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theonottsbxtch · 21 days ago

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THE WING DOWN THE HALL | FC43

an: the third installment in this universe! ladies and gentlemen, theys and gays, please give it up for paramedic!franco. i'm not sure if you'll be able to tell, but i slightly lost inspo for this halfway through lol, i'm super excited to get through the others in this universe

wc: 12k

summary: a paramedic who hides soft worry behind loud grins & teasing words. a quiet nurse who forgot the sound of her own voice. a golden labrador who watches it all with knowing eyes. and the slow, patient kind of love that feels safe enough to stay. not a story of grand gestures. just one of small kindnesses, shared silences, and learning, gently, that you are not a burden to the right person.

uniformed hearts masterlist

Franco hadn’t meant to stay. It was meant to be a year, maybe two, enough time to study, to practise his English, to live in a place where the sky changed colours more often than the menu in the cantine did. London had been too much, all noise and elbows, but here it was manageable. Grey mornings, decent bread, strangers who didn’t ask too many questions. He’d blinked, and five years had gone by.

He still missed the heat sometimes. The dry, humming kind that stuck to your skin and made everything taste like salt and sun. Here, even the summers felt like apologies, tepid days with hesitant skies, quick to fold into drizzle. But there was a kind of softness in the air too. In the streets that held memories he hadn’t made yet. In the language that still caught him out when he was tired. In the job, most of all.

Being a paramedic made sense to him in a way nothing else had. Not at school, not at uni, not in the flat he shared with two mates who still lived like they were nineteen. But out in the van, with the lights low and the radio humming, it felt like something. Like purpose. Like clarity. It wasn’t just about saving people, though that was the part everyone asked about. It was about being there when it mattered. Showing up. Doing what you could.

And he was good at showing up. Good at quick smiles and quicker hands. Good at defusing tension with a joke, even if half of them were terrible. He flirted like it was breathing, light, constant, mostly harmless. Patients, coworkers, the woman at the corner shop who sold him lucozade on the way to a shift. It wasn’t about anything, not really. Just connection. Just warmth. Just something to fill the space.

The hospital was a blur of harsh lights and tired voices, and Franco moved through it like a spark. He knew which vending machine still had decent chocolate, which doors jammed if you didn’t kick them just right, which nurses were up for a laugh and which ones would tell him to bugger off before he finished his sentence.

And she didn’t do either.

She was quiet, not the cold kind, just soft. Like silence that asked nothing of you. Always in pale scrubs, hair tucked away, voice low and even. She never rolled her eyes at his flirting, but never played into it either. Just looked at him like she saw right through the act, and didn’t mind it, but didn’t buy it.

He found himself looking for her between calls. Not in a big way. Just noticing. Wondering if she was on shift. Wondering if she’d say his name in that voice that was gentle no matter how tired she sounded. Wondering what it might take to make her laugh.

She liked the early shifts best. The hospital was quieter then, not silent, but softer around the edges. Fewer footsteps. Fewer raised voices. Just the low hum of monitors and the rustle of bedsheets as the night began to fade. Sometimes, if the timing was right, she could make a cup of tea and drink half of it while it was still hot. That was enough, most mornings.

Nursing hadn’t been a childhood dream. She wasn’t the type who played doctor with dolls or bandaged up pets. It came later, slow and steady, like most of her choices. Sixth form had been a blur of pressure and personal statements, and nursing had felt useful. Like something you could carry with you. Something solid. Something she could return. She liked knowing things, remembering things, how long a cannula had been in, which patients couldn’t tolerate codeine, which porter liked ginger biscuits. She liked being someone people could rely on.

The job had changed her, in ways she hadn’t expected. Not hardened her. But sharpened, maybe. She could handle blood now, and shouting, and grief so thick it turned the air sour. What still got to her were the quiet ones. The ones who didn’t make a fuss. The ones who said sorry for being in the way, even as they clutched their chests or shook with pain.

That was what Franco never seemed to understand. He swept in like a breeze, all charm and colour and easy smiles. Always with some joke on his lips, some wink for whoever happened to be looking. He was good at his job, she’d give him that. Quick on his feet, calm under pressure. But loud, always loud. Like the silence made him itch.

He called her nurse sometimes, even though he knew her name. Said it with that grin like he was trying to be cheeky. She never corrected him. Just let it hang between them, like most things.

She didn’t dislike him. Not at all. But he unsettled something in her, a quiet part, the bit that liked going unnoticed. He made people laugh in corridors and flirted with receptionists and knew exactly how to charm his way past triage delays. And yet. He held old ladies’ hands when they were frightened. He remembered which patients liked to be spoken to slowly, which ones needed someone to listen more than fix. Spotted out the nervous Spanish speakers who’d ease at the sound of their mother tongue. She’d seen it, even if he thought she hadn’t.

She never quite knew what to say to him. He was all noise and light. She was made of quieter things. Tea that didn’t go cold. Clean sheets. A steady hand on a shaking shoulder. They didn’t move at the same pace.

But sometimes, she’d find herself glancing towards the double doors when she heard the wheels of a stretcher coming in. Just in case it was him.

It was just past half four that morning when he walked in, not with a patient, this time, just a clipboard and a half-eaten flapjack in one hand.

“Thought I’d drop this off,” he said, lifting the clipboard as though it were a peace offering. “Before I forget. Again.”

She didn’t look up straight away, focused on double-checking a set of obs. Quiet murmurs drifted from the bay behind her, the ward still wrapped in that early-morning haze where everything felt a bit too warm and a bit too slow.

When she finally turned, it was with that same unreadable calm. “You could’ve handed it in at reception.”

“I could’ve,” he agreed, smiling like he’d done it on purpose. “But then I wouldn’t get to see your face, would I?”

She didn’t blush. But there was the smallest shift in her expression, something close to amusement, or maybe disbelief. Her pen paused mid-air.

“You know that doesn’t work on me,” she said mildly.

“Doesn’t it?” He leaned his elbows on the counter, shameless. “I thought I saw the corner of a smile there. Almost.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Probably. Sleep-deprived. Could be hallucinating. Or maybe you just don’t want to admit you like me.”

She looked at him then and for a second, the usual noise of the ward seemed to dim. He wasn’t wearing his usual grin. Not quite. Something in his eyes had softened, just for a moment. Like he wasn’t teasing so much as hoping.

But she only said, “I think you like hearing yourself talk more than anything.”

He laughed, bright and easy, like she’d handed him a gift.

“Guilty,” he said. “But you do bring out my best material.”

She turned back to her notes, lips twitching despite herself.

“Go hand in your paperwork, Franco.”

“Aye aye, nurse,” he said, and gave her a little mock salute before heading off, flapjack still in hand.

She didn’t watch him go. Just glanced at the clock, then back at the vitals in front of her. But there was a warmth in her chest that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Barely noticeable. Like the first flicker of heat before the kettle boils.

She’d smiled at him. Not a big one, not even really a smile, if he was being honest. But something had shifted in her face, just for a second. And it had landed in his chest like a dropped pebble, sending out ripples he was still feeling three corridors later.

Franco tossed the clipboard onto the admin desk and made a vague attempt at finishing his flapjack, though it had gone a bit dry and crumbly now. He wasn’t really hungry anymore.

He didn’t know what it was about her. It wasn’t like he hadn’t met quiet ones before. Hospitals were full of them, tired eyes, steady hands, people who kept everything locked up behind calm expressions and neat uniforms. But there was something in the way she moved through the world. Like she wasn’t just quiet, she was still. Unbothered. Like nothing rushed her, not even time.

He liked the challenge of it, maybe. Or he told himself that, anyway. The way she never gave him an inch. Never flustered, never snapped, never flirted back. He couldn’t quite tell if she disliked him or just didn’t think about him much at all.

But then again, she hadn’t told him to piss off, either. That counted for something.

Still. He wasn’t in a rush. These things either unfolded or they didn’t. He could wait.

And for a little while, that was all there was.

A week later he saw her in the corridor, half a step ahead, walking beside a consultant who was talking too fast and too loud. She nodded at the right moments, but her eyes were tired. He thought about catching up, saying something, even just a quick hello, but the corridor narrowed where the gurney trolleys lined the wall, and by the time he caught up, she’d already turned left into the side ward.

Three days after that, she passed him in the car park, hood up, hands in her coat pockets. It was raining, that thin, misty kind that made everything damp without looking dramatic. Franco had just finished nights and was blinking against the dull light, head fuzzy.

She didn’t see him. Or maybe she did and didn’t say anything. He thought about calling out, waving, maybe, but she had that look about her. The closed-off one. The one that said today’s not the day.

He let her walk on.

The following Wednesday, he brought in a teenager with a panic attack. The kid was shaking so badly he couldn’t hold a cup of water. Franco stayed longer than he had to, just until the boy’s breathing evened out. She was there too, calm, efficient, offering reassurances in that quiet voice that made people believe her.

She didn’t look at Franco once. But when the lad finally managed a shaky nod, her eyes flicked over to him, just for a second, and that was enough.

Somewhere between the shifting rotas and the half-said things, Franco realised he’d stopped trying to flirt. Not because he’d lost interest, quite the opposite. It just didn’t feel right anymore. Not with her.

He didn’t want to be another joke to her. Another loud voice in a noisy room. He wanted her to know that he’d seen her, not just the soft words and the kindness, but the steel underneath it too.

But he didn’t know how to say that.

So instead, he waited.

It had been a long night when she’d let herself in with her shoulder, the door sticking like it always did when it rained. The flat smelled like fabric softener and dog biscuits, faint, familiar. Safe.

Bruno came padding down the hall before she’d even taken her shoes off, tail already thumping, head tilted like he was checking her face for signs of a good or bad day.

“Hi, you,” she said softly, crouching to greet him. “Sorry I’m late.”

He huffed in response and nudged her arm until she gave in and sat on the floor. She buried her fingers in the warm gold of his fur, let her forehead rest against the top of his head. He was patient, always. Unbothered by the hours or the silence or the fact she came home in bits sometimes, worn thin and too quiet to reach.

Eventually, she stood, fed him, had a shower that didn’t quite rinse the day away, and made tea she forgot to drink. It sat cooling on the kitchen side while she changed into joggers and an old hoodie, Bruno already sprawled across the bed like he’d paid rent.

She joined him, tugging the duvet over her legs. The silence in the flat wasn’t lonely, not usually. Just deep. Something you could sink into. Something that didn’t ask for anything back.

Sometimes she was so quiet she forgot the sound of her own voice.

It wasn’t intentional. She just didn’t always have the energy to speak if it wasn’t necessary. The job took a lot out of her, more than she let on. And when she wasn’t working, she needed the world to hush. Just for a while.

She reached out and scratched behind Bruno’s ear.

“I saw Franco today,” she murmured, like it mattered. Like it needed saying aloud. Bruno made a soft, content sound in response and shifted closer.

“He’s still him,” she went on. “Loud. Charming. Thinks he’s funny.”

She paused. Frowned a little.

“He is, though. Funny.”

Bruno blinked at her with that steady, knowing look only dogs seemed capable of. She huffed out a quiet breath and let her head fall back against the pillows.

“I don’t know what to do with people like him,” she admitted. “Ones who talk like the silence might swallow them whole if they stop.”

Another pause.

“I think he’s being careful now. With me. Like he’s waiting.”

She didn’t know what to make of that. She wasn’t used to being waited for.

There was a warmth in her chest she didn’t quite trust.

She closed her eyes, one hand still resting lightly on the soft rise and fall of Bruno’s side.

The tea went cold in the kitchen. She didn’t get up.

When Franco got home, he kicked the front door shut with his heel, dropped his rucksack in the hall, and sighed like he’d just aged ten years.

The flat was warm, a bit too bright, and smelled faintly of whatever disaster Lando had made for dinner. Something involving garlic, definitely. And possibly regret.

“Oi,” came a voice from the living room. “Don’t stomp. You sound like my nan.”

Franco ignored him and toed off his boots with a grunt. “Your abuela wishes she had my ankles.”

“You wish my nan fancied you,” Lando called back.

Franco shuffled into the kitchen first, opened the fridge, stared into it like something inspiring might appear. It didn’t. Just half a tin of beans, oat milk that wasn’t his, and a bottle of beer with someone else’s name written on the cap in Sharpie.

He took the beer anyway and wandered into the living room, where Lando was spread across one end of the sofa like a man wronged by the world.

Isack was perched at the dining table with a stack of textbooks and a face that said he hadn’t seen the sun in two days. Med school looked good on him in the same way sleep deprivation looked good on no one.

Franco flopped into the armchair, beer still unopened in his hand. “I still don’t know what to do with her.”

Isack didn’t look up. “Which ‘her’ is this?”

“The quiet nurse,” Franco muttered. “From A&E.”

Lando groaned. Loudly. “Oh my God. Not again. Between Oscar all moony over his neighbour and Max acting like a bloody Victorian poet every time he talks about that girl in the office, I do not need a third one of you.”

“She’s different,” Franco said, like that explained anything.

“They’re all different, mate. That’s how falling for someone works.”

Isack finally glanced up, pen tucked behind his ear. “What’s the problem, anyway? She married? In a cult? Secretly your sister?”

“No,” Franco scowled. “She’s just, quiet. Like, properly quiet. She doesn’t rise to it. All my best lines, nothing. She just looks at me. Calm. Like she’s got me figured out before I’ve even finished talking.”

“So basically,” Lando said, stretching, “you’re being held accountable for the first time in your life.”

Franco threw a cushion at him, which Lando dodged with veteran skill.

“I’m serious,” Franco said. “She gets to me.”

Isack offered a small, knowing smile. “Then you’ve got two choices. Keep being loud until she tunes you out completely or shut up long enough to listen.”

Franco made a face. “Shutting up’s not really my brand.”

“No,” Lando muttered. “Your brand is emotional chaos in a nice shirt.”

But Franco didn’t respond right away. Just sat there, beer forgotten, something pensive pulling at his features.

Eventually, he said, quieter this time, “She looked tired today. Not the kind you can sleep off.”

And for once, neither of them took the piss.

The following morning, Franco arrived just before the shift change, early enough to grab a lukewarm tea from the staff room and pretend he wasn’t waiting to see if she was in.

She was.

He clocked her by the nurse’s station, hair half tucked behind one ear, reading something on the screen with that familiar calm like nothing could touch her unless she allowed it. He didn’t say anything straight away, just leaned on the counter a few feet away and sipped his terrible tea.

She noticed him. Of course she did.

