machines suddenly amplified, a mocking symphony to her despair.

Pregnant. She was pregnant.

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. She didn't know whether they were tears of fear, of sadness, or of a strange, unexpected joy. All she knew was that her life was about to change in ways she could never have imagined.

"What am I going to do?" she whispered, her voice breaking.

Nurse Flores sat on the edge of the bed, taking Yaz's hand in hers. "You're going to be okay, Yaz," she said softly. "You're strong, resourceful, and you have people who care about you. You're not alone in this."

Yaz squeezed Nurse Flores' hand, finding a small measure of comfort in her touch. She knew she had a long and difficult road ahead of her. She had to figure out how to tell her family, how to balance her career with motherhood, and how to navigate the challenges of being a young, single parent.

But as she looked into Nurse Flores' kind eyes, she realized that maybe, just maybe, she could do it. Maybe, with the support of her family, her friends, and the unwavering care of the people around her, she could find a way to embrace this unexpected chapter in her life.

...

Yasmina stared at the stark white wall of her hospital room, its sterile emptiness mirroring the turmoil churning within her. Green eyes, usually sparkling with life, were clouded with a heavy fog of disbelief and anxiety. Strands of her brown, wavy hair, usually bouncing with natural blonde streaks, lay limp against her shoulders, mirroring her own listless energy.

Pregnant. The word echoed in her mind, a relentless, jarring clang. It was a truth she couldn't seem to grasp, a reality so far removed from her planned life that it felt like a cruel joke. Kidnapped. Pregnant. The events of the past few weeks were a chaotic nightmare, a twisted scenario ripped from the pages of a suspense novel. But it wasn't fiction; it was her life.

The baby... her baby... conceived in the most horrific of circumstances, a chilling reminder of her captivity. The man who'd held her prisoner, a ghost from her past she'd desperately tried to bury, had somehow gotten inside her head again and now, inside her body. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, a cold wave washing over her. What was she supposed to do?

Three options swam before her, each one fraught with impossible choices: Raise the baby, a constant reminder of her trauma, a child born of violence. Abort the baby, severing the life growing within her, an act that felt inherently wrong, a violation of her core beliefs. Adoption, giving her child a chance at a loving family, while she wrestled with the grief of letting go, the knowledge that she would never hold them again.

The weight of these decisions pressed down on her, suffocating her. The thought of giving her baby up for adoption gnawed at her. It was a selfless act, she knew, but the idea of relinquishing her own child, of never knowing them, of forever wondering if they were happy, felt like tearing a piece of her soul away.

But then, what about Owen? And TK? How would they react? Owen, he would be devastated, Yaz knew. Disappointed.

And TK, her brother, her rock, the one who always had her back. He wouldn't understand. He would be angry, hurt that she hadn't confided in him sooner. He'd look at her with that disappointed frown, the one that made her feel like a child again.

Lost in this maze of conflicting emotions, she hadn't noticed the gentle knock on the door. She startled, lifting her head to see TK standing there, his familiar, reassuring smile gracing his lips.

"Hey, Yaz. How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice warm and concerned.

"Fine," she mumbled, the word feeling hollow and inadequate. "How was your shift?"

"Slow. Nothing major. Everyone's been asking about you. But really, how are you? You seem... off." His brow furrowed with concern, his smile fading.

"I'm fine, TK," she said again, forcing a smile that felt brittle and unconvincing.

He didn't buy it for a second. He raised an eyebrow, his gaze unwavering. Yaz avoided his eyes, a knot forming in her stomach. She glanced past him and saw Nurse Flores standing in the hallway, her expression a silent plea: Tell him.

Yaz let out a shaky sigh, the air escaping her lungs in a rush. She looked at TK, his face etched with worry, and knew she couldn't keep it in any longer. He looked like he was seconds away from calling Owen, and if Owen found out from someone else, she'd never forgive herself.

"Okay, okay, I'm not... completely fine," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "I've been feeling a little... off, for the last few days. Kinda nauseous."

"Nurse Flores asked me if she could run some tests," she said gently. "We got the results a few hours ago."

Yaz took a shaky breath, her heart pounding in her chest. She wondered if she should even continue. One look at TK's increasingly worried face told her that he was bracing himself for something bad. So, she plunged.

"The tests... the tests showed that I'm... pregnant." The word hung in the air, heavy and loaded with unspoken implications.

TK's eyebrows shot up, his face a mask of surprise. He looked utterly stunned, clearly at a loss for words. The initial shock gave way to a dawning awareness, a slow comprehension of the magnitude of what she had just revealed.

Yaz started to ramble, her anxiety spilling out in a torrent of words. "You can't tell Dad, okay? Please don't tell Dad. I don't know how he'd react, he'd kill him!"

TK held up a hand, stopping her frantic monologue. "Hey, hey, slow down, Yaz. Take a breath. Dad's not going to find out from me, okay? Just... tell me how you feel about this. About... being pregnant."

Yaz looked down at her hands, twisting them in her lap. "I don't know, TK. I really don't. It's... it's a lot to process."

"You have options, right? Like... adoption? Or..." He trailed off, the word "abortion" hanging unspoken between them.

"Yeah," Yaz said, her voice barely audible. "I do. But... I don't know. The thought of giving my baby up... it just doesn't feel right."

TK pulled up a chair and sat beside her on the bed, his presence a solid anchor in her swirling sea of emotions. "Do you want to keep the baby, Yaz?" he asked, his voice gentle and probing.

Yaz bit her lip, tears welling up in her eyes. "I don't know, TK! That's the problem! I don't know what I want. It's like... part of me wants to keep it, to love it, to give it the life it deserves. But the other part... the other part is terrified. I'm not ready for this. I'm not strong enough."

"Hey," TK said softly, reaching out to take her hand. "You are strong enough, Yaz. You're the strongest person I know. You've been through so much, and you always find a way to get through it. And whatever you decide, I'll be here for you. Dad will be here for you. We'll figure it out together."

His words were a balm to her wounded spirit, a reminder that she wasn't alone in this. But they didn't erase the fear, the uncertainty that gnawed at her.

"What about dad?" she asked, her voice laced with anxiety. "How am I going to tell him? He's going to be so disappointed."

TK squeezed her hand. "Dad won't be disappointed, he will be worried and scared for you. We're here for you so are the rest of the 126."

"I just... I need time, TK," she said, her voice trembling. "Time to think, time to process everything. I don't know what to do."

"Take all the time you need," TK said, his voice full of compassion. "We're not going anywhere. Now telling Dad will help. I'm sure of it."

"Ok can you call him?" Yaz asked gently.

"Yeah, I'll be back in a minute." TK said as he walked out the door.

Chapter Text

Yaz stared out the hospital window, her fingers tracing the edge of the thin blanket draped over her lap. The world outside looked deceptively normal—sunlight filtering through the trees, cars zipping by on the street below. But inside, everything felt chaotic. She was finally getting discharged after weeks of recovery from the accident, but the news of her pregnancy had changed everything. The doctor had been firm: no more Codeine or Tramadol for the pain. Those pills, once her crutch, were now off-limits because they could harm the baby growing inside her. A baby she hadn't planned for, conceived during a Jack, who was now rotting in prison for his role in the mess that had landed her here.

