Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She never thought it would come to this.

Not in a million years did Lucy imagine herself curled into the scratchy corner of a hotel bed, knees to her chest, sobbing like her lungs might collapse. Her makeup was long gone, smeared onto the stiff white pillowcase along with whatever pride she had left. The little room stank faintly of bleach and cigarette smoke. It was after midnight, but time had stopped mattering weeks ago.

The TV was off. The curtains were drawn. The only light came from the pale blue glow of her laptop screen, sitting open at the end of the bed like it was watching her fall apart.

She hadn’t touched it in twenty minutes. It just sat there—blinking cursor, cold light, silent judgment.

The tears hadn’t stopped since she got here.

The truth was, she never thought Derek would do this to her. Derek, of all people. He was supposed to be her life. Her future. Her stability. He was the one she let in when everyone else told her not to. Her parents had hated him from the beginning—“He’s too old for you,” her dad said. “He’s smug,” her mom had warned. Rachel never trusted him either. She’d even rolled her eyes when Lucy mentioned setting up a joint checking account. “It’s your funeral,” she’d said.

God, Lucy wished she had listened.

But Derek had made her feel… chosen. Grown-up. He was her first serious relationship, the first man who talked about a future, who said he wanted to build something with her. She was only a year into her psych degree when they met—distracted, disoriented, still trying to prove to her parents that she could handle being on her own. And then Derek came along, with his confidence and his nice car and his way of making everything sound like a plan.

He moved in slowly, piece by piece. First a drawer in her dresser, then his name on the lease, then the joint account. He’d smile at her across the kitchen while pouring coffee and say things like “We’re really doing this, huh?” like it meant something bigger. And she believed him.

Until she came home early one night.

Until she heard the bedsprings groaning before she even reached the door.

Until she opened it and found him with Hannah.

Hannah, who had been her best friend since senior year. Who’d held her hair while she puked, who knew every version of Lucy—from braces to breakups to bad poetry. Hannah, who cried when Lucy told her about her first real psych internship. Hannah, who had slept with Derek in the bed Lucy had made that morning.

That image—that exact angle of Hannah’s face lit up in her bedroom, hair sticking to her shoulder, Derek’s hand still gripping her thigh—was burned behind her eyelids like a scar.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t throw anything. Didn’t even cry until the next day.

She just turned around and left.

And she hadn’t stopped running since.

For weeks now, she’d been floating between nowhere and not enough. She couldn’t stay at the apartment. Couldn’t look at their couch, their mugs, their damn bathroom mirror where Derek used to kiss her neck while she brushed her teeth.

She had some clothes, a backpack, and her laptop. That was it.

The joint account was empty. She didn’t even need to check anymore—she already knew. Everything she’d saved was gone, funneled out over three weeks while she ignored her banking app out of pure denial. Her phone bill lapsed last Tuesday. Her gas tank was on E.

She was tired. Deep down, bone-deep tired.

But she couldn’t go home.

Her mom would take one look at her and say, “I told you.” Her dad wouldn’t even pretend to hide the look of disappointment. She was the one who left, the one who wanted independence, who insisted she could handle herself. And now she was back, broke, betrayed, humiliated.

No. She couldn’t give them the satisfaction.

She couldn’t ask them for help.

But she still needed money. She needed options. She needed a fucking miracle.

With a groan, Lucy sat up, her spine stiff from being hunched so long. Her head throbbed immediately, a dull, vice-like pressure blooming behind her eyes.

Fuck, she whispered, pressing her fingers against her temples.

The laptop screen blinked quietly in front of her.

She reached for it.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second too long, like she needed permission from the universe before going back down the rabbit hole. She opened the browser again.

The tab was still there—“Ways to Make Money Fast (No Experience Needed!)”—like a middle finger to her GPA and her student loans and the entire idea that hard work was supposed to mean something.

She scrolled. Past the paid surveys. Past the clickbait articles about selling feet pics. Past the girl who claimed she made six grand a week just breathing into a mic for lonely guys on livestream.

It was ridiculous. Half of it sounded fake. The other half sounded humiliating.

She clicked one of the “jobs” just to see what it actually was, then immediately closed the tab when the screen filled with phrases like “sugar arrangement” and “generous benefactors.”

No. Absolutely not.

She wasn’t going to get herself expelled from college because some guy wanted to Venmo her for pictures of her touching herself in his favorite sports team jersey. That would be the final nail in the coffin.

She went back to the list.

Another scammy-looking gig. Some girl promising she could teach Lucy how to “maximize her online potential” through a premium mentorship course—no refunds, of course.

She sighed, her headache pulsing behind her left eye. Her bank balance was practically nonexistent. She wasn’t looking to get rich—she just needed something. A break. A way to get out of this hotel room and out of this version of her life. Something to push her forward.

And then—just as she was about to close the tab entirely—something caught her eye.

A soft blue link tucked near the bottom of the page:

“California Surrogacy Agency — Help Build Families. Generous Compensation.”

She blinked.

At first, she was ready to scroll right past it. She wasn’t that desperate. Wasn’t that selfless. She had never even considered anything like that before—wasn’t that something people did when they were older? Married? Saints? She was twenty-four and barely keeping it together. The idea of growing a baby in her body for nine months sounded like something out of a Lifetime movie or a medical drama.

But then her eyes dropped to the line underneath the link.

Compensation up to $65,000

Her breath caught in her throat.

She stared at the number, reading it once, twice, three times like it might disappear if she blinked.

It was probably fake. Too good to be true.

But even half that much would mean a real place to live. Or a car that didn’t need jumper cables. Hell—groceries that didn’t come from the clearance bin. It would mean freedom from calling her parents, from couch-hopping, from pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t.

Her hand moved before her brain could argue.

She clicked the link.

The website loaded slowly, and for a second, she thought the page was broken. Then it filled with soft pastels and white space—photos of smiling families, babies swaddled in soft blankets, women holding their rounded stomachs with quiet pride.

“Surrogacy is more than a gift. It’s a legacy.”

She scoffed under her breath. But something in the warmth of that sentence lingered, even as she scrolled down.

“Help a family grow.”

“Make dreams possible.”

“We match healthy, compassionate women with intended parents who cannot carry on their own.”

She kept reading.

There were requirements—an age range she fell into, medical screenings, psychological evaluations, legal paperwork, things that made it feel serious. Legitimate. Human.

She read through it all slowly. Carefully. She hadn’t been that focused in weeks.

There was a whole section of testimonials. Couples who’d tried for years, women who’d had cancer, gay men who wanted to raise children together, single fathers who just wanted a chance. There were pictures of families—real ones—wrapped around a baby that someone else had carried for them. Some of the surrogates had even written things too.

“I never thought I could do something so meaningful.”

“It changed their lives. It changed mine too.”

Lucy swallowed hard. Her eyes kept returning to one photo: a man, maybe in his forties, holding a tiny newborn against his chest. He looked overwhelmed. Not posed. Just… grateful.

The idea crept in quietly: maybe she could actually help someone. Not with a few dollars or some performative volunteer hours—but really help. Give someone something they couldn’t get on their own.

She sat with that for a moment. Let it breathe.

She hadn’t felt useful in weeks. Not since Derek. Not since everything fell apart.

God, Derek. That smug little smirk. The way he made her feel like she wasn’t just somebody, but his somebody. And then the way that illusion shattered—the bed, the betrayal, the joint account drained like it belonged to him.

Her stomach turned.

She didn’t want to think about him anymore. She wanted to take all of that wreckage and build something better from it. Something good.

Her eyes drifted to the top of the screen.

“Book a Consultation.”

She stared at the button. It looked harmless. Just an appointment. Just a conversation. It didn’t mean anything yet.

But it could mean something.

A fresh start. A way out. A way forward.

Her fingers hovered over the trackpad.

Just to learn more, she told herself. Just to see.

She clicked.

The form opened in a clean new window, all soft fonts and polite language. Just name, age, location, basic health questions. Nothing too invasive. She answered them quickly, double-checked her phone number, and hesitated for a long second before submitting.

Then—almost immediately—her phone buzzed with a confirmation text.

Thank you for booking a consultation with California Surrogacy Agency.
Your appointment is scheduled for Thursday at 10:00 AM.

Her stomach flipped. She hadn’t expected it to move that fast.

Three days. That was all the time she had to pretend she wasn’t nervous.

She spent most of those days lying awake at night, cycling through a dozen versions of how it might go. What if they asked questions she couldn’t answer? What if they looked at her and decided she wasn’t what they wanted? What if this was all a terrible mistake?

But underneath the nerves was something else—something quieter and steadier. Hope.

She’d never tell anyone, but there was a part of her that liked the idea. Not just the money—though that would change everything—but the purpose of it. The thought that maybe her body, the one she’d spent years resenting, could do something extraordinary for someone else. Maybe she could carry something that wasn’t ruin or regret or leftover grief from a relationship that had gone so horribly wrong.

Maybe she could carry possibility.

When Thursday came, she got dressed in a button-down and jeans, the nicest combination she had clean, and took a city bus to the address in the confirmation text. The office was tucked into a professional building just off Wilshire—quiet, with big windows and soft gray carpet. She checked in with the receptionist and sat in the waiting room, folding and refolding her hands in her lap while a nature documentary played on mute in the background.

She tried not to overthink. She tried not to rehearse answers.

She was just here to ask questions. That’s all.

“Lucy Chen?”

The name pulled her out of her thoughts with a soft jolt. Lucy stood, startled by how quickly it came, how much it felt like being called in for something official, something she wasn’t ready for. She placed the clipboard back on the counter and smoothed her shirt with damp palms.

A woman was standing at the edge of the waiting room, smiling. Mid-forties, maybe, with kind eyes and a no-nonsense navy blazer.

“I’m Dana,” she said, holding out her hand. “Thanks for coming in.”

Lucy shook it, grateful for how steady Dana felt. “Thanks,” she murmured. “I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

“That’s okay. Most people don’t.” Dana gestured to follow. “We’ll just talk. Nothing heavy today.”

Lucy followed her down a carpeted hallway lined with soft art prints and photos of babies in knit hats. She tried not to stare at any of them too long.

Dana’s office was warm and light, with soft colors, a big plant in the corner, and two chairs that didn’t look like they belonged in a medical building. Lucy sat down across from the desk, tugging at the sleeve of her cardigan.

“Get comfortable,” Dana said as she settled into her chair. “We’ll take this slow.”

Lucy nodded.

“This is just a consultation,” Dana continued, opening a slim laptop and glancing at it before looking up again. “Mostly, I just want to get to know you. Learn about where you’re at in life, what brought you here. You don’t have to prove anything..”

Lucy let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Okay.”

“So,” Dana said, folding her hands lightly, “what made you click the link?”

Lucy hesitated, eyes dropping to the edge of the desk. “It sounds weird when you say it like that.”

Dana smiled gently. “Not weird at all. Everyone has a story. You don’t have to have some polished answer.”

There was a long pause before Lucy answered. “I think I just… didn’t know what else to do.”

Dana didn’t interrupt.

“I saw the link late one night,” Lucy continued, voice lower now. “I was scrolling, and everything felt kind of… impossible. Rent, school, even just getting through the week. And then I saw it. I almost didn’t click. But I don’t know—it stuck with me.”

“That makes sense,” Dana said. “It’s okay if this is something you’re still figuring out.”

Lucy nodded. “I don’t know what I’m doing yet. I just knew I wanted to come in.”

Dana leaned back slightly, giving her space. “That’s actually a great place to start. We meet a lot of people who feel like they’re at a crossroads. People who want to help, but also need something real for themselves. It’s never just one reason.”

Lucy smiled faintly. “Yeah. That sounds right.”

“So,” Dana said, gently shifting gears, “tell me a little about your life right now. School, work, whatever feels important.”

“I’m in my second year of a psych program,” Lucy said, glad for a question with a clear answer. “Full-time student. I’m not working right now. I’m actually looking for a new apartment.”

“Okay,” Dana said, tapping a few notes on her screen. “So you’re juggling a lot.”

“Trying to,” Lucy said. “Some days it feels more like I’m just… not dropping everything at once.”