“You’re early,” she said, eyes still on the screen.

“You’re observant,” he replied, grinning.

This time, her lips curved just slightly. Enough to count.

“Trying out a new approach,” he added, a little more softly.

“Oh?” she glanced at him. “Which is?”

“Shutting up,” he said. “Listening. Seeing what happens.”

She tilted her head, like she didn’t quite believe him. “That’ll be a first.”

Before he could come up with something clever, the radio crackled. Voices, urgent. One incoming from a road traffic accident. Mid-twenties male, head injury, possible spinal trauma. ETA two minutes.

Franco straightened as Liam’s voice followed over the system.

They were already moving before the second line came through.

“Another one inbound, abdominal wound, unstable. Twenty-three-year-old female. Following right behind.”

“Got it,” Franco said, looking over at her. “I’ll take the second.”

She didn’t argue, didn’t even nod. Just turned and moved, brisk and focused, already pulling gloves on by the time the first trolley was wheeled in.

For a second, the world slowed.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, just that split second of awareness. Of watching someone you liked slip into their element. She looked small next to the patient, but solid. Unshakable. And he felt, absurdly, a kind of pride.

Then Liam burst in with the second patient and the noise came rushing back.

Franco grabbed gloves, snapped into motion.

The girl on the trolley was pale, shaking, her eyes wide and full of something that cut right through the clinical lighting and sterile smell of A&E. Panic. Real, raw panic.

Franco had done what he could, vitals logged, history taken, lines in, and now he stood at the edge of the room, gloves peeled off, quietly observing as she stepped in.

She didn’t say much at first. Just moved with a kind of purposeful ease, like her body already knew what to do before her mind had caught up. She checked the chart, adjusted the IV, and then crouched slightly so she was eye-level with the girl.

“Hi,” she said gently, and her voice, it was barely above a whisper. But it landed.

The girl blinked at her, chest still rising and falling too fast.

“I know it’s a lot. And it hurts. And you’re scared,” she went on, still crouched, still soft. “But you’re here now. You’re safe. And we’re going to look after you, alright?”

The girl nodded once, tears spilling, not from pain this time, but from the fragile relief that comes when someone sees you.

Franco felt something in his chest shift. It wasn’t dramatic. No fireworks, no blinding revelation. Just a quiet realisation:

He really didn’t want to flirt with her anymore. He wanted to learn her.

He stepped back, one slow pace at a time, until he was out of the room. His boots squeaked slightly on the polished floor, but she didn’t look up.

Didn’t need to.

She was still with the patient. Still present. Still steady.

He lingered for a moment in the corridor, just long enough to see the girl’s breathing start to settle, her fingers unclench from the sheet. Then he turned and walked away.

Heart a little fuller than it had been twenty minutes ago.

It was nearing five by the time Franco found her again.

A&E had quietened, not completely, but enough that the chaos had thinned into tired murmurs and the beep of machines rather than the earlier storm. The air felt heavy in that particular way hospital air always did at this hour: stale coffee, sweat, something metallic under the surface.

She was by the side station, head bowed over the paperwork she probably didn’t want to be doing, pen resting against her bottom lip in thought.

But there was something else.

A weight in her shoulders that hadn’t been there earlier. The quiet she always carried had deepened, not peaceful now, but inward. Sad, maybe.

He hesitated, remembering what Isack had said.

“Shut up long enough to listen.”

So he approached, slow, careful, no big grin this time.

“You alright?” he asked softly, voice low so it didn’t startle.

She glanced up, startled anyway, but didn’t hide it quickly enough. There was tiredness in her eyes, and something behind it.

She considered, for a breath, not answering. Then sighed.

“Had a patient,” she said quietly, “a bit too close to home.” Her fingers toyed with the corner of the paper, folding it, unfolding it. “Didn’t feel good. Still doesn’t, really.”

Franco nodded, not filling the silence. Letting her have space, the way she always left space for others.

Then he reached into his pocket.

“Here,” he said, holding something out.

A little sweet, wrapped in crinkly paper. Red and white. Cheap, the kind given out in corner shops.

She frowned faintly, confused.

“I keep them for the kids,” Franco said, offering a soft half-smile. “The ones that come in the ambulance with their mums or brothers or whoever. Distracted hands, distracted mouths. Stops the panic for a minute or two.”

She looked at it. Then at him.

A quiet smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Small, but real.

“Sweet for a sweet nurse,” he added gently, a hint of tease now, but nothing sharp. Careful. Testing.

“Thank you,” she murmured, tucking it into the pocket of her scrub top. Her fingertips brushed the wrapper like it mattered. “That’s kind.”

He glanced at the clock behind her.

“When do you finish?” he asked, almost casually.

“Half six,” she replied softly.

Franco made a face. “Dangerous time, that. Still plenty of room for someone to say the ‘Q word’ and curse your last hour.”

She gave him a look. Almost a warning, but her mouth twitched like she might laugh if she weren’t so tired.

“I will say it,” he threatened lightly. “Or worse, the ‘S word’. You’ll never get home. Your pup’ll think you’ve left him for good.”

Her eyes widened, mock horror creeping in. But the smile stayed.

“Don’t you dare.”

“There she is,” he grinned. “Knew there was a proper person under all that quiet.”

She ducked her head, but the warmth on her face betrayed her. Just a little pink in the cheeks, just enough to be noticed.

“Careful, Franco,” she said softly. “I might actually start talking.”

He stepped back, holding up both hands in surrender.

“God forbid. I wouldn’t stand a chance if you did.”

And with that, he gave her one last wink, softer than usual, not his usual theatre, and turned down the corridor, whistling under his breath.

She watched him go, fingers still resting lightly on the little sweet in her pocket.

By the time she’d finished handover, it was almost nearing seven.

The sky outside was the pale, washed-out grey of early morning, the sort that promised drizzle later, but for now held quiet and stillness. Bank Holiday Monday meant the buses weren’t running this early, and the usual hum of traffic was oddly absent, the world not quite awake yet.

She pulled out her phone by the hospital doors, thumb hovering over the rideshare app. No cars nearby. None even close. Apparently no one drove Ubers on Bank Holiday mornings either.

Typical.

She stuffed her phone back into her pocket, slinging her bag over her shoulder with a tired sigh. Walking wasn’t ideal, twenty-five minutes to her flat, maybe thirty if she dragged her feet, but what choice did she have?

She’d just stepped off the pavement when a voice called behind her.

“Querida, where do you think you’re going?”

She turned.

Franco, in his civvies now, jeans, plain grey hoodie, hair pushed back carelessly from his face. Still grinning like he knew something she didn’t.

“Home,” she said simply.

“Not on foot, you’re not. Let me give you a lift.”

“I’m fine,” she protested, adjusting the strap of her bag. “I can walk—”

“Not a chance,” he cut in, already shaking his head. “Come on. Car’s this way.”

“You can’t afford a car,” she blurted, the words out before she could soften them. “Not on a paramedic salary.”

He gave her a scandalised look over his shoulder. “Rude. But fair.”

She bit back a smile as he carried on, waving a hand. “It’s not mine. Lando’s sister gave him her old car. We’re all on the insurance. You know how it is, flat full of public servants, no one can afford a proper vehicle on their own. Communal suffering.”

“That explains it,” she murmured, following despite herself.

“Wait ‘til you see what she left us,” Franco grinned. “You’re gonna think I’m secretly rich.”

They turned the corner to the staff car park.

There, gleaming faintly under the car park lights, sat a very clean, very out-of-place black Mercedes.

She stopped dead.

“You’re joking.”

He pulled the keys from his pocket and gave them a jangle. “I told you.”

“That’s not an old car,” she said, suspicious.

He shrugged. “Apparently she got a brand new car. This one got left behind, can you imagine what her new car is?”

She shook her head, smiling properly now, amused despite the tiredness weighing on her.

“Bet you tell all the girls you own it.”

“Only the ones I offer lifts to at seven in the morning on Bank Holidays,” he said, holding the passenger door open with a little bow.

For a moment, she hesitated.

Then sighed, and slipped into the seat.

“Good choice,” he grinned, shutting the door behind her.

She gave him the address as he started the engine, a quiet road just outside town, not far from the little park she walked Bruno in. Franco nodded without comment, easing the Mercedes out of the car park and onto the near-empty street.

For a while, they drove in silence.

The city was quiet at this hour. Shop shutters down, only the odd lorry or early milk van passing them by. The radio stayed off. Franco didn’t fill the space with chatter like he usually did. It was peaceful, in a way. Comfortable.

Her phone buzzed faintly in her pocket. The distinct, quiet chime of a notification she knew too well.

Franco glanced sideways. Just once. Not nosy, just curious.

“Is that a LibreLink?” he asked.

She blinked, caught off guard.

“Uhh yeah.” She shifted slightly in her seat, hand resting over the phone. “Bit low. Not bad. Just a warning.”

He nodded, eyes still on the road. Like it wasn’t strange. Like it was nothing to be embarrassed about.

“I’ve seen the scanners before,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. “One of the paramedics back at station’s Type 1. Wears his on his arm like a badge of honour. Shows it off to all the new recruits like a medal.”

She smiled faintly. “I don’t really talk about it.”

Franco glanced at her again, this time for a little longer. “Why not?”

She shrugged. “Don’t like the fuss. People make it a thing. Like suddenly I’m fragile or need looking after. I hate that.”

He hummed in understanding. “Makes sense.”

There was a pause. Then she added, softer, “That’s why I have Bruno.”

Franco frowned lightly, glancing sideways again. “Your lab? He’s a service dog?”

She gave a little wince. “Yeah. Well. He’s trained for alerts. I just don’t call him that. To me he’s just Bruno. Not a working dog or anything official. Feels less strange that way.”

Franco smiled, eyes flicking back to the road. “Bet he’s better company than most people.”

She let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. “He is.”

Another soft silence settled between them. Comfortable. No questions. No fuss.

He drummed his fingers lightly against the steering wheel. “You need anything now? Juice or something? There’s a 24 hour corner shop on the way.”

She shook her head. “I’m okay. It’s only dipped a little. Bruno’ll probably sulk at me when I get home though. He always knows.”

“Smart lad.”

“The best.”

He grinned at that, and for a moment the tiredness in her chest eased.

“Bruno the secret medic,” Franco murmured, like it was a private joke just for them. “Keeping you in line when the rest of us don’t even know we should be worried.”

She smiled properly now. Quiet, warm. The first time all shift she’d felt like herself.

It was nearly a week before she saw him again.

Another quiet morning in A&E, the shift dragging slow and dull as they waited for the usual early rush to begin. The sky outside was heavy with rain that hadn’t quite arrived yet, and the smell of cheap coffee clung to the nurses’ station like damp.

She was scribbling notes when she felt him arrive before she even looked up, that quiet shift in the air, like the world tilted slightly to make room.

“Morning,” Franco said softly, setting a cup down beside her.

She blinked, surprised. “What’s this?”

“Proper coffee,” he grinned. “None of that machine sludge they serve you lot. Black, two sugars. Figured you might need it.”

She eyed him warily but with the beginnings of a smile. “How do you know how I take it?”

“Lucky guess,” he said with a wink. “And because I watched you make one last week.”

She shook her head, amused despite herself, wrapping her hands round the warm paper cup. “Stalker.”

“Observer,” he corrected, still grinning.

Before she could reply, a familiar voice broke in.

“Franco. You’re actually here early for once. Did someone threaten your life?”

Isack.

He was in scrubs today, badge clipped crookedly to his chest, hair slightly too long for hospital standards. His placement rotation had landed him in A&E this fortnight, much to his amusement and Franco’s suffering.

Isack glanced between them, grinning. “Well, this is nice. Haven’t seen you this quiet in... ever.”

Franco rolled his eyes. “I’m always quiet. I’m thoughtful.”

“You’re never quiet,” Isack said, laughing. He looked at her, smiling warmly. “I think you’re the only one who’s managed to keep him quiet this long. Congratulations.”

She felt her cheeks warm slightly, tucking a stray bit of hair behind her ear.

Isack’s pager buzzed suddenly. He glanced down, sighing. “Ugh. They need me in resus. I’d best go before they send someone to drag me.”

A voice, a bright, clear girl’s voice, called across the corridor. “Isack! You’re late!”

He winced dramatically. “There we go. Wish me luck.”

He jogged off, leaving her frowning after him. “Who’s that?” she asked, glancing at Franco.

Franco grinned, leaning against the counter. “Ahh. Listen to this.”

She waited, sipping her coffee.

“Isack got a concussion last month. Rec uni football game, flirted with the first aider the entire time which is not like him at all.”

She raised a brow. “You’re joking.”

“Not even. She stitched him up, let him babble, and he thought he’d never see her again. Turns out she’s a final-year med student doing her placement here. Six weeks together, whether he likes it or not.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Poor thing.”

“Serves him right,” Franco grinned. “Flirt first, think later. That’s Isack.”

She smiled into her coffee, glancing at Franco over the rim. “Sounds familiar.”

He gasped, hand to his chest in mock offence. “I am a professional, I’ll have you know.”

“Hmm.”

“Mostly.”

They stood like that a moment longer, the hum of the ward around them. For once, no hurry. No alarms. Just this strange, warm ease between them.

Then Franco pushed off the counter, nodding towards the exit.

“Better get back. Someone might actually need me today.”

She gave a small smile. “Try not to break anything on the way.”

He flashed her that grin, the one that had no right being so easy, so disarming at six in the morning, and was gone down the corridor.

The moment stretched in the space he left behind, warm and strange.

“Someone call the press,” came a voice behind her, full of wry amusement. “She’s letting someone talk to her and make her smile. Thought I’d never live to see it.”

She turned, unsurprised, to find Zeynep watching her with a knowing look, arms folded across her scrubs.

Zeynep, same year, same stubborn streak. They’d grown up two streets apart, survived secondary school and sixth form together by sheer luck and whispered back-row conspiracies. By some miracle, or curse, they’d both landed jobs here after uni, two nurses from the same tiny bit of South of England, somehow still tangled together in the same place.

“Don’t start,” she muttered, sipping her coffee.

“I’m just saying,” Zeynep grinned, stepping beside her. “It’s been, what, seven years since you let anyone get that close without shutting the door?”

She frowned. “It’s not like that.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Zeynep’s teasing was gentle, but the truth sat quietly beneath it. She knew why. Had been there when it all cracked and broke.

