#the man has been waiting 10 years | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yakshxiao · 1 month ago

Text

FIVE MINUTES AT A TIME ; JACK ABBOT

wc; 9.3k synopsis; You and Jack only ever see each other for five minutes at a time — the tail end of day shift and the start of night shift. But those five minutes? They’ve become the best part of both of your days. Everyone else in the ER has noticed it. The way you both lean in just a little too close during handoff. The way both of you leave a drink and a protein bar next to the chart rack. The way neither of you ever miss a single shift — until one day, one of you doesn’t show up. And everything shifts.

contents; Jack Abbot/nurse!reader, gn!reader, medical inaccuracies, hospital setting, mentions of injury and death, slow burn, found family, mutual pinning, mild jealousy, age gap (like 10-15 years, reader is aged around late 20s/early 30s but you can do any age), can you tell this man is consuming my every thought? tempted to write a follow-up fic lemme know what u guys think.

You only see him at 7 p.m. — well, 6:55 p.m., if you’re being exact.

You’re already at the nurse’s station, chart pulled up, pen poised, pretending you’re more focused than you are — just waiting for that familiar figure to walk in. The ER is barely holding itself together, seams straining under the weight of another long, unsparing shift.

You’ve witnessed Mckay go through two scrub changes — both stained, both discarded like paper towels. Dana’s been shouted at by too many angry patients to count, each new confrontation carving deeper lines into her already exhausted face. And if you see Gloria trailing behind Robby one more time, arms crossed, mouth already mid-complaint, you’re sure you’ll have front-row seats to the implosion of Robby’s self-restraint.

The end-of-shift exhaustion hangs in the air, thick enough to taste. It seeps into the walls, the floor, your bones. The scent of bleach, sweat, and cold coffee hangs over everything, a cocktail that clings to your skin long after you clock out. The vending machine’s been emptied of anything worth eating. Your stomach gave up asking hours ago.

The sun is still trying to claw its way down, its last rays pressing uselessly against frosted windows, too far removed to touch. The ER isn’t made for soft light. It lives under fluorescents, bright and unfeeling, leeching color and kindness from the world, one hour at a time.

It’s then, right on time, he arrives.

Jack Abbot.

Always the same. Dark scrubs, military backpack slung over his shoulder, the strap worn and fraying. His stethoscope loops around his neck like it belongs there and his hair is a little unkempt, like the day’s already dragged its hands through him before the night even starts.

He walks the same unhurried pace every time — not slow, not fast — like a man who’s learned the ER’s tempo can’t be outrun or outpaced. It’ll still be here, bleeding and burning, whether he sprints or crawls. And every day, like clockwork, he arrives at your station at 6:55 p.m., eyes just sharp enough to remind you he hasn’t completely handed himself over to exhaustion.

The handoff always starts the same. Clean. Professional. Efficient. Vitals. Labs. Status updates on the regulars and the barely-holding-ons. Names are exchanged like currency, chart numbers folded into the cadence of clipped sentences, shorthand that both of you learned the hard way. The rhythm of it is steady, like the low, constant beep of monitors in the background.

But tonight, the silence stretches just a little longer before either of you speaks. His eyes skim the board, lingering for half a second too long on South 2. You catch it. You always do.

“She’s still here,” you say, tapping your pen against the chart. “Outlived the odds and half the staff’s patience.”

Jack huffs a quiet sound that’s almost — almost — a laugh. The sound is low and dry, like it hasn’t been used much lately, “Figures.”

His attention shifts, following the slow, inevitable exit of Gloria, her unmistakable white coat vanishing around the corner, Robby sagging against the wall in her wake like a man aging in real-time, “I leave for twelve hours and Gloria’s still haunting the halls. She got squatters’ rights yet?”

You smirk, shaking your head and turning to look in the same direction, “I think Robby’s about five minutes away from filing for witness protection.”

That earns you a real smile — small, fleeting, but it’s there. The kind that only shows up in this place during the quiet moments between shift changes, the ones too short to hold onto and too rare to take for granted. The kind that makes you wonder how often he uses it when he’s not here.

Jack glances at the clock, then back at you, his voice low and dry. “Guess I better go save what’s left of his sanity, huh?”

You shrug, sliding the last of your notes toward him, the pages worn thin at the corners from too many hands, too many days like this. “Too late for that. You’re just here to do damage control.”

His smile lingers a little longer, but his eyes settle on you, the weight of the shift pressing into the space between you both — familiar, constant, unspoken. The clock ticks forward, the moment folding neatly back into the rush of the ER, the five-minute bubble of quiet already closing like it always does.

And then — 7 p.m. — the night begins.

The next few weeks worth of handoffs play out the same way.

The same rhythm. The same quiet trade of names, numbers, and near-misses. The same half-conversations, broken by pagers, interrupted by overhead calls. The same looks, the same five minutes stretched thin between shifts, like the ER itself holds its breath for you both.

But today is different.

This time, Jack arrives at 6:50 p.m.

Five minutes earlier than usual — early even for him.

You glance up from the nurse’s station when you catch the sound of his footsteps long before the clock gives you permission to expect him. Still the same dark scrubs, the military backpack and stethoscope around his neck.

But it’s not just the arrival time that’s different.

It’s the tea. Balanced carefully in one hand, lid still steaming, sleeve creased from the walk in. Tea — not coffee. Jack Abbot doesn’t do tea. At least, not in all the months you’ve been on this rotation. He’s a coffee-or-nothing type. Strong, bitter, the kind of brew that tastes like the end of the world.

He sets it down in front of you without fanfare, as if it’s just another piece of the shift — like vitals, like the board, like the handoff that always waits for both of you. But the corner of his mouth lifts when he catches the confused tilt of your head.

“Either I’m hallucinating,” you say, “or you’re early and bringing offerings.”

“You sounded like hell on the scanner today,” he says, voice dry but easy. “Figured you’d be better off with tea when you leave.”

You blink at him, then at the cup. Your fingers curl around the warmth. The smell hits you before the sip does — honey, ginger, something gentler than the day you’ve had.

“Consider it hazard pay,” Jack’s mouth quirks, eyes flicking toward the whiteboard behind you. “The board looks worse than usual.”

You huff a dry laugh, glancing at the mess of names and numbers — half of them marked awaiting test results and the rest marked with waiting.

“Yeah,” you say. “One of those days.”

You huff a laugh, the sound pulling the sting from your throat even before the tea does. The day’s been a long one. Endless patient turnover, backlogged labs, and the kind of non-stop tension that winds itself into your muscles and stays there, even when you clock out.

Jack leans his hip against the edge of the counter, and lets the quiet settle there for a moment. No handoff yet. No rush. The world is still turning, but for a brief second it feels like the clock’s hands have stalled, stuck in that thin stretch of stillness before the next wave breaks.

“You trying to throw off the universe?” you ask, half teasing, lifting the cup in mock salute. “Next thing I know, Gloria will come in here smiling.”

Jack huffs, “Let’s not be that ambitious.”

The moment hangs between you, the conversation drifting comfortably into the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand filling. Just the weight of the day, and the knowledge that the night will be heavier.

But then, as always, duty calls. A sharp crackle from his pager splits the stillness like a stone through glass. He straightens, his expression shifting back to business without missing a beat.

You slide the last chart across the desk toward him, your hand brushing the edge of his as you let go. The handoff starts, the ritual resumes. Vitals. Labs. Critical patients flagged in red ink. Familiar, steady, practiced. A dance you both know too well.

But even as the conversation folds back into clinical shorthand, the tea sits between you, cooling slowly, marking the space where the ritual has quietly shifted into something else entirely.

And when the handoff’s done — when the last name leaves your mouth — the clock ticks past 7:05 p.m.

You linger. Just long enough for Jack to glance back your way.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks. The question light, but not casual.

You nod once, the answer already written.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

After that, the handoff’s change. Tea was only the beginning.

It’s always there first — sometimes waiting on the desk before you’ve even finished logging out. The cup’s always right, too. No questions asked, no orders repeated. Jack learns the little details: how you like it, when it's too hot or too cold. When the shift’s been particularly cruel and the hours stretch too thin, he starts adding the occasional muffin or protein bar to the offering, wordlessly placed on the desk beside your notes.

In return, you start doing the same. Only you give him coffee. Black, bitter — too bitter for you — but it's how he likes it and you’ve never had the heart to tell him there’s better tasting coffee out there. Sometimes you give him tea on the calmer nights. A granola bar and an apple join soon after so you know he has something to eat when the food he brings in becomes a ghost of a meal at the back of the staff fridge. A post-it with a doodle and the words “I once heard a joke about amnesia, but I forgot how it goes” gets stuck to his coffee after an especially tough day shift, knowing it’ll bleed into the night.

It’s quiet, easy. Half-finished conversations that start at one handoff and end in the next.

