#be it lying unconscious in a hospital bed

[sunnies-theory-of-happiness]

sighs

[nereidprinc3ss]

be my angel

in which BAU fem!reader was injured on the job, but is refusing painkillers at the hospital. spencer thinks he knows why.

fluff (+a little angst) warnings/tags: established relationship, hospital stuff, reader got beat up by an unsub, discussions of spencer's past addiction, mentions of period cramps, reader ends up being administered some sort of painkiller a/n: another draft i found in my literal hundreds of pages of abandoned wips and fixed up cause it's cute, I hope you like!!!

Spencer is tearing through the hospital. They all keep saying you’re going to be okay, but what does that even mean? Why is nobody telling him anything? He’s not even sure he heard what the orderly at the front desk said, but his feet are carrying him with a strident purpose through the winding white halls, so he has to assume he at least subconsciously knows where he’s going. 

Finally he spots Penelope, a beacon in her candy-colored clothing, speaking to a doctor in hushed tones. Penelope sees him approaching and turns away from the doctor, looking harried and exhausted. 

“Is she okay? What happened?” Spencer demands, before either of the others can say a word. 

“She’s okay,” the doctor assures. “She was beat up pretty bad—concussion, broken ribs, some bruising that looks worse than it is. There was a clean shot through her arm, but—” 

His blood runs cold. Nobody told him you were shot. Why had nobody told him you were shot? 

“I need to see her.” 

The doctor frowns, glancing between the two agents. 

“I’m sorry, are you her spouse?” 

“Yes. No, not yet, I just—I need to see her, please. Now.” 

“Sir, unless she—” 

“Just let him see her!” Penelope practically yells. “She wants him here, believe me.”  

The doctor clenches her jaw and scribbles something on her clipboard. 

“Okay. Maybe you can try to convince her to accept some painkillers.” 

Spencer’s frown deepens. 

“She’s refusing pain management?” 

“We gave her as much ibuprofen as we could, but she refused anything stronger than that. She has to be in a lot of pain right now, and there’s no background of addiction.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” Spencer says, already twisting the silver door handle. He has a sneaking suspicion as to why you denied pain treatment, and it makes him feel incredibly guilty. More than he already did, after this entire debacle. 

The sight of you, bloodied and bruised and obviously suffering has his heart splintering right down the middle. Whatever meager semblance of a smile he can scrounge up and offer is reflected back to him on you—which only makes him feel worse. As always, you’re putting on a brave face. 

“Hey,” Spencer says quietly as he closes the door behind him. 

“Hi,” you croak. “How do I look?” 

He approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing your hair away from your face. 

“How do you feel? The doctor told me you wouldn’t accept pain medication,” he murmurs. 

You sniff. 

“I feel okay. Did she tell you it’s not as bad as it looks?” 

But your voice is so small, so wavery and weak, that he knows you’re lying. 

“Sweetheart...” 

You’ve been holding it together since the unsub beat you nearly unconscious. You held it together as he ran away, even got a couple shots in before he turned around and returned fire. You held it together while you sat against the dirty truck, bleeding out, not sure if your team was coming, and you held it together in the ambulance, and for the past thirty minutes in this hospital bed. But all it takes is one gentle word from Spencer, with that concerned, solicitous look in his eye, and the floodgates are opening. Tears spring up in your eyes and begin silently falling down your dirtied cheeks. 

“It’s okay!” you attempt to reassure him, affecting cheeriness even through the tears. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine!” 

He says your name soft and low and he tries his best to keep his tone even though he is liable to burst into tears or start yelling at someone (not you) at any minute.  

“I know that’s not true. You have broken ribs and a gunshot wound. I know how badly it hurts to breathe and how it feels every time you move your arm. That is too much damage for over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. You need real analgesics.” 

“I don’t,” you whisper. Your teary eyes make his whole body ache. He squeezes your hand—the one that’s not connected to the wounded arm. 

“Because of me?” You stare at him blankly, as if you’re shocked he was able to put two and two together. “I promise you don’t need to worry about that.” 

You sniffle. 

“But what if—what if they give me the drugs and I get all weird and it’s, it’s like... triggering for you, or something?” 

“It’s been a really long time since I’ve worried about that. I’d rather see you a little tired and out of it than in extreme pain and trying to pretend you’re not. You getting the pain relief you need in a medical emergency is not going to make me relapse.” 

“But I really think I could go without,” you begin, voice already tightening around a cry. “I’ve—I’ve had period cramps that were worse than this.” 

Despite himself, he chuckles. Goes back to stroking your hair. 

The laughter fades quickly. All the pain you’re in is so evident in your eyes. The dissociative glassiness, the tension around them, the bloodshot quality—he's seen it many times before, and he hates it on you. 

“Will you please tell them you’re ready to take something? They won’t give you Dilaudid. It’s too strong. They’ll give you something that I’d have no interest in anyway.” 

“Not funny,” you whisper. 

He ignores this. 

“Will you let me call the doctor back in?” 

You take a deep, shuddering breath—or at least, you try to, before you’re loosing a sharp squeak that deteriorates into a little sob. The ribs. 

Spencer doesn’t bother asking again, just gets up and begins to walk away as efficiently as his legs will carry him. You need painkillers and he thinks it might be fastest to just fetch the doctor or a nurse from the hallway. 

“Wait,” you plead.  

He stops. Reminds himself that you need him right now—not his medical opinions. Spencer turns back around and approaches again, crouching by your bedside this time. 

“What, honey?” 

“I don’t...” 

You trail off, overcome by something like fear in the width and shine and nervous dart of your eyes. Spencer knows, everybody at the BAU knows, that showing fear to a serial killer will get you killed that much quicker. During your time alone with the unsub, which is a can of worms Spencer literally cannot psychologically open right now, you had to put on your bravest face. Even while you were being beaten within an inch of your life. Even when you thought you were going to die, alone, and that your team—that Spencer—wasn't coming back for you. Because that’s the kind of thing you have to do to cope when you’re at rock bottom. But you were terrified. Petrified. That doesn’t just go away—and Spencer knows it’ll be bumping against the surface until it finds a way out.  

He has to remember that just because you look unafraid and you act unafraid doesn’t mean you aren’t. 

“You were so brave,” he manages after he’s sure he can say it without incident, swiping moisture from your cheek. “You did everything exactly right.” 

“I know,” you whisper, chin trembling. Spencer knows you, and he knows this kind of trauma well enough to know that you’re thinking, I did everything exactly right, and it wasn’t enough. I did everything exactly right and this is what I have to show for it. 

“But nobody needs you to act like it wasn’t hard, okay? You don’t need to pretend like it doesn’t hurt. You were so, so brave, angel. You don’t have to be brave anymore.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, sending a new wash of tears over your tacky cheeks. A few moments pass. You say nothing. He hopes you’re not going to hide away inside yourself like he did. 

“Will you please, please, let me get the doctor?” 

At least this time you don’t immediately say no. 

“Will you come right back?” 

“Of course.” 

Finally, you nod your hesitant assent, and Spencer presses a careful kiss to your forehead. 

A few minutes later, the doctor—who was shocked that Spencer was able to so quickly change your very made-up mind—is back, and so is Spencer. It only takes a moment for them to determine the best course of action for you and soon the fist around his heart is loosening its grip as he watches some of the agony melting from your eyes. 

“Better?” he murmurs as the nurse who’d administered the drugs leaves, fanning his thumb over the underside of your wrist. You nod, already appearing sleepy. 

“Can you lie down with me?” 

He smiles at the way your words slip against each other, simply relieved that you’re able to relax and no longer in extreme pain. 

“Hospital beds aren’t rated for two people.” 

“Spencer.” 

It’s enough for him to climb onto the bed—not that he was ever going to deny you what you wanted to begin with. The fit isn’t exactly perfect—he's a bit too long and combined the two of you are just slightly too wide—but with some finagling it’s comfortable enough. Spencer has slipped his arm underneath you and your head is on his shoulder and he’s so glad to have you in his arms and so grateful that you’re okay he does something almost like praying in his head as he kisses your hair. 

“Hey. Ask me about my bruises.” 

“Why? Do they still hurt?” 

“You should see the other guy.” 

It’s dumb and it doesn’t make sense because you didn’t bother waiting for him to actually set the joke up—but he smiles dryly nonetheless. 

“Can you please give me... I don’t know, 36 hours before you start making jokes about almost dying?” 

“Clock starts now.” 

“Thank you.” He feels your lips curve into a half-conscious smile against his neck. It’s a wonderful feeling. “How are your ribs? Breathing feels okay?” 

“Mhm. Love breathing.” 

“Mhm. And your arm?” 

“Like I got shot.” 

“Well, that’s pretty much unavoidable. But not as bad as before, right?” 

“Right. Spencer?” 

“What, my love?” 

A little pleased puff of air warms his shoulder. He carefully rubs your hip. 

“Will you tell me how brave I was again?” 

He takes a silent, very deep breath.  

“You were incredibly brave. And smart, too. I’m really proud of you for how you handled that situation. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, but I don’t think anyone could have handled it better. Especially when you chose to stay put by the truck, instead of chase him. I know that wasn’t what you wanted to do, but it was the right choice.” 

“I thought you guys maybe weren’t coming,” you murmur, no hint of sadness in your smushed, flat voice—like you’re barely awake. “I waited half an hour and I thought you weren’t gonna find me.” 

“Angel, I will always find you. We didn’t stop looking even once, as soon as we noticed you were gone. I’m just sorry I wasn’t with Emily and Rossi when they got to you.” 

“’Nelope told me... she told me you got really angry and scary.” 

He stares at the ceiling and considers this. 

“I could see... how what I was feeling would be interpreted that way. I was pretty angry. But not at Penelope or any of them. I was mostly just scared.” 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you whisper. “And I’m sorry if I made you mad.” 

“You did not. I wasn’t mad at you. And it’s not your fault that I got scared. You were just trying to do your job. None of this is your fault.” 

“She also said that you said fuck like... three times.” 

“Mm... doesn’t sound like me,” he evades. You giggle, and the sound is more a relief than any drug he could take.

“No, seriously, I’m so mad I missed it. I love hearing you swear. Tell me what you said—and you have to cause I’m all messed up so I get whatever I want.” 

He sighs in mock annoyance. 

“Well, she’s wrong. I only said fuck once. I used fucking as an intensifier twice.” 

You hum. 

“Sexy.” 

“Alright,” Spencer laughs, flushing as he moves his hand to your shoulder. “Go to sleep before I tell them to up your dosage, weirdo.” 

[sunsburns]

forget it — joaquín torres (marvel) !

⟢ synopsis. request: reuniting with ex!joaquín after his near death experience, but you’re the nurse assigned to his care after he gets out of surgery. you broke up a couple years ago because of your very demanding careers, and you don’t see him until you realize they put YOU on babysitting duty to nurse him back to health, yikes!

⟢ contains. spoilers for brave new world! joaquín torres x nurse!reader, so much angst you’re gonna want to block me!! mentions of death, blood, gore, possible inaccurate medical procedures (i am not a nurse idk how that works), open ending but it's honestly realistic and cute.

⟢ word count. 13.7k+

⟢ author’s note. i learned medical terms for this

You like to think that every decision you’ve made has shaped you into the best version of yourself.

A better student, a better nurse, a better person. You’ve spent years honing your skills, pushing yourself past limits, ensuring that when it matters most, you’ll be capable—prepared. You might not have superpowers, enhanced genes, or combat training, but you have your mind, your steady hands, your patience. That’s what makes a difference in the field you’ve chosen. That’s what saves lives.

And it’s paid off. You don’t work at just any hospital—you work at this one. A private facility that caters to soldiers, government agents, and the kind of people who make headlines when things go wrong. The kind of people who disappear into classified reports. The kind of people you don’t expect to see lying unconscious under your care.

But you love your job. You love the structure of it, the control. You love the fact that, in a world constantly spinning off its axis, you can still do something that makes sense. You have your patients, your colleagues, your friends, your family. You still go out when you can, still make time to shop, and still remember to water your plants. Life is steady. Good.

And yet—

There’s something missing.

It creeps in during the quiet moments, when the hospital halls are still, and the steady beep of a heart monitor is the only thing filling the silence. It lingers in the space between breaths, in the pause before you check a chart, in the phantom weight of something you can’t quite name. A presence that once was, or maybe never was, but should have been.

You have everything you’ve ever worked for. So why does it still feel like something’s missing?

You don’t let yourself dwell on it. It’s ridiculous. You have your health. You have your life.

And you know better than anyone how fragile both of those things can be.

You remind yourself of how lucky you are because you’ve seen the alternative too many times. Lives wrecked and ruined by things far beyond anyone’s control. You’ve watched the light fade from seven pairs of eyes. Seven people who didn’t make it. Seven moments that carved themselves into your memory, no matter how hard you try to forget.

You haven’t even been working for three years.

And yet—

You’d hate to see the day when someone you love is one of them.

The thought grips you too tightly, too suddenly, and you only realize you’ve been staring at your hands under the running faucet when the sound of your name cuts through the fog.

“Look what I made!”

You blink, water still rushing over your fingertips, skin already pruning. A slow exhale leaves you as you reach for the faucet, shutting off the tap. The chill lingers on your skin even as you tear a paper towel from the dispenser, crumpling in your damp grip as you turn.

Maria is sitting up in bed, dark eyes bright with excitement as she holds out a carefully folded piece of olive-green paper.

She beams at you, her small fingers cradling the delicate shape with a reverence that makes your heartache. It takes a second for recognition to click. An origami bird.

“What’s this?” you coo, stepping closer.

Maria is a few weeks shy of nine. She should be at home planning her birthday party, picking out a cake, laughing with friends. Instead, she’s here. Confined to this sterile room, surrounded by too-white walls and the soft beeping of machines monitoring the inexplicable changes in her body. She isn’t dying. But she isn’t getting better, either.

Exposure to some strange quantum disturbance in San Francisco had led to her transfer here, to Washington, under your care. Away from reporters, away from speculation, away from anyone who might pry too closely while the government tries to figure out what happened to her.

“It’s a bird. Like the one on TV.” She explains, her tiny fingers carefully adjusting the wings.

You glance at the television, expecting to see another nature documentary—the kind she’s grown fond of in the past few weeks. But when your eyes land on the screen, you freeze.

A news channel. A live interview. Captain America and the Falcon, still in their gear, standing at an Air Force base. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen is a blur. Something about a mission. About another near disaster averted.

Falcon stands just behind Captain America, posture sharp, hands clasped loosely in front of him, expression serious but composed. His suit still bears the scuffs of combat, a faint tear along the armoured plating at his ribs. You wonder if it hurts. If he’s bleeding. If he even let anyone check.

A small huff leaves your lips before you can stop it.

You can’t remember the last time you saw him. Now, here he is again, on a screen in a hospital room, larger than life.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” You force a lighter tone, turning back to her, moving to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” you ask, forcing a lighter tone as you move to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“I love superheroes,” she exclaims, voice full of unshakable certainty.

“Yeah?”

“Yes!”

She watches you closely, studying your face with a look that’s far too perceptive for someone her age. Then, after a beat—

“Who’s your favourite Avenger?”

You pretend to think about it. “Hmmm... I don’t know. Maybe... Hawkeye?”

Maria immediately groans, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly makes you laugh. “That’s so boring!” She throws her arms up in exasperation, nearly tugging her IV loose in the process.

“Hey, hey—“ you reach out, gently taking her hands, steadying her before she can do any real damage. “You’re really gonna judge me for that?”

“So boring,” she insists, her signature sass making an appearance. “My mom likes Thor because he has big muscles.”

You snort. “Wow. Okay. And what about you?”

Maria’s expression turns mischievous, blushing slightly as she glances back at the screen.

“The Falcon.”

The words land like a punch to the ribs.

You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat stays put. You should have seen it coming, the way she lit up at the sight of him on TV, but it still catches you off guard.

Because for Maria, it’s admiration.

For you, it’s something else entirely.

“He’s so cool,” you manage, your voice lighter than you feel. “I don’t think he’s an Avenger, though.”

Unless he is and you have missed that entire chapter of his life. A lot had happened in the last few years—you wouldn’t put it past him to just forget to mention something like that. Not that either of you were on speaking terms anyway.

Maria grins, a small, mischievous thing, and before you can move, she takes your hand in hers and presses something into your palm.

“Here.”

You glance down.

The bird.

You blink at the delicate folds of olive-green paper, the slight tilt of its wings. It’s small, fits perfectly in your hand, but somehow, it feels heavier than it should.

“You have it.”

You open your mouth—to tell her she should keep it, that it’s hers—but the words never leave your throat. The sincerity in her gaze keeps you quiet, so instead, you close your fingers carefully around the paper bird, holding it like something fragile.

“Thank you, Maria,” you say softly.

You still have the bird.

It sits on your nightstand even now, weeks later, its delicate folds untouched, a reminder of that small moment. Of Maria.

You hadn’t thought much about that conversation at the time. Maria’s gift had been sweet, and you had found it endearing—the kind of innocent kindness that children offered so easily.

It wasn’t every day you cared for someone so young in this hospital, and while that was a blessing, it didn’t make it any easier when that child was rolled in on a stretcher.

And it wasn’t until a week later that you remembered Maria’s words.

Not until you watched a familiar face get wheeled into the hospital.

You had heard about it first—on the news, in passing conversations between coworkers. Another mission. Another near-tragedy. Another casualty.

And then you saw it.

The frantic rush of bodies in the emergency bay. The whine of a helicopter’s rotor blades still echoing through the halls, rattling against the glass doors. The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic burning your nose, mixing with the metallic tang of blood—so much blood, too much of it pooling beneath the stretcher, staining the floor, the sheets, the hands of every ER staff trying to keep him together.

Your coworkers moved fast, their voices sharp and urgent as they swarmed the broken, battered body like bees to a collapsing hive. You barely recognized him at first. His suit—scorched in places, torn in others—hung off him in tatters, the once-pristine armour dented and smeared with something dark.

His skin was pale—too pale.

His lips were slightly parted, chest rising and falling in short, uneven gasps like every breath cost him something.

The blur of medical jargon barely registered in your mind, words overlapping, breaking, reforming into pieces that didn’t quite fit together. But certain ones still made it through the haze, lodging themselves somewhere deep inside you, where they twisted like a knife.

“Heart palpitations—“

“Severe burns—“

“Broken arm—“

“Breath is weak—“

“We’re gonna need a defibrillator—“

“Won’t make it to the OR—“

Your heart stuttered.

You would’ve rather never seen Joaquín Torres again for the rest of your life than see him like this. Like that.

And after that, you were moving on autopilot.

The rest of the day blurred together, slipping through your fingers like sand. You went through the motions, nodding when spoken to, keeping your hands busy, but nothing really stuck. The only thing that did was time—how it crawled, stretched, and bled into itself.

One hour turned to two.

Two turned to four.

Four turned into a sharp, sickening pause.

You were just about to punch out for the night, car keys hanging loosely from your fingers when you heard it.

“His heart gave out. Medically dead for T-minus 30 seconds. Extra hands needed.”

You froze.

The words echoed, hollow and distant like they were being spoken underwater. A strange ringing had started in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was real or just something inside your own head—maybe both.

You had already been hesitant about leaving without checking in on him. You could’ve gone in. You had clearance. But you didn’t.

And now?

Now, you were hearing his heart gave out?

Your mind ran ahead of you, filling in the gaps before you could stop it—could almost hear the faint, dull whine of the machines, the inevitable, lifeless flatline.

The surgeon calling out the time of death.

Your own heart lurched violently in your chest.

Your feet were moving before you even made the decision, carrying you faster than you thought possible. You nearly crashed into the doors of the emergency wing, swiping your card into the OR viewing room, stumbling into the dimly lit space. Your breath came short, choppy, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Your eyes locked onto the glass.

And then—

“Clear!”

Joaquín’s body jerked violently, his back arching off the table before collapsing again.

From where you stood, you couldn’t see or hear the monitor. Couldn’t tell if there was a beat or if it was still that awful, empty silence.

“Clear!”

His body seized again, limbs convulsing before falling limp.

You flinched, a breath hitching painfully somewhere inside you.

The panic clawing up your ribs only loosened when you saw the doctors start to relax, their frantic movements easing back into precision. You watched, rooted to the spot, as they worked—saw the ventilator strapped tightly around Joaquín’s face, the way they were cutting into him, the deep burns covering his side.

But it didn’t feel like him.

He looked dead.

He looked so, so dead.

Your fingers dug into the ledge of the viewing window, knuckles white.

And suddenly you can remember the last time you saw him. A memory that grabs you like a vice.

He was so alive, and he was crying.

His eyes were red and bloodshot, but he wasn’t making a sound. Just staring at you, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. His hands—warm, steady even in their trembling—gripped yours, his touch so familiar, so safe. His fingers curled around your palms like he could keep you here just by holding on tight enough. Like if he let go, he knew he would never get to touch you again.

His skin burned beneath your fingertips.

Like home.

But the warmth of him, the heat of his touch, it didn’t reach his eyes. And you knew—God, you knew—this was the last time.

The ring that sat on your finger was like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

You hadn’t even noticed the way your breath had started to shake, the way your shoulders had drawn in like you could shield yourself from what was coming. The weight of his forehead pressing against yours was the only thing keeping you grounded, the rise and fall of his chest meeting yours in a rhythm that was almost enough to trick you into believing, for just a second, that nothing had to change.

And then he pulled away.

It was slow like he was giving you time to stop him. Like he wanted you to stop him.

But neither of you moved.

His fingers ghosted over your left hand, tracing over the ring like he was committing the shape of it to memory. You swore his breath hitched when he touched it, but he didn’t hesitate. Not when he curled his fingers around the band. Not when he gave the gentlest, barely-there tug.

The metal slipped from your skin.

The absence was instant. A phantom weight. A missing limb.

Your breath stilled.

He turned it over in his palm once, twice, before slipping it into his pocket, the movement almost absentminded. Like he wasn’t crumbling apart inside. Like he wasn’t shattering this thing between you both with his own two hands.

And then you kissed him. And he kissed you back.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate. A broken thing—raw, aching, more plea than passion. His lips pressed to yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like regret, like grief, like goodbye. There was no hesitation when his fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, no distance between your bodies when he pulled you in, chests flush, like he was trying to fuse himself to you, trying to rewrite the ending of this moment with the press of his lips alone.

You tasted the salt of tears.

Yours or his, you couldn’t tell.

You felt his hands tremble when they skimmed over your skin. It hurt—fuck, it hurt—the way you knew neither of you wanted to pull away, but you would. You had to.

But you stayed. For a minute. For a breath. Lips lingering, foreheads pressed together, hands gripping tighter even as the seconds slipped away from you both.

He was the first to move.

The absence of his lips was instant—a cold, hollow thing. But he didn’t pull away entirely, not yet. His nose brushed against yours, his fingers curled at the back of your neck, like if he could just stay here for another second, one more second, maybe none of this had to be real.