Sixteen. Too young, too soft, and far too trusting. First love that had turned sharp and cruel before the summer ended, leaving splinters that never quite smoothed out. It had taken her years to feel whole again. Years to stop flinching when someone looked too long or spoke too softly.

And since then… nothing. No dates. No flings. No awkward flatmate setups. She’d made peace with it. Her own little life, her job, her quiet flat, Bruno’s steady warmth at the foot of the bed. Simple. Safe.

Lonely, sometimes. She wouldn’t lie to herself about that.

Especially in winter, when the flat felt too big. When Bruno, good as he was, refused to stay curled against her all night, padding off to his own bed with a huff. When she woke in the cold grey light of morning with an empty pillow beside her and silence stretching wide and endless.

But she’d made her choice. It was better this way.

Still.

Franco’s smile had lingered longer than she meant it to. His warmth, his ease. The gentle way he’d noticed her without making her small.

Zeynep nudged her, breaking the quiet. “He’s not bad looking, you know.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s a flirt.”

“So? Might be good for you.”

“I’m fine.”

Zeynep raised a brow. “Bruno can’t cuddle all night. You said yourself he buggers off halfway through.”

She huffed softly, but her smile tugged anyway. “You’re impossible.”

“Someone has to be. You’ve gone feral, living alone with your dog, refusing joy. Honestly.”

She shook her head, but there was no heat in it.

Behind her coffee, behind her small smile, a quiet thought curled low and secret.

Maybe this time things could be different.

But not yet.

Slow. Careful.

Just like the rest of her quiet life.

By the time she’d finished her shift, she was pretty much spent. Bone-tired, heavy-limbed, ready to knock out the moment her head touched the pillow.

The ward was quiet as she passed back by the nurses' station, tugging her hoodie on, hair loose and messy from a long shift. She was reaching for her bag when she noticed something small resting on top.

A little wrapped sweet.

And beneath it, a note scribbled in quick handwriting.

“Keep these close? No more dropping low on shift. Can’t have you collapsing before you beat me to the coffee machine”

She stared for a moment, warmth curling low in her chest, before tucking both carefully into her pocket.

When she stepped out into the fresh air, grey and sharp with morning damp, she nearly jumped to see him there, leaning against the wall by the main entrance, hands shoved in his jacket pockets.

“Hey,” Franco said, straightening up as she approached.

“Thank you,” she said softly, unable to help the small smile pulling at her lips.

He blinked, mock confusion written all over his face. “For what?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You know what.”

“No idea.”

She squinted at him, amused despite herself. “The sweet. The note. You heard the Librelink in the car, Franco.”

He held up both hands, grinning. “What? You’re diabetic? Never would’ve guessed.”

And then she realised, why he was pretending not to know.

Because in the car that day, when he’d asked, she’d mumbled that she didn’t like telling people. That she didn’t want to make a fuss. Didn’t like being that person.

Her heart warmed unexpectedly.

He remembered. And more than that, he respected it, gently keeping the quiet she’d asked for, letting her decide who knew and when.

“Idiot,” she muttered, but softly. Fond.

He grinned wider.

“Are you walking?” he asked after a beat, glancing down the street. “Because Isack nicked the car. Drove off without me. Didn’t even wait to see if I needed a lift.”

She hesitated, surprised. “Oh. Erm yeah. I was going to.”

“Mind if I walk with you?” His voice was easy, gentle. No pressure. Just a question hung lightly between them.

She blinked. “You want to walk?”

“Bit of fresh air. Company. You know. Besides—” he smiled, soft and teasing, “—someone’s got to make sure you don’t faint dramatically in the street. Can’t have you dropping like that on my watch.”

She rolled her eyes but felt the flicker of something warm. Care.

“Alright then,” she said quietly. “If you want.”

“I do.” He smiled, falling into step beside her as they set off down the pavement, the early morning light grey and gentle around them.

And for the first time in a long while, the silence between her and someone else felt easy. Comfortable. Like breathing.

Like maybe, this quiet life of hers could make room for something more.

They walked side by side, the quiet stretching comfortably between them as they made their way down the street. The town was still half-asleep; the occasional distant hum of a lorry, birds beginning to stir in the hedges. Pavements damp from the night’s rain.

“So,” Franco said after a while, shoving his hands deeper into his jacket pockets. “Do you ever actually do anything outside of work? Or is saving lives and hoarding coffee for emergencies your whole personality?”

She glanced at him, amused. “That’s rich coming from you. I seem to remember someone saying they don’t do anything but shifts and sleep.”

“True,” he grinned. “But I’ve been told I need a hobby. Something to ‘ground me’. Apparently winding up Isack and Lando doesn’t count.”

She smiled faintly. “I walk Bruno. Read a bit, when I can keep my eyes open. That’s about it.”

“Wild life you’ve got there.”

“I know. Try not to get jealous.”

He laughed, warm and soft. “No danger of that. Though Bruno does sound like my kind of flatmate. Doesn’t steal food, doesn’t use up the hot water.”

She gave him a sidelong look. “You want to swap him for Lando?”

He pretended to think. “Hmm. Bruno probably sheds less. And smells better.”

She let out a quiet laugh, surprised at how easy this was.

They reached the end of her road, where his block sat just across the street. Franco slowed, rocking back on his heels slightly.

“So, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking for once a little less smooth, a little more hesitant. “What are you doing next weekend?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Next weekend? Probably working. I usually pick up an extra shift if I’ve got nothing else.”

He made a face. “Tragic. Well, if you fancy doing something that isn’t dragging yourself through another twelve hours in A&E…” He cleared his throat. “There’s this food and craft market in the park. Real one, stalls, coffee vans, live music, the works. Thought it might be nice to go. Y’know. If you wanted. Dogs are welcome too, so Bruno’s invited.”

She glanced at him, uncertain, but there was no pressure in his voice. Just easy warmth. Like a quiet offer held out in an open hand.

“I’ll think about it,” she said softly.

He smiled, wide and genuine, no teasing this time. “Good. Here—” He pulled his phone from his pocket, handing it to her. “Put your number in. Just in case you decide you want to brave the outside world.”

She hesitated a moment, then took it, tapping in her number carefully.

When she handed it back, he grinned. “There. Now I’ve got no excuse not to pester you about it.”

“You didn’t need my number for that,” she murmured, but her lips curved anyway.

“True. But now it’s official.” He tucked the phone away with a wink.

They stood there a moment longer, quiet and soft in the early morning light, before she nodded toward her door.

“I should go. Bruno’ll be wondering where I am.”

“Tell him I said hi,” Franco smiled. “And think about the market, yeah?”

“I will,” she said, surprising herself with how much she meant it.

Then she turned, heading toward her flat, and couldn’t quite stop the small smile that stayed with her all the way upstairs.

Saturday came quicker than she’d expected.

She stood in front of the wardrobe for longer than she cared to admit, staring blankly at the hangers.

It was stupid. She knew that. It wasn’t a date. Not really. Just a market. Two colleagues. Two people who worked in the same hospital. With dogs allowed. That was all.

Still.

She tugged out a soft jumper, the cream one she hardly wore because it felt too nice for night shifts, and a pair of well-worn jeans that fit just right. Comfortable. Not trying too hard. Casual.

Bruno sat patiently by the door, tail thudding against the floor, watching her every move with quiet interest.

“What d’you think?” she asked softly, glancing at him. “Not too much? Not like I’m trying to look nice or anything?”

He huffed, resting his chin on his paws. Utterly unhelpful.

She slipped her trainers on, grabbed Bruno’s lead, and with a quiet breath, just a market, they set off.

The park was only a ten-minute walk away. The morning was crisp, the air bright and edged with the smell of coffee and damp grass. Stalls stretched along the path, their canopies flapping gently in the breeze. People wandered between them with paper cups and canvas bags, laughter and chatter weaving through the air.

And then she saw him.

Franco stood near the gate, hands tucked in his coat pockets, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, grinning the moment he caught sight of her.

“You clean up nice,” he said easily, eyes warm as they flicked over her.

She raised an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “So do you.”

And he did. Jeans, a grey jumper, coat open over it, casual and simple, but he looked good. Less like the cheeky, flirty paramedic in green and more like someone real. Someone she might have passed in the street and noticed anyway.

Bruno gave a soft chuff of greeting, and Franco crouched instantly, rubbing behind the dog’s ears.

“Hello, mate. Glad you talked her into coming.”

“Don’t give him credit. I made up my own mind,” she murmured.

He grinned as he straightened. “Even better.”

They wandered slowly through the market, the crowd gentle, the pace easy. Franco didn’t rush, didn’t drag her along or fill the silence with endless chatter. When she paused at the handmade soaps stall, he waited without a word. When she eyed the coffee van, he quietly bought two cups, hers exactly how she liked it, and handed one over without asking.

As they passed a stall selling plants in tiny pots, an old man dropped his bag and Franco stooped without hesitation, helping him gather the loose apples rolling across the path, murmuring something soft in Spanish that made the old man smile.

She watched him quietly. And something shifted.

He wasn’t the loud, flirty, cheeky boy she’d thought he was. Well, he was those things. But there was more. A softness in the way he moved. The way he noticed things. Kept pace with her. Waited without fuss. Cared, in small, quiet ways that didn’t need announcing.

She’d misjudged him.

“Hey.” His voice pulled her gently from her thoughts. He nodded toward a stall selling pastries. “Hungry? I’ve been eyeing that pain au chocolat since we got here.”

She smiled, soft. “Sounds good.”

They sat on a bench with warm pastries, Bruno resting at her feet, the sounds of the market curling around them. No rush. No pressure. Just quiet comfort.

And for the first time in a long time, she realised she wasn’t counting the minutes until she could go home.

She was happy, here. With him.

They sat in easy quiet for a while, the warmth of the pastries in their hands, Bruno snuffling at fallen crumbs by her feet. The market around them had started to thin, the early morning bustle softening into lazy late-morning wandering.

She glanced at Franco from the corner of her eye.

“I owe you an apology,” she said softly.

He turned to her, brow raised. “For what?”

“For misjudging you. I thought you were all talk, you know. Flirty, cocky, all charm and no real substance.” Her thumb ran nervously along the rim of her coffee cup. “But you’re not like that. Not really.”

To her surprise, he smiled and shrugged.

“It’s fine. It’s a front, half the time. You have to be in this job. Keeps the mood light. Stops people asking questions I don’t feel like answering.” He paused, then glanced sideways at her, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Want to hear a piece of gossip about me? The kind the tabloids would probably lose their minds over?”

She blinked. “Go on, then.”

He leaned back against the bench, stretching his legs out.

“I’ve never had a girlfriend. Not properly. Not once.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Never done the whole long-term, serious thing.” His grin softened. “They always think I have, probably because of how I am. Bit flirty. Bit loud. But I’ve never, I don’t know. Never wanted to do it halfway. Never wanted to give anyone only bits of me when they deserved all of me. So I just haven’t.”

She stared at him, thrown. Of all the things she’d expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them.

“What about you?” he asked gently, turning the question back to her.

She hesitated. But something about him, the quiet patience, the way he wasn’t pushing, wasn’t expecting, made it feel okay to say the truth.

“There was someone,” she murmured. “When I was sixteen. Thought he was it, you know? First love, all that. It was awful. Really awful.” She stared at the cobblestones in front of them. “I’m diabetic, right. Have been since I was little. And he always made me feel like a nuisance for it. Like I was difficult. A problem he had to manage.” Her throat tightened, but she pushed on. “If my sugars spiked, he’d call me fat. If they dropped, he’d say I was being dramatic. Like I could’ve controlled it if I just tried harder.”

“Coño,” Franco breathed, his voice low and soft with something like anger beneath it. Not at her. But at whoever had done this.

“I haven’t been with anyone since,” she admitted quietly. “It’s easier. Quieter. Just me and Bruno. No one to make me feel small for something I can’t change.”

She felt the warmth of his gaze before she dared to meet it.

“You’re not a nuisance,” he said softly. “You’re not difficult. You’re brilliant. Stronger than anyone I’ve met. And what that bloke did? That’s on him. Not you. Never you.”

She swallowed. Hard.

“And for what it’s worth,” he added, glancing down at the coffee cup in his hands, “I think you’re the least dramatic person I’ve ever met. Honestly. Sometimes I reckon you forget to make noise at all.”

A smile pulled at her mouth, despite herself. “Sometimes I’m so quiet I forget the sound of my own voice.”

He grinned, soft, fond. “Good thing I talk enough for two, then.”

For the first time in a long, long while, something uncurled gently in her chest. A warmth that wasn’t fear or dread or loneliness.

Maybe this didn’t have to be hard.

Maybe it could be easy. Gentle. Like this.

“You’ve been really sweet,” she said softly, glancing at him. “But not in a way that makes me feel small. Thank you for that.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Sweet? Careful. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

She laughed, the sound quiet and genuine.

“I promise I won’t tell,” she teased.

And for the rest of the morning, the world felt a little less sharp. A little less lonely.

Just soft.

After that day, she felt like she was floating. Like something warm and weightless had tucked itself behind her ribs and made itself comfortable.

Cloud nine, as Zeynep would probably put it with a knowing grin.

Even the hospital’s fluorescent lights seemed less harsh, the endless patient charts less soul-draining. Bruno padded beside her in the quiet of her flat that evening, watching as she shuffled around, tidying things she didn’t usually bother with after a long shift.

Her phone buzzed on the counter.

Franco 🩺🚑:

Made it home from the gym without crashing. Thought you’d want to know.

She smiled to herself, thumb hovering for a moment before replying.

Good. Hate to break it to you, but I’m not certified for rescue work if you’d wrapped your car round a lamppost.

A minute later.

Franco 🩺🚑:

Shame. I was hoping you’d patch me up. Heard you’re good with hopeless cases.

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head.

You are a hopeless case. But apparently not beyond saving.

A typing bubble appeared. Paused. Started again.

Franco 🩺🚑:

Rude, querida. But I’ll allow it. You smiled today. I count that as a win.

Her stomach flipped in that odd, not-unpleasant way.

I might’ve smiled once or twice before today, you know.

Franco 🩺🚑:

Maybe. But this one was at me. Feels special.

She bit her lip to keep the grin from spreading too wide. Bruno nosed at her knee, as if sensing the change in her mood.

Don’t let it go to your head.

Franco 🩺🚑:

Too late. Massive ego incoming.

She laughed softly, the sound echoing through her quiet kitchen. Usually, these moments before bed felt still. Sometimes too still. The silence curling in the corners, heavy and lonely.

But not tonight.