You talk about everything but yourselves.

About the regulars — which patient is faking, which one’s hanging on by more than sheer luck. About the shows you both pretend you don’t have time for but always end up watching, somehow. About staff gossip, bets on how long the new hire will last, debates over whose turn it is to replace the break room coffee filter (spoiler: no one ever volunteers).

But never about what you two have. Never about what any of it means.

You pretend the lines are clear. That it’s all part of the handoff. That it’s just routine.

But the team notices.

Mckay starts hanging around the station longer than necessary at 6:55 p.m., her eyes flicking between the clock and the doorway like she’s waiting for a cue. Dana starts asking loaded questions in passing — light, but pointed. “So, Jack’s shift starting soon?” she’ll say with a knowing tilt of her head.

The worst offenders, though, are Princess and Perlah.

They start a betting pool. Subtle at first — a folded scrap of paper passed around, tucked in their pockets like an afterthought. Before long, half the ER staff’s names are scribbled under columns like ‘Next week’, ‘Next Month’ or ‘Never happening’.

And then one day, you open your locker after a twelve-hour shift, hands still shaking slightly from too much caffeine and too little sleep, and there it is:

A post-it, bright yellow and impossible to miss.

“JUST KISS ALREADY.”

No name. No signature. Just the collective voice of the entire ER condensed into three impatient words.

You stand there longer than you should, staring at it, your chest tightening in that quiet, unfamiliar way that’s got nothing to do with the shift and everything to do with him.

When you finally peel the note off and stuff it deep into your pocket, you find Jack already waiting at the nurse’s station. 6:55 p.m. Early, as always. Tea in hand. Same dark scrubs. Same unhurried stride. Same steady presence.

And when you settle in beside him, brushing just close enough for your shoulder to graze his sleeve, he doesn’t say anything about the flush still warm in your cheeks.

You don’t say anything either.

The handoff begins like it always does. The names. The numbers. The rhythm. The world still spinning the same broken way it always has.

But the note is still in your pocket. And the weight of it lingers longer than it should.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe next month. Maybe never.

The handoff tonight starts like any other.

The same exchange of vitals, the same clipped sentences folding neatly into the rhythm both of you know by heart. The ER hums and flickers around you, always on the edge of chaos but never quite tipping over. Jack’s there, 6:55 p.m., tea in one hand, muffin in the other — that small tired look in place like a badge he never bothers to take off.

But tonight, the air feels heavier. The space between you, thinner.

There’s no reason for it — at least, none you could name. Just a quiet shift in gravity, subtle enough to pretend away, sharp enough to notice. A conversation that drifts lazily off course, no talk of patients, no staff gossip, no television shows. Just silence. Comfortable, but expectant.

And then his hand — reaching past you to grab a chart — brushes yours.

Not the accidental kind. Not the casual, workplace kind. The kind that lingers. Warm, steady, the weight of his palm light against the back of your fingers like the pause before a sentence you’re too scared to finish.

You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world outside the nurse’s station slows. The monitors still beep, the overhead paging system still hums, the hallway still bustles — but you don’t hear any of it.

There’s just his hand. Your hand. The breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

And then the trauma alert hits.

“MVA — multiple injuries. Incoming ETA two minutes.”

The spell shatters. The moment folds back in on itself like it was never there at all. Jack pulls away first, but not fast. His hand brushes yours one last time as if reluctant, as if the shift might grant you one more second before it demands him back.

But the ER has no patience for almosts.

You both move — the way you always do when the alarms go off, efficient and wordless, sliding back into your roles like armor. He’s already at the doors, gloves snapped on, voice low and level as the gurneys rush in. You’re right behind him, notes ready, vitals called out before the paramedics finish their sentences.

The night swallows the moment whole. The weight of the job fills the space where it had lived.

And when the trauma bay finally quiets, when the adrenaline starts to bleed out of your system and the hallways return to their usual background hum, Jack passes by you at the station, slowing just long enough for your eyes to meet.

Nothing said. Nothing needed.

Almost.

Weeks after the same routine, over and over, the change starts like most things do in your world — quietly, without fanfare.

A new name slips into conversation one morning over burnt coffee and half-finished charting. Someone you met outside the ER walls, outside the endless loop of vitals and crash carts and lives balanced on the edge. A friend of a friend, the kind of person who looks good on paper: steady job, easy smile, around your age, the kind of life that doesn’t smell like antiseptic or ring with the static of trauma alerts.

You don’t even mean to mention them. The words just tumble out between patients, light and careless. Jack barely reacts — just a flicker of his eyes, the barest pause in the way his pen scratches across the chart. He hums, noncommittal, and says, “Good for you.”

But after that, the air between you shifts.

The ritual stays the same — the teas and coffees still show up, the handoffs still slide smooth and clean — but the conversations dull. They're shallower. You talk about patients, the weather. But the inside jokes dry up, and the silences stretch longer, thicker, like neither of you can find the right words to fix the growing space between you.

The new person tries. Dinners that never quite feel right. Movies that blur together. Conversations that stall out halfway through, where you find yourself thinking about Jack’s voice instead of the one across the table. It’s not their fault — they do everything right. They ask about your day, they remember how you take your tea, they show up when they say they will.

But they aren’t him. They never will be.

And the truth of that sits heavy in your chest long before you let it go.

When the end finally comes, it’s as quiet as the beginning. No fight. No grand scene. Just a conversation that runs out of steam and a mutual, tired understanding: this was never going to be enough.

You don’t tell Jack. Not directly. But he knows.

Maybe it’s the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes that night, or the way your usual jokes come slower, dull around the edges. Or maybe it’s just that he knows you too well by now, the way you know him — a kind of understanding that doesn’t need translation.

He doesn’t push. He’s not the kind of man who asks questions he isn’t ready to hear the answers to, and you’ve never been the type to offer up more than what the job requires. But when you pass him the last of the handoff notes that night, his fingers brush yours, and for once, they linger. Just a second longer than they should. Long enough to say everything neither of you will.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. Neutral. Studied, “You get any sleep lately?”

It’s not the question he wants to ask. Not even close. But it’s the one he can ask, the one that fits inside the safe little script you’ve both written for yourselves.

You lie — both of you know it — but he doesn’t call you on it. He just nods, slow and thoughtful, and when he stands, he leaves his coffee behind on the counter. Still hot. Barely touched.

And that’s how you know.

Because Jack never leaves coffee unfinished.

The next handoff, he’s already at the nurse’s station when you arrive — ten minutes early, a tea waiting for you, exactly how you like it. There’s no note, no smile, no pointed comment. Just the small, familiar weight of the cup in your hand and the warmth that spreads through your chest, sharper than it should be.

You settle into the routine, pulling the chart toward you, the silence stretching long and comfortable for the first time in weeks. Jack doesn’t ask, and you don’t offer. But when your fingers brush his as you pass him the logbook, you don’t pull away as quickly as you used to.

And for a moment, that’s enough.

The world around you moves the same way it always does — busy, breathless, unrelenting. But somewhere in the quiet, something unspoken hums between you both. Something that’s been waiting.

They weren’t him. And you weren’t surprised.

Neither was he.

It’s the handoff on a cold Wednesday evening that brings a quiet kind of news — the kind that doesn’t explode, just settles. Like dust.

Jack mentions it in passing, the way people mention the weather or the fact that the coffee machine’s finally given up the ghost. Mid-handoff, eyes on the chart, voice level.

“Admin gave me an offer.”

Your pen stills, barely a beat, then keeps moving. “Oh yeah?” you ask, as if you hadn’t heard the shift in his tone. As if your chest didn’t tighten the moment the words left his mouth.

The department’s newer, quieter. Fewer traumas. More order. Less of the endless night shift churn that has worn him down to the bone these last few years. It would suit him. You know it. Everyone knows it.

And so you do what you’re supposed to do. What any friend — any coworker — would do. You offer the words, gift-wrapped in all the right tones.

“You’d be great at it.”

The smile you give him is steady, practiced. It reaches your lips. But not your eyes. Never your eyes.

Fortunately, Jack knows you like the back of his hand.

He just nods, the kind of slow, quiet nod that feels more like a goodbye than anything else. The conversation moves on. The night moves on.

You go home, and for him, the patients come and go, machines beep, the usual rhythm swallows the moment whole. But the shift feels different. Like the floor’s shifted under his feet and the walls don’t sit right in his peripherals anymore.

The offer lingers in the air for days. No one mentions it. But he notices things — the way you're quieter, the way you seem almost distant during handoffs. Like the weight of the outcome of the decision’s sitting on your shoulders, heavy and personal.

And then, just as quietly, the tension shifts. No announcement. No conversation. The offer just evaporates. You hear it from Robby two days later, his voice offhand as he scrolls through the department’s scheduling board.

“Abbot passed on the job.”

