#but now he learned that was NEVER the case

[sometimesanalice]

Viv, you gem!! 🥰🥰 oh it makes me so happy that you enjoyed this fic! The flirting and the banter definitely got away from me on this one, but I’m a maximalist so more is more, hahahaha!

More for you!

Ohhhhh this was so sweet and such a perfect Valentine's Day fic! I'm obsessed🩷

And you have never been so clearly out of place in your entire life. - unfortunately i have had many a nightmare about this exact scenario— literally a girliepops(gn) worst nightmare! I loved the idea of having her kind of throwing caution to the wind and having it backfire so totally and completely (at least in the beginning), lol. I tried to fold in things where it showed that she was usually a planner and would check things out in advance (like her internal debate about what to order from the bar). But truly a worst case scenario for poor miss ma’am.

An amused laugh escapes you. “Are we ranking mustaches now? Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to say that I’d have to give it to Selleck.” - a valid choice if I do say so myself — like he is truly The Mustache Man™️

Oh. - OH— nothing hits quite like an italicized oh!

“You’re right, something to look forward to for next time,” he responds, not missing a beat. “So, can I buy you a drink?” - He's so forward I'm obsessed— that man is all gas and no brake! I liked him being a bit full on considering how out of place she was feeling to not only make her feel comfortable, but show her just how genuinely interested he was in her.

You look over your shoulder to see the with the sharp smile from earlier waving your date over to the pool table. “I take it you know, Malibu Ken?” - only calling Jake Malibu Ken from now on thank you sm— she was so cheeky for that! It’s as he deserves too for being an all around general nuisance. He’s totally a Leo and I stand by that lmao

The second thing he does is pull out a chair for you. Not with a fanfare, not with a flourish. But like it’s something that’s innately ingrained in him. You get the sense that the gentleman thing isn’t an act with him, it’s who he is. - thank you carole bradshaw 😇— there was no way she wasn’t making sure he was raised right! I loved this bit in particular because he’s been pulling out the moves with her, but this one isn’t. It’s just the type of person he is. Being a gentleman isn’t a move for him, so it makes it all that much more 🫠

The scrape of his mustache against your upper lip sends electricity racing along every nerve ending in your body. In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold. It’s unhurried, like he’s been waiting to savor the feel of your mouth against his. Exciting and new as you learn the taste and touch of him. You knew it was going to be good, but even so, it’s better than you could have expected. - i love love love this paragraph it's so descriptive and warm and fuzzy and ahhhhhh— first kisses are always so much pressure to write, but there’s just so much fun to be had trying to capture all those feelings in the moment! But also, I just know that that kiss had been on his mind from the moment she’d ranked him second mustache, and was waiting for the right time to convince her to pop him up into that top spot 🤭 she just beat him too it 🥰

“Suck it, Selleck,” he rasps. - after that date I would also be giving the title to bradley— the right mustache on the right man!! Lolol, there was no way that man was resting until he claimed that #1 title, lol

𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬: ��𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 - thank god hahahaha— THAT MAN VOTES BLUE! A LIBERAL AND A FEMINIST! Any other answer and she would have blocked his ass so fast, amazing date or not.

Not now that you’ve met him. - SWOONING this was so so cute— love is in the air! 🥰 I liked the hope and potential of it all!

and the fact he downloaded the app just to message her?? 😭😭 (this was a last minute idea that popped in my head, and I’m so glad I went with it because how swoon worthy is that?! Like he was ready to dunk on the guy who stood her up, but also he was definitely curious about which app she was on. I liked him going that extra step to show her just how serious he was, in case there was any lingering doubts about the pity date of it all. A man of many moves!)

For the Plot

Summary: Things aren't looking too good for you, sitting alone at the Hard Deck waiting for a man who might not show. Until Bradley Bradshaw sits down across from you and turns your entire night upside down.

Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader

Length: 7.7k

Warnings: fluff, so much flirting, and an italicized oh

Going on a first date on Valentine’s Day is unarguably the worst possible idea that anyone has ever had.And while the sure to be terrible, no good, horribly bad idea hadn’t been yours, you weren’t entirely sure what you were thinking when you’d even agreed to it in the first place.

The guy you were planning to meet tonight was cute enough, even if you were still undecided about the mustache. And while the chats between the two of you had been pretty good as far as it goes getting to know a literal stranger, you were hopeful that it could be even better in person. The fact he was in the Navy was still a bit of a consideration for you, but not a deal breaker.

In retrospect, the name of the bar should have been your first clue and the location paired with the causal beachy exterior covered in planes should have been the second.

You had been expecting to see more than one girl all done up in pinks and reds tonight, but you couldn’t have been more wrong. And you swear to god, somewhere you hear a record scratch as you step into the Hard Deck, because you are surrounded by nothing but a sea of olive green and khaki and denim.

And you have never been so clearly out of place in your entire life.

There was nothing about your ensemble that was even remotely fitting for the literal Navy bar you’d found yourself in.

The ice pink mini slip dress you’d dug out of your closet was admittedly a little much for a first date, but since it was Valentine’s Day you figured why not lean into it a bit. And well, if your date didn’t appreciate it, then that was a him problem.

Or so you’d thought at the time, because now it was a decidedly you problem.

The silhouette was simple enough, with the gentle drape of the cowl neck and the barely-there spaghetti straps, but the shiny sheen of the fabric made a statement of its own. It wasn’t something you got to wear very often for as much as you loved it.

But then you’d gone ahead and paired it with the tallest, most ostentation heels you had. The effort had been worth it though because the pearl encrusted block heels made your legs look like they went on for days. Even if it had been a feat trying to get the dainty buckle done with the way you’d been rushing out of the house with your beaded bag in tow.

The whole look was something you’d sure would come with Cher Horowitz’s seal of approval. However, the patrons of the Hard Deck you were less sure about. And even though there were civilians- like yourself- scattered about the bar, none were anywhere near as dressed up as you.

There are more than a few pairs of eyes on you as you stand there with your feet glued to the uneven wooden floors, as the door with its porthole-shaped window slowly closes behind you with a squeaky creak. The twinkle lights above your head felt more like a spotlight, illuminating how out of place you are in this moment.

Your hand is still clutched on the handle unsure whether you’re going to make a run for it or not. You are more than a little tempted to hightail it back to the parking lot and text your date to claim a bout of food poisoning from the safety of the driver’s seat in your car.

But chances are if your date is here then he has already seen you. A bright beacon of pink amongst varying shades of brown and woodgrain.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, trying not to panic. Officially a victim of your own bad decision making.

You take a quick scan of the room, trying to decide what your next move should be. There’s a woman behind the bar with kind but clearly inquisitive eyes. A blonde with a wolfish smile eyes you from where he stands next to a man with broad shoulders bent over what must be the pool table, hidden behind the paneled half wall. By a dart board, there are a couple men with their heads turned towards you, the game seemingly forgotten as they discuss the spectacle that is you.

There are hundreds of planes dangling over the bar, patches and plaques littering the walls and rafters, rounders suspended from the ceiling laden with too many ceramic mugs to count. It was all done with a heavy-handed, maximalistic approach that you’d take a moment to appreciate under any other given circumstances.

When you spot an open table tucked away in the corner of the room it feels like life raft to the iceberg of a situation you’ve put yourself in. Mindful of the scuffed, uneven floors- because the last thing you need is to eat shit or twist an ankle in front of room full of curious onlookers- you hustle over to the spot in hopes of having a moment to regroup.  

Once you’re situated- shrugging off the ivory cardigan you’d topped your outfit, trying to keep the nervous sweat that wanted to break out over your body at bay- you pull out your phone and check the time only to realize you’re devastatingly on time. Five minutes early, to be specific.

So you wait.

And check your phone again and the notifications in the dating app, just in case you missed something.

And wait.

You try to play it cool, skimming posts on Instagram and replying to some overdue texts. Finding anything you can to keep yourself occupied to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach the longer you sit there. Alone.

Now you’re not just simply embarrassed, you’re mortified.

You can still feel the eyes, the energy steadily shifting from curiosity to sympathy over the last thirty minutes you’ve been waiting all alone in the corner of a Navy bar you had no business being in for a man who clearly wasn’t going to show.

So much for doing it for the plot, you think to yourself with a shake of your head.

Another minute ticks by with no message and you decide you’re more than ready to hightail it out of there. Fully aware that you’re about to become a topic of conversation that won’t have to be restricted to only covert glances and muffled whispers. But hopefully, they’ll at least wait until the door closes behind you before the chatter starts up for real.

With a sigh, you reach for your beaded bag, just as a large body slips into the chair across from you, with an ease that is in contrast to the bulk of muscles you catch in your peripheral vision.

“You look like you’re in need of a date,” a warm, raspy voice offers.

It’s the smile that you catch first. Not quite a grin, but something familiar and friendly and charming in the way it crookedly pulled to the left. Followed closely by the rich chocolate brown eyes that were squarely trained on you with a look that was just as earnest as it was playful. But what surprised you the most was the way he was sitting in the stool across from you just as comfortably as if he was supposed to be there all along.

There was no way you could have prepared yourself for the sheer level of attractiveness of this man.

He was in a league of his own with those curls and wide shoulders. The white and olive green stripped crochet shirt he was wearing didn’t hurt either, especially the way the top buttons were undone giving you glimpse of a chain around his neck and the chest underneath it. He didn’t need to be in uniform- or even in a Navy bar- for you to tell he was a military man. Not with the confident way he held himself.

Even if the mustache he was sporting made it feel like the universe was playing tricks on you, but he more than wore it well.

You huff out a self-deprecating laugh. “What gave it away?” you ask. “The way I’ve been watching the door? Or just the general look of regret and embarrassment?”

“Embarrassed? What do you have to be embarrassed about?” His eyebrows pull together, perplexed. He shakes his head like he disagrees with even the suggestion of it. “I think the only person who should be embarrassed is the guy who is missing out on sitting across from you right now.”

You give him a soft smile of your own in return for the cinnamon sweet words. There’s a genuineness in his tone that makes some of the tightness that had settled in your shoulders from the moment you’d walked in release.

“That’s kind of you, but I think I’m going to head out,” you say, nodding to the door you never should have stepped through in the first place.

He gives you a teasing tsk. “And let a dress like that go to waste? Now that would be a shame.”

The appreciative look in his gaze that sets off a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. And then his eyebrow ticks up, just a little. Part invitation, part dare. And you can’t say you’re not intrigued.

There’s a decision to make.

You could leave now and cut your losses. There was a reason you had a back-up pizza in the fridge and had left you well-loved copy of You’ve Got Mail sitting out on your coffee table.

Or you could stick around and see what happens next.

You tilt your head at him, just as teasing. “Would it now?”

“It would,” he states, sincerely.

Before you can reply, your phone lights up with a new notification, pulling you out of the whisky haze you’d found yourself in. 

His eyes dip down to your illuminated screen. “Is that him?”

“It is,” you confirm, almost regretfully. You open the app and skim the message. And then read it again.

There’s no sorry, no apology for cancelling a half an hour after the time for the date that had been his idea in the first place. And then he’d even had the audacity to tack on a cavalier maybe another time at the end.

Unbelievable.

He lets out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?”

“Apparently, I should have been the one to remind him that the fourteenth of February is a calendar holiday and a fan favorite day of the greeting card companies.” It’s so ridiculous you’d laugh if you weren’t so annoyed by the lack of consideration and the not-so-subtle blame he’d tried to shift on you. “Even though I did double check if he was sure about meeting up today, I guess I didn’t realize I actually needed to spell out ‘Valentine’s Day’ for him.”

The man across from you doesn’t bother holding back the less than impressed look on his face. And you decide you like that about him, that he wears his thoughts so openly. It’s refreshing.

“Do you mind if I take a look at his profile?”

You shrug and pass your phone over. You were planning on blocking West the second you had a moment anyways. You see him roll his eyes and guess it has something to do with the amount of shirtless gym selfies.

He snorts as he scrolls, “Please, his mustache has nothing on mine.”

An amused laugh escapes you. “Are we ranking mustaches now? Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to say that I’d have to give it to Selleck.”

“Fair enough,” he concedes good-naturedly, as he hands you back your phone. “But am I at least a close second?” There’s no mistaking the flirtatious tone in his voice.

You hum and take full advantage of the opportunity to look at him unabashedly, mapping the contours of his face because you can.

To simply call him handsome would be an understatement.

The way the golden light of the sunset is hitting him you catch some sunkissed strands in those soft looking waves of his hair. There’s the beginning of some crinkles around the edges of his eyes. You notice the scars on his face, some that look long healed and others that are still a light pink- like the one on the side of his neck and beneath is ear. And that mustache on him worked for you, one hundred percent.

There’s a playful glint in his eyes as he lets you assess him that leaves no question as to whether or not he’s been flirting with you. You like the way he’s looking at you and the way he’s easily made you forget about being overdressed and how uncomfortable you were even just five minutes ago. You’re having fun. And while you still haven’t answered his question from earlier, you have no doubt that he’d show you a good time if you let him.

“Maybe not a close second, but yours is certainly up there,” you tease.

He grins. “I can work with that.” There’s something about the way he adds on for now that has a spark dancing up along your spine. And then he sticks out his hand, “I’m Bradley.”

It’s a good name. It suits him. It’s one you think you’ll enjoy the way your tongue will curl around the letters of it in your mouth.

When you give him yours in return, he sits up straighter in his seat, like he’s won a small victory.

You don’t doubt that he’s the chivalrous type, the fact that he’s gone out of his way to come over to try and turn this evening around for you says more about him than any dating profile with nonsense questions and overthought answers ever could. But with a man like him, one who’d swoop in to save the night of a stranger because she looks like a damsel in distress, there’s an answer to a question you need to hear first.

“Bradley, this isn’t a pity thing, is it?” You were right, you like the way saying his name feels. You drop your hands into your lap, as you search his eyes. “Because if it is, that’ll make me feel worse than being stood up did.”

The way the words were sitting out and open on the table between the two of you made you feel vulnerable in a way you didn’t like. But you’d rather know now before anything goes further. Doing it for the plot or not, your ego could only take so much bruising in one evening.

He pins you with a look so serious that you feel it down to your toes. “Trust me, this is furthest thing from a ‘pity thing’, as you put it,” Bradley says, his tone slipping down a few gravelly notes. “Because if I’m being honest, if that asshole had actually shown up, I don’t know if I would have played fair.”

Oh.

A thrilling rush of warmth courses through you as your cheeks heat up.

You nod, trying to not look as affected as you feel. “Ok, I believe you.”

“Good,” he smirks, his gaze dropping down and lingering on your lips. You didn’t realize you’d trapped your lower lip between your teeth, you release it immediately. “Because you should know, I would have come over sooner- the second I saw you, actually- if I’d known. That’s some dress, sweetheart,” Bradley continues, “Plus, you’d be doing me a favor.”

You couldn’t help but be curious, so you lean in closer. “Oh, how so?”

Bradley mirrors you, crossing his thick forearms over each other and leans in that much closer. “I haven’t had a Valentine in years,” he says it like he’s letting you in on a secret.

For the first time all night, you don’t regret wearing the dress. You don’t regret the ostentatious shoes or the glimmering beaded bag. You don’t regret walking through that creaky door. You don’t regret showing up tonight.

How could you when you’ve just been served the best plot twist you’ve possibly ever experienced? A meetcute you never could have seen coming.

You realize just how close your faces have gotten and lean back in your seat, from fear of thinking you might do something stupid, like kiss him. “Will you stop with the big cow eyes, if I agree?”

Those crinkles around his eyes deepen, “Good to know they still work, I wasn’t sure if I still had it.”

You press your lips together trying to hide your smile, all too thoroughly charmed, but the corners of your mouth curl up all the same.

“Trust me, you have plenty.”

And Bradley’s own smile gets even wider.

Anyone in the bar can see how pleased with himself he is at your words. It rolls off of him in steady waves and swirls around your shins and ankles.

He makes a show of settling further into his seat, now that it is officially his seat. “What’re we thinking? One milkshake, two straws?”

You play along and pretend to ponder the offer for a moment. “That seems more like a second date type of activity, does it not?”

“You’re right, something to look forward to for next time,” he responds, not missing a beat. “So, can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ll allow it.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

There wasn’t a menu or anything on the table when you sat down, so you aren’t sure what all is offered here. You thought you might have caught a glimpse of a laminated stack near register when you’d first walked in, but you hadn’t wanted to draw any more attention to yourself at the time by getting up again and wandering around and reminding people just how out of place you’d been.

You look around and see a mix of ceramic steins, pint glasses, beer bottles, and a few stems of wine on tabletops and in the hands of the other patrons.

The noise of the bar had become a faint white noise in your ears as the two of you talked, but it comes back in full force now.

“If they have rosé, I’d take a glass of that.” It isn’t hard to miss the hesitation in your voice, feeling a little silly defaulting to your usual go-to. You don’t imagine they go through a ton of pink wine here. “But, uhm, anything on tap would be fine too, if they don’t.”

Bradley’s lips twitch up. Not in a smirk, but something caught between amused and something else you can’t quite describe.

You try not to fidget under his warm gaze, “What?”

He slides out of his stool and rounds the table, setting a big hand on the armrest near your elbow, “There’s something you should know about me, sweetheart.”

“And what’s that?” you ask, more than a little breathlessly. Feeling a little high off of the smell of his leather and vanilla cologne, and something underneath that that reminds you of kerosene in a way that makes you want to breathe him in even more.

Bradley dips down close, his lips just a whisper from your ear, and murmurs, “Pink is my favorite color.”

Your head tips back on its own as you laugh. Its unabashedly loud and bright and delighted thing that fills the nooks and crannies of the corner you’d tucked yourself away into. And if a few heads turn your way because of it, that’s alright with you.

You don’t believe him, not one little bit. But that’s part of the fun. The back and forth, the flirting, the banter, the teasing. He’s so quickly turned this night around for you, you already know your cheeks are going to hurt by the end of it.

The sound of Bradley’s own laughter chases after yours. It’s warm and raspy and boyish, and you like the sound of it. You like him.

“One rosé, coming up,” he says, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before he steps out of your space. “There’s nothing I like more than a girl who commits to a theme.”

You catch his wrist, his skin warm under your palm. “Wait, what’s it really?”

“Red,” Bradley says, then gives you a slow once over, making your pulse spark in your veins. “But you’ve got me second guessing myself now.” He gives you a wink and then heads towards the bar.

You watch stunned as he saunters away, admiring the way the light wash jeans he’s wearing form to his long legs, before taking a moment to send a string of words punctuated with more than a few exclamation points to the group chat.

When he comes back, only a few minutes later, he has glass of familiar pink wine in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. And oddly enough, a straw tucked into the pocket on his shirt.

“It’s almost a perfect match,” he notes, when he sets it in front of you.

“At least I won’t have to worry about staining if I end up spilling on myself.”

Bradley chuckles and moves his stool in closer to yours, sitting back down with more smooth grace than a man with his build has any right to move. He tips the neck of his beer towards you, and you lightly tap your wine glass against it.

You take a sweet sip. “So.”

“So,” he repeats, with a teasing lift of his eyebrow.

“What’s your move?” you ask, running a glossy tipped finger around the rim of your wineglass.

“My move?” And there’s that grin again, one he doesn’t try to hide as he takes a sip of his own.  “‘m pretty sure I’ve been showing you my moves since I sat down. I’ve never been good at being subtle.”

Bradley pulls the straw from his pocket and taps it a few times against the shellacked woodgrain table top. He takes the flimsy wrapper carefully starts twisting it, a little furrow of concentration forms between his brows, spiraling it until it’s pulled taut against itself.  

You set an elbow on the edge, resting your chin on your hand as you study him. “But what’s the big move? I know you have one,” you press further.

His hands are big, calloused and rough, but capable. You want to know the story behind the scar that’s near the base of his thumb. You note that he wears his watch on the right instead of the left, and you pocket that new discovery for yourself the way a kid enthusiastically collects rocks in a park.

Bradley takes that piece of paper and folds it in half before twisting it again.

You watch in fascination as that pleased grin transforms into a confident smirk, like he’s enjoying even just the thought of showing you his big move. He looks like good trouble.

Bradley’s eyes slowly lift to yours, his hands pausing whatever he’s doing with that wrapper. He shoots a thumb to the left towards the end of the oval shaped bar. “You see that piano over there?”

“Mhm.” It’s an almost purr.

“That’s my big move.”

You feel your eyebrows lift in surprise. Bradley gave off such hometown golden boy vibes, you’d never have expected that he’d be the musical type too. The idea of seeing those hands fly over a set of black and white piano keys made your stomach tighten deliciously in anticipation.

“Am I going to get to see it?”

His gaze is steady on you when he replies, “Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll show you my move.”

A grin stretches across your face and you feel downright giddy, as you wiggle your shoulders in triumph.

Bradley shakes his head amused, and then refocuses his efforts on the task he’d started with the straw wrapper. He struggles only for a moment- those large fingers getting in the way- as he tries to open the end just enough to slip the tail though. He gives it one more final twist, securing the loop, before inspecting his handiwork.

“Now, since we’re valentines and all, it seemed only fitting that I get you- well, make you- a little something.” Bradley gives you a soft, boyish smile as he holds out his palm towards you, and in the center of it is a perfectly crafted paper ring. “Sorry, I couldn’t find you a Ring Pop on short notice.”

The words escape you for a moment at the sheer sweetness of the gesture.

Gently, you take it from his outstretched hand, and slip it onto the pointer finger of your right hand, adjusting it with care until you have it situated just right.

“I usually wouldn’t be able to accept something so grand on a first date. But for you, I’ll make an exception,” you say, liltingly. “Thank you, Bradley.”

You look down to appreciate it again, more than a little tempted to take it off and tuck it securely into your purse for safekeeping. For as much as you liked your dress and bag and your shoes, that little paper ring was now your favorite piece of the outfit you were wearing.

When you glance back up at him, his cheeks have the faintest pink hue to them. The little nonchalant shrug he tries to give you does nothing to hide how pleased he looks. “I make a mean daisy chain too. We might have to wait a couple months for Spring, but I’m good for it.”

Your mind flashes with an image of you and him in a park with a picnic basket sat between the two of you, and those large hands of his threading celery green stems together. It’s a pretty picture.

“Well, aren’t you just a regular modern day Renaissance man.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he rasps, silky smooth. It makes goosebumps raise along your arms. “Now, I’ve told you mine. Can’t say I’m not dying to know what your big move is. Am I going to get to see it, sweetheart?”

“Maybe,” you muse, lifting your glass to take another sip, “If you’re good.”

Bradley hooks a foot under you stool and tugs you just a few inches closer. “Just out of curiosity, what’s your position on kissing on a first date?”

You bend forward towards him and think you hear his breath hitch, you smile. “I’ll keep you posted.”

You’re still looking at his lips when a shout from across the bar startles you both.

“Bradshaw!”

Bradley mutters a string of curses and then blows out a breath, giving you a smoldering look that tells you that the conversation is far from over. You’re more than willing to let him try and change your mind about where he lands in the mustache rankings.

You look over your shoulder to see the with the sharp smile from earlier waving your date over to the pool table. “I take it you know, Malibu Ken?”

“Unfortunately.” A mischievous look coasts over his face. “But I’ll get you all the Ring Pops you could ever want if you say that to his face.”

You laugh. “I’m holding out for that daisy chain.”

Another holler rings out from across the room, the same Southern drawl as before.

“Seems like he wants your attention. Is he a Leo?”

He snorts. “You know what, he just might be. But more like he’s been waiting for the right moment to annoy me since I ditched him to come talk to a pretty girl instead.”

You try not to preen at the compliment.

“The relentless type, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it. I think I’m about thirty seconds from him queuing up “You Make Me Feel So Young” on repeat just to fuck with me,” Bradley explains. There’s a story there and you want to know more. “I know I still owe you the big move, but is it alright if I try to show off a little for you now? Just to get off my back for the rest of the night, then I’m all yours.”

You feel like you’ve just pulled an ace from your pocket.

“What are the stakes?” you ask, intrigued.

“Two hundred dollars and a whiskey,” Bradley replies.

You let out a low whistle, trying to school the catlike grin that wants to overtake your face. “That’s a lot of Ring Pops.”

The corners of his mouth curl up. “I was thinking dinner for our third date,” he says. “I’m buying for our second, of course. But it’s only right that we split the spoils of war.”

The sound of a brass band rings out over the staticky speakers and Bradley hangs his head down and lets out a long-suffering groan. You playfully pat his shoulder in faux commiseration.

You pretend to consider it for a moment, but you already know your answer. “Okay,” you agree, “Just as long as you’re okay with a little respectful ogling. You like my dress, and I like those jeans you’re wearing.”

He laughs, it’s a throaty rich sound. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

You gather for you purse and sweater as Bradley stands. His hands come to your waist, helping you off the chair, your bodies closer than close. It’s a forward move- he knows it, you know it- but with him, you don’t mind at all.

Bradley offers you his hand and you take it in yours; his fingers slip between yours easily like the two of you have already done this before.  

The two of you only make it a few steps before you tug on his hand, waiting until he looks at you from over his shoulder before asking, with a lifted brow, “Bradley Bradshaw?”

He huffs out a not-so-exasperated sigh, “I blame it on the 80’s.”

“Whatever you say, Brad-Brad.” It’s the one and only time you’re ever going to say it, you decide. You like saying his name too much to shorten it. And his back may be turned to you now, but that now familiar chuckle still makes its way to your ears.

Bradley leads you to the bar first, where he buys another glass of rosé and a beer for himself. When you try to pass your credit card to the woman behind the counter, he takes it, and rasps into your ear, “Let me.”

He tucks it right back into your purse as the sound of brass instruments starts up yet again.

“Like a dog with a goddamn bone,” you hear him mumble. And you press your lips together to keep from laughing. Sure, you’d rather be seeing his big move, but you can’t claim not to be amused by all of this.

He nods to a group of people in the corner near the popcorn machine when the two of you enter the alcove with pool table. Some of his other friends of his you assume.

You send them a little wave, one that they return in greeting. You can tell they’re curious, but you’re grateful when they resume their conversation instead of making you feel like your date with Bradley had become a spectator sport for their viewing entertainment.

The first thing Bradley does is introduce you to his friend. It’s a little thing, but he does it without prompt or awkwardly leaving you to take the initiative yourself. You appreciate the way he is still prioritizing your comfort the way he’s been doing it since he first sat down across from you.

The second thing he does is pull out a chair for you. Not with a fanfare, not with a flourish. But like it’s something that’s innately ingrained in him. You get the sense that the gentleman thing isn’t an act with him, it’s who he is.

Jake rests a hip against the table. “Sorry to interrupt your date, but Bradshaw and I had some unfinished business.”

You wave him off, it’s not a big deal. Not when you’ll have the rest of the night with Bradley. Plus, you’re eager to watch this play out between them, curious about their gameplay.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with,” Bradley rumbles, as he arranges the balls in the rack. And you wonder if he lost the lag before he’d made his way over to your table for one.

He comes back over to you, and leans on the ledge next to you as he chalks his cue. You’d thought about slipping your sweater back on, with the outside chill pressing against the line of glass windows at your back, but Bradley had more than enough warmth radiating off of him that you didn’t need to.

“You that eager to be out a couple hundred, Bradshaw?” Jake grins, as he leans over the side of the table. He turns his gaze to you and sends you a wink right before he breaks, sending the cue ball barreling into the others with a resounding clack, scattering them across the table.

And then they’re off.

It’s a rapid fire of back-and-forth banter between the men as they take their shots. Mostly good natured, but undeniably competitive. Smirking when they land their shots, and snarking over fouls. Clear that neither of them wants to lose.

Jake is all confident posturing, playing low over the cue with a lightly too tight grip. It’s the only thing that gives him away that he’s not the easygoing player as he wants people to think he is. Choosing higher risk shots that would highlight his ability versus some of the more straightforward options laid out for him, and skilled enough that it pays off most of the time. But after a couple rounds you note he’s too quick to stand up after taking his shot, not enough follow through because he’s too eager to see if his gamble pays off.

Bradley is all loose-limbed ease, clearly comfortable in both his skin and at the table. You can tell he’s probably playing quicker than he normally does, clearly trying to hurry up the game for your sake, even though he doesn’t need to. Although he does take his time as he positions himself around the table, only adjusting his bridge every now and then. Always with a 1-2 shot, a warm-up stroke followed by a steady hit. Watching him you catch his tendency to throw out his elbow of the follow through.

The two are pretty well matched in skill, you observe with keen eyes, as the balls skate across the Top Gun insignia, against the rails, and into pockets.

When Bradley’s not up to play, he’s by your side, right at your elbow. And when he is, it’s your eyes he’s looking into the moment he stands back up, seeking out your reaction. But more than once you feel his eyes on you as you watch them play.

True to your word, you to admire him in those snug fitting jeans. And when he catches your appreciative gaze, he sends you a wink before lining up his next shot.

Jake sinks another solid into the pocket he’d called only moments ago, and turns his dimpled smile at you, “You still sure about your date with the old man, chickadee? I bet I could show him up in that department too.”

The way he says it, you know he’s just teasing, probably just to rile you date up and get a reaction from him.

“Unfortunately for you, I think I have a thing for mustaches now,” you toss back, unbothered. And Bradley smiles into his drink.

You watch as Jake lines up his next shot and hits the white with a compact stroke.

“Double hit,” you declare.

“Dammit,” Jake curses.

You look over to see Bradley looking at you with a focused look on his face. Like there’s a theory clicking into place, one he needs the answer to. Wordlessly, he hands you the cue.

“You sure?” you ask.

“Two hundred dollars sure,” he states.

You take it from him with a sly grin.

Bradley’s thighs brush against the front of your knees, you know if you parted them even a couple inches, that he’d fit just right between them. His hands landing on your waist again as he assists you off the stool you’ve been perched on. And you’re starting to think he just likes an excuse to touch you, not that he needs one because you already more than like the feel of his hands on your body.

You walk the pool table, running a finger around the rails as you do. Evaluating the balls on the table like they’re chess pieces. The slow clip of your heels on the floor like the tick of a clock as you take your time deciding your approach.

“You’re the stripes,” Jake offers helpfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll even let you have a free shot.”

And you can’t help but laugh because this is going to be fun.

“Bradley?” you ask, leisurely chalking your cue.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Do you mind?” You gesture to the spot behind you, and he catches on quick with a not-so-subtle glance at the short hem of your skirt.

He sets his beer down and comes to stand behind you, there’s just enough space between the two of you that you don’t have to worry about hitting him with the cue, his broad from proving you the coverage you needed to bend over the table. While you don’t think you’d mind Bradley seeing the silk thong you had on underneath your dress, you weren’t exactly up for flashing the whole bar.

You haven’t played in a while, but it’s a muscle memory at this point, as you map out your moves. Seeing the lines and angles and arcs in your mind’s eye before anchoring your bridge.

You look at Bradley from over your shoulder, only to see his eyes are trained on the ceiling with his tongue pressed against his cheek. A gentleman, albeit not an unaffected one. A tendril of smokey gratification curls its way along your spine. You turn your head back to the pool table looking between the cue, target, cue ball, target.

It’s a smooth stroke with a satisfying crack. A clean three-rail shot that lands the striped five into the pock you’d intended for it.

“Damn” is all Jake says. His eyes you up, clearly impressed.

“You sure about that free shot, Jake?” You stand up and smooth out your dress, just for the show of it. “Or do you want to make it double or nothing instead, Malibu Ken?” You hear Bradley snort from behind you.

And just like you thought, he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, “Deal.” Jake turns to Bradley. “I just let your girl hustle me, didn’t I?”

“You sure did,” Bradley says with a grin, but his eyes are on you.

Neither are surprised when you sink your next shot too. The six sailing into the left corner pocket.

On your next shot, you may or may not deliberately foul. A tactical choice that sets Jake up with a less than ideal position on the table, knowing it’ll be a difficult shot for him to make.

“Now you’re just toying with me, aren’t you?” Jake grouses.

You just smile and take a sip of the rosé that Bradley hands you, neither confirming or denying.

Surprisingly, he banks it.  But his good luck only lasting through that one play. Because on his next, the ball glances off the side rail at too acute an angle to reach the intended pocket and he groans.

Not quite ready to be done, you ease off a little. Enough that they both know you’re going easy on him to extend the game longer, just so that he can catch up to you.

But soon enough, soon there’s only your eight ball left on the table.

“Looks like you’re about to be out four hundred dollars, Jake,” you say with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Just put me out of my misery already.”

You turn to Bradley, who has been carefully positioning himself behind you the whole time. You hold out the cue to him and ask, “Do you want the honors?”

He shakes his head. “Go on, finish him off, sweetheart. I’m enjoying the show.”

And when your final ball tips into the side pocket, Jakes resounding groan is drown out by the whistle Bradley lets loose between his thumb and pointer finger, as you turn towards him beaming.

“The atm’s by the restroom.” Bradley sounds only too happy to remind Jake as he closes the gap between the two of you.

You look over his wide shoulder, “As for the whiskey, something expensive please, Malibu Ken.”

Jake huffs a grumble but nods all the same as he goes to round up your winnings.

“Scored four hundred dollars and a valentine, that’s not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” you preen to Bradley.

“Think that might have been the best thing I’ve seen all year,” Bradley announces. “The hottest too, if I’m being honest.” You feel your cheeks heat under his gaze. His finger slips under the thin strap of your dress that had fallen off your shoulder somewhere along the way. He slides it back up and into place, treating it like some delicate thing the same way he did that paper wrapper. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

Normally, this is when you’d rerack, but you’ve never had a Bradley Bradshaw looking at you before.

“I took a class in college over the summer as an elective credit, and it turns out I had a knack for it,” you explain with a playful little shrug.

“I’ll say.” He takes another step closer. “Did you just show me your move, sweetheart?”

“One of them,” you grin.

You don’t have to press up to his height, not with your pearly heels.

You wrap your arms around his neck and bring his lips to yours for a kiss. A sound of surprise escapes from his throat. You feel the curve of a smile before his hands slide around your waist to pull you closer.

The scrape of his mustache against your upper lip sends electricity racing along every nerve ending in your body. In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold. It’s unhurried, like he’s been waiting to savor the feel of your mouth against his. Exciting and new as you learn the taste and touch of him. You knew it was going to be good, but even so, it’s better than you could have expected.

“Think you just snagged that number one spot of my list of favorite mustached men,” you say against his lips.

“Suck it, Selleck,” he rasps.

You inhale the amusement of his light chuckle, letting it go to your head like champagne bubbles, before he slips a hand around the base of your neck and pulling you in close once again.

A couple hours later, you find yourself at home on the couch. Your cheeks a little sore from how much smiling you’d done tonight, as Tom and Meg trade words over a plate of caviar on screen.

It was only much later that night you’d gotten to see Bradley’s big move.

He’d surprised you with his voice and the talented way his fingers glided over the white and black keys. An expensive glass of amber colored liquor sitting atop the old piano as he played, and four hundred dollars tucked safely away in your purse.

You’d given him your number when he’d walked you to your car, only distracting you for a few extra minutes with his mouth, before you’d left for the night, hoping that you’d hear from him soon.

A notification lights up your phone, and a ribbon of thrill unspools through you.

You sigh when you see that it’s a notification from your dating app. You’re wary to open it, not wanting anything to color your night, but you figure now is as good of time as any to block the guy who had nothing on the one you’d spent your evening with.

When you see the name of the person who’d sent you a message, you click into his profile with lightning-fast fingers, skimming all the details to things you hadn’t had a chance to learn yet.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰

𝐀𝐠𝐞: 𝟑𝟓

𝐉𝐨𝐛 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐭

𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥: 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐚

𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬: 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥

𝐙𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧: 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫

There is a picture of him in uniform, grinning to someone out of the frame. And another one of him shirtless on the beach, surrounded by some of the faces you’d seen tonight at the Hard Deck.

But it’s the answers to the prompts that he’d picked, that set your heart fluttering.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲. (𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐫.)

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬: 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬.

𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬.

That one makes you laugh.

You open the message from him, one that had been sent with a rose.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰: 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞? 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧? 𝐈 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐈 𝐨𝐰𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐩.

You don’t even have to think.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐤𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝?

And you can’t help but grin to yourself as look at that paper ring still on your finger. Because you know, this app won’t be on your phone for much longer.

Not now that you’ve met him.

Happy Hearts Day, friends! Thank you for reading!

And a big thank you to Jordan ( @gretagerwigsmuse) for all the support and encouragement and general woogirling over Bradley Bradshaw!

You can read my other stories here!

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken  @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

[daylighted]

ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤBABY ! READER.

meet baby . . . again, because she's not someone that you should be unfamiliar with, if you know the winchester boys ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ a hunt gone wrong leaves dean without a car, and a personified version if it in its place ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ resilient and reliable, loyal and loving, baby is more than happy with the shift in dynamic ㅤ — ㅤ so long as it keeps her alongside her favorite person in the world, dean.