Then, finally, painfully, he let go.

That kiss was one that lingered, burned, long after he was gone.

He was alive then. And so were you.

But when the door shut, a part of you had died.

And watching his body, motionless on that operating table, you thought maybe a part of him had, too.

It was hard to grieve someone who had never died.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been standing there, staring through the glass, until someone says your name.

Your body jolts, and when you spin around, you're surprised to find Sam Wilson standing a few feet away. His voice had been steady, but his eyes—God, his eyes—heavy with something unspoken, something worn. You wonder how long he’s been there. You think it must’ve been a while, judging by the exhaustion shadowing his face. The bags under his eyes aren’t just from one night of lost sleep.

You’ve met him plenty of times before—hell, you’ve had dinner with the guy on multiple occasions—but something about seeing him now, here, leaves you speechless. Maybe it’s because he’s not just Sam. He’s Captain America, the man Joaquín idolized. And he looks... helpless.

You feel your entire body tense. “Sir—“ Your voice cracks at the word, and you hate it.

Sam exhales, long and slow. “I was gonna call. I mean, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re still the kid’s emergency contact.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I just... I didn’t know what terms you guys were on. I know the breakup was pretty bad and...” He trails off, looking at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t know if you’d show up.”

“I…” You swallow thickly. You should say something. Anything. But you don’t know how to find the words.

“Were you working?”

You glance down at your scrubs as if you need to confirm it. “Yeah... I just... I heard about his heart, um... how long was he...?”

Sam hesitates. He doesn’t want to say it. But he does. “Two minutes.”

You suck in a breath, sharp and cold, and instinctively look back through the glass. Joaquín is still now, the chaos momentarily subdued. He’s always been restless, always in motion, a man who never seemed to sit still to save his life. And now he’s just... lying there. You feel nauseous.

You don’t know what to say. You think Sam doesn’t either.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m sorry. For Joaquín. I never meant for this to happen. I’m always telling him to be more careful, but you know how he is—”

Do you?

You don’t know how much someone can change in the time you and Joaquín have been apart. You think you still know him. You remember how he used to be—stubborn, hard-headed. Kind, too. Always quick with a response, always teasing. Always warm.

You don’t think you’re remembering him the way Sam asks you to.

“Um... sorry.” You blink, realizing how long you’ve been zoning out. You should say something more. Something meaningful. But your throat is tight, and your hands shake at your sides. Sam looks just as lost as you feel.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Are you okay?”

Sam blinks. He looks genuinely surprised by the question. “Am I—? Are you okay?”

You nod too fast, stuffing your hands into your back pockets. The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background, grounding you in the moment. “Yeah, I just… You were out there too. Did you get hit? I can check for a concussion.”

Sam says your name, and the way he says it—soft, sad—makes your lip quiver. When he steps forward, you don’t resist. You meet him in the middle, letting him wrap his arms around you, his warmth solid and steady. You tuck your face into his chest, only realizing you’ve been crying when you see the darkened patches on his shirt. He smells like coffee, and—funnily enough—a little bit like Joaquín.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is tight, thick. Like he’s been holding back his own grief for too long.

You hum under his hold. “It’s not your fault,” you say because you think it’s what he needs to hear. You don’t know what happened out there, don’t know who made what call, but Sam relaxes just a fraction at your words. You hug him back.

The hours bleed together after that. You sit with Sam in the waiting area, watching the surgery unfold from a distance. Neither of you leave for long—only to grab coffee, maybe splash cold water on your face—but you don’t sleep. Sam doesn’t either, even when you suggest it. He stays rooted to his chair, jaw clenched, watching the clock.

He doesn’t move until the surgery is almost finished, until the surgeon is finally stitching up Joaquín.

And even then, he stays put.

So do you.

It’s nice, in a way, sitting in this heavy, aching silence. You don’t know what you would’ve done if Sam wasn’t here. You don’t know what he would’ve done if you weren’t.

Sam seems to relax even more when a friend of his shows up—Bucky. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him in person before, but you recognize the way Sam’s shoulders loosen just slightly like something fragile inside him can take a break. Bucky nods at you, then at Sam, and without a word, he takes a seat next to him.

You don’t say anything either.

Because you don’t need to.

For the first time in hours, Sam exhales like he’s not carrying the world on his shoulders.

You leave only when he urges you to, though it takes less than a minute after Joaquín is sent out for recovery.

You barely remember the drive home. The world outside the hospital blurs past in streaks of streetlights and empty roads, your hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly. Every red light feels longer than it should, every breath harder to take. By the time you step inside your apartment, exhaustion settles in your bones, but sleep never truly comes. You close your eyes and see glimpses of him—Joaquín on the operating table, still and silent in a way he never should be.

You wake up before the sun rises, restless, your body aching with the kind of fatigue that sleep can’t fix.

By the time you return to the hospital, it’s at a strange hour—too early for the day shift, too late for the night crew. The hospital is caught in that eerie in-between where the halls are too quiet, where the few people still moving about do so in hushed voices. The fluorescent lights overhead hum, stark and artificial against the pale blue of the walls.

You’re running on espresso shots and the growing pit in your stomach, a weight that presses heavier with every step.

Joaquín is here. You know that. You have known that for almost twenty-four hours now.

But the thought still makes your hands cold. It was easier when you didn’t know what State he was in, or what he was doing—if he was even in the country.

You don’t let yourself think too much about it. You go through the motions, moving from patient to patient, checking vitals, signing off charts, trying to push through the fog in your mind. It almost works—almost—until you step out of Maria’s room and spot Amanda, the Chief Nursing Officer, walking toward you.

She smiles, clipboard tucked under her arm, but there’s something in the way she looks at you. Something unreadable.

You can already feel the dread start to wrap itself around your ribs.

“Hey, how’s it going?” she asks, falling into step beside you.

“Good,” you reply automatically. “What’s up?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes your tablet, her fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. You furrow your brows, taking it from her, but your stomach twists at the hesitance in her gaze.

“There’s been a bit of a change,” she finally says. “Kit’s taking over Nicholas now.”

That makes you pause.

You've been taking care of Nicholas for a little over a month, an older man who came back from the blip different, well… different was a nice way to put it.

“Oh?”

Amanda nods, opening a new file on your screen before watching you closely. “Here,” she says, passing you the updated patient file. “Your new assignment.”

You take the tablet, adjusting your grip as you glance down at the screen—only to feel the air sucked from your lungs.

Captain Joaquín Torres.

The name alone makes your heart lurch, when did he become a captain? But then your eyes drop to the image beneath it.

You freeze.

Joaquín, unconscious. His skin is bruised, his face pale under the harsh lighting of the hospital room. The ventilator is taped to his mouth, bandages covering his side where the burns must be. He looks… wrong.

Your stomach turns.

“Um.” You barely recognize your own voice. “I don’t think I can take this one.”

Amanda’s brows knit together. “Why not?”

“It’s…” You swallow, suddenly hyperaware of how dry your throat feels. “It’s a personal case.”

“I know.”

That makes you look up, and when you do, Amanda is already watching you with that same careful expression—understanding, but unwavering. “That’s why I’m assigning it to you,” she says, soft but firm.

You stare at her, trying to process the words.

“Familiar faces help in recovery,” Amanda says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Waking up to someone he knows might do him some good.”

Your grip tightens around the tablet, fingers pressing into the smooth surface as your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Not everyone gets shot out of the sky by the military and lives to tell the tale.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

But Joaquín isn’t just anyone.

And it’s been a long time since you’ve been a familiar face.

Would he even want to wake up to you?

You don’t ask that. You don’t let yourself. Instead, you swallow around the knot in your throat and force a nod. “Okay.”

Amanda watches you for a moment, searching your face like she can see everything you’re trying to hide. Then, she squeezes your shoulder, her touch warm and grounding. “You got this.”

You wish you believed her.

You suck in your pride as Amanda walks away and your fingers tighten around the tablet as you glance down at Joaquín’s medical file, his name printed in bold letters at the top. You already know his blood type, his medical history, his baseline vitals—things you shouldn’t still remember but do anyway. It feels strange seeing them laid out so clinically like he’s just another patient.

Your thumb swipes down the screen, scanning through his injuries. Severe burns on the left side of his torso. A broken radius and a fractured humerus on his right arm. The notes estimate he’ll be unconscious for a few more days, maybe a week at most. The doctors don’t think it’ll be a long coma.

He might wake up anytime.

Your stomach twists.

The live security feed on the tablet shows a grainy, black-and-white image of him, still and silent in the hospital bed, wrapped in layers of bandages and hooked up to machines that beep in steady intervals. The sight of him like this, unmoving, is almost more unsettling than the injuries themselves.

The elevator ride to his floor feels endless, but when the doors finally slide open, the hallway ahead stretches on like something out of a dream—too long, too empty, too quiet. The soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead fills the silence, and your shoes barely make a sound against the polished tile.

You’ve never hesitated like this before. No patient has ever made your heart pound this hard before you’ve even stepped into their room.

You stop in front of the door, your ID card clutched tight between your fingers.

He is hurt, you remind yourself. A wounded soldier. He needs care. That’s all this is. Just do your job.

Your hand trembles slightly as you swipe your card for clearance, and for a second, your eyes flicker down—out of habit, maybe—toward your left hand. The ring is gone. Has been for a long time.

You press your lips together and push the door open.

The room smells like antiseptic and fresh flowers.

Your eyes find him instantly.

He’s barely recognizable beneath the layers of medical care—IV lines, gauze, the rigid brace securing his arm. But it’s still him. His curls have grown out, the longer strands curling over his forehead, though the sides are still neatly trimmed. His face is slack with unconsciousness, lips parted slightly as he breathes in slow, measured rhythms.

There’s already a small collection of bouquets on the bedside table, a mix of bright yellows and deep reds—he always liked bold colours. You know more will come, especially once his mother finds out what happened. You pity whoever has to make that phone call.

Your pulse is loud in your ears as you move toward the sink, washing your hands on autopilot before slipping on a pair of gloves. The scent of hospital soap clings to your skin even beneath the latex.

You set the tablet down and step to his bedside, the weight in your chest settling heavier now that you’re standing this close. You can see the damage now. The discoloration where the burns peak through the bandages, the bruises blooming beneath his skin. His arm rests stiffly in its brace, fingers curled loosely at his side.

You hesitate before touching him.

Then, with careful hands, you reach for the hem of his hospital gown, lifting it just enough to expose the bandages on his torso. The dressings are damp, already beginning to seep through.

Too gentle.

You’re taking too long, moving too carefully. This should be routine—cleaning, reapplying, monitoring for infection. But your hands linger a second too long over his skin, your fingers ghosting over the edge of a bandage before you force yourself to focus.

You work in silence, methodical but deliberate, peeling away the old dressings and replacing them with fresh ones. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath your hands, the only sign of life in his otherwise motionless body.

When you finish, you pull the blanket up to his chest, tucking it carefully around him.

You don’t leave right away.

You should. You have other patients to see, and other rounds to make. But you linger for a moment longer, just watching him.

Being here—being this close—feels like stepping into something half-forgotten. Something you’re not sure you’re ready to remember.

With a quiet exhale, you turn away, stripping off your gloves and tossing them in the bin before grabbing the tablet again.

This is just a job.

And you have work to do.

The next few days slip into a pattern—one you follow carefully, almost methodically, because routine is easier than thinking too much.

Joaquín remains unconscious, but his condition improves. You can see it in the subtle things: the way his breathing becomes steadier, how his colour starts to return beneath the bruising, how the tension in his features eases little by little. His body is still healing, but it’s doing what it’s supposed to—recovering, piece by piece.

Somewhere along the way, his mother and grandmother are flown in.

You make sure you’re nowhere near the hospital that day. You tell yourself it’s because you need the rest, that you’ve been pulling extra shifts, that you could use the break. But you know the truth.

You aren’t ready to face them.

You can barely bring yourself to stand in the same room as Joaquín, let alone look his mother in the eye. She always had a way of seeing right through you, of reading between the lines of what you said and what you didn’t. You don’t want to know what she’d find if she looked too closely now.

So you take a sick day. You ignore the tight feeling in your chest when you imagine them sitting at his bedside, his mother smoothing down his curls, his grandmother murmuring quiet prayers over him. You wonder if she blames you. If she thinks you should’ve been there when it happened. If she wonders why you’re here now, after all this time.

But you don’t ask. You don’t want the answer.

The next morning, when you step back into Joaquín’s room, there are more flowers.

The table beside his bed is overflowing now—bouquets of sunflowers, carnations, lilies, roses in every colour. Some are from coworkers, others from people you don’t recognize. A small card tucked between them catches your eye. You don’t pick it up, but you already know who it’s from.

His mother’s handwriting is easy to recognize.

A fresh wave of guilt washes over you, but you push it aside. You busy yourself with checking his IV, adjusting his blankets, making sure everything is in order. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room, save for the occasional rustling of flower petals when a breeze drifts through the open window.

Sam visits often.

He comes at random hours, able to bypass the strict visiting times the hospital has set up, sometimes lingering for only twenty minutes, sometimes staying for hours at a time. You catch glimpses of him in the security feed before you even enter the room—his tall frame slouched in the chair beside Joaquín’s bed, one ankle resting on his knee as he flips through a book.

He plays music sometimes, a quiet hum of familiar songs drifting through the room. You recognize the playlist—the same one Joaquín used to blast while working late, the one he’d force you to listen to whenever he got too excited about a new artist. It’s a mix of genres, the kind that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.

You pretend you don’t notice the way Sam watches you when you walk in, his eyes lingering like he’s waiting for you to say something. But he never pushes. He just nods, sometimes offering a small update about Joaquín’s family or a passing comment about work before settling back into his chair.

Neither of you talk about the fact that Joaquín still hasn’t woken up.

Instead, you go through the motions.

His burns are healing faster than you expected. The bandages come off, revealing raw, pink skin that will take time to fade. His arm is no longer suspended from the ceiling, the rigid brace replaced with a looser sling. His body is catching up with itself, putting itself back together the way it always does.

You try to keep the windows open as the sun sets later and the spring weather gets warmer, letting the sun come into the room. You hope it might bring back that golden tan to his skin.

The air in his room changes as the days go by. The tension shifts—subtle, but there.

The sun sets later now, casting golden light through the blinds in the evenings. You start leaving the windows cracked open, letting the spring breeze filter in, replacing the sterile scent of antiseptic with something softer.

It makes the room feel less like a hospital and more like something else. Something warmer.

But warmth can be deceptive.

Because the closer he gets to waking up, the more real this all becomes.

And you still don’t know what’s going to happen when he finally opens his eyes.

One day, while cleaning his burns, you notice something—something small, but enough to make your breath hitch.

The heart monitor.

The steady rhythm you’ve grown so used to suddenly shifts—just a faint change, barely noticeable, but it’s there. You freeze, your gloved hands hovering over his burned skin, waiting to see if it happens again. The beeping stabilizes after a moment, falling back into its familiar, constant pattern.

You swallow hard, exhaling slowly through your nose.

Maybe it was nothing. A fluke. You’ve seen it happen before—small involuntary fluctuations that don’t mean anything. You force yourself to shake it off, to keep going.

But the moment your hands brush against his skin again, the heart monitor spikes.

This time, you see it. The sudden jump, the erratic beep, the undeniable reaction.

You pull back immediately, like you’ve been singed. Your heart lurches, panic flashing through you because—did you hurt him?

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you scan his face, searching for any sign of pain. His expression doesn’t change. His eyes remain closed, his body still. But the numbers on the monitor flicker with every beat of his heart, betraying what his body won’t show.

And then it hits you.

He feels it.

He’s not just lying there, unaware of the world around him. His body is reacting. It means he’s drifting, slipping from unconsciousness, slowly clawing his way back to waking.

Your chest tightens.

This is what you’ve been waiting for. What you should want.

You should be relieved.

But you’re not.

Because for all the times you’ve wished he’d open his eyes, you never stopped to think about what it would mean when he finally did.

What if the first thing he sees is you?

What if he looks at you and all you find in his face is resentment?

What if he asks why you’re here? Why you even bothered?

Your breath catches in your throat, torn between anticipation and fear. Your fingers curl into your palms, gloves crinkling under the pressure. You wait, holding yourself still, eyes locked on his face, waiting for the inevitable flutter of his eyelids, the slow, unfocused squint as he adjusts to the light.

But it never comes.

His breathing stays even, his lashes unmoving, his expression unchanging. His body is stirring, but his mind isn’t ready yet.

Your hands feel cold.

You force yourself to take a step back, creating distance—just in case. You reach for the tablet to record the change in his vitals, trying to make sense of what just happened, of what almost happened.

You practically jump out of your skin when a voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and frantic.

“¡Mija!”

Before you even see her, you feel her—Esperanza’s presence sweeping toward you like a storm, her heels clicking against the tile. The next thing you know, you’re wrapped in her arms, your face pressed against the soft fabric of her floral blouse, caught in a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you.

“Mi amor, ¿cómo andas?” she asks, her voice thick with worry and affection.

You barely have a chance to respond, still stunned by the unexpected embrace. She smells the same—warm vanilla and roses, a scent so deeply tied to holiday dinners that it nearly knocks you off balance.

When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t let you go completely. Her hands clasp yours, fingers curling over your knuckles like she’s afraid to let you slip away again.

“Esperanza,” you manage, breathless.

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, her lips pulling into a grin so familiar it makes your chest ache.

“What are you doing here? Visitors can’t be here for another hour,” you point out, grasping for something—anything—to ground yourself.

She waves a dismissive hand, scoffing like the very idea is ridiculous. “Ay, enough with that,” she chides. “When has that ever stopped me?”

And then she stops. Really looks at you.

Her expression softens, and suddenly, you're under a gaze so warm it makes your throat tighten.

“Wow, look at you, my dear. Hermosa,” she murmurs, shaking her head like she can’t believe it’s really you standing in front of her.

You let out a small, breathy laugh, flustered. “I look like a mess,” you correct, glancing down at yourself. You’re in scrubs, nearing the end of a long shift, and you know you must look exhausted. Especially after dealing with Maria throwing up glowing vomit all over you earlier today. There’s no way you look anything close to hermosa.

But Esperanza just smiles knowingly, squeezing your hands once before tugging you toward the chairs lining the hallway. She sits down, keeping her grip on you like she’s afraid you might disappear through her fingers if she lets go.

You follow, hesitating only slightly before settling into the seat beside her.

"It’s been so long," she says, her brows furrowing with something between disappointment and relief. "You haven’t called in months. I thought you were sick! Do you hate me?"

"I could never hate you," you say quickly, shaking your head, a little horrified she would ever think that.

And then she smacks your arm.

"Then why haven’t you answered my calls?" she scolds, her voice laced with exasperation. "Your mother tells me you moved away and what? I don’t hear a word from you?"

You blink. Your mind stutters at the revelation.

"Wait—" you pause, trying to piece it together. "My mom… and you? You’ve been talking?"

Esperanza gives you a look, like it should be obvious. "Of course," she huffs. "What, you thought just because you and Quino broke up, I was going to stop talking to my comadre?" She rolls her eyes like the very idea is ridiculous. "Por favor."

Your mouth goes dry.

Your mother and Joaquin’s mother—keeping in touch this entire time. Behind your back. Talking about you, probably about him, too.

Your stomach churns, and suddenly, there’s something heavy pressing against your ribs.

You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head.

"Oh, lo sé," she sighs, exasperated. "The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If it were up to me, you two would’ve been married by now. Given me a grandchild, too."

Your laugh comes out a little too flustered, a little too forced. You glance around the hallway, avoiding her gaze, trying to ignore the way your heart wrings at the thought.

"Yeah," you mutter because you don’t know what else to say.

Esperanza exhales, her posture softening. She lets go of one of your hands just to reach up and brush your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with the same gentle touch Joaquín used to.

The same way he always did when you were talking too much, or overthinking, or when he just wanted an excuse to touch you.

You let out a long, quiet sigh, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.

It’s too much.

Too much familiarity, too much of your old life creeping back in all at once. You don’t think you’ve gotten enough sleep to process any of it properly.

"Mija," she murmurs, her voice softer now, more careful. "I don’t care whether you and Quino are together or not. I loved having you around. I still want to have our little chats. You are like one of my own. And when he told me you broke up, I just…" she shakes her head, pressing her lips together like she doesn’t want to say it. "I hate that it took him getting hurt for us to talk again."

"Esperanza…" you start, but she just shakes her head again.

"I know, I know. Perdóname," she says, waving it off as she stands up. She smooths down the front of her dress and sighs. "It’s so good to see you again, mi amor. You keep taking good care of my son. I’ll be in the city for another week, so please—call me. Maybe we can get coffee."

Before you can respond, she scans her visitor’s pass on the key panel and walks into Joaquín’s room, disappearing behind the door without another word.

But she leaves the question hanging in the air, thick with nostalgia and something painfully close to longing.

And she leaves the scent of rosy perfume lingering in her wake.

You stare at the closed door, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest.

You should go. You need to go—your tablet is already beeping, pulling you back to reality, reminding you that there are other patients who need you, that there’s a crisis waiting for you three flights down.

Still, you hesitate for just a second longer, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat before finally turning away.

There’s no time to process this right now.

But you have a feeling that, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to shake this conversation anytime soon.

Maria’s hand grips the IV pole tightly, her small fingers curling around the metal as she rolls it beside her, careful not to let the wheels catch on the tile. The fluorescent hospital lights cast a soft glow over her—too pale against her skin, too sterile—but despite it all, she beams.

You’ve never seen someone so excited just to walk.

But today is special. It’s her birthday.

She didn’t ask for much—just this. A chance to stretch her legs, to be somewhere other than her hospital room. Her parents had begged you to keep her busy while they decorated, slipping streamers and balloons inside the room like they could somehow make up for lost time.

Maria hadn’t argued. She had just grinned up at you when you asked if she wanted to go outside.

Now, she’s practically glowing, her feet sinking into the grass as you lead her through the small hospital garden.

She tips her head back, eyes fluttering closed as the breeze ruffles her hospital gown, lifting strands of hair from her shoulders. Pink cherry blossoms sway on the branches above, petals drifting onto the ground like delicate confetti.

"Did you know cherry blossoms only bloom for a few weeks?" you tell her.

Maria gasps. "Really?"

"Yep. It’s called hanami in Japan. People go outside just to watch them bloom."

Her eyes widen in pure delight. "That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. They should be watched. They’re so pretty."

You smile. "Yeah, they are."

For a moment, she just stands there, soaking it in. And you let her.

It’s one of those rare times when she doesn’t look like a patient. No tubes, no machines, no sterile smell of antiseptic—just a kid. A kid enjoying the sun, the air, the simple beauty of something fleeting.

She sighs, finally pulling herself away. "Okay. I’m ready to go back in."

"Are you sure?"

She nods. "Yeah. I don’t wanna get in trouble for being outside too long. It’s my birthday, but I think Nurse Kate would still yell at me."