She had told her dad, Owen, about the pregnancy just a few days ago. His reaction had been a mix of quiet support and simmering rage. "Whatever you want to do, kiddo, I'm with you," he'd said, his voice steady but his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. Yaz could see the storm in his eyes—he looked like he wanted to punch something, or someone. And she knew exactly who: Jack. If Jack ever got out of prison, Yaz was sure her dad wouldn't hesitate.

A soft knock on the door pulled Yaz from her thoughts. She glanced up from her perch on the edge of the bed, her right leg extended awkwardly in its cast. The door creaked open, and there was Owen, holding a small duffel bag. His face was etched with concern, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual. He was still in his work clothes—but he'd clearly made an effort to be here.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "How you holding up?"

Yaz managed a weak smile. "Tired, mostly. Ready to get out of this place." She reached for the bag, her movements slow and deliberate, wincing as the shoulder brace restricted her range. "Thanks for bringing these."

"No problem at all," Owen replied, setting the bag on the bed beside her. His eyes lingered on her for a moment, as if he wanted to say more, but he just nodded toward the bathroom. "Take your time. I'll be right here."

Yaz grabbed the bag and hobbled across the room, her cast thudding against the linoleum floor. Once inside the small, sterile bathroom, she leaned against the sink for support and began to change. She carefully pulled on a pair of soft shorts, biting her lip to stifle the pain from her torn ligaments. As she slipped out of the hospital gown, her reflection in the mirror caught her off guard. The burn scars stared back at her—twisted, pinkish patterns snaking across her back, shoulders, and arms, relics from her mother. They were ugly reminders of that night, but they weren't the only scars she carried.

Her dad and her brother, TK, hadn't asked about them yet. TK, with his easygoing smile and endless energy, had been a rock through all this, lending her his favorite hoodie without a second thought. She pulled it on now, the familiar scent of his cologne wrapping around her like a hug. But she knew they were curious. They were waiting for her to open up, just like her therapist had been gently prodding her to do. The therapist had noticed how Yaz's body reacted—seizures that came out of nowhere when the topic of her past crept up. Yaz didn't get it. Watching her mother kill herself had been terrifying, sure, but it was over. She'd been just a kid back then, hiding in the closet as the gunshot echoed through the house.

Traumatic? Maybe. But Yaz had convinced herself she'd moved on. The scars on her skin, though—they were permanent, a map of pain she couldn't erase. She shook her head, scraping the thoughts away like old paint, and finished dressing. Grabbing the discarded gown, she left the bathroom and laid it on the bed.

Back in the room, Owen was waiting. He knelt down in front of her as she sat on the edge of the bed, holding one of her trainers, gently lifting her foot and slipping the shoe on. His hands were calloused from years of firefighting, but they moved with surprising tenderness.

"You didn't have to take the day off work for this, Dad," Yaz said quietly, watching him tie the laces. "I can manage on my own."

Owen looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers with a fierceness that made her chest tighten. "You're my daughter, Yaz. I'd do anything for you. Work can wait. You've been through hell, and I'm not letting you face this alone."

His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken promises. Yaz felt a lump form in her throat. For so long, she'd tried to handle everything by herself—the grief from her mother's death, the fallout from her relationship with Jack, and now this pregnancy. But here was Owen, solid and unwavering, just like he'd been when she was a kid.

The hum of the tires against the asphalt was a monotonous soundtrack to Yasmina's racing thoughts. Owen had opened the car door for her, a gentle gesture that felt both comforting and like a prelude to something heavy. He always fussed over her, a protective shield against a world that had already wounded her too many times. Now, strapped into the passenger seat, she watched the familiar landscape blur past, each passing landmark a reminder of a life she was desperately trying to piece back together.

Her mind was a tangled mess, Dr. Blackwell's words echoing within its confines. The therapist, with her unnervingly calm demeanor and piercing gaze, had planted a seed of discord, a suggestion so profound it threatened to uproot the carefully constructed foundations of Yaz's reality. Tell Owen. Tell him about your mother.

The thought alone was enough to make her stomach churn. Her mother. Just the word conjured a storm of conflicting emotions – grief, anger, confusion, and a pervasive sense of guilt that clung to her like a shroud.

Dr. Blackwell's interest in her mother's behavior, specifically when she was seven years old, had felt intrusive, a violation of the carefully guarded space surrounding her childhood. The therapist had latched onto the idea that her mother's animosity stemmed from Owen, from the very act of Yasmina's existence. The idea grated against Yaz's carefully constructed narrative, the one where her mother's suicide was a tragic accident, a culmination of her own struggles, unrelated to anyone else.

"It could help with your recovery," Dr. Blackwell had said, her voice soft but firm. As if dredging up the past, the suffocating memories of her mother's sharp words and colder-than-ice stares, was a remedy and not a poison.

"It wasn't traumatic," Yaz had argued, her voice barely a whisper, clinging to the denial like a lifeline. But Dr. Blackwell's silence had been more damning than any accusation. The session had ended abruptly, leaving Yaz to stew in a sea of uncertainty and dread. She knew, with a certainty that settled heavy in her bones, that her next session would be a deep dive into the murky depths of her mother's abuse, a confrontation with the pain she had so diligently buried.

The car slowed to a stop at a red light, jolting Yaz back to the present. She was still lost in the labyrinth of her mind, replaying conversations and conjuring up fragmented memories. Owen glanced at her, his brow furrowed with concern. "Everything alright, Yaz?"

The simple question was a dam about to burst. All the carefully constructed walls within her threatened to crumble. She shook her head, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "No. Not really."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Owen asked, his voice laced with a tenderness that threatened to unravel her completely. He was so good, so understanding. He deserved the truth, didn't he?

The light turned green, and the car lurched forward. "I'll tell you later," she mumbled, the words a postponement, a temporary reprieve from the inevitable.

Owen simply hummed in acknowledgment, respecting her boundaries, as he always did. The rest of the drive passed in a tense silence, broken only by the occasional swish of passing cars and the rhythmic thump of Yaz's anxious heartbeat.

As they pulled into the driveway of their cozy home, Yaz felt a wave of panic wash over her. "Later" was now. Later was standing on the precipice of a truth that could shatter her father's world.

Inside, the house was warm and inviting, filled with the comforting aroma of Owen's cooking.

"Dinner will be ready in about half an hour," he said, his voice cheerful. "Why don't you go relax for a bit?"

Yaz nodded, her throat tight. She retreated to her room, a sanctuary filled with books, art supplies, and the remnants of a life she was trying to rebuild. She sank onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling, the weight of her secret pressing down on her.

How could she tell him? How could she reveal the darkness that had lurked beneath the surface of their seemingly normal family life? How could she expose her mother's resentment, the subtle barbs disguised as affection, the unspoken accusations that had haunted her childhood?

The truth was, her mother hadn't wanted her. Not really. She was a constant reminder of Owen, a symbol of a love that had soured, a life that had fallen short of her expectations. And Yaz, a sensitive, observant child, had absorbed it all, internalizing the message that she was somehow flawed, somehow unworthy.