LEATHER & LACE !! baby arrived into human society in nothing but a worn, faded black leather jacket and a pair of lacy panties, prompting shell-shocked dean to fork over his jeans in efforts to preserve the modesty that she could not care less about. the black jacket is the human translation of dean's car's black coat of paint, and the panties have no explanation beyond dean's petty-driven theory of a final nail in the coffin of the witch's curse.

NOT CALLED BABY FOR NOTHIN' !! the name was given to baby, first, as a show of affection and appreciation that dean had for the car he inherited. now that said car was a girl with her own identity, dean has stuck to calling her such due to her innocence when it came to existing as a human being. and, though he'd never admit it, the affection he felt lingered tenfold now that he'd come to terms with her existence.

BIRTHMARKS !! baby has two "birthmarks," or scarification marks that came with her shift from car to girl. pale skin knits together neatly in the form of two scratchy initial signatures over each clavicle: D.W. and S.W. dean's, on her left side, directly over the beat of her heart, and sam's, on the right, never far behind when it came to being at dean's side. it is not known for a fact if either winchester knows of the existence of these marks; though it's highly likely they know of some sort of mark existing there, with how often baby tends to casually undress.

LISTEN TO HER PURR !! of all things that the winchesters have encountered, a car turned girl is not a repeat offense that they've witnessed. every day, something new is uncovered about baby; how she reacts to things, how much fire one girl's mouth can spit, how many memories translated into her head from the leather of the seats. there is not often a moment of silence or peace, not with baby around, though the lapse from routine is a welcome one, with how hard the job they do can be at times.

SO THIS IS LOVE !! it is without a doubt that baby came into existence with a predetermined love and devotion to dean. whether it is another jab from the witch's curse, attempting to poke a thorn into the soft press of dean's side, or if the bond between a man and his first love, his car, exists as true thing. dean chooses to not think about either option, simply wanting to believe that baby picks him everytime on her own free will. he does not, in fact, think about why he wants her to be consenting and aware in her devotion, either.

POCKETFUL OF SUNSHINE !! it is unknown if any special abilities or powers came in baby's human form, as the car information booklet that'd been collecting dust in her glovebox was now lost to the void. however, it is known that the leather jacket she came to fruition in seems to have bottomless pockets, holding things lost with time and forgotten, like sam's old toy soldiers, or a stuffie, wedged so deep under the seat for so long that neither of the winchesters remember it existing. perhaps the updated '67 chevy impala instruction manual is lost in the depths of those pockets, too.

—ㅤㅤㅤFOLLOW THE MAP !! ㅤ ๋࣭ ㅤ ⭑ ㅤ ⋆ ㅤ ⭒ ㅤ ˚ ㅤ ｡ ㅤ ⋆

. . . or, the chronological timeline of baby!reader. full map, including pitstops, unraveled here ㅤ — ㅤdiscuss baby!reader nation here !! official join the roadtrip post coming soon.

live out your baby!reader dreams in the interactive version, only found on c.ai.

01. how baby!reader came to be. 02. someone's gotta tell sam. 03. he cuddled with her anyways. 04. the girl behind the wheel. 05. baby's first case! 06. not off the hook. 07. learning about reading and feelings with sam winchester. 08. baby does not, in fact, know how to drive.

—ㅤㅤㅤPITSTOPS !! ㅤ ๋࣭ ㅤ ⭑ ㅤ ⋆ ㅤ ⭒ ㅤ ˚ ㅤ ｡ ㅤ ⋆

. . . or, the pinnacles of thoughts and headcanons about baby!reader. join the discussion in the link above !!

ㅤㅤㅤ✇ baby does not take shit from no man! + sweet dean stuff or whatev ㅤㅤㅤ✇ baby's thoughts on castiel. ㅤㅤㅤ✇ the one where baby calls dean on his shit. ㅤㅤㅤ✇ kiss it better! ㅤㅤㅤ✇ mary's revival. ㅤㅤㅤ✇ social anxiety HATES her! ㅤㅤㅤ✇ meet matilda, the witch who started it all. ㅤㅤㅤ✇ baby learns her abcs. sam is sick of the alphabet. ㅤㅤㅤ✇ dean is NOT raising a beige baby. ㅤㅤㅤ✇ how the lovebirds fall into love. ㅤㅤㅤ✇ baby beefs with someone's big black jacked up truck. ㅤㅤㅤ✇ loving each other & all their broken pieces. ㅤㅤㅤ✇ coping mechanisms.

notes. this took me 5k years and cost me my left leg. if it takes me 619238499 years to update this / keep it updated... mind ur business i have only one leg now and 5k less years to my lifespan </3 u can find all other discussion related stuff not listed here + all of this in the baby!reader tag on my blog <3 on the chance that i start slacking on keeping this up to date.

layout inspired by my pookie twin @deansbeer <3 !!! seriously don't know how u did this still bc my GOD.

tags. @titsout4jackles @honeyryewhiskey @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @theosaurous @stereotypicalbarbie @whyyouegg @eepwtf @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @aileenunfiltered @abox-of-rocks @sunsbaby @bluemerakis @jollyhunter @misatxox @sunsettsam @angelblqde @bombarda-babe @unfortunate-brat @funkycoloured @chevroletdean @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @voidsuites @bitchykittenconnoisseur @beausling @soldiersgirl @dulcescorderitas @hyacinnths @couturewinx @blushpinkdoll @mccartneyqp @svbnra + all of the rest of baby!reader nation if u needed a central hub to catch up LMFAO.

[miedei]

hi lovey!!!!! youve given me roommate spencer brainrot and after you mentioned it in that blurb im obsessed with the thought of him going to reader for touch/physical intimacy whenever hes burnt out from a case or something because hes so reluctant to accept touch from anyone else???

love you!!!

hihihi angel!! you're sooo real roommate!spence has taken over my brain recently i loveee this prompt so i wrote a drabble

had to inject a whole bunch of oblivious idiots who are in love because I'm nothing if not predictable <3 hope you like it!

roommate!spence fic | blurb 1

When you first met Spencer, he'd refused to shake your hand. To be fair, he'd given you a very convincing argument as to why, and you never held it against him. But it's very difficult to reconcile the memory of that Spencer, with the one you find yourself on the couch with now.

The length of his right arm is pressed up against yours, his tall body slumped down against the cushions so he can rest his head on your shoulder. The curling ends of his too-long hair tickle the sensitive skin on your neck, but you don't move away. You'd never move away from this.

He'd come home half an hour ago, late at night. You had been curled up on the couch, and you could see the exhaustion rolling off him in heady waves. The moment he shut the door behind him, he was shedding his coat and bag, thrusting them haphazardly somewhere near their allocated spots as he shuffled slowly towards you.

“Hey. All good?” Your own sleepiness was reflected in the short sentences, but you’d hoped that your eyes conveyed your concern adequately enough. 

It seemed like it worked, his hooded eyes raising to smile weakly at you. As he padded closer to where you sit on the couch, he nodded at the spot next to you in question. You shifted over, freeing up the space for him to crash, leaning heavily against you like he’s trying to meld himself to your side.

Which brings you to now. Whatever sitcom you were half-watching drones on in the background, the glow of the television splayed out over the delicate features of his face. His eyes are closed, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks, but you know he’s not asleep by the way he periodically presses himself closer to you. 

You’d questioned him once on his willingness and active initiation of physical contact with you, after you’d lived together for over a year. “I like it,” He’d said simply. “It’s comfortable. And it’s not that I dislike physical touch, I just can’t get over the thought of all those foreign pathogens on me. But, with you, I don’t have to worry about it. We spend so much time together. Did you know that living with someone for an extended period of time causes your microbiomes to change to share lots of traits? So you and I would share a lot, like-”

He’d continued to ramble for fifteen minutes. You’d taken it as an excuse to admire him openly. 

You’re taking this as another opportunity. Your head is bent at an awkward angle, but it provides you the best view of his exhausted visage, soft breaths ruffling the thin fabric of your shirt. 

He looks especially unguarded, an expression you’ve learned to value in the time that you’ve known him. It’s comfortable and soft, the feeling in your chest so warm that it entreats you to rest your eyelids for a second.

Spencer never expected to feel this comfortable with someone. He wonders what the him of five years ago would think of this— him, resting against someone, and them trusting him enough to lean just as heavily against him. It sends a spark of giddiness down his spine, one that he works very hard to not let shudder into the rest of his body, lest it disturb you.

Because of the angle at which his head is tilted, a lock of his hair slips down his forehead, finally falling to cover his eye. His nose wrinkles in response, but he’s not going to do anything. Not when you’re pressed up against him, leaning on his upper arm in a way that makes his heart squeeze in his chest. He’ll endure it. 

But he doesn’t have to endure it for long. As if you’ve heard his thoughts, he watches as your eyes flutter open slowly, pupils swivelling over to his face immediately. An easy smile tugs at your lips, and his breath hitches when you raise a hand to his face, gently capturing the hair and brushing it back to the top of his head. 

And as if that action wasn’t mind-boggling enough, your hand stays there, fingers tangled in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. 

Spencer can hardly hold in the pleased sigh that slips out, the feeling sending a rush of calm through his limbs. His eyes can’t tear away from yours, and he makes a mental note to read up on sirens, make sure that the attraction he feels to the depths of your irises isn’t supernatural in nature.

Either way, the two of you are not moving any time soon. The little bubble you find yourselves in is impossibly quiet, and yet it feels as though you’re saying more than you could in hours, through soft touches and bewitching eye contact.

The contact is slow, moving steadily across the crown of his head, and he feels like he could fall asleep right there. Or kiss you. Who knows.

[someonegoood]

SUTURES & SCARS part 2 ✫ jeon jungkook

CONTAINS: medical!au, surgeon!jungkook x surgeon!reader, slow burn, teasing, mutual pining, enemies to lovers, fighting turned bonding, past and present love, fluff & angst :)

NOTE: thanks so much for reading, hope you enjoy it!! this work is not revised, and english is not my first language. part 3 will be up tomorrow!!

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part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4.

Jeon Jungkook had learned to perfect the art of detachment.

It wasn’t always this way. There was a time when he had been different—someone who laughed freely, who allowed himself to feel deeply. His brother had been in a motorcycle accident. It was late at night when a drunk driver ran a red light, crashing into him at an intersection. The impact sent his brother flying off the bike, causing severe internal injuries, multiple fractures, and a traumatic brain injury.

Jungkook got the call while he was studying late in the medical school library. His phone buzzed on the desk beside his open textbooks, and when he saw his mother’s name on the screen, he almost didn’t answer—she rarely called him at that hour. But something in his gut twisted.

The moment he picked up, he knew.

His mother’s voice was frantic, choked with panic. “Jungkook, it’s your brother. He’s—he’s in the ER. They said it’s bad. You need to come now.”

His world tilted. The sound of the library faded into a dull hum as he grabbed his things, shoving books into his bag with shaking hands. He ran out of the building, breath coming in short gasps, not even realizing he was running until he reached the hospital’s entrance.

It had been a case of malpractice, a rushed surgery that should have never happened the way it did. He still remembered the phone call, the way his hands trembled when he gripped the steering wheel, speeding toward the hospital.

He was too late.

And when he arrived, the world around him blurred into nothing—just the sterile white lights, the overwhelming scent of alcohol, and the surgeon standing before him. There was no need for words. The hesitation in their eyes, the way their lips parted but no sound came out, the regret etched into their features like a scar—it was enough. A slow, crushing weight settled in his chest, suffocating, unrelenting.

His brother was gone.

His parents blamed the hospital. They blamed the system. But most of all, they blamed Jungkook for choosing to stay in this field, for willingly stepping into a profession that had taken away their eldest son.

He defied them anyway, promising himself he would fix the mistakes others made, that no family would have to go through what his did. But somewhere along the way, he lost pieces of himself in the process.

And now, years later, his past had returned in the form of you.

Jungkook’s eyes lingered on the framed photograph sitting on the shelf—his brother’s familiar smile frozen in time, untouched by the tragedy that had stolen him away. The edges of the frame were worn from years of restless fingers tracing over them, a habit he couldn't seem to break.

Exhaling sharply, he pushed back the ache threatening to surface, reaching for his car keys with a steady hand. There was no time for grief. Not now.

The metallic jingle of the keys was the only sound in the quiet apartment as he grabbed his coat and headed out the door. Seconds later, the engine roared to life, and he was gone—swallowed by the night, driving towards the one place where he could bury everything under the weight of his work.

The emergency doors crashed open as a stretcher barreled into the trauma bay. A male patient in his late twenties lay unconscious, his vitals dangerously unstable. Blood seeped through the gauze wrapped around his abdomen, a deep laceration revealing the ugly truth beneath—this would be a fight to keep him alive.

Jungkook pulled on his gloves, barking out orders. “We need to stabilize him—get me two large-bore IVs, stat.”

Beside him, you were just as quick, working seamlessly despite the charged atmosphere between you. “His BP is dropping. If we don’t get this bleeding under control—”

“I know.” Jungkook’s voice was razor-sharp, cutting through the tense air like the very scalpel he demanded. His hands, unnervingly steady, extended without hesitation.

Dr. Min Jihoon passed it to him swiftly, his gaze flickering between you and Jungkook, reading the charged silence between you even as the chaos of the trauma bay swirled around. Yeom Kwan and Minjee moved in sync beside you, their hands quick, their focus unshaken—but everyone could feel it. The storm brewing just beneath the surface.

But none of it mattered. Not here. Not now. In the operating room, grudges dissolved into the sterile air, personal rivalries drowned beneath the urgency of keeping a heart beating.

And so, despite the fire simmering between you, you worked together, seamlessly, flawlessly.

And when, against all odds, the flatline stuttered back to life, when the erratic beeping of the monitor steadied into a rhythm of survival, there was a moment—barely a breath—where Jungkook looked up.

His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable, the weight of what you had just accomplished pressing into the space between you like a force neither of you were ready to name.

You wondered—why those walls? Why did he hold himself so tightly, as if the world was something to endure rather than experience? You had wondered this since the first time you saw him, since the first time you worked together during that grueling internship.

Back then, Jungkook had already been brilliant. Unshakable hands, precise instincts, the kind of surgical talent that made attendings take notice. But there had always been something else, too—an invisible barricade, an impenetrable distance he maintained between himself and everyone around him.

At first, you thought it was arrogance, the same superiority he carried in med school, the way he dismissed emotions as if they had no place in medicine.

But then, during one brutal night shift, when the weight of a lost patient had pressed down on all of you, you caught something different.

It was in the way he had lingered for a second too long, staring at the empty hospital bed. The way his fingers had curled into a fist before he turned away, jaw clenched, unreadable. That was the first time you wondered if his walls weren’t built out of indifference, but out of something much heavier. Something he never let anyone see.

During the internship, you had arrived with the usual hopes and determination, eager to prove yourself, but the harsh reality of working under someone like Jungkook quickly turned your excitement into frustration.

From the first day, he seemed to make it a point to keep you at arm's length—cold, calculated, and dismissive. His gaze was sharp and piercing, but never kind. He'd often ignore your questions or shoot you down before you could even finish a thought.

It was one particular Friday night, 20:06 p.m., when everything erupted—when the raw weight of loss crashed into the already fragile foundation of your connection with Jungkook.

The girl had been young, barely out of her teens, and the trauma she had sustained was far too severe. Despite all the hours, the efforts, the prayers, she had slipped away. But what hurt even more was the fact that Jungkook had gotten close to her—had befriended her in her brief time at the hospital.

Dasom, that was her name.

You had seen the way he’d gone out of his way to make her smile, the way he’d stayed by her side, offering comfort when it seemed like there was nothing more to do.

Your breath caught in your chest as you watched him—his hand gripping the edge of the bed, fingers curling into a fist, knuckles white. His jaw clenched so tightly, you could almost hear it grinding. He hadn’t said a word, but the silence between you both was deafening, filled with the weight of everything unspoken.

His stoic expression, unreadable, gave nothing away, and yet, you could feel the fury and sorrow radiating off him in waves. It was in this moment that you saw Jungkook’s vulnerability, raw and untamed.

But that wasn’t the part that tore at you. What tore at you was the way he didn’t let anyone see it—not even you.

And when he turned away from the bed, the lines of his body tight and strained, you felt the pull to follow him, to say something, anything to bridge the gap between the two of you. But before you could, his voice, low and bitter, sliced through the tension like a blade.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said quietly, his voice rough, almost shaky. “I promised her she was to live more years.”

“I... I didn’t know how to handle it. How to...” His voice faltered, and for a second, you thought he might apologize, but instead, he gave you a small, almost imperceptible smile, the kind you rarely saw on him. It was almost like a quiet admission, an offering of the piece of him that he kept hidden away—untouched by his usual walls.

Later that night, you had been tasked with helping him during a complicated procedure. You had done your best to keep up, to be efficient, but when the pressure of the situation increased, you faltered. A mistake—a small one, but enough to cause a delay. And Jungkook, who rarely raised his voice, snapped.

"Do you even think before you act? You're going to kill someone with that kind of carelessness," he spat, his words biting deep. His voice was like ice, chilling you to the core.

Your heart raced, but you stood your ground, not wanting to let him see how deeply his words had affected you. "I'm trying my best."

"Your best isn’t good enough," he said, his eyes narrowing in disgust. "You don't belong here. You're out of your depth, and you’ll never be able to keep up."

The room fell silent except for the sound of your pounding heartbeat, each word he spoke slicing through your confidence like a knife. He had been harsh before, but nothing had stung like this.

It felt personal. Like he was saying it not just as a mentor, but as someone who already decided you weren’t worth his time.

The tension hung thick in the air as you struggled to hold back the tears. But you couldn't let him see you break. Instead, you turned away, focusing on the procedure, forcing your hands to stop shaking. Jungkook, with that cold look in his eyes, didn’t apologize or even acknowledge your struggle. He simply moved on.

The "you’ll never be able to keep up" haunted you.

And as you reflected, you realized it wasn’t just about that moment—it was the culmination of every encounter with him during the internship. The way he had dismissed your every effort, made you feel insignificant, like you were just a rookie in a world you would never belong in.

You hated the way he made you feel so small. Because deep down, no matter how much you resented him, no matter how many times he made you feel less than, you couldn’t deny that you loved him— despite everything.

Coco slid a plate of pasta in front of you before nudging your shoulder with a knowing grin. “So… you and Jungkook, huh?”

You nearly choked on your drink, shooting her a sharp look. “Excuse me?”

Aerum burst into laughter, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. “Oh, don’t even try to deny it. You two are practically a legend in this hospital, and your first day was last week!”

Your stomach sank. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Coco’s grin widened as she pulled out her phone. “Not at all. In fact, let me enlighten you.”

She turned the screen toward you, revealing a flood of messages in the hospital’s dermatology group chat. Your eyes scanned over the chaos:

‘Are they fighting again?’ ‘Jungkook looks like he wants to strangle her, but like, in a sexy way.’ ‘This is better than my K-dramas.’ ‘If they don’t end up together, I’m suing.’

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my god. This is humiliating.”

Coco and Aerum burst into laughter, nearly choking on their food as they watched your mortified expression. Coco twirled her pasta around her fork, grinning between bites. “I swear, this is the best entertainment we’ve had in months.”

Aerum, still laughing, took a sip of her drink before shaking her head. “Seriously, how have you not noticed? Half the hospital lives for the drama between you two.”

Coco smirked, taking a sip of her iced coffee. “Come on, you had to know. Every department has a bet going. Some think you’ll kill each other. Others think you’ll make out in an on-call room.”

“Who the hell is betting on my love life?” you asked, horrified.

Coco shrugged. “Everyone.”

Aerum nodded. “Even Dr. Min. And he doesn’t care about anything.”

You sighed, picking at your food as your face burned. “Great. Just what I needed. A fan club dedicated to my professional downfall.”

Coco leaned in, voice dripping with amusement. “Face it. You and Jungkook are the hospital’s worst-kept secret.”

Just as you were about to protest, you felt it—that unmistakable sensation of being watched. Your spine stiffened as your gaze flickered across the cafeteria, landing on two female doctors from the Gastroenterology department seated a few tables away.

They weren’t even trying to be discreet, whispering behind their hands while stealing glances in your direction. One of them smirked when your eyes met, nudging the other before looking away like they hadn’t just been caught red-handed.

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably.

For a second, it was like you were back there—back to that moment a few months ago, when your phone had exploded with notifications, when your name had been whispered through the halls for all the wrong reasons. The viral video. The mortifying attention.

The way you had become the topic of conversation overnight, not for your skills, not for your hard work, but because of something that should have never left the confines of the hospital walls.

The memory tightened around your throat, suffocating. The same heat crawled up your neck, the same frustration churned in your gut.

Aerum must have noticed the shift in your expression because her grin softened. “Hey,” she murmured, nudging your arm. “Ignore them. You know how this place is. They’ll find something new to obsess over soon.”

Coco nodded, following your line of sight before rolling her eyes. “Seriously. Half these people act like they’re surgeons in a medical drama, and the other half just like to stir the pot. Don’t let it get to you.”

But it wasn’t that easy. Because no matter how much time had passed, the weight of their stares still made your skin crawl. And the worst part? You weren’t sure if it was because of the video… or because of Jungkook.

Later, the restaurant buzzed with energy, the warm glow of overhead lanterns casting golden hues over the tables. Laughter rippled through the air, the scent of sizzling meat mingling with the sharp tang of soju. The trauma team had gathered for a much-needed dinner, a momentary reprieve from the relentless pace of the hospital.

But you barely touched your food.

Because across the table, the nurse Minjee was leaning in just a little too close to Jungkook, her delicate fingers wrapped around her soju glass as she tilted her head, eyes locked on him with something dangerously close to admiration.

“You’re seriously amazing, Dr. Jeon,” she gushed, her voice soft but deliberate. “That last case… how do you stay so calm under pressure?”

Jungkook, ever the picture of effortless confidence, merely offered a small, practiced smile. “It’s just part of the job.”

Minjee’s smile widened, her gaze never wavering. “You must have someone special outside of work, right? A girlfriend?”

Something inside you twisted.

It was stupid. So incredibly stupid. You weren’t nothing to him. You weren’t even his friend. Hell, the two of you could barely stand to be in the same room without some sharp-edged argument slicing through the air.

But as the silence stretched, as Jungkook hesitated, something lodged itself deep in your chest—something ugly, something you didn’t want to name.

You weren’t sure what was worse: the fact that he didn’t answer right away, or the fact that Minjee’s hand casually brushed against his in the meantime. It was barely a touch, but it felt deliberate, like a move in a game you weren’t even playing.

And suddenly, you were aware of everything.

Of how your scrubs from earlier still clung to your skin, of how you hadn’t bothered fixing your hair after the shift, of how exhaustion lined your face while Minjee looked effortlessly put together. Of how easy she made it look—how easy it was for her to talk to him without a sharp edge, without an undertone of competition, without baggage trailing behind every conversation.

You swallowed, fingers tightening around your chopsticks.

“Jungkook’s always been like this,” you blurted out, the words slipping before you could stop them. Your voice cut through the chatter, drawing more attention than you intended. “Back in med school, he had this habit of thinking he was always right.”

Jungkook’s gaze flicked to you, amusement sparking in his dark eyes. “That’s because I usually was.”

You forced a laugh, ignoring the way your pulse stuttered. “Oh, please. Remember that case we studied in our third year? You argued with me for an hour about it, and I was the one who ended up being right.”

The air shifted.

The playful teasing you had relied on as a defense mechanism edged into something sharper, something unspoken. The rest of the table quieted, eyes darting between you and Jungkook like they were watching something unfold in real time—something that felt too raw, too personal.

Jungkook leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze steady, unwavering. “And yet, here we are, still competing. What does that say about you?”

The words shouldn’t have stung.

But they did.

Your grip tightened around your chopsticks, and suddenly, the room felt smaller, the heat of lingering stares pressing in on you. You could feel Minjee watching, could feel the curiosity in everyone’s silence.

You had played this game with Jungkook for years, but tonight, for some reason, it felt different. It felt like you were losing. And worse—you didn’t even know what you were losing to.

Pushing back your chair, you stood abruptly, the sound loud against the floor. “Excuse me. I need some air.”

The night outside was crisp, the air biting against your heated skin. You exhaled sharply, hands gripping the railing as you tried to steady yourself.

It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t. So why did it feel like one?

“You okay?”

You turned, finding Seo Hana leaning against the wall, arms crossed as she regarded you with something between amusement and concern.

It was strange, realizing you hadn’t really had the time to properly introduce yourself to her. She was a resident, newer to the department, someone you had only exchanged a handful of words with between cases and hurried consults.

But it wasn’t just her.

You hadn’t properly introduced yourself to Dr. Ryuk Jinho either—the attending physician whose reputation for efficiency preceded him, always too busy moving between patients to bother with small talk.

Nor had you formally spoken to Dr. Min Jihoon, the trauma surgeon whose sharp skills were only rivaled by his sharper tongue. You had worked alongside them, assisted them, debated over treatment plans

in the middle of chaotic shifts, but actual introductions? The kind where you exchanged more than just clinical opinions or hurried greetings?

Because there was never time.

Between the endless hours, the exhaustion that seeped into your bones, and the constant pressure to prove yourself, there had never been room for anything beyond work. Beyond survival. But standing here now, with Hana watching you carefully, you realized that maybe that was something you needed to change.

You forced a smile. “Yeah. Just needed a breather.”

Hana smirked knowingly. “You and Jungkook are exhausting to watch.”

You let out a hollow chuckle, shaking your head. “Tell me about it.”

She was quiet for a moment before nudging your arm lightly. “For what it’s worth, I think he gets under your skin just as much as you get under his.”

You sighed, staring out at the dimly lit street, your stomach still twisted in knots.

“Yeah…” you murmured, voice quieter this time. “I think that’s the problem.”

There was a brief pause before Hana raised an eyebrow. “By the way, we’ve worked, what—dozens of shifts together? And I don’t think we’ve ever actually introduced ourselves properly.”

You blinked at her, surprised, before laughing softly. “You know what? I think you’re right.”

She extended a hand, all mock seriousness. “Seo Hana, surgical resident. Occasionally rescues emotionally tormented colleagues from their own overthinking.”

You chuckled, shaking her hand. “Good to know. I could probably use a full-time therapist at this point.”

“Oh, please. If you think I’m qualified for that, you’re in worse shape than I thought.”

That made you laugh—a real, genuine laugh that loosened something in your chest.

Hana grinned, clearly pleased with herself. “See? I knew I could fix your mood.”

You shook your head, a small smile lingering on your lips. “Thanks, Hana.”

She bumped her shoulder against yours lightly. “Anytime. Now, should we go back inside? Or do you need a few more minutes to contemplate your life choices?”

You paused, staring back at the dimly lit restaurant behind you. The laughter from inside felt distant now, like a world you weren’t sure you could dive back into. A heavy sigh slipped from your lips, and you glanced at Hana, who was still waiting for your answer.

“Actually…” You hesitated, pulling your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders. “I think I’m going to head home tonight.”

Hana looked at you for a moment, raising an eyebrow, but then her expression softened. “Fair enough. You’ve had a hell of a day. Need a break from the chaos.”

You nodded, offering a small, grateful smile. “Exactly. I just need some time to breathe. Think about… anything else, really.”

She chuckled, her eyes bright with understanding. “Well, don't stay up too late contemplating your life choices. You need to be back at it tomorrow.” You laughed lightly, shaking your head.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” Hana called as you started walking away. As you walked toward your car, you knew the tension wouldn’t completely go away. But for tonight, at least, you could escape it.

Jungkook sat back in his seat, fingers tapping absentmindedly against his glass of soju, his eyes drifting toward the door every few seconds. It had been a tense night. The usual banter with you had slipped into something sharper—something more fragile. He hated it. It wasn’t like things had ever been easy between you two, but tonight had felt different, more raw, like the weight of everything had finally caught up to you.

He glanced over at Hana, who was casually chatting with some of the others, but his focus was still on the door. You hadn’t come back yet.

When Hana excused herself a few moments ago, Jungkook’s attention had wandered, his mind racing with the thought of you alone outside. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe you were just taking a breather, clearing your head. But there was something about the way you’d stormed off, the way the entire atmosphere shifted when you stood up. It didn’t feel like just another one of your usual snarky exchanges.

Something had happened. He could feel it.

When the door finally creaked open, he looked up instinctively, his chest tightening as Hana stepped back inside without you.

“Where's...?” he asked, skipping your name. His voice came out soft, though he hadn’t meant it to.

Hana glanced at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She didn't awnser.

Jungkook’s mind went on high alert. He leaned forward slightly, fighting the instinct to get up and look for you himself. “She’s okay, right?”

Hana’s expression softened, and she raised an eyebrow as she slid into her seat. “She’s fine, Jungkook. Don’t worry about her. She just needed a break from… everything.” She glanced at him with a knowing look, her voice dropping to something a little lighter.

Jungkook opened his mouth to respond, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he settled back into his chair, his gaze drifting back to the door once more. His mind wasn’t on the conversation anymore. It wasn’t on the group of doctors discussing their next cases, or the laughter that still rang out from the tables around them. It was on you.

And now, with you gone, he felt it—the unease gnawing at him. The sudden realization that maybe, just maybe, things weren’t as simple as he liked to tell himself.

previous / next

[cherrygarcia-07]

🍎Apple Dumplin’ // Spencer Reid🍎

Spencer meets a quirky girl at a bookstore and is instantly smitten

pairing: spencer x kitschy! sunshine! reader (no y/n or pre-chose name though reader is nicknamed Apple)

genre: fluff

content: meet cute, spencer rambles about fungi and alice in wonderland, spencer being absolutely pathetically whipped

notes: i picture this as early seasons reid but it’s not specified, 3rd person but no physical descriptions of the reader besides what she’s wearing

I love apple dumplin’ and i have other things planned for this so I hope you like it🫶

——————————————————————————-🍎——————————————————————————

Spencer often found himself in his favourite bookstore on his days off. It was small, quaint, tucked far away in the quiet side streets like a well kept secret. It was a magical hidden world you had to stumble across, and finding it felt like if you kept walking just that bit further you might feel the ground grow cold beneath your feet, the floor becoming the glistening snow of Narnia and if you listened closely you might just hear the faint trotting of Mr Tumnus in the distance. It was humble in size yet rich in the form of bookshelf upon bookshelf reaching floor to ceiling, the comforting woody smell of the pages filling them drifting through the air, encompassing Spencer in a gentle hug as it pulled him through the door. He took a sip of the coffee that seemed to be a permanent accessory of his, letting the warmth spread through his chest as he glanced over the leaves of the potted plants dotted around the store glowing in the warm light that shone from strings of fairy lights bordering the shelves. It was near silent, the words between the pages before him saying everything that needed to be said, though they were occasionally interrupted by a stifled cough or a sniffle from the shopkeeper leaning over a desk, sipping on coffee of his own. Spencer offered him a friendly smile, which was politely returned, before succumbing to the beckoning calls coming from the books before him, strolling over to raise his hand to their spines in greeting.

Where usually he would be drawn to textbooks and other non fiction works, today he found himself gazing upon the classics and fantasy novels, a habit of his after a rough case. While he loved to learn far more than he could ever express, sometimes he just needed a new world to lose himself in, someplace magical and adventurous, far, far away from the violent reality he found himself in far too often. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his job- he did-, but there was also an eternal childlike wonder within him yearning for the exciting freedom of swashbuckling pirates or for the thrilling tales of cowboys in the wild west. It was carefree, it was fearless, things that he could never allow himself to be but looked up to with boyish admiration, though this he’d never admit. Behind him, a bell rang signalling the entrance of another customer but he kept his eyes locked on the aged book spines in front of him, gold lettering jumping out at him and keeping him firmly in place.

Some time passed, spindly fingers having flicked through book after book, keen eyes having soaked up story after story as he gently pushed another back into its spot on the shelf. He stepped back slightly, eyes now looking up and scanning for something else to read when he rather roughly collided paths with someone behind him, the force of the crash bursting the bubble of tranquility he’d been so content in as a book dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.

‘Oh my goodness, I am so, so sorry!!” Spilled a sweet voice from the person beside him as Spencer instinctively ducked to the floor to retrieve her book.

As he prepared to stand up his eyes met a pair of bright red tights tucked into a similarly bright pair of green mary-jane shoes. Rising to his feet, he took in the complete kaleidoscope of colour staring back at him with wide, apologetic eyes outlined with sharp, brown wings and long, curled lashes. Shiny hair either side of colourfully clad shoulders bounced as she shook her head, apologising once again as she tried to adjust the apple shaped crossbody bag resting against her hip despite the stack of books in her arms.

“It’s alright, don’t worry about it” Spencer said as he placed the book on top of the pile with a small smile.

“Are you hurt at all?” She asked, batting painted eyelids in his direction.

Spencer felt momentarily lost for words in her gaze, involuntarily letting out a quiet gasp as his brain scrambled to answer the simple question. The sudden ache in his chest probably didn’t qualify as a ‘yes’ anyway. He felt like asking if she had perhaps stepped out of one of the books he had been flicking through, her aura unlike anything he’d ever been in the presence of and he couldn’t help the way his heartbeat sped up and his stomach flipped.

Mouth opening and closing in a fish-like manner, he realised he still hadn’t answered her.

“Uh, um no- not at all. I- are you okay?” He choked out, trying to ignore the small wobble in his voice but then she smiled- a wide, enamouring smile that reached her twinkling eyes and he felt his breath catch in his throat as he took a long swig of coffee to soothe the feeling.

“Oh thank goodness! I’m just fine, don’t you worry about me.” Polka dotted nails twitched against the bottom book on the pile as she struggled to keep hold of the tower in her arms, clearly carrying more than she anticipated buying.

Spencer’s brows furrowed with intrigue as he took in the myriad of topics written on the spines: there was a cheesy romance novel or two; a book about plants and fungi; about astronomy and constellations; mythology; philosophy; and finally what looked like a collector’s edition of Alice In Wonderland, the book which he had picked off the ground for her. If she was studying anything specific he couldn’t tell what it was.

“Do you need a hand with those?” He asked, nodding towards the pile and a blush crept up his neck when she let out a candied giggle and said yes. Carefully, he took the top 3 books in one hand with his coffee in the other, leaving her with 4 which she could hold tucked in one arm instead.

“Thank you so much, you’re a life saver!” She beamed, introducing herself before adding, “but my friends call me Apple, bet you can’t guess why.” She joked, referencing the several apple themed accessories adorning her outfit.

Spencer had to admit she did kind of look like a fruit had grown legs and come to life, but it was endearing, refreshing.

Laughing, he responded, “I’m Spencer.” Usually he would be thankful both his hands were full to give him an excuse to refuse a handshake from a stranger yet for some reason with her he found himself cursing the fact, wanting to reach out for her hand and admire the chunky rings that sat around her fingers.

They turned around, heading to the counter side by side, a shy silence between the two of them until she tilted her head up at him, “oh, by the way I really like your mismatched socks” she said, nodding down to where one red and one green ankle peeked out of his converse. “We’re totally matching, I must’ve been destined to run into you today.”

At this, Spencer turned to face her, and if her words weren’t enough to completely fluster him, the newfound proximity to her face certainly was. To say she was beautiful was an understatement. She was indescribable, unlike anyone he had ever met. It wasn’t even conventional attractiveness, though she certainly had that too: it was the way she looked at him with nothing but kindness as if they had known one another forever; the way the freckles on her rosy cheeks bunched up as her grin illuminated her whole face; the way her eyes twinkled so clearly he felt the urge to throw away the astronomy book she still held for he could already see the constellations staring right back at him. He cringed at himself a little, realising how starved he must be to be so whipped from such a short interaction- but then again who wouldn’t feel the same after hearing that honey-like voice and that sugary laugh of hers. Blushing even harder than before, he quickly faced away from her again, keeping his head forward.

“Thank you. I uh, I like your outfit too. Very colourful.” He forced out, silently cursing himself for how simple his vocabulary had become around her.

“Really? Oh, that’s so sweet of you.” She beamed, and although Spencer couldn’t see it he could still feel the joyous energy radiating from her. “I’ve been told I’m kinda clown like, not that I mind. I guess I should learn some magic tricks or something to complete the look, huh?” Apple joked again, and Spencer’s ears turned pink as she giggled.

“Actually, if you were going to pursue modern clowning you’d need to tackle more than just magic tricks; like juggling, stilt walking or even ventriloquism-“ He cut himself off with a quick apology, not that she seemed to mind his impending ramble much to his surprise. “But I’m pretty good at practical magic myself if you ever need a tutor,” he humoured her before realising how oddly flirty that had sounded and if it were even possible he turned a whole shade redder as he resisted the urge to slap himself in the side of the head, now also feeling ridiculously uncool for having boasted about practical magic in the first place.

To his disbelief, she seemed almost impressed and said “well then, if I ever go into the magic business I know just who to call”, offering him a playful wink which he caught out of the corner of his eye, heart threatening to beat out of his chest.