That’s all he says. That’s all you need.

When your shift ends that day, you linger a little longer than usual. Five minutes past the clock, then ten. Just enough time to catch him walking in. Same dark scrubs, same tired eyes. But this time, no talk of transfers. No talk of moving on.

You slide the handoff notes toward him, and when his fingers brush yours, neither of you let go right away.

“Long night ahead.” you say, your eyes lock onto his.

“Same as always,” he answers, soft but sure.

And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.

But he stayed.

And so did you.

The holiday shift is a quiet one for once.

Not the kind of chaotic disaster you usually brace for — no code blues, no trauma alerts, no frantic scrambling. The ER hums at a lower frequency tonight, as if the whole department is holding its breath, waiting for the chaos to pass and the clock to turn over.

You’ve been working on autopilot for the last few hours. The patient load is manageable, the team is mostly intact, and the usual undercurrent of stress is more like a murmur than a shout. But there's something about the quiet, the softness of it, that makes you more aware of everything, every moment stretching a little longer than it should. It makes the weight of the day feel more pressing, more noticeable.

As the last patient leaves — nothing serious, just another sprain — you settle into your chair by the nurse’s station, the kind of exhausted calm that only comes when the worst is over. The clock inches toward the end of your shift — 6:50 p.m. — but you’re not in any hurry to leave, not yet.

As always, Jack walks in.

You look up just as he passes by the station. His usual tired look is softened tonight, the edges of his exhaustion blunted by something quieter, something a little more worn into his features. The shadows under his eyes are deeper, but there’s a kind of peace in him tonight — a rare thing for the man who’s always running on the edge of burnout.

He stops in front of you, and you can see the small, crumpled bag in his hand. It’s not much, just a bit of wrapping paper that’s a little too wrinkled, but something about it makes your heart give a funny, lopsided beat.

"Here," he says, low, voice a little rougher than usual.

You blink, surprised. “What’s this?”

He hesitates for half a second, like he wasn’t sure if he should say anything at all. “For you.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-laughing. "We don’t usually exchange gifts, Jack."

His smile is small, but it reaches his eyes. "Thought we might make an exception today."

You take the gift from him, feeling the weight of it, simple but somehow significant. You glance down at it, and for a moment, the world feels like it falls away. He doesn't ask you to open it right then, and for a second, you think maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll leave it unopened, just like so many things left unsaid between you two.

But the curiosity wins out.

You peel back the paper slowly. It’s a leather-bound notebook, simple and unassuming. The kind of thing that makes you wonder how he knew.

“I... didn’t know what to get you," Jack says, his voice soft, almost sheepish. "But I figured you'd use it."

The gesture is simple — almost too simple. But it’s not. It’s too personal for just coworkers. Too thoughtful, too quiet. The weight of it sits between the two of you, unspoken, thick in the air.

You look up at him, your chest tight in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. "Thank you," you manage, and you can’t quite shake the feeling that this — this little notebook — means more than just a gift. It’s something that says everything neither of you has been able to put into words.

Jack nods, his smile barely there but real. He takes a step back, as if pulling himself away from something he doesn’t know how to navigate. The silence stretches. But it’s different this time. It’s not awkward. It’s soft. It feels like a bridge between the two of you, built in the quiet spaces you’ve shared and the ones you haven’t.

“I got you something too,” you say before you can stop yourself. When you reach into your pocket, your fingers brush against the small, folded package you had tucked away.

His brow furrows slightly in surprise, but he takes it from you, and when he unwraps it, it’s just a small, hand-carved keychain you had spotted at a market — simple, not much, but it reminded you of Jack.

He laughs, a short, quiet sound that vibrates in the space between you, and the tension between you two feels almost manageable. “Thank you,” he says, his fingers brushing over the little keychain.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The noise of the ER seems distant, muffled, as if it’s happening in another world altogether. The clock ticks, the final minutes of your shift inching by. But in that small, quiet space, it’s as if time has paused, holding its breath alongside the two of you.

“I guess it’s just... us then, huh?” he says finally, voice softer than before, quieter in a way that feels like more than just the end of a shift.

You nod, and for the first time in ages, the silence between you feels easy. Comfortable.

Just a few more minutes, and the shift will be over. But right now, this — this small, quiet exchange, these moments that don’t need words — is all that matters.

The day shift is winding down when Jack walks in, just before 7 p.m.

The usual rhythm of the ER is fading, the intensity of the day finally trailing off as the night shift prepares to take over. He arrives just as the last few nurses finish their rounds, their faces tired but steady as they begin to pass the baton.

But something feels off. The station is quieter than usual, the hum of conversation quieter, the buzz of the monitors almost unnaturally sharp in the sudden stillness. Jack glances around, noting the lack of a familiar face, the way the department feels a little emptier, more distant. He spots Dana and Robby at the nurse’s station, exchanging murmurs, and immediately knows something’s not right.

You’re not there.

He doesn’t immediately ask. Instead, he strides toward the counter, his mind racing to calculate the cause. A sick day? A last-minute emergency? Something’s happened, but he can’t quite place it. The thought that it’s anything serious doesn’t sit well in his chest, and yet, it presses down harder with every minute that passes.

It’s 6:55 p.m. now, and the clock keeps ticking forward.

By 7:00, Jack is halfway through his handoff, scanning the patient charts and mentally preparing for the usual chaos, but his focus keeps drifting.

Where are you?

He finally asks. Not loudly, not with urgency, but quietly enough that only Robby and Dana catch the edge in his voice. “Have they called in tonight?”

Before he even has a chance to follow up with your name, Dana looks up at him, a tired smirk on her face. “No. No word.”

Robby shakes his head, looking between Dana and Jack. “We haven’t heard anything. Thought you’d know.”

He nods, swallowing the sudden tightness in his throat. He tries not to show it — not to let it show in the way his shoulders stiffen or the slight furrow between his brows. He finishes up the handoff as usual, but his mind keeps returning to you, to the way the shift feels off without your presence, the absence weighing heavy on him.

By the time the rest of the night staff rolls in, Jack's focus is split. He’s still mentally running through the patient roster, but he’s half-waiting, half-hoping to see you come walking to the nurses station, just like always.

It doesn't happen.

And then, as if on cue, a message comes through — a notification from HR. You’d left for the day in a rush. Your parent had been hospitalised out of town, and you’d rushed off without a word. No call. No notice.

Jack stops in his tracks. The room feels suddenly too small, the quiet too loud. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he puts his phone back into his pocket, his eyes flicking over it again, like it will make more sense the second time.

His mind moves quickly, fast enough to keep up with the frantic pace of the ER around him, but his body is still, frozen for a heartbeat longer than it should be. He doesn’t know what to do with this — this sudden, heavy weight of worry and concern.

The team, in their usual way, rallies. They pull a care package together like clockwork — snacks, tissues, a soft blanket someone swears helps during long waits in hospital chairs. A card circulates, scrawled with signatures and the usual messages: thinking of you, hang in there, we’ve got you. It’s routine, something they’ve done for each other countless times in the past, a small gesture in the face of someone’s crisis.

But Jack doesn’t sign the card.

He sits quietly in the break room for a while, the weight of his concern simmering beneath the surface of his usual calm. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel — concern for you, for the situation, for how the ER feels without you there. The package is ready, and with it, so is a quiet, unsaid piece of himself.

When the others step away, he tucks something else inside, sliding it between the blanket and the box of cheap chocolates the team threw in at the last minute — an envelope, plain, unmarked, the handwriting inside careful but unsteady, like the words cost more than he expected.

Take care of them. The place isn’t the same without you.

Short. Simple. Honest in a way he rarely lets himself be. It isn’t signed. It doesn’t need to be. You’d know.

The team doesn’t notice. Or if they do, they make no comment on it. The ER continues to move, steady in its rhythm, even as Jack’s world feels like it’s been thrown off balance. The package is sent. The shift carries on. And Jack waits. He waits, in the quiet space between you and him, in the absence of your presence, in the weight of things he can’t say.

The clock ticks on. And with it, Jack misses you a little more that night.

Two weeks.

That’s how long the space at the nurse’s station stayed empty. That’s how long the chair at the nurse’s station sat empty — the one you always claimed without thinking. Nobody touched it. Nobody had to say why. It just sat there — a quiet, hollow thing that marked your absence more clearly than any words could’ve.

Two weeks of missing the familiar scrape of your pen against the chart. Two weeks of shift changes stripped down to bare-bones handoffs, clipped and clinical, no space for the soft edges of inside jokes or the quiet pauses where your voice used to fit. Two weeks of coffee going cold, of tasting far more bitter than it did before. Two weeks of the ER feeling off-kilter, like the clock’s gears had ground themselves down and no one could quite put the pieces back.

