a-asterias

[a-asterias]

breaching sunlight / f. g. weasley

summary: you could always count on fred to be like sunlight in your life. even when hogwarts seemed to be eternally overcast by a certain pink devil. warnings: not proofread. no use of y/n. 2k words. inspired by that one scene where fred and george are being super cute and console a younger student.

“What’s your name?”

Was the first thing you heard once you escaped Umbridge's office.

It was a quiet whisper. Not directed at you, but to someone else entirely down the corridor. 

You didn’t dare show your face yet. Not with your cheeks still damp and blotchy, your eyes puffy and your nose red from crying. Tears you’d held back until you were well out of her line of sight.

“Michael,” came a much smaller voice in reply. A boy — younger, no older than a second year by the sound of it.

“It’s going to be alright,” said another voice. Older and steady. George.

“Yeah,” came Fred’s voice next. “It’s not as bad as it seems. See? Ours are already fading.”

You stood hidden behind the wide stone column, one hand clutched tightly over your chest as you tried to regulate your breathing. You couldn’t let them see you like this. You knew they were waiting for you.

You heard Michael sniffle again — a tiny, wet sound. It cut through you like a knife. It made you want to punch that awful toad in the throat. It made you want to hug the little boy, tell him he did nothing wrong. 

“The pain stops after a while,” said George.

Michael sniffed again. “Does… does it always hurt that much?”

There was a pause.

You leaned closer to the stone.

Fred answered. Softer this time. “First time’s the worst.”

With a deep breath, you decided to reveal yourself. You inhaled deeply, before exhaling. You wiped your tears off your face and put on a smile before stepping out.

The sound of your shoes against the rock floor, made their heads snap up at you. You just smiled and raised your arm, showing them your newly acquired scars.

Fred stood up, quietly meeting you halfway, whilst George stayed crouched next to Michael.

“Do you think you’ll be able to sneak in a proper bomb in her tea without her noticing?” you asked, trying your best to sound humorous. 

“I’ll see what we can do about that,” he said as he ever so gently grabbed your arms to inspect it. You felt his eyes trace over the words carved into your skin.

I must not be a brat.

You felt the way his grip briefly tightened around you before loosening again. 

You stared at George and offered him a small smile along with a wave of your left hand — the one left unoccupied by Fred.

He and Michael both waved back. 

“You alright love?” George asked.

You just nodded, but a quiet sniffle made it past. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Fred didn’t press you on that — just gave your arm one last careful squeeze before letting go. He tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning your face with that unreadable expression he wore when he was trying to make sense of something he didn’t like.

You just smiled, a tight lipped smile, up at him. 

He got the message. Even though he didn’t like it one bit. There was nothing he could do, not without a visit to the toad’s office of his own. Instead, he just placed his hand on your lower back and gently led you to the others.

You settled on the cold stone bench beside the others, the only sound echoing through the corridor being George’s encouraging words to the younger boy.

It made your stomach turn. Just a few months prior, these same corridors would have been buzzing with energy. Even Peeves seemed to not be in the mood for anything anymore. 

“What’d she get you in for?” Fred asked, breaking the silence as he stood beside you.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, the smile on your face faltering.

“I snapped,” you murmured, eyes fixed on the floor. “She said the Ministry’s wasting money funding the permanent care ward at St. Mungo’s.”

That seemed to get George’s attention as well.

“She said it right in front of Neville too,” you went on, voice taut and low.”

You paused, knuckles white where your hands were clasped tightly in your lap.

“And when I told her she was wrong,” you added, jaw tightening, “she called me a brat. An attention seeker. Said I was just trying to cause trouble.”

Everyone remained quiet for a moment, and you felt tears spilling over your eyes once again. You stood up sharply, anger flooding through your veins. Your head replayed the scenario, going over every other possible wretched and horrible thing you could’ve said to her.

You faced the opposite wall, your body shaking with anger as you tried blinking the tears away. 

“Merlin, that woman… she deserves Azkaban,” you mumbled, your voice breaking slightly as you bit your nails.

Fred was quiet behind you.

You didn’t turn to look at him — couldn’t — not with your eyes glassy and your hands trembling like that. The silence stretched out, thick and heavy, until the only sound was the soft scratch of your nail against your teeth and Michael’s sniffles a few feet away.

You flinched when you felt the faintest brush of fingers against your sleeve. His hand slipped down slowly until it found yours.

Your fingers had been at your mouth again, nails raw where you’d been chewing without thinking. But Fred’s fingers gently curled around yours, coaxing your hand down. He didn’t say a word, just held it quietly.

“Hey,” he murmured.

You didn’t turn.

He didn’t ask you to.

For a long second, you stood there, you facing the wall, him just barely close enough to feel the warmth of his arm against yours. His thumb moved once, brushing over your knuckles, careful not to go over the freshly carved scars. Though they seemed intent on doing so, you could feel his gaze wandering lower —taking them in. Wanting to brush his thumb over them to make sure you were okay. 

Then, barely above a whisper, he spoke again.

“How long were you standing back there?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat thick and unmoving. You shook your head a little, still not looking at him.

“I’m fine,” you said again, soft and too hollow to sound true.

Fred didn’t challenge it.

He just held your hand a little tighter.

After a moment, you turned your head just slightly, your eyes fixed somewhere far off down the corridor.

“How’d you know?”

His voice was low. Gentle. “I didn’t.”

You knew in true Fred fashion, a smirk was trying to make its way past his lips like it always did when he outsmarted you in some way. Though he held off for your sake and this particular situation. That didn’t stop  you from throwing a small glare his way, one that didn’t hold much power, because the simple sight of him looking at you with those pleading eyes disarmed you.

“I didn’t know for sure,” he clarified, voice quiet. “Just though I heard you.”

Crying. He didn't say it, but you knew that's what he meant.

You huffed a breath — half a laugh, half a sigh.

“I waited,” he added, softer still. “Just in case you wanted to come out when you were ready.”

Your grip tightened slightly around his fingers.

Fred nodded, once, just enough to let you know he understood.

Then he leaned back a little, shoulder resting against the stone wall beside you, still holding your hand. His thumb moved again, slow and thoughtful.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

“I’d say she deserves being trampled by Buckbeak,” George said, breaking the silence. “Wouldn’t you?”

A chuckle escaped your throat as you turned around to face him. “Or eaten by Thestrals.”

“Maybe the mermaids in the Black Lake would be interested in taking her for a swim,” Fred added, which made Michael laugh for the first time since you'd met him.

You let yourself breathe. One beat. Then another. The tension started to ease, just slightly, from your shoulders.

Fred glanced at you again, just for a second. And then he bumped your shoulder, gentle and deliberate.

You laughed softly once again and just tilted your head a little closer toward him — not quite leaning, but not quite not — and let that count for something.

George was still keeping Michael distracted with his increasingly ridiculous suggestions for Umbridge’s demise, when a sharp ahem echoed down the corridor.

Everything went still.

You didn’t have to see her to know.

You just knew.

The air felt heavier, colder, and yet somehow cloying, like you’d stepped into a cloud of cheap perfume.

You turned your head slowly — just in time to see Dolores Umbridge standing at the end of the hall. Her eyes scanned over the group like she was surveying insects beneath her shoe.

She cleared her throat again. Louder this time. Demanding attention.

You immediately stood straighter and moved.

Your steps carried you to Michael without thought. You planted yourself in front of him, shielding him from her sight with your body. You didn’t speak, didn’t glare, just stood there.

Fred and George flanked you without needing to be asked.

“Well,” Umbridge finally said, smiling so sweetly it made your stomach churn, “it seems I have stumbled upon a little gathering.”

No one answered.

Her smile never wavered.

“Naughty children,” she said softly, voice feather-light and utterly revolting, “must be disciplined. It's the only way they ever learn, after all.”

Still, you said nothing.

Umbridge's eyes fell on you for a moment longer than the others — almost like she was expecting you to speak up again. To bite back.

But you didn’t.

Finally, with a satisfied little hum, she folded her hands in front of her robes and said, “I believe it's nearly curfew. Best you all run along to your respective dormitories… before any of you make another unfortunate choice.”

She turned with a flounce, disappearing down the hall, the echo of her heels lingering long after she was gone.

“You know George,” Fred spoke up after a second. “I’ve always felt our futures lay outside the world of academic achievement.”

George chuckled, his gaze still pinned on where Umbridge had been standing moments before. “Fred, I’ve been thinking exactly the same thing.”

The days that followed felt like wading through mud — slow, heavy, and utterly exhausting. With Umbridge’s suffocating presence blanketing the school, it was as if every student at Hogwarts carried their own personal dementor, draining the life out of them bit by bit. Even the professors weren’t immune to the gloom. McGonagall, normally rigid and unsparing, had begun turning a blind eye to late assignments and overlooked detentions.

Umbridge was everywhere.

Or at least, it felt that way.

To escape the depressive atmosphere, you buried yourself in your OWL preparations. Every free moment was spent studying, revising, memorizing, anything to keep your mind from wandering. If you filled every hour, every breath, with work, then there would be no room left to think about how miserable everything truly was. The goal was simple: be too exhausted by the end of the day to feel anything else.

And you managed it. So well, in fact, that you barely noticed the twins slipping away more often than usual. You didn’t catch the way they whispered in corners or exchanged glances across the common room.

Then came the exams. And that was when everything finally boiled over.

The Great Hall had been transformed: desks arranged in long, even rows, spaced precisely beneath the enchanted ceiling, which mirrored the leaden skies above. The air was thick with tension. Quills scratched across parchment like hissing whispers. The only other sounds were the rustle of paper and the relentless ticking of the large brass clock at the head of the room.

Umbridge stood at the front like a bad omen, arms crossed tightly beneath her horrid pink cardigan. Her ridiculous bow sat perched on her head like a ribbon slapped on spoiled meat. She paced back and forth, her heels clicking sharply across the stone floor, each step as grating as her presence.

You were halfway through a particularly difficult theoretical question when a loud, thunderous explosion rang from outside the Great Hall’s enormous doors.

Heads shot up.

Then another sound. Another explosion.

The hall was filled with murmurs then. Quills loosely hanging between unsure fingers.

Umbridge stiffened as she crossed the hall towards the great doors. Her heels echoing on her trail.

Another bang. Then a sizzle. Then what sounded unmistakably like cheering from somewhere beyond the doors.

Then, the doors slammed open with a thunderous bang that echoed off the high stone walls.

And in they came.

Fred and George Weasley — streaking through the air on broomsticks, red and gold fireworks trailing behind them like comets.

The hall erupted.

Fireworks shot in every direction — serpentine rockets looping and spiraling across the high enchanted ceiling. You ducked instinctively as a firework zoomed overhead, shaped like a Chinese Fireball. It exploded midair in a flash, releasing a burst of glittering red sparks.

Fred flew low between the rows of desks, scattering parchment and ink bottles in his wake. George followed, pulling a string of enchanted fireworks from his satchel and tossing them high into the air. They exploded in a synchronized display.

Once you looked up, you caught Fred’s gaze —and he winked along with that stupid, crooked smile of his that made your stomach flutter.

You laughed.

It bubbled out of you so suddenly, so violently, that your stomach hurt.

It felt so good. You could not remember the last time you had laughed like that. Was it perhaps last summer? Had Hogwarts even heard your laugh this year? You did not remember, and to be frank, you didn’t care. Not right now at least.

Everyone poured out into the corridor, laughter and shouts reverberating off the stone.

Out into the courtyard they flew.

You pushed your way through the crowd, breathless and smiling as the doors swung wide and the cold spring air rushed in.

Students had flooded the courtyard, some cheering until they lost their voices, others just staring up in open-mouthed wonder. You stood near the front of the crowd, craning your neck to see them — laughing so hard your cheeks ached. It felt like breathing after being held underwater for too long.

Even the professors who had come outside — Flitwick, Sprout, and even McGonagall — wore expressions that ranged from begrudging amusement to thinly veiled satisfaction. She didn’t smile, not really, but there was a certain tightness at the corner of her lips as she watched the twins circle around once more.

Umbridge stood red-faced at the entrance, screaming orders no one could hear over the noise, arms flailing in utter futility.

And just like that, with one final swoop — a blaze of gold behind them and a long ribbon of smoke trailing in the sky — they were gone.

The crowd was still clapping and shouting by the time you were herded back into the castle. Professors were firm but unbothered. There was nothing more Umbridge could do without losing what little control she had left.

Still, even being ushered back into classes couldn’t quite smother the fire they’d lit.

By the end of the day, your voice was hoarse from laughing.

You walked arm in arm with two of your friends, the three of you still giggling over the look on Umbridge’s face. The mood in the common room had been practically electric all day.

After dinner, you finally made your way up to the dormitory, a pleasant ache in your muscles and warmth still lingering in your cheeks.

You weren’t expecting anything when you pulled the curtains back from your bed.

But there it was. Nestled on your pillow.

A letter.

Plain parchment. No name on the outside. Just folded once, neatly. You recognized the handwriting immediately.

Fred’s.

You sat slowly on the edge of the bed, the voices of your friends fading behind you as they chatted near the wardrobe. You turned the letter over once, then opened it.

Inside, written in that unmistakably messy, slanted script:

Thought you might want a bit of quiet tonight.

(Also figured a flying exit would score me some rep points. Did it work?)

You were the first face I looked for. You always are.

Hope you laughed today. Hope you remember how to keep doing it.

It’ll be a bloody shame not to hear that laugh every day.  I’m rather fond of it.

See you soon. Can’t wait to show you what we’re working on.

Don’t miss me too much.

— Fred

You read it twice. Then again. You didn’t even realize you were smiling until your friend asked what was on the parchment and you shook your head, folding it carefully and slipping it under your pillow.

For the first time in weeks, sleep came easily.

[a-asterias]

expendable | Cassian Andor x reader

Authors notes: My first Cassian fic, and my first Star Wars fic in a long time! I am yet to actually finish the Andor show, but I just love Diego Luna sm, so I had to get something written for him while I have the time 🍪 I feel like the ending was a little rushed though 😕 Wordcount: 3.1k Warnings/Tags: mild angst, mentions of injury, negative self-talk, non-gendered reader (alluded to be shorter than Cassian), hurt-to-comfort Synopsis: You mess up on a job, leading to a fall out with Cassian. He isn't too pleased with how you choose to cope with it.

Masterlists

You dragged breaths through your pursed lips, sucking in sharply as the med droid peeled your now tattered shirt away from the weeping blaster wound in your shoulder, doing your best to swallow your grunts as the bacta pads were laid over the skin – the instant cooling both soothing and sore at the same time. 

Heaving a sigh, you sunk back against the rough pillow of the bed, your head slumping back with a mixture of both exhaustion and relief as you felt the sticky gel start to work its magic already, the sharp ache replaced with a dull throbbing. 

You weren’t sure what you had expected from your first blaster wound, but you were surprised by just how much it burned. It seemed silly, thinking back on it now that you were safely back in the base, but at the time, it was all that you could think about. Well, that and—

“What did you think you were doing, disobeying me like that?” Cassian’s voice bellowed through the med bay as he pushed past a bustle of nurses and med droids, practically imploding when he finally found you in the masses of people. 

Gritting your teeth again you pulled your heavy head back up from the pillows, fixing him with a stare that you wouldn’t dare try with any of your other superiors. 

“I did what I had to to secure the intel. You would have done the exact same thing if you were in my position.” You practically spat the words out, grimacing again when you tried to push yourself to sit up further on the scratchy sheets, trying but failing to not flinch away from the nurse that was now trying to peel away the initial bandage to assess the real damage.

“I would have never gotten myself into that mess,” Cassian snapped, his hands pushing you back down against the pillows, keeping you still so the nurse could work. Despite the tone of his voice, his hands were surprisingly gentle, weighing down on your good shoulder and collarbone as the nurse peeled away the bacta. It was surprising that neither party madea comment on the way your heart rate sped up beneath his touch. “You’re lucky you are still alive,” he seethed, his voice dropping in volume as he gritted his teeth, pulling his eyes away from the gaping hole in your arm to your face, his eyes searching your face. 

It should have only been a simple mission. One you had both done countless times before, but you screwed up, you panicked, and now you were paying the price. You shuddered again as the nurse wrapped the wound back up, murmuring something to herself before pacing off to a supply stash. 

Cassian removed his hands from you as you settled back into the bedding again, breathing shallowly as the throbbing eased. “Like you have never made a mistake before, because you’re captain Andor and he never makes mistakes.” 

“I’m more responsible, not better,” he retorted defiantly, crossing his arms across his chest, “You always have to be a hero, to go and do whatever you think is right,” you finally dared to meet his eyes, his gaze boring into you, “and one of these days it is going to get you killed.” 

The anger in your chest boiled, rising like bile in your throat – “And if it is in service of the rebellion, then so be it!” you spat, eyes narrowing, completely unaware of the fact that half of the nurses that had previously been hovering ad now discreetly slipped away during what was quickly turning into a screaming match. “I am expendable. That is my job. You are not.” 

“Expendable? You?” Cassian practically bit out a laugh, the sound rough and sharp as his head dropped, shaking slowly. “Why are you–” 

“I want to be alone–” you started, cutting him off before he could reprimand you again, “–please.” Your gaze fixed itself on the medbay’s ceiling, desperate to look anywhere but at him. 

You could see him pause for a second out of the corner of your eye, arms unfurling from his chest, fists clenching at his sides as he scoffed again. “Fine”, his voice was gruff from shouting but now devoid of any energy. He turned, pausing only briefly in the doorway, “You know where I am if you need anything.” 

And with that, he slipped through the doors again.  

The soft material of your cot was a massive upgrade from the scratchy blankets in the med bay, and you sunk into them almost immediately, the tension practically melting from your spine as you let your body go limp against your thin mattress. Your quarters were far smaller than the medical bay, but they were cosy, warm, and most importantly, private. All you had wanted to do from the moment he had stormed off was sleep, but the constant bustle of nurses and med droids had left little opportunity. Now, however, nestled into the bedding you had managed to smuggle off a stopover planet, your eyes finally drifted shut, your head feeling impossibly heavy against your worn pillows. 

You had barely drifted off when you were thrown bolt upright again, your muscles tensing and flexing of their own accord, your shoulder burning with a phantom shot as your stomach twisted, threatening with all its might to bring up the poor excuse of a dinner you had managed hours earlier. 

Pressing your fingers to your lips, you eased yourself back against your pillows, your hand moving to ghost over the bandages on your shoulder, finding them still securely in place. 

But it had felt so real – the firefight, Cassian shouting for you to get back to the ship, to leave the intel drive and get out, but it was so close, it had only skidded a few feet in front of you. He stood briefly to cover your escape and you darted – but not towards the ship like he had ordered, towards the small drive between you and the troopers. 

With it safely curled in your fingers you turned again, scrambling to stand and finally dart to the ship when you heard his shouts, turning at the last minute to see the troopers perfectly lined up shot…

You had jumped again without thinking, shoving your captain out of the way, your fear taking over your body – only for it to be quickly replaced with the worst pain of your life… 

Standing on shaky legs you crossed to the pitcher and bowl on your table, pouring out some of the water and splashing it over your face, letting the droplets mix with the sheen of sweat and tear tracks as they rolled over your skin, washing away the fear again. 

With a huff, you turned again, resting more uneasily against your sheets as your eyes closed again. But sleep wouldn’t be so easy. Not when the image of his lifeless body threatened the corners of your mind every time it went dark. 

You repeated the cycle of trying to sleep, getting a couple of hours at a time at best for the next two days, or so you would estimate. You were warned by the med droid that it could take a few days to kick the fatigue, but this was unlike anything you had ever experienced, and the lack of sound rest was hardly helping. 

Uncertainly, you peaked around your door, stepping out of your room only when you were sure the corridor was clear. You had made a pitiful attempt to ignore the growling in your stomach for the last hour, and the only solution was two floors down in the mess hall. The soft slippers you had opted for helped you to stay quiet as you padded down the stairs, smiling and nodding a general ‘hello’ at anyone you passed, thankful that the bandages still firmly wrapped around your upper torso gave some kind of visual excuse for your choice of what were essential pyjamas to walk around the base in in the middle of the afternoon. 

With it being a good two hours after the general lunch hour, the mess hall was relatively empty and, much to your relief, free from a certain captain. The only downside being that it meant it was also largely free from any of the good food. 

With a quiet huff, you gathered what you could, shoving a few packets of snacks into your pockets before trudging back up to your room, opting to skim over the back of one of the packets to try and work out exactly what you had scrounged as you somewhat dawdled back down what you thought was the empty corridor to your dorm. 

The sound of your name reverberating off the bare walls had you pause mid-step, a sudden wave of dread settling on your shoulders before you picked up your pace again, not daring to turn back around, even as his heavy footsteps followed you. You told yourself it was because you didn't want to face a debriefing, another dressing down for disobeying him. But you knew deep down you knew it was more than that. It was the fear that he would look at you with that same look of disdain in his eyes that he had when he had hauled you back onto the ship. 

You had come to terms with the fact that you felt more than simple respect for Cassian Andor several months ago, after a recon mission had left you both stranded together and alone in a small rebel hideout, with nothing to do but wait and play ‘happy families’ until rescue was able to reach you. It was bliss, if you were honest with yourself. You two had always worked well together, but it was different, somehow. It felt natural to pretend to be his for just a few weeks. But he was your superior, and it was throwing off your judgement. 

It wasn’t long after you had managed to shut your door that the heavy knocks started, each thud heavy and deliberate. 

“I know you’re in there,” Cassian’s voice rang out from the other side, an exasperated sigh following when you continued to sit silently, staring at the other side like a loth cat in headlights. “Open the door, please.” 

You fought the urge to scoff at his demanding tone, the anger still evident. “Is that an order, captain?” you snarked back, but you knew your energy was not in it. 

You heard him huff again, “If it means you will open the door, yes. It’s an order.” The usual commanding tone was there, but as you unfolded yourself from your bed and crossed the small room, you could have sworn you detected an ounce of desperation. He was leaning against the door frame as you pulled the door open a crack, his eyes instantly looking up to meet you, straightening himself as you hovered in the doorway. 

“Are you going to make us do this in the corridor?” he asked, raising a brow. Biting the inside of your cheek you rolled your eyes, regretting it slightly when your strained, tired eyes ached. Nevertheless, you stood to the side, opening the door just enough for him to slip in and close it behind him. 

Your heart hammered in your chest as you flopped back down onto your bed again, fixing your gaze out of the small window. You wrapped your arms around your legs, your palms finding purchase on the fabric of your soft trousers to try and dry the sweat from your palms. Just looking at him had your nightmare flashing behind your eyes again. 

“You have been ignoring me.” He stated simply. You weren’t too sure if it was supposed to be a question or not, but he continued to watch you, and you presumed he was expecting a response.

“Yes.” You replied simply, your voice quiet. 

You could take out his jaw clenching in the corner of your vision, rocking a little in place in frustration. “Why?” He pushed sharply, hands coming to rest on his hips.

You shrugged, a hand instantly coming to rest on your aching shoulder at the movement. “I was letting myself heal.” It wasn’t a lie. 

Perhaps if you have had a little more rest, you would have realised that lying so blatantly to one of the rebellion's best spies was a fool's game.

“You have been healed.” His gaze was intense, studying your face even as you refused to look at him. “Stop lying to me.” 

Exhaling slowly, the air slipping past your relaxed lips, your fingers rubbed absentmindedly at your shoulder. He was right, your shoulder looked almost as good as new already. But it ached whenever you thought about him – a phantom burn that was present more often than not. 

“I presumed that you wanted a break from someone so reckless,” you finally hummed, eyes glazing over as they defocused on the small silhouettes of people moving back and forth over the tarmac below you. 

Cassian’s fingers curled into fists at his side. You could tell that he wanted to yell, his frustration starting to boil over as he bit at the inside of his cheek. 

“Don’t do that. Don’t make it about me.” He inched closer, desperate to have you meet his gaze. His voice finally softened, a hint of vulnerability creeping in as he spoke, “just look at me.” 

You snorted softly, shaking your head, “But it’s always about you, Cassian. Can’t you see that?” 

His expression darkened, the bitterness in your voice cutting into him roughly. “What is that supposed to mean?” He shot back, his defences rising again as he stepped forward instinctively, closing the gap between you. “I can never understand what is going through your head, always putting yourself at risk. Throwing yourself into danger like no one cares, trying to–“

“– I just can’t stand to see you hurt!” You finally broke, pressing yourself to stand up in your anger without realising just how close he had gotten.  “I do what I do to protect you. That is my job. That is my goal. Because without you the rebellion means nothing – without you, I have nothing to fight for.” You were practically panting by the time your mind had caught up to what you had confessed, but you made no effort to move away, watching as his eyes widened at your outburst, lips faltering around half-formed words. 

He wanted to argue, to protest, to tell you that the rebellion needed you just as much as it needed him. But something in your eyes silenced him. Something in the way the anxiety and vulnerability swam beneath the surface that made his heart ache. 

Huffing at his silence, taking it as confirmation of your fears, you moved to turn away, “not so vocal now, are you.” 

His hand moved on instinct, grasping your wrist tenderly, his calloused palm rough against the skin, anchoring you in place. 

“I’m trying to hold my composure, which is damn near impossible with you.” 

You went to scoff, hand twitching in his grasp when he shushed you. 

“Don’t scoff,  don’t brush me off, and don’t walk away from this. Not until you hear what I have to say.” 

The proximity was almost intoxicating, your mind racing at a million miles an hour as a warmth blooms across your chest, radiating up your arm from where he held you. You were sure from where his fingers pressed against your wrist that he could feel the way your heartbeat quickened. 

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing with the effort as he wet his parted lips, “you frustrate me, you infuriate me,” he started, fingers twitching slightly in the fear you might pull away, “you’re reckless and defiant and impulsive…” his voice trails off, his eyes dropping unmistakably down to your lips, lingering there and seemingly stealing the thoughts from his head. 

“But?…” you urged, sensing the word hanging in the air. 

“But,” he wet his lips again nervously, “but I love you regardless. And I can not bear to lose you.” 

Cassian’s breath hitched in his throat as you pressed up onto your tiptoes and closed the gap between you, your lips pressing to his desperately and with little finesse. His body tensed slightly in surprise before he surrendered to the moment. His hands moving instinctively to your hips, pulling you up against him as he returned the kiss with equal fervor. All the frustration, all the tension, all the fear he had been suppressing in the last three days melting away on your lips. 

Your fingers found purchase in the lapels of his jacket, twisting the fabric to pull him closer to you, as if he might disappear when you opened your eyes again. Cassian similarly pulled you closer, his arm snaking around your waist to hold you tight against his chest, your back bending just a little as he clung to you, his other hand weaving its way into your hair, tilting your head back to angle your mouth even closer to his, murmuring your name against your lips. 

Finally desperate for air, you parted, but only enough to rest your foreheads against one another. His breathing was laboured, the air around him suddenly feeling too cold against his flushed skin. 

“Please, never let me go again,” you asked softly, your gaze flicking between his eyes. 

The arm around your waist tightened, the palm now resting against your cheek moving slightly to allow his thumb to brush against the soft skin. “Never,” he murmured, his voice slightly hoarse. “I’ll never let you go again.” 

You swallowed thickly, finally finding it within yourself to be truthful with him, “I didn’t want to avoid you,” you started uncertainly, worrying your lower lip between your teeth for a moment, “I just couldn’t stop replaying what happened. I couldn’t stop dreaming about it. I barely slept, because I was so scared that if I hadn't jumped, you wouldn’t be here anymore…” 

He shushed you softly, eyes softening as his hands came to cup your cheeks, carefully urging you to meet his eyes again. 

“I’m here,” he reassured you gently, something resolute in his tone. “I’m alive. We’re alive.” His hands slipped from your cheeks, down your arms, until his fingers were entwined with yours, squeezing gently. 

Nodding quickly, you released a shaky breath, glancing down at where his hands cradled yours. “Stay with me, please?” taking a few steps back towards your bed, you pulled on his hands softly, “I don’t want to be alone anymore.” 

Cassian’s expression softened further and he moved with you, his hand still tightly entwined with yours as he followed you. 

“I won’t leave your side,” he promised.

[a-asterias]

pearled shell / f. weasley

fred weasley x reader

summary: you never expected to catch the attention of a certain gryffindor, especially when you had never tried to catch anyones attention in your life. based on this request. warnings: not proofread. no use of y/n. 4k words.

Fred Weasley had faced plenty of challenges in his life — slipping past Filch undetected, charming Filibuster fireworks into dancing hearts, convincing his mum that “experimenting” with Doxy venom was absolutely safe and in no way a terrible idea.

But none of that, (not even the time he nearly singed his eyebrows off trying to enchant a toilet seat) compared to the impossible task of getting you to say more than two words to him.

You weren’t rude. Merlin, no. You were just… quiet.

Always tucked away in the corner of the common room, either half-buried in a book bigger than your torso or scribbling into a journal that looked like it had lived in your bag for years. You smiled when spoken to, nodded when asked questions and such. Always polite, reserved and respectful. Nothing more, nothing less. At least not to those who weren’t your close friends.

To someone like Fred, who thrived on noise and chaos and clever banter, your stillness was a mystery. And Fred Weasley loved a good mystery.

He’d first noticed you one winter afternoon.

He and George had taken over the courtyard with their newest invention: a firework you could toss around like a baseball, one that erupted in brilliant sparks when caught. It wasn’t exactly Ministry-approved, but that had never stopped them before.

The crowd had gathered quickly, laughter echoing through the stone archways. Fred lit up in moments like that. Grinning. Buzzing with energy. Soaking up every cheer like fuel.

As he scanned the onlookers, noting the wide-eyed third years, the snickering Hufflepuffs, even a particularly skeptical Ravenclaw in the back; something off to the side caught his eye.

Or rather, someone.

You weren’t in the crowd. Not even close. You were perched quietly on the edge of one of the archways, legs tucked beneath you, a thick book resting on your lap. It was closed for the moment, one finger carefully holding your place between the pages. You weren’t smiling. Not frowning either. Just watching. Calm. Still.

Curious.

Fred squinted, trying to make out your expression. But it was unreadable. Like a blank page he couldn’t decipher. No obvious amusement. No disapproval. Just… observing.

And then, your eyes met his.

It was fleeting. A split second, if that. But he caught the way your eyes widened, just slightly, before you quickly looked back down at your book.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed.

Fred did.

He grinned.

As George threw the fireball back his way, Fred caught it with an unnecessarily dramatic flourish. The crowd roared. And he hoped — just hoped — that it would draw your attention again.

It worked.

Your head turned. Slowly. Eyes lifting from the pages just in time to see Fred launch the glowing orb straight into the air, where it exploded in a brilliant bloom of golden sparks, raining light across the stone patio like tiny stars.

He didn’t know what struck him more, the sight of the fireworks scattered above them or the small, quiet smile that tugged at your lips before you turned away.

You slipped back into the castle without a word. He wasn’t sure whether it was the sight of the patio covered in stars or the small smile that appeared on your lips that made his stomach turn. Either way, as you walked away, he made it his goal to make you do it again.

Fred Weasley had begun turning up in the quiet corners of your life.

The library, the corridors, your favorite spot by the Whomping Willow…he was always there.

You’d never exchanged more than a few words, but somehow, his presence had settled into your routine like a familiar echo. Comforting, in an odd sort of way.

It wasn’t just physical, either. He started bleeding into everything—into the edges of your thoughts, into the silence between pages, into the background of your world. Wherever you turned, it seemed, there was some small trace of Fred Weasley.

He’d tried speaking to you a few times. You kept your replies short, polite, and measured. Never giving more than necessary. A smile here and there. That had always seemed to be enough.

Until now.

It started, like most disasters do, with a bang.

One moment dinner was carrying on as usual; clinking cutlery, puffing steam from hot dishes, and the occasional enchanted plate zooming through the air from some first-year's over-eager charm.

Next thing you knew, the ceiling of the Great Hall was lit up with swirling sparks. A cloud of shimmering pink smoke exploded above the Gryffindor table, showering the students in harmless glitter. At the center of it all stood Fred and George Weasley, grinning.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Fred’s voice echoed. “Behold, our latest creation–”

“Name still pending!” chimed in George.

“Guaranteed to make your crush fall head over heels or at least sneeze glitter for three days straight!”

Laughter erupted across the hall. A few students ducked. Some clapped. Filch stormed in with a bucket and murder in his eyes.

And Fred, as always, basked in it.

George gave a dramatic bow and gestured toward the crowd. “But of course, we need a demonstration.”

Fred’s eyes scanned the room. Some students leaned forward, hoping to be picked. Others groaned, already preparing to dodge the next round of magic. Most of them laughed and applauded, enjoying the chaos that always seemed to follow the twins.

But Fred?

Fred’s gaze found you.

Tucked near the end of the Gryffindor table, half-hidden behind a jug of pumpkin juice, you sat frozen. A fork midway to your mouth, expression something between confused and horrified.

Fred’s grin stretched wider.

“Oh look,” he said with mock surprise, voice playful but warm, “there she is, the mystery girl herself.”

You blinked.

You knew he meant you. Of course you knew. He’d been bothering you gently for weeks. Waving in corridors, sending charmed paper frogs to land on your books, tossing compliments like confetti whenever he passed by.

And now he was walking toward you. Through the glittering smoke. Through the stares. Through the entire Great Hall.

You panicked.

In a quick, frantic move, you ducked your head and turned to your side, suddenly very interested in talking to the fourth-year next to you.

Fred slid onto the bench next to you anyway.

As if it was second nature, you tried to scoot away from him, just to be blocked by George on your other side.

You could feel the entire table watching. Staring. You could feel the pink glitter in your hair.

You felt Fred’s arm draping over your shoulder.

“Please don’t,” you whispered rather pathetically.

You caught the moment his gaze softened. His eyes flickered between yours.

You swallowed hard. “Everyone’s staring.”

He smiled gently. “That’s just because they’re jealous I picked the prettiest girl in the room.”

Your breath caught.

A beat of silence passed between you, and then—

You ducked your head again, a hand coming up to shield your face as a quiet, mortified laugh escaped you.

Fred’s grin grew.

“Was that a laugh?” he gasped. “That was definitely a laugh! You owe me three Sickles!” he said as he stared at George.

“I wasn’t laughing,” you muttered.

“Right,” George said smugly, “it was more of a giggle. Completely different.”

“Please,” you said again, this time with a little more power in your voice.

Fred thought he could’ve melted right then and there. The way you stared up at him, those big eyes of yours engraved in his memory completely. He would be dreaming of them tonight.

“Tell you what. We’ll spare you of this if you tell me your name.”

You were going to protest, try to plead with George maybe, but his words made you stop in your tracks. “What?”

“I think we’re past pleasantries at this point don’t you? I can’t keep calling you ‘mystery girl’ forever.”

You tried to fight a smile, as you furrowed your eyebrows. Nevertheless, you extended your hand and introduced yourself.

They both repeated your name with glee and each shook a hand. You didn’t miss Fred’s wink.

You opened your mouth to argue, but Fred stood suddenly, clapping his hands dramatically as he turned to face the hall again.

“Apologies, everyone!” he called. “She’s too charming to share.”

As laughter and clapping resumed, Fred sent you one last smile, all warmth and trouble. “Same time tomorrow?” he whispered.

You ignored him, fixating on your robes, which were covered in with small shiny particles, you picked a fleck of pink glitter from your sleeve and tried very hard not to smile too obviously.

Fred Weasley was intelligent, despite what other people might think at first. His brain, however, extended beyond the realm of academic intelligence toward other, more useful things — like how to levitate a dungbomb into Filch’s coat pocket without getting caught, or which combinations of Bertie Bott’s beans definitely shouldn’t be consumed on a dare.

So, the sight of him in the library, at a desk, surrounded by actual books, was enough to make Madam Pince do a double take. And possibly consider retirement.

Books were sprawled around him. Big ones. Dense ones. The kind with footnotes and unfriendly fonts. His brows were furrowed in deep concentration, one hand in his hair, the other clenching the page of a book titled:

“The Magical Mind: An Exploration of Wizard Psychology.”

Across the table sat a second stack; all books he’d seen you reading over the past few weeks. Quietly, steadily, without fuss. He’d remembered the titles. Of course he had.

“Honestly,” he muttered, “how in the bloody hell does she enjoy this?”

“Language, Mr. Weasley,” came the familiar hiss of Madam Pince from somewhere behind a stack.

Fred jumped, muttered an apology, then went back to the book.

He wasn't trying to become a genius overnight. He just… wanted to understand. Why did you spend hours with these books. What it was about them that made you furrow your brow or bite your lip while you read. He wanted to sit across from you and say something, anything, that didn’t sound like a bad pick-up line made of glitter and nerves.

Unfortunately, this plan had one major flaw: the books were winning.

Still, he didn’t give up. He lasted two whole chapters of that psychology book, another on magical theory, and half a novella about cursed heirlooms before his brain started to liquefy.

But he left the library with scribbled notes in the margins of an old roll of parchment. Just in case.

The next evening at dinner, he waited until halfway through the meal before sliding into the seat across from you. The fifth years who had been previously sitting comfortably there, now slightly bunched together, muttering complaints.

You glanced at him, startled. Still, you didn’t move away.

“Hi,” he said, and there was no teasing in his voice.

“Hi,” you said back, quiet as ever.

He cleared his throat. “So. I’ve been reading.”

Your eyes widened slightly. Not surprised, but rather confused.

“I mean, not just reading-reading. Like—” He fished a crumpled bit of parchment from his pocket. “This stuff. The one with all the weird brain diagrams. Psychology.”

A pause. You blinked.

Fred shifted nervously. “Was trying to understand why you like them. The books. And I didn’t — I mean, not fully, but I thought that chapter about magical projection and identity repression was kind of interesting?”

It came out more as a question rather than a statement, much to his dismay.

Your mouth parted slightly.

“You know,” he added hastily, “in a terrifying ‘I don't think I’m smart enough to be reading this’ sort of way.”

And then, you laughed.

A real one. Soft and surprised, but unmistakably there.

Fred stared.

“I didn’t peg you as a psychology type,” you said, tilting your head.

“I’m not,” he said. “But I figured if you liked it, it might be worth a try.”

You looked down, suddenly shy again. However, this time, your smile didn’t vanish.

After a beat, you nudged your pumpkin juice toward him. “Want to hear what I actually thought about that chapter?”

Fred’s grin could’ve lit the whole hall. “More than anything.”

The sun was beginning to dip, spilling honey-gold light across the courtyard and painting the stones in soft warmth. A gentle breeze tugging at your sleeves, the scent of summer clinging to the edges of spring.

You were sitting on the steps of the Astronomy Tower beside Fred, the two of you tucked just out of view. Alone, but not awkwardly. It had become something of a pattern, these quiet meetings.

No grand declarations. No need for conversation if there was nothing to say. Sometimes he brought little inventions to fiddle with. Sometimes you brought a book. Today, you had your journal propped against your knee, the paper fluttering with each breath of wind. A charcoal pencil twirled idly between your fingers.

Fred was hunched beside you, elbows on his knees, wand in one hand and a vaguely cube-shaped object in the other that occasionally buzzed or blinked with orange sparks.

He’d barely looked up for ten minutes.

Until now.

“What are you doing?” he asked. You could tell that the cube was no longer holding his attention. Instead, you could feel his gaze on you.

You hesitated, your pencil freezing mid-stroke.

Fred noticed.

He turned slightly, eyebrows raised. “That your journal again?”

You gave a small nod.

“Can I see?”

You glanced at him, at the hopeful lilt in his tone, at the way his eyes sparkled just slightly in the sunlight. And then looked back down at your lap.

“It’s not writing,” you murmured.

“No?”

“…Drawing.”

Fred blinked. “You draw?”

Another nod. Your thumb smudged a shadow near the edge of the page.

He leaned closer. “Is it bad that I’m now ten times more curious?”

You sighed, quietly amused, but didn’t close the book, holding it close to your chest instead. “I don’t usually show people.”

Fred didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he shifted his weight to face you properly, stretching one leg out lazily on the stone. The object in his hand fizzled to silence.

“You don’t have to,” he said, voice lower now. “Really. I just… I’ve never seen you like this.”

You tilted your head. “Like what?”

He smiled. Not the wide, performative one he wore in the halls — but a softer, private one that barely reached the corners of his mouth.

“Still and focused. Not hiding behind your book or nervously escaping dinner tables,” he teased.

Your face flushed. You ducked your head, lips twitching.

“I didn’t run,” you pointed out.

“You tried,” he grinned knowingly.

You pressed your lips together, trying to suppress a smile. He had that effect on you. Making you smile even when you didn't want to. When you were pissed off or having a bad day, he somehow alway made it slightly better.

You turned the book, slowly, and angled it toward him.

The page was filled with sharp lines — a sketch of the tower railing, the clouds beyond, and two figures sitting side by side on the steps. One of them unmistakably had wild, messy hair and a mischievous curve to his grin.

Fred stared.

“That’s—” He blinked. “That’s me.”

You gave the tiniest shrug. “You sit still long enough sometimes. It’s useful.”

He looked at the page again, quieter now.

“You’re really good.”

“Thank you.”

He reached out, hesitated, then gently touched the edge of the sketch — careful not to smudge it. He was quiet for a moment, just staring at it. You stared at him instead.

You really stared. You thought he looked beautiful then. Completely unguarded, all soft. If he hadn’t been holding your journal, you would have jumped at the opportunity to draw him like this.

You saw it when he changed. When he put up that performative mask of his. All the softness gone, replaced by sharpness.

“I do look rather handsome don’t I? I hope you don’t draw everyone like this,” he said. All smugness and charm. As if he was putting on a performance.

You smiled, finally looking at him.

“Just the ones I want to remember.”

His mask slipped for a fraction of a second at your sincere response, and he went back to staring at the page.

Now, with nothing to focus your attention on, you started fiddling with the pencil still in your hand.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said, not daring to look at him.

“Do what?”

“Pretend. You’re not on a stage, not with me at least. There’s no need to give me a certain reaction. No need for that charming front you always put on.”

He peered up at you, a lopsided grin adorning his features. “You think I’m charming?”

You rolled your eyes and smiled. “What I’m saying is…I’m my most vulnerable when doing that…” you said as you gestured towards the journal still in his hands. “There’s no need to be intimidated by it. If there’s anyone who should be nervous it would be me.”

He blinked at you, shaking his head softly with a confused smile.

You readjusted your position and sat up straighter, staring at him. “Tell you what, if you give me something completely sincere — no cheeky remark, no smugness — I’ll let you keep it.”

Fred looked down at the journal in his hands again. Then, slowly, closed it, careful with the pages like it was something fragile. Sacred.

“Something honest?”

You hummed in agreement.

He stayed quiet for a moment before sighing deeply and running his hand through his hair.

“I like the way you see me,” he said quietly. “Not just in the sketch — though that was ridiculously cool — but… you see the bits of me most people don’t bother to look for.”

You didn’t interrupt. You could tell he wasn’t finished.

“I’m always the loud one,” he went on. “The twin who sets off fireworks in broom closets and drives McGonagall to the edge of retirement.” A smile tugged at his lips at that, but it faded almost immediately. “And I like being that. It’s not fake. It’s just… not all there is.”

His thumb traced the corner of the journal absentmindedly.

“But when I’m with you…” He shook his head a little, searching for the words. “It’s like I don’t have to be on. You don’t expect a performance. You don’t expect anything, really. And somehow that makes me want to give you everything.”

Your heart thudded.

“I never realized how exhausting it could be — being everyone’s laugh. But with you, I’m just… Fred.” He looked up again. “And you don’t make me feel less for that.”

You stared at him, breath caught somewhere between your chest and throat.

He looked down, a faint flush creeping into his ears. “That was sincere, right?” he added, voice lighter but still earnest.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you reached out and carefully ripped out the page. “I guess you get to keep it.”

His eyes widened slightly, flickering from your hand to your face. “Really?”

You just nodded.

Fred had carefully — very carefully — tucked the drawing between two pages of an old Quidditch magazine. It wasn’t exactly the best hiding place, but it was one of the few things George wouldn’t willingly touch. Fred’s relationship with printed reading material was… less than enthusiastic. Everyone knew that.

Which was exactly why George found it.

“I was looking for the Cannons article,” George explained innocently as he stood at Fred’s bed, waving the sketch around like a victory flag. “And what do I find instead? A bloody portrait.”

Fred whipped around from where he was tying his tie, heart dropping like a stone. “George—”

“It’s you,” George continued gleefully. “It’s you with that stupid soft smile you only make when she’s around—oh Merlin, is this what you do when you sneak off in the evenings?”

Fred lunged, but George danced out of reach, laughing too hard to run properly.

“It’s so dramatic,” George cackled. “Look at this—your hair even has shading. Shading, Fred. Are you posing when she draws you?”

“I swear on Mum’s life—give it back—”

“Oh, and she signed it,” George gasped, holding the corner up, inspecting your name. “Cute. Very romantic. I didn’t know you were someone’s muse.”

“George.”

Fred was red-faced now, a mix of rage and pure panic. His ears matched his jumper.

George grinned, holding the drawing just out of reach. “I’m keeping this.”

“You’re not.”

“I am. I’m framing it.”

“You are not framing it.”

“I’m going to show Mum. She loves romantic things—”

“I will hex your eyebrows off in your sleep.”

George paused dramatically, then handed the paper back, still grinning like a madman. “Alright, alright. But I want it stated clearly for the record: You are pathetically gone for her.”

Fred snatched the drawing, smoothing the edge with a bit too much care for someone pretending he didn’t care.

“I’m not ��gone.’”

“Oh please. You read psychology, you went quiet in her presence, and now you’re hoarding pencil drawings of your brooding face like a Victorian widow.” George leaned against the bedpost. “Just snog her already.”

Fred muttered something unintelligible and shoved the drawing back into his trunk, this time between two very old, very dull spellbooks.

George watched him with amusement. “She likes you too. I hope you know that. I hope you’re not that dense.”

Fred stilled.

George gave him a shrug. “Just saying. She wouldn’t sketch you if she didn’t.”

Fred tried to act nonchalant, but the smile that crept across his face was unstoppable.

“Sod off,” he said.

George rolled his eyes. “You’re the worst romantic I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re a menace.”

“True. But you love me.”

Fred laughed, shoulders relaxing for the first time all morning. “Not when you touch my stuff.”

Once George was gone Fred shut the trunk, still smiling, the warmth of your drawing pressed somewhere under the lid. Safe, for now.

The night was calm. After a weekend at Hogsmeade, everyone was back to doing the work they had neglected now that it was Sunday. Which left you to enjoy the solitude of the corridors in peace.

You were perched over a particularly high windowsill, just out of sight for anyone who wasn’t looking where they were going.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps. You took a break from your journal to see who your intruder was. Intruder here being a strong word, as you were technically in a public space.

To your surprise, you saw a head of red hair coming down the hallway. He was staring at something in his hand. A rectangular piece of paper.

He hadn’t noticed you yet, too lost in whatever he was holding.

It took you a moment to realize what it was.

Your sketch.

You recognized the careful fold of the paper, the telltale smudge on the corner. His thumb was pressed right there, grazing that mark like it was familiar. Like he’d done it more than once.

He stared at it the way people looked at stars when they thought no one was watching. Quiet. Reverent. A little bit in awe.

You almost didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

But your mouth was faster than your brain. Fred had that effect on you. As if you didn’t have to double think whatever it is you wanted to do.

“That looks familiar,” you said.

His head snapped up, trying to determine where the voice came from. He looked like a lost puppy for a second, trying to find a familiar face.

Once he saw you perched up there, a grin adorned his features. You couldn’t help but smile back.

“Oh. Hey,” he said, as he approached the ledge and placed his hands on the edge.

“You were staring at it.”

“Maybe.”

You readjusted your position, so that your legs were hanging over. You peered down at him. “Didn’t think you were the type to brood over artwork.”

“I don’t brood.”

“You were brooding.”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then, with exaggerated calm, he unfolded the paper again and held it up beside him.

“I really like this,” he said.

“Why’s that?”

He looked at the drawing, then at you, then back at the drawing.

“Because you made me look like the mysterious one,” he said finally, flashing you a grin. “And let’s be honest, between the two of us, you’re clearly the one with dark secrets and poetic thoughts.”

You snorted. “Right. And you’re the brooding, misunderstood artist’s muse?”

Fred puffed out his chest dramatically. “Obviously. I’m very complex.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You once put a firecracker in a soup tureen because you were bored.”

“I was expressing the chaos of existence,” he said with a grin. “Or something along those lines.”

You laughed, covering your mouth with the back of your hand. “You’re insufferable.”

“Ah, but charming,” he countered, wagging the drawing at you. “Your words, not mine. Might I remind you.”

You rolled your eyes but your cheeks were warm.

He tapped the page thoughtfully. “You gave this to me like it was no big deal, and now I’ve been walking around like a twelve-year-old with a crush. I’ve folded and unfolded this thing so many times it’s practically a security blanket.”

“Ah, so you do have a crush on me?”

He leaned in, resting his chin on his hands and gazing up at you with mock intensity. “I thought that part was obvious.”

Your cheeks flared hotter. You looked away before he could grin any more about it.

You paused, then said slowly, “You’re the only person I’ve ever drawn who kept interrupting the silence by fiddling with some exploding cube.”

Fred grinned. “So you admit it. You were watching me.”

You kicked your foot lightly in his direction. “I was drawing you, idiot.”

“Same thing,” he said, far too pleased with himself.

There was a beat. Then he added, a bit more softly, “You didn’t have to give it to me, you know.”

“I wanted to,” you said simply. “Felt like you should have it.”

Fred blinked at you, the teasing softening just a little.

Then he leaned closer, voice mock-serious. “You know, now that I own fine art, I’m probably obligated to carry it everywhere and gaze dramatically into the distance like a tortured poet.”

You grinned. “It’s a sketch, Fred.”

“It’s a masterpiece. I’m going to frame it and hang it over my nonexistent fireplace and tell our grandkids about how you were obsessed with me, and couldn’t stop painting my portrait.”

You scoffed, but your smile was betraying you.

“Grandkids?” you asked dramatically, softly kicking him. “I don’t recall agreeing to that.”

“I do,” he said nonchalantly as he held on to your calves, to stop your restless legs that seemed intent on hurting him.

You raised a brow. “Seems like you’re skipping a few steps. Maybe start with a love letter? Or is this the part where you declare your undying devotion?”

“Nope,” he said, tucking the sketch carefully into his pocket. “This is the part where I flirt outrageously and make you fall in love with me slowly and against your will.”

You laughed, heart pounding just a little too hard. “That so?”

“Absolutely. Just warning you now. It’s going to be devastating.”

“I intend to make it as hard as possible for you, Weasley!”

With one last grin, he turned and walked backwards down the corridor, his voice echoing playfully:

“Hope you’ve got room in that journal, you’ll be sketching me again soon.”

You rolled your eyes.

But you didn’t stop smiling. Not even when he was out of sight.

[a-asterias]

Change your mind

Pairing: College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: Natasha drags you to an NYU baseball game. And despite yourself, one player catches your attention.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: Bucky’s charm; Bucky being flirty; Bucky showing off; Reader checking out baseball players lol; Reader not being interested in baseball (at first)

Author’s Note: I've been craving some flirty college Bucky after all the angst I've been writing. So that’s what I came up with. It is also meant as a little celebration fic because I've got over 1500 followers and that’s so amazing! Thank you so much!! Hope you enjoy! ♡

Divider by @thecutestgrotto ♡

Masterlist

You haven’t been to a single game since the semester started - since any semester started, to be real. And honestly, you have been content with that. Satisfyingly so.

Your time is better spent attending to assignments, slogging through your part-time job at the library, or doing literally anything else besides sitting in the stands and watching a bunch of guys chase a ball around a field, or whatever the hell this sport even is about.

Baseball isn’t your thing, it never has been and it never will be.

You’ve been complaining about it the whole way here. Dramatically so, but you didn’t care. Your best friend can handle you and your antics.

“You know, I can think of at least a dozen things I should be doing right now instead of this,” you grumble, trailing behind her as she weaves through the crowd in search of seats.

Natasha sighs sharply and throws you a glare over her shoulder. “God, would you quit whining? This is good for you.”

“I fail to see how,” you shoot back, adjusting the strap of your bag as you begrudgingly follow her.

But Natasha just smirks. That dangerous little smirk that means she’s about to say something you won’t have a comeback for. “You know,” she muses, eyes darting playfully in your direction. “I didn’t think I’d have to twist your arm to come watch a bunch of hot guys running around out there.”

A brow of yours lifts. “Alright, hold on-” you jab a finger in her direction “-I never said I was against that part.”