Figuring it the best way to protect his brain from becoming mush entirely, he shifted the focus back to the books they now both carried.

“What are you studying, exactly?” He asked, clearing his throat and regaining some stability in his voice as they set the books down on the counter, the shopkeeper’s eyes darting between them with a seemingly amused look Spencer couldn’t quite place.

“Nothing in particular, actually.” She sighed fondly, tracing the spine of one of the books with a white and red nail, “I find myself interested in just about everything. There’s nothing better than curling up on the couch with some kind of encyclopaedia, I think.”

Spencer’s eyes fell back to the astronomy book on the counter as he wondered just where in the sky this shooting star of a woman had fallen from.

“No way, me too!” He exclaimed excitedly, feeling childishly giddy all of a sudden.

“At the risk of sounding like a nerd I’d say I’m pretty into fungi at the minute.” Apple looked away sheepishly, watching as the shopkeeper scanned her book on the very topic and placed it into a paper bag.

Picking up the copy of Alice In Wonderland, a grin tugged at Spencer’s lips. “Not at all, I find fungi fascinating myself. In fact, the Amanita Muscaria- more commonly known as the Fly Agaric or Fly Amanita- is heavily featured in Alice In Wonderland and is said to have been an inspiration in the creation of the story, so much so that the effects caused by it’s hallucinogenic properties are often referred to as ‘Alice In Wonderland syndrome’ as it distorts the consumers perception of reality much like it does in the novel.” He glanced up with a nervous smile on his face, embarrassed slightly at his inability to keep his ravings to himself and he hoped that he hadn’t bored the young woman beside him.

Much to the excitement of the butterflies in his stomach, Apple seemed enthused, nodding intently as she clung onto every word, and they flapped their wings hard, fluttering around in every direction as Spencer tried to catch his breath which had faltered once again in an attempt to calm them. Her skin seemed to glow under the light of the string lights of the bookstore, like some kind of eccentric angel sent down just for him and he noticed how the fruity scent of her perfume waltzed around the room, mingling with the earthy smell of the books in a heavenly dance, like they were meant to be, her world and his. He traced the line of her jaw with his eyes as she turned to pay the shopkeeper, it’s shape surely carved by only the finest of craftsmen, the same one who must’ve been responsible for the elegant shape of her nose that ended in a curve atop the cupids bow of her soft, pink lips.

A delicate hand reached over the counter, retrieving the bag of books with a smile and a sugary ‘thank you’ that rang in Spencer’s ears like wedding bells.

“You know, I work at the bakery across the street from here. You have to come in sometime and pick something out, as a thanks for helping me today.” She spoke, gesturing out the window to a cosy looking pale yellow building with chalk drawings of apples and flowers in the window.

“You don’t have to do that, it was nothing really.” Spencer murmured bashfully, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“It was gentlemanly.” Apple tilted forward in her kitschy shoes, forcing him to meet her gaze, which he struggled to do so given the way these 3 words had managed to turn him to jelly where he stood, “I want to pay you back.” She batted her lashes at him once again, as if she knew he wouldn’t be able to say no to her.

A breathy chuckle escaping him, Spencer agreed and felt his heart swell as she squealed in delight, waving goodbye as she turned on her heels and practically skipped out the door.

In a daze, he returned to the books he had been browsing earlier, only to leave empty handed because what story could possibly compare to the fairy tale he had just experienced right there?

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

The assistant

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this one shot of Lewis x assistant, ngl I was blushing so hard writing the last part. If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

The moment I stepped into Ferrari’s Maranello headquarters, I knew my life was about to change. The air buzzed with a mixture of history and ambition, the scent of oil and polished metal filling my lungs as I hurried down the halls, clutching my tablet and notepad close to my chest. Today was my first official day as Lewis Hamilton’s new assistant, and I was determined to make a good impression.

It still felt unreal. Lewis Hamilton, seven-time world champion, the man whose posters had covered my childhood bedroom, was now my boss. I had been warned—he was meticulous, demanding, and didn’t suffer fools lightly. The fact that I was young, inexperienced, and admittedly not the brightest when it came to all things technical probably didn’t help my case. But I was dedicated, eager to learn, and I refused to let anyone down, least of all him.

I reached his office and knocked twice, heart hammering in my chest.

“Come in,” came his deep, smooth voice.

I stepped inside, nearly tripping over my own feet in the process. “Good morning, Mr. Hamilton!” I chirped, a bright smile plastered on my face.

His eyes flicked up from his laptop, sharp and assessing. Even seated, he radiated effortless charisma. The Ferrari red suited him, adding a new edge to his presence that was almost overwhelming.

“It’s just Lewis,” he corrected, leaning back in his chair. “And you are?”

“Oh! Right. I’m Y/N. Your new assistant.” I held out a hand, which he shook briefly, his grip warm and firm.

His lips twitched. “You seem… enthusiastic.”

“I am!” I nodded eagerly. “I won’t let you down. I have your schedule ready, your coffee order memorized, and I even took the liberty of organizing your inbox.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his features. “Organized my inbox? That’s ambitious.”

“I color-coded it,” I said proudly.

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Alright, Y/N. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The weeks passed in a blur of early mornings, frantic note-taking, and adjusting to the fast-paced world of Ferrari. Lewis was… intense. Every meeting, every training session, every interview had to be managed with absolute precision. But he was also patient in his own way, never raising his voice even when I fumbled through things or had to ask the same question twice.

What I hadn’t expected was how easy it was to be around him. Beneath his disciplined exterior, there was a warmth, a dry sense of humor that surfaced when we were alone. I found myself looking forward to our moments between obligations—the brief exchanges of banter, the way his lips curled when I made a silly mistake, his teasing remarks about my tendency to trip over my own feet.

And then there were the looks.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. The way his gaze lingered a second too long when I handed him his morning coffee. How his eyes darkened when I absentmindedly chewed on my pen during meetings. The barely-there smirk whenever he caught me flustered, which, unfortunately, was often.

I told myself it was nothing. He was Lewis Hamilton—he could have any woman he wanted. Why would he be interested in his clueless, bumbling assistant?

But then, one evening, he shattered all my illusions.

It was late. The Ferrari offices were nearly empty, the only sounds coming from the hum of overhead lights and the occasional rustle of papers as I went through the last of Lewis’s schedule for the following day.

He leaned against his desk, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher.

“You don’t have to stay this late, you know,” he murmured.

I glanced up, blinking. “Oh, I don’t mind! I just wanted to make sure everything is perfect for tomorrow.”

He exhaled, a hint of exasperation in his gaze. “You work too hard.”

I grinned. “So do you.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. The silence stretched between us, thick with something unspoken. Then, in a move that sent my pulse skyrocketing, he reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered, tracing lightly along my jaw.

My breath caught. “L-Lewis?”

He let out a quiet chuckle, his eyes dark, unreadable. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me, do you?”

I swallowed hard, my thoughts a jumbled mess. “I—um—I don’t—”

His fingers ghosted down my arm, slow and deliberate, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “Every time you walk into a room, all sweet and eager to please, I have to remind myself you’re off-limits.”

A shiver ran down my spine. My mouth was dry. “Am I?”

His jaw clenched, his grip tightening just slightly. “I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.”

“But?” I whispered, emboldened by the way his breath hitched at my voice.

His eyes flicked to my lips, then back up. “You make it very hard to be good.”

A flush spread down my neck. My heart pounded against my ribs as he took a step closer, the air between us crackling with tension. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, the scent of his cologne mixed with something unmistakably male.

He sighed, raking a hand through his curls before stepping back. “Go home, Y/N. Before I do something we both regret.”

I bit my lip, nodding as I gathered my things, but as I walked out, I knew one thing for certain: resisting this temptation was only getting harder for both of us.

[tumblingxelian]

No Pit Madness - What the Lazarus Pit might actually do to a human brain:

So, I hate the whole "Pit Madness" BS but I do find how the brain works fascinating and ended up wondering how something like the pit might effect the brain and if it could influence behaviors in a none ableist or "Evil magic" way. So please join me as I outline a fun little thought experiment about how the Lazarus Pit could influence someone's personality, but not in the way you'd expect!

Let's begin with a fun fact!

When we experience trauma is can leave a physical mark on our brain even if it wasn't physical trauma it still mars the fleshy sponge that is our brain.

This can be useful, like learning fire = hot & the ensuing pain = bad!

It can also hard-code in a lot of really bad stuff which is why when it comes to certain mental illnesses medications to suppress certain parts of the brain need to be taken for upwards of ten years. This is to ensure the damage does not keep perpetuating itself while the brain builds new neural pathways until the source of the sickness is gone.

So, now imagine if you get dumped in a Lazarus pit and and EVERYTHING comes back in perfect clarity. That's likely why people coming out are so initially panicked and wild, they are experiencing total sensory overload on a level never before imagined!

But, the influence of the pit likely lingers as it works its way through the body and so its still repairing damage as it happens. Which is key to my next point and we'll use Ra's as an example.

Ra's was a doctor, a healer, a man who wanted to better the world. But in that journey he saw and eventually did terrible things. Things that would forever change him, quite literally in this case.

Because imagine if you will, all that stuff coming back all at once, but then imagine the Lazarus pit remnant going "Oh the brains getting damaged real fast, better fix that!"

Put simply, it effectively heals the damage done to the mind via traumas as the brain is trying to process and learn from them.

This happens be they brought up by the pit or simply on the persons mind in the immediate after effects. The brain is trying to hard code in "Thing bad" but the Lazarus pit won't allow the brain to experience that kind of damage and wins out for at least a time. Essentially fortifying the mind against taking this kind of damage.

Using Ra's as an example the longer he lives, the more he sees and does, the more this stuff compounds and the more the pit has to heal when he goes in and comes out. By virtue of getting that healing, those actions no longer have the same kind of mental or emotional impact they once did. Causing him to become increasingly alienated from the human condition and the horrors he inflicts on others.

Now, for someone who went into the pit once this is likely not a huge deal but let's go over some example using this current model:

1: Cassandra Cain was killed by Shiva and thrown in a pit, she came out and killed Shiva, something she would normally be so violently opposed to she'd die rather than do it. This isn't merely philosophical for Cassandra it is also rooted in intense trauma. But this act did not impact her the way it should. Cassandra retains her intellectual and emotional morals, but the trauma that comes with seeing or causing death no longer hits her the way it once did, because her brains now been hard-wired to be able to handle that without taking damage.

2: Bruce has if I recall been in the pit at times, so wouldn't the trauma over his parents be lessened? No, because Bruce tends to go in the pit when he's on missions and thus compartmentalizing. Thus instead the trauma is just as bad or slightly worse because its in a sense been refreshed once he's out of mission mode and the Lazarus Pit effects wear off. IE, he got factory reset but kept all his memories, now they are just clearer than ever before and that's worse.

3: Much like the the above, Jason was factory reset as far as is brains physical trauma went and so confused when he came out that he wasn't entirely clear on having died over just getting injured. By the time he did know the pits effects had worn off, so this was his brains first major "new" old trauma, and thus it responded the way a new brain does to trauma with "This is the worst thing because its the first bad thing" magnifying its impact and solidifying it in his brain.

This hasn't made any of them new people, they retain agency in their actions and beliefs. But for a physical comparison, its like how some stories have someone coming out of the pits feet be baby smooth and thus needing to build up calluses, except for the brain.

The difference is, because one retains the memories, if they are in a calm scenario and ideally unconscious when first coming out of the pit, they could wake up, calmly meditate on things and come out more or less the same as before save maybe a little more level.

Most people cannot do that and so their brain gets a jagged, clumsy, often entirely unhelpful wave of protective film over major horrors, or get to experience them again like they are brand new with no in-between. Thus meaning the results tend to be either:

"Huh, that used to fuck me up but now it doesn't."

Or

"Oh gods this is worse than I remembered it, aaah!"

Or in other words you either get over stuff you probably shouldn't or get super re-traumatized with no middle ground and neither is ideal.

[zepskies]

Oooh could be the anticipation of her and Dean getting interrupted by Michael? Of Sam getting into trouble with Michael and his posse? Either way I'm glad this chapter was able to keep you on your toes, friend! 😜💓

the dinner scene was so sweet, on both sides 💓 it was a good look into how they care for each other already :') loved it

Aw I had a lot of fun with the restaurant scene! Chicken or steak never had so much subtext. 😅 Yeah you get a sense of the level of their character, hopefully, and how considerate of each other. 🥲

oh michael 🤦🏽‍♀️ that's like the worst thing he could have come up with lmfao. also i was nervoussss for sam the whole time but he's so smart, glad to see him handling himself 😅 (honestly they're all so shady i'm still worried a little😩)

He's a slippereh snek in this chapter for sure. 🐍 Sam is v much showing his intelligence in this one, but you're right, all these guys at the club are super shady and I don't blame you for being worried. 😅

:((( my shaylaaaaa also i thought their walk in the park was perfect for the conversation. idk I felt like it took off a layer of pressure, given how heavy it got at one point. it was so nice to see them opening up and getting to know each other <3 (it's alllllll coming together now >:D)

Aww Dean's feeling like a bit of a burden right now, but I'm so glad you enjoyed their literal walk in the park! They both needed that time to relax, and yep it gave them a chance to open up to one another and learn more about each other. (ooh yes, you shall see 😝)

oh word?😏 loll no but seriously I would be admiring his hands 24/7 😭 i'm a sucker for nice hands

Oh hell yeah.

after seeing how she and michael met I hate him even more now, oh my gosh :/ she treats your horrendous wounds, helps you recover in the middle of chaos, marries you, and you stillllllll do her dirty? so trifling 🤦🏽‍♀️

Right?? Like it's doubly shitty. She literally held him down. 🙃 You'll learn more about Michael and what's going on in his head in Part 4...

my heart achesss for her, no one deserves to be treated like this and/or made to feel this way :((( free my girl fr 😩 sidenote, when I see the chapter title in the story I feel like this meme lollll

God my heart broke for her while I was writing this scene. 😭 Justice for baby girl will be coming soon, but omg YES I love it when readers feel that way about spotting the chapter title (or even series title) in a chapter because that's how I feel too when I'm reading a story!! 🤣🤣

call me the wicked witch of the west the way i melted lmao, ahhh 💞💞 now I do hate cheating with a passion, yes. however in this case; they're basically separated, he's a massive douche who's toeing the line into more aggressive behavior, and honestly to me it's like she's shackled to him against her will, awaiting the key. once again I say, free my girlllll lol

Yes I hate cheating too, but in this case I think we can understand (for absolutely all of those reasons you mentioned). And she's not falling for Dean to spite Michael, but because she's so deeply hurt and needing that connection with someone. 💞

😭 lmfaoooooo

🤭 Poor Dean. Picturing your dad nekked will do the trick when you need to calm it down lmfao...if psychologically scarring yourself all over again. 🤣

overall this was such a wonderful chapter, per usual <3 totally not freaking about over the teaser for the next chapter :) (stay safe sammy!!😩)

Aww thank you so very much, friend! Hahaa you don't have to worry too much about Sam, but I can say that the angst train will be coming full force in Part 4. 😅💕

BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 3

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: All right, diving into some muddy waters here...

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: “You Go to My Head” by Tony Bennett

Word Count: 6.5K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Angst, (technically cheating—it’s complicated), hurt/comfort, and smut.

✨ Series Masterlist

🎵 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 3: A Moment

Dean sat with you in silence on the bus. While you were still beautiful in your black dress, hat, and veil, you didn’t have the vivacious spark in your eyes like you did back at the club. There, when he held you in his arms, he earned your breathless, giddy laugh by turning you too many times under his hand.

Now, you looked like you were in mourning. Maybe you were.

“You hungry?” he asked. 

You didn’t even raise your gaze as you picked at a stray seam on your dress.

“I don’t think I could eat anything,” you replied. 

As if on cue, the thought of food made your stomach percolate, uttering a rumble. You froze. Your eyes widened as you bit your lip in mortification, but you were unable to stop yourself from glancing at Dean.

He cocked a brow at the sound. Then, his lips twitched at a smile.

“I think I know a place,” he said.

You were blushing too hard to argue.

And so, you and Dean got off the bus early. You ended up sitting across from him at a steakhouse. It was nice and quiet. Softer piano music played, and you were perusing the menu, trying not to feel guilty about it.

You had to remind yourself that your husband was betraying your marriage in far worse ways than you right now, and in the grand scheme of things, this was nothing. Dean was just paying you a kindness by taking you out for dinner.  

“Get whatever you want,” he said, gesturing towards the menu in your hands. 

You gave him a measured look across the table. Sure, he could say that, but you still felt bad. He was a soldier no longer on a soldier’s salary.

So you tried to be discreet while you were eyeing the steak side of the menu. Seeing the state of these prices—more than a little outrageous, in your opinion—you turned to the other side. The server returned to your table shortly after.

“Are we ready to order?” he asked.

Dean gestured for you to go first. You once again glanced down at the tiny printed words next to the fancily scrawled prices, biting at your lower lip.

“I’ll have the roast chicken please,” you said.

Dean rose his brows at you. “You sure that’s what you want?”

“Sure. I’m happy with anything,” you said.

A smile played on his lips. “So you really want to have chicken at a steakhouse?”

His amusement was infectious. You couldn’t help but begin to smile too. He leaned in closer across the table, as if conspiringly.

“I’ll get you whatever you want, and I mean that,” he said. Then, adopting a more joking tone, “I may not have a job lined up yet, but I’m not penniless.”

Your smile fell. “Oh, Dean, I know that—” 

“Then order something good,” he said, raising his brows. “I dare ya.”

Your lips began to purse, trying not to succumb to the annoyingly charming gleam in his eyes.

“How about the Salisbury steak?” the server suggested. “It’s very popular right now.”

Dean looked to you for confirmation, again popping his brows in teasing askance. You offered a weary smile of defeat. 

He ordered two steaks with all the fixings.   

Dean was the more natural improvisor, but Sam had become just as good at finding the right role to play in situations like these. With Michael Milligan and his friends, that role was mostly himself: a bachelor, a businessman, but also being “the new guy in town,” looking for friends and a good time.

So Sam was wearing his newest suit and his best watch—a graduation present from his father—and had made sure he looked sharp before leaving the apartment tonight. Though he undid a couple of buttons on his dress shirt and ran a hand through his hair to tousle it up a little, making himself look casual enough to match these guys.

Seeing the shine on his wrist, Michael was generous enough to invite Sam along when they traveled behind the velvet curtain with Dolores Daye and the Cotton Club’s esteemed host, Brady Johnson.

Johnson. Sam recognized the name with an internal jolt. He’d seen it scrawled in Michael Milligan’s handwriting across several checks, dated between 1944 to 1945.

Brady Johnson had a crooked smile that was supposed to be charming as he led the group into a darker, cozier room. It smelled like the smoke of cigarettes and cigars, coupled with the faint must of perfume and cologne. There were a couple of pool tables, a fully stocked bar, and a big round table where he gestured for them all to sit.

Dolores took a seat right on Michael’s lap. There she gave the man a kiss that likely tickled his tonsils.

Sam pretended to be discreet when he looked away, but really, he was trying to sneak his little Canon camera out of his jacket. He stiffened to attention when Brady slapped a hand on his shoulder.

“What’re you drinkin’, Winchester?” he asked. “Scotch? Whiskey?”

“Aren’t those the same thing?” Sam said, injecting some good humor into his smile.

Brady thought about it, popped a brow, then levied a finger his way. “Damn it, when you’re right. You’re right. I’ll get ya both then.”

He reached out and touched Dolores’s side meaningfully, getting her to stop “greeting” Michael and detach from his face.

“Sweetheart, why don’t you get our guests something to drink, huh? Then you can go back to making Michael here feel comfortable,” Brady said, slapping a congenial hand on Michael’s back.

Dolores gave Brady an easy smile and practically hopped out of Michael’s lap with a graceful two-step. She caressed his face as she made her way around his back and away, heading towards the bar. Michael followed the careening path of her hand as she half-turned his head, and he shot her a wink. She giggled indulgently, making him smile.

Then he turned his attention to the game of poker at hand. One of the other men was dealing the cards. Sam glanced at his hand before he looked over at Michael. Specifically, Sam noticed the gold band on the man’s left ring finger.

Michael seemed to feel Sam’s eyes on him, and he followed the path of Sam’s gaze. Michael flexed his hand and tucked it into his pocket.

“So Sam, what’s your poison?” he asked.

“I’m a whiskey guy, I guess,” Sam said, glancing around the room. There was probably an exit out back, but otherwise, the place was secluded and well-contained. So far he didn’t notice any other back rooms, besides a door to what was probably a dressing room. Michael had probably gotten that tour a time or two.

“This is a nice place,” Sam remarked, offering Dolores a polite smile when she set down a fifth of scotch in front of him. She gave him a charming wink before she served Michael his whiskey on the rocks next.

“I don’t come here all that often,” Michael said, adding a quirking grin. “Just on payday.”

The men shared a chuckle. Sam’s gaze was a hint sharper.

“Well, the drinks are good. I imagine the company’s better,” he said, his brows raising slightly when Dolores passed by to serve one of the other men a drink. Michael cocked a finger at him, congenial, but still warning.

“Yep, she’s a sweet one, all right. Sweet for me,” he said, grinning.

Sam nodded in understanding.

“I get it. She’s happily occupied,” he said, though he casually gestured to Michael’s left hand when he used it to bring his drink up to his lips. “Sorry for your loss.”

Michael gave him a look of confusion while he sipped, but when he noticed Sam pointing at his wedding ring, he had to pause and clear his throat.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I assumed you were a widower,” Sam said. He quirked a smile and sipped at his own drink.

Michael hesitated. He rubbed at his left ring finger, over the shining band.

“Yeah, well, sometimes I forget that myself,” he said. His blue eyes dimmed. “It, uh…hasn’t been all that long since she passed.”

Sam almost shook his head. If the man was going to lie, he could at least put some effort into it. He was beginning to understand your pain even better than ever.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” Sam offered.

Michael smiled tightly. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“All right, we good?” Brady said, now that the cards were dealt. Dolores came back over to sit on Michael’s lap. Sam didn’t get out his camera just yet; the position was incriminating, but not hard proof of an affair. He’d have to wait for a better opportunity.

“Who’s betting first?” he asked.

After the meal, you realized you weren’t quite ready to go home, despite the late hour of the night. Picking up on your reluctance, Dean suggested taking a walk. You held onto his offered arm and led him a couple blocks away to Central Park. You guided him through the walkways you almost knew by heart, even in the shrouded dark of the night.

You were beginning to feel an odd prickle zip across your skin. Deep down, you knew you walked on a thin edge teetering between right and wrong.

He’s just being kind, you rationalized. You were battered enough inside to crave his kindness, more than you would’ve ever liked to admit.

“Thank you again for dinner,” you said, “and for staying out with me. I just…didn’t feel like going home to an empty apartment.”

Dean’s lips twitched up at one side, ruefully. “I kinda know what you mean. We could, uh…catch a picture show or something.”

“Oh no, Dean. It’s all right. Far too late for that,” you said, releasing his arm to wave a dismissive hand. Really, you just wanted to dispel the idea of him treating you to anything more tonight. By the way he was as dinner, you just knew that he wouldn’t allow you to pay for your own ticket to see a show. Nor did you want to eat into his pockets anymore. 

Your hands were gathered in front of you now as you walked, holding your purse. A cold rush of wind pushed at you both from behind. It popped up the collar of your winter coat. Dean fixed it for you, laying it back down above your shoulders. You murmured your thanks again as you felt the brush of his fingers across your back and shoulders.

Afterwards, he slid his hands back into his coat pockets. He looked up at the tall trees and nicely trimmed bushes, their little red flowers having opened up.

“This is the only part of the city worth seeing,” he remarked, knocking a small rock ahead of him with his foot.

You turned to him with a frown. “Come on, now. There are a lot of interesting things in the city. There’s the Statue of Liberty and Rockefeller Center, not to mention museums, restaurants, Radio City, plays, and movies too, remember?”

“Okay, aside from Radio City and a couple of old buildings, we’ve got all that back home too,” he said, with a cutting motion of his hand.

“Has Sam shown you everything? Or have you been exploring on your own?” you asked. The question was a bit deceptive though. In your mind, you were thinking of what Sam had told you…

He’s not usually wanting for company.

“On my own, for the most part,” Dean replied. “Sam’s been hard at work. A bit too busy for his hanger-on older brother.”

You looked over at him with furrowed brows. “Dean, I doubt he sees it that way.”

The man shook his head. “Look, I’m…I’m proud of him, don’t get me wrong. He’s trying to build something for himself, and that takes time and a lotta work. He’s created a life here. I’m just trying to catch up, I guess.”

You considered Dean for a moment. Like you, he seemed to be at a crossroads.

“What was it like for you two, growing up? You’re from Kansas, aren’t you?” you asked.

He nodded. He hesitated, but he surprised you by opening up a little, telling you more about his life before the war. It was always before and after. You knew it always would be.

You learned that his mother passed away when he was young, rather tragically due to an illness that came on suddenly and swiftly. He still remembered the deep blue of her eyes, her blonde hair. But most of all, he remembered her voice, kind and pretty when she sang to him until he fell asleep.

John, his father, had become a harder man after her death. Quieter, and stoic. Dean hardly remembered him without a glass of liquor in his hand after that. John had been a factory worker before he enlisted in the Navy. He died a decade later at Pearl Harbor, during the war.

That news came through with a military officer knocking at the front door of their family home. Dean answered it, and so that news hit him first. Afterwards, he had to sit his younger brother down and tell him.

That afternoon, both of them enlisted.

Dean told the story matter-of-factly, but you felt and saw the emotions hidden behind his eyes. You saw the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, both as an older brother, and as the eldest son. You had to quickly swipe away a tear before he turned your way. He offered a small smile.

“Ah…enough about all that. What about you?” he asked. “How’d you grow up?”

You took a steadying breath, and you told him.

“Well, I’m from a small town in South Dakota. Sioux Falls,” you said. “Mom’s a schoolteacher. Dad works in a steel mill, and my Uncle Bobby owns an automotive towing company there.”

“Well, that’s a decent job,” Dean said.

“Have you thought about what you want to do?” you asked. He nodded, and the two of you stopped to sit together on a bench in the park. You had a view of tall skyscrapers like Empire State in the distance, and the night sky above the arching trees.

“Yeah, a lot actually,” he said, carding a hand through his hair absently. “Like, uh, talking about cars, I’ve always liked them. The hum of a good engine. My dad could hear a car running from a block away, and he could tell you what was wrong with it, just by the sound of it.”

He punctuated his words with a sweeping gesture of his hand. You could imagine a road laid across the path of it, along with a rumbling car and his father’s perceptive, judging eye.

“Heh, matter of fact, we used to take his old Chevy apart, put it back together again,” said Dean, smiling a little. “I like working with my hands, I guess.”

You admired his hands as they rested casually in his lap. They were larger than yours, with long fingers. His hands look strong and capable like the rest of him, even though they were always considerate when they touched you.

“Then you should do something you like doing,” you said. “Fixing cars! That’s good, honest work you can make a living out of.”

Dean looked over at you. “You think so?”

You nodded your encouragement, smiling bright. “I know so. You might be a bit of a flirt, but you also look like someone who can accomplish whatever you set your mind to.”

When those words slipped free from your mouth, you realized how he might take that little accusation, let alone how overeager you sounded. Your gaze fell away from him as you felt your face getting warm in a blush.

Dean’s smile widened, showing teeth. “I’m a flirt, huh?”

“Well…” You bit the inside of your lip and tried your hardest not to look at him for a while. “At least you’re an honest one.”

Dean laughed freely at that. He wasn’t offended, just amused at the way you got embarrassed, even though you didn’t take it back just to save face.

He appreciated your support and the way you talked, straightforward and earnest. There was nothing frivolous about you. You meant every word you said, and you said it with conviction.

“Do you enjoy your work then?” he asked. You dimmed a little.

“Well, I’m a secretary. I work in an office,” you said, chuckling slightly. “Nothing exciting there.”

“You mean, compared to being an army nurse,” Dean pointed out.

You nodded begrudgingly. He saw through you too well.

“It was never boring,” you joked, even if it was a weak one.

A sigh escaped you. The truth was, you saw things on the battlefield that revived behind your eyelids every time you went to sleep. It kept you up some nights, and it made it incredibly difficult to sleep alone. Sometimes you’d craved Michael’s arms around you, even if he was too deep in sleep from being drunk the night before. Sometimes it was too hard to be alone all night in your bed, even if you wanted to be.

“That’s how Michael and I met,” you confessed. “I was trying to stitch him up after his plane was shot down. He was lucky to be alive, frankly. Had a nasty head wound. I also helped the doctor set his shoulder, horribly dislocated…”

You two fell in love in that one month you were stationed in the same town together, where France was falling apart. The combined forces of French, British, and American units were able to finally liberate Paris from being occupied. Michael was honorably discharged due to the wounds he’d sustained there.

The next time you and Michael had shore leave at the same time, you got married here in New York City: October 10, 1944.

“I wouldn’t have minded if you were my nurse,” Dean said, breaking you out of your thoughts. You sent him a wry, sidelong smile.

“You can’t help yourself from flirting, can you?” you quipped.

The way he waggled his brows made you laugh, and then duck your blushing face. He was too much.

“I’m serious though,” he claimed. One of his hands went to his right shoulder. “I’ve still got a twinge over here. Think I tore some kind of muscle from hauling ammunition, but it never really healed right.”

Your head tilted in concern. The nurse in you couldn’t help it. You turned to him more fully on the bench.

“That shoulder?” You pointed at his right one. Dean nodded. You got up and moved to his other side, and he made room for you on the bench.

“Can you peel back your jacket for me?” you asked.

“Not a problem,” he said, with a note of sensuous teasing in his voice that you chose to ignore. He revealed his white dress shirt, black waistcoat and brown leather suspenders. That was a familiar sight, but you tried to ignore the feeling of defined male muscle underneath your hands, instead focusing on finding the problem. You knew you struck it when Dean flinched, uttering a reflexive grunt of pain.

You murmured an apology, massaging the spot of muscle deep in the joint of his shoulder through his clothing. A fellow nurse with more experience in the medical field had taught you about each muscle in the body, and how to relieve tension around scar tissue. After a while, the stiffness in Dean’s frame began to relax. His neck lolled to one side as he groaned in relief.

Then he chuckled. “You some kind of miracle woman?”

“I might be,” you said. The corners of your mouth inched upwards. 

When he was fully relaxed, you stopped your ministrations and let your hands fall away from his shoulder. Dean stood up from the bench along with you, yanking his jacket back on. Soon it was the two of you standing together in near darkness.

“Thanks, sweetheart. Feels much better already,” he said. There was something warm, and a hint gentler in his voice. Even he realized it afterwards, not knowing quite how to feel about it…until you looked up at him with that smile. His heart thudded a bit harder in his chest.

“What should I charge for a miracle?” you asked.

Dean pretended to think, humming in consideration. He knew what he wanted to give you in exchange, but he settled for something more gentlemanly.

“How about you let me take you home?” he offered.

You nodded. “That works for me.”

You continued walking with Dean through the park back to the entrance, with only a few scattered lampposts and the stars above to light your path.

Once again, you and Dean made it to the front porch of your apartment building. Despite your better judgment, you invited him in for a night cap and a snack. To be fair, he would have a long way home. You just wanted to repay him at least a little bit for his kindness.

He followed you up the stairs to the second floor, Unit 21B. Inside was a modest, cozy living room, a hall leading to the kitchen, and further down, the bedroom. You poured two glasses of whiskey and sat beside him on the couch.

“Didn’t take you for a whiskey girl,” Dean remarked.

“Yes, well, it’s one of those nights, I guess,” you said. You didn’t quite smile as you took a small sip.

By now it was past midnight. You wondered if your husband didn’t intend to come home until the morning. It had happened before, but it still made you so very angry now that you’d seen it with your own eyes. You drowned out that sick feeling with more whiskey and conversation.

Within the hour, you and Dean had nearly polished off the bottle. You were more than a little tipsy.

You laughed a bit harder than you should’ve at Dean’s stories, but he liked the sound of your laughter and the way you were letting loose around him. It was the first time he’d seen you smile so much, and it was a good look on you. He was glad to be able to get that out of you.

“I almost missed my own birthday party when I was ten,” he said, laughing a little. He was spurred on by your infectious grin. “Sam and I, we got it into our heads to jump off the roof of the shed out back. See, I had a towel tied around my neck.”

“A cape,” you giggled.

Dean pointed a finger at you. “Exactly. So I can fly.”

You shook your head. “Naturally.” You could imagine him as a precocious child, with ruddy cheeks and small freckles spread across them.

“My brother had a ‘cape’ too, but he was a skinny kid at six years old. Small for his age for a long time, if you can believe it.”

“A-huh…” 

“Well, I jump off first, and I manage stick the landing, just shaking a little when my boots hit the ground,” Dean said, making a show of wobbling his legs a little. It looked odd while sitting on the couch, but you could imagine it so clearly, it made you smile harder.

“Sammy, not so much. Poor kid broke his arm,” he said.

Your smile dropped.

“No,” you gasped, a hand flying to your mouth. 

Dean nodded. “I had to take him to the clinic on my bike. He rode on my handlebars all the way there. We agreed not to say a word to our dad, you know, but of course, it’s kinda hard to hide sling.”

“What did he do?”

“He took one look at us, at me. Mom was fretting over Sam, and Dad just shook his head.”

“Was he mad?”

“Of course he was, but at least he never took it out on us. Not with his hands, at least. He cussed up a storm about us damn kids and had to walk it off.” Dean chuckled and swiped a hand through his hair. “That was some birthday.”

You erupted into more giggles. He smirked at you, but it slowly faded. 

“You know where I was on my last birthday?” he asked.

You sobered along with him, sensing his tone.

It took him a moment to continue. He didn’t know why he started to open his mouth about this. After he set foot in his house again after the war, he resolved to leave all that behind him, try not to think about it or talk about it, if he could help it. But after what you’d told him, he thought you might understand.

“I was in Eastern Europe. Knees deep in snow and blood in the Ardennes, caught somewhere between Belgium and uh…Luxemburg, they told us. The weather was sh…it was terrible,” he corrected himself before he caught himself saying something too vulgar. It had been a while since he’d had to watch his mouth around a lady, even though he had a feeling you’d heard it all in the crumbled depths of France.

“But it finally let up enough that we could start fighting back for real,” he continued. “It was grueling. A knockout, drag out dog fight in the worst cold I’d ever been through in my life…”

You listened to the rest of his story with rapt attention, your chin held in hand as you leaned against the back of the sofa. Not only did you like the sound of his deep voice washing over you, but you realized that he was trusting you with something; with a part of himself.

When his story was done, he seemed to be reliving it all in his mind. His gaze was far away. You rested a hand on his arm to let him know that you had listened, that you had heard him, and that he wasn’t alone. He’d taken his coat off long ago, so you felt the warmth of him under the fabric of his rolled up dress shirt.

Dean came back to himself. He looked at you and grasped your arm back in thanks. But that small connection slowly began to change into something else. His hand slid up your bare arm, over the black sleeve, and across the neckline of your dress. He leaned in closer.

He smelled good, of a woodsy cologne and of spicy whiskey. He was sporting a couple days’ worth of stubble, but as you took in his face, you realized that it looked good on him. You’d only ever been taken with clean-shaven men before. This man, however, was continuing to be a pleasant surprise.  

Dean cradled your cheek in his hand. You allowed him to draw even closer. You subconsciously leaned forward yourself, until his plush lips were one warm breath away from yours.

Dean held himself back though. He knew there were more things muddling your mind than the whiskey. But you held his hand to your cheek so he wouldn’t let you go just yet. You tried your best to blink back the sting of tears. 

“Please,” you whispered. You weren’t exactly sure what you were asking for. At the very least, you knew you couldn’t stomach another rejection. “At the risk of sounding entirely brazen…please, don’t kick me while I’m down.”

Dean sighed. His stomach twisted in both conflict and desire. He soothed his thumb across your soft cheek.  

“Sweetheart, I’d love nothing more than to kiss you. Believe me,” he said. His voice was low with grit and tinged with longing. “But I gotta wonder if this is really what you want.”

Your mouth trembled. Your heart was battered and frayed, your mind spinning with this isn't right. And yet, you had a fire in your belly, familiar, though you hadn't felt it in so very long. It churned a heady blaze when you stared into his eyes. Something compelled you to reach out and touch his lips with gentle fingertips. 

“He doesn’t…touch me anymore,” you confessed, swallowing. “It used to be, whenever we passed each other in the house, it was a touch. A moment.” 

Your hand ghosted over Dean’s chin, down his neck, and shoulder, and down his chest over wrinkled fabric and buttons. He had to try and calm down his own breathing, the heavy patter of his own heart in response to your touch.