"Yeah, probably," you say with a chuckle.

The hospital halls are quieter than usual, the usual hum of voices and distant beeping fading into soft background noise. Maria walks beside you, still clinging to her IV pole but with a bit more confidence in her steps.

She doesn’t drag her feet anymore. That’s new.

Her body is stronger than it was weeks ago—no more trembling hands, no more laboured breathing after short walks. It’s a victory, even if it’s small.

Maria suddenly gasps, gripping your arm and her feet skid against the floor. You barely have time to react before she jerks to a halt, her entire body going rigid, eyes locked on something ahead.

Her mouth falls open.

"The Falcon?!"

Your stomach drops.

"Maria—"

"The Falcon is here?!"

Before you can stop her, she takes off, darting toward the digital display outside one of the hospital rooms. The screen flickers with patient information, vitals, and medication logs—

Torres, Joaquín

Maria’s hands slap over her mouth. "Oh my God."

"Maria," you warn, but she’s already clambering onto one of the chairs lined against the wall, pressing her face to the glass window beside the door.

"Oh my God! It's him! It's really him!" She whirls around, panic-stricken. "Is he dead?"

You lurch forward. "What? No." Your hands instinctively find her waist, steadying her before she tips over. "He’s just sleeping."

"Can I go say hi?"

"No."

"It’s my birthday."

"Maria—"

"Please!"

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly.

This was not in your job description.

You glance at the window, frowning. You weren't supposed to let anyone into a patient’s room unless they were authorized. Especially not another patient. There were rules. Strict ones. The last thing you needed was for someone to get sick, for someone to get hurt, for someone to wake Joaquín up before he was ready—

But then you look at Maria.

She’s practically vibrating with excitement, hands clasped tightly like she’s holding back from bouncing on her toes—the youngest patient in the entire building. Wide-eyed and full of wonder, she’s looking at Joaquín because he’s a real-life superhero, someone she’s only ever seen in headlines and shaky phone recordings.

And Joaquín… Joaquín loves kids.

He always has.

You’ve seen it firsthand—the way he kneels when he talks to them, the way his face lights up whenever he makes one laugh, the way he always offers high-fives like it’s second nature. Even now, even unconscious, the thought of him being the reason behind Maria’s uncontainable joy tugs at something deep in your chest.

It feels like something he would want.

And maybe… maybe this is okay. Maybe this is good—a reminder that people out there care about him, even the ones who have never met him.

Still, you hesitate.

You’re comfortable taking care of him now.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

No more denial. No more excuses. No more pretending that seeing him like this—unmoving, caught somewhere between here and wherever his mind has drifted—doesn’t scare the hell out of you. You’ve accepted that you miss him, that you still... care for him, even after everything. But stepping into that room again—with Maria, of all people—feels like a step toward something you’re not sure you’re ready to face.

Because Joaquín is here. So close. Close enough to reach out and touch, to whisper his name and wait for that slow, teasing smile to appear—the one he always gave you when you were being too serious. Close enough that you should feel relieved.

But he’s also impossibly far.

No teasing smiles. No dumb jokes. No knowing looks from across the room. Not even anger of having you near. Just silence. Just the faint rise and fall of his chest, the machines working to keep him stable.

For days, you’ve watched him. Sat beside him. Checked his vitals. Changed his bandages. Waited.

But then Maria looks up at you, eyes round and pleading.

"Okay," you exhale, already regretting it. "But you have to be really quiet so he doesn’t wake up, okay?"

She nods, lowering her voice, "Okay."

Maria is practically bouncing with excitement as you swipe your keycard and push open the door. Sunlight spills in through the half-drawn blinds, cutting warm streaks across the floor, across Joaquín’s blankets, across his still form. The midday hum of the hospital filters in from the hallway, muffled but present. The steady beeping of the monitors tracks his heart rate, a slow, even rhythm, while the IV beside him feeds a clear solution into his veins.

Maria tiptoes inside like she’s afraid of disturbing something sacred.

You don’t blame her.

Because up close, he looks even more unreachable. The bruises along his temple have faded from deep purple to a softer yellow-red, but the cuts on his face are healing. His lips are chapped. His hair is messy against the pillow, a sharp contrast to how put-together you remember him.

You move—more out of instinct than anything—because lingering in the doorway makes it worse. The small cart beside his bed is stocked with fresh bandages, antiseptic, gauze—everything you’ve used to help keep his wounds clean these past few weeks. Without thinking, you pick up his chart because you've forgotten your tablet, scanning the latest notes, his most recent vitals. Stable. No new concerns. No change.

Maria whispers something, but you don’t catch it.

You blink, glancing at her. "What?"

She’s staring at Joaquín, her small hands gripping the edge of his blanket like she’s afraid to touch him, but wants to.

“He’s even prettier up close,” she breathes.

Despite yourself, you smile. "Yeah? You think so?"

She nods seriously.

There’s something achingly familiar about the way she looks at him—like she’s trying to memorize him, like she’s afraid he might disappear if she blinks.

You know that feeling.

Because you’ve caught yourself staring at him the exact same way.

Like if you look long enough, you might commit him to memory all over again. Like you can make up for the lost time, for the time that has slipped through your fingers. You study him—not just the broad strokes of him, not just the familiarity of his face, but every little thing you’d forgotten during your time apart, the things that had slipped from your mind.

There is a faint stubble that’s started to grow along his jaw. And now you notice little moles dotting his skin, scattered in ways you don’t recognize from your memories or dreams of him—they were always focused on the bigger picture, the way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he loved you.

Now, it’s the details that root you to the present.

The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital blanket. The steady hum of the monitors. The warmth of his skin when you reach out, pressing two fingers to his wrist, feeling the familiar, comforting rhythm of his pulse beneath your touch.

You check his vitals—his heart rate is stable, his oxygen levels are good, and his IV fluids are running properly.

Maria exhales softly, still watching him, her voice quiet as a breath.

"I think he’s gonna be okay."

You let out a slow, measured breath, your thumb grazing over the back of Joaquín’s hand—just for a second, just enough to feel the warmth of him.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Me too."

It’s enough. For now.

Your fingers slip away from his, the warmth vanishing almost instantly, and you start to usher Maria back toward the door. But as you move, something shifts—so small, so quick, you almost think you imagined it.

Joaquín’s fingers twitch at his side, just as yours leave his.

Your heart stutters.

A rush of warmth blooms in your chest, something fragile and desperate, something that wants to hope, to believe that it means something. That he felt it.

Swallowing, you make a quick note on his chart, recording the small movement even though it could be nothing.

Even though it could be everything.

You exhale, trying to ground yourself, trying to shake off the way your heart is pounding now, loud and heavy in your ears. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Maria tugs at your sleeve, glancing up at you, her own expression somewhere between curiosity and uncertainty.

You force yourself to move. To turn away. To guide her toward the door, because whatever flicker of hope just sparked inside you is too fragile to hold.

But then—

A sound.

Low. Faint. Hoarse from weeks of silence.

Your name.

Spoken.

Maria gasps softly.

And you—you freeze.

The breath leaves your lungs in a sharp, startled exhale, and your fingers go rigid against the door handle. A slow, involuntary shiver runs down your spine, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

Did you imagine it?

You must have.

But then you feel it—Maria’s small fingers wrapping tightly around your hand, clutching at you with quiet urgency.

Because she heard it too.

Your name. A whisper, raw and barely there, but there.

And it came from him.

Joaquín.

The hospital room feels smaller now, charged with something delicate and terrifying all at once. The air thickens, pressing against your chest as you slowly—slowly—turn around, terrified that if you look, it’ll be gone.

That it was just a trick of your desperate mind.

But it’s not.

Because Joaquín’s fingers twitch again.

His brow furrows, lips parting slightly, throat working as he struggles to form a sound, his voice raw and unfamiliar after so many days of silence.

Maria gasps, gripping your sleeve, her excitement barely contained, but you don’t register it.

Because Joaquín’s eyes are fluttering open.

For a moment, he stares blankly at the ceiling, his chest rising in a shallow, uneven breath. His body remains rigid, like his muscles haven’t caught up with the fact that he’s conscious. There’s no immediate recognition in his gaze—just a hazy sort of confusion, as if he’s somewhere else entirely.

Then, he moves.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, then curl. His breath hitches. The faint beeping of the heart monitor quickens. His body tenses, his shoulders pulling in as if bracing for impact.

His gaze shifts—and lands on you.

The second your face comes into focus, his entire body jerks.

A sharp, ragged inhale drags through his chest. His pupils constrict. His hand flinches at his side, like he wants to reach for something—like he’s searching for something solid.

His breathing changes. It’s not just uneven anymore—it’s too fast, too shallow. The rise and fall of his chest is quick, erratic, his ribs barely expanding with each breath.

Then, a whisper, barely a breath—words spilling from his lips before he even realizes he’s speaking.

"Me morí."

The words repeat, over and over, almost like a prayer.

"Me morí. Me morí. Me morí."

His voice trembles. His fingers fist the blanket. Tears well in his eyes and slip down his temples, silent, unchecked.

Your heart lurches.

You move instinctively, stepping closer, hands steady even as your pulse pounds in your ears.

"Hey, hey," you soothe, voice low and careful, placing a gentle hand on his good shoulder. "It’s okay. You’re safe."

Joaquín flinches at the touch, his muscles twitching beneath your fingers. His head turns slightly, his gaze darting, frantic, searching—taking in the room, the medical equipment, the IV in his arm. You can tell his body wants to move, to fight, to run, military instincts kicking in. But he’s still weak, his limbs heavy, uncooperative.

His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. Too fast. His whole body is reacting before his mind can catch up.

"Joaquín." You keep your voice steady, careful, like speaking too loudly might shatter him completely. "Can you hear me?"

His gaze snaps back to you.

Something flickers in his expression. Recognition.

His chest is still rising and falling too quickly, his hands still tremble against the sheets, but his shoulders drop just barely. Some of the tension bleeds away.

His lips part, but no sound comes out at first. His throat works through the effort.

Then, at last, a hoarse, broken whisper.

"Hi."

Your breath catches.

Your fingers twitch against his shoulder, the warmth of his skin grounding you as much as you hope you’re grounding him. You press your palm there just a little longer, just to reassure yourself he’s real, that he’s awake.

"Hi," you whisper back.

His lashes flutter as he blinks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes still wet with tears. Still searching. His gaze drifts over your face like he’s trying to map every detail back into his memory.

Like he’s afraid you might disappear.

"Hi," he says again, quieter this time.

Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat.

"Hi, Joaquín."

A slow, trembling exhale leaves his lips. His body sags into the pillow, exhaustion catching up to him all at once. His fingers unclench from the blanket, the tension in his muscles fading—but not entirely.

Because when you start to let go, when your fingers begin to lift from his shoulder, he twitches beneath your touch.

The hesitation is so subtle that you almost miss it—almost.

A flicker of something crosses his face, something unspoken, something aching. You worry he's hurting.

It reminds you of another time, a different moment in a different place. Years ago, Joaquín slouched in the passenger seat of your car, showing you his newly earned stitches after getting beat up by a Flag-Smasher, laughing through the pain while you frowned.

"You gotta stop scaring me like this."

"I’m trying, I swear."

You remember the way his eyes had softened in the dim streetlight, the way he had looked at you then. The way he kissed you to take your mind off of his pain—how neither of you had wanted to let go.

And now—now, as your fingers hover over his shoulder, as he doesn’t look away—it feels exactly the same.

Only this time he can't kiss you.

Only this time you can't wipe his tears away.

You force yourself to pull back, to let your fingers drift away, even as your hand aches to stay.

Joaquín swallows hard, blinking sluggishly as his gaze flickers to the IV in his arm, the monitors beside him, then back to you. His lips press together briefly as if he’s gathering himself before a rough, scratchy mutter escapes him.

"Ah, shit. I screwed up so bad."

The sound of his voice��dry, raspy, but carrying the faintest hint of that familiar humour—makes something in your chest crack wide open.

A breathy, wet laugh slips from your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly swipe at your eyes, shaking your head.

"I'm... I'm gonna go call a doctor, alright?"

Joaquín doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.

There’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, something too much. It makes your pulse stutter, makes your breath feel too shallow in your lungs.

You don’t give yourself time to process it.

Instead, you turn, pressing the call button for the doctor. "Come, Maria," you say, voice quieter than before.

Maria, who's gone strangely silent since Joaquín woke up, rushes to your side without hesitation. But she does nearly break her neck to keep looking back at him until you pull the door shut, sealing that moment away.

You exhale, resting your back against the wall for half a second longer than necessary before forcing yourself to move.

The doctor arrives quickly. You straighten up, rattling off Joaquín’s vitals, every detail you can remember—his initial reaction, his moment of panic, his response to stimuli, everything. The words come automatically, like muscle memory, like routine. You focus on that, on the familiar rhythm of procedure, handing off the responsibility to the doctor so she can begin running tests, checking his neurological responses, assessing how much damage—if any—his body has endured after so many days in forced stillness.

The weight of your exhaustion presses heavier against your shoulders as you upload his files to the system, sending them over before turning your attention back to Maria.

"You did good, Maria," you tell her softly as you lead her back to her room.

She just nods, but there’s something distant in her expression now.

You get it.

She’s just witnessed the moment. The one where everything changes.

It’s the moment where the panic stops being panic and turns into something else—something messier, something heavier.

It’s the moment where the question “what if he never wakes up?” turns into something just as terrifying:

“He’s awake. Now what?”

Her parents are waiting when you bring her back, and you don’t stay. You let them have that moment for her birthday, closing the door gently behind you before turning back into the hallway.

And then you’re alone.

For the first time in hours, in days, you’re alone with nothing to distract you.

Your hands are shaking. You hadn’t even noticed at first, but now you can’t not notice—the tremor in your fingers, the way your pulse hammers too fast against your ribs, the way your body suddenly doesn’t know what to do with itself now that you’re not running on pure adrenaline.

You sink into one of the chairs outside Joaquín’s room, bracing your elbows on your knees. The motion feels stiff, foreign—like your body isn’t quite yours anymore.

Your eyes sting.

Joaquín is awake. He’s awake.

He spoke. He looked at you. He recognized you. He remembered you.

You should feel relief. You should feel something good.

And yet.

It’s like coming up for air after being stuck underwater too long—except just as you’re about to take a full breath, it’s ripped away again.

Because now that he’s awake… he can speak to you.

He can react to what you say, to what you do.

Maybe he’ll ask for a different nurse. Maybe he’ll ask to be transferred to another hospital back in Miami or something. Maybe, when his voice isn’t so raw and broken, he’ll tell you exactly what he thinks about the fact that you were the one sitting by his bedside all this time.

And God, you don’t know if you can handle that.

You drag your hands down your face, pushing out a breath. You don’t have time for this.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway reminds you that Sam—or Joaquín’s mother—is bound to show up any minute now. The news will spread fast, and soon, his room will be filled with people who have been waiting for this moment, praying for this moment.

Shit.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before forcing yourself up. You should be in the room right now with the doctor, checking over Joaquín’s vitals, taking actual notes instead of spiraling in the hallway. Get your shit together and do your job.

Your movements feel sluggish as you reach for your tablet, swiping your ID card at the door. The scanner beeps, and for a split second, you hesitate—your fingers still lingering on the door handle, your chest tight.

Then you force yourself to step inside.

The room is brighter now, bathed in soft afternoon light filtering through the window. Dust motes drift lazily in the warm glow, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls and the quiet hum of machines. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor is too steady, too real.

The doctor is already mid-assessment, having raised Joaquín’s bed into a slightly upright position as she runs through a neurological check-up.

Joaquín is watching you.

His dark eyes flicker to you the second you enter, and you feel it in your chest, hot and unrelenting.

You swallow hard, gripping your tablet like it’s a lifeline, and take your place near the doctor, prepared to focus on numbers and stats and anything else except the weight of that stare.

You wonder if you’ll get kicked out for distracting him.

"Oh, great, you’re back," the doctor says, breaking through the static in your brain. "Do you mind grabbing some water for Captain Torres? I’m just about done here. Everything looks good and healthy. He’s recovering well."

You nod, already moving before your thoughts can catch up. Autopilot. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded at this point.

Still, you feel it.

The way Joaquín’s gaze follows every single one of your movements, tracking you like you might disappear if he looks away.

You crouch, retrieving a bottle from the mini fridge, fingers twisting at the cap before stepping back toward the bed. That’s when it hits you—he can’t take it. His muscles are still sluggish, his coordination not quite there yet.

You pour some into a paper cup instead, stepping closer when the doctor gives a nod of approval. Joaquín doesn’t say anything.

The tremor in your hands is almost imperceptible, but you feel it when you lift the cup to his lips. The moment your fingers brush his skin, a muscle in his jaw tenses.

His heart monitor beside the bed jumps.

Your eyes snap to the screen, but the doctor catches it first.

"Interesting," she hums, her tone just teasing enough to send heat creeping up your neck. But she lets it go.

"So, Joaquín," she continues, "We’re gonna have to do some blood work tomorrow, just to make sure everything is alright internally. We’ll up your dose of painkillers now that you’re awake."

"Awesome," he mutters, voice scratchy but laced with dry sarcasm.

She smiles. "They’ll make you a little drowsy, which is normal, but we’ll need you to try and stay awake until sunset. Just to make sure you’re not slipping in and out of consciousness. But I doubt it."

Then she turns to you.

"I’ll let Amanda know he’s awake. But you did a good job—woke up sooner than we expected."

You blink, caught off guard by the compliment.

"Thanks."

"I’ll come back later for a check-up."

And then she leaves.

The door clicks shut, and there is a silence that follows.

You stand there, hands gripping the tablet against your chest, unsure of what to do. Well, you know what to do—your duty is clear. You should be checking his vitals, updating his chart, making sure he’s comfortable.

But that’s not what’s stopping you.

It’s him.

Awake. Looking at you.

Joaquín Torres, alive and conscious and blinking at you like he’s still trying to convince himself this isn’t just another fever dream.

His voice comes quiet, hoarse, a low grumble you barely hear over the rhythmic beeping of his heart monitor.

"You took care of me?"

Your breath catches.

It’s a simple question, but it knocks something loose in your chest. Because it’s him asking. Because he’s here to ask it.

You swallow, shifting on your feet. Your gaze flickers over him—not just the wounds, but all of him. The way the sunlight filters in through the window, warming the stark white of the sheets, reflecting in the deep brown of his eyes. He looks more alive now, and maybe it’s the light or the steady rise and fall of his chest, but for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to believe it.

He’s here.

Breathing. Talking. Alive.

And yet—his dead face still haunts you.

The memory lingers in the corners of your mind, just out of reach but never truly gone. His stillness, the unnatural slack of his features, the too-loud silence of a body that had once been so full of energy, of life. The image is burned into your brain, playing over and over again like a cruel loop. The moment you thought you lost him.

The tears in his mother’s face.

The look of dread on Sam.

The guilt.

"Uh, yeah. I did."

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Joaquín exhales, long and slow, as if processing your words. Then, he tries to smile.

It’s small, faint and unsteady like he isn’t quite sure how to do it yet. The corners of his lips curve, but there’s a hesitation in the movement, like his face isn’t used to the motion after so long.

Still, he tries.

And when his eyes meet yours again, your stomach twists, sinking deep like an anchor dropping into dark water.

"I… I know it’s just your job, but—" His voice falters, but his gaze doesn’t. "Thank you."

Right. Your job.

The words settle into your chest like a weight—familiar, suffocating.

Because you remember the last time he said that to you.

Your last fight.

Well—it wasn’t really a fight, was it?

Not the kind with screaming and shattered glass, not the kind where anger built up and spilled over, reckless and sharp. It was quieter than that. Heavier. Because in the end, it wasn’t about anger.

It was about exhaustion. About wanting so badly to hold on to each other but realizing, little by little, that neither of you had hands free to do it.

You had barely been sleeping.

Between overnight shifts at the hospital, classes, training, and trying to be the best nurse you could be, your time wasn’t your own. It belonged to the people who needed you—the patients, the emergencies, the long nights where your body ached and your mind ran on fumes.

And Joaquín?

He had thrown himself into working with Sam, into proving himself, into becoming something bigger. His missions got longer. The risks got greater. He was gone more often than he was home, and when he was home, he was bruised, exhausted, a shadow of himself trying to piece together the scraps of a normal life between deployments.

You tried to make it work. God, you tried.

You spent so much time missing each other—passing like ships in the night, phone calls that never lasted long enough, conversations cut short by a code blue or a mission call.

At first, you thought it was temporary. That one day, things would slow down. That eventually, you’d find a rhythm that let you breathe with each other again.

But that day never came.

Instead, the gaps between you grew wider.

The distance stretched, and stretched, and stretched—until one night, you were sitting across from each other, and you both knew.

"I can't do this anymore, Joaquín."

You had whispered it.

Not because you didn’t mean it, but because saying it any louder might have broken you.

He had looked at you, like he was waiting for you to take it back.

Like if he just held on long enough, you’d change your mind.

"I know... You know, I love you," he had said, low, firm, desperate.

And that had been the worst part.

Because love wasn’t the problem.

It had never been the problem.

It was everything else.

Your job. His job.

The nights spent apart, the exhaustion, the never-ending fear of opening your front door to a folded American Flag. You couldn’t stand watching him bleed.

And he couldn’t stand knowing that one day, you might not be there to stitch him back up. That was the last time he said it. "But it’s my job."

Like that was supposed to make it better.

But now, you’re standing in his hospital room, staring at proof that it never got better. Because you had left to protect yourself from seeing him hurt. And now you had seen him dead.

"Of course," you manage to say, wincing when you hear your voice break.

Joaquín hums softly, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s looking for something in your face—like he’s searching through memories neither of you have spoken aloud in years.

But then, his gaze flickers away. Over to the table. To the mess of flowers stacked in unsteady vases, their petals bright in the afternoon sunlight. The kind of display that only happens when someone is lucky enough to wake up.

His brow creases. "How bad was it?"

You swallow, feeling something sharp lodge itself in your throat. "You were shot out of the sky by a missile."

His lips part. "Right."

"It was pretty fucking bad."

A beat.

"Right."

You don’t know what you were expecting. Some kind of reaction, some flicker of acknowledgment for the hell he’s put you through. But instead, he just takes it—like it’s another report, another piece of intel.

You hesitate, something bubbling up inside you. You can’t tell if it’s anger or sorrow. "You died."

The words hit the air, heavier than you expected.

Joaquín blinks, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitch against the blanket.

"I died?"

You nod, biting your cheek so hard you taste iron.

"Yeah," you force out. Your throat tightens. Don’t cry. Not in front of him. Not again. "Two minutes."

He’s staring at you now. Eyes wide. Disbelief creeps into the edges of his expression, but not enough—not enough for someone who actually understands what that means.

What it means to you.

"Oh."

You scoff. "Yeah. Oh."

Your laugh is brittle. Sharp around the edges. Because what else is there to say? Joaquín dies for two minutes, and you’ve spent days living inside them.