Dinner was a strained affair. Owen, bless his heart, tried to keep the conversation light, but Yaz was too consumed by her inner turmoil to engage. She picked at her food, her appetite nonexistent.

Yasmina picked at the remnants of her roasted chicken, the aroma doing little to tempt her. The comforting warmth of Owen's kitchen, usually a haven, felt stifling tonight. The familiar chatter of the television faded into background noise, failing to distract her from the turmoil brewing inside. Her green eyes, usually sparkling with wit and intelligence, were clouded with a profound sadness, reflecting the years of buried trauma that threatened to erupt.

Owen, seated across from her, watched her with concern etched on his face. He'd noticed the subtle shifts in her demeanor throughout the day – the way she flinched at sudden noises, the faraway look in her eyes, the tightly wound tension radiating from her posture. He knew something was deeply wrong, something beyond the everyday stresses of their lives.

He reached across the table, gently covering her hand with his. "You've been on edge all day, Yaz. Are you ready to talk yet?" His voice was soft, laced with empathy and unwavering support.

Yasmina flinched at the contact, a visceral reaction to the memory of how contact used to be, she closed her eyes momentarily, gathering her resolve. She knew she couldn't keep this bottled up any longer. Dr. Blackwell, her therapist, insisted that confronting the past, however painful, was crucial for her healing. But the thought of uttering the words, of giving voice to the unspeakable, filled her with dread.

Taking a deep breath, she met Owen's gaze. "I... I need to tell you something. Something about my mother."

Owen nodded slowly, his expression becoming guarded. He knew bits and pieces of Yazmina's childhood – the abandonment, the neglect. But she had always been reluctant to delve into the specifics, a protective wall erected around her past.

"Dr. Blackwell thinks that... telling you what happened might help with my recovery," Yazmina continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I don't... I don't know if I agree."

Owen's brow furrowed, his confusion evident. "Help with what, Yaz? What happened to your mother?"

Yasmina felt a knot tightening in her stomach. This was it. There was no turning back. "Do you know... do you know how she died?"

Owen shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on hers. "No, I dint even know she died till I met you."

Yasmina swallowed hard, her throat dry. "Why do you think Mike took me away?"

Owen's expression shifted, a flicker of understanding mixed with dawning horror. "What are you saying, Yaz?"

"She didn't like me," Yazmina blurted out, the words tumbling out in a rush. "She didn't like me because... because you broke her heart. Because I was a reminder of that."

She paused, struggling to maintain her composure. The memories were swirling around her, suffocating her. The sterile smell of the house she grew up in, the oppressive silence that followed every outburst, the burning sensation on her skin.

"Eventually... when I was seven... she decided that she was done." Yazmina took a shaky breath, willing herself to keep talking. "I don't know her motives for doing it, just that she did. And she... she made me watch. All while..." her voice cracked, "all while in excruciating pain."

Owen's face was now etched with disbelief and horror. "Yaz... what are you saying? What did she do?"

Yasmina squeezed her eyes shut, tears streaming down her face. "She killed herself. But before she did, she... she tied me to a radiator. That's where the burn scars on my back and arms are from."

The silence that followed was deafening. Owen's breath hitched in his throat, his eyes wide with shock. He stared at Yasmina, unable to comprehend the unimaginable horror she had just revealed. He had seen her scars, of course. He had traced them with his fingertips, offering comfort and reassurance. But he had never known their true origin, the barbaric cruelty they represented.

Yasmina sat silently, waiting for Owen to say something, anything. But he remained frozen, paralyzed by the enormity of her revelation. The seconds stretched into an eternity, filled only with the sound of her ragged breathing.

When it became apparent that he was unable to speak, Yasmina continued, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. "When I met you and TK a few months ago, I got curious. I couldn't understand why I wasn't sent to you considering you were technically my legal guardian, or even just to the system. Mike legally had no parental rights to me."

She paused, taking another shaky breath. "I went down a rabbit hole. I found out that he covered up my mother's suicide. He ran with me, hid me away. I had no clue at the time. I was in shock, too young to even tell what was happening."

"So, he just... did that? He covered it up?" Owen spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "Why on earth would he cover something like that up? You needed medical attention!"

Yasmina's jaw tensed before she continued, her voice gaining a slight edge. "I wasn't sent to a hospital. Instead, one of Mike's friends, a medic in the army, looked at the burns. That's why they're so prominent. That's why the scarring is so bad. Because I never got the treatment I needed."

The revelation hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Owen ran a hand through his hair, his mind reeling. He knew Mike was a flawed man, capable of questionable decisions. But this... this was beyond anything he could have imagined.

He finally found his voice, his tone filled with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "Why, Yaz? Why would he do that? What possible reason could he have had?"

Yasmina shrugged, her eyes fixed on the table. "I don't know. Maybe he was trying to protect me. Maybe he was trying to protect himself. Maybe he was just too selfish to do the right thing."

"He could have ruined your life!" Owen exclaimed, his voice rising in anger. "He should have told the police, gotten you into a hospital, ensured you got the proper care."

Yasmina was silent, so Owen continued, his voice becoming quieter, filled with concern. "Are you telling me he never got you therapy, Yaz? Not even years later when you became a teenager?"

She shook her head slowly. "Never. He never wanted to talk about it. He just wanted to forget it ever happened. He just delved into drugs and liquor."

Owen reached across the table again, taking her hands in his. This time, she didn't flinch. She met his gaze, her eyes filled with a raw vulnerability that shattered his heart.

"Yaz," he said softly, "I am so sorry. I had no idea... I can't even imagine what you've been through."

Tears welled up in her eyes again, but this time, they were tears of relief. Relief at finally sharing her burden, relief at being met with compassion and understanding.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for believing me."

Owen squeezed her hands tightly. "I always believe you, Yaz. Always."

He stood up and pulled her into his arms, holding her close. She clung to him, burying her face in his chest, finally allowing herself to grieve.

As they stood there, wrapped in each other's embrace, Owen knew that this was just the beginning of a long and difficult journey. But he also knew that they would face it together. He would be there for her, every step of the way, helping her to heal from the wounds of the past and build a future filled with love and hope.

He couldn't undo what had happened to her, but he could offer her a safe space to heal, to confront the pain, and to finally find peace. He would be her rock, her confidant, her unwavering source of support.

He knew that the road ahead would be challenging, but he was ready. Because Yasmina was worth fighting for. She was strong, resilient, and deserving of all the happiness in the world. And he was determined to help her find it.

Later that night, after Yasmina had cried herself to sleep in his arms, Owen sat alone in the living room, staring into the flickering flames of the fireplace. The weight of what he had learned pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. He couldn't shake the image of a terrified seven-year-old Yazmina, tied to a radiator, witnessing the horrific final moments of her mother's life.

He felt a surge of anger towards Mike, a man he had once considered a friend. How could he have done such a thing? How could he have prioritized his own self-preservation over the well-being of a child?

He also felt a deep sense of responsibility. He knew that he couldn't erase Yasmina's past, but he could help her to build a better future. He would support her through therapy, listen to her when she needed to talk, and offer her unconditional love and acceptance.

He knew that he had a long way to go, but he was ready to commit himself fully to ensuring that Yasmina never had to face her demons alone again. He would be her safe haven, her anchor in the storm, her constant reminder that she was loved, cherished, and worthy of happiness. He would be her dad, like he should have been all those years ago.

