No warnings just pure fluff and fate working together, it is implied that the reader is american
Summary: You and a boy exchanged letters as children through a school program but eventually lost touch. Years later, while cleaning out old boxes, you post one of the letters online. An F1 driver recognizes it immediately.
Requested: No
Requests open
word count: 1922
Author’s note: Sorry i know it’s not that long and the story is very slow but it is a slowburn so it’ll take some time to get to the love story.
Masterlist
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The next morning arrived with a subtle shift in the very texture of your apartment.
The mundane routine of your Monday, the hollow clunk of the coffee maker sputtering to life, the distant rumble of a garbage truck somewhere down the street, the way pale morning light drifted through the blinds and illuminated the dust motes dancing lazily above your dresser felt underlined by a quiet, steady hum of anticipation.
Even brushing your teeth felt strangely different.
You caught yourself glancing toward your phone sitting on the corner of your desk, face-down beside a stack of unopened mail. Twenty-four hours ago it had felt like an intimidating piece of high-tech machinery, a portal to a life so far removed from your own that touching it had made your pulse jump.
Now it simply sat there like a small, matte-black anchor connecting you to a completely different reality.
A reality where Charles Leclerc still remembered your name.
A reality where he texted you goodnight.
A reality where a childhood friendship you had assumed was buried beneath years and oceans was somehow breathing again.
You tried not to think about it too much.
You failed spectacularly.
Three separate times during your morning meeting at work, you realized you'd stopped listening entirely because your brain had wandered back to Monaco.
You wondered what he was doing.
Whether he'd found the box.
Whether he'd actually kept anything.
Whether there was some forgotten drawing tucked away in a corner with your embarrassingly terrible childhood handwriting on it.
By lunchtime you'd nearly convinced yourself he wouldn't find anything at all.
Then your phone buzzed.
True to his word, the text arrived just as you were rinsing your lunch plate in the sink.
Charles_Leclerc: [Image Attached]
You nearly dropped the plate.
Water splashed onto the counter as you hurriedly dried your hands on a dishtowel, your chest tightening with a sudden, ridiculous burst of adrenaline.
"Get a grip," you muttered to yourself.
You immediately tapped the notification.
The photo was framed from a high angle, capturing a slightly dusty dark-blue cardboard shoebox sitting on a white marble kitchen island.
The box looked old.
Not vintage-old in a charming way.
Just genuinely old.
The corners were softened from years of being moved around storage shelves, and the edges had been rubbed white from wear.
Written across the lid in faded silver Sharpie was the word CHARLES in his mother's elegant, sweeping handwriting.
The silver ink had dulled with age, turning almost gray.
Something about that tiny detail hit you unexpectedly hard.
This wasn't a publicity photo.
This wasn't a curated social media post.
This was a real box that had sat forgotten in an attic for over a decade.
In the background you could make out part of a bright kitchen flooded with Mediterranean sunlight. Through a large window, green hills rolled beneath a cloudless blue sky.
You suddenly remembered standing in that kitchen as a kid.
The smell of coffee.
The sound of French and Italian being spoken interchangeably.
The way his mother always insisted everyone eat more.
Your phone buzzed again.
Charles_Leclerc: I found it. My mother was very proud of herself for remembering exactly which shelf in the attic it was on. She also sends her love, by the way. She remembers your name perfectly.
A smile spread across your face before you could stop it.
You: Oh my gosh, please tell her hi for me! Did you open it yet?
A few moments passed.
Then:
Charles_Leclerc: Not yet. I wanted to wait until I could message you. Hang on, let me look inside.
You carried your phone with you into the living room.
Then back into the kitchen.
Then somehow found yourself standing motionless in the middle of the hallway staring at the screen.
The typing bubble appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Vanished.
Returned.
You imagined him sitting at that kitchen island carefully sorting through years of forgotten memories.
Old race photos.
School papers.
Birthday cards.
Tiny pieces of a life neither of you had thought about in years.
Finally, another notification appeared.