Tonight she felt oddly light. Like for once, she wasn’t waiting for something to fall apart.

She padded to the bedroom, Bruno flopping onto the bed as usual, and sat on the edge, phone in hand, thumb lingering over the screen.

One more message.

Goodnight, Franco. Don’t crash your car tomorrow either, yeah?

A moment later.

Franco 🩺🚑:

Can’t make promises. But I’ll try extra hard if you promise to smile at me again tomorrow.

A small giggle escaped her.

Usually this would’ve made her panic. Overthink. Wonder if she was leading him on or if he’d expect something she couldn’t give.

But not tonight.

Tonight she let herself enjoy it.

She slid under the covers beside Bruno, who huffed contentedly, and let the quiet wrap round her like a blanket.

For the first time in a long while it didn’t feel empty.

It felt soft.

And maybe, just a tiny bit safe.

Franco couldn’t stop grinning.

He’d chucked his keys in the little bowl by the door, kicked off his trainers, and was now sprawled across the sofa in the lounge, phone still in hand, screen glowing softly in the dark room.

He let out a quiet, content sigh, thumb brushing the edge of the phone case.

“Uh oh,” came Lando’s voice from the hallway, full of suspicion and doom. “I know that sound.”

Franco glanced up as his flatmate appeared, damp-haired and holding a half-eaten packet of biscuits.

“What sound?” Franco asked, still smiling, still far too warm for his own good.

Lando pointed a custard cream at him like it was damning evidence.

“That” sound. The sigh of a man who’s gone soft. Don’t tell me. Is this about Nurse Mystery Girl again?"

Franco pulled a cushion over his face and groaned.

Lando cackled. “I knew it. You’re gone, mate. Completely gone.”

“I’m not gone,” Franco muttered from under the cushion. “I’m fine.”

Lando plopped down in the armchair opposite, feet up on the coffee table, grinning like Christmas had come early.

“Oh no, no, no. Don’t give me that. You’ve got that stupid smile. The ‘I met someone and now my life is sunshine and daisies’ smile. Oscar had it. Max had it. And now you’ve got it.”

Franco peeked out from the cushion. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that.” Lando crunched his biscuit dramatically. “You’ve got feelings. Real ones. Actual human emotions. Someone call the papers.”

Franco let the cushion drop and scrubbed a hand through his hair, still grinning despite himself. “She’s just different.”

Lando raised a brow. “Different how?”

“She’s quiet. Really quiet. But not boring-quiet. She listens. Like properly listens. And when she does talk it matters. None of that endless small talk crap.”

Lando smirked. “So basically the opposite of you.”

“Tonto,” Franco threw a cushion at him. “Rude.”

“True, though.” Lando caught the cushion easily. “You’re all mouth and charm until someone like her comes along and shuts you right up.”

Franco smiled again, softer this time. “She’s...I don’t know. There’s something about her. The way she smiled today. And she giggled when I gave her a treat to bring home for Bruno. Like...really giggled. I made her laugh.”

Lando let out a long, low whistle. “You’re doomed, mate. Properly doomed.”

“I don’t care,” Franco said simply, leaning his head back against the sofa. “She’s brilliant. And gentle. And funny, when she lets it slip. And she thinks I’m a hopeless case but still smiles at me anyway.”

Lando studied him for a moment, the grin slipping into something closer to fondness.

“You’ve got it bad, Francesca."

“Maybe,” Franco admitted. “But you know what? I don’t mind. Feels nice. Like something good, for once. And that’s not my name.”

Lando laughed softly, shaking his head. “Look at you. All lovey-dovey in the lounge. What’s next? Writing poetry? Flowers? Little love notes tucked in her locker?”

Franco grinned wider. “Maybe.”

Lando groaned. “Max and Oscar are already unbearable. Now you?”

“Better get used to it, mate,” Franco said, stretching with a satisfied sigh. “This isn’t going anywhere.”

And it wasn’t. He could feel it, low and certain in his chest.

She was special.

And for the first time in a long time, so was this.

A few days later, A&E was its usual cocktail of chaos and caffeine. Zeynep was half-leaning over the nurses' station, fiddling with a broken biro, while she stood beside her, chewing the inside of her cheek like it might offer answers.

“But you have to ask,” Zeynep said, voice low but firm. “You’ve already called me useless twice and I live in a shoebox flat that doesn’t even allow houseplants, let alone dogs.”

She sighed, arms crossed tight over her chest. “I know. It’s just, it feels weird. Asking him.”

Zeynep snorted. “Barely know? You’ve been texting him every night for a week and he makes you giggle like a sixth former. He’d probably say yes to kidney donation if you smiled at him long enough.”

“Zeynep.”

“What? I’m just saying. Use your powers.”

She shook her head, cheeks warm, and was mid-way through groaning when a familiar voice floated into the space beside them.

“All right, ladies?” Franco appeared, looking far too cheerful for someone on a double shift, lanyard swinging loosely around his neck, hair still damp from the drizzle outside.

Zeynep looked between the two of them like she was watching a live-action romance series. “Maybe he can be your knight in shining armour.”

Franco raised a brow. “Bit early for declarations of chivalry, but go on.”

Her face flushed immediately. “Ignore her.”

He looked amused. “Tempting, but now I’m intrigued.”

She hesitated, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “I need someone to look after Bruno. Just for a day.”

Franco blinked. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly, then added, “Well. Sort of. My mum’s not been well. Nothing life-threatening, just stubborn and full of complaints as usual. I said I’d come check in, but she’s allergic to dogs, and none of my perfect siblings who live ten minutes away want to help her.”

Her jaw clicked slightly as she tensed, clearly hating the words even as she said them.

“And I can’t leave him alone that long,” she added. “He’s not just a dog.”

“I’ll do it,” Franco said, without a beat.

She blinked. “You can’t. You’ve got work. Or other plans. Or a life.”

Franco tilted his head. “You think my life’s more exciting than it is.”

“You don’t have to say yes out of pity.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Text me what day and what time you need me at yours. I’ll be there.”

She opened her mouth to argue again, but he raised a hand, cutting her off gently.

“And before you call yourself a nuisance,” he said, “I’m doing it for Bruno, not you.”

That earned a startled little laugh, the kind that bubbled up before she could suppress it. Her cheeks warmed, eyes soft.

He smiled. “Although if you want to say thank you with a coffee, I won’t say no.”

She gave him a look somewhere between fond and exasperated. “You’re impossible.”

He winked. “Text me.”

Then he turned and walked off, whistling under his breath, as though the whole thing hadn’t just made her entire face burn.

Zeynep leaned in again. “You so owe me.”

She shook her head slowly. “He just volunteered. I didn’t even ask.”

“Exactly,” Zeynep grinned. “That’s when you know.”

She sighed and glanced down at her phone, thumb hovering over his contact name.

Bruno was going to love him, she was sure of it.

But the part that scared her more, was that she already kind of did too.

On the day itself, Franco wasn’t just on time. He was early.

She’d barely finished tying the laces on her battered trainers when she heard the knock, soft, three taps, at the door. Bruno padded over before she did, tail wagging, already familiar with the scent that came with the man standing outside.

“Morning,” Franco greeted, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, hair. “Ready for your big day of family drama?”

She smiled, tired but honest. “As I’ll ever be.”

His eyes flicked down to Bruno, who sat loyally by her feet, big golden eyes glancing between the two humans as if waiting for instructions.

“I drove,” Franco said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Thought I’d offer you a lift to the station. No point wrestling with buses when you’ve got me for free.”

She hesitated. “You don’t have to—”

“I offered, didn’t I?”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “You’re very persistent, you know.”

“Part of my charm.”

In the end, she agreed. Because for once, it felt easy to say yes. Bruno trotted out happily, tail swaying like a banner as she locked the door behind them.

Franco held the passenger door open for her, and Bruno, who leapt straight into the back seat without hesitation, tongue lolling.

“You’re sure you’re fine with him all day?” she asked, glancing back at Bruno, who’d already made himself at home on the back seat like he ruled the place.

Franco threw her a sideways glance. “Please. He’s the best company I’ve had in weeks. Better conversationalist than Lando, that’s for sure.”

That pulled a laugh from her, small but real. The kind of laugh she hadn’t felt properly in a while.

Maybe, she thought as she buckled her seatbelt, today might actually be, good.

The drive was quiet, Bruno snoozing in the back. Franco humming along to something on the radio, nothing loud or obnoxious, just soft background sound, like company that didn’t press.

When they reached the station, he helped her out with the bag of things she’d packed, handing it over without fuss.

“Text me when you want me to pick you up,” he said, scratching behind the dog’s ear.

She shook her head, smiling. “Don’t tempt me with free taxis.”

He gave a low laugh and stepped back, giving her space to go, but not before tossing her a final grin.

“I’ve got him. Go do what you need to do. No rush.”

And just like that, no pressure, no fuss, she turned and headed to the front door, feeling oddly lighter. Like maybe this wasn’t going to be such a horrible day after all.

The visit started well enough.

Her mum had always been stubborn, and age hadn’t softened that. The flat smelled of lavender and old radiators, and the heating was turned up far too high, a typical habit she never quite gave up, even when the weather outside was warm.

“I don’t need fussing over,” her mum said the moment she stepped through the door, sitting with her dressing gown pulled tight and her feet up. “I’ve told you. It’s not as bad as they all made out.”

But she fussed anyway. Made tea. Checked the tablets were in their organiser. Topped up the fridge with the things she’d brought in her bag. Cleaned the kitchen while her mum complained that she’d “make herself old before her time, looking after everyone else like this.”

It was meant with love, but it grated. Like sand under the skin.

Somewhere between folding washing and changing the sheets, the real digging started.

“You know,” her mum said lightly, sipping her tea as she watched from the armchair, “you really should think about finding someone. A nice man. Settle down. You’re not getting younger, love.”

She stiffened. Kept folding. A shirt. A pair of pyjama bottoms.

“I’m fine as I am.”

Her mum clicked her tongue. “That’s what you say. But I don’t want you ending up lonely. You’ve got your nice little flat, and that dog, but dogs don’t keep you warm in bed when you’re seventy, do they? Your sister’s got her husband. Your brother’s got Sarah and the baby—”

“And I’m fine,” she said, sharper than she meant to, turning to face her. “Maybe I like my life. Maybe I like quiet. Maybe I don’t want to end up tied to someone who makes me feel small just so you can tell your friends I’ve settled down.”

Silence. The kind that filled the whole room, thick and slow.

Her mum set the mug down. “I didn’t mean—”

But something in her cracked, brittle from the weight of the day.

“If you want to pick on me all day,” she said, voice tight, “why don’t you get one of your perfect other children to look after you with their perfect little husbands and wives and kids?”

It dropped like a stone.

Her mum stared. She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. The guilt came in fast and hot.

“Sorry,” she breathed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just—” She opened her eyes. “I think I’m going to go. Get the train back. You’ve got the neighbours if you need anything.”

Her mum sighed, softer this time. “I just want you to be happy, love.”

“I know. But right now I just need to go home.”

She picked up her bag, heart tight in her chest. The familiar ache of old arguments. Of trying to smile and let it slide. But today it stuck fast, and she was too tired to smooth it over.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” she said gently, slipping out before the tears could sting.

The platform was half-empty when she arrived at the station, Bruno’s lead absent in her hand, her bag feeling heavier than it was. She checked the train times. Next one in fifteen minutes. Fine. She could make it. She just wanted to get home.

To quiet. To space.

To Bruno.

And maybe... to Franco.

By the time she pushed her front door open, the world felt oddly distant, like her head was full of cotton wool, everything just a little too slow, a little too far away.

Bruno was on her in a flash.

His big golden weight bounced up, paws against her thighs, tail wagging fast, but his head tipped sideways, nudging insistently against her stomach, the way he only did when he sensed something was off.

She managed a faint smile, fingers brushing over his soft ears. “Someone missed me…” she murmured, but her voice came out thinner than she meant. Weak. She blinked hard, trying to clear the fog creeping into her eyes.

“Hey—” Franco’s voice came from the kitchen, soft but quick. He appeared in the doorway, tea forgotten on the side. One look at her face and he was there, crossing the room in three long strides. “You alright?”

She opened her mouth to say yes, but the room tilted, just slightly, and she swayed against the doorframe.

Franco reached out immediately, steadying her with gentle hands on her elbows. His brow knit in quiet worry.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. But even as she said it, the tremble in her hands betrayed her.

Franco gave a tiny shake of his head. No panic. No fuss. Just calm. “Sit down, cariño. Now. Come on.”

He guided her gently towards the sofa, Bruno padding anxiously at her heels. When she sat, her fingers curled weakly in the fabric of her trousers, breath coming shallow and fast.

“Did you miss the notification?” Franco crouched in front of her, pulling her bag round from where it hung on her shoulder. “I thought I heard it.”

She closed her eyes, breathing slow. “Forgot to check. On the train…”

“I know. Happens.” His voice was warm, low, steady as his hands found the zipped side pocket where he knew she kept her glucose tabs. No rummaging. No asking. Like he’d paid attention every time she’d pulled them out before.

He pressed two into her palm. “Here. No arguing.”

She obeyed without thinking, sharp sweetness dissolving on her tongue, blinking slowly as the world came back into focus, colours sharpening, sounds lifting, the fog clearing.

When she looked at him again, Franco’s face was close, gentle and full of quiet patience.

“You could’ve called me from the station, idiota,” he said softly, smiling. “I’d have come straight away. Why didn’t you?”

She gave a weak huff of laughter. “Didn’t want to be a nuisance.”

His expression softened even more, if that were possible.

“You’re not. Not ever.” His hand found hers, warm and solid against her fingers. “This isn’t a nuisance. It’s you. You’re not a nuisance. And I like all of it. Even the part that lets Bruno tell on you before you realise something’s wrong.”

She smiled, for real this time, small and crooked.

“Even Bruno agrees,” he added with a chuckle, glancing down at the dog who was watching them intently from the rug.

A slow warmth bloomed in her chest. All the years she’d spent hiding this part of herself, making it small, keeping it quiet, afraid of being ‘too much’ felt a little lighter now. Like the weight of it wasn’t just hers anymore.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever made me feel like it wasn’t a burden,” she murmured.

“Then they were idiots,” Franco said softly, eyes bright. “Every single one of them.”

She let her head tip back against the sofa, a smile curving her mouth. The fog was lifting. And in its place, something warm and easy settled.

“Stay for dinner?” she asked gently.