“That’s fair,” Dana said with a soft laugh. “Do you have support? Friends, family?”

Lucy hesitated. “Some friends. My family’s… complicated.”

Dana didn’t press. “Well, if this becomes something you pursue, we’ll make sure you’re supported. But I like to ask those kinds of questions early, because this process—if you decide to go through with it—it’s not just medical. It’s emotional, too. And we want people to feel grounded while they go through it.”

Lucy nodded, quieter now. “I want that too.”

Dana tilted her head, still calm, still kind. “You mentioned you’re in school for psychology. That’s really interesting. Do you know what you want to do with that?”

Lucy hesitated, her eyes drifting to the framed photo on Dana’s bookshelf—a woman holding a toddler, both of them laughing like the camera had caught them mid-joke. She blinked slowly.

“I think I’m probably going to end up being a therapist,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “Like my parents.”

Dana’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Both of them?”

Lucy nodded. “Yeah. They have a practice together back home.”

“That’s a rare setup.”

“It is,” Lucy agreed. Then, a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “I guess I always knew I’d end up in something like that. Psychology wasn’t really a spontaneous choice.”

Dana leaned back, giving her space but not losing interest. “So would you say it was more… encouraged?”

Lucy gave a short laugh. “Strongly. I think they always pictured me joining the practice eventually. ‘Three Chens under one roof,’ my mom used to say like it was a law firm.”

Dana smiled. “And how do you feel about that?”

The question hung in the air longer than Lucy expected it to.

“I don’t know,” she said at last. “I guess it’s complicated. I love what psychology can do—how it can help people understand themselves, heal. I think I do believe in all of that. But sometimes it’s hard to know if I chose it for myself… or because it made sense to everyone else.”

Dana nodded, clearly unfazed. “That’s more common than you’d think. And I think it says something that you’re still here—still in it—even if it didn’t start as a passion project.”

Lucy looked down at her hands. “I guess I want to believe I can make something of it that feels like mine. Not just theirs.”

“That’s a good instinct,” Dana said. “Even if it started with them, you’re the one doing the work now. You get to decide what kind of therapist you want to be. Or whether you want to be one at all.”

Lucy exhaled quietly, feeling something settle in her chest—not a resolution, exactly, but a permission she hadn’t realized she needed.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Of course.” Dana gave a gentle nod, still warm, still calm. “If you’re ready, I’d like to ease into some of the health history questions. It’s not a test or anything, and you can always skip something if you’re not sure.”

Lucy sat up straighter, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m okay. Go ahead.”

“Great.” Dana clicked into a new screen on her tablet. “We’ll start with basics. Do you have any chronic health conditions? Diabetes, asthma, anything you manage day-to-day?”

“No,” Lucy said. “I’ve been pretty lucky that way.”

“Good.” Dana gave a light smile. “Any past surgeries?”

“Appendix, when I was fourteen. Nothing serious.”

Dana made a quick note. “No complications?”

“Nope.”

“Any allergies—medications, food, latex?”

“Just penicillin. I break out in hives.”

Dana nodded again. Her rhythm was steady and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world. “Got it. What about your menstrual cycle—fairly regular?”

“Yeah. About every 28 days. I track it on my phone.”

“Perfect. And are you currently on any prescription medications?”

“No.”

Dana glanced up. “No birth control?”

Lucy gave a small shake of her head. “No.”

“All right. And any history of sexually transmitted infections—past or present?”

“No.”

“Good to know.” Dana gave another small nod and let the silence stretch for a beat, just long enough to not feel like a checklist. “Okay, so now we get into some slightly broader questions. We always ask—are you aware of any genetic conditions in your immediate or extended family? Anything that might be passed on to a child?”

Lucy’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think so? Nothing that’s ever come up, at least. My parents are both pretty healthy. Same with my grandparents, as far as I know.”

Dana smiled reassuringly. “That’s a great start. We just ask so we can understand the full picture—especially in cases of traditional surrogacy, where there is a genetic connection between you and the baby. It’s part of making sure the intended parents are fully informed.”

That made Lucy blink. “Wait—so I’d be genetically related? Like… biologically?”

Dana nodded. “In traditional surrogacy, yes. The baby is created using the surrogate’s egg and the intended parent’s sperm. So there is a biological connection to you.”

Lucy frowned slightly, still trying to wrap her head around that. “I guess I thought… surrogacy was always someone else’s embryo.”

“That’s a common assumption,” Dana said kindly. “And that’s the other type—gestational surrogacy. In that arrangement, an embryo is created outside the body using the intended parents’ genetic material—or donor sperm and/or eggs—and then transferred into the surrogate’s uterus via IVF.”

“Oh, okay.” Lucy gave a little nod, more to herself than Dana. “So I wouldn’t be related in that case.”

“Right.” Dana smiled again. “In gestational surrogacy, you’re helping carry the baby, but you’re not the genetic mother. With traditional, your egg is used. Usually through a process called IUI—intrauterine insemination—which is much less invasive than IVF. No surgery, no hormone injections, just a timed procedure based on your cycle.”

Lucy was quiet for a moment. “So… are both options available?”

“Absolutely,” Dana said. “We work with both. It really depends on what the intended parents are looking for—and what you’re comfortable with. Some surrogates prefer gestational because there’s no genetic tie. Others like the simplicity of traditional—IUI is more affordable and medically easier. The agency supports both.”

Lucy looked thoughtful. “So what would be a reason someone would pick traditional?”

“Well,” Dana said, folding her hands together, “cost is a big one. IVF can be incredibly expensive. For parents who can’t afford embryo creation and transfer, traditional is a more accessible path. It also makes sense for families who can’t use their own eggs and prefer not to go through an egg donor agency.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows. “Wait, so in that case… I’m kind of acting as the egg donor and the surrogate.”

“Exactly,” Dana said. “That’s one reason traditional surrogacy comes with a few more layers. It’s a bigger emotional commitment. Some surrogates feel strongly about that connection—in a good way. Others prefer to stay one step removed, which gestational allows.”

Lucy leaned back slightly in the chair. “That makes sense.”

Dana gave her a moment, then continued gently, “There are also legal differences. In most traditional cases, because you’re biologically related, parental rights have to be relinquished after birth through a legal process. With gestational, the intended parents are listed on the birth certificate from the start, depending on the state.”

“Got it.” Lucy chewed the inside of her cheek. “And the actual pregnancy part? It’s the same?”

“More or less,” Dana said. “Gestational might involve more medical oversight early on—because of the embryo transfer, fertility meds, and implantation monitoring. Traditional is usually more straightforward physically. But once you’re pregnant, care looks pretty much the same.”

Lucy nodded slowly, her fingers curling into the hem of her sweater.

“And how does… I don’t know, the relationship part work?” she asked. “With the intended parents, I mean. Do I meet them? Do we text or—?”

Dana smiled, patient and reassuring. “That’s a great question. It really depends on the arrangement. Some intended parents want to be very involved—regular communication, appointments, sometimes even video calls. Others prefer a more distant relationship and let the agency handle updates.”

“So it’s flexible,” Lucy said.

“Very,” Dana said. “We tailor it to your comfort level, and theirs. If you end up doing what’s called a ‘compassionate match’—meaning you carry for a friend or someone you already know—that’s obviously a little different. But in most agency matches, communication is agreed on ahead of time. Some are ‘closed,’ meaning everything—appointments, medical results, updates—gets funneled through us.”

Lucy blinked. “So I could do this without ever really… getting to know them?”

“You could,” Dana said, “but we encourage some level of connection, if possible. Just enough to keep everyone informed and feeling supported. That said, you’ll never be pressured to bond beyond your comfort zone. Boundaries are part of the agreement.”

Lucy nodded again, absorbing the pace of it all. “And if I do go forward… what happens next?”

“Well,” Dana said, folding her hands gently on the desk, “first comes screening. A lot of it. Medical and psychological, both. We’d schedule a physical exam with one of our partnered OBs to make sure you’re a good candidate to carry, and you’d meet with a licensed therapist who specializes in reproductive health. That part’s just to check in—make sure you understand the emotional landscape, and that you have a solid support system in place.”

Lucy lifted a brow. “And what if I don’t? I mean… support system-wise.”

Dana gave a small, knowing smile. “We’ve worked with all kinds of women. Not everyone comes in with a family cheering them on. The important part is that you feel okay doing this—that you’re emotionally stable and that you understand what’s involved. We’ll never expect perfection.”

Lucy exhaled, something in her chest loosening.

Dana continued. “After those clearances, we’d start the legal process. You’d be matched with a legal representative—independent from the parents’—and we’d help you negotiate the contract: everything from compensation to medical decisions to how involved the intended parents will be. Nothing moves forward until that’s signed.”

“Okay,” Lucy said, her voice a little breathier than she expected.

“And then,” Dana said gently, “you’d be matched with a family. Sometimes matches happen quickly, sometimes they take a few weeks. But we try to find the right fit for everyone—not just someone who needs a baby, but someone whose values align with yours. We want you to feel good about who you’re helping.”

Lucy’s gaze drifted slightly, her fingers fiddling with the edge of the chair.

“And… how much would I be compensated?” she asked quietly, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to ask.

Dana didn’t flinch. “Another good question. In California—especially here in L.A.—compensation is typically between $45,000 and $65,000, depending on experience and type of surrogacy. Traditional surrogacy often lands on the lower end, since the medical procedures are less invasive, but some families are willing to pay more, especially if you’re carrying without a prior pregnancy history.”

Lucy blinked. “So even without having kids before, I could still…?”

“You’d still be considered,” Dana said kindly. “It just narrows the pool a little. Many intended parents prefer surrogates who’ve carried before, but it’s not a rule. If you’re medically healthy and mentally clear, that’s what counts.”

Lucy felt her throat tighten—not in a bad way, but in that raw, beginning-of-something way. She looked around the office, at the small potted plant near the window, at the soft carpet beneath her boots. Her chest hurt a little with how much she wanted this to mean something.

Dana seemed to sense the shift. “Do you have any other questions?”

Lucy hesitated. “If I do this… would someone guide me through it? Like—step by step?”

“Absolutely,” Dana said. “That’s what we’re here for. You’d have a dedicated coordinator from day one. She’d be in touch weekly—sometimes more—checking on appointments, fielding questions, just… being there. You’re never alone in this.”

There was a quiet moment. Not heavy, just full.

Lucy stared down at her hands. The blue sleeves of her sweater were stretched over her thumbs. She rubbed the pad of one finger against the other, back and forth, like she was trying to decide if this version of her—this hotel-living, borderline-broke version—was ready for something bigger.

She thought about Derek.

Thought about his stupid leather jacket and the smug way he told her she’d never last on her own. How he’d laughed when she said she’d pay for everything herself—like it was cute she believed that. He probably thought she was still curled up crying somewhere.

Maybe she was.

But maybe this could be the thing that changed that.

$60,000. Real money. Not fantasy money. Enough to get a studio with a door that locked. Enough for textbooks, maybe even a second-hand car. Enough to not have to call her mom crying in the Rite Aid parking lot.

But more than that—it was a way to do something that mattered. A way to help people who wanted a family so badly they were willing to trust a stranger with their baby.

“I think I want to do it,”

Chapter Text

The waiting room was too quiet.

Tim sat with his hands clasped loosely between his knees, staring at the muted carpet. Everything in the office was designed to feel soft—rounded corners, quiet colors, natural light filtered through frosted glass. A pale painting of a eucalyptus branch hung near the door, calm and unremarkable. Still, his heart kept nudging at the back of his throat.

Isabel sat beside him, upright, composed. Her coat was folded over her lap. She hadn’t spoken since they checked in, and she didn’t look around. Her gaze stayed fixed on the closed door at the end of the hallway, the one Dana would eventually come through. She wasn’t fidgeting. She didn’t bite her lip or bounce her leg. But Tim knew that stillness. He knew how much effort it took to hold everything together like that.

It had been three weeks since their last visit. Three weeks of reading contracts at night, cross-checking schedules, updating forms, following up with their insurance contacts. Three weeks of reminding each other that this—this quiet waiting room, this second meeting, this agency—was part of the path. Not a detour. Not a fantasy. Something real.