Chapter Text

Yasmina sat stiffly on the faux-leather chair in the OBGYN waiting room, the generic pastel artwork on the walls doing little to soothe her frayed nerves. Her green eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were clouded with a mixture of apprehension and a fragile, blossoming hope. Natural blonde highlights danced in her brown hair as she fidgeted, adjusting the brace on her shoulders.

It had been a whirlwind few weeks. A traumatic event she was still piecing together in her mind, a decision that had rewritten her future, and now, this. Here. Waiting to see if she had made the right choice.

The doctors had assured her, repeatedly, that she was healing well. But ‘healing well’ felt like a cruel joke when every movement brought a fresh wave of pain. Six weeks in a cast for her leg, followed by an equal stretch of physical therapy, loomed large. And then there was her shoulder, braced and demanding its own grueling recovery period. Work felt like a distant dream, a forgotten echo of her old life. Her protective, bordering on overbearing, father would undoubtedly whisk her away to the safety of home the moment he could.

A voice broke through her internal turmoil. "Yasmina Strand?"

Yaz looked up, startled. A familiar face, Nurse Flores, stood in the doorway, a warm smile gracing her lips. "Nurse Flores? What are you doing down here in OB?" Yaz asked, a confused frown creasing her forehead.

"I’m a trained OB nurse, Yaz," Nurse Flores explained, her voice gentle. "I thought you might appreciate a familiar face, someone who’s already familiar with your recovery plan."

Relief washed over Yaz, softening the lines of tension around her mouth. A familiar face, especially one who understood the intricate web of her injuries and the arduous road ahead, was a welcome comfort. "Thank you," she breathed, her voice thick with emotion. "That means a lot."

"Happy to help," Nurse Flores replied, her smile widening. She ushered Yaz down a hallway lined with closed doors, the air thick with the sterile scent of antiseptic and the hushed murmurs of conversations behind closed doors. "Just have a seat on the bed, and the doctor will be with you in a minute."

The room was small and impersonal, dominated by the examination table covered in crisp, white paper. Nurse Flores busied herself preparing the ultrasound machine, the rhythmic hum filling the silence. "How are you feeling with everything going on, Yaz?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Yaz hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "A little shaken up," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "But it's nothing I'm not used to."

Nurse Flores gave her a sad, knowing look. She knew Yaz’s history, knew the challenges she had faced, the resilience she had been forced to cultivate. But before she could offer words of comfort, the door swung open, and a woman with long dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes strode into the room.

"Yasmina Strand? I'm Dr. Albright, and I'll be taking care of you throughout your pregnancy, as well as your postpartum care." Her tone was brisk and professional, devoid of any warmth.

Yaz nodded, a knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach. She had hoped for a softer, more empathetic doctor, but she knew she couldn't choose.

"Alright, let's get started," Dr. Albright said, her gaze already fixed on the ultrasound machine. "Roll your shirt up, please."

Yaz obeyed, her movements slow and deliberate. As she lifted her shirt, a wave of self-consciousness washed over her. Her scars, a roadmap of past trauma and resilience, were now on full display. The faded lines crisscrossing her skin, the subtle indentations where wounds had healed, they were all there, a stark reminder of the battles she had fought. And now, this scarred and imperfect stomach was protecting a new life, or rather, lives.

Dr. Albright applied the cold, slippery gel to her lower abdomen, the shock of the temperature making Yaz gasp slightly. "Cold, I know," the doctor said, her voice lacking any real sympathy.

Yaz barely registered the cold. Her mind was racing, her emotions a tangled mess of fear, hope, and overwhelming love. She focused on her breathing, trying to calm the tremor in her hands.

The probe moved slowly across her skin, the silence punctuated only by the whirring of the machine. Then, Dr. Albright stopped, her eyes fixed on the screen. "That is your baby," she announced, pointing to a fuzzy, gray image on the monitor. "And…wait a minute…"

Dr. Albright moved the probe again, her brow furrowed in concentration. Yaz held her breath, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Well, look at that," Dr. Albright said, a hint of surprise in her voice. "There's another one. You're having twins, Ms. Strand."

Twins. The word echoed in Yaz's mind, a seismic shift in her already precarious world. Twins. Two babies. She felt a surge of overwhelming love, a love so intense if she was standing she’d be brought her to her knees. Twins. It was more than she had ever dared to dream.

"Would you like to hear their heartbeats?" Dr. Albright asked, her voice surprisingly gentle.

Yaz nodded, unable to speak, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

Dr. Albright adjusted the settings on the machine, and then, filling the room, came the unmistakable sound of two tiny, perfect heartbeats, a synchronized rhythm of life and hope. Thump-thump… thump-thump.

A sob escaped Yaz's lips, and she quickly wiped away the tears, embarrassed by the display of emotion. She would deny it later, of course, when she recounted this story, carefully omitting the part where she had cried.

"Everything looks good," Dr. Albright said, breaking the spell. "Would you like some pictures?"

"Yes, please” Yaz managed to croak out, her voice thick with emotion.

Dr. Albright printed out several grainy black and white images, then made a recording of the ultrasound, complete with the sound of the heartbeats. As Yaz wiped the gel off her stomach, she carefully examined the pictures, trying to make out the tiny forms within the blurry images.

"Everything looks healthy," Dr. Albright said, handing her the pictures and the recording. "But you'll need to start taking prenatal vitamins right away. You can pick them up at the pharmacy downstairs."

Yaz nodded, her mind already reeling with the logistics of caring for two babies while simultaneously recovering from her injuries.

Dr. Albright quickly rattled off the date of her next appointment, then turned to leave. "Good luck, Ms. Strand."

"Goodbye, Doctor," Yaz mumbled, still trying to process the information.

Nurse Flores lingered behind, offering her a warm smile. "Congratulations, Yaz," she said softly. "You're going to be a great mom."

Yaz managed a weak smile in return. As she walked out of the room, clutching the ultrasound pictures and the recording, she knew her life had irrevocably changed. The road ahead would be long and challenging, filled with pain and uncertainty. But she also knew, with a certainty that surprised even her, that she was ready.

She had two tiny heartbeats to protect. Two little lives to nurture. And for them, she would face any obstacle, overcome any challenge. She would heal. She would grow. And she would be the best mother she could possibly be.

She walked slowly towards the pharmacy, her gaze fixed on the ultrasound pictures in her hand. Two fuzzy outlines, two tiny heartbeats, two miracles.

…

The sterile scent of lemon cleaner hung heavy in the air of Owen office, a stark contrast to the usual smoky, adrenaline-tinged atmosphere of the 126 Firehouse. Owen, his usually impeccably styled hair slightly disheveled, sat hunched over a mountain of paperwork. Filing reports was a necessary evil, a tedious counterpoint to the chaotic ballet of saving lives he truly loved. He’d almost managed to lose himself in the drone of bureaucratic language when a sharp knock echoed through the small space.