Charles_Leclerc: [Image Attached]
Charles_Leclerc: Mon dieu, Y/N. Look at this. Please tell me you remember sending me this.
"Oh no."
You already knew.
You opened the image.
And immediately wished you hadn't.
The drawing had clearly been created using every art supply available to a nine-year-old with unlimited confidence and absolutely no artistic skill.
The race car was bright Ferrari-red despite the fact that he hadn't even raced for Ferrari yet.
The proportions were completely absurd.
The wheels were gigantic.
The chassis looked like a rectangle.
The rear wing seemed to be floating independently from the rest of the car.
A stick figure sat inside wearing a helmet so large it consumed nearly half the page.
Flying from the back was some kind of horrifying combination of the American and Monegasque flags.
The stars looked less like stars and more like distressed insects.
At the bottom, written in aggressively crooked handwriting:
GOOD LUK IN KARTING CHALS. DONT CRASH.
You physically covered your face.
A helpless laugh escaped through your fingers.
"Oh my God."
Your phone vibrated.
You: Oh no. Oh no, Charles, please burn that immediately. I completely forgot I used to draw those.
A response arrived almost instantly.
Charles_Leclerc: No.
Another message.
Charles_Leclerc: Absolutely not.
Another.
Charles_Leclerc: This is museum quality.
You laughed so hard you had to sit down.
You: Museum quality? It looks like it was drawn during a natural disaster.
Charles_Leclerc: The aerodynamics are revolutionary.
You: It literally has square tires.
Charles_Leclerc: It has character.
You: It has structural issues.
Charles_Leclerc: You are simply ahead of your time.
A photo appeared moments later.
This one showed the drawing propped against a fruit bowl on the kitchen counter.
Beside it stood Charles's mother, visible only from the shoulders down, one hand giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
You laughed so hard tears stung your eyes.
For the first time in years, the distance between childhood and adulthood felt strangely thin.
Like you could reach through it.
Over the next two days, the rhythm of your conversations settled into something easy and natural.
Monaco race week was chaos.
You knew that.
Even from thousands of miles away, you could feel it building.
News clips appeared online.
Crowds filled the harbor.
Yachts multiplied seemingly overnight.
The tiny principality transformed into the center of the sporting world.
Yet somehow, amid all of it, Charles kept finding small moments to text.
Wednesday morning brought a five-second video from his apartment balcony.
The harbor below shimmered beneath the early sun.
The water was perfectly still.
A few workers moved quietly along the docks preparing for the crowds.
For a moment Monaco looked peaceful.
Ordinary, even.
His sleepy voice drifted through the recording.
"It is quiet now."
A pause.
Wind rustled against the microphone.
"But not for long."
Later that afternoon, he sent a photo of a narrow Monaco street crowded with flower boxes overflowing from apartment balconies.
No explanation.
Just the picture.
You stared at it longer than you intended.
A glimpse of his world.
A place most people only saw in magazines.
Hours later another text arrived.
This time it was a picture of a pastry.
Half-eaten.
Powdered sugar everywhere.
Jam smeared across the plate.
Charles_Leclerc: My favorite bakery gave me three extra croissants because they said I looked too skinny.
A second message followed.
Charles_Leclerc: I think this is sabotage.
You: The bakery has chosen a side.
Charles_Leclerc: Clearly they support Red Bull.
You found yourself sharing pieces of your life too.
Not because you felt obligated.
Because you wanted to.
A squirrel stealing bread from your windowsill.
A sunset reflecting off rain-soaked pavement during your commute.
The disastrous state of your desk.
One afternoon you sent a picture of an overwatered office plant drooping dramatically.
You: Kevin is struggling.
Charles_Leclerc: Who is Kevin?
You: The plant.
A full minute passed.
Then..
Charles_Leclerc: You named the plant?
You: Obviously.
Charles_Leclerc: I am worried about you.
You: Kevin appreciates your concern.
The safety between you deepened in small ways.
Not dramatic ways.
Not romantic declarations.