Tim shifted in his chair. The cushion was firm and unforgiving. He glanced at Isabel. “I keep wondering if it’s going to feel different when we leave. If it’s going to feel like… something actually started.”

She nodded slightly. “It already has. But I know what you mean.”

He looked at her, more directly now. “You still feel okay about all this?”

Isabel didn’t answer right away. Then she glanced down at her coat, fingers smoothing a crease that wasn’t there. “I feel like we’re doing the right thing. But it doesn’t feel simple. Nothing about this is simple.”

He nodded. That was exactly it. It wasn’t fear or doubt. It was the weight of what they were trying to build—something bigger than themselves, something that had taken so long to feel even remotely possible. They hadn’t gotten here easily. None of this had been handed to them.

“I keep thinking about the first time we talked about kids,” Isabel said quietly. “Like… really talked about it. Not just what-ifs.”

Tim leaned back slightly. “I think about it every day now.”

She gave the smallest smile. “I just didn’t think it would look like this. Back then, I mean.”

He nodded. “But I still want it. More than ever.”

“Me too.”

There was a pause. The kind of silence that wasn’t uncomfortable, just full of everything that couldn’t be said out loud—not yet. The fear of disappointment. The constant recalibration of hope. The unspoken truth that they were trying to become parents in the most careful, deliberate, delicate way possible—and still, it might not work.

“We’re going to do everything we can,” Isabel said. “Even if it’s not perfect. Even if it’s complicated. I want this baby. I want us to have a family.”

Tim looked at her. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t breaking. But there was a tightness in her voice, a line in her jaw that made his chest ache.

“I know,” he said. “Me too.”

The hallway was still quiet. Tim checked the time—three minutes past the hour. Just enough to stretch anticipation into something harder to bear. The receptionist behind the glass was on the phone, speaking in a hushed voice. A printer clicked softly behind her.

Tim reached over and let his hand rest on Isabel’s. She didn’t look at him, but she turned her palm slightly to press her fingers against his. She exhaled once, quietly. He could feel the tension humming just beneath her skin.

Then they heard footsteps approaching—measured and familiar.

The door opened gently.

“Tim? Isabel?” Dana’s voice was calm, familiar now. She held a folder in one hand and gestured toward the hallway with the other. “We’re ready for you.”

Tim rose first, then turned automatically to offer his hand to Isabel. She took it, even though she didn’t need the help, and gave his fingers a small squeeze as they followed Dana down the hall. The lighting was soft, quiet like the whole office—no harsh fluorescents, no antiseptic smells. Just hushed carpet and steady footsteps.

Dana opened the same room as last time and stepped aside so they could walk in. “It’s good to see you both again.”

“You too,” Isabel said with a smile, smoothing her jacket as she sat.

Tim nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for fitting us in again.”

“Of course,” Dana said as she closed the door behind them. “We’re always happy to work around clients’ schedules. I know how demanding law enforcement hours can be.”

Isabel gave a tired half-laugh. “Yeah, we haven’t had the most traditional calendar the last couple years.”

Tim sat forward slightly in his chair, elbows braced on his knees. “We actually appreciate how normal this all feels. Like, not cold. It’s been a while since something about this process didn’t feel like… I don’t know. Like a loss.”

Dana gave him a gentle nod, sitting across from them again. “Well, we want this part to feel like the beginning of something. Not a last resort.”

Tim looked over at Isabel. Her gaze was steady.

Dana opened the folder and clicked her pen lightly. “Last time we talked about a few different options—and we touched briefly on the possibility of traditional surrogacy. Have you had a chance to think about that more?”

Tim didn’t hesitate. “We’ve thought about it a lot.”

Isabel gave a slow nod. “We talked it over for a while. More than once, actually. I went back and read through all the material you gave us, and we did our own research, too. The risks, the process, all of it.”

Tim added, “And honestly, the more we thought about what we wanted—and what we could manage physically, emotionally—it just made sense.”

“So we’re ready to go that route,” Isabel said quietly. “Traditional.”

Dana smiled, not surprised but visibly thoughtful. “That’s wonderful. Thank you both for being so thorough with this. Traditional surrogacy is a more intimate process, emotionally and legally, and choosing it with open eyes makes all the difference.”

Isabel sat back, exhaling slowly. “I think a big part of it was finally accepting that I can’t carry safely. I kept trying to pretend otherwise, but I know what my doctors said. And I’d rather have a child that shares DNA with Tim—even if it means the baby won’t technically be biologically mine.”

Tim reached for her hand without looking and found it instantly.

Dana flipped a page in the folder. “So, just to walk through next steps—you’ll each meet with our legal team to go over rights, timelines, and what the custody process will look like. In traditional surrogacy, the surrogate is the biological mother, so the legal transition is a little more layered than gestational—but still very secure.”

“We expected that,” Tim said. “And we’re fine with the extra paperwork. I just want this done right.”

“It will be,” Dana said gently. “We also have a psychological screening for both you and the surrogate—mostly to make sure everyone’s aligned, and expectations are clearly set before anything moves forward. You’ve both already completed your initial background and lifestyle paperwork, so the next thing would be beginning candidate review.”

Isabel raised an eyebrow. “That soon?”

Dana smiled. “We don’t like to waste time. And because you’ve completed your intake process and medical consult, we’ve already started compiling candidates that match your preferences and situation. If you’d like, we can begin that review today.”

Tim straightened. “Like—today today?”

Dana nodded, her voice easy but certain. “We won’t go through everything at once. It’s not a rush. But we can start reviewing profiles—no names, of course, just comprehensive files that cover health, background, availability, and values. Think of it as dating, but with much higher stakes and a lot more paperwork.”

Isabel gave a soft laugh. “Perfect.”

Dana turned her laptop toward herself, tapping at the keys as she spoke. “These are all candidates open to traditional surrogacy. Each of them has completed initial medical and psychological screening, and they’ve agreed to move forward depending on fit. Some have done this before, some haven’t—but every file here reflects someone who meets our standards.”

She handed over the first profile, printed on thick white paper, a mix of typed sections and handwritten responses. “Let’s start here.”

“Thirty,” Dana said. “She’s a mother of one. Uncomplicated pregnancy, no major health issues. Works full-time as a high school teacher in Glendale. Married. She and her spouse discussed this at length—they’re both supportive of the process.”

Tim took the sheet first, eyes scanning the stats quickly. Isabel leaned over to glance. Her voice was soft.

“She said she wanted to be a surrogate because she had a dream during her first pregnancy that she was carrying someone else’s child. And it never left her.”

“That’s…” Isabel blinked. “Kind of beautiful.”

Tim nodded, though his mouth was a flat line. “She’s got experience.”

“She does,” Dana said. “And she’s organized, very practical. Clear boundaries, but warm. Very open about communicating via agency to protect everyone’s privacy. She’s also expressed willingness to meet and stay in light contact throughout the pregnancy, especially for check-ins or big milestones.”

“She lives nearby too,” Isabel said, still reading. “That helps.”

Dana waited, watching their faces carefully as she pulled up the next profile. “This one’s a little different.”

She passed the second sheet to Isabel this time.

“Twenty-nine,” Dana continued. “Not a parent. Hasn’t carried before, but she’s a certified egg donor with six successful retrievals. Works in medical billing. Lives with her sister in Koreatown. Open to traditional or gestational, depending on the family’s needs.”

Isabel’s eyebrows lifted. “Six retrievals?”

“Spaced over five years,” Dana added quickly. “She’s very health-conscious. No smoking, no alcohol, follows a vegetarian diet. She’s extremely detail-oriented. Her application came with a spreadsheet tracking her ovulation.”

Tim let out a short breath, almost a laugh. “Damn.”

“She’s a planner,” Dana said, smiling. “Very goal-driven. She hasn’t carried yet, but her medical evaluations were some of the most thorough I’ve seen. She’s committed, but she prefers limited emotional involvement. Wants to help but is firm on her boundaries.”

Isabel looked up. “She sounds… professional. But maybe too clinical?”

Dana nodded. “It’s okay to feel that way. Some people are looking for a more emotionally involved match. Some want it to be purely transactional. Neither is wrong—it’s just about alignment.”

Tim tilted his head. “I respect it. But I don’t know if it’s what we need.”

“Understood,” Dana said. She clicked again. “Okay. Third one.”

This profile was thinner—less writing, fewer notes in the margins.

“Thirty-five. Three-time surrogate,” Dana said. “Lives in the Valley. She’s a stay-at-home mom with four kids of her own. Has done both traditional and gestational in the past—successful deliveries all. Knows the process inside and out. She works exclusively through agencies now.”

Isabel took the sheet. “She’s basically a professional surrogate?”

“She is,” Dana said. “She’s warm, reliable, communicative—but very structured. She likes clear timelines, firm expectations. She sets specific terms about contact during and after the birth, and she expects the same from intended families.”

“She’s got references,” Tim muttered, reading. “Wow.”

“She’s an excellent option for families who want predictability,” Dana said. “And someone who’s not navigating any of this for the first time.”

Isabel studied the page. “It’s impressive. But…”

“But maybe too much,” Tim finished for her. “Like we’re just the next file in a stack.”

Dana gave a small nod. “It’s okay to want something more personal. Something with heart.”

They were both quiet for a beat.

Dana tapped again, then paused. “I’ll show you one more today. A little different than the others.”

She pulled out a file that was thinner than the rest. “This one is still early in the process—her screenings are clean, she’s completed her intake and initial counseling, and she’s available to move forward.”

Tim and Isabel leaned in together as Dana placed the profile in front of them.

“She’s twenty-four,” Dana began, her voice a touch softer. “Currently studying psychology at Cal State. She’s in her second year. Lives alone. No children, no pregnancies, no losses. Her medical history is clean—no genetic red flags, no chronic conditions, no smoking or alcohol. She’s healthy, physically and emotionally.”

Tim picked up the page and studied it. Isabel leaned closer, eyes moving across the printed form and the handwritten notes beneath.

“Why do you want to become a surrogate?” Isabel read aloud, quietly.

“Because I know what it’s like to feel powerless. I know what it’s like to want something and not be able to have it. I’ve seen people I love struggle with fertility. I want to be part of someone’s solution, even if it’s a small part. I’m strong enough to carry. So I will.”

Isabel’s mouth pressed into a line. Tim didn’t say anything, but he kept staring at the words.

Dana added gently, “She’s new. This would be her first time carrying, but she’s gone through all the required counseling. She asked more questions than most, actually. She’s very thoughtful. Very aware of what this means, especially with traditional surrogacy.”

Tim looked over at Isabel, who hadn’t said anything yet. Her fingers were still resting lightly on the edge of the page, her eyes reading the same sentence again.

“I’m strong enough to carry. So I will.”

He swallowed, something tightening in his chest that had nothing to do with caution or fear.

Dana waited, quiet but present.

Finally Isabel spoke, her voice hushed. “She’s… young.”

“She is,” Dana said. “But she’s very self-aware. Grounded. And she’s not rushing into this. She started the process a couple weeks ago. Took her time. Every step she’s taken has been intentional.”

Tim nodded slowly. “She doesn’t have kids, though.”

“No,” Dana said. “And that’s always a factor. Some families feel strongly about choosing someone who’s already carried. Others are open to first-timers if they feel the candidate is emotionally prepared and supported.”

Isabel glanced at Tim, then looked back down at the form. “She seems emotionally prepared.”

“She does,” he said. Then, more softly, “That answer got to me.”

Dana smiled, but not like a sales pitch. It was a soft, knowing thing. “She doesn’t write like someone who just wants to check a box.”

Isabel turned to the next section, eyes skimming the handwritten notes. “She says she’s open to any kind of communication. That she wants the family to feel included—appointments, photos, video calls, all of it.”

Tim shifted slightly in his chair. “That’s generous,” he said. Then, after a beat, “But I don’t know if we can give her that. Not all of it.”

Isabel nodded. “We talked about that. I think… as much as we appreciate the gesture, we’re leaning more toward a closed agreement. Not because we want to be cold, just—realistic.”