When you walk back through the automatic doors, it’s like the air catches on itself — that split-second stall before everything moves forward again. You don’t announce yourself. No one really does. The place just swallows you back up, the way it does to anyone who leaves and dares to return.

You clock in that morning. The shift goes on as normal, as normal as the ER can be. The others greet you like they’ve been told to act normal. Quick nods, small smiles. Robby pats your shoulder, light and brief. Dana leaves an extra coffee by the monitors without a word.

When the clock hands swing toward 6:50 p.m., you’re already at the nurses station. Sitting at the desk like you’d never left. Like nothing’s changed, like no time has passed at all. Like the last two weeks were some other life. Scrubs pressed, badge clipped at the same off-center tilt it always is. But your hands hover just slightly, resting on the chart without writing, pen poised like your mind hasn’t quite caught up to your body being back.

The air feels different — not heavy, not light, just suspended. Stalled.

And then you hear them. Footsteps.

Steady. Familiar. The cadence you’ve known for months.

Jack.

He stops a few feet from you, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, the faintest crease between his brow like he hasn’t quite convinced himself this isn’t some kind of trick.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

No patient names. No vitals. No shorthand. The handoff script that’s lived on your tongues for months goes untouched. Instead, you stand there, surrounded by the soft beep of monitors and the shuffle of overworked staff, wrapped in the kind of silence that says everything words can’t.

It’s a strange sort of silence. Not awkward. Just full.

For a long moment, the chaos of the ER fades to the edges, the overhead pages and the low mechanical hums turning to static. You look at him, and it’s like seeing him for the first time all over again. The small lines around his eyes seem deeper. The tension at his shoulders, usually buried beneath practiced calm, sits plainly in view.

You wonder if it’s been there the whole time. You wonder if he noticed the same about you.

His eyes meet yours, steady, unguarded. The first thing that breaks the quiet isn’t a handoff or a patient update.

“I missed this.”

The corner of his mouth twitches into something that doesn’t quite make it to a smile. When he replies, it’s not rushed. It’s not easy. But it’s the truth.

“I missed you.”

Simple. Honest. No side steps. No softening the edges with humor. Just the truth. The words sit there between you, bare and uncomplicated. For a second, the world feels smaller — just the two of you, the hum of machines, and the weight of two weeks' worth of things unsaid.

His gaze shifts, softer now, searching your face for something, or maybe just memorizing it all over again.

“How are they?” he asks, voice low, careful. Not clinical, not casual — the way people ask when they mean it.

You swallow, the answer lingering behind your teeth. You hadn’t said much to anyone, not even now. But his question doesn’t pry, it just waits.

“They’re stable,” you say after a moment, the words simple but heavy. “Scared. Tired. I stayed until I couldn’t anymore.”

Jack nods once, slow and sure, as if that answer was all he needed. His hand flexes slightly at his side, like there’s more he wants to do, more he wants to say — but this is still the space between shifts, still the same ER where everything gets held back for later.

But his voice is steady when he replies.

“I’m glad you were with them.”

A pause. One of those long, silent stretches that says everything the words don’t.

“And I’m glad you came back.”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t have to.

And then, the clock ticks forward. The night shift begins. The world presses on, the monitors start beeping their endless song, and the next patient is already waiting. But the weight of those words lingers, tucked just beneath the surface.

And this time — neither of you pretend it didn’t happen.

But it’s still not quite the right time.

Jack’s walls aren’t the obvious kind. They don’t come with sharp edges or cold shoulders. His are quieter, built from small hesitations — the steady, practiced way he keeps his distance, the careful deflection tucked behind dry humor and midnight coffee refills. And at the center of it, two stubborn truths: he’s older, and he’s widowed.

Being widowed is a quiet shadow that doesn’t lift, not really. It taught him how easily a future can disappear, how love doesn’t stop the world from taking what it wants. He doesn’t talk about her, not much — not unless the shift runs long and the coffee’s gone cold — but the space she left is always there, shaping the way he looks at you, at himself, at the idea of starting over. Jack tells himself it wouldn’t be fair. Not to you. Not when you’ve still got years ahead to figure out what you want. Not when he’s already stood graveside, watching the world shrink down to a headstone and a handful of fading memories.

You’re younger. Less worn down. Less jaded. He tells himself — on the long drives home, when sleep refuses to come — that you deserve more time than he can offer. More time to figure out your world without him quietly shaping the edges of it. It’s the sort of difference people pretend doesn’t matter, until it does. Until he’s standing beside you, catching himself in the reflection of the trauma room glass, wondering how the years settled heavier on him than on you. Until he’s half a sentence deep into asking what you’re doing after shift, and pulling back before the words can leave his mouth.

Because no matter how much space he tries to give, the part of him that’s still grieving would always leave its mark. And you deserve more than the half-mended heart of a man who’s already learned how to live without the things he loves.

And you?

You’ve got your own reasons.

Not the ones anyone could spot at a glance, not the kind that leave scars or stories behind. Just a quiet, low-grade fear. The kind that hums beneath your skin, born from years of learning that getting too comfortable with people — letting yourself want too much — always ends the same way: doors closing, phones going silent, people walking away before you even notice they’ve started.

So you anchor yourself to the things that don’t shift. Your routine. Your steadiness. The hours that stretch long and hard but never ask you to be anything more than reliable. Because when you’re needed, you can’t be left behind. When you’re useful, it hurts less when people don’t stay.

Jack’s careful, and you’re cautious, and the space between you both stays exactly where it’s always been: not quite close enough.

So you both settle for the in-between. The ritual. The routine. Shared drinks at handoff. Inside jokes sharp enough to leave bruises. Half-finished conversations, always interrupted by codes and pages and the sharp ring of phones.

The ER runs like clockwork, except the clock’s always broken, and in the background the rest of the team watches the same loop play out — two people orbiting closer, always just out of reach.

The bets from Princess and Perlah are at the heaviest they’ve ever been, and so are their pockets. There are no more ‘Never happening’ — everyone’s now in the ‘Next week’ or ‘Next Month’. The others have stopped pretending they don’t see what’s happening. In fact, they’re practically counting the days, biding their time like a clock ticking in reverse, waiting for that moment when everything finally clicks into place.

At first, it’s subtle.

One less handoff cut short by timing. One more overlapping hour “by accident.”

You and Jack work together more and more now, whether it's trauma cases, code blue alerts, or the quieter moments between chaotic shifts when the floor clears enough to breathe. The careful choreography of your daily dance is starting to wear thin around the edges, like a well-loved sweater that’s a little too threadbare to keep pretending it’s still holding together.

The soft exchanges in the middle of emergency rooms — the handoffs that are always clean and professional — have started to bleed into something else. You don’t mean for it to happen. Neither of you do.

But you find yourselves walking the same hallways just a bit more often. You swap shifts with an ease you hadn’t before. Jack’s voice lingers a little longer when he says, “Good night, see you tomorrow,” and the weight of that goodbye has started to feel a little like an unspoken promise.

But it’s still not enough to break the silence.

The team watches, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but neither of you says a word about it. You can’t, because the truth is, it’s easier to let things stay where they are. Safer, maybe. To just let the rhythm of the shifts carry you through without the sudden plunge of vulnerability that might shatter it all.

Still, they see it.

Dana, ever the romantic, gives you that knowing, almost conspiratorial look when she catches you making eye contact with Jack across the floor. “You two need a room,” she’ll joke, but it’s always followed by that soft exhale, like she’s waiting for the punchline you won’t give her.

Princess’ and Perlah’s bets are always louder, and always in a language neither of you understand. Every shift, they pass by the nurse’s station with sly grins, casting their predictions with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re talking about.

“Next month, I’m telling you. It’s happening in the next month. Mark my words.”

Neither you or Jack respond to the teasing. But it’s not because you don’t hear it. It’s because, in the quietest corners of your mind, the thoughts are too sharp, too close, and there’s something terrifying about acknowledging them.

The room holds its breath for you both, watching the space between you become thinner with every passing minute. You can’t feel the ticking of time, but the team certainly can.

And so it goes. Days blend into each other. Hours pass in a blur of frantic beeps and calls, hands working together with that comfortable rhythm, but always keeping just a little distance — just a little bit too much space.

But it’s getting harder to ignore the truth of what everyone else already knows. You’re both circling something, something that neither of you is brave enough to catch yet.

Almost.

Almost always. But never quite.

The shift is brutal.

The ER’s pulse is erratic, like a heart struggling to maintain rhythm. The trauma bays are full, the waiting room is overflowing, and the chaos — the relentless, grinding chaos — is a constant roar in your ears. Alarms bleed into each other. The phone rings off the hook. Machines chirp, beds squeak, someone shouts for help, and the scent of antiseptic is powerless against the metallic undertone of blood lingering in the air.

It’s the kind of shift that makes even seasoned hands tremble. The kind that swallows hours whole, leaves your back sore and your mind frayed, and still, the board never clears.