Just trust.
The quiet understanding that neither of you needed to perform.
The world expected things from Charles every second of every day.
Wins.
Podiums.
Interviews.
Perfect answers.
With you, he could simply be tired.
And with him, you never felt like you had to be impressive.
You could tell him about your grocery shopping disaster.
Or the fact you'd accidentally worn mismatched socks all day.
And somehow he'd find it genuinely funny.
Thursday evening, your phone rang.
The sunlight outside your apartment had already faded into twilight.
You were curled beneath a blanket on your couch halfway through a television show you weren't actually paying attention to.
His name appeared on the screen.
A smile immediately tugged at your lips.
"Hi."
His voice arrived before you could even speak.
Warm.
Familiar.
Exhausted.
"Hi," you laughed.
"Are you busy?"
"Never too busy for Monaco royalty."
A groan echoed through the speaker.
"You sound exactly like the journalists."
You could hear movement.
The rustle of fabric.
The soft creak of furniture.
You imagined him stretched across his couch, tie discarded somewhere nearby, finally escaping the demands of the day.
"How was media day?" you asked.
Silence.
Then a very dramatic sigh.
"So many questions."
You laughed.
"How many times were you asked about pressure?"
"I stopped counting after fifteen."
"Reasonable."
"One journalist asked if I feel the weight of an entire nation on my shoulders."
You winced.
"Ouch."
"Exactly."
His voice softened.
"For a moment I thought maybe I should answer yes and become extremely philosophical."
"What stopped you?"
"I was hungry."
That made you laugh.
Real laughter.
The kind that came easily now.
The kind that felt natural.
A comfortable silence settled over the call.
You listened to the faint sound of him breathing.
The distant hum of Monaco beyond his apartment windows.
Then he spoke quietly.
"Tired," he admitted.
The honesty in the word surprised you.
Not because you didn't believe it.
Because he didn't sound like a racing driver saying it.
He sounded like Charles.
Just Charles.
"I believe it."
"My mother made pasta."
"That helps."
"It helps a lot."
"And talking to me?"
A brief pause.
Then a small laugh.
"That helps too."
Your heart skipped.
Just once.
Enough to notice.
Not enough to mention.
When he spoke again, his voice had dropped softer.
"Sometimes I forget there is a world outside Formula One."
You stared at the darkened window across your apartment.
The reflection staring back looked oddly happy.
"Well," you said gently, "there is."
"Good."
Another pause.
Then:
"Because I like hearing about it."
And somehow that simple sentence stayed with you long after the conversation moved on.
Long after you talked about childhood teachers.
Long after you debated whether squirrels were secretly evil.
Long after he yawned halfway through a story and forgot what point he was trying to make.
When the call finally ended an hour later, your apartment felt quiet again.
But not empty.
The warmth lingered.
Like sunlight trapped in fabric long after sunset.
And as you set your phone on the nightstand before bed, another text appeared.
Charles_Leclerc: Goodnight, Y/N. Tell Kevin the plant I wish him luck.
No warnings just pure fluff and fate working together, it is implied that the reader is american
Summary: You and a boy exchanged letters as children through a school program but eventually lost touch. Years later, while cleaning out old boxes, you post one of the letters online. An F1 driver recognizes it immediately.
Requested: No
Requests open
word count: 2463
author’s note: Thank you for the likes and reblogs, i didn't expect to get so many on my first day. This is kinda short but i'll publish part three and four tomorrow, if you want to be added to the taglist let me know in the comments or in the requests!! XX
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Masterlist
The text message on your screen felt impossibly heavy, a digital anchor pinning you to the edge of your mattress. You stared at the little blue checkmark, your mind stubbornly refusing to bridge the gap between the ten-year-old boy who had worried about his cursive and the international athlete currently occupying a significant portion of sports headlines worldwide.
Outside your window, a gentle afternoon breeze stirred the trees, totally oblivious to the absolute cataclysm currently occurring in your notifications.