Dana nodded calmly. “That’s completely valid. A closed arrangement doesn’t mean you’re indifferent. It means you’re setting expectations that match your capacity.”

“It’s partly about time,” Tim said. “We’re both still working crazy shifts. I’m on call half the week, and Isabel’s still doing overnights sometimes. We’d love to show up for every milestone, but we just can’t promise that.”

Isabel added, “And we don’t want her to feel let down. Like we were supposed to be there, or make it special, and we flake because of work.”

Dana tilted her head. “That kind of honesty is exactly what protects everyone in the long run. It’s more responsible than overcommitting.”

Isabel offered a tight smile. “It’s not just about work either. It’s… emotional space, I think. We’re trying to be ready when the baby gets here. But if we’re constantly trying to keep up with someone else’s process, it’s going to pull energy away from what we need to do.”

Tim nodded. “We’re trying to work more now—stacking hours, saving what we can. So when the baby comes, we can actually take time off. Be there. Fully.”

Dana’s expression softened. “You’re preparing in your own way. That’s just as valid as sitting in on every ultrasound.”

“We just don’t want her to feel like we’re… distant,” Isabel said. “We want her to know we care. But right now, we need the space to get everything in place.”

Tim leaned forward, elbows back on his knees. “If we do this, we want to do it right. That means being available later, when the baby’s here. Not burning out six months early because we were trying to be the ‘perfect’ intended parents.”

Dana gave a small, approving nod. “I think that’s something she’ll understand—especially if it’s communicated clearly through the agency. That’s why we use intermediated contact. Everyone gets to stay informed, no one feels abandoned, and boundaries are protected.”

Isabel let out a quiet breath, the kind you don’t notice until it’s gone. “Then yeah. We’d want to go that route. Communicate through the agency, keep it structured.”

Tim glanced at Dana. “Would that be something she’d be okay with?”

Dana didn’t answer right away. Instead, she glanced down at the file in front of her, flipping back to the notes. “She did say she was open to different levels of involvement, depending on the family’s needs. She emphasized wanting to help, not take over.”

Isabel looked back at the page in her hand, at the neat, intentional handwriting. “She seems like the kind of person who’d get that. Especially if we’re honest.”

“I agree,” Dana said. “And if we set that tone early, it gives her permission to set boundaries too. Everyone can stay connected—but within a rhythm that works.”

Tim gave a small nod. “Okay. That’s what we’d want. Not cold—but clear.”

Dana smiled. “Then that’s how we’ll frame the meeting. No pressure. Just two people learning whether they can walk through something big together—with the right amount of distance.”

Isabel closed the folder slowly and exhaled. “That sounds like a good start.”

Dana gave a small nod, then gently moved the folder to the side. “Alright. Now that we’ve talked through communication preferences, let’s walk through what happens if she’s comfortable moving forward.”

Tim leaned forward slightly, hands clasped loosely between his knees. Isabel sat straighter in her chair.

“If she gives her consent to continue,” Dana began, “we initiate the first phase of the medical process. That starts with clearance—routine bloodwork, hormone panels, and a uterine ultrasound. Nothing invasive. It’s all outpatient and monitored here at the clinic.”

“And on our end?” Isabel asked.

“We’d start with a semen analysis for Tim,” Dana said, her tone clinical but kind. “We check for volume, motility, morphology—all the standard markers. Once everything is confirmed to be within range, we move forward with cycle tracking.”

“So it’s all based on her natural ovulation?” Tim asked.

“Yes,” Dana said. “We’ll monitor her cycle closely. Once her body signals that ovulation is imminent, we schedule insemination to align with that exact window. Ideally, Tim provides the sample the same day—fresh is best—but we can also freeze in advance if scheduling becomes tricky.”

Isabel glanced at Tim, then back to Dana. “And if it doesn’t work the first time?”

Dana offered a calm smile. “That’s very common. Most families plan for up to three attempts using intrauterine insemination. If it doesn’t result in a confirmed pregnancy after three well-timed cycles, we would reevaluate—check hormone levels, follicle development, semen viability again—and make an adjusted plan.”

“Does she have to wait a full month between each try?” Isabel asked.

“Yes,” Dana said. “Because we’re following her natural cycle, insemination is only possible once per month. However, if we determine she’s a candidate for a medicated cycle, we can consider ovulation stimulation to tighten that window—but that’s not something we explore until at least two natural cycles have been completed.”

Tim nodded. “So it’s not rushed. It’s… measured.”

“Exactly,” Dana said. “We move at the pace of her body and her comfort. And yours.”

Isabel folded her hands in her lap. “We’ll need as much notice as possible before insemination so we can schedule around it. We’re both working more than full-time right now—trying to build in flexibility for when the baby arrives.”

“That’s very common,” Dana said. “A lot of intended families front-load their schedules so they can scale back later. We’ll make sure the medical calendar is clear and predictable. You won’t be called in last minute.”

Tim gave a faint, relieved smile. “Yeah. The idea is to work as much as we can now so we can be present when it matters.”

“Exactly,” Dana said. “You’re investing in your future time together.”

Isabel’s voice was quieter. “That’s really the only thing that matters to us.”

Dana gave her a long, kind look before continuing. “Once a pregnancy is confirmed—which we’ll know via bloodwork about ten days after insemination—we’ll begin early monitoring. If her hCG levels double appropriately and her progesterone is stable, we schedule a viability ultrasound around week six.”

“And then she transfers to an OB?” Isabel asked.

“Yes,” Dana said. “We can connect her with one of our partner providers, or she can stay with her current OB. We’ll remain in the loop behind the scenes, but at that point her prenatal care is standard.”

“Will we receive those updates too?” Tim asked.

“With her consent, yes,” Dana replied. “All key medical milestones—genetic screening, anatomy scan, glucose testing, and so on—can be shared with you through our secure portal. You’ll be kept fully informed, but without needing to attend routine checkups unless that ever changes.”

Isabel nodded once. “That’s what we prefer.”

Dana studied her for a moment, then continued carefully. “Once we reach the third trimester, typically around week 30 or 32, we begin finalizing the post-birth logistics. That includes the legal portion.”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “Is that where the court part comes in?”

“Yes,” Dana said. “In California, Tim will sign an acknowledgment of paternity within 48 hours of the baby’s birth. That secures his legal status immediately. Isabel, you’ll file for a second-parent adoption, which typically involves one brief court appearance—often virtual, and usually scheduled within a few weeks of birth.”

Isabel shifted slightly. “Is it possible to arrange that in a way that’s… completely separate from her? I mean, no overlap at all?”

Dana nodded gently. “Absolutely. The court process doesn’t require any in-person contact. If you prefer, we can coordinate a virtual hearing that’s private and scheduled independently of any of her filings. She won’t be present, nor will you be expected to attend the same session.”

“Good,” Isabel said, her voice soft but certain. “We’re grateful for everything she’s doing, but we’d like to maintain clean lines. Not from a place of avoidance—just clarity.”

Dana gave a small, understanding smile. “That’s a very common and completely valid choice. Our job is to honor the boundaries everyone agrees to from the start.”

Tim gave Isabel a glance—almost like he was checking that she was okay—and she nodded back at him.

“So what happens once the baby’s born?” Isabel asked.

“At delivery,” Dana said, “the hospital will follow a birth plan we prepare in advance—down to the room arrangements, who the baby is handed to, and how long everyone stays. If you’d like, we can request a family suite so the baby stays with you from hour one.”

“Would we be responsible for her recovery period at the hospital?” Isabel asked.

“No,” Dana said. “She’ll receive her own discharge care—typically within 24 to 48 hours—and we coordinate that entirely through our office. If she chooses to spend time with the baby, we’ll let you know in advance and keep that boundary clear. Most surrogates opt for a quick, quiet departure.”

“And once we leave with the baby?” Tim asked.

“Two pediatric appointments in the first month,” Dana said. “You’ll also have a short follow-up with our office to finalize your records and support transition home. After that, your family life begins.”

There was a pause. The room, for a moment, felt softer.

Then Isabel stood, smoothing her shirt. “Thank you for walking us through all of that. It’s… reassuring to know how thought-out it all is.”

Tim followed, rising beside her. “We’ll just wait to hear back?”

“Yes,” Dana said, standing with them. “If she agrees to move forward, we’ll contact you with a projected timeline and begin coordinating the first appointments. If she has questions or changes her mind, we’ll let you know before any next steps are scheduled.”

Isabel gave a final nod. “That sounds right.”

“You’re in good hands,” Dana said gently, walking them to the door. “Let’s take it one steady step at a time.”

The door opened. The hallway beyond was just as quiet as it had been earlier—but this time, the silence felt different. Not uncertain. Just waiting for what came next.

Chapter Text

It all moved faster than she’d expected.

Once she signed the consent form, everything accelerated. Calls. Appointments. Paperwork. They explained it all with calm, steady voices—how it would work, what to expect, what not to expect. But none of it really landed until she was lying back on an exam table, heart pounding under a thin paper gown, legs drawn up for the insemination.

She didn’t see him. She never would. But the moment the catheter entered her, she knew: this was real. Not an idea. Not a conversation. This was the start of someone’s child.

That first week was a blur. She waited to feel different. Waited for some great emotional shift. But the change came quietly. Her body adjusted faster than her mind. Her breasts ached. Her appetite turned upside down. Then came the nausea—merciless and sharp, without any care for schedules. “Morning” sickness was a lie. It hit whenever it pleased: in the car, brushing her teeth, standing in line at CVS. She gagged at the smell of toast. Couldn’t even think about eggs. Water tasted metallic.

Still, she went to every appointment.

The agency reminded her they were proud of her, how smooth everything was going. Her OB—Dr. Linton, polite but all business—said she was progressing perfectly. The fetus measured exactly where it should. Healthy. Strong heartbeat. Textbook development.

She kept herself detached as best she could. This wasn’t her baby, she reminded herself. She was just carrying it. That was the deal. A good family, a closed arrangement, clear lines. No visits, no phone calls, no lifelong entanglements. And that’s how she preferred it.

But detachment was complicated. Every movement in her belly reminded her that this wasn’t theoretical. It was real. Growing. Stretching her skin, changing her balance, swelling her ankles and knees. She couldn’t sleep on her back. She couldn’t keep food down some days. She bought maternity leggings just so she could keep working. She carried this baby every moment of every day—physically, emotionally, viscerally.

She thought she was prepared. That she could be the stable, selfless vessel she promised she would be. But the further along she got, the more it became clear: this was not something you could do halfway. Her entire life bent around this pregnancy. It wasn’t painful, exactly. But it was relentless.

Still, it was going well. Remarkably well. She kept her blood pressure steady. No gestational diabetes. The baby kept kicking, kept growing. The OB’s tone stayed neutral in the best way—no urgency, no “we need to talk.” Just a steady stream of data and measurements.

She made it to thirty-eight weeks.

When the pressure started, she didn’t think it was labor. Not at first. Just cramps, maybe gas, maybe the usual third-trimester discomfort. But the pressure didn’t go away. It deepened. Spread. Came in waves, low and tight, like a belt pulling hard across her pelvis.

She waited. Timed them. Ten minutes apart. Then seven. Then five.

By the time she got to the hospital, she could barely walk from the car to the front desk.

They admitted her quickly. Hooked her to monitors. The contractions were regular. Strong. The baby’s heart rate fluttered steadily on the screen. Everything looked fine—at first.

She was dilated to three centimeters. They told her to get comfortable. That it might be a long night.

The pain climbed quickly after that. She gritted her teeth through it, pressed her hands flat to the mattress. Nurses moved in and out. Checked monitors. Whispered things she couldn’t hear. Her back felt like it was splitting. Sweat pooled under her neck.

Then a nurse came in—older, brisk, focused. She checked the monitors. Then frowned.

“I’m going to have the doctor come in,” she said, too gently.

A few minutes later, the door opened again. A man in dark blue scrubs stepped in, holding a tablet. Tall, broad-shouldered, glasses perched low on his nose. He didn’t smile, but his tone wasn’t unkind.

“Miss Chen?” he asked. “I’m Dr. Hartley. I’m with the maternal-fetal medicine team.”