She scoffs, clearly pleased with herself, and you grin, nudging her with your elbow as the two of you settle into your seats.

“Besides,” you continue, voice dripping with amusement. “I don’t think you should be making comments like that when we both know you’re here for one guy in particular.”

Natasha only shrugs, all nonchalant, but the corner of her mouth tugs lightly upward. “So what if I am?”

You snicker. “I mean, nothing. I just think it’s cute how whipped you are.”

She rolls her eyes, but her lip is still twitching. Natasha and Steve have only been dating for a few weeks, but you see the way she looks at him. And as much as you complain about being dragged here, you suppose watching your best friend fall stupidly in love is kind of entertaining.

Even if you have to suffer through a baseball game to witness it.

You lean back against the hard metal bleachers, arms crossed as your gaze falls across the field.

It’s a decent night, warm with just enough of a breeze to keep the air from feeling stifling. And even though you’d rather be anywhere else right now, you can’t deny that seeing Natasha like this - light in her eyes, a weird softness in her expression - makes the whole ordeal slightly less painful.

Steve is out on the field, stretching with his team, and Natasha is watching him with this reserved kind of smile. The kind that sneaks up on a person when they don’t realize they’re doing it. You smirk to yourself. Yeah, she’s got it bad. But honestly, you are happy for her. They look good together, and she certainly deserves someone who looks at her the way Steve does.

Natasha must catch you watching her because she suddenly turns, an all-too-knowing glint in her eye. You don’t like that look.

“And who knows,” she says, spreading her legs out in front of her, voice hinting at humor, “maybe your future husband’s down there right now.”

You snort, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “Oh, yeah, sure. He’s just waiting for me to sweep him off his feet in the middle of a stretch.”

She smirks. “Could happen.”

You shake your head. “Yeah, no thanks. I'm all for watching a bunch of hot guys get all sweaty and run around in tight pants, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” You gesture vaguely toward the field. “That’s just spectating. Everything else is a hard pass.”

Natasha quirks a brow, tilting her head at you. “Oh, come on, Y/n. It’s not that bad.”

You shoot her a look. “Nat, the last guy I went out with, Peter Quill, you remember?-” You don’t wait for her nod “-he told me, verbatim, that he doesn’t believe in seasoning his food. And the guy before that showed up to our date in cargo shorts and a fedora and spent two hours explaining why The Wolf of Wall Street is the peak of cinema.”

She winces. “Oof.”

“Yeah. So forgive me if I’m not that eager to throw myself back into the trenches.” You pause. “Also, I’m super busy.”

Natasha laughs, shaking her head as she turns back toward the field. “Well, if you ever change your mind, I’ll be sure to put in a good word with one of Steve’s teammates.”

You scoff. “Wow, generous and delusional. I’m so lucky to have you as a friend.”

She nudges you with her shoulder, smirking. “The luckiest.”

Huffing, you sink deeper into your seat. Well, at least there is one upside to all of this. If nothing else, you can at least appreciate the view.

Your eyes wander over the team as they move across the field, warming up, adjusting their gloves, casually tossing a ball back and forth.

And yeah, you can admit it - objectively speaking, they look good. Athletic builds, toned arms, legs that fill out those pants just right. It’s a nice view, even if you’re not about to go throwing yourself into the dating pool again, so soon.

Your gaze drifts back to Steve, mostly because he’s the only one you actually know - if only a little. But before you can really focus on him, someone steps into your line of sight, half-blocking the blonde from view.

The number 17 fills out your vision.

Your head tilts instinctively, curiosity sparking before you know it. The guy in front of Steve is tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy stance that suggests he’s completely at home out there on the field.

His uniform fits him in a way that makes you annoyingly aware of just how well built he is - jersey stretched firm across his upper back, the sleeves tight around his biceps, pants snug in all the right places. His chestnut hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck underneath the baseball cap he is wearing, and he stands so casually confident that it makes it impossible to not look at him.

Have you maybe seen him around campus before? You should have, right? Someone like him doesn’t just blend into the background. Maybe in the halls, in one of those massive lecture rooms, passing by in the library, maybe when you're on shift. But you are sure, that if you saw that guy, you would have remembered him.

“See something you like?”

Natasha’s smug voice snaps you out of your thoughts and you catch the smirk she is throwing your way.

Scoffing, you tighten your arms around yourself and glance back at the field. Number 17 is still standing there, talking with Steve, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just spent the past minute analyzing every inch of his backside.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you deny, keeping your tone even.

Natasha snorts, bumping her knee against yours. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?”

She nods her head to the field. “For dragging you here. For the eye candy. For giving you the opportunity to meet your future ex-husband.”

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll see.”

Inevitably, your eyes move back to number 17, and you can’t help but think that if you haven’t seen him before, why it feels like you should have.

He’s turning.

Wait, he’s turning.

Your breath hitches and stays stuck in your throat uncomfortably, and suddenly he’s looking at you. Did he feel your eyes on him? Does he somehow know that you eyed him up like a complete creep? But just as the heat of panic can spark in your chest, you realize he’s not even looking at you.

He’s looking at Natasha.

Your shoulders loosen slightly. Steve also has turned his gaze toward the stands, his affective smile directed at your friend as well. He probably told the brunette that she’s here.

Number 17 lifts a hand in a casual wave, movement smooth, and even that simple gesture kind of looks way hotter than you want to feel right now.

Natasha only gives a small, lazy nod in return.

You expect the brunette to turn back around after that, to go back to whatever pre-game thing they were doing. But he doesn’t.

His attention shifts. To you.

Your stomach makes a flip before your brain can decide how to handle it.

His eyes are sharp, the exact color lost to the distance, but it seems to be something blueish. His expression is unreadable, his head tilting slightly as if assessing you. The stadium lights cast a glow over his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, and the way his mouth seems to settle into something just shy of a smirk.

Immediately, you whip your head around to Natasha, eyes wide.

“Do you know that guy?” you ask, trying to sound more casual than you feel.

Natasha doesn’t even bother looking at you. She’s still watching Steve, her lips curving higher as if knowing what she’s doing.

“He’s Steve’s best friend.”

You blink. “Steve’s best friend?”

Your gaze falls back to the field against your better judgment but Number 17 has already turned back to Steve, talking to the blonde who now is sporting a smirk just like Natasha’s.

“You never mentioned him before,” you comment, though it comes out a little too measured.

Natasha of course picks up on it immediately.

“Should I have?” she counters, dragging the words out just a little.

You narrow your eyes at her but she only continues smirking.

And again, your gaze falls back to Number 17. God, why can’t you stop checking him out. The white baseball pants of his do absolutely nothing to hide the strength in his legs. His hair at his nape is slightly messy from running around and you wonder if it would feel soft if you put your hands on it.

You shake that thought right off again.

It’s not like it matters.

Still, you shift in your seat, arms tightening. “I just think it’s interesting that you never brought him up before when he’s his best friend.”

Natasha exhales a laugh through her nose, finally glancing over at you, her eyes glinting with something mischievous. “I mean, I could have.”

“And you didn’t because…?”

“Because,” she says sultry, shrugging one shoulder. “I figured you’d meet him eventually.”

There is something pointed in the way she says it, something deliberate, and you don’t like that it sends a small tingle of anticipation through you.

“So, what’s his deal, then?” you keep going, not even knowing why.

Natasha hums, stretching her limbs languidly. Her voice is sly. “His deal?”

“You know,” you press, trying not to sound too interested, although, fucking hell, you are. “Like, what’s his major? Have you seen him around before?”

She turns to you again, and oh, that look on her face is entirely too smug. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You huff. “Nat.”

Her smirk only deepens. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Before you can answer, she looks past you, over your shoulder, down the steps.

Her expression doesn’t change but her smirk gets a little too satisfied, a little too wicked.

You quickly follow her gaze and, oh shit.

A heavy beat thuds against your ribs before your heart remembers how to move properly as your eyes follow the unmistakable figure making his way up the stairs.

Number 17.

And he is coming right toward you.

You inhale sharply, sitting up a little straighter, trying to act like this isn’t throwing you off balance. His steps are easy and unhurried as if giving you the time to check him out some more. And even though you should know better, you do.

His uniform is wrinkled from warm-ups, the fabric clinging in ways that are frankly unfair, and his dark hair curls enough to look annoyingly good.

He reaches your row. And despite the fact that Natasha should logically be the person he came up for, he isn’t looking at her when he speaks.

His eyes land directly on you.

“Steve sent me up,” he says, voice low and smooth, a pleased drawl rolling through his words. “Said he forgot his water bottle or somethin’.”

You blink and try to shake off what his voice does to your body. Crossing one leg over the other, you feign indifference.

“Yeah,” Natasha says, sounding way too delighted. “She’s got it.” She slaps your arm lightly with her hand.

You turn to her confused. “Huh?”

“I asked you to put it in your bag since mine’s smaller.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Didn’t know it’s Steve’s,” you mutter, then glare at her for a second before reaching down to retrieve the damn thing.

Natasha looks triumphant.

When you pull the bottle free and hold it out to the guy standing in front of you, he takes it with his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels very intentional.

“Thanks, doll.”

His tone is silk spun into sound and hell, it glides over your skin, making it prickle underneath your sweater.

He has the bottle now but doesn’t step away yet. His eyes linger on you.

“Never seen you ‘round here before,” he remarks, studying you with open interest. His lips tug a little as if he is holding back a full grin. As if he is pleased.

You meet his gaze and swallow, keeping your expression open but neutral even as something sparks under your skin. “Yeah, it’s my first game.”

His lips press together like he’s trying not to fully smirk. “No kiddin’.” There is something about the way he says it that you can’t place.

You lift a brow and tilt your head slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Just figured I woulda noticed you before, is all.”

Oh.

Oh, damn.

You know flirting when you hear it. And that was flirting.

You clear your throat, but a smile is trying to makes its way over your mouth. “Do you say that to all the girls in the stands?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Nah. Just you.”

Heat winds through your stomach. Because there is an easy, matter-of-fact kind of confidence in his voice.

Biting his lip, he studies you some more. Eyes intensely on you. “So you ain’t much of a baseball fan, then,” he hums. His voice is a low timbre.

You scoff, but can’t help the amused smile lifting your lips. “Not quite my thing.”

“Maybe I can change that.”

You almost choke on your next breath, because oh. He’s good. And hell, that came fast.

Natasha cackles. You ignore her.

Your fingers play with the fabric of your jeans. “Smooth,” you assess, unable to help the wry lilt in your voice.

He grins. Lopsided. Charming. Devastatingly handsome, oh god so help me. “Yeah? That workin’ for me?”

You roll your eyes, but it’s all for show. “Debatable.”

Natasha snorts.

His smirk is deep. There is a twinkle in his blue eyes. He stares at you like that for a second.

“I’m Bucky.” His voice is softened a fraction. His tone is genuine.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

His head moves to the side a little, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And you are?”

You tell him your name and his gaze lingers, his smirk edging into something thoughtful.

“Huh,” he muses.

You frown slightly. “What?”

He shrugs, still watching you, maybe even looking a little bashful. “Dunno. Just- I like it. Suits you.”

That somehow feels worse than the flirting.

You feel your face heat and you hate that Natasha can probably see it.

There is a shout coming from the dugout. “Barnes, get your ass down here, now!”

That must be their trainer Fury.

But Bucky stays standing there, looking at you for a beat longer, biting his lip and scratching the back of his neck. Then he takes a step back, spinning the water bottle once in his hand. “Guess I’ll see ya next game, doll,” he charms.

You blink, eyebrows up. “That’s a bold assumption.”

He just grins, throwing you a wink. “Nah. I got a feelin’.”

And just like that, he turns, heading back down toward the field, leaving you sitting there slightly dazed.

It takes a moment for your brain to start working again.

You feel Natasha leaning in but are not ready to meet that sly expression.

“We both know you’ll be here next time.”

Infuriatingly, you know she is right.

“I hate you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The game kicks off, but you are not watching it the way you thought you would.

Because he’s on the field.

And, well damn.

You tell yourself you’re just curious. That’s all it is. You’re not actually watching him. You’re just keeping an eye on him. Casual observation. A purely academic interest in how the game works.

Except, the longer you watch, the more you have to admit that he is good.

Really good.

His movements are seamless. It’s like an unbroken flow of precision and control as if the game is merely responding to him, not the other way around. He’s so natural, seems so at ease, and yet he moves so fast and sharp.

You can see the innate understanding he has, of how the game breathes. It’s impressive.

When he’s at bat, his stance is balanced to perfection, knees bent just enough, shoulders loose but poised. The pitcher winds up, releases, and before you can even register it fully, Bucky crushes that ball.

The sound of it is sharp, a crack that echoes through the field.

You track the ball as it soars high, way over the outfield. And then he’s running. He’s a cloud of white and navy as he rounds first base, feet hitting the dirt hard.

Natasha whistles low beside you. “Not bad, huh?” She doesn’t hide her smirk.

You press your lips together, determined to be neutral. “Yeah, well. Maybe I was just expecting less.”

Your best friend lets out a half-amused, half-exaggerated breath through her nose. “You weren’t.”

You want to throw her a glare but that would mean you’d have to take your eyes off Bucky and somehow you can’t manage that.

So you only huff and lean further into your seat.

But even as he plays, you can’t shake the feeling that perhaps he somehow tries a little more than necessary.

There are subtle indications. The way he lingers just a bit longer when he looks up toward the stands, the slight, extra flourish in the way he moves. The exaggerated ease of it all.

Oh, hell.

As he rounds third base, his gaze snaps up.

Right at you.

And he winks.

Your stomach plummets. Heat boils along your spine, and you freeze for half a second, caught completely fucking off guard.

The grin he shoots you is smug and holds a knowing edge, seeing the way your eyes are already on him, seeing your reaction, and thriving on it.

Natasha grasps your arm, gasping. “Oh my God.”

She is overly dramatic on purpose and you hate it.

You tear your gaze away from him and glare at her. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I'm starting,” she laughs, delighted. “That guy’s showing off for you.”

“He is not,” you hiss, trying and failing to ignore the warmth along your neck. Spreading and spreading up to your cheeks.

“That was textbook showing off, babe.”

You bite your lip, refusing to give her the satisfaction of the reaction she wants to see.

But maybe she’s not wrong.

The game continues, and despite your best efforts, your eyes keep finding him.

The more you watch, the more obvious it becomes.

The smooth way he catches the ball in the outfield, hardly needing to look before launching it straight to second base. The way he moves just a little bit slower after a play like he knows there are eyes on him. The way his grin sharpens when he hears the cheers, the teasing comments from his teammates.

And apparently, Steve notices, too.

Because after a particularly showy throw - one that was definitely more dramatic than necessary - Steve jogs past him and smacks him on the back of the head.

You faintly hear Bucky’s startled grunt from the bleachers.

Natasha snickers beside you.

Steve is muttering something to him, but the brunette only grins, backing away with his arms outstretched and shoulders pulled up in an unbothered shrug. And his eyes immediately find you. You look away hastily.

Your best friend leans in, voice low and teasing. “Change your mind about dating yet?”

Sinking lower in your seat, you move your hand through your hair. “This is ridiculous.”

But even as you say it, you glance back at Bucky.

And he’s still looking at you.

This time, you don’t look away.

Another smack lands across the back of his head and he is forced to drag his eyes away from you to grumble at the guy who is grinning from ear to ear, enjoying whatever the hell this is between Bucky and you.

“You’re actin’ real thirsty right now, Barnes,” the voice of the other player sounds out, loud enough for you to make out some words. “Hey, I mean, I get it. She’s cute. But can you focus, man?”

Flustered, you shove your hands between your thighs and curl a little bit inward.

“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky warns, rolling his shoulders and throwing a hard look at his teammate before jogging back to his position.

You don’t miss the way he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair after lifting the cap for a moment as if he is trying to gather himself.

Your heart is beating in a weird rhythm. Your hands are a little sweaty and you hate that Natasha notices.

“Well, well,” she teases, watching Bucky get into position. “Looks like you’re a motivator.”

“Do you ever stop?”

“Not when it’s this much fun,” she grins, eyes swimming in mischief. “And clearly not when my best friend’s about to have my boyfriend's buddy ask for her number.”

It’s your time to smirk. “Boyfriend?” you chirp. “I'm sure Steve would like to know you calling him that behind his ba-”

“There’s no turning this around, babe. I’m the one with the power here,” she chides, but she is suppressing a smile. “No go ahead and continue to watch your future boyfriend.” She turns your shoulder forward to the field.

“He’s not-”

“Watch.”

You do.

And the longer the game goes on, you try to keep telling yourself that you’re going to stop watching him. But no matter how much you try to focus on anything else - the scoreboard, the crowd, even the actual game - your eyes don’t listen.

They keep wandering back to him. To the way he moves, his effortless command of the field.

It’s the way he seems to own every second he’s out there like he is meant to be on the field. And he seems to love it. His body moves with an instinctive kind of grace, muscles shifting under the snug fit of his uniform, every motion thought through but natural.

When he takes his spot at shortstop, you admire the confidence of his stance. He’s completely at home. He stands relaxed but his eyes are sharp and focused, scanning the field.

And when the ball comes his way, his gloved hand snatches it mid-air before his arm whips it across the diamond in a clean throw.

It’s irritatingly impressive.

You try to convince yourself that he plays like this all the time - that this isn’t for you at all - but there is something nagging at the back of your mind. Something in the way he carries himself, the extra little flair in the way he moves.

He really seems to be putting on a small show and you can’t shake the feeling that you might be the only one in the audience that actually matters to him. You don’t know how to feel about that.

Natasha catches you watching again. “Mhm,” she hums, knowingly. Not at all subtle about it.

You throw her a burning look. “Shut up, Nat.”

She smirks and tilts her head. “You want to be the one he’s showing off for.”

You release a sharp breath, looking at the darkened sky faintly lit by the stadium lights. “If I did, I’d be enjoying it, wouldn’t I? I just think he’s- trying a little hard. Like he’s-”

You don’t get to finish that sentence because the crowd erupts again. The score is tied. This is the final inning.

Your throat constricts as Bucky walks up to plate, adjusting his cap like he’s been waiting for this moment. He taps the bat against the plate once, twice, and tilts his head at the pitcher. You watch the way Bucky’s muscles coil, the readiness, the concentration.

The pitcher winds up. The stadium is silent.

The ball is pitched.

Bucky swings.

Crack.

The sound echoes across the field as Bucky swings and connects perfectly, the entire stadium staring with bated breath. The ball rockets up into the night sky, impossibly high, soaring straight over the center field fence.

It’s gone. A home run.

The crowd erupts, students leaping to their feet, fists pumping, voices carrying through the air. Natasha is already up, grabbing your wrist and yanking you up beside her.

“That’s your man,” Natasha yells over the noise, pointing at the field. “That’s your home run, babe!”

“Oh my god, Nat, he’s not-” you start, but you are cut off by the thunder of feet around you, students leaping onto the bleachers, fists raised, chanting his name.

Just like the others, you are watching Bucky jog around the bases at a confident pace, brushing a hand through his sweaty hair again.

You’re honestly a little overwhelmed with this whole thing. Trying to catch up to the way Bucky moves as if it’s the easiest thing in the world for him, like sending a ball out of the park is just something he does on a casual Tuesday.

And then, just as he crosses home plate, the team swarming him, he turns his head up.

Right to you.

The whole world seems to slow for just a second. Your breath is lost in your throat when your eyes lock. There is a heat in his gaze, but it shifts from exhilaration to something softer. He beams up at you for that special moment, blue eyes shining under the stadium lights, his grin wide.

Your pulse hammers in a way you really don’t want to acknowledge.

You are clapping, like all the others.

And there is something changing in his expression. The corner of his mouth curls in a way as if he can’t believe what he is seeing. His confidence falters for a brief second, replaced by something almost sheepish. His hand scrubs over his face, attention caught by his teammates, but there definitely is a hint of pink dusting his cheeks at your small cheers.

The other players pull him into a rough embrace and for a moment you don’t see him at all, the rest jumps around him in celebration.

“Alright, come on, let’s get down there,” Natasha says, grabbing your wrist again.

“Wait, what?” you sputter as she pulls you toward the railing, making her way down the steps, dragging you with her.

“You are not going to be the only one still sitting while your boyfriend-”

“Stop that-”

“-just won the damn game,” she finishes, waving you off as you scowl at her.

Before you know it, you’re at the very front of the stands, your hands coming together as the roar of the crowd vibrates through your bones.

You see Bucky looking over the chaos, his arms slung around his teammates, his chest rising and falling from exertion, when suddenly, his gaze catches you again.

That bright, wide grin now definitely softens. In a shit, you really were watching kind of way. His blue eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read every single thought rushing through your head right now.

Natasha is practically jumping beside you, cheering happily, so you don’t want to be a bummer and start clapping again. Looking at him.

His smile tries to widen, but Bucky bites his lip. And then, he actually looks bashful.

He dips his head just slightly, running another hand down his face, and this time it’s him looking away first.

But not before you catch that tiny flicker of something almost shy. For all his confidence, for all the easy charm he’s been throwing at you, all the flirtatious lines, something about your reaction to him is what makes him falter that little bit.

And oh how it does something to you. You don’t even fight the little smile on your lips as Natasha bumps her shoulder into yours.

“Shut up,” you murmur, but it sounds too light.

Natasha smirks. “I didn’t say anything.”

You roll your eyes and fold your arms over your chest to hide the way your hands are still itching to continue clapping.

The roar of the crowd slowly begins to settle, the energy of the game remaining charged in the air. The bleachers empty languidly, students pouring onto the field or shuffling toward the exits, their excitement buzzing in hurried conversations and triumphant chants.

The players begin filtering off the field, disappearing into the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Some of them are still exchanging shoves and laughs, adrenaline still pumping through their veins.

Bucky walks alongside Steve, his uniform tightly handing off his frame.

But before he disappears with the rest of them he glances behind one last time. And, of course, it’s at you again. You shiver.

His glance is just a flicker of blue under the harsh stadium lights but it’s just a beat longer than you would expect. As if he is making sure you’re still here. As if he is worried you won’t be when he comes back out.

Then he’s gone.

“You see that?” Natasha assesses, leaning her weight into one hip, arms crossed.

“See what?” you ask, obviously annoyed.

She’s unbothered. “That boy just looked at you like a man checking to see if his car’s still parked outside.”

You groan. “God, shut up.”

“That never worked on me. You should know better.”

With an impish grin, she tugs at your wrist and guides you away from the bleachers.

“Come on, we’re waiting for them,” she says, already pulling you toward the tunnel exit.

“What? Nat-”

“Well, I’m waiting for Steve,” she says, “and you, my dear, have been eyefucking his best friend all night, so don’t even try to act like you don’t want to see him again.”

“Okay, come on,” you defend. “I have not-”

“-been staring at him, sure,” she interrupts, her smirk widening. “But only every time he wasn’t looking. Which, by the way, wasn’t often.”

You groan again but follow her anyway, because, at this point, you’re not even sure if you’re protesting for show or out of actual resistance.

Minutes go by as more people slowly tickle away, leaving only a few clusters of them lingering around, chatting under the lights.

The air is still warm, but the breeze carries enough of a chill to make you shift on your feet, arms folding over your chest as you wait.

And then, Steve and Bucky emerge from the locker room, side by side.

Steve’s blond hair is still damp from the shower, his team jacket slung over one shoulder. The moment he spots Natasha, his whole face softens. His stride quickens as he reaches her and he pulls her in for a kiss that is far sweeter than you expected from someone fresh out of a game.

Your best friend, for all her teasing confidence tonight, melts against him, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket.

You feel happiness for her but you look away, feeling like you’re intruding on something intimate.

And before you can prepare yourself, Bucky is standing right in front of you.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says, voice lower, less playful than before.

His hair is damp too, looking darker like that. He doesn’t wear his cap anymore, short brown tendrils resting on his forehead. His uniform is gone, replaced by a dark hoodie and jeans. And yet, he still looks every bit like the man who just stole the game with a home run. He looks handsome. You can even admit that.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll leave with Nat,” you answer, voice a little quieter than you would have liked it to be.

Bucky smiles. He shifts his weight, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Well, had to make sure you actually enjoyed yourself,” he says, tipping his head to the side, smirk slowly appearing. “Didn’t want you to suffer through it since you’ve already been dragged out here.”

You huff out a small laugh, looking at the ground before up at him again. “It wasn’t terrible.”

“Not terrible?” he echoes, feigning offense. “Sweetheart, I won the damn game. You were cheerin’ for me.”

It’s as if he needed to say it out loud. As if he’s been telling that to himself the whole time.

You bite your lip. Those nicknames will send you tumbling to the floor if you’re not careful. “Yes, well. You put on a good show.”

He grins something slow and smug. “And here I was thinkin’ you weren’t much of a baseball fan.”

You shift, laughing softly. “Still not, really.”

He hums, studying you so deeply. In a gentle way. But he takes his sweet time and it’s making you nervous. “I’ll change your mind.”

Your stomach does something weird - something that has everything to do with the way his voice dips slightly, the way it rumbles out so smoothly.

You narrow your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “I’d like to see you try.”

Bucky chuckles softly, rocking on the balls of his feet. He can’t stop watching you, moving his eyes around your features, your whole frame, as if wondering where you have been the whole time. He looks like he is trying to read every little thing written across your face.

Your chest feels a little too tight, and your pulse picks up the longer you look at him, the longer he looks at you.

The air is cooler now that the game is over, the heat from the crowd dissipating into the open night, and although you feel plenty heated up by his gaze and presence, you instinctively rub your arms, shifting on your feet.

“You cold?” Bucky’s voice is lower, and there is a soft gentleness to his tone, that sounds so sincere, you feel your knees grow weak.

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

“I’ve got an extra jersey in my bag,” he offers as if he didn’t even hear you, already moving. “Or you can take this one-” He seems about to shrug off his hoodie instead.

You quickly hold up a hand to stop him. “No, really. I’m okay.”

Bucky pauses, squinting at you, mouth quirking as he eyes you a second longer. Then, as if he’s figured something out, his lips form a real smirk again.

“Alright,” he concedes easily, his weight tipping slightly to one side, then back again. “Guess I’ll just give it to you next time, then.”

You freeze just slightly, blinking up at him.

Next time.

You don’t quite know what to do with that.

You clear your throat, forcing words out. “Yeah. Next time.”

Bucky beams.

It’s a full-on, dazzling grin, cheeks high and rosy, eyes bright in a way that makes something overturn in your stomach.

He looks way too pleased with himself now. And you are way too aware of how warm your face feels.

You try to push yourself past the sudden rush of flustered energy. “Well, I guess I will see you around campus, then.”

Bucky hums, considering, still not taking his eyes off you. “Maybe,” his head turns to the side, making a pause. “Or I could just make sure.”

“Make sure?”

He pulls his hands from his hoodie pocket, adjusting his footing and running a hand through his hair, messing with the damp strands a little. He might just seem the slightest bit nervous.

Flipping his palm up expectantly, he looks at you with a glint of hope in his eyes. “Your phone.”

Your stomach does that turning-over thing again as you realize what he’s going on about. “Oh.”

You are fumbling to grab your phone out of your bag, fingers perhaps wavering a little and you are glad that Natasha is preoccupied at the moment to see this. Unlocking it, you hand it over to him.

Bucky takes it gently, fingers brushing yours. Again, it feels intentional.

The glow of the screen illuminates his face as he punches in his number, and presses to call himself so he’ll have your number as well before handing your phone back to you.

You glance down.

A new contact. Bucky Barnes.

Bucky watches you with a soft smile.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve calls, still standing with Natasha. You don’t see the triumphant smile those lovebirds share, busy trying not to show your disappointment of the night coming to an end. “We heading out?”

Bucky sighs, but he doesn’t break eye contact with you just yet.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he murmurs.

“Guess so.”

His feet shuffle against the floor. He seems not quite ready to end this conversation, taking a slow step backward, not turning away from you.

“See you next game, doll,” he says, words landing softer, quieter in a way. He speaks as if it matters.

You fidget with the sleeve of your sweater and let out an almost shy laugh. “Sure.”

Bucky smirks, holding up his phone and waving with it when walking further backward to Steve. “I’ll remind you.”

You watch him walk off with his best friend, watch him throw another grin over his shoulder at you, still feeling the heat that won’t stop tingling along your skin.

Your own best friend throws her arm around your shoulders.

This time, she keeps her mouth shut. She knows she doesn’t have to say anything anymore. There is no denying it any longer and you are well aware.

Because yeah, you might not be into baseball.

But you might be into Number 17.

“Flirting is a promise of something more.”

- Milan Kundera

[a-asterias]

xerox ; robert reynolds ; part one.

pairing ; robert (bob) reynolds x reader, thunderbolts & reader

synopsis ; you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?

words ; 7.8k

themes ; action, angst, slowburn, the beginnings of romance

warnings / includes ; violence/gore/death, human experimentation, reader has the ability to split into multiple bodies (think dupli-kate from invincible), foul language, walker is an asshole, everyone's mental health sucks!

a/n ; this is part one !!! a second part is already in the works :) this was written all today so apologies if there are any mistakes!

main masterlist. read on ao3!

It didn’t seem a hard task. One kill. One more. Then you could go. Quit the clean-up business for good. You could practically hear Valentina’s sickly sweet smile through the phone. 

“You’ll be in and out of there in no time,” her voice crooned. “And I wouldn’t worry too much about your target. After all, you’re rather… disposable, aren’t you?”

You frowned at that. “My self-copies aren’t disposable. I feel it every time one of me dies.”

Valentina laughed—a high-pitched keening noise. You assumed she was waving her hand about in a dismissive manner, as she usually did with you. “You’ll get back up. That’s kind of your thing, isn’t it? Good luck. Try to have some fun. It’ll be your last one, anyway—make the most of it.”

“Yeah,” you said. Your free hand wound around your midriff, almost as if you were cradling yourself. “I’ll take care of it.”

You hung up before you could hear Valentina say one more word.

There were ringing gunshots, muffled grunts, and resounding thuds when you arrived. Who else was here? Your target was only one person—an untouchable woman. A Ghost. Would a thousand of you be able to tackle one of her? 

Or perhaps the better question was… were you willing to sacrifice yourself a thousand times to kill one woman? You definitely have before, on previous missions. Over and over again, the bitter taste of death was stuffed into your mouth, dry as a sock, tainting your innards like black tar. 

You waited outside the junk room’s entrance, counting the voices you heard. One man, for sure. One unidentifiable. Two women. You split yourself into two, then three. With a begrudging sigh, you spliced once more to make four. 

Three copies ran in. One stayed out. 

You spotted the ghost immediately. She was phasing between the shield of another masked assassin. Were they also here to kill her? Another copy spotted a woman being pinned down by another man, a blade inches away from her throat. Not your mission, not your problem.

Though, it certainly became your problem when the woman croaked, “There you are!” upon seeing you. “Holy shit, there’s three of you.”

She bucked the man off after tasing him, scrambling towards her gun. A click, a point, a shot. Your copy dove behind a pile of sturdy cases, but clearly not fast enough. You felt the bullet pierce your chest, the warmth of the blood pool across your ribs—and then you were dead.

“Fuck,” you winced, feeling the resounding ache of the gunshot in your own body, eyeing your dead self. Without a second thought, you split once more. Your copies scattered from your assailant, off to find the ghost. 

You tackled your white-masked target as soon as she materialized once more, managing to get only one powerful strike in before you fell to the ground, the ghost phasing away and disappearing once more. Then your head pierced with the terrible, agonizing pain of a bullet fracturing your skull, and you were dead. Again. And again, and again. Impaled by a shield, stabbed by the ghost. 

You gasped from outside the room, crumpling to your knees. How many more times were you willing to die? How many times could you?

Then there came a nauseous, gagging sound from inside the room. For a moment, you wondered if one of your copies had miraculously survived and was making that sound. You split yourself and crawled inside. Maybe you could save yourself. Spotting you coming in, the man with the shield seemed to realize there was one of you waiting outside. He sent the shield—already covered with your blood—arcing outside and striking you clean across the throat before you could react. Your decapitated head hit the metal floors with a disgusting, bloody noise, lolling to the foot of the entrance. 

That left one copy inside the room. You gasped for breath, air painfully dragging within your esophogas as you clutched at your neck, the veins beneath your skin popping. For safety, you duplicated yourself once more. 

“Woah,” came a voice beside you. There was a man in… hospital clothes? You scrambled away from him. He watched you with an open mouth, blinking in a manner not unsimilar to an owl. 

One of the assassins was dead already, bullet wound in the head, not unsimilar to one of your deaths here. You could see your own bodies scattered about, in varying states of mutilation. The three assassins left were all pointing their guns at each other, then you and your copy, then to the man gagging next to you. 

“Which one of you is the real you?” said the blonde woman. 

“I’m all me,” the both of you said at the same time.

She shuddered. “Well, that’s not creepy at all.”

The man on the ground made a disoriented noise, as if realizing that he really shouldn’t be in a room full of people with guns trying to kill each other. “Actually, I—” He struggled to his feet, then turned to run. Thick metal shutters fell down over all the entrances before he could leave. It crushed your decapitated head as if it were a grape, your blood splattering all over you, your copy, and the hospital-man.

Shit. If you were still outside, you could have gotten away. 

The assassins all trained their guns at the man, spooked by his skittish movements. 

“No, no!” he exclaimed, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m—I’m Bob.”

It didn’t look like he had any place to hide weapons. Still, just to be safe, you split yourself again, now three of you. The faux Captain America flinched. “Fuck!”

“Who?” said the ghost, eyes trained on Bob. 

“Bob,” said Bob, shrugging. 

“Who sent you, Bob?” asked the blonde woman. 

“Nobody, why would I be sent?” he said, hands trembling. He was afraid. “You were all… you guys were all sent?”

His question went largely ignored. The woman’s eyes, lined with hazy blue makeup, darted to you. “You—how am I meant to kill you if you can’t die?”

You raised your hands in surrender now, mimicking Bob. “I can die. It’s the one thing I’m really good at.”

Something flickered in her gaze. She lowered her gun just slightly. “Who sent you?”

The ghost rolled her eyes and lowered her gun. “I’m not sure what’s happening here, but my job is done.” She gestured to the dead assassin on the ground and stepped forward to go. 

One of your copies blocked her way. “My job isn’t.”

She scoffed, then phased straight through you. You felt a cold chill traverse down your spine. 

“Neither is mine,” said the blonde woman, turning the barrel of her gun to you. 

“Don’t waste your time,” you snarled. “I have infinite lives. You have finite bullets—do the math.”

The man with the shield tilted his head at the woman. “Convenient cover for someone stealing weapons from O.X.E.”

“I’m not stealing, Copy-Cat here is ste—” She paused, and realization came over her bloodied face. Then, she raised her hands in the same way you did. “Okay. It’s clear we have all worked for Valentina in some sort of shadow ops capacity.”

“Yeah, so?” said the man. 

“So all of this shit is O.X.E’s secrets. And so are we.” She gestured to the mountainous stacks of boxes and crates.

You felt your heart sink to your stomach. You should’ve known Valentina would pull something like this with you. It should’ve been suspicious how easily she accepted your request to leave. How could you be so stupid? So naive?

“We’re liabilities no one would miss,” said Ghost. 

The man scoffed. “Speak for yourself. I was sent here on a mission.”

“Look around!” said the blonde. “We are the evidence, and this is the shredder! She wants us gone.”

The three began to bicker over who was in the right. From their argument, you learned that the man with the shield was John Walker, officially Captain America for about three seconds before he had murdered a man in public. And the blonde woman—tasked with the impossible mission of eliminating you—was Yelena. Former Red Room assassin.

Bob began to shuffle closer to you, and you tensed. 

“Hey—” he said, reaching out a hand to help you up. “Are you okay? I watched you die, like, fifty times or something.” He fidgeted when you hesitantly accepted his hand, pulling yourself up with his help. Bob took turns smiling at you and your clones, all lopsided. He was so… off-putting. You scrutinized him with a narrowed gaze. 

“What are you doing here, Bob? You clearly aren’t… like us.”

“Wh… Why not?”

“You’re in a patient uniform. It’s the kind of shit I always wore as a kid,” you said, beckoning to his pants. 

Bob was about to respond, but clammed up when John Walker began stalking closer to the two of you. Subconsciously, Bob edged behind you, almost as if he were using you as a shield. You sure as hell didn’t know who Bob was, or what he was doing here, but he certainly didn’t seem deserving of the piercing glare Walker was sending his way.

“I’m not leaving here without completing my mission,” said the man. “Valentina gave me a clean slate, guaranteed—I’m not screwing that up.”

“And you believe her?” you said in disbelief, almost a whisper. You stepped back, bumping into Bob in the process. He felt strangely solid behind you. “She promised to let me go. A rogue, powered assassin let loose out of the cage. I was stupid for letting myself believe her. And you are, too.”

Walker’s face crumpled with anger. “Listen here, you freak. You multiply like… like bacteria. Obviously Valentina doesn’t trust you. She may be lying to you, but she trusts me. And you—” He rounded on Bob. “You were part of my job, so I gotta know. How’d you get in?”

You shifted so you’d be able to see Bob. He seemed to shift with you slightly, unhappy that you were no longer between him and John. Fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve, Bob shrugged. “I don’t… Pfft. I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

One of Walker’s eyes twitched. “Terrific answer. Great. Well, alright!” He beckoned to you, Yelena, and Ghost. “Tie yourselves up. I’m sure there’s rope in here somewhere.”

“Wow,” said Ghost—Ava, you remembered reading her name from your mission casefile. “No.”

“Hey,” whispered Bob, tugging on one of your copy’s utility belts. “I just realized I don’t—I don’t know your name.”

“Now’s probably not the time for niceties,” you said. After staring at him for a moment longer, you sighed. It was pitiful how lost he looked. “I’m known as Xerox.” 

“Xerox—that’s a… that’s a cool name. Way better than Bob.”

To your surprise, you found yourself giving him a small twitch of a smile. “Bob’s a palindrome. Same backwards as it is forwards. That earns it at least half a point on the cool scale.”

Bob paused, regarding you with an equally twitchy, uncertain grin. “I never thought about it that way. Yeah, that’s… thanks.” He let out a nervous laugh that was obviously forced—and yet still somehow endearing.

As you spoke with Bob, Ghost walked on ahead, intent on leaving. She phased out of tangibility, so you knew there was no way you could stop her even if you tried. You watched her go passively—you no longer cared if you failed your mission. It was clear it wasn’t a real mission, anyway. You were glad that Yelena had come to the same conclusion. She didn’t seem intent on wasting any more bullets in your copies’ skulls.

When Ghost drew within an inch from the door, a piercing sound echoed throughout the chambers. You and your copies keeled over in pain. The noise made violent shudders ripple through your body. It reminded you of all those times you had to be strapped down when you were a child before you could control your powers, riding out your seizures with a belt across your mouth to muffle your screaming. 

You could feel shaking hands drift to cover your ears for you. Bob’s. Your head snapped up, meeting his worried gaze. 

Eventually the noise subsided, and his touch fell away. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, eyeing him cautiously. What did he want from you?

“You were hurting,” was all he said in response, tone hesitant and soft, as if worried he’d done something wrong. 

You felt your face soften and you let out a weak exhale, suddenly feeling as if your heart was going to fall out of your chest. Why was he making you so flustered? 

The five of you were left sitting around for the next ten minutes. Walker and Ava took to raiding the dead assassin, Taskmaster’s body. Yelena didn’t seem too happy with that, snapping at them to respect the dead, job or not. 

“You knew her?” you quietly asked the blonde as she paced to and fro like a caged tiger, watching as Ava took a gun off the corpse. 

“I did,” she said, nodding solemnly. Then, she gestured to your own dead bodies strewn about. “Sorry about—” 

“It’s fine. Comes with the job,” you mumbled, voice soft. 

Yelena nodded grimly. “You live and you die, right? You more than most, I suppose.”

You blinked at her. Before you could say anything back, a siren blared across the room. The lights turned an angry shade of red that made the blood on your hands look black as tar. You felt your stomach roil.

Ghost looked upward. “It’s not a shredder,” she said. “It’s an incinerator.”

There was a large timer by one of the entrances that started to count down from two minutes. “Two minutes before Valentina’s slate is wiped clean,” said Yelena.

“Don’t know that for sure!” John protested. “Could be for when they come to pick me up.”

You could only barely withhold yourself from driving your fist into the smug look on his face. It did, however, make you feel slightly better that you weren’t the most stupid, delusional one in the room.

“Do you not feel that? The temperature rising dramatically, as if heat were involved?” Ghost pointed up at the gaps in the ceiling, where heat was filtering in, so strong that space warped and wobbled looking through the columns of air.

“Oh, boy, that is no way to go,” said Bob, nervously wringing his hands. 

Walker scowled. “Well, how would you like to go, Bob? With a hand around your throat choking the life out of you or a bullet to the head? Either could certainly be arranged!”

“Stop,” you barked. “You really want to spend your last moments alive being a complete asshole?”

The man clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Yelena stepped in before another fight could start. “Listen, Ghost-lady—”

“Ava.”

“Sure, whatever. We need to get you through one of the walls so you can open the door.”

“She tried that already,” said John, eyes rolling up to the pipes on the ceiling. 

“I know she did, but we haven’t tried shutting off the sound barrier!”

“If they built a barrier specifically for her,” you said, recalling your casefile. Her weakness was high-frequency sounds that caused interference with her suit’s technology. “The emitter must be in close-range. Somewhere inside the room. Outside would be too weak and dampened to work.” 

Immediately, you spliced a few dozen times and scattered, looking for some sort of power source.

“What—what exactly are we looking for?” asked Bob, hurrying alongside one of your copies.

“Not stupid questions, Bob!” John said. 

“Ignore him. Look for something with circuitry. Wires, a battery cell, that kind of stuff.” You tore through a few crates, feeling up the nooks and crannies of the walls. 

Fifty seconds left on the clock, rapidly ticking down. You were no stranger to dying, but this was strangely a different experience altogether. True, complete death. It sounded like both a blessing and the most terrifying thing possible. You could feel the panic rise up like bile in your throat. 

To your relief, Ava found the power source, and John immediately hacked away at it without thinking, orange sparks flying with the power of his strike. You would’ve been angry with his impulsive behavior if it hadn’t worked—Ghost successfully phased through the walls and disappeared.

Twenty seconds. 

She was going to come back, right?

Ten.

The furnaces above grew hotter and brighter.

Nine. 

One of your copies pushed Bob forward, since he was loitering directly beneath one of them. “Don’t stand under there.”

Five.

One of you caught sight of Yelena shutting her eyes in solemn acceptance.

Four. 

You heard Walker curse under his breath. 

Three.

You braced yourself. Would death be kind to you this time, despite all of its ugly cruelty before?

Two.

And then—a blaring siren. The slabs of metal began to shirk upwards. The four of you dashed out just as the columns of fire began to spew out. 

Bob was slow. You split yourself multiple times to keep shoving him forward. You could feel fire engulf your body, shrieking as the searing flames tore through your suit, into your skin, eating at your flesh, burning you to a crisp.

Some of you escaped, thrown by the explosion. One died instantly with a broken spine. Others clung to the walls, injured but alive. 

You watched in horror as many of your selves wailed in agony, dying a slow, agonizing death. You curled up into yourself, a few tears silently rolling down your cheeks. You supposed that was another one of your talents—you were very good at crying quietly. 

“Thanks for coming back,” you heard Walker say to Ava.

“I had to use someone. They cut the power to the elevator.”

“Hey,” the ghost said, reaching out a hand to you. You looked up at her, furiously wiping the tears away with the back of your hand, trying your best to ignore the pain. “Come on. Up you get. We need to find a way out of here.”

When she helped you up, she noticed that you were shaking violently. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve never been set on fire before,” you murmured. “Burned alive is a new one to add to the books.” You kneeled down to close the eyes of one of your corpses. You caught sight of Bob on the other side of the room, having just woken up from being knocked unconscious beside Yelena. He was uninjured, to your relief. 

“You helped me out,” he said, once you neared him. “Why did… Why did you do that? You died for me—so many times. I’m not…” He fidgeted uncomfortably. You could see the guilt weighing heavy in his eyes. “I’m not worthy enough for that.”

You didn’t know what to say. You were never good with sentimentalities.

To your dismay, John cut you to the chase. “I won’t disagree with you on that,” he told Bob. He stormed forward until he was nearly nose-to-nose with Bob, who cowered away just slightly before straightening himself to his full height. “I’m tired of your bullshit! Tell me how you got in here right goddamn now!”

“I swear I just woke up in this place,” he said, placating, as if he were talking to a spooked mare. “One minute I’m having my blood drawn for this medical study, and the next I’m here. I don’t know what’s happening, I really don’t.”

“Okay, then show me where you woke up!” 

Bob hesitated, then pointed into the incinerated room. “In—in there.”

“Where everything’s on fire,” John deadpanned. “That’s real convenient.”

“Walker, relax,” said Yelena. 

“You don’t remember anything?” asked Ava. “Bag over your head, a needle in your neck?”

“Chokehold? Nerve pinch?” Walker asked. It was beginning to feel terribly like an interrogation of sorts. 

Bob stepped back again. “No, none of those.”

“I think he’s just a civilian,” said Yelena, eyeing Bob carefully.

With an edge to his tone, John hissed, “Okay, well, if he’s a civilian, he knows too much and if he’s an agent he sucks. Either way I say we throw him back into the fire!” 

“No,” you said, glaring daggers at the man. “I died multiple times just to get him out. We’re not murdering an innocent man.”

“What do you want, a medal? And we don’t know he’s innocent!” Walker fired back.

Suddenly, Bob started to laugh. It was a wheezy, chuckling noise. You looked at him in surprise.

“You said you’re… Captain America?” he said, smiling incredulously.

John’s countenance grew even stonier than before. “What’s funny about that?”

“It’s just, heh, you’re… you’re an asshole,” Bob said between his peals of laughter. 

There was a beat of tense silence. Then John smiled, wolfish. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. In an instant, he was an arm’s length away from you and Bob, grabbing Bob by the throat and shoving him back so hard his back crashed into the wall behind him. You scrambled forward, multiplying twice to place enough hands on Walker’s chestplace to shove him back. Yelena also came to help, physically placing herself between the two men. 

“Okay, woah!” said Yelena, shooting a warning glare at John. “We swung our tiny dicks—it was a lot of fun, but we need to have some space now. Walker, you go over there. Bob, come with me.”

You watched the blonde woman whisk Bob off to the side, who followed her with no complaint. When you looked back at John, he was toeing one of your burnt corpses with his boot. He caught you staring at him and stopped.

“Sorry,” he said. Even he knew that crossed a line.

“Force of habit?” you taunted him with a tilt of your head.

John apparently had nothing to say to that. He turned away from you. Then, he began hacking at one of the walls with the shield. “There has to be a way out of here if we go in one direction for long enough, right?”

You shrugged. “Go right ahead. Be my guest.”

After a few more pummels, the solid concrete gave in and revealed metal doors. He pried them open, grunting with exertion, revealing an empty elevator shaft. There were no wires or indented surfaces to climb. Just sheer, smooth metal walls for as far as the eye could see. Likely even further than that. You gulped as you stared up.

“Hey, are you guys done with your therapy session yet?” John snarked to Yelena and Bob. 

Yelena, after saying a final few words to Bob, let him go. Bob made his way to you. Whatever it was that Yelena said to him, Bob didn’t seem particularly settled. You decided not to dwell on it for too long.

“So, this is—our way out?” 

“Looks like it. No way to climb, though,” you said. You glanced at his head. “You okay? That looked like it hurt.”

Bob glanced at you strangely, not used to others being concerned over his well-being. First Yelena, and now you. “Yeah, I’m fine. Can’t have been as bad as you.”

“It’s no competition,” you said, pursing your lips. Then, to the rest of the group, you asked, “Should we all get in there? Maybe we’ll figure something out once we scope it out.”

All of you crowded into the bottom of the elevator shaft, staring up at the endless void above. 

“So… none of us fly? All of us just… punch and shoot?” Yelena asked, looking around.

“Don’t worry,” said Walker. “I got this.” 

He pushed you and Ava to make more space for himself, ignoring both of your startled noises. Then, he leaped up. An insane distance for a regular human, and what you assumed was just above average for one pumped with super serum. You watched him disappear into the darkness for all about four seconds. And then you heard screaming as he came back down. Bob tugged you back just in time not to get crushed beneath John crashing back down on his shield. 

“You should try that again,” Ava suggested, grinning down at him as he struggled back to his feet with a pained groan.

John looked at you and you clones expectantly. “You can multiply. Why don’t you, I don’t know, make enough copies for us to climb up there?” 

“You want me to form a human ladder for you guys?” you asked, horrified. 

“Well, yes—”

“My clones have limited range,” you interrupted, voice curt. “We’re a collective mind. If we don’t all stick within a few meters of each other, I get seizures and lose control.”

Walker frowned down his nose at you. “Is it not worth a shot?”

“Not unless you want to risk me spazzing out mid-climb and all of us falling to our deaths,” you retorted. “We need to think of something else.”

Then, Walker turned his gaze to Ava. “Can’t you just phase up there and throw down a rope for us, or something?”

“First of all, someone other than you would have to ask me,” she hissed. You had to admit, you were starting to warm up to her. “Second, I’ve only ever been able to hold it for a minute, and who knows how long it would take to get up there—I’d be crushed under the weight of it before I could phase back.”

“Just a minute?” Walker deadpanned. “What is it with you lab rats and your limitations?”

“Shut up!” both you and Ava exclaimed at the same time.

“I… have an idea,” said Bob, raising a tentative hand.

All of you turned to him expectantly.

Your backs were pressed up together, your legs splayed out onto the metal wall as the group slowly inched upward. For the plan to work, there was only space for one of you, so you reabsorbed your copies into one body again. The rest of the group watched you do it in a mix of muted curiosity and horror. Bob gave you an awkward thumbs up, which made you smile despite the ridiculousness of the entire situation.

A part of you wanted to leave a copy down on the ground in case something happened, but you couldn’t risk having a seizure if you got too far away, and with everyone else on the line, too.

“Ew,” said Yelena. “Which one of you is wet?”

“Sorry,” Bob winced. “I run hot.”

You shifted the arm looped around his, grimacing at the sweat dripping down your own face. “I get it. It’s fucking sweltering in here.”

“Someone’s got a weird, hard butt,” Walker groaned.

“That’s not my butt, that’s my suit,” Ava hissed in return. “Pardon me for the inconvenience—I only spent my entire life in labs, hooked up to machines so I could create this physical cage to keep my material body from disintegrating at all times!”

You heard Yelena let out a bark of a laugh. “You don’t want to start the whole sob story game. I’d win. Enslaved child assassin over here.”

For some reason, John said, “Well, you were just a kid, so—”

“Oh!” said Yelena. “Does that make it better? Gee, I wish someone had told me that earlier! That makes me feel so much better.”

“Not that it’s a competition, but I’ve spent my whole life quite literally dying over and over again,” you said. 

“Oh, really?” said Walker. “Sounds like you’re making it a competition.”

You fell silent, not wanting to waste your breath arguing. The group, panting in ragged, short breaths, simultaneously decided to fall silent. You were so high up now that you couldn’t see the bottom of the shaft anymore.

After what felt like eons, Walker finally gasped out, “I see a door!”

“Now what?” Yelena asked. 

“Uhm—I guess one of us should… go first…” said Ava from your other side, uncertainty weighing her words. 

“No, then the rest of us would immediately fall!” protested Yelena, breath trembling with the strain of holding herself up. 

“Shit… sorry guys, I guess I didn’t really think this through,” Bob muttered.

“Genius fuckin’ plan, Bob!” Walker exclaimed.

“Always making things worse,” the man on your right muttered. 

Your brows furrowed. “Bob, we’re all the way up here because of you. Come on, we’re so close. I can duplicate and—”

“We can’t risk your additional weight,” Walker barked out. “One slip and we all come tumbling down!”

“Then what do you want to do?” you asked. 

“Hand me a baton, I can reach it!” he said. 

Immediate protesting ensued. “No way, you’re just going to leave us!” Yelena gritted out.

“We have to hurry, I don’t know how much longer I can keep my bloody boots from slipping!” Ghost said. True to her word, you caught sight of her shoes slowly gravitating downward.

Yelena inched upward. “Spin us around and we’ll—” 

“No! Are you crazy?”

Bob shook beside you.

“Bob, are you alright?” you asked, wondering why he was tossing his head from side to side like a dog shaking off excess water.

“Cucumber—cucumber, cucumber!” he said, scrunching up his face.

“What the hell is happening?” Yelena asked.

