Vinnie Hacker Imagines

what now?

Y/N and Vinnie sat in the cold, sterile office chairs, the ticking of the clock on the wall growing louder with each passing second. Y/N's heart pounded in her chest as she nervously bit her nails, her leg bouncing uncontrollably in a rhythmic pattern. Vinnie, noticing her anxiety, placed his hand gently on her knee, hoping to offer her some comfort. She glanced at him, managing a weak smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. The tension in the room was suffocating; the weight of the unknown pressed down on them both.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours until finally, the door creaked open, and the doctor walked in. One look at her solemn expression told them everything they needed to know. Their world, which had been filled with hope and dreams for their future child, came crashing down in an instant. The doctor's words were a blur—something about complications, about how sometimes these things just happen—but neither of them truly registered what she said. All they could focus on was the gut-wrenching reality: their baby didn't make it.

Y/N bit her lip hard, trying to suppress the sobs that were building in her chest. She couldn't break down here, not in front of the doctor. Beside her, Vinnie's face was a mask of stoic pain, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white. He, too, was fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. The two of them sat there, frozen in grief, as the doctor gently offered her condolences and left the room.

The ride home was painfully silent. Y/N stared out the window, her thoughts a chaotic swirl of sorrow, guilt, and disbelief. Vinnie kept his eyes fixed on the road, gripping the steering wheel tightly as if it were the only thing anchoring him. Neither of them spoke a word. What could they say? There were no words for this kind of loss.

The silence between them continued over the following days. They moved through their home like strangers, barely acknowledging each other. They slept on opposite sides of the bed, the space between them feeling like an insurmountable chasm. The once-warm, loving energy that had filled their relationship was replaced with a cold, numbing void. Their mornings were reduced to mumbled greetings, and their interactions were brief and strained.

Y/N longed to reach out to Vinnie, to talk to him, to grieve together. She could see how much he was hurting, how distant he had become. He barely ate anymore, leaving his food untouched on his plate, and he would come home late at night, exhausted but emotionally unavailable. He left early in the morning, often without saying goodbye. She made countless attempts to bridge the gap, to start a conversation, but each time he would ask for space, and she, despite her own anguish, gave it to him.

But it was killing her.

She found herself absentmindedly placing her hand on her stomach throughout the day, only to be hit with the crushing reality that she was no longer carrying their child. The phone calls from family and friends offering their condolences were relentless, each one a painful reminder of what they had lost. She tried to keep it together, to stay strong for everyone else, but inside she was falling apart. She felt like she was dying, piece by piece.

Y/N cried the most in the shower. She thought it was a place where she could break down without anyone hearing her. But Vinnie could hear her. He could hear the quiet sobs that echoed through the bathroom walls, and it tore him apart. He could feel her body trembling beside him at night when she thought he was asleep, her silent tears soaking into the pillow. He heard it all, and he wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and tell her that it would be okay. But he couldn't. Because nothing about this was okay.

"V? Can we talk?" Y/N's soft voice broke through the quiet as Vinnie walked through the door one evening. He looked exhausted, his tie already loosened, his shoulders slumped from the weight of the day.

He sighed heavily, not even looking at her as he entered their bedroom. "Can it wait? I've had a long day." His voice was flat, almost emotionless, as he began changing into his usual comfortable clothes.

Y/N felt her chest tighten. She hated this—how distant they had become, how he barely looked at her anymore. But she pushed down her hurt and tried again. "I know... I just thought maybe we could do something tomorrow since our schedules are clear."

"I have plans," Vinnie said shortly, leaving her standing alone in their bedroom. The coldness in his tone stung, but she followed him into the kitchen, determined to try once more.

"Oh, okay... What about Sunday? Are you free then?" Her voice was hopeful, almost pleading. She missed him—missed the way they used to be.

"I don't know," Vinnie replied, grabbing a beer from the fridge and twisting off the cap with frustration.

Y/N's heart sank further. "Can you check? I thought we could spend the day together..." She trailed off, the words barely leaving her lips before Vinnie snapped.

"Christ, could you stop harassing me? I said I don't know!" he yelled, his voice harsh and filled with regret the moment the words left his mouth.

Y/N flinched, her breath catching in her throat. She lowered her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to annoy you."

They stood in the kitchen for what felt like an eternity, the air thick with tension and unspoken pain. Neither of them knew what to say or how to fix what had broken between them. The love was still there, buried beneath layers of grief, but it felt so far out of reach.

After what seemed like hours, Y/N felt the warmth of Vinnie's hand brush against hers. It was a small gesture, but in that moment, it was everything. Slowly, he intertwined his fingers with hers, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. Tears welled up in her eyes and streamed silently down her face.

"What now?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, yet heavy with the weight of all her fears.

Vinnie knew what she was asking—about them, about their future, about whether they could survive this loss. And truthfully, he didn't know the answer. He didn't mean to be cruel or distant, but every time he looked at her, all he could think about was the baby they had lost. It hurt him to see her hurting, and he didn't know how to handle it, so he pulled away. But now, standing there in the kitchen, holding her hand, he realized that his distance was only making things worse.

"I don't know," he whispered back, his voice filled with the same uncertainty that weighed on her heart.

For a moment, they simply stood there, holding each other in the silence. Neither of them had the answers, but in that brief moment, they weren't alone in their grief. They still had each other, and maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start healing.