She nodded, barely. Her breath caught with another contraction.

“I’ve reviewed your tracing,” he said, glancing briefly at the monitor. “We’re seeing some recurrent late decelerations in the fetal heart rate.”

She blinked at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means that during contractions, the baby’s heart rate is dipping lower than we’d like to see,” he explained. His voice was even, professional. “That can indicate that the baby is experiencing some degree of stress—often due to limited oxygen exchange during uterine contractions.”

Her fingers curled tightly into the blanket. “So what happens now?”

“We’ve also noted a rising trend in your blood pressure, and some concerns about fetal positioning,” he said. “The baby appears to be in a slightly posterior position, which could complicate a vaginal delivery.”

He waited a moment, letting that settle.

“Based on those factors,” Dr. Hartley continued, looking directly at Lucy with a steady but compassionate expression, “our clinical recommendation is to proceed with a cesarean section.”

Lucy’s breath caught, her fingers tightening around the hospital gown. The phrase felt like a verdict, a sharp pivot in everything she thought she knew about this pregnancy. She blinked, trying to absorb the weight of those words.

Dr. Hartley shifted slightly in his chair, giving her a moment before continuing. “I understand this may feel overwhelming. Let me explain exactly what will happen, step by step, so you can feel as prepared as possible.”

Lucy nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in her throat. The sterile room felt colder suddenly, the sound of the ticking clock loud in her ears.

“First,” he began, “a cesarean section, or C-section, is a surgical procedure to deliver the baby through an incision in the abdomen and uterus. This is different from vaginal delivery, where the baby is born through the birth canal.”

He paused briefly, watching her expression carefully. “We recommend this approach because of the specific circumstances in your case—placental positioning and the baby’s orientation—both of which increase risks if we proceed with a vaginal birth.”

Lucy felt the nerves rise again, but she forced herself to focus.

“The surgery usually takes about 45 minutes to an hour. You will receive regional anesthesia — either a spinal block or an epidural — which will numb your lower body but allow you to remain awake and alert throughout the procedure.”

“Will I feel anything at all?” she asked quietly.

“You won’t feel pain,” Dr. Hartley assured her. “You may feel some pressure or movement, but the anesthesia prevents pain sensations. We’ll continuously monitor you to ensure your comfort.”

He reached for a diagram on the table, unfolding it and pointing carefully. “The surgeon will make a horizontal incision, roughly four to six inches, just above your pubic bone—usually along the bikini line so the scar is discreet.”

Lucy traced the imagined line with her eyes. “So they cut through skin, then muscle?”

“Yes. After the skin incision, we gently separate the layers beneath—the fat tissue and abdominal muscles—to reach the uterus. The uterus is then incised horizontally to allow the baby’s delivery.”

She took a deep breath, the sterile air filling her lungs. “What happens after they take the baby out?”

Dr. Hartley didn’t hesitate. “Once the baby is delivered, our neonatal team—who will already be in the OR—will conduct a full assessment. We’ll check Apgar scores, temperature regulation, tone, respiration, reflexes. If everything’s within normal range, which we expect, the baby will be dried, swaddled, and brought to you within minutes.”

Lucy nodded, slowly, though the words felt like they were underwater. “You’ll hand her to me?”

“We will,” he said, his voice steady but kind. “As soon as she’s stable, we’ll position her on your chest, or cradled in your arm—whichever feels best and safest in that moment. We’ll help you hold her. You won’t be alone.”

That was what got her.

Not just that she’d see the baby. But that someone would help her do it. That someone would stay close enough to make sure she didn’t mess it up.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He offered her a final nod before stepping out, leaving the room to shift around her like a slow tide. A nurse came in next, walking her through every step. Paper gown. Surgical cap. The adhesive monitors pressed gently against her skin. Her IV line was adjusted, her legs prepped. A second nurse checked her identity, gestured calmly toward the wheelchair that would take her to the OR.

“Deep breaths, Lucy,” the nurse said. “You’re doing great.”

The hallway was cooler than the room, and everything about the OR smelled sharper. Not just sterile, but clean in a way that felt clinical—antiseptic, dry, a little metallic.

When they helped her shift to the surgical table, her back felt cold against the padded vinyl. She lay flat while the anesthesiologist administered the spinal block. A thin needle, a cold swipe of iodine, a deep pressure that turned into numbness before she had time to second-guess.

“Let us know what you feel,” someone said.

“Pressure,” Lucy mumbled. “No pain.”

“Perfect.”

Blue drapes rose like a wall across her abdomen. Monitors blinked rhythmically near her head. Her heart rate felt fast, her palms a little clammy. But no one looked worried.

She felt a tug.

Then another. Not pain—never pain—but deep movement. Like someone rearranging her from the inside.

“We’re beginning the incision,” Dr. Hartley announced. “Transverse, low-segment. Everything’s progressing smoothly.”

She swallowed hard. Her arms were gently strapped down—not tightly, just enough to keep her from moving. A nurse leaned close and adjusted the oxygen tubing near her nose. “You’re doing really well, Lucy. The baby’s heart rate is strong.”

The pressure grew stronger, more purposeful. She could feel a team working in rhythm—tug, stretch, suction, silence.

Then Dr. Hartley spoke again. “Uterine incision complete. Preparing for extraction.”

The nurse beside her gave a warm, quiet smile. “You might feel some pulling now.”

It wasn’t just pulling. It felt like her whole body shifted. Like someone was lifting a weight she didn’t realize she’d been carrying for nine months. She felt an emptiness—startling and vast—then a sudden lightness in her chest.

And then—sound.

A sharp, wet cry that cut through the room like sunlight cracking the ocean’s surface.

The baby.

She was crying.

Lucy’s breath hitched. She couldn’t move her head. She couldn’t see anything but the curtain. But she heard it. That one, strong, piercing wail.

“She’s out,” someone said gently. “5:12 PM. One strong little girl.”

The nurse’s hand rested gently on Lucy’s shoulder. “Vitals are good. No signs of distress. They’re doing her Apgar right now—eight at one minute.”

More muffled voices. A soft suctioning sound. The baby cried again—less frantic this time. Softer.

Then, steps.

Lucy turned her head as far as she could.

The nurse appeared, and in her arms was a tiny, wrapped bundle. White hospital blanket with soft pink and blue stripes. A little blue cap snug over a head of damp, dark hair.

“Lucy,” the nurse said gently, “this is her.”

She didn’t have a name. Lucy would never know it. But none of that mattered.

She was perfect.

Her face was wrinkled and pink, her mouth searching even though she wasn’t crying now. Her nose was tiny. Her hands were balled into fists beneath the blanket. Her eyes—if they were open—were barely slits.

Lucy’s throat tightened. “I can hold her?”

“You can. We’ll support her weight. Just keep your arms relaxed.”

The nurse guided the baby carefully into her arm, securing the head gently against Lucy’s chest. The drape was still in place. Lucy couldn’t see the stitching, the closing, any of the things happening behind the barrier—but she could feel the warmth of the baby against her skin.

A single, whimpering breath escaped the baby’s mouth. A little sigh, like she’d decided the world wasn’t so bad after all.

Lucy’s vision blurred.

her cracked open in the softest way.

“Hi,” she whispered. “Hi, little one.”

The baby stirred slightly, shifting against her chest with a flutter of breath and a slow, instinctive twitch of a hand. Lucy’s arms tightened around her automatically, not too much, just enough. The hospital blanket was warm between them, her body heat softening the chill in the sterile air.

Everything was quiet now.

It had been nearly forty minutes since the nurses had finished checking vitals, since the doctors had left her to recover in private. No more monitors beeping, no more talk about incision angles or anesthesia levels. Just silence and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights. Just her and this little person who didn’t belong to her, but who’d spent nearly ten months beneath her ribs.

She stared down at the tiny face pressed against her chest , the soft blur of lashes, the warm puff of breath against her skin. The baby’s skin had settled into that pinkish newborn flush, still wrinkled, still impossibly new. Lucy traced her thumb along the swaddle, not quite touching the baby’s cheek. She didn’t trust her fingers to be that gentle.

She’d known this wasn’t her baby. From the beginning, that had been the deal. Her biology, his DNA, their child. That was always clear.

Still.

Still.

She hadn’t expected the way it would feel to hold her.

It wasn’t that she wanted to keep her. That was never it. But letting go—that was something different.

Lucy blinked slowly, her eyes dry but thick somehow, like her body didn’t quite know what emotion to land on. Everything ached—her incision, her back, her arms, her heart. But none of it was sharp. It was just… full. Like someone had opened a door in her and left it swinging.

The baby stirred again, making the smallest sound. A hiccup, maybe. Or the start of a sigh.

Lucy smiled faintly and adjusted the blanket. “You’re gonna be so spoiled,” she whispered. “Just you wait.”

A knock, so soft she almost missed it.

Lucy turned her head.

Dana peeked her head in but didn’t step forward. “Hey, sweetheart. Just me. Can I come in?”

Lucy nodded, her voice too soft for words.

Dana entered slowly, closing the door behind her. Her smile was small and respectful, the kind she saved for moments that weren’t really happy or sad—just big. She wore her usual dark blazer over a soft blouse, a leather folder in one hand.

“No rush,” she said gently. “Just here to walk you through the next steps.”

Lucy nodded again, shifting slightly on the bed, careful not to disturb the baby.

Dana glanced down, her face warming as she looked at the bundle nestled in Lucy’s arms. “She looks perfect,” she said softly. “You did so well, Lucy. Everyone says it.”

“I’m still kind of shaky,” Lucy admitted, her voice barely above a breath. “But I feel… okay.”

Dana pulled the visitor’s chair closer and sat, not too close, just at an angle where she wouldn’t crowd her. “You’ve been through something huge. It’s okay to still be processing it.”

Lucy nodded. “I think I thought it’d be more like… a job. Like just getting through it.”

“I know,” Dana said. “That’s how most people think of it at first. But then the moment comes—and it’s not clinical. It’s human.”

Lucy looked down again. The baby’s cheek rested against her chest, and she could feel the tiny, rhythmic breaths there. “Yeah,” she whispered. “It’s really human.”

Dana smiled, then opened the folder on her lap. “Okay, so. A few things we’ll need to go over. You let me know if you want to wait. But we’ll need a few signatures today.”

“Okay.” Lucy’s voice was low, tired—not from the surgery, not entirely. It was the kind of tired that came from something deeper than pain. She adjusted the baby in her arms again, instinctively protecting the small bundle curled against her chest. The baby’s head was warm beneath her chin. So small. So impossibly there.

Dana flipped to the first tabbed form, her voice calm and practiced. “First is the birth certificate. It’s temporary, but still required. Since you gave birth, your name has to go on it. Only until the final documentation is processed through the court.”

Lucy frowned faintly. “Even though it’s not—”

“Yes,” Dana said gently. “Even though she’s not yours. I know it sounds strange, but it’s just how the system works. The pre-birth order already lists the intended parents, and we’ll submit everything once this is signed. But legally, we can’t do that until we file this version first.”

Lucy nodded, and after a moment, Dana offered her the pen. Her fingers hovered for a beat over the paper. She looked down at the sleeping baby, her breath soft and slow, and then signed—her hand steady, her signature careful.

Dana turned to the next form. “This is the affidavit of voluntary relinquishment. It confirms that you’re waiving any legal or custodial rights and that this was a pre-arranged, compensated surrogacy. No surprises. Just a confirmation.”

Lucy didn’t hesitate this time. The pen moved more easily across the page, even though something in her chest tugged harder.

“Thank you,” Dana said softly, sliding the signed sheets back into the folder and closing it with a gentle snap. “That’s it. No more paperwork today.”

Lucy looked down at the baby again. “So… what now?”

“Now, nothing urgent,” Dana said. “They’re here. Waiting, but they understand this part matters. You can take as long as you need. There’s no protocol for this part.”

“I thought I’d be more ready,” Lucy murmured. “I thought it would feel different. I knew I wasn’t keeping her, I never wanted to keep her, but… she’s warm. And real.”

“She is,” Dana said. “And it makes sense that this feels big. It is big.”