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

"God," he mutters. "Sam’s gonna be so mad at me."

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Because this wasn’t how you imagined seeing him again.

In your head, there were a million other ways this could have gone—maybe you’d run into each other in the future when you were older. When things had settled. When you’d moved on.

Maybe you’d both be married to other people.

The thought makes you sick. But this? This is so much worse.

"Do you, um, do you need anything else? Are you hungry?"

"No."

You nod, but you don’t believe him. Patients are usually peckish when they wake up—a sign of life returning to their bodies, a reassurance that things are moving forward. And while he’s not allowed solid foods for another twenty-four hours, you could bring him a smoothie, something light.

But if he really wants something, he can call you.

You tell yourself that as you turn toward the door.

"Can you stay?"

You linger because you didn’t expect it.

Because you kind of hoped he would ask.

Because he didn’t ask you to stay last time.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, gripping your tablet a little tighter, as if the tension in your body could be contained in that single movement.

"Yeah," you say softly. "I can stay."

You turn back to him, and Joaquín is already looking at you.

His eyes are pleading.

It takes everything in you not to break right there. To not spill over.

You force yourself to move, careful, measured steps toward the chair beside his bed. It feels like you’re wading through something thick, something unseen, like grief or memory or all the what-ifs you’ve tried to bury.

You sink into the chair slowly.

A strand of hair falls into Joaquín’s face as he leans back against the pillows, the bruising on his cheekbone catching the light just enough for you to hate it.

Your fingers twitch again. The urge to brush it back is unbearable. But you don't.

He exhales.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asks suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard.

"Last night." you answer, almost automatically.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Not really."

A beat.

"Nightmares?"

"Something like that."

"Something on your mind?"

"Lots on my mind."

The words slip out easily, like an old habit. No walls. No defences. It’s like no time has passed at all, like the space between you hasn’t been filled with anger, regret, and time apart. Just raw, open honesty in the quiet of the room.

The weight that’s been crushing you for days feels a little lighter in the space between his questions and your answers. You exhale, and only then do you realize you’re holding back tears.

You wipe at your face absently, surprised to find wetness there. You hadn’t even known you were crying.

Joaquín shifts in the bed, his gaze sharpening. There’s concern in his eyes, guilt, and maybe something else—something deeper. He looks away, clearing his throat, as if trying to fight it.

"I hope it's not me you're worried about,"

"I'm always worried about you."

You glance away from him, pretending it’s nothing, but the words hang between you both, too heavy to ignore.

His breath catches, something in him faltering, and then you catch the slight, almost imperceptible way his fingers curl into the sheets. His ears are pink, the flush spreading down his neck. He’s always been terrible at hiding how he feels, and you’re helpless against it. You always have been.

You can’t look at him. You don’t want to admit how much you’ve missed him. How much you’ve been carrying around since the breakup. How much he’s haunted every quiet moment since you walked away.

"Joaquín," you start, tugging at the ring finger on your left hand, the absence of his name there like a wound you forgot was still open. "When they brought you in here—"

"I miss you."

Your chest tightens. "Joaquín—"

"It's true, I do." His voice is quiet, almost vulnerable. "I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you again, and I just…" His gaze drifts from yours, like he’s struggling to put it all together. "I couldn't get it out."

You swallow hard, feeling that familiar ache well up in you. “I miss you too. It’s been... it’s been really hard.”

"Yeah." He nods slowly, his voice softer now. "It has. But, you know, I’m the Falcon now. Can you believe that?" He chuckles, but it’s almost nervous, as if he’s trying to lighten the mood, trying to make you smile. "I work with Captain America. I’ve got big shoes to fill. I’ve got to show up, but this... this is all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a kid. I’ve got it now. But... there’s something missing."

You look at him, really look at him, seeing the difference in his eyes now—less brash, more tired but still so much the same. "Yeah. Yeah, I feel it too. It’s like a nagging feeling, right? No matter what we do, it’s there."

"Make me feel guilty." His lips curve into a faint smile, but it’s tired.

"Like I wanna vomit," you reply dryly, the familiar banter slipping back into place before you can stop it.

Joaquín’s eyes soften as he lets out a breath, and there’s an edge of regret in the way he says, “I’m sorry I left.”

Your heart aches at the words, and you feel the old wounds crack open. "I’m sorry I made you leave." You’re not sure whether you’re trying to make him feel better or punish him with your own guilt. Either way, it burns.

“No,” he says quickly, “It doesn’t work that way.”

"But it does," you insist, your voice soft but firm.

He presses his lips together, brow furrowed, as if trying to work through what you’ve just said. "I should’ve fought harder," he murmurs, voice cracking just slightly.

"Joaquín... c’mon. Let’s talk about this later, okay? You just woke up from a coma. I can’t be putting this much stress on your mind."

"But I wanna talk about it," he presses, desperate.

“I know, I do too,” you admit,

“Then let’s talk about it,” he says, leaning forward just a little.

"Rest first." You place a hand on his shoulder gently, urging him to lay back. “You’ve been through a lot. I can’t let you burn yourself out again.”

“I’ve been resting. Had the best nurse in the world take care of me,” he teases, trying to distract you with a smile.

You feel the tug in your chest at his words. "And I will still take care of you. But you need rest. We can talk about it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow," you confirm, trying to smile, to soothe the tension you’ve both built up.

"Will you still be here?"

You glance down at him, a familiar warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him so vulnerable, so human. "I’m not going anywhere. Will you still be here?"

His smile softens, a quiet promise in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[moonstruckme]

Inspired by this adorable fic by @inkdrinkerworld <3

cw: hospital, mention of surgery, reader has a fear of anesthesia/being unconscious

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 940 words

You wish that stupid heart monitor would stop exposing you to everyone in the hospital wing. 

“You’re fine.” James rubs his palm over your heart consolingly. “Deep breaths.” 

You inhale, and he does it with you, you feel his chest expand against your back. James got into bed with you soon after you got here, when you wouldn’t stop trying to get up and pace the room. After your IV was put in, Sirius threatened to sit on you if you tried to get out of bed again. James is a nicer compromise. 

“This is so stupid.” Your exhale comes out in a disbelieving huff. “I don’t even have to do this.” 

“Dove, you’re already here,” Remus reasons. “You’ve come this far, let’s just see it through. You’ll be alright.” 

Truly, you’re not sure how you wound up here. When your doctor recommended you for surgery, you said you’d think about it, but you were lying. You knew it, your boyfriends knew it, your doctor probably knew it too. Going under was something you had no intention of ever, ever doing. You didn’t know if the problems you were having would persist without the recommended procedure. You almost didn’t care. The one thing you knew for absolutely sure was that you did not want it to happen. 

And yet, it began to. All it took was one evening of lovingly made hot cocoa and sweet-talking from James to get you to set up the appointment. From there, the date marched continually closer, and all your boyfriends had to do was keep you from backing out. To their credit, they’ve had extraordinary follow through. Suddenly you find yourself in a hospital bed waiting for a surgery you could swear wasn’t going to happen. 

“You don’t even have to stay the night,” Sirius says. He’s sitting cross-legged in one of the chairs against the wall, undeterred by the plastic arm digging into his thigh. “We’ll have you home by dinnertime. Focus on that, doll.” 

“I want to be home now,” you mumble. You know you’re acting childish, but you’d rather gripe than cry, and the way you’re feeling those are your only two options. “Are we sure I can’t be awake?” 

“You don’t want to be awake.” James kisses behind your ear. “It’s quite bloody. You’d think it was gross.” 

“Don’t scare her,” Remus cautions quietly. 

You talk over him. “I’d rather be grossed out and know what was happening.” 

Sirius leans forward to grasp your hand, shushing you. “You already know what’s going to happen, baby. We’ve been over the whole thing. Do you want to hear it again?” 

“No.” In truth, hearing about the procedure had grossed you out. But that’s not your main issue. Tears prick your eyes. 

“Hey,” Sirius says softly. His thumb runs over your knuckles. “You’re okay. You’re going to be just fine. Home by dinner, remember?” 

“I just… “ You pull in a wavering breath. “I really don’t like the idea of being unconscious while people poke and prod at me, and I can’t wake up. It freaks me out.”

“No one is going to poke or prod at you.” Remus is leaning his forearms on his knees, eyes honey soft. “It’s a routine procedure. They do it all the time, it’s their job.” 

“I’d just feel better if I could be awake.” 

“It’d be so much scarier if you were awake. This way, you only go to sleep, and the next thing you know it’s done.” 

“That’s the worst part, though. It’s not like I can wake up even if I want to. I’ll be completely helpless.” 

“Sweetheart, no one is going to hurt you.” 

“I know that.” 

“Are you sure?” he asks gently. 

You shut your eyes, tipping your face down as tears start to drip from your nose. 

“Baby,” Sirius coos. His fingers feel cool against your cheek, cupping so he can kiss between your brows. James hugs you tighter. “Oh, shh, shh. I’m sorry you’re so scared, sweet girl. It’s really not so bad as you’re thinking.” 

“Can you come with me?” you whisper. It’s not the first time you’ve asked, but you’re hoping this display of obvious patheticness will sway things in your favor. 

“You know we would if we could, doll. They’re really strict about who’s allowed in the room.” 

You nod, taking in a ragged breath. 

“We’ll be with you until you go in,” James offers, “and as soon as you wake up. You’ll get to meet your anesthesiologist before, too. Her name’s Kara, she’s a sweetheart.” 

That James knows the person trusted with putting you out does comfort you some. He pats your chest with his hand over your heart, gentle and rhythmic. Slowly, it lulls yours into complaisance. Your heart monitor stops its ratcheting. 

“Breathe.” James exhales slowly. “We won’t let anything happen to you. You’re in good hands, angel, I promise.” 

“I’m sorry,” you say, opening your sore eyes. “I know I’m being crazy.” 

Sirius is squatting by your bed now. He tuts, quick to right you. “You don’t have to be sorry. You’re scared, it’s fine. I wish you weren’t because it’d be easier for you, but it’s not your fault.” 

“You’ll feel better once you’re in there,” Remus promises. “Really, lovely, it’s so much less daunting than you’re imagining it to be. It’s going to go by so easily. And then we’ll be with you, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you sniffle. 

“What do you think?” James presses his cheek to your ear, pleasantly warm. “You think you can go an hour without us? You’ll be okay?” 

You make a low, reluctant sound. “Maybe.” 

“There’s our girl.”

[gghostwriter]

Spencer Reid x Fem!reader

They are friends, but Spencer is in love with her. Spencer gets in one accident and thinks she is more than a friend. He believes she is his wife. (Happy ending, please)

Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem! Reader Trope: Friends to Lovers; Fluff! Just fluff Warning: Medical inaccuracies A/N: Reader is part of the BAU, hope that's alright. I had fun writing this, hope you enjoy anon! Main masterlist

Hallucinate. // Spencer Reid

It was Morgan’s turn—based on Garcia’s glitter paper schedule, to keep watch of Reid lying uncomfortably still on the hospital bed. The team was out for a local case—a series of murders that targeted male divorcees. They’ve profiled the unsub to be male in his late 20s, shy in nature, and comes from a broken household. The profile was correct. The team just didn’t factor in the possibility of another unsub—a subservient willing to do anything to let the dominant evade capture, including intentionally ramming a four door sedan to a government owned vehicle. The same vehicle that Reid and JJ were driving to the unsub’s residence. 

Spencer’s finger twitched, bringing his guardian out of his musings. “Reid. Reid,” the dark skinned agent called out.

A series of whispers escaped the patient’s mouth. “W’fe—” Spencer wetted his lips. “Wife, where—wife?” 

“Kid, what wife?” Morgan’s brows furrowed. As far as he knew, Reid wasn’t married. All he had was a tongue twisting, IQ dropping crush on the newest BAU addition, you. 

Spencer tried once more. “Y/N. Y/N, my wife—where?”

And as if you heard his pleas, you quietly entered the hospital room. Tilting your head to the side, silently questioning why Morgan was standing very close to Spencer. The agent smirked at your presence and waved you to come close. 

“Spence?” You asked, taking his hand into yours. His fingers cold, and for a moment, it reminded you of how still he was when he was pulled out of the driver’s seat. 

His eyes flickered under the lids. “Y/N. Wife—y’safe?” 

“I’m here, Spencer. Safe,” you murmured in a soft tone as you note that his hazel eyes were glassy and unfocused. A physical manifestation from the concussion that the physician had theorized when he was admitted. 

He turned his head to the sound of your voice in comfort before tightening his hold and his pupils blowing wide. “Wife—the baby? Is—baby okay?”

Your eyes widened in return. “What?” 

“Aurora—she, strapped in car seat, I need—need to see her,” his voice getting louder and louder as he unsuccessfully tried to push himself out of bed. 

You gently pushed his shoulders. “She’s—she’s fine, Spence. The team has her,” you coaxed him to relax back. Morgan cleared his throat beside you, clearly trying to not let a chuckle escape. 

“Good—good. Safe.” Spencer was locked in a hallucination where you were married and had a child, a girl—Aurora. You pictured a tiny long haired brunette with his waves, clinging to Spencer’s neck and smiling at you, a set of innocent hazel eyes looking at you with such adoration and trust. 

“Wife—you, love you,” he mumbled before closing his eyes and falling back to unconsciousness. 

Morgan took that as his cue and turned to face you—still clutching Spencer’s hand—with mirth dancing on his face. “Damn. Wife and kid huh, pretty boy sure moves fast.” 

You felt your cheeks grow warm. “It’s the concussion talking.”

“Uh huh, keep telling yourself that. Y’know I heard he said the same thing when Emily was keeping watch,” he paused dramatically to watch your reaction. “But there was no kid—that’s new.” 

“What. I—we’re friends,” you jested. Even to your ears it sounded like a feeble excuse.

Morgan appraised your reddened cheeks, your free hand repeatedly raking your hair, and your lips tucked between your teeth. His well experienced profiler eyes cataloging everything. “As I said, pretty girl, keep telling yourself that.” 

———

A few days later, away from the Morgan and Emily’s constant teasing, it was your turn to keep Spencer who was now alert and awake , company. His eyes darted all around the room, finding everything and anything interesting, except you.

“Spencer? You alright?” You sat on the chair near his bed.

He cleared his throat. “Morgan—Morgan said I called you—” his voice trailing off at the end, too hesitant and mortified to repeat what his fantasy conjured up and what his lips had let escaped in his state of confusion and vulnerability. 

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, you did.” 

“And that we—”

You nodded as you watched his blush travel down from his cheeks to neck.

“I also said that I—”

“That you love me?” You clarified in a whisper.

“You did.” 

He covered his face in chagrin. Spencer wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole or better yet, for all of this to be just a dream—a horrible dream. It was no secret to the team, except for you, that he had feelings for you. Amazed with how your mind noticed patterns in cases, grateful with how you actively listen to his conjectures, and stunned with how beautiful you look even on cases that leak into the late nights—how could he not fall in love with someone as incredible as you. It was impossible, trust him, he tried to deny it to himself and to others. He mumbled something in reply but his hands muffled it too much to understand. 

“What was that?” You asked.

He repeated again but made no move to remove his hands.

You sighed. “Spence, I really can’t understand.”

He steeled his nerves before facing you, without a blockage this time. “According to studies, hallucinations are simply a result of neurons firing incorrectly. But I-I meant it. What I said, I mean.”

Silence ensued. He’s been your ride or die since you entered the BAU. Your partner on cases and your person off cases. Penelope always teased you two together—attached to the hip. Like some magnets that need to move in unison, that need to be within reaching distance. “Oh.” 

His shoulders drooped, taking that as a sign of rejection. He wished he could have kept his mouth shut. He’d rather be your close friend than be an awkward colleague.

“It’s not like that,” you hurriedly explained. “I—it’s just—take me out on a date first,” your cheeks enflamed as the idea of progressing your relationship beyond what it was now excited and set butterflies on your stomach.

He perked up and smiled. “Okay, yeah. I can do that.” 

You watched as his hand slowly crept towards yours, stopping an inch away, as if waiting for your permission. You took the initiative and intertwined yours with his, watching him shudder from the warmth and settled back into bed. 

“Okay,” you breathed out. 

He didn’t let go of your hand even when Morgan entered the room to relieve you from watch duty. The profiler zeroed in and opened his mouth, unable to stop himself from teasing the blushing couple.

“So love birds, since you already named your first kid Aurora. How about naming the next one Derek?” 

My inbox is currently open for any more fluff requests! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[you-have-a-metal-arm]

'Til The End of The Line pt. 2

Pairing: Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: Mentions of hospitals

Summary: You get injured in a mission, and Bucky cannot bear to see you in such state.

Author's Note: Please do not copy or translate my work. English is not my first language, so please understand grammar or spelling mistakes.

Thank you for those who enjoyed the first part, and thank you again for waiting.

Part 2 is now yours.

The world around Bucky seemed to blur as he followed the medical team through the corridor. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears like a drum. The sight of you lying so still, bloodied and broken, was something he never thought he’d see—not like this, not when he hadn’t even told you how much he loved you that morning.

As Dr. Cho and her team wheeled you into the surgical room, Bucky’s steps faltered. He felt like he was wading through quicksand, every movement heavy and slow. He wanted to be with you, to hold your hand, to tell you that everything would be okay. But he was kept out of the room, forced to watch through the glass as the doors closed behind you.

Tony, standing beside him, placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “She’s strong, Bucky. She’ll pull through.”

But Tony’s words felt hollow to Bucky. He had seen too much death, too much loss. The fear of losing you was like a knife twisting in his gut. He couldn’t lose you—not when you were his reason to keep fighting, his anchor in the storm.

His mind raced back to the last few months—the mornings spent in quiet domesticity, the late-night talks about the future, the way you laughed at his terrible jokes. How could it all be ripped away in a single moment?

Bucky pressed his hand against the glass, his breath fogging up the cold surface. His other hand clenched into a fist, the tension coiled tight in his chest. The image of you, fragile and bleeding, burned into his mind.

Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours—he couldn’t tell. Time had no meaning as he stood there, waiting, praying, hoping for a miracle.

Tony stayed by his side, silent. Steve joined them, his face drawn and pale. The guilt weighed heavily on Steve’s shoulders, and Bucky could see it. But Bucky had no room for blame—only a desperate need for you to come back to him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Dr. Cho emerged from the operating room. Her face was tired, but there was a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “She’s stable, but it was touch and go for a while.”

Bucky’s knees almost buckled with relief, but he held himself upright by sheer will. “Can I see her?”

Dr. Cho nodded. “She’s still unconscious, but you can sit with her. It’s important she has someone she loves nearby when she wakes up.”

Bucky didn’t wait for further permission. He pushed past the others and entered the room where you lay. The sight of you hooked up to monitors, IVs, and machines tore at his heart, but at least you were alive. Your chest rose and fell steadily, and the color was slowly returning to your cheeks.

He pulled up a chair beside your bed, taking your hand in his. The warmth of your skin, even faint, was enough to give him hope. He brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his thumb tracing the lines of your face as if memorizing every detail.

“I’m here, doll,” he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. “I’m right here. Please, come back to me.”

The room was quiet, save for the beeping of the machines that tracked your vital signs. Bucky stayed by your side, his grip on your hand firm but gentle. He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat—he just watched you, waiting for any sign that you were waking up.

Hours passed, and the rest of the team came and went, offering support, but Bucky barely registered them. His world had narrowed down to just you, lying so still in that hospital bed.

At some point, he must have dozed off because he was startled awake by a faint pressure on his hand. His eyes flew open, and he looked down to see your fingers twitching slightly in his grasp.

“Y/N?” His voice was barely a whisper as he leaned closer, his heart pounding in his chest.

You stirred, your eyelids fluttering weakly. It took you a moment to orient yourself, but when your eyes finally opened, they were full of confusion and pain. “B-Buck?” Your voice was hoarse, barely audible.

“I’m here, doll, I’m right here.” Bucky’s relief was palpable as he squeezed your hand gently, his eyes misting over. “You’re okay. You made it.”

A weak smile tugged at your lips, though the effort seemed to exhaust you. “I… I thought… I wasn’t going to make it.”

“You did, though,” Bucky whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re safe now. We’re together.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at him, your hand trembling slightly in his grasp. “I… I heard you… on the comms. I was so scared… that I’d never see you again.”

“It’s quite a miracle that she woke up. But we still must keep an eye out for any damage to her brain,” the doctor said.

“I’ll call Dr. Cho for further checkups. My job’s done for now.” The doctor left, and Bucky’s gaze returned to you.

Bucky sat back down beside you, his eyes brimming with unshed tears as he clutched your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. He couldn't believe you were awake, breathing, speaking to him. The terror of almost losing you hadn’t yet faded from his mind.

You looked at him, your voice barely a whisper but full of the love you had for him. “Hey, I told you I’m not going anywhere, didn’t I?”

Bucky let out a shaky laugh, a mix of relief and disbelief. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours, feeling the warmth of your skin that he thought he’d never feel again. “You scared the hell out of me, doll. I thought—”

His voice cracked, and he couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I know, I know,” you whispered, your free hand weakly brushing the tears from his cheeks. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, Buck.”

He pulled back to look at you, his blue eyes swimming with emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he admitted, his voice barely holding together.

“I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

“You won’t,” you reassured him, squeezing his hand with as much strength as you could muster. “We’re going to get through this. Together.”

For a long moment, Bucky just stared at you, memorizing every line of your face as if afraid it might vanish if he looked away. The weight of everything he had almost lost hung heavily in the air between you, but so did the promise of the future you still had together.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice trembling with the intensity of the words.

“More than anything in this world.”

“I love you too, Buck,” you replied softly, your eyes shining with the same intensity. “And I’m sorry for putting you through this. For making you worry so much.”

“Don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t apologize. None of this is your fault. You’re the strongest person I know, and you’re going to get better. We’re going to get through this, and then we’ll live that life we talked about.”

A small, hopeful smile tugged at your lips. “Yeah, with the house, the backyard, and maybe… maybe even those babies.”

Bucky’s heart swelled with emotion at the thought. The future seemed so far away, but with you here, with your hand in his, it felt possible again. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice choked with emotion. “We’ll have that. I promise you, we’ll have that.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, exhaustion weighing heavily on you, but you fought to stay awake, to stay with him. “I’m going to hold you to that, Barnes.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You better. I’m not going anywhere either, doll. You’re stuck with me.”

“Good,” you whispered, finally allowing yourself to drift off to sleep, knowing that Bucky would be right there when you woke up again.

As you slept, Bucky stayed by your side, his hand still holding yours tightly. He didn’t move, didn’t even blink, afraid that if he did, this fragile moment of peace would shatter. But as he watched the steady rise and fall of your chest, he let himself believe that everything was going to be okay. That the darkness had passed, and the light of a new day would bring the life you both deserved.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky allowed himself to hope.