His grin was bright, boyish, utterly full of joy.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

By the time her blood sugar had settled and the shaky edge of the hypo had faded, she felt something else creeping in, the familiar, creeping ache of tiredness. But Franco was still there, hovering in the kitchen like he belonged, sleeves shoved up, hair a little mussed. Bruno was stretched out across the rug, head on paws, watching the world with soft eyes.

She smiled faintly as she pushed herself to her feet.

“Gotta make you tea,” she said quietly, padding barefoot into the kitchen.

Franco glanced over his shoulder, grinning. “Only if you let me make dinner. I don’t trust you not to pass out in the middle of a microwave ready meal.”

She gave him a look, half amusement, half mock-scolding. “I can feed myself, you know.”

“I know. But I’m already here. And you’re knackered.” He turned back to the fridge. “Let me look after you a little bit, por favor.”

There was something in the way he said it, not pity, not fussing, just simple care. Warm, gentle. Like it was the most normal thing in the world to want to make someone dinner because you liked them.

So she let him.

They made pasta, nothing fancy, just penne with roasted peppers and garlic, and far too much cheese grated over the top. She leaned against the counter, barefoot, tired in that soft, loose way that didn’t feel so heavy anymore. He moved easily beside her, sleeves still pushed up, humming some quiet tune under his breath.

Bruno curled up by the door, snoring gently.

“I could get used to this,” Franco said after a while, tossing a pepper strip into his mouth.

“What, raiding my kitchen?”

“Cooking for you,” he said simply, flashing her a smile. “Being here. Feels easy.”

She felt the warmth creep into her cheeks, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It settled low in her chest, quiet and sweet.

They ate curled on the sofa with plates balanced on knees, Bruno snuffling by their feet. And when the plates were cleared and the quiet of the flat settled over them like soft dusk, Franco didn’t reach for his keys.

He turned towards her instead, sitting cross-legged on the cushion beside her.

“Can I say something?” he asked gently.

She looked at him, heart soft and slow. “Of course.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly a little boyish, a little shy.

“I like this. You. Bruno. Even the hypo alarms and the way you pretend you’re not tired when you are. I like all of it.” His dark eyes met hers, steady and honest. “And I know you’ve spent a long time thinking you had to do everything alone. But you don’t. Not if you don’t want to.”

Her throat felt thick. She swallowed.

“Franco…”

He smiled. Small. Quiet. And then, softly, carefully, so slowly she could’ve stopped him a hundred times, he leaned in.

His hand came to rest on her cheek, thumb brushing just beneath her eye, feather-light.

“Can I?” he whispered.

Her breath caught.

“Yes,” she said, voice barely more than a breath.

And then he kissed her, soft, gentle, like the world had slowed to this single moment. No hurry. No heat. Just warmth, and sweetness, and the quiet promise of something that could be safe and steady and real.

When he pulled back, she found herself smiling without meaning to. A proper, easy smile that made her chest ache in the best way.

“See?” he murmured. “Easy.”

She laughed softly, leaning her forehead against his.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Easy.”

Bruno gave a little snuffing sigh from the floor.

“And you,” Franco said, glancing down at the dog. “Best wingman in the world.”

She chuckled, warmth blooming quietly in her chest.

For the first time in a very long time, her little flat didn’t feel quite so quiet. Or quite so empty.

Following that night, Franco spent almost every evening in her bed, grumbling, as predicted, that Bruno took up far more space than any dog rightfully should.

“He’s small,” she’d argue sleepily, curled under the covers as Franco tried to shove the labrador’s hefty backside out of the way.

“He’s massive, cariño. And he’s doing this on purpose. Look at him, smug as anything.”

But he never made him move. And in the quiet that followed, with the soft hum of the city outside and Bruno’s gentle snores filling the dark, she’d sometimes lie awake for a moment longer, smiling into the pillow.

Franco introduced her properly to Lando and Isack not long after.

“About bloody time,” Lando had said, grinning as he handed her a beer at the barbecue they’d dragged her to one sunny Sunday. “He never shuts up about you, you know. Never. You’ve saved us, now he spends the nights at yours instead of waking us up at stupid o’clock singing in the kitchen.”

And she liked them, she liked the way they fit around Franco, noisy and teasing and full of warmth. She liked, even more, that they thanked her sincerely for ‘taking him off their hands’, and when she mentioned, half-joking, that they had a spare room if they ever missed Franco, they did exactly that six months later, and stayed for a week when their boiler exploded.

Life moved gently after that. Sweet and slow.

They chose, together, never to get engaged, not out of fear or hesitation, but as a quiet rebellion against the noise of expectation. Against the pressure that had hung, for so many years, in the background of her life, her mother’s endless sighing wishes for the white dress, the ring, the photographs on the mantelpiece.

“No rings?” Franco had asked softly, tracing her bare hand with his thumb.

“No rings,” she’d smiled. “Not for us.”

And he’d kissed her for it, slow and sweet and sure.

A few years on, one cold January, he’d come home from a long shift, cheeks pink with cold, and said, quite suddenly:

“Come to Argentina with me. I want you to meet my parents.”

She’d gone, of course, flown halfway across the world with Bruno stuffed in his travel carrier and her hand tight in Franco’s as they stepped out into the warmth of Buenos Aires. She’d eaten empanadas in the garden while his mother fussed over her and his father taught her the names of the birds in the trees.

“I could live here, you know,” Franco had grinned one late evening as they wandered by the sea, barefoot in the warm sand. “Open a little clinic. You could work at the hospital in the city. Bruno would love the beaches.”

She’d laughed, called him a dreamer, but six years later, that was exactly what they did.

A quiet little house by the coast, sea breezes and sun-warmed tiles and the smell of salt and lemons in the air.

He worked with the emergency services there, still grumbling when he got woken for the early shift, still flashing that warm grin as he tugged on his boots.

And she found a place in the local hospital, gentle and slow, with patients who called her mi amor and left baskets of fruit by her desk.

Bruno grew old by the sea, greyer around the muzzle, slower on the sand, but always with them. Always part of the quiet life they’d built, steady and real and soft.

And in the quiet of warm evenings, with the sea sighing outside and Franco’s hand tucked in hers on the sofa, she sometimes thought, maybe this was the ending she’d never dared to hope for.

No rings. No noise. Just love. Just them.

And that was enough.

Always enough.

the end.

comment if you'd like to be on the taglist for this universe, next up firefighter!lando

taglist: @rebelatbay @fictionalfanatic123 @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine

flat next door/station down the road taglist: @f1enthusiastsstuff @luminouskalopsia @f1boistrash @pandora108 @obxstiles @cinderellawithashoe @breiiology @sunshinesafteycar @coffeebeforewater @taetae-armyyyyy @capricornito @ravenrage27 @bowielovesyou @adalynneva @hreader7 @ladyliberty6 @isotopemylove @scarsoncherryglass @samanthaw16 @lauvender-bolter @oxforce @padwanoftheyear @fangirlmusicbiashoe @papayainsectorone @le-le-lea

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deerspherestudios · 6 months ago

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🔍 QNA MASTERLIST (LYS VER.👻) 🔎

This masterlist contains all questions and posts relating to Alma from Lift Your Spirits. They might also be referred to as Vida.

General Info about Alma❕

They love junk food. + dev ramble about their design inspiration.

Their favorite food is popcorn and chocolate-dipped churros.

They can form legs if they wish, but prefer to float.

Their birthday is on 20th July! 🎂

They're currently in their early to mid-20s, but feel free to imagine them older!

Their race is ambiguous as Alma. (If someone asks me about Vida specifically I'd be happy to answer in it's own post and add it here since their appearance in MO.)

Their reaction to discovering someone pushed the vending machine that killed them on purpose.

They can touch things if they concentrate.

Their favorite color is red. + Their height is 6'4 (193cm).

Their reaction to another ghost in the campus building. (same post as above)

Their favorite character in My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic pre-death would be Rainbow Dash. Post-death would be Zecora. + dev rambles.

Their MBTI is INTJ-J.

They love listening to city pop, math rock and swing jazz.

They would win against Mychael (Mushroom Oasis).

They would disappear if the campus building is torn down/destroyed. + dev ramble about ideas for a sequel.

They have an interest in space and would've majored in astronomy.

Their favorite Disney and Pixar movies are Treasure Planet (2002) and Coco (2017) respectively.

What their writing looks like!

Alma’s romantic traits…❔

They identify as panromantic demisexual.

Their love language is performing acts of service for others and receiving quality time.

Their preferred pet names for themselves are ones that're sweet and dessert-like. + They would call their partner "my comet."

Alma and MC interactions…❔

If MC lived on-campus.

Their gifts for MC + favorite Christmas activities + thoughts on hot cocoa (as Alma and Vida.)

About Laika…🐕❔

Their dog's name Laika is based off the Soviet space dog.

Laika is hinted to be an ex-service dog.

Laika is given to a family member after their death.

Extras❕

Some in-game and general loredump!

Alma giving you coins for the vending machine.

Alma accepting sodas from the player.

Silly Alma monster-form edit.

Alma being (not) hit by a snowball.

Their reaction to mistletoe.

Alma with Mychael's chickens.

Vida for Valentine's.

#lift your spirits vn #such a small segment compared to mychael's 4-part qna masterlist good grief #anyhoo here they are nice and neat!!#atom's is up next in queue!

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eriace · 1 month ago

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choke on your smoothie ; endo yamato

oneshot & fluff ↪ in which y/n teases endo yamato one too many times, and his silent jealousy turns into an accidental confession. ↷ endo yamato ; windbreaker

↳ an order of iced chai latte + hot chocolate from anonymous in the comeback cafe event !

IF YAMATO ROLLED his eyes any harder, they’d fly out of his head and hit the gym wall.

“You’re flirting again.”

Y/n blinked, halfway through laughing at a joke Taiga made (that, frankly, wasn’t even that funny). She turned toward Yamato, who was leaning against the vending machine with his arms crossed and his usual resting-scowl face set to maximum brooding.

“I’m talking,” she said pointedly. “There’s a difference.”

“You laughed like it was funny.”

“It was kind of funny.”

“It was not.”

Yamato cracked open a sports drink like it had personally offended him. Across the courtyard, Taiga gave Y/n a wink and wandered off, whistling. Yamato’s grip on the bottle tightened.

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not.”

“You sound mad.”

“This is my voice.”

“Your angry voice.”

He glared at her. She smiled sweetly, which somehow only made him more irritable. It wasn’t like he cared or anything. He just didn’t like how much Taiga smiled at her. Or how much she smiled back.

He didn’t care. Not at all.

She tilted her head, looking at him curiously.

“You okay? Need me to get you a new punching bag? Or maybe a therapist?”

“I don’t need therapy.”

“Everyone in Bofurin needs therapy.”

“Especially you,” he muttered.

Y/n gasped, placing a hand on her heart. “Rude!”

He turned away with a huff, slamming the vending machine shut. It gave a sad little beep in protest. Y/n followed after him, skipping a little to keep up.

“You know,” she said lightly, “if you keep acting like this, people might think you’re jealous.”

Yamato stopped walking. “…I’m not.”

“Sure.”

“I’m not!” He turned to her, ears slightly red. “Why would I be jealous of some guy who doesn’t even know how to block properly?”

“So you were watching.”

“I watch everything. I’m observant.”

“You were glaring at him like he keyed your bike.”

“I just don’t like his face.”

Y/n grinned. “Or maybe you just like mine?”

Dead silence.

Yamato froze like his brain just blue-screened.

“…What?”

Her eyes widened. “…Wait. Did I say that out loud?”

He blinked. “You like me?”

“Uh—NO—I MEAN—MAYBE—SHUT UP.” She tried to backpedal, but Yamato was staring at her like she’d just hit him in the head with a skateboard and he wasn’t sure whether to be mad or impressed.

And then—

“Good.”

“Huh?!”

He scratched his cheek, turning his gaze away. “…Because I like you too.”

Y/n stared. “Are you serious?”

“You said it first,” he muttered. “You can’t take it back now.”

She let out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re such a child.”

“You like this child,” he shot back.

“Unfortunately,” she grumbled, though she was smiling way too hard for someone pretending to be annoyed.

They stood there on the sunlit sidewalk outside the school gates, trying not to grin, trying not to combust.

“You’re still jealous,” Y/n teased.

“Am not.”

“You literally growled when he offered me a smoothie.”

“He got you the wrong flavor.”

“It was strawberry.”

“I heard you say you like mango last week.”

She blinked. “…You remember my smoothie preference?”

“Shut up.”

“You’re so whipped.”

“Keep talking and I’ll block you on everything.”

“You’d miss me in five minutes.”

“…Two.”

And maybe Yamato didn’t say sweet things outright—but the way he offered to walk her home, the way he shoved his jacket at her when the wind picked up, and the way he bought two mango smoothies the next day and tossed one at her without a word?

Yeah. He didn’t have to say it.

She already knew.

#yamato endo #yamato endo x reader #yamato x reader #endo x reader #yamato endo windbreaker #windbreaker yamato endo #wind breaker x you #wind breaker #wind breaker x y/n #wind breaker x reader #windbreaker #windbreaker x reader

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wlw-imagines · 2 months ago

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Vending Machine Coffee - Addison Montgomery x Reader (Grey's Anatomy)

a/n: i promise one day i will manage to publish maybe even a whole week of fics that don't feature a hospital in any way (this is a lie i am sure of it)

summary: At first, it’s just a hallway, a vending machine, and two doctors out of place. But late-night coffees turn into quiet rituals, and shared silences grow into something deeper.

Now, the vending machine coffee is still terrible but it’s yours. What started as a way to feel less alone becomes the beginning of something real.

Part of the May Prompts: Day Four, vending machine coffee

You see her long before you know her. Her long coat fluttering, heels tapping a steady rhythm on the linoleum of Grey Sloan’s west hallway. She’s elegance in motion, head held high, hair pulled back in a style that says she doesn’t need approval. You try not to stare. You fail.

Later that night, you find her again, alone, oddly out of place. Her blazer is draped over one shoulder, hair looser now, strands slipping from their careful arrangement. She stands in front of the vending machine like it’s a philosophical puzzle. A brow furrowed. A hand hovering.

You walk up beside her, cup of cheap coffee already in your hand. “Tough choice?” you ask.

She huffs a quiet laugh, not looking at you. “I don’t drink this stuff. I just stand here and pretend I don’t feel out of place.”