At some point, you’re not sure when, maybe after the fifth code blue or the eighth set of vitals skimming the edge of disaster, Robby mutters something sharp and low under his breath, peels his phone out of his pocket, and steps away from the desk.

“Calling Abbot,” he says, voice tight. “We’re underwater.”

Jack isn’t due for another two hours, but the call doesn’t surprise you. The ER doesn’t care about schedules. And Jack — he shows up twenty minutes later.

His eyes meet yours across the station, and there’s no need for words. Just a nod. Just the quiet understanding that this isn’t going to be easy, if such a thing even exists.

The clock ticks and skips, seconds folding into one another, meaningless, until finally, the worst of it comes.

Trauma alert.

A car accident. The usual chaos.

Rollover on the interstate, the kind that dispatch voices always sound too steady while reporting. The kind where the EMTs work in grim silence. Two patients this time. A married couple.

The usual chaos unfolds the second the gurneys crash through the double doors — shouting, gloves snapping on, IV lines threading, vitals barking out like a list of crimes.

But this time, it’s different.

You notice it before anyone says it aloud: the husband’s hand is tangled in his wife’s, their fingers blood-slick but still locked together, knuckles white with the sheer force of holding on. Their wedding rings glinted under the harsh fluorescents, a tiny, defiant flash of gold against the chaos.

Neither of them will let go. Even unconscious, the connection stays.

You’re already in motion. Jack too. The usual rhythm, muscle memory sharp as ever. But something in the air feels different. He glances once at the woman, blood matted in her hair, her left hand still clutching the man’s. The rings. The way their bodies lean toward each other even in a state of injury, as if muscle memory alone could keep them tethered

And for just a second, he falters.

You almost miss it, but you don’t.

Jack works the wife’s side, but her injuries speak for themselves. Her chart is a litany of injuries: internal bleeding, tension pneumothorax, skull fracture.

You watch Jack work the case like his hands are moving on instinct, but his face gives him away. It’s too quiet. Too closed off. You see it all in real-time — the silent war behind his eyes, the years catching up to him in the span of a heartbeat. The lines around his mouth tightening, the weight of something too personal rising behind the clinical routine.

You know who he’s thinking about.

It’s her — it’s her face he sees.

Jack’s gloves are stained, jaw tight, voice steady but clipped as the monitor flatlines for the third time. You watch. You press hands to bleeding wounds that won’t stop. You call out numbers you barely register. But the inevitable creeps in anyway.

At 6:41 p.m., time of death is called.

No one speaks, not right away. The monitors fall silent, the room too. The husband, still unconscious, is wheeled away. His hand finally slips from hers, left empty on the gurney.

It’s Jack that calls it. He stands over the woman’s bed for a beat too long, the silence of it all thickening in the air. His shoulders sag ever so slightly, the weight of it settling in — the anger, the grief, the helplessness. There’s no denying it, the hours and hours of labor, of lives teetering between life and death, have begun to take their toll.

You watch him and know the exact moment it breaks him.

He doesn’t even need to say it. You can see it in the way he moves — stiff, distant, a bit lost. His hand hovers by his stethoscope, his fingers curling slightly before dropping. The tension in his face is the kind you’ve seen only when someone is holding themselves together by a thread.

He catches your eye briefly, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. There’s an unspoken understanding, a shared grief between the two of you that’s settled like an old wound, reopened. He turns away before you can even ask, stepping out of the trauma bay and heading toward the on-call room, his pace a little slower than usual, weighed down by more than just the fatigue.

The shift drags on, but the tension, the heaviness, only grows. Finally, when it seems like it might never end, you make the decision. You leave your post, quietly slipping away from the chaos, and find your way to the on-call room where Jack is already sitting.

It’s dark in there but you don’t need to see him to know what’s there. His chest rises and falls with a weary sigh. There’s nothing to say at first. Nothing that would make this any easier, and you both know it.

You sit beside him in silence, the space between you both filled with the weight of the night, of the patient lost, of the things neither of you can change. You don’t push. You don’t ask. You simply exist in the same room, the same quiet, like two people who are too exhausted, too worn, to speak but too connected to stay apart.

Minutes pass. Long ones.

It’s Jack who breaks the silence, his voice a little rough, like it’s been buried too long.

“I kept thinking we’d have more time,” he says. It’s not addressed to you, not really — more confession than conversation, the kind of truth that’s spent too long locked behind his ribs.

You don’t answer right away, because you know the ache that lives under those words. You’ve felt it too. So you sit there, listening, the silence making room for him to say the rest.

And then, softer, barely above a breath —

“She looked like her. For a second — I thought it was her.”

The words hang in the dark, heavier than any silence.

You reach over, placing a hand gently on his. Your fingers brush his skin, warm, steady. You just sit there, the two of you, in the dark — the only light seeping in from under the door, pale and distant, like the world outside is somewhere neither of you belong right now.

Minutes pass, slow and shapeless, the kind of time that doesn’t measure in hours or shifts or chart updates. Just quiet. Just presence. Just the shared, unspoken ache of people who’ve both lost too much to say the words out loud.

When he finally exhales — long, steady, but still weighted — you feel the faintest shift in the air. Not fixed. Not fine. But breathing. Alive. Here.

When his gaze lifts, meeting yours — searching, fragile, waiting for something he can’t name — you finally offer it, soft but certain.

“We don’t get forever,” you whisper. “But we’ve still got now.”

And it’s enough. Maybe not to fix anything. Maybe not to make the night any less heavy. But enough to pull Jack through to the other side.

He exhales, slow and quiet, the tension in his chest loosening like it’s finally allowed to. The moment is small — no grand revelations, no dramatic declarations.

Just two people, breathing in the same quiet, carrying the same scars.

When the next shift change arrives, the rhythm of the ER doesn’t quite return to normal.

The pulse of the place still beats steady — monitors chiming, phones ringing, stretchers wheeling in and out — but the handoff feels different. Like the pattern has shifted beneath your feet.

The familiar routine plays out — the smooth exchange of patient reports, the clipped shorthand you both know by heart, the easy banter that’s always filled the spaces between — but now it lingers. The words sit heavier. The pauses stretch longer. The politeness that once held everything in place has softened, frayed at the edges by the weight of what’s left unsaid.

You stay five minutes later. Then ten.

Neither of you points it out. Neither of you needs to.

The silence isn’t awkward — it’s intentional. It hangs easy between you, unhurried and unforced. The kind of silence built on understanding rather than distance. Like the quiet knows something you both haven’t said out loud yet.

The rest of the team doesn’t call you on it. But they see it. And you catch the glances.

You catch Dana’s raised eyebrow as she clocks out, her expression all knowing, no judgment — just quiet observation, like she’s been waiting for this to finally click into place. Robby doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk behind his coffee cup this time, his glance flicking from you to Jack and back again, as if he’s already tallying another win in the betting pool.

And still, no one says a word.

The ER lights flicker, humming softly against the early morning haze as the next shift trickles in, tired and rumpled, faces scrubbed clean and coffee cups refilled. The world moves on — patients, pages, paperwork — but Jack doesn’t.

His glance finds you, steady and certain, like an anchor after too many months of pretending there wasn’t a current pulling you both closer all along. There’s no question in it. No hesitation. Just quiet agreement.

And this time, neither of you heads for the door alone.

You fall into step beside him, the silence still stretched soft between you, your shoulder brushing his just slightly as you cross through the automatic doors and into the cool, early light. The air is crisp against your scrubs, the hum of the hospital fading behind you, replaced by the quiet sprawl of the parking lot and the slow stretch of a sky trying to shake off the dark.

The weight you’ve both carried for so long — all the almosts, the what-ifs, the walls and the fear — feels lighter now. Still there, but not crushing. Not anymore.

It isn’t just a handoff anymore. It hasn’t been for a while, but now it’s undeniable.

You glance toward him as the quiet settles between you one last time before the day fully wakes up, and he meets your look with that same soft steadiness — the kind that doesn’t demand, doesn’t rush, just holds. Like the space between you has finally exhaled, like the moment has finally caught up to the both of you after all this time skirting around it.

His hand finds yours, slow and certain, like it was always supposed to be there. No grand gesture, no sharp intake of breath, just the gentle slide of skin against skin — warm, grounding, steady. His thumb brushes the back of your hand once, absentminded and careful, like he’s memorizing the feel of this — of you — as if to make sure it’s real.

The world beyond hums back to life, ready for another day beginning. But here, in this sliver of space, between what you’ve always been and whatever comes next — everything stays still.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You don’t need to.

It’s in the way his fingers curl just slightly tighter around yours, in the way the last of the shift’s exhaustion softens at the edges of his expression. In the way the air feels different now — less heavy, less waiting. Like the question that’s lived between you for months has finally answered itself.