"Come in," Owen said, his voice a little rough. He looked up to see his son, TK, standing in the doorway, his face etched with a mixture of concern and barely suppressed frustration. Owen waved him in, a weary smile tugging at his lips. He'd always been close to TK, ever since he was a kid, taking him to football practice, helping him with the ladies, and being there for him when he came out. He could tell TK was stressed out.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, TK launched into action. “Dad, we need to talk about Yaz. I can’t keep this bottled up anymore. She needs to know.”

Owen sighed, the weight of his secret pressing down on him. His lung cancer, a cruel irony for a man who dedicated his life to saving others from harm. He'd been diagnosed months ago, and had only told a handful of people, one of them being TK. He was going to tell his daughter, Yasmina, soon.

"TK, we've been over this," Owen said, his voice softening. "I know you're worried, but Yaz has been through enough lately. She doesn't need this."

"Enough? Dad, seriously?" TK's voice rose, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "She was kidnapped, twice! She's pregnant now! How much more can one person take? And you think keeping this from her is helping?"

Owen leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on a framed photograph on his desk – a picture of Yasmina, her green eyes sparkling with mischief, her brown hair, kissed with natural blonde highlights, cascading down her shoulders. His daughter. She was the light of his life, fiercely independent, intelligent, and blessed with a compassion that often surprised him. The thought of burdening her with this, with his mortality, felt like a betrayal.

"She just got her life back on track, TK," Owen argued, his voice pleading. "She's finally happy. Why disrupt that? Why add more stress to her plate?"

Yasmina had indeed been through hell. The first kidnapping had been a terrifying ordeal, leaving her shaken and vulnerable and it led her too them. The second, even more brutal, had left her grappling with trauma and newfound anxieties. And then, the unexpected surprise of her pregnancy. It had been a lot for her to handle, but she pushed through.

TK ran a hand through his hair, pacing the small office. "Dad, that's exactly why she needs to know! She's strong, okay? Stronger than you give her credit for. She's your daughter. She loves you. She deserves to know what's going on, to be there for you."

"I know she loves me, TK," Owen said, his voice laced with a hint of exasperation. "But loving someone doesn't make them immune to pain. I don't want to see her hurt. I don't want to see that light in her eyes dim."

"It's going to dim anyway, Dad," TK countered, his voice softening. "Whether you tell her or not, she's going to find out eventually. And when she does, she's going to be even more hurt, more angry, because you didn't trust her enough to tell her yourself."

Owen knew, deep down, that TK was right. He just didn't want to admit it. He'd always prided himself on being strong, on being the rock for his family. But this... this was different. This was a vulnerability he wasn't sure he was ready to share.

He looked at TK, his son’s face a mirror of his own – the same determined jawline, the same persistent glint in his eyes. He saw not just a son, but a confidant, an ally.

"You really think she can handle it?" Owen asked, his voice barely a whisper.

TK stopped pacing and knelt in front of his father, placing a hand on his knee. "I know she can, Dad. She's Yaz. She's a fighter. And she loves you more than anything in the world. Let her be there for you."

Owen closed his eyes, the weight of his secret feeling slightly lighter, shared now. He knew he couldn't keep it from her forever. It was unfair to her, unfair to their bond.

"Okay," Owen said, finally opening his eyes. "Okay, you're right. We'll tell her."

A wave of relief washed over TK's face. "Thank you, Dad. She'll be so grateful."

"I'm not doing this for me, TK," Owen said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I'm doing this for her. I just hope I'm doing the right thing."

"You are, Dad," TK assured him. "You are. Now lunch is ready and Yaz should be by soon so let’s go eat.”

…

Yasmina stepped out of the Uber, the Texas sun already beating down with a vengeance despite it only being mid-morning. She winced, gingerly placing her weight on her left leg before maneuvering her right, encased in a bulky cast, onto the pavement.

She hobbled, and it was definitely hobbling, towards the familiar red brick building that was Firehouse 126. She tried to pick up her pace, but the cast was a considerable impediment. "As fast as I can" really wasn't saying much.

The aroma of food hit her the moment she pushed open the heavy firehouse doors. It was a comforting, familiar smell – a mix of Paul's legendary chili, a hint of Marjan’s exotic spices, and the general, indefinable scent of camaraderie and shared meals. Yaz followed the scent trail, her heart lifting slightly. Seeing her family, her chosen family, was exactly what she needed.

The kitchen was a hive of activity. Owen was at the stove, stirring a pot that looked suspiciously like his famous "heart attack on a plate" breakfast casserole. TK was leaning against the counter, arguing with Marjan about the merits of a particular type of Iranian saffron. Judd was holding court at the table, regaling Mateo and Nancy with a story that involved a goat, a trampoline, and a near-disaster. Paul was meticulously chopping vegetables, his brow furrowed in concentration. Even Michelle and Timothy were there, visiting from their respective placements. The whole crew was together.

Yaz took a deep breath, steeling herself. This was it. Time to drop the bombshell.

She cleared her throat, her voice barely audible above the din. “Hey, guys?”

Everyone turned, their faces lighting up as they spotted her.

"Yaz!" Marjan squealed, rushing forward to give her a hug, careful of the cast. "You're finally here! We missed you!"

"Welcome back to the land of the living, kid," Judd boomed, his bear-like hug almost knocking her off balance.

"Careful, Judd! Her ankle!" Owen cautioned, a worried frown creasing his forehead.

Yaz smiled, basking in their warmth. "I, uh… I have some news."

The room went silent, all eyes on her. Yaz shifted uncomfortably, the weight of her secret suddenly amplified.

"I'm pregnant," she blurted out, the words tumbling out in a rush. "With twins."

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the faint sizzle of Owen's casserole. Yaz held her breath, watching their faces, searching for a reaction.

Then, the dam broke.

A collective gasp, followed by a chorus of "Oh my gods!" and "No way!" filled the kitchen. Marjan shrieked with delight, pulling Yaz into another hug. TK stared, his jaw slack, before whooping and slapping Judd on the back. Judd, never one for subtlety, let out a bellow of laughter that shook the windows. Even Paul, usually so composed, cracked a smile.

"Twins?!" Owen finally managed, his voice a mix of shock and disbelief.

Suddenly, Yaz was surrounded, bombarded with questions, congratulations, and offers of help.

"Girl, twins! That's amazing! I'm so happy for you!" Marjan exclaimed, her eyes sparkling.

"This calls for a celebration! I'll pick up the barbeque from my favourite spot!" Judd declared.

"Congratulations, Yaz. That is certainly… unexpected," Paul said, managing a wry smile.

Mateo, always the quiet observer, simply gave her a sincere nod and a warm smile. Even Nancy, a woman of science and practicality, looked genuinely thrilled.

Amidst the chaos, Yaz felt a surge of relief wash over her. They were happy for her. They were supportive. They were… well, they were exactly what she needed them to be.

Finally, the initial excitement subsided, and Yaz managed to disentangle herself from the throng of well-wishers. She spotted an empty chair between Marjan and Judd and gratefully sank into it, feeling the weight of the last few weeks lift from her shoulders.

Owen, still looking slightly dazed, finally approached her. “Twins, huh? That’s… a lot.” He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Where are your crutches, Yaz? You shouldn’t be putting weight on that ankle."