There’s something about her voice, smooth, a little tired. The kind of tired that’s lived a thousand lives and doesn’t quite know where it belongs anymore.

You glance at the machine, then at her. “Well, I do drink this stuff,” you say, nudging a crumpled dollar into the slot. “So let’s be out of place together.”

She turns to look at you properly this time. Eyes sharp, amused, measuring. You wonder how many people she’s intimidated with that look. It only makes you smile more.

“I’m Addison,” she says, accepting the paper cup you hand her like it’s a peace offering.

You nod. “I know.”

And that’s how it starts.

It’s unassuming. It's a shared moment in the dull hum of the hospital night shift. But it becomes a rhythm. Every evening, like clockwork, one or both of you ends up at the vending machine. Sometimes there’s coffee. Sometimes just conversation. Sometimes just silence.

She tells you about New York once, in a passing breath. You tell her about your first solo surgery, how your hands shook so hard you thought you might faint. She laughs, then admits she threw up before hers. You both pretend it’s funny.

The thing is is that she’s brilliant. Everyone says so. But she also looks at people like she’s waiting for them to disappoint her. Except with you, sometimes, her guard falters. You see it in the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when you talk. The way she leans in, just a little too close, when she laughs.

You don’t ask for more than this, more than these stolen moments, this quiet routine. But every time she shows up beside you, pretending to agonise over whether to get black coffee or hot chocolate, you feel something shifting in your chest.

You’ve stopped pretending you don’t look for her in every room.

She hasn’t noticed.

But she will.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Addison’s only supposed to be at Grey Sloan for a few weeks. A consult here, a surgery there. Help out with some OB-GYN cases, offer her expertise, then disappear in a flash of designer heels and enviable confidence.

But she doesn’t leave.

Not after two weeks. Not after three. She extends her stay, citing unfinished cases and 'teaching opportunities', but you’re not entirely sure it’s about the cases anymore.

She starts shadowing your surgeries, curious, insightful, always one step ahead. She asks questions in scrub caps and surgical masks, her voice smooth and controlled through the OR noise. At night, she finds you at the vending machine. Like always.

She doesn’t always drink the coffee. She still pretends to think about it every time.

One night, you're both leaning against the wall beside the machine, steam curling from your cup, silence stretched between you. It’s not awkward. With Addison, it never is. She has a way of filling silences without saying anything at all.

You break it anyway. “So, how long are you staying now?”

She shrugs. “A little longer.”

“Because of the groundbreaking surgical techniques? Or the vending machine company?” You joke, but there is vulnerability in your question. A question where you only really want one answer.

That earns you a rare, soft laugh, one of the good ones, the kind that escapes before she can catch it. “It’s definitely the vending machine,” she says, smiling down into her cup. “You’re part of the charm.”

It’s easier after that. She opens up in bits and pieces. She talks about New York more. About old friends, old mistakes. About how she never meant to end up here but somehow, it doesn’t feel so bad.

Then, one night, the conversation shifts.

It starts with a patient. A complicated labour. A healthy baby in the end, but only after hours of uncertainty. You’re both drained, leaning against the vending machine like it might hold you up if the walls don't.

“I was married once,” she says suddenly.

You glance over. Her expression is unreadable.

“Twice, actually,” she adds. “And yet I’ve never been in the right place at the right time.”

You say nothing at first. The hallway is quiet. You sip your coffee and try not to sound like you’re about to say something reckless.

“Maybe this is the right time,” you say finally, quietly.

She doesn’t look at you. She stares ahead, at the rows of candy bars and drinks, like they might offer her an answer.

When she speaks again, her voice is smaller. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I think I do.”

She goes silent then. Doesn’t say goodbye when she leaves. Just nods once and disappears down the hall.

You’re left standing beside the hum of the machine, your coffee going cold in your hand. Unsure if you have completely wrecked a good thing.

But she comes back the next night.

Of course she does.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

You know the moment the case goes sideways. You feel it in the pit of your stomach, that sick, heavy twist that only comes when everything starts slipping through your fingers.

A young mother. Complications. A baby born too soon. A decision made in seconds, and still not fast enough.

Addison had been running point. Cool, confident, precise.

Until she wasn’t.

Now, the room is quiet. The baby in NICU. The mother stable, but not safe. There’s no celebration. Just the lingering question... could we have done more?

You don’t see her for hours after. Not until you wander the hospital halls in the low glow of night, half-wild with worry, until you find her.

She’s in the on-call room. Curled on the cot like she’s trying to disappear into the wall. Her heels are kicked off. Her coat is crumpled in the corner. Her face is turned away, but you see the outline of her profile, too still, too quiet.

You don’t say her name. Just ease the door shut and sit on the edge of the cot beside her.

A long moment passes. Then, softly, she says, “She was twenty-three.”

You nod. You remember.

“She looked at me like I could save her,” Addison whispers, voice cracking on the edges. “Like I was magic. And I couldn’t do anything.”

You shake your head, gently. “You did everything.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

You reach for her hand, not expecting her to take it. But she does. Clings to it. Her fingers are cold.

For a long while, neither of you says anything. Some colleague's footsteps patter past. The wind rustles. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps.

When she finally moves, it’s only to sit up. To press her palms to her eyes, like she can erase the day by sheer force of will.

You don’t offer empty comfort. Addison Montgomery doesn’t want soft words that lie. She wants truth. So you give her yours.

“You’re allowed to fall apart.”

She exhales, shaky. “I don’t know how to. Not in a way that makes sense.”

Later, much later, you find her standing at the vending machine again. Same old dance, hands on her hips, eyes scanning the rows of junk food she’ll never buy.

You approach quietly, coffee in hand. You don’t say anything. Just stand beside her, shoulder to shoulder, like always.

She turns to you. And for the first time, she looks… tired. Real. Not the woman who owns the room, but the one still fighting to believe she deserves to be in it.

She takes the cup from your hand. Doesn’t drink it. Just lets her fingers close around yours where they meet at the paper rim.

“This is starting to mean something,” she says, barely above a whisper.

You don’t flinch. “It already does. To me.”

Her fingers tighten, just a little. Enough to say she hears you.

Enough to say she might believe you, too.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The next few nights, she doesn’t come.

You linger by the vending machine anyway, coffee cooling in your hands, hope unraveling thread by thread. The ritual had become your favourite part of day, quiet, simple, grounding. And now there’s nothing but the clunk of the machine dispensing a drink no one wants and the echo of her absence in the hallway.

You try not to take it personally. She’s busy, maybe. Caught in surgery, in meetings. Maybe she’s just tired.

But you know it’s more than that.

Something shifted the night she took your hand. The moment she admitted, softly, almost fearfully, that it was starting to mean something. The warmth of her fingers curled around yours still lingers like an echo, like a ghost.

And now she’s pulling away.

You tell yourself not to chase her.

You fail.

You find her by accident, two days later, in the elevator. She’s already inside, arms crossed, eyes distant. The doors are just starting to close when she sees you and doesn’t bother to press the button to stop them.

You step in anyway.

Silence falls between you as the elevator hums and sinks. You stand close, too close. The way you always do. But this time it feels different. Like standing on the edge of a cliff with no idea if she’ll catch you if you jump.

She doesn’t look at you, not at first. But she speaks.

“You know I’ve been married,” she says, voice low, words careful. “Twice. And still I find myself doing the same thing. Running.”

You glance over. Her eyes are on the buttons. Anywhere but you.

“I scare you that much?” you ask gently.

Her lips quirk, sad and amused all at once. “You scare me because you’re kind. Because you make me feel seen. Because I want to believe there’s still time for this, whatever this is.”

The elevator dings at a floor no one needs, then closes again before either of you moves.

“I’m not asking you for everything,” you say, voice steady. “I’m just asking you not to walk away before we even begin.”

She turns then, finally, finally meeting your eyes.

“You make it sound easy.”

“I know it’s not.”

Her expression crumples just slightly. “I want to want this.”

“You don’t have to want it all at once. Just… maybe want it with me.”

Another pause. Then she nods, slow and trembling. Like maybe, for the first time, she’s letting herself hope.

“I do,” she says quietly. “I do want it. I want it with you, no one else.”

The elevator doors open again. A nurse peers in, then quickly backs out, apologising.

Neither of you moves. The moment is suspended, fragile, precious, real.

You smile. “Then let’s figure it out. One cup of terrible coffee at a time.”

She lets out a laugh, breathless and unsure, but full of something like relief.

“Okay,” she says. “But I’m not drinking that stuff alone.”

You smile, “I’d never let you.”

xxxxxxxxxxxx

A storm traps everyone in the hospital.

Thunder growls outside like something restless and wild, wind battering the windows hard enough to make the lights flicker. The backup generators kick in with a low, steady hum. It’s late, past midnight, and the usual chaos of Grey Sloan has stilled into a hush of sleeping patients and tired staff riding out the night shift.

You wander, empty coffee cup in hand, until your feet carry you exactly where you always end up.

The vending machine hums softly in the quiet. There’s a light flickering inside the machine. A half-empty snack rack. And her.

Addison’s already there, like she’s been waiting for you.

She’s in scrubs and a sweatshirt, hair tied up messily, strands falling in front of her face. She looks tired. Human. Beautiful. She doesn’t say anything when you approach. She just offers you one of the two steaming paper cups sitting next to her.

You take it. She doesn’t take hers.

You both stand there for a long moment in the hush, sipping coffee neither of you actually likes, warmed by routine and presence and the thunder rolling overhead.

Then she sets her cup down on the machine behind her. Turns to face you fully.

No smile. No sarcasm. No shield.

Just her.

Her hands come up slowly, gentle, hesitant, as if asking permission even now. One settles at your jaw, the other finds your waist. And then, softly, like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she rushes it, she kisses you.

It’s not a dramatic moment. No swelling music, no grand declarations. Just two people in a dim hospital hallway, finding each other after too long of being afraid to.

Her lips are soft. Warm. Tasting faintly of cheap coffee and something unmistakably her.

You melt into it. Into her.

The storm outside rages, but here, in this tiny circle of light and quiet, the world is still.

When she finally pulls back, her eyes are shining. Your breath mingles in the narrow space between you.

“I’ve had worse coffee,” she whispers.

You manage a smile, your chest aching in the best possible way. “You’ve never had better company.”

A laugh breaks from her. It is low and breathless, full of something light you haven’t heard from her in weeks. Maybe longer. Her forehead presses gently to yours.

“I’m still scared,” she admits. “But I don’t want to run anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” you whisper back. “Not if you don’t want to.”

She shakes her head, nose brushing yours. “I want this.”

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

Another kiss. This one deeper. Certain.

When the storm finally breaks and morning starts to blush against the windows, you’re still there, two coffee cups abandoned, the vending machine beside you.

And Addison’s hand in yours, like it belongs there.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It starts like always, Addison leaning against the vending machine, two cups of questionable coffee perched on top, her head tilted in mock elegance.

“I saved you the worse one,” she says as you approach.

“You always do,” you reply, taking the less-scorched cup and sipping with exaggerated drama. “Mmm. Burnt plastic with... what is that? Notes of regret and college debt?”

“Ah, vintage vending machine,” she muses. “2007 was a good year.”

You both laugh. It’s effortless now, the way you orbit each other. The way you lean into the space you used to avoid.

She watches you over her cup, eyes warm and glittering. “I still hate this stuff.”

“You drink it every night.”

“I drink it with you.”

Something in your chest goes soft.

You take a step closer, bump her gently with your shoulder. “You don’t have to, you know. We could upgrade.”

She gasps. “Betray the machine?”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m just saying, there’s better coffee. Like… actual coffee.”

Addison pouts, nudging your foot with hers. “But that coffee doesn’t come with you.”

You smile and set your cup aside. Pull her close by the hips.

“It'll always come with me,” you murmur, before kissing her slow, deep, right there in the middle of the hallway.

Someone whistles in the distance. You both ignore it.

When you break apart, she rests her forehead against yours. “You keep kissing me like that, I might start thinking this is serious.”

“It is.”

“Even with the terrible coffee?”

You grin. “Especially with the terrible coffee.”

She snorts and shakes her head. “Well then, you got sugar?”

You hand her a packet of a few you keep in your scrubs pocket. “Always.”

You drink. You kiss. You laugh.

And when she tucks herself under your arm, like it’s second nature, you realize something very simple and very true:

This isn’t just a ritual anymore.

It’s home.

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sodaguzzler · 14 days ago

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GREASERS AND THEIR FAVORITE SNACKS !!!

Ponyboy Curtis 🥀

☆ Pepsi. Canon. No drink has ever owned a boy like Pepsi owns Pony.

☆ Little Debbie Mini Blueberry Muffins. He’s surviving on them.

☆ Peanut Butter Crackers <3

Darrel “Darry” Curtis ☕️

☆ Sunflower seeds. They keep his mouth busy while he’s stressed.

☆ Chocolate cake. A given.

☆ Also: plain black coffee and toast with way too much butter. He doesn’t have time to cook, okay.

Sodapop Curtis 🥤

☆ SUGAR ADDICT. Sour worms, bubble gum, pixy sticks, licorice….he’s got a sweet tooth that could end wars.

☆ Root beer floats are his idea of luxury. He slurps ‘em too fast and gets brain freeze.

☆ Also: he eats maraschino cherries straight from the jar.

Dallas Winston 🚬

☆ Cigarettes are a full food group to him.

☆ Burgers so greasy the wrapper is see-through. He licks his fingers after.

☆ Secretly? Vanilla milkshakes. Like, closes his eyes while drinking vanilla milkshakes.

☆ Also…beef jerky, diner hashbrowns, and gas station pickles.

Johnny Cade 🕯️

☆ Anything that feels alive. Tomatoes, peaches, strawberries, even dandelions if he’s feeling weird.

☆ Johnny picks stuff from peoples gardens and scurries off like a raccoon if caught. He wipes juice off his chin with his sleeve.

☆ Grilled cheese. Melty and warm and feels like a home he never had.

Two-Bit Mathews 🃏

☆ Alcohol. The staple of every meal. But man will also devour:

☆ Chocolate cake like a gremlin. He licks the icing off the fork.

☆ Gas station nachos, half-melted M&Ms from his pocket, marshmallows on fire.

☆He eats pickles out of the jar and drinks the juice with zero shame.

Steve Randle 🔧

☆ Chewing tobacco is food. Will fight you about it.

☆ Salted peanuts + Coke = sacred combo.

☆ Hot dogs from the DX vending machine.

☆Thinks spicy chips are a personality trait.