You swallowed hard, your thumbs hovering over the digital keyboard. How exactly did one respond to a childhood ghost who now drove cars at two hundred miles an hour for a living? Everything you thought of typing felt either too casual or painfully starstruck.
I’m doing well! Congrats on the racing! – Too stiff. Sounds like an automated LinkedIn message.
Oh my god, I can’t believe it’s actually you! – Too frantic. You didn't want to sound like the millions of fans already screaming in his comment section.
In the end, nostalgia won out over panic. You took a slow breath, letting the familiar scent of dust and cedar steady your nerves, and typed back:
I’m doing great, Charles. Still trying to clean my room, though I’ve clearly been distracted. I honestly can’t believe you saw this. And for the record, your English was already pretty great back then.
You hit send before you could overthink it, fully expecting the message to disappear into the void of his high-profile life. He was a celebrity; surely, his PR team or a stray notification filter would swallow your reply whole. You set the phone down, determined to get back to the pile of varsity sweatshirts, but you only managed to fold a single sleeve before the phone hummed again.
Bzz.
Your heart did a strange, completely unnecessary little flutter. You picked it up.
Charles_Leclerc: Haha, I am glad to hear that. But no, my English was terrible. I remember looking up every third word in a massive green dictionary. My mother used to get so impatient because I would take two hours just to write four sentences to you.
A soft, involuntary laugh escaped your lips. The image of a tiny, frustrated Charles frowning over a dictionary at a kitchen table in Monaco was incredibly endearing, successfully melting away the intimidating sheen of his current fame.
Well, the hard work paid off, you replied, sitting back down cross-legged on the floor, the cleaning completely abandoned now. I’d say you write it perfectly now. Though I suppose you don't have to write letters by hand anymore.
Charles_Leclerc: No, unfortunately. Now it is mostly just signing visors or contracts. Not quite as romantic as the blue ink, no?
Over the next three days, the internet continued to have an absolute meltdown over your initial post. Screenshots of his public comment under your photo went viral on every major platform. TikToks were made analyzing the "lore" of your childhood friendship; sports journalists wrote fluff pieces during the buildup to the Barcelona Grand Prix about the Ferrari driver's long-lost American pen-pal.
But while the public storm raged outside, a quiet, parallel world was forming inside your direct messages.
It started slow. Because of the massive time difference and Charles’s grueling schedule of media pens, engineering briefings, and track walks, the conversation couldn't be fast-paced. It developed its own gentle, rhythmic cadence, a slow, deliberate back-and-forth that felt oddly reminiscent of the actual mail you used to send across the Atlantic.
You would wake up to a message sent in the middle of his European morning:
Charles_Leclerc: Good morning from Barcelona. Today is qualifying. The weather is beautiful, very hot. It reminds me a bit of the summer you described in one of your letters—the one where you said you ate so much watermelon you felt sick? I always remembered that for some reason.
You would read it while drinking your morning coffee, a warmth blooming in your chest at the realization that he actually remembered specific details from fifteen years ago. You would reply while he was out on the track, knowing he wouldn't see it for hours:
You have a terrifyingly good memory, Charles. Yes, that was the summer of eighth grade. Please tell me you aren't eating watermelon until you’re sick before driving a Formula 1 car.
When he finally replied, it would be late at night his time, the background noise of the paddock finally fading into the quiet of his hotel room.
Charles_Leclerc: No, my trainer Andrea would kill me. Only boring protein shakes for me. Qualifying was okay today—P3. We have some work to do for the race tomorrow, but the car feels decent. What did you do today? Did you finally finish cleaning the bedroom?
Step by step, the professional racing driver faded into the background, and the boy from Monaco stepped forward. You learned that he still loved the smell of fresh bakeries, that he listened to classical piano music to unwind, and that he carried an immense, quiet pressure on his shoulders that he rarely spoke about publicly. In turn, you found yourself telling him about your mundane adult life—your job, your favorite local coffee shop, the quiet routine of your weeks. He seemed entirely fascinated by it, treating your ordinary life with the same genuine curiosity he had shown when you were kids.