“Like I had an anchor, reminding me that I was loved, and that mine was appreciated,” you said. Your voice barely rose above a whisper. “But now it’s…it’s rushed. Everything is rushed, and distant, and forgetful. That’s if it happens at all. No matter how much I work at my job, and cook, and clean, and take care of him, it isn’t enough. He’s not the man I thought I knew. That’s what hurts the most.”

Dean’s heart clenched under your palm. He was angry for you. He was sad for you. But most of all, he was starting to hate the thought of you sharing the same bed with that man, being touched by him, and worst of all, him taking from you without satisfying you. 

“Rushed, huh?” Dean asked, his fingers curling to brush against your jawline. You nodded. He took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, and he raised his brows. “Everything?” 

Your watery eyes met his as you bit your lip. You released it with a trembling breath. 

“Everything,” you said.

Dean couldn’t help but treat you gently, drying your tears and kissing your cheek. He hadn’t known you long, but he knew you didn’t deserve what you were going through. He saw that you weren’t just pretty. You weren’t just tenacious and headstrong. You had a soft heart behind that iron wall.

So he took your chin and guided you to his lips, and into his kiss. You inhaled in a sharp breath, but you soon melted into him with a faint moan. He cupped your cheek and kissed you again, this time a firmer touch.

You matched his intensity and gripped the front of his shirt for balance, especially as his hand began to slide down your arm and around your waist. He pressed at the small of your back, bringing you flush against his chest. You had no choice but to take his face in your hands and meet his seeking tongue with your own.

A groan sounded in the back of his throat at your eagerness. He pushed you down to the end of the couch, where you laid on a few throw pillows. There he found his way between your legs and took your heels off, one by one.

Then his touch was heavy and warm across your hip, running down your thigh. After a while, he veered away from your lips to kiss his way down your neck. It earned your shallowing breath. Your hands roamed his shoulders, slipping down his back as far as you could reach. You wanted to feel more of him.

And the feeling was mutual. His kisses blazed a path along your collarbone and between your breasts, dipping below the neckline of your dress. His hand came up to gently palm one of your breasts, thumbing at your nipple hardening under the fabric. You whimpered, clinging to him tighter.

“Can I touch you?” he asked, his own breathing labored as well.

“You are touching me,” you whispered.

“You know what I mean, baby,” he said. For a moment his usual grin took over his features, but he leaned up to steal a kiss, nice and slow. “Want to make you feel good. Give you something to remember me by.”

You found yourself nodding and uttering a broken moan. It almost didn’t matter to you what he meant. His hands and the weight of his body on top of you felt so very good, you would take whatever he wanted to give you.

Your breath hitched when you felt his hand slipping upwards along your inner thigh. His thumb brushed between your legs, across the dampened fabric of your underwear. You whimpered, nodding again.

Dean reassured you with a kiss. Then he hooked his fingers on the waistband of your pantyhose, along with the silk and lace covering you underneath. He slid them down carefully, as not to rip anything (even though he’d like nothing more).

When it all bunched around your ankles, you kicked the rest of it off. The wad of sheer fabric and satin panties fell across the coffee table, over the forgotten drinking glasses. You giggled against his lips. Dean smiled too, though he gently nipped your lower lip to keep your attention. Your fingers curled up into his hair, nails grazing his scalp. The sensation made a shudder run down his spine.

He decided to return the favor, now that he was able to feel your bare thigh under his hand. He stroked your skin while he waylaid you with deeper, sloppier kisses. But all the while, his hand slid higher, closer to your throbbing core.

Finally, his fingers brushed between your legs against the bare seam of your sex. You inhaled sharply against his mouth. “Dean…”

“I gotcha, sweetheart. Promise,” he said, just a whisper of his lips with yours.

Two of his fingers slipped inside you first. You were already wet and pulsing around them when they sunk into your heat. You whimpered in his ear, especially as his fingers began to explore you, working you open, and curling upward against the most sensitive of places within your inner walls. You cried out gratefully, clenching a hand in his hair. Your core was already beginning to flutter around his fingers.

“Hmm, right there, huh?” Dean said. His voice was a bit rough; his own desire was straining in his pants, begging to be touched, but he was focusing all his efforts on you. He wanted to see you come apart, hear you gasping his name like it was the only thing you were able to remember.

His thumb began to massage tight circles over that small, sensitive bud above your entrance. You moaned and writhed against his hand. Your voice in his ear was heaven, especially when he got what he wanted. A few more deliberate strokes deep inside, and you were gripping him tight, throbbing from the inside, and coming all over his hand. He felt the rush of wetness, but he still kept pulsing his fingers inside your quivering walls, drawing out your release.

You cried out his name and fairly trembled against him. Your lower belly clenched as another wave hit you, making your inner walls flutter tightly around his fingers again.

His heart was beating as fast as yours when it all finally subsided. You fell back against the pillows, gasping for breath. Dean raised his glistening fingers up to your mouth. You were shocked to see the evidence of your own release there.

He pressed the pads of his fingers to your lips. It was downright obscene, but you gave into the urge to slide your lips over his fingers, tasting yourself when you sucked around his digits.

Dean’s green eyes were dark with arousal and satisfaction as he watched you. Feeling your tongue around his fingers made him imagine another use for your pretty mouth, making his cock throb in the confines of his slacks. But for now, it was enough to see the remnants of your lipstick come off on his mostly clean fingers.

He licked off the rest from his fingers himself, then bowed his head to kiss you thoroughly. Your hands began to explore him, the expanse of his chest over his shirt, and traveling down, below the belt. Dean slowed the pace of things, grabbing one of your hands.

You frowned in confusion. “You don’t want me to return the favor?”

Dean groaned, and he chuckled. He pressed a kiss to your hand.

“I’d go for that in a heartbeat, I really would. But tonight’s about you, sweetheart,” he said.

What was more, he didn’t want to take advantage of you. You’d had quite a lot to drink. You both had.

But I want to do this right.

That thought stopped him for sure. It surprised him, even if it was the truth. He just didn’t want to examine it too closely just yet.

He swore you looked disappointed though. It was even more difficult to make his arousal subside. He took in a deep breath, clearing his throat as he shifted off of you. He helped you tug your dress back down your thighs and tried thinking of anything that might help him calm down.

Picturing that time he accidentally walked in on his father in the bath ultimately did the trick, accompanied by a small body shudder.

“Are you cold?” you asked, rubbing his arm.

“No, I’m just fine,” Dean replied. He gave you a smile and tucked a wily strand of hair behind your ear. “You feel okay?”

Your smile was more demure, almost shy. If he were a betting man, he’d say you were blushing.

“More than okay,” you murmured.

He chuckled and swiped his thumb across the apple of your warm cheek. 

With a more genuine smile, you leaned up and checked your watch resting on the coffee table. Your eyes widened.

“Michael could be coming home any moment,” you said.

The thought rekindled the wellspring Dean’s anger. His brows furrowed with a frown. He’d like to be here when Michael came home. Maybe Dean would get the chance to sort the man out, get one or two good hits in.

Instead, he let out a heavy breath. He got up and allowed you to walk him to the door, where he grabbed his coat and straightened up his clothes. He paused at the door when he glanced back at you.

You looked too damn much. Your lips kiss-swollen, your dress sleeves hanging further off your shoulders, your hair a tousled mess. He slipped an arm around your waist and pulled you back in for a kiss goodbye. You breathed in, then you melted into him, your fingers slipping through his hair. That kiss was everything.

However, like this night, it had to come to an end. You pulled away first, slowly. You touched his chin with gentle fingers.

“Go,” you whispered, “before I lose myself.”

Dean chuckled. “You took the words right outta my mouth, sweetheart.” 

He forced himself to break away from you and step out of the apartment. Releasing a sigh, you shut the door behind him.

AN: Okay, you're probably having mixed feelings lol. I don't blame you! Honestly, I'm not advocating cheating here (even if we think Michael deserves it). It's just an added layer of complexity to the story in this case. 😬 Get ready for more of that in Part 4, where we catch Sam's side of things...

Next Time:

“Well, you could say I’ve inherited a business of my own,” he said. “I run a meat packing plant down in the district.”

Sam’s attention piqued. There had been a meat rationing throughout the war, even some rumors and propaganda about “meatleggers,” black market operators.

“How’s it been with the rations?” Sam asked. “Been hard to even find a good carton of eggs lately.”

Michael gave him a slight smile. “Been on the turnaround, actually. I’ve been able to make some connections with vendors outside the city. A little grease on the palms makes a little go a long way, if you catch my drift.”

Sam slowly nodded. A little grease on the palms, huh?

“Do what you gotta do in the times, ‘s what I say,” Sam agreed.

Michael snorted. “Now you’re talkin’. That’s all we can do, you know. Try to make a thing work, with whatever scraps we get. Try to stay afloat.”

“Try to stay alive,” Sam rejoined.

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[lisdens]

VI & JINX + do-overs

powder 'dies' with vander, jinx 'dies' with warwick. what changes? why must it happen again in order to move on?

from the minute vi and jinx appear on screen, we as the audience are taught that they are doomed to be separated by the circumstances, over and over again.

their fight in episode three of season one seals their fate as doomed siblings, but one thing prevents them from fully moving on from each other and i believe it to be a mix of trauma and lack of space to properly mourn their broken bond.

right after their confrontation, vi is imprisoned for almost a decade and unable to reach her little sister, and jinx falls under silco's wing, fed with lies about vi's intentions, manipulated into believing he's the only person jinx can rely on.

neither of them get the space to mourn what was taken away at such a young age, ergo, they're not ready to let go of each other.

for vi, her role as a protector is never eased off her shoulders, even in prison her only goal is to return to powder, with no other desire for herself. for jinx, her attatchment issues and her need to fill the roles other people have assigned for her to fit in (silco & building weapons, zaun & becoming a symbol) prevents her from letting herself explore who she actually wants to be.

their first encounter back in episode six of season one fail to bring them back together--precisely because their dynamic continues to be the same as when they were kids, not taking into acount how much they have changed since then--but the sisters are given a second chance to try and rebuild their connection, and that is through warwick's arc. jinx says so herself: 'maybe this is like a do-over.'

vi and jinx have been shaped around their worst memory together--the night of vander's death--and it is through that mutual agreement of helping him that they are able to heal that wound.

with isha, jinx learns the weight of one's actions and understands just how much responsibility vi was burdened with when she was only a child herself. isha's death is the key to understand why vi told powder to stay behind during episode three of season one.

in vi's case, i see two things happening: for starters, she gets the space to properly mourn her family. the 'remember me' montage is supposed to show us warwick's healing process, but as the sequence continues, we start seeing more and more of vi, to the point the audience is only witnessing her memories.

the second point is her de-parentification, which also happens to benefit jinx's growth: understanding that jinx is also an adult who has survived without vi's help for a long time, who has accomplished things without her big sister's assistance, releases vi of her burden as the protector.

in return, jinx is no longer a victim of vi's protection, she's no longer expected to behave a certain way. she's finally seen as an equal, not an inferior. vi trusts jinx's judgement, she takes her viewpoints into account ('what do you think?' - 'you actually want my opinion?'). what does this do for jinx? it allows her to stop fearing abandonment over not fitting certain expectations from others.

overall, i believe they manage to heal a small piece of their inner child, which is the one that's been frozen in time since the incident at the cannery. they have a long road ahead of themselves, but now they're ready to face tragedy with the slight difference that no mental burden wil stop them from eventually healing.

they're ready to say goodbye again.

[luv4arinn]

Bayverse!Leo as a Boyfriend – Headcanons

(Because even if I don’t like him, he deserves better characterization and development. And besides, I love overanalyzing.)

Pairing: Leonardo x Female!Reader

Warnings: Overprotectiveness, possessive behavior, affection-starved. Subtle (but present) hints of: narcissism, egocentrism, perfectionism, spirituality, insomnia. I developed him so well that I actually like him now—I don’t like that.

Leonardo, as a partner, would be a fascinating study in contradictions. At first glance, he seems like the perfect boyfriend—disciplined, loyal, protective, someone you can trust without hesitation. But being with him isn’t easy.

Not because he’s cold or indifferent—on the contrary, he feels too much. He’s just spent his entire life learning how to hide it. To him, emotions are a double-edged sword: love can give you strength, yes, but it can also make you drop your guard, make mistakes, and risk everything you’ve fought for.

And Leonardo can’t afford that luxury.

Since he was young, his identity has been tied to duty. He’s not just an older brother—he is the older brother. The leader. The one who must always have the answers. There is no room for error, no space for doubt. That’s why, if he ever fell in love, he would do so with the same intensity he applies to any challenge—with absolute commitment. But also, with a need for control that can be suffocating.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust his partner. It’s that he needs to make sure nothing puts her in danger. That she’s safe, that there are no loose ends, that every move is calculated. Don’t expect Leo to be the laid-back boyfriend who goes with the flow. He will want to protect you—even from things that might not even be a real threat.

If he comes to your house and you don’t answer, his mind will assume the worst before even considering that you were simply in the shower. If you go out alone at night, he won’t be at ease until he knows you made it home safely. Not out of jealousy, but because the thought of losing someone he loves terrifies him. But instead of expressing that fear, he translates it into rules, into planning, into strategies.

Because Leonardo doesn’t know how to handle what is beyond his control.

This was evident in Out of the Shadows. His instinct was to make decisions for everyone, to divide the team when he felt they were weakening. He truly believed he was doing the right thing, that carrying the burden alone was the best course of action. But in the process, he lost sight of what his brothers really needed. And that’s exactly how he would be in a relationship—not out of malice, but because he believes being the strong one is his duty.

And while Leo loves with every fiber of his being, he doesn’t say it easily. He’s not the type to look you in the eyes and just blurt out an “I love you.” His way of showing affection is more silent, more tangible. He will remember exactly how you like your tea, he will learn to pick up on even the slightest change in your tone of voice, he will make sure you always have an escape plan in case things go wrong. But if you expect spontaneous hugs or verbal expressions of love, you might find yourself frustrated. Not because he doesn’t feel it, but because, to him, love isn’t something you say—it’s something you prove.

However, if someone manages to break through his armor, they will see something that few have ever witnessed. Because beneath all the rigidity, the discipline, and the self-imposed perfection, there is a boy who never had the chance to make mistakes. A boy who has spent years carrying a tremendous weight, who can’t remember the last time someone saw him and not just the leader. A boy who desperately needs a space where he can stop being the strategist, the protector, the flawless Leonardo… and simply be Leo.

Leonardo isn’t someone who easily succumbs to distractions. Not because he doesn’t enjoy them, but because he’s always believed his time should be invested in something useful. Yet on the rare occasions when he allows himself to let his guard down—in the privacy of his room or on a quiet night at the lair—small details reveal who he truly is beyond being the leader of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

For instance, he enjoys science fiction movies and TV shows. He wouldn’t admit it out loud—after all, Mikey would never let him forget it—but there’s something about exploring space, about advanced civilizations and the ethical dilemmas these worlds present, that fascinates him. Perhaps it’s because he sees his own struggle reflected in them: leaders forced to make impossible decisions, burdened with responsibility, torn between duty and heart. Whether it’s Star Trek, The Expanse, or even some of the more philosophical tales of Ghost in the Shell… Leo sits with his arms crossed, pretending not to be too interested, yet if someone pays close attention, they’ll notice the intensity in his gaze and the way his fingers tense with every twist in the story.

And although everyone sees him as the serious one, it’s not that he lacks a sense of humor. His humor is just more subtle, drier, more ironic. He won’t burst out laughing like Mikey or be as explosive as Raph, but if you’re close enough, if you’ve earned his trust, you’ll notice that there are moments when he quietly drops a joke in a neutral tone, waiting to see if you catch it. And when you do, when you respond with a retort just as sharp, the corner of his mouth barely curves, as if he’s quietly satisfied with the interaction.

But if there’s one thing that truly brings him peace, it’s tending to his bonsai trees. It’s a hobby that no one in the lair seems to fully understand. Mikey calls them boring, Raph jokes that they’re just “miniature trees,” and Donnie respects the practice but sees it more as an exercise in patience. For Leo, however, it’s more than that. It’s a reminder of balance. Of control. Of how even the smallest force, with the right guidance, can grow in the right way. And on nights when the pressure becomes too much, when he feels the weight of his role crushing him, he sits in silence before his little tree, allowing himself a moment to breathe, to reconnect with himself.

But love… love is different.

Leo doesn’t allow himself to fall in love easily. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because his mind simply doesn’t work that way. He needs to feel that his partner is more than just a fleeting attraction. He needs connection. Compatibility. A deep, unwavering understanding. And that isn’t built overnight.

That’s why, when he finally starts to realize that what he feels for you goes beyond friendship, the first emotion that floods him isn’t happiness.

It’s doubt.

And Leonardo shouldn’t doubt.

He always has answers. He always has a plan. But for the first time, he’s standing on ground where logic is useless, where he can’t break things down into a battle strategy. He can’t make a pros-and-cons list about his feelings. He can’t calculate every move the way he would in combat. And that frustrates him.

Because if he accepts it—if he acknowledges that his feelings are real—it means there’s something in his life that he can’t control.

And Leonardo hates not having control.

Leonardo isn’t someone who falls asleep easily.

Not because he doesn’t need to—his body demands rest just like anyone else’s—but because his mind never truly shuts off.

In the lair, when everyone else is asleep—when even Donnie has finally stepped away from his monitors, and Raph has stopped pounding the punching bag—Leo is still awake. Arms crossed, back stiff against the wall, gaze lost in the dim light of his room.

It’s in those moments of solitude that his mind betrays him.

When he tries to dissect what he feels, to categorize it, to put it into some kind of logical order. Because he’s always in control. Always.

And this… this shouldn’t be any different.

He’s not impulsive like Mikey, letting himself be carried away by every emotion without a second thought.

He’s not a ticking time bomb like Raph, ready to explode at the most unexpected moment.

He’s not even like Donnie, obsessively analyzing every variable to the point of overload.

He is Leonardo.

Leader. Warrior. Strategist.

And there is nothing he can’t control.

So if he has reached the conclusion that what he feels for you is real, then he will take the reins.

It won’t be difficult.

It shouldn’t be difficult.

He will force himself to keep everything in place, to act with precision. His glances will linger just a second longer—but not enough to be obvious. His words will be measured, carefully chosen, but still carrying his usual composed tone. He will make small, almost imperceptible changes.

Like making sure you walk on the safer side of the street.

Adjusting his stance subtly to block the wind when you’re on the rooftop.

Asking if you’ve eaten well—but casually, as if it’s not really important.

And the worst part? Unlike Donnie, who would give himself away with nervous fidgeting and stammered words, you will never notice.

Because Leonardo won’t allow you to notice.

All you’ll see is someone who has everything under control. Someone who watches you with the same intensity he reserves for his enemies on the battlefield, as if he’s calculating every single one of your movements.

But what he doesn’t want you to see is the opposite.

That inside, he’s nervous.

That his palms sweat when he touches you, when his fingers accidentally brush against yours.

That his pulse quickens when you get too close, and he has to remind himself to breathe normally.

That in every conversation, in every moment, there’s a small part of him afraid that one wrong step will ruin everything.

Because if there is one thing Leonardo could never forgive himself for, it’s losing what you’ve built together.

Not just losing you, but losing your trust.

And if that were to happen… how could he justify it?

How could he explain to himself that after a lifetime of making the best possible choices to protect those he cares about—this was the one he let slip through his fingers?

And when he finally allows himself to admit it—when he has broken through every mental barrier he imposed on himself, when he has analyzed every angle, when he has measured every consequence—Leonardo feels something inside him loosen.

For a moment, just a moment, it’s as if he has won the hardest battle of his life.

The weight on his shoulders dissolves, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he breathes deeply without the pressure in his chest tightening.

You are his.

Not in some shallow, possessive way, but in something deeper, more primal.

Like an instinct that has always been there, buried beneath layers of discipline and responsibility, waiting to be acknowledged.

And now that he has… there is no turning back.

But the peace doesn’t last.

Because almost immediately, another weight crashes down on him—heavier, inescapable.

Before, his burden was uncertainty.

Now, it is certainty.

Now that he has you, he must protect you.

With everything he has.

Not just from the dangers of the outside world—but from himself.

Because Leonardo cannot afford to fail.

And even though love is uncharted territory—a battlefield he has never stepped foot on—he demands perfection from himself.

To be the ideal partner.

To give you exactly what you need before you even ask.

To measure every word, every gesture, every decision.

To make sure you never have to question if he is enough for you.

Because he has to be.

He is Leonardo.

And Leonardo does not fail.

But there is a problem.

Because you don’t want the flawless strategist.

You don’t want the leader who is always in control.

You don’t want the polished, calculated version of him.

You just want Leo.

The Leo who watches sci-fi shows but would never admit to liking them.

The Leo who pretends he doesn’t enjoy messing around with his brothers, but secretly loves the rare moments when he catches Raph off guard or makes Donnie roll his eyes.

The Leo who tends to his bonsai trees with quiet devotion because, though he never says it out loud, they reflect his philosophy: patience, growth, balance.

And that is a terrifying concept for him.

Because showing you that side of himself means lowering his guard.

It means allowing you to see what’s underneath the armor.

The boy who gets frustrated.

Who sometimes doesn’t know what to do.

Who fears he won’t be enough.

That side of him—no one has truly seen it.

Not even his brothers.

But you… you want to see it.

And the road to him letting you in will be a long one.

Because accepting that you love him for who he is—not for what he represents, not for what he does, but for his very essence—is the hardest test Leonardo has ever faced.

Leonardo believes he has everything under control.

That he can handle his emotions the way he handles a katana: with precision, with discipline, with absolute mastery over every movement.

But you…

You are a challenge unlike any other.

Because while he struggles to keep his composure, while he measures every word and makes sure not to take a wrong step, you simply are.

You don’t need strategies or plans. You don’t analyze every interaction as if it were a life-or-death mission.

And that unsettles him.

Because deep down, Leonardo doesn’t know how to be loved.

He knows how to protect. He knows how to fight. He knows how to sacrifice himself for others.

But when it comes to receiving love… that’s where the conflict begins.

He appreciates that you’re not overly affectionate with him.

That you don’t suffocate him with displays of affection that would make him uncomfortable, that would force him to lower his guard all at once.

But at the same time, he dies when you take his face in your hands and kiss him.

At first, he goes completely still, trying to process it, trying not to lose control.

But the moment you feel his breath hitch, the moment you notice the way his fingers grip your waist tighter than he probably meant to—you know he’s falling.

And the worst part is that he hates it.

Because Leonardo shouldn’t let himself go.

He shouldn’t forget the weight on his shoulders or allow something as simple as a kiss to make him feel lighter—as if, for just a moment, the world didn’t depend on him.

But he does.

And it frustrates him.

Because he’s supposed to be the unshakable fortress.

He’s supposed to be untouchable.

And yet, here he is.

With his heart pounding too fast.

With his mind completely blank.

With you stealing his control with just a simple touch.

It sounds contradictory.

Because it is contradictory.

But Leo is a contradiction.

Because while he says attachment is a weakness, he holds you tighter when you try to pull away.

Because while he insists emotions cloud judgment, he stays awake until dawn thinking about what he feels for you.

Because while he tries to convince himself that his duty is more important than his happiness, he wonders if, just this once, he can have both.

And that is the real battle.

Not against an enemy.

Not against an external threat.

But against himself.

Because loving you means lowering his guard.

It means trusting that, even if he doesn’t have everything under control, you’ll still be there.

It means accepting that love isn’t a problem to solve, nor a responsibility to bear.

It’s just… love.

And no matter how hard he fights it, no matter how much he tries to convince himself he can keep his distance, there is one truth he cannot deny:

You are the only person in the world who can make Leonardo stop fighting.

Leonardo isn’t someone who takes intimacy lightly.

For him, physical touch isn’t just an act. It isn’t just a moment.

It’s an offering.

And he doesn’t give himself away so easily.

Not because he’s afraid—or at least, he’d never admit it.

But deep down, there’s an unease that eats away at him.

His size. His strength. His biology.

You’re human. Fragile in comparison.

And even though he knows you’re strong, that you wouldn’t do anything unless you were absolutely sure, his protective instincts won’t allow it.

It’s not just about protecting you.

It’s about himself.

His own control.

Because control is the one thing he’s always had.

Ever since he took on the role of leader, ever since he understood that his life wasn’t his own but belonged to those who depended on him, Leonardo learned to restrain himself.

To hold back.

To be the balance in the midst of chaos.

But you…

You make him lose that balance.

And if he allows himself to let go, if he allows that wall to crumble, he fears what might happen.

Because to Leonardo, intimacy isn’t just physical pleasure.

It’s a connection.

It’s binding his soul with yours.

It’s giving you a part of himself that no one has ever seen before.

And that is the real danger

Because if he gives you that—if he allows himself to feel you, to touch you, to love you on such a profound level—

Then there’s no going back.

He knows he could become addicted.

That the moment he lets go of the weight on his shoulders and focuses only on you—on your body beneath his, on your breath hitching, on the way you say his name—

Everything else will fade away.

And Leonardo cannot afford to forget his duty.

But… what if, just this once, he could?

What if, just this once, he could be Leo and not the leader?

If he could forget the world for a few hours—lose himself in you, in the warmth of your skin, in the way you look at him as if he’s more than just a warrior, more than just a responsibility, more than just a soldier trained to sacrifice everything.

If he could simply be yours.

That… that is what truly terrifies him.

Because if he tastes it once, he knows he’ll want it again.

And again.

And again.

Until there is nothing left of the fortress he has so carefully built.

Until there is nothing left of the perfect leader his brothers need.

Only him.

Only you.

Just two souls bound together—no rules, no duties, no limits.

And though he tries to convince himself he can resist…

He knows that, eventually, he will fall.

But Leonardo knows he’s not ready.

That he can’t let it all go—not yet.

Because if he does, who will bear the weight of the world in his place?

If he falls, his brothers fall. If he allows himself to be selfish, even for a moment, everything he has built could collapse.

So he waits.

He waits for you to understand.

To understand that there are things he still cannot give you, no matter how much he desires them.

But that doesn’t mean he gives you nothing.

Something just as intimate, just as addictive.

Vulnerability.

Not with his body, but with his soul.

So when night falls, when the world goes quiet and there is no one but the two of you, he lets you see beyond the barrier.

He lets you step into his sanctuary.

He pulls out the blankets he keeps tucked away in the back of his closet, the ones with the worn-out Rebel Alliance logo, and hands them to you without a word.

He lets you see the space-themed pillowcase he would never admit he still uses.

And then, in the dim glow of his room, when there are no more distractions, no more responsibilities, you talk.

Not about strategies. Not about training. Not about what is expected of him.

You talk about everything and nothing all at once.

About stars and distant galaxies.

About the Star Wars episodes he never gets tired of watching.

About the times he wondered if his destiny was already written or if he could take a detour.

And it’s there, in those organic conversations—unplanned, uncalculated, imperfect—that you witness something few have ever seen:

Not the leader.

Not the eldest brother.

Just Leo.

And then, when sleep finally claims you, you curl up against his chest—no fear, no hesitation.

Your breathing slows, steady and peaceful.

Your warmth seeps into his skin.

And Leonardo, the one who never lets his guard down, the one who is always on alert, stays still.

Feeling.

Listening.

Your heartbeat, syncing with his.

Nothing separates you but a thin layer of skin.

And for the first time in a long time, he forgets.

Forgets duty, weight, sacrifice.

Forgets that he must be strong, that he must be everyone’s shield.

Because in this moment, there is only you.

[pemiski]

CUPID’S COMPULSION DISORDER FT R. ITOSHI

Summary Healing isn’t always just physical. As a resident, you’ve always been taught that recovery isn’t only about stitches and surgery—it’s about the mental and emotional journey too. Being prepared to accompany your patient through said recovery has never been a problem for you; not until Rin itoshi, anyway.

Tags fem! surgical resident! reader x pro player! Itoshi rin, corse language, meet-cute, medical lingo, making out, slow burn (hopefully, i tried my best), use of the metric system, character death (not reader or any main character), in depth description of surgical procedures, lots of medical inaccuracies so pls let’s not talk about that, reader wears dresses, makeup and heels, mentions of marriage and children (only at the end, you can skip it if it makes you feel uncomfortable), Oliver aiku is a warning in itself, some good old sibling angst bc character development is just as important as romance, lots of fluff, lots and lots of Greek mythology because i just can’t help myself i love it too much

Word count 24.3k words. That’s 60 pages!

Author’s note however much you think I’m excited and also scared for this to get published you can probably multiply by one zillion. I have spent months writing this, editing over and over and over to gather the courage to finally publish this!! I love this fic with all my heart, particularly because it is home to many firsts of mine, and I sincerely hope you will too! I have never written a fic this long, and even if it might not seem like much to you, this is truly colossal to me. I devoured so many books, watched so many videos and overall learned so much about writing just to make this as entertaining as possible for you to read, and for me to write, and seeing it finally finished is so so bittersweet to me. This is so sappy but I had to say it lol, but lastly before you hit read more, happy reading! (+ disclaimers are down below, please read!)

I am not a doctor, nor am I currently training to be one. Any and all surgical talk in this fic is an unfortunate result of me binge-watching greys anatomy. I did use quizlet and books, but I doubt it makes me legitimate in anything medical lol

Speaking of greys, there are a few Easter eggs from the show in here, couldn’t help myself huhu.. tell me if you can catch them!

Not a disclaimer, but please make sure to reblog and/or comment! Not just for me, but for all content creators on this app! That’s it! Enjoy!

It’s just like one of those stories hospitals collect over the years— two years ago, a first-year surgical resident fell for her patient. The kind of love that had no business in an OR. Everyone remembers how it ended— her hands slipped, he bled out, and she crumbled right there on the floor. This resident, whoever she was, bright and promising, became a legend for all the wrong reasons.

For the next years of her residency, she was a social pariah. Now, her name floats through the hospital like a ghost story. Don’t get attached. Don’t lose focus. And for God’s sake, don’t be like that one resident. Her name has long been forgotten, and no one really talks about her anymore, but her mistake still lingers, a quiet warning in every scrub room and hallway.

Just like any big time gossip in any workplace, they all fold into routine, cautionary tales buried under new scandals. And while everyone remembers what happened to this surgeon, it hasn’t stopped some residents to follow in her footsteps anyway.

The cafeteria buzzes around you, trays clattering, voices blending into a dull hum— mere background noise to your exhaustion. Your focus drifts in and out as you pick at what’s left of your meal. Rounds were a blur, the same routine: tired interns, tired cases, and you, running on fumes. Your ears only caught about half of what was said this morning anyway. Something about a necrotic bowel. Or maybe it was an obstructed one. Whatever it was, it wasn’t interesting enough to wake you up.

You sigh, letting your head fall back slightly. You’ve been in this hospital for nearly 47 hours. Your brain feels like it’s wrapped in cotton, sluggish and heavy. The only thing keeping you going is the promise of that surgery board staying blissfully clear after this one case. If all goes well, you might even get home for a few hours of real sleep.

The interns were amusing at first. Eager, wide-eyed, practically tripping over themselves to impress you. You’d send them on wild goose chases, toss them paperwork, maybe throw one a bone and let them assist a minor surgery. And the coffee was borderline endless. But now? They’ve gone stale. Less enthusiasm, more sulking—especially Frederick, who’s been moping for weeks because he hasn’t touched an appendix.

You shake your head, muttering around a spoonful of almost stale, hospital food. “Seriously, it’s just an appy. It sucks. It’s not like he’s missing out on a heart transplant. Get over it.” You sigh again, pushing the tray away. Even your complaints feel half-hearted. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation.

“Tell me about it. You know Vaughn? Blonde, huge stick up her ass? I really struck gold with that one,” Livy says, leaning back in her chair, throwing her hands in the air in frustration. “Talks all the time. She can’t stop!”

“Nice ass though,” Oliver adds with a chuckle, spooning some frozen yogurt into his mouth. His eyes crinkle with mischief, his expression somewhere between casual and amused.

Livy shoots him a sideways glance, clearly unimpressed. “Sure, if you’re the hospital whore. Hey, maybe we should start giving you away to sexually frustrated patients,” she muses, tapping her chin, then gesturing vaguely in the air. “You know the guy in 408? Saw him watching something called ‘Naughty Little Nurses’ on his phone. I’m sure he’d love a naughty little resident.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow, looking less than amused. “He? Forget it.” He grabs his tray, standing up with a frown.

Livy, not one to back down, calls after him. “Aiku! If you bail on that laparoscopy like you did on that lap chole, I’ll kill you!”

Oliver waves her off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, which only makes Livy’s teeth grit. “I’ll kidnap him and lock him in 408’s room. I’ll do it.”

You catch Livy’s eye, raising an eyebrow. “I think his name is Mark.”

Livy shrugs nonchalantly, like she hasn’t already planned every detail. “Well, that’s the least interesting thing about him, isn’t it?”

“It is a good idea though,” you shrug, still facing your half-peeled orange on your tray.

"Right?" Livy gasps, practically vibrating with excitement as she continues to corner you in the cafeteria. Her plan to kidnap Oliver Aiku grows more elaborate by the second, detailing every step of the process in a scarily precise, almost unnervingly detailed way, you start wondering if she’s genuinely thought this through. Would anyone notice? Surely someone would. You can practically hear the sirens in the background as she goes on. Regardless, you’re only half-listening, your thoughts wandering as the clock ticks down to the inevitable.

Before long, it’s time to return to work, and just as you’re mentally preparing for another round of exhaustion, fate intervenes.

“You, over there.”

You instinctively try to ignore the voice, slipping into the on-call room like you haven't heard a thing, but then, you see it: the dark blue scrubs. Something about them makes you freeze in place, and with a deep sigh, you reluctantly turn toward the source.

“I need you to round up your interns and send them away on other stuff,” the attending orders, breezing past you with barely a glance. “It’s a… special guest. Torres wants you on the case. It’s ortho.”

You blink, caught off guard. This wasn’t what you were expecting—not even close. Before you can protest, the attending is already heading down the hallway at a speed that defies the urgency of your thoughts.

“No, I—“ You try to call after him, but it’s too late. He’s already gone, vanished into the corridor like a phantom.

You glance around at the empty hallway, suddenly feeling a weight you didn’t ask for pressing on your shoulders. "I’m tired," you mutter to yourself, leaning against the wall for a moment. The thought of yet another case, another special guest, is enough to make you want to crawl back into the on-call room and pretend the world doesn’t exist for a few more hours. But there’s no time for that now.

Time to suck it up, grab your interns, and pray you make it out of this shift without completely losing your sanity.

"You, um... Mc— McCallum? Yeah, McCallum and your posse, you can all go to the pit."

The group groans in unison, their collective frustration almost palpable in the air. Normally, you might take a second to sympathize, maybe toss in a joke to ease the tension, but right now? You’re not having it. The day’s been too long, your patience has been running too thin.

The next words come out of your mouth almost without thought, and they feel sharp, cutting. You can see the interns’ faces fall before they even register what you’ve said.

"And since you all seem to like it so much, you can stay there for the rest of the week. Have fun." You grunt the last part, grabbing the file for the so-called "special guest" and ignoring the sudden silence that falls in your wake.

The interns stare at you, wide-eyed. They’ve learned over time that, despite your grumpy exterior, you’ve got their backs—at least when it counts. But right now, you're too tired to care about who likes you and who doesn't. You just want to get through the day, and if this is how it’s going to go, you won’t stand in destiny’s way.

The remaining ones— still a little too wide-eyed— watch you like puppies waiting for a treat. It’s uncomfortable, the way they look at you. Like you're supposed to provide answers, direction, a path forward. You're about to speak when the thought of the attending's earlier words hit you hard.

You freeze for a beat, caught between the irritation of dealing with your interns and the looming responsibility of the surgery. You didn’t sign up to babysit, but that seems to be exactly what you’re doing.

"Errr…" You can feel your brain short-circuiting for a moment, then instinctively you start grabbing a pile of paperwork off the desk, pushing it into the interns' hands. "Post-ops," you mutter. "You know the drill. Fill these out. Keep yourselves busy."

As they scatter to comply, you can’t help but let out a sigh of relief. It’s not the most graceful order, but it’ll work for now. Now, all you have to do is deal with whatever “special guest” situation Torres has thrown your way—and pray you survive the rest of this shift without further mental collapse.

Either way, you suppose you shouldn’t be mad at Torres. Every surgery offered to a resident is a golden opportunity—a chance to beef up your surgical portfolio and make yourself a prime candidate for future fellowships. Especially since ortho is your endgame. You’d mentioned your interest to Torres once, in passing, not expecting anything to come of it. Yet here you are.

You should be thrilled. And maybe, beneath the layers of exhaustion weighing down your shoulders, you are. But right now, it feels less like a privilege and more like pressure—pressure to prove you’re worthy of the trust an attending has placed in you.

“Hope you’re ready for this one, L/N.”

You turn at the sound of Torres’ voice, catching her reflection in the scrub room window. She strides in just as you finish washing up, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.