Lucy blinked slowly. “I feel like she knows me. Like I’m not just a body she came through.”

“You’re not,” Dana said.

“I thought I’d just hand her off right away. Get it over with.”

Dana didn’t say anything.

Lucy kept talking—half to Dana, half to the baby. “But then they laid her on me. And she looked at me. Or maybe not, I don’t know. Her eyes are so dark. But she made this noise, this soft little—” her voice caught “—like she was surprised to be here. Like she didn’t know what she was supposed to do yet. And I just… I held her. That’s all I did. And now I don’t want to let go.”

“You’re not failing anyone by feeling that,” Dana said. “You’re human. And this is… maybe the most human thing there is.”

Lucy looked down again at the baby’s face, impossibly soft and still a little wrinkled. Her lips were parted. Her breath came in tiny, delicate puffs.

“How long have I been holding her?” she asked.

“A while,” Dana said. “They’re not asking for her yet.”

Lucy was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Do they want me to say anything? Before she goes?”

“No,” Dana said. “They want to honor the distance. But they’re grateful. And they understand this part is yours.”

Lucy gave a short nod, her thumb brushing gently over the baby’s blanket. “Okay.”

She kissed her. Softly. Right at the top of her head, where her hair was only just starting to grow in. The baby didn’t stir.

Dana stood slowly. She didn’t move until Lucy looked up and nodded.

“I’m ready,” she said, though her voice cracked on the second word. “You can take her.”

Dana leaned forward, and Lucy shifted just enough to let her in. Her arms moved slowly, reluctantly. She’d been ready. And yet her hands felt suddenly unsure.

The moment the baby left her arms, something in her chest folded inward.

Dana adjusted her hold carefully, one hand under the baby’s head, the other supporting her bottom, the blanket still tucked around her tight.

Lucy’s arms dropped to her lap. They felt foreign now. Empty in the worst kind of way.

But she didn’t cry. Not exactly.

She just looked at the baby, then at Dana. “Thank you for being here.”

Dana’s smile was quiet. “Always.”

And then she turned, baby held close, and walked softly toward the door.

Lucy didn’t watch her go. She just leaned back, eyes on the ceiling, and let the silence settle around her like a blanket too thin for warmth.

And that was the end of it.

Or so she thought

Chapter Text

( Four years later )

There was no need for an alarm anymore. His body just knew.

Years in the military had taught him to rise early, but police work sharpened it into something deeper. A sixth sense. He didn’t need a clock to know when it was time to move—his brain simply clicked on, clear and alert, ready for the day ahead.

Today wasn’t just any workday.

Rookie assignment day. A new trainee. Fresh meat.

He sat up, running a hand over his face, feeling the light stubble and the echo of an old jaw injury that still ached in the mornings. His joints cracked as he rolled his shoulders back, standing with that slow, automatic precision that came from habit more than effort.

The house was still. Warm. Lived-in. Quiet in the way homes are before the day starts—before cereal bowls clatter and little feet hit the floor. He padded down the hallway, the wooden boards creaking beneath his weight like an old friend nodding good morning.

He liked rookie day. More than liked it, if he was honest. It was the beginning of a new cycle. A new challenge. He’d trained enough cops by now to know most didn’t have what it took—not for this city, not for this job. The uniform might look the same on all of them, but you couldn’t fake grit. Not under pressure. Not with a gun drawn or a life on the line.

Most of them cracked by month three. A few didn’t last the first week.

And that was fine with him. Better to find out early.

There was satisfaction in it—not in breaking them, but in testing them. In seeing who could be shaped and who just wasn’t built for it. He’d take one solid partner over a dozen weak ones any day. He wasn’t there to babysit. He was there to build cops who didn’t get people killed.

He passed the row of family photos—frames he didn’t stop to look at but couldn’t help feeling. The memories in them were sharp and quiet, stitched into his chest where they stayed.

He stopped at the last door in the hall.

White, a little scuffed near the bottom where shoes had bumped into it and stickers had once been half-heartedly peeled off. The top had wooden letters painted soft lilac and glued slightly crooked:

MARIANNE.

No one called her that, though. Not really.

He cracked the door open.

Her room smelled like lavender and that weird apple shampoo she insisted on, even though it tangled her hair more than helped. The blackout curtains were pulled half-shut, letting just enough morning light in to catch on the glittery beads hanging from her dresser and the scattered books beside her tiny beanbag chair.

In the middle of the bed—blankets twisted, limbs sprawled—was a little girl, four years old, breathing deep and slow like she’d never once been in a hurry in her life.

He leaned against the doorframe for a second, arms crossed. Just watching her. Still and warm in her mess of blankets, her black hair sticking up in all directions, her mouth slightly open.

His mouth tilted in a slow smile.

“Annie,” he said, voice low and soft.

She didn’t move.

“C’mon, baby. Daddy’s gotta get to work.”

A tiny groan came from under the covers.

He stepped in, kneeling beside the bed, brushing back the mess of tangled curls that had taken over her face in the night. “Don’t make me come in there and drag you out.”

A muffled, dramatic, “Noooo,” came from somewhere deep in the blanket cave.

He smirked. “You really wanna challenge me, huh?”

“I’m sleepin’,” she insisted, though her legs kicked once under the blanket—busted.

He tugged the covers down just enough to see her face. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her lips pouting hard.

“You’re not sleepin’. You’re hiding.”

“Am not,” she grumbled.

He tilted his head. “So your blanket just talks now?”

She cracked one eye, just barely. “Maybe.”

He reached down and gave the mattress a gentle bounce with one hand. “Alright, missy. Time’s up.”

“Nooo, five more minutes,” she whined, grabbing the edge of the blanket and yanking it back over her head. “I was in the middle of my dream!”

“Oh yeah?” he said, amused. “What were you dreaming about?”

“Pancakes.”

“Nice try.”

“With chocolate chips.”

He laughed. “Nice lie.”

“Daddyyyyy,” she whined, dragging out the word like it was physically painful to say. “It’s too earlyyy.”

“It’s seven,” he said, patient but firm. “You gotta get up or we’ll be late.”

“To the dumb daycare?” she mumbled into her pillow.

He raised a brow. “Watch that mouth.”

She peeked at him again, squinting. “Can’t I just stay here? I be so quiet.”

“You? Quiet?” he snorted. “Baby that’d be a first.”

She grinned sleepily. “I promise.”

“Nope. We got school, I got work, and today’s the day Daddy meets his rookie.”

She flopped dramatically onto her back. “I don’t like rookies.”

“You don’t even know what a rookie is.”

“They sound boring.”

“Exactly,” he said, scooping her up before she could bolt back under the covers. She shrieked—half protest, half giggle—as he stood with her in his arms.

“Daddy no! Put me baaaack!” she squealed, squirming against him like a little fish.

“Nope,” he said, pressing a kiss to her warm cheek. “Too late. You’re officially awake.”

“Ughhh,” she groaned, laying her head dramatically against his shoulder as he carried her down the hallway. “You so mean.”

“You love it,” he smirked, nudging open the bathroom door with his foot. The morning light filtered in soft through the frosted glass, and he set her down gently in front of the toilet.

“Okay, go potty,” he said, crouching in front of her. “Then we’ll get that mop of yours washed up.”

Annie blinked at him, still half-asleep, and mumbled, “I don’t gotta go.”

“Try anyway, kiddo. You don’t wanna be doing the potty dance at daycare.”

She gave him a look—four years old and already a master of suspicion—and then reluctantly shuffled over. He turned around to give her some privacy and flipped on the shower, letting the water run until steam began to rise. He grabbed her towel and the little purple bottle of tear-free shampoo from the counter.

“All done!” she chirped suddenly.

He turned back, lifted her up, and pulled her pajama top over her head. “Alright, monkey. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Annie giggled as he held her steady. “I not a monkey,” she protested, though she was already grinning.

He raised a brow. “Really? ‘Cause you were climbing all over the couch yesterday like you were training for the zoo.”

“Nuh-uh,” she said, wagging a damp finger at him. “That was gym-nastics.”

“Oh, my mistake,” he said, smirking as he set her down gently on the bathmat. “Little Miss Olympics. Arms up.”

She threw her arms over her head dramatically. “Ta-da!”

He peeled off her pajama bottoms, then scooped her up again, holding her on his hip while he reached into the tub and tested the water.

Warm, not too hot.

He set her in gently, and she let out a high-pitched squeal as the water splashed around her. “It’s warm!” she announced, like he hadn’t just checked it himself.

“Yep, that’s kinda the point, kiddo.”

He grabbed the plastic cup from the edge of the tub, filled it, and gently poured water over her head. She scrunched up her nose and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Daaaaddy, not in my eyes!” she whined, voice small but firm.

“I didn’t! You moved your head!” he said with a laugh, tipping the cup carefully so the water slid down her hair and not her face. “Alright, let’s get those curls clean.”

He squeezed a dollop of apple -scented shampoo into his hand and began massaging it into her thick dark curls. She wriggled like a little fish, making silly faces and trying to dodge his fingers.

“Tickle, tickle!” he teased, fingers light and playful against her scalp.

“Stop, Daddy!” she giggled, trying to bat his hands away but smiling wide.

“You like it, don’t you?” he asked, grinning.

“Maybe,” she admitted, eyes still shut tight.

When the shampoo was all lathered up, he scooped more water with the cup and rinsed her hair carefully. She lifted her face a little and let the water run over, though she kept squeezing her eyes shut the whole time.

Next came the conditioner.

“Nooo,” she protested, scrunching her nose. “It’s slippery.”

He chuckled and worked the conditioner through her curls, careful not to get any near her eyes. “It’s supposed to be slippery. That’s how it makes your hair soft.”

She made a disgusted face but let him do his job, reaching up to squish a few bubbles.

When the rinse was done, he lifted her out of the tub and wrapped her up in a fluffy towel. She burrowed into it, her small arms clutching it tight.

“Warm,” she murmured, nestling her face into the soft fabric.

He carried her over to the bathroom counter and gently sat her down, careful not to let the towel slip off. The steam from the shower fogged the mirror as he grabbed the brush and started working through her damp hair.

“Hold still, princess. I’m gonna make you look beautiful.”

She leaned her head against his hand, eyes half-lidded and calm now.

He brushed slowly, pulling her hair back into two neat pigtails. Her curls bounced as he tied them with soft pink elastics.

“There,” he said softly. “All done.”

She smiled up at him, small and shy. “Like Mommy’s?”

He froze for a moment. “Yeah. Just like Mommy’s.”

He cleared his throat, trying to push away the lump in his throat. “When Mommy comes back, you can show her your pink tails.”

“Okay,” Annie chirped, satisfied. She slid off the counter with a thump of her feet and took off down the hall, leaving a trail of damp footprints behind her.

“Hey! Slow down,” he called, grabbing a towel to mop the floor. “You’re gonna wipe out and then I’m gonna have to call daycare and tell ’em you got grounded by tile.”

Her giggles echoed from her room.

By the time he caught up, she was already rummaging through her dresser, drawers half-open, shirts tumbling out like she was on some urgent fashion mission. She gasped and yanked a hanger from the tiny closet. “Daddy! I found it!”

He leaned in the doorway, arms folded, towel slung over his shoulder. “Found what?”

“This one!” she spun around, triumphant. A little jean dress with short, puffy sleeves and embroidered daisies all over the front. “The flower dress!”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, half smiling. “That one’s a good pick.”

She held it up to her chest like it was made of gold. “It’s pretty.”

“It is. You’re gonna knock ‘em dead.”

She blinked up at him, confused.

He smirked. “I mean… you’re gonna look real nice.”

Satisfied, she turned and waddled over, holding the dress out like a peace offering. “Help, Daddy.”

“Alright, alright.” He crouched down, slipping the soft denim over her head, careful not to catch her ears or mess up her pigtails. She stuck her arms through the sleeves with a little grunt and shimmied her shoulders once it was on.

“There,” he said, tugging the hem down and smoothing out the skirt. “Perfect.”