On Sunday, for the first time in your life, you found yourself waking up at an ungodly hour to watch a Formula 1 race.
You sat on your couch wrapped in a blanket, a mug of tea in hand, watching the red cars line up on the grid in Spain. When the television camera zoomed in on Charles sitting in his cockpit, his visor down, looking intensely focused and entirely untouchable, your breath caught. It was jarring to realize that the man currently staring down a high-speed straightaway was the same person who had sent you a sleepy text message just eight hours prior, complaining about a stubborn mosquito in his hotel room.
You watched the race with your heart in your throat, entirely unversed in the strategy but understanding enough to know that when he crossed the finish line in second place, it was a hard-fought victory.
A few hours later, after the podium celebrations, the press conferences, and the team debriefs, your phone chimed. It wasn't a text this time. It was an image.
It was a selfie Charles had taken in the back of a private car, likely on his way to the airport. He looked exhausted, his hair messy from the helmet, the shadow of a post-race beard darkening his jawline, but his green eyes were bright. He was holding up a shiny silver trophy, a tired, genuine smile on his face.
Charles_Leclerc: P2 today. I didn't get the win, but I think the ten-year-old Charles who wrote to you would still be pretty happy with it.
Your heart did that strange, fluttering thing again, a little harder this time. You looked at the photo for a long moment before typing back.
He would be incredibly proud of you, Charles. I know I am.
There was a longer pause this time. The typing bubbles appeared, disappeared, and then appeared again, as if he were hesitating over his words.
Charles_Leclerc: Thank you, Y/N. That means more than you know. It... it is strange. This weekend has been so loud, so busy. But talking to you feels like a quiet place. It reminds me of who I was before everything became so complicated.
You stared at the message, a soft, bittersweet ache expanding in your chest. The slow-burning warmth that had been building over the last few days suddenly felt distinct, shifting from simple nostalgia into something deeper, gentler, and infinitely more profound.
Charles_Leclerc: My next race is in Monaco. Home. The schedule is always crazy there, but... I was thinking. The international mail took two weeks when we were kids. This app is faster, but it is still just words on a screen.
Your breath hitched. You watched the typing bubbles reappear.
Charles_Leclerc: Would it be okay if I called you sometime this week? I think I would really like to hear what your voice sounds like after all these years.
Sitting in your quiet living room, thousands of miles away from the glamour of Monaco and the roar of racing engines, you looked down at the faded piece of school paper you had brought out to the coffee table. The blue ink seemed to catch the morning light.
You smiled, a slow, real smile, and began to type your phone number.
The transition from blue text bubbles on a screen to a ten-digit number felt like crossing a physical threshold. It was one thing to exchange paragraphs across a time zone lag; it was entirely another to invite the actual, living breathing reality of him into your quiet room.
You didn't expect him to call right away. It was late in Europe, and he had a flight to catch. So you went about your evening, washing dishes and folding the rest of the laundry, though your eyes kept darting back to where your phone sat on the kitchen counter like a small, live wire.
It happened just as you were turning off the living room lights. The screen lit up, illuminating the darkened hallway. There was no contact name, just the long string of numbers beginning with a foreign country code, accompanied by a low, steady vibration that seemed to thrum straight through the floorboards.
Your throat went dry. You cleared it, picked up the phone, and swiped to answer.
"Hello?"
For a second, there was only the faint, hollow hiss of an international connection, the ambient hum of what sounded like an airport terminal or a private lounge in the background, and the sound of someone taking a quiet breath.
"Y/N?"
The voice was softer than it sounded in his post-race interviews, stripped of the formal, carefully practiced cadence he used for the media. It carried a thick, melodic Monegasque accent, the vowels round and smooth, a slight rasp of exhaustion fraying the edges.
"Hi, Charles," you said, your voice coming out smaller than you intended. You sat down on the edge of the couch, suddenly feeling very young and very hyper-aware of the vast distance between you.