“It’s an ACL tear.”

Your brow furrows slightly. An ACL tear? It’s common enough—routine, even. Hardly what you’d consider high-stakes.

Torres catches your expression and smiles knowingly. “Now, I know what you’re thinking. You think this is gonna be easy. But, point number one: at your level, any work is hard work.” She fixes you with a pointed look, her tone leaving no room for argument. Then, she gestures toward the OR with a nod of her chin. “And besides, the guy in there? High-level footballer. Some kind of genius, apparently. That’s point number two: he’s still young, so recovery should go well, but for that, this surgery has to be flawless. Understood, L/N?”

Before walking away, Torres pauses, her gaze lingering on you as if sizing you up. Her voice cuts through the tension, calm but firm.

“This is your first solo surgery,” she says, her words heavy and her eyes gleaming. “How you pull this off is how people see you for the rest of your residency. Make it count.”

You glance around the room, your gaze landing on the senior orthopedic surgeon seated calmly at the foot of the table. It hits you like a freight train: aside from them, you’re the leading surgeon today.

A wave of nerves surges through you, spreading from your chest to your fingertips. You try to steady yourself, cycling through the breathing exercises you’ve practiced so many times before, but your heart isn’t listening, and neither is your brain. Your heart is racing, your thoughts spiraling.

Nobody told you this was going to be a solo surgery. Was it an oversight? Or worse—was it intentional? Some kind of test? The thought slowly wraps around your brain, your mind constantly conjuring up worst-case scenarios. Were they just waiting for you to mess up so they’d have a reason to kick you out of this hospital?

Despite your inner turmoil, you nod, pulling your mask over your face, steadying yourself. This is definitely a test, you sigh to yourself.

The door slides open, and you position yourself in front of the body, gathering the tools, the bright lights of the OR gleaming down as you make the incision, your hands steady despite the tension radiating through your shoulders. You’ve rehearsed this in your mind a dozen times, but the reality of handling a live ACL tear on a high-profile athlete feels different. Your focus sharpens as you expose the torn ligament.

“L/N, what’s your first step in graft placement?” Torres’ voice cuts through the hum of monitors, calm but firm. You feel like a squeaky intern again. Your attending’s gaze is sharp, and typically, you’re the one asking the questions. Nevertheless, you find yourself reporting for duty almost immediately like an old reflex.

“Secure the femoral tunnel first to ensure proper alignment,” you answer, carefully inserting the guide pin.

“And why is that important?” she presses, stepping closer to observe.

“To maintain knee stability and prevent rotational instability post-op,” you reply, glancing at her briefly.

Torres nods, her expression unreadable. “Good. Keep going. Remember, precision is key. His career depends on this.”

You take a deep breath and steady your hands, feeling the weight of Torres’ words linger in the air. You’ve answered her questions correctly so far, and you’ve only got another set of questions coming your way, but the gnawing voice in your mind won’t let up.

A few more questions—that’s all it is, you try and tell yourself, but another voice in your head sneers. A few more is also the difference between standing here tomorrow or being kicked out today. Between a career and a blacklist.

You scoff internally, trying to silence the thought. Blacklisted is for stealing another patient’s heart for your own patient, blacklisted is for—

“Is there a problem, Doctor L/n?” Torres’ voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, sharp and pointed. Her raised eyebrows are a warning.

“No,” you blurt, feeling your face heat. “No, I just—I’m threading the graft through the femoral tunnel.”

She nods, her eyes drifting back to her magazine as if nothing had happened. “Good. Keep going.”

You force your focus back on the task at hand, trying to shake the storm of thoughts clouding your mind. It’s almost over. Just a few more minutes, and this patient will be transferred to recovery. He’ll heal. He’ll get back on his feet, back on the field—or maybe he won’t.

The thought creeps back in, insidious and loud. What if he never plays again? What if he sues? What if this ruins you?

“Looks good,” Torres says, her voice softer now, but no less commanding. The words slice clean through the noise in your head. “Close up, and let’s get him to recovery.”

You finish the last suture, your breath catching slightly as the weight of the moment settles in.

“You’ve done well today,” she adds, and the tension in your chest loosens just enough for you to finally exhale.

Relief washes over you, but you keep your composure, nodding as you finish the sutures. There’s still work to do, but for the first time today, you feel like you’re more than just a resident. You’re a surgeon in the making.

Just as you’re about to wash up and get rid of your gloves, your attending makes her way back to you, and hands you a chart.

“Post-ops,” She says. “He’s your patient now, so you do the checking up. Explain the surgery went well, keep him updated on the treatment that follows, and so on. We’ll keep him here for some time, so he’s your responsibility.”

Nevermind surgeon-in-the-making— you’re just a resident after all. Post-ops can easily be pawned off on your interns, but there’s no dodging this check-up.

———————————————————-

“So, first solo surgery, Y/n, how does it feel?” Livy elbows you with a teasing smile. The trauma of her own first solo surgery is long behind her now. She had hers months ago, and even then, you’re sure no one sprung it on her like a surprise birthday party.

“Awful,” you groan, rubbing your temples as if that might somehow alleviate the tension still coursing through you.

“Aw, did you flunk it?” she quips, her grin widening.

“No,” you admit with a sigh. “I don’t think so? I mean, I got through it, but I had no idea it was happening. Torres just walked up to me, told me I was flying solo, and suddenly, I was the leading surgeon. No prep time, no warning—just boom. Sink or swim.”

Livy winces in sympathy, toying with the rings on her fingers. “That’s rough. But, hey, she probably figured you could handle it if she threw you in like that.”

“Or she just wanted to watch me crash and burn,” you mutter, bitterness creeping into your tone. “It felt like walking a tightrope with no safety net.”

Livy raises an eyebrow. “But did you crash and burn?”

“That’s not the point. I could’ve.”

She shrugs, leaning back in her chair. “You could spend a lifetime obsessing over all the could’ves, would’ves, and should’ves, but it won’t change what’s already done.”

You turn to her, crinkling your eyes slightly. “You are such an existentialist.”

Livy crosses her arms defensively. “Am not!”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, you know,” you tease, your lips quirking into a small smile.

She shrugs again, this time more nonchalantly. “I just think some things in life shouldn’t be written off as absurd.”

You snort lightly, curiosity piqued. “Like what?”

Livy’s smile turns mischievous, her eyes gleaming. “Like your patient chart,” she says sweetly, discreetly sliding her hand across the table.

“He’s a football player, apparently,” you mutter, grabbing your stale coffee and the stack of post-op charts. Before you can make your exit, Livy snatches the paperwork from your hands, her eyes scanning the pages with growing curiosity.

“Itoshi, Rin,” she reads aloud, sending a jolt of panic through you. You lunge for the chart, but Livy sidesteps you, oblivious to your distress. The attending’s warning echoes in your mind as nearby staff glance your way. Nothing fuels the hospital rumor mill faster than a name like that.

“Twenty-five,” Livy continues, ignoring your frantic attempts to grab the file. “ACL tear, blah, blah, blah…”

“Livy—”

“Oh! He’s 187 centimeters? God, this guy’s massive—”

“Livy, I’m serious. He’s supposed to be low-profile—”

“Hmm, 67 kilos? Lanky, but it could work… Oh! Do you think I can find his Instagram? Room 407! Right next to the naughty nurse guy in 408. Think they’ll watch together?”

You finally manage to snatch the chart back, your cheeks reddening and your hair sticking out. “No, you can’t find his Instagram. No, he won’t be watching porn with the weirdo in 408. And no, you’re not telling anyone what you saw in this chart. He’s a… a big shot, or something. I’m supposed to keep the people who know he’s here to a minimum. So if you could keep his personal info to yourself, that’d be great.”

Livy raises an eyebrow but says nothing as you toss your coffee in the trash. “I gotta go,” you mutter, storming off before she can get another word in.

By the time you reach Itoshi Rin’s room, your mood has dwindled to the lowest depths of hell. The day had already started on a bad note, but between the third part of your medical licensing exam, a certain football prodigy, and your stupid interns, your head feels like it’s on the verge of exploding. Still, you put on a brave face and brace yourself as you step inside.

“Itoshi Rin?”

Piercing blue eyes meet yours, and the deep frown on his face warns you that this conversation won’t be pleasant.

“Do doctors have to crawl through tunnels to get to patient units now?”

“No,” you huff, mirroring his frown. “I apologize.”

“You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”

You rearrange his chart on the bedside table, exhaling irritably. “You’ll spend the rest of your stay here the same way you did those ten minutes. You’ll be fine.”

As the words leave your mouth, they hit your brain like a delayed bomb. Realizing the sharpness in your tone, you scramble to recover. “Oh, I—no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“When can I play again?” he interrupts, completely unfazed by your backpedaling.

You pause, slightly taken aback by how little he seems to care about your apology. “I was trying to apologize.”

“I don’t need an apology you don’t mean.”

His bluntness stings, but you force a tight smile. “Well, I really am sorry. But for now, let’s focus on your check-up before we dive into questions, okay?”

“Don’t bother with the bullshit customer service act,” he retorts, his voice sharp. “Just tell me when I can play again.”

Your forced smile grows saccharine. Fine, you think, if he wants to play this game, you’ll play along no problem. “I would, but according to HPSO guidelines, I should let the aggravating patient calm down before proceeding.”

“Did you just call me aggravating?” he asks, his eyes narrowing.

Before you can respond, his gaze flicks past you. A shadow looms in the doorway, and dread settles in your stomach. You turn slowly, heart sinking as you recognize the figure: the attending physician who assigned you this case.

Your mind races. One opportunity, blown in a heartbeat, all because you lost your cool with a difficult patient. The attending’s expression is a careful mix of disbelief and disappointment.

“I—” you start, voice faltering, “I didn’t mean—”

Before you can finish, Rin lets out an annoyed grunt, motioning for a nearby nurse to escort the attending out and close the door. You whip your head around to stare at him, stunned.

He shrugs, as though this is no big deal. Through the small window in the door, the attending looks half-convinced, suspicion lingering before they finally walk away.

The door clicks shut, leaving you alone with Rin. You can’t decide if you’re more relieved or furious.

“You didn’t need to do that,” you mutter, picking up his chart from the bedside table.

“What the hell,” he mutters back, rubbing his forehead. “A normal person would just say thank you.”

“That’s funny,” you snap, flipping through the chart without looking at him. “Coming from someone who didn’t bother thanking the surgeon who just spent hours saving their career.”

Rin’s eyes narrow. “You don’t know that. What if I don’t recover well?”

“That’s on your physiotherapist, not me.”

“Aren’t you my physiotherapist?”

You roll your eyes, shutting the chart with a snap. “I’m your surgeon. I’ll monitor your progress for a bit, make sure everything holds up, and then I’m gone. Should be exactly what you want, right?”

“What I want,” he says, his voice clipped, “is to know when I can play again.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “That depends on a lot of factors.”

“When?” he presses, his tone sharper now.

“I can’t give you a definitive answer yet,” you reply, your patience wearing thin.

“Why not? Aren’t you a doctor?” He scoffs, picking up his phone from the nightstand. “I knew I couldn’t trust anyone with this. I specifically asked for someone competent.”

His muttering is loud enough to hear, and it pushes you past your breaking point.

“I am competent,” you snap, stepping closer to his bed. His eyes lock onto yours, and the tension between you becomes palpable.

“As your doctor, your surgeon, and considering all the variables you clearly haven’t thought about, I’m telling you—I cannot give you an answer right now. Are we clear?”

He doesn’t reply, but his glare doesn’t waver.

You push a stray strand of hair out of your face, steadying your voice. “In your case, we repaired the medial collateral ligament, which is a common injury in your field. Recovery typically takes six months, depending on how consistent you are with the rehab plan. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients to attend to.”

Without waiting for a response, you turn and leave, the door clicking shut behind you. Rin’s glare follows you, but the silence in the room is louder than anything he could say.

As you disappear down the hallway, Rin glares at the door, his jaw clenched. Moody, stuck-up smartass. That’s all you are. A pretty face with an attitude sharp enough to cut glass. He’d stepped in, helped you out when you were clearly drowning, and all he got in return was indifference. Not even a thank you.

He huffs, crossing his arms tighter. Should’ve just kept my mouth shut. You weren’t worth the effort. Maybe he should pass your number to his brother. You and Sae would probably get along just fine—two arrogant know-it-alls. The thought makes him scowl even deeper.

Yet, as irritated as he is, he can’t quite shake the feeling that he’ll be seeing more of you than he’d like. And for reasons he can’t explain, that thought bothers him even more.

———————————————————-

As your keys jingle inside your apartment’s lock, you can already feel your body ready to faceplant you straight to the ground. You’ve never been as tired as you are now, even considering the hellish schedules you had to endure during your internship.

So much for a well-deserved break, you thought.

You ungracefully stumble onto your couch, and search for the TV remote to skip channels until you inevitably fall asleep. Your fingers continuously tap on the same tile, until a news anchor gets your attention. It isn’t her specifically that catches your eye, but more-so the familiar mop of black hair paired with those icy blue eyes in the background. Below his picture, a headline scrolls across the bottom:

”Prodigy Itoshi Rin to sit out for the rest of the season, PXG faces tough road ahead”

Well, if he wasn’t already in a bad mood today and yesterday, he definitely is going to be tomorrow. Only difference is, tomorrow, you’ll be able to pride yourself on a perfectly good night’s sleep, and you can only hope that it will make enough of a difference to hopefully enough to make that check-up go smoother. Or less disastrous, at the very least.

Your phone dings, and as you check it, you realise it’s nothing more than a link. You grab it, and make a point to sigh when you see it’s Livy who has sent said message.

The link takes you to Instagram, and you immediately dread what’s to come. There’s a mountain of possibilities, considering her personality. Either a hot nurse from the ER, a hot attending, a hot patient…

Just as you feel like you know exactly what you’ve stumbled upon, your worst nightmare has materialized right in front of your face.

His profile is exactly what you’d imagined it to be like. Cryptic, simple, with an embarrassing amount of effort put into a semblant of mysteriousness. His bio is made up of three letters spelling out his club, his username is a bland combination of his first and last name, and yet, he has amassed a whopping twelve million followers.

Twelve. Million.

You stare at the number, dumbfounded. You don’t understand how such a nasty personality could ever have people looking up to them, let alone twelve million.

You toss your phone onto the couch with an exasperated sigh, sinking deeper into the cushions. Twelve million people following that guy? You rub your temples, still processing the sheer absurdity of it. Rin Itoshi— who finds the grueling task of thanking someone he considers far below him absolutely insurmountable —has somehow captured the hearts of millions.

The thought gnaws at you. It’s not the followers, not really. It’s the disconnect between the person you met today and the public persona those twelve million people seem to worship. You can’t reconcile the icy glare, the condescending tone, with the polished, enigmatic figure plastered all over social media. Maybe they don’t see what you saw. Or maybe they just don’t care.

Your phone dings again, signalling another message from Livy:

"Told you he’s hot. Should’ve gotten that Instagram when you had the chance 💋"

You roll your eyes, tossing a quick reply:

"Not my type. Also, not yours. Stay out of trouble."

You don’t have a problem with admitting he’s hot. Really, you don’t. And maybe he could’ve been your type, if he wasn’t cranky and resentful as if you’d just shot his mom in front of him.

You drop the phone onto your chest, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow is going to be a long day. Rin’s mood will be even worse after the media circus surrounding his injury, and you’ll be right in the middle of it. Still, with a good night’s sleep, maybe —just maybe— you’ll have the patience to survive his check-up without losing your mind.

And if not? Well, there’s always coffee. Lots of it.

———————————————————-

The moment you had dared to step into his dark, borderline cavernous room —which had once resembled a proper patient unit— Rin was already glaring at you. Not one to back down, you glared right back, slamming his chart onto the desk at the foot of his bed with enough force to make the clipboard rattle. You flipped the pages with unnecessary vigor, regularly shooting him pointed looks over the top of the file.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Rin finally snapped, his brows furrowed in what you could only assume was his default expression.

“I’m trying to anticipate the stupidities that are about to come out of your mouth so I can refute them before you even finish,” you deadpanned, barely sparing him a glance.

“How mature and diplomatic of you,” he replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

You didn’t miss a beat, and huff, ‘I doubt diplomacy was ever in your cards.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, his face contorting into something caught between annoyance and borderline murderous intentions.

“Oh, yeah, that was very diplomatic,” you shot back, mockingly sweet as you continued flipping through the chart.

Rin rolled his eyes, leaning back against the pillows like your very presence was a personal affront. “Why do you even bother showing up if all you’re going to do is insult me?”

“Because I have this very unpleasant thing called a job, that causes me to have interactions with equally unpleasant patients,” you shot back without hesitation, jotting something down on his chart. “Though I’ll admit, it’s getting harder to tell if I’m here to treat your knee or your ego.”

“You’re hilarious,” he muttered, deadpan. Bitch, he thinks.

“I know,” you quipped, flashing him a quick narrowed look before your expression sobered. “Speaking of your knee, how’s the pain? Any discomfort, swelling, or anything else I should know about?”

Rin hesitated for a moment, his frown deepening. “It’s fine.”

“Fine isn’t a medical term, Itoshi. Try again.”

He huffed, clearly irritated. “There’s some stiffness when I move it, but it’s not unbearable.”

“Progress,” you said, your tone deliberately cheerful as you made a note in his chart. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He muttered something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch, but the sharp glare he threw your way made it clear it wasn’t complimentary.

“Careful,” you hum, glancing up from your notes. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking you actually enjoy these little visits.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he shot back.

You finished jotting down your notes and closed the chart with a decisive snap. “Alright, that’s enough verbal sparring for one day. Keep up with the exercises, and let me know if the pain gets worse. And, for the love of everything holy, try not to terrorize any more nurses.”

“I didn’t terrorize anyone,” he grumbled, eyes squinting at you, indicating he’d clearly found this conversation much less amusing than you have been these past few minutes.

“Sure,” you replied, clearly unconvinced. “Just keep telling yourself that.”

As you had turned to leave, you couldn’t resist throwing one last jab over your shoulder. “See you tomorrow, evil spawn.”

You chuckle to yourself. Evil spawn was a nickname you’d nicked from a show you were watching. You had congratulated yourself with how accurate it had been, and even more so with the way Rin would grit his teeth in anger at the sheer disrespect you clearly had no problem in displaying. Either way, it didn’t matter. There was no way in hell that Rin itoshi was gonna ruin your finally-back-to-normal sleep schedule by interfering in your late night thoughts. Or even daytime ones.

———————————————————-

“I feel reborn!” you announce, striding through the hospital’s main entrance, practically glowing.

“Is it because your patient is a good-looking football prodigy, and you’ve got the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to check up on him every single day?” Oliver’s gruff voice cuts through your euphoria, and you whip around to face him.

“Does everybody know about this?”

“God and everybody,” he replies, raising an eyebrow over the rim of his coffee cup.

You scowl, crossing your arms. “Well, I’m so glad everyone is so invested in my personal life.” Then, with a huff, you add, “But for your information, I was talking about the amazing amount of sleep I got last night.”

Oliver smirks. “He’s kind of like a sad German shepherd, isn’t he? All about being dark and twisty. That’s definitely a hit with the ladies.”

“What would you know about that?” you mutter, unconvinced, eyes fixed on the cuffs of your coat.

“Tried it out last night,” Oliver twists his pen around, “Chicks love it. I felt like poultry farming.”

“Alright, I’ve had enough of that,” you slam your charts on the reception desk. Livy, who you hadn’t even realized was listening in on your conversation, falls into step beside you as you both head down the hallway. She leans in, her voice low but amused. “Poultry farming? Seriously?”

You shake your head. “Don’t ask.”

Livy snickers, glancing over her shoulder at Oliver, who’s still lounging at the reception desk with that smug grin plastered across his face. “I don’t know what’s more disturbing—him calling it poultry farming or the fact that it probably worked.”

“Neither,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “The most disturbing part is that I’m going to have to hear about it all day.”

Livy smirks. “He’ll milk it until someone gives him a reason to stop.” She nudges you playfully. “Maybe we can set him up with one of the weirdos in the pit. That’ll humble him.”

“I’m not sure I want to deal with the aftermath of that disaster,” you sigh.

As you reach the elevators, Livy presses the button and crosses her arms. “Speaking of disasters, how’s your ACL tear patient? Or should I say, your ‘mysterious football prodigy’?” She raises her eyebrows in a mock-serious way.

You glance at her, wary. “Why?”

“Just curious. I heard he’s already making a name for himself around here, and not just because of the injury. Apparently, he’s been giving the nurses a hard time.”

You groan, leaning back against the wall. “Great. As if dealing with him in surgery wasn’t enough, now I have to handle his attitude during recovery.”

Livy grins. “Well, you did sign up for ortho. All those high-maintenance athletes are part of the package. At least he’s not throwing tantrums. Yet.”

“Give him time,” you mumble as the elevator doors open. “I’m sure it’s coming.”

You both step inside, and Livy taps the button for your floor. “Good luck. Maybe today will be tantrum-free.”

“I’ll take ‘unlikely’ for 500,” you mutter, bracing yourself for another day of chaos.

It only takes a few seconds for you both to reach your floor, and as soon as your ways separate, you begin regretting not having taken Livy in with you to deal with the devil incarnate.

You slide open the door to room 407, and the scene that greets you makes your stomach churn. The room, usually neat and orderly, looks like the aftermath of an earthquake. A mountain of gifts is scattered across the floor, the vase of flowers on the windowsill has been shattered, and the bed is in disarray, blankets torn and thrown about. But most alarmingly, Rin is nowhere to be seen.

“Itoshi?” you call, your voice sharp as you scan the room.

“What?” His voice is gruff, coming from the bathroom, making you raise an eyebrow.

You step cautiously toward the bathroom and find Rin sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him. He looks far from the composed, untouchable figure you’re used to—his gown is crooked, his hair is a mess, and there’s a sharpness in his eyes.

“Did you fall? Are you hurt?” you ask, your voice a mixture of mild concern and absolute confusion.

“No,” he snaps, not bothering to meet your gaze. “I’m fine. Just go do your thing.”

You’re not having it. “Are you kidding? I spent three hours in that OR making sure your ACL was repaired properly. I’m not leaving until you’re back in bed and I’ve finished my check-up. So, get up.”

He lets out a heavy sigh, his eyes narrowing as he drags a hand through his disheveled hair. “Are you always this charitable?”

You look around the room at the absolute mess. “You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “What happened here? Looks like someone broke into your room.”

Rin’s face hardens, and he straightens up, visibly frustrated. “They did break in. They wouldn’t leave, so I made them.”

You blink, confused for a moment. “You—what?”

“The nurses wouldn’t listen,” Rin mutters, gritting his teeth. “I told them to get out. They kept hovering, so I made them go.”

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow, surprised by his outburst. “You chased them out?”

He gives you a look that’s a mix of annoyance and irritation. “Yeah, I did. And I don’t want any more pity gifts or anyone pretending like I’m helpless just because I got benched.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “You’re not getting benched, though, are you?”

He shrugs, his eyes flickering briefly with a semblant of dejection, but he quickly hides it. You move to the broken vase, carefully picking up the shards of glass as a nurse cautiously enters to help clean up. She looks terrified at the mess but quickly gets to work, not daring to argue.

Rin watches you in silence, then drags a hand over his face, muttering, “Great. Now even you know about it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” you reply, gently removing the bandage to assess the potential damage.

Rin glares at you from the corner of his eye. “You ask too many questions.”

You can’t help the corners of your mouth that lift up, if only just slightly, shaking your head as you continue to examine his knee. “Ah, yes, that must definitely change you from your empty-headed teammates.”

Rin’s eyes narrow at you, the tension thick in the room. “What does that mean?”

Without missing a beat, you mimic his gruff tone, “You ask too many questions.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Rin’s expression darkens, but then—just barely—there’s a crinkle at the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t smile, but it’s clear he’s not as offended as you thought. The little quirk in his gaze makes it obvious he didn’t take it as badly as he could’ve.

“Whatever,” he mutters, his arms crossing defensively, but there’s no real bite to his words, even if the blatant disrespect is still awfully obvious.

You glance up at him, your hands still busy with the chart as you make your final notes. You let a brief silence hang in the air before you add, “You’re not half as bad when you don’t act like the devil incarnate.”

Rin stiffens slightly, eyes flashing as he straightens up in bed, but the corner of his mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly. You can tell he’s holding back a snort, though he doesn’t fully let his guard down.

“Devil incarnate, huh?” he says dryly, arching an eyebrow as if he’s considering the statement. “You’re a real piece of work yourself.”

You meet his gaze, and mock . “I’m just here for the knee. And the attitude, if you’re offering.”

Rin shakes his head, muttering under his breath as you finish your notes. Maybe you’ve struck a nerve— just not the one he’s used to people poking.

———————————————————-

Weirdly enough, for a bar so close to a hospital teeming with exhausted interns, fatigued residents, and perpetually annoyed attendings, the atmosphere was surprisingly upbeat. It hummed with the chatter of people shedding the day’s weight, drinks in hand, laughter cutting through the tension they’d likely carried in with them. You suppose alcohol really does work miracles in times of need, and tonight, you desperately hope to be on the receiving end of those miracles.

“I really, really need to get off this case,” you groan, finishing off another shot and barely suppressing a wince as the burn claws its way down your throat.

Livy snorts from her perch beside you, her head leaning heavily against her palm. “Tell me about it. I’ve got a kid who’s juiced up on steroids because he thinks it'll get him a girlfriend.” She lets her head drop onto the bar with a dull thunk, her misery almost theatrical.

You cross your arms and rest your head on them, letting out a muffled laugh. “Sounds like a real catch. Maybe he should swing by the ortho ward. I’ve got a surly footballer who could use a few pointers on how not to scare people off.”

Livy lifts her head just enough to arch an eyebrow at you. “Surly footballer, huh? This the same guy who turned his room into a war zone?”

You nod, gesturing for another round. “The one and only. The mess he makes might actually rival his attitude.”

Livy chuckles, though her laugh is muffled as she lays her cheek back on the bar. “Sounds like you two are perfect for each other.”

“Perfectly incompatible,” you counter.

Livy sits up slightly, her interest piqued. “Wait, wait, hold on. Don’t tell me you’re actually into this guy?”

You scoff, picking at a napkin on the bar. “Into him?” You settle your elbows on the bar decisively, “I’m into complex orthological cases. I’m into passing all my exams and becoming an attending at a good hospital. What I’m not into is an emotional landmine of a man with an ego the size of his paycheck.”

Livy tilts her head, studying you like a puzzle she can’t quite crack. “Okay, but does he at least have the goods? You know, tall, dark, and moody kind of thing?”

“Tall, dark, and irritating,” you correct, leaning into the banter despite yourself. “He’s not bad-looking, but trashing the entire room? If that’s not a dealbreaker, I don’t know what is.”

“Hmm.” Livy hums thoughtfully, swirling the last bit of her drink in the glass. “So you’ve noticed he’s handsome?”

You give her a flat look. “I have eyes, Livy. Doesn’t mean I want to play house with him for the rest of eternity.”

Livy grins, clearly amused. “It doesn’t have to be for the rest of eternity. Could be a night in the on-call room. Or day. Doesn’t matter if you don’t like his personality, because his personality is in his wallet.” She sips on her alcohol like on a juice box, and looks at you with pointed eyes.

“I’m not looking for a transactional relationship, thank you,” you quip. “Besides, we’re stuck together until his knee’s functional again. That’s it.”

Livy raises her glass in mock salute. “Whatever. Just don’t come crying to me when you start falling for your disaster patient. Happens to the best of us, you know.”

You roll your eyes, but the hint of a smile creeps onto your lips as you clink your glass to hers. “If that ever happens, I give you full permission to slap some sense into me.”

“Deal,” Livy says, downing the rest of her drink. “If you become a social pariah, I’d have to become one by proxy,” she sighs. ”I’m not letting you ruin my life.”

“Your sense of solidarity has always been your strongest quality,” you mutter, finishing off your drink with a frown.

———————————————————-

Another shift at this godforsaken hospital almost always means a trip straight down to Hades’ underworld. Some people call it Room 407. To each their own.

“Have fun, Persephone!” Oliver’s voice rings out behind you as you make your way to your personal hell.

Your so-called friends have been calling you that since the beginning of the week, after overhearing a nurse’s nickname for you. Apparently, your frequent trips to Rin Itoshi’s unit bore an uncanny resemblance to Persephone returning to the underworld every winter. At first, the joke had made you laugh, but now, the more you see the resemblance, the less amusing it becomes.

Unbeknownst to you, your grim expression only adds fuel to the joke that has spread like wildfire throughout the hospital.

“Persephone? I thought your name was y/n,” Rin remarks, his dark eyes flicking up from where he sits as you clip the chart to the bedside stand.

“It is,” you sigh, already feeling the wear of the conversation. “They call me Persephone because they call you Hades.”

His brow furrows. “Well, why?”

“Why what?”

His huff is almost audible, as if asking for clarification pains him. “Why do they call me Hades? And what does that have to do with Persephone?”

You scoff and gape at him, utterly dumbfounded. “You— You trashed the entire room! You chased out every nurse who tried to help you! You seriously don’t know why they call you Hades?”

He frowns, his jaw tightening as he mutters just loud enough for you to catch, “Just wanted some peace.”

“If you want peace, you ask for it! You don’t just go around terrifying people!” you snap, crossing your arms.

“I did ask,” he growls.

“Oh, did you?” you retort, leaning forward slightly, challenging him.

“I did.”

The two of you lock eyes in an intense, silent standoff, the tension crackling in the air like a brewing storm. Finally, you let out a heavy sigh, grabbing the chart and switching to the matter at hand.

“Whatever. Scar is nicely healed, no sign of tissue abnormalities—”

Before you can finish, Rin interrupts, his eyes widening slightly. “Yeah okay, whatever— what’s this Hades bull got to do with Persephone anyway?.”

His tone softens slightly toward the end, but it still catches you off guard. You lower the chart, tilting your head at him. “You— You want me to explain Persephone? Like, the myth? You don’t know it?”

His blank stare is answer enough, and he mutters, “People say shit about me behind my back, I wanna know what it’s all about.”. You blink at him, momentarily dumbfounded. “You’re serious. You really don’t know? What, were you too busy dribbling a ball to learn the basics of mythology?”

Rin looks away, scratching the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “No. I just didn’t have time to get to know stuff like that.”

You blink, genuinely taken aback. “Yeah, but how do you not know about Persephone? Did you sleep through literature class or something?”

“I had other things to focus on,” he says flatly, then glares at you. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

You sigh, setting down the chart. “Ugh... Uh— Persephone is the goddess of spring, but she’s also Demeter’s daughter.”

”Who’s Demeter?” Rin interrupts, and it takes everything in you to not snap. Instead, you grit your teeth; “I was getting to it.”

You take in a breath, and with a warning glance to Rin that he pointedly ignores, you start again. “So. Demeter is the goddess of, um, harvest, I think. Among other things. Whatever, it’s not relevant to the story anyway. So, the whole story is that Hades, the god of the underworld, kidnapped Persephone and dragged her down to his realm to be his queen. Her mom, Demeter, freaked out, causing eternal winter until Persephone was allowed to leave for part of the year. So, when she’s in the underworld, it’s winter. When she’s on Earth, it’s spring. That’s the gist of it.”

Rin raises an eyebrow. “And this has to do with me because…?”

You gesture vaguely at him and then the room. “You’re the brooding, moody god of the underworld who scared everyone off. And I’m the one forced to come down here every day to deal with you.”

There’s a beat of silence as he processes this, his frown deepening. “That’s stupid.”

“You think I like it?” you snap, crossing your arms. “I didn’t choose this nickname. Or this assignment, for that matter.”

Rin leans back against the bed, a soft frown playing on his eyebrows. “So, does that make me your husband in this scenario?”

You nearly choke on your own breath. “What?! No! Don’t—just—ugh, no. Forget I even told you the story.”

He chuckles softly, clearly amused by your flustered reaction. “Relax. I’m kidding.”

“You? Joke? Who are you and what have you done with my patient?,” you mutter, picking up the chart again, your cheeks warm. At this, the slight twinkle in Rin’s eye disappears as quickly as it came, and you can almost see the walls come up again. “Because the idea of marrying my most difficult patient is enough to make me want to quit.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Rin says, his voice low and sardonic. “If anyone’s being forced into this situation, it’s me.”

You shoot him a glare but choose to let the comment slide. “Anyway,” you say firmly, turning your attention back to the chart, “your scar is healing well. No sign of scar tissue. You’re progressing as expected, so keep following your physiotherapy plan.”

Rin leans forward slightly, his eyes locking onto yours. “Does that mean I’ll get rid of you soon?”

“Not soon enough,” you mutter, though there’s a faint smile tugging at your lips as you scribble a note on the chart.

———————————————————-

“I don’t know why I have to be the one doing all of this. No, seriously, what’s the point?”

The hospital is full of mysteries. A storage room filled with forgotten keepsakes from surgeries. The infamous on-call room, where the stories alone are enough to keep anyone from asking questions. And, of course, the infamous patient room where a doctor cut her patient’s LVAD wire because she fell in love with him.

But the fourth mystery? That one is far more exclusive, and for cause. Room 239 is a quiet secret among your group that you’d stumbled upon as interns. You’d kept it under wraps, specifically because this room is home to what you call the perfect patient: quiet, cooperative, and perpetually asleep. In short, it’s a haven for a peaceful lunch break. No snark, no frowns, no superiority complex. Just pure, unbothered bliss. You’d had your fair share of theories about the guy (dead, in a deep coma, or maybe just asleep…), but ultimately, you’d just decided that as long as he was quiet, whether he was dead or alive mattered little to you.

“I mean, patient care was the first thing we learned in med school. I don’t need Itoshi Rin to teach me that,” you grumble around the salty cupcake you’d snagged from the cafeteria. You chase it down with a gulp of water, practically choking it into submission.

Oliver, lounging in the corner, watches you attack your second cupcake with a raised eyebrow of judgment. “He could probably help you out with that stick shoved up your ass,” he drawls, voice thick with mockery.

You scoff, swallowing another bite. “Right. Like he’s the one to help with that. If anything, I’d leave that room even more stuck up than when I went in.”

“I meant sexually.”

You pause mid-reach for your next snack, the word landing with a heavy thud between the two of you. After a beat, you mutter a flat, “Oh,” before turning back to your tray. Your fingers hover thoughtfully, then swipe up a cookie, as if nothing had happened.

You crunch into it, savoring the sweetness as if it could erase the last thirty seconds of your life. Oliver, of course, is still watching you like he’s just delivered the punchline of a joke he’s dying for you to laugh at.

“You’re quiet,” he says, smirking. “Don’t tell me I hit a nerve.”

“You didn’t hit anything,” you mutter, brushing crumbs off your lap. “Unlike some people, I don’t make everything about sex.”

“Oh, please,” Oliver says, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin. “You’re just mad because I’m right. Admit it: you’ve thought about it.”

You glare at him. “Thought about what?”

“Itoshi Rin,” he says, waving a hand dramatically. “He’s what? 187 centimeters of pure evil brooding energy? Tell me you haven’t entertained the idea.”

“Not even for a second,” you reply, a little too quickly.

He raises a brow. “Sure. And I’m the Chief of Surgery.”

Before you can snap back, the door creaks open, and Livy pokes her head in. “Oh, good, you’re here. Room 407’s asking for you again,” she says, her voice pitched with barely concealed glee.

You groan, slumping forward. “Of course he is.”

Livy grins like a cat that’s caught a particularly annoying mouse. “What’s wrong, Persephone? Your Hades beckons.”

Oliver barks out a laugh, and you grab your tray, scowling as you shove the rest of the cookie into your mouth. “You’re all insufferable,” you say through a mouthful of crumbs, already marching toward the door.

“Have fun!” Livy calls after you, and Oliver’s laughter follows you down the hall.

As you head toward Room 407, you can’t help but think that, of all the things you’ve been called this week, “Persephone” is starting to feel uncomfortably accurate.

"Hey, you asked for me?" you say, slightly breathless as you burst into the room. One hand grips Rin’s chart against your chest, the other keeping the door ajar.

"Why did Hades want Persephone in the overworld?"

"What ?" You stumble over your words, completely blindsided by the question. Out of all the things you’d expected—questions about his recovery timeline, complaints about being benched, maybe a snarky comment about the staff—this wasn’t anywhere near the list.

"It's the underworld," you correct instinctively, recovering enough to squint at him. "And he brought her there because he loved her. Or… something like that. Look, I’m not a mythology expert. Is this seriously what you called me in for?"

He doesn’t stop there, of course. You’d underestimated just how persistent Rin could be.

"If he loved her, why would he drag her to the underworld?" he asks, heavily emphasizing the word “underworld” like it’s some alien concept. "Pretty sure that counts as kidnapping."

"Because it’s Greek mythology, and Greek gods were all a little off their rockers. I don’t know," you reply, already feeling the beginnings of a headache.