---------------------------------

Tag list @baw1066 @hzdhrtss @mrsnikstan

---------------------------------

Thank you for reading and enjoy your weekend :)

[aspenmissing]

Hiii, I was wondering if you could do a jayvik + any other arcane characters with a really injured reader. Like Reader was checking around either in Piltover/Zaun when an explosion happend and like they were really near. Thank youuu🫂🎉

ꜱʜᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀᴍᴀᴛʜ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ/ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 11848 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴇxᴘʟᴏꜱɪᴏɴꜱ, ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜꜱ, ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴛ ᴏꜰ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ (ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ), ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ/ᴀꜱꜱᴀᴜʟᴛ, ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴅᴇᴀʀʏ! ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴʟʏ ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ɪᴛ! <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx/ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ

JAYCE

The bustling streets of Piltover were alive with the usual clamor—merchant stalls, the chatter of buyers haggling for goods, the clinking of coins exchanged in the marketplace. Y/N walked through the crowd, her steps leisurely, enjoying the crisp air that felt so different from the underground warmth of Zaun. There was a particular charm to the city above—a contrast to the underbelly she knew all too well.

She had always found solace in moments like these, when she could just walk, observe, and be free from the heavy expectations of her life. The sounds of the market—the fresh fruits on display, the occasional laughter from children running by, and the rhythmic clang of hammering from the local smith—filled her ears. It was a slice of normalcy that Y/N couldn't help but savour.

But the calm wouldn't last long.

A cart, overloaded with crates and barrels, toppled over in the midst of the crowded street, spilling its contents with an unnerving clatter. Y/N tried to step back, but the crowd had already started to rush, people panicking as the cart careened toward them. It was chaos—people shouting, the sound of hurried footsteps, and the sharp cry of a child in the distance.

As she tried to move, someone shoved her out of the way, causing her to lose her balance. She tumbled backward, her head hitting the cobblestones with a sickening crack, sending a wave of dizziness over her. Pain surged through her body as she tried to push herself up, only to find her arm twisted awkwardly beneath her, the sharp sting of injury making her gasp.

Through the haze of confusion, Y/N tried to focus, her heart racing as she saw the blur of feet around her, none of the bystanders offering help. The pressure in her chest made it hard to breathe, and she felt something warm trickling down her forehead. Blood, she realized, as her vision started to swim.

Jayce was inspecting a new piece of equipment in the workshop when an Enforcer walked in, breathless. He was a tall man, covered in dirt, his face flushed with exhaustion, and there was an air of urgency around him that set Jayce’s nerves on edge.

"Counsellor Talis, it’s Y/N," the Enforcer said, his voice strained. "She... she was just in the market. Something happened—she was hurt pretty bad."

Jayce’s heart seized in his chest. "What do you mean? What happened?"

The officer’s discomfort was palpable. "A cart fell over, and there was a lot of commotion. Y/N was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was taken to the hospital, but I figured you should know right away."

Before the officer could finish his sentence, Jayce was already moving, his pulse pounding in his ears. His mind was a blur, images of Y/N crumpled on the cobblestones flashing before him.

He didn’t bother to grab anything but his jacket as he rushed out the door, practically running to the hospital. Every thought in his mind was consumed with her—the way she looked in the market, the panic in her eyes when she fell, and the overwhelming fear that something worse could have happened.

=

By the time Jayce arrived at the hospital, he was barely holding himself together. The staff quickly moved aside to let him pass, and his eyes immediately found her—Y/N, lying unconscious on one of the beds, her face pale, blood still trickling from a deep gash on her forehead. Her arm was in a crude sling, and a bruise was already darkening the side of her face. Her normally vibrant expression was gone, replaced by the stillness of someone lost in the depths of pain.

A doctor, an older man with silver hair, approached Jayce. "She’s stable for now, but it was a close call. Head injury, possible concussion, and her arm is broken. We’ve done what we can to stop the bleeding, but we’ll need to monitor her closely. She was unconscious when she arrived—she’s been out for a while now."

Jayce’s breath hitched. "How bad is it? Will she be okay?"

The doctor’s face was grim, but there was an air of professionalism in his voice. "We’re doing everything we can, but there’s always risk with a head injury like this. She needs to rest. The swelling in her arm is significant; we’ll need to reset it properly once she wakes up. But it’s the head wound we’re most concerned about right now."

Jayce’s knees felt weak. "I need to stay with her."

"Of course. But we can’t wake her just yet. She needs time," the doctor advised. "You can sit with her, but don’t be alarmed if she doesn’t stir for a while."

Jayce nodded, his hands shaking as he pulled a chair closer to the bed. He reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from Y/N’s face, his heart aching at the sight of her so fragile, so broken.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I’m here. I won’t leave you."

He sat in silence for what felt like hours, watching her with bated breath, hoping for any sign that she would wake, that she would be okay.

The weight of his fear didn’t lessen. It only grew heavier as he sat there, unable to do anything but wait.

=

The sterile scent of the hospital was thick in the air, and the soft hum of machines buzzed in the background. Jayce hadn’t left her side, not even once. He had stayed there all night, watching her, his eyes never leaving her still form. The soft rise and fall of her chest was the only thing that kept him tethered to the present, to the hope that she would wake up soon.

He must have dozed off for a moment because when his eyes fluttered open, the morning light was streaming through the windows. The room was quiet, save for the distant sounds of the hospital coming to life. He could feel his muscles aching from the hours spent sitting, but all of it felt insignificant when he looked at her.

Y/N’s eyelids twitched slightly, a soft groan escaping her lips as she shifted. Jayce’s heart leapt in his chest.

"Y/N?" His voice was thick with emotion, barely a whisper, but it was enough to pull her from the depths of sleep.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, the confusion in them giving way to the recognition as she focused on him. She blinked a few times, her face contorting in a faint grimace as she tried to move. Then, her gaze dropped to her arm, which was now in a fresh, white cast, her skin pale beneath it.

She tried to sit up, but the movement caused her to wince, and she quickly stopped, her hand instinctively reaching for her head, where the bandages covered the wound. The room spun for a second, and she closed her eyes, taking a shaky breath.

"Easy," Jayce murmured, standing up quickly to steady her. "You don’t have to move. Just rest for a moment."

Y/N swallowed, her voice barely audible. "What... happened?"

Jayce hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching her face for signs of clarity. "You were hurt in the market. A cart fell over, and you got caught in the chaos. You hit your head and broke your arm."

Her brows furrowed in confusion, her expression distant as she tried to piece the fragmented memories together. The sounds of the falling cart, the panic, the pain—it all rushed back in fragments, each piece sharp and fragmented like shards of glass.

A pained laugh escaped her lips, though it was barely audible. "I always seem to find trouble, don't I?"

Jayce’s heart broke at the sound of her voice—so weak, so strained. He gently brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, his fingers lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. "You’ve always been strong, Y/N," he said quietly. "I just... I couldn’t bear to see you like that. I thought I was going to lose you."

She met his eyes, and for a moment, the world outside the sterile walls of the hospital seemed to disappear. It was just the two of them, and she saw something in his gaze that made her breath catch. Something deeper. More than concern, more than fear—it was a rawness she hadn’t realized was there before.

"Jayce..." She whispered his name, her voice soft but laden with gratitude. She wanted to say something more, something that captured how much his presence meant, but the words caught in her throat.

He leaned in closer, his expression softening as he gently cupped her cheek. "You’re going to be okay. I’ll make sure of it."

She didn’t know how to respond to that. She was supposed to be the one protecting herself, looking out for her own safety, yet here she was, vulnerable and needing help. It was a strange feeling—a sense of powerlessness she wasn’t used to. But with Jayce here, by her side, there was something reassuring about it. She felt like, for the first time, it was okay to lean on someone else.

"Thank you," she managed, her voice small, but her eyes spoke volumes. "For staying."

Jayce shook his head, his thumb brushing along her jaw. "I wouldn’t have gone anywhere, Y/N. Not after what happened. I’m not leaving you."

She managed a weak smile, the edges of it faltering as she looked down at her arm, the reality of her situation setting in. "How long will I be like this?" She motioned to her cast, wincing as her fingers brushed against it.

"A few weeks at least," Jayce answered, sitting back down in the chair beside her bed, his eyes never leaving her face. "But you’ll heal. We’ll take it slow and I’ll make sure you get everything you need."

She leaned back against the pillow, her eyes closing briefly, letting the weight of his words settle into her chest. There was a strange comfort in knowing that he would be there, guiding her through whatever came next.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice quieter now,

His brows furrowed in confusion. "Sorry? For what?"

"For causing you all this worry," she whispered, her voice cracking with a vulnerability she rarely allowed to surface. "You didn’t need to—"

He reached out, gently stopping her words by placing a finger on her lips. "Don’t apologize. You’re important to me, Y/N. Don’t ever doubt that."

The words hung in the air between them, a heavy truth that neither of them could deny. There was a tenderness in the way he looked at her, in the way he cared for her, that spoke louder than anything he could say.

And in that moment, as they sat in the quiet hospital room, with the morning sun casting a soft glow over them, Y/N knew she was safe. Not just physically, but in ways she hadn’t realized she needed.

VIKTOR

Viktor’s fingers tightened around the ornate silver handle of his cane as he made his way through the cold, sterile hallways of Piltover’s prestigious medical facility. The news had come to him like a bolt of lightning, sharp and sudden, knocking the wind out of him. His heart had dropped to the pit of his stomach when he had been informed that you, his closest companion, had been gravely injured in an attack.

The details had been sparse: a brutal assault, too violent to describe in full, had left you battered and broken. The doctors had spoken in hushed tones, telling him that your injuries were extensive—multiple fractures, a deep laceration to your scalp, and internal bleeding that threatened your fragile state. You had been rushed to the hospital, but there had been no promise of recovery. He wasn’t sure what exactly had happened, but he couldn’t waste any more time waiting for the truth to reveal itself. He had to see you.

His footsteps echoed in the cold corridors as he approached the room. His thoughts were a storm, each one pulling him in a different direction. Viktor had seen many things in his life, his hands steady when working with machines and formulas, but when it came to you, it was as if the world had tilted. You were the one thing he had allowed himself to care for, truly care for, after all his years in Piltover’s underbelly and upper echelons.

Reaching your room, Viktor paused. The door was ajar, but he could already see the outline of your form through the thin gap. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of you. You were unconscious, your skin pale as porcelain, a sickly contrast to the dark bruises that marred the sides of your face. The machines around you hummed quietly, their beeping too steady, too mechanical to capture the terror that twisted in his chest. A dark stain seeped through the white bandages wrapped tightly around your head, the wound underneath a deep gash that had required urgent care. Your chest rose and fell with shallow, strained breaths, as if the air itself was a challenge for your broken body.

There were other injuries—your arms, swollen and bruised, your legs bandaged and splinted. But it was the sight of your stillness, the absence of your usual warmth, that made him feel as if his entire world had crumbled.

The nurse, a kind-looking woman, turned from her post by the window when she saw Viktor.

“I’m afraid it’s touch-and-go at the moment. The attack— it was brutal. We’ve done all we can, but…” She faltered, as if unsure how to continue.

Viktor’s eyes never left your face, the deep furrows of worry etched into his brow. His voice, normally so controlled, wavered slightly when he spoke. “Please. I need to stay.”

She nodded, her eyes sympathetic but resigned. "We’ll leave you alone. But if there's any change..."

"I won't leave her side," Viktor muttered, his grip tightening around the cane as he stepped closer to the bed.

The nurse left the room quietly, leaving Viktor alone with you.

He sat beside your bed, the sterile smell of the room mixing with the sterile stillness that hung in the air. His fingers trembled as he reached for your hand, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead, and gently resting it there. Your skin was cool under his touch, so much colder than it should have been. His chest constricted, and the weight of your injuries bore down on him like a crushing vice.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice breaking in a way he would never allow anyone to hear. “I won’t let you go. You have to fight this. You have to come back to me.”

His mind raced with thoughts of what he could do—machines, technology, alchemy. Anything. But none of it would heal you. You were beyond the reach of his intellect and inventions. This battle, the one for your life, was something only you could fight.

And for the first time, Viktor wasn’t sure if he could win.

=

Viktor had not left your side for days. The doctors had assured him that you were stable, but your injuries were severe. Multiple fractures, internal bleeding, a head injury that still caused your mind to remain lost in unconsciousness. They could only do so much. He had seen their faces—sympathy and frustration lining their features as they quietly worked to stabilize you. But deep down, Viktor knew that this wasn’t a battle of medicine. It was a battle of will, and it was one you would have to fight.

His fingers found the device at his side—his cane. It had been his companion through the darker paths of Piltover, a tool that had helped him stand, both physically and metaphorically, after everything he had lost. But now, in this sterile room, it felt useless. It wasn’t the support he needed. His inventions, his knowledge—none of it could bring you back from this. The thought of losing you, especially after everything, was something Viktor couldn’t fathom.

His thoughts spiralled in uncertainty as he sat beside you, keeping watch over your still form. The faint beep of the monitors was a constant reminder of the fragility of life. The only sound that kept him grounded. Everything else, the cold, empty halls, the passing of time, the sterile air—all of it faded into the background when his gaze locked onto you.

And then, it happened. A slight shift. Your hand twitched ever so slightly in response to the soft pressure of his own. A tiny movement. But to Viktor, it felt like a sign—a flicker of life in the vast darkness that had descended around him. His breath caught in his throat, and his heart raced. For the first time in days, he dared to hope.

His fingers tightened around yours, gently cradling your hand as if it were the most precious thing in the world. His gaze softened as he looked down at you, trying to read any small sign that you might hear him, that you might sense his presence.

“You’re stronger than I could ever be,” Viktor murmured quietly, his voice rough with emotion. “You’ve always been. I know you’ll pull through. You’ve always fought, and I know you’ll fight again.”

His words were more for himself than for you, an anchor in the sea of doubt that swirled in his mind. He had never been one to rely on anyone, never asked for help, but now… now he was praying to a force he didn’t fully understand. A force that would bring you back to him.

=

Days passed, and Viktor remained steadfast by your side, the uncertainty of your condition pressing down on him like an unbearable weight. The steady beep of the monitors became a constant rhythm, but it was no longer just a reminder of your fragility. It was a pulse of hope, however faint, that you were still there, still fighting.

Then, one afternoon, the air seemed to shift. The silence in the room was broken by the faintest sound—a soft breath, a whisper of movement. Viktor’s eyes snapped to your face, his heart racing as he leaned closer, barely daring to breathe. Your eyelids fluttered, a slow, deliberate movement as your body began to stir.

For a moment, everything stood still.

Then, your eyes opened.

It was the softest of glances at first, your gaze unfocused and distant, but Viktor could see the recognition there. The way your brows furrowed as you fought to make sense of the world around you, the world that had become a blur of white walls and cold metal. His heart soared, and he held his breath for a moment before leaning closer, his voice trembling with relief.

“Miláčku,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re awake. You’re here.” (Sweetheart)

You blinked, your gaze finally finding his. A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips, barely a flicker, but it was enough to make his chest tighten.

“Viktor...” Your voice was hoarse, raw, as if you hadn’t spoken in ages, but it was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. “What... what happened?”

Viktor’s fingers tightened around yours, his grip gentle but firm, as if holding onto you would somehow make the world a little less fragile. “You’ve been hurt, badly. But you’re going to be alright now. You’re safe.”

You nodded weakly, your hand still in his, and Viktor could see the exhaustion in your eyes, the struggle to remain conscious. “I feel... like I’ve been run over by a whole tram,” you said with a soft, raspy chuckle, the humour in your voice a small but powerful sign that you were still you, still fighting.

Viktor’s smile, though laced with concern, stretched wider as he leaned closer, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead. “If anyone could survive that, it’s you.”

=

The days passed, and slowly, you regained your strength. Your recovery was slow, but it was steady. The doctors were impressed by your resilience, but Viktor knew better. He knew it was you, your spirit, your strength that had brought you back.

Finally, the day came when you were ready to leave. The doctors had given their approval, and Viktor had arrived earlier than usual, standing at the foot of your bed, watching as you struggled to stand. Your leg was still weak, a crutch resting under your arm, but you managed to lift yourself with Viktor’s help, steadying yourself as you stood.

Viktor’s hand hovered near your waist, his fingers close but never quite touching, as if he feared you might falter. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he asked, his voice full of care.

You gave him a smirk, the same smirk that always managed to make his heart skip. “Well, I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in this sterile prison, am I?”

Viktor chuckled, the sound light and warm, a rare moment of levity between the two of you. “No, I suppose not. But take it slow.”

With his assistance, you made your way down the corridor, the world around you still a little dizzy, but the air felt sweeter than you remembered. You glanced at Viktor, who walked beside you, his cane tapping quietly against the floor as he kept a steady pace.

As you reached the exit, you paused, glancing down at your crutch, and then back at Viktor, who was looking at you with an expression that was a mixture of pride and affection. You gave him a teasing grin, your eyes sparkling despite the exhaustion still lingering in your body.

“Well, look at us,” you said, your voice playful. “Seems like we’re twinning now. You’ve got your cane, I’ve got mine.”

Viktor looked down at his cane with a raised brow before turning his gaze back to you, a small, fond smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose we are,” he said softly, a rare spark of amusement in his usually stoic features.

You leaned slightly against him, your crutch tapping lightly against the ground as you started to walk, side by side. The sunlight streamed through the hospital doors, bathing the two of you in its warmth. The world outside, so full of uncertainty, suddenly didn’t feel so daunting.

“Just promise me one thing, Viktor,” you said, your voice soft but steady as you walked together. “We take it one step at a time. No rushing.”

Viktor glanced down at you, his heart swelling with warmth as he nodded. “One step at a time.”

And together, with the faintest smile on his lips and the gentle echo of your laughter in the air, the two of you walked out of the hospital. The future was uncertain, but with each other, it seemed like anything was possible.

JAYVIK

The streets of Zaun were never kind, especially not when you were venturing deep into the industrial heart of the district. You had set out early in the morning with a purpose, a goal to retrieve a specific part for Viktor. It wasn’t unusual for you to help him out in this way—your knowledge of the underbelly of Zaun and the way the city’s mechanical and technological pieces intertwined had proved invaluable to him more than once. Today, however, things weren’t going to go as planned.

As you ventured into a particularly rundown part of Zaun, the air thick with smog, the sounds of metal grinding and the occasional spark of machinery, you weren’t aware of the dangers that lurked nearby. The building you were in had been unstable for years, and you only noticed too late that something was off. A low rumble echoed through the foundation of the building, and then—chaos. An explosion rocked the area, throwing you against a nearby wall as debris rained down around you.

Pain shot through your body as pieces of rubble and shrapnel caught you in various places. You struggled to move, your vision blurring from the impact, but you were far from helpless. The pain was overwhelming, but you pushed through it. It wasn’t the first time you had been injured in Zaun, and you knew how to survive. But you couldn’t deny how badly you were hurt.

Just as your consciousness began to fade, the sound of heavy boots approaching reached your ears. An enforcer—someone from Piltover—appeared through the smoke. They were part of the enforcement team sent to keep Zaun's chaos at bay, but in this moment, they seemed like an angel. They quickly assessed the situation and, with the urgency of someone who had seen too many casualties, scooped you up and carried you out of the wreckage.

=

Hours later, you woke up in a sterile hospital room, far removed from the grimy streets of Zaun. The smell of antiseptic and the soft hum of medical equipment surrounded you like a foreign blanket, and your foggy mind struggled to piece together the events that had brought you here. Your body ached, every movement sending a wave of pain through you, but it was nothing compared to the sudden panic that gripped your chest. How much time had passed since the explosion? How had you ended up here, and—most importantly—where were Viktor and Jayc—

“You’re awake.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the sound of Viktor’s voice, and you turned your head slowly, your vision swimming with dizziness. He was standing at your side, leaning slightly on his cane, his usually composed expression clouded with a mixture of relief and raw concern. His clothes weren’t his usual crisp attire, but the hospital garb of the facility, and his eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn’t slept since the moment he’d heard what had happened to you. His gaze softened when it met yours, but there was something else there, something deeper, a shadow of something darker.

“Viktor…” you rasped, your throat dry from the smoke and dust you’d inhaled earlier, trying to sit up but finding the strength to do so lacking. Your body felt like it had been run over by a train.

Before you could move, the door opened, and Jayce’s tall frame filled the doorway. His broad shoulders were stiff with tension, and when his eyes locked on yours, a storm of worry and something else crossed his face. He quickly crossed the room to your side, sitting gently on the edge of the bed. His hand brushed against your hair, pushing it away from your forehead with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the fury that was building in his chest.

“You gave us a scare, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion as his fingers gently traced your jawline. “I—damn it, we almost lost you. What the hell were you thinking?”

You winced at his words. They hit harder than the explosion itself. He was angry, and you knew why. Jayce had always warned you about the dangers of Zaun, about the risks of venturing into its heart alone, and yet, you had disregarded his concerns, convinced that the part Viktor needed was worth it. But now, here you were, broken and bruised, and you could see the anger in Jayce’s eyes, the hurt that came from seeing you in this condition, all of it wrapped in the form of a burning fury.

You tried to respond, but your voice came out in a weak rasp. “I—I had to go. The part Viktor needed…”

“I don’t give a damn about the part!” Jayce interrupted, his voice rising with frustration. “You could have been killed down there! Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be down in Zaun, alone, with no one to help you if something went wrong? We’ve talked about this, Y/N. You can’t just keep throwing yourself into these situations like you’re invincible!”

He ran a hand through his hair, clearly trying to calm himself, but it didn’t seem to help. Viktor stepped forward then, his cane tapping softly against the floor as he placed a gentle hand on Jayce’s shoulder, his touch grounding, though he shared the same undercurrent of tension. Viktor’s voice was quieter but just as full of worry. “Jayce, let her breathe. She’s been through enough.”

But Jayce wasn’t ready to back down. He turned to Viktor, his gaze sharp and accusing. “Enough? She’s been through enough? Viktor, do you know what happened to her down there?” His eyes returned to you, the fury in them mixing with something more desperate. “She was caught in an explosion. The blast hit her directly, and we don’t even know how much shrapnel got lodged in her body. Her ribs are cracked, her leg’s broken in two places, and she’s got a concussion. You think she’s been through enough?” His voice trembled, straining to contain the emotions swirling inside him. “She could’ve died, Viktor. You and I both know it.”

You closed your eyes at the onslaught of his words, your heart pounding in your chest. He was right. The injuries you’d sustained in that explosion had been severe—too severe for any one person to simply walk away from. But hearing Jayce say it so bluntly, so raw, it hit harder than the physical pain. You had made them both worry, had made them both lose their calm, and now the guilt felt heavier than the weight of the world pressing down on you.

Jayce exhaled sharply, hands gripping the edge of your bed as if he was fighting not to reach out and shake some sense into you. “What if we had lost you, Y/N?” His voice cracked. “What if we didn’t find you in time? What if you… didn’t make it? What then?”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you finally lifted your hand, your fingers trembling as they found his. The touch seemed to ground him, and his anger faltered, his eyes softening despite the storm still raging inside him.