“Growing up, somebody told me if you have to sneeze, you yell out cucumber to confuse your brain. I have to sneeze, but if I do, I’ll lose control and we’ll—”

“This is insane!” Walker bit out. “I can get us all out of here, I just need to go first!”

“NO!” Ava said. “There must be another way!”

Bob tilted his head back, knocking against yours. “Oh, no,” he said.

“Oh—” You began to panic. “Cucumber! Cucumber, cucumber! Bob!”

Yelena and Ava both began chanting with you. John, his patience worn thin, reached behind and grabbed Yelena’s baton. Then, he jumped out of formation.

You felt yourself falling, your heart dropping to the balls of your feet in sheer horror, trying your best to grip onto the slippery metal walls. In your panic, you duplicated yourself in an attempt to slow down your descent. Just above you, Ava punctured the walls with her dagger, braking to a halt. 

Then, to your shock, you were abruptly smacked against the wall when Ava grabbed hold of your wrist. But only one of you. 

“No!” you exclaimed, watching as your copy plummeted downwards with a blood-curdling shriek. After several seconds, you could feel your mind grow hazy, dizzy with the distance. “No, I’m—”

Your pupils rolled into the back of your head and you began to convulse. You didn’t register that Yelena had grabbed a hold of your ankle as she fell, and she sent a grappling hook down to catch Bob.

He tried his best to catch your copy, but you had streaked past so fast that you slipped right through his arms, and fell into the darkness below. 

The rest of the group, minus Walker, who had climbed through the opening, watched as you shook about violently. After several agonizing seconds, there was a resounding thud and splattering noise. It seemed a twisted sort of blessing that the fall had killed your copy immediately. You broke free of your seizure but immediately fell into a bout of pain, doubling over. It felt as if you were on fire all over again, and someone had carved you open, poured honey all over your innards, and released a thousand fire-ants to crawl over you.

You were so out of it that you only barely realized Ava was pulling you through the entrance with John’s help. Yelena hauled herself up after that, Bob shortly following her.

The ghost kneeled down beside you, gently tapping your face as you came in and out of consciousness. “Hey. Don’t fall asleep on me.”

With slow, painful movements, you nodded, sitting back up. It took you another moment to realize that the entire group was huddled around you. “Oh, God. I felt my brains spill out down there.”

“What did you go doing that for?” Walker said in an irritating I-told-you-so tone, kneeling down beside you. “I told you not to duplicate yourself, didn’t I?”

“I really don’t think a lecture is needed right now, thank you,” Yelena told him. 

“I’m sorry,” said Bob, looking wearing yet another expression of guilt. “I tried catching you, but—”

“Thanks, Bob,” you said, nothing but sincerity in your eyes. “I felt you. Thank you. And thanks for holding onto me, Ava. Even though I tried to kill you.”

The woman averted her gaze, clearly embarrassed. “Yeah, well. Would have been a terrible weight on my consciousness. So really, I did it for my own benefit.”

“Alright,” you said, not believing her in the slightest, but you decided not to comment on it.

With the help of Ava and Yelena, you stood up on your own two feet, albeit a little wobbly, and completely exhausted from the climb up. 

“You selfish prick,” Ava spat at Walker. “If you had just waited for one goddamn second—”

“I made a tactical decision to secure my own safety before ensuring all of yours,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Pretty ungrateful, if you ask me.”

Then, something strange happened. Bob placed a hand on John’s shoulder, saying, “Thanks for saving us, Captain.” 

Instead of making a snarky comment, John’s face grew dazed. Unfocused. He turned and stepped closer to the elevator shaft, feet just a few inches away from joining your dead clone on the ground.

“Walker?” Yelena asked, wondering what on earth he was doing. Both she and Ava stepped closer to check him out.

You looked to Bob, one of your brows arched. “What’s up with him?”

Bob spared you a cursory glance. “I don’t know,” he said. You chose to believe him, but frowned nonetheless. “Are you okay, though? You were—you were shaking really badly in there.”

“A seizure,” you whispered. “Sorry I scared you guys. I panicked and duplicated. It wasn’t very smart on my end.”

“No, I get it,” he muttered. “The only one you can truly trust is yourself. I get it.”

You tilted your head, regarding him curiously. As much as you thought Bob was a perfectly ordinary civilian, he said some very cryptic things sometimes. “Right… yeah.”

“I know I haven’t given you any reason to, but… you can trust me,” he offered. His hand trembled, and you could read the anxiety plainly across his features. When you took a second too long to respond, he retracted slightly. “But, I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t—”

“I trust you,” you said, cutting him off. You spared him a downturned smile, which made him relax just a smidge. “You haven’t given me any reason not to, Palindrome.”

The mellow blue of his eyes shone with mild amusement. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Is that my nickname now? Palindrome?”

“If you want it to be,” you said, shrugging. “It is a bit catchier than just Bob. The same forwards as it is backwards.”

Bob looked back to John, who still wouldn’t move away from the shaft's sheer drop. “I guess that’s fitting,” he whispered. “Nothing changes even if I want it to.”

Before you could ask him what he meant by that, John finally seemed to snap out of it. He stumbled back from the edge of the shaft. 

“Jesus Christ,” Yelena said, completely bewildered. “Are you crazy? What did you do that for?”

“Do what for?” John grouched, waving her away as if she was a fly. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Ugh, nevermind, then,” said Ava. “It’s time we all get out of here.”

Once Ava pressed a button for the exit to slide open, light spilled in from outside. But—it was nighttime. You knew because you arrived at 10 PM on the dot, and you also knew for certain that not enough time had passed for the sun already to be rising. The lights were coming from cars. Multiple of them, at least three dozen. There was chatter as well. Boots. Guns. Tactical armor.

It was an entire squadron out there. No doubt sent by Valentina. 

Ava, John, and Yelena then started bickering about a plan and who was in charge.

“I think I might just surrender, probably,” said Bob. 

“I suppose she won’t hurt you if you’re just a citizen,” you said. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

“Okay, fine,” John said, shrugging. “Every man for themself, then.”

“Why should you be in charge?” snarked Yelena. “You almost killed all of us right there!”

John propped his fists onto his hips. “Well, let’s see—I’ve been in the trenches of every war-torn country there is, rescued God knows how many hostages, and shook the hands of two US presidents!” 

“And how, pray tell, does any of that help us in the slightest way?” you hissed. 

Walker ignored you. “What else—oh! High school state football champs, back to back to back. Go bears!”

You stared at him incredulously. You never met Steve Rogers, but you wished you had that Captain America rather than this one in front of you right now. You were sure Steve was infinitely more tolerable than Walker.

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Oh, wow. When I was five, I was in a peewee soccer team named the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts, sponsored by Shane’s Tyre Shop. We won zero games, and one time one of my teammates did a poo midfield! Anyone else have any pointless stories to share?”

Exasperated, Ava pointed to herself. “Grew up in a lab prison.”

Bob scratched the back of his neck. “Meth-addicted sign twirling chicken. Was a… summer job.” He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Had my entire skeleton pulled out of my body once. Took me twelve minutes to die,” you said, bouncing on the balls of your feet. The rest of them turned to you, horrified. “What?”

“... Great,” said Yelena. “Now that we’re all done sharing, here’s the plan…”

It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the only one on the table. You and Walker take out the first wave of soldiers coming through, wait for Yelena (and Bob) to turn the lights off and back on once the second wave of soldiers came in with night vision goggles, effectively blinding them, all while Ava went out to find an escape vehicle.

Naturally, Walker didn’t wait. He went barreling into the wave of second soldiers, knocking them all down with his shield and picking them off one by one. You hadn’t even bothered to step in, watching him punch through all of them on his own. 

“Thanks for the help,” he spat at you once he was done.

“Didn’t want to get in your way,” you snarked in return. “Now come on. Let’s get their gear on and head out.”

Eventually, Yelena and Bob came back, the former angry that the two of you hadn’t waited for her. John was quick to defend themself, but you merely tossed Yelena and Bob their own sets of tactical wear.

“No time to argue. We can’t keep Ava waiting.”

Walker sneered. “If she’s even waiting for us at all.”

Once everyone was changed, the four of you walked out, dragging Bob as if he were a fallen soldier.

“I don’t think I want to be carried anymore,” Bob groaned, arms stiff and aching from where they were grabbing him. 

“Shut up, Bob. You’re injured, remember?” Walker gruffed, which made Bob fall silent.

“Just a little further. Ava should be here somewhere,” came your gritted mutter. 

“We don’t know where she is. She could be halfway to Mexico for all we know,” Walker retaliated. Behind your visor, you rolled your eyes. 

And then, from the corner of your vision, you spotted Valentina. Pristine as always, sipping a warm cup of coffee. Envy and white hot rage scratched within your chest, but you swallowed down your anger. It took everything you had in you not to storm right up to her, chug down her coffee, and punch a hole straight through her pearly whites. You had a cover to keep up, after all. 

Finally, after a few minutes of dragging Bob, a truck pulled up to the four of you. Ava materialized in the driver’s seat. “Get in,” she said. 

You smiled. A small part of you really did think she was going to abandon you. You were glad she came back.

Yelena and John clambered into the front while you and Bob sat in the back of the tactical vehicle, where there was nothing inside but two wooden benches for seats. “Will you be okay back there?” Ava asked, and the two of you sent her tired thumbs-ups.

Both you and Bob swayed back and forth as the truck began to purr to life and rumble ahead. “I wonder what they’ll think once they see all my bodies down there. Can’t be a pretty sight,” you whispered. 

Bob gave you a sympathetic grimace. “Do you still feel them? After they…?” He motioned vaguely with his hands.

“After they die?” you finished, sucking on the back of your teeth in thought. “I don’t feel them, no. I feel the pain right before they die, though.”

Bob slumped into the truck’s wall across from you. “Sorry,” he said, to which you just shook your head. 

“So…” You started, eager to change the subject. “What did Yelena say to you back in the incinerator after your little argument with Walker? You seemed a bit… downcast.”

Bob squinted in thought, trying to jog his memory. “Oh… that. Well, I told her that sometimes I have… really high highs… and then really low lows… and it’s hard to remember things in the middle.”

“Must be a really low low right now, hm?” you said, a laugh lacing your words.

“Hah… yeah. No, I mean… right now I’m fine, I think. Compared to other times, now is… much better.”

“Yikes,” you said, now only half-laughing. “Glad you’re having a relatively good day, then.”

Bob laughed along with you, awkward as ever, then cleared his throat. “Ahem. And then I, uh, to Yelena I said there’s this… darkness… inside me. Never-ending. Like, uhm, I called it a void. Anyways, she said she felt the same way, so I asked her how she dealt with it.”

You motioned for him to keep going, leaning forward. “And?”

“She—she just said she pushes it down. Deep, deep down. Heh. I mean, i-it makes sense, I guess,” Bob said, stumbling over his words a little. “Like, what else is there to do, even?”

Judging from the way your brows knitted together, Bob came to the conclusion that you didn’t seem to think it made much sense. The thought crossed his mind that you looked rather endearing the way your nose wrinkled in thought. You would be a terrible poker player—the cards were written all across your face. Bob liked how easy it was to read you. It made him feel safer to be around you. But these thoughts were quick to wash away when he remembered that you were just—another bump in the road. You would pass, and everything would go back to being… nothing. A void. 

“It makes sense for an ex-red room assassin,” you told him, not unkindly, roping him out of his drifting thoughts. “Doesn’t mean you should take the same advice, seeing as you’re not an assassin. Right?”

Bob itched at his wrist. “Right.”

The truck slowed to a grueling halt when a few soldiers stopped the group. Walker, to no one’s surprise and everybody’s dismay, insisted on being the one to talk. They asked for identification and a reason for leaving the base, since the medbay was northside, and they were currently heading southward. Walker tried to bluff his way through, but it was clear that the soldiers were not buying his story.

Bob’s expression twisted as if he had swallowed something sour.

“I’m sorry for this,” he said.

“What?” you asked, watching in confusion as he softly took your hand. 

And then, strangely, you were no longer in the truck. 

You were in a hospital. The air smelled distinctly of sterilizing chemicals with the sharp twinge of copper—blood. There was a belt in your mouth. Screaming muffled around the stale leather as they hacked away at your leg. Your copy stood off to the side, also bound, but whole. There were tears streaking down both of your faces. You looked younger then—your hair was longer, your face rounder. The years had weathered you.

“Again,” said one of the surgeons. Your younger, whole self trembled, then split into another copy. It took longer back then. An entire minute of straining yourself just for one duplicate. Now, you could make hundreds of yourself in an instant if you wanted. Nurses came in and took the other copy away. Off for more screenings, more tests, more surgeries, more experiments. That’s what you were to them—an experiment.

“Please stop,” you croaked. You weren’t sure whether that came from the younger you or just—you. “Please… I don’t want to die again.”

“Oh, sweetie,” said the surgeon, coming around the dissecting table to push sweaty strands of hair away from your head. “You’re not actually dying, though. Not really. None of these—xeroxes of you are actually you.”

You broke down into silent, heaving sobs when he returned to the other you, and began hacking away more parts of you. “For science,” they’d always told you. 

Present-you turned, desperate to leave. Only, you were met with… Bob?

You searched his face, completely dumbfounded. “Palindrome?” you whispered.

“That’s where Xerox comes from?” he asked, clearly perturbed by the scene he was watching. You didn’t spare him a response.

His lips pursed and he reached out to take your hand again. In this strange, hazy world that you knew not to be real, his touch was cold. You rather liked how it felt against the warmth of your own palms, sticky with blood. Was that yours or one of your copies? You couldn’t remember. Was there any difference at all?

You held onto him tighter, shutting your eyes. Bob’s free hand raised to cradle the back of your head, shielding you from your own memories. 

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” he murmured. “I’ll fix it. Leave it to me.”

Then, he pulled away from you despite your protests, and the nightmare realm seemed to spin and spin and spin, caving in on itself—

By the time you came to, Ava was shaking your shoulders and calling your name, as you were passed out on the floor of the truck. You glanced around with glassy eyes, confirming what you already knew to be true.

Bob was gone.

[a-asterias]

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞´𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬—𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?

description: The shift had been ordinary. Until it wasn't. Until her. She shouldn’t be here. Not in his hospital. Not holding a boy whose face hits him like a slap. In the space of a heartbeat, Michael is no longer a doctor. He’s a ghost in his own body, watching his past rewrite itself in real time.

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x female ob/gyn attending! reader

genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe? age gap (michael late 40s, reader mid 30s), angst, fluff, explicit smut.

notes: i love this so much it’s insane

word count: 17.2 k / ?

extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆ 

Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:･ﾟ✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.

main masterlist

part one - part two - part three

part four - part five - part six

more to be added!

𝐢𝐟 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 (alternate timeline) — coming soon!

© AUGUSTWINESWORLD 2025 : no translation, plagiarism, or cross posting

[a-asterias]

can’t pretend

pairing: Jack Abbot x resident!reader summary: He is puzzled with you first, then vexed, and he can’t understand his feelings. In an attempt to get to know you better (or maybe to get you out of his head), Abbot accidentally crosses the line. (or, alternatively: what if Jack met someone similar to him in many ways. traumatic past included)

warnings: <rivals> to friends to lovers, slow burn, mentions of blood and injuries / I’m hinting at the age gap but you can ignore it / some complicated feelings and a LOT of Jack’s thoughts (his poor therapist will need a raise); assault. ANGST. / words: 7K author’s note: this is my first fic for “The Pitt”. I binge-watched the show in 2 days and didn’t plan on writing anything but my inspiration decided otherwise. I’ve never had a beta reader in my life, please be kind. ♡

Early at dawn, the sky is just the right color — the darkness slowly dissipates, deep purple at the edges, black fading into blue. If he squints and looks above the roofs, he can pretend he’s looking at the ocean. He’s been toying with the idea for some time but it’s more of a dream, a comforting mirage: him getting a small house by the beach, waves crashing softly in the distance, clean blue water blending into the bright blue sky. He’d wake up to the sunrise, take lugs full of cooling salty air, walk in the sand that glistens under the foaming swash. He’d probably adopt a dog — someone to pass his days with, just so the silence doesn’t get too heavy, doesn’t weigh on him when he can’t sleep at night.

A passing car honks down the street, loud and sudden, and Jack flinches, opening his eyes. That’s when the perfect image always falls apart. He is afraid he will get lonely with just a dog and with nothing to do, he will be going up the walls, bored out of his mind. But he doesn’t know how not to be alone. And some days he wishes that he did.

The air in Pittsburgh doesn’t carry any scents at this morning hour, and Jack’s gaze wanders down to the tree leaves writhing in the wind. He absentmindedly rubs his wrists when he hears the door creaking behind him.

“You know, security is getting worried about you,” Robby chuckles, his steps slow. “I heard the guys making bets on how many times a week you’ll come here.”

“Says the man who likes to brood in my spot,” Jack huffs without looking at him.

“Me, brooding? No idea what you are talking about.”

Robby gets to the roof edge but stays behind the railing, leans on it and slowly stretches his arms. His tone lets empathy in when he speaks up:

“Tough night?”

The sky is overcast, a mush of white and grey clouds the blue barely peeks through, and Jack sighs as he turns away. “Remember you told me about the kid who OD’d on Xanax laced with fentanyl? The parents sat by his bed hoping he’d wake up by some miracle,” Robby only nods when Jack throws him a glance. “I’m dealing with one of those.”

They both lost patients before, and both know that it doesn’t get easier with time. You have to tuck your grief away to walk into the room with their loved ones, offer apologies that carry little meaning, take even more grief in because this isn’t about you and this loss is not for you to carry. But they do carry it — Robby memorizes lifeless faces, Jack never forgets the names of everyone he couldn’t save.

“Brain dead?”

“Yep,” Jack drawls, hands gripping the metal rails. “He’s got three sisters, and all three were begging me. And I stood there feeling absolutely useless.”

Robby watches as his friend’s knuckles turn white. “If you couldn’t do anything then there was nothing that could’ve been done. And I’m really sorry.”

If only words could bring people back from the dead, Jack thinks bitterly but doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t want to sour Robby’s mood. And he can’t help but notice — it used to bother him way more, it sometimes would eat him alive; now Jack is mostly numb.

“I’ll sleep it off,” he mumbles.

“Not staying for the welcoming party?”

It takes a few seconds for the reminder to pop up in Jack’s head: a new senior resident, today is her first day. After Collins took maternity leave, Robby spent hours on the phone, glasses pressed to the bridge of his nose as he flipped through the applications, always unsure, never satisfied. And then he got a call and drove across the city to another hospital to meet her in person — he came back beaming. Jack must’ve zoned out so he didn’t catch the details.

“Don’t think I have a very welcoming face.”

“Should’ve seen the guys she worked with. I thought her chief of surgery would literally fist-fight me after I offered her the job,” Robby cackles.

It stirs Jack’s curiosity a bit. “She’s that good?”

“I believe she is. Skilled, confident, haven’t heard a single bad thing about her,” and even though his voice is certain, Robby dithers, bringing a hand to the back of his neck.

“But... ? I sense a but coming.”

“No-no, she’s great, really, and I made up my mind. It’s just that… She comes off as quite stubborn, and I feel like she is used to flying solo,” his eyes dart to Jack. “Reminds me of someone I know,” a smile grazes his lips, an unvoiced comparison he can’t help but draw.

Jack doesn’t see it, his gaze set somewhere on the horizon. “We all have to be team players here, that’s how it works,” he says dismissively. “I’m sure she’ll learn.”

The streets are getting busy, filling with people talking, rushing, making endless calls — and with more honking and more sounds that all merge into one unpleasant noise. And Jack is getting really tired.

“I should go back. Don’t want anyone to scare her off,” Robby puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder, a friendly but firm grip. “I’d also rather not waste my time on scraping your frail body off the pavement. Let me walk you out.”

“Frail body? You are three years older, you bag of bones,” Jack quips, and they share a laugh, and it warms up his heart a little.

But the warmth fades as they get inside, into the weave of corridors, into the crowd of nurses and other doctors pacing, the lighting bright and harsh, the smell of antiseptics clinging to the walls like mold. And it is not as overwhelming as it’s tiresome; once he is out on the street, Jack takes a few deep breaths. It’s hardly a relief.

As he passes by the park, exhaustion already on his heels, he suddenly picks up a sound, something between a whine and a small woof. Jack looks around to find the source peeping out from behind the bushes — brown eyes, wet nose, grey fluffy ears, one marked with a white spot. When Jack takes a step closer, the stray puppy immediately runs off.

On his way home he gets some dog treats and throws them in his bag. He tries thinking of pet names but nothing comes to mind. And when he falls into his cold bed, thick curtains not letting any light reach him, he dreams of standing on a long road framed with grass, a murmuring of waves heard through the mist. But he can’t see the ocean.

It keeps raining, and they have to close the roof — “Merely a precaution, sir, we don’t want anyone to slip. I heard the weather is supposed to clear up in a few days,” one of the guards assures Jack. His mood these days is just as gloomy as the sky. But he’s a man of habit, so every time Jack wants to get out to the roof, he instead gets more cases, drinks more coffee, barely a few words squeezed in between that aren’t work-related.

At first, he only catches glimpses of you.

On the days when your shifts overlap, he sees you tearing along the hallways, your hair up and your face focused, removing gowns to quickly put on fresh ones, your hands either in gloves or carrying the charts. You don’t speak much, and very few times Jack gets to walk past you, he is slightly puzzled by this combination of quiet and fast-paced.

Your first week is nearing its end when Dana prompts Jack to make a proper introduction. She calls him uncooperative and calls for you herself when she sees you leaving trauma#1. You swiftly come by the nurses' station and glance up at the board — and then you finally face Jack, your gaze so piercing, it catches him off guard. He clears his throat and manages a greeting, a bit coolly.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him calmly, offering a hand. And you don’t look away, and your handshake is firmer than he would expect. The next thing you are holding is another chart, eyes following the lines of words and numbers as you step away, Whitaker barely keeping up.

“She is so fast, she’s almost flying. Beautiful,” Princess notes approvingly, and Perlah hums in agreement.

Their voices snap him back into reality, and Jack inhales sharply, only now realizing his gaze is still on you. He looks down, pretending he needs to fix his watch. “What is this, a fan club?”

“Aw, no need to be so jealous. You will always be our favorite old white doctor,” Princess teases.

Perlah gives her a side-eye. “I thought Dr. Robby was our favorite.”

“Well, yes. But I have a soft spot for men in existential crisis,” Princess winks at him.

Perlah rolls her eyes. “They are all in existential crisis.”

“And I wonder why,” Jack deadpans, then picks a case just so he’s got an excuse to leave. And maybe an excuse to pass by the room you’re in, your gloved hands already stained with crimson.

He starts watching you more often, an impulse he can’t necessarily explain.

He’s careful, he’s not staring, but his hazel eyes always pick you out from the crowd. He’s taking mental notes: you lean on doors with your right shoulder when you rush in, you scan the injured head to toe in every case, hands moving quickly in tandem with your gaze. You never raise your voice but you keep eye contact — with the interns when you give instructions and with the patients to make sure they understand what’s going on. You are efficient with your work-ups, you’re the first one to come in and you stay late to turn your patients over to the night shift. You are meticulous and disciplined in a way he finds relatable; in three weeks' time there’s a foundation laid for him to grow respectful. But sometimes Jack can’t stop the thought: he is yet to see your smile. He is also yet to see you slip up, and that is bound to happen because no doctor is without fault.

A month in, he thinks you finally come close to failure.

A patient is wheeled in on a gurney, gesticulating, red in the face from how displeased or pained he is (probably both); still, as you talk to him, he makes pauses to listen. There’s blood on his chest and his speech is slurring, and Jack’s gaze follows you. From where he’s standing, he can see you clearly, so he can’t help but glance up a few times from his computer screen. It’s all the same routine and it seems to be working smoothly — but when he takes another peek, he sees you frozen.

Jack instantly draws near, alert and observing through the glass: the man is intubated, his shirt cut and chest bared — and with a nail sticking right out of where his heart should be. The monitors go off as the blood pressure drops. When Whitaker makes eye contact with him, Jack takes that as an invitation to come in.

“What do we got here?”

Whitaker looks half worried, half relieved. “Um-m, 41 years old male, nail to the chest, intracardiac. Prepped for the thoracotomy. Cardio is tied up with another surgery, and it’s at least 15 more minutes until we can get an O.R.”

Jack knows the patient doesn’t have that long. His gaze flickers to you but you do not meet it, and he can’t tell what you are looking at. There is no time to guess — if you’ve never cracked into someone’s chest, he’ll gladly guide you. And his guidance is assertive, if a little cocky.

“It’s not every day that you get to do a thoracotomy. And it can be daunting — also, pretty risky if you ask me—”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking,” you retort abruptly without even sparing him a glance.

And then you pick the scalpel and make the first incision, your hands steady and never hesitating, the confidence of a tsunami sweeping rocks away.

Jack has to take a step back because it would be childish to argue when someone’s life is hanging by a thread. And all his doubts are crushed before his very eyes the way ribs are under the pressure of a steel retractor you are holding, the metal sinking into flesh and blood to give you access to the heart. After the nail is out — long but intact, you deal with excess fluid and with the bleeding — and you are more nimble than he is, than he’s ever seen the other doctors be.

“Well, call me impressed,” Jack says earnestly.

The silence is a little awkward — a couple of seconds before you give reply: “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He wonders if maybe his compliment might’ve come as patronizing. What he knows for sure is that you do not need his help. But when he backs away, he sees a glint out of the corner of his eye — dog tags left in the pile of the man’s belongings on the floor. Jack has the same tags hanging on a chain around his neck. He almost doesn’t feel the weight of them but the memories they bring are heavy — sometimes an image flashing through his mind, sometimes a nightmare stirring him awake. And mostly it’s the latter.

But today, as his shift goes on, he isn’t thinking of torn limbs and collapsing buildings and bombings that looked like firecrackers in the night. Those weren’t the reasons he kept going back — he never once craved violence, never really cared about the money. For him, it was the roar of the adrenaline and the belief that even amidst the death and ruins, he could make a change. He hasn’t felt that for a while: the rush, the determination, the power held in your hands when you are cutting into someone’s body, fixing the organs and sewing the skin together, bringing the life back in. He lacks that spark, he misses it, he wants to get it back. To prove to himself that he still can do that — or maybe not only to himself.

So now he isn’t watching you but studying, with a diligence of a man who once had to learn how to walk again.

He starts work earlier just so he can get more patients — but also to listen in on your case reports and trail your steps, peek into trauma rooms you run in and out of. He often finds himself holding back the questions: damn, how did you do that? How come you easily catch things others take so long to figure out? You take on complicated cases: a feeble woman who can’t hold her food down, her arms marked with a red rash; a young jogger who keeps fainting, short of breath; a man whose neck hurts, the pain radiating to his chest. And you examine them and pick the clues to solve the tangle of the symptoms — it’s Celiac disease, it’s kidney failure, it’s spondylodiscitis and you know exactly how to treat it. But Jack knows all these answers too. And even if they don’t click in his mind as quickly as they do in yours, it’s still a victory: he’s not as rusty as he thought he was, he is enjoying this. He can’t believe he almost let himself forget.

When he decides to try a day shift for a change, he’s met with Dana’s worried face, her wondering out loud if he feels okay. She then proceeds to ask the same question two more times, just to make sure.

“You on day shifts may be the thing that saves Robby from a heart attack, you know,” her face softens.

“Are you saying you guys get way more action than us night owls?”

Dana grins. “What, you are already reconsidering your choices?”

“Like hell I am,” one corner of his mouth hints at a smirk.

The day is busy, and he can barely catch a break, but it isn’t a chore: he’s equally enthusiastic about a road accident that left a guy with a skull fracture, an appendectomy, a stoned teenage with a knife stuck in his thigh, a street worker with a leg broken in two places. An hour before his shift ends, they get a lacrosse team of middle schoolers, and the staff shares an exasperated sigh; but not Jack. He fixes broken noses and split eyebrows and some nasty shoulder dislocations, then goes to talk to their coach — a woman in her fifties, robust and perhaps too loud with her scolding. But her blaring voice cracks as soon as the kids are out of her sight. At some point, Jack finds himself holding her hand in reassurance, and she jokes that she’d gladly marry him if only she didn’t have a wife. She also promises that all the kids' parents will give the hospital the highest ranking. And they do.

Jack clocks out when the sky is colored orange, the shadows bleeding on the pavement, and his limbs hum but this weariness is pleasant. He is content, he’s almost joyous — the almost comes from you having a day off. He got to work with so many people, why would your presence make a difference? Jack persuades himself it’s not the reason he takes a few more mornings.

But when he comes back the next time, and you’re already there, there is this weird feeling in his ribcage — a spill of heat, a flutter of his heart. He blames it on the caffeine. You stand with your eyes glued to the chart while Princess lets out a big yawn.

“If another lacrosse team comes in today, I might actually quit,” she laments.

“Send them my way,” you say with ease, without missing a beat.

“That’s ten people,” she punctuates, incredulous. “We got lucky they were just kids. Grown-up men who slam into each other while voluntarily chasing a ball scare me.”

“I’m not easily scared,” you carefully tap on the screen, scrolling through some case report, someone’s illnesses broken into signs and terms; but you do pay attention to what she’s saying. You glance up at the nurse, your voice kind: “If you ever need help, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

And then you look over your shoulder as if you can feel him watching — and it’s the same as the first time: your gaze startles him, like would a fire eruption or a ball lightning. But Jack’s greeting stays rooted in his mouth because Mateo sprints in:

“Hey, there’s something wrong with my patient’s veins, can someone take a look?”

And you are by his side and following him out of the hall in what feels like barely a second.

“I’m so grateful for you!” Princess calls after you. Then she spots Jack too, her face expression turning smug. “Oh, hello there, boss,” and she grins like she knows a secret Jack wasn’t let in on.

Turns out, Robby showed his gratitude by taking a sick leave, the first in three years (Jack would’ve sent him home himself if he heard Robby’s muffled coughing one more time). And it left Jack with way more shifts to cover. He readily gulps coffee from his to-go mug as he skims through the list of patients. The others join him soon: Mel smiles at everyone, the ever-optimistic one, Whitaker looks like hasn’t slept in months, and Santos teases him about something Jack doesn’t care to listen to. McKay is running late. Langton walks briskly to the nurses' station, taps on the tabletop right next to Jack.

“Ready to get back in the game?”

“I’ve been in the game for more years than you can count on your fingers,” Jack gives him a cold stare.

Frank sighs, his fingers drumming on the wooden surface, although he sounds barely concerned. “Love the positive attitude. Dr Robby surely won’t be missed.”

“As if you are such a pleasure to work with,” Dana cuts in, hands on her hips. “You guys should redirect that buzzing testosterone into your work. No one is getting paid for whining.”

“Preach,” Jack huffs as he steps away.

He stops himself from immediately going to check up on you. And twenty minutes later, he is glad that he did — you walk back, unruffled as you always are, Matteo tagging after you. His patient is an old lady with thrombocytopenia she probably ignored until it got too bad: there are bruises sprinkled on her arms and legs, a splotch of dried blood under her nose from how often it’s been bleeding. You gave her a platelet transfusion but you suspect it’s cancer; you order more blood tests and bring her a blanket before she even asks for it. Her eyes well up, voice shaking with heartfelt gratitude. And Jack has to remind himself that he can’t pick any favorites, he isn’t in it for the long run; but if he was to pick, it would’ve been an easy choice. And no one lags behind today — he’s got a well-coordinated team, like gears interlocking in a clock, the harmony built out of weeks of practice. They make jokes, share work stories and snacks; but every time Jack’s eyes get back to you, he can’t catch even a ghost of a smile.

He finds that you are very hard to read. And it unnerves him, maybe just a little.

He tries for his attempts to look brief and nonchalant — a kind word here and there, a quick approving look, a dry joke — and you offer nothing in return. As thorough as you are with diagnosing, you take no part in other conversations, you rarely take breaks or stand around. By the time the noon rolls in, Jack is fighting the urge to grab you by the shoulders: hey, take a seat and have something to eat. And tell me how can I cadge a laugh out of you, just one will be enough.

Dana waves a hand before his face, the phone up to her ear. “There’s been some gang fight at the North Side. Four victims coming in, two critical — one shot in the stomach, the other has his head smashed in. Don’t think they both will make it.”

Jack’s bet is on the first guy but it’s the head injury that’s fatal — the victim is pronounced dead, face so disfigured they’ll need a DNA test. Mel looks away in shock, and Santos frowns. Your stare is blank and unimpressed. You volunteer to take the third guy with a pelvic wound — he’s rambling incoherently, the tight bandage over his hip already soaked; you press your hand to it on the way to trauma. Jack leaves the worst case to himself.

“Who’s down for an ex-lap?”

“Can I run the bowel? I’ve never done it,” Santos asks, hopeful.

“Sure. Once we open the abdomen and remove the bullet, you can have your fun,” he offers, and she runs along with joy.

Although Jack can’t imagine a procedure less joyful. Yet, he is fueled by his new-found appreciation for his job so he walks her through the steps: identify the entry wound and cut in, look for the bleeding and what the bullet might’ve hit. It missed the liver by an inch; but to confirm the damage they need to evaluate the area by hand.

Perlah peeks into the room. “Is he stable?”

“Well, unless Dr. Santos gets too excited and makes a bow out of his intestines,” her hands stop, and Jack breathes out a chuckle. “I’m just joking, keep going. I’d say, his vitals do look promising.”

“Then you can keep him down here for a bit. We have a guy with a balloon in his aorta, he’s gotta go up first.”

Jack blinks at her once, twice, the meaning of her words settling in. “Did someone do a REBOA?”

“You bet she did. And it was awesome,” the nurse then scrunches her nose. “Apart from the amount of blood. And by the way, the fourth one only has a broken rib, so no miraculous procedures needed.”

He doesn’t find it funny and he can’t find the word for it: it’s something in between confusion and offence. As soon as Santos’s done with stitches, he strides out to find you.

His turmoil momentarily recedes when he sees one of the cubicle curtains stained, the deep red lurking through. Jack pulls at the material and barges in — and then he’s silenced at the sight. The area looks horrifying: bright streaks of blood left on the floor, the anesthesia trolley, the table with the instruments that you are now collecting, a few droplets smudged over your cheek. Before he’s even angry, there is another feeling — a thought, a pull: if only he could brush that splatter off your face, a few brief seconds for one briefest touch. Of course, he doesn’t.

Jack keeps his hands behind his back. “You didn’t think you should consult with anyone first before doing a damn REBOA?”

“Why would I?” your eyes are on the tools.

“Because it’s dangerous as hell and since I am the attending—”

“I do know protocol. But I also know how fast a human can bleed out. It was a truncal hemorrhage, and you were hands deep in someone’s abdomen. Was I supposed to wait?”

He wishes you were meaner, rougher, anything that would give him an excuse to snap. But you aren’t doing this to show off — your tone is measured and your reasoning is simple: a man was dying and you knew how to save him. Jack realizes it is the same logic he often uses. And he can’t tell what is it that bothers him so much. If Whitaker pulled off something like that, Jack would’ve chosen to commend him. The same goes for Santos, Javadi or King, for any other intern or resident that he can think of... Except, they would’ve asked for his opinion or his help. You didn’t even think to.

Well, Robby warned him you’d be stubborn.

“I want to be informed about any life-altering decisions. At least give me a heads-up so I am not blindsided when a nurse gushes over it in passing,” Jack insists, head tilted slightly so he can catch your gaze.

What he really wants is for you to look at him. You grant him that one wish.

“Will do,” you tell him simply.

But your eyes are still unreadable, a book written in a foreign language, a manuscript he doesn’t know how to decrypt.

And either out of incomprehension or rejection, his brain makes an assumption: maybe you believe that you are better, maybe you think the rules weren’t made for you. You never really gave him cause for rivalry — you are in your final year of residency, and Jack is put in charge. But you are so bluntly independent and reserved, his every try to understand you feels like leaping in the dark. Later that day he can’t help but glimpse into your file — there’s hardly anything of interest: you previously trained in a small clinic, in a nice neighborhood, your letters of recommendation all consist of praises.

What adds to his moroseness is that you fit really well with literally everybody else. Langdon tones down his sarcasm, listens to you like he only does to Robby. Santos discreetly brings you cases she needs advice on, McKay and Mel enjoy your company when you get a free minute. Whitaker seems to be your favorite although Jack isn’t sure why — he deems him soft and insecure; but Dennis does a better job under your guidance. On rare occasions when he’s got a day off, Javadi always takes his place.

Jack figures out everyone’s relationships by his fourth morning shift; he hasn’t gotten any closer to figuring you out. He’s fighting the grimace at how bitter his coffee is when Javadi pops out in the hall and you follow suit. He catches scraps of your conversation: something about a teen with a gashed forehead. Javadi rambles — until you ask her nonchalantly, unprompted. “You don’t like the sight of blood?”

“What? Oh no, it’s fine! I’m totally fine,” Victoria stumbles over the words, but her denial is too meek.

From how nervous she is, Jack guesses that she’s lying. He almost wants to laugh — before a thought comes to his mind: how come he never noticed her fear of blood?

“It’s just a little disturbing sometimes... But I only passed out, like, once or twice.”

“I used to be like that. Fainted many times during blood tests,” you tell her quietly while entering some data.

Jack is so caught in disbelief, he can’t help a glance in your direction. But your sincerity doesn’t seem feigned. Javadi gapes at you.

“And how did you... what did you do to overcome it?”

“I found myself in a situation where someone needed help and there was no one else around to help him,” you shrug. And Jack discerns the subtle reticence behind your tone.

It only spurs Javadi’s interest. “Was there a lot of blood? Like, a heavy bleeding, a deep wound?”

Your fingers freeze over the tablet screen, your facial profile not betraying your true feelings. But Jack swears he can see the tension crawling down your body. You don’t give the answer right away, you weigh the words carefully before you say them.

“A drug overdose, he still had a needle in his arm and I must’ve missed it. Took barely a minute of chest compressions for the needle to fly out across the room. It was a lot of blood to me.”

Javadi’s hopefulness grows dim. “Yeah, I don’t like needles too. I tried drawing blood a few times but the process kinda makes me nauseous, and I can’t force myself to —”

“It’s different when it’s someone you care about.”

Your comment slips out involuntarily — and immediately you look like you want to take it back. But you get it together and meet her eyes, your voice carrying just the right amount of firmness.

“Listen, I’m not suggesting you should torture your family members. But you may not always have attendings by your side or someone else to take your place in case you feel like fainting. If you fall, you can hurt your head, you can hurt a patient, you can disrupt a surgery when every minute counts. I think you have a good head on your shoulders, and I don’t want to downplay your efforts. But please, figure it out. Otherwise, you won’t make for a good surgeon.”

You reassure her you won’t tell anyone her secret. Javadi manages a small smile, a hushed “thank you”. It is a sweet moment, a heart-to-heart chat you bond over; it’s also three times more words than you’ve spoken to Jack in weeks.

But he accepts your silence — as a challenge.

Jack keeps an eye on you, now critical, resisting the gravitation that’s been attracting him to you. Although it’s hard to find the reasons to be hard on you. Whenever he has questions — or more so when he can come up with some, you give detailed replies, and he’s left with nothing to complain about. Your patient satisfaction score is high, you are never facile or reckless with your judgment; with how smart you are, you can give odds to many doctors, him included. And Jack knows he is older, with years of experience under his belt — but he can’t in good faith wish for anyone to go through the same things he did to gain the same knowledge.

On his second week of day shifts he is still clueless about what to make of you. And Jack tells himself that he is simply looking for a connection — except, all his attempts look like he is trying to pick a fight.

“This is a teaching hospital. You are supposed to teach them things,” he grumbles as he meets you outside the trauma room. You got a guy who came in spitting blood — post-tonsillectomy hemorrhage, and things went south pretty quickly. He started choking, crashed, his airways flooded with liquid; you had to intubate him blindly. Whitaker spent an hour by your side, his questions endless — to which you did give answers, barely ever breaking focus, but you only allowed him to use suction.

“He’ll learn plenty if he is attentive enough,” you say, throwing away the gown, trying to put some distance in between you.

Jack doesn’t like it, he keeps pace with you. “Whitaker needs more practice, as much as he can get. He’s not supposed to stand there like some deer who wandered into the yard.”

You whirl around, so fast that Jack comes to a stop when you are separated by merely an inch. And your gaze burns, like lava seeping through the mountain’s restrain.

“And I needed the patient not to die on the table,” you bite back, then breathe in — and then add more coolly. “Dennis will get his chance to shine.”

“And when exactly is that gonna happen?”

“That’s for me to decide,” you state, like you would do a fact that can’t be questioned. “Thank you for your input, Dr. Abbot, but I have to get back to work.”

You turn your back to him and leave him standing there, and Jack almost feels helpless. And that’s the feeling he can’t stand. It simmers in him, it must be the reason his cheeks suddenly feel hot.

Dana tsks as she comes near, her brows furrowed and face visibly concerned.

“You know how I’ve been calling Robby a sad boy? I’m gonna start calling you a pissy boy.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” he dismisses, a humorless escape attempt. But her fingers grab at his elbow, and he pauses with an annoyed exhale.

“I’ve been watching you hammering away at her for days,” Dana makes sure to lower her voice. “If she was a student, I’d maybe let it slide, but she is a resident, a senior one. And nothing I am seeing suggests she isn’t doing well.”

His eyes dart to her hand; then he glares stubbornly at her. She looks unfazed.

“Jack, you will take it too far one day — and you will regret it,” Dana tries to reason. “She is a good kid and she’s really good at her job. Just let her be.”

“Thank you for your input, Evans. I’d prefer to get back to work,” he frees his arm, and she allows it. But Jack can feel her worried gaze as he walks away.

He doesn’t come home until the twilight hugs the sky, until he feels like he’ll pass out on the next step. Jack wastes hours on attempts to wear himself out: he walks the entire park three times, peeping about in case the puppy comes again. It doesn’t. He stops by the bar he hasn’t been to in a few weeks, orders a beer and sips on it, his musings soon drowned out by the blasting music. The alcohol tastes weird, and the bass guitar gives him a pounding headache. He takes a walk instead of taking a bus home, two miles on foot in hopes he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

But the thought of you cuts into his mind as easily as a nail does into a human body, and it stays there, vexing and robbing him of whatever little peace he’s had.

He barely gets any sleep.

And his nights are dreamless.

It’s just another Friday, and these bring in a lot of drunks — from parties and family gatherings, from business meetings that ran late and tense until someone reached for whiskey. Jack stays behind for paperwork, a tedious pastime that keeps him pinned to an uncomfortable chair. He briefly takes eyes off the screen, stretching his neck — and then a noise catches his attention. It’s someone talking in a raised voice, someone who sounds too wasted to be reasoned with. Which sounds like a problem.

Jack finds the source with ease — the nurses all glance in the direction of the trauma room, and in support of their agitation Mateo all but flies out, his face hardened at the edges. Jack gets up and gets closer, his ears open and eyes watchful.

“Should we call security?” Dana asks warily.

Mateo brushes the suggestion off. “No, it’s fine,” — but it sounds like it’s not. “I just need a short break.”

“What’s wrong?” Jack interrupts.

And it isn’t a question but a demand for explanation Mateo can’t reject. He lets out a tired sigh.

“The guy got drunk and couldn’t hold his liquor, some passersby saw him sprawled out in an alley and called the ambulance. Came in with a nasty arm fracture. He’ll live though,” Mateo looks back at the room with obvious disdain. “Unfortunately.”

Jack promptly moves forward. “I will deal with it.”

“Hold on, Rambo,” Dana interjects. And she keeps her eyes on him while she talks to Mateo. “Did he get physical?”

“Nah, he’s too inebriated. Keeps trying to get up from the gurney but mostly he’s all talk.”

More can be heard from where they are standing — it’s some drunken yelling, a disarticulated chain of curse words. And then they hear something break, a dull sound of an object hitting a wall.

In a few seconds comes another one.

“I can’t just let him trash all of our equipment,” Jack gives Dana a pointed look.

She clucks her tongue at his persistence. “It’s not the equipment that I fear for.”

“Rest assured, Evans, I won’t give him another arm fracture.”

“I didn’t think you would, but now that you suggested it so easily—”

“Finally someone decided to take action instead of all this talking,” Perlah remarks, her gaze isn’t on either one of them. And Jack turns to follow it just in time to catch you running right into the room.

His heart falls. Why the hell are you even still here?

And it’s barely three heartbeats before a realization strikes: you can’t go there alone. He can’t let you.

Jack bolts to you without waiting for anyone’s permission. He comes in just in time to see you dodge the trolley the patient pushed at you — it slams into the wall and rolls over, the instruments scattering loudly across the floor. You don’t seem scared, but you are all tensed up, gaze fixed on the guy who’s screaming his lungs out.

“You won’t trick me! I won’t let you experiment on me!”

And you don’t look away once but you must’ve noticed Jack; your voice comes out low. “I think he’s having an episode. He needs benzodiazepines but I can’t get close to administer them.”

“And you should not,” Jack retorts, eyeing the guy with discontent. “You absolutely shouldn’t deal with him on your own. Not when he’s flapping around and yelling like a fucking psycho.”

“Silently watching him wreck the room didn’t seem like a good tactic either.”

In an instant Jack’s gaze is drawn to you, pulse racing as he is struggling to bite down his emotions: why would you put yourself in danger, why can’t you ever back down, why can’t he stay away? And unexpectedly you look at him, and your gaze isn’t a puzzle or a dare but an explanation: you can’t be mad at me for the thing you would’ve done yourself. I know you would have.

The room goes quiet but only for a moment — before another cry comes, and the patient lunges straight at you. Jack’s eye catches the movement, and at the very last second, he moves to stand in the guy’s way.

The drunkard crashes into him, hands swatting at the air, too uncoordinated to land a proper punch. And then all of a sudden he headbutts Jack. The pain is sharp, shooting toward his nose, but Jack manages to stay upright. He can’t see you stopping cold or the security approaching in a hurry and in worry.

Because Jack is only seeing red.

He breathes in through the mouth and grabs the man with both hands, rough and unflinching. Jack pushes him back to the gurney, then throws him on it, face flat against the pillow; his angry cries tone down to weak whimpers.

“Shut the fuck up. Stop moving,” Jack hisses into his ear.

He can taste the blood that oozed down to his lips and he can hear the sound of footsteps in the room. But he doesn’t let go.

Jack feels a hand on his shoulder — he turns to see one of the guards, Ahmad. “Man, let us handle this. C’mon, step away.”

Begrudgingly, Jack does. Ahmad quickly takes his place, he and two other guards strapping the patient down; Mateo wriggles in the middle to sedate the guy. He dozes off, a dark purple bruise already blooming on his forehead, drool at the corner of his mouth.

You are still standing at the exact same spot, but then your eyes land on Jack’s blooded nose, and you immediately fall out of the stupor. You rummage through the nearest drawer and get a few clean cloths, then call for Dana to bring an ice pack. The guards leave but Mateo hangs back; he pulls up a chair for Jack to sit on.

“Are you okay? Any headache or dizziness or—”

“I’m fine, no need to coddle me,” Jack waves off his concerns crankily. Mateo looks at you for some support.

“He needs a head CT,” you say, gaze glued to Jack. “Ask the radiology if they can squeeze him in.”

Mateo nods and takes off with no other questions asked. The silence is now laced with tension, and while Jack’s pain gradually subsides, his anger doesn’t. He’s not the one for chit-chats, and it’s not a 'thank you' that he wants — but an admission: he was right, and you were careless, and maybe this is the one time you can agree with him.

You lean over wordlessly and wipe the dried-up blood, pushing his head back to examine his nose. Your touch is light, fleeting, but his skin heats up under your hands. You take a penlight to check for septal hematoma; then your thumbs move from his cheekbones to his nostrils. Jack doesn’t wince or look away, eyes dark and boring into you, unblinking. You put a finger to his nose and move it slowly from side to side, watching closely as his gaze follows it.

And then you pull away, and something cracks in him, a line formed on the ocean floor after it’s shaken by an earthquake, a force that pushes waves to crash onto the shore. And all his feelings surge up, unstoppable like a tsunami.

You look for more cloths, and only with your back to him, you finally decide to speak:

“Doesn’t look like a fracture but—”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Jack bursts out, the stridency of his voice barely contained.

Your hands flinch at the sound. Jack misses it or maybe chooses to ignore it, too adamant in his displeasure, too wrapped up in it.

“Do you realize how dangerous it was for you to go here alone? What could’ve happened to you if security came late? Or do you just assume it’s not a big deal if you get hurt? Can you for at least a second consider the consequences of your relentlessness, can you imagine how dire they might be? And what it’s like for someone else to throw themselves between danger and you?”

But then you turn to him, and his tirade breaks off, the anger ebbing instantly as he sees your face expression.

It would be easy to assume he must’ve hit a nerve. Except, it looks way worse than that.

Your gaze is swept with pain, eyes wide and bright with tears you are holding back. An inhale quivers at your lips, chest heaving like you are scarcely managing to curb your feelings. Like there’s been a wall you’ve built meticulously over the years, and he didn’t just put a crack in it — no, he tore it down completely, drove through it with a bulldozer, only a mess of rubble left behind. And he knows that’s not something an apology will fix.

Jack feels the guilt already swirling in his chest as he sits straighter, eyes not leaving yours.

“Listen, I didn’t—”

“I heard you loud and clear, Dr. Abbot,” your voice is lacerating, a blade you’ve armed yourself with, steel that cuts him deep. “If my company displeases you so much, I will make sure to limit our interactions. Apologies for any inconvenience.”

You turn away, and when he sees you wipe your cheeks with one quick motion, Jack knows he is the only one to blame. But you don’t let him see your tears nor do you wait for him to talk again. You rush out of the doors, and the words he catches aren’t meant for him:

“Dana, please help Dr. Abbot with the ice pack.”

He hears her coming in and he’s almost ashamed to look — Dana meets his gaze with arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head in disapproval. She doesn’t say a thing and puts ice on his nose with a face that looks like she would rather punch him. Jack doesn’t even try to come up with excuses — he knows that he has none.

He fails to find you after the shift ends: you must’ve sneaked out to avoid him, and he can’t say that he’s surprised. Jack walks home in the rain, not bothering to open the umbrella, the street lights drowning in the puddles underfoot, the wind biting his wet face. He can barely feel it. And in the privacy of his apartment — a cold, half-empty space, walls void of any color — a thought that has been lurking in his mind finally takes shape:

Jack loathes being alone.

And he messed up so badly.

🎵 the title is a quote from Tom Odell’s “Can’t pretend” (the song is just so Jack-coded to me! highly recommend you give it a listen. the small part from 1:29 to 1:49 gives me heart palpitations and is very fitting for this chapter lol).

by “rivals” I meant it’s all in Jack’s head, he’s silly like that 😩 you’ll learn about the reader’s past in the next chapter!

I didn’t specify how big the age gap is exactly. google search told me you get into residency when you are in your 30s, and Abbot is def over 40. but some like to imagine the reader younger, so I didn’t want to ruin that for you.

there are definitely some medical inaccuracies (pretty sure ex-lap isn’t performed in the ER) but I am begging you to ignore that.

dividers by me & plum98.

» I plan on writing 3 parts in total (a prayer circle for my inspiration to stay with me, PLEASE). of course, there will be smut... they just have to learn how to talk to each other first. » read on AO3 » English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated! tell me if you want to be tagged ♡

[a-asterias]

bias.

— jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (reader is late 20s, jack is mid-40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, character harassment (from an original male character), mentions of grief, mentions of jack's late wife, mentions of racism against staff, sexual content (mild), mentions of death, protective jack abbot, medical inaccuracies, mentions of needles, these two taking care of each other without realizing, ohio slander (srry!)

— word count: 11k

— summary: A week on the floor with Dr. Jack Abbot. Or: The multiple shifts in which Dr. Abbot's bias towards you shows.

SHIFT ONE, Sun-Mon, 4:15 AM:

“Did you tell Reno you were going to shove your foot up his ass?”

You pause your charting at the rolling cart outside of North 12 and look over your shoulder. 

Jack stands behind you, arms crossed, with a raised brow and his lips pulled thin. Not sternly— you're familiar with what that looks like, have been on the receiving end of that a few times. This is a tempered concern, one he pushes down lest he get too involved.

“Yep.” You answer, simply. You return to your charting, fingers clacking loudly on the keyboard as the truth buoys in the air. 

He huffs a breath, heavy. An attempt to roll out the strife that comes with the burden of being an attending. “You trying to make my Monday shitty?”

“Trying to keep you on your toes, old man.” You return.

He steps in beside you, leaning his good shoulder against the wall as he faces you. He keeps his gaze beyond you, scanning the movements of the ER.