"Why would the Greeks idolize gods if they were as batshit crazy as people say?"

"You— This is a hospital wing. There are kids here, so mind your language, would you?," you hiss, gesturing toward the hallway before continuing. "But I don’t know! That’s just how it was—"

"You don’t seem to know much for a doctor," he drawls, raising a single eyebrow with mock disdain.

You take a deep breath, visibly restraining yourself. "Alright, fine. People didn’t idolize gods because they were good or moral. It was about their power, their strength, their control over things humans couldn’t understand. Kind of like how people have favorite athletes."

His frown deepens, but you press on.

"Take football, for example. You probably admire someone for how they play on the field, right? Doesn’t mean you have to like them as a person. People separated admiration for what the gods could do from how they behaved. Same concept."

Rin doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond you. Finally, he mutters, "The gods were cruel. What part of that is worth admiring?"

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Rin, it’s mythology. It’s not supposed to be a blueprint for good behavior— it’s symbolic. The gods were reflections of human nature: flawed, complicated, and sometimes cruel. People admired their power, their ability to control life and death, nature, and fate. It wasn’t about liking them; it was about respecting what they represented.”

He tilts his head, his gaze sharp but oddly contemplative. “So they were admired out of fear?”

“Not just fear,” you say, leaning against the doorframe. “Well, alright, maybe. They were storytellers’ way of explaining the unexplainable. Why the sun rises, why storms happen, why people fall in love or die tragically. The gods made sense of chaos.”

Rin crosses his arms, his expression unreadable. “Still sounds messed up.”

“You’re not wrong,” you admit, a small smile tugging at your lips. “But that’s humanity for you. Messy, complicated, and just trying to make sense of things.”

For a moment, he’s quiet, his eyes flicking toward the window as though deep in thought. Then, with a faint scoff, he looks back at you. “You talk too much.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re the one who started asking questions.”

His lips twitch, forming an unimpressed glower, but he looks away before you can confirm it. “You still didn’t explain why he wanted Persephone with him.”

You roll your eyes. “Maybe he thought she made the underworld less miserable. Maybe he thought she brought some light into his life. Or maybe he was just selfish. You’d have to ask him yourself.”

He leans back against the headboard, his arms still crossed. “Sounds stupid.”

You raise an eyebrow, grinning. “Kind of like a certain someone I know who chases everyone out of his room because he doesn’t know how to ask for peace and quiet?”

Rin glares at you, but there’s no heat behind it. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re a walking storm cloud,” you counter, stepping back toward the door. “But at least we’re consistent. Let me know if you have any more deep philosophical questions.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” he mutters, though his gaze lingers on you a second longer than necessary as you leave.

———————————————————-

Just like that, you’d somehow become the resident expert on Greek mythology within a matter of days. Every day for the past week, Rin had asked for a new myth. It wasn’t part of your job description, nor anything you’d ever imagined doing during a hospital shift, but there you were, recounting tales of gods, heroes, and monsters to an injured football prodigy with a perpetually sour expression.

When you’d finally worked up the nerve to ask him why he suddenly had such an appetite for mythology, his initial response had been dismissive, a casual shrug paired with, “Patients are entitled to whatever they want. You’re the one who said that.”

You’d raised a skeptical eyebrow, refusing to let him off that easily. “Nice try, Itoshi, but that doesn’t explain why you want them. Come on, I’ve been working my ass up to come up with the abundant demand. You owe me that. What’s the real reason?”

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the blanket as he muttered, “It keeps my mind off football.”

It was a surprisingly candid admission, one that softened your stance despite yourself. Football was clearly the center of his universe, his world, and now, sidelined by his injury, that world was out of reach. If listening to ancient myths helped distract him from the ache of being benched, then who were you to deny him that small comfort?

“Well,” you’d replied, sliding into the chair by his bedside with a small smile, “You’re lucky your doctor isn’t someone who goes by the book,” You swiftly check your watch, and continue, “I’m supposed to be filling in charts.”

For the first time, his lips had twitched—not quite a smile, but not the usual scowl either.

On Monday, he had reluctantly admitted to asking for a pick-me-up from the last time you’d told him a myth. He had claimed he didn’t like the first one, but by the end of your conversation, you could tell it had gotten him pretty down. You didn’t understand why, because to you, it was just a myth, but you had a slight suspicion that it wasn’t the myth itself that had bothered him, but something else among what you’d said had probably resonated with him a little too much. At the end of his request, he’d made you swear not to tell anyone, in consequence of which he would besmirch your professional career, and drag your name to the depths of hell.

As such, you did not question him further, and told him the tale of Perseus and Andromeda. You weren’t sure he would find it all that interesting, but you’d found it quite sweet anyway.

"Fine," you had said, pausing in the doorway. "The myth of Perseus and Andromeda is pretty sweet. You’ll like it, I think."

You grabbed a chair, plopped it down near his bed, and sat with an exaggerated sigh. Rin raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt as you launched into the myth.

"So, Andromeda was the daughter of Cepheus and Cassiopeia, a king and queen. Cassiopeia, being, uh, very full of herself, claimed she and her daughter were more beautiful than the Nereids—you know, sea nymphs. So the sea god Poseidon? Not thrilled about that, you can imagine."

Rin nods slowly, as if urging you to continue, though his skeptical expression suggests he’s not sold on where this is going.

"So because he was pissed, Poseidon sent a sea monster to terrorize their kingdom as punishment. Naturally, the people freaked out, and the only solution the oracle gave them was to sacrifice Andromeda to the monster."

"So her own family left her to die?," Rin cuts in, his voice low and sharp.

"Basically, yeah," you reply, giving him a rueful look. "They chained her up to a rock, and waited for the sea monster to kill her. But then Perseus shows up, fresh off his victory against Medusa, and he sees Andromeda all chained up. He asks her a few questions, and decides to rescue her. Because, you know, he’s a hero and that’s what they do."

"And he killed the monster?" Rin’s voice is a little more interested now, his earlier skepticism fading.

"Yeah, Perseus used Medusa’s head to turn the sea monster to stone. Then, as the story goes, he married Andromeda. There’s more, of course, but that’s the gist."

Rin leans back, his arms crossing over his chest as he processes the tale. "So Andromeda gets punished for something her mother did, and Perseus just shows up to fix everything? That’s not sweet. That’s fucking awful."

"That’s one way to look at it," you admit. "Another is that Andromeda’s story is about redemption. She starts as a victim of her family’s arrogance and ends as someone who gets saved and finds a new life. But I mean, yeah, it’s mythology. It’s not exactly known for fairness."

He doesn’t respond for a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor. Then, almost grudgingly, he mutters, "At least he fought for her. Took action. Didn’t just leave after making promises."

You study him for a beat, tempted to press, but ultimately decide against it. Instead, you stand, brushing imaginary dust off your scrubs. "There you go. Storytime’s over. If you have more questions, I’ll bill you for them."

On Tuesday, you decided to surprise Rin with a new myth. He hadn’t asked for another one the day before, but you figured his curiosity wasn’t something that faded quickly.

To your surprise, Rin seemed distracted, staring at the bedside table and muttering something under his breath about how he didn’t want to hear about myths today.

"I prepared one for today!" you announced, holding the notes you’d scribbled down. "You can’t just blow off my hard work like this!"

His gaze snapped to you, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “You think I’m a child?”

“What? No, I— Rin, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t need bedtime stories,” he grumbled, crossing his arms.

You blinked at him, taken aback. “They’re not bedtime stories, Rin. They’re Greek myths. Or do you often tell kids about violence and murder to help them fall asleep?”

Rin shrugged, unfazed by your exasperation. “My brother used to tell me horror stories before bed. Never stopped me from sleeping.”

Your face twisted in a mixture of disbelief and mild horror. “Your brother—how old were you when this happened?”

“Six or seven, I think. Can’t remember,” he said nonchalantly. For the first time since you’d walked in, his gaze met yours, holding steady.

“Doesn’t sound like the best brother to me,” you murmured as you began unwrapping the bandage around his knee, carefully checking for any swelling.

“He was a good brother,” Rin replied, his tone softer, distant. His eyes seemed to lose focus, and for a moment, he was somewhere else entirely.

You hesitated, unsure if pushing forward was a good idea, but you took the risk anyway. “Well, speaking of siblings,” you said cautiously, your hands massaging the surrounding muscles, “the myth I was about to share is about Pollux and Castor. Thought you might find it interesting.”

Rin grunted, his expression unreadable, but the absence of a sharp retort was all the permission you needed to begin.

"Alright," you begin, settling back into the chair you’d just vacated, bandages and medical treatment in hand, and beckon Rin to settle his leg near the chair. "Castor and Pollux were twins. Thing is, they weren’t exactly identical. Castor was mortal because he was the son of Tyndareus, a mortal king. Pollux, on the other hand, was immortal, being the son of Zeus, god of thunder, King of the Gods."

Rin raises an eyebrow. "Different fathers? How does that work?"

"I don’t… I don’t think that was the main focus when they taught the tale. Just go with it," you reply. "Anyway, the two of them were inseparable. They were called the Dioscuri— great warriors and super tight-knit. They did everything together: fought battles, raced horses… the kind of bond only siblings can share, you know?” For a moment, you let out a little laugh. Of course, he knows. He’s a sibling as well, isn’t he?

"And then?" Rin prompts, his tone less sarcastic now, leaning just a fraction forward.

"Well, like all Greek myths, things took a prett tragic turn," you say. "During one of their adventures, Castor was killed in a fight. Pollux was devastated. He couldn’t imagine life without his brother, so he begged Zeus to help."

"And Zeus actually did something for once?" Rin’s skepticism is palpable.

A giggle escapes you. "Well, yeah, surprisingly. Zeus offered Pollux a choice: he could either keep his immortality and live alone, or give up half of it to share with Castor so they could be together. Pollux didn’t hesitate—he chose to share his immortality with his brother."

Rin’s lips press into a thin line, but his eyes stay locked on you. "What happened next?"

"They became the constellation Gemini," you explain, gesturing vaguely upward as if the stars were visible through the hospital ceiling. "Zeus placed them in the sky so they’d never be separated again. Immortal in their own way, together for eternity."

Rin leans back, his expression thoughtful. "So Pollux gave up part of himself to bring Castor back."

"Yeah," you say, standing up again. "It’s a story about love and sacrifice. Not the kind of love myths usually focus on—no drama, no romance—just pure loyalty between brothers. Pretty refreshing, actually."

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, his gaze distant, as if searching for something you can’t see.

"Anyway," you add lightly, breaking the silence, "don’t go getting any ideas about asking Zeus for favors, alright? He’s got a worse track record than the hospital vending machines."

Rin snorts softly, the sound almost a laugh, and you take that as your cue to leave. As the door closes behind you, you can’t help but wonder what about the story struck a chord with him.

But as your own mind wanders places you’re not sure it’s supposed to, Rin remains still, staring at the ceiling. The story of Castor and Pollux circles his mind, clinging like an unshakable echo. He doesn't know why he'd let you recount it—maybe he was just bored, maybe it was something in the way you spoke about myths that made them seem less like ancient stories and more like glimpses into people’s lives.

But now, the tale won’t let go.

Pollux couldn’t imagine a life without Castor, Rin thinks. He gave up his immortality for him. That kind of bond... it hits closer to home than he wants to admit.

Sae flashes through his thoughts like an unwelcome specter. The older brother who had once been his everything—his Castor, his constant, the one he’d followed like a shadow. They’d shared dreams once, the same dream of reaching the pinnacle of football, side by side. But unlike Pollux, Sae had left him behind, choosing his path and leaving Rin to stumble through the pieces of their fractured bond.

Would Sae have given up anything for me? The question digs at Rin, sour and raw, though he already knows the answer. Sae’s actions had always been clear: ambition first, family second.

But Pollux didn’t care about what was fair, Rin reminds himself. He cared about his brother. He gave up half his immortality, even if Castor wasn’t perfect.

Rin’s jaw tightens, and he glares at the bandages wrapping his knee, the evidence of his own imperfection. Injured, benched, and stuck in a hospital room— Sae probably wouldn’t even know. Or care.

A flicker of resentment rises in his chest, but it’s dulled by something softer. Pollux’s choice wasn’t about pride or fairness. It was about love, loyalty, and the refusal to let the bond between brothers be severed.

And Rin hates how much he misses that. He hates that no matter how much he resents Sae, there’s still a part of him—buried deep beneath all the bitterness—that would give anything to have what they’d once shared.

The door creaks open slightly as a nurse peeks in, but Rin doesn’t even glance up. "I don’t need anything," he mutters, dismissing her before she can speak.

She leaves, and he’s alone again, the story still rattling in his head. Castor and Pollux were reunited, placed in the stars together for eternity.

———————————————————-

On Wednesday, you hadn’t told Rin a myth. Your schedule had been jam-packed, leaving you incapable of even swinging by his room for a check-up.

“I think it’s for the better, honestly.”

You turned sharply to Anri, a nurse you had befriended when she had helped you find OR 2 back in first year, who was buried in reviewing post-op files, frowning. “What ?”

She shrugged and swiveled her chair to face you.

“I’m all for a forbidden romance, but seriously, y/n, two weeks ago you were calling him a total asshat. And I overheard a nurse say he was calling you a ‘bitch on wheels.’ Now you’re… what? Inventing bedtime stories to tell him while you pull up a chair to his bedside table?”

There were plenty of things wrong with that statement, but you held back and let her continue.

“Look, all I’m saying is I’ve noticed. And I’m not the only one. Sometimes you’ve gotta swallow a bad pill to get better, and this”—she jabbed a finger at the desk for emphasis—“this is a bad pill.”

“It’s not romance, Anri, it’s—”

“It is romance, y/n!” she cut you off, her voice rising. “You like him. I get it, okay? And I want you to be in a relationship, I really do! But is it worth risking your medical license?”

“Who says I need to—”

The redhead raised a hand to stop you, her expression softening. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. But think about it. It’s a line, and crossing it? It’s not worth it. Not for anyone.”

Her words lingered in the air, heavy and unwelcome. You opened your mouth to argue, to deny, but nothing came out. Instead, you picked up your charts and left, her voice still echoing in your mind.

"She’s totally overreacting," Oliver’s voice echoes through the hallway as he falls into step beside you. “You just gotta wait it out. That’s all there is to it.”

“God, not you too,” you groan, clutching your clipboard a little tighter.

“Yeah,” he begins, shrugging casually, “I mean, I’m a ladies’ man. I’ve been there before— And I don’t think you should listen to what some stuck-up nurse has to say. Take it from me” He glances at you sideways, his expression slightly comical, “The amount of twelve year olds outside of this hospital is lethal. You should get to him before they do. I heard they bite. And they use their signs to hit people.”

You roll your eyes, “Take it from you? Because you’re a so-called professional, I presume?” You pick up your pace, but he keeps up.

“Sure,” he shrugs. “I mean, it’s tricky business. But I’d say, he probably doesn’t see a lot of genuine people walking around in his field. This can be good for you and him”, he takes a breath, and, looking you in the eye, he continues.

“I’m serious, y/n! If you blow it with him, you might never find anyone else again .”

You stop abruptly, turning to face him with a scowl. “Are you saying no one else will want me?”

“No, I’m just— he’s the only guy on planet earth that can be potentially as stuck up as you are,” he says, gesturing vaguely as though it explains everything. “Just hold it in for this case, and when he’s not your patient anymore, you can do whatever.”

You turn around in retaliation, “Are you—” You whirl around to face Oliver, your voice laced with frustration. “If someone needs to hold it in, it’s you. You hooked up with 3 nurses last week. And 4 of your interns! You flirted with 2 attendings yesterday! ”

Your voice draws in a few unwanted stares from the nurses, causing you to quiet down, while Oliver raises his hands, palms out, but you don’t give him a chance to respond.

“I don’t like him,” you continue, you whisper firmly, “and even if I did, I would know how to hold it in without the help of a certified hospital whore! I’m an adult, not some teenage girl gushing over a hallway crush. I am fully conscious of my actions, and I am painfully aware of the rules set by this hospital because I'm not stupid!”

Without giving him another second to argue, you turn on your heel and stride down the hallway, leaving him standing there.

But of course, Oliver can’t help himself. His voice calls after you, accompanied with a frown.

“You know, if it comes down to it, I really prefer the word slut. Whore feels demeaning.”

You don’t look back, though Anri’s words linger like a weight pressing against your chest.

On Thursday, Rin found himself staring at the clock, wondering why you hadn’t come by yet. It had been two days, after all.

He wouldn’t admit it— not even to himself— but the hours felt heavier in your absence. His time in the hospital was nearing its end, and the thought of leaving without saying something gnawed at him. You’d probably flip out if he left without a word, much like the time you’d discovered he’d removed his bandage and neglected the prescribed cream for two days straight.

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts as a nurse entered the room, her demeanor cautious, as if stepping into a lion’s den. She carried a small card, her movements stiff and deliberate as she placed it on the bedside table next to the wilting flowers someone had left days ago. Without a word, she retreated as quickly as she had come, leaving Rin alone once more.

He sighed, leaning back into the pillows, and cast a glance at the card. It was pale blue, with a generic “Get Well Soon” emblazoned on the front. He didn’t even need to open it to know it wasn’t from you.

The thought made his chest tighten slightly. The nurses still scurried away from him, despite his recent efforts to dial back his temper. He’d stopped chasing them weeks ago— really, he had— but apparently, his reputation was following him around like a shadow.

What’s the point of trying if nothing changes?

He turned his head toward the flowers, the small card sitting innocuously nearby. His jaw tightened. For a second, he thought about crumpling it up and tossing it into the trash. Instead, he reached for the card and turned it over in his hand.

“...Probably not from her anyway,” he muttered to himself, as though saying it aloud would somehow make it sting less.

Rin hesitated for a moment before opening the card. The sharp edges of the paper felt out of place in his calloused hands, but curiosity won out. Inside, the neat, precise handwriting immediately caught his attention.

"Itoshi,

Rest up. The team needs you back in one piece. We’ll handle the field until then.

- PXG”

A faint grimace one could eventually interpret as a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Of course, it was from them. PXG wasn’t exactly known for warm, heartfelt messages, but this was about as close as they got. They didn’t expect him to change, didn’t expect him to soften. They just wanted their star striker back, sharp and ruthless as ever.

The smirk faded quickly. He wasn’t sure why, but the card felt hollow. He glanced at the flowers again, brow furrowing. They were beginning to droop, petals curling inward like they were giving up. Rin’s fingers tapped idly against the card, his mind wandering.

This is what it’s always been. Keep moving forward. Keep winning. Anything else is just noise.

But lately, things felt… different. The noise had become a presence—an infuriating, stubborn presence that glared at him with just as much fire as he gave. Someone who dared to talk back, who rolled their eyes at his antics but still showed up anyway.

He clenched his jaw and tossed the card onto the bedside table. He wasn’t going to think about it. You were late for your check-in (inexcusably late, but if you made it today, he’d try to work up the energy to forgive you) and that was probably all it was. You were busy, and he was overthinking things.

Still, when the door creaked open a moment later, his head snapped up, his heart betraying him with an almost imperceptible jolt.

But it wasn’t you.

Another nurse entered, this one carrying a tray with his afternoon medication. Rin’s face hardened, and he leaned back into the pillows with a scowl.

“Medication time,” she said softly, keeping her distance.

“Just leave it there,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the desk.

The nurse hesitated but obeyed, setting the tray down and scurrying out like she couldn’t leave fast enough. Rin’s eyes followed her retreating figure, his mood souring further.

She’ll come by eventually, he thought, his gaze flicking back to the door as it closed. She always does.

By the time the sun rose on Friday, Rin was positively fuming. He couldn’t get over the fact that you hadn’t come to discharge him. It wasn’t like he’d been expecting some grand farewell, but he figured you’d at least show up. The guy from yesterday was competent enough, sure, but there was something grating about his overly cheery demeanor and his unsolicited stories about his son.

Rin scoffed at the memory. Calling someone a twelve year old genius didn’t generate much excitement when the statement itself came from a doctor of all people.

He flexed his fingers absentmindedly, feeling the ghost of a soccer ball’s weight in his hands. It was stupid to even be dwelling on it. He’d be out of this hospital and back on the field soon enough. That was the point of all this—healing, recovering, moving forward.

But his thoughts kept circling back.

The last time you’d come to see him, you’d been your usual exasperating self. Glaring, scolding, throwing medical jargon his way as though he’d ever care enough to remember it. Yet, between all the banter and the tension, there had been a sort of steadiness.

You were never one to sugarcoat things, and Rin had come to appreciate that. Maybe that’s why he was so agitated now. This hospital stay had been a drag, but you’d made it tolerable, even interesting.

The knock on his door broke through his thoughts.

“Come in,” he said gruffly, his eyes narrowing as he sat up straighter in bed.

To his disappointment— and growing annoyance— it wasn’t you. Another nurse entered, clipboard in hand.

“Itoshi-san,” she began carefully, “I’ve brought your discharge papers. You’ll just need to sign them, and then someone from the team can escort you out whenever you’re ready.”

He stared at her, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t expected to be discharged for another two days. After a long pause, he nodded curtly and took the clipboard, signing his name with quick, precise strokes.

As the nurse turned to leave, Rin finally spoke up, his tone sharper than he intended.

“Where’s Y/N?”

The nurse blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, uh… Dr. L/n is on a different rotation today. I believe she’s in surgery most of the day.”

Rin’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked away, dismissing her with a wave.

So that was it. You were too busy to stop by. Logical, reasonable, expected.

Still, as Rin swung his legs over the side of the bed and prepared to leave, he couldn’t shake the hollow feeling in his chest.

———————————————————-

You couldn’t tell if getting pulled from Rin’s case was a good thing. On one hand, you wouldn't have to deal with his constant arrogance, permanent frown, or smart remarks anymore. On the other hand, the visits had become a routine, and getting pulled from a certain routine takes a toll on people. Especially when said routine has been replaced with something worse.

The sounds of clips and metal tools clacking against each other in the OR were unnerving. Being a surgical resident assisting in her first lung transplant ever was a far cry from dealing with an injured athlete.

“Suction.”

The attending's voice cuts through the tense air, commanding and calm. Your hands moved instinctively, grasping the suction tool and working to clear the surgical field. Every motion was precise, deliberate, and yet, your nerves thrummed like a taut string.

You kept your eyes on the open thoracic cavity. A part of you was in awe of the doctors working on the transplant— the way the attending's hands danced across the cavity, navigating the mess full of blood vessels and tissue. Another part of you was screaming internally, worried you might miss a step or fumble at the worst possible moment.

”Keep it steady,” the attending sternly said, as your instrument wavered for the briefest second.

”Yes, doctor,” you replied, voice tight.

In that moment, you realized something unexpected: the steady banter and sharp-edged humor of Rin’s room seemed almost... calming in comparison to the sterile tension of the OR. There, you could throw back a quip or roll your eyes without fear of dire consequences. Here, every move had the weight of life and death.

As the attending began the anastomosis, joining the pulmonary artery to the donor lung, your focus sharpened. There was no room for error. The room was heavy with concentration, the rhythmic beeping of the monitors the only sound besides the surgeon's measured instructions.

You exhaled slowly. Routine or not, this was a challenge you’d always dreamed of facing. And despite the anxiety, a spark of determination flared within you. You’d proved you could handle an ACL tear with no assistance— if a lung transplant was thrown your way, you’ll deal with it.

The first signs that something was wrong came almost imperceptibly—a slight falter in the rhythm of the beeping monitors, a whisper of uncertainty in the attending’s voice as he called for another instrument.

“Suture,” he demanded sharply, and you scrambled to pass it, your hand trembling ever so slightly as you did. The air in the OR felt thicker now, like it was closing in.

Then came the sudden, shrill alarm of the heart monitor.

“Blood pressure’s dropping,” the anesthesiologist announced, her voice calm but clipped. “Seventy over forty.”

“Clamp the artery!” the attending barked. The scrub nurse moved quickly, handing over the vascular clamp. You watched as the attending’s hands worked faster, his movements less fluid and more urgent than before.

“Heart rate’s falling,” the anesthesiologist warned again, her voice tighter this time.

Your breath hitched as you stared at the patient, your suction tool frozen mid-air. It felt like the world had tilted on its axis. This wasn’t supposed to happen—not here, not in this room with some of the most skilled surgeons you’d ever seen.

“Doctor L/N, focus!” the attending snapped, snapping you out of your paralysis. You immediately resumed suctioning, but the pit in your stomach deepened.

“I’m seeing a tear in the pulmonary artery,” the attending muttered under his breath. He didn’t look up as he issued the next command. “Get me more gauze—now.”

The nurse moved to comply, but it was clear that the bleeding was already too much. You could see the blood pooling in the cavity, no matter how much suction you applied. Your gloves were slick with blood, the sterile world of the OR dissolving into chaos.

“Pressure’s tanking—fifty over thirty!” The anesthesiologist’s voice cut through the room like a knife.

“Damn it,” the attending hissed, leaning closer to the patient. “We need to stop this bleed or we’re going to lose her.”

The seconds stretched into eternity. You felt helpless, your limited role as a resident confining you to the sidelines of a battle that was rapidly being lost. Every beep of the monitors seemed to grow louder, more frantic, until they finally gave way to a single, flat tone.

“No pulse,” someone murmured, though the words echoed like a shout in the silent room.

“Start compressions,” the attending ordered, his voice now devoid of its earlier sharpness. You stepped back as the scrub nurse took over, pressing rhythmically against the patient’s chest while the attending worked furiously to repair the damage.

“Adrenaline, one milligram,” the anesthesiologist called, her hands moving with practiced efficiency.

But even as everyone in the OR fought to revive the patient, a grim certainty settled over the room. Minutes passed, feeling like hours, and the flatline on the monitor remained unwavering.

Finally, the attending slumped back, his gloves and gown stained deep red. His voice was heavy as he spoke the words you’d never wanted to hear.

“Alright, I’m calling it.” Shooting a look at his watch, he quickly declared what you’d dreaded to hear the most, “Time of death, 10:47 AM”

The room was silent except for the hum of the machines and the shuffle of exhausted feet. You stood there, frozen, staring at the still figure on the table. You’d known, logically, that not every surgery ended in success. But knowing it in theory and experiencing it firsthand were two entirely different things.

“Clean up,” the attending said quietly, already removing his gloves and gown. He looked at you for a moment, his gaze unreadable. “There’s always next time. Dr L/n, you’re free to go.”

You nodded numbly, your hands shaking as you removed your own gloves.

As soon as you pushed the button and make your way out of the OR, the sobs wreck through your body like a storm, uncontrollable and raw. You press your palms against your face, as if that could somehow push the pain away, but it only makes the ache in your chest sharper. The hallway is lit with horrible, fluorescent lights, and offers little to no comfort, its emptiness amplifying the sound of your heartbreak.

The patient on the table was a thirteen year old girl with whom you’d worked with for two months. Leah’s laugh echoes in your mind, a cruel reminder of the life that was now gone. You’d made promises to her, assurances you thought you could keep. “You’ll be just fine,” you had said, your voice confident and steady, even when she’d looked at you with wide, worried eyes. But what was the point of words when they ended in this? When you couldn’t keep her safe?

She’d trusted you. Her bubbly little voice still rang in your ears, calling you “sister from another mother,” and now it felt like a dagger to the heart. You remember the games you’d played to distract her from the pain, the little jokes that always made her giggle, the way her face lit up when you walked into the room. How could someone so vibrant, so full of life, just be… gone?

Your hands tremble as you clench them into fists, your nails digging into your palms to ground yourself in something, anything, other than the overwhelming grief. But it doesn’t help. Nothing does.

The weight of the day crushes you. The guilt is suffocating, a vicious cycle of “what ifs” and “if onlys.” What if you’d caught something sooner? What if you’d advocated harder? What if you’d somehow done more? The logical part of your brain, the part trained to understand that not every battle can be won, doesn’t stand a chance against the emotions consuming you.

After what feels like an eternity, the tears stop, not because the pain has lessened but because your body has nothing left to give. You sit there, hollow and numb, staring at the sterile white walls. You’re not sure how much time has passed—minutes? Hours? It doesn’t matter.

The sound of distant footsteps pulls you back to reality. You quickly wipe at your face, though it’s a futile effort; your eyes are red and swollen, your cheeks streaked with tear tracks. You don’t care. Let them see. Let them know how broken you feel.

But as the footsteps grow louder, you instinctively steel yourself, pushing the emotions down into the deepest recesses of your mind. There’s no room for vulnerability here, not in this place where strength is expected at all times.

"Y/n?"

You quickly rub your palms across your cheeks, desperate to dry your tears and wipe away the redness in your eyes. Your attempt at composure is poor at best, and the sting of crying makes your face feel heavy.

"Uh, yeah, I’ll, um— I’m going," you stammer, avoiding eye contact as you push yourself up from the bed.

As you turn to leave, you collide with a firm chest. Startled, you curse under your breath and glance up, only to freeze when you meet Rin’s sharp, questioning gaze.

“Are you… okay?” he asks, his voice lower than usual, almost cautious.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice is cold and distant, your gaze glued to the floor in a desperate attempt to hide the tears staining your cheeks.

Rin’s eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth to speak again. “I got lost. Why are you here? What happened?”

“I’m here because this is my workplace. You’re not supposed to be down here. This part is off-limits to patients.”

“I’m not a patient anymore.”

“Fine, it’s off-limits to empty-headed footballers. So leave, will you?”

“I’m trying to be nice.”

“Genuinely nice people don’t usually tell others when they’re being nice.”

“Well, I’m not a genuinely nice person, am I?”

You try to deflect, forcing a weak smile as you mumble, "Are you really asking? Because I really need to talk about this." Your voice cracks, betraying your strong appearance you’d crafted, and you can feel your lower lip quivering as the tears threaten to spill again.

Rin takes half a step back, his brows furrowed in discomfort. "Well, now I’m not so sure I’m asking," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

You lose the fragile grip on your emotions, a single tear escapes, sliding down your cheek, and your lower lip wobbles again, and Rin stiffens. His eyes dart between yours and the tear as though it’s a puzzle he doesn’t know how to solve.

"No, um, joke," he blurts, his words tripping over themselves. "I was joking. Seriously."

But it’s too late. You close the distance, wrapping your arms around his neck in a sudden, desperate hug. His entire body goes rigid, his arms hanging stiffly at his sides as if someone has just activated his fight-or-flight response.

"You’re an asshat," you sniffle, burying your face into his shoulder, "but I really, really need someone right now."

Rin is silent for a moment, clearly at war with himself. Then, with an almost audible sigh, his arms hesitantly come up to rest around your back.

"Yeah," he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. "Well, you’re a bitch on wheels."

You let out a watery laugh, your grip around him tightening. "I know," you whisper back, your voice shaky but lighter than before.

Rin relaxes, just slightly, his hold on you firm but careful. It’s clumsy and unpracticed, but the warmth of his embrace feels genuine. For once, neither of you have anything snarky to say, and the silence speaks louder than any words could. His hand slips from your waist to find your own, and your breath catches as your fingers meet. Your eyes widen against the curve of his neck when he takes your hand and, with surprising gentleness, guides you toward the hospital beds near the wall. The fragile silence settles around you like a bubble, one neither of you dares to break.

Cautiously, you lean your head against his shoulder, half-expecting him to stiffen or pull away, or maybe to even drop-kick you onto the hospital floor. But he doesn’t.

Instead, the steady rise and fall of his chest is almost soothing, and the faint scent of muscade, rain, grass, and cologne weaves between you like an invisible blanket. It’s intoxicating.

Strangely enough, this feels about a thousand times more intimate than it has with any of your past relationships. Things get even more strange when you realise: you don’t want this moment to end. Ever. You start telling yourself you must’ve been around too many questionable medicaments when the only thought that echoes in your mind is the one that tells you that even forever wouldn’t be long enough.

“One of my patients died,” you admit, your words trembling as much as your hands. “I… I really liked her. She was so young…” You swipe a hand under your nose, sniffling as you try to keep yourself together.

Rin doesn’t say anything at first. His shoulders shift, and he glances at you briefly, clearly uncomfortable in the presence of such raw emotion. “Oh,” he mutters finally, his voice low.

“I’m not—I don’t want to seem pushy,” you add quickly, your words rushing out in an effort to fill the silence. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… I just really need to talk.”

“Sure,” Rin shrugs, leaning back slightly.

You take a shaky breath, your voice climbing a pitch as tears threaten to spill again. “It’s just… people have been on my ass about everything. Torres is counting on me so much, Leah’s parents probably hate me because I told them she was going to be fine, and now she’s—she’s gone.”

Your hands fly up as you let out an exasperated sigh, leaning your head back against the wall behind you. You can feel the familiar sting of tears building again, but before they can spill, Rin’s elbow nudges you lightly, pulling you out of your spiral.

“Wasn’t your fault though, right?” he says, his tone almost casual. “You’re not a real doctor yet.”

You whip your head around to glare at him. “I am a real doctor. Just not an attending.”

Rin raises an eyebrow. “Don’t know what that means.”

Despite the tears brimming in your eyes, you let out a scoff, shuffling around to sit cross-legged on the bed. “Fine. I’ll explain it to you.” You sniffle again and swipe at your face before continuing.

“So… there are interns. They don’t do much unless someone decides to throw them a bone. Maybe an appy once in a blue moon if you’re feeling generous. Most of the time, they’re stuck filling out post-ops and running errands.”

Your voice falters slightly, and your mind flashes back to Leah. Her post-op report is probably sitting on someone’s desk right now, untouched. The thought makes your throat tighten, and you’re about to lose it again when Rin nudges you once more.

“But I know you’re not an intern, so what are you?”

“I’m a resident,” you manage to say after a deep breath, forcing yourself to focus. “I’ve got interns to manage, but I’m also like my attending’s intern. It’s… complicated, but I’m somewhere in the middle.”

Rin leans his head back, arms crossed over his chest. “So what’s an attending?”

You let out a watery laugh, swiping at your face again. “You seriously don’t know? After being stuck in here for that long?”

A small smile draws on Rin’s face. This was pathetic. Pretending to be stupid just to keep someone’s mind off tough times is weak, and laughable.

“No, I don’t. I’m an empty-headed footballer, remember?”

You laugh, for the second time this evening. Too bad. It’s not like everyone would know he’d been weak and pathetic for you, anyway.

———————————————————-

To: yn.ln@orthopedics.hospital.org

From: sayuri.itoshi@outlook.jp

Subject: Thank You!

Dear y/n,

It’s been a bit of a challenge getting your name out of that stubborn, football-obsessed son of mine (I’m sure you’re well aware of this!), but I wanted to take a moment to personally thank you for all of your hard work. Rin is back on the field and his knee is performing miracles—thanks to you!

I couldn’t make it in person to express my gratitude, but I wanted to extend an invitation: in a week, one of Rin’s cousins is getting married. The entire family would be thrilled to see you there and offer our thanks in person, including the bride herself! I understand this is short notice, so please don’t feel pressured to accept. But if you do, we would be absolutely delighted.

Sayuri Itoshi, Ph.D.

Professor of Economics

Department of Economics

University of Tokyo

7-3-1 Hongo, Bunkyo-ku, Tokyo 113-8654, Japan

“Oh. My God.”

Livy is leaning over your computer, hands on the back of your chair, her eyes wide as she stares at the screen. When she speaks up again, it’s with an excitement that makes you wince. “You should go,” she practically squeals, spinning your chair to face her. “I can help you pick out a dress!”

Then, with a finger tapping the corner of her mouth in mock contemplation, she bemoans, “Well, now you have to go. If you don’t, the idea of helping you pick out a dress for your first date will be etched into my mind forever, tormenting me until the end of time. And it will all be your fault.”

Her theatrics reach a dramatic climax as she locks her arms around you, shaking you lightly while declaring, “But thankfully, my beautiful, smart best friend would never let me suffer this way. Oh, how grateful I am! How lucky!”

“Cut it out,” you grit through clenched teeth. “I’m not going.”

“What!? No, you can’t not go! Remember how you said you’d never torture me mentally? This is torture. You’re torturing me. Please stop torturing me.”

You’re about to retort when Oliver comes into view, clipboard in hand. His smirk almost makes you want to bolt from the hospital entirely, while Livy continues twisting her body as though in invisible agony.

“You should go,” Oliver says casually, leaning against the desk.

“I don’t take advice from whores.”

Oliver’s jaw drops in indignation. “No— I told you! You can’t call me that; it’s demeaning! There used to be a time where you respected my wishes. Now you just humiliate me in hospital hallways.” He spins on his heel dramatically, crossing his arms and it’s clear talking to you is no longer in his prospects.

You smile, turning back to your computer with a fleeting sense of victory— only for your heart to drop when you catch sight of the screen. The faint "Sent!" animation flashes in the corner, and dread floods you as you scramble to check your sent emails.

Your worst fears are confirmed.