Yaz rolled her eyes, but her heart softened at his concern. "Dad, I'm fine. The crutches make my shoulders hurt more than walking on the cast.“

Owen still looked worried, but Yaz just grabbed a plate and began piling on food. She was ravenous, and thankfully, the morning sickness seemed to be taking a temporary break.

"So," she said, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bacon, "any ideas on what I'm going to do? Because, honestly, I have no clue."

The room fell silent again, this time with a more thoughtful air.

“You’re gonna need more than just stuff from Target, you need the good stuff” Michelle chimed in, earning a glare from Timithy.

"Definitely," TK agreed. "And you'll need help with… everything. Late-night feedings, diaper changes, all the fun stuff."

"Speaking of which," Judd chimed in, "I know a guy who makes the best rocking chairs in Texas. Hand-carved, heirloom quality. We gotta get you one of those."

"And don't forget about childcare," Nancy added, ever the pragmatist. "Finding a good daycare or nanny can be a nightmare. Start looking now."

The suggestions and offers of help came thick and fast, a torrent of support and love. Yaz listened, feeling a warmth spread through her that had nothing to do with the breakfast casserole. She wasn't alone. She had her family, her 126 family, and they were ready to help her navigate this new chapter in her life.

"Whoa, whoa, hold on a second," Owen said, raising his hands, trying to regain control of the conversation. "Let's not overwhelm her. Yaz, honey, you don't have to figure everything out right now. We'll take it one step at a time." He looked at her, his green eyes filled with concern and love. "You're going to be a great mom, Yaz. You're strong, and you're resourceful. And you have all of us to lean on."

Yaz smiled, tears pricking at her eyes. "Thanks, Dad."

She knew it wouldn't be easy. Raising twins, especially on her own, would be the biggest challenge of her life. But looking around at the faces of her family, she knew she could do it. She had the support of the strongest, most dedicated, and most eccentric group of people she knew.

As the chatter and laughter resumed, Yaz leaned back in her chair, a sense of peace settling over her. She still didn't have all the answers, but she knew one thing for sure: she wasn't alone. And with the 126 by her side, she could face anything.

"Now, about those crutches…"

Yaz groaned. "Dad!"

Chapter Text

The worst thing about recovering from simultaneous catastrophic injuries, apart from the constant, stabbing reminders of mortality, was the sheer, crushing boredom.

Yaz had been medically confined to the Strand house for the better part of a week now. She was a walking (or rather, hobbling) orthopedic nightmare: a massive fiberglass cast encased her right leg from toe to thigh, and a restrictive shoulder brace held her left and right arms almost immobile against her ribs. Add to that the developing twin pregnancy, and Yaz was a monument to unfortunate timing.

She was currently draped across the beige, slightly scratchy couch, watching a celebrity talk show where two women with entirely too much cosmetic ters. It was mesmerizingly stupid.

A warm, heavy weight pressed into her side. This was Buttercup, the newest addition to the 126 and, more specifically, to Owen and TK’s chaotic orbit. Buttercup was a large, goofy golden retriever mix with eyes that looked permanently sad.

When Yaz had first seen the dog, she’d been confused. Why get a dog now? They were drowning in responsibilities. Then she’d overheard Owen talk to the 126 about Buttercups cancer and it made sense.

It was a distraction, a shield. Much like TK’s recent habit of overcompensating during their family dinners, or Owen’s insistence that Yaz stay completely off her feet.

Yaz knew her father was ill. He looked to be wasting away, the sharp angles of his cheekbones becoming too pronounced, the usually vibrant energy surrounding him dimmer, more guarded. He hadn't told her anything, of course, because Owen Strand had a pathological need to protect his children from reality, regardless of how competent those children might be. TK knew, she was certain. They shared the knowing glances, the hushed kitchen conferences.

Yaz, though confined, was not stupid. She just played the waiting game, letting them believe they were successfully shielding her, holding her sarcastic patience ready for the inevitable, agonizingly late confession.

She sighed, reaching down with her better arm to scratch behind Buttercup’s ears. The dog thumped its tail once, a sluggish, heavy rhythm against the cushion.

The television screen flashed, and Yaz was mid-sentence mentally composing a scathing text message about celebrity sourdough to Maddie when her phone vibrated on the coffee table.

Dad.

She grabbed it, maneuvering the phone awkwardly with her right hand. “Hey,” Yaz said, trying to sound bored and casual, as if she hadn’t been staring at the clock for the last hour, counting down until their shift ended. “Is the world saved? Did you guys finally rescue a cat out of a toilet again?”

Owen’s voice was instantaneous, tight, and completely devoid of his usual dramatic flair. It was the sound of command, not conversation.

“Yaz. Listen to me.”

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. The casualness vanished. She sat up straighter, which, given the brace, was more of a stiff pivot.

“What is it? Did you fall off the truck?”

“It’s not me. It’s TK. There was a situation. He—” Owen paused, the breath catching in his throat, a sound like tearing fabric. “TK’s been shot.”

The simple declaration dropped the temperature in the room by twenty degrees. Yaz’s mind, usually sharp and quick, seized completely. Shot. It was a word that belonged in headlines, not in her living room, not attached to her brother, the one she had fought so hard to find again, the one she was supposed to protect.

“What?” Yaz’s voice was thin, a reedy sound that didn’t belong to her.

“He’s stable, honey, they got him out fast. But he’s en route. St. Jude’s. Main trauma center.” Owen rattled off the name of the hospital, his voice returning to a frantic, familiar rhythm. “Listen, you need to stay put. Don’t worry. Don’t do anything stupid. Just stay on the couch, I’ll call you when I know more.”

Don’t worry. The most ridiculous command ever issued.

“No.” Yaz shoved herself forward so abruptly that her cast hit the wooden leg of the coffee table with a sickening thud. A jolt of fresh agony shot up her leg, but she barely registered it. “No, I’m coming. Where exactly is St. Jude’s? Is it the one on 183?”

“Yaz, you listen to me—you’re not driving! You absolutely cannot drive in that condition, I mean it. And you’re pregnant!” Owen’s panic was audible, fighting through the static.

“I know I can’t drive! Which is why I won’t! Just tell me the exact address, Dad. I’m coming.”

She didn’t wait for a response, slamming the phone down on the cushion beside Buttercup. The dog lifted its head, gazing at Yaz with those mournful eyes, sensing the sudden, violent shift in the atmosphere.

Yaz shoved herself off the couch, the movement a complex, multi-stage maneuver. Her arms were almost useless, strapped tightly, forcing her to rely entirely on her left leg for leverage. Her right leg was a heavy, inflexible anchor. She had to pivot her entire body around the cast, and push up with her good leg.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. She hated being fragile.

She ignored the sharp stab of pain in her shoulder and the dull, throbbing ache radiating from her knee. Adrenaline was a magnificent, cruel drug. It numbed the physical pain while amplifying the emotional terror to an unbearable shriek.

Yaz yanked the remote off the table and stabbed the power button, plunging the room into silence. She had to move. Now.

She didn’t even grab her crutches, which she had promised to use more, but right now she was in a rush.

She reached her coat hanging on the coat rack, nearly knocking over a vase in the process. She fumbled for her phone again.

Uber.

The app loaded slowly, mocking her urgency. She typed the hospital address, her fingers shaking so badly she kept hitting the wrong keys. She selected the premium service because she didn’t have time to wait for a standard fare.