“You wanna tell me why?”

“I don’t think you want to know.”

“I don’t.” He agrees. 

“So, why are you asking?”

“Morbid curiosity.” He admits, dryly. Hazel eyes fall to you, swimming with a suppressed amusement that only a poet could accurately describe. “And he wants me to write you up.”

A sigh escaped your mouth, heavy and inconvenienced. You turn to him. “He told Anna Maria to spend less time speaking ‘her language’ and more time speaking ‘ours’ so she could fulfill his orders.”

His lips flick downward, heat infusing with the twitch. “You see it?”

“No. Caught her in the stairwell crying and she told me. Apparently, he’s been picking at her all night. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t the first one he said this to. So, I told him if I ever see him speaking like that to one of my nurses I’d take him to the parking lot and shove my foot up his ass.”

Jack nods. It’s weighty and slow as he digests your words, but there is otherwise no conflict on his face. The heat from before extinguishing. No shade change, no visible opinion. Resolute, resound, completely normal, when he says, without much effect, “Okay.”

The typical smart quip dry remark remains nowhere to be found.

He steps away from you and walks the short distance to the front desk and settles behind it. You watch him quietly, clueless as he grabs a post-it note from behind the desk and a pen from the cupholder and begins writing something. Completely unable to read the man.

“Okay?” You probe, drawing closer to him. 

“I believe you.” He says. 

A beat passes, filled with the low hum of the moving ER and the faint sound of his pen scratching on the paper. He puts the pen back into the cup holder then folds the paper up, tucking it into the breast pocket of his scrubs. It’s a simple thing yet the charged silence makes it feel like a great epic.

The fated paper written on account of your words. His face makes no betrayal of its contents. Even in your own obvious glance down to the paper then to his eyes, he makes no movement to provide clarity.

“I’m not apologizing.” You say after a minute. 

“I didn’t ask you to.” Jack tilts his head to the side. “Would’ve done the same damn thing.”

Silence stretches, long and heavy as your eyes hold on his.

“I don’t like him.” You explain, as if that could help anything. Jack nods and this time you understand it to be one of agreement. 

There’s no doubt of the new transfer’s value as a knowledgeable doctor, just as there is no doubt that PTMC needs another night shift doctor on the rotations. But within those resounding truths comes another of equal importance.

Dr. Maxwell Reno, the new fellow on the floor transferred from Cleveland three months ago, is a dick.

“Neither do I. But I don’t like anybody.” A flicker of understanding sparks in his eyes. “I’d pay good money to see you take him in the parking lot, though.”

A smile finally breaks onto your face. “Give me Friday off and I’ll do it right here.”

“Yeah, and get stuck with paperwork? Try again, city girl.”

“Worth a shot.” You shrug and he shakes his head. Only a slight downturned smile gracing his face..

A steadied quiet fills the space. The ER only slightly awake tonight with the small troubles. A young boy who had fallen off his bunk bed, a teenager on fluids from a stress induced migraine, and some other small plights that have trickled onto the floor. It’s hardly ever like this, the forbidden “quiet”. Usually a storm falls in shortly after but tonight, the quiet has been just that. Quiet.  

There’s a slight wariness in everyone, the other shoe dangling from the ceiling that everyone keeps glancing to. Waiting for it to teeter, maybe even thud violently against the floor. And yet, nothing. For once, it’s a nice thing to wade into, because it leads to moments like this. Pleasant exchanges and generous smiles from the man usually averse to those.

“I can tell Anna Maria to come talk to you.” You supply, only to make his life easier. 

He shrugs, considering it. “Sure, only if she wants to. But you handled it. Should be fine.”

“You gonna do it?”

“Write you up?” He asks. You nod.

He walks around the front desk, his slow gait bringing him before you. “Do I look like a school principal?”

“Grey hair had me convinced.”

He glares. The edge of your grin cracks wider. “I can’t professionally condone fellow-on-fellow crime—”

“—You have got to stop hanging with Shen—” 

“—but you’re my only brawler on the floor and we’re running low on those. So no.”

“Brawler? It was one time!”

“You tackling that 37-year-old meth addict is a fan favorite.”

“Is that why you’re keeping me around?”

“It’s not because of your suturing, I can tell you that.” He leans comfortably against the desk, and for all the quiet murmurs that have gone around about Jack and his hard sarcasm and no-bullshit attitude, he is wildly comfortable in this moment. Eased, despite the constant glancing at the other shoe. Joking, at your expense. As he settles into an easy tease and his body relaxes, you find that you don’t mind him poking at you all that much. Not if it gets him like this.

You raise a brow at the mention. “Didn’t realize you all were thinking about it that much.”

“Every night before bed. Your screams help me sleep.”

You hit his arm playfully. “You’re so morbid.”

“Wait ‘til you see what I use to meditate.” 

You feel, then, the tingling sensation of an audience on you. Glancing up, you see the quick scurrying of some nurses pretending to be occupied. The whites of their eyes seen at the very last second, just as they pull their stares away from the quiet moment. 

“You should get out of here before the peanut gallery starts accusing you of bias.” There’s a thrum of dismay that pulses through you at the suggestion. The feeling of a good moment ending that you unknowingly try to cling on to. You stampen it out before the possibility of it shows on your face. 

“Bias? Of what? I don’t like you that much.” The tone is dry, wholly Jack, and yet his eyes make home to a low burning whim of trouble like it always belonged there. “If anyone says anything, I’ll just take it from the expert and shove my foot up their ass.” 

He taps his hand on your desk, a finalizing drum before he departs. 

“Hopefully the metal one.” You call after his retreating figure.

“You know it.” He says without looking back.

The sound of your laugh resounds through the halls.

SHIFT TWO, Mon-Tues, 9:17 PM:

Meredith Sakman, a 67-year old woman who fell off her kitchen chair as she was trying to clean her kitchen light, sits before you in the examination room as you suture the superficial laceration sustained to the right side of her head.

Her hands, wrinkled with age and wisdom, fiddle with each other incessantly. Passing from twiddling with her wedding ring to drumming on her thighs as you weave thread through skin.

Sensing her discomfort, you fill the space. “So, Mrs. Sakman—how long have you been married?”

She seems startled out of the fog of her head, ”Oh, uh, 42 years.”

“Wow. Congratulations.” You hum, sincerely. “What’s the secret?”

“I don’t know. All these years and he’s still the person I look for when I walk into a room.”

“Must be an outstanding man.”

“When he wants to be. He’s a little bit of a grouch, but he makes me laugh.” She laughs, and the wistfulness of her voice grounds the room. You smile inadvertently at the details of her love.

 “Are you dating anyone?” She asks curiously, just as your forceps tie one end of the suture.

“Uh, no. I am not.” Saying it isn’t a confession of fault. It’s fact. 

The priority has always been your career. School first to get you to the good job that can get you to the rest of your life. You weren’t made for much of the troublesome youth, a fortunate detail your parents never took for granted. Smart head on your shoulders that got you the New York residency for three years, that led you to pursue the Pittsburgh EM fellowship—year one of two already knocked off your belt. 

Dating—as desirous as it could be on the lonely nights—didn’t fit much into that picture. The type of men that were interested in dating you didn’t fit into that picture. 

“Well that’s odd.” Mrs. Sakman heaves, truly stunned by your admission. “You’re a beautiful young woman. And a doctor. They should be rushing to snatch you up.”

“Well, you know. Guys my age tend to find that intimidating and often can’t measure up.” You explain simply and the older woman scoffs. 

“You need an older man.” She smiles knowingly. “One who knows a couple of things and can be your match. I’ve had my fair share of them and they were quite the memories.”

You don’t settle too long on her words, no matter how much you agree with them. Have always been told that you needed someone mature, like you. 

You move on. “I bet you were a hot gun back in the day.”

“Still am, sweetheart.” She giggles. “You know, my son is single.”

You give her a deadpan stare from above, halting the thread of your needle to meet her gaze. 

“Mrs. Sakman—“ You scold and she holds her hands up in defense.

“He’s a very smart man! Has his own accounting firm, very sweet and I’m not saying that because he’s my son. He’s 40 and you’d make a good match. And with that face of yours, you’d give me beautiful grand babies.”

You laugh, tying up the final knot in the suture and setting the forceps on the cart beside you. The excess thread is cut off with your scissors. “Unfortunately, I’m not in the habit of dating anyone related to my patients.”

“Then I’d like to see another doctor, please. So that way I’m not your patient.”

You shake your head with a smile. “You are a trip, Mrs. Sakman.”

The exam room settles into a comfortable silence, filled with the overheard sounds of the life of the ER around you. The small chatter in the curtained room beside you, the hum of machines, the occasional shout or laugh from the nurses desk. 

Just as you finish up your dutiful matters to her laceration, slipping the gloves off and directing your attention to her to explain proper suture care—

—she’s calling out to someone over your shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir! Can you be my doctor?”

Turning around, you see Jack is caught mid-stride walking past your room. His face scrunches in concern. 

“Everything alright?”

“Mrs. Sakman—“ You begin hastily, mortification burning through you as he steps into the enclosed space. 

Mrs. Sakman, in her rosy glory, plows on. Meeting the man with an effervescent grin that gives no cause for caution. “Oh yes, your doctor here is lovely and has taken such good care of me, but I’d like you to be my doctor.”

A brow raises, his eyes flicking to yours for explanation. 

You flounder for a moment, your mouth opening and closing repeatedly. The chagrin you feel is red hot and there is little hope that it doesn’t reflect obviously in your face.

“Dr. Abbot—” You sigh, begrudgingly, fingers at your forehead as you try to rub the embarrassment away, “Mrs. Sakman is trying to set me up with her son but as I said, I do not date relatives of my patients.”

“Ah.” He takes the information in stride, nodding his head with latent interest. Cool, calm, and collected while you fluster over the discussion of your dating life.“You trying to take one of my doctors from me, Mrs. Sakman?”

“If you’ll let me.” She smiles

“You don’t have to put your son through that torture. Order me a pastrami deli sandwich and I’ll give her to you for free.” Jack tilts his head to the side, grabbing a pair of gloves from the wall. He pointedly ignores the loud offended gasp you emit. 

“Let’s take a look at you.” Sliding the gloves on and stepping up beside the older woman, he begins a gentle survey of the laceration. Fingers slightly touching the wound, turning his head this way and that in review. 

“Sutures look good. CT clean?”

“Not even a hairline fracture.” You present, “She’ll be tired, maybe a bit dizzy, but otherwise she’s good. Anticoagulants have been prescribed along with tylenol for the next couple of days. Gonna keep her for another hour for observation before discharge with a wonderful guide on how to clean her sutures.”

“Good.” Jack nods. “Well, unfortunately, Mrs. Sakman, there’s not much more for me to do that your current doctor hasn’t. So you will have to stay in her care.”

“You can’t make an exception for a poor woman?” She sweetens. 

“Your flirtations won’t work on me, young lady.” He issues, low and exceptionally playful.

Mrs. Sakman giggles akin to a teenage girl, her face turning rosy as she waves Jack away. 

“Besides—” Hie head gestures to you as he speaks to Mrs. Sakman, “—we call this one Rambo behind her back. We give her up, we gotta spend more money on security and that’ll come out of my paycheck.” 

Jack takes off his gloves and tosses them into the bin, giving you a long, knowing look. Mirthful and wry, it holds against your dry, scolding one. Waiting for you to make a rebuttal, calculating the moves and ways it would come out of your mouth for him to counter. You anticipate it, depriving him of the reaction that he’s looking for despite the way his eyes dig into yours, searching for it. Looking like he couldn’t stop looking for it, like it would make his whole night if you just caved.

You stick your tongue in your cheek and he watches, fixated—the ghost of amusement casting over his face as he sidesteps you by the curtain’s opening. 

Your eyes trail after him, doing so well in withholding until he tilts his head at you. Beckoning. Your lips quirk upward then, and it’s all he needs.  

He breaks the prolonged charge with a sweet goodbye to your patient. “Have a good night, Mrs. Sakman.” Then, to you, he innocently says. “Holler if you need me.”

And then he’s gone, leaving from whence he came. The crater of his weighty presence settles in the room. 

You turn to Mrs. Sakman, with a shake of your head and an exasperated smile on your face. “And that is why you don’t want Dr. Abbot as your doctor.”

“Is he seeing anyone?” She laughs. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a daughter you want to set up, too.” You admonish.

“No. But you should pursue that one. That look, I’ve seen that before.”

It’s a splash of cold water over the heat that was simmering within you. At the embarrassment, at his teasing. A voiced thought that has no place for existence in this room—in this department, in this moment, in your life.

(A voiced thought that has infiltrated your own a time or two. That has wiggled its titillating fingers into the wayward dream, made a mountain out of a molehill, leaving your chest heaving, your thighs clenching, and the thought of Jack Abbot vivid on your mind.)

You push on, clearing your throat and detouring before your embarrassment escalates to humiliation. “Alright, Mrs. Sakman. I’m going to print out a guide for you that tells you how to take care of your sutures.” 

“I’m serious. Rules be damned, life’s too short. And he’s too handsome.” She insists just as you mean to step out of the exam room. You see only sincerity and genuity in her features. “I can see you with someone like him.”

Your mouth opens to find a response only to be met with the drying of your tongue. Words suddenly hard to connect, meaning difficult to find. 

Finally, with little resolve and even less polish, you mutter, “Be back soon.”

SHIFT THREE, Tues-Wed, 12:05 AM

“Hey! You think you can take my shift, sunshine?”

Ellis’ voice stops you from your walk from the bathroom and into the break room where she and Hilly gaze curiously back at you. The resident and the nurse are two of your favorites on the night shift, stopping for them is akin to stopping for air. 

“Rambo, brawler, sunshine. I’m getting all the nicknames this week.” You lean against the doorframe, peering at the two women who smile easily at you. “When?”

“Next Tuesday.”

“Can’t. I’ll be on vacation.” You tell her with pity. 

“Oh shit.” Her voice is light despite the disappointment. A welcome refresh on the night shift. “Where you going?”

“Florida.” The excitement is barely contained in your words. The prospect of a long vacation—away from the noise, away from the stress, away from disinfectant and in the sun—is a long overdue one. That excitement is shattered upon Hilly and Parker’s audible groan of disgust. Your mouth drops in shock as you defend. “I’m visiting my sister!”

“Don’t get eaten by a gator.” Hilly mumbles.

“Or a disney adult.” Parker pokes and you roll your eyes.

“I will be at the beach, thank you very much. A whole week with a piña colada in my hand and a tiny bikini on.”

Parker stands from her seat at the break table and fills up her thermos from a water bottle in the fridge. “If you come back with sun poisoning, I’m gonna laugh.”

“I’m a pro at tanning.” You insist. 

She raises a brow. “Even with a tiny bikini on?”

“Especially with a tiny bikini on.” You assert. 

She shrugs with a smile. “We’ll see.” 

“Talk to Abbot.” You tell her, returning back to the topic, “He might cover it.”

It’s almost comical the way Parker and Hilly’s faces scrunch in unanimous uncertainty. 

“Not today.” Ellis says. 

“It’s one of those days.” Hilly supplements. You nod in understanding, not entirely faulting the reasoning. Warnings were issued throughout the crew the minute the shift started. Steer clear. Dr. Abbot woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. 

Or maybe he didn’t sleep at all.

“Unless you wanna ask him for me?” Ellis counters, curiously.

Your brows furrow. “Why me?”

“Because you would get a much different answer than I would get.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” You insist, off put by the implication that you have any kind of weight to you in respect to Jack. Jack doesn’t lean on anything, for anyone. He doesn’t waver, he doesn’t reconsider. He’s a straight shooter, calling things like he sees it, having answers before the situation even arises.

If anything, your familiarity and comfortability with him makes you more prone to being at the short end of his sticks. Voluntold for things less than appealing—like picking up more shifts, by his steadfast hand.

“He’d say the same thing to me that he would to you.”

Hilly and Parker, in another feat of supernatural alignment, look at one another. A silent discussion translated in the look before they return to you.

“Sure.” Hilly nods. 

“Whatever you say.” Ellis supports. Your guffaw is met with Hilly’s boisterous giggles. 

That is, until her laughter is unceremoniously shot dead. An arrow to the heart, a quick and frigid silence encompassing the room. A glance at her reveals widened eyes fixated on something over your shoulder. 

The man in question stands behind you, lips in a thin line as his gaze bounces between the three of you. 

“Are we a hospital or a talk show, now?”

The two women quickly make their excuses, shuffling out of the room in a speed remarkably unlike either of them.

“Nope, on the way out now—”

“—I just remembered I’m so busy—”

Leaving only the two of you to occupy the break room. You half expect him to throw a comment out to you, expelling you back to the trenches of the ER but he doesn’t. He steps into the room with a low mutter. Unintelligible and gruff, resounding of the ire that has become him since the night started. 

The smell of his aftershave wafts past you. A cool mist twined with a musk. Inexplicably, him. Resonant of the stoic confidence that emanates off of him. Resounding man.

He’s tense as he approaches the counter, pulling a mug out of the cupboard and flicking on the coffee machine. It’s visible in the way he carries himself. The stance of a soldier back on war grounds, eyes skirting, glancing over his shoulder, listening for something. Not the sound of an incoming ambulance, not the sound of an intern struggling during a procedure. Something almost quiet, imperceptible. Known only to him, familiar to the memories that live in the lines of his face. A call with no name. 

A call that will bring back all that he’s lost. 

“Ellis needs her shift covered next Tuesday.” You toss the test balloon out, wondering if it’s enough of that kind of day for him to shoot it down with a precise blow dart or if there’s enough gentility in him to at least let it float by. 

“Sounds like an Ellis problem.” He mumbles.

“Just throwing it out there. In case you happen to have a solution.”

He looks over his shoulder, his eyes clearly bounce between yours, digging for a moment, before he turns his attention back to the coffee machine. 

“I’ll see.”

Floating by, it is.

“Everything good?” You ask his turned figure. Stepping further into the minefield, seeing what lands, which foot you place will step on the mine. “You’ve been working all week.” 

He snorts, but there’s no humor to be found. “So have you.”

“Yeah, but I’m off for a week starting Saturday. When are you off?”

”Saturday.”

A quiet hangs in the air, filled with your expectancy. ”…that’s it?”

“And Monday.”

“You need more than that.” 

One shoulder raises in a shrug. The smell of ground coffee fills the air as the pot bubbles to toil with the brew. Nothing particularly interesting and yet his attention is fixated. “Not dead yet.”

You hum, suspicious enough. “Rough night?” 

“What makes you say that?” 

The edge to his tone, that’s identical to the edge in his posture, that’s exactly like the edge in his attitude. Any and all of the above.

“You’re wired, today.” 

The observation isn’t groundbreaking. It doesn’t shatter windows, or break the sound barrier. It is a recognized truth that sits in the air with little disruption. He says nothing. Only pours the pot of black coffee into his mug. 

He’s not wearing his ring. 

The black one that has stayed permanently fixed on his left hand, third finger. 

There’s only been a handful of shifts in your year at PTMC that you’ve seen him without it—and they all felt like this. Rough. Tense. Like someone is one misstep away from receiving the glare that maims the career.  

It’s not a secret that Dr. Abbot lost his wife to cancer a few years after he was medically discharged from the Army. Just the mythology that lingers in the air like antiseptic. It’s easy to piece together that the days of his rigidity happen to coincide with whether or not his ring is on. 

And maybe that’s why you’ve been able to gravitate towards him. Not out of pity, but understanding. Respect. Admiration. Anyone with two eyes can tell that Jack carries himself with a significant weight—a testament to the life he’s lived, all that he has learned and lost. It’s a quiet confidence, an assumed burden that shows in his gait. A shining light that draws the helpless to him.

It’s hard to not be drawn to someone like him. 

So, you try. Out of some loose notion of affinity, respect, out of some desire to give back, you push where you know you probably shouldn’t. 

“You know…if you ever want to talk— about life, your day, what you ate this morning, something stupid you saw—” Your voice falters, hesitant for a moment before you find your steel commitment and push. “—grief. You can always talk to me. I’m here. At work. Out of work.”

His body goes still. Rigid. And stupidly, you wonder if this was the call he was listening for.  

“I won’t pretend to know. But, I can listen. If you want me to. Just ask.”

You don’t think he’ll ever take you up on it. In fact, it’s laughable to think that your attending—the man leagues above you in experience, and knowledge, and wisdom, would willingly stoop down to his fellow’s standing and talk about his feelings. Men like him compartmentalize. It’s what makes him an excellent doctor. The immovable rock under the beating current of the river. The beacon in a rushing trauma room.

But a foolish part of you tries because… well, because you want to. 

Because it’s Jack, at the end of the day. Battlin’ Jack with the edge in his eyes and the razor on his tongue. The first one you look for in a busy operating room, the last one you spot as you're packing up for the night.

Hazel eyes turn over his shoulder and find their spot on you with immediate precision. Boring a hole into you. Analyzing, configuring, understanding. He stares at you, in a charged stillness, almost like he were doing all three things at once and coming up empty on whatever he was trying to find.  

“…Sure.” 

You understand in the hesitancy that there is something hidden that he’s not wanting to share. You try to reason that his answer, as vague as vague comes, is a good thing, if only to save yourself from the disappointment of realizing that your attempt for connection has met a stoned wall. His words ring of finality, his signal to end the conversation. 

It’s here where the berth between you two feels so enormous, the difference in your stages of life. Not in the quips of the shifts, not in the jests of your being his junior and your teases of his age. Not when you’re beside him manning a procedure and working in tandem with the makings of a well-oiled machine as though you were always meant to work with him. But here, where you catch Jack in the hush and see glimpses of the man under the doctor is where the reminder is so pointed.

Signed, sealed, and delivered with red tape in your line of sight. Caution, written in his crow’s feet. Tread lightly, in the wrinkle of his smile lines. Warnings you should heed.

And yet, keep pushing, echoes in the beat of your heart. 

You nod, a small, resigned smile crossing your face. Leaving well enough alone. 

“Okay.” Tapping a hand against the doorway, you begin to take your leave from the room.

“Oh!” You stop yourself, turning back to him only to find that his eyes are still trained on you. “Uh, your patient in fourteen said he was experiencing a burning sensation in his penis when I walked by.”

“He’s in for heartburn from eating a shit ton of takis.” He says, diffident. 

“Guess he didn’t lick all the dust off his fingers.” You shrug. 

“Sounds like it.”

You take your leave and in the wake of your absence, Jack takes a harrowing breath.

His therapist’s voice lingers in his head. 

Doesn’t have to be the whole fleet. Doesn’t have to be announced. Just one is enough. Just a status update is all they need. All you need.

And maybe it's because he knows the sincerity behind your words, the invitation doesn’t feel like a hanging noose like it usually does. The prospect of talking about it—giving the status update—is akin to a standing death sentence for a man like him. Giving the unnamed a name, voicing it into existence, giving it the power to consume. 

He’s getting better at it. Giving the small doses in the official setting, where it's him, four beige walls, and a man with a PhD. Taking it outside of there, though, is still the battling challenge.

But—when you say it, when you offer—  

He pushes past it, doesn’t try to think too hard about it. Stocks it up on a shelf out of reach. Something to handle later, to forget about when he remembers to toss it out. Or, if the mood catches him just right in the safety of Dr. Mott’s office, he’ll bring it up. Discuss what it means, what he should do about it.

He doesn’t know. Only knows that a door has been left ajar, breadcrumbs of care and comfort leading a trail through and to you. Cracked open by your gentle hand.

Only knows that in the dormant hold of a wounded man and the slow becoming of a new one that he’s pushing himself to, Jack finds himself feeling the faint pang of hunger for something other than self-inflicted guilt and shame.

He eyes the breadcrumbs you left behind. Wondering, deep in the recesses of his conflicted mind, how they would taste.

He chugs his coffee, burns the taste buds on the tip of his tongue. Hopes that it erodes the want right where it began, cripples the potential to even try.

(It doesn’t.)

Thurs-Fri, 11:35 PM:

Jack is two forearms deep in the cracked thoracic cavity of an intubated 46-year old woman performing an EDT when the doors to Trauma One open. 

“Dr. Abbot, can I speak to you?” Dr. Reno, communal night shift’s bane of existence and general nuisance, shouts into the operating room. 

Jack has no more of an issue with the man than he does with anyone from Ohio—a general sense of pity coupled with a scrutinized squint of the eyes at some unsavory opinions that tend to come from the Buckeyes, particularly when the Steelers are playing—but the general opinion of the team’s feelings are not lost on him. 

He’s heard the whispers, seen the way the crowd parts like the Red Sea when the man is around. Jack keeps his head down, for the most part. He’s not Robby. Aside from the general check-in and check-out, he doesn’t want to manage people. Personalities exist, but they don’t matter in the heat of the moment. He leaves them be, pointedly making quirks and general tendencies a side effect of the job. Pointedly makes it not his business.

Until it is.

“Don’t know if you have eyes, Reno, but I’m kind of busy.” Jack responds, quick and cool, before turning his attention to Ellis’s intubation, “Drop the left lung and pump another three CC’s. Pericardium is getting cut.”

“Find me after.” Reno says briskly, the doors shutting loudly. 

Something vile and uncouth springs to his mind, annoyance cutting through Jack like a stabbing knife at the summoning. Something inappropriate, unprofessional, mildly threatening on a good day. Its sentiment is met in equal parts with Ellis’ mumble of “dick” which only makes Jack feel slightly better. 

Scissors cut through the thin wall of the heart’s membrane and quickly spot the torn ventricle that’s spouting blood profusely. 

“Found our geyser.” Plugging the hole shut with his finger into the rupture, he looks over to Walsh. “Ready to stop twiddling your thumbs, Dr. Walsh?”

“About time.” She rebuts, moving in beside him and beginning the suturing of the heart. 

Then a moment later, as her forceps pull thread through delicate tissue, she says, “You should handle that.”

He doesn’t need clarification to know what she means. “And you should handle this.”

“I’m doing my job.” She pushes. “Do yours.”

12:05 AM

“I’m concerned about your other fellow.”

If time could be rewound, he’d go back to this morning and let the phone ring into oblivion. Ignore the call asking him to come in tonight and spend the rest of his day watching the Pirates play the Yankees. Would rather watch his team get their asses handed to them than have this conversation—knowing where it’s going, knowing who it's about. The regret of his decisions only grates him further.

Dr. Abbot doesn’t find Dr. Reno. Dr. Reno finds Dr. Abbot—contrary to the directive that interrupted the procedure in South-13.

Just as he’s stepping out of the OR and chucking his bloodied gloves into the trash bin, Maxwell is on him without preamble. That stabbing feeling—the unabated annoyance— creeps up his neck like a fucking burn. So much so that Jack has to roll it out before even looking at the new fellow. 

His eyes flick to the man, deeply unimpressed at how dogged the man appears to be. He continues his path towards the workstation. Dr. Reno follows after him, quick on his heels. 

“Her charts and prescriptions are suspect.”

“What, is there not enough work, man? You’re reading other doctors’ charting notes?”

“She and I have disagreed too often about standards of care.”

“Then leave it as a disagreement and move on.”

“Just—” Dr. Reno grabs onto Jack’s arm, halting him in place. It earns the man a putrid glare, Jack’s eyes boring into the hand that lingers on his bicep until Dr. Reno takes the hint and quickly removes it. “—look at it, Dr. Abbot. I’m concerned.”

Reno holds out a folder, one that Jack fights the urge to grab and chuck across the ER. There are no niceties when Jack takes it, his ire blatant as he yanks the folder from the man’s hand. 

Your name is the first thing he sees on the document. A usual tender, easing thing within him that Jack refuses to draw attention to—the sight of your name below his on the schedule set for the same shift, the pop-up notification of your name in the work group chat whenever you send a text. Something he would continue to dutifully ignore were it not for the fact that the notes labeled as “suspect” are notes you’ve made on a patient dated a week and a half ago. 

He scans the timeline, red quickly filling his vision. Steel becomes him the minute his gaze flicks up to Reno, finding the man looking back at him expectantly.

“This is your smoking gun? Really?” Reno nods, emphatically. Jack grits his teeth. “Get back to work, Maxwell.”

“The patient was coughing up blood and complained of chest pain. CT confirmed it was a pulmonary embolism which should’ve resulted in a cardiac catheterization.” Reno insists, bulldozing past the point of professional restraint.

“Not if it wasn’t severe enough.”

“It was enough for the patient to be transferred for admission and OR to take care of it. This is a clear case of delay in proper care.”

“You’re upset that one of our doctors isn’t trigger happy with a knife? That she—” Jack looks to the chart record again, spotting a note that makes him more irritated, “That she correctly prescribed and provided anticoagulants that reduced patient discomfort and clearly instructed the patient to follow up with their PCP the next day.”

“And him being on the schedule for the upstairs OR today?”

“A week and a half after the patient’s visit to the ER. Clearly not admitted through us and yet treated in our hospital. Wonder what that could mean.” Jack bites sarcastically. “Oh yeah, that the patient followed up with their PCP and it was decided to remove the clot.”

“Dr. Abbot—“

“Stop following up on other doctors' charts. Focus on your patients. And don’t bother me with this shit again unless it's serious.” The folder is shoved unceremoniously into Reno’s chest. “Whatever beef you got against her, don’t bring it to my floor.”

It’s when Jack is halfway down the hall that another remark is called out.

“I didn’t realize you were so biased.” 

His leg aches in the socket of his prosthetic, a sign of his lowering threshold. The pulse of blood felt worse in the stub more than anywhere else. Turning, his eyes narrow.

“Excuse me?”

”You should’ve written her up. You know you should’ve.” Reno explains as Jack steps—stalks—closer. “It was a threat against another doctor. Management won’t be happy that you’ve overlooked it.”

Abbot stands before him, his chin tilting up just as his jaw clenches. “I didn’t overlook anything. I’m well aware of what happened and I’m choosing to handle it differently.” 

“You handled it wrong.”

Jack's eyes narrow. A long steadied exhale is released, like a bull catching sight of the red. “You caught me on a good day. Take a walk, Dr. Reno. If you can’t be a team player and get your shit on straight, then consider this permission to get out of the ER for the night. Your choice.”

“You can’t—“

“Make. Your choice. Before I make it for you.” 

12:17 AM

You’re on the back of a motorcycle with the wind in your hair when a phone call interrupts. Opening your eyes is like pulling yourself out of tar, but the caller ID does the hard work of taking you out of the depths of your REM cycle.

“Hello?” You ask, voice groggy and tired. 

“Sorry to be calling you so late. I know it’s your day off.” Hilly’s voice sounds on the other end of the phone. “Any chance you can come in and work an 8-hour?”

“Why? What’s going on?” You’re already sitting up in your bed, the decision to head into work practically made. 

“Reno had to head out for an emergency. We’re short one.” 

“Oh shit.” You mutter. You raise the heel of your palm to rub into your eye. “I didn’t realize I was next on the rotation.”

“You aren’t. Dr. Abbot asked for you.”

If the decision wasn’t made before, it was made now. “I’ll be there in thirty.”

“You’re the best.” Over the line, you hear from a familiar but faint voice in the background, “She coming in?”

“Yes!” Hilly calls, before turning her attention to you. “Dr. Abbot gave a thumbs up, but it was a grateful one. I can tell.”

12:52 PM

“What took you so long?” Jack calls over his shoulder, seemingly already knowing you’ve entered the ER without even glancing backward. 

You watch as the back of his head tilts up to the status board, then back down to his notes. You saddle up beside him, placing your bag onto the nurses desk for shoving into a locker later and lean against the workstation. 

“Yankees beat Pirates ten to four. I should be out on the town. You’re lucky I’m here at all.” You push back and he tuts, annoyed. Whether at you or the game, you’re unsure, but it brings a smile to your face. 

You peer into his notes. If he minds, he makes no visible sign of it.

“I’m delighted, truly. Nothing screams lucky more than watching the unit crash and burn while we wait for you to grace us with your presence.” He retorts, but there’s no venom to his bite. 

“You’re smart, Dr. Abbot. You can handle it.”

”Yeah? Then what do we pay you for?”

“PTMC needed the city flair.” You smile widely at him. 

“The shitty one?”

“The New York state of mind. The wins and all. You’ll understand when the Pirates finally fix their offense in the outfield.” 

“Don’t forget the stellar humility.” He hums, noncommittal. “And leave the Buccos out of this.”

You tilt your head at him. “You don’t like me because I’m humble.”

“Like implies affection.” He replies, easily. “Tolerate is more accurate, city girl.”

“Whatever you say, old man.” You sigh. “I get to leave early tomorrow though, right?”

“Extortion.”

“Tit for tat.” 

An announcement rings over the intercom. An inbound GSW, four minutes out. The room turns then, those settling in the front half of the floor preparing in an orchestrated chaos for the arrival. Jack grabs a pair of gloves from the box affixed to the wall, tossing them over to you before grabbing and slipping on his own. Jack finally looks over to you, his eyes doing a quick once over of you before he settles back on your face—readied, but easy. 

Seamless and still anticipation constructing your features, determination filtering in through the artful weave of your calmness. You stand sliding gloves onto your hands welcoming the impending disaster like it were an old friend.

If there were nerves to be had on you, he couldn’t find them. 

It only compounds the ridiculousness of Reno from earlier. Only furthers Jack’s unwavering lack of doubt when it comes to you. You stand awaiting the incoming trauma like you hadn’t just woken up half an hour ago, like you’ve been standing beside Jack the entire night when it should be Reno, and relief hits him like a truck. 

A semi that’s caught him like a deer in the headlights, loosens the strain that’s fixed permanently in the column of his neck, makes the ache in his shoulder pointedly less. One held breath away from feeling. 

“Thanks for coming in.” He says, suddenly serious. 

Thanks for coming when I asked, he means.

It startles you, the turn. The unexpected stoop into sincerity. Eyes bounce between his, unaware of where it comes from. He stares back, unabashed with the earnest yet otherwise unreadable. 

Nonetheless, you take what he gives you. 

“Yeah. Of course.” There is equal genuinity in your voice. You nod your head, softly. “Anything you need.” 

He nods, once. Then turns to watch the loading bay doors. “Make me proud tonight and I’ll think about Friday.”

“Getting soft on me, Dr. Abbot.” You tease, but it holds no real feet to fire. It’s not ribbing, nor is it a condemnation. Just an observation that sits between you two like a shared secret.  

���Yeah, well.” Jack shakes his head, but there’s no concealing the way his lips twitch upward. You both decide to leave well enough alone.

Turning in time with him, you pull on his surgical gown and tie it at the back. He ties your own, his hand lingering on your back when he finishes.

SHIFT FOUR, Friday-Sat, 8:47 AM:

You don’t get to leave early. 

You take a sip from the porcelain mug of lukewarm coffee you’ve taken from the breakroom and continue your endless stare into the slow revival of the world. 

The dark of the sky begins to dilute with the morning rise, the cold breeze of the spring air a welcomed remedy to your flustered skin. The benches at the park beside the hospital are uncomfortable, pointedly so. The longer you sit, the further the aches in your back that made their wonderful appearance halfway through your shift demand your attention—but this is what you need. 

A tether to reality, a removal from the endless spirals of a hurried mind. A way for your feet to finally settle on the firm, stable ground. No running, no long stretches of standing, no burning in the flex of your calves. Just dirty sneakers on the gravel, feeling some semblance of stillness even as life begins to slowly wake up around you. Hands feeling the fading warmth of the drink you hold tightly.

Birds chirp melodically as streaks of orange break up the sky. Your chest starts to feel like it isn’t on the brink of collapse from the erratic beat of your heart. You can finally breathe. 

The new day, in. The old one, out. 

“It’s not the worst of vices to have, but a sixth cup of coffee is pretty drastic. Even for my standards.”

It’s rather difficult to align your inner chakras when Jack’s voice grows closer to you.

The heavy sigh you exhale conveys exactly how you feel about it. “I’m not in the mood, Jack.”

“First name, huh?” The sound of his voice is another stabbed knife into the pantheon of wounds that decorate you today. 

“Off the clock. Formalities be damned.” You return, annoyed.

He steps in beside you, his steadied gait and imposing figure filling your periphery. A vision cladded in black scrubs that you refuse to look at. He makes no further movement, surveying you with a neutral look on his face. Not a new thing from him, and certainly not for the first time it’s happened tonight. 

Jack has a staring problem. Always watching, hawk eyes knowing things before they reach his ears. A dutiful sentinel on the floor and the subject of the running joke you have with a few of the nurses about the amount of eyes he has on the back of his head. Lisa and Hilly think there’s at least four, one for each cardinal direction. You’ve got money on the table that there’s eight pairs, minimum.

It’s his job as attending to be tuned in to everything that happens on his shift but it’s uncanny the way he notices everything. 

(“Military.” Ellis had said simply, eyes focused on charting. 

“X-ray vision.” Shen chirped with a shrug and a sip of his iced coffee. You nodded in agreement.)

It’s not a hunch, or a theory, or a girlish fantasy to say that all eight pairs of Jack’s eyes were on you tonight. He appeared out of thin air when things went sideways on your cases. Seemingly easy patients turning chaotic within the blink of an eye and each time, he was there. Beating Ellis and Shen to the punch, pulling gloves over his hands and giving his assessment in steady confidence and simple authority as he fell into step beside you.

Assisting you with perfect timing the first two times your patients coded, leading the procedures for the next one, and taking over completely on the final one. 

With his backpack slung over his shoulder and his hand shoved in the pants of his scrubs, Jack does as he’s done all night long and stares at you. Deeply, intently, unnervingly. His face betraying no tangible thought as he keeps you within his line of sight. 

And just as you’ve done all night, you keep your gaze in front of you. Fixated on the park before you.

There’s no telling if he watches out of concern for your wellbeing or others. Determining if you were a complex puzzle needing to be solved or maybe a potential bomb needing to be diffused. 

He’s got a morbid connection to the latter. All the more reason for him to stay away. 

In standard Jack fashion, he doesn’t. 

“That bad, then.” His words are light, almost blasé. It fuels a fire that you were unsuccessfully trying to stampen out. 

You scoff. “Yeah. Pretty fucking bad.”

He moves, then. Shrugging his backpack off, he places it beside the bench and sits next to you. Close, too close. Out in the open and away from the confines of sterile white walls and yet you still feel like you’re cornered. Drowning in the nearness of him, in the substantial feel of his presence.

He takes a breath before finally saying, quietly, like a man trying to tame an angered animal, “It wasn’t personal—”

“Felt personal.” You bite back, bitterly.

“You were clouded.”

Finally, your head snaps to him. Disbelief furrows in your brows. “That’s bullshit.”  

Your heated and sharpened fury meets his stoic and anchored one, looking at him for the first time since you were pushed aside in trauma three. No betrayal of guilt resides in the lines of his face, only true honesty and sincerity. 

It only makes you angrier.

“You undermined me in the middle of a procedure. In front of interns, in front of residents. This isn’t my first time around the block, Jack. It was a resection. I can do those in my sleep and you know that. This was no different.” Your head shakes incredulously, the frustration surging forward with little reservation. And while the anger is there, simmering deep in every crevice of your words, pinching your lips and narrowing your eyes, the hurt bleeds through, try as you might to hold it back. 

“You might as well have just told the whole team you think I don’t know what I’m doing. That would’ve been infinitely better than telling me to step aside.”

The corner of Jack’s lips flick downward, a sign you’ve come to understand as his clear disagreement. They purse forward as he thinks for a second. Registering the extent of your words.  

He leans his elbows on his knees. Thinking for another moment, until he says, “This isn’t New York.”

Your head pulls back in offense. “What the hell does that mean?” 

“It means you’re not alone in a department doing drastic shit by yourself because you have to, anymore. You’re here, we’re a team and in case you forgot, you’re my senior fellow. My responsibility. And I’m not going to let you drown.” 

“I-I wasn’t drowning. I had cases, they got resolved and I moved onto the next one—”

“You had four codes today.” He interrupts. “You don’t just move on from that.” 

Your breath hitches. It’s the actualization of the heavy weight, the one that’s been sitting on your chest all night. Constricting your breath, keeping your feet moving, and hands fidgeting. Somewhere in between keeping your head down and switching from one patient to the next, it hadn’t registered that he would have tucked the information away as something other than a performance metric.

A stupid notion, one clearly without any semblance of thought, because it’s Jack. 

(The Jack you’ve had all week, the one who teases as a means to compliment, who has quietly deferred to you when questions arose during procedures, who has given approving looks from the doorway over the course of the week. Jack that has brought you coffee on random occasions when the lulls have kicked in, in the mug he knows belongs to you, the one you sip at now. Jack who knows you’ve entered a room before a word comes out of your mouth. 

Jack, who is both a breath of fresh air and the halting cause of your own when the hazel of his eyes fall on yours from across a hectic room. Concern etched in the irises, a quiet check-in, a quick review of your status, before moving on to the next thing.

Jack, Jack, Jack—whose name fits too well in your mouth, that you’re too keen to speak out loud just because you want to.)

He says the truth simply. Without blame, unlike the raging guilt that courses through you. Without lecture. Words uttered incredibly soft for a man forged from fire and brimstone. 

“None of them were easy and none of them were your fault. Just really bad fuckin’ luck that they landed on you. It’s enough to weigh on anyone.” 

“My day had nothing to do with that procedure. I’ve been through worse, I can handle it.” You lie, stubbornly.

“It had everything to do with it.” He continues, holding your gaze dutifully. As though he could stare his truth into you—make you physically see his meaning. “I saw that look in your eye. You were gonna hack at that man’s body if it meant a single chance of survival.”

“Because there was a chance, Jack. If you had just let me—“

“Sepsis from secondary peritonitis. The bowel was necrotic. There wasn’t.”

“Then let me find that out! You push Shen, you push Ellis, I’ve seen you push Mohan. I get one bad day and I’m treated with baby gloves? I get kicked off a procedure? I’m a fellow, Jack. I should’ve been allowed to do my job.”

“I push when there is something to learn. He was gone the minute he rolled in through those doors. There was nothing to learn in that.”

“So I get punished for wanting to try?”

“I stepped in because you weren’t doing it for the betterment of the patient, you were doing it for yourself.” 

He renders you speechless. Your face falls from tense anger to a shattered hurt. You fall against the backing of the bench with defeat. The throat tightens in that familiar way that it’s been doing all shift. Your eyes start to sting with the swell of tears that you try to swallow down, force away before they threaten to spill. 

Still, Jack watches. Assessing, preparing, readying himself for the fall that he’d seen coming from the beginning. 

“This isn’t a question about what you can do.” He says quietly, a whisper in the wind. A reassurance uttered in the safe space between you, broken only by your shuddering breaths. “You’ve been off kilter on me since you got that little girl. I get it. No one blames you for that. You went into this one hoping you could get a save after the ones you lost. And if you want to pretend there was a chance, fine. You can sleep knowing that I made the call on this one. That this falls on me. Not you.”

And you’re smart enough to read between those lines. 

It was never about competence. It was a staged intervention. Jack’s way to release some of the pressure off of the cooking chamber that has been you all day. To place part of your burden on his shoulders.

Making sure that the four codes you were responsible for tonight didn’t turn to five.

The heat of your bruised ego simmers low, water poured onto the embers and leaving a smoking ash of your tender and fragile heart. Heavy with the stress of today, fraying from the guilt that eats at you. You turn to him, your eyes red-rimmed and burning with unshed tears that only inch forward the minute you meet his gaze. 

His focus on you isn’t intimidating. It’s a familiar shroud of comfort, a soft place to land. He listens, watches, waits. Beckoning you into him, wanting you to let go. 

“It was just like New York again, Jack. It felt like everyone I touched died.” Your voice breaks at the admission. “I can handle it, you know, when it’s bad. It sucks, but I can put it away and keep going. But today it was—these were simple ones.”

Your breath catches when you feel him move closer to you, his thigh intentionally pressing into yours. Another tether to the ground. 

You rub your hands against your face roughly. “Like what— what do you mean I lost an eight-year old to pneumonia? That’s routine, we go through that all the time. I did a year in peds for fuck’s sake. I had her— for a second I had her.”

An incredulous laugh tumbles out of your mouth. Absurdity is hardly a humorous thing and yet, it escapes with the fall of a tear that you quickly wipe away. “Then it was the dad with the DVT who just dropped on me. He was ready to be discharged. I was on him for two hours and nothing.”

“Then the car accident came in and I—I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t shake them from me. It was just one after another. And I tried but…just wasn’t good enough.”

He interrupts quickly, leaning in close to you. His voice fusing with a well-meaning reprimand, “Don’t do that. That doesn’t do anyone any good.” 

You sigh, tearfully and look to him. He’s close, close enough in your space where his shoulder is touching yours and you see how the lines on his face deepen with his intentful stare into you. It only capitulates the need to fall. 

“I know Reno’s been looking at my charts. And I know he brought it up to you.” You tell him. The careful composition of the man made of stone fractures, then. Surprised, aggrieved, almost furious. “And I guess—I don’t know. When you told me to step aside, it felt like you were believing him a little bit.”

The speed in which he dissuades the thought is comforting. “That wasn’t what that was. That’s not why I took you out.”

“I know.” And you do. But it still felt like it. 

Jack shakes his head, drilling truth into you with an emphasis that could hardly be missed. Needing you to understand exactly what he meant. “Whatever Reno thinks about you, fuckin’ forget about it. It doesn’t matter—”

“I don’t care what he thinks. He’s an idiot. And he’s from Ohio.” You scoff. “I care what you think.”

It’s his turn to be rendered silent. Not out of shock or stupor—but at the need to hold back everything that creeps up in that moment. Tiny gospels that bang against the caverns of a hollowed heart, carved empty from the brutal grip of a world that has taken too much. Truths that beg to be let out. The unnamed that claws up the soft tissue of his throat that begs to be given a name, to be heard. 

The truth is that you had been thorough all night, fast on your feet, a helping hand where needed. A forceful hurricane blazing through the trauma bay with a proficiency that justified your standing as a fellow. And Jack had an eye on you all night not because you were cracking but because he had to make sure you were still standing. Still breathing. Not as part of his job but because—

He needed to. 

And the minute he saw the slight waver, saw the way it was beginning to seep into you, he became a man of two minds. No longer able to compartmentalize. His eyes focused on the patients in front of him, his ears attuned to the sound of your voice on the other side of the room. Listening to the rises and falls like a hymn, reverent in his pious focus.

How his only way to fix all that was wrong for you was to be involved himself—handle it himself. Wedge into the web of you that’s been stretched thin and mend the cracks, bring you back to steady and safe ground. 

Bring you back to him. 

He doesn’t say any of that. Restrains the flooding thoughts with a wrangled rope and ties it hard enough to cut circulation. Ties the yearning before it makes an ample fool out of everything. 

Instead, he goes for the standard. The known truth, the easy one that lives beneath the dry teases and offhand remarks. 

“If it matters that much, you knocked it out of the fuckin’ park today. You touched more patients today than anyone else on the floor, gave excellent care in the chaos. You did damn good, today.”

Your nod is empty, tired. Dry of any attempt at human dignity. And it humors you that just a few days ago you were the one offering him comfort. 

“How’d you know how many I was on?” You ask after a moment. 

“…I was keeping count.”

“Really?”

”You drink more when you’re stressed. Like caffeine will make you focus harder.” He huffs at the surprised look on your face. “Told you. You’re my responsibility.”

“MD, therapist, dietician, and babysitter.” The laugh that comes out of you is wet. You sniffle. “Sucks to be you.”

“Most days, but not today.” You huff out a laugh and his smile slants. He flicks his head to the side. “C’mon. You need to sleep. Florida’s calling your name, God knows why.”

He stands with a grunt, working out a knot in his neck before turning and holding a hand out to you. You take it, allowing him to lift you from the bench with your own pained sigh. 

You rub at the ache on your back. “I’ll try but I’m five coffees deep—“

“—six.” He corrects.

“Six.” You repeat, feeling gently warmed at his record keeping. “Don’t think my buzz is going to let me sleep. Try to get some shut eye for me, though.”

“Don’t waste your wish on me. I don’t sleep much.”

“Do—do you wanna get some breakfast, then? I just—” The words come out before you have much cognizance to reel them in. Exhaustion and guilt and all of its disarming siblings pushing the request out. “I’m not ready to go home yet.”

Just as they hit the air, you realize how silly it is. You don’t expect him to take you up on it—too aware of the gap, the existing berth that lives loudly in between you two. 

“Yeah. Of course.” He interrupts. Says it as sure as the air he breathes. Says it without hesitation and even less reservation. As if you couldn’t have asked anything more obvious. 

“Anything you need.”

And in your colored shock, in the repeat of the words that were once aimed at him, here—that’s when you see it. Or rather, feel it. The charge, the shift, the inkling of something else.  

Something beyond your attending. Beyond the stature of the leader who knows everything, who can impart wisdom just as much as he could take it away. Beyond the monolith who pushes you to be better, that draws the lines firmly in the sand of duty and obligation, of giving it your all and knowing when to let it go. 

There, in the softness of his hazel eyes settling on yours and the small tilt of the corner of his lips pulling upward, is a man. A gentle one, with something soft wedged in the center of his steel chest that he’s torn down a wall and unlocked just to show you. 

Only you.

Something on the precipice of becoming sweet, almost ripe for picking. 

Something you don’t know the name to, yet, but can feel deep in parts previously unknown to you that you desperately want to learn more of as the sun rises on the two of you. 

SHIFT ONE, Tues-Wed, 6:48 PM

“Look at what the cat dragged in.” Dana’s smile bleeds into her voice as you step onto the floor. “Smelling of coconut and looking sunkissed.”

The familiar smell of sterile sanitizer and disinfectant is a welcome one. The pat of your sneakers on the tile floor is a familiar anthem as you enter the ER. 

You hold your hands out and bow to your awaiting crowd, “In the very flesh.”

“Surprised you don’t have a flower in your hair.” She teases, her smile growing warmer as you draw in closer.

"Thought about it but I figured that’d be bragging.”

“Indeed it would.” Dana busies herself with the final details in preparation of handoff. You come up to the desk, leaning your elbows against the surface. A quiet moment before your shift starts. “You get to stay at the beach?”

You hum, pleased. “All week. In the tiniest bikini known to man.”

“Atta girl.” She smiles.

“There’s sunshine.” Ellis calls from down the hall, and you see her approach the workstation looking like she’s already gotten a head start on her rounds. “Welcome back. How’re the nieces?”

“Too stinking cute. I got some photos you’re gonna die for.” You sigh, wistfully. “I missed them.”

“Not gonna leave us for Florida now, are you?”

“Ask me at the end of my shift.”

“Nah, she won’t.” Dana coos, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and giving your arm a loving rub. “Pittsburgh won’t force our sunshine out just yet.”

“Abbot would put a stop to that before it even started.” Ellis jests, and you raise a brow.

“What?” You ask. 

Dana ignores you, directing her stare to Ellis. “Maybe even get some people written up.”

“Maybe even put some people in a disciplinary hearing.” Ellis returns.

Your eyes bounce between the two. “Okay, what the hell don’t I know?”

“Nothin’.” Ellis smiles, turning on her heel. 

Dana pats your arm, lovingly. “Happy to have you back, sweetie.”

7:47 PM

“Hilly, I’m going to put in an order for an EKG for Mr. Breyer. You mind making sure that he’s bumped up on that one?” You tell the nurse as you both exit the exam room.

“Can do!” She chirps. 

“Oh! And—“ She turns on her heel at your call, looking at you curiously. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

Her brows furrow. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something with Abbot.” Understanding floods her face.  

“What have you heard?” She asks, voice dipping low.

”Just a comment. Something about a disciplinary hearing.”

”Oh my god, I can’t believe no one’s told you.” She crowds near you, excitement radiating off of her. “Not confirmed, but heavily suspected because Anna Maria heard it from Jesse who heard it from Perlah who saw Dr. Robby and Dr. Abbot talking about it. But— Dr. Abbot got Reno suspended.”

“What?” Shock raises your volume, which Hilly quickly shushes you. You lower your voice in apology, “For what?”

“Harassment. Unprofessional conduct.”

“Against who?” You ask, already suspecting the answer.

“Four people. Three nurses—” 

“Three!” You gasp. You had only known about the one incident, heard some things about from the others. But the extent remained only in what you saw in the stairwell with Anna Maria.

“All Latino. They all went to Dr. Abbot. Apparently he was keeping notes on certain racist comments made.” Your mind flickers to the image of the note he tucked into his breast pocket, and its unsurprising then that he would’ve known about it all along. 

Eight pairs of eyes always watching.

“And the fourth?” You ask, curiously.

Hilly’s eyes seem to gleam brighter when she says, “You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Dr. Abbot raised it up to Dr. Robby who raised it up to Gloria and so on.” 