#tags ->#ok this is gonna be a lot of tags im sorry #the outsiders #ponyboy curtis #darry curtis #sodapop curtis #dallas winston #johnny cade #two bit mathews #steve randle #CHARACTER SPECIFIC TAGS #existential pony hours 🥀#dad mode:activated 🧱#soda in the wild 🥤#dally was…a feeling 🚬#quiet courage club 🕯️#court jester of tulsa 🃏#i cant handle the randle 🔧#THAT IS ALL

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atlantisplus · 2 years ago

Text

https://flokii.com/blogs/view/98098/boost-your-office-experience-with-top-quality-atlantis-vending-machine

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majorylmao · 16 days ago

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Period Help

synopsis; where each bully boy comforts and supports you through your period in their own way.

a/n; lol uh.. wrote this for my cousin, but i also decided to post it so..

𓇼| period pain, light blood mention, soft sexual content, emotional vulnerability.

jimmy hopkins

he doesn’t know what to do at first. you’d skipped class, curled up in the girl’s dorm with your face buried in a pillow, and when he found you there — pale, sweaty, clutching your stomach — he panicked. thought you were sick, dying, something worse. then you told him.

“it’s just cramps,” you mumbled. “it’s fine.”

but he stayed anyway. snuck into the dorm and sat on the floor beside your bed, arms crossed, jaw tense. he didn’t know what to say. he hated seeing you in pain and not being able to punch it out of someone.

“you need anything?” he asked eventually. “i can get chocolate. or a hot water thing. whatever.”

you smiled, told him he didn’t have to.

but ten minutes later, he was back, out of breath and holding a messily-wrapped hot water bottle, a snickers bar from the vending machine, and a crumpled pack of midol he clearly mugged someone for.

“you don’t gotta thank me,” he muttered when you teared up. “just don’t cry. i don’t know what to do when girls cry.”

you dragged him into bed with you, back pressed to his chest, the water bottle between your stomachs. he held you like he was scared you’d break.

and later, when the dorm quieted and your hips pressed back against him without thinking, he hesitated.

“are you sure?” he whispered against your neck, one hand on your waist, the other trembling slightly.

you nodded, and he was careful. slow. kissed your back through every wince, every flinch. and afterward, when you curled up again, he kissed your temple and said, “i’ll beat up your uterus if it hurts you again. swear to god.”

—

gary smith

he laughed when you told him. “how grotesquely human of you,” he said, smirking like it amused him. like he thought pain made you interesting.

but when you went quiet and stopped touching him that night, he noticed.

he always noticed.

he brought you tea the next morning. real tea, stolen from the teachers’ lounge. you stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“don’t look so shocked,” he said, handing you the mug with something close to gentleness. “i’m manipulative, not heartless.”

you didn’t speak, just curled into his lap. he let you. stroked your hair and read his book with you half-asleep against him. he kept his tone low, even. comforting in a way he’d never admit.

when you hissed later, hand on your stomach, he pushed the book aside and helped you lie down. didn’t say a word when you asked him to stay.

and when you reached for him, seeking something more to distract you — he didn’t tease. he kissed your thighs with reverence, lips soft and careful, like he understood. like he knew exactly how to make you forget.

“don’t bleed out on my sheets,” he murmured, smirking against your skin. “but if you must, at least let me make it worth it.”

—

pete kowalski

pete’s face turned pink the second you mentioned it.

“oh. oh. okay. uh. yeah. i can… help. i guess?”

he was awkward, fumbling, but so gentle. he offered you his hoodie without thinking, even though it was the only warm thing he had. you were curled up on the library floor with your arms around your knees and tears in your eyes. pete found you there and sat beside you with a juice box and a pack of tissues.

“i read juice helps,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “it’s got… i dunno, vitamins or something.”

you hugged him.

he blushed harder.

you ended up in his dorm later, wrapped in his bedsheets, half-asleep in his bed. he didn’t try anything, just read his comics with you resting against his shoulder. you reached for his hand, and he squeezed it like he never wanted to let go.

when you kissed him that night — soft, lingering, grateful — he pulled you closer, one hand cradling your jaw like you were something breakable. you guided him between your legs, and he hesitated.

“are you sure? i mean, it’s not weird for me, i just… i want you to be okay.”

he was sweet. slow. every motion filled with love he didn’t know how to say aloud. afterward, he wiped your skin clean with shaking hands and kissed your forehead.

“you can always tell me,” he whispered. “even the gross stuff. even the hard stuff. i’ll always wanna help.”

—

derby harrington

derby was repulsed. not by you — never by you — but by the idea of bodily functions happening outside his carefully controlled world. when you told him, he blinked like you just said you’d been possessed.

“you’re… bleeding?” he said, the word sticking in his throat.

you rolled your eyes. “it’s a period, derby. not a curse.”

but later that evening, he came to your dorm with a white paper bag filled with expensive teas, imported chocolate, and a ridiculously overpriced silk heat wrap he ordered from a catalog.

“you’ll use this,” he said, placing it on your bed like it was something sacred. “and you’ll drink this. and you’ll stay here, with me, until you feel better.”

he meant well. his version of care was structured, rigid, but real.

he let you rest against his chest while he read aloud from a french poetry book he barely understood. his voice stumbled over the words, but his arm around you stayed steady. he wouldn’t admit how worried he was, but you felt it in the way he kissed your hair and let you fall asleep in his lap.

and later, when you wanted him close — needed him in that aching, tender way — he was hesitant.

“it doesn’t… hurt, does it?” he asked softly, brushing hair from your face.

you shook your head, and he touched you like fine china. like something too delicate to be real. he whispered your name like prayer and kissed your shoulders with a reverence you’d never seen in him before.

“you’re mine,” he murmured, forehead to yours. “every part of you. even this.”

—

russell northrop

russell understood pain. but he didn’t understand why you were hurting if nobody hit you.

you told him, gently, that it was just something your body did every month. that it wasn’t anyone’s fault. he frowned, fists clenched, ready to fight your uterus if he could.

“russell protect you,” he said.

he sat with you through the worst of it, quiet and heavy beside you on the common room couch. when you winced, he’d press his giant hand to your lower back, rubbing in slow circles like you showed him.

he brought you water. warmed blankets in the dryer. sat on the floor by your bed and told you stories in his low, rumbly voice — memories of growing up, old fights, moments of clarity only he could see.

he didn’t like blood. didn’t want to hurt you.

but when you asked for touch — for closeness — he treated it like a gift.

his hands were big, careful. his movements slow. he whispered your name over and over, voice thick with awe. afterward, you curled into his chest and he kissed your forehead with something like worship.

“russell love all of you,” he said. “even on hard days.”

—

johnny vincent

you tried to hide it. didn’t want him worrying. didn’t want lola finding out and teasing you for “not being able to keep your man’s attention.”

but johnny knew. he always knew.

“you’ve been off,” he said, crouched beside your bed with his hand brushing your hip. “you don’t gotta lie to me.”

you told him. quietly. and he nodded like it made everything make sense.

he didn’t try to fix it — he just stayed. pulled you into his chest, let you bury your face in his jacket that still smelled like motor oil and cologne. he played music low from his radio, let you drift in and out.

but when the pain got bad and you whimpered into his shirt, he stiffened. helplessness didn’t suit him.

“what do you need, baby?” he whispered. “i’ll get it. anything.”

when you kissed him — shaky, needy, flushed — he responded like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. he held you gently, rocked you through it, murmured soft curses against your neck.

“you don’t gotta pretend around me,” he said later. “you bleed, you cry, you ache — i still want you. always.”

—

peanut romano

he was flustered. you told him, and his face turned red to the tips of his ears.

“oh. uh. wow. i mean — okay. cool. not cool. i mean, normal. totally normal.”

but when you doubled over in pain, he dropped the act.

he made you soup on the gang’s broken stove, fought through lola’s stash of junk to find clean towels and pain meds, and carried you from the hideout to his own bed because he hated how cold the floor was.

“you’re not weak,” he said when you cried. “you’re just hurt. and i’m gonna help.”

you kissed him, and he kissed you back like he was scared to make it worse. when your body asked for more — closeness, skin, heat — he checked on you a dozen times.

“does that hurt? what about that? too much?”

he touched you like a secret. like worship. whispered your name and told you how beautiful you were, even when you felt anything but.

and afterward, he stayed awake. held you all night. rubbed your back when the pain came back. kissed your shoulders and whispered, “you’re safe. i got you.”

—

kirby olsen

he acted cool about it. said he’d “dealt with stuff like that before” even though his voice cracked the whole time.

“yeah, no big deal,” he said, casually sliding a heating pad across your bed like it wasn’t the first one he ever bought.

but his concern bled through.

he showed up at the dorm with protein bars and vitamin drinks like it was a football injury. he didn’t know much about periods — but he knew how to care for pain.

you let him baby you, and he liked it more than he’d admit. he ran a bath with bubbles and sat outside the door just in case you needed him.

when you came out, skin flushed and soft from the water, you kissed him — slow, grateful. and he froze.

“you sure?” he asked, eyes dark, voice hushed.

you nodded, and he kissed you like he’d waited forever. he was slow, practiced, but earnest. he didn’t care about blood, about mess, about anything that wasn’t your mouth on his and the way you sighed into his touch.

afterward, wrapped in a towel, he kissed your forehead.

“you don’t have to be perfect for me to want you,” he said. “you just have to be here.”

—

trent northwick

trent made a joke out of it, at first.

“whoa, crimson tide, huh?” he said, laughing — until he saw your face. pale, quiet, withdrawn.

“shit. sorry. bad joke.”

he spent the rest of the day trying to make it up to you. followed you around campus, carried your books, offered his hoodie and swore it looked better on you anyway.

he didn’t know how to help, so he asked.

“what do you need? seriously. i’ll do anything.”

you told him — warmth, silence, pressure. he laid behind you in bed, wrapped you up in his arms, and pressed his hand gently over your stomach until your breathing slowed.

and when you asked for more — his mouth, his hands, his skin — he hesitated only once.

“you want me to… while you’re on it?”

you nodded. he kissed your neck, whispered that you didn’t have to be ashamed, that he wanted you anyway. he was messy, slow, eager to please.

afterward, he kissed every inch of you he could reach.

“still the hottest girl in school,” he whispered. “even bleeding.”

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zeke-fanfucs · 27 days ago

Note

Yooo Zeke! Just saw your Yandere!Hipswitch request and honestly? Pretty good shit right there

May I request something like it as well, but this time on the School AU?? Where Hipswitch ends up getting jealous over Karmor bcs he heard rumours of some guy liking him, so he just up and confesses to him to ensure nobody would steal him?

Pretty soft, I'd say 😌

Cause the art is perfection. Also, FUCK YOU FOR NOW MAKING ME GO INTO A SPRIAL OF STORIES OF THESE TWO!! /jlove there’s dorks.

You’re Mine, Ain’t You?

The cafeteria buzzed with its usual chaotic background noise — half-hearted chatter, the hum of flickering lights, some kid trying to microwave a Hot Pocket in a vending machine slot again.

Karmor sat cross-legged on top of the back table — the bad kid table — flipping through a worn-out paperback while chewing on a chocolate stick. One earbud in, head tilted, half-listening to whatever story Mahatma was going off about while Attila threw peanuts at freshmen.

Hipswitch stormed in like a thundercloud in denim and steel-toed boots.

His vitiligo-spotted hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

He spotted Karmor. Relaxed. Unbothered. Pretty as ever, looking like a ghost with secrets and a smile that didn’t belong in a school like this.

His Karmor. Well. Not officially.

Yet.

He marched over.

Mahatma, mid-sentence about something involving appendix removals and cartoon logic, paused when Hipswitch shoved himself in front of Karmor, blocking the light like a brooding anime boy.

“You.” Hipswitch growled.

Karmor looked up, blinking. “…Me?”

“You,” Hipswitch repeated, pointing a thumb at his chest, “are mine.”

There was a silence. Albus choked on his soda somewhere two tables away. Mahatma blinked like his brain had blue-screened. Attila smirked, already taking mental bets.

Karmor raised an eyebrow. “…Okay? What’s going on?”

Hipswitch exhaled hard through his nose. “Heard Ricky from second floor says he got a crush on you.”

Karmor just blinked again. “…Ricky? The guy who thinks Monster Energy is a personality?” (Ouch)

“Exactly.”

Another beat.

“So… you stormed over here to… declare ownership?”

“Damn straight I did.”

Karmor tilted his head. “That’s not how dating works.”

“I know that,” Hipswitch snapped, cheeks going red, “but if I waited for you to notice I like you, you’d probably get hitched to someone else before I got the courage!”

Karmor stared. Then looked away.

Then looked back.

He slowly smiled.

“Wait. You like me?”

Hipswitch groaned. “Hell yeah I do. Been eating half your breakfast every morning for three months. You think that’s ‘just friends’ behavior?”

“I thought you were just hungry.”

“I am,” Hipswitch admitted. “But I’m also in love with your creepy little face, so—!”

Karmor leaned in and pressed a soft, unexpected kiss to Hipswitch’s freckled cheek. Hipswitch froze mid-rant. His brain crashed and rebooted.

“…You gonna die now?” Karmor teased.

“No,” Hipswitch muttered, red-faced, “but I’m gonna fight Ricky after lunch.”

From across the table, Attila casually asked, “So… who had ‘Hipswitch finally implodes’ on the board?”

Albus groaned, reaching for the cash. “Damn it, I bet it’d be next week.”

Mahatma just smiled, eating chocolate like this was the best rom-com he’d ever seen.

Karmor stood up, took Hipswitch’s hand like it was obvious, and tugged him toward the hallway.

“C’mon, jealous boy. I’ll split my fries with you. If that’s still part of the flirting ritual.”

Hipswitch muttered something about damn straight it is, and followed him with a flustered scowl and a heart pounding out of his chest.

And from that day on, no one dared flirt with Karmor again.

Not unless they wanted to get tackled into a locker by the Southern storm himself.

#School AU | Hipswitch x Karmor #goodboyaudios #gba bvz #bastard vs zombies #goodboyaudios karmor #goodboyaudios hipswitch #fiction #bastards vs zombies fanfic

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fireside-fanfics · 1 month ago

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So I have a little Joaquin Torres request :) Joaquin bumps into an old highschool classmate of his. They weren't friends but always got along pretty well. And both of them crushed on each other hard but never actually told the other. When they bump into each other after all those years, they immediately fall back into their old dynamic. Also do both of them realize that their feelings never really went away, even though they haven't seen each other in so many years

Thank you so much for this request! I absolute loved writing it!