To: sayuri.itoshi@outlook.jp

From: yn.ln@orthopedics.hospital.org

Subject: Re: Thank You!

Dear Mrs. Itoshi,

I couldn’t be happier that your son has regained full mobility. His physiotherapist certainly did an excellent job. As for me, I am deeply grateful for your kind words and could never bring myself to refuse such an honor. It was a pleasure working with your son, and I am glad to have been of help.

Sincerely,

Y/N L/N, M.D.

Orthopedic Surgery Resident, PGY-4

Blue Lock Medical Center

Department of Orthopedic Surgery

Your City, Your State/Country

You stare at the screen in horror, while Livy smirks in malice behind you. “I did tell you you were going.”

———————————————————-

"Okay, so. There are three checkpoints we need to go through," Livy declares solemnly, pushing her glasses up her nose with the air of someone about to deliver groundbreaking news.

"I need to go through," you correct her, not bothering to look up from your computer.

She glares at you over her papers. "Actually, I’ve decided that, considering the absolute disaster you are, you’re going to need me during the dress fitting, the flight, and the wedding."

You whip your head toward her so fast your neck twinges. "The wedding?!"

"Hm? Oh, yeah," she says nonchalantly, flipping a page like she hasn’t just dropped a bombshell. "I texted Itoshi’s mom. She loves me, by the way. Well, maybe not more than you, but she definitely loves me."

"You texted her?!" you screech.

"How else was I supposed to ask if I could come?" she replies, tone impossibly casual.

"Wait—hold on," you say, holding up your hand. "You have her number?!"

Livy smirks, leaning back in her chair. "You don’t?"

For a moment, all you can do is gape at her, your jaw practically hitting the floor. "Livy, how the hell do you have Sayuri Itoshi’s number?"

"Easy," she says, ticking off her fingers. "I’m charming, resourceful, and clearly the brains of this operation."

You bury your face in your hands. "You can’t just invite yourself to someone else’s family wedding!”

"Why not?" she asks, sounding entirely unbothered. "Mrs. Itoshi said it’s fine. She actually sounded excited. Something about the more, the merrier."

You stare at her, mouth agape. "You’re insane."

"And you’re welcome," Livy says with a smug grin. "Oh, and I told her I’d sit next to you at the reception. You know, to keep you from embarrassing yourself."

"Livy!" you groan, leaning back in your chair.

"What?" she shrugs. "She loves me."

Your eyes almost pop out of your sockets

#1 CHECKPOINT : FITTING

“Livy, I can’t move. This dress sucks. And it’s ugly. I feel like a geometry shape, the dress is actually made of metal. I cannot move.”

”It’s not ugly, it’s… special. I like the red, it’s very— joyful! You know, merry Christmas and all that. It’s cute…” at the frown on your face, Liv can only grimace. “— ish?”

“No, it’s not.” You draw the curtains harshly, and turn around to get this horrid dress off from you. “How did you say we were gonna get there again?” You grit your teeth as you attempt to open the zipper on the back.

“By plane. Sayuri sent me the tickets. We leave in two days by the way, so hurry up with the dress.”

You draw the curtain back, and show your horrified expression through the gap.

“What? You—” You pinch the bridge of your nose with your index and thumb, inhaling sharply in a desperate attempt to rein in your spiraling thoughts. “Two days? How is there going to be enough time to get everything done?” You shove a bright red dress back through the curtain, letting out an exasperated groan. “And this is too red.”

“No, I— Y/n, this is a Christmas wedding!” Livy huffs from the other side. “It has to be on theme. Red is on theme!”

“There are plenty of Christmas colors to work with that aren’t bright, in-your-face red,” you argue, already regretting your choice to come along.

This time, Livy groans loudly, the sound dripping with frustration. “White is out, green is boring, and that leaves us with red. I never said it had to be bright red anyway!”

Her words make you pause mid-turn in your cabin. You glance at the dresses she’s forced on you, a sea of reds ranging from deep burgundy to literal crimson that reminds you of your nephew’s fire truck toy. They glare back at you mockingly, each shade more vibrant than the last. Even with the heavy curtain separating you from Livy’s persistent presence, you resist the urge to roll your eyes— though you doubt she’d care if she could see you.

How did you even get here? You’d been adamant about not going along with this. Sure, you hadn’t sent that email, but you definitely hadn’t consented to being dragged to an impromptu shopping trip for someone else’s Christmas wedding. Yet here you are, drowning in an actual tsunami of reds, your fingers sifting through material and nuance options as your mind drifts somewhere you wish it wouldn’t.

The memory of that night creeps in, despite being as unwelcome as it is. You try to shove it aside, but the image of Rin lingers, sharp and intrusive. It had been after that god-awful surgery, when the stress and exhaustion had left you raw and exposed. You shouldn’t have hugged him. You really shouldn’t have hugged him, and yet you did.

And now, no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop replaying it in your head. Did he think it was more than what it was? Did you think it was more than what it was? And, more importantly, what was it, exactly? It’s not as if it was a kiss. If it had been a kiss, maybe you could justify this endless loop of overthinking. But it wasn’t. So why does it still feel like your heart is caught in a vice?

Your hand trails absently over the materials covering the cabin walls as you change again, and your thoughts spiral deeper into the memory, your focus completely stolen by questions you aren’t sure you even want the answers to.

“Hello? Can you hear me? Earth to Y/n?”

“What?” Your head snaps around so fast it’s a wonder you don’t give yourself whiplash. You yank the curtain open, annoyance radiating off you in waves.

Livy stands there, momentarily stunned, her eyes scanning the dress you’ve reluctantly put on.

“Never mind,” she says after a beat, a smile creeping onto her lips. “You look great!”

“It’s too tight,” you bite out, your tone as stiff as the fabric clinging to your body.

Livy rolls her eyes, completely unbothered by your complaint. “It’s supposed to feel tight, sweetheart. That’s how you know it’s doing something for you.”

Before you can argue further, she grabs the curtain and pulls it shut again with a dramatic flourish. “Now hurry up and get changed,” she calls through the fabric. “We still need to figure out accessories, and at this rate, we’ll be here all night!”

#2 CHECKPOINT: AIRPORT

You hated airports. No amount of martinis, gin, or whiskey in the lounge could ever erase the sinking dread of knowing you’d soon be thousands of miles above the ground, trapped in a pressurized metal tube.

“Isn’t it great he booked us business tickets? We’ll have to thank him somehow…” Livy’s voice broke through your sulking, her eyes peeking over the hem of her magazine. “Prada has nice ties. You could pair one with some flowers or something. Classic.”

You shot upright, abandoning the slouched position you’d melted into. “A tie? What does she need a tie for?”

Livy glanced at you over her glasses, unimpressed. “Are you listening to me? Not she, he. Ties are a pretty standard gift for guys.”

Your brows furrowed. “What guy?”

Her exasperation was palpable, her dramatic sigh echoing in your ears. “Rin. Obviously.”

“I’m not getting Rin a gift. He’s not the one getting married.”

“No, he’s not,” Livy said, lowering her magazine just enough to glare at you knowingly. “But he is the one who booked your ticket.”

You blinked, stunned. Your fingers curled into the armrest of your seat as you tried to wrap your head around her words. “How do you know that?”

Livy, completely unbothered by your growing suspicion, calmly removed her glasses and flipped another page. “Relax. I told you, his mom and I text.” She held up her phone as if that explained everything, the screen lit with a string of cheerful messages.

“And?” you prompted, your patience wearing thin.

“And,” she said with an almost mischievous smile, “he upgraded your ticket. Something about it being a thank-you gift. Although, if I had to guess, his mom probably forced him into doing it.”

Your hands were already itching to throttle her, if only to shake loose the full story you were certain she was keeping to herself.

“So,” she spoke up again, “Isn’t it nice, what he did?”

“Sure it is,” you shrug. “Did you change his diapers? Is that why he upgraded your seat, too?” You say, sipping your coffee.

“I have my ways. I don’t need to change anybody’s diapers,” Livy says, raising her eyebrows smugly over the rim of her sunglasses, “or read him bedtime stories to help him fall asleep.”

Your head snaps toward her. “How do you know about that?”

Her smirk grows wider. “You really did read him bedtime stories?”

Rolling your eyes, you counter, “No. They were Ancient Greek myths.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does! You know Anri—the nurse? She called them bedtime stories, too. It’s ridiculous—”

“Y/n.” Livy cuts you off, her tone shifting slightly, almost as if she’s trying to ground you in the moment. “You know what I’m talking about—it’s not about Greek myths or bedtime stories. You’ve never put this much effort into anyone. Ever.”

Feigning indignation, you shoot back, “Yes, I have!”

“Last year, you gave me the exact same present you gave me two years ago. That’s the same gift. Back to back.”

Her words make you falter, the faintest trace of heat creeping into your cheeks. “That was… purely coincidence,” you mutter, your bravado waning.

Livy lets out a soft chuckle, but her expression remains sincere. “Look, none of us have ever blamed you for it. You’ve always been practical, and we respect that. But what you’ve done for Rin? That goes beyond friendliness, doesn’t it?”

You hesitate, your brows furrowing as you grapple with the idea. You’ve desperately tried to forbid yourself from dwelling on it for too long—brushing off the teasing and heat as inconsequential, refusing to acknowledge the way his presence has slipped past your defenses.

“No, it just… started once, and then we just kept going, but I never intended… I never…” Your words falter, tangling in your throat as your gaze drifts into empty space.

Livy sighs, realizing she won’t get anything more from you. Still, she knows you well—better than anyone else. You two had pulled through med school together, had snagged an internship at the same place together, and now, you’re residents together. She knows you like the back of her hand. She knows you’re logical to a fault, always weighing every decision with precision. And yet, when it comes to Rin, all logic seems to crumble.

She wonders if it’s because you see love as inherently illogical—a chaotic, uncharted territory where reason holds no sway. That might explain why you’ve let yourself become so tangled in something you can’t quite define.

But Livy knows more than she’s letting on. She itches to tell you about how Rin behaves when you’re not around— the cold, dismissive tone he reserves for the rest of the staff, the outright refusals to accept anyone else’s diagnostics or treatments. How he insists on you, and only you, for the massages and check-ins. How you’ve drawn more words out of him than anyone else in the entire hospital.

If only you knew.

Still, Livy knows you wouldn’t take this kind of conversation well in a calm, controlled setting. Perhaps a little nudge, a change in approach, is what’s needed to help you see what’s right in front of you.

Livy leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other with a deliberate air. “Do you know the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea?”

You didn’t even bother looking up from your magazine. “Oh, this should be good. Are you seriously trying to use my own technique on me? I know what you’re doing.”

She rolled her eyes, tossing her sunglasses onto the table. “Well, do you?”

That made you pause. You raised an eyebrow, finally sparing her a glance. “Yes, I do. You can do better.”

“No I don’t think so,” she said, her lips curving into a sly grin. “So, Pygmalion was this sculptor, right? Crazy talented but kind of… emotionally constipated. He didn’t care about love. Thought no one was good enough for him, that most people couldn’t keep up with him. Then, one day, he sculpts Galatea, and she’s everything he’s ever wanted. Perfect in every way. And—”

You snorted, flipping a page. “and he falls in love with Galatea, prays to Aphrodite to help him out. She makes Galatea come alive, and he’s still not happy. I told you, I know the myth.”

“My point is,” Livy said, leaning forward as if she were about to deliver a groundbreaking revelation, “he didn’t realize he was falling in love while he was working on her. He just kept pouring all this time and energy into her, treating her like she was the most important thing in his life. Sound familiar?”

Your fingers froze mid-turn, and the page fluttered back into place. “What, so you’re comparing me to Galatea? You’re saying that I completely changed the rules of his entire world and am the love of his life?”

She threw her hands up dramatically. “No smartass, I’m comparing you to Pygmalion.”

“Livy, he’s a patient,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady. “I’m a doctor. End of story.”

Livy’s grin softened into something closer to a small smile. “Sure. If that’s what you want to tell yourself.” She leaned back again, watching you with those too-perceptive eyes. “But think about it. You’ve gone above and beyond for him. You’ve put more effort into him than I’ve seen you give anyone else—ever. Not even me, and I’m your best friend.”

“It’s not like that,” you muttered, dropping the magazine entirely. “I’m just… helping him through a rough time. That’s all.”

Livy tilted her head, studying you. “And maybe it started that way. But Pygmalion didn’t know he was falling for Galatea until she came to life. So ask yourself this—what exactly are you sculpting here?”

#3 CHECKPOINT: WEDDING

“Woah.”

It was the only thing you could manage, and you knew it didn’t come close to doing the place justice. The venue was stunning—like something out of one of those glossy magazine spreads you always thought were too perfect to be real.

Right in the middle of the room was a massive Christmas tree, its branches dusted with snow and decked out in silver and red ornaments. The centerpiece served as a reference point for the tables, arranged in neat circles around it, each one set so perfectly it looked like no one had dared touch it yet.

The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, letting in just enough of the snowy view outside to make you forget you were indoors. Garlands hung from the dark ceiling, their lights twinkling like stars in a way that felt straight out of a fairytale.

And then there was the snow. It was falling—inside, somehow—but frozen midair, like it was posing for a photo. None of it landed on the guests or the tables, just hung there, suspended in a way that made you want to reach out and see if it was real.

It was the kind of place that made you stop for a second, your brain scrambling to catch up with everything your eyes were taking in.

“This is so…”

“Magnificent? I sure hope so. I paid for some of it.”

The voice was unfamiliar, but the sharp tone—balanced with just enough amusement to keep it from feeling cold—made you freeze. You had a pretty good idea of who it might be.

“Uh…”

“Don’t worry,” the woman continued, her words breezy and direct. “I wasn’t alone. My sons helped. With all the money they’re raking in now, I’d be questioning my parenting if they didn’t chip in.”

And then you saw her. The blue eyes, the fierce, unreadable stare, the kind of eyelashes most people would kill for— it all clicked. Rin’s mother.

“Oh my God, Ms. Itoshi, hi, I— I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…” you stammered, your words tumbling out as your hands flew to smooth the fabric of your dress.

Before you can even try to respond, Rin appears at your side, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“Mom, can you not?” Rin grumbles, clearly unamused.

“Can I not what? Make polite conversation with your friend?” she teases, swiping lightly at his shoulder. Rin straightens instinctively, his usual scowl deepening.

She waves her hand dismissively. “Go accompany her to the bar and introduce her to the family instead of saying something stupid, will you?”

Rin mutters something under his breath, but before you can catch it, he grips your wrist lightly and pulls you toward the bar.

In an attempt to diffuse the tension lingering in the air, you clear your throat and force a light tone. “So… your mom runs a tight ship, huh?”

“Not any tighter than how you ran that hospital room,” Rin shoots back, his sharp gaze flickering toward you.

You laugh dryly, shaking your head. “Please. It could’ve gone a lot worse.”

“Could it?” he challenges, his tone skeptical as you both settle onto the barstools.

You shrug, taking a sip of the drink the bartender places in front of you. “If Livy were here, she’d tell you all about the time we had this kid that had been in a car crash. Total nightmare. Earphones in 24/7, wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t let us do anything. Her mom went along with everything she wanted— so when we had to pull her in for surgery and she refused, guess what? Her mom wouldn’t give consent either. We had to send her home. Now her room, I ran like a military camp. She called me sergeant and everything.”

Rin’s frown deepens, his fingers tapping against the bar. “Did the kid have a death wish? And was the mom having a brain aneurysm or something?”

You suppress a laugh. “Look at you with all those medical terms. Maybe you should’ve pursued med school instead of football.”

His scowl sharpens, and he motions with his glass for you to continue.

“Some people just…” You exhale slowly, your fingers brushing against the condensation on your glass. “It’s hard to explain. I see it every day, and I still don’t fully get it. But my best guess? The mom was afraid of her kid.”

“Afraid of her own child?” Rin says, his voice edged with disbelief. “That’s pathetic.”

“Not that kind of afraid,” you clarify, meeting his gaze. “It’s more… she was desperate for her kid’s love. Saying no—whether it was about a life saving surgery or a bag of candy—felt like a step closer to having her kid resent her forever.”

Rin takes a long sip of his drink before setting the glass down. “Still pathetic.”

You shrug. “Everyone’s different,” you say, as the liquor burns down your throat. You pull a grimace, and hum in discomfort.

“This burns.” You explain, and Rin sighs in subtle amusement, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, until the frown etched on his face earlier resurfaces again. “I get wanting your kid to love you, but letting them die because you’re scared to piss them off? That’s weak.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, leaning slightly against the bar. “It’s easy to judge when you’re not in their shoes. People have their own battles, Rin. Some are just… quieter.”

“Quieter doesn’t mean they’re not bullshit,” he mutters, taking another sip.

“You’d be surprised how fear can change people. That mom probably thought she was doing the right thing, in her own twisted way.” You pause, giving him a sidelong glance. “Kind of like how you think being an uncooperative patient is somehow noble.”

Rin shoots you a sharp look, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. “You saying I’m as bad as her?”

“Not quite,” you tease, lifting your glass to your lips. “But you do have a knack for being stubborn when you think you’re right, even when you’re not.”

“I’m always right,” he retorts, leaning back in his chair with a hint of defiance.

“Mm, sure. That’s why I had to chase you down the hall last time you tried to escape physical therapy.”

“That was a tactical retreat,” he counters, deadpan.

You laugh, the sound light against the festive hum of the venue. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Itoshi.”

His gaze softens slightly as he looks at you. “You’ve got some nerve calling me stubborn when you’re the one arguing philosophy over a bar top.”

“I’m just trying to educate you.”

Rin tilts his head, considering you for a moment. “You know, you could’ve just told me I was a good patient and spared me this lecture.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” You grin, nudging his arm lightly, as he leans over to you to grab a bottle of god-knows-what— and you stiffen. You stiffen, because when Rin leans close to you, you are transported back to the night of Leah’s death, and the scent of muscade takes over your senses, and realisations come to hit you like a truck all over again— and you don’t think you can handle them.

You think about what it would be like to kiss him, to rest your head on his chest, to—

“Oh, Rin! Is this the doctor you told us about?” A woman to whom you couldn’t be more grateful for interrupting your spiralling train of thought, comes up to you both and slaps a hand on Rin’s shoulder.

The black haired footballer only grunts in return, and you smile at the obvious display of familiarity between the two.

“Yeah.”

“Well, you never told us how pretty she is!” She smiles brightly at you, and settles her elbows on the mahogany bar top, nestling her face between her hands. “As pretty as a picture! Tell you what, you should take Rin out on a date—“

“Tsumugi, enough.”

“Oh,” she clicks her tongue in annoyance and lightly glares at Rin, before turning back to you, hushing her voice theatratically, “You know I have never seen him talk to someone for this long? You are a real sweetheart putting up with him for as long as you have, really-“

“Tsumugi.” Rin can’t stand it. Most of this conversation has been smooth sailing, until his other cousin (god, how come he has this many cousins in the first place?) came in and crashed said sailing like an actual tornado. Worst of all, Rin can’t seem to hide the heat creeping up his neck, nor his embarrassment at Tsumugi’s words.

Sure, he’s talked to you a lot. Sure, you had hugged, and he had, out of the graciousness of his heart let you rest your head on his shoulder for a moment. But, honestly, what was he supposed to do? You were crying, and you were dealing with… stuff.

“Yeah, thanks.” Your awkward smile and tone breaks him out of his reverie, and he almost feels bad for the predicament his cousin forced you into.

You are pretty, though, he thinks. It’s obvious. You’re more than pretty, even. And you’re smart. His mother likes you. His cousin likes you, too. Sure, your friend is a little over the top, and your other friend is kind of a slut, but you’re great. Rin wishes he could find another word, because he knows in the depth of his heart that you’re not just great, but the corners of his mouth only dip and his expression sours when he can’t seem to find one. Better you find someone who actually knows how to compliment someone without coming off as a jackass, he thinks. Better not be me.

“She’s great.”

The voice feels so familiar it bounces off the walls, and makes Rin’s heart heavy. He looks at you briefly to make sure you’re not listening in, and turns the other way when he sees you talking animatedly to Tsumugi, any and all awkward introductions seemingly forgotten.

“Who is?”

Sae only clicks his tongue, and nods at you. “Her. Doctor, wasn’t it?”

Almost immediately, Rin’s brain thinks up as many conversation starters to steer the conversation topic away from you like a dispenser pumping gas. If it won’t be him, it won’t be Sae, he thinks, hands clutching under the bar top. Anyone but Sae.

“She’s not single.” Rin blurts out, face composed.

“Who’s not single?” The black haired football player’s eyes almost bulge out of his eye sockets, and it takes him the strength of a thousand mountains to not spill the contents of his glass all over the place when you suddenly make your appearance, turning around, your knees knocking into Rin’s.

“You, apparently.” Sae says, voice smooth as he downs the contents of his own glass.

You splutter at the eldest’s words, eyes widening, and your hand covering your mouth.

“I— Excuse me?”

His older brother only grins slightly, leaning back against the back of the chair in silent victory. “Ah,” he starts, eyes riveted to the black haired player next to him. “Is that not the case?”

Heat slowly creeps up your neck and you have a hard time getting a sentence, let alone words, out of your throat.

“Have you finally found some other person to follow around like a puppy?” Sae wonders out loud, and the more he talks, the more you can see Rin’s eyes darkening. “I have to say,” The eldest turns to you, “I’ve never seen my little brother with a crush. ‘Suppose I should congratulate you for that.” He sips on his glass again, eyes seemingly faraway.

When you finally regain your senses, they rip out of your trachea like a rose full of thorns. Long, pointy, deadly thorns.

“I don’t— I gotta go. To the bathro— restroom. Sorry,” you quickly shimmy out of your chair in a hurried frenzy, eager to make your way out of this very unfortunately awkward conversation. Maybe Livy was right. Maybe you do need to figure out what exactly you were sculpting here, you reluctantly admit to yourself.

“I’m sorry, have you seen Livy? I mean, Olivia? Olivia Matsson, tall, blond?" You mimic her height with a hand above your head, and hope you’re not coming across as a coke addict with how energetic you’re being. “A little over the top?”

A woman tells you yes, and nods over to a direction near a table somewhere in the back. You don’t see her right away, but you take the hint anyway, and sprint over until you spot a head full of vibrant, blonde hair.

“Liv! Livy!”

Livy turns around, and visibly gasps at your state.

“Wh— How? What happened?”

“I think,” you breathe in, “I think, I know what I’m sculpting.”

Livy points at you, already reaching for a hefty bottle of whiskey. “You,” she declares, shoving a glass into your hand, “need a drink.”

You barely get a sigh out before she fills it to the brim.

“Bottoms up.”

You lift the glass, ready to down the whole thing in one go, but Livy stops you with a sharp gasp.

“No! You animal! This is whiskey, not a cheap shot. Sip it, savor it— God.”

You don’t question her very specific expertise or extensive knowledge on alcohol consumption, just take a breath and a small, slow sip before launching into it.

“Rin lied.” Another sip. “He told Sae I wasn’t single. Like I was taken.” You shake your head. “And maybe it doesn’t mean anything, but then they were both looking at me, and Sae was pointing at me, and you said Rin liked me, so I thought—”

“Okay, okay, slow down.”

“You said, that he—“

“That he liked you,” Livy finishes, and motions for you to keep going. You you turn your palm towards her to show your agreement with a small “Right,” and keep going.

“Well, I was— I did think about it, you know, I did, and you’re right, he is handsome, and we’ve had our moments, and he’s not, I mean it’s not like he’s my patient anymore, so who cares right? I can try something. And I think I want to, so—“

“Oh, honey.” Livy smiles fondly and hands you a napkin when a trickle of alcohol escapes down your chin after a few too many sips. “Take a seat and tell me everything.” She pats the chair beside her, urging you to sit.

You sigh, dropping into the seat. “I don’t know how to approach him. We’ve talked about my feelings, but never his. And I know, I know this probably sounds stupid and obvious to you, but I’m terrified this is all just—just a total misunderstanding. Because, oh my god, I really like him. And if I’ve been reading this wrong the whole time, I think I might actually die.”

Livy hums, swirling the drink in her glass. “I get it. It’s scary, but sometimes the only way forward is to throw yourself to the wolves.”

You snort. “Great. That makes me feel so much better.” You mumble against the rim of your glass, eyes locked on the mural across the room.

She laughs, nudging your knee with hers. “I’m serious! It’s nerve-wracking, sure, but it’s part of the process. And honestly?” She tilts her head, considering her next words. “If you saw the way he looks at you… If you don’t know how to go about this, what makes you think he does?”

You swallow, staring at your drink. “I just— I don’t want to ruin things.”

Livy sighs, leaning her elbow on the table. “You know, love isn’t about having all the answers beforehand. It’s not this neatly wrapped thing where you always know what the other person is thinking. It’s messy. And it’s— it’s, god it’s a great deal of awkward. And it’s a lot to stand in front of someone and hoping they don’t run in the other direction.” She smiles softly. “But when it’s real? You meet in the middle. You figure it out together. And, lovely, I think he’s already halfway there.”

Your throat tightens, and you shake your head. “And if he’s not?”

“Then you’ll survive,” she says simply. “Heartbreak isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you. You know what is? Never trying. Spending forever wondering what could’ve been.” She reaches over and squeezes your hand. “You deserve to know where you stand. And if that means throwing yourself to the wolves, then at least you’ll do it knowing you were brave enough to want something real.”

A deep breath expands in your chest, and for the first time tonight, the panic quiets just a little.

“You make it sound so easy,” you murmur.

Livy grins. “It’s not. But love isn’t about easy. It’s about worth it.”

“You’re too good at this.” You frown.

“I know. I should consider a career change. You’re the only thing holding me back, hun.”

“Cute.” You grin, “I’m like your white knight in shining armor.”

“Ugh, no. You’re the reason I’m going insane.” Her face twists, and you laugh.

———————————————————-

“You’re a fucking pain in the ass, you know that?”

For the first time, Rin refuses to let Sae walk away unscathed. Nearly ten years of pure resentment shoved into the deepest, darkest corner of his heart, boils over, and tonight, he’s finally gonna let his brother take the brunt of it.

Sae barely spares him a glance, idly swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Hm?”

“You fucking—” Rin exhales sharply, fists clenched. “You arrogant, prideful, son of a bitch.” His voice trembles with barely contained fury. “When you came back from Spain, you ruined everything. Everything. I thought we were gonna do this together. I thought—”

“I told you,” Sae interrupts, voice maddeningly even. “You won’t get anywhere living in my shadow. I was right.”

“I don’t give a shit what you think was right!” Rin snaps. “When I met this girl, I thought I was done with all this brooding, dark bullshit. I thought I could finally get that goddamn day where you destroyed my entire world out of my head.”

His breathing is uneven, his pulse hammering in his ears. He’s seconds away from knocking that smug look right off his brother’s face.

“And so all that resentment, all those years of training and training and pushing myself past my limit just to surpass you—I was done. Fuck!” His fist slams against the bartop, rattling glasses. A few guests gasp. His cousin frowns. Their mother shoots them a sharp glare.

Sae doesn’t flinch. “Careful.” He takes a slow sip.

Rin’s vision blurs with rage. “You— you ruined my perception of football. You ruined my perception of relationships. I can’t even look Mom in the eyes anymore because they remind me of you.”

That gets a reaction. A barely perceptible shift, a flicker in Sae’s gaze.

Rin exhales shakily, his shoulders tight with exhaustion. Then, he looks Sae dead in the eyes.

“I hate you. So much.” His voice drops to something dangerously quiet. “And before I get up to go and salvage what’s left of what you broke, again, I'm gonna look you in the eyes, brother to brother, and say,” He leans in, the words sharp enough to cut. “I fucking hate you.”

———————————————————-

The next time you see Rin, he’s hunched over the balcony, his hands gripping the stone so tightly you half expect it to crack under the pressure.

“Heard you made quite the scene back there,” you say cautiously. “Don’t tell me you’re back to your nurse chasing days.”

He doesn’t respond, the only answer you get is the sharp gust of wind and the heavy silence stretching between you.

Don’t shut me out again, you think, watching the way his shoulders stay rigid, his expression unreadable. You need him to talk— need to gather all your strength for what comes next. His silence won’t do.

“I’m not—” he exhales, dragging a hand down his face before forcing himself to continue. “I’m just pissed. That’s all.”

He pauses, then mutters the name like it’s an open wound.

“Sae.”

You hesitate for a second, choosing your words carefully. “What did he do this time?”

Rin exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Nothing new.” But his tone betrays him, bitter and exhausted. “Just the usual bullshit.”

You don’t press him, not yet. If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Rin, it’s that pushing too hard only makes him retreat further. So you wait, let the silence stretch just long enough for him to decide whether he wants to fill it.

Eventually, he does. “Remember Pollux and Caster?”

“Castor,” you instinctively correct, “Yeah, I remember.”

“They weren’t even full brothers,” Rin mutters, frustration threading through his voice. “And still, they sacrificed for each other, didn’t they? Pollux gave up his immortality. Castor—he—” Rin exhales sharply, fingers curling against the railing. “Sae didn’t have to sacrifice anything. What he did was so—so ridiculously unnecessary, and yet…”

You have no idea what he’s talking about. The feud between the two brothers has never been new, and yet, the details remain firmly sealed between the two brothers. You study him for a moment, the way his shoulders rise and fall with barely restrained emotion. You could tell him that he is enough, that his relationship with Sae— or lack thereof— doesn’t define him. But you know Rin. That’s not what he wants to hear right now.

“I’m sure you know this, Rin, but the Dioscuri are not something to compare real life to. They represent an ideal, not reality.”

Rin scoffs, shaking his head. “An ideal.” His voice is sharp, like he doesn’t believe a word of it. Like he wants to argue but can’t quite find the energy.

You tilt your head, studying him. “The Dioscuri were a paradox from the start— one mortal, one divine. They were never meant to exist in harmony, not really. But instead of accepting that, they kept trying to hold on, to fit together like they were made for it.” You exhale, glancing up at the sky. “And in the end, the only way they could be together was through tragedy. One had to lose everything for the other.”

Rin is quiet. His grip on the railing loosens, but his knuckles are still pale. You wonder if he’s actually listening, or if he’s just letting your words wash over him like waves against the rocks— present, but not really sinking in.

“Sae’s not Pollux, and you’re not Castor,” you continue, softer this time. “You’re not bound by fate, or the gods, or some tragic, poetic bullshit about what brothers should be. You don’t have to be anything for him, Rin. And he doesn’t have to be anything for you.”

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, you think he’s going to snap at you. Instead, he just mutters, “That’s easy for you to say.”

“Sure.” You shrug. “But it doesn’t make it any less true.”

The wind picks up again, sweeping through the balcony, tousling Rin’s hair. He looks out over the city, his expression unreadable. Maybe he’s still angry. Maybe he’s thinking. Maybe he’s just tired.

You don’t expect him to say anything more. You’ve known him long enough to understand that silence is just as much a language as words. But then, after a long pause, he exhales, shaking his head.

“I just don’t get it,” he murmurs. “Why did he have to do it? Why does he always have to be—” He stops himself, like the words are caught in his throat.

You don’t ask what it is. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you. If not, well… some things are meant to stay between the Itoshi brothers.

Instead, you rest your arms against the railing, mirroring his posture. “Maybe it’s not about understanding him,” you say. “Maybe it’s about deciding whether it’s worth it to keep trying.”

Rin doesn’t answer right away. But this time, the silence feels different. Less like a wall, more like a door that hasn’t quite opened yet.

“You know, I—”

The words barely escape your lips before they’re swallowed whole, cut off by something firm and sudden pressing against them. It takes you a moment— one, two, three erratic heartbeats— to even register what’s happening. The warmth, the way his breath mixes with yours, the way his lips move against yours with a hesitant urgency, like he’s holding back but doesn’t want to.

Rin is kissing you.

The realization crashes into you just as quickly as the kiss itself, but your body doesn’t catch up. Your brain stalls, your muscles freeze, and before you can even think about responding, before you can even breathe, Rin is already pulling away.

“Figures,” he mutters, his voice low and tight, like he’s trying to sound unaffected. “First time I actually show a girl how I feel, I get rejected.”

Your heart lurches, a sudden, frantic thing hammering against your ribs. The air between you feels charged, humming with something unspoken, something fragile.

You can still feel the ghost of his lips against yours, like an imprint burned into your skin, and it’s almost overwhelming how fast everything unraveled. You had thought about this, hell, you’d imagined it, even hoped for it, but now that it’s happened, it feels like the entire world has tilted off its axis.

You should say something. You need to say something.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out, your thoughts tangled in a mess of shock and disbelief. Rin shifts beside you, jaw tightening, hands flexing at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to clench them into fists.

“…Forget it,” he mutters after a beat, turning away slightly. His voice is quieter this time, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s trying to bury whatever flicker of hope had been there just moments ago. “Should’ve known better.”

That snaps you out of your daze. “Wait—”

You reach for him instinctively, fingers brushing against his wrist. He stiffens but doesn’t pull away. Your pulse is a wild, erratic thing, drumming against your ribs. Your fingers weave into his hair, sliding through the soft strands at the nape of his neck, and you feel him stiffen beneath your touch. For a split second, he’s completely still, as if the air has been knocked from his lungs. Then, against all logic, against all sane judgment, you close the space between you and press your lips to his.

It’s not careful. It’s not hesitant. It’s an answer, a contradiction, an undoing of every doubt Rin had just had mere moments ago.

His hands find your waist, gripping like he needs to anchor himself, like he doesn’t quite believe this is real. The fingers at the back of his neck curl slightly, and when you tug just barely, he lets out the quietest sound, almost a sigh, almost a groan.

And then he’s kissing you back.

The world narrows down to the heat between you, the way he angles his head to deepen the kiss, his nose brushing against yours, and the heat between you only intensifies.

One of his hands slips up your back, pressing against your spine, pulling you closer— like the mere act of kissing you isn’t enough, like he needs more, needs you. His other hand stays firm at your waist, fingers flexing against the fabric of your clothes, grounding himself in the moment.

Your heartbeat thrums wildly, matching his, a silent rhythm only the two of you can hear.

When you finally part, your lips are tingling, your breath unsteady. Rin doesn’t move far— his forehead rests against yours, and his warm breath fans over your lips, like he’s not ready to let go just yet. His fingers linger at your waist, hesitant now, as if waiting for you to pull away, to take it all back.

You don’t say anything. You just smile, brightly and effortlessly, bathed in moonlight that kisses your skin, making you look almost unreal. Breathtaking. And for the first time, Rin swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful. Yes, he’s sure. He’d rather die than ever let you go.

EPILOGUE

The roar of aircraft engines filled the air, blending with the faint hum of chatter in the lobby. Behind the desk, the flight attendant lets out a sigh, her exhaustion evident. Her shift had been a parade of entitled demands: three Economy Plus passengers insisting on lounge access, half a dozen unbearable business types, and two spoiled rich kids throwing around lines like, “Mom said…” or “Do you know who my father is?” She didn’t, nor did she care. Her patience, much like the coffee machine nearby, was running on fumes.

Leaning on her elbow, she swiped her hand across her forehead, trying to regain some semblance of composure. Just as she began to relax, a tiny hand appeared on the desk, clutching a shiny card.

Peering over, the attendant saw a little girl, who couldn’t be over five, balancing on her toes to peer above the tall white counter. Her small fingers gripped the edge of the desk for support, her toothy grin revealing a few gaps.

“It’s from my mommy,” the girl announced, her lisp soft but clear.

The flight attendant picked up the card, the gold lettering catching the light. She looked down at the child, leaning closer to meet her gaze.

“Your mommy gave you this?”

The little girl nodded with the determination of someone delivering very serious business. “I want a—”

Her request was cut short as a tall figure swooped in, lifting her off the ground. The man, presumably her father, cradled her in one arm while addressing the attendant.

“Mommy didn’t give her anything,” he said, giving his daughter a pointed look, a mix of stern exasperation in his tone. “She snagged it from my wife while we were going through security. She thinks it’s a credit card—”

“Magic card, Daddy!” the girl corrected, wagging her little index finger as if to scold him. “It’s called a magic card!”

The father chuckled softly, his expression softening despite the situation. “Right, magic card. My bad, baby. Sorry.”

A woman entered the scene, walking briskly toward the desk. She gently plucked the card from her husband’s hand and handed it back to the flight attendant.

“Sorry for the trouble,” the woman said, her shy smile matched with an air of calm as she rummaged through her bag.

The flight attendant waved her off with a practiced, polite smile. “No harm done, really,” she said, sliding the card back across the counter after checking its validity.

“Mr. and Mrs. Itoshi, this way please,” the attendant declared, gesturing toward the nearby doors. “The car taking you to your plane will be waiting downstairs in just a moment. Welcome to the HON lounge.”

As the little family moved toward the designated lounge, the little girl clung to her father’s neck, her face nestled against his shoulder. “I told you it was a magic card, Daddy,” she mumbled, her tone brimming with childlike triumph.