“Harassment against me?” You ask again, unbelieving.

“Yeah. Something about sabotaging your performance. Depending on the source, some say he talked about some of the comments he’s heard Reno say to you or the arguments he would start in the operating rooms.  But everyone agrees—” 

Hilly pauses for a moment—whether for dramatic effect or to convey the extent of the magnitude of her next. Either way, you remain fixated on her. Waiting, watching for her. 

“—they’ve never seen Dr. Abbot angry like that.”

9:51 PM

You don’t get the chance to talk to him—officially. 

Only make him out in the background of the hectic shift, see him at the bedside of an incoming trauma before rushing into an OR, stepping in beside him and slipping the gown on to assist. 

There’s the sly comment about your absence—Hope you didn’t forget how to do your job, city girl. 

One you meet in equal time—Watch and learn, old man. 

Sly smiles exchanged, the meeting of tender glances, the return of the familiar. Into the feeling. 

He catches you at the rolling cart outside of North 12 again. A moment finally spared in the frenzy of the night that he willingly decides to lean into. He puts his good shoulder against the wall, surveying you with a steadied eye. 

“How you feeling?” He asks, but you can make in the tone that something belies the words. A veiled test, the subtle making of your person upon return to work. A gauge of what you’ve heard. 

You meet his test balloon with an easy smile. Happy, content. 

“Good.” You say to him, true and meaningful, “How are you?”

He watches for a moment before nodding, satisfied. “Good.”

There’s not much to say about what may or may not have happened while you were gone. At least nothing you trust to not lay waste to the goodness of the moment. There’s nothing to explain or be explained. 

You know why he did it. He knows you know why he did it. You both decide to leave well enough alone. Trusting each other like second nature. 

A beat passes. “D’you relax? Take photos?” 

You nod, emphatically. “Yeah. I gotta show you the ones I got from this alligator farm we took my nieces to. You’d get a kick out of it.”

“So long as you skip over the bikini ones.” A smile etches on his face. Loose and light, the same familiar song and dance. 

“C’mon. You don’t even want to take a peek?”

“Not unless you want to keep me up at night.” He raises a brow. “You can keep your Florida sunburns to yourself.”

“Well, just picture my screams, then. That always puts you to bed, right?”

“Not this time, it won’t.”

You take it to mean that the image of your body will scar your attending, which forces a scoff out of your mouth. Rolling your head to him, you intend to make faux hurt known. But, in meeting his gaze, you see something else entirely. 

A toiling knowing that runs the quip on your tongue dry. It’s that something from before, tainted with a depth that you haven’t seen from him. 

The air heats slowly, flint to stone igniting the mutuality of piqued interest. 

For a second you realize that maybe, the heavy gap that you’ve always figured lies between you two wasn’t so hefty from the extent of the said differences in life and experiences—but heavy for another reason altogether. For all the things left unsaid.

It brings an image to your mind—one that has entered into the realm of consciousness on nights where alcohol has made you too loose and latent desires infiltrate the privacy of sleep. 

An image of you and him.

Rough, calloused hands running over flustered skin. Tugging shirts off, stripping pants down, pulling panties to the side to take a peek. The heat of his breath fanning over the side of your neck, the pads of his fingers swiping through the wet. Circling, playing, a tease whispered in a husky tone just before he—

Your breath shudders. 

“Welcome back.” Jack says lowly, turning on his heel and trekking down the hall. 

a/n: of course it would be a a traumatized forty-nine year old man that would break my eight month hiatus. my first dip into this man, and i want more

let me know your thoughts!

[a-asterias]

A HELLO AND A KISS

pairing: aaron hotchner x lawyer!reader summary: aaron hotchner survives serial killers and endless paperwork—but apparently not you breezing past him without a hello, based on this request. (im so sorry, i got carried away and did not include the part of r meeting the team!!! pls dont hate me) warnings | an: jealous hotch, protective hotch, simp hotch, hotch is just down bad for his girl, one bj joke word count: 2.4k

✧ masterlist

You hadn’t come home last night.

Aaron had simply received a brief text: Don’t wait up. A case fell into my lap last minute. It wasn’t unusual—not in your line of work, and certainly not in his. You’d both sent that message before, more times than either of you could count. It came with the territory.

You and Aaron had always kept your professional lives separate. A clean, white, necessary line in the sand. It helped keep the bloodstained parts from crossing over and kept your dinner conversations from becoming post-mortems or courtroom recaps. After all, it was easier not to talk about the men Aaron arrested when you were the one prosecuting them.

He didn’t put it together right away.

But all five of his senses were attuned to you. Honestly? his sixth sense was you. He didn’t need to see you to know you were there—he could feel you, hear you, even smell you before he ever caught a glimpse.  It didn’t take much. Sometimes, it was just the sound of heels—your heels—that gave you away.

It was that click-clack rhythm that he had grown accustomed to over the months, filtering through early mornings when you forgot your keys, then your case notes, then your coffee. It trailed after you in the hallway, embedded in every corner where you’d left pieces of yourself scattered around his home.

And now, that same sound echoed from behind him, followed by the heavy thud of the courtroom door swinging shut.

“Can’t believe he’s actually trying to weasel out of this,” Prentiss muttered under her breath, just as you swept past their row.

The unsub’s public defender had filed a not-guilty plea days earlier—citing supposed evidence mishandling, mistaken identity, even floating some half-baked theory about a setup. It was desperate. Flimsy. But just credible enough to stall the trial, to buy time he didn’t deserve.

You didn’t look Aaron’s way. Didn’t slow your pace. You gave no reaction at all, just glided by, slipping into the prosecution’s chair like it was your usual seat at the office.

“New face,” Prentiss noted, leaning toward Hotch. “She wasn’t at the prelims was she?”

Hotch finally cleared his throat. “No.”

He meant to say more—something neutral, something about new counsel, something properly professional, something more him—but the words got stuck somewhere behind his ribs. Especially when the most him thing in the world was standing right there, only meters away from a man he’d gladly kill with his bare hands if he so much as looked at you the wrong way.

Though, truthfully, he knew you’d get to him quicker with words, with strategy, with that cool, calculated tone that could cut deeper than any punch Hotch could throw.

You still hadn’t looked at him. Fully locked into that little world of yours, where the second you stepped into a courtroom, you grew fins and dermal denticles, transforming into a shark in couture and four-inch heels.

It stung. Just a little. But he knew why you were doing it. He just couldn’t begin to imagine what it must feel like to sit in a room and watch you give someone like that—worst of the worst—your full, undivided attention.

He’d only had the pleasure (and slight terror) of watching you in court twice before—neither case connected to the BAU and already, he was starting to sweat. Just a little. Maybe.

Aaron clamped his jaw tight, trying to keep his expression neutral, but the effort must’ve been visible because he caught Rossi huffing a laugh under his breath.

Of course Rossi knew. Rossi was the only one who’d actually met you off-duty. And the last thing Hotch needed was Rossi even hinting at the tiny, minuscule, barely-worth-mentioning fact that you wore Aaron’s old college t-shirt to bed, or that just a few hours ago, he’d been ogling your bare legs as you stumbled out of the shower, mumbling at him to go back to sleep.

Because as soon as Prentiss or Morgan—who already looked half-asleep in his seat—caught wind of it, it wouldn’t be a murder trial they were interested in anymore. No, it would turn into entertainment, something far more exciting than sitting at their desks, pretending to work through paperwork they never submitted on time anyway.

He shifted in his seat. No engagement was the best engagement, he figured.

Instead, he forced his eyes off you and onto the defendant, who was fiddling with his tie like that would suddenly make him more credible. Like anyone in the room would forget what he’d done just because he shaved and tucked in his damn shirt.

But the second you stood, rising slowly from your chair, Aaron’s gaze snapped right back to you, so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. Still, you didn’t look his way. Of course you didn’t. You were here to do a job. And right now, that job was dismantling a man with nothing but your voice.

He swallowed hard.

Yeah. He was definitely sweating now.

By the time the trial hit the halfway mark, he could tell your energy had changed—or was about to—with the unsub being called to the stand.

Hotch sat stiffly, watching you shuffle your notes with little effort. Morgan had finally roused enough to start paying attention, and Prentiss was scribbling away in the margins of her legal pad—none of which, Hotch would bet good money, had anything to do with the actual trial.

You stood once more, brushing that stubborn piece of hair away from your face—the one that always seemed to fall whenever you were reading something from above. He wished he could push it away for you, wished he could pull you out of this courtroom entirely, shield you from every ugly, broken thing the world could throw at you.

But then your voice cut through the room, reminding him that this was your job.

"Alright," you began, voice crisp but bored, like you were already three steps ahead. That’s what anyone else might think. But Aaron knew you were ahead five.

"Let’s go back to March 5th," you said, pausing just for a second. "You said you didn’t know Jessica Harlan."

"I didn’t," Tanner snapped back, so fast it almost made Hotch smile.

That kind of panic was never a good sign—and he knew it was one of your favourite tells. The second someone cracked like that, it was like flipping a switch, like flashing a green light across the battlefield. Go get him.

"Right," you hummed, nodding like you were humouring a stubborn child throwing a tantrum. "Right."

Another pause.

You were good at that—giving the poor soul on the receiving end (victim, really) of your arguing capabilities enough time to think. To second-guess themselves. Hotch had picked up on it early on, and when he’d once asked you about it, you gave him a dry, matter-of-fact answer: it gave people enough time to realise how stupid they sounded.

"And yet, a witness places your car parked across the street from her apartment two nights in a row. Same make, same model, same license plate."

Tanner shifted in the witness chair, but you didn’t rush him. You stood there, cool and composed, giving him just enough rope to hang himself.

“I –”

"Parked there?" you cut in, tilting your head like you were offering him an easy out. The trap was already set.

You reached for the remote, clicking the TV monitor on.

"Okay, that’s completely understandable," you considered with a polite nod toward the jury. "Though I’m not quite sure what your explanation is for getting out of the vehicle on the second night and standing in front of Jessica Harlan’s apartment for—" you glanced down at your watch, "—thirty-seven minutes."

You glanced back up, eyebrows raised just enough to look curious but not confrontational. Just a lawyer looking for answers.

Tanner opened his mouth, closed it, then looked down at his hands like maybe they’d have a better explanation than he did.

Aaron recognised the footage immediately, thanks to Garcia’s handiwork. The screen showed Tanner stepping out of his car, glancing around, and then just…standing there. Across the street from Jessica’s apartment building.

Doing absolutely nothing.

For thirty-seven minutes.

The same number of stab wounds Jessica and every other victim had endured.

You didn’t even glance at the screen. Your focus stayed fixed on Tanner like a blade against his throat.

“Maybe you were just out getting some fresh air. Though I’m not sure stalking is generally recommended for cardio.”

"Objection, Your Honour—" the defence attorney barked, already on his feet.

You raised a hand, before the judge even had time to respond. “Withdrawn.”

"I wasn’t watching her,” Tanner argued, drawing the attention back to himself.

"No?” you echoed, cocking your head to the side. “Then what were you doing, Mr Tanner? Practicing your standing endurance?"

He huffed out a weak laugh with no real humour behind it. It was the kind that people made when they realised they were cornered and didn’t have the tools to dig their way out.

“I just... needed some air,” he repeated, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

"I get it, I do," you agreed in faux sweetness. "We all need fresh air. Though it’s odd, don’t you think?"

“I’m sorry?”

“Jessica Harlan was stabbed thirty-seven times…" You took a step closer to Tanner, and Aaron had to physically stop himself from moving. Remind himself that you knew exactly what you were doing. That this was all part of the strategy. Even if, deep down, he wanted nothing more than to stand between you and every monster you faced.

"Which," you continued, "happens to be the exact number of minutes you spent outside her apartment."

Tanner swallowed, but that didn’t seem to faze you.

"Just like you spent thirty-seven minutes outside Eliza Horne’s place of work," you listed off, each word tightening the noose around Tanner’s neck. "Thirty-seven minutes outside the gym where Marissa Cole trained. Thirty-seven minutes at the café Danielle Ruiz visited every Thursday—”

Aaron felt Prentiss lean in beside him. “She’s good.”

He didn’t look away from you long enough to answer.

Good didn’t even begin to cover it.

You were extraordinary. And somehow—somehow—you were his.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve you, what twist of fate had put you in his path, but he would be grateful for it for the rest of his life.

Grateful that you had let him in.

Grateful that he got to see you whole.

Whether it was in a courtroom, where you left your smile and affection at the door to tear the truth out of some of the worst people, or in the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed—the way you teased him for how he pronounced pecan—he had seen it all. And he wouldn’t trade a second of it.

A nudge from Rossi pulled Aaron out of what felt like a permanent trance—the one you had managed to put him in with no effort whatsoever.

“Everything okay?”

He nodded, absently rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Got you reminiscing about your prosecutor days?"

Aaron let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. "I think if I’d stayed," he said, glancing back toward you, "she would’ve put me to shame."

"Would’ve been one hell of a show,” Rossi murmured. “Don’t let her get away.”

Aaron’s mouth tipped into the barest hint of a smile. He wasn’t planning on it. Hell would have to freeze over before he let even the smallest possibility of that happen.

His eyes found you again—right where they belonged—just as you finished with Tanner.

The day wound down eventually, and Aaron doubted the trial would drag on much longer, not after what you’d done to Tanner and his defence team. There wasn’t much left of them by the time you were finished.

He lingered just outside the courtroom, waiting. He’d managed to come up with a half-convincing excuse to stay behind, though neither Morgan nor Prentiss seemed to question it. They were too busy arguing over whether they could convince Penelope to hack into your trial schedule just so they could sit in on another one.

Not that Aaron could blame them.

The courthouse entrance doors swung open again, and you finally stepped through, files tucked under your arm, eyes fixed on your phone as you breezed past.

You didn’t even glance his way.

Again.

Aaron blinked. Really?

"So I don't even get a hello?" he asked, stepping lightly into your path with a raised brow. “Twice in one day. Must be losing my edge.”

You looked up, startled for half a second before your entire face lit up at the sight of him.

"I’m so sorry!" you blurted, already smiling. "You know how much I hate it when things fall into my lap last minute. I've been running around all day just trying to catch up—”

"No, no," he interjected, keeping his face painfully neutral, though the corners of his mouth twitched, just a little. "It’s fine. I’m obviously not that memorable."

"And I thought I was the needy one." You shook your head, still laughing under your breath as you tucked your phone away and shifted your files into one arm.

“Come here,” you cooed, hooking two fingers into the front of Aaron’s jacket, tugging him down.

He went willingly—no surprise there.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek first, soft and easy, before leaning in for a slower one on his lips. The kind that made him forget you were still technically in public.

"Better?" you asked, pulling back just enough to see the answer written all over his face.

"Only a little," he murmured, and before you could so much as blink, he reached out and took the files and your briefcase from your arms like it was second nature, like he’d been carrying your things for years.

“You carrying my stuff now, too?”

“Maybe I’m just trying to earn my next hello.”

You laughed, the sound unwinding every knot in Aaron’s chest, loosening him in ways only you ever could.

“Keep this up and you’ll have my mouth doing a lot more than just saying hello.”

Yeah.

He was completely gone.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[a-asterias]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ synopsis: you help keep pittsburgh trauma orderly—until small, unsettling glitches hint at something ominous unraveling. whether the mystery—or your guarded heart—breaks first is the question that will decide everything.

⤿ warning(s): stalking, obsessive behaviour, medical-talk, violence & blood

chapter one;

chapter two;

chapter three;

chapter four;

chapter five;

chapter six;

chapter seven;

chapter eight;

chapter nine;

chapter ten;

& more to come

divider credit

[a-asterias]

FIVE MINUTES AT A TIME ; JACK ABBOT

wc; 9.3k synopsis; You and Jack only ever see each other for five minutes at a time — the tail end of day shift and the start of night shift. But those five minutes? They’ve become the best part of both of your days. Everyone else in the ER has noticed it. The way you both lean in just a little too close during handoff. The way both of you leave a drink and a protein bar next to the chart rack. The way neither of you ever miss a single shift — until one day, one of you doesn’t show up. And everything shifts.

contents; Jack Abbot/nurse!reader, gn!reader, medical inaccuracies, hospital setting, mentions of injury and death, slow burn, found family, mutual pinning, mild jealousy, age gap (like 10-15 years, reader is aged around late 20s/early 30s but you can do any age), can you tell this man is consuming my every thought? tempted to write a follow-up fic lemme know what u guys think.

You only see him at 7 p.m. — well, 6:55 p.m., if you’re being exact.

You’re already at the nurse’s station, chart pulled up, pen poised, pretending you’re more focused than you are — just waiting for that familiar figure to walk in. The ER is barely holding itself together, seams straining under the weight of another long, unsparing shift. 

You’ve witnessed Mckay go through two scrub changes — both stained, both discarded like paper towels. Dana’s been shouted at by too many angry patients to count, each new confrontation carving deeper lines into her already exhausted face. And if you see Gloria trailing behind Robby one more time, arms crossed, mouth already mid-complaint, you’re sure you’ll have front-row seats to the implosion of Robby’s self-restraint.

The end-of-shift exhaustion hangs in the air, thick enough to taste. It seeps into the walls, the floor, your bones. The scent of bleach, sweat, and cold coffee hangs over everything, a cocktail that clings to your skin long after you clock out. The vending machine’s been emptied of anything worth eating. Your stomach gave up asking hours ago. 

The sun is still trying to claw its way down, its last rays pressing uselessly against frosted windows, too far removed to touch. The ER isn’t made for soft light. It lives under fluorescents, bright and unfeeling, leeching color and kindness from the world, one hour at a time.

It’s then, right on time, he arrives.

Jack Abbot.

Always the same. Dark scrubs, military backpack slung over his shoulder, the strap worn and fraying. His stethoscope loops around his neck like it belongs there and his hair is a little unkempt, like the day’s already dragged its hands through him before the night even starts.

He walks the same unhurried pace every time — not slow, not fast — like a man who’s learned the ER’s tempo can’t be outrun or outpaced. It’ll still be here, bleeding and burning, whether he sprints or crawls. And every day, like clockwork, he arrives at your station at 6:55 p.m., eyes just sharp enough to remind you he hasn’t completely handed himself over to exhaustion.

The handoff always starts the same. Clean. Professional. Efficient. Vitals. Labs. Status updates on the regulars and the barely-holding-ons. Names are exchanged like currency, chart numbers folded into the cadence of clipped sentences, shorthand that both of you learned the hard way. The rhythm of it is steady, like the low, constant beep of monitors in the background.

But tonight, the silence stretches just a little longer before either of you speaks. His eyes skim the board, lingering for half a second too long on South 2. You catch it. You always do.

“She’s still here,” you say, tapping your pen against the chart. “Outlived the odds and half the staff’s patience.”

Jack huffs a quiet sound that’s almost — almost — a laugh. The sound is low and dry, like it hasn’t been used much lately, “Figures.”

His attention shifts, following the slow, inevitable exit of Gloria, her unmistakable white coat vanishing around the corner, Robby sagging against the wall in her wake like a man aging in real-time, “I leave for twelve hours and Gloria’s still haunting the halls. She got squatters’ rights yet?”

You smirk, shaking your head and turning to look in the same direction, “I think Robby’s about five minutes away from filing for witness protection.”

That earns you a real smile — small, fleeting, but it’s there. The kind that only shows up in this place during the quiet moments between shift changes, the ones too short to hold onto and too rare to take for granted. The kind that makes you wonder how often he uses it when he’s not here.

Jack glances at the clock, then back at you, his voice low and dry. “Guess I better go save what’s left of his sanity, huh?”

You shrug, sliding the last of your notes toward him, the pages worn thin at the corners from too many hands, too many days like this. “Too late for that. You’re just here to do damage control.”

His smile lingers a little longer, but his eyes settle on you, the weight of the shift pressing into the space between you both — familiar, constant, unspoken. The clock ticks forward, the moment folding neatly back into the rush of the ER, the five-minute bubble of quiet already closing like it always does.

And then — 7 p.m. — the night begins.

The next few weeks worth of handoffs play out the same way.

The same rhythm. The same quiet trade of names, numbers, and near-misses. The same half-conversations, broken by pagers, interrupted by overhead calls. The same looks, the same five minutes stretched thin between shifts, like the ER itself holds its breath for you both.

But today is different. 

This time, Jack arrives at 6:50 p.m. 

Five minutes earlier than usual — early even for him. 

You glance up from the nurse’s station when you catch the sound of his footsteps long before the clock gives you permission to expect him. Still the same dark scrubs, the military backpack and stethoscope around his neck. 

But it’s not just the arrival time that’s different.

It’s the tea. Balanced carefully in one hand, lid still steaming, sleeve creased from the walk in. Tea — not coffee. Jack Abbot doesn’t do tea. At least, not in all the months you’ve been on this rotation. He’s a coffee-or-nothing type. Strong, bitter, the kind of brew that tastes like the end of the world.

He sets it down in front of you without fanfare, as if it’s just another piece of the shift — like vitals, like the board, like the handoff that always waits for both of you. But the corner of his mouth lifts when he catches the confused tilt of your head.

“Either I’m hallucinating,” you say, “or you’re early and bringing offerings.”

“You sounded like hell on the scanner today,” he says, voice dry but easy. “Figured you’d be better off with tea when you leave.”

You blink at him, then at the cup. Your fingers curl around the warmth. The smell hits you before the sip does — honey, ginger, something gentler than the day you’ve had.

“Consider it hazard pay,” Jack’s mouth quirks, eyes flicking toward the whiteboard behind you. “The board looks worse than usual.”

You huff a dry laugh, glancing at the mess of names and numbers — half of them marked awaiting test results and the rest marked with waiting.

“Yeah,” you say. “One of those days.”

You huff a laugh, the sound pulling the sting from your throat even before the tea does. The day’s been a long one. Endless patient turnover, backlogged labs, and the kind of non-stop tension that winds itself into your muscles and stays there, even when you clock out.

Jack leans his hip against the edge of the counter, and lets the quiet settle there for a moment. No handoff yet. No rush. The world is still turning, but for a brief second it feels like the clock’s hands have stalled, stuck in that thin stretch of stillness before the next wave breaks.

“You trying to throw off the universe?” you ask, half teasing, lifting the cup in mock salute. “Next thing I know, Gloria will come in here smiling.”

Jack huffs, “Let’s not be that ambitious.”

The moment hangs between you, the conversation drifting comfortably into the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand filling. Just the weight of the day, and the knowledge that the night will be heavier.

But then, as always, duty calls. A sharp crackle from his pager splits the stillness like a stone through glass. He straightens, his expression shifting back to business without missing a beat.

You slide the last chart across the desk toward him, your hand brushing the edge of his as you let go. The handoff starts, the ritual resumes. Vitals. Labs. Critical patients flagged in red ink. Familiar, steady, practiced. A dance you both know too well.

But even as the conversation folds back into clinical shorthand, the tea sits between you, cooling slowly, marking the space where the ritual has quietly shifted into something else entirely.

And when the handoff’s done — when the last name leaves your mouth — the clock ticks past 7:05 p.m.

You linger. Just long enough for Jack to glance back your way.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks. The question light, but not casual.

You nod once, the answer already written.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

After that, the handoff’s change. Tea was only the beginning.

It’s always there first — sometimes waiting on the desk before you’ve even finished logging out. The cup’s always right, too. No questions asked, no orders repeated. Jack learns the little details: how you like it, when it's too hot or too cold. When the shift’s been particularly cruel and the hours stretch too thin, he starts adding the occasional muffin or protein bar to the offering, wordlessly placed on the desk beside your notes.

In return, you start doing the same. Only you give him coffee. Black, bitter — too bitter for you — but it's how he likes it and you’ve never had the heart to tell him there’s better tasting coffee out there. Sometimes you give him tea on the calmer nights. A granola bar and an apple join soon after so you know he has something to eat when the food he brings in becomes a ghost of a meal at the back of the staff fridge. A post-it with a doodle and the words “I once heard a joke about amnesia, but I forgot how it goes” gets stuck to his coffee after an especially tough day shift, knowing it’ll bleed into the night.

It’s quiet, easy. Half-finished conversations that start at one handoff and end in the next.

You talk about everything but yourselves.

About the regulars — which patient is faking, which one’s hanging on by more than sheer luck. About the shows you both pretend you don’t have time for but always end up watching, somehow. About staff gossip, bets on how long the new hire will last, debates over whose turn it is to replace the break room coffee filter (spoiler: no one ever volunteers).

But never about what you two have. Never about what any of it means.

You pretend the lines are clear. That it’s all part of the handoff. That it’s just routine.

But the team notices.

Mckay starts hanging around the station longer than necessary at 6:55 p.m., her eyes flicking between the clock and the doorway like she’s waiting for a cue. Dana starts asking loaded questions in passing — light, but pointed. “So, Jack’s shift starting soon?” she’ll say with a knowing tilt of her head.

The worst offenders, though, are Princess and Perlah.

They start a betting pool. Subtle at first — a folded scrap of paper passed around, tucked in their pockets like an afterthought. Before long, half the ER staff’s names are scribbled under columns like ‘Next week’, ‘Next Month’ or ‘Never happening’.

And then one day, you open your locker after a twelve-hour shift, hands still shaking slightly from too much caffeine and too little sleep, and there it is:

A post-it, bright yellow and impossible to miss.

“JUST KISS ALREADY.”

No name. No signature. Just the collective voice of the entire ER condensed into three impatient words.

You stand there longer than you should, staring at it, your chest tightening in that quiet, unfamiliar way that’s got nothing to do with the shift and everything to do with him.

When you finally peel the note off and stuff it deep into your pocket, you find Jack already waiting at the nurse’s station. 6:55 p.m. Early, as always. Tea in hand. Same dark scrubs. Same unhurried stride. Same steady presence.

And when you settle in beside him, brushing just close enough for your shoulder to graze his sleeve, he doesn’t say anything about the flush still warm in your cheeks.

You don’t say anything either.

The handoff begins like it always does. The names. The numbers. The rhythm. The world still spinning the same broken way it always has.

But the note is still in your pocket. And the weight of it lingers longer than it should.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe next month. Maybe never.

The handoff tonight starts like any other.

The same exchange of vitals, the same clipped sentences folding neatly into the rhythm both of you know by heart. The ER hums and flickers around you, always on the edge of chaos but never quite tipping over. Jack’s there, 6:55 p.m., tea in one hand, muffin in the other — that small tired look in place like a badge he never bothers to take off.

But tonight, the air feels heavier. The space between you, thinner.

There’s no reason for it — at least, none you could name. Just a quiet shift in gravity, subtle enough to pretend away, sharp enough to notice. A conversation that drifts lazily off course, no talk of patients, no staff gossip, no television shows. Just silence. Comfortable, but expectant.

And then his hand — reaching past you to grab a chart — brushes yours.

Not the accidental kind. Not the casual, workplace kind. The kind that lingers. Warm, steady, the weight of his palm light against the back of your fingers like the pause before a sentence you’re too scared to finish.

You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world outside the nurse’s station slows. The monitors still beep, the overhead paging system still hums, the hallway still bustles — but you don’t hear any of it.

There’s just his hand. Your hand. The breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

And then the trauma alert hits.

“MVA — multiple injuries. Incoming ETA two minutes.”

The spell shatters. The moment folds back in on itself like it was never there at all. Jack pulls away first, but not fast. His hand brushes yours one last time as if reluctant, as if the shift might grant you one more second before it demands him back.

But the ER has no patience for almosts.

You both move — the way you always do when the alarms go off, efficient and wordless, sliding back into your roles like armor. He’s already at the doors, gloves snapped on, voice low and level as the gurneys rush in. You’re right behind him, notes ready, vitals called out before the paramedics finish their sentences.

The night swallows the moment whole. The weight of the job fills the space where it had lived.

And when the trauma bay finally quiets, when the adrenaline starts to bleed out of your system and the hallways return to their usual background hum, Jack passes by you at the station, slowing just long enough for your eyes to meet.

Nothing said. Nothing needed.

Almost.

Weeks after the same routine, over and over, the change starts like most things do in your world — quietly, without fanfare.

A new name slips into conversation one morning over burnt coffee and half-finished charting. Someone you met outside the ER walls, outside the endless loop of vitals and crash carts and lives balanced on the edge. A friend of a friend, the kind of person who looks good on paper: steady job, easy smile, around your age, the kind of life that doesn’t smell like antiseptic or ring with the static of trauma alerts.

You don’t even mean to mention them. The words just tumble out between patients, light and careless. Jack barely reacts — just a flicker of his eyes, the barest pause in the way his pen scratches across the chart. He hums, noncommittal, and says, “Good for you.”

But after that, the air between you shifts.

The ritual stays the same — the teas and coffees still show up, the handoffs still slide smooth and clean — but the conversations dull. They're shallower. You talk about patients, the weather. But the inside jokes dry up, and the silences stretch longer, thicker, like neither of you can find the right words to fix the growing space between you.

The new person tries. Dinners that never quite feel right. Movies that blur together. Conversations that stall out halfway through, where you find yourself thinking about Jack’s voice instead of the one across the table. It’s not their fault — they do everything right. They ask about your day, they remember how you take your tea, they show up when they say they will.

But they aren’t him. They never will be.

And the truth of that sits heavy in your chest long before you let it go.

When the end finally comes, it’s as quiet as the beginning. No fight. No grand scene. Just a conversation that runs out of steam and a mutual, tired understanding: this was never going to be enough.

You don’t tell Jack. Not directly. But he knows.

Maybe it’s the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes that night, or the way your usual jokes come slower, dull around the edges. Or maybe it’s just that he knows you too well by now, the way you know him — a kind of understanding that doesn’t need translation.

He doesn’t push. He’s not the kind of man who asks questions he isn’t ready to hear the answers to, and you’ve never been the type to offer up more than what the job requires. But when you pass him the last of the handoff notes that night, his fingers brush yours, and for once, they linger. Just a second longer than they should. Long enough to say everything neither of you will.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. Neutral. Studied, “You get any sleep lately?”

It’s not the question he wants to ask. Not even close. But it’s the one he can ask, the one that fits inside the safe little script you’ve both written for yourselves.

You lie — both of you know it — but he doesn’t call you on it. He just nods, slow and thoughtful, and when he stands, he leaves his coffee behind on the counter. Still hot. Barely touched.

And that’s how you know.

Because Jack never leaves coffee unfinished.

The next handoff, he’s already at the nurse’s station when you arrive — ten minutes early, a tea waiting for you, exactly how you like it. There’s no note, no smile, no pointed comment. Just the small, familiar weight of the cup in your hand and the warmth that spreads through your chest, sharper than it should be.

You settle into the routine, pulling the chart toward you, the silence stretching long and comfortable for the first time in weeks. Jack doesn’t ask, and you don’t offer. But when your fingers brush his as you pass him the logbook, you don’t pull away as quickly as you used to.

And for a moment, that’s enough.

The world around you moves the same way it always does — busy, breathless, unrelenting. But somewhere in the quiet, something unspoken hums between you both. Something that’s been waiting.

They weren’t him. And you weren’t surprised.

Neither was he.

It’s the handoff on a cold Wednesday evening that brings a quiet kind of news — the kind that doesn’t explode, just settles. Like dust.

Jack mentions it in passing, the way people mention the weather or the fact that the coffee machine’s finally given up the ghost. Mid-handoff, eyes on the chart, voice level. 

“Admin gave me an offer.”

Your pen stills, barely a beat, then keeps moving. “Oh yeah?” you ask, as if you hadn’t heard the shift in his tone. As if your chest didn’t tighten the moment the words left his mouth.

The department’s newer, quieter. Fewer traumas. More order. Less of the endless night shift churn that has worn him down to the bone these last few years. It would suit him. You know it. Everyone knows it.

And so you do what you’re supposed to do. What any friend — any coworker — would do. You offer the words, gift-wrapped in all the right tones.

“You’d be great at it.”

The smile you give him is steady, practiced. It reaches your lips. But not your eyes. Never your eyes.

Fortunately, Jack knows you like the back of his hand.

He just nods, the kind of slow, quiet nod that feels more like a goodbye than anything else. The conversation moves on. The night moves on.

You go home, and for him, the patients come and go, machines beep, the usual rhythm swallows the moment whole. But the shift feels different. Like the floor’s shifted under his feet and the walls don’t sit right in his peripherals anymore.

The offer lingers in the air for days. No one mentions it. But he notices things — the way you're quieter, the way you seem almost distant during handoffs. Like the weight of the outcome of the decision’s sitting on your shoulders, heavy and personal.

And then, just as quietly, the tension shifts. No announcement. No conversation. The offer just evaporates. You hear it from Robby two days later, his voice offhand as he scrolls through the department’s scheduling board.

“Abbot passed on the job.”

That’s all he says. That’s all you need.

When your shift ends that day, you linger a little longer than usual. Five minutes past the clock, then ten. Just enough time to catch him walking in. Same dark scrubs, same tired eyes. But this time, no talk of transfers. No talk of moving on.

You slide the handoff notes toward him, and when his fingers brush yours, neither of you let go right away.

“Long night ahead.” you say, your eyes lock onto his.

“Same as always,” he answers, soft but sure.

And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.

But he stayed.

And so did you.

The holiday shift is a quiet one for once.

Not the kind of chaotic disaster you usually brace for — no code blues, no trauma alerts, no frantic scrambling. The ER hums at a lower frequency tonight, as if the whole department is holding its breath, waiting for the chaos to pass and the clock to turn over.

You’ve been working on autopilot for the last few hours. The patient load is manageable, the team is mostly intact, and the usual undercurrent of stress is more like a murmur than a shout. But there's something about the quiet, the softness of it, that makes you more aware of everything, every moment stretching a little longer than it should. It makes the weight of the day feel more pressing, more noticeable.

As the last patient leaves — nothing serious, just another sprain — you settle into your chair by the nurse’s station, the kind of exhausted calm that only comes when the worst is over. The clock inches toward the end of your shift — 6:50 p.m. — but you’re not in any hurry to leave, not yet.

As always, Jack walks in.

You look up just as he passes by the station. His usual tired look is softened tonight, the edges of his exhaustion blunted by something quieter, something a little more worn into his features. The shadows under his eyes are deeper, but there’s a kind of peace in him tonight — a rare thing for the man who’s always running on the edge of burnout.

He stops in front of you, and you can see the small, crumpled bag in his hand. It’s not much, just a bit of wrapping paper that’s a little too wrinkled, but something about it makes your heart give a funny, lopsided beat.

"Here," he says, low, voice a little rougher than usual.

You blink, surprised. “What’s this?”

He hesitates for half a second, like he wasn’t sure if he should say anything at all. “For you.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-laughing. "We don’t usually exchange gifts, Jack."

His smile is small, but it reaches his eyes. "Thought we might make an exception today."

You take the gift from him, feeling the weight of it, simple but somehow significant. You glance down at it, and for a moment, the world feels like it falls away. He doesn't ask you to open it right then, and for a second, you think maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll leave it unopened, just like so many things left unsaid between you two.

But the curiosity wins out.

You peel back the paper slowly. It’s a leather-bound notebook, simple and unassuming. The kind of thing that makes you wonder how he knew.

“I... didn’t know what to get you," Jack says, his voice soft, almost sheepish. "But I figured you'd use it."

The gesture is simple — almost too simple. But it’s not. It’s too personal for just coworkers. Too thoughtful, too quiet. The weight of it sits between the two of you, unspoken, thick in the air.

You look up at him, your chest tight in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. "Thank you," you manage, and you can’t quite shake the feeling that this — this little notebook — means more than just a gift. It’s something that says everything neither of you has been able to put into words.

Jack nods, his smile barely there but real. He takes a step back, as if pulling himself away from something he doesn’t know how to navigate. The silence stretches. But it’s different this time. It’s not awkward. It’s soft. It feels like a bridge between the two of you, built in the quiet spaces you’ve shared and the ones you haven’t.

“I got you something too,” you say before you can stop yourself. When you reach into your pocket, your fingers brush against the small, folded package you had tucked away. 

His brow furrows slightly in surprise, but he takes it from you, and when he unwraps it, it’s just a small, hand-carved keychain you had spotted at a market — simple, not much, but it reminded you of Jack.

He laughs, a short, quiet sound that vibrates in the space between you, and the tension between you two feels almost manageable. “Thank you,” he says, his fingers brushing over the little keychain.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The noise of the ER seems distant, muffled, as if it’s happening in another world altogether. The clock ticks, the final minutes of your shift inching by. But in that small, quiet space, it’s as if time has paused, holding its breath alongside the two of you.

“I guess it’s just... us then, huh?” he says finally, voice softer than before, quieter in a way that feels like more than just the end of a shift.

You nod, and for the first time in ages, the silence between you feels easy. Comfortable.

Just a few more minutes, and the shift will be over. But right now, this — this small, quiet exchange, these moments that don’t need words — is all that matters.

The day shift is winding down when Jack walks in, just before 7 p.m.

The usual rhythm of the ER is fading, the intensity of the day finally trailing off as the night shift prepares to take over. He arrives just as the last few nurses finish their rounds, their faces tired but steady as they begin to pass the baton.

But something feels off. The station is quieter than usual, the hum of conversation quieter, the buzz of the monitors almost unnaturally sharp in the sudden stillness. Jack glances around, noting the lack of a familiar face, the way the department feels a little emptier, more distant. He spots Dana and Robby at the nurse’s station, exchanging murmurs, and immediately knows something’s not right.

You’re not there.

He doesn’t immediately ask. Instead, he strides toward the counter, his mind racing to calculate the cause. A sick day? A last-minute emergency? Something’s happened, but he can’t quite place it. The thought that it’s anything serious doesn’t sit well in his chest, and yet, it presses down harder with every minute that passes.

It’s 6:55 p.m. now, and the clock keeps ticking forward.

By 7:00, Jack is halfway through his handoff, scanning the patient charts and mentally preparing for the usual chaos, but his focus keeps drifting.

Where are you?

He finally asks. Not loudly, not with urgency, but quietly enough that only Robby and Dana catch the edge in his voice. “Have they called in tonight?”

Before he even has a chance to follow up with your name, Dana looks up at him, a tired smirk on her face. “No. No word.”

Robby shakes his head, looking between Dana and Jack. “We haven’t heard anything. Thought you’d know.”

He nods, swallowing the sudden tightness in his throat. He tries not to show it — not to let it show in the way his shoulders stiffen or the slight furrow between his brows. He finishes up the handoff as usual, but his mind keeps returning to you, to the way the shift feels off without your presence, the absence weighing heavy on him.

By the time the rest of the night staff rolls in, Jack's focus is split. He’s still mentally running through the patient roster, but he’s half-waiting, half-hoping to see you come walking to the nurses station, just like always.

It doesn't happen.

And then, as if on cue, a message comes through — a notification from HR. You’d left for the day in a rush. Your parent had been hospitalised out of town, and you’d rushed off without a word. No call. No notice.

Jack stops in his tracks. The room feels suddenly too small, the quiet too loud. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he puts his phone back into his pocket, his eyes flicking over it again, like it will make more sense the second time.

His mind moves quickly, fast enough to keep up with the frantic pace of the ER around him, but his body is still, frozen for a heartbeat longer than it should be. He doesn’t know what to do with this — this sudden, heavy weight of worry and concern.

The team, in their usual way, rallies. They pull a care package together like clockwork — snacks, tissues, a soft blanket someone swears helps during long waits in hospital chairs. A card circulates, scrawled with signatures and the usual messages: thinking of you, hang in there, we’ve got you. It’s routine, something they’ve done for each other countless times in the past, a small gesture in the face of someone’s crisis.

But Jack doesn’t sign the card.

He sits quietly in the break room for a while, the weight of his concern simmering beneath the surface of his usual calm. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel — concern for you, for the situation, for how the ER feels without you there. The package is ready, and with it, so is a quiet, unsaid piece of himself.

When the others step away, he tucks something else inside, sliding it between the blanket and the box of cheap chocolates the team threw in at the last minute — an envelope, plain, unmarked, the handwriting inside careful but unsteady, like the words cost more than he expected.

Take care of them. The place isn’t the same without you.

Short. Simple. Honest in a way he rarely lets himself be. It isn’t signed. It doesn’t need to be. You’d know.

The team doesn’t notice. Or if they do, they make no comment on it. The ER continues to move, steady in its rhythm, even as Jack’s world feels like it’s been thrown off balance. The package is sent. The shift carries on. And Jack waits. He waits, in the quiet space between you and him, in the absence of your presence, in the weight of things he can’t say.

The clock ticks on. And with it, Jack misses you a little more that night.

Two weeks.

That’s how long the space at the nurse’s station stayed empty. That’s how long the chair at the nurse’s station sat empty — the one you always claimed without thinking. Nobody touched it. Nobody had to say why. It just sat there — a quiet, hollow thing that marked your absence more clearly than any words could’ve.

Two weeks of missing the familiar scrape of your pen against the chart. Two weeks of shift changes stripped down to bare-bones handoffs, clipped and clinical, no space for the soft edges of inside jokes or the quiet pauses where your voice used to fit. Two weeks of coffee going cold, of tasting far more bitter than it did before. Two weeks of the ER feeling off-kilter, like the clock’s gears had ground themselves down and no one could quite put the pieces back.

When you walk back through the automatic doors, it’s like the air catches on itself — that split-second stall before everything moves forward again. You don’t announce yourself. No one really does. The place just swallows you back up, the way it does to anyone who leaves and dares to return.

You clock in that morning. The shift goes on as normal, as normal as the ER can be. The others greet you like they’ve been told to act normal. Quick nods, small smiles. Robby pats your shoulder, light and brief. Dana leaves an extra coffee by the monitors without a word.

When the clock hands swing toward 6:50 p.m., you’re already at the nurses station. Sitting at the desk like you’d never left. Like nothing’s changed, like no time has passed at all. Like the last two weeks were some other life. Scrubs pressed, badge clipped at the same off-center tilt it always is. But your hands hover just slightly, resting on the chart without writing, pen poised like your mind hasn’t quite caught up to your body being back.

The air feels different — not heavy, not light, just suspended. Stalled.

And then you hear them. Footsteps.

Steady. Familiar. The cadence you’ve known for months. 

Jack.

He stops a few feet from you, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, the faintest crease between his brow like he hasn’t quite convinced himself this isn’t some kind of trick.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

No patient names. No vitals. No shorthand. The handoff script that’s lived on your tongues for months goes untouched. Instead, you stand there, surrounded by the soft beep of monitors and the shuffle of overworked staff, wrapped in the kind of silence that says everything words can’t.

It’s a strange sort of silence. Not awkward. Just full.

For a long moment, the chaos of the ER fades to the edges, the overhead pages and the low mechanical hums turning to static. You look at him, and it’s like seeing him for the first time all over again. The small lines around his eyes seem deeper. The tension at his shoulders, usually buried beneath practiced calm, sits plainly in view.

You wonder if it’s been there the whole time. You wonder if he noticed the same about you.

His eyes meet yours, steady, unguarded. The first thing that breaks the quiet isn’t a handoff or a patient update.

“I missed this.”

The corner of his mouth twitches into something that doesn’t quite make it to a smile. When he replies, it’s not rushed. It’s not easy. But it’s the truth.

“I missed you.”

Simple. Honest. No side steps. No softening the edges with humor. Just the truth. The words sit there between you, bare and uncomplicated. For a second, the world feels smaller — just the two of you, the hum of machines, and the weight of two weeks' worth of things unsaid.

His gaze shifts, softer now, searching your face for something, or maybe just memorizing it all over again.

“How are they?” he asks, voice low, careful. Not clinical, not casual — the way people ask when they mean it.

You swallow, the answer lingering behind your teeth. You hadn’t said much to anyone, not even now. But his question doesn’t pry, it just waits.

“They’re stable,” you say after a moment, the words simple but heavy. “Scared. Tired. I stayed until I couldn’t anymore.”

Jack nods once, slow and sure, as if that answer was all he needed. His hand flexes slightly at his side, like there’s more he wants to do, more he wants to say — but this is still the space between shifts, still the same ER where everything gets held back for later.

But his voice is steady when he replies.

“I’m glad you were with them.”

A pause. One of those long, silent stretches that says everything the words don’t.

“And I’m glad you came back.”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t have to.

And then, the clock ticks forward. The night shift begins. The world presses on, the monitors start beeping their endless song, and the next patient is already waiting. But the weight of those words lingers, tucked just beneath the surface.

And this time — neither of you pretend it didn’t happen.

But it’s still not quite the right time.

Jack’s walls aren’t the obvious kind. They don’t come with sharp edges or cold shoulders. His are quieter, built from small hesitations — the steady, practiced way he keeps his distance, the careful deflection tucked behind dry humor and midnight coffee refills. And at the center of it, two stubborn truths: he’s older, and he’s widowed.

Being widowed is a quiet shadow that doesn’t lift, not really. It taught him how easily a future can disappear, how love doesn’t stop the world from taking what it wants. He doesn’t talk about her, not much — not unless the shift runs long and the coffee’s gone cold — but the space she left is always there, shaping the way he looks at you, at himself, at the idea of starting over. Jack tells himself it wouldn’t be fair. Not to you. Not when you’ve still got years ahead to figure out what you want. Not when he’s already stood graveside, watching the world shrink down to a headstone and a handful of fading memories. 

You’re younger. Less worn down. Less jaded. He tells himself — on the long drives home, when sleep refuses to come — that you deserve more time than he can offer. More time to figure out your world without him quietly shaping the edges of it. It’s the sort of difference people pretend doesn’t matter, until it does. Until he’s standing beside you, catching himself in the reflection of the trauma room glass, wondering how the years settled heavier on him than on you. Until he’s half a sentence deep into asking what you’re doing after shift, and pulling back before the words can leave his mouth.

Because no matter how much space he tries to give, the part of him that’s still grieving would always leave its mark. And you deserve more than the half-mended heart of a man who’s already learned how to live without the things he loves.

And you?

You’ve got your own reasons.

Not the ones anyone could spot at a glance, not the kind that leave scars or stories behind. Just a quiet, low-grade fear. The kind that hums beneath your skin, born from years of learning that getting too comfortable with people — letting yourself want too much — always ends the same way: doors closing, phones going silent, people walking away before you even notice they’ve started.

So you anchor yourself to the things that don’t shift. Your routine. Your steadiness. The hours that stretch long and hard but never ask you to be anything more than reliable. Because when you’re needed, you can’t be left behind. When you’re useful, it hurts less when people don’t stay.

Jack’s careful, and you’re cautious, and the space between you both stays exactly where it’s always been: not quite close enough.

So you both settle for the in-between. The ritual. The routine. Shared drinks at handoff. Inside jokes sharp enough to leave bruises. Half-finished conversations, always interrupted by codes and pages and the sharp ring of phones.

The ER runs like clockwork, except the clock’s always broken, and in the background the rest of the team watches the same loop play out — two people orbiting closer, always just out of reach.

The bets from Princess and Perlah are at the heaviest they’ve ever been, and so are their pockets. There are no more ‘Never happening’ — everyone’s now in the ‘Next week’ or ‘Next Month’. The others have stopped pretending they don’t see what’s happening. In fact, they’re practically counting the days, biding their time like a clock ticking in reverse, waiting for that moment when everything finally clicks into place.

At first, it’s subtle. 

One less handoff cut short by timing. One more overlapping hour “by accident.”

You and Jack work together more and more now, whether it's trauma cases, code blue alerts, or the quieter moments between chaotic shifts when the floor clears enough to breathe. The careful choreography of your daily dance is starting to wear thin around the edges, like a well-loved sweater that’s a little too threadbare to keep pretending it’s still holding together.

The soft exchanges in the middle of emergency rooms — the handoffs that are always clean and professional — have started to bleed into something else. You don’t mean for it to happen. Neither of you do.

But you find yourselves walking the same hallways just a bit more often. You swap shifts with an ease you hadn’t before. Jack’s voice lingers a little longer when he says, “Good night, see you tomorrow,” and the weight of that goodbye has started to feel a little like an unspoken promise.

But it’s still not enough to break the silence.

The team watches, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but neither of you says a word about it. You can’t, because the truth is, it’s easier to let things stay where they are. Safer, maybe. To just let the rhythm of the shifts carry you through without the sudden plunge of vulnerability that might shatter it all.

Still, they see it.

Dana, ever the romantic, gives you that knowing, almost conspiratorial look when she catches you making eye contact with Jack across the floor. “You two need a room,” she’ll joke, but it’s always followed by that soft exhale, like she’s waiting for the punchline you won’t give her.

Princess’ and Perlah’s bets are always louder, and always in a language neither of you understand. Every shift, they pass by the nurse’s station with sly grins, casting their predictions with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re talking about.

“Next month, I’m telling you. It’s happening in the next month. Mark my words.”

Neither you or Jack respond to the teasing. But it’s not because you don’t hear it. It’s because, in the quietest corners of your mind, the thoughts are too sharp, too close, and there’s something terrifying about acknowledging them.

The room holds its breath for you both, watching the space between you become thinner with every passing minute. You can’t feel the ticking of time, but the team certainly can.

And so it goes. Days blend into each other. Hours pass in a blur of frantic beeps and calls, hands working together with that comfortable rhythm, but always keeping just a little distance — just a little bit too much space.

But it’s getting harder to ignore the truth of what everyone else already knows. You’re both circling something, something that neither of you is brave enough to catch yet. 

Almost.

Almost always. But never quite.

The shift is brutal.

The ER’s pulse is erratic, like a heart struggling to maintain rhythm. The trauma bays are full, the waiting room is overflowing, and the chaos — the relentless, grinding chaos — is a constant roar in your ears. Alarms bleed into each other. The phone rings off the hook. Machines chirp, beds squeak, someone shouts for help, and the scent of antiseptic is powerless against the metallic undertone of blood lingering in the air.

It’s the kind of shift that makes even seasoned hands tremble. The kind that swallows hours whole, leaves your back sore and your mind frayed, and still, the board never clears.

At some point, you’re not sure when, maybe after the fifth code blue or the eighth set of vitals skimming the edge of disaster, Robby mutters something sharp and low under his breath, peels his phone out of his pocket, and steps away from the desk.

“Calling Abbot,” he says, voice tight. “We’re underwater.”

Jack isn’t due for another two hours, but the call doesn’t surprise you. The ER doesn’t care about schedules. And Jack — he shows up twenty minutes later.

His eyes meet yours across the station, and there’s no need for words. Just a nod. Just the quiet understanding that this isn’t going to be easy, if such a thing even exists.

The clock ticks and skips, seconds folding into one another, meaningless, until finally, the worst of it comes.

Trauma alert.

A car accident. The usual chaos.

Rollover on the interstate, the kind that dispatch voices always sound too steady while reporting. The kind where the EMTs work in grim silence. Two patients this time. A married couple.

The usual chaos unfolds the second the gurneys crash through the double doors — shouting, gloves snapping on, IV lines threading, vitals barking out like a list of crimes.

But this time, it’s different.

You notice it before anyone says it aloud: the husband’s hand is tangled in his wife’s, their fingers blood-slick but still locked together, knuckles white with the sheer force of holding on. Their wedding rings glinted under the harsh fluorescents, a tiny, defiant flash of gold against the chaos.

Neither of them will let go. Even unconscious, the connection stays.

You’re already in motion. Jack too. The usual rhythm, muscle memory sharp as ever. But something in the air feels different. He glances once at the woman, blood matted in her hair, her left hand still clutching the man’s. The rings. The way their bodies lean toward each other even in a state of injury, as if muscle memory alone could keep them tethered

And for just a second, he falters.

You almost miss it, but you don’t.

Jack works the wife’s side, but her injuries speak for themselves. Her chart is a litany of injuries: internal bleeding, tension pneumothorax, skull fracture.

You watch Jack work the case like his hands are moving on instinct, but his face gives him away. It’s too quiet. Too closed off. You see it all in real-time — the silent war behind his eyes, the years catching up to him in the span of a heartbeat. The lines around his mouth tightening, the weight of something too personal rising behind the clinical routine.

You know who he’s thinking about. 

It’s her — it’s her face he sees.

Jack’s gloves are stained, jaw tight, voice steady but clipped as the monitor flatlines for the third time. You watch. You press hands to bleeding wounds that won’t stop. You call out numbers you barely register. But the inevitable creeps in anyway.

At 6:41 p.m., time of death is called.

No one speaks, not right away. The monitors fall silent, the room too. The husband, still unconscious, is wheeled away. His hand finally slips from hers, left empty on the gurney.

It’s Jack that calls it. He stands over the woman’s bed for a beat too long, the silence of it all thickening in the air. His shoulders sag ever so slightly, the weight of it settling in — the anger, the grief, the helplessness. There’s no denying it, the hours and hours of labor, of lives teetering between life and death, have begun to take their toll.