A low, genuinely relieved laugh vibrated through the receiver. "Wow. This is… this is completely crazy, no? I am sorry if it is late for you. I just- we just landed in Nice, and I am in the back of the car, and I realized if I did not call you now, I would probably think about it the whole way home."
"It’s not too late," you assured him, a small smile tugging at your lips as the initial spike of adrenaline began to settle into something warmer. "And it's not crazy. Well, it is a little crazy. But a good kind."
"A very good kind," he agreed softly. You could hear the rustle of his jacket, the distant, muffled sound of rain against a car window, and the steady blink of a turn signal. "It is strange. Your voice. It is exactly how I would have imagined it when we were kids, but also completely different. Safer, somehow."
"Safer?"
"Yes. In my world, everyone wants something, you know? Or they talk very fast, or they want to discuss the tyres, the strategy, the lap times. But you… you just ask if I finished my watermelon."
You let out a soft laugh, leaning your head back against the cushions. "Hey, nutritional health is important for an athlete. I'm just looking out for you."
"Ah, thank you. I appreciate it deeply," he teased, his tone lighter now, the heavy fatigue of the race weekend seemingly lifting just by a fraction. "My mother used to say the same thing. She would look at my letters to you and say, 'Charles, why are you telling this poor American child about your karting tires? Ask them about their life.' She was right, of course."
"She sounds sweet."
"She is. Very sweet. Very stubborn. I think she actually kept some of your letters too, you know? In a box in the attic at her house. When I go to see her tomorrow, I am going to look for them. I want to see what silly things I was worried about when I was twelve."
"Probably your cursive," you countered gently.
"Oh, definitely the cursive. Madame Bonnet was a tyrant with that red pen."
The conversation drifted naturally from there, losing its sharp edges and settling into a slow, comfortable river of words. There was no rush, no pressure to fill the brief silences that fell between you. You listened to him talk about the winding roads of Monaco as his car climbed toward his apartment, the way the streetlights looked reflecting off the harbor, and how the town was already being shut down and transformed into a racetrack for the upcoming weekend. In turn, you told him about the quiet rain that had started outside your own window, the book you were trying to finish, and the mundane peacefulness of a Sunday evening.
It was almost midnight your time when the sound of a car door closing echoed through the line, followed by the beep of an elevator.
"I am home," Charles murmured, his voice dropping an octave, echoing slightly in what sounded like a high-ceilinged apartment. "I should probably let you go to sleep. You have work tomorrow, yes?"
"I do," you admitted, though a strange, unfamiliar reluctance tugged at you. You didn't really want to hang up. "Good luck with the home race preparation, Charles. I'll be watching."
"Thank you," he said. The line went quiet for a moment, save for the sound of his steady breathing. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, carrying a weight that made your chest tighten in the best possible way. "Thank you for answering, Y/N. Truly. It… it means a lot to me that you are still here."
"I'm not going anywhere," you replied softly.
"Good. Then… I will text you tomorrow? When I find the box?"
"I’d like that."
"Goodnight, Y/N."
"Goodnight, Charles."
The line went dead, but you sat there in the dark for a long time, the phone still pressed to your ear, listening to the silence of your room. On the coffee table, the faded piece of wide-ruled paper sat under the dim light of the hallway.
Fifteen years ago, a letter had taken weeks to cross the ocean. Tonight, his voice had crossed it in a fraction of a second, leaving a slow, burning warmth in your chest that you knew wasn't going to fade anytime soon.
No warnings just pure fluff and fate working together, it is impliedthat the reader is american
Summary: You and a boy exchanged letters as children through a school program but eventually lost touch. Years later, while cleaning out old boxes, you post one of the letters online. An F1 driver recognizes it immediately.