Her father shook his head with a grin. “I know. Almost forgot. Thank you for telling me sweet girl.”

“You’re welcome,” the daughter babbled, pride shining through her words.

@pemiski 2025 - all rights reserved. I do not authorize any reposting translating or modifying of my content on any platform

[ssentimentals]

hi love 🫶🏼 happy 1.7k followers! i just saw the list of prompts rn and can you please do seventeen joshua x reader with no. 50? thanks in advance and happy carat dayyyy 🩵🩷

hi baby! happy happy carat day!! thank you for requesting, let me know if you liked it then 💜

prompt: meet cute

you're not the type of person to snitch on someone, but. the thing is, the landlord was very strict and clear about the 'no pets' rule even though you begged him to let you have a cat. but he told you no and you're not a rule-breaker, so no cat it is. and yeah, you're not a snitch but you can bet all your money that your new neighbour has a cat unless he's in a habit of scratching and meowing loudly in the middle of the night by himself. some people are freaks but you're pretty sure that this is not the case here. however what is the case, what truly is happening here is your neighbour having a very real, living and breathing cat in the building where cats are not allowed. and it's not like if you can't have a cat then no one else can't have it but - it kind of is like that. so. something had to be done, right?

you knock three times and step back, chewing at your bottom lip. when the door opens, you're met with a very cute guy. the kind of guy that is very much your type but you choose to ignore it for now because figuring out if he has a cat or not is more important than learning whether he's single or not. 'hi. um, i'm your neighbour. sorry for coming without any notice, but i do have to discuss something important with you.'

the guy in front of you hesitates. he's also trying very hard to cover water bowl that is lying not far from him by angling his body in a very weird way. it's... funny. you try your hardest not to laugh. 'um, now? i'm kind of busy right now to be honest. i'm joshua, by the way.'

you quirk your eyebrow. you know exactly what he's busy with - walls are so thin here, you heard him shouting at his cat to stop tearing apart his pillows few minutes ago. 'busy hiding a cat when it's not allowed to have pets here?' you question.

joshua blinks. 'wha- no. of course not.' tips of his ears are glaringly red and he shakes his head nervously. 'i know the rules and i don't have a cat.'

you open your mouth but then you both hear a shuffling and then a gorgeous grey cat appears in the corridor, gazing at you curiuosly. it's comical how joshua freezes and then hangs his head down, groaning. when he turns to you, you're barely holding back a giggle. 'yep. no cat. uh-huh.'

'fuck,' he curses lowly and then looks at you pleadingly. 'please i- don't say anything. i picked this guy up near metro station and winter is ruthless, i couldn't leave him there. i promise i will somehow make him to stop meowing in the middle of the night. i promise.'

joshua continues his nervous monologue when you kneel, letting pretty fur ball walk over to you and sniff your fingers cautiously. in the next second the cat purrs in delight as you start caressing his pointy ears and you look up at joshua with a smile. 'can i take him in my arms?'

joshua, blinking out of the daze, nods. he watches as you coo over his cat cutely and shower his friend with all the love. the picture in front of him is adorable and his heart beats faster due to your cuteness.

'can i come over and play with him? i won't tell the owner if you say yes.' you mumble, looking at him. 'i can also look after him when you're away.'

when you came over, you never expected to meet the cutest cat with an even cuter owner. when joshua opened his door, he never expected to meet his beautiful new neighbour who apparently is a cat lover too. he thought he'd have to hide his new friend from everyone but it's a relief to know that he can share the joy of having a cat with someone else. 'it's a deal,' he promises you and smiles at the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh.

'you're so lucky that i love cats,' you say, smiling.

joshua nods. he thinks that's not the only thing he's lucky with, though. 'yeah. i am.'

a/n: meet cute is such a hard prompt because what is meet cute? do you know? i don't, i had to search up different cute aus lmao, hope you liked this one! - nini

request your own here

my other seventeen work is here

[naomijoestar]

If I'm allowed to request a scenario where the bucci gang meet a new recruit who literally looks sweet/innocent but is chaotic beyond belief. I just re-watched asobi asobase and in one of the episodes where hanako sets fire to the restaurant by accident. But in this case the new recruit, whose stand is similar to avdol(but with blue flames, cuz blue=hotter more dangerous fire) does it on purpose while looking the boys dead in the eyes with a 'innocent' smile on her face. It'd be even more crazy if by the time police, firefighters, ambulances arrive she just cancels out the flames entirely and the only thing burned in the restaurant are the curtains she set fire. And all this cuz abbacchio decided to be an asshole and tried to do her dirty like giorno. Lesson learned, latom😔😔🙏🏿🙏🏿.

Sorry I just thought this would be funny. Bye

Masterlist here <3

Hello! Sorry for the extremely late reply, I hope you enjoy this <3

Lesson learned, latom

The restaurant was lively, filled with the clinking of silverware and the low hum of conversation. Bucciarati’s team occupied a corner booth, their usual energy simmering beneath the surface.

And at the center of it all sat their newest recruit—sweet, polite, and seemingly harmless.

She smiled as she stirred her drink, the very picture of innocence. But underneath that facade lurked something far more dangerous.

And Abbacchio? He had no idea what was coming.

He had made his distaste for her obvious from the start, treating her with the same level of hostility he once reserved for Giorno. Every snide remark, every passive aggressive comment, every pointed glare.. it all led to this moment.

The moment she tilted her head, smiled sweetly, and set fire to the restaurant.

The flames roared to life, an unnatural blue that burned hotter than anything natural. It licked at the walls, raced up the ceiling, and bathed the entire restaurant in a deadly glow. The air shimmered with heat, screams erupted around them, and chaos exploded as civilians scrambled to escape.

And there she stood. Completely still. Watching Abbacchio.

Smiling.

Her expression never wavered, not even as the fire raged around them. She leaned slightly forward, resting her chin on her hands.

“Oops,” she said, voice light, playful. “My bad.”

Abbacchio’s breath caught in his throat.

The others?

Mista pushed back from the table so fast his chair nearly toppled over.

Narancia’s jaw had practically hit the floor.

Fugo looked seconds away from having a nervous breakdown.

Giorno, on the other hand, was unfazed. He merely sipped his tea, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment.

Bucciarati pinched the bridge of his nose, already exhausted.

And Abbacchio?

His soul was ascending.

“What. The. Fuck” he rasped.

Outside, the sirens blared. The sound of approaching fire trucks and police cars filled the air. The restaurant doors burst open, and emergency responders stormed in—only to find the blue flames vanishing in an instant.

One second, the fire raged. The next, it was gone.

The restaurant stood untouched, completely unharmed.

Except for the curtains. They were still burning.

The firefighters stood frozen in place confused as hekl.

The officers exchanged glances, unsure of what to even report.

And Abbacchio? He turned his wide, haunted eyes back to the new recruit, who was now happily sipping her drink. As if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t just committed arson with intent and gotten away with it like it was a casual tuesday.

Let me know if you’d like anything tweaked <3

If you enjoyed this make sure to check out my other posts, and if you’d like anything specific written for a jjba character/squad you can request it if my requests are open!

[ksascriptt]

Too Much To Ask - Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Aaron Hotchner x Wife!Bau!Reader

Warnings: Angst, a flashback, crying, mourning, mid writing, lots of mentions of death, Aaron deserves better, but so did you.

Summary: Part Two to Suck it and See. It’s been nine days since you died, how does Aaron deal with that? The fact that you are truly dead has sunken in further and it’s not coming out.

Notes: Chapter 2! Idk why the header quality is so low. Anyway, I was kinda half asleep for most of the time writing this so lowkey don’t expect greatness 😭 DREADING how sad chapter 3 will be. Also I definitely didn’t proofread this uhm

Tag(s): @ssaaaronmontgomery

Word Count: 1,661

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

Present Day

21 February

A certain numbness he had learned to recognize had taken over his body. The nine days that had passed felt like an eternity, and each one left Aaron with a new spew of emotions and memories that wrecked him over and over again. He could hardly stomach the sound of your name anymore, the pictures of you on the mantle — it made him feel sick. Every reminder of what he failed to do made him coil in on himself in the hopes he could disappear.

The recollection of every single memory he held of you was a mental photo album, trying to cling to every detail about you. Who would know of the tiny things that made you who you were if you were never there to tell them? It would be as though you never existed. But now it was a stark reminder of the information he held that he couldn’t ever let go of. What was he supposed to do when he smelled a perfume that was similar to yours, or saw records for a band you would rave about? How could he move on from knowing so much about you that he knew your middle school best friends full name and your childhood stuffed animal? There wasn’t a storage unit to shove them, no shelf for those details to collect dust on like the real photo albums you’d kept in the closet.

Aaron had shed more tears in the past three weeks than his whole life before that. And somehow, through that, he had to be a father. He had to be a parent while he tried not to forget your voice. He had to care for Jack while he picked out the suit he would wear at your funeral tomorrow. Nothing could have prepared him for that five years ago, because he never thought it could happen to you. And somehow, he felt a little stupid for that. How could it not have happened to you, in your like of work?

It was dark, somewhere close to four in the morning. He had hardly slept, if at all, busy staring at the emptiness of his bed in the moonlight cast through the window. It hadn’t been made or changed since you’d awoken the morning you died. Aaron hadn’t slept enough to mess it up, but there were always a few more tear stains on your pillowcase than you left. He had touched so few of your things since that day, since the day you left your home to meet death itself. The top dresser drawer was still open, you always forgot to shut that one. The lid of your perfume still sat on your bedside table, even though the bottle was in the bathroom. Because when he was tired, grieved, desperate enough, he could almost think you were still home. But you weren’t. Maybe it was Aaron’s false hope of hearing you getting ready just one more time.

He had yet to return to work, there hadn’t hardly been any cases worth hearing of — not when the only file he could think of was yours. The five other departments working the case somehow gave him enough sanity to stay away from the office. Truthfully, he couldn’t bring himself to come up with a profile or even track down the group that you’d surrendered to. If only he knew that you did it for him.

Aaron sat on the chair in the corner of your shared room — the chair you’d loved so much that he’d been convinced to move it into the bedroom. Now sitting in it felt wrong without you giggling in his ear, saying something about how comfy it was before you sat on his lap to pepper his face with gentle kisses between laughs as he pinched your side for it. The soft fabric made his throat ache as he clutched your sweater that had been absentmindedly tossed on the arm, as though maybe flesh and a beating heart would replace the empty blue sleeves.

Dark eyes turned watery and red at the memory, because that’s all you were now — a memory. There would never be another night spent together, another day with Jack at the park, not even another argument. God, he’d have done anything for just another few moments.

The night had consisted of a lot of arguments, disagreements that nobody could get the breath to calmly dissect. You were afraid, of course, but you were sure of what had to happen. Aaron had begged, pleaded, and yelled for you to just go into witness protection instead of handing your life over to some cultist group of sociopaths. You told him, “Everybody has to do things that don’t seem right.”. You’d decided that this was just one of those things. You’d let Jack sleep in the bed with you and Aaron, snuggled between the two of you as Aaron held you both. Both of you had woken up early, letting Jack sleep as you spoke in the kitchen.

“Honey, please, I can’t- you can’t do this. We still need you,” he tried, choked up and eyes more pleading than they’d ever been. How could he convince you to live just a little longer? Did your lack of fighting back the knowledge of your death say something? Was that what you wanted?

“You don’t get it, it’s… it’s what has to happen, okay? You know I love you and Jack so much,” you replied, eye bags prominent and telling of the fear and exhaustion that enveloped you. But he couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t let him save you, why you didn’t try to save yourself just a little more. At some point, Aaron’s arms supported you more than your own body, his entire being nearly engulfing you. He wished maybe you’d somehow merge together, anything to make sure you would wake up again.

And when he realized that an hour after that conversation that your body had gone cold on the sidewalk, he felt a little nauseous. The man who’d put the bullet through your temple was dead now, but his employer had alerted the team of your whereabouts — he couldn’t bring himself to see you. Tomorrow would be the first time in ten days that he would get to see you in the flesh, even if that flesh was chilled and pale where you lay in an open casket. It never seemed right that a reunion wouldn’t have both people breathing, though.

His mind was racing, incapable of staying focused on one thought regarding you for more than a few minutes. The biggest question he really held was that of why you had been so okay to die, willing, even. With a pinching migraine he’d been unable to rid himself of, Aaron finally let a stray tear slide down his cheek as his eyesight crashed upon the picture of you, him, and Jack together cooking dinner. It was one you’d looked at a thousand times before getting it printed and framed, and now rarely could he gaze at it without a sinking feeling in his chest.

Even with a mental to-do list in his mind, Aaron couldn’t bring himself to move. Tonight the house would be full once more with the Wake, people gathered that all reminded him of you. Rossi and JJ were coming early, noon or so, to help set up (the demand for him to let them help made him smile for the first time since they were alerted you were gone). There was a neatly pressed black suit on the bed, and it seemed simple, he always laid his suits out when he was getting dressed – but the reason for having to wear that suit tonight, and another tomorrow? It was an aching in his throat he found himself unable to press down.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

It was seven pm, and the house was more crowded than in his worst nightmares. But he found solace in some of the people that came to mourn. Jack rarely left his side, and the team was always there to bail them out of any uncomfortable conversations. The worst conversation that he couldn’t be bailed out, though, was his meeting with your parents. A somber looking woman with a smile kinder than he knew how to handle and a man who couldn’t break the steady stream of tears flowing into a neatly trimmed beard. This was Aaron’s second time meeting your parents (the first was at your wedding), neither them or you two had the time to fly across the country anymore to meet. It wasn’t right, parents should be met over dinner or at holidays, not the night before their child’s funeral where they reminisced in every reflection from the world of you.

A gentle hug had been issued to both of them, Aaron’s heart faltering at the details from you he saw in both of them. Your mothers nose, your fathers eyes, but neither of them could ever bring quite the same joy into his life. Words that could hardly be spoken above a whisper were exchanged before Jack ran back over, excited to meet his grandparents once more — there’d been video calls and letters, but only a few visits. His mind was a powerhouse of emotions right now, standing in the kitchen where he could almost swear you were holding him, humming a gentle tune while you soothed him. It was as though you really were still saying, “It’s okay, Aaron, tomorrow is a new day.” But he knew you weren’t, because why else would every friend and family member see your wedding ring on a chain around his neck?

Tomorrow was in fact a new day, but he didn’t want it to arrive. Seeing your body in a casket surrounded by flowers until you were lowered into the ground wasn’t the new day he was looking for, because it would solidify the fact that you were gone forever.

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

[moosesarecute]

Chapter 17: The Shadow to my Flame

Series masterlist

Masterlist

233 years later

Ashe had just finished her work at the apothecary and all she wanted to do was curl up into her mate’s arms and stay there for a few hours. She had not expected Rhys to reach into her mind explaining that he had finally brought Feyre to Velaris and that he needed her and the rest of their family to be on their best behaviour for a normal family dinner that night.

Except it wasn’t normal at all if they had to be on their best behaviour. She knew for a fact that both Mor and Cass would make Rhys rethink his friendship with them. Ashe would usually have enjoyed that, but work had been crazy the last couple of days and she needed a nap.

For the first almost two centuries she had lived in Velaris, Ashe had been working in the fields with her parents, taken a few fun odd jobs here and there and worked on glass art.

It had started when Cass had broken her mate’s favourite cup. It was made of glass and had blue flowers on it. Ashe had gifted it to him as a joke, but he really loved it. When Cass broke it, he became quite sad. Ashe found it adorable that her mate loved it so much and had used her powers to melt the glass back into a cup and did her best to repaint it.

Even though the cup was almost two centuries old now, Azriel still used it from time to time. He didn’t want to overuse it, scared he might break it again, but he used it on special occasions.

After that, Ashe had started making different things with glass and fire. Sometimes also clay and fire. She found a lot of wild clay out in the patch of land Thord and Samli used to own, so she used it to make and sell all kinds of stuff. Her favourite was the Winter Solstice she had gifted Mor and Cass matching glass dildos. They still laughed about it, even though it was over fifty years ago. Azriel got embarrassed by it, of course, but he told Ashe that he didn’t care as long as she didn’t pull him into something similar.

However, when Rhys had been Under the Mountain, Ashe felt the need to be more useful. Making plates and cups no longer seemed good enough. Her family was struggling to make the court survive and she was having fun, it didn’t feel right. 

That’s when she found out Madja was looking for someone to run the apothecary. Ashe had applied and went through a normal process of interviews and cases she had to solve. In the end, she got the job.

The days went fast, and she learned a lot about all kinds of medicine. She never did any healing, but she was a kind face to see and ask. The longer she worked, the more she questions could answer. She enjoyed it.

When Rhys had gotten back to Velaris and told them about what he thought would bloom into a war, Ashe decided to stay working with medicine and help as many as she could. She wanted to be useful.

Except for the last couple of days, she had been the opposite. She had been unfocused, tired and annoyed at almost everybody. She had spoken a lot with Azriel about it, and they had concluded that it was because of that date that came closer and closer.

It had been a decade since it happened. Since Samli got too old and her body started to give out. It wasn’t often fae got sick, but the older they got, the easier it was for them to catch something they shouldn’t. Both Samli and Thord were old, they said they stopped counting at 1500 years, and they knew that their time was getting closer and closer. Thord and Ashe did all they could, but eventually they realized that it was time. Samli was herself until the end. She was picky about her tea and told Thord it was too hot only hours before she died.

Ashe had never heard Thord scream until that evening.

It took him three hours to stop crying and throwing up. Ashe stayed by him the entire time.

It was close to three in the morning when Azriel arrived and Thord asked for some time alone with Samli. He looked many years older than what he had the day before.

Ashe stayed up crying with her own mate for the rest of the night. She had never been so grateful of having him in her arms and for the next couple of months, she struggled to be away from him. She was terrified of something happening.

The next morning, when Ashe and Azriel walked into Thord and Samli’s room, Thord had died too. From what Ashe could gather, it seemed like he went to bed beside his mate and fell asleep, without waking up again.

It hurt so badly. Ashe felt alone for a long time, but eventually she realized it was for the best. Thord was extremely soft and emotional. Ashe didn’t think he could have survived much longer anyway. Samli probably could have managed it, barely, but not Thord.

It was just more prove that they were meant to be together.

Ashe and Azriel had lived in a cozy apartment, but after her parents died, they had moved into the house. Ashe loved living there. All the beautiful memories she had with Thord and Samli still lived in the home they had created. Anywhere Ashe looked she could spot the love that was between her parents and it encouraged both her and Azriel to make the most out of the love they had for each other.

Next week, it would be ten years since they died, and Ashe struggled. She was also angry at herself. Madja had noticed how much worse the job she was doing was and asked her to take some days off. She felt like a failure not managing to control her feelings again.

It was Cass that flew her up to the House of Wind. Azriel was already there, but Cass was doing stuff in the city. She didn’t bother asking what. Even after such a long time, Ashe still didn’t enjoy flying. Cassian flew a lot rougher than her mate did, so she hated it even more when he flew her.

“Relax, Ashy,” Cassian said. “I’m not going to drop you.”

Then he did the most awful thing and dropped a few meters down in the air. Ashe screamed loudly and immediately felt worry from her mate fill her chest.

She was going to kill Cassian. He only laughed at her and eventually flew to and landed on the balcony.

Azriel was there in an instant. His shadows tried to calm her down, but she was feeling so much and anger was the biggest emotion.

“Breathe, Wildflame,” Azriel’s voice got through to her brain. “He meant it as a joke, I’ll talk to him about it. You just need to control your breathing.”

She managed to relax a little and as she looked into his eyes the usual butterflies filled her stomach. Ashe hadn’t believed it was possible to get butterflies even after over two centuries, but her mate was also more beautiful than she thought was possible, so it made sense.

“Hello, my Flame. It’s still a few hours until dinner. Let’s relax a little, shall we?”

He took her hand and walked to his old bedroom in the House. He laid down on the bed first and then he pulled her down into his strong arms and folded his wings over her.

They laid in silence until she was ready to talk. And then they spoke through all of her feelings and all of his feelings until Ashe felt better and no longer had the need to kill her brother-in-law.

With only an hour until the dinner, Ashe started getting ready. The most healing thing for her when she was feeling like a mess, was looking the opposite. She curled her hair, did some light makeup and put on a casual, but very comfortable dress. It was her new favourite and Azriel had flown to get it while she was getting ready. He had bought it for her a couple of days ago for no reason, only that it had pockets, and he thought about her when he saw it.

 “I knew you’d look beautiful in that,” he said and wrapped his arms around her waist. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “My beautiful mate.”

Ashe was about to kiss him back, when loud knocks were heard on the door.

“They are getting here soon,” Mor yelled at them. “You had to get out of your mate-bubble and come to the dining room.”

Ashe let out a small smile.

“Come on, it will be fun,” Azriel said with fake enthusiasm.

“Is this how you feel when I drag you out dancing with Mor and I?”

“Yup,” he answered as he gave her a small push towards the door. Then he smacked her ass.

Just like she did when she was the one forcing him out.

He took hold of her hand, and they walked together to the dining room.

Feyre saw the female in front of her and immediately notices something familiar. She just couldn’t put her finger on it.

She stood confidently, holding Azriel’s hand. Feyre didn’t need anyone to tell her, she could see the love blooming between the two. She realized they were a couple. Might even married? Or mates?

“Seeing something familiar?” Rhys asked her with a slightly smug smile.

Feyre started getting annoyed. What was it about this female that was so known? So familiar? Her red hair was to her shoulders and curled softly. The dress she wore was casual and a lot more modest than the one Mor wore, but Ashe could see multiple scares one the female’s arms and legs.  

The female tilted her head to the side and smiled a smile Feyre had seen many times before. Only earlier, the smile had been worn by someone else.

Feyre sat in the kitchen, sipping carefully on a cup of tea. She was deep in thoughts. She had left her family. Her sisters and father were on their own. And even though Tamlin said they were safe; she had started to doubt it.

What if they were hungry? Struggling? Were they cold or scared?

She hadn’t noticed Lucien walking into the room. She only looked at him first when he sat down in the chair opposite of her.

“Are my sisters truly safe?” she asked him.

He didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes,” he answered gravely. “I promise you that your sisters are safe. We would never mess with anyone's sisters.”

She nodded back at him, but saw how his eyes grew distant. He was thinking about something sad and unpleasant.

“Do you have a sister Lucien?”

He drew a breath and dragged his hand across his face.

“I used to have one, yes.”

“Used to? What happened?”

He let out an almost shaky sigh.

“My father didn’t want a daughter. He forced her to live unknown of her heritage and as a servant. He looked after reason after reason to be allowed to kill her. She got out of Autumn, but it was too late. She was killed.”

“You’re Lucien’s sister,” Feyre told the female. “He thinks you’re dead.”

“That’s the point,” the female answered, and the more Feyre studied her, the more she found resemblance to Lucien, even though they also had features that was very different. “I’m Ashe.”

Feyre didn’t know if she liked the female. She thought back to the conversation with Lucien and remembered the pain he showed.

“Why is it the point? He’s hurt by it.”

“That’s a story for a different day,” Rhys interrupted the two females.

Ashe and Azriel walked and sat down at the table, still beside each other and hand in hand. They whispered to each other and soon, both of them smiled. Feyre realized she didn’t know the entire story.

“Please don’t be dead.”

Feyre opened the door and saw Mor and Ashe standing outside the cabin. Ashe held her arms around Mor. Mor was shivering and it was obvious that Ashe used her powers trying to heat up both of them.

“Hello,” Ashe said smiling an overly enthusiastic smile. “Can we come in?”

 The three females talked in the cabin. The two others teased Feyre a little because of her painting, but it felt kind and safe. The conversation eventually moved over to the mating bond.

“I left him out in the mud. He was hurt and I left him,” Feyre tried to explain, but her feelings were too complex to explain. However, Ashe understood.

She sat down the mug she was sipping from, leaned back in her chair and started talking.

“I once hit Azriel in the head with a frying pan,” she said. It took a few seconds before Feyre and Mor realized just what she said. They looked at her with wide eyes. “I’m not abusive, I promise. I had an awful day filled with nightmares and terrors. Azriel didn’t know, so he snuck up on me, a trigger none of us knew about. I got a flashback and hit him. If was first when I heard it hitting him, I understood what I had done. I started crying and Azriel ended up comforting me. Let’s just say our communication have gotten a lot better after that.

“The point is we will hurt and sometimes also disappoint our mates, and it will happen multiple times. But they will forgive us. Or mates will also hurt us and we will forgive them. It’s worth it in the end.”

Feyre had heard many times about Ashe’s temper. The fire in her blood having a totally different meaning than with Lucien. However, she had never experienced it. Only heard about it.

Ashe’s words connected all the feelings Feyre was battling.

It was worth it.

Feyre hadn’t seen Azriel feral even though she had been in Velaris for quite some time. That was until after the battle of Velaris.

The entire family started to worry when neither Azriel or Ashe had taken contact with them after the attack. They got even more worried when Azriel answered Rhys mental calls and told him that they were at Madja’s.

The two most stubborn people in their life had voluntarily gone to Madja.

Azriel was carrying Ashe when they arrived. He had an edge in his walk that told everyone to keep a distance. The shadows joined him and almost pushed all of them further away from Ashe.

“Relax,” Ashe said to him softly. “You’re overreacting.”

Azriel was a male that was hard to read, but at that moment, he was fuming with anger. He was almost shaking as he put Ashe down in a chair and crunched down in front of her.

“I’m not overreacting,” he answered.

“I’m not hurt anymore, Azriel,” Ashe answered. She was looking only at him as she cupped his cheek and rubbed her thumb over it. “I’m safe.”

Azriel didn’t move. He was holding her hand tightly. He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand.

“Barely,” he whispered. “I do love you, temper and wildflame and all, but I hate not being able to protect you.”

“What happened?” Rhys asked them.

Azriel was about to answer, but Ashe spoke before him.

“One of them landed in the middle of a group of children. I was hiding in the apothecary but got out to help them. The soldier didn’t attack until after I had winnowed all the children out, but that alone took most of my energy. I have never winnowed that fast and with that many before.”

“That did you do when he attacked?” It was Cassian that asked her.

“Burned him,” she answered without hesitation. Feyre understood that she must have burned him to the ground, not only given him a small wound. “Burned quite lot of myself in the process, hence the trip to Madja.” Then she turned her gaze back to Azriel. He had been looking at her the entire time. “But I’m safe.”

“Ashe never leaves Velaris since her being alive is a secret. Azriel isn’t used to her being in danger.” Rhys explained silently to Feyre. “She’s gone through enough.”

Feyre had learned more and more about Ashe’s previous life. The abuse and betrayal she had gone through. It didn’t seem like this had affected her too much. Or maybe she was just waiting for a different time to show her emotions.

Ashe turned her head up to the rest of them again.

“Our house is also not doing that well,” she spoke, and it almost sounded like her voice was breaking. “So, we were hoping we could stay at the Townhouse.”

“What do you mean “not doing that well”?” Feyre asked her.

“Burned to the ground,” Azriel’s voice was more intimidating that she had ever heard him before. “Only a small part of the kitchen wall is standing, and it probably won’t be for long.”

Feyre thought back to the nights she and Mor had spent gossiping with Ashe in their living room. Thought back to the sweet love Ashe and Azriel had displayed only in their house.

“Don’t pretend you aren’t listening,” Ashe almost yelled at her mate. All three of the females had been drinking a little too much wine and started gossiping about all and nothing. Including most of the High Lords. Their laughs filled the entire house.

In the middle of the conversation, Azriel had snuck into the house and kitchen. Feyre had no clue how Ashe knew he had gotten home, as he made no sounds.

He smiled softly at his mate, walked towards her and kissed the top of her head, but didn’t answer her accusations. He then moved to the stairs, probably to go to get some time for himself after a night drinking with his brothers.

“You love me,” Ashe said.

“Yes, I do my Flame. Temper and all,” he answered with a laugh and a shadow caressed Ashe’s cheek before Azriel had disappeared upstairs.

Ashe wore a sweet blush the rest of the evening.

 Feyre knew how much the house, the home, meant to Ashe and couldn’t imagine what the two of them were going through.

“Of course,” Rhys answered. “I’ll make sure everything ready for you.”

“It’s fine,” Ashe said as she stood up. Azriel immediately wrapped one arm around her waist. “We’ll just go to sleep now if you don’t mind.”

“Shhh,” Azriel whispered into his mate’s hair. “I’ve got you, my Flame.”

He held her tight as she cried. It had been a few rough days for her, and she was now, finally, letting it all out. His instincts told him to be worried about her, but he knew that his mate was strong enough to get through it.

The fire out of control and the house burning down brought back a lot of bad memories for her. Azriel knew Ashe felt the need to be strong. Felt the need to prove that she could take all that the mother had trusted upon her. At the same time, he loved how he could be the person allowed to hold her when it became too much.

A lot of their memories were burned to the ground, but his shadows were eagerly searching through the entire lot trying to find somethings that survived. They would tell Azriel about every little thing they found.

One of Ashe’s favourite books was still intact. Azriel’s favourite mug was fine. The necklace he gave Ashe two years ago was save.

“Mating dress is only burned on the bottom of the skirt. Could cut it shorter,” the shadows told him, and Az let his head fall back in relief.

Ashe spent time each year making sure that her dress was in the best conditions. She loved that dress, and she would wear it on their anniversary almost every year. Azriel loved her in it. It grew with her and even though it would be changed a little now, it at least told the story that even though things change, it with still be the same deep down.

He lifted his head and was about to tell his mate the good news, when he noticed the deepening in her breath, the twitch in her left leg and the soft sigh that turned into a snore.

She was asleep at last.

The day had been filled with sorrow and pain. He could bring the good news of the dress tomorrow and make sure the next day was better than this one.

Azriel wrapped his wings around his Flame and carefully shifted position so that he could sleep too.

The world seemed to go to shit. A lot of bad things were happening way to quickly. Azriel appreciated having his mate in his arms. He felt lucky and grateful known that she would stay by his side forever. He brushed soft hair away from her face and butterflies danced in his stomach at the sweet sight of her sleeping.

He loved his Ashe, his Flame, and he would continue to do so even though many things were changing. She was his constant.

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[pangaeaseas]

Petertha: My Semi-Serious Ship Manifesto

This is a darkly comedic headcanon but also like: think of the shade it throws on canon. And I LOOOVE villainous Peter. Make that man more evil!

But like also. Going through the mentions of her in canon and like...babes...I think we were sleeping on this one....I think it is genuinely a reasonable interpretation...

So our first mentions of Bertha are in the very first chapter of GoF, setting up her death as crucial to the mystery of that book. And what's the first thing we learn about her as a person? Well, we learn that she RECOGNIZED Peter, even though he presumably looks very different after years living as a freaking rat and without a finger:

“Wormtail, Wormtail,” said the cold voice silkily, “why would I kill you? I killed Bertha because I had to. She was fit for nothing after my questioning, quite useless. In any case, awkward questions would have been asked if she had gone back to the Ministry with the news that she had met you on her holidays. Wizards who are supposed to be dead would do well not to run into Ministry of Magic witches at wayside inns. . . .” (GoF Chapter 1)

Peter is also pretty cagey and doubtful throughout this conversation--he expresses his doubts at the reliability of Voldemort's plans, and he also mentions that potentially they could have wiped Bertha's memory. As though he feels guilty for her death...and we know Peter is capable of guilt bc of the whole strangled by own hand thing...

We next learn that Bertha is 'more trouble than she's worth' from Percy Weasley (interestingly enough, Percy is also of course the original owner of Scabbers). You know what might make someone bad at their job and get them shunted from department to department? Well, being the victim of a Memory Charm--but also GRIEF at your Hogwarts boyfriend being murdered! And Percy being an employee of Crouch-->Bertha being an employee of Crouch-->Percy is the original owner of Scabbers...idk if that's anything but maybe it is.

Sirius also knows a lot about Bertha Jorkins, including that she ended up working for the Ministry (the kind of thing you find out about someone you knew well), and confirms that he knew her in school--which means the other Marauders knew her as well. He has a strong opinion on her character, the way you do with someone you know well, like, for example, them dating one of your friends...:

“Listen, I knew Bertha Jorkins,” said Sirius grimly. “She was at Hogwarts when I was, a few years above your dad and me. And she was an idiot. Very nosy, but no brains, none at all. It’s not a good combination, Harry. I’d say she’d be very easy to lure into a trap.” (GoF)

This is a REALLY strong and confident character judgement and he's confident enough in it to make a whole argument about Voldemort's plans from it. And Sirius is not actually someone who generally leaps to conclusions, especially about something as important as what Voldemort is planning. He has to be very confident in his assessment of Bertha. Like he knew her more extensively than her simply being a few years ahead of them.

And no wonder he wouldn't mention her dating Peter, considering he'd likely not want to remind himself of his positive memories of Peter. Bertha isn't the only character Sirius potentially had more knowledge of he's cagey about in GoF: he does the same with Bellatrix, another painful topic (never mentioning he's her cousin).

And Sirius later makes another confident character judgement of Bertha, claiming that he wouldn't have expected her to be a liability because of poor memory specifically because she was a gossip (how do YOU know that Sirius?) Again, he knows her really well and feels safe leveraging this knowledge in a (completely accurate) read that it seems like something happened to her. The way you know your friend's ex-girlfriend.

(Now, this is all for the crack theory: I actually think the Bertha stuff is more Sirius being a lot more perceptive and interested in other people than he's given credit for. )

Also, Peter goes for older women apparently!

“He put a hex on me, Professor Dumbledore, and I was only teasing him, sir, I only said I’d seen him kissing Florence behind the greenhouses last Thursday. . . .” “But why, Bertha,” said Dumbledore sadly, looking up at the now silently revolving girl, “why did you have to follow him in the first place?” (GoF, The Pensieve)

Now this bit is really interesting. Who do we eventually learn 'go around hexing people for the fun of it?' The Marauders. So maybe this is Bertha being jealous of Peter, him hexing her, and her playing off the jealousy as 'teasing' even though her feelings are really hurt Because Peter is an asshole.

(I actually think this *might* be a reference to James...)

And now for the real juice:

"But Wormtail — displaying a presence of mind I would never have expected from him — convinced Bertha Jorkins to accompany him on a nighttime stroll. He overpowered her . . . he brought her to me. And Bertha Jorkins, who might have ruined all, proved instead to be a gift beyond my wildest dreams . . . for — with a little persuasion — she became a veritable mine of information." (GoF)

So this is Voldemort's Bond villain rant at the graveyard. And Voldemort is a big gossip too he enjoys talking about stuff like 'oh hey Lucius and Narcissa and Bellatrix your niece is fucking a werewolf nanny-nanny-po-po this is totally relevant information'. He likes to humiliate people by talking about, like them and their families' love lives...so he's bringing up Bertha/Peter...especially now that Peter's purpose has been served by resurrecting him. He is even going like 'what a GIF. For ME." Like basically being...Peter I fucked (murdered) your girlfriend. (More on the murder bit in a second.)

And damn. Like, imagine you are Bertha Jorkins. You go on a fun vacation to Albania. You meet a guy in a bar. Oh whoops he's actually your ex. You ex who is dead?? And you...go with him on a midnight stroll??? Instead of like...calling the police? Questioning further at the very least? Maybe you are still into him...

And midnight excursions are consistently associated with romance. See people going to the Astronomy Tower to hook up, or Snape hexing amorous students apart once it's late at the Yule Ball (because now that it's late it's the season of romance...). So it's an interesting choice of words by both Voldemort and the author.

It's also never explained how exactly Wormtail 'overpowered' her. Could totally be a seduction.

Then Bertha comes out of Voldemort's wand. Ok. So Voldemort definitely killed her, right? Except...Voldemort was a spirit at this point! How was he corporeal enough to kill someone with his wand? He wasn't even possessing Wormtail...and Wormtail is the one who made the rudimentary magic-capable body he uses to kill Frank Bryce.

We also have an example of a victim of Voldemort's wand who wasn't killed by Voldemort appearing from the same Priori Incantatem: Cedric. 'Kill the spare' Cedric. In fact when Dumbledore discusses the Priori Incantatem, he explicitly refers to victims of Voldemort's wand rather than of Voldemort. So Bertha coming out of Voldemort's wand doesn't necessarily mean Voldemort personally killed her. In fact I think it's very likely WORMTAIL killed her.

And if Wormtail killed her on Voldemort's orders...after she was so interested in reconnecting! The angst! The drama! The guilt! HE"S THE LAST LIVING THING SHE SEES! Is that not achingly romantic! She was so eager to see him alive again too! And she'd worked in Crouch's office: she probably knew the potential implications of that re: Sirius.

Imagine an alternate universe where Peter decided 'screw Voldemort! I want Bertha!' Romantic outlaws on the run! They kill Crouch for what he did! And then run into the sunset!

We have ourselves a ship! Petertha nation rise...