Old Friends, New Wings

I. BEFORE WE KNEW: SENIOR YEAR Where it all quietly began.

Sage pressed her cheek to the cold surface of her locker door, pretending to be deep in thought. Maybe she was contemplating quantum physics or some big life decision about her future. Really, though, she was just waiting for him.

Joaquin Torres always showed up at exactly 7:48AM like clockwork. Not 7:45. Not 7:50. Backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, curls still slightly damp from his morning shower, a steaming cup of vending machine hot chocolate in hand like it was his personal brand. Sage could’ve sworn that it was as if the hall parted for him upon his arrival every morning. He never looked rushed. Not like everyone else, frantically finishing homework or sprinting to first period.

He moved through the crowded hallway like he had all the time in the world. He’d nod at the janitor, smile at teachers, and hold the door for someone carrying too many books. He was effortlessly polite, impossibly kind by nature, and maddeningly cute without even trying. And fuck, that was the worst part—because wasn’t the loud, in-your-face kind of cute either.

No, he had the soft, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of charm. It was the crooked smile, the warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he laughed, the quiet way he paid attention when people talked, like they actually mattered. It was infuriating how one boy could be so incredible that he took up this much space in her mind.

Sage would tell herself she was just observant. That she liked patterns. The only reason she knew his routine was because their lockers happened to be across the hall from each other and she had nothing better to do at 7:45 in the morning. Of course that was it. That’s what she told herself at least.

The truth was, this had become her favorite three minutes of the day. Three minutes of pretending not to look. Three minutes of catching the soft sound of his voice, the way he greeted people by name, the way he’d tap his fingers against his cup like he was drumming out a beat only he could hear. And maybe, just maybe, three minutes of hoping he’d look her way too.

“Hey, Sage,” his voice came just as expected, soft and smooth with a sleepy smile.

Sage turned, cool as ever. When she met his gaze, she swore his eyes made her melt. A small smile tugged at her lips as she tried to fight blush rising on her cheeks. She shut her locker before crossing the short distance across the hall to stand next to him. Sage leaned against the locker beside him.

“Morning, Quino,” she quipped. “Did you finally get that Chem lab done or are you gonna mooch off me again?”

He laughed as he rummaged in his locker. “Mooch is such a strong word. I prefer the term … cross-reference.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. It was always like this with them: light teasing, shared glances, and this unspoken tension neither of them dared to touch. Maybe it was timing. Or fear. Or that neither of them wanted to ruin a good thing. They weren’t best friends, but they shared a quiet camaraderie since middle school. By pure chance, they always paired up for science labs, shared side conversations during pep rallies, and slid in next to each other on bus rides for field trips.

Somehow they always seemed to gravitate towards each other. Somehow they always found each other at weekend parties where they’d talk for hours while everyone else enjoyed the party. Somehow they’d stumble into each other at the same cafes. It was all coincidence, luck, chance. And every time Joaquin caught her looking at him just a little too long, she’d flash a grin and play it off. And every time she walked past him in the hallway, he’d turn his head, just in case she smiled first.

Neither of them ever did anything about it. Then, graduation came and they were gone…

II. NOW: PRESENT DAY, WASHINGTON D.C. Everything and nothing has changed.

Recent weeks were extremely tough for Joaquin as he hopped from mission to mission with little time to recover. He had faced some intense moments in the field—high-stakes missions, rogue tech, even alien threats—but nothing had prepared him for the emotional gut punch of seeing her again. She was standing at the edge of a farmer’s market, sunglasses perched in her curls, holding a jar of local honey like it was the most important decision of the day.

Joaquin was never one to believe in fate, but when he saw her he had to reconsider. There was no way this was random.

“Sage?” he said before he could stop himself.

She startled, shoulders jerking just slightly, the kind of reflex you couldn't control when someone said your name unexpectedly. It was barely noticeable to anyone else, but Joaquin caught it. Of course he did.

“No way. Joaquin Torres?!”

And just like that, he was seventeen again. A grin tugged at his face before he could stop it. She looked exactly the same and yet completely different—older, more confident, but still radiating that same gentle energy that used to drive him crazy in high school. The soft smile still knocked the air out of his lungs in a way nothing else ever had. The sharp wit and kind heart that he day dreamed about. The way she used to twirl her pen in calculus like she was trying to make it fly.

Before he could fully register what was happening, Sage launched herself into his arms, hugging him tight. The strength in her embrace caught him off guard. She’d clearly kept up with her training. He remembered being in awe of her back then—star rugby player, elite swimmer. She’d always been the strongest one in their class, stunning the Army recruiters with how many pull-ups she could crank out during their annual visit.

When she pulled back slightly, her arms still around his waist, Joaquin smiled brightly at her again. She still tilted her head when she was curious. Still smelled like coconut and vanilla. Still made him feel like he was the only person she wanted to talk to, even in a crowded market. Her eyes flicked over him—quick, subtle—but he noticed. It was the kind of glance that said more than words ever could. Her gaze lingered just a second too long on his chest, his shoulders, the way his jaw had sharpened with age.

Then, as if suddenly aware of just how close they still were, she blushed. That soft, telltale pink spread across her cheeks, and Joaquin swore it was the same blush he used to catch in the hallway after study hall. Slowly, her arms slipped from around his torso, but her hand didn’t go far. It lingered on his forearm, fingers brushing lightly over the fabric of his sleeve before settling there. Sage gave it a small, familiar squeeze—steady, grounding, like muscle memory. And in that single touch, Joaquin felt twelve years melt away.

“It’s so good to see you, Quino,” Sage started, a quiet sigh of contentment leaving her lips. He blushed at the old nickname. “I haven’t seen you since—”

“Senior year,” he finished. “When you kicked ass at the rugby state championship a few days after graduation.

A small smile formed on her lips as she reminisced. “That was one of the best days of my life… I remember you made a point to come congratulate me on the field.”

“Of all things you remember about that day,” he chucked, “you remember that?”

“Of course I do. It was you, dummy.”

Joaquin blushed again, nervous with the way she looked at him admiringly.

“Do you remember AP Lit with Mr. Rudd?”

“Oh god,” she groaned with a laugh, covering her face. “He used to call you ‘Captain Daydream’ and somehow still liked you best.”

“And he called you ‘Trouble’,” Joaquin chuckled, “but he still gave you the best grade in the class.”

They both laughed, and in that moment, everything felt easy again like no time had passed. Like they were still two almost-friends who sat just a little too close, exchanged too many smiles, and maybe thought about each other a little too much when no one else was looking. Sage had always been a contradiction that made perfect sense.

Her tomboy nature helped her fit right in with the guys, keeping up with every competition like she had something to prove. Yet her quiet, effortless femininity stunned every boy who looked too long, leaving them slack-jawed when they realized just how beautiful she really was. She got along with the girls too—her creativity and knack for crafting made her a go-to for pep rally posters and prom decorations, and her warm, calming aura drew people in like sunlight.

“So what are you doing here?” Sage tucked the honey jar under her arm and tilted her head. “Are you—back in town or…?”

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “Actually stationed here for a while. The Air Force brought me back, and now I’m working with the government in a slightly different capacity.”

“Sounds mysterious,” she teased, elbowing him in the side playfully. “Are you a secret agent now?”

“Wouldn’t be a very good one if I told you, huh?” he grinned.

Sage laughed, then gave him a once-over. “You look good, Qunino. Older. Stronger. You’ve got—I don’t know—a presence now. It’s so good to see you.”

“You look good too,” Joaquin replied. He felt heat rise to his face and tried not to look like a giddy sixteen-year-old. “I mean, you always did but—yeah. Still do. Better, even.”

With a small grin, Sage whispered thank you. She invited him to continue walking in the farmer’s market with her, and he gladly accepted. The conversation flowed so naturally. He learned she’d bounced around a few cities before landing in D.C. for the job of a lifetime. She was doing good work at the Smithsonian—big stuff, the kind of projects she used to daydream about during their stolen locker chats between classes. Joaquin wasn’t surprised; he always knew she’d thrive.

It felt natural. It was like they’d just picked up where they left off, except now they were adults and had no excuse to hide behind teenage nerves. They were passing by the kettle corn stand—almost near the Tidal Basin—when it hit him.

“I used to have the biggest crush on you,” he blurted out.

“What?” Sage blinked, eyes wide behind her sunglasses.

Joaquin chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck like he couldn’t believe he’d actually said it out loud.

“I mean—yeah,” he muttered, glancing over at her with a sheepish smile. “Back in high school? You were untouchable. Cool, smart, always had that notebook full of doodles and plans of all the cool things you were going to create one day…”

She flushed and managed to whisper, “You noticed my sketches?”

“You used to sketch in your notebook during Chem lectures. I remember thinking you'd end up doing something big too. Like, designing space suits or sneakers for Beyoncé.”

“Of course I did.” He nudged her gently. Sage giggled when she lost her balance slightly and gripped his arm again to regain her balance. “I noticed everything about you.”

The air between them shifted, slower now, heavier. Sage stopped walking, hand lightly touching the railing overlooking the water. Joaquin stood closely next to her and reached out to hold the rail too. His fingers softly brushed hers and he hoped she didn’t pull away. She didn’t.

Sage turned toward him and nervously said, “I had the biggest crush on you.”

“You’re kidding,” Joaquin gasped, chest tightening.

“I’m not. I used to walk past your locker early on purpose. Just to maybe catch your eye. Hoping you’d spare me a few minutes to talk before classes started for the day.”

“Are you serious? I thought I was being creepy because I timed my locker trips to run into you.”

Sage burst out laughing. They both stood there, stunned and smiling like idiots.

“I used to write your name in my notebook,” she said quietly. “Just little doodles. Hearts around our names… Dumb stuff like that.”

“I almost asked you to prom,” he admitted. “I was going to. I chickened out.”

“I waited. I thought you would. I wanted you to ask me…”

“I didn’t think I had a chance.”

Sage took a slow step forward, closing the space between them. Her voice was barely above a whisper now. “What about now?”

He met her gaze. “Now… I’m not letting you walk away again.”

And then he kissed her. It was soft at first—careful, warm. Like opening a book they’d both once loved but hadn’t read in years. Then it deepened, all those years of missed chances and quiet heartaches spilling over. When they finally pulled back, Joaquin rested his forehead against hers.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he murmured.

“Good,” she smiled, brushing her thumb along his jaw, “because I’m not letting you go this time.”

With a finger tucked in the belt loops on both her hips, Joaquin pulled her closely and kissed again. Sage melted into his torso and lost herself in the kiss. A soft whimper left her lips when Joaquin snaked a hand into her back pocket, squeezing lightly. She kissed him harder in response and lightly tugged his hair at the nape of his neck. They pulled apart again, both gasping for air. She wrapped both her arms around his torso and smiled up at him. Keeping one hand in her back pocket, Joaquin trailed his free hand down her arm and held one of her hands.

“Wanna grab coffee?” Joaquin asked after a moment. “Maybe try again—this time without teenage awkwardness?”

“Yeah, I’d really like that,” Sage grinned, squeezing his hand.

As they walked toward the coffee shop, shoulder to shoulder, Joaquin felt something settle in his chest—a kind of peace he hadn’t realized he’d been searching for. The breeze was cool but not cold, the late afternoon sun casting soft gold across the pavement, and every now and then, their arms would brush in that quiet, familiar way that made his pulse skip.

III. WHAT COMES NEXT This time, we don’t let it go.

Three weeks later, Sage was curled up on Joaquin’s couch, sketchpad in her lap, while he worked on a broken Redwing drone on the floor.

“You’re still terrible at soldering,” she teased.

“Hey,” Joaquin groaned playfully, not looking up. “I’ve gotten slightly better.”

“You’re just lucky you’re cute,” She grinned, tossing a pillow at him.

Joaquin laughed as he picked up the pillow and walked over to her. He plopped down next to the coach, stretching his legs across the chase ottoman. Sage shifted slightly so she was closer to him, thighs touching. Joaquin reached out, snaked an arm behind her back, and rested his hand on her hip. His fingers brushed under his Air Force t-shirt—the one that she had turned into her own oversized cropped t-shirt—and he rubbed shapes on her hip.

“You know what I think?” He glanced up at her, eyes shining. She hummed in response. “This—right here? You and me? It was worth the wait.”

“Yeah,” Sage whispered. She leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “It really was.”

Hooking one leg across his hips, Sage leaned fully into his side and closed the small distance between them. Her hand slid along his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt as she kissed him—slow, sure, like she’d been meaning to for years. Joaquin smiled into the kiss, warmth blooming across his chest as he pulled her closer.

One hand squeezed her hip with a kind of certainty he didn’t even realize he’d been craving, while the other found the back of her head, fingers gently threading through her hair, holding her there—not to trap her, but like he was afraid to let her go too soon. Their mouths moved in sync, familiar in a way that caught them both off guard. She tasted faintly of citrus and something sweeter.

They didn’t say much, and they didn’t have to. The room was filled with soft, lazy kisses and the low hum of voices weaving together—murmurs about takeout or maybe cooking something simple, a vague plan to walk around the city Saturday or just stay in. Every touch lingered a little longer than necessary. Every breath felt like it carried the weight of everything they hadn’t said back then.

And now, it was like their bodies were making up for all that time. Wrapped in each other, they weren’t just making out—they were catching up, reconnecting, and rewriting the ending that never got a proper start. When they finally broke apart, Sage rested her head against his chest and held one of his hands.

“I know we lost a lot of years,” Sage said quietly, her thumb brushing over his knuckles, “but I don’t think those feelings ever really went away.”

“Me too,” Joaquin murmured in agreement, heart pounding. “My feelings for you keep getting stronger everyday…”

Sage looked up at him then, eyes a little glossy but steady, like she was really seeing him for the first time—and not the version from high school, not the memory she used to miss—but the man right in front of her. The one who’d waited, who’d wondered, who’d never stopped hoping.

“Then let’s not waste any more time,” she said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I know what I want now. I want you, Quino. Forever.”

“Me too… I’m in this for the long-haul, Sage,” he whispered.

Joaquin kissed her again—gentle this time, like a promise. And when they pulled away, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing her cheek. Outside, the city buzzed like it always had, unchanged. But inside, everything was different. They weren’t lost teenagers anymore, circling the edge of something they didn’t know how to name. They were here—older, braver, still a little unsure, but together.

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