Requested: No
Requests open
word count: 1570
Previous Part || Next Part
The cardboard box smelled faintly of dust, cedar, and old scholastic book fair bookmarks, specifically those lenticular ones that clicked when you ran your thumbnail over them. It was a suffocating, comforting scent, the olfactory equivalent of a time capsule. It was the kind of deep-cleaning afternoon where progress is measured not by how much trash goes into the black plastic bags, but by how long you sit cross-legged on the hardwood floor, paralyzed by a sudden, heavy wave of nostalgia. A pile of discarded clothes lay forgotten to your left; a stack of old textbooks gathered dust to your right.
Among the high school yearbooks, plastic wrapped prom corsages, and faded concert tickets to bands that had long since broken up, sat a bundle of loose-leaf papers. They were bound together by a thick, beige rubber band that had long since lost its elasticity; it had dried out into a brittle, crusty ring that snapped at the slightest touch, leaving a chalky residue on your fingers.
You pulled the top sheet from the pile. The paper was standard wide-ruled school paper, slightly yellowed and brittle at the edges, bearing the distinct blue lines that used to dictate the boundaries of childhood thoughts. The page was covered in the overly careful, slightly cramped cursive of someone writing with immense deliberation—the handwriting of a child trying very hard to please a teacher in a language that was not entirely their own. The ink was a pale, vintage fountain pen blue, faint but perfectly legible.
Dear Y/N,
Thank you for your letter. Monaco is very nice today. The sun is shining and I can hear the cars outside. Today I practiced my English with my teacher, and then I went to the karting track. My father says if I work hard, I can be a champion one day. What is your favorite sport? I hope your English is better than mine.
Your friend,
Charles
A sudden rush of memory hit you, sharp and vivid. The third-grade international pen-pal program. Your elementary school teacher, Mrs. Gallagher, had set up a cultural exchange, pairing everyone in the class with students from European schools to help them practice their English conversational skills. You remembered the fierce excitement of waiting for those international stamps to arrive in the mail—brightly colored squares with foreign monarchs or landmarks—and tracing the textured postmarks with your thumb. You and Charles had exchanged letters for nearly two years, sharing the beautiful, mundane details of childhood life across an ocean. You had sent him a drawing of your dog; he had sent you a sticker from a local French bakery. Then the school year ended, middle school distractions took over, interests shifted, and the correspondence quietly faded into the background of growing up.
Amused by the earnestness of his eighth-grade vocabulary and the sweet simplicity of his ambition, you took a quick, aesthetic photo of the letter on your phone. The lighting from the bedroom window hit the page just right, highlighting the faded blue ink, the slight ink smudging on the capital letters where his hand had dragged across the page, and the innocent, naked declaration of a childhood dream.
You opened your social media app, uploaded the photo without thinking twice, and typed out a casual, lighthearted caption:
“Cleaning out my childhood bedroom and found these. Shoutout to my middle school pen-pal Charles from Monaco. I hope you made it to the karting championship, buddy. Your English was actually great.”
You locked your phone, tossed it onto the mattress of your unmade bed, and went back to sorting through old varsity sweatshirts and mismatched socks. You didn't think about it again for the rest of the afternoon.
Many time zones away, the paddock of the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya was buzzing with the chaotic, high-octane energy of a Formula 1 race weekend. The late afternoon sun beat down on the tarmac, and the air was thick with the scent of burning rubber, high-grade fuel, and expensive catering. Engineers were hovering over banks of monitors displaying complex telemetry data, mechanics were executing synchronized, blink-and-you-miss-it pit-stop drills in the garage, and the media pen was a chaotic sea of cameras, boom mics, and aggressive journalists.
In the quiet, air-conditioned sanctuary at the back of the Scuderia Ferrari hospitality suite, Charles Leclerc slumped into a pristine white leather sofa. He was exhausted, his hair damp with sweat and flattened by his balaclava after a grueling secondary practice session where the car's balance had felt completely uncooperative. His trainer handed him a protein recovery shake and a chilled towel. Charles wiped his face, sighing, and instinctively reached for his phone to kill the twenty minutes of downtime before his mandatory engineering data debrief.