You watch him and know the exact moment it breaks him.

He doesn’t even need to say it. You can see it in the way he moves — stiff, distant, a bit lost. His hand hovers by his stethoscope, his fingers curling slightly before dropping. The tension in his face is the kind you’ve seen only when someone is holding themselves together by a thread.

He catches your eye briefly, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. There’s an unspoken understanding, a shared grief between the two of you that’s settled like an old wound, reopened. He turns away before you can even ask, stepping out of the trauma bay and heading toward the on-call room, his pace a little slower than usual, weighed down by more than just the fatigue.

The shift drags on, but the tension, the heaviness, only grows. Finally, when it seems like it might never end, you make the decision. You leave your post, quietly slipping away from the chaos, and find your way to the on-call room where Jack is already sitting.

It’s dark in there but you don’t need to see him to know what’s there. His chest rises and falls with a weary sigh. There’s nothing to say at first. Nothing that would make this any easier, and you both know it.

You sit beside him in silence, the space between you both filled with the weight of the night, of the patient lost, of the things neither of you can change. You don’t push. You don’t ask. You simply exist in the same room, the same quiet, like two people who are too exhausted, too worn, to speak but too connected to stay apart.

Minutes pass. Long ones.

It’s Jack who breaks the silence, his voice a little rough, like it’s been buried too long.

“I kept thinking we’d have more time,” he says. It’s not addressed to you, not really — more confession than conversation, the kind of truth that’s spent too long locked behind his ribs.

You don’t answer right away, because you know the ache that lives under those words. You’ve felt it too. So you sit there, listening, the silence making room for him to say the rest.

And then, softer, barely above a breath —

“She looked like her. For a second — I thought it was her.”

The words hang in the dark, heavier than any silence.

You reach over, placing a hand gently on his. Your fingers brush his skin, warm, steady. You just sit there, the two of you, in the dark — the only light seeping in from under the door, pale and distant, like the world outside is somewhere neither of you belong right now.

Minutes pass, slow and shapeless, the kind of time that doesn’t measure in hours or shifts or chart updates. Just quiet. Just presence. Just the shared, unspoken ache of people who’ve both lost too much to say the words out loud.

When he finally exhales — long, steady, but still weighted — you feel the faintest shift in the air. Not fixed. Not fine. But breathing. Alive. Here.

When his gaze lifts, meeting yours — searching, fragile, waiting for something he can’t name — you finally offer it, soft but certain.

“We don’t get forever,” you whisper. “But we’ve still got now.”

And it’s enough. Maybe not to fix anything. Maybe not to make the night any less heavy. But enough to pull Jack through to the other side.

He exhales, slow and quiet, the tension in his chest loosening like it’s finally allowed to. The moment is small — no grand revelations, no dramatic declarations.

Just two people, breathing in the same quiet, carrying the same scars.

When the next shift change arrives, the rhythm of the ER doesn’t quite return to normal.

The pulse of the place still beats steady — monitors chiming, phones ringing, stretchers wheeling in and out — but the handoff feels different. Like the pattern has shifted beneath your feet.

The familiar routine plays out — the smooth exchange of patient reports, the clipped shorthand you both know by heart, the easy banter that’s always filled the spaces between — but now it lingers. The words sit heavier. The pauses stretch longer. The politeness that once held everything in place has softened, frayed at the edges by the weight of what’s left unsaid.

You stay five minutes later. Then ten.

Neither of you points it out. Neither of you needs to.

The silence isn’t awkward — it’s intentional. It hangs easy between you, unhurried and unforced. The kind of silence built on understanding rather than distance. Like the quiet knows something you both haven’t said out loud yet.

The rest of the team doesn’t call you on it. But they see it. And you catch the glances. 

You catch Dana’s raised eyebrow as she clocks out, her expression all knowing, no judgment — just quiet observation, like she’s been waiting for this to finally click into place. Robby doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk behind his coffee cup this time, his glance flicking from you to Jack and back again, as if he’s already tallying another win in the betting pool.

And still, no one says a word.

The ER lights flicker, humming softly against the early morning haze as the next shift trickles in, tired and rumpled, faces scrubbed clean and coffee cups refilled. The world moves on — patients, pages, paperwork — but Jack doesn’t.

His glance finds you, steady and certain, like an anchor after too many months of pretending there wasn’t a current pulling you both closer all along. There’s no question in it. No hesitation. Just quiet agreement.

And this time, neither of you heads for the door alone.

You fall into step beside him, the silence still stretched soft between you, your shoulder brushing his just slightly as you cross through the automatic doors and into the cool, early light. The air is crisp against your scrubs, the hum of the hospital fading behind you, replaced by the quiet sprawl of the parking lot and the slow stretch of a sky trying to shake off the dark.

The weight you’ve both carried for so long — all the almosts, the what-ifs, the walls and the fear — feels lighter now. Still there, but not crushing. Not anymore.

It isn’t just a handoff anymore. It hasn’t been for a while, but now it’s undeniable.

You glance toward him as the quiet settles between you one last time before the day fully wakes up, and he meets your look with that same soft steadiness — the kind that doesn’t demand, doesn’t rush, just holds. Like the space between you has finally exhaled, like the moment has finally caught up to the both of you after all this time skirting around it.

His hand finds yours, slow and certain, like it was always supposed to be there. No grand gesture, no sharp intake of breath, just the gentle slide of skin against skin — warm, grounding, steady. His thumb brushes the back of your hand once, absentminded and careful, like he’s memorizing the feel of this — of you — as if to make sure it’s real.

The world beyond hums back to life, ready for another day beginning. But here, in this sliver of space, between what you’ve always been and whatever comes next — everything stays still.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You don’t need to.

It’s in the way his fingers curl just slightly tighter around yours, in the way the last of the shift’s exhaustion softens at the edges of his expression. In the way the air feels different now — less heavy, less waiting. Like the question that’s lived between you for months has finally answered itself.

The first thin blush of sunrise creeps over the parking lot, painting long soft shadows across the cracked pavement, and neither of you move. There’s no rush now, no clock chasing you forward, no unspoken rule pushing you apart. Just this. Just you and him, side by side, hand in hand, standing still while the world stumbles back into motion.

It’s the start of something else.

And you both know it. Without needing to say a thing.

©yakshxiao 2025.

[a-asterias]

Your Man

thank you very much to @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs for including me in the 𝘈 𝘋𝑂𝘊𝑇𝘖𝑅 𝐴 𝐷𝘈𝑌 writing event <3 i cannot wait to dive into the pieces written by my fellow writers (check out the full post for every tagged gem!) prompt: "I think to be so dumb must be nice." | colour: black 🖤 pairing: jack abbot x f!resident reader summary: You and Jack have been bickering your way through night shifts for ages now—until two flying trays, a stitched-up hand, and one too many almost-confessions turn everything into something neither of you can ignore. content/warnings: enemies to lovers (all the banter, jabs, & sarcasm), slow-burn, emotionally repressed idiots to emotionally repressed idiots in love, depiction of harassment towards healthcare workers, protective!reader & protective!jack, fluff, angst, Robby being done with both of you wc: 5.2k a/n: i def could have gone a certain direction *cough cough* but i was overcome with a sudden craving for enemies to lovers / "they're both stubborn and it's complicated tropes," so i present to you this emotionally constipated snippet of my heart 🩺🖤

It was a well-known fact that you always clocked in after Jack Abbot.

Not because you meant to. At least, not exactly.

It started one night during your first week on night shift. You’d been cramming for exams all day, convinced you could fit in just one more practice block before your shift—just one more. But you dozed off somewhere around question 43, mouth open against the back of your textbook, a puddle of drool collecting around what once was a diagram of the cardiac chambers.

You sprinted in at 6:45pm, flustered and un-caffeinated, only to find Jack already there. Leaning against the nurses’ station with a cup of coffee like he’d been born in that spot, annoyingly calm and smirking like he’d seen this coming.

"Cutting it close, Dr. L/N," he’d said, not even looking up from his chart. "Careful. That’s how habits start."

He was right.

At first, you were apologetic—nervous and over-eager, all stammered greetings and shuffled charts. Jack didn’t seem to notice you beyond the bare minimum, and you chalked that up to his status, his seniority, his general aura of don’t talk to me unless someone is actively dying.

But things changed. Somewhere between covering for each other during rounds, tagging out on disaster admits, and a running tally of how many times you each got paged during a single trauma night, familiarity set in. You became colleagues. Then reluctant allies. And somewhere along the line—rivals. Enemies, depending on who you asked and on how bad the night was going.

One time, you were both elbow-deep in post-codes, barely functioning off stale coffee and mutual spite, when he passed you a chart and muttered, "Try not to kill this one with your bedside manner."

You took it without looking up from the board above you. "I'll match your emotional range and we'll both be fine."

You were never late, but it soon became a silent game. He always beat you at it. Whether it was by five minutes or five steps, you never let yourself get there before him. A superstition, maybe. A routine. A rhythm. And because you liked to keep him on edge—just to get a reaction out of him.

Seeing Jack colored with shades of affect, even if it was playfully annoyed, was fun. It made him predictable, addictive, a full 180 from his usual stone-cold demeanor. He’d scowl, grumble something about professionalism, and still let you win half the time. It became a kind of game, and you were very good at it.

Now as a senior resident awaiting board licensure, it was practically tradition.

He was already at the nurses’ station, sipping black coffee like it was fuel and he was a half-full tank, eyes scanning over charts. His voice cut through the hum of bedlam as you approached. "Late again, Dr. L/N. At least you're consistent."

You flipped him off without breaking stride. "And yet, somehow, the hospital hasn't burned down yet. Miraculous, wouldn't you say so, Dr. Abbot?"

He raised a brow, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Not even ten minutes in and already have our claws out, do we?"

"Oh, Jack," you pouted, "this is just foreplay."

"Ah, is that what you call passive-aggressive incompetence now?"

"Bold of you to assume it’s passive," you fired back, picking up an iPad and scanning through your list of patients for the night. "Or that I’m incompetent, considering I actually round with patients instead of brooding in corners like a gargoyle."

"Gargoyle?" he echoed. "I’m flattered you’ve been staring long enough to come up with nicknames."

"Please," you scoffed. "Your aura of gloom is visible from space. NASA actually filed a complaint saying it was interfering with their ability to conduct research."

Jack paused for a beat, gaze flicking over you more intently than usual. "Did you eat before your shift?"

You eyes were glued on the iPad, your only response a single head bobble "no."

He didn’t like that. Robby could tell from the way his jaw flexed slightly—but he said nothing. Just hummed under his breath and looked back at his clipboard.

Robby had been watching through his glasses the entire time, arms crossed and eyes narrowed like a dad wrangling in two over-caffeinated siblings. He blinked at the two of you, then sighed—long, theatrical, the kind of sigh that said he had survived more codes than he could count but this was titrating his patience.

"You two ever gonna kiss, or just keep trying to murder each other with sarcasm?" He took his glasses off to bury his face in his hands with a groan.

Jack didn’t look up, turning the page over on his clipboard. "I prefer homicide. Cleaner paperwork."

"Honestly, I'd take an explosive diarrhea case over having this conversation," you muttered, half to Robby, half to yourself, rubbing at the bridge of your nose like the words might erase Jack from your field of vision. 

Robby would be remiss if he didn't catch the way neither of you clocked his kiss and make up comment. He stared at you both, mouth frozen in a half-smile that said he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or launch you into separate time zones. He gave it two full seconds—long enough to confirm that you were both still hopeless—before shaking his head in defeat.

"I think," Robby hummed, patting both of your shoulders like a tired camp counselor, "to be so dumb must be nice."

You and Jack had the same unimpressed expression locked and loaded—scowls sharp and identical, contempt trained squarely on Robby, both of you about to mouth off in perfect sync.

He walked off before either of you could open your mouths. 

—

By 3am, the fatigue and hunger were chewing holes in your composure.

Too many admits. Not enough staff. Shen being chronically unbothered. Myrna threatening to murder her wife—when you and Jack turned to ask if she had a wife, matching expressions of disbelief already locked in place, she looked at you deadpan and asked, "You wanna get hitched?"

And always—always—Jack.

Fucking Jack.

With his clipboard full of passive-aggressive notes in that damn attractive calligraphy handwriting.

His tone clipped like a warning and welcome all at once.

And his black scrubs making him look like the grim reaper of constructive criticism and deconstructive mental undressing.

"Patient in six?" you asked.

"CT just came back. Small bowel obstruction. Classic presentation, apparently."

You glanced his way. "Told you it wasn’t just post-op gas."

Jack didn’t miss a beat. "And yet, you were already quoting discharge guidelines to the new intern before radiology even called back."

You shot him a look. Walsh would be proud of you for that one. "I was outlining possibilities. It’s called methodical thinking—must not be a concept you’re familiar with."

He grinned, lazy and unbothered. "Chaos works for me. You panic without bullet points."

You rolled your eyes. "You’re the only attending I know who thrives in complete chaos and calls it a ‘method.’"

"And you’re the only resident I know who color-codes her trauma alerts."

The edge of your lip curled. "That’s called being prepared."

He gestured vaguely. "It’s called being uptight."

You arched a brow. "Spoken like someone who thinks organized is a four-letter word that starts with 'f' and ends with 'k'."

He leaned in, voice dropping just slightly. "Spoken like someone who secretly enjoys cleaning up after my messes."

You blinked once. Then grinned wider. "One day, your beloved chaos is going to bite you in the ass."

He tapped your chart as he walked past. "I guess it’s a good thing you’ve already alphabetized the first aid supplies for me."

—

By 3:20, the storm hit.

Lightning cracked the sky. Power flickered. The backup generator hummed to life with a groan. You should've brought an extra jacket to keep in your locker but it would end up disappearing anyway. Jack was in the hallway already, flashlight in hand.

"OR’s shut down. We’re triaging manually. You good?"

You nodded, biting your tongue. This wasn’t the time.

You worked side by side in the makeshift command center. Tension simmered beneath the quiet coordination—until a grabby frat-boy type from bay four decided he didn’t like being told to sit still and wait.

It happened fast.

He flung the tray off his bed, sending instruments clattering across the floor. You instinctively raised your hand to shield your face—just as a stray scalpel nicked the back of your hand, slicing a sharp, shallow arc. The pain didn’t register immediately. Jack did.

He was on the guy in an instant, stepping in front of you, voice low and lethal. "Sit. Down." The words came out all but minced. 

Security had already been called, but Jack looked like he wanted to break the guy’s face just for breathing in your direction. He didn’t even turn back to you until the orderlies dragged the patient away.

Then his hand was cupping your elbow, his voice much softer. "Let me see it."

You hissed as he inspected the cut. "It’s not deep."

"You’re bleeding on my chaos," he muttered, guiding you gently to an empty room.

You snorted through the blossoming pain. "Told you my color-coding wasn’t excessive."

He grabbed a suture kit, pulling gloves on with the kind of care you usually saw him reserve for crics and broken ribs. "Hold still."

"Bossy."

"Only when someone I like gets stabbed in the hand."

Your breathing hitched. "Like, huh?"

Jack’s attention was fixed on your hand. "Don’t make it weird."

You smiled, watching him thread the needle, so close, so focused. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy. Quite the opposite. It felt warm. Easy. He worked methodically, hands sure, touch gentle, eyes flicking up every few seconds to check your expression like it mattered more than the wound. As he cleaned around the cut and prepped the lidocaine syringe, you both said it in unison—

"Slight prick and a burn."

You laughed under your breath, both at his expression of surprise and your synchrony. "God. That phrase is ingrained in my soul. I think I said it to a grapefruit during my 5th year."

Jack’s lips twitched. "I said it to a patient’s plush raccoon once."

You watched his hands move with steady precision, stitching you up like he had all the time in the world. The storm outside cracked again, but neither of you flinched.

"Make sure I don’t scar, Doc," you teased, settling in as he prepped the suture. "I need these hands to make magic and miracles happen. Might even become a hand model if this whole medicine thing doesn’t pan out."

Jack didn’t look up, but you caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I’ll do my best, ma’am. But if you end up on a billboard somewhere, I expect royalties."

You snorted. "In your dreams."

Jack didn’t say anything at first—just gave you a small, private smile like he was tucking something away in the back of his mind. Like he was keeping it just for himself.

And this time, when you looked at him, he didn’t look away.

For a few minutes, the raindrops tapping against the windows were the only sound that filled the empty space. Jack didn't speak. He just kept his gaze on your hand, now bandaged, resting on the edge of the tray table like it had never been hurt. You watched him watching you, your heart thudding quietly in your throat. 

"You always take care of your disasters this nicely?" you mumbled.

He smirked. "Only the pretty ones."

You didn’t speak of it.

Not until later, when the lights came back and the halls emptied and you were alone in the break room.

You noticed it as he leaned against the counter, scrubs rumpled, hair even more so. His scrubs were black, as always—just rumpled enough to prove he'd been moving all night, just fitted enough to be infuriating. You took a sip of water, eyeing him from across the break room table as you both took a seat. Something about the way the fluorescent light caught the curve of his jaw made the words slip out before you could stop them.

"Do you own anything that isn’t black?" you asked, voice light with sudden curiosity. "Or is your off-duty wardrobe just a series of increasingly gothic-toned hoodies that match your work-wear?"

Jack glanced up from his coffee, one brow arched. "It hides blood."

You stared. "You really don’t let anyone in, huh?"

He didn’t answer right away, just sipped his coffee and stared out at the empty hallway beyond the break room.

Finally, with a shrug that didn’t quite match the weight behind it, he said, "You’re one to talk."

That made you laugh, but it came out softer than expected. "Guess we’re both pretty terrible at normal."

Jack’s lips twitched. "Normal’s overrated."

You leaned back in your chair, legs stretched out in front of you, the tips of your sneakers barely brushing his. Neither of you moved. 

Suddenly, Jack got up and yanked open a small drawer by the coffee machine and pulled out a sad-looking granola bar, handing it to you without meeting your eyes.

"Eat this."

Your brow furrowed, suspicious. "Seriously?"

"You haven’t eaten since yesterday," he muttered, brushing it off like it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t noticed.

You stared at the wrapper, then at him. "You really had that locked and loaded?"

He didn’t answer. Just crossed his arms and stuck the bar out at you further. "It’s chocolate. Don’t make me regret it."

Instead of prying further, your hand reached out slowly and took it, eyes still narrowed, studying him like he’d just burnt out a fuse in your brain.

Silence washed over you again. Occasionally filled by the sound of you munching on your granola bar and taking measured sips of your coffee. After a few minutes and one crumpled granola bar later, you caught Jack sneaking a glance at you over the rim of his cup.

You didn’t say anything—just raised a brow.

He looked away like he hadn’t been watching you at all.

But the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

The words crept out of your mouth carefully. "Do you think..." 

Jack looked up, gaze intent. 

"Nevermind," you stopped yourself. 

He leaned in closer, the space between you shrinking into something almost unbearable. Not quite touching, not even brushing—but the air thickened under the weight of his stare. That kind of eye contact that felt like it could crack glass. Steady. Searching.

You let the quiet spool between you like a thread someone might tug, if they were brave enough.

"It's rude to start things you don't intend on finishing," he stated simply.

You blinked, still caught in the current of that look, then leaned in a little—almost like you were about to whisper a secret. Jack mirrored you without hesitation, like it was instinct.

Your voice was barely above a murmur. "Do you think..."

He waited, gaze steady, maybe even a tinge of hope if you squinted.

"...that the real reason you thrive in chaos is because it matches your personality?" you deadpanned.

Jack exhaled sharply, the ghost of a scoff tugging at his mouth. He sat back, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

You grinned, eyes bright and playful. "What? I finished it."

"Barely," he muttered, but he was smiling too.

A few beats passed. You both sat in the lingering quiet, the kind that settled in only after long shifts and half-spoken things.

Then he leaned in—just a little—mirroring what you'd done earlier. You furrowed your brows, curious.

He lowered his voice, almost conspiratorial. "Do you think..."

You leaned in too, expecting something real, something heavy.

"...that you secretly enjoy being wrong? Because, statistically, it’s seems like your favorite hobby."

Your jaw dropped to let out a puff of air, baffled by his audacity, and pushed his arm. "God, you’re insufferable."

He chuckled under his breath. "And yet, here you are."

You gave him a sideways glance, lips quirking. "I will admit that it’s in my top five favorite hobbies. But it still doesn’t beat ‘annoying Jack Abbot.’ That one’s undefeated."

Jack shook his head, eyes warm and lips softened in a grin. "You’d miss me if I ever stopped letting you win."

Your only response was a coy smile. You nudged his foot with yours beneath the table, and he glanced down at the contact. He nudged back, subtle and sure, like he didn’t want the moment to end just yet—then looked back up at you. Something passed between the pair of you—unspoken, tentative, curious.

The room fell quiet again, comfortable this time. Neither of you moved to leave.

Until Jack's phone buzzed.

He glanced at it, then cursed under his breath. "Room seven. It's that kid who demanded to speak to the 'head doctor' because I wouldn't give him dilaudid for a tension headache."

You raised a brow. "So... a normal Friday?"

"Basically."

You watched him go, expecting a quick de-escalation. Room seven. You knew who that was. Height rivaled only by his ego. Frat letters drawn across his bare chest like illiterate war paint. Barked at nurses like he owned the floor. The kind of guy who made everything someone else's problem, backed by daddy’s legal team and a two-semester record of hazing infractions.

Jack had said he’d handle it. He always did. Especially with these types. It was like they were on a rotation—every Friday night, a new brand of uninhibited pre-frontal cortex, privileged chaos.

But then you heard his voice—Jack’s—sharp and too loud from down the hall. A clatter followed, unmistakable. Tray to tile. A chair scraping. Then another crash. A shout that definitely wasn’t Jack’s.

You were already moving.

By the time you rounded the corner, the frat boy was mid-lunge, fury twisting his face as he hurled a tray toward Jack’s head like he was reenacting some half-remembered bar fight. Jack ducked, barely—but he was boxed in, too close to the wall.

You didn’t think. Just moved.

"Hey!" you barked, adrenaline surging. You threw yourself at him, coming at him like a freight train and making him fall back onto the bed with a grunt. A nurse hit the emergency call. Security swarmed seconds later.

Jack had grabbed your arm and pulled you back—tight but not painful—pulling you just out of the fray. "What the hell?"

You glared at him, chest heaving. "Returning the favor."

He didn’t let go.

"On-call room. Now."

He practically hauled you down the hall, his hand never leaving yours. You were both silent until the door shut behind you. He pressed his palms to the counter and stared at it like it had personally offended him.

"What was that?" His voice was sharp, unfiltered, pissed in a way you didn’t see often—not like this. Not when it was about you. "You could’ve gotten hurt."

"So could you." You leaned against the metal bunkbed frame, still catching your breath. "A simple 'thank you' would suffice."

His Adam's apple bobbed, slow, like the movement itself took restraint. His jaw was tight, eyes darker than usual.

"You're reckless," he said quietly.

"Takes one to know one," you laughed.

Jack didn’t.

He stepped forward instead, jaw clenched. "You have no regard for your safety and only for that of others."

You took a step back.

"You will go out of your way to treat and protect everyone around you at the expense of your own well-being."

Another step back. Any closer and—

"Do you understand," he said, each word measured, devastating, "how much I worry about you?"

Your heartbeat was a war drum now—loud, insistent, thunderous.

"Do you know how much I think about you? How much I plan for the worst every time you throw yourself between danger and someone else without a second thought?" he added, voice cracking just enough to reveal the truth beneath it. Laid bare.

"When you walk into the ER and you haven't eaten since the night before and I can see it—you're running on caffeine and impulse and whatever scraps of adrenaline are left."

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.

He didn’t stop there. "When you give your jacket to a freezing patient and spend the next six hours shivering without saying a word—like that’s normal."

You swallowed. "It wasn’t cold..."

Jack’s voice sharpened. "You forget your umbrella and show up soaked but act like it's fine. Like it’s not freezing. Like you didn’t just volunteer to get sick."

Your fingers twitched against your side.

"And when you blow off your own wound care to finish a chart. Or cover a code blue for someone else even though your shift ended twenty minutes ago."

You looked away. His eyes never left you.

He stepped even closer, willing you to look at him. "When you pretend you’re made of steel. And then crack alone in the stairwell when you think no one’s looking."

It felt like ice cold water had dropped from the ceiling.

"Jack—" you managed to force out. 

He held up a hand and turned around, cutting you off. "Please." 

He couldn’t hear it. Not unless you felt the same. Not unless you'd listened, actually listened, for once. He’d rather bleed out not knowing than survive a rejection he couldn’t patch. Just colleagues. He'd switch over to day shift if he had to. Robby could put in a word for him. Temporary, at least until he found a new hospital. Maybe in a different city. Of a different state.

He looked anywhere but you, turning like he meant to leave, like he could walk it off and pretend none of this ever happened.

"Jack, please..." The words came out desperate, begging, pleading for him to stop.

He didn't meet your eyes—couldn't. "I'll see you at the nurses station." 

"Oh, for the love of God—" You reached forward and yanked him back by his forearm.

And then your lips were on his.

It wasn’t clean or careful. It was a crash—years of tension detonating all at once. He froze for half a second, eyes wide open like his brain was short-circuiting, then kissed you back with everything he had and more. Desperation, disbelief, hunger—it all poured out of him like water breaking through a dam.

Your hands cradled his face, thumbs grazing over the light stubble along his jaw, fingertips brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones like you were learning him by touch alone. He kissed you like he couldn’t stand to stop, and you held him like you weren’t going to let him. He tasted like spearmint—sharp and stubborn—the gum he always carried in his pocket, and behind that, burnt coffee and something so distinctly Jack it made your limbs tingle.

His hands found your waist, your jaw, your back—grasping like he didn’t trust the moment to be real unless he mapped every inch of you with his fingertips. You were pressed chest to chest, and it still didn’t feel close enough.

Jack had kissed people before. He had slept with people before. He'd been married, for God's sake. But this—this—was unreal. This was heat and gravity and every inch of restraint he’d stitched into place finally tearing wide open. This was the reason human beings fought in wars. Why people wrote poetry and ruined perfectly stable lives for one perfect, maddening kiss. Why everything else material and immaterial suddenly paled in comparison.

Your hands were in his hair, tugging salt and pepper curls just enough to make him groan, low and wrecked against your lips.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, share the oxygen in your lungs, the little gasp you made when his thumb grazed the spot behind your ear just right. He devoured everything you gave him and kissed you like a man who had run out of time and patience.

Because he had.

He’d wanted this too long to pretend otherwise, and he'd sooner die than deprive either of you from this any longer. 

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead resting lightly against his. Both of you were gasping, eyes locked in the kind of dazed silence that usually followed adrenaline crashes. 

"Took you long enough, old man," you whispered, lips still brushing his.

Jack blinked once, twice. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like the thought had crossed his mind a thousand times, but the reality of you—this—hit harder than he’d prepared for.

"You feel the same?" he asked quietly, in a tone that was more awe than question.

You nodded. "Since before either of us were brave enough to say it."

Jack let out a breath that shook at the edges. "I thought if I let it slip—if I looked too long, said too much—you’d shut me out."

"I thought if I admitted it, it would ruin everything."

"It didn’t," he murmured, leaning his forehead against yours.

"No," you whispered. "It finally made sense of everything."

Jack blinked again, almost like he hadn’t fully registered it until now. His gaze swept over your face, pausing at your lips, then your eyes, as if searching for the lie he couldn’t find.

"You really mean that?" he asked, quieter now. Not disbelieving—just internalizing.

You nodded again, slower this time. "I don’t do this if I don’t."

Jack let out another breath, but it wasn’t shaky this time—it was solid. Grounded. Relieved. He laughed under it, the sound warm and slightly incredulous.

"You really are impossible," he murmured, brushing his nose against yours.

"And you’re dramatic," you whispered back, smiling.

"Fair," he said. "But you’re still mine."

"Yeah," you said. "I think I always was."

Jack huffed a breath, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Careful. You just kissed your attending. That kind of power could go to your head."

You grinned, still breathless. "Please. You kissed me back like your life depended on it."

"Who says it didn't?" he asked rhetorically, so quietly it almost got lost in the air between you.

Your fingers drifted to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing softly along the hairline, anchoring him there. Jack shivered. Not from cold—never from cold.

"Thank you," you admitted. "For taking care of me while I was busy taking care of everyone else."

His grip on your waist tightened, grounding himself, and then he leaned in again. This time it was slower. Less frantic. His lips found the curve of your neck, warm and reverent. You gasped—quietly—but it was enough. He kissed lower, just beneath your jaw, and your hands curled in the fabric at his shoulders.

"Always." The word left his lips like a prayer.

His fingers traced the hem of your scrub top, ghosting up your sides like he was overriding any and all memories of anything else other than you. No dissonance. Just Jack, desperate to feel something real in a world that never gave him space to.

You pressed closer, kissed the corner of his mouth. "You taste like that godawful spearmint gum."

He grinned against your skin. "You love it."

Another scoff. "If throwing myself in front of a raging frat boy was all it took to get you to shut up and kiss me, I would've done it ages ago."

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, smug. "If you do that again, I’m going to make you do my charting for a week."

You snorted. "With pleasure."

He didn’t argue. Just dipped his head and kissed you again.

—

You woke in the on-call room, a mess of tangled limbs and haphazardly strewn clothes. Your cheek pressed to the rise and fall of his chest. The storm had long passed, but its echo lingered in the hush around you. Jack’s arm was slung low around your waist, fingers drawing lazy, absent-minded shapes against your hip like he didn’t know how to stop touching you now that he’d started.

"For what it’s worth, I still think you’re a pain in the ass," you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

His chest rumbled beneath your cheek. "Likewise," he said, but it came out softer than usual.

You shifted just enough to look up at him, your hand brushing gently across his ribs, then settling over his heart. "Don’t get used to this."

His brow arched. "This?" If you looked hard enough, you might have seen worry flash across his face. 

"Me being nice."

Relief painted his expression. He smiled, full and rare. "You’re the one curled into me like a particularly mouthy cat."

You buried your face in his chest. "Shut up."

His fingers tightened slightly at your hip. "Not complaining. Just saying... I could get used to this."

You looked up again, caught the vulnerability flickering there before he blinked it away. Your thumb brushed his jaw, and you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth, a smile blooming in its wake.

"Yeah," you whispered. "Me too."

—

A few weeks and an undetermined number of shifts later, you walked through the double doors of the ER wearing a black hoodie—oversized and unassuming to anyone else, but unmistakable to anyone who knew him.

Robby and Dana spotted it from a mile away. The frayed drawstring, the hole near the front pocket, the faded cuff seams—the one he always reached for when the weather dropped below 60 degrees, too tired to bother, or too raw to pretend. Jack’s favorite and now second most prized possession.

The first being the shirt you wore when you stayed the night for the first time—oversized and soft, probably older than the first year med students—borrowed without asking. He never washed it. Claimed it smelled like you now and he'd keep it that way.

No one said a word.

Except Robby, who walked past and muttered, "Finally." Then, as you and Jack strolled side by side toward the nurses’ station—still bickering, now with smiles tucked behind every jab—he held out a fist to Jack.

Jack bumped it without hesitation.

Robby grinned. "Took you long enough."

"Shut up," you and Jack muttered in unison, but neither of you stopped smiling.

Jack's hand brushed yours between steps, a casual touch that lingered just long enough to say everything he couldn't say out loud in front of witnesses. You let your pinky hook around his for a second before letting go—just a flash of something soft beneath the usual snark.

"Didn't know we allowed pets in the ER," Dana remarked from her chair before looking up through her glasses. "Or are those lovebirds I hear?"

You smirked. "We’re just evolving."

Jack raised a brow. "Into better people?"

"No," you replied. "Into slightly better-functioning disasters. I am, anyway. Jack’s still somewhere between disaster and cryptid."

He bumped your shoulder gently before giving you a playful wink. "Speak for yourself. I was already perfect."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. A smile crept up like second nature. You'd get him next time.

Robby snorted. "God, you two are insufferable."

You turned just enough to shoot him a smug look. "You love it."

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "I do. But if I walk in on you making out in the supply closet, I’m blackmailing both of you. With photos."

Jack didn’t even flinch. "Make sure you get our good angles."

You could definitely get used to this.

[a-asterias]

Edge of the Dark

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: What starts as quiet pining after too many long shifts becomes something heavier, messier, softer—until the only place it all makes sense is in the dark. warnings: references to trauma and PTSD, mentions of deaths in hospital setting, emotionally charged scenes genre: slow burn, fluff, humor, angst, hurt/mostly comfort, soft intimacy, one (1) very touch-starved man, communication struggles, messy feelings, healing is not linear, implied but not explicit smut word count: ~13.5k (i apologize in advance ;-; pls check out ao3 if you prefer chapters) a/n: this started as a soft character exploration and very quickly became a mega-doc of deep intimacy, trauma-informed gentleness, and jack abbot being so touch-starved it hurts. dedicated to anyone who’s ever longed for someone who just gets it 💛 p.s. check out my other abbot fic if you're interested ^-^

You weren’t sure why you lingered.

Everyone had peeled off after a few beers in the park, laughter trailing behind them like fading campfire smoke. Someone had packed up the empties. Someone else made a joke about early rounds. There were half-hearted goodbyes and the sound of sneakers on gravel.

But two people hadn’t moved.

Jack Abbot was still sitting on the bench, legs stretched out in front of him, head tilted just enough that the sharp line of his jaw caught the low amber light from a distant streetlamp.

You stood a few feet away, hovering, unsure if he wanted to be alone or just didn’t know how to leave.

The countless night shifts you'd shared blurred like smeared ink, all sharp moments and dull exhaustion. You’d been colleagues long enough to know the shape of each other’s presence—Jack’s clipped tone when things were spiraling, your tendency to narrate while suturing. Passing conversations, brief exchanges in stolen moments of calm—that was the extent of it. You knew each other’s habits on shift, the shorthand of chaos, the rhythm of crisis. But outside the job, you were closer to strangers than friends. The Dr. Jack Abbot you knew began and ended in the ER. 

It had always been in fragments. Glimpses across trauma rooms. A muttered "Nice work" after a tricky intubation. The occasional shared note on a chart. Maybe a nod in the break room if you happened to breathe at the same time. You knew each other's rhythms, but not the stories behind them. It was small talk in the eye of a hurricane—the kind that comes fast and leaves no room for anything deeper. The calm before the storm, never after. 

“You okay?” Your voice came out soft, not wanting to startle him in case he was occupied with his thoughts. 

He didn’t look at you right away. Just blinked, slow, eyes boring holes into the concrete path laid before him. "Didn’t want to go home yet." Then, after a beat, his gaze shifted to you. "You coming back in a few hours?"

You huffed a small laugh, more air than sound. "Probably. Not like I’ll get more than a couple hours of sleep anyway." The beer left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue as you took another sip. 

His mouth curved—almost a smile, almost something more. "Yeah. That’s what I said to Robby."

You saw the tired warmth in his eyes. Not gone, just tucked away.

"Wasn't this supposed to be your day off?" you asked, tipping your head slightly. "You could take tomorrow off to comp."

He snorted under his breath. "I could. Probably won't."

"Of course not," you said, lips quirking. "That would be too easy."

"No sleep for the wicked," he muttered dryly, but there was no edge to it. Just familiarity settling between you like an old coat. 

A quiet settled over the bench. Neither of you spoke. You breathed together, the kind of silence that asked nothing, demanded nothing. Just the hush of night stretching between two people with too much in their heads and not enough rest in their bones.

Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Do you think squirrels ever get drunk from fermented berries?"

You blinked. "What?" It was impossible to hold back the frown of confusion that dashed across your face. 

He shrugged, barely hiding a grin. "I read about it once. They get all wobbly and fall out of trees."

A laugh burst out of you—sudden, warm, real. "Dr. Abbot, are you drunk right now?"

"Little buzzed," he admitted, yet his body gave no indication that he was anything but sober. "But I stand by the question. Seems like something we should investigate. For science."

You laughed again, softer this time. The kind that lingered behind your teeth.

"Call me Jack."

When you looked up, you saw that he was still staring at you. That smile still tugged at the edge of his mouth. There was a flicker of something in his expression—a moment of uncertainty, then decision.

"You can just call me Jack," he repeated, voice quieter now. "We're off the clock."

A grin crept its way onto your face. "Jack." You said it slowly, like you were trying the word on for size. It felt strange in your mouth—new, unfamiliar—but right. The syllable rolled off your tongue and settled into the space between you like something warm.

He ducked his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with your smile.

The quiet returned, but this time it was lighter, looser. He  leaned down to fasten his prosthetic back in place with practiced ease, then stood up to give his sore muscles another good stretch. When he looked over at you again, it was with a steadier kind of presence—solid, grounded.

"You want some company on the walk home?"

Warmth flooded your face. Maybe it was the alcohol hitting. Or the worry of being a burden. You hesitated, then gave him an apologetic look. "I mean—thank you, really—but you don’t have to.  I live across the river, by Point State Park. It’s kind of out of the way."

Jack tipped his chin up, brows furrowing in thought. "Downtown? I'm on Fifth and Market Street. That’s like, what—two blocks over?"

"Seriously?" Jack Abbot lived a five-minute walk south from you?

The thought settled over you with a strange warmth. All this time, the space between your lives had been measured in blocks.

He nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets and slinging on his backpack, the fabric rustling faintly. "Yeah. No bother at all, it's on my way."

You both stood there a moment longer as the wind shifted, carrying with it the distant hum of traffic from Liberty Avenue and the low splash of water against the Mon Wharf. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once, then fell silent.

"Weird we’ve never run into each other," you murmured, more to yourself than anything. But of course, he heard you.

Jack’s gaze flicked toward you, and something like a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Guess we weren’t looking," he said.

The rest of the walk was quiet, but not empty. Your footsteps echoed in unison against the cracked sidewalk, and somewhere between street lamps and concrete cracks, you stopped feeling like strangers. The dim lights left long shadows that pooled around your feet, soft and flickering. Neither of you seemed in a rush to break the silence.

Maybe it was the late hour, or the leftover buzz from the beers, or maybe it was something else entirely, but the dark didn’t feel heavy the way it sometimes did—especially after shifts like this. It was a kind of refuge. A quiet shelter for two people too used to holding their breath. It felt... safe. Like a shared language being spoken in a place you both understood.

A few night shifts passed. Things had quieted down after the mass casualty event—at least by ER standards—but the chaos never really left. Working emergency meant the moments of calm were usually just precursors to the next wave. You were supposed to be off by seven, but paperwork ran long, a consult ran over, a med student went rogue with an IO drill, and before you knew it, it was 9 am.

After unpinning your badge and stuffing it into your pocket, you pushed through the main hospital doors and winced against the pale morning light. Everything felt too sharp, too loud, and the backs of your eyes throbbed from hours of fluorescent lighting. Fatigue settled deep in your muscles, a familiar dull ache that pulsed with each step. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to your scrubs, mixed with the bitter trace of stale coffee.

You were busy rubbing your eyes, trying to relieve the soreness that bloomed behind them like a dull migraine, and didn’t see the figure standing just to the side of the door.

You walked straight into him—headfirst.

“Jesus—sorry,” you muttered, taking a step back.

And there he was: Jack Abbot, leaning against the bike rack just outside the lobby entrance. His eyes tracked the sliding doors like he’d been waiting for something—or someone. In one hand, he held a steaming paper cup. Not coffee, you realized when the scent hit you, but tea. And in the other, he had a second cup tucked against his ribs. 

He looked up when he saw you, and for a second, he didn’t say anything. Just smiled, small and tired and real.

"Dr. Abbot." You blinked, caught completely off guard. 

"Jack," he corrected gently, with a crooked smirk that didn’t quite cover the hint of nerves underneath. "Off the clock, remember?"

A soft scoff escaped you—more acknowledgment than answer. As you shifted your weight, the soreness settled into your legs. "Wait—why are you still here? Your caseload was pretty light today. Should’ve been out hours ago."

Jack shrugged, eyes steady on yours. "Had a few things to wrap up. Figured I’d wait around. Misery loves company."

You blinked again, slower this time. That quiet, steady warmth in your chest flared—not dramatic, just there. Present. Unspoken.

He extended the cup toward you like it was no big deal. You took it, the warmth of the paper seeping into your fingers, grounding you more than you expected.

"Didn’t know how you took it," Jack said. "Figured tea was safer than coffee at this hour."

You nodded, still adjusting to the strange intimacy of being thought about. "Good guess."

He glanced at his own cup, then added with a small smirk, "The barista recommended some new hipster blend—uh, something like... lavender cloudburst? Cloud... bloom? I don't know. It sounded ridiculous, but it smelled okay, so."

You snorted into your first sip. "Lavender cloudburst? That a seasonal storm warning or a tea?"

Jack laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly couldn’t tell you. I just nodded like I knew what I was doing."

And something about the way he said it—offhand, dry, and a little self-deprecating—made the morning feel a little softer. Like he wasn’t just waiting to see you. He was trying to figure out how to stay a little longer.

The first sip tasted like a warm hug. “It’s good,” you hummed. Jack would be remiss if he didn’t notice the way your cheeks flushed pink, or how you smiled to yourself. 

So the two of you just started walking.

There was no plan. No particular destination in mind. Just the rhythmic scuff of your shoes on the pavement, the warm cups in hand, and the soft hum of a city waking up around you. The silence between you wasn’t awkward, just cautious—guarded, maybe, but not unwilling. As you passed by a row of restaurants, he made a quiet comment about the coffee shop that always burned their bagels. You mentioned the skeleton in OR storage someone dressed up in scrubs last Halloween, prompted by some graffiti on the brick wall of an alley. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Jack shoved one hand in his pocket, the other still cradling his now-empty cup. “I still think cloudburst sounds like a shampoo brand.”

You grinned, stealing a sideways glance at him. “I don’t know, I feel like it could also be a very niche indie band.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and breathy. “That tracks. ‘Cloudburst’s playing the Thunderbird next weekend.’”

“Opening for Citrus Lobotomy,” you deadpanned.

Jack nearly choked on his last sip of tea.

The moment passed like that—small, stupid jokes nestled between shared exhaustion and something else neither of you were quite ready to name. But in those fragments, in those glances and tentative laughs, there was a kind of knowing. Not everything had to be said outright. Some things could just exist—quietly, gently—between the spaces of who you were behind hospital doors and who you were when the work was finally done.

The next shift came hard and fast.

A critical trauma rolled in just past midnight—a middle-aged veteran, found unconscious, head trauma, unstable vitals, military tattoo still visible on his forearm beneath the dried blood. Jack was leading the case, and even from across the trauma bay, you could see it happen—the second he recognized the tattoo, something in him shut down.

He didn’t freeze. Didn’t panic. He just... went quiet. Tighter around the eyes. Sharper, more mechanical. As if he’d stepped out of his body and left the rest behind to finish the job.

The team moved like clockwork, but the rhythm never felt right. The patient coded again. Then again. Jack ordered another round of epi, demanded more blood—his voice tight, almost brittle. That sharp clench of his jaw said everything he didn’t. He wanted this one to make it. He needed to.

Even as the monitor flatlined, its sharp tone cutting through the noise like a blade, he kept going.

“Start another line,” he said. “Hang another unit. Push another dose.”

No one moved.

You stepped in, heart sinking. “Dr. Abbot… he’s gone.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look at you. “One more round. Just—try again.”

The team hesitated. Eyes darted to you.

You stepped closer, voice soft but firm. “Jack—” you said his name like a lifeline, not a reprimand. “I’m so sorry.”

That stopped him. Just like that, his breath caught. Shoulders sagged. The echo of the monitor still rang behind you, constant and cold.

He finally looked at the man on the table.

“Time of death, 02:12.”

His hands didn’t shake until they were empty.

Then he peeled off his gloves and threw them hard into the garbage can, the snap of latex punctuating the silence like a slap. Without a word, he turned and stormed out of the trauma bay, footsteps clipped and angry, leaving the others standing frozen in his wake.

It wasn’t until hours later—when the adrenaline faded and the grief crawled back in like smoke under a door—that you found him again.

He was on the roof.

Just standing there.

Like the sky could carry the weight no one else could hold. 

As if standing beneath that wide, empty stretch might quiet the scream still lodged in his chest. He didn’t turn around when you stepped onto the roof, but his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. He recognized your footsteps.

"What are you doing up here?"

The words came from him, low and rough, and it surprised you more than it should have.

You paused, taking careful steps toward him. Slow enough not to startle, deliberate enough to be noticed. "I should be asking you that."

He let out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe just exhaustion given form. For a while, neither of you spoke. The wind pulled at your scrub top, cool and insistent, but not enough to chase you back inside.

“You ever have one of those cases that just—sticks?” he asked eventually, eyes still locked on the city below.

“Most of them,” you admitted quietly. “Some louder than others.”

Jack nodded, slow. “Yeah. Thought I was past that one.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You knew better than to press. Just like he didn’t ask why you were really up there, either.

There was a pause. Not empty—just cautious.

“I get it,” you murmured. “Some things don’t stay buried. No matter how deep you try to shove them down.”

That earned a glance from him, fleeting but sharp. “Didn’t know you had things like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your gaze steady on the skyline. “That’s the point, right?”

Another breath. A half-step toward understanding. But the walls stayed up—for now. Just not as high as they’d been.

You glanced at him, his face half in shadow. "It’s not weak to let someone stand beside you. Doesn’t make the weight go away, but it’s easier to keep moving when you’re not the only one holding it."

His shoulders twitched, just slightly. Like something in him heard you—and wanted to believe it.

You nudged the toe of your shoe against a loose bit of gravel, sensing the way Jack had pulled back into himself. The lines of his shoulders had gone stiff again, his expression harder to read. So you leaned into what you knew—a little humor, a little distance cloaked in something lighter.

“If you jump on Robby’s shift, he’ll probably make you supervise the med students who can't do proper chest compressions.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But something close. Something that cracked the silence just enough to let the air in again. “God, I'd hate to be his patient."

Then, in one fluid motion, he swung a leg through the railing and stepped carefully onto solid ground beside you. The metal creaked beneath his weight, but he moved like he’d done it a hundred times before. That brief flicker of distance, of something fragile straining at the edges, passed between you both in silence.

Neither of you said anything more. You simply turned together, wordlessly, and started heading back inside.

A shift change here, a coffee break there—moments that lingered a little longer than they used to. Small talk slipped into quieter pauses that neither of you rushed to fill. Glances held for just a beat too long, then quickly looked away.

You noticed things. Not all at once. But enough.

Jack’s habit of reorganizing the cart after every code. The way he checked in on the new interns when he thought no one was watching. The moments he paused before signing out, like he wasn’t ready to meet daybreak.

And sometimes, you’d catch him watching you—not with intent, but with familiarity. As if the shape of you in a room had become something he expected. Something steady.

Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.

Whatever it was, it was moving. Slowly. Quietly.

The kind of shift that only feels seismic once you look back at where you started.

One morning, after another long stretch of back-to-back shifts, the two of you walked out together without planning to. No words, no coordination. Just parallel exhaustion and matching paces.

The city was waking up—soft blue sky, the whir of early buses, the smell of something vaguely sweet coming from a bakery down the block.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “You walking all the way?”

“Figured I’d try and get some sleep,” you said, then hesitated. “Actually… there’s a diner a few blocks from here. Nothing fancy. But their pancakes don’t suck.”

He glanced over, one brow raised. “Is that your way of saying you want breakfast?”

“I’m saying I’m hungry,” you replied, a touch too casual. “And you look like you could use something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, then nodded once.

“Alright,” he said. “Lead the way.”

And that was it.

No declarations. No turning point anyone else might notice. Just two people, shoulder to shoulder, walking in the same direction a little longer than they needed to. 

The diner wasn’t much—formica tables, cracked vinyl booths, a waitress who refilled your bland coffee without asking. But it was warm, and quiet, and smelled like real butter.

You sat across from Jack in a booth near the window, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around mismatched mugs. He didn’t talk much at first, just stirred his coffee like he was waiting for it to tell him something.

Eventually, the silence gave way.

“I think I’ve eaten here twice this week,” you said, gesturing to the laminated menu. “Mostly because I don’t trust myself near a stove after night shift.”

Jack cracked a tired smile. “Last time I tried to make eggs, I nearly set off the sprinklers.”

“That would’ve been one hell of a consult excuse.”

He chuckled—quiet, genuine. The kind of laugh that felt rare on him. “Pretty sure the med students already think I live at the hospital. That would've just confirmed it.”

Conversation meandered from there. Things you both noticed. The weird habits of certain attendings. The one resident who used peanut butter as a mnemonic device. None of it deep, but all of it honest.

Somewhere between pancakes and too many refills, something eased.

Jack looked up mid-sip, met your eyes, and didn’t look away.

“You’re easy to sit with,” he said simply.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled. “You are too.”

One thing about Jack was that he never shied away from eye contact. Maybe it was the military in him—or maybe it was just how he kept people honest. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and when it landed on you, it stayed.

You felt it then, like a spotlight cutting through the dim diner lighting. That intensity, paired with the softness of the moment, made your stomach dip. You ducked your head, suddenly interested in your coffee, and took a sip just to busy your hands.

Jack didn’t miss it. “You feeling okay?"

You scoffed. “It’s just warm in here.”

“Mmm,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Must be the pancakes.”

You coughed lightly, the sound awkward and deliberate, then reached for the safety of a subject less charged. “So,” you began, “what’s the worst advice you ever got from a senior resident?”

Jack blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. “That’s easy. ‘If the family looks confused, just talk faster.’”

You winced, grinning. “Oof. Classic.”

He leaned back in the booth. “What about you?”

“Oh, mine told me to bring donuts to chart review so the attending would go easy on me.”

Jack tilted his head. “Did it work?”

“Well,” you said, “the donuts got eaten. My SOAP note still got ripped apart. So, no.”

He chuckled. “Justice, then.”

He stirred his coffee once more, then set the spoon down with more care than necessary. His voice dropped, softer, but not fragile. Testing the waters.

"You ever think about leaving it? The ER, I mean."

The question caught you off guard—not because it was heavy, but because it was him asking. You blinked at him, surprised to see something flicker behind his eyes. Not restlessness exactly. Just... ache.

"Sometimes," you admitted. "When it gets too loud. When I catch myself counting the days instead of the people."

Jack nodded, but his gaze locked on you. Steady. Intense. Like he was memorizing something. It took everything out of you not to shy away. 

"I used to think if I left, everything I’d seen would catch up to me all at once. Like the noise would follow me anyway."

You let that hang in the air between you. It wasn’t a confession. But it was close.

"Maybe it would. But maybe there’d be room to breathe, too..." you trailed off, breaking eye contact. 

Jack didn’t respond, didn’t look away. Simply looked into you with the hopes of finding an answer for himself. 

Eventually, the food was picked at more than eaten, the check paid, and the last of the coffee drained. When you finally stepped outside, the air hit cooler than expected—brisk against your skin, a contrast to the warmth left behind in the diner. The sky had brightened while you weren’t looking, soft light catching the edges of buildings, traffic picking up in a faint buzz. It was the kind of morning that made everything feel suspended—just a little bit longer—before the real world returned.

The walk back was quieter than before. Not tense, just full. Tired footsteps on uneven sidewalks. The distant chirp of birds. Your shoulders brushing once. Maybe twice.

When you finally reached your building, you paused on the steps. Jack lingered just behind you, hands in his jacket pockets, gaze drifting toward the street.

"Thanks for breakfast," you said.

He nodded. "Yeah. Of course."

A beat passed. Then two.

You could’ve invited him up. He could’ve asked if you wanted some tea. But neither of you took the step forward, opting rather to stand still. 

Not yet.

“Get some sleep,” he said, voice low.

“You too.”

And just like that, he turned and walked off into the quiet.

Another hard shift. One of those nights that stuck to your skin, bitter and unshakable. You’d both lost a patient that day. Different codes, same outcome. Same weight. Same painful echo of loss that clung to the insides of your chest like smoke. No one cried. No one yelled. But it was there—the tension around Jack’s mouth, the clenching of his jaw; the way your hands wouldn’t stop flexing, nails digging into your palms to ground yourself. In the stillness. In the quiet. In everything that hurt.

You lingered near the bike racks, not really speaking. The space between you was thick, not tense—but full. Too full.

It was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it. The kind of hour where the streets felt hollow and fluorescent light still hummed behind your eyes. No one had moved to say goodbye.

You shifted your weight, glanced at him. Jack stood a few feet away, jaw tight, eyes somewhere distant.

The words slipped out before you could stop them. 

“I could make tea." Not loud. Not casual. Just—offered. 