Estimated arrival: 6 minutes.

Six minutes felt like an eternity. Six minutes was enough time for TK to slip away.

You only just got him back.

The thought hit her with the force of a physical blow. She had barely known TK, only having brief memories from the short time before her supposed death.

They were building a foundation. They were settling into a rhythm. She was pregnant with his nieces or nephews. They had plans.

And now, a single bullet threatened to incinerate all of it.

Buttercup whined softly, pushing its head against Yaz’s hip.

“I know, Buttercup,” she whispered, resting her forehead against the cool, brown-blonde fur. “It’s bad. But I have to go.”

She had to lock the door. She had to descend the three small steps to the pavement. Every tiny task demanded too much energy, too much focus for a mind that was screaming TK’s name.

She made it outside to the curb just as a black sedan pulled up. The driver, a young man with nervous eyes, stared at her combination of injuries and slight pregnancy bump, though it was barely visible, with barely concealed alarm.

“St. Jude’s?” he confirmed, leaning over.

“Yes. Fast, please. And be careful of the cast,” she gritted out, already trying to fold herself into the back seat.

Getting into the car was a spectacle. She couldn’t bend her knee, and the shoulder brace made maneuvering the door difficult. The driver averted his eyes completely, clearly deciding she was the most complicated passenger he’d ever encountered.

She managed to secure her seatbelt—a task that required her to contort her torso—and then leaned against the seat, clutching her phone.

The journey began. The Texas traffic was predictably awful, a slow, grinding flow of flashing brake lights.

Too slow.

Yaz stared out the window, watching the mundane world blur by—families walking dogs, teenagers skateboarding, people eating dinner. How could life keep moving normally when her brother might be dying?

She pressed her hand to her almost flat stomach, seeking the anchoring comfort of the twins. She had to stay calm for them. Panic wouldn't help TK.

But the fear was a living thing, churning in her gut, tasting like copper and adrenaline.

Where was he hit? Owen hadn’t said. Chest? Leg? Head? She didn't let the thought linger.

She focused instead on the details of her father’s voice: He’s stable. They got him out fast. Stable didn't mean safe. Stable meant he hadn't died yet.

She closed her eyes again, pressing her fingers against her lips. She had been so careless, so complacent, thinking that just because they had survived the last crisis, they were safe. Now, she was pinned down by metal and plaster, pregnant and terrified, praying to whoever was listening that TK, her reckless, wonderful brother, would survive this wound.

She had only just gotten him back. She couldn’t lose him now.

…

The stale breath of the hospital hit Yasmina before the automatic doors had even fully retracted. One minute, she was in the back of an Uber, the city lights blurring into a meaningless streak against the smudged window; the next, she was on the cold, unforgiving asphalt, her right leg – encased in its rigid cast – complaining instantly. She fumbled with the door handle, her shoulder braces digging uncomfortably into her skin with the effort, and finally managed to extract herself, a pregnant woman trying to navigate a world that suddenly felt too big, too fast, and infinitely too cruel.

Each step was an exercise in deliberate slowness, a painful, dragging process towards the imposing glass façade of the hospital. Her hair, usually a vibrant wave, felt limp and heavy, mirroring the weight in her chest. Her green eyes, usually so bright, were dull with unshed tears, constantly stinging. She focused on the slight sway of her body, trying to ignore the constant thrum of anxiety that had taken root deep in her belly. It wasn’t just the baby’s flutter anymore; it was a cold, hard knot of terror for her brother.

TK. Shot. The words from her father, Owen, had been clipped, barely audible over the phone, yet they had sliced through her like a surgeon’s scalpel. She hadn't even processed her own recent injuries when that call came, her mind immediately replacing casts and braces with bullet wounds and blood.

The reception desk was a beacon in the vast, brightly lit lobby, but getting to it felt like an odyssey. People rushed past her, their faces etched with their own stories, their own emergencies. She was just another injured soul in a place overflowing with them. When she finally reached the end of the short queue, her breath came in ragged gulps. Her chest felt tight, not just from the brace, but from the suppressed scream threatening to escape.

A minute stretched into an eternity. Her hands, clutched around the crutch handles, were slick with sweat. Then, a kind-faced woman with tired eyes called her forward.

"Can I help you, sweetie?" the receptionist asked, her voice soft, noticing Yaz’s struggle.

"Yes," Yaz managed, her voice a brittle whisper. "I'm looking for Tyler Kennedy Strand. My brother. He was brought in… recently."

The receptionist’s gaze softened further, a knowing sadness in her eyes. She typed quickly, her fingers a blur. The screen seemed to hold the answers to life and death, and Yaz watched it, hypnotized, willing it to show her good news.

"Strand, Tyler Kennedy. Yes, he's here," the receptionist confirmed, her voice gentle. "He’s in Ward 3B, Room 207. He already has a couple of visitors, dear."

Ward 3B, Room 207. The words were a lifeline, a concrete destination in her swirling chaos. Visitors already. A fresh wave of relief, washed over her. She nodded, a silent thank you, her throat too tight to speak.

Turning from the desk was another slow, arduous task. Her body felt like a prisoner in its own scaffolding of medical supports. She shuffled towards the lifts, the fluorescent lights humming above her head, casting a cold, clinical glow on everything. Each ding of the lift doors opening and closing felt like a mocking countdown. She finally made her way inside one, the confined space amplifying her rising panic. The ascent felt excruciatingly slow, each floor number a step closer to a potentially devastating truth.

When the lift doors finally parted on the third floor, a different atmosphere greeted her. It was quieter here, the air thick with the faint scent of antiseptic and something subtly metallic – blood, perhaps, or just the pervasive smell of illness. She scanned the corridor, the numbers on the doors blurring before her eyes until she found it: a small, almost imperceptible gathering of people outside a room.

Her heart leaped, a painful, frantic beat against her ribs.

A wave of relief so intense it almost buckled her knees washed over her, only to be immediately followed by a fresh surge of dread. If they were all here, it meant it was serious. It meant it was worse than she'd allowed herself to imagine.

She pushed forward, each step a struggle against her cast and braces, against the leaden weight in her belly. Her vision blurred again, this time with tears. Her dad was standing a little apart from the rest, his shoulders slumped, his usually immaculately coiffed hair a bit disheveled. He looked older, heavier.

Marjan was the first to spot her. Her usually fierce gaze softened, and she took a step forward, her hand reaching out. Then Paul and Mateo, their faces etched with worry, turned. Judd and Grace stood close, Grace’s arm around Judd’s waist, their expressions mirroring a shared grief. Nancy, normally so stoic, had a worried frown creasing her brow.

Owen looked up then, and his eyes, so like her own, widened in surprise, then filled with a bottomless pity. He moved towards her, his strong arms already open.

"Dad," she choked out, the word barely a sound as she practically fell into his embrace. Her shoulders, braced and aching, protested the sudden pressure, but she didn’t care. She clung to him, burying her face in his familiar scent of smoke and safety, and the dam finally broke.

Sobs wracked her body, deep, gut-wrenching wails that she couldn’t suppress. "I… I can't… I can't believe it," she sobbed into his shoulder, her voice muffled, raw. "He… he has to be okay."