“I didn’t mean to scare you…” you whispered, your voice barely more than a rasp. You could feel your strength waning as your body demanded rest, but you pushed it aside, needing them to understand. “I just—Viktor needed that part so badly, and I didn’t think…”

Viktor’s hand covered yours then, his grip gentle but firm. “You didn’t think about yourself, Y/N. That’s the problem. You keep pushing yourself until you break. Do you know how much we need you? Both of us.”

Jayce exhaled again, quieter this time, and leaned closer to you, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “We need you here, with us, not out there risking your life for parts or projects. I don’t care if it’s for Viktor, or for anything else. You’re our priority.”

A silence fell over the room, the weight of their words hanging heavy between you. You understood their frustration, their fear. You had known all along that it was dangerous to go down to Zaun, but you had convinced yourself that it was worth it. Now, all you could feel was the guilt of not taking their warnings seriously.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, barely able to hold your eyes open any longer. “I didn’t mean to put you both through this. I just… I just wanted to help.”

Viktor leaned in then, his voice softer but no less intense. “We know you wanted to help. But, Y/N, you don’t need to do this alone. Not anymore. We’re here. We’ll figure this out together.”

Jayce nodded in agreement, his hand now resting softly on your shoulder. “Together, Y/N. But next time… don’t go off on your own like that. Promise us.”

You nodded slowly, feeling a deep sense of warmth and security in their presence. As they hovered over you, watching you with such care and affection, the realization settled deep inside you: you weren’t just a part of a team or a relationship. You were family, and together, you would face whatever came next.

VANDER

Y/N had always loved the peaceful quiet of the Last Drop after a long day. The tavern had seen a steady stream of customers, and now, with the evening winding down, all that was left was the work of closing up. Vander had left to grab more ale from the market, and the kids—Vi, Powder, Claggor, and Mylo—were busy cleaning up the aftermath of their evening antics.

You couldn’t help but smile at the chaotic energy they brought, even when they were trying to help. Powder had accidentally spilled some cider earlier, and Claggor had nearly knocked over a shelf of glasses while trying to set up chairs.

As the last customer walked out the door, you breathed a sigh of relief. The weight of the long evening started to lift. But just as you were about to start wiping down the bar, the door creaked open again, sending a chill through the air.

"Can I get one more drink?" a voice asked, cold and gravelly.

You looked up, startled. The man in the doorway had a rough, unshaven face, his clothes were worn, and his hands were clenched tightly around the handle of a large, rusty knife. His eyes were wild with desperation, and an unsettling aura of danger surrounded him.

You could feel your heart rate spike as you realized what was happening. "I’m sorry, we're closed," you said, trying to keep your voice steady, but the flicker of fear was unmistakable.

The man didn’t seem to care. He took a slow step toward you, his eyes darting around the room as if assessing the situation. "You're gonna make me a drink, sweetheart," he growled, his eyes narrowing with intent. "And then, you're gonna tell me where the cash is."

You swallowed, eyes darting to the kids. Vi was in the back room, Powder was cleaning up some of the glasses, and Claggor and Mylo were sitting near the table, too far to hear anything.

You had to protect them.

Your mind raced. What could you do? How could you get out of this? Your pulse hammered in your ears, but you turned around quickly to face the kids, putting on a calm smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

"You three, go and help Vi in the back," you said, your voice trembling despite the calm facade. "I'll handle this last customer."

The three kids hesitated, confusion and worry flashing across their faces. They were young, but smart. Claggor’s brow furrowed, Mylo shifted nervously, and Powder's usual energy was subdued, a flicker of concern in her eyes.

"Just go. I’ll be fine," you added quickly, though your stomach twisted with fear.

Claggor glanced at Mylo, his gaze flickering between you and the door. They both got to their feet, uncertain but obedient, and headed for the back room. Powder followed closely behind, but you knew they were listening for any sign of trouble.

As soon as the kids were out of sight, the man stepped forward, closing the distance between you both. His hand shot out, grabbing your arm tightly, his fingers digging into your skin.

"Move," he demanded, his breath smelling faintly of alcohol and something far worse. He shoved you roughly toward the bar.

Your heart raced. You needed to think fast. The kids were out of harm’s way for now, but the danger was still very real. You had to get out of this.

The man was too focused on you to notice anything else. "Make me a drink," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "And make it quick."

You nodded, trying to keep your composure as your mind raced. "Okay, just... one moment," you said, walking slowly toward the bar to prepare the drink, trying to keep your movements steady. The clink of glass bottles felt unnervingly loud in the otherwise silent tavern.

You could feel his eyes boring into your back, his presence looming like a shadow. The knife he held glinted in the dim light, an ominous reminder of the threat hanging over you. This wasn’t just a robbery—it was dangerous. And you needed to find a way out of it before it escalated further.

The man took a step closer, his boots scraping against the floor. His breath was harsh, and his eyes gleamed with malice. "Don’t try anything funny," he warned, his voice low, a growl of menace behind every word.

You swallowed, trying to steady your hands as you poured the drink. The bottle felt heavy, the weight of your nerves making everything seem slower than it should be. "I’m just trying to do my job," you muttered, trying to buy time, trying to stay calm.

The moment the glass was filled, you slid it across the bar to him. He reached for it, his eyes never leaving you. His grip was tight on the glass as he lifted it to his lips, savoring the moment before he drank.

It was then you saw it: your chance.

The knife. It was just behind the counter, where you kept extra supplies. If you could only get to it, you might have a chance.

You quickly leaned down, trying to make the movement look casual as you subtly reached for the hidden blade. Your heart pounded, your breath shallow. Every second counted.

But the second his eyes flickered toward your movement, his expression hardened.

"I knew you were gonna try something!" he snarled, lunging toward you with lightning speed.

Before you could react, his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and yanking you away from the counter. His grip was like iron, twisting your arm painfully, and you gasped in shock.

"Stop!" you shouted, struggling against him, but the man’s strength was too much. His hand clamped down harder, and he dragged you backward, pulling you away from the counter. You tried to break free, but your body was forced to stumble, your chest tight with panic.

He shoved you roughly to the ground, knocking the wind out of you. You gasped for air, but before you could regain your breath, his boot pressed into your chest, the full weight of his body pinning you down. The cold edge of the knife slid dangerously close to your throat, and you could feel the blade just grazing your skin.

"Try anything again, and I’ll slit your throat," he spat, his voice low and venomous. "And then, I'll go into that back room and finish off those kids of yours."

The mention of the kids made your heart race faster, a flood of panic coursing through your veins. You couldn’t let him do that. Not while they were so close. But then, you heard it—a familiar voice, filled with fury.

"Let her go, you bastard!" Vander’s voice rang out, fierce and commanding.

The door slammed open with such force that it echoed through the tavern, and the man stumbled back, startled by the sudden intrusion. Vander rushed in, a towering figure of fury. His fists were clenched, his face a mask of cold rage as he moved with deadly intent. The sight of him made your heart swell with a mix of relief and fear.

The robber froze for a moment, caught between his panic and his desire to control the situation. His grip tightened around your neck as he pulled you closer, pressing the blade harder against your skin. His voice was frantic. "One more step, and she’s dead!" he shouted, his hand shaking as he held you hostage.

Vander’s eyes blazed with fury, but he didn’t move a muscle. He stood still, calculating, knowing better than to make the wrong move. "Don’t do this. Let her go, and no one has to get hurt," Vander’s voice was steady, but there was an underlying growl that made it clear just how far he was willing to go.

But the man was shaking now, desperate. His grip on you tightened, and you could barely breathe, your pulse pounding in your ears as the world started to tilt, dark edges creeping into your vision. You gasped for air, but it wasn’t enough.

And then, in the blink of an eye, Vander acted.

With a roar of fury, Vander lunged forward with all his might, knocking the man off balance. The robber flailed, but Vander was faster, slamming him into the counter with a brutal force that left the man gasping for breath. The sound of the collision echoed, the force of the impact rattling the shelves behind the bar.

But it was too late for you.

The knife, still in the man’s hand, had slashed deep into your side as he jerked you toward him. You felt the sharp sting of the blade cut into your flesh, and blood began to pour freely, warm and slick against your skin. The pain was overwhelming, shooting through your body in a wave that left you dizzy.

"Y/N!" Vander shouted in panic, his voice cracking as he rushed to your side. The man had been swiftly subdued by the kids, who had returned at the sound of the commotion. Vi’s eyes were wide, her hand already on your shoulder, trying to keep you steady.

You gasped, struggling to stay conscious. The world around you was starting to blur, the edges fading into the darkness as the pain threatened to take over. "I’m okay... just... just need to breathe," you whispered weakly, your voice barely audible.

Vander knelt beside you, his hands hovering over you, frantic but gentle as he checked for more wounds. His eyes were full of anguish, searching your face for any sign that you were going to be okay. "Stay with me, Y/N. Don’t you dare pass out on me," he pleaded, his voice breaking. The fear in his eyes was palpable, and you could feel his hands trembling as he held you.

"Vi," he said quickly, his voice urgent but controlled, "keep Powder back. She’s already scared enough. Make sure she doesn’t come near."

Vi nodded sharply, her expression determined, but the tremor in her hands betrayed her worry. She quickly moved to Powder’s side, trying to keep her from getting too close, though you could see how hard it was for both of them.

Vander's eyes darted toward the door, his gaze scanning for any sign of help. "Claggor, Mylo," he ordered, his voice steady despite the rising panic. "Go find a doctor, or someone who can help. Now."

Claggor and Mylo wasted no time. They nodded and rushed out the door, Mylo’s face pale, his usual bravado replaced with quiet panic, but they were moving fast, determined to find someone who could help you.

Vander turned back to you, his hand pressing gently against your wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. His brow furrowed, sweat beading on his forehead. "You’re going to be okay," he promised softly, his voice breaking. "I won’t let you go."

You focused on the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hands, and the fierce determination in his eyes, trying to hold on to that small bit of reassurance as the world around you darkened. You tried to speak again, but the words caught in your throat, your body struggling to stay conscious.

Vander’s grip on you tightened slightly as he looked around for anything that could help, but he didn’t leave your side. His voice was low, filled with a raw, desperate tenderness. "Stay with me, love. I’m not letting you slip away."

=

You slowly stirred, the first thing you noticed being the warmth wrapped around you. A soft, gentle weight pressed against your side, and you shifted slightly, trying to make sense of where you were.

As you blinked, your surroundings began to come into focus. You were in your bed, the familiar creaky wood of the frame beneath you, the comfort of the blankets tucked tightly around you. You could smell the faint scent of fresh linen and a soft, earthy aroma that was undeniably Vander’s.

Then, you felt it—a small, comforting weight against your side. Powder was curled up next to you, her head resting on your shoulder, her small body tucked close to yours. Her breathing was soft, steady, and you could feel her warmth against you, as if she had instinctively sought comfort in the only place she felt safe.

But the pain—the pain—was still there, lingering in your side like a dull throb. You winced slightly, feeling a sharp reminder of the events that had led to this moment.

You tried to move, but immediately felt a wave of dizziness wash over you, your head spinning as if the room were tilting. The pain in your side intensified, and you winced again, a quiet groan escaping your lips.

At the sound of your movement, you heard a soft rustle, and then the familiar sound of Vander’s voice.

"Hey," he said quietly, his voice low and soothing, like a lifeline. "Easy, easy. Don’t move too much."

You looked toward the voice, finding him sitting beside the bed in a chair, his broad frame hunched slightly as he leaned forward. His face was a little worn, the tension around his eyes still present, but when he saw you awake, his expression softened.

You tried to speak, but your throat felt dry, cracked from the strain. A soft cough escaped you instead, and you winced.

Vander immediately stood, moving to grab a cup of water from the nightstand. He was quick, his movements filled with purpose, but there was an underlying tenderness in everything he did.

"Here," he said, helping you sit up just enough to sip from the cup. His hand was steady, and his gaze never left you, like he was afraid to look away for even a second.

You drank, feeling the cool liquid ease the dryness in your throat. When you finished, you sighed softly, your body relaxing slightly from the small comfort.

Vander’s eyes softened as he lowered the cup. "How do you feel?" he asked, his voice still gentle but laced with concern.

"Like I’ve been through hell," you whispered, the words coming out raspy. "But I’m... still here."

His face twitched with the smallest of smiles, though it was laced with worry. "Thank the gods for that," he muttered, his hand resting lightly on your arm. "You scared the hell out of us, Y/N. You don’t know what it was like... seeing you like that."

You tried to lift your hand, wanting to reassure him, but your body was still sluggish, the weight of the injury keeping you grounded. Powder shifted next to you, her little face still soft with sleep, but her small hands instinctively moved to clutch onto you tighter, as if she too was holding on, making sure you were okay.

Vander chuckled softly, his gaze softening as he looked down at Powder’s curled-up form. "She hasn’t left your side since you were brought up here. None of them have," he said, his voice warm with affection. "Vi’s been running around, making sure everything’s alright. Mylo’s been checking in on you every hour, making sure you’re comfortable. Claggor’s been keeping busy around the Last Drop, doing what he can to help out. But Powder… Powder’s been here. Right by your side, keeping you safe."

You smiled faintly at the thought, your heart swelling at the sight of the little girl beside you. "I’m okay," you whispered again, this time, more sure of yourself. "Just... just need some time."

Vander nodded, though there was still a shadow of worry in his eyes. "I’ll make sure you get that time," he promised, his voice firm. "No one’s gonna hurt you again. Not as long as I’m here."

You gave him a small smile, feeling the weight of the moment settle in. You knew what he meant—his protective nature was unwavering, and it made you feel safe despite everything that had happened.

"I know," you said softly, your voice thick with gratitude. "I trust you."

He gave you a soft, loving look, his hand gently brushing the hair from your forehead once more. "You should," he replied quietly. "You always should."

The room was quiet for a moment, save for the sound of Powder’s soft breathing and the steady rhythm of Vander’s calm voice. You felt comfort in the stillness, the safety of the moment, knowing that as long as you had him by your side, you’d be okay.

SILCO

It was a simple task, or so Silco had told you.

"Go and retrieve the shipment," he'd said. "Don’t take too long. I don’t like waiting."

You had no reason to doubt him; you had always completed his assignments, no matter how dangerous they seemed. But this one had been different. The moment you'd stepped into the dark alley where the shipment was meant to be handed off, everything went wrong. An ambush. Outnumbered and outgunned, you'd fought fiercely, but you couldn’t avoid the blow that knocked you to the ground. Gunshots rang out, and pain exploded through your body as you were struck in the side.

You couldn’t think straight after that. Blood pooled around you, and the only thing that kept you going was the thought of Silco. He was waiting for you, and you couldn’t fail him.

=

Every step was a struggle, your body screaming in protest, but you managed to drag yourself through the streets, your vision blurry and your limbs heavy. The only thing that mattered was getting to him, to safety. The alleyways felt like they stretched on forever as you limped forward, each movement sending fresh waves of pain crashing through your body.

Finally, the familiar doors of Silco’s office came into view. The sight of it brought a wave of relief, and despite the world around you growing dim, you made your way inside.

You didn’t make it far before your legs buckled beneath you, and you collapsed onto the cold floor, gasping for air. Blood pooled beneath you, staining the polished floors of his office.

You could barely keep your eyes open, but you could hear him. His voice, low and commanding, calling out your name. There was something in his tone—a sharpness, a fear you hadn't heard before.

"Y/N!"

His footsteps were quick as he rushed toward you, and before you could say a word, he was kneeling beside you, his hands trembling as he gently cradled your face.

“Y/N, what happened?” His voice was a mix of concern and anger. You could barely focus on his words as your vision blurred even more, your pulse pounding in your ears. He was angry, but there was fear in his eyes—something you never thought you would see from him.

You tried to speak, but only a weak cough escaped your lips. The blood was thick in your throat, making it hard to breathe.

"Don't speak," he said, his hand moving to your side where you could feel the blood seeping through your clothes. He cursed under his breath, his eyes scanning your injuries in a way that only someone as calculated as Silco could do. “Stay with me, Y/N. I’ll take care of you.”

His fingers brushed against the wound on your side, and you winced, but you didn’t pull away. You had never seen him like this before. Silco—always the cold, calculating figure—was now focused solely on you, his usual control slipping away with every second you spent lying there, broken and bleeding.

He quickly motioned to his men, and within moments, they were gathering supplies, ready to assist him. But Silco didn’t leave your side. His gaze was unwavering, his expression dark but with a tenderness that, for a fleeting moment, made you wonder if he had always cared for you in a way you hadn’t noticed before.

"You're going to be alright," he whispered, but there was a flicker of doubt in his voice.

You wanted to reassure him, but the words wouldn’t come. Your eyes drifted closed, the weight of the world pulling you into unconsciousness.

Before you completely lost yourself to the darkness, you heard him again—his voice desperate, almost pleading.

"Y/N, don’t leave me."

And for the first time in a long while, you felt something you hadn’t expected—something warm, something human, in Silco’s touch.

=

The darkness slowly ebbed away, replaced by a dull, persistent ache that throbbed through your body. Your senses returned to you in fragments—the weight of warm blankets draped over you, the faint scent of smoke and whiskey lingering in the air, and the muted flicker of candlelight casting soft shadows across the room.

You stirred, your muscles protesting with even the smallest movement. A sharp pain in your side made you hiss, and a low voice cut through the silence.

"Finally decided to wake up, have you?"

Your heavy eyelids fluttered open, and the first thing you saw was Silco, seated beside the bed in a worn but sturdy chair. His posture was relaxed—one arm draped over the armrest, fingers idly tapping against it—but his gaze was anything but indifferent. Mismatched eyes burned into you, sharp and calculating, yet laced with something else. Something softer.

You blinked in confusion, your thoughts still sluggish. "Where—?"

"My room," Silco answered before you could finish. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied you. "You were out for two days. I thought you might have been stupid enough to slip away entirely."

His words were sharp, but there was no real venom in them.

You let your head sink back into the pillow, exhaling shakily. "Guess I’m too stubborn for that."

Silco let out a scoff, shaking his head. "Reckless and insufferable. A brilliant combination."

Your lips twitched into the faintest smirk, but the movement was brief as the pain flared again. You shifted slightly, feeling the bandages wrapped tightly around your torso. They were clean, fresh—someone had taken great care to ensure your wound hadn’t worsened.

You glanced at Silco, realizing for the first time how tired he looked. There were dark circles under his eyes, deeper than usual, and his usual composed demeanor had frayed edges.

He had been watching over you.

The thought sent warmth curling through your chest, though you were too exhausted to fully process it.

"Didn’t think you'd care this much, boss." Your voice was weak but teasing, testing the waters.

Silco tilted his head, regarding you with an unreadable expression. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

"I don’t." The words were immediate, but even as he said them, his gaze lingered on you, betraying the lie. His fingers tapped idly against the armrest again, his tell—he was thinking, calculating.

"Don't speak," he said, his hand moving to your side where you could feel the blood seeping through your clothes. He cursed under his breath, his eyes scanning your injuries in a way that only someone as calculated as Silco could do. “Stay with me, Y/N. I’ll take care of you.”

You let out a breathy chuckle, wincing slightly. "Liar."

A flicker of amusement crossed his face before he exhaled sharply, tilting his head back. "You’re a headache, Y/N. Always have been. And yet, here I am, wasting my time making sure you don’t get yourself killed."

You watched him for a moment, exhaustion tugging at your limbs but something inside you refusing to let the moment slip away.

"Thank you." The words were quiet, sincere.

Silco's gaze flickered to yours, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reached for the whiskey glass resting on the nearby table and took a slow sip, as if considering his next words carefully.

Finally, he set the glass down with a soft clink and met your gaze once more. "Get some rest, Y/N. And next time, try not to be such an idiot."

His words were harsh, but there was a softness in his tone that hadn’t been there before.

You let your eyes drift shut, feeling safe in a way you hadn’t expected. As sleep pulled you under again, you heard the faintest whisper—so quiet, you almost thought you imagined it.

"I won’t let you die on me."

JINX/POWDER

The sound of an explosion echoed through the night, vibrating through the cold streets of Zaun. It was a familiar noise to the residents of the undercity, but tonight, it held a different tone. The usual chaos that followed Jinx's antics hadn't yet settled in her mind, the excitement that always accompanied her love for explosions still bubbled within her. But tonight… tonight, something went terribly wrong.

Jinx had been experimenting again, surrounded by a pile of scattered gadgets, discarded parts, and half-finished contraptions. She was on a mission to test a new bomb, something a little bigger, a little flashier—just the way she liked it. She wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings, and that’s when it happened.

Y/N had been walking through the alley, oblivious to the madness unfolding around them. The city was dark, and the distant hum of machinery echoed off the walls as Y/N made their way down a quiet stretch of street. The night air felt crisp, and the streets were still enough that the only sounds were their footsteps. They’d come to check on Jinx—she’d been gone for hours, and Y/N was getting worried about her safety.

One second, everything was calm—the next, a deafening blast erupted from behind a stack of crates. A brilliant flash of light and an intense wave of heat engulfed the area, sending Y/N sprawling to the ground. The world seemed to spin as debris rained down around them, the sudden chaos overwhelming their senses. The only thing they could hear was the ringing in their ears and the thumping of their heart in their chest.

Jinx didn’t realize Y/N had been so close. She hadn’t noticed the figure moving behind the crates just as she tossed her bomb into the air, her laugh ringing out as the explosion went off with a thunderous roar. The bright light of the blast consumed everything, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though time itself had come to a halt.

As the dust finally began to settle, Jinx stood frozen for a moment, blinking through the haze of smoke. Her heart was pounding in her chest, but it wasn’t the excitement she usually felt in the aftermath of one of her explosive experiments. There was no thrill, no rush of adrenaline. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

"Y/N?" she called out, her voice trembling as she stepped forward, the world around her quieting in a way she wasn’t used to. Her eyes frantically searched the area, but all she saw was smoke, debris, and the remnants of her careless mistake. She could still smell the acrid sting of the explosion in the air, but Y/N’s figure—their silhouette—was gone. It was like the world had swallowed them whole.

"Y/N!" Jinx's voice cracked, growing louder, her panic mounting as she scanned the area. She stepped over broken pieces of metal and twisted bits of wood, calling for Y/N in the hopes that they’d just be somewhere nearby, safe. Her heart felt like it was going to burst out of her chest as the minutes ticked by. What if they were too close? What if… No. Stop it, Jinx. Think.

She didn’t finish the thought. She couldn’t. The overwhelming fear that gripped her was too strong to ignore, too consuming. It was all she could do to keep moving, pushing herself through the wreckage in search of any sign of life.

And then, through the haze, she saw them.

Y/N was lying on the cold ground, unmoving. The sight of her—broken and bruised—sent a cold shock through Jinx's entire body. The world around her seemed to blur and warp as her legs gave out beneath her. She stumbled to the ground beside them, the blood pounding in her ears as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing.