The first thin blush of sunrise creeps over the parking lot, painting long soft shadows across the cracked pavement, and neither of you move. There’s no rush now, no clock chasing you forward, no unspoken rule pushing you apart. Just this. Just you and him, side by side, hand in hand, standing still while the world stumbles back into motion.

It’s the start of something else.

And you both know it. Without needing to say a thing.

©yakshxiao 2025.

#jack abbot x reader #the pitt x reader #the pitt fic #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt hbo #shawn hatosy #the pitt #dr abbot #jack abbot #michael robinavitch #dana evans #cassie mckay #x reader #dr abbot x you #jack abbot x you #the pitt max #the pitt imagine #the pitt x you #jack abbot imagine

2K notes · View notes

checkeredflagggs · 1 month ago

Text

A Bet is a Bet

pairing: lando norris x reader

summary: Lando didn’t know a bet would lead him to her, y/n didn’t know that accepting his proposal would lead to forever

a/n:it’s always fun to write Lando because I kinda really like to gently bully him 😂

a/n: one day I’ll write a Lando piece that doesn’t absolutely get away from me but today is apparently not that day

Masterlist | Taglist

f1gossip

liked by user, user, user, and 827,824 others

f1gossip: Following Max’s Championship win and George’s race win, several drivers were spotted out partying in Las Vegas’ prolific club scene! Additionally, eagle eyes have spotted a despondent Lando drinking as his championship hopes were dashed tonight.

view all comments

user1: not the gossip page absolutely dragging Lando 😬😬😬

user2: don’t really blame Lando for being a little sad — unlikely as it was he’d win, there was a slight chance

↳user3: especially with how god awful redbull’s car has been this year…

user4: loving the contrast of George and Max drinking their hearts out to celebrate and Lando drinking to forget

↳user5: that’s so cruel

↳user4: true though

user6: ok so i think im at the same club as them and im pretty sure i just saw lando hugging a crying women??

↳user7: what??

↳user6: idk man im just a casual fan (shout out to Charles for being so pretty — saw an edit of him and fell in love)

↳user6: but i saw someone who looked like lando? Comforting someone who was sobbing their heart out

↳user7: I’m so confused and I need to know what happens next

user8: 🤬🤬 fuck

↳user9: what??

↳user8: I just got pushed down by a couple rushing by me!

↳user10: well fuck them I guess?

↳user8: I think that’s what they’re gonna do, yes.

Private Messages, Max F. and Lando

Snapchat

Private Messages, Lando and ???

landonorris has posted a story, yn_user has posted a story

[🍾🍾][💍💍]

maxfewtrell replied WHAT ARE YOU DOING

maxfewtrell replied I SPECIFICALLY SAID DONT GET ACTUALLY MARRIED

maxfewtrell replied OH MY GOD ANSWER YOUR STUPID PHONE

user11 replied did you get married

user12 replied the Vegas curse strikes again!

oscarpiastri replied please tell me this is just an aesthetic photo

↳oscarpiastri please I can’t be responsible for reporting this back to Zak and Stella

alex_albon replied oh my god thanks man! I had money on you being the one to get drunk married in Vegas

yourbff replied what the fuck girl??

yourbff replied did you get married last night?

↳yn_user …I think I did

↳yn_user my god my head

↳yourbff drinks! Stat

↳yn_user only if drinks stands for coffee

↳yn_user and make it a double — my husband (???)(!!!) wants one too

Private Messages, Max F. and Lando

landonorris

liked by yn_user, yourbff, maxfewtrell, maxverstappen1, and 1,234,224 others

landonorris: thanks Vegas! This year was so much more fun than last year! Can’t wait to see what next year brings

view all comments

user13: MARRIED??

user14: omg god he’s actually married 😭😭

user15: what kind of delulu manifesting brought this on???

↳user16: right?? I need some of it in my life

↳user17: a big old healthy dose of it

maxfewtrell: Next year better be the calmest year yet

↳yn_user: where’s the fun in that? liked by landonorris, maxverstappen1

↳maxfewtrell: my heart rate would appreciate it more

maxverstappen1: well I guess congratulations are in order?

↳landonorris: thanks man!

georgerussell63: You got married??

↳landonorris: I did! She’s great — you’re gonna love her

↳georgerussell63: Really?

↳maxfewtrell: she spent the first 10 minutes (hungover) after meeting me bullying me about my accent, my clothing, the way I walked, and how I took my coffee liked by yn_user, landonorris

↳georgerussell63: Oh dear

↳maxverstappen1: oh I’m gonna love her. she coming to Qatar?

↳landonorris: that’s the plan!

↳maxverstappen1: fly out with me

cisca_norris: oh man I’m telling mom!

↳landonorris: No! Wait!

↳cisca_norris: too late!

Private Messages, Lando and his Parents

Private Messages, y/n and yourbff

yn_user

liked by landonorris, yourbff, oscarpiastri, and 1,253 others

tagged: landonorris

yn_user: got drunk, got married, flew to Qatar to watch him drive!

view all comments

yourbff: send me some of that luck please

↳yn_user: certainly!

↳yourbff: only the good stuff though — you keep your bad luck to yourself

landonorris: thanks for coming out to see that I’m more than an uber driver

↳maxfewtrell: she did not

↳yn_user: oh I absolutely did! But now I see it’s more like European NASCAR

↳landonorris: I’ve changed my mind. Please leave

↳yn_user: too late! I’ve already burned the certificate — no returns

oscarpiastri: nice to meet you 👍🏻

↳yn_user: you too! I’m rooting for you!

↳landonorris: what???

↳yn_user: you told me to pick a favorite driver!

↳landonorris: I told you to come watch your favorite driver! Me!

↳yn_user: but he’s Australian! Like Steve Irwin!

↳landonorris: …that’s not how you pick a favorite driver!

↳oscarpiastri: stop being mean to my fans!

↳yn_user: landonorris if you say so I guess…

↳yn_user: then I’ll pick max cause he’s got lovely cats and was kind enough to fly us out!

↳maxverstappen1: great to have another fan!

↳landonorris: nO!

user18: I’ve had her for a day but if anything happens to her I’ll everyone else then myself

↳user20: big mood

↳yn_user: I say this with sincerity — please seek help 🙏

f1gossip

liked by user, user, user, and 628,826 others

f1gossip: we finally have some answers on Lando’s unexpected marriage!

“What does it mean? What? That we got married last weekend? Well it means we got drunk and got married but ya know during break, yeah during break we’re already planning getting divorced but just didn’t have the time beforehand. So that’s something that’s gonna be happening soon.”

So it seems like this is just a typical Vegas marriage story after all!

view all comments

user21: im sorry but thats so funny??

↳user22: right?

↳user23: i didn’t think this was something that happened in real life??

↳user24: same

user25: i love how he phrased it though

↳user26: it’s just…Lando. Like of course you got drunk married and is just joking about it now

↳user27: I mean there's not much else he can do until they can get divorced?

yn_user

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri, and 214,294 others

tagged: landonorris

yn_user: what a fun way to end the year! Congrats hubby — what a win!

view all comments

user28: I swear she was more excited for Lando’s win then he was 😂

↳user29: the way she was clinging to Lando’s mom like the entire race though 🤣🤣

landonorris: thanks for coming! And cheering for the correct driver this time around

↳maxverstappen1: she didn’t have redbull merch on?

↳landonorris: nah that’s been banned from this household liked by yn_user

user30: ok but I need her makeup brands? Cause that shit didn’t budge a bit

↳yn_user: I’ll dm you!

↳user30: thank you queen 🙏

yourbff: glad to know you’re having fun when you abandoned me…

↳yn_user: dw we’re on the way back so we can start the divorce paperwork

↳yourbff: good i need my bff back

↳landonorris: still my girl!

↳yourbff: I’ll fight you for her 🥊

Private Messages, Max and Lando

Text — we decided that we wanted to stay married because we actually like each other and want to see where this goes

landonorris

liked by yn_user, maxfewtrell, oscarpiastri, and 1,283,123 others

tagged: yn_user

landonorris: honeymoon time!

view all comments

user31: i thought it was divorce time?

↳user32: ok but like what happened?

↳user31: im guessing they actually fell in love

↳user32: if that’s true, that’s so cute

oscarpiastri: I don’t think that was the plan?

↳landonorris: there’s no plans when your in love

↳yn_user: that’s so sappy

↳landonorris: only for you!

↳oscarpiastri: on my comment thread? Really?

user33: ok which one of us is gonna turn this into the romcom it desperately needs to be?

↳user34: I volunteer as tribute

maxfewtrell: Lando answer your phone!

↳landonorris: sorry I’m on vacation! No service!

↳maxfewtrell: Lando! liked by yn_user

yourbff: stop stealing my best friend!

↳landonorris: she’s my wife!