Owen held her tight, his hand stroking her hair. "Shhh, Yaz, shhh. He's stable. He's a fighter, honey. He's going to be okay." His voice was rough with his own unspoken pain, but his words were a balm.

The rest of the 126 gathered around, a protective ring. Mateo’s eyes were glistening. Paul placed a comforting hand on her back, careful of her braces.

After a few minutes, when her sobs had subsided into shuddering breaths, Owen gently eased her back, still keeping an arm around her. "Let's get you over to these chairs, kiddo." He helped her hobble to a small waiting area with plastic chairs, guiding her carefully into one. The team settled around her, their presence a solid, comforting weight in the sterile cold of the hospital.

"We were on a call," Marjan began, her voice low, "a break-in. Nothing out of the ordinary, at first. Just... escalating."

"It got ugly," Paul picked up, his gaze distant, replaying the scene. "When we got there, the house was clear of the intruders but there was still the family in the back who needed medical.”

"TK broke in the door," Mateo finished, his voice a whisper. "But there was a kid with a gun pointed at the door, they hadn’t been told the intruder was gone.

Yaz listened, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"He went down hard," Judd added, his voice gravelly. "Nancy and Cap were on him instantly. He'd taken a round to the shoulder.”

Nancy, usually so composed, nodded, her face pale. "His vitals were dropping fast. We worked on him in the field, got him stabilized enough for transport. It was... touch and go, Yaz. Real touch and go."

Owen squeezed her hand, anticipating her silent question. "They got him into surgery immediately. The bullet missed his major organs by millimeters. But there was a lot of internal bleeding. He lost a lot of blood."

"The doctors were amazing," Grace interjected gently, trying to offer a glimmer of hope.

“They worked for hours. They managed to stop the bleeding, patch him up. He's out of surgery now. He's in recovery, but…" She trailed off, glancing at Owen.

"He's in an induced coma," Owen finished, his voice heavy. "To give his body time to heal. It’s… it’s going to be a long road, honey. They're monitoring him closely. There's a lot of swelling, and they're worried about infection."

Yaz stared at them, absorbing every horrific detail. Her brother, her vibrant, passionate, goofy older brother, was lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life, put to sleep on purpose. The thought was unbearable. A fresh wave of nausea hit her, and she swallowed hard, pressing a hand to her swollen belly. This wasn't fair. None of this was fair.

"It was a… a kid?" she choked out, her voice filled with a sudden, burning anger.

Judd squared his jaw. "Yeah, he was scared and just acted.”

Yaz didn’t know how to feel about that, on one hand her brother could die, on the other this kid shot someone and will probably always remember that.

Owen saw the renewed storm in her eyes. "He's stable, Yaz. That's the main thing right now. He's strong. He'll pull through this." He offered her a weak, reassuring smile. "You want to see him?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken dread. Yaz hesitated. She wanted to see him more than anything, to assure herself he was still there, still breathing. But she was terrified of what she would find. Terrified of the wires, the tubes, the stillness. Terrified of seeing her brother, not as the lively, quick-witted TK, but as a fragile, broken figure.

She pushed herself up, her casted leg protesting, her shoulders screaming. "Yes," she whispered, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. "Yes, I need to see him."

Owen nodded, his arm around her once more, guiding her slowly towards Room 207. The rest of the team remained in the waiting area, a silent, supportive presence. As they got closer, Yaz could see the door was ajar, a sliver of the brightly lit room visible.

Her breath hitched. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through her. What if he looked entirely different? What if he wasn't really there, just a shell?

Owen gently pushed the door open, allowing her to enter first. The room was stark, filled with the soft beeps and hisses of medical machinery. The air was heavy with the smell of antiseptic and sickness.

And there he was.

Lying in the bed, so pale against the crisp white sheets, was TK. Her brother. His face, usually so animated, was slack, his lips slightly parted. A tube snaked from his mouth, another from his nose. Wires crisscrossed his chest, connecting him to monitors that displayed an endless stream of green lines and numbers. His left arm was bandaged, and a thick dressing covered the side of his abdomen, a stark white against his skin.

Carlos was sitting by his bedside, holding TK's hand, his head bowed. He looked up as they entered, his eyes red-rimmed and full of a profound grief that mirrored Yaz's own.

Yaz felt her legs threaten to give way. Owen’s hand on her back kept her steady. She hobbled closer, her eyes fixed on TK, her heart a raw, exposed nerve. He looked so vulnerable, so small beneath the blankets and tubes. It was a sight that would forever be etched into her mind, a stark contrast to the powerful, confident firefighter she knew.

She reached out a trembling hand, her fingers brushing the back of his pale, cool hand. It felt so fragile, so lifeless. A fresh wave of tears stung her eyes, blurring her vision.

"TK," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Oh, TK."

The silence in the room was deafening, punctuated only by the rhythmic beeps of the machines, each one a stark reminder of the tenuous hold her brother had on life. Carlos gently squeezed TK’s hand before relinquishing it, making space for Yaz, Owen following him.

Yaz took the chair, her body aching, her heart aching more. She held TK's hand, her fingers curling around his. It was so unlike him to be still, to be silent. The thought of his quick wit, his infectious laugh, his unwavering optimism, all silenced, was excruciating.

He looked… small. That was the first thought that always punched the air out of her lungs. TK, who always held himself with such a vibrant energy, who filled every room he walked into, now seemed utterly diminished by the stark white sheets, the hum of machines, the tubes trailing from every conceivable part of his body. His brown hair, usually styled just so, was matted against the pillow, a pale contrast to the white. His face, normally animated with that easy smile or a sarcastic smirk, was still. Too still.

“Hey, TK,” she whispered, the sound raw and thin, a ghost of my usual voice. Her green eyes, usually so sharp, felt heavy, burning. They traced the familiar curve of his jaw, the faint stubble, the IV line disappearing into his arm. “It’s me. Yaz.”

No response. Of course not. The rhythmic beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor was the only answering sound, a cruel lullaby of his suspended life.

She reached out, my fingers trembling as they hovered over his hand, resting so lifelessly on the sheet. It felt… cold, somehow. Not cold to the touch, no, just… absent. Like the warmth, the life, had retreated deep inside, leaving only an empty shell. She gently took his hand, her fingers wrapping around his.

“God, TK,” she breathed, the words catching in my throat. 

“Being pregnant is… it’s a lot. And my shitty leg and shoulders.” She gestured vaguely to her braces. “But you made it easier, cause… well your you. You look after everyone and expect nothing back.” Yaz sobbed, not even bothering to wipe the tears away.

“I need you too get better TK, Dad needs you, Carlos needs you, your nephews or nieces need you and the 126 need you.” She lowered her head onto his hand and gently feasted her he’d there, it hurt like hell but Yaz needed to be close to her brother.

“ I’m supposed to protect you Tyler and…” She sobbed still resting on his hand. “I failed Ty, I failed.” The sobs became even more extreme and her body was shaking violently, pain flared throughout her back and shoulders only adding to the pain she felt right now. Except no amount of physical pain would beat the ache of her heart tearing into two shrivelled pieces, the cure being TK joyous smile gracing her eyes once again.