She spun once for dramatic effect, then darted toward the little bin by the door where all her shoes were tossed in a colorful mess. After a few seconds of rummaging, she emerged holding the loudest pair of footwear he owned for her: glitter-covered rain boots.

“Annie,” he said slowly, “you sure you wanna wear those? It’s not even raining.”

“I like ‘em,” she said, stomping one boot on the floor. “They make the shiny.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got those nice pink sandals.”

“Nooo,” she whined, bottom lip starting to stick out. “I want my sparkle boots. Please, Daddy.”

He crouched again and looked her in the eye. “They’re not exactly the comfiest, monkey. You’re gonna be running around all day.”

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted, stuffing one foot in with a little hop and tug. “They make me fast.”

“Oh, they make you fast, huh?”

She nodded fiercely. “Like zoom.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” he said, chuckling. “Alright. Sparkle boots it is.”

She finished jamming her feet into them and held her arms out. “Ready!”

He lifted her up with a soft grunt and pressed a kiss to the side of her head. “Let’s go make some breakfast before you zoom off to daycare.”

In the kitchen, she made a beeline for her booster seat at the table and clambered up like she’d done it a hundred times—which she had. He moved to the stove, opening the fridge.

“Alright, Chef Annie. What’s on the menu?”

She tapped her chin with one sticky finger. “Ummmm… pancakes?”

He nodded. “Pancakes it is.”

“And strawberries,” she added quickly. “The red ones. Not the mushy ones.”

“Noted,” he said, already grabbing the carton and inspecting them like a grocery store clerk. “These pass inspection?”

She gave a firm thumbs-up.

He got to work mixing batter, flipping on the stove, and adding just the tiniest bit of vanilla because that was how she liked them. Annie sat at the table humming something tuneless, legs swinging and boots thunking against the chair.

When he poured the batter onto the hot pan, she perked up. “Make ‘em shapes!”

He shot her a look over his shoulder. “Hearts or stars?”

“Hearts.”

“Of course.”

The smell of vanilla and warm batter filled the kitchen, soft and sweet. He flipped one of the pancakes with a little extra flair, earning a delighted squeal from behind him.

“You’re so good at that,” she said seriously.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Did Mommy teach you?”

He hesitated a beat, spatula still in hand. “Nah, I had to learn when you started eating more than applesauce.”

She giggled, distracted by the syrup bottle now. “Can I do the syrup?”

“You can pour a little. Last time you made a lake.”

“It was a syrup pool,” she corrected.

“Right. For the record, we don’t swim in syrup.”

Once the pancakes were golden and stacked on her plate, he added a few sliced strawberries and handed it off with a fork. She dug in with a happy little sigh, the glitter from her boots now flecking the floor under the table.

He made himself a quick plate, wolfing down a few bites between sips of coffee and checking the clock. Still plenty of time.

“You eatin’ fast,” she said around a mouthful.

“That’s ‘cause I’m old.”

“You’re not old.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re just… big.”

He smiled. “I’ll take it.”

She polished off her pancakes and held up the plate. “I did it.”

“Ten outta ten,” he said, taking it and rinsing it in the sink. “Alright, Sparkle Girl. Time to load up.”

“Backpack!” she shouted, sliding down from her chair and running toward the hallway where her unicorn backpack waited by the door.

She stood proudly while he helped her slip her arms through the straps, then adjusted the front clip so it wouldn’t slide off her shoulders.

“You got your folder?”

“Yeah.”

“Snack?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then.” He opened the front door and let her stomp out onto the porch, those glitter boots already catching the light. She headed straight for the truck like she owned it.

“Want help up?” he asked as she reached for the handle.

“No,” she grunted, trying to haul herself up. “I can do it.”

She couldn’t. He boosted her up with one arm and clicked her into the car seat, adjusting the straps like he’d done a thousand times before.

Once she was buckled, he shut the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. The morning sun was just starting to rise over the rooftops, casting a soft gold across the windshield. He glanced at her through the rearview.

“You ready?”

Annie nodded firmly. “Let’s go!”

He turned the key and the truck rumbled to life. With one hand on the wheel, he flipped the radio on. Some classic rock was playing—low enough not to startle her, familiar enough to keep his brain from drifting.

“Not this one,” Annie declared with authority. “I want the fun music.”

He smirked and clicked to the next preset. A peppy pop song started thumping. Annie immediately started kicking her boots to the beat, giggling at herself in the mirror.

He let her ramble as they drove—about her friend Ava, and snack time, and the bunny they saw in the yard last week that she swears waved at her. He nodded, asked questions where he could, but mostly just listened. These were the moments he didn’t take for granted. Mornings like this. Just them.

By the time they pulled into the daycare parking lot, she was bouncing in her seat.

“Alright, kiddo,” he said, putting the truck in park. “Operation Flower-Boot Drop-off is a go.”

Annie laughed as he came around and opened her door. “I can do it!” she insisted, unbuckling herself with exaggerated focus. He waited, arms crossed, while she hopped down with a thud of glittery boots.

She grabbed his hand as they crossed toward the gate, the metal chain-link rattling faintly as kids screamed and laughed on the playground beyond.

When they reached the entrance, she paused, craning her neck.

“I go play now?” she asked.

“You sure?” he teased. “You could stay with me all day and do boring paperwork.”

“Nooo.” She grinned, already letting go of his hand.

“Alright then. Go make some trouble.”

She turned and bolted toward the climbing wall, her little jean dress fluttering behind her. He stood there a second longer, watching. She was laughing already. Good. That was what mattered.

Then came the voice.

“ Mr. Bradford?”

He didn’t even need to turn. He knew that careful tone.

He sighed and looked over his shoulder. Ms. Halpern. Clipboard, ponytail, tight smile. Always with the concerned eyebrows.

“Morning,” he said, flat.

“ I was hoping I would be able to talk to you this morning. Just a second.”

He didn’t answer, just stared.

She continued anyway. “ I just wanted to check in to see how things are going at home… any word on Marianne’s mother.”

Tim’s whole posture changed. Shoulders stiff, jaw tight. “No.”

“She’s mentioned her and her job a few times,” Halpern went on gently. “In circle time. Just bits and pieces. I just thought—”

“She’s fine,” he said, sharper than intended.

Ms. Halpern blinked. “Of course. I wasn’t suggesting anything.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

They stood there in tense silence for a beat too long.

“She’s got what she needs,” he added after a moment, quieter.

Ms. Halpern nodded. “Alright. If you ever need support—”

He turned back toward his truck.

By the time he shut the door and sank into the seat, his hands were shaking.

He looked at them, fingers wrapped around the wheel. His reflection in the rearview was pale and drawn.

She shouldn’t have asked. She didn’t know what she was talking about.

Isabel wasn’t just gone. She had vanished. One morning there, the next… nothing. No message. No clue. Just disappeared, like the world swallowed her whole and never gave him a chance to ask why.

He’d spent weeks thinking maybe she was in trouble. Months thinking maybe she was dead. Now he didn’t know what to think. Just that Annie was asking fewer questions, and every time someone said “when your mom comes back,” it felt like a knife twisting sideways.

He exhaled sharply, squeezed the wheel tighter.

His forehead dropped against the steering wheel, eyes shut.

Don’t cry.

Don’t think.

He stayed like that for a long minute, letting the silence press in. Then, finally, he lifted his head and started the truck.

Work. That’s what he needed. He could shove the rest down. He always did.

By the time he pulled into the station lot, the sun had fully risen, burning off the morning haze. He parked in his usual spot, killed the engine, and sat still for a second. Then he climbed out, squared his shoulders, and walked inside.

He didn’t say a word to anyone in the hallway. No nods. No greetings. Just a straight shot to the locker room, where he threw open his locker, changed into his uniform with the rhythm of muscle memory, and slammed the door shut behind him. The badge clipped to his chest, the weight of the belt — it helped. It made things clearer. Simpler.

Out in the bullpen, the energy was already different — louder, greener. Rookie day.

He took his usual seat next to Bishop and Angela, arms crossed. Angela had that smirk on already, the one that meant she was about to say something she thought was clever.

“You ready for your new boot?” she asked.

He didn’t look at her. “I’m thrilled.”

Bishop snorted beside him.

Angela nudged his elbow. “Come on, you love this part. The fresh meat. You get to break them in.”

“More like break them down,” he muttered.

Angela rolled her eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t enjoy it.”

He didn’t answer.

“How was drop-off this morning?” she asked more gently.

“Fine,” he said. “Annie’s teacher keeps bringing up Isabel.”

Angela winced. “She probably doesn’t mean anything by it—”

“I know what she means,” he cut in, voice low. “I know that tone.”

Angela opened her mouth, probably to say something reassuring or pitying or both, but the door opened and in walked Sergeant Gray.

Conversation died instantly.

Gray stepped to the front of the room, arms behind his back, his presence enough to straighten everyone’s spine.

“Alright,” he began, voice steady. “Today marks the start of a new training cycle. We have three probationary officers joining us — and as always, it’s our responsibility to shape them into officers worthy of this badge. Or send them home if they can’t cut it.”

Tim leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, scanning the three rookies lined up at the side wall. One was tall and square-jawed — the golden child, no doubt. The other, older, looking like he had something to prove. And then her.

Brown hair. Bright eyes. Confident in that annoying, bouncy way.

Hell no, Tim thought.

She looked like someone who’d bring baked goods to roll call and smile while writing you up for a dress code violation. Not a single crease in her uniform. Not a speck on her boots. Probably memorized the manual cover to cover and thought that made her qualified.

But the other two weren’t any better.

One of them—Jackson West—stood like he was posing for a recruitment poster. Upright, polished, chin high. Tim could already tell he was the legacy. Too smooth. Too composed. Son of a high-ranking I.A. officer, if Tim remembered right. Which meant Jackson probably thought he was above being corrected. One of those kids who grew up around cops and assumed the badge belonged to him by birthright.

Then there was the old guy.

Tim squinted, just to make sure he was seeing it right.

Yep. Wrinkles. Real ones.

John Nolan looked like somebody’s dad had wandered in off the street and put on a uniform. He had the broad-shouldered frame and the kind of decent posture that said he hadn’t given up on his body yet, but still—he had to be pushing forty, maybe past it. Starting a police career now? Who does that? Maybe it was some “new chapter” crap after a divorce. Tim didn’t care. He didn’t want to know. He just knew he wasn’t about to babysit someone who was more likely to throw out his back than draw his weapon.

So, no. He didn’t want the golden child. He didn’t want the geezer. And he definitely didn’t want doe eyes.

But it was gonna be one of them. Obviously. Three rookies. Three training officers. Somebody was about to get stuck.

He just needed to see who lost.

Sergeant Gray stepped to the front, clipboard in hand, voice steady as ever.

“Officer Lopez,” he called. “You get our legacy.”

Tim heard the eager shuffle of Jackson West moving toward Angela. She didn’t look thrilled. She didn’t look bothered, either. Just nodded like she always did and turned toward her boot.

“Officer Bishop,” Gray continued. “You’re with the forty-year-old rookie.”

Nolan grinned. Bishop did not.

Which meant—

“Officer Bradford,” Gray said. “You get the hotshot.”

Tim exhaled slowly through his nose. Of course.

He didn’t move. Just stayed in his seat, still as stone, while the rest of the bullpen shifted around him.

Across the room, she turned.

Their eyes met.

She smiled.

Tim didn’t.

He looked away first. Leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands rubbing together like he was warming up for something heavier than this. He could already feel it—long year ahead.

And it was only day one.

Chapter Text

Adjusting wasn’t like they said it would be. People promised that time dulled things, that the body forgets, that the heart moves on. But she knew better. Some things don’t fade—they linger, low and steady, like a hum beneath the noise of everyday life.

Pregnancy had been brutal and magical in the same breath. Her body had betrayed her daily, dragging her down with nausea so relentless it felt like punishment, twisting her back until she could barely sleep, stealing her energy as if she were being hollowed out from the inside. And yet—she had loved it. Not in a way she could explain to anyone, not in a way that made sense even to herself. It was in the quiet moments that it caught her off guard—the subtle, fluttering kick beneath her ribs, the way her swollen stomach felt almost luminous under her palms at night.