"No… no, no, no…" she muttered under her breath, her hands trembling as she reached out to them. Her fingertips brushed against Y/N's shoulder, but she quickly pulled back, unsure of what to do, unsure of what she even could do.

Y/N’s clothes were torn, blood staining the concrete beneath them. Their breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. Panic surged through Jinx’s chest, her usual calm demeanour shattered as she desperately tried to assess the damage. How had this happened? How had she let this happen?

It felt like everything was moving in slow motion. The explosion, the sound of her laughter, the rush of adrenaline—all of it faded into the background, leaving only the quiet, fearful pounding of her heart. The air around her was heavy with dust, the scent of smoke still clinging to the ruins, but none of it mattered. All she could hear was Y/N’s weak breathing, the sound of their life hanging by a thread.

"Y/N, please," Jinx whispered, her voice breaking as she placed a hand on their shoulder. "I didn’t mean for this to happen… I never wanted to hurt you."

She couldn’t stop the tears that welled up in her eyes, even though she quickly wiped them away with the back of her hand. Jinx was a whirlwind, a storm of energy, but this? This was different. She had always been reckless, always willing to walk the fine line between chaos and control—but she never expected it to cost her this much.

Her hands were shaking violently as she gently shook Y/N’s shoulder, trying to rouse them. "Come on… please, stay with me. Please, I’ll fix this, I swear. I’ll make it right."

She kept telling herself that. I’ll make it right. I’ll fix it. But deep down, she was terrified. She wasn’t sure how to help them. She didn’t know if she could. She wasn’t even sure if there was enough time.

"Just hold on. Please." Jinx’s voice cracked, the words barely escaping her lips. She could feel the panic rising in her chest like a tidal wave, but she fought against it. She wasn’t going to let this be the end. Not like this.

After a long moment, she stood, her knees weak beneath her as she pulled Y/N into her arms. Her heart ached as she cradled them against her chest, her mind racing with plans she didn’t know how to execute. She needed to get them to safety. She needed to find help. She needed to do something—anything—to make sure Y/N didn’t slip away.

Her usual wild grin, the one that had always been present in her most chaotic moments, was gone. In its place was a fierce determination. She wasn’t going to lose them. Not like this. Not because of her.

Jinx's hands, usually so quick to cause destruction, were now careful as she gently lifted Y/N’s limp form. Her expression hardened, her jaw clenched. This time, it wasn’t about making things go boom. It wasn’t about explosions or chaos—it was about saving the one person she cared about more than anything.

"Hold on, okay?" she whispered, her voice soft but firm. "I’m gonna get you help. I won’t let you go, Y/N. I swear on everything, I won’t let you go."

She rushed through the debris, moving with purpose as the city around her seemed to vanish into the background. There was only one thing on her mind now. The destruction that had once been her obsession no longer mattered.

She would make this right. She would make sure Y/N was okay.

=

The world was blurry when Y/N started to wake up. Their head throbbed, as if it was trying to remind them of the pain, the explosion, the searing heat that had engulfed them. But, as the fog slowly lifted from their mind, the pain didn’t feel as sharp. In fact, it felt… muffled, like they were floating somewhere between reality and a dream.

They blinked a few times, trying to clear the haze from their vision. The light was dim, flickering from the corner of the room, and there was a faint smell of something burning. Not quite fire, but something close—something familiar.

When Y/N turned their head, they noticed the rusted metal walls, the neon glow outside casting a faint purple hue across the room. They were somewhere… familiar, yet unsettling.

"You're awake."

The voice made Y/N's heart skip a beat. It was shaky, but there was an undeniable edge to it. Y/N's gaze turned toward the source, and there she was—Jinx. Her blue hair was a bit messier than usual, and her clothes were scorched in places, but she was standing at the foot of the cot Y/N had been placed on, her arms crossed tightly as if trying to hold herself together.

Jinx’s expression was unreadable, her eyes wide but guarded, as if she were unsure how to act now that they were awake. She was usually so full of energy, always in motion, but right now, she looked like she was holding herself back from breaking down.

Y/N tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through her side, and she winced, her body reminding her of the injury she’d sustained. "What happened?" she managed to whisper, her voice raspy.

"You… you got caught in the explosion," Jinx said, her voice tight. She hesitated before continuing, eyes darting away for a moment, her fingers fidgeting nervously. "I—I didn’t mean for you to be so close. I was just messing around, and—"

Y/N tried to process the words, but her brain still felt fuzzy. The explosion. Jinx’s voice. The feeling of warmth, of being pulled out of the wreckage. And then, nothing.

"You carried me here?" Y/N asked, her words barely a whisper as she looked around, trying to make sense of her surroundings. The hideout was cluttered, like usual—discarded bits of machinery, papers strewn across the floor, and tools scattered everywhere. But it felt quieter here, like the madness had taken a backseat to something far more important.

Jinx nodded, her shoulders tense as she glanced over at her. "I didn’t know where else to go," she said quietly. "You were—" Her voice faltered, and she swallowed hard before continuing. "I couldn’t just leave you there. I had to make sure you were okay."

Y/N’s eyes softened at the vulnerability in her voice. She had always known Jinx was chaotic, unpredictable, and reckless. But in that moment, she saw something else. Something far deeper. Jinx had always thrived on explosions and chaos, but this was different. This was real fear, real regret, and she could see the cracks in her mask of wild energy.

"Jinx…" Y/N started, her voice strained. "You didn’t mean to hurt me. I know you didn’t."

Jinx’s face twitched, and she shifted uncomfortably, her usual bravado slipping for a moment. "But I did hurt you," she said, her tone sharp, though there was a vulnerability behind her words. "I… I shouldn’t have been playing with those bombs. I should’ve known better. I should’ve—"

"Stop," Y/N cut in, her voice softer now as she met her gaze. "I’m not mad at you."

The silence stretched between them. Jinx’s fingers twitched at her sides, like she didn’t know whether to move closer or stay where she was. Y/N, still feeling weak but determined, reached out, her hand gently brushing against Jinx’s. It was a small gesture, but it seemed to break something inside her.

Jinx looked down at her hand on hers, her breath shaky. She wasn’t used to this. She wasn’t used to someone telling her it was okay, telling her that they weren’t angry with her. For all her chaos and wildness, she had always expected people to turn on her, to blame her for everything. This moment was different, and it made her feel… exposed.

"I messed up," Jinx whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "I never meant for this to happen. I just—" She paused, fighting to find the right words, but they all seemed to come out wrong. "I just wanted to have fun. I didn’t mean to hurt you."

Y/N’s grip on her hand tightened ever so slightly, offering her what little comfort she could. "I know, Jinx. I know."

They both stayed like that for a long moment—Jinx, staring down at their intertwined hands, and Y/N, silently reassuring her without needing to say much more. The room felt strangely still, the air thick with the weight of everything unspoken.

Finally, Jinx let out a shaky breath, her usual spark returning to her eyes, though it was tempered with something softer now. "Well," she said, her voice carrying a bit of its familiar edge, "I guess the explosion wasn’t the only thing that blew up, huh?" She gave a small, rueful grin, though it was weak.

Y/N couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh, the sound barely escaping her lips, but it was enough to make Jinx's lips twitch into something closer to a smile.

Her usual confidence was starting to return, the old spark lighting up in her eyes. "But hey, at least you got to see one of my best explosions up close, right?"

Y/N grinned, despite the pain in her body. "You really know how to leave a lasting impression."

Jinx snorted in a way that almost sounded like a laugh. "I’m not that bad."

"You sure about that?" Y/N teased, but there was no malice in her voice. In fact, there was something a little warmer in her tone, a lightness that hadn’t been there before. The tension between them, the fear that had been hanging in the air, seemed to dissipate, even if just for a moment.

Jinx looked at her, her eyes softening slightly as she pushed herself off the table she’d been leaning against, a real smile spreading across her face. "Yeah, okay. Maybe I’m a little bit of a disaster."

"A little?" Y/N raised an eyebrow playfully.

"Alright, fine. I’m a huge disaster." Jinx grinned back, her usual spark returning with a vengeance. "But you’re stuck with me anyway."

Y/N smiled back, feeling the warmth of the moment seep into her chest despite the pain. "Yeah, I guess I am."

The room was quiet for a while, but this time, the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was peaceful, even comforting. Jinx had her way of blowing things up, but for once, she wasn’t the one causing destruction. And in that moment, neither of them were alone.

[geralallfandoms]

Hii I’m not sure if your still taking requests but if you are could you write a mark sloan x reader which involves him protecting reader from something idk is that makes sense 🫶

Hiii! Yes ofc! Hope you like it!! 🫂✨🧚

Requests are open!!

[An unlucky day]

Being a doctor has never been easy. Not only because of everything that had to be studied, the long hours of work, the mistreatment of superiors, or the poor treatment of patients...for you, the most difficult and annoying thing about all of this were the drugged or drunk patients. Most of them did not know where they were or they forgot it all the time, they did not know why they had arrived at the hospital or they deeply denied having consumed anything although their studies will confirm it.They blamed the perfumes, the chocolates that their grandmothers had given them and they didn't know they had alcohol in them, or they tried to make excuses like birthdays, weddings, New Year's Eve or Christmas.

Your 42-hour shift was about to end, there were only 4 hours left and you could return to your comfortable bed. But of course those hours would not be peaceful. It was as if the universe knew you were about to leave, that it decided to send you a bunch of patients together.

"Car crash. Two cars involved. One of the drivers was under drugs. You two, come with me." Bailey said, obviously pointing at you and another resident.

You tried not to snort too hard, you knew that if Bailey noticed, every time a case like this came up, she would call you just because she knows it bothered you.

The ambulance arrived at the same time you finished putting on your gloves. The doors opened quickly and the nurses took out a man in his 50s, unconscious, with a wound on his arm and a couple of bruises and cuts on his face. Bailey, seeing that the man was not in life-or-death conditions, pointed a finger at you, indicating that the patient was yours.

The nurses helped you take him to a more private room, just as another nurse entered.

"Thank you very much, I can so ir alone from here. Could you call Dr. Sloan? His face has a couple of bruises that I want him to see." I asked the nurse who nodded quickly and left the room next to the stretcher bearer, leaving me alone with the patient.

You began to prepare your things, turn on the machines and other things, turning your back to the patient.

And that was the worst thing that you could do.

While you were preparing the needle with tranquilizer to give it to the patient, the man had woken up. And not in the best conditions. He was under substances, in a place he didn't know, tied to a stretcher, with his entire body in pain, with a possible concussion and with someone who was about to prick his arm with something he had no idea what it was.

"Oh-" You said when you saw the he had woken up. But before you could say anything, the man let go of the stretcher and hit your hand, causing the needle to fall to the floor.

"Who the hell are you! Where I am? Let me out!" He screamed as he tried to free himself from his other restraints.

"Sir...calm please, you are in a hospital, you-"

"NO! YOU'RE LYING, YOU DAMN BITCH!" The man yelled before he could completely let go.

When you saw that the man got up from the stretcher, you took advantage of the fact that he was distracted and ran towards the door. Just as your hand had grabbed the door handle, the man grabbed your hair, pulling it back at the same time as you opened the door.

Luckily for you, when the door opened, the first thing you saw was Mark's face.

"Let me out! Let me out or I swear I'll kill them!" The man shouted in your ear as his other arm wrapped around your neck.

The nurse behind Mark quickly ran off in search of more help, as Mark's face contorted on fury.

"Let them go now! You're in a hospital, you can't do these things. Let them go now if you don't want us to call the police." Mark said with a strong voice. Although the reality was that the police would come anyway to arrest him for driving under the influence.

"T-the po-police..." The man said as he backed away. His arm was beginning to let go of you and when Mark noticed it too, he grabbed your arm quickly, pulling you away from the man.

Mark quickly put you behind him. He was much taller and bigger than you, so you had been completely hidden behind him, seeing his big back. The man started screaming again, this time running towards us. Mark was backing away with his hands at your sides, trying to protect you from the man who was trying to grab you again. But the man was able to take Mark's robe.

Seeing how the man and Mark were pulling, you ran to the table, took a needle and filled it with a tranquilizer. once Once you knew it was enough to put the patient to sleep for a few hours, you quickly injected it into his shoulder.

The man turned around quickly, hitting you in the face, causing you to fall sitting on the floor. And just as Mark was about to hit him back, hospital security ran in, arresting the patient.

Once they had him grabbed, and pulled away from the room, Mark quickly approached you, crouching down next to you.

"Are you okay? Did he hurt you? What hurts? That fucking son of a bit-" He said as he watched your nose begin to bleed.

"Mark!" You shouted to interrupt him. "I'm fine, really...and you?"

"Your nose is bleeding, probably broken, and your eye is black. Don't tell me you're fine, that bastard ruined your face..." He said seriously as he took a cotton ball and put it on your nose.

"But luckily I have you to fix it, right?" I said while smiling, trying to get him to relax.

"Of course darling..."

__________________________________

I hope you enjoy it! Sorry if something is written wrong, English is not my first language! But let me know!

🫂✨🧚

[yua0ra]

𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟, 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨

WARNINGS: mattheo x ravenclaw!fem!reader, breaking the rules, reader is brutally hit by an angry bludger (lol), established relationship. SFW. not proofread.

fluff ☏

SUMMARY: After a brutal bludger hit leaves you unconscious and in the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey bans all visitors to ensure your recovery. However, just as you’re grappling with the “no more flying for a while” rule, Mattheo sneaks in, grinning like he owns the place. He’s armed with stolen sweets and endless teasing, and espite your protests, his playful banter, plotting and expected charm, makes recovery far less boring.

WC: +1.2K AN: ENJOY! <3

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

The damage was done. The bludger collided with your head, its impact sharp and unrelenting. You hadn’t even seen it coming, and before you had time to brace yourself, your body was thrown off your broom, spiraling uncontrollably through the air. The ground rushed up to meet you far too quickly, and everything went black as you hit the dirt.

When you awoke, you found yourself lying in the cool, sterile bed of the hospital wing. The soft rustling of Madam Pomfrey’s robes filled the air as she hovered over you, fussing with her potions and muttering to herself in a language you couldn’t quite follow. Pain pulsed in your head, making it hard to concentrate, but you could still feel the weight of her magic working to heal you.

“You’re lucky,” Madam Pomfrey said with a tone that was a mix of relief and reprimand. “That was a nasty knock to the head, but you’ll be fine. No flying for a while, though.”

You barely heard her, your mind too foggy from the injury. Still, as the haze began to clear, one thought nagged at you: Mattheo. You hadn’t seen him since the incident, and despite the fact that he was on the opposing Slytherin team, you couldn’t shake the worry that he might be concerned. After all, Mattheo, sometimes was far from the usual Slytherin arrogance believe it or not. He had a unique, unpredictable way of showing he cared, a way that more often than not, got him in trouble.

But it wasn’t just him you had to worry about; it was Madam Pomfrey’s strict rules. She had already made it clear that no one was allowed to visit you while you recovered. And most importantly, what did she mean by “no flying”? The season was just starting and you couldn’t afford losing too much practice.

As time passed, you began to drift in and out of consciousness, the pain in your head still throbbing, though less intense. That was until you heard a soft, familiar voice break through the silence.

“You look terrible.”

Mattheo’s voice was low, full of that signature smirk of his, even though you could tell he was trying to suppress it. You didn’t even need to open your eyes to know who it was. You could hear the unmistakable sound of his footsteps, deliberate and quiet, obviously trying not to alert Madam Pomfrey. Your eyes flickered open slowly, surprised but somehow not surprised at all. There, leaning casually against the curtain that separated your bed from the rest of the wing, was Mattheo, his mischievous grin plastered on his face.

“I feel terrible, and you’re not supposed to be here,” you muttered, the words thick and sluggish as you tried to sit up. “Never stopped me before,” he said with a wink.

“Besides, I’m just checking on my favorite girl.” He looked down at you with concern, his gaze softening as he caught sight of the bandages wrapped around your head.

You tried to shoot him a glare, but the effort only made your head pound more. “Madam Pomfrey will catch you.”

“She can’t catch me if she doesn’t know I’m here,” Mattheo said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “And I’ve got my ways. Don’t worry.” His eyes twinkled with that spark of mischief that always seemed to follow him like a shadow.

Despite yourself, you smiled faintly. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible to resist, you mean,” he quipped, his grin widening.

“Merlin’s tits Matty”

“I couldn’t leave you alone in here,” Mattheo ignored your comment, his voice quieter now. “Besides, I think I might have a little surprise for you.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious despite the exhaustion weighing you down. “A surprise?”

He reached into his robe and pulled out a small package of Fizzing Whizzbees “don’t worry, it’s not illegal… well, mostly not illegal, I stole them from Honeydukes,” he laughed. “Just a little something to make you feel better.”

“Aw… thank you baby!” You could have sworn you saw a pretty red hue decorating his cheeks but before you could comment on it, he cleared his throat “don’t get too comfortable, though. You’ll be back on that broom before you know it.”

“Madam Pomfrey said “no flying”, so… how am I supposed to do that?” you asked, the sarcasm in your voice evident as you glanced at the bandages still wrapped tightly around your head.

Mattheo’s grin grew wider. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re a Ravenclaw, after all. You’ve got that whole ‘brains over brawn’ thing going for you, right?”

You shot him an unimpressed look. “Yeah, well, brains don’t exactly help when your head feels like it’s about to explode. But thanks for the encouragement, I guess.”

“Ah, well, if anyone can figure out how to get back on a broom while half-dead, it’s you.” He leaned against the bedframe, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Maybe you could borrow my broom. I’ll give you a head start and all.” You chuckled despite yourself. “I’m pretty sure the last time you let me ride your broom with you, we ended up in a tree.”

“That wasn’t my fault!” he protested, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “It was the wind, or maybe some stray magic. Who can say? Anyway, I’m positive that wasn’t my broom’s fault. Just a… little accident.”

“A little accident?” you laughed. “Mattheo, you flew me straight into a tree while trying to ‘show off’ your skills.”

“Well, you can’t deny that my skills are impressive.” He shot you a cocky grin before straightening up. “Besides, I was just trying to make it exciting. Who wants a boring, uneventful flight, anyway?”

“You’re lucky I’m even talking to you after that stunt,” you said, shaking your head with a smirk. “I should’ve gotten you expelled for that, you know.”

“Oh, come on, love, you know I’ve got a face that gets me out of trouble.” He waggled his eyebrows at you, clearly proud of himself. “It’s my best weapon. Don’t act like you’re not impressed.” You rolled your eyes, but despite the teasing, a laugh bubbled up. “Well, you certainly make trouble look entertaining.”

“That’s the goal, obviously,” he said with a wink. “But seriously, once you’re back in shape, I’ll be there to make sure you don’t take any more unplanned naps on the ground. You’ve got a reputation to uphold, you know?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine,” you said, though there was a hint of a smile on your lips. “But I can’t promise I won’t need a little bit of help staying out of trees next time.” Mattheo grinned, his tone turning playful again. “I’ll keep that in mind. You never know when a tree might decide to attack you.” He gave you a dramatic look of concern. “You might need a bodyguard for that. I volunteer as tribute.”

“Oh, please. You’d probably end up trying to fly into the tree again to impress me,” you teased, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged nonchalantly. “What can I say? It’s a gift. But don’t worry, I’ve got a much more foolproof plan for next time.”

“And what would that be?” you asked, intrigued despite yourself.

“Easy,” he said, putting his hands behind his back like a magician preparing for a big reveal. “I’ll just get you a helmet. We wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself on those crazy tree branches, would we?”

“Not sure if you’re insulting me or trying to protect my dignity, but thanks,” you replied dryly, though you couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips.

“Well, I’m just saying, we can’t have you falling off the broom again,” he said, his grin widening at the sight of you trying not to laugh. “You never know what could happen on your next ‘adventure.’”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said, finally letting out a small chuckle. “Just make sure to stay out of my way when I get back on that broom. I’m aiming for no more tree incidents, thanks to your ‘help.’”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be there to catch you—whether you like it or not,” Mattheo said, giving you a kiss on the forehead as he headed for the door.

You shook your head as he disappeared down the hallway, already planning his next ridiculous idea to “help” you back on your broom. For all his teasing and mischievous ways, you had to admit, it was nice to know you wouldn’t be alone in recovering from this latest incident.

Maybe mischievous Mattheo wasn’t as bad as you’d thought. Even if he still had a penchant for getting into trouble, you’d be lying if you didn’t admit that you secretly enjoyed every second of it.

[goldenkiwistyles]

Don’t scare me like that LH44

Warnings: mentions of fainting, pregnancy complications.

Lewis Hamilton x wife!reader

George Russell x sister!reader

As the paddock buzzed with excitement she felt a bit of disappointment. The realisation this would be the last time this season she would experience the hustle and bustle of the paddock on the race weekend. The last time she would be able to support Lewis from the Mercedes garage.

As y/n had just hit her eighth month of pregnancy she and Lewis decided that Austria would be the last race she attended. She was looking forward to the next chapter in their life.

Lewis was currently in the media pen doing interviews so y/n decided to hang out in Mercedes hospitality with her brother George. It was an exceptionally hot day at the red bull ring, making the pregnant women fell rather uncomfortable.

George and y/n were about to head to the motorhome where it was slightly cooler when she started to feel a bit light headed.

"Georgie... I don't feel to good."

The younger Russell turns around just in time to catch his sister as she collapses. He gently lies her down, panic taking over as he tells Carmen to go find Lewis and yells for someone to call an ambulance.

-

As soon as Lewis saw Carmen running into the media pen the colour drained from his face. He knew something had happened to y/n. He abandoned the interview not caring he was half way through and followed Carmen back to hospitality.

The sight that met him shook him to the core. The love of his life lying unconscious in her brothers arms. Tears streamed down his face as he yelled at the crowd around him to do something, Carmen doing every thing she could to comfort him.

After what felt like an eternity the paramedics arrived saying she had passed out from dehydration, immediately starting her on fluids and transporting her to the nearest hospital.

-

When y/n woke up she felt very disorientated. From the beeping of machines and the white clinical walls she figured she was in the hospital.

"Hey your awake."

The women turns to find Carmen sat at her bed side panic instantly consuming her.

"What happened? Is the baby ok?"

Carmen grabs her hand trying to soothe her. "The baby is ok. You passed out due to dehydration. Were out for most of the day."

Realisation suddenly hit y/n. "Oh my god the race! Where are George and Lewis now?"

"They're on their way back from the race. Toto practically had to drag both of them out of here."

"What was the result?"

"George won. Lewis came 4th."

Sadness washed over y/n after finding out she missed her younger brother get his second win.

Just then an exhausted looking Lewis and George stubble through the door the latter of the two instantly rushing over to hug his sister.

"Your ok." He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead before pulling away.

"I missed your win."

"That's ok. All that matters to me is that you're alright."

Lewis just stood there silently staring at his wife. Sensing the couple need some privacy, Carmen excused herself and her boyfriend saying they would be in the cafeteria.