↳yourbff: she was mine first!

f1gossip

liked by user, user, user and 839,293 others

f1gossip: catching up with lando again, we got the gossip on the abrupt change of heart regarding his Vegas wife!

“Yeah we just, you know we talked about it and how we felt and we know it’s kinda crazy — actually really crazy but you know we just felt like this was it? Like I just know that loving her is gonna be the easiest thing I’m ever gonna do. So yeah we got to Vegas and got a lawyer to help start the divorce and as we were talking about it we realized that we didn’t actually want to separate. So we’re still together and I want it to stay that way, forever. Like she’s gonna be it for me.”

view all comments

user35: holy shit he is in LOVE love

user36: “I just know loving her is gonna be the easiest thing I’ve ever done” like could someone run me over? Cause I feel like that would hurt less

↳user37: that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever read!

↳user38: I’m loving this Lando — he’s glowing!

user39: “we’re still together and I want it to stay that way, forever” like oh my god he’s so in love he’s writing poetry

user40: I want this kind of fucking love

user41: he’s writing poetry for her and i can’t even get one to text me back 😭

landonorris

liked by oscarpiastri, yn_user, mclaren and 1,728,234 others

tagged: yn_user

landonorris: the top step is made even better with my lucky charm here with me! Thank you yn_user for your love and support 🧡

comments have been limited on this post

yourbff: now you’re just mocking me

↳landonorris: yup!

yn_user: love you too you muppet…even if you aren’t an uber driver…

↳landonorris: I guess that’s better than a nascar driver…

↳yn_user: well I checked and Chris Bell is taken so…

↳landonorris: 😑😑😑

maxfewtrell: great race man!

↳landonorris: thanks for being there!

↳maxfewtrell: gladly! I’ll be there for any of them but Vegas. Cause I’m not going there again

↳yn_user: scared of a little city?

↳maxfewtrell: yes.

Taglist

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @mxm47max @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @elizamoe133 @jessica3478 @il0vereadingstuff @taylorrrrrrrrrrswiftttt @widow-cevans @1-of-my-many-obsessions @charlesgirl16 @anunstablefangirl @evie-119 @sugarfreerbr @princessesgarden @tukes @mayax2o07 @teti-menchon0604 @galaxygurlll @star73807-blog @shelbyteller @ihaveitprinteddout @lilymaleshka @kuolonsyoja @allthings-fandom @mountainshuman @hannahmotors10 @moonypixel @nikfigueiredo @daisydaze111 @deephideoutmilkshake @loveyahachoo @raizelchrysanderoctavius

1K notes · View notes

narcjsistx · 2 months ago

Text

— 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔! | bllk boys

✶ plot: the character gives your sibling the chance to go down on the field with him before the game, and this leads you to think that maybe he really is someone you could marry since he shows so much care. idk if you know when before the matches the players of the teams go out on the field during the anthem, often with the players there are kids! it's such a cuteee thinggg (╥﹏╥)

✶ characters: sae itoshi, rin itoshi, micheal kaiser

✶ 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

✶ ITOSHI SAE ᡣ𐭩 𓂃

In the noise of the arena, the Japanese anthem seems to almost fade into the background. The participants are much more focused on shouting, in announcing that the players are finally taking to the field after almost half an hour of delay due to an alleged accident of the German team bus, which had a flat tire. While you were waiting you often imagined the annoyed faces of your boyfriend, who surely threatened his manager to leave if the game didn't start at the scheduled time. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't, you don't know. He's definitely annoyed, but he didn't make it obvious probably because today your younger brother is with him. You still can't believe how your brother finally convinced Sae, after years of begging him. When you finally see both of them, you understand that it is not a dream and that your brother is actually in the most famous field in Spain

When you told your family that in Spain, during your Erasmus, you had met the man who was now your boyfriend, they hadn't worried. You hadn't specified that Sae, your boyfriend, your brother's favorite player, from the team that your family had supported for years even before you were born, was that man. When Sae and your family were introduced, your brother categorically decided that now you would no longer have another man in your life other than the ReAl midfielder. Not that you minded this obligation. But you were happy to see your brother so close to him and Sae who, strangely, treated him with kindness. It was probably because he also had a younger brother, he knew what it meant to be the eldest son

You had been with him for two years now, yet your brother had to beg him for a long time before he achieved his goal. Sae had not given in until then because he thought it was a way to invade his privacy and that of your family, but after seeing a photo of Rin and your brother he had agreed. You didn't even know why you wanted to compare a photo of your little brother and Rin as a newborn, but something had moved in Sae's heart, and now he and your brother were walking onto the field with an entire stadium chanting the name of the best midfielder of recent years, your amazing boyfriend

With your phone you film the scene, while your mother next to you starts to shed a few tears "Don't you think you're exaggerating?" you say, teasing her. The Spanish anthem starts, and the players line up in front of the crowd, the children in front of them and wearing smaller uniforms than the team. Your mother smiles "I'm so happy for Kuroi. He wanted it so much, and I understand why Sae didn't want to do it, and yet they're both there!" she says wiping away a tear

Sitting in the stands, you have the chance to be quite close to the players. Your brother notices you, and smilingly starts waving in your direction, proudly showing the jersey he is wearing: like the ReAl uniform, on the back he has "Sae" written and his number, 10. You record the scene and you notice how, in the video, you can see your boyfriend behind Kuroi looking at him curiously, maybe even a little proudly. While both sing the anthem, the children remain in front of the players even when the camera reflects the scene on the big screen of the stadium, also showing Kuroi with his excited eyes. Sae gives you an interested look when he notices your proud look, and you return it by blowing him a quick kiss. You see him roll his eyes, but you know he's calm, it's just the usual

"You know..." your mother says, and you turn around curiously "I think after this, you have no choice but to marry Sae. I don't think Kuroi would recover if you ever broke up, not after this" she says, and even though you know she's joking, her words hit you a little harder than usual. You and the ReAl player have been together for a while now, you never talked about marriage but it happened that you both admitted that you would like to spend the rest of your lives with each other. This relationship, Sae himself, has given you so much love that you know perfectly well that you could never have such a connection with anyone other than him. It's in the way that, even without words, his gestures speak: it's clear that he loves you, and you love him in a way that you can't even quantify

"That might be an option. I'm waiting for him to have the courage to get down on one knee" you joke, and your mother chuckles with you, patting you on the shoulder "If he had the courage to love you until today, I think marrying you is quite easy" she says, and you roll your eyes amusedly "Really funny"

Her words are not casual, not when Sae asked her for her blessing on your union a few weeks ago. He told her that it is not casual to have Kuroi with him on the field, and that after the end and victory of the match he intends to ask you to marry him in front of the entire stadium, but especially in front of your family. But you don't know this yet

✶ ITOSHI RIN ᡣ𐭩 𓂃

"Remember, you have to always stay close to Rin, if I see you running somewhere I swear to go down on the field and chase you in front of everyone in the stadium!" you say to your sister, but she giggles, hugging your boyfriend's leg. Rin ruffles her hair, letting out a sigh "She'll be good. She promised me, right Kae?" asks the youngest Itoshi, and your sister immediately nods "Of course big brother!" the little girl says, smiling happily, and you sigh, mentally telling yourself that everything will be fine "Okay... but I swear, if you act bad, it's the last time I'll make you do something like that. Mom didn't even fully agree..." you say exasperated, but you feel Rin's hand lightly squeeze your wrist "Don't worry so much. I'll take care of her"

Ever since Rin came into your life, your younger sister Kae has started to see him as the brother she never had. You have always been two daughters in the family, and even though both you and she wanted a brother, unfortunately you never had the chance to have one. When Rin made the transition from classmate to boyfriend five years ago, Kae was thrilled to welcome him into the family. He and she actually spend a lot of time together, and while Rin's character is extremely reserved and cold, you've never seen him act distant with your sister: it's wrong to say that they just love each other, they literally have a brotherly relationship. It warms your heart, especially when you plan on spending the rest of your life with this guy, since you've been a couple for a while now

Having Kae join Rin on the field was actually quite an unexpected idea. You and your boyfriend had spent the last few months in France for his special training, and only returned to Japan for your sister's tenth birthday. The problem arose when, on the plane, you both realized that you hadn't bought the birthday girl any presents: busy with the various preparations for the return trip, you hadn't bought anything in France. You realized it when you saw a little girl opening a present on the plane, and unexpectedly Rin saw the same scene at the same time and thought the same thing

On the evening of her birthday, after many hours of flying, Rin said that your gift for Kae would be to have her join him on the field in the next match, which would take place the following week against Italy. Kae had literally jumped out of her chair to hug both, even though your mother wasn't completely convinced, unlike your father who asked to be able to go on the field too. So now, as you go up to the stands to watch the game and the anthem, you think about how all this is so extraordinary and at the same time strange

