The ICU doors opened with that pneumatic hiss hospitals loved, and Linda Carter emerged looking exactly how she always did after twelve-hour shifts—exhausted but somehow still put together in ways that defied logic.

Even after twelve hours in the ICU, even with her dark hair slightly messy from being under a surgical cap, even with scrubs that were probably stained with god-knows-what, Mom was... objectively gorgeous.

Not in the way my women were—not that calculated, tendered beauty that came from money and genetics and effort. This was different. Natural. The kind of beautiful that made other nurses look plain by comparison, that made doctors do double-takes, that had probably caused more than a few patients to develop inappropriate crushes on their ICU nurse.

She looked like she was in her early twenties. Flawless skin that showed minimal aging despite the stress of single motherhood and impossible shifts. High cheekbones, full lips, expressive eyes that were currently scanning the waiting room. Body that scrubs somehow made more noticeable instead of hiding—curves in all the right places, the kind of figure that made you understand why some men became problems she had to professionally shut down.

She had a tablet in one hand, a stethoscope around her neck, reading glasses perched on top of her head, a pen stuck behind her ear. The full nurse loadout. Professional. Capable. The kind of woman who commanded respect in a hospital setting and got it.

She was the most beautiful, awe-strucking woman.

Then she saw me.

Everything changed. Her whole face transformed—exhaustion melting into pure joy, those expressive eyes going wide and bright, smile spreading until it looked like it might split her face. The tablet almost slipped from her hand.

"Peter? Baby, what are you doing here?"

She didn't even look at what she was holding. Just turned immediately to the nurses' station, walked over in quick steps, and set the tablet down without ceremony. Pulled the stethoscope from around her neck and dropped it on the counter. Reading glasses followed, then the pen. Just discarding everything—all the professional equipment, all the work stuff, all of it becoming immediately irrelevant.

For me.

I stood, her jacket still draped over my arm. "Came to pick you up."

"You came here?" She was moving toward me now, quick steps that said she wanted to run but remembered she was at work. "It's almost one in the morning, you should be sleeping—"

Then she was hugging me. Just throwing her arms around me and pulling me close with that specific mom-strength somehow still having energy to hold her kids when they needed it.

And fuck, I needed it.

My arms wrapped around her automatically, pulling her in tight, feeling her warmth seep through my jacket and shirt, feeling her heartbeat against my chest, smelling that combination of hospital antiseptic and her drugstore lotion and something underneath that was just her. My whole body relaxed in ways I hadn't realized I was tense—shoulders dropping, jaw unclenching, that constant strategic thinking in my head finally shutting the fuck up.

"I missed you," I said into her hair, voice rougher than I intended. Raw. Honest. "Just... really fucking missed you, Mom."

She pulled back just enough to look at me, hands coming up to cup my face. "Language," she said automatically, but her eyes were soft, understanding in ways that made my chest tight. "You okay, baby? You look tired."

"I'm fine. Better now." I pulled her jacket off my arm, held it open. "Here. It's cold."

"Peter, that's your—"

"It's yours. You always steal it anyway." I wrapped it around her shoulders, helped her slide her arms through sleeves that were too long, watched the leather engulf her smaller frame. It was huge on her—hanging past her hips, sleeves covering her hands—but somehow it looked right.

Looked like protection.

Like shielding her from everything that wanted to hurt her.

She pulled it tighter around herself, sighing at the warmth. "God, that's better. The hospital keeps it freezing, I swear they're trying to preserve us along with the medications."

My hands found her arms through the jacket, holding her steady. Protective. Almost possessive in a way that should've been weird but felt natural. The way I always held her in public—close enough to intervene if needed, positioned so I was between her and potential threats, aware of everyone watching us.

Linda didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she did and just accepted that this was how I was with her. Had been since I'd gotten strong enough to protect instead of being protected.

Behind us, I heard the nurses at their station. The whispered conversation that wasn't as quiet as they thought.

"That's her son?"

"The way he looks at her... that's not just normal son behavior."

"Shhss, shut up. That's sweet. He obviously loves his mom."

"I'm just saying, the way he's holding her? That's like... boyfriend protective, not son protective."

"You're reading into it because you think he's hot."

"We ALL think he's hot. There is no living human like him. Don't pretend you weren't staring."

Quiet laughter. The kind that said they were enjoying the show more than they should.

Linda pulled back, smiling at me before turning to her colleagues. "I'm heading out! See you all Monday!"

"Drive safe, Linda!" The brunette called. "And nice to meet your son!"

"Very nice," Suzzie added, emphasis suggesting something Linda would probably miss but I heard perfectly.

Mom waved, then linked her arm through mine. "Come on, baby. Let's go home."

We walked toward the elevator like that—her arm through mine, her body pressed against my side, my hand covering hers where it rested in the crook of my elbow. The nurses watched us the entire way. I could feel their eyes tracking movement, analyzing body language, reading into every small gesture.

Let them look. Let them wonder. All I cared about was getting Mom home.

The parking lot was mostly empty at this hour—just a few cars scattered under sodium lights, the emergency entrance still busy in the distance, that specific nighttime hospital energy where crisis didn't care what time it was.

"Where's your car?" Linda asked, looking around at the nearly empty lot.

"I walked. We'll take your Mercedes."

"Peter." She stopped, turning to look at me. "You walked 2.7 miles in the middle of the night to pick me up when I have a perfectly good car here?"

"Yeah."

Her expression softened into something I couldn't quite read. Pride maybe. Or concern. Or that specific mom-feeling that was both at once.

"What got into you, baby? You could've just waited at home."

"I missed you." The words came easier this time. Simpler. Just true without needing explanation. "Couldn't sit still. Wanted to see you."

She made this sound—half laugh, half something closer to a sob—and threw her arms around me again. "I love you so much, you know that? My sweet boy, walking across LA in the middle of the night because you missed your mom."

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