There had been something sacred in holding a life she would never know, like carrying starlight in cupped hands, knowing you couldn’t keep it, only safeguard it until it was ready to burn on its own.

When it ended, the silence was deafening. No cries, no goodbyes. Just absence. She didn’t meet the family, didn’t witness the reunion she had made possible. She left the hospital with an emptiness that was more than physical. It was as though someone had carved out a space in her and left it echoing.

She told herself she was fine. She told herself she didn’t want children anyway. She told herself she’d done something extraordinary—given someone else their miracle. All of it was true, and none of it was enough.

So she turned to work. To purpose. She buried herself in textbooks and lectures, trading that hollow hum for the frantic buzz of constant motion. Psychology seemed right—it was about people, about mending what was broken. Maybe if she could understand others, she could understand herself.

She became relentless. Nights spent hunched over her desk until the words blurred on the page, caffeine staining the corners of her notebooks, test scores lined up like little trophies proving she could outrun what haunted her. When classmates groaned about the workload, she wore her exhaustion like a badge, certain it meant she was stronger than they were.

But strength built on denial has cracks.

It happened quietly, almost cruelly, in the middle of a seminar on grief counseling. The professor’s voice droned on about stages and coping mechanisms while a case study of a bereaved mother flashed across the screen. Words like denial and acceptance were neatly typed in bullet points. She stared at them until her chest ached. This was what she’d been working toward? To categorize someone’s devastation into digestible steps? To watch suffering from behind a pane of glass and call it progress?

She left class early and didn’t return the next day. Or the one after.

Dropping out felt like failure. Her parents called her impulsive, wasteful, incapable of seeing things through. She didn’t argue. She didn’t have the words to explain that it wasn’t laziness—it was the suffocating realization that she was trying to fix people from a distance when what she wanted was to be there, to do something that felt as visceral as those months she had carried life inside her.

The year that followed was strange, like drifting through a house after the furniture’s been removed—rooms still familiar but empty in ways you can’t quite name. She worked meaningless jobs, avoided questions about her future, and tried not to notice how quiet everything felt without the structure of school or the urgency of survival.

And yet, in that stillness, something began to shift. The absence that had once felt like loss started to feel like space—room to choose differently. She found herself watching people more—at the grocery store, in coffee shops, on the bus. She noticed moments others seemed to miss: the way a man’s hands trembled as he paid for his groceries, the way a mother’s voice softened as she scolded her toddler. She wanted to do something with that noticing, something real. Not giving herself away like before. Not hiding behind books.

She didn’t know what form it would take. She only knew she couldn’t keep drifting.

It was an ordinary Tuesday when she found it. She was scrolling through job postings she didn’t really intend to apply for, half-listening to the hum of the refrigerator in her tiny kitchen, when the words caught her eye:

Police academy recruitment.

Her cursor hovered over the link, and her chest tightened—not in fear, but in that strange, electric way it had once before. That night years ago, sitting alone in this same kitchen, when she’d read the surrogacy site for the first time. Back then, it had felt impossible too—like stepping off a cliff in the dark. But she’d clicked apply anyway.

She clicked now.

The page unfolded slowly, black text on a white background, bullet points listing requirements: integrity, resilience, service to others. Words that felt almost foreign on her tongue these days. Still, they struck something deep, that quiet ache she’d carried since handing over the life she’d carried and going home to nothing but silence. She wanted that ache to mean something.

She read the description again. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t easy. But maybe—just maybe—it could matter.

She applied that night. Heart hammering, breath shaky, filling out forms until her eyes blurred. Background checks, essays, interviews—each one a chance to back out, and each one she forced herself through.

When the acceptance email came weeks later, she stared at it like it might vanish. She whispered you did this to herself because no one else was there to say it.

Training was another beast entirely. Six months of sweat, bruises, and doubt. The first morning, she nearly turned around in the parking lot, too intimidated by the uniforms already lined up outside. But she didn’t. She walked in.

The drills were relentless—mile runs before sunrise, obstacle courses that tore up her palms, push-ups until her arms shook like leaves. There were days she threw up behind the gym and went back inside anyway. Nights she lay on her bed, muscles screaming, questioning if she had any right to be there. But every time she thought of quitting, she remembered the quiet after the surrogacy—the hollow, useless feeling of just existing. She’d promised herself she’d never live like that again.

And then there were the people.

John Nolan was the first to talk to her. Mid-40s, recently divorced, and somehow always optimistic despite being the oldest in the group by nearly two decades. “If I can do this,” he’d told her with a grin, “you sure as hell can.” His humor lightened the worst days, his stubborn determination a mirror of her own.

Jackson West was different—young, eager, carrying the weight of his family name like armor. His father had been a cop longer than Jackson had been alive. Jackson trained like a man who had something to prove, but in the quiet moments, he admitted he was terrified of failing. They kept each other afloat, each one silently refusing to let the other drown.

Those months changed her. The drills got easier. The fear didn’t vanish, but it stopped controlling her. She found strength she hadn’t known she had—physical, yes, but more than that: the strength to keep choosing, every day, to stay.

Now, it all led to this.

She stood in the women’s locker room on her first day as a rookie, the air buzzing with hairdryers, zippers, and chatter. She sat on the bench, pulling on the dark navy uniform piece by piece, hands trembling despite herself. The badge lay on the bench beside her, gleaming like a promise she wasn’t sure she deserved.

Next to her, a tall woman with tan skin and tight curls twisted her hair into a bun. She moved with easy confidence, checking her gear, tucking her shirt with practiced precision. When she glanced over, her dark eyes were sharp but not unkind.

“You ready for your first day, boot?” she asked, voice low but commanding, like someone who didn’t need to raise it to be heard.

Her throat went dry. Words tangled in her chest. “Y-yes, ma’am,” she managed, fumbling with the last button on her sleeve.

The woman gave a small, approving nod. “Good. Let’s go.”

The room emptied in a rush of motion—uniformed women filing out, laughter mixing with the clink of equipment. She took one last look at herself in the mirror. Same face, same eyes—but not the same woman.

She picked up her badge, pinned it over her heart, and followed them out.

The bullpen buzzed with a low, steady hum—phones ringing, papers shuffling, the sharp staccato of keys clacking in the dispatch corner. She stuck close to the line of rookies funneling inside, her pulse loud in her ears.

John caught her eye as she slid into the seat beside him in the front row. He gave her a small, reassuring smile—like he was saying, We made it this far, right? She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to return it.

Then the room shifted.

Sergeant Gray strode in like he owned the air itself, authority rolling off him in waves. The conversation died instantly. He planted himself at the front, eyes sweeping the room with an intensity that pinned everyone to their seats.

“Congratulations,” he began, his voice deep, even, commanding. “You passed the academy. You’re sitting here because you worked hard. But don’t get comfortable.”

His gaze lingered on each of them long enough to make her spine stiffen.

“Out there,” he continued, “passing the academy means nothing. Out there, you are the weakest link. Out there, you’re a liability—until you prove otherwise.”

She swallowed hard, heat prickling at the back of her neck. Around her, no one moved, no one dared to breathe too loud.

“Starting today,” Gray said, “you’ll be assigned to a Training Officer. They’ll decide if you make it. If you can’t handle the job, they’ll wash you out. Simple as that.”

Her hands curled into fists beneath the table. The words didn’t scare her—they fueled her.

Gray started calling out names, pairing rookies with TOs. Each one was met with a clipped nod or a quiet acknowledgment until—

“Officer Lopez,” Gray said, his voice carrying over the bullpen. “You get our legacy.”

Jackson’s head tilted slightly, jaw set. He didn’t smile, but the word landed heavy in the air. Legacy. Everyone in the room knew what it meant.

“Officer Bishop,” Gray continued. “You get the dinosaur.”

A couple of quiet chuckles rippled through the room, but John only gave the barest grin, the lines around his eyes betraying nerves he was trying hard to hide.

Gray paused, eyes sweeping the rookies, before his gaze cut clean across the room.

“And Officer Chen,” he said.

Her breath stilled.

“You get Bradford.”

The words seemed to echo louder than the rest, settling heavy in her chest. She turned instinctively, her eyes finding him across the bullpen.

Officer Timothy Bradford.

He was leaning back against a desk, arms folded tight across his chest, expression carved from stone. His buzzed hair and rigid stance only sharpened the look, but it was his eyes that caught her—the flat, unflinching way he was already staring at her. No curiosity, no welcome. Just weight, like he was measuring her worth before she’d even taken her first step.

She held his gaze longer than she meant to, forcing her mouth into a small smile. Bright, steady. Maybe stubborn. If he was going to test her with that look, she’d meet it with her own.

“Dismissed,” Gray barked. The room came alive again, chairs scraping back, conversations starting, rookies finding their TOs.

She drew a breath and crossed the bullpen toward him, her palms damp despite the confident rhythm she tried to keep in her steps. He didn’t move when she stopped in front of him, didn’t soften when she extended her hand.

“Officer Bradford,” she said, her voice quick but clear. “I’m Chen.”

He didn’t blink. His grip on her hand was all iron and no warmth, and when he let go, it felt more like being dropped than released.

“Chen,” he repeated, flat, like the name itself was already a problem. “Let’s get one thing straight—you’re not here to play cop. You’re here to learn, and the first lesson is this: you don’t know a damn thing.”

Her chest tightened. Heat climbed up the back of her neck, but she forced herself not to break eye contact. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t willing to learn, sir.”

The corner of his mouth tugged—not a smile, but something sharper. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Her stomach knotted, but before she could think of anything else, he turned on his heel. “Gear up. We’ve got a shift to start.”

She followed him to the racks, her hands fumbling slightly as she pulled together her duty belt, vest, and bag. He already had his own squared away, every piece of equipment lined with military precision. He didn’t wait for her to finish, just barked, “You done yet, boot? Or do I need to hold your hand through this too?”

Her pulse jumped. “I’ve got it.”

“Good,” he said, scooping up his bag and then, without warning, tossing hers against her chest. The weight staggered her a step back.

“Seriously?” she asked, clutching it to her stomach.

“Welcome to the job. You carry both. You load the shop. That’s how it works.” His voice was matter-of-fact, with an edge that told her he wasn’t joking.

She hesitated, then shifted both bags against her shoulder, nearly tipping under the weight but refusing to complain.

“That a problem?” he pressed, watching her strain.

“No, sir,” she said quickly, her jaw tight.

“Didn’t think so.”

They walked out together, his stride unhurried while hers worked double to keep up, her arms biting under the pull of the bags. When they reached the black-and-white, he stopped at the trunk, gesturing with his chin.

“Load it up.”

She set the bags down with more care than necessary, fighting the urge to huff out loud. Metal groaned as she lifted the trunk, her muscles already burning. One by one, she hefted the gear in.

“Faster,” Bradford said, not even glancing her way. “We don’t have all day.”

Her jaw flexed. Not even two minutes in and he’s already trying to break me.

She slammed the trunk shut and stepped back. “Done.”

He finally looked at her, eyes sharp and unreadable. “Academy GPA?”

“What?”

“Simple question, boot. GPA.”

“Three-point-eight,” she answered quickly, surprised by the interrogation.

He gave the faintest shrug, like it didn’t matter. “Physical scores?”

“Top ten percent.”

“Mm.” He pulled open the driver’s door, completely unfazed. “Why policing?”

“Because I want to help people.”

Bradford let out a harsh, humorless laugh, like she’d just said something ridiculous. “Everybody says that, boot. Doesn’t mean shit when someone’s bleeding on the sidewalk and you’re the only one around.”

Her stomach tightened. “I—I understand that. I want to learn. I can handle it.”

He fixed her with a stare that could cut glass, lips pressed into a thin line. “Handle it? Handle it doesn’t get you through the street, boot. Handle it doesn’t stop a guy from pulling a gun on you. Handle it doesn’t mean you won’t screw up and someone dies because of it. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, voice firm, even if her knees were threatening to buckle.

“Mm. Don’t sir me, boot. Just don’t screw it up. That’s all I care about.”

She let out a quiet huff, rolling her eyes just enough for him not to notice.

Great. This is gonna be a long year.