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say it. Maybe it was the way he was looking at the ground. Or the way the silence between you had started to feel like lead. Either way, the moment it left your mouth, something inside you winced.  

He looked at you then. Really looked. And after a long pause, nodded. “Alright.”

So you walked the blocks together, shoulder to shoulder beneath the hum of a waking city. The stroll was quiet—neither of you said much after the offer. When you reached the front steps of your building, your fingers froze in front of the intercom box. Hovered there. Hesitated. You weren’t even sure why—he was just standing there, quiet and steady beside you—but still, something in your chest fluttered. Then you looked at him.

“The code’s 645,” you murmured, like it meant nothing. Like it hadn’t just made your stomach flip.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded. The beeping of the box felt louder than it should’ve, too sharp against the quiet. But then the lock clicked, and the door swung open, and he followed you inside like he belonged there.

And then the two of you walked inside together.

Up the narrow staircase, your footsteps were slow, measured. The kind of tired that lived in your bones. He kept close but didn’t crowd, hand brushing the rail, eyes skimming the hallway like he didn’t quite know where to look.

When you opened the door to unit 104, you suddenly remembered what your place looked like—barebones, mostly. Lived-in, but not curated. A pair of shoes kicked off by the entryway, two mismatched mugs and a bowl in the sink, a pile of jackets strewn over the chair you'd found in a yard sale. 

The floors creaked as he stepped inside. You winced, suddenly self-conscious.

"Sorry about the mess..." you muttered. You didn’t know what you expected—a judgment, maybe. A raised eyebrow. Something.

Instead, Jack looked around once, taking it in slowly. Then nodded.

“It fits.”

Something in his tone—low, sure, completely unfazed, like it was exactly what he'd imagined—made your stomach flip again. You exhaled quietly, tension easing in your shoulders.

"Make yourself at home."

Jack nodded again, then bent to untie his trainers. He stepped out of them carefully, placed them neatly by the door, and gave the space one more quiet scan before making his way to the living room.

The couch creaked softly as he sat, hands resting loosely on his knees, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay upright or lean back. From the kitchen, you stole a glance—watching him settle in, or at least try to. You didn’t want to bombard him with questions or hover like a bad host, but the quiet stretched long, and something in you itched to fill it.

You busied yourself with boiling water, fussing with mugs, tea bags, sugar that wasn’t there. Trying to make it feel like something warm was waiting in the silence. Trying to give him space, even as a dozen things bubbled just beneath your skin.

“Chamomile okay?” you finally asked, the words light but uncertain.

Jack didn’t look up. But he nodded. “Yeah. That’s good.” You turned back to the counter, heart thudding louder than the kettle.

Meanwhile, Jack sat in near silence, but his eyes moved slowly around the room. Not searching. Just... seeing.

There were paintings on the walls—mostly landscapes, one abstract piece with colors he couldn’t name. Based on the array of prints to fingerpainted masterpieces, he guessed you'd painted some of them, but they all felt chosen. Anchored. Real.

A trailing pothos hung from a shelf above the radiator, green and overgrown, even though the pot looked like it had seen better days. It was lush despite the odds—thriving in a quiet, accidental kind of way.

Outside on the balcony ledge, he spotted a few tiny trinkets: a mushroom clay figure with a lopsided smile, a second plant—shorter, spikier, the kind that probably didn’t need much water but still looked stubbornly alive. A moss green glazed pot, clearly handmade. All memories, maybe. All pieces of you he’d never seen before. Pieces of someone he was only beginning to know. He took them in slowly, carefully. Not wanting to miss a single thing.

The sound of footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts. Two mugs clinking gently. You stepped into the living room and offered him one without fanfare, just a quiet sort of steadiness that made the space feel warmer. He took the tea with a small nod, thanking you. You didn’t sit beside him. You settled on the loveseat diagonal from the couch—close, but not too close. Enough to see him without watching. Enough space to let him breathe.

He noticed.

Your fingers curled around your mug. The steam gave you something to look at. Jack’s expression didn’t shift much, but you knew he could read you like an open book. Probably already had.

“You’ve got a lovely place,” he said suddenly, eyes flicking to a print on the wall—one slightly crooked, like it had been bumped and never fixed. “Exactly how I imagined, honestly.”

You arched a brow, skeptical. “Messy and uneven?”

Jack let out a quiet laugh. “I was going to say warm. But yeah, sure. Bonus points for the haunted radiator.”

The way he said it—calm, a little awkward, like he was trying to make you feel comfortable—landed somewhere between a compliment and a peace offering.

He took another sip of tea. “It just… feels like you.”

The words startled something in you. You didn’t know what to say—not right away. Your smile came small, a little crooked, the kind you didn’t have to fake but weren’t sure how to hold for long. “Thank you,” you said softly, fingers tightening around your mug like it might keep you grounded. The heat had gone tepid, but the gesture still lingered.

Jack looked like he might say something else, then didn’t. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the side of his mug before he exhaled through his nose—a small, thoughtful sound.

“My therapist once told me that vulnerability’s like walking into a room naked and hoping someone brought a blanket,” he said, dryly. “I told him I’d rather stay in the hallway.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, surprised. “Mine said it was like standing on a beach during high tide. Sooner or later, the water reaches you—whether you're ready or not.��

Jack’s mouth quirked, amused. “That’s poetic.”

You shrugged, sipping your tea. “She’s a big fan of metaphors. And tide charts, apparently.”

He smiled into his mug. “Makes sense. You’re the kind of person who would still be standing there when it comes in.”

You tilted your head. “And you?”

He considered that. “Probably pacing the rocks. Waiting for someone to say it’s okay to sit down.”

A quiet stretched between you, but this one felt earned—less about what wasn’t said and more about what had been.

An hour passed like that. Not all silence, not all speech. Just the easy drift of soft conversation and shared space. Small talk filled the cracks when it needed to—his comment about the plant that seemed to be plotting something in the corner, your half-hearted explanation for the random stack of books next to the radiator. Every now and then, something deeper would peek through the surface.

“Ever think about just… disappearing?” you asked once, offhanded and a little too real.

Jack didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. But then I’d miss pancakes. And Mexican food.”

You laughed, and he smiled like he hadn’t meant to say something so honest.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. A rhythm, slow and shy. Words passed like notes through a crack in the door—careful, but curious. Neither of you rushed it. Neither of you left.

And then the storm hit.

The rain droplets started slow, just a whisper on the window. But it built fast—wind shaking the glass, thunder cracking overhead like a warning. You turned toward it, heart sinking a little. Jack did too, his brow furrowed slightly.

"Jesus," you murmured, already reaching for your phone. As if by divine timing, the emergency alert confirmed it: flash flood advisory until late evening. Admin had passed coverage onto the day shift. Robby wouldn't be happy about that. You made a mental note to make fun of him about it tomorrow. "Doesn’t look like it’s letting up anytime soon..." 

You glanced at Jack, who was still holding his mug like he wasn’t sure if he should move.

“You're welcome to stay—if you want,” you quickly clarified, trying to sound casual. “Only if you want to. Until it clears.”

His eyes flicked toward the window again, then to you. “You sure?”

“I mean, unless you want to risk get struck by lightning or swept into a storm drain.”

That earned the smallest laugh. “Tempting.”

You smiled, nervous. “Spare towel and blankets are in the linen closet. Couch pulls out. I think. Haven’t tried.”

Jack nodded slowly, setting his mug down. “I’m not picky.”

You busied yourself with clearing a spot, the nervous kind of motion that said you cared too much and didn’t know where to put it.

Jack watched you for a moment longer than he should’ve, then started helping—quiet, careful, hands brushing yours once as he reached for the extra pillow.

Neither of you commented on it. But your face burned.

And when the storm didn’t stop, neither of you rushed it.

Instead, the hours slipped by, slow and soft. At some point, Jack asked if he could shower—voice low, like he didn’t want to intrude. You pointed him toward the bathroom and handed him a spare towel, trying not to overthink the fact that his fingers grazed yours when he took it.

While he was in there, you busied yourself with making something passable for dinner. Rice. Egg drop soup. A couple frozen dumplings your mother had sent you dressed up with scallions and sesame oil. When Jack returned, hair damp, sleeves pushed up, you nearly dropped the plate. It wasn’t fair—how effortlessly good he looked like that. A little disheveled, a little too comfortable in a stranger’s home, and yet somehow perfectly at ease in your space. It was just a flash of thought—sharp, traitorous, warm—and then you buried it fast, turning back to the stovetop like it hadn’t happened at all.

You were still hovering by the stove, trying not to let the dumplings stick when you heard his footsteps. When he stepped beside you without a word and reached for a second plate, something in your brain short-circuited.

"Smells good," he said simply, voice low—and he somehow still smelled faintly of cologne, softened by the unmistakable citrus-floral mix of your body wash. It wasn’t fair. The scent tugged at something in your chest you didn’t want to name.

You blinked rapidly, buffering. "Thanks. Uh—it’s not much. Just... whatever I had."

He glanced at the pan, then to you. “You always downplay a five-course meal like this?”

Your mouth opened to protest, but then he smiled—quiet and warm and maybe a little teasing.

It took effort not to stare. Not to say something stupid about how stupidly good he looked. You shoved the thought down, hard, and went back to plating the food.

He helped without asking, falling into step beside you like he’d always been there. And when you both sat down at the low table, he smiled at the spread like it meant more than it should’ve.

Neither of you talked much while eating. But the air between you felt settled. Comfortable.

At some point between the second bite and the last spoonful of rice, Jack glanced up from his bowl and said, "This is good. Really good. I haven’t had a homemade meal in... a long time."

You were pleasantly surprised. And relieved. "Oh. Thanks. I’m just glad it turned out edible."

He shook his head slowly, eyes still on you. "If this were my last meal, I think I’d die happy."

Your face flooded with warmth instantly. It was stupid, really, the way a single line—soft, almost offhand—landed like that. You ducked your head, smiling into your bowl, trying to play it off.

You scoffed. "It's warm in here."

Jack tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, amused. "You okay?"

“Mmm,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced. But he let it go.

Still, the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

You cleared your throat. "You're welcome anytime you'd like, by the way. For food. Or tea. Or... just to not be alone."

That earned a look from him—surprised, quiet, but soft in a way that made your chest ache.

And you didn’t dare look at him for a full minute after that.

When you stood to rinse your dishes, Jack took your bowl from your hands before you could protest and turned toward the sink. You opened your mouth but he was already running water, already rinsing with careful, practiced motions. So you just stood there in the soft hush of your kitchen, warmed by tea and stormlight, trying not to let your heart do anything foolish.

By the time the dishes were rinsed and left on the drying rack, the storm had only worsened—sheets of rain chasing themselves down the windows, thunder rolling deep and constant.

You found yourselves in the living room again, this time without urgency, without pretense—just quiet familiarity laced with something softer. And so, without discussing it, without making it a thing, you handed him the extra blanket and turned off all but one lamp.

Neither of you moved toward sleep just yet.

You were sitting by the balcony window, knees pulled up, mug long since emptied, staring out at the storm as it lashed the glass in sheets. The sound had become something rhythmic, almost meditative. Still, your arms were bare, and the goosebumps that peppered your forearms betrayed the chill creeping in.

Jack didn’t say anything—just stood quietly from the couch and returned with the throw blanket from your armrest. Without a word, he draped it over your shoulders.

You startled slightly, looking up at him. But he didn’t comment. Just gave you a small nod, then sat down beside you on the floor, his back against the corner of the balcony doorframe, gaze following yours out into the storm. The blanket settled around both of you like a quiet pact. 

After a while, Jack’s voice cut through it, barely louder than the storm. “You afraid of the dark?”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just at the rain trailing down the window. “Used to be,” you said. “Not so much anymore. You?”

He was quiet for a beat.

“I used to think the dark was hiding me,” he said once. Voice quiet, like he was talking to the floor, or maybe the memory of a version of himself he didn’t recognize anymore. “But I think it’s just the only place I don’t have to pretend. Where I don’t have to act like I’m whole.”

Your heart cracked. Not from pity, but from the aching intimacy of honesty.

Then he looked at you—really looked at you. Eyes steady, searching, too much all at once. You forgot how to breathe for a second. "My therapist thinks I find comfort in the darkness."

There was something about the way he fit into the storm, the way the shadows curved around him without asking for anything back. You wondered if it was always like this for him—calmer in the chaos, more himself in the dark. Maybe that was the tradeoff.

Some people thrived in the day. Others feared being blinded by the light. 

Jack, you were starting to realize, functioned best where things broke open. In the adrenaline. In the noise. Not because he liked it, necessarily—but because he knew it. He understood its language. The stillness of normalcy? That was harder. Quieter in a way that didn’t feel safe. Unstructured. Unknown.

A genius in crisis. A ghost in calm.

But you saw it.

And you said, softly, "Maybe the dark doesn’t ask us to be anything. That’s why it feels like home sometimes. You don’t have to be good. Or okay. Or whole. You just get to be." That made him look at you again—slow, like he didn’t want to miss it. Maybe no one had ever said it that way before.

The air felt different after that—still heavy, still quiet, but warmer somehow. Jack broke it with a low breath, barely a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So... do all your philosophical monologues come with tea and thunder, or did I just get the deluxe package?"

You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing by degrees. "Only the Abbot special."

He bumped your knee gently with his. "Lucky me."

You didn’t say anything else, just leaned back against the wall beside him.

Eventually, you both got up. Brushed teeth side by side, a little awkward, a little shy. You both stood in front of the couch, staring at it like it had personally wronged you. You reached for the handle. Jack braced the backrest. Nothing moved.

"This can’t be that complicated," you muttered.

"Two MDs, one brain cell," Jack deadpanned, and you snorted.

It took a few grunts, an accidental elbow, and a very questionable click—but eventually, the thing unfolded.

He took the couch. You turned off the last lamp.

"Goodnight," you murmured in the dark.

"Goodnight," he echoed, softer.

And for once, the quiet didn’t press. It held.

Weeks passed. Jack came over a handful of times. He accompanied you home after work, shoulders brushing as you walked the familiar path back in comfortable quiet. You learned the rhythm of him in your space. The way he moved through your kitchen like he didn’t want to disturb it. The way he always put his shoes by the door, lined up neatly like they belonged there. 

Then one day, it changed. He texted you, right before your shift ended: You free after? My place this time.

You stared at the screen longer than necessary. Then typed back: Yeah. I’d like that.

He met you outside the hospital that night, both of you bone-tired from a brutal shift, scrub jackets zipped high against the wind. You hadn’t been to Jack’s place before. Weren’t even sure what you expected. Your nerves had started bubbling to the surface the moment you saw him—automatic, familiar. Like your brain was bracing for rejection and disappointment before he even said a word.

You tried to keep it casual, but old habits died hard. Vulnerability always felt like standing on the edge of something steep, and your first instinct was to retreat. To make sure no one thought you needed anything at all. The second you saw him, the words spilled out in a rush—fast, nervous, unfiltered.

"Jack, you don’t have to...make this a thing. You don’t owe me anything just because you’ve been crashing at my place. I didn’t mean for it to feel like you had to invite me back or—"

He cut you off before you could spiral further.

“Hey.” Just that—firm but quiet. A grounding thread. His hands settled on your arms, near your elbows, steadying you with a grip that was firm but careful—like he knew exactly how to hold someone without hurting them. His fingers were warm, his palms calloused in places that told stories he’d never say out loud. His forearms, bare beneath rolled sleeves, flexed with restrained strength. And God, you hated that it made your brain short-circuit for a second.

Of course Jack Abbot would comfort you and make you feral in the same breath.

Then he looked at you—really looked. “I invited you because I wanted you there. Not because I owe you. Not because I’m keeping score. Not because I'm expecting anything from you.”

The wind pulled at your sleeves. The heat rose to your cheeks before you could stop it.

Jack softened. Offered the faintest smile. “I want you here. But only if you want to be.”

You let out a breath. “Okay,” you said. Soft. Certain, even through the nerves. You smiled, more to yourself than to him. Jack’s gaze lingered on that smile—quietly, like he was memorizing it. His shoulders loosened, just barely, like your answer had unlocked something he hadn’t realized he was holding onto.

Be vulnerable, you told yourself. Open up. Allow yourself to have this.

True to his word, it really was just two blocks from your place. His building was newer, more modern. Clean lines, soft lighting, the kind of entryway that labeled itself clearly as an apartment complex. Yours, by comparison, screamed haunted brick building with a temperamental boiler system and a very committed resident poltergeist.

You were still standing beside him when he keyed open the front door, the keypad beeping softly under his fingers.

"5050," he said.

You tipped your head, confused. "Sorry?"

He looked at you briefly, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud but didn’t take it back either. “Door code.”

Something in your chest fluttered. It echoed the first night you’d given him yours—unthinking, unfiltered, just a quiet offering. This felt the same. An unspoken invitation. You’re welcome here. Any time you want. Any time you need.

"Thanks, Jack." You could see a flicker of something behind his eyes. 

The elevator up was quiet.

Jack watched the floor numbers tick by like he was counting in his head. You stared at your reflection in the brushed metal ceiling, the fluorescent lighting doing no one any favors. Totally not worried about the death trap you were currently in. Definitely not calculating which corner you'd curl into if the whole thing dropped.

When the doors opened, the hallway was mercifully empty, carpeted, quiet. You followed him down to the end, your steps softened by the hush of the building. Unit J24.

He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped aside so you could walk in first.

You did—and paused.

It was... barren. Not in a sterile way, but in the sense that it looked like he’d just moved in a few days ago and hadn’t had the energy—or maybe the need—to settle. The walls were bare and painted a dark blue-grey. A matching couch and a dim floor lamp in the living room. A fridge in the kitchen humming like it was trying to fill the silence. No art. No rugs. Not a photo or magnet in sight. 

And yet—somehow—it felt entirely Jack. Sparse. Quiet. Intentional. A place built for someone who didn’t like to linger but was trying to learn how. You stepped in further, slower now. A kind of reverence in your movement, even if you didn’t realize it yet.

Because even in the stillness, even in the emptiness—he’d let you in. 

Jack took off his shoes and opened up a closet by the door. You mirrored his motions, suddenly aware of every move you made like a spotlight landed on you. 

"Make yourself at home," he said, voice casual but low.

You walked over to the couch and sat down, your movements slow, careful. Even the cushions felt new—firm, unsunken, like no one had ever really used them. It squeaked a little beneath you, unfamiliar in its resistance.

You ran your hand lightly over the fabric, then looked around again, taking everything in. "Did you paint the walls?"

Jack gave a short huff of a laugh from the kitchen. “Had to fight tooth and nail with my landlord to get that approved. Said it was too dark. Too dramatic.”

He reappeared in the doorway with two mugs in hand. “Guess I told on myself.” He handed you the lighter green one, taking the black chipped one for himself. 

You took it carefully, fingers brushing his for a moment. “Thanks.”

The warmth seeped into your palms immediately, grounding. The scent rising from the cup was oddly familiar—floral, slightly citrusy, like something soft wrapped in memory. You took a cautious sip. Your brows lifted. “Wait… is this the Lavender cloudburst... cloudbloom?”

Jack gave you a sheepish glance, rubbing the back of his neck. “It is. I picked up a bag couple of days ago. Figured if I was going to be vulnerable and dramatic, I might as well commit to the theme.”

You snorted. He smiled into his own cup, quiet.

What he didn’t say: that he’d stared at the bag in the store longer than any sane person should, wondering if buying tea with you in mind meant anything. That he bought it a while back, hoping one day he'd get to share it with you. Wondering if letting himself hope was already a mistake. But saying it felt too big. Too much.

Jack’s eyes drifted to you—not the tea, not the room, but you. The way your shoulders were ever-so-slightly raised, tension tucked beneath the soft lines of your posture. The way your eyes moved around the room, drinking in every corner, every shadow, like you were searching for something you couldn’t name.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched.

And maybe you felt it—that quiet kind of watching. The kind that wasn’t about staring, but about seeing. Really seeing.

You took another sip, slower this time. The warmth helped. So did the silence.

Small talk came easier than it had before. Not loud, not hurried. Just quiet questions and softer replies. The kind of conversation that made space instead of filling it.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “You always look at rooms like you’re cataloguing them.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” He smiled softly into his mug. “Like you’re trying to figure out what’s missing.”

You considered that for a second. “Maybe I am.”

A pause, then—“And?”

Your gaze swept the room one last time, then landed back on him. “Nothing. This apartment feels like you.”

You expected him to nod or laugh it off, maybe deflect with a joke. But instead, he just looked at you—still, soft, like your words had pressed into some quiet corner of him he didn’t know was waiting. The moment lingered.

And he gave the slightest nod, the kind that said he heard you—really heard you—even if he didn’t quite know how to respond. The ice between you didn’t crack so much as it thawed, slow and patient, like neither of you were in a rush to get to spring. But it was melting, all the same.

Jack set his mug down on the coffee table, fingertips lingering against the ceramic a second longer than necessary. “I don’t usually do this,” he said finally. “The… letting people in thing.”

His honesty caught you off guard—so sudden, so unguarded, it tugged something loose in your chest. You nodded, heart caught somewhere behind your ribs. “I know.”

He gave you a sideways glance, prompting you to continue. You sipped your tea, eyes fixed on the rim of your cup. “I see how carefully you move through the world.”

“Thank you,” you added after a beat—genuine, quiet.

He didn’t say anything back, and the two of you left it at that.

Silence again, but it felt different now. Less like distance. More like the space between two people inching closer. Jack leaned back slightly, stretching one leg out in front of him, the other bent at the knee. “You scare me a little,” he admitted.

That got a chuckle out of you. 

“Not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Just… in the way it feels when something actually matters.”

You set your mug down too, hands suddenly unsure of what to do. “You scare me too.”

Jack stared at you then—longer than he probably meant to. You felt it immediately, the heat rising in your chest under the weight of it, his gaze almost reverent, almost like he wanted to say something else but didn’t trust it to come out right.

So you cleared your throat and tried to steer the tension elsewhere. “Not as much as you scare the med students,” you quipped, lips twitching into a crooked smile.

Jack huffed out a low laugh, the edge of his mouth pulling up. “I sure as hell hope not.”

You let the moment linger for a beat longer, then glanced at the clock over his shoulder. “I should probably get back to my place,” you said gently. “Catch a couple hours of sleep before the next shift.”

Jack didn’t protest. Didn’t push. But something in his eyes softened—brief, quiet. “Thanks for the tea,” you added, standing slowly, reluctant but steady. “And for… this.”

He nodded once. “Anytime.” The way the word fell from his lips nearly made you buckle, its sincerity and weight almost begging you to stay. "Let me walk you back."

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “You don’t have to, I don’t want to be a bother.”

Jack was already reaching for his jacket, eyes steady on you. “You’re never a bother.” His voice was quiet, but certain.

You stood there for a moment, hesitating, the edge of your nervousness still humming faintly beneath your skin. Jack grabbed his keys, adjusted his jacket, and the two of you headed downstairs. The cool air greeted you with a soft nip. Neither of you spoke at first. The afternoon light was soft and golden, stretching long shadows across the pavement. Your footsteps synced without effort, an easy rhythm between you. Shoulders brushed once. Then again. But neither of you moved away.

Not much was said on the walk back. But it didn’t need to be. When your building came into view, Jack slowed just a little, as if to make the last stretch last longer. 

“See you in a few hours?” The question came out hopeful but was the only one you were ever certain about when it came to Jack. 

He gave a small nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The ER was humming, a low-level chaos simmering just below the surface. Pages overhead, fluorescent lights too bright, the constant shuffle of stretchers and nurses and med students trying not to get in the way.

You and Jack found yourselves working a case together. A bad one. Blunt trauma, no pulse, field intubation, half a dozen procedures already started before the gurney even made it past curtain three. But the two of you moved in sync.

Same breath. Same rhythm. You knew where he was going before he got there. He didn’t have to ask for what he needed—you were already handing it to him.

Shen and Ellis exchanged a look from across the room, like they’d noticed something neither of you had said out loud.

“You two always like this?” Ellis asked under her breath as she passed by.

Jack didn’t look up. “Like what?”

Ellis just raised a brow and kept walking.

The case stabilized. Barely. But the moment stayed with you. In the rhythm. In the way your hands brushed when you reached for the same gauze. In the silence afterward that didn’t feel like distance. Just... breath.

You didn’t say anything when Jack handed you a fresh pair of gloves with one hand and bumped your elbow with the other.

But you smiled.

Days bled into nights and nights into shifts, but something about the rhythm stuck. Not just in the trauma bay, but outside of it too. You didn’t plan it. Neither did he. But one night—after a particularly brutal Friday shift that bled well past weekend sunrise, all adrenaline and sharp edges—you both found yourselves back at your place in the evening. 

You didn’t talk much. You didn’t need to.

Jack sank onto the couch with a low sigh, exhaustion settling into his bones. You brought him a blanket without asking, set a cup of tea beside him with a familiarity neither of you acknowledged aloud.

That night, he stayed. Not because he was too tired to leave. But because he didn’t want to. Because something about the quiet between you felt safer than anything waiting for him outside.

You were both sitting on the couch, talking—soft, slow, tired talk that came easier than it used to. The kind of conversation that filled the space without demanding anything. At some point, your head had tipped, resting against his shoulder mid-sentence, eyes fluttering closed with the weight of the day. Jack didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe too deep, afraid to disturb the way your warmth settled so naturally into his side.

Jack stayed beside you, feeling the soft rhythm of your breath rising and falling. His prosthetic was off, his guard lowered, and in that moment, he looked more like himself than he ever did in daylight. A part of him ached—subtle, quiet, but insistent. He hadn't realized how much he missed this. Not just touch, but presence. Yours. The kind of proximity that didn’t demand anything. The kind he didn’t have to earn.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, your arm brushing his knee. Jack froze. Then, carefully—almost reverently—he reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it gently over your shoulders. His fingers lingered at the edge, just for a second. Just long enough to feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric. Just long enough to remind himself this was real.

And then he leaned back, settled in again beside you.

Close. But not too close.

Present.

The morning light broke through the blinds.

You stirred.

His voice was gravel-soft. "Hey."

You blinked sleep from your eyes. Sat up. Found him still there, legs stretched out, back to the wall.

“You stayed,” you said.

He nodded.

Then, quietly, like it mattered more than anything:

“Didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

You smiled. Just a little.

He smiled back. Tired. Honest.

The first time you stayed at Jack's place was memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Everything was fine—quiet, even—until late evening. Jack had a spare room, insisted you take it. You didn’t argue. The bed was firm, the sheets clean, the door left cracked open just a little.

You don’t remember falling asleep. You only remember the panic. The way it clutched at your chest like a vice, your lungs refusing to cooperate, your limbs kicking, flailing against an invisible force. You were screaming, you think. Crying, definitely. The dream was too much. Too close. The kind that reached down your throat and stayed.

Then—hands. Shaking your shoulders. Jack’s voice.

“Hey. Hey—wake up. It’s not real. You’re okay.”

You blinked awake, heart slamming against your ribs. Jack was already on the bed with you, hair a mess, eyes wide and terrified—but only for you. His hands were still on your arms, steady but gentle. Grounding.

Then one hand rose to cradle your cheek, cool fingers brushing the heat of your skin. Your face burned hot beneath the sweat and panic, and his touch was steady, careful, as if anchoring you back to the room. He brushed your hair out of your face, strands damp and stuck to your forehead, and tucked them back behind your ear. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Just the quiet care of someone trying to reach you without pushing too far.

You tried to speak but couldn’t. Just choked on a sob.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

And you believed him.

Then, without hesitation, Jack brought you into his arms—tucked you against his chest and held you tightly, like you might disappear with the breeze. There was nothing hesitant about it, no second-guessing. Just the instinctive kind of closeness that came from someone who knew what it meant to need and be needed. He held you like a lifeline, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm across your back, steadying you both.

Eventually, your breathing slowed. The shaking stopped. Jack stayed close, his hand brushing yours, his body warm and steady like an anchor. He didn’t leave that night. Didn’t go back to his room. Just pulled the blanket over both of you and stayed, watching the slow return of calm to your chest like it was the most important thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered eventually, voice hoarse from the crying.

Jack’s gaze didn’t waver. He reached out, cupping your cheek again with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said firmly. Not unkind—never unkind. Just certain, like the truth of it had been carved into him long before this moment.

Jack and Robby greeted each other on the roof, half-drained thermoses in hand. Jack looked tired, but not in the usual way. Something about the edges of him felt… softened. Less on-edge. Lighter, one might say. Robby noticed.

“You’ve been less of a bastard lately,” he said around a mouthful of protein bar.

Jack raised a brow. “That a compliment?”

Robby grinned. “An observation. Maybe both.”

Jack shook his head, amused. But Robby kept watching him. Tipped his chin slightly. “You seem happier, brother. In a weird, not-you kind of way.”

Jack huffed a breath through his nose. Didn’t respond right away.

Then, Robby’s voice dropped just enough. “You find someone?”

Jack’s grip tightened slightly around his cup. He looked down at the liquid swirling at the bottom. He didn’t smile, not fully. But his silence said enough.

Robby nodded once, then looked away. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Thought so.”

"I didn’t say anything."

Robby snorted. “You didn’t have to. You’ve got that look.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

“The kind that says you finally let yourself come up for air.”

Jack stared at him for a second, then looked down at his cup again, lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. Robby elbowed him lightly.

“Do I know her?” he asked, voice easy, teasing.

Jack gave a one-shouldered shrug, noncommittal. “Maybe.”

Robby narrowed his eyes. “Is it Shen?”

Jack scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

Robby laughed, loud and satisfied. “Had to check.” Then, after a beat, he said more quietly, “I’m glad, you know. That you found someone.”

Jack looked up, brows drawn. Robby shrugged, this time more sincere than teasing. “Don’t let go of it. Whatever it is. People like us... we don’t get that kind of thing often.”

Jack let the words hang in the air a moment, then gave a half-scoff, half-smile. “You getting sentimental on me, old man?”

Robby rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

But Jack’s smile faded into something gentler. Quieter. “I haven’t felt this... human in a while.”

Robby didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, then bumped Jack’s shoulder with his own. Then he stretched his arms overhead, cracking his back with a groan. “Alright, lovebird. Let’s go pretend we’re functioning adults again.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered.

They turned back toward the stairwell, the sky above them soft with early light.

It all unraveled around hour 10.

A belligerent trauma case brought in after being struck by a drunk driver. Jack’s shoulders tensed when he saw the dog tags. Everyone knew vets were the ones that got to him the most. His jaw was set tight the whole time, his voice sharp, movements clipped. You’d worked with him long enough to see when he started slipping into autopilot: efficient, precise, but cold. Closed off.

He ordered a test you'd already confirmed had been done. When you gently reminded him, Jack didn’t even look at you—just waved you off with a sharp, impatient flick of his wrist. Then, louder—sharper—he snapped at Ellis. "Move faster, for fuck's sake."

His voice had that clipped edge to it now, the kind that made people tense. Made the room feel smaller. Ellis blinked but didn’t respond, just picked up the pace, brows furrowed. Shen gave you a quiet glance over the patient’s shoulder, something that looked almost like sympathy. Both of them looked to you after that—uncertain, searching for a signal or some kind of anchor. You saw it in their eyes: the silent question. What’s going on with Jack?

When you reached across the gurney to adjust the central line tubing, Jack barked, "Back off."

You froze. “Dr. Abbot,” you said, soft but firm. “It’s already in.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and for a split second, they looked wild—distant, haunted. “Then why are you still reaching for it?” he said, low and biting.

The air went still. Ellis looked up from the med tray, blinking. Shen awkwardly shifted his weight, silently assuring you that you'd done nothing wrong. The nurse closest to Jack turned her focus sharply to the vitals monitor.

You excused yourself and stepped out. Said nothing.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did. But he didn’t look back.

The patient coded minutes later.

And though the team moved in perfect sync—compressions, meds, lines—Jack was silent afterward, hands flexing at his sides, eyes on the floor. 

You didn’t speak when the shift ended.

A few nights later, he was at your door.

You opened it only halfway, unsure what to expect. The narrow gap between the door and the frame felt like the only armor you had—an effort to shelter yourself physically from the hurt you couldn’t name.

Jack stood there, exhausted. Worn thin. Still in scrubs, jacket over one shoulder. His face was hollowed out, cheeks drawn tight, and his eyes—god, his eyes—were wide and tired in that distinct, glassy way. Like he wasn’t sure if you’d close the door or let him stay. Like he already expected you would slam it in his face and say you never wanted to see him again.

“I shouldn’t have—” he started, then stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. “I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

You swallowed, but the words wouldn't come out. You were still upset. Still stewing. Not at the apology—never that. But at how quickly things between you could tilt. At how much it had hurt in the moment, to be dismissed like that. And how much it mattered that it was him.

His voice was quiet, but steady. “You were right. I wasn’t hearing you. And you didn’t deserve any of that.”

There was a beat of silence.

"I panicked,” he said, like it surprised even him. “Not just today. The patient—he reminded me of people I served with. The ones who didn’t make it back. The ones who did and never got better. I saw him and... I just lost it. Couldn’t separate the past from right now. And then I looked at you and—” he cut himself off, shaking his head.

“Being this close to something good... it scares the hell out of me. I don’t want to mess this up." 

Your heart thudded, painful and full.

“Then talk to me,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion. The familiar ache began to flood your throat. “Tell me how you feel. Something. Anything. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s on your mind, Jack. I have my own shit to deal with, and I get it if you’re not ready to talk about it yet, but—”

Your hand came up to your face, pressing against your forehead. “Maybe we should just talk tomorrow,” you muttered, already taking a step back to close the door. It was a clear attempt at avoidance, and Jack saw right through it.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said, voice low and rough. He stepped closer. Breath shallow. His eyes searched yours—frantic, pleading, like he was trying to gather the courage to jump off something high. “When I’m running on fumes. When I’m trying not to feel anything. And then I see you and it all rushes back in like I’ve been underwater too long." 

At this, you pulled the door open slightly to show that you were willing to at least listen. Jack was looking at the ground—something completely unlike him. He always met people’s eyes, always held his gaze steady. But not now. Now, he looked like he might fold in on himself if you so much as breathed wrong. He exhaled a short breath, relieved but not off the hook just yet. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered. “But I know what I feel when I’m around you. And it’s the only thing that’s made me feel like myself in a long time.”

He hesitated, just for a second, searching your face like he was waiting for permission. For rejection. For anything at all. You reached out first—tentative, your fingers lifting to his cheek. Jack froze at the contact, like his body had forgotten what it meant to be touched so gently. It was instinct, habit. But then he exhaled and leaned into your hand, eyes fluttering shut, like he couldn’t bear the weight of being seen and touched at once.

You studied him for a long moment, taking him in—how hard he was trying, how raw he looked under the dim light. Your thumb brushed beneath his eye, brushing softly along the curve of his cheekbone. When you pulled your hand away, Jack caught it gently and brought it back, pressing your palm against his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut like it hurt to be touched, like it cracked something open he wasn’t ready to see. Then—slowly—he leaned into it, like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort but couldn’t bring himself to pull away from it either.

Your breath caught. He was still holding your hand to his face like it anchored him to the ground.

You shifted slightly, unsure what to say. But you didn’t move away.

His hand slid down to catch yours fully, fingers interlacing with yours.

“I’m not good at this,” he said finally, voice rough and eyes locked onto you. “But I want to try. With you.”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but what came out was a jumble of word salad instead.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m not—I'm not the kind of person who’s built for this. I fuck things up. I shut down. I push people away. And you…” Your voice cracked. You turned your face slightly, not pulling away, but not quite steady either. “You deserve better than—”

Jack pulled you into a bruising hug, arms wrapping tightly around you like he could hold the pain in place. One hand rose to cradle the back of your head, pulling you into his chest.

You were shaking. Tears, uninvited, welled in your eyes and slipped down before you could stop them.

��Fuck perfect,” he whispered softly against your temple. “I need real. I need you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand still resting against the side of your head. His gaze was glassy but steady, breathing shallow like the weight of what he’d just said was still settling in his chest.

You blinked through your tears, mouth parted, searching his face for hesitation—but there was none.

He leaned in again, slower this time.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It started hesitant—like he was afraid to get it wrong. Or he didn’t know if you’d still be there once he crossed that line. But when your hand gripped the front of his jacket, pulling him in closer, it changed. The kiss deepened, slow but certain. His hands framed your face. One of your hands curled into the fabric at his waist, the other resting against his chest, feeling the quickened beat beneath your palm.

You stumbled backward as you pulled him inside, refusing to let go, your mouth still pressed to his like contact alone might keep you from unraveling. Jack followed without question, stepping inside as the door clicked shut on its own. He barely had time to register the space before your back hit the door with a soft thud, his mouth still moving against yours. You reached blindly to twist the lock, and when you did, he made a low sound—relief or hunger, you couldn’t tell.

He kicked off his shoes without looking, quick and efficient, like some part of him needed to shed the outside world as fast as possible just to be here, just to feel this. You jumped. He caught you. Your legs wrapped around his waist like muscle memory, hands threading through his hair, and Jack carried you down the hall like you weighed nothing. He didn't have to ask which door. He knew.

And when he laid you down on the bed, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careless.

It was everything that had been building—finally, finally let loose.

It was all nerves and heat and breathlessness—everything held back finally finding its release.

When you pulled away just a little, foreheads touching, neither of you said anything at first. But Jack’s hands didn’t leave your waist. He just breathed—one breath, then another—before he whispered, “Are you sure?”

You frowned.

“This,” he clarified, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to take advantage of you. If you’re not okay. If this is too much.”

Your hand came up again, brushing his cheek. “I’m sure.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, finally meeting them, and he asked softly, “Are you?”

You nodded, steadier this time. “Yes. Are you?”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “I’ve never been more sure about a damn thing in my life.”

And when you kissed him again, it wasn’t heat that came first—but a sense of comfort. Feeling safe.

Then came the warmth. The kind that started deep in your belly and coursed in your body and through your fingertips. Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, fingertips skating across skin like you were trying to memorize every inch. Jack's breath hitched, and he kissed you harder—desperate, aching. His hands were everywhere: your waist, your back, your jaw, grounding you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Clothes came off in pieces, scattered in the dark. Moonlight filtered in through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the bed through the blinds. It was the first time you saw all of him—truly saw him. The curve of his back, the line of his shoulders and muscles, the scars that marked the map of his body. You’d switched spots somewhere between kisses and breathless moans—Jack now lying on the bed, you straddling his hips, hovering just above him.

You reached out without thinking, fingertips ghosting over one of the thicker ones that carved down his side. Jack stilled. When you looked up at him, his eyes on yours—soft, wary, like he didn’t quite know how to breathe through the moment.

So you made your way down, gently, and kissed the scar. Then another. And another. Reverent. Wordless. He watched you the whole time, eyes glinting in the dim light, like he couldn't believe you were real.

When your lips met a sensitive spot by his hip, Jack’s breath caught. His hand found yours again, grounding him, keeping him here. Your name on his lips wasn’t just want—it was pure devotion. Every touch was careful, every kiss threaded with something deeper than just desire. You weren’t just wanted. You were known.

He worshipped you with his hands, his mouth, his body—slow, thorough, patient. The kind of touch that asked for nothing but offered everything. His palms mapped your skin like he’d been waiting to learn it, reverent in every pass, every pause. His lips lingered over every place you sighed, every place you arched, until you forgot where his body ended and yours began. It was messy and sacred and quiet and burning all at once—like he didn’t just want you, he needed you.

And you let him. You met him there—every movement, every breath—like your bodies already knew the rhythm. When it built, when it crested, it wasn’t just release. It was recognition. A return. Home. 

After the air cooled and the adrenaline had faded, he didn’t pull away. His hand stayed at your back, palm warm and steady where it pressed gently against your spine. You shifted only slightly, your leg draped over his, and your forehead found the crook of his neck. He smelled like your sheets and skin and the barest trace of sweat and his cologne.

He exhaled into the hush of the room, chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours. His fingers traced lazy, absent-minded lines along your side, like he was still trying to memorize you even now.

You were both quiet, not because there was nothing to say, but because for once, there was nothing you needed to.

He kissed your lips—soft, lingering—then trailed down to your neck, his nose brushing your skin as he breathed you in. He paused, lips resting at the hollow of your throat. Then he kissed the top of your head. Just once.

And that was enough.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, basking in the afterglow. You stared at him, letting yourself really look—at the way the moonlight softened his features, at how peaceful he looked with his eyes half-lidded and his chest rising and falling against yours. Jack couldn’t seem to help himself. His fingers played with yours—tracing the length of each one like they were new, like they were a language he was still learning. He toyed with the edge of your palm, pressed his thumb against your knuckle, curled his pinky with yours. A man starved for contact who had finally found somewhere to rest.

When he finally looked up, you met him with a smile.

"What now?" you asked softly, voice quiet in the hush between you. It wasn’t fear, not quite. Just a small seed of worry still gnawing at your ribs. 

Jack studied your face like he already knew what you meant. He let out a soft breath. His hand moved carefully, brushing a stray hair from your face before cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

"Now," he said, "I keep showing up. I keep choosing this. You. Every day."

Your lips pressed together in a shy smile, trying to hold back the sudden sting behind your eyes. You shook your head slowly, swallowing the emotion that threatened to rise.

He tilted his head a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Are you sick of me yet?"

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. "Not even close."

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

"Good," Jack murmured. "Because I’m not letting you go."

And just like that, the quiet turned soft. For once, hope felt like something you could hold.

You fell asleep with his arm draped over your waist, your fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. His breaths were deep and even, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that calmed your own. Neither of you had nightmares that night. No thrashing. No waking in a cold sweat. Just quiet. Any time you shifted, he instinctively pulled you closer. You drifted together into sleep, breaths falling in sync—slow, steady, safe.

And for the first time, the dark didn’t feel so heavy.

thank you for reading 💛

<3 - <3 - <3 - <3

[a-asterias]

how did it end? — e.r.

Pairing: Evan Rosier x fem!reader

Summary: Estranged after graduating from Hogwarts, you haven't seen Evan in years when he finally elects to find you again — but his timing isn’t quite right. It never really is.

Word Count: 2.2K

A/N: Do I have 56789 assignments due over the next week? Yes. Did I still choose to finish this year-old drabble up? Also yes. Is it still a drabble? Not really. Not sure if people read for Evan, but here is the drabble that was promised a while ago. Reader and Evan's relationship at Hogwarts is open to interpretation. I really hope I can get my Cedric fic out bc it's rotting in my WIPs.

—

It was tolerable, you suppose, but only just. 

The stench of booze mingled with sweat far too often, and the air carried a perpetual weight to it that was hard to ignore. The warmth was nice, yes, but the heat frequently bordered on oppressive on autumn nights such as this one, when the pub was full of bearded wizards and graying witches, boisterous and loud. 

Working the bar at the Leaky Cauldron, you had long deigned, was a wholly mindless pursuit, though, and for this, you were glad. At this time of night, no one cared enough to engage in small talk, much too drunk for anything civil. Plus, most were regulars, with orders plainly memorized and simple, satiated often with a glass of Firewhiskey or a Butterbeer and at times, an easy—

“One cup of tea, please.”

The sentence carries a lilt much too familiar, playful and teasing, an amused smile concealed somewhere in between and the request just as odd. You don’t have to look up to know who it is, and he can tell. He revels in it, his undeterred smugness radiating off of him and spilling over the counter he’s currently leaning against. 

“This is a pub, Rosier, if you haven’t already noticed.” You don’t look up, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. Though, you can’t do much to hide the slight quiver of your hand as you pour out some Firewhiskey and his small, exhaling laugh tells you he has taken note of it immediately, as subtle as it may have been.  

“I have noticed actually,” you can feel his eyes linger on your hands before darting to your face. “Unfortunately.” He adds, with a furrow in his eyebrows and a slight grimace as he looks around the pub with poorly concealed distaste. 

It’s much too late now – your peripherals have betrayed you – and your self-control has long since run dry. You catch his gaze as it settles back on you.  

The first thing you take note of is how different he looks since you saw him last — the blonde hair has lost a fraction of its luster, though still gorgeous, and his eyes have circles beneath them, telling of his exhaustion he does well to hide otherwise. His shirt is unironed, though tucked into his trousers neatly, and his jacket is thrown haphazardly over his shoulder. It’s oxymoronic in the most infuriating way possible and so Evan.

His grin, you notice with weary eyes though, remains the same, unwavering: blinding, almost to a fault, its shine reflected in his eyes as he takes you in. It’s a feeling long-forgotten, to be looked at this way by him. 

“You’re still as pretentious as ever, I see,” you say with a raise of your eyebrows. “Did you miss high tea this evening with your elitist friends? Or have they finally come to their senses and declared your company entirely dreadful?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, as if lost in thought, his eyes drinking you in slowly. “Oh, how I missed that sharp tongue of yours.” 

Your face grows hot at the implication. “You’re still just as insufferable.” 

He only grins as he leans forward, eyes sincere but mouth plainly amused. “And you're still just as beautiful.” 

You ignore the praise with a pointed determination he doesn’t quite like. He opens his mouth to say something again when a loud cheer erupts in the background and the simultaneous turn of heads is almost automatic, identical grimaces on both of your faces. An old wizard has fallen onto his arse in the most untoward manner in his drunken stupor. You blink as if it’s the tamest thing to have happened tonight and Evan shakes his head in what can only be described as disbelief. 

“Charming place you’ve got here,” he notes, tone thick with sarcasm and a hint of condescension that you’ve come to expect from him. You can see his arms resting on the counter now, as he sits, his jacket thrown somewhere behind him. The white fabric is rich but revealing as the warm glow of the overhead light shines on the skin underneath. You divert your gaze.

“Isn’t it?”

“Though it’d be infinitely more so if you could, indeed, fix me a cup of tea, love.”

You don’t spare him another glance as you uselessly dry off a cup. “I’m sure your house elves will do well to put aside their contempt for you for a few minutes and fix you a cup or two, if you were to ask nicely enough, love.”

“I prefer asking pretty barkeeps for my cups of tea, thank you very much.” 

“And I prefer denying such requests.” 

He goes quiet finally, his ring-clad fingers drumming on the counter as he sits. He wears an infuriatingly perfect smile still – you don’t think he has stopped smiling since he’d stepped foot into the pub – and his eyes are holding yours, as if in silent challenge. After a moment, he speaks again.

“Edmund!” He calls to the other barkeep, covering the far end of the counter. He knows his name. You try to act unsurprised, though you’re anything but. “A cup of tea, please?” 

“Coming up, Rosier!” 

He turns back to you, smirk smug and victorious. You grip your washcloth tighter. 

“You’ve been here before,” you remark plainly. 

“Very perceptive.” He rests his face on his hand, propped up on the counter and smiles wryly.

“And yet, you’re back,” you mock, a mirthless hint of a smile on your face. “You must’ve found the establishment thoroughly enriching.” 

He pretends to be deep in thought. “Well, I could never quite find what I’d been looking for all the times previous.” 

“Cups of tea? Yes, I’m sure they’re hard to find in London.” 

“Pretty barkeeps, actually. You don’t work many shifts here.” 

You scoff, though your cheeks burn at the astute observation. “Edmund isn’t pretty enough for you?” 

“Oh, he is,” His gaze only shifts when a cup of tea floats to him and he winks at Edmund in thanks. What an obnoxious gesture, you think. “But he’s not nearly as difficult.” 

“And you prefer them to be difficult?” 

“I prefer them to be you.” His sincerity catches you off guard, unsure eyes snapping to him at once. He hides his amusement in the cup as he sips slowly. “So yes, excruciatingly difficult.” 

You hum, as if in agreement. The poorly lit interior of the pub doesn’t possess the capability to dull the shine of his eyes, or conceal his handsome – albeit tired – face, as much you would’ve liked it to. There’s a new scar, you notice, that he’s acquired just above his lip and you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from asking useless questions you would regret verbalizing later. 

“You look well,” his eyes follow you as you work, warm and curious. You don’t hate the feeling as much as you should and you try not to bask in the feeling – as short-lived as it may be.

You huff, now blatantly aware of the stains on your work blouse, your unkempt hair that is a stark contrast to his perfect locks. “I wish I could say the same for you.” Even posed as a jest, the statement sounds ridiculous uttered to someone like Evan. 

He decides to indulge you. “No? Less handsome than before?” 

“There wasn’t much to start with, so I must evaluate accordingly.”

A chuckle that feels too much like a reward. “Cruel, as ever.”

“Honest, more like.”

“I’m something of a masochist, I suppose,” he stretches, leisurely and cat-like. “I quite missed your jabs in Paris.” It’s a plain-enough admission. He missed your jabs, not you. You remind yourself of that over and over. He’s clamant in that way, lazes in attention from wherever he can get it. You’re not special. You never were.

Paris, though. You savor the bit of detail he has provided you on his endeavors, something he has otherwise elected to keep quite secret ever since graduation. There isn’t much you know about him anymore – who he spends his time with, what he’s up to. Though, there are rumors. It’s a time of war, after all, and he’s a Rosier.

“I’m sure you didn’t miss them for long. I hear the French are revered for their candor. Did they also call you a bumbling idiot every chance they got?” 

He traces the rim of his teacup slowly, as if he’s coyly willing you to take note of the movement. You oblige involuntarily. He’s satisfied with the quick flicker of your eyes enough to give you a smirk. “Not quite. ‘Devilishly handsome’ were the exact words used, I believe.”

An amused exhale from your lips. “Your mother may be French, Rosier, but she doesn’t count.” 

He laughs and its sound hangs in the air around you in a way that makes it hard to breathe. “You know, I’m not sure you’re very good at the ‘customer service’ bit. Are you this rude to all your customers?”

“Just the unwelcome ones.”

He hums. “You’d quite like Paris, I think.” He changes the subject with all the nonchalance of flipping a page of a book you haven’t quite finished reading but have become bored of nonetheless. You note the redirection with interest. 

“What were you up to in Paris?” You oblige as your curiosity trumps your ego. You’re aware of the staunchness of the question, of the sudden heaviness that now hangs around the two of you in the pub.

“Familial obligations, and the like.” Automatic, much too rehearsed for your liking, but you can tell it’s true, at least in part. He has a tendency to look away when he lies and so far, his eyes have been set stiflingly steady – on you. He rubs his forearm absent-mindedly. “I didn’t want to come back.”

You bite back a bitter laugh. “Why did you?”

He looks down into his cup. “The tea isn’t the same.” 

“I’m sure.”

“And I searched far and wide, believe me.”

“A valiant effort.” You scrub the grimy countertops absent-mindedly. 

“Oh, I’m anything but.” He sips his tea again. Offhandedly, he adds, “If I had been more brave, perhaps I would’ve stopped your engagement sooner.”

Your eyes snap to him at once but he remains indifferent, glancing into his cup and reading the leaves as if he’s in Divination. You try to hide your surprise but you can’t do much to mask the break of your voice. “What– How did you–”

He finally meets your eyes with a smile that borders on bitter. “Congratulations, by the way,” he says slowly as if he’s letting the words mull in his mouth and turn sour. Another cheer erupts in the background, a stark contrast to the absence of a celebratory cadence in his own voice.

You breathe shakily. “Is that why you’re here then? To bend me to your many whims and tell me not to marry him?” The drumming of your heart is steady and disturbing.

“Would you like me to?”

Yes. “No.” 

“Why aren’t you wearing your ring?” He asks, as if the question had been lodged inside his throat the whole night and has finally broken free. You avert your gaze. He’d always had a knack for asking questions you couldn’t quite voice the answers to.

“I think you should go,” you breathe.

“Is this to spite me?”

“To spite you? Who do you —” Anger envelops you. Only he would assume that your marital arrangements were solely to spite him.

“Do you love him?” He presses, abandoning the feigned nonchalance and speaking with an urgency that unsettles you.

“Leave.”

“Do you?”

A pause you’re not sure how to fill. “What does it matter?” 

His eyes search yours and seem to find the very thing you’ve worked so hard to conceal. His gaze softens. “Don’t marry him.”

The soft admonition knocks the air out of your lungs. You only gape at him, hurt and angry at his audacity. “How dare you?”

He stays still, unspeaking and unmoving, as if he, himself, knows he has stepped over a line. He purses his lips to stop himself from saying anything else. Pushing the empty tea cup aside, he stands and dons his coat. “I’m going to go,” he says quietly. 

You grit your teeth further. You should’ve expected this by now. Of course, he was going to leave after completely derailing your life. “What–”

“I’ve said what I needed to say,” he speaks again, shoving his hands into his pockets like a petulant child. “Don’t marry him.” He repeats, expression serious and solemn for the first time tonight.