"Lew."

"Baby."

The driver broke down, the realisation that his wife and unborn baby where ok slapping him in the face.

"Come here lew."

Without hesitation he ran over, wrapping himself round her and crying into her shoulder.

"I thought I'd lost both of you."

Rubbing his back she whispers: "We are ok Lew. Everything is ok."

A/N: Not my best work ever but oh well.

[yurinaa-world]

Hello! How are you? 🤗 I'm wondering if you could write Jiaoqiu x childhood friend!reader where (takes place during the war) Jiaoqiu has feelings for the reader but never finds the right time to confessed to them. Unfortunately, Jiaoqiu received an unconscious reader who was severely wounded from battle and eventually went into coma. Believing the reader may have passed, Jiaoqiu becomes upset and spilled out his feelings for the reader. He never realized the reader finally woken up to hear his whole confession until they spoke.

"𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓯𝓵𝓲𝓬𝓽 𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓷 𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓼; 𝓲𝓽 𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝓹𝓲𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓼."

💫𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈: Jiaoqiu X Gender-Neutral reader

💫𝒮𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: He must hold his piece. That's what he always told himself, to wait for the right moment to tell you his feelings until you get dragged into the conflict and he finds you on a hospital bed, in pain and unresponsive. He feels himself slowly break into pieces.

💫𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: angst, mentions of blood, pain, angst to comfort? slight comfort ig, 800+ words?? that doesn't sound like me??,& Spelling Mistakes, not sure of anything else

💫𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈: I've lost my mind! can yall tell??🤗

💫𝒥𝒾𝒶𝑜𝓆𝒾𝓊 "𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐻𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒳𝒾𝒶𝓃𝓏𝒽𝑜𝓊 𝒴𝒶𝑜𝓆𝒾𝓃𝑔"

Warriors coming from battle with torn skin, broken bones, eyes heavy and nothing left to live for, voices dried and died from what they’ve borne witness to.

Yet they still feel the emptiness of a limb or two and the sensation of a sharp point piercing their skin, threading throughout to pull two parts together, to make them whole again. The gazes he shares with the wounded, dead eyes and throat filled with words wanting to speak as if they might be the last.

Once they rise, patched up, they are never truly whole. They are just enough to stand (barely) and carry their weapons back into battle. It doesn’t matter if they look back or not; they still have to march back into battle without fear because that is their duty as Cloud Knights.

He didn’t want the last sight of you to be your willingness to go to the place where all of the dead warriors go or to have your body rot away on the battlefield, unclaimed.

Just don’t die. That’s all he hopes for you.

But now, it kills him more than ever, seeing you among the injured, lying there without any life, rigid cuts and wounds upon your body as if you were some kind of pin doll on the battlefield. He sucks in his breath, unable to say anything before a nurse quickly pulls you away to sort through all the new patients.

He couldn’t get the sight of you out of his head… A queasy warmth hits the back of his throat as he looks through the reports on all the patients, tending to the wounded or reading records as well. The feeling got worse until he couldn’t ignore it anymore, hitting like an extreme force, his eyes going dark as his head dropped.

Don’t. Not now.

His starving stomach clenched and his throat burned; he dropped everything and ran to the nearest trash he could find. The sound of his throat excreting substances from the depths echoed in the room. When it finally stopped, his throat was raw, eyes stinging. Coughing out whatever remained, the foul, sour taste lingered on his tongue.

His whole body was shaking, exhausted, like he’d been emptied.

No one came to help. No one checked on him. It would be a waste of time to pull anyone away from watching the patients to check on Jiaoqiu. They must go back to the battlefield immediately.

The piles of injured bodies leave him, or anyone else, unable to help you. He desperately wanted to help you, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t help you at all. Leaving you there, motionless on a bed, you’re alive—yet hanging by a thread that he isn’t holding.

That’s how the rest of his days went, checking in on you for a second to see if you woke. No matter what, he came to check on you. Just in case you wake up. Yet looking at your expression as you lay there, he feels himself shiver to the deepest part of his core.

Please. Please. He’d clasp his hands and get on his knees, just so you’d wake up and let him hear your voice.

“Please, I... don’t die. If for anyone’s sake, please don’t for mine…” he whispered, holding your weak wrist in his hands, just hoping for a miracle. “I’m delusional, aren’t I? Maybe it’s a delusion to want to marry you.”

He was insane… wishing to see you smile for him while wearing white, to take his hand in your own before stealing a kiss. He never wanted it to be like this…

…

"I... I am yours, utterly." Your throat is weak and raw, your chest feels tight, every breath a shallow, shaky whisper of air that barely fills your lungs. You’re aware of your bones, heavy and unfamiliar beneath your skin, and each heartbeat feels distant, a faint reminder that you're still here.

Handshaking as you slowly regain warmth while staring at him with hooded eyes. His eyes stare up at you, widened as if he were turned into a painting; he just stares at you. He snaps himself right to your face, putting a hand on your cheek, before crying into your chest, his hot tears melting into the thin fabric of your clothes, beneath which are bandages, as he tries to be as gentle as possible to not hurt you.

"Stay," he whispered, his breath shaky but steadying. "Just... don’t disappear."

[mamiobesssionfics]

Too Far

Rhea Ripley x Reader

Requested by: @gay4rhearipleyblog 

Warning: injury, blood

Summary: Rhea left to get in the car while you grabbed your bag. On your way out, you found her on the floor, covered in blood.

You felt your entire body shake. Your breathing picked up.

Your ears started to ring as the noises around you muffled, you felt like you were underwater.

You rushed to her side, panic rising in your chest as you saw Rhea all bloody, lying on the floor.

You panicked, realizing she was unconscious.

"Help, please!" you yelled as more people came around you to help Rhea.

Soon, an ambulance arrived.

You kept shaking and begging everyone to help her.

It almost got to the point where the paramedics had to take care of you as well.

But you soon collected yourself. But your shaking never stopped.

You decided to head to the hospital in the ambulance.

You held her hand the whole time.

As you waited in the emergency room, your leg was bouncing.

Your mind was running but at the same time, you couldn't think of anything.

You were terrified.

After a thorough examination, the doctors assured you that Rhea would be just fine, even if the doctor did confirm Rhea had sustained a fractured orbital bone.

"She is awake now, you can go in and see her." you thanked the kind doctor before heading in.

When you headed in, she opened her eyes.

"Hello." you said as she moved to sit up. "Stay." you placed your hand on her shoulder and pushed her down onto the bed.

She didn't say anything, only let out a long sigh and laid down.

"What happened?" you asked as you sat down by her leg on the bed.

"Liv and Raquel." was her reply.

"She... they did this?" Rhea only nodded as she looked into your eyes.

You never would have imagined for this rivalry to go this far.

"I want to kill her." she said.

"This is going too far Rhea." you said as you felt tears in your eyes.

"She took Dom, my championship and now this? How could I ever let this one go?" she said but soon realized the tears in your eyes.

"She nearly took you from me. But seeing you laying there... covered in your blood, it was too much." her hand found yours as she squeezed it.

"I'm sorry it got to that. The doctor told me to take some time off. So, I guess I will be home to annoy you a lot more." you knew she was trying to lighten your mood. It worked.

You chuckled a little bit.

"I know I scared you, Princess, I'm truly sorry."

"I'm just glad you are okay." you squeezed her hand.

"They told me, you found me. You saved me."

"I wish I would have been there earlier."

"You would have got hurt. I will... try and take it back a little. For your sake."

"We both know, you won't. Rhea Ripley will not go down without a fight. It is why I love you so much."

"I love you too. Kiss me." she said and you leaned down to give her a sweet kiss.

The doctor told you how serious her injury was, but you were ready to be there for her every step of the way.

To help her heal.

And later, for her to get her revenge.

If there was one mistake that they made, it was that they left Rhea alive.

[sxcretricciardo]

my everything

The roar of engines filled the air as the Formula 1 cars zoomed around the track at breathtaking speeds. Y/N, one of the few female drivers in the sport, was in a fierce battle for the lead with none other than her boyfriend, Carlos Sainz. On the track, they were fierce rivals, pushing each other to the limit, but off the track, they were the most admired couple in the paddock, their chemistry undeniable.

As the race progressed, the intensity grew. Y/N was closing in on Carlos, her focus razor-sharp. Suddenly, in a heart-stopping moment, her car lost control at high speed, veering off the track and slamming into the barriers. Flames erupted from the wreckage, and the race was immediately red-flagged. The sight of the burning car sent a chill down Carlos' spine.

"Carlos, are you okay?" his race engineer's voice crackled over the radio.

"Is she out? Is she okay?" Carlos's voice was strained with panic, his heart racing faster than ever. He didn't care about the race; he just needed to know she was safe.

The marshals and medical team were quick to respond, extinguishing the flames and reaching the car. The entire paddock watched with bated breath. Then, miraculously, Y/N emerged from the wreckage, staggering but on her own two feet. She clutched her side, pain evident on her face, but she was alive.

Carlos watched the scenes unfold on the big screen, a mixture of relief and worry flooding over him. He wanted nothing more than to jump out of his car and run to her, but the race officials were insistent that the drivers remain in their cars. She was taken to the hospital for further evaluation, and Carlos was forced to stay and finish the race.

With his mind partially elsewhere, Carlos managed to secure a third-place finish, though the podium felt hollow without her there. As soon as the race ended, he rushed through the post-race formalities and made a beeline for the hospital.

Entering the hospital, Carlos was directed to the intensive care unit. He found her lying unconscious in bed, various machines beeping softly around her. His heart ached at the sight. He sat down beside her, taking her hand in his, and whispered, "You really know how to give a guy a heart attack."

Time seemed to crawl as he waited for her to wake up. Nurses came and went, reassuring him that she was stable and would wake up soon. Despite their assurances, Carlos couldn't shake the fear that gripped him. He held her hand tightly, willing her to open her eyes.

After what felt like an eternity, Y/N's eyelids fluttered, and she slowly opened her eyes. She looked disoriented at first, but then her gaze focused on Carlos. A weak smile spread across her face. "Hey, you," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Carlos felt a rush of relief and love. "Hey, yourself. You really scared me out there."

She tried to laugh, but winced in pain, her hand instinctively moving to her side. "Just a broken rib, nothing too serious."

"Broken ribs are serious enough," Carlos replied, his tone stern but his eyes soft. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."

Y/N squeezed his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "You won't lose me. We've got too many races to win... and too many moments to share."

Carlos smiled, leaning in to kiss her forehead gently. "You're right. I just... I couldn't think about anything else but getting to you."

"How did the race end?" she asked, her curiosity piqued despite her condition.

"I got third place," Carlos said, shrugging as if it didn't matter. "But it felt meaningless without knowing you were okay."

She smiled again, a mixture of pride and affection in her eyes. "I knew you'd finish strong. You're always strong."

They sat in silence for a few moments, the beeping of the machines a steady backdrop to their thoughts. Carlos brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch tender. "You know," he said softly, "off the track, you really are my everything."

"And on the track?" she teased, her eyes sparkling despite the pain.

"On the track, you're still my everything," he admitted with a grin. "Just don't expect me to go easy on you next time."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," she replied, her smile matching his.

Carlos stayed with her through the night, holding her hand and talking about anything and everything to keep her spirits up. They reminisced about their best races, their travels, and their dreams for the future. Despite the beeping machines and the sterile hospital environment, their bond felt stronger than ever.

As dawn approached, Carlos knew he would have to leave soon to let her rest and recover. He kissed her forehead one last time. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised.

"I'll be here, waiting," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

He stood up, reluctant to let go of her hand, but knowing she needed to heal. "I love you, Y/N," he said, his voice filled with emotion.

"I love you too, Carlos," she replied, her eyes closing as she drifted off to sleep.

Leaving the hospital was one of the hardest things Carlos had ever done, but he knew she was in good hands. As he walked out into the early morning light, he felt a renewed determination. They would get through this, just like they got through everything else—together.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

feel free to reblog with your thoughts/opinions

[saorsawrites]

After hours

James Wilson x Reader

Fluff

James and you are working late, and he knows just how to make you relax after a long day (food and cuddling)

It was almost 11pm, and the only lingering sounds in the hospital were the quiet monitors of the sleeping patients in my ward. having calmed down a crying girl and finished all my paperwork, i made my way to my boyfriends office, seeing a soft golden light peeking out from under the door. He was always here late this time of year, with reports due, prescriptions running out, and (most importantly) his girlfriend left to deal with the psych ward during the festive season: full, tragically, of lonely and cold people needing somewhere to stay.

i knocked lightly on Wilson’s door, hoping not to find him asleep at his desk as I pushed it open. instead, i saw him sat cradling two plastic bags, from which came the most satisfying smell of my life. my favourite takeout food, right there, still hot.

“oh, i love you.” i sighed in relief, closing the door behind me and moving to sit across from him at his desk. a light blush washed over his face, and he laughed quietly as he pulled the warm food out of the bags and placed it in front of us.

“i love you too, although now i fear you’re just using me for food.”

“house does it, why can’t i?”

he grinned, beginning to talk about his day as i was overcome by the pleasure of warm delicious food after a stressful evening. his eyes followed my every movement as i kept eating, occasionally stopping his own dining to giggle out “you look so cute.” or “i knew you hadn’t eaten enough today, baby.”

eventually, my appetite subsided and the containers grew emptier, and i moved my chair over to his side to sit beside him, resting my hand on his thigh as i looked up at him. so caring, so handsome, so kind. his lips found my temple as he spun slowly around in his chair, moving closer towards me as his legs captured mine. gently, he pulled me up by the hips into his lap, wrapping his warm arms around me as he rested his cheek on the top of my head.

i placed my hands on his face, pulling him down towards me for a kiss as he played gently with my hair.

“don’t you do enough taking care of people during the work day to enjoy caring for me too?” i teased, kissing both his cheeks and admiring the lipstick stains i left behind. his hands moved under my shirt and rubbed my back, scratching lightly in all the right places as i began to fall asleep in his lap. “mmmm, james… we should go home now, before i fall asleep here.”

“you can fall asleep here.” i shook my head, muttering a string of “no”s as he continued to soothe me to sleep.

slowly, i drifted off, and he placed his hands under my thighs to keep me steady as he stood up, picking me up with him. i hummed in his collarbone as he picked up his briefcase with his spare hand and began to move to the door, my legs tightening around him as i unconsciously tried not to slip down.

“either she’s fainted and you’re taking her down to ER, or you two have gotten far too comfortable with this whole PDA thing.” House snidely remarked as he walked past the two of us, but all i could hear was the steady thumping of Wilson’s heart and his warm breath, the smell of his cologne mixing with my perfume to create a blend of the both of us. from the office to the car to him placing me gently in bed and lying by my side, every sound and smell faded into the background.

suddenly, i was prepared for a whole lifetime of late nights, if it meant more after hours meeting with my Wilson.

[defectivevillain]

guarded by the shadows

pairing: Michael Myers/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)

reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

No one wants a murder house, even when it’s absurdly cheap. No one except you, it seems.

In which you buy the Myers house.

word count: 1.7k | ao3 version

warnings: carbon monoxide poisoning, hospitals and IVs, unconsciousness

You knew what you were getting into when you purchased the Myers house in Haddonfield. It had been something of a ghost house for years, lying neglected and practically abandoned despite the countless realtors who attempted to sell it. Supposedly, many of their efforts were waylaid by Dr. Samuel Loomis—who has a bad habit of barging in and dissuading interested parties from buying it. He did the same thing to you: storming into the house just after your realtor gave you a tour, warning you that Michael Myers would likely return to his childhood home. 

His little display had scared you for a second, sure. But you weren’t going to let that frighten you off of the one property you could actually afford. Together, the realtor and you managed to get the man to leave—albeit with a lot of grumbling and muttering. Then, the two of you turned to each other and exchanged relieved looks. A few hours later, you were standing in front of the property with the keys in hand and a nervous smile on your face. 

Maybe it was a little optimistic of you, though, to buy the house so fast. Your moving process has been somewhat impeded by the basic repairs needed across the space: the cracked toilet, freezing cold water from the shower, broken stove, and shattered windows all desperately need attention. In your scramble to fix the seemingly endless amount of things that don’t work in the house, you forget to acknowledge one appliance: the carbon monoxide detector. The thought completely slips your mind, as you attempt to make your new home more livable and less imposing. You even have to get the garage door painted over multiple times—after a few rebellious kids spray paint “MURDERER” and other flattering messages all over it. 

Fortunately, as time passes, you slowly tackle each of these projects. It’s a bit harder than you expected to get plumbers and electricians to actually agree to enter your home, with its reputation. But you finally find some brave (or just uncaring) ones and, before long, you have functioning appliances. 

Even so, there are still a few eccentricities to the house. There’s a small darkened red-brown stain in one of the rooms—smeared as if someone tried to clean it up. You resolutely convince yourself it isn’t blood, even though you know deep-down it must be. The floorboards are very creaky; sometimes, the frames on the walls will shake and clatter in impatience; and you occasionally lose track of items you put down, as if someone is sneaking in and taking things. Although these happenings sometimes scare you, you manage to dismiss them as nothing more than coincidences. You’re a bit too preoccupied with making a living for yourself to put much thought into insignificant observations. 

The main problem you’ve encountered at this point, after weeks of living in the house, is the unstable temperature. The furnace is kind of shitty and the air conditioning is a complete joke. Even after you get these things fixed, though, you start to notice that you still feel a bit… off. At first, you write it off as  some sort of seasonal allergy. But allergy medicine doesn’t resolve the issue, and you’re soon fighting off pounding headaches every day. You’re beginning to suspect that you came down with some sort of bug. Eventually, it gets to the point where you have to leave work early and return home to rest. 

When you wake up the next morning, you find that you’re particularly weak and exhausted. You feel as if you’re trying to walk through quicksand. Frowning, you push yourself out of bed and attempt to walk out to the living room—only to collide with the nearby wall as your balance nearly gives out. You press a shaking hand to your forehead, idly wondering if you could have a fever. The cool sensation—combined with the fact that you took your temperature last night, only for it to be normal—convinces you that it can’t be a fever. Maybe you have some sort of head cold. That would certainly explain your loss of equilibrium and dizziness. 

You manage to get yourself back to a standing position and take slow steps out into the living room. It’s a very short distance—maybe five steps or so—but your chest is burning from the exertion. Why does everything look so blurry? You blink dazedly and attempt to get to the couch, only for your legs to crumple under you. 

You fall to the ground like a puppet with broken strings, feeling like a spectator to your own movements as your vision twists around and you hear a dull thud. A harsh pain reverberates throughout your temple. You think you’re shaking. Your chest still hurts; and the aching in your temple has spread down to your cheekbones and across your face. Your eyes slip shut and you slip into a bleary haze.  

You’re not sure how long you’re lying there before you manage to pry your eyes back open. But the effort is really no use—as you’re too weak to even move. Your headache is so strong that you feel the urge to throw up. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you see a flicker of movement. A shadow passes across your vision and suddenly, there’s someone leaning over you. 

Even in your fatigued and confused state, you’re able to recognize them. Michael Myers is leaning over you, his mask secured over his face. A shiver rolls down your spine and you’re overtaken with fear. It seems Dr. Loomis was right. Michael did return to the house. Does he have something to do with this? 

All these thoughts and more run through your head, sending a renewed wave of adrenaline through you. You try to push yourself up and crawl away, but your body isn’t obeying any of your commands. A relentless drowsiness is pushing you back to the floor, alongside a dizzying spiral that makes your vision hazy and convoluted. Michael’s blurred head tilts. There’s a horrid ringing in your ears as you make one final attempt to move. A minute twitch of your fingers is the best you can manage, before you’re fading back into unconsciousness. 

You wake to the feeling of something digging into the skin of your arm. Wincing, you weakly reach out with your other arm and feel around for the intrusion, finding an object attached to your arm. You attempt to pull it off, but there’s a calm voice chiding you and pushing your inquiring hand away. Blinking away tears at the blinding fluorescent lighting above, you slowly take in the environment around you and come to an easy conclusion: you’re in the hospital. The pain in your arm is from the IV; the voice from before was your nurse. 

The nurse hands you a glass of water and you eagerly take a few sips, before they place it on the table at your bedside. You cough to clear your throat, recognizing a lingering pain in your chest. “What happened?” you remember to ask. 

“Carbon monoxide poisoning,” the nurse responds with a sympathetic grimace. Damn it—that was what you had forgotten to do. You never replaced the carbon monoxide detectors in the house. “One of your neighbors found you unconscious on your front lawn.” 

The front lawn? Your memories of that night are hazy and hard to reach, but after a few minutes of concentrated effort, you recall that you had collapsed in your living room. You frown. You certainly wouldn’t have possessed enough strength to make it out of your home and onto the front yard. How did you get outside? 

Before you can ponder the question any longer, the nurse is asking you a series of questions and evaluating your symptoms. When they’re finally finished, they’re about to leave—before they pause in the doorway and head back into the room, a contemplative expression on their face. “It’s a miracle you made it outside,” they say candidly. You blink at them. “Do you remember leaving the house?” the nurse hums. 

“No,” you answer, a frown rising on your face. A miracle. You resist the urge to huff in amusement. You can’t necessarily say that succumbing to carbon monoxide poisoning was miraculous. And your supposed “escape�� from your home is more perplexing than anything else. “I think I passed out in the living room,” you continue. 

A strange expression passes over the nurse’s face. “Oh,” they remark quietly, suddenly looking concerned. They shake their head as if to clear their thoughts. “Well, it’s a good thing your roommate found you!” There’s a somewhat forced cheeriness to their voice. But that observation fades to the back of your mind, when you comprehend what they’ve just said. 

“I don’t have a roommate.” You’ve lived alone for as long as you’ve stayed in that house. But the nurse’s remark does jog your memory, reminding you of the one presence who made himself known that night: Michael Myers. Goosebumps rise along your skin. The nurse seems to notice and pulls the blanket over you, which does little to quell your mounting fear. 

Then they seem to process your remark, and a somewhat patronizing smile rises on their lips. “Sounds like you have a guardian angel, then.” They don’t seem to believe you. But before you can ask any more questions, the nurse exits, leaving you to your growing confusion. 

Just what happened? You suspect someone saved you… but who? And why? You continue to contemplate these questions as you recover in the hospital; after a few days, you’re discharged from the hospital. You return home to find a note on your front door, wishing you a quick recovery and saying that the property has been aired out and cleared of carbon monoxide. A small smile rises on your lips and you remind yourself to thank your neighbor. 

The house is a bit brisk and cold, evidently thanks to the windows being open for so long. Otherwise, it looks entirely the same as you left it. Relief courses through you as you explore the house, double-checking that nothing looks out of place. You’re about to relax when your eyes find something on the kitchen counter: boxes of new carbon monoxide detectors. And through the nearby window, you catch a glimpse of a masked figure between the trees, watching you. 

A disbelieving, frightened laugh crawls its way from your lips.

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