When you sit down, the Japanese anthem begins to fill the stadium. You see Rin with his usual serious face and Kae, in front of him and wearing a Japan jersey, singing excitedly. You see in your sister's eyes an emotion that you have seen in her a few times, and thinking that all this is thanks to Rin makes you think a little more than usual: your relationship is not perfect, you argue like all normal couples, but you would never replace your beloved boyfriend with another person. You've loved each other since you were both fourteen, and now that he's on the Japanese national team and you've started college, your love has only grown. You're 19, but you both think you could go on forever like this, and that's exactly what makes you realize how much you really care about this relationship

Rin loves you, your family, your life and your soul. If that's not perfection, you don't know what is. You know that you both are still young and have goals, but if he asked you to marry him literally now, you would accept without regrets

The game begins, the kids going back to the locker room where you know your dad is waiting for Kae. You watch the rest of the game with them, while Kae tells everything Rin told her before she left, how good she was and how she wants to do it again. The match ends with Japan winning, with a goal scored by Rin himself: the whole stadium starts to shout, while you applaud happily. The journalists immediately take possession of the field and the players, and the same happens to Rin, who is captured by the cameras of the Japanese national TV. A reporter points the microphone at him, while your boyfriend lowers his water bottle

"Great match today, Itoshi Rin! No one expected less from the former Blue Lock number one. Do you miss the structure?" says the man, and Rin takes a few steps forward "It was a fundamental stage in my career, but half of the idiots who were with me are now in the national team, it hasn't changed that much" he says, and the man laughs "You're right, just today you scored with an assist from Isagi Yoichi, also a former number one. Speaking of other things, today a little girl came out on the field with you during the anthem..." he says, and Rin clears his throat "It was my girlfriend's younger sister. She's here too" he says, and the man smiles "I know! You both recently returned from France, didn't the city of love give you the chance to face an important stage in your relationship? After all, you've been together for a while" he says, and Rin raises an eyebrow "You mean Paris?" he asks, and the man nods "I'm talking about a possible marriage proposal in Paris" he says, and Rin's eyes widen a bit. He's silent for a few seconds, and then speaks slowly "I haven't had the chance... although we're both still very young. I might try next time"

Your father and Kae notice how you are almost paralyzed, a fierce blush that burns your face. Tonight you leave for Paris

✶ MICHEAL KAISER ᡣ𐭩 𓂃

"I wonder how he'll sing the German national anthem if he can barely speak" Kaiser says, and you think about it for a while. It's not a stupid question, but at the same time you don't want to think of an answer "I have no idea. You didn't know that until a few years ago, anyway" you say resting your head against his chest, and he tightens his grip on your waist "Remember to wait for him here. As soon as he's finished he'll come back to you" he says, and you nod "I know. I'll wait here"

Both you and Kaiser watch your brother being around the other kids who will be taking the field. Leon doesn't talk much, he's quite shy, but at the same time he always wants to be around other people. Both you and Kaiser think it's a bit of a weird behavior, but you don't worry too much, you think it's just something that will change as he grows up. Micheal, on the other hand, is the one who is a little more worried, but you can understand his behavior: as a child he never had the chance to be supervised by someone older, so he always had to correct his wrong or right behaviors himself. Leon has nothing, he is simply a child who is growing up, but Kaiser has always shown to be particularly fond of him. From the first moment they met, one winter evening three years ago, Leon became your boyfriend's favorite kid. Kaiser taught your brother to play soccer, and since he's gotten much better lately, Michael gave him the chance to stay with him before the match against Spain, during the German anthem

The team begins to line up, players calling out the kids they’ve been matched with. Kaiser leaves a kiss on your forehead, walking over to Leon "We gotta go. Are you ready?" he asks your brother, patting him on the back. He nods, taking his hand. You know how difficult physical contact is for Kaiser, but he has never refused to shake Leon's hand "Perfect. You have to promise me to shout the anthem, though. I want the whole stadium to hear your voice" he says, and you raise an eyebrow, while Leon also shakes his head, unsure "You have to, I want the whole stadium to know about you, the next striker of Bastard Munchen. Then you're with me, you don't have to be afraid, right?" says Kaiser teasing him, and Leon finally speaks "Okay Micheal..." he says, hiding his happy emotion

Kaiser nods in satisfaction, turning to you only briefly "Wait here, remember" he says, and you nod once more "I told you I’m not moving. Why are you so worried?" you ask, chuckling, but he sighs in amusement "You’ll see later" he says, and before you can ask him any questions he and your brother start walking down the stadium. The anthem starts in the stadium and all the players greet the crowd, while the children shout and laugh. You see Leon a little nervous, but a few words from Kaiser seem to calm him down

In your family, only you are capable of calming your brother's little moments of anxiety. You have always been the one to be his mother, and since Kaiser came into your life, he too has felt almost the duty to be there for your brother. Since he has been there too, only you and Micheal calm him. Leon could almost be your son, if he wasn't your little brother; it's something that both you and Michael think about, especially considering how important you both are to him. When you started being the girlfriend of the German prodigy, you never expected to see him so attached to your family, and honestly, you wouldn't have blamed him: Kaiser never had someone to call family, a group of people who taught him what love meant. You knew that bonding with your family wouldn't be easy for him, and yet it had happened so easily that for a second you thought you had misunderstood everything

What was yours had become his too. What you loved, your family, had become his family almost naturally, as if it was destined for your love and that of your relatives. You knew how much he cared, and it only made you even more proud to love him, of loving everything of Kaiser Micheal. You knew perfectly well his opinion on marriage, you knew how he was afraid of getting married because his parents had never given him an example of a healthy and loving marriage. You knew how much the idea of making a mistake, of becoming his father and locking you in a toxic marriage scared him, even if he had never pulled a hair on your head. You understood his motives and respected them, but if he ever asked you to be his wife, you knew full well that you would accept

You look over at your two treasures, and Leon seems to be having a blast as he shouts out the German national anthem, which is slowly coming to an end. Once again, Kaiser has managed to bring out the best in your brother, making the most enjoyable moment possible. As the music ends you approach the agreed upon spot, but you notice how the players are not starting to take their positions on the field. You raise an eyebrow, as the German team and the children slowly disappear from the pitch, while Leon runs towards you

"Come with me" your brother says, taking your hand and leading you down to the field "What do you want to do...?" you ask perplexed, shy in front of all the people's eyes. The soccer field empties completely, with only Kaiser left in the center. You watch him doubtfully as Leon takes you near him, leaving you once they reach the center of the field "Do you know anything?" you ask your brother, but he shakes his head "Just a little. Michael knows the rest" he says, chuckling, the laugh of someone who definitely knows everything. You remain in front of Kaiser, who however does not seem to give any answers to your doubtful look "What are you doing?" you ask for the umpteenth time, while you feel Leon's hand detach "Thank you. I owe you something" the German says to the boy, but he shakes his head "Nothing. Just make her happy" he says as he walks away, heading towards the edge of the field

In front of the eyes of the entire stadium, you and Kaiser remain. You begin to get nervous, while his calm gaze gives you absolutely no answer "Don't get nervous. Trust me" he says taking your hands, and you sigh resignedly "I don't want to die of anxiety" you say smiling nervously, and he nods "You won't die of anxiety. At least wait until you see the rest"

Kaiser clears his throat, taking a long breath. "Hello. No introduction needed, you already know perfectly well who I am. Maybe you know me for being your boyfriend, maybe for being the prodigy of an entire nation, but you are surely the only one who knows me as Michael, the same one who cried in your arms several times already. You know how my courage and narcissism are my signature, how my charisma is known by entire nations, or at least by their soccer teams. I always use my courage for myself, but never for others... and I thought I can do it once, just once for another person. One decisive time, that terrifies me but that you deserve. I thought about it for a long time, telling myself that we were fine the way we were, that we didn't need such a big gesture to confirm that I love you. But you are you, you have always gone beyond your limits to love me, to give me a sense of family and home that I never had. I want to use this courage for you, to ask you for something that I know scares me but that I want to do..." says the man. You see him kneel on one knee, opening a velvet box that reveals a ring with a blue sapphire

"... do you want to marry me, say yes to me in front of free Germany but above all in front of Leon?" says the man, showing you for the first time a completely new version of himself: that's not Kaiser Michael in front of you, that's not Kaiser, that's not even Michael. That's your Kaiser Michael, someone the whole world doesn't know but you know like yourself. Your hands are shaking as you try to cover your mouth and eyes that are slowly watering, but you can't ignore the emotion that's slowly eating you alive

"Of course I do" you say with a shaky voice, and the stadium erupts in a ferocious roar. Kaiser stands up, placing the ring on your finger before pulling you into a tight hug, burying his face in your shoulder "Thank you. Thank you for everything"

1K notes · View notes