You open your mouth to reprimand him but he interrupts you.

“Please,” he exhales and his plea is almost too quiet to hear amidst the bar chatter. But you hear it all the same and something twists in your chest at the uncharacteristic ask. He turns to go before you can say anything else. You can only watch him leave, gripping the counter until your knuckles turn white.

Only after he leaves the pub do you see a napkin perched on the counter, where he sat just moments ago. 

9568 Highfield Road, London, W69 1QB

In the case that you change your mind.

Love, E.

The napkin crumples in your hand with unprecedented force.

You deliberate.

With a huff, you shove it in your pocket.

[a-asterias]

a lover’s ruse — c.d. [1]

Summary: Your agonizing courtship and Cedric’s need to spite his ex are both ailments that have a very simple cure: a fake relationship, obviously.

Requested: read the request here

Pairing: Cedric Diggory x fem!gryffindor!reader

Word Count: 3.9K

A/N: I'm so sorry guys. This has been such a long time coming, I'm not sure people are even waiting for this anymore. But this is the first part and I'm thinking of turning it into a full-fledged series. Second part of the fic WILL be out as soon as I'm done exams.

—

The first few dates were bearable enough  — if you squinted hard and counted the silence as a virtue. 

The next few were nothing short of painstakingly harrowing. And that’s being kind.

This one, however? It made you seriously contemplate lunging over the walls of the Astronomy Tower and meeting Death, himself, halfway. Little else could offer greater reprieve, in your mind, from this. 

The setting should’ve been romantic, in theory. The night was still, but not stiflingly so, and the moonlight danced around the top of the Tower teasingly, doing little to illuminate the dark. If he stepped into a crevice where the light didn’t reach his face and you tuned him out just enough, you might even call the view beautiful. But, you soon found out – only a few dates in – no view could be described as such when you have Trevor Selwyn standing next to you.

Trevor Selwyn should’ve been a perfect match, in theory. An avid member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight –  there was little else that could prove more pertinent to families, like yours, with snobby ideals of purity and the measures necessary to maintain it, generation after generation – a Slytherin, an athlete (he doesn’t like mentioning that he’s a substitute player, on his best days), and a prefect. And, as you soon found out – only one date in – he’s also an utter and complete idiot.

So, you should’ve said no, in theory. Kicked and flailed your arms like a petulant child, screamed and wailed and protested when your parents when they proposed a courtship between the two of you. You should’ve told Trevor himself that he possessed the tact of a Cornish Pixie and the wit of the dimmest of trolls. But, as you soon found out (after the wailing episode) – absolutely zero dates in – Trevor is nothing but persistent and your parents anything but unwavering in their resolve. 

“I’ve met the Minister once,” he remarks out of nowhere as he looks off, off of the edge of the tower with all the regality of an acclaimed emperor. 

You hum in response. You haven’t said a word all night and he hasn’t noticed a thing.

“Granted, I was only two but I recall the Minister telling my father –”

“I think I should head back, actually,” you interrupt before the anecdote can truly begin. There are a few things you’ve learned about Trevor so far but none of them are as glaringly consequential as this: if he starts talking about his father, he won’t be able to stop. Escapades from Uagadou, his adventures in Egypt warding off curses and serpents and the magical scrolls of Machu Picchu –

“Oh,” he furrows his brow as if deep in thought and you almost laugh. That boy has never had a thought in his life. 

“I don’t want to be late for prefect patrols is all,” a faux sweet lilt to your voice doesn’t do much to subdue the frown on his face. 

He nods curtly. “I’ll walk you back.”

Your refusal is automatic. “I think I’ll mana–”

“It’s no problem,” he starts walking towards the stairs and you’re left with no choice but to follow.

On any other occasion, the walk would’ve taken mere minutes. The hallways would’ve been something theatrical, a soft fusion of candlelight and the streaming moonlight at this time of night. With Selwyn by your side, however, the minutes seemed like hours, and the candlelit corridors, usually golden and warm, felt like the dull glow of a waiting room. Your shoulders ached from how stiffly you held herself as each step echoed louder than the last, as if the castle itself was sighing in disappointment and disdain.

“I had an enjoyable time tonight,” Trevor started when you finally reached and you tried your utter best to hide the discomfort when his clammy hand reached for yours. He brought it to his lips and pressed a single kiss on it before you gave him a tight-lipped smile. You expect him to then turn and go, to walk back down to his own common room but he stays standing there, his face blank. 

“Me too,” you smile, in hopes that this was the confirmation he was after. Another lesson you’ve learned about the boy has been this: nothing else pleases him as much as validation does. 

He gives some semblance of a smile back. You blink. The next thing you know he has started to lean in and his eyes are fluttering shut and his slightly puckered lips are mere inches from yours now and the ridiculousness of it all proves too much to bear – you guffaw in the most obnoxious way possible. A mixture of anger and hurt crosses his face before he retreats and you’re unsure of how to recover.

“I’m so sorry,” you cover your mouth and try to stop the laughter. “I– I just thought of a funny joke. I’m so–”

“Fix your hair, would you? It looked atrocious today,” he quips quickly to gain control of the situation back. The last thing you’ve learned about the enigma that Selwyn is is this: his superiority cannot be challenged. If it is, he will try to establish it again – by insulting you in the most seemingly hurtful manner. 

It doesn’t quite have the desired effect. You snort at his attempt and suddenly the laughter has returned. He exhales once out of his nose as he turns to go but not before calling out, “I will pick you up at the same time tomorrow night. Don’t be late.” 

The laughter dwindles at the thought of enduring this again. “I’m busy tomorrow!” 

“Don’t be late,” he calls again. 

“Charming,” you hear someone call from behind you and you can tell who it is without having to turn and look at his annoyingly perfect face. His clever quips usually carry the extraordinary ability to irk you to no end but after the night you’ve had, they seem especially akin to knives on a chalkboard. 

You can picture Cedric Diggory’s earnest yet irritating smile he seems to wear at all times, the kind that makes his honey-coloured eyes crinkle in the slightest way at the edges with no difficulty. You can picture his perfectly ironed robes, clad with pins and awards he has won over the years and his hair that falls in place like dominoes. There’s only ever one way to describe him: pristine. Always. 

Though you’d never cared much to exalt him to the status of an academic rival, it’d be foolish to call him anything else. He had a way about him that reeked of complete and utter competence at everything, which indubitably invited a certain degree of resentment from everyone. You were no exception.

And not only did the universe seem keen on making an already-horrible night worse by scheduling him as your prefect patrols partner tonight, it also seemed quite keen on wanting to humiliate you in front of him. 

“The gossip that you are, Diggory,” you huff with biting sarcasm as you finally turn to face him. “Using your patrols as a way to spy on unsuspecting young lovers. Classy.” The break of his grin is almost blinding and you have to avert your gaze to avoid damage to your visual field.

“Nothing else entertains me these days as much as your courtship, I’m afraid,” he jests, slipping an easy hand into his pocket. “If you need more time together, I understand. I’m perfectly capable of completing the patrols on my own tonight.”

With your face aflame, you shoot him a look and begrudgingly start walking beside him, arms crossed tightly over your chest like a shield and footsteps hitting stone a bit too sharply. 

“How kind of you.” You say curtly and make it a point to walk a few steps ahead of him. He doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by it: he follows a few steps behind you, but the smugness radiating off of him envelops you nonetheless. 

“You can laugh, you know,” you say again after a moment of silence. You have long-since learned that the best way to avoid embarrassment is to submit to it. You’ve been courting Selwyn long enough to know it – sheepish smiles exchanged with classmates when he pecks you on the cheek in the hallways, mortified but apologetic grimaces whenever he tries to clasp your hand in his as he walks you to your common room after supper. Judgment – if it must be served – is best served plainly. Overtly. 

He shakes his head in amusement as he finally catches up and walks in step with you. “Now, why would I laugh? That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.” 

“That was humiliating,” you mutter under your breath before you can stop yourself. 

Cedric’s amused smile wavers as he glances at you with something you hope isn’t sympathy. And as much as you hate to say it, it wouldn’t be something you would put above him – for all the determined rebuttals and rivalries in class, Cedric has only ever been infuriatingly kind. “I think Selwyn might be a tad bit more humiliated than you, [Y/L/N].”

“Good. If he ever tries to kiss me again, I might hex him into oblivion and end up as a headline in the Daily Prophet.” 

His amusement returns and you’re glad. You’re not sure how to interact with him beyond the usual teasing remarks. “Would it be in bad taste to say that I'd quite want to see that?” His smile only grows when you roll your eyes. “Will you be doing that tomorrow night then? Shall I call the reporters?” 

You make a face. “You won’t be grinning that wide when I send a dementor after you from Azkaban, Diggory.”

“Send one after Selwyn. He’s in need of a good kiss.”

Your lips twitch at the joke and Cedric notices the slight movement. You press them together before a full-fledged smile can appear on your face and Cedric revels in it. “You’re not funny.”

“Yes, I’m sure Selwyn’s funnier,” Cedric teases. 

“Still not funny.” You take a few quicker steps to walk in front of him again, having had enough of his teasing for the night. 

He catches up again and has no particular difficulties keeping up, no matter how much you try to hasten your steps. “Forgive me for prying –”

“I won’t.”

“But, why Selwyn?” The question’s sincerity catches you off-guard.

“What?”

“I just mean – I find it hard to believe that you’re… devoid of options. So…why him?” He picks his words carefully, as if he’s weighing them in his mouth before letting them fall out. And perhaps it was due to the late hour or the undeniable warmth that Cedric’s eyes perpetually hold, but you actually considered giving him a sincere answer. 

“He’s–” you pause as you vow to yourself this would be the last display of vulnerability Cedric would be getting from you tonight. Your voice drops despite yourself, and you find your fingers fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. Something about Cedric’s quiet attention makes the truth feel heavier than usual. “He’s my parents’ choice. They want me to graduate with a prospect secured.”

His eyebrows wrinkle in confusion. “If a courtship is what you’re after, I’m sure you’d find better prospects in – pardon my bluntness – anyone else.” His teasing cadence has dropped altogether now and you wrinkle your own eyebrows in confusion as you consider the notion that Cedric might actually be trying to help you. 

“It doesn’t matter who–” you pause again. “I don’t plan on marrying him, Cedric.”

Cedric frowns. 

You go on, “I’m only ‘courting’ him until graduation to subdue my parents. I won’t marry him so it doesn’t matter who it is.” You squirm in guilt as Cedric stays frowning. “And I realize it’s cruel to string him along – I do – I just – I don’t know what else to do.” 

Cedric nods after a while – a slow, courteous nod that indicates he understands but wholly disagrees with whatever you’re saying. It’s a nod you’ve seen from him when he proposes a rebuttal to whatever alternate answer you’ve proposed in class, an alternate solution to a problem and admittedly, a much more pragmatic one.  He opens his mouth to voice it before the sound of giggles fill the empty hallways from around the corner.

You both exchange a prefectly look with each other, acknowledging the obvious student out of bed, awaiting a scolding for being out past curfew. Before you two can approach to see who it is, they turn the corner themselves.

“Evelyn,” Cedric breathes out in surprise as your gaze lands on the familiar brunette-haired girl in your year, her hands firmly clasped in Damien Avery’s, matching love-sick grins plastered on both faces and lipstick stains on the latter’s neck. With their hair dishevelled and robes askew, they blink in stunned silence.

You purse your lips as you look between the two, realization cresting at once. Though Cedric’s dating life was never a particular topic of interest, you immediately recognized the girl as his girlfriend, Evelyn Waters. 

Well, ex-girlfriend as of two weeks ago. 

“Ced,” his name falls from her smudged, lipstick-stained mouth softly, her eyes widening slightly. She hastily straightens out her robe and runs a hand through her hair. “I–”

Cedric clears his throat awkwardly as he shoots Avery a lingering glare. “It’s an hour past curfew–” He manages to get out, his voice unbelievably even. He keeps his eyes on Avery, not sparing Evelyn another glance. 

“I’m a prefect, Diggory. I think we’re fine,” Avery dismisses, stepping around him. He tugs at Evelyn’s hand.

Cedric steps in front of him again, towering over the shorter boy with ease. “Forty points from Slytherin,” he says simply, his eyes uncharacteristically stoic.

Avery scoffs and looks at Cedric in disbelief. “Yeah?” He sneers. “Are you going to take another forty for theft?” 

Cedric exhales heavily through his nose at the implication. The night air has suddenly chilled and the tension is so thick, it makes it hard to breathe.

“You know… considering…everything.” Avery smirks, gesturing subtly to Evelyn’s hand he still has clasped within his own. Evelyn watches the exchange silently.

“Considering everything, Avery,” you finally find your voice in the uncomfortable silence and step forward. “I’ll be taking another hundred points away from Slytherin for your misuse of prefect privileges. Expect to hear from Professor Snape tomorrow when I formally file a complaint.”

Avery turns to you, his goblin-green eyes staring into yours for a minute before he narrows them. “This isn’t your fight, [Y/L/N]. Stay out of it.”

“I think you,” you jab a hard finger at his chest, pushing him away slightly, “should stay out of the hallways after curfew. Now, if you’ll excuse us.” You grab Cedric’s arm and tear him away from the pair. 

He doesn’t protest when you begin to lead him down a random set of stairs to get away from the scene of the stiff confrontation. Cedric walks a few steps behind you wordlessly as you chance periodic glances to make sure he’s still following. After a few moments, you slow your gait so he can catch up with you.

“Hey,” you jostle him out of his thoughts which seemed to have permanently etched a furrow in his brows as he shuffled his feet across the stone floor.

He sighs, running a quick hand over his face and then stuffing it back into his pocket. “You didn’t have to enjoy that quite so much.”

You frown. “Enjoy what?”

“Do you not normally enjoy my humiliation?” He asks with a teasing lilt in his voice, but the humour stops short of his eyes. You can tell his mind is still stuck elsewhere, replaying that scene over and over. 

“I’m not a sadist like you,” you quip. 

He offers you a quick smile as if to confirm receipt of your well-intentioned humour, but doesn’t say much else. You walk in uneasy silence once again. 

“She’s an idiot,” you say finally. “Just– for the record.”

“Hm.” He smiles wryly again but his eyes hold a heaviness that you don’t like. You can tell the breakup took a greater toll on him than he has let on the past few weeks. And you’re not exactly sure why that weighs down on your heart.

“Seriously, Diggory,” you sigh. “She’s an idiot for breaking up with you and she’s an idiot for getting with Avery.”

He exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah.” 

The heaviness still hung in the air despite your attempts at trying to provide Cedric an outlet to let out his frustration. You scoff internally at his staunch unwillingness to talk ill of anyone – not even his ex-girlfriend who moved on from him in a blink of an eye. You think again of Cedric’s genuine interest in your ‘Selwynian’ plight. You sigh once before shaking your head. Were you really about to help Cedric Diggory?

“You know what? You need to stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Acting like it doesn’t bother you,” you hit him lightly on the arm. “It bothers you, right?”

He holds your gaze for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. Suppose it does.” He admits quietly.

“Do you want her back?” 

He frowns at the question. “What–”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” he breathes out after a while and looks away, as if embarrassed at the confession. You can tell he’s fidgeting with his pockets nervously. 

“Then, make her jealous,” you say. “I saw how she was looking at you. She knows she made a mistake. But she won’t admit it because that’s not how it works. Make her jealous and she’ll have to admit it. It’ll get it out of her.”

He looks at you in amusement. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to help me or sabotage me.”

You scoff. “Accept the generosity before I change my mind.”

He shakes his head with a bitter smile, clicking his tongue against his teeth quietly. “That won’t work, anyway.”

“It will,” you assert. “Trust me, Diggory. It will.” 

He shakes his head again. “I don’t even know how to–”

“Date someone else,” you supply easily.

“I don’t like anyone else.”

You shoot him an unimpressed look. “No shit. We already established that you still like Evelyn.”

“So, I ask out a girl I’m not actually interested in?” He asks in disbelief, discomfort evident on his face. 

“Yeah,” you shrug. 

He frowns and pauses, glancing at you with confusion. “That’s cruel beyond belief, [Y/L/N].”

His admonition makes you pause, too. The familiarity of the proposal strikes you at once. It was exactly what you were doing – stringing along a clueless Selwyn until graduation and then breaking his heart without a second thought. The cruelty of it all had always been a nagging thought – but its noise had been distant and dull. It was now ringing in your ears however, your skewed perception of morality hitting you at once.

“It’s not– cruel.” You try to tell yourself, more than him. “It–”

“It’s heartless,” he says again, matter-of-factly. “This, and what you’re doing to Selwyn, by the way.” 

You sigh at his moral policing. You knew he was right, but Selwyn was a problem for another night. 

“Fine,” you relent. “How about a girl who agrees to be your fake girlfriend?” 

He scoffs lightly. “If that were so easy to find, wouldn’t you have gotten a fake boyfriend already?”

You both stop walking at the same time, your footsteps coming to a screeching halt simultaneously. It was almost as if Cedric’s words had materialized and turned into physical roadblocks. His gaze slowly turns to you, honey-brown eyes landing on yours, but you’re already watching him in stunned realization. 

“[Y/L/N] –” he begins thoughtfully.

“No. No. Absolutely not.” That look in his eyes — the one like he’s already decided. Like he’s already seen this through to the end. It makes you nervous in a way you can’t name. You start walking ahead of him rather quickly but he catches up to you with no difficulty once again. His long strides match your pace perfectly.

“This was your idea–” He tries to reason again, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing off the walls as he chases after you with a walking stride.

“My idea– was not for us to do that–” you huff out as you keep up the pace, unrelenting.

He finally catches up to you and reaches for your arm, his hand closing gently around your elbow. The warmth of his touch sends a jolt through you, halting your steps more effectively than his words ever could. “It makes sense.”

You blink, momentarily thrown. “No–” 

“You won’t have to be needlessly cruel just to keep a prospect around–”

“Cedric.”

“And I won’t have to heartlessly pretend to like a girl who doesn’t know I’m pretending,” his hands find your shoulders. “It makes sense. You know it does.”

“I won’t–”

“And no more nightly dates with Selwyn,” he interrupts. “No more dodging his kisses.” 

That finally shuts you up. You shake your head though you can’t find the words to protest anymore. Cedric decides to sweeten the deal further.

“No life sentence in Azkaban, either.”

“Shut up.”

His lips tug upwards slightly and your eyes can’t help but catch on the movement. You let your eyes roam over his face — annoyingly symmetrical, irritatingly warm — and suddenly it hits you how easy it would be to fall into this lie. How dangerously tempting it is to pretend.

“No one would even believe it,” you say weakly. “We hate each other.”

“You mean you hate me?” He smiles dryly. “Because I don’t recall ever hating you.”

You avert your eyes before you start tracing his smile lines again with your gaze. “I just mean– we’re always at each other’s throats.” 

“That makes it more believable, don’t you think?” 

You shake your head, closing your eyes. “It’s a bad idea–”

You don’t get to finish your sentence before a familiar owl flies overhead and perches itself on the ledge next to you, clutching a letter. It doesn’t take long for you to realize who it’s from – the intricate green envelope and Selwyn family crest catching your eye immediately.

Cedric raises an eyebrow as he holds back a smirk. You grumble under your breath before plucking the letter from the owl begrudgingly. 

“Aren’t you going to open it?” He questions as he stifles a smile.

“No,” you huff in annoyance. “He … sends these every night. A ‘goodnight poem’, he calls them.”

Cedric doesn’t say anything, his grin already revealing he knows what your next words will be. 

You glance at the letter again — Selwyn’s cursive looping like a snake about to bite. What were you even doing?

You sigh, knowing exactly what this meant. “Fine. Let’s do it.” You cast the ignition spell, watching the green wax seal curl into smoke. “Let’s date.”

He blinks. “Wait — really?”

 “Don’t make me change my mind.”

 His grin returns, slow and lopsided. “Pretend to date,” he corrects.

“What?”

“We’re pretending,” he says cheekily, your cheeks aflame at his teasing cadence. "Don’t fall in love with me, [Y/L/N].”  

With a determined roll of your eyes, you turn on your heel. “As if, Diggory.”

Second part coming soon!

[a-asterias]

out of bounds (part one)

pairing zach maclaren and soccerplayer! female reader

rating mature 18+ for smut

summary zach has never been the type to rebel, but when he meets you at a soccer camp where you’re both working as counselors, which has a strict policy against dating between staff, he’s tempted to break the rules for the first time.

note i know most of my readers follow me for rafe fics so i hope y’all can bear with me indulging in a fluffy and angsty (and eventually spicy) summer romance with the sunshine character that is zach 🙂‍↕️ all my love to @juniebugg who inspired me to write about him ilysm 💘

» masterlist

Once you’re finally sitting down in the main lodge, a massive wooden cabin nestled in the center of the campground, you feel like you can take your first real breath since you arrived.

The morning was chaos. You made it to check-in just in time and met your cabin-mate Ami, who you learned is also new to the job.

Then, you quickly changed into your new bright orange staff t-shirt, which is so bright orange that it hurts to look at, and chatted with her as you rushed over for orientation.

Now, you’re settled on one of twelve wooden chairs facing the grand fireplace, set in front of floor-to-ceiling windows, which boast a cobalt blue lake under a cloudless sky.

Campers are set to arrive tomorrow morning and today is dedicated to preparation. You’ve already done countless training modules online before arriving, so today will be all about learning what’s left.

You hope you get a chance to explore the place before it starts teeming with preteens, because the photos on the camp website don’t do the grounds justice.

Your interviews were over video call and today is the first time you’re seeing the stunning campground in person. It’s stretched out on a wide expanse of greener-than-green pine trees, rustic buildings, and pristine soccer fields.

This job is your best case scenario for the summer. You can’t wait to spend seven weeks in one of the prettiest places you’ve ever seen and gain confidence in your athletic skills while coaching kids in your favorite sport.

As a center back on your college’s girls’ soccer team, you feel your best when you’re out on the pitch, but the pressure of the past school year was hard to navigate. You hope that teaching kids excited about soccer will remind you of why you like it so much.

As Zach sits in the front row, he notices the smell of this place never changes. It’s woodsy and brisk. It smells like comfort. But he’s pretty sure he’s biased. Camp Summit is sort of a haven to him and has been since he was a kid.

The chatter in the lodge has grown louder as more and more counselors settle into their seats, but once the camp directors walk up to the front, the noise wavers.

Tom and Ruby offer a kind welcome and then, like they do every year, quickly jump into training.

After two hours of going over the how-to’s on welcoming campers, facilitating activities, walkie-talkie etiquitte, and establishing rules, they announce that everyone can head to the dining hall for lunch.

“We won’t force you through any awkward icebreakers,” Tom says to the group, “so, we encourage you to get to know each other over lunch. We have a good mix of vets and newbies this year. We want you to be friends with your coworkers. But before you go…”

He looks over the room.

“We should mention,” the director continues, “that we have a strict policy against anything more. It can get unprofessional and inappropriate when counselors date each other.”

“Is that legal?” Ami whispers to you. “They can’t, like fire us for that, right?”

“You like someone already?” you amusedly ask your new friend.

“I might,” she says with a smile, her eyes on a dark-haired guy sitting ahead of you. You quietly laugh, glad you’re already so comfortable with the girl you’ll be bunking with.

“Aren’t you guys married to each other?” a girl behind you calls out.

The way that Tom and Ruby laugh tells you that they are, and that the counselor who shouted that must be a vet, already familiar enough with them to make comments like that.

“Yeah, but directors can do whatever they want,” Ruby jokes with a lighthearted shrug. You look down at their hands to see wedding rings. “In all seriousness, we hate having to enforce it, but please, no dating.”

Once counselors slowly rise out of their seats to go to lunch, your eyes land on a tall, messy-haired stranger standing at the front, who starts a conversation with the directors.

Maybe you shouldn’t tease your cabin-mate, because when you see his charming smile, you think you might have a crush of your own.

Tables are arranged in a neat grid in the dining hall, with a big buffet table prepared at the far wall.

You line up, noticing Ami a few people ahead, already striking conversation with the guy she pointed out to you.

You slowly inch forward with the line as counselors start to load their plates. You realize just how many people were in front of you when you get to the table and see one fork left.

You pick it up and turn to see only one person behind you. It’s the guy you noticed back at the lodge. His blue eyes sweep over your face. He’s even cuter up close.

“There’s only one left,” you say, holding out the fork with a small frown.

Zach stills when you look at him. You’re so pretty that it’s like he’s buffering. That’s the only way he can think to describe it.

You’re in the same orange shirt every other counselor is wearing and such a harsh color shouldn’t look this good on anyone, but it does on you. He reads your name-tag.

And then he realizes you said something. He completely missed it because he was too busy staring.

“What?” he asks.

Your eyes flit down to his name-tag hanging on his lanyard. Zach, in black marker, punctuated with a smiley face. His tag is worn and scratched up, a hard contrast to how new and shiny yours is.

“There’s only one fork left,” you clarify, a soft laugh in your tone. He looks dazed, a gentle crease between his brows, almost like he wasn’t expecting to see you even though you were standing directly ahead of him.

“Oh,” he says. He looks past you to the table, his lips screwing up. “It’s cool. You can have it.”

Zach gazes at you again, a smile on his face now that he’s feeling a bit more grounded.

“I’ll find one. I…” He crosses his arms, feigning pompousness. “I have connections around here.”

“Yeah?” you play along.

“Oh, yeah. I was a camper until I aged out,” Zach tells you. “And I’ve been working here since I was 16, so I have friends in high places.”

You laugh again. That explains why he seemed so comfortable with the directors back at the lodge. He’s clearly been here for quite a few summers.

“I can tell you’ve been here a while by the state of that name-tag,” you tease. He looks down to tilt up the worn out plastic rectangle hanging over his stomach, his bottom lip jutting out.

“Poke fun all you want, but you don’t know how impressive it is that I never lost this,” Zach replies. “Name-tags go missing all the time. I bet you’ll lose yours.”

“I thought staff were supposed to be friends,” you say. “You’re already betting against me?”

“You want some advice?” He leans just a little closer, his tone fake-serious. “It’s actually very cutthroat here.”

“So, the be friends with your coworkers stuff, that was all talk?” you say with a gasp, mirroring his playfulness.

“All talk,” he echoes with a smirk.

“Wow,” you half-whisper. “Thanks for the advice.”

You share another smile with him, already sure your crush on him isn’t going away. He’s friendly and kind of goofy and probably has all the girls after him. You wonder how seriously he takes the no dating rule.

Then, you turn back towards the table, surprised at how quickly your mind is running away from you.

After you load your plate with food, Ami calls you over to a table with a few other counselors. You get to know a decent amount of other staff, including Malcolm, the guy your cabin-mate is openly flirting with. He seems to be just as into her.

It’s a long afternoon of training and once you step out of the lodge, you feel like you can breathe again. It was a lot of information at once and the thought of wrangling nine campers on your own feels a bit overwhelming.

But at least for every activity for the first two weeks, newbies will be paired with vets. That gives you some relief.

The sounds of birds chirping and wind blowing through the trees fill your ears as you walk towards the staff cabins hidden behind the dining hall. Your shoes dig into the dirt and you breathe in the smell of pine and earth, feeling a sense of peace settle into the bones.

Despite the tinges of anxiety, you feel grounded here, like you’re right where you’re supposed to be.

As you finish unpacking with Ami, a coworker comes by to tell you that the counselors are going to have a bonfire after sunset. You set up your room and both head towards the lake once the sky starts darkening.

Zach is arranging logs in the fire-pit, kneeling on the ground while Malcolm leans close by. No other counselors have joined yet, and he’s glad because it’s taking embarrassingly long to set up the fire.

“Just let me know when you need the lighter,” Malcolm says.

”I could use some help on lining the kindling up,” Zach tells him.

“I think you’re doing great on your own.”

Zach snorts a chuckle. His cabin-mate and best friend of two years always tries to get away with doing the least amount of work.

“Is this the party?” Ami calls.

Zach turns to see you walking towards the pit. It gives him a chance to drink you in completely, the sight of your figure making his cheeks burn.

“Just getting it started,” Malcolm says. “This place would fall apart without us.”

You and Ami chuckle, settling on one of the logs.

“Us? It looks like Zach’s the only one doing any work,” you say.

“Thank you!” he says with a sarcastic sigh, looking up to smile at you. Your gazes hold a bit longer than they need to.

“Want any help?” you ask.

“All good,” he says. “I’m used to carrying the team.”

“Cold,” Malcolm says. “Strikers and their egos.”

“You’re a striker?” you ask Zach. It tracks. Strikers tend to be on the taller side, and you practically had to crane your neck to meet his eyes when you spoke to him before lunch.

“Yeah, you?” Zach asks.

“Center back,” you reply.

“Most important position,” Malcolm adds.

“Jeez, I wonder what you are,” Ami says with a laugh. “What was that you said about egos?”

The fire starts to slowly blaze and Zach stands up, exhales tiredly and scratches his forehead. It causes his shirt to ride up and expose an inch of his stomach.

Even under the dark blue sky, the flames only offering dull, flickering light, you can’t help but notice the v lines carved into his skin.

You look away. You feel like you’re practically thirsting over him at this point. You’re convinced that the fact that fraternizing between staff is forbidden is what’s making you even more tempted to stare at him.

The four of you continue to make small-talk as more counselors start to join. You learn that Zach and Malcolm share a cabin and that they play together on their college’s team, a school only an hour away from yours.

You also notice Malcolm jokingly calls Zach a nepo baby at one point, but before you can ask why, the conversation stirs in a different direction.

Soon after, a few counselors rough-house dangerously close to the fire. It’s only for a moment, but Zach perks up.

“Be careful around there, alright?” Zach says.

“Relax, dad,” one of the vets says. “We will.”

This is the only place in the world where people tell Zach to relax. He feels a sense of responsibility here. He’s sort of an unofficial babysitter, keeping everyone in check.

You notice his dimples dip into his cheeks. He’s obviously used to being teased for being the dad of the group.

You find it a good time to privately ask him about his other nickname, the staff chatter and wood crackling loud enough so only he can hear you.

“Why’d Malcolm call you a nepo baby?�� you ask.

“Oh,” Zach says with a chuckle. “Ruby and Tom are my aunt and uncle. I’m not really a nepo baby, though. I don’t get any special privileges. The opposite, actually.”

“Opposite?” you ask, amused.

“They feel way more comfortable getting mad at me than any of the other staff,” he admits lightheartedly.

“Who would get mad at you?” you joke.

“I know, right? I’m adorable.”

It’s way too easy to flirt with him. This is going to be hard.

As the night goes on, you notice Ami and Malcolm slowly drift closer towards each other, laughing and talking. Eventually, they rush away into the dark.

Admittedly, the thought of sneaking off in the night with a cute guy is kind of exciting. You look over to see Zach noticed them leave, too.

“I think our cabin-mates are about to hook up,” you say quietly.

“On the first night, too.” He shakes his head, pretending to be disappointed. “It happens every year.”

“Do they actually fire people for dating?”

“I’ve seen them get close,” Zach says. “But people hide it well for the most part. Honestly, I think most do it just because it’s against the rules.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” you say with a laugh. “It’s the whole forbidden part of it. Tell people they’re not allowed to do something, and guess what they want to do?”

“Something,” he says, earning another laugh from you.

You wonder if he ever has broken this particular rule, but it’d be too forward to ask.

“I wouldn’t risk it,” he offers, looking at the fire. You’re pretty sure he’s just giving you advice, but you take it as an opening, the curiosity killing you.

“So, you never have?” you ask.

“Nope.”

Over his many summers working here, Zach’s had crushes on other counselors, and he definitely has one on you, but a fling isn’t worth losing his job and letting down his family.

He owes a lot to his aunt and uncle. He wouldn’t disrespect their rules, no matter how pretty the new girl is.

When he looks over at you again, at the way the flames are casting shadows over your features, he corrects himself. Pretty is an understatement; beautiful is more fitting.

He almost suggests you don’t take the risk of dating either, but it’d be purely selfish. He doesn’t like the idea of seeing you in a summer romance with another guy.

And he feels insane for already feeling hypothetical jealousy, but he’s never clicked with a girl this quickly before. You’re sweet and interesting and you get his humor, and he feels like he couldn’t not like you if he tried.

“So, what brought you here?” he asks.

“Interview answer or real answer?”

“Real answer,” he says with a smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Playing at the college level is a lot more pressure than I expected,” you admit. “I want the experience and obviously the pay with this job, but mostly, I just want to be reminded of why I like soccer so much. Honestly, I lost my confidence in my skills this past year and I’d like to get it back.”

You’re surprised at how open you’re being, but something about him makes you want to be. He gives you a sense of safety. You can tell he’s kind-hearted.

“One of the best parts of working here is that you get enough downtime to practice,” he tells you. “I’d be happy to help you on your defense if you want.”

Your stomach numbs imagining it. It’s such a sweet gesture, especially because you’d just learned that he’s on a full-ride athletic scholarship. You know he’s good.

“Thank you,” you say. “I’ll take you up on that.”

“If you’re looking for a reminder of why you like soccer, you came to the right camp,” he replies, his smile bright and sincere.

“You really like it here, huh?” you ask, kind of in awe of him.

“I owe a lot to this place,” he says.

You make a note to yourself to ask him to elaborate on that later, as another counselor takes his attention with a question about tomorrow before you can reply.

You look back at the fire and you promise yourself that you’ll just be Zach’s coworker. At most, his friend.

You won’t risk getting even close to dating. You don’t want to lose your job. And you certainly don’t want Zach to lose his, especially because it seems important to him to follow the rules.

Besides, maybe he has a girlfriend already. You can’t imagine a guy like him being single. And maybe he’s not even into you like that. He could just be very friendly.

As the fire dwindles and counselors start to retire to their cabins, Zach leaves and returns with a bucket of water to extinguish the remaining flames.

You’re not sure why, but watching him be so hands-on with no expectations to be thanked for it makes you like him even more.

“Which cabin are you in?” he asks you, looking over his shoulder. You hope he didn’t catch you staring.

“Four,” you answer.

“We’re neighbors,” he says. “I’m in five. I can walk you back, newbie.”

There’s a chance he’s just being nice, but even though it’s against the rules, you hope it’s more.

You check your phone to see it’s just past ten o’clock. The moonlight is bright as you and Zach walk towards the staff cabins.

You’re chatting about how beautiful the campground is and he grins as he looks down at his feet. He loves this place and hearing someone else appreciate it feels nice.

When he looks up, he stops in his tracks. You follow his eye-line. There’s a shirt hanging on his cabin’s doorknob.

“Oh, man,” he whispers.

“Does the shirt on the knob mean what I think it means?” you ask.

“If you think it means walking in there would make me see something I can’t ever unsee, you’re right,” Zach answers.

You chuckle. You’re definitely going to ask Ami about the details of her hook-up with Malcolm later. And you feel an obligation to also remind her that the no-dating rule is serious.

“I’ll give them ten minutes, then I’m knocking,” he says. “You don’t have to wait with me.”

You know you should go to bed and get rested before the craziness of tomorrow. But being around Zach makes you not want to.

“I can keep you company,” you offer. “I’m pretty wired anyway.”

“Thanks,” he says with a sincere smile. It makes your heart flutter that he seems just as happy to spend more time with you.

“So, what’s there to do around here at ten o’clock?” you ask.

Zach rakes his hair back, gazing out at a soccer field in the distance as crickets loudly chirp around you.

“If you’re looking to burn energy, we can do some of that practice we were talking about,” he suggests. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

“You sure you’re not too tired?” you ask.

“Nah. Let’s go,” he says. “But be warned, when I coach, I’m ruthless.”

You laugh, already well aware of how far from the truth that must be.

“Consider me warned,” you joke. “Lead the way.”

(part two)

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[a-asterias]

home before dark (part one)

pairing rafe cameron x kook! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary as children, you and rafe were best friends, but then tragedy suddenly struck his family and he shut everybody out. years later, you need his help when a pushy ex-boyfriend won’t leave you alone. rafe is perfect for the job because everybody’s afraid of him. except for you.

content warnings stalker ex, violence, eventual smut, substance abuse, death and mourning of parent

» masterlist

· · ── ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ── · ·

You’ve been looking at your reflection for five minutes now, eyes rimmed red from crying. Muffled, bass-heavy music is echoing from the front of the house.

You’ll do anything to delay going back out there. Even if it means standing still in the bathroom, trying and failing to stop tears.

Parties at Tannyhill always bring in massive crowds, yet your ex-boyfriend still managed to find you in the sea of people. You slipped away and have been hiding since, the anxiety of seeing him again crushing you.

Thankfully, you know your way around the estate. It was once like your second home.

As an only child, you latched onto the Cameron siblings the second you met them. You had just moved to Kildare, your dad having been an old college friend of Ward’s.

You practically grew up with them. You’re still close with Sarah. And even though Wheezie was only four when they lost their mother, she seems to find comfort in you always being around.

But your once best friend, who you’re merely weeks apart from in age, was transformed by the grief. Rafe is a stranger now. And you can tell that he loathes being around you.

When the door is roughly pushed open, the knob slamming against the wall, your heart lurches, overtaken by the sharp fear that Ty has found you.

But it’s Rafe, his hair hanging over his forehead and his nose dripping with blood, shattering your solitude.

He meets your eyes for just a second and looks away as soon as he sees it’s you. Like always. He never makes eye contact with you for very long.

“You’re bleeding,” you say quietly.

“No shit,” he mutters.

He barges past you to the sink, spitting crimson blood onto the porcelain. He’s hunched over the counter, panting, pissed off that you’re still standing there. Still lingering.

You’re always around. A constant reminder.

“Do you need help?” you ask, but you step back, your actions mismatching your words. You put distance between you for his comfort. Not yours.

“No.” His head is in splitting pain. He hasn’t accepted help in years and he’s not starting now.

This is how your conversations with him always go. You extend an olive branch. He snaps it in half.

You were both ten years old when the sweet boy you knew started hating the world and everyone in it. You had a front row seat to the tragedy that broke Rafe Cameron, a mama’s boy who suddenly lost the person he loved most.

But no matter what he does or says to you, you can’t hate Rafe back. After the accident that took his mother’s life, the compassion you harbor for him won’t let you.

While you definitely don’t like the person he’s become, a man so cold and aggressive, you couldn’t hate him if you tried.

You look at your reflections, side by side. You were once kids playing on the beach together, but in the mirror stands a bloodied cokehead next to a tearful mess, living in another summer of seeing each other everywhere and never speaking.

If it were up to you, it wouldn’t be like this. You’d still be friends. But he has his group of buddies who he drinks and smokes with and to him, they’re enough and you’re not.

Rafe looks up from his contorted position, the water rushing out of the faucet loudly. Frustration rises in him when he sees your silhouette in the mirror. He focuses on the edge of the sink, refusing to meet your eyes.

“You’re still here?” he snaps.

You’re used to the disheartening sight of a high and injured Rafe. He snorts lines and brawls at almost every party. Everyone calls him a psycho behind his back.

You want to ask what happened, but you know he’ll brush you off like he always does. You leave the room, determined to escape the party and go home. It’s past midnight anyway.

You’re nearly out the front door when frigid fingers wrap around your forearm. Your blood runs cold as you twist to see Ty, his eyes fixed on you.

“Did you block me?” he asks, the smile that once charmed you now making you sick. You look around at the crowds of partygoers as if someone can save you.

He’s still refusing to accept that you broke up with him a week ago. It was annoying at first. But now, it’s scary. He won’t leave you alone.

He texted you so many times over the last few days, going back and forth between calling you a waste of time and apologizing and begging to see you, that you had to block him.

After a few months together, you realized he wasn’t as nice of a person as he liked to pretend to be. Slowly, who he really is seeped in, unveiling a cruel and controlling brute.

“Of course I did,” you say. “I told you to stop texting me. I’m not your girlfriend anymore.”

“You’re not thinking straight,” Ty scoffs. “It can’t just be over.”

“Yes, it can,” you say, straining out of his grip. You had told him over and over that if he wasn’t going to stop disrespecting you, you’d leave. He kept apologizing, saying every outburst was a one-time thing, just to put you through the same pain again.

“Are you going home?” he asks.

You wish he didn’t know that your parents are on a business trip and will be gone for the next couple of weeks. Regrettably, he’s aware you’ll be sleeping in an empty house for the next while.

“No,” you lie.

“Then let’s get a drink and talk about this,” he says sternly. “Unless you’re with some other guy now and that’s why you tried to break up with me?”

Could that be the only way he’ll leave you alone? You try not to shrink under his gaze, a heartless, eerie abyss. The fact that he says you tried to break up with him tells you he still isn’t accepting that the relationship is over.

“I broke up with you because you treated me like shit,” you say. Your heartbeat is loud and your breaths are shallow and in a split second, you decide to lie as an act of survival. “But yeah, I am with someone else now.”

Rafe turns off the faucet, heart racing from the coke and the adrenaline of winning a fight. It all started because some guy looked at him wrong. That was enough for Rafe to start swinging.

Admittedly, letting out his aggression is a thrill. It’s his comfort zone. When he surrounds himself with chaos, it distracts him from the voices howling in his mind.

Life is nothing but a sick game of tag, and he’s been running away from reality and towards disorder for years.

Rafe’s nose is still throbbing from the only punch the other guy managed to get in when he heads back into the throws of the party.

He’s filling up a solo cup in the dining room when your eyes meet his. He can’t look away this time. You’re rushing towards him, fear written into your features.

Once you hastily close the distance, leaving mere inches between you, Rafe can see you’ve been crying.

“Hey,” you say over the music, overwhelmingly grateful that you finally found him after frantically rippling through the crowds. “Can you help me? Please?”

Maybe it’s because of the desperation in your glossy eyes. Or because you both once knew how to make the other feel better. Or because you chose him to help, when he’s used to never being chosen by anyone for anything. But he decides to hear you out.

“What?” he mutters, hollow blue eyes searching your face. Rafe’s brooding, all cleaned up now, the blood wiped away.

You look over your shoulder, your chest rising and falling at full tilt, then face him again.

“My ex is following me,” you say. “Can you pretend to be my boyfriend?”

“What?” Rafe’s mouth is twined in irritation. Of all the guys to use to make your ex jealous, you pick him?

“Rafe, please,” you say hurriedly.

You turn to see Ty, his eyebrows raised in clear surprise. After you talked to him by the front door, you rushed away, feeling his looming presence trailing after you.

You face your ex, standing beside Rafe with your hand curling around his hard bicep, finding unexpected relief in holding him. It’s jarring touching him after years of distance.

Rafe can’t remember the last time he was touched like this. It’s like a reprieve from the rush he’s always in, slowing him down.

Ty shoves his way through groups of people, his face carved with anger.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he shouts over the music, eyes darting between you two. Rafe recognizes him. He’s seen you together at parties and the country club. This guy is just another Kook who gets shit-faced every chance he gets.

“Leave me alone, Ty,” you say.

“You’re with him?” he mutters with a laugh.

“Yeah, I am,” you say, tone shaky, praying Rafe plays along. He catches the brittle waver in your words.

“You can’t be serious,” Ty says. “That was fast.”

He steps forward and you find yourself cowering behind Rafe, who instinctually straightens up.

When Rafe realizes your hand is trembling, something in him twists. You’re not trying to make this guy jealous. You’re afraid of him.

Even after the years of hostility between you, somehow, you uncover a soft spot that Rafe didn’t know he had. He hates that this asshole is scaring you.

“Get out,” Rafe says to your ex, his deep voice sending relief through you.

Ty’s eyes dart to Rafe before his gaze is on you again.

“Really?” he ridicules you. “The guy you always call a psycho?”

Rafe’s arm flexes beneath your hand.

It’s a lie. People talk shit about Rafe, but you have never uttered a bad word about him to anyone.

“I never said that,” you retaliate.

“Just come outside so we can talk,” Ty says, his voice dripping with anger.

“Whose fucking house do you think this is, bitch?” Rafe shouts, roughly shoving Ty’s shoulder. “I told you to get out.”

You see fear on your ex’s face for the first time in your life. Your instincts were right to push you to run to Rafe. Everyone’s afraid of him.

“Chill,” Ty says with a forced smile, palms up in surrender. You’re sure he’s thinking of all the brawls he’s witnessed at these parties. Rafe might get roughed up, but he hardly ever loses a fight.

“Go,” Rafe sneers.

“I - I am,” Ty stammers. He meets your gaze one last time before he flees, his lips thinning in anger. Dread surges through you. You can tell you’re not rid of him.

Awkward tension settles between you and Rafe. He turns to look down at you, eyes flitting to your hand still on his arm. You let go.

Of the entire fervid exchange, what blares in your mind the loudest is Ty’s lie.

“I never said that about you,” you say.

Rafe scoffs. He figures it’s better to be feared, to be seen as a psycho, instead of the loser he knows he is.

“I don’t give a shit,” Rafe mutters, although, for whatever reason, he feels a piece of him caring what you think about him. He shifts to continue filling his cup with beer, pissed off and disoriented.

“He lied,” you tell him, stepping to the side to meet Rafe’s eyes again. You need him to know.

“Got it,” he says carelessly. He dips his head back as he downs his drink.

“Listen, I’m sorry to drag you into this, okay?” you say. “I don’t know what to do. He won’t leave me alone.”

He stills. Talking to you is hard. The fact that you’re still kind to him makes it harder.

But you’re so clearly terrified. Maybe he owes this to you. Everyone else wrote him off, but you, for whatever reason, still treat him with a gentleness he knows he doesn’t deserve.

“If he bothers you again…” Rafe says. He doesn’t finish the sentence, but you don’t need him to. This is his way of telling you he’ll protect you.

You stare at his hardened features. You always felt like you grew up with Rafe from a distance. You know him in snapshots.

The ten-year-old who made small footprints next to yours in the sand. The seventh grader who got into so many fights that rumors of expulsion circulated around school. The high schooler who didn’t care to hide that he was doing lines at every party.

And now, he’s the man towering over you, drugged up, throwing punches every chance he gets, agreeing to pretend to be your boyfriend.

The fact that he’s willing to put on this charade for your safety makes you think that maybe there is a soft part of Rafe left somewhere deep inside. A part of the boy he once was.

“Thank you,” you say. You’re sure he won’t want to carry on the conversation, so you step away before he takes back his offer.

You find Sarah and ask if you can crash in her room tonight, knowing she’ll say yes. The thought of going to your empty house is too daunting.

The next morning, you’re sitting in the large kitchen of the Camerons’ estate, wearing last night’s clothes. You stare out the window, wishing your anxiety didn’t keep you awake last night.

You slept a couple of broken hours next to Sarah, thoughts of your ex and what he might be capable of rushing through your mind.

You’re not sure what to do next. In a normal world, you’d spend your summer partying and having fun with friends and enjoying your lack of a schedule. But things aren’t normal right now.

You’re desperate to shower and get into clean clothes and simply exist in the comfort of your home.

When Rafe sees you sitting in the kitchen, sunlight spilling over the planes of your face, he does something he never saw himself doing again. He approaches you, instead of running away.

Footsteps pull you out of your daze. You meet Rafe’s tired eyes. He doesn’t look away this time and it makes hope bloom in your chest.

He settles on the other side of the table, across from you, tensely raking his hair back. He doesn’t say anything, words trapped in his throat.

“You’re up early,” you say to break the silence.

Last night was one of many sleepovers you’ve had here. Even though you and Rafe don’t speak much, you’ve puttered around the house enough to have noticed his habits, one of them being that he typically wakes up well into the afternoon the day after a party.

But Rafe wants to cut through the bullshit of small talk. He can’t get how scared you looked last night out of his head. And he won’t admit that it’s the reason he wasn’t able to fall back asleep when the brightness of the sun woke him up this morning.

“Did he ever put his hands on you?” he finally asks, voice low. He braces himself for the answer. He doesn’t know how he’ll take it if you were getting hurt while he was always close by, ignoring you.

“No,” you say. The thought sends a chill through you. “He got… mean. And controlling. Or I guess he was always like that, but he hid it at the beginning. Maybe he would’ve eventually started hurting me. I don’t know.”

Rafe clenches his fist beneath the table. It may be hypocritical to be so angry at another man for being cruel to you when all he’s done for years is end every conversation you’ve tried to start with him. But Rafe has never claimed to reasonable.

“And he won’t leave you alone?” he recalls.

You shake your head no. Silence nestles between you, but this time, it doesn’t feel as uncomfortable.

Rafe’s eyes finds yours again, a shade of blue you can’t forget no matter how many times he’s averted his gaze.

“You scared of him?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you admit. The way your voice weakens puts Rafe even more on edge.

“You don’t have to be anymore,” he says. You exhale slowly, enveloped by a sense of security that you haven’t felt in a long time.

“He looked afraid last night,” you tell him. “When you pushed him, I mean. I’ve never seen him look like that.”

At least his anger was put to good use, Rafe thinks. It was actually worth something for once.

“Give me your phone,” he says.

You obey and watch him add himself into your contacts, a harsh reminder of the lack of a presence you have in his life. You don’t even have each other’s numbers. He texts himself your name.

“Call me if he bothers you,” he says. His promise to watch out for you is like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, comforting you.

“Okay. Thank you.”

You realize this is the longest conversation you’ve held with him since before his mother passed. The day you heard the news, you came to this very house to offer your condolences.

You had knocked on Rafe’s closed bedroom door, telling him it was you and not his father, who you’d only seen be cruel to his eldest child.

Through the door, you promised him you’d do whatever he wanted. Cry together. Go down by the water. Talk. Or even just sit in silence. But all a ten-year-old Rafe offered you was a tearful go away, followed by years of avoiding you and brushing you off.

He hands back your phone and stands, walking away from you.

“Rafe?”

He turns to face you again, his hand on the kitchen counter.

“Could you follow me home?” you ask. “My parents are away and he knows it and… I just want to be sure he’s not waiting for me there.”

Rafe nods. You give him a grateful smile. He can’t return it.

Minutes later, his motorcycle roars as he tails your car down the street. Your house is only two blocks away from his. He couldn’t forget the way if he tried.

He visited your home with his family a few times as a kid, but most of your friendship was spent on the private beach behind his house, running around in the sand, your childish laughs tangling together in the salty air.

You used to bike to his house almost every summer day. He’d meet you by your gate, smiling so big his cheeks hurt, racing on your bikes to his house together. He would accompany you on the way back home, too, always making sure you got home before dark.

He realizes he always felt like he needed to watch out for you, even when he was just a scrawny ten-year-old.

Over the school year, you spent every recess together. Kids used to tease you about liking each other and he loved that you didn’t care because it made him feel like maybe you had a crush on him, too.

You two were inseparable. Until you weren’t.

Rafe tries not to think about it. This is exactly why he shut you out. You remind him too much of the last time he was happy. Before life became unbearable and before he was left with the parent who doesn’t love him.

Thinking about those days feels like trying to fall back asleep into a good dream, all while knowing he’ll plummet into a nightmare.

You pull into your driveway after getting through the remote-powered gate, parking right in front of the door. Rafe parks behind you, killing the engine and taking his helmet off.

He watches you step out of your car. You shield your eyes with your hand as you look at him, perched on his motorcycle in the bright morning sun, his helmet in his hands.

“I didn’t see his car on the street,” you say. “But I’m gonna make sure that the security system is armed.”

Rafe follows, stopping a few feet away from you as you unlock the door, on edge and ready to strike if he needs to.

You’re relieved to hear the familiar beeping that confirms the system is active and wasn’t triggered since the last time you were home. Rafe watches you disappear into the house to punch the code in.

“All good,” you say when you step back out through the front door. You face him as he stands on your doorstep, your chin tipped up to gaze at him.

“You said your parents aren’t here?” he asks. He’s frustrated that you’re alone.

“Away for work,” you say with a defeated shrug. You wish you’d broken up with Ty sooner so they’d be close by during all this stress. “Some things never change.”

Rafe looks down and nods. He remembers how often your parents travelled, leaving you with his family or babysitters while they were away.

Birds chirp in the warm air surrounding you. You stare at Rafe now that you have the opportunity to, up close. There are some freckles and beauty spots you remember. Some that you don’t.

He’s strikingly handsome and you wonder if he knows it. If anyone has ever told him.

“Alright,” Rafe says, stepping back, his way of saying goodbye. He doesn’t look at you again as he paces away.

His mother used to have to call you both into the house multiple times to eat lunch when you’d play on the beach together. You’d have so much fun that you didn’t want to do anything to interrupt it.

But these days, Rafe can hardly wait to get away from you. And even though it’s comforting having him watching out for you, having a string tying you to him again, you wish his coldness didn’t still hurt as much as it does.

(part two)

author’s note thank you to @rafedaddy01 for this idea @diorjadore for this idea!!! ILYSM!!!

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