He scrolled mindlessly through his notifications, templated sponsor tags, high quality fan edits set to trending audio, analytical race previews, and standard public relations alerts. It was a deluge of digital noise until a specific image caught his eye. It wasn't the kind of polished, high definition motorsport photography that usually filled his feed. It was a poorly lit, amateur photo of old, lined school paper, sitting on what looked like a bedroom floor.
Charles paused. The scrolling stopped. He zoomed in on the handwriting.
A strange sensation, a disorienting mix of vertigo and intense, buried familiarity, washed over him. He knew that handwriting. He recognized the specific, slightly exaggerated way those lowercase 'g's and 'y's looped at the bottom, a stubborn habit his childhood tutor, Madame Bonnet, had spent months trying to correct with a red pen. He read the English words, and a memory locked deep in the vault of his childhood suddenly broke wide open.
Monaco is very nice today... I went to the karting track.
"No way," Charles muttered under his breath, sitting up straight on the sofa, the recovery shake forgotten in his hand.
His trainer looked over from his laptop, raising an eyebrow. "Everything okay, Charles? Something from the data?"
"Yeah... no, it's nothing about the car," Charles murmured, his green eyes scanning the username of the account that had posted the photo. Y/N. The name instantly connected the scattered dots of a memory from fifteen years ago. Suddenly, he wasn't in a high tech paddock in Spain; he was ten years old, sitting at the wooden kitchen table in his family's apartment in Monaco. He remembered his mother cutting up slices of apple for him while he looked up English verbs in a heavy, French-English dictionary, determined to write a response that would sound smart and impress his friend across the Atlantic. He remembered the genuine heartbreak he had felt when the school program concluded, and the letters abruptly stopped coming—swallowed up by the relentless, demanding, and stressful schedule of junior karting championships that eventually consumed his entire youth.
A small, genuine smile broke across his face, entirely different from the practiced, media ready smiles he gave to the television cameras. He didn't notify his public relations team. He didn't ask for permission from the team principal. He simply tapped the direct message icon, his thumbs flying across the glass screen with far more speed, confidence, and fluency than the little boy who had struggled over that letter fifteen years ago.
Back in your bedroom, your phone buzzed against the mattress.
Then it buzzed again. And again. A rapid-fire succession of haptic vibrations caused the device to slide an inch across the sheets.
Within an hour, your notification feed had turned into an unreadable, runaway blur of activity. The screen was a continuous scroll of red numbers. You picked it up, thoroughly confused, assuming a stray hashtag had accidentally caught the attention of a rogue bot network or a crypto scam.
But when you opened the app, the notifications weren't random strings of spam numbers or automated advertisements. They were thousands of real comments, thousands of retweets, and an exponentially skyrocketing count of direct messages. Formula 1 fans, internet sleuths, and casual observers had intercepted the post, and it was spreading across the internet like wildfire.
“Is this a joke? Tell me this is a joke. There is no way this is real.”
“Bro casual dropped the most historic, multi-million-dollar flex in internet history.”
“Imagine having an F1 race winner as a childhood pen-pal and just finding out today??”
“OP, check your DMs right now, I am screaming for you.”
Baffled and feeling a sudden spike of adrenaline, you tapped on your direct messages icon. At the very top of the primary request folder, sitting beneath a prominent, verified blue checkmark and a professional profile picture of a handsome man wearing a red racing suit, was a message sent just ten minutes prior.
Charles Leclerc (@Charles_Leclerc)
“I did make it to the championship, actually! It took a lot of practice, just like the English. I cannot believe you still have this letter, it brings back so many good memories. How have you been, Y/N?”
Your breath caught sharply in your throat. You stared at the verified badge, then at the profile with its millions of followers, and then back down to the faded, yellowing piece of school paper sitting on your messy bedroom floor.
The little boy who had spent his sunny afternoons dreaming of racing tracks while struggling with foreign grammar had actually done it. And against all statistical probability, the vastness of the internet had just brought him back.
authors note: i don’t know if i like the plot or not, i had this written in my notes for so long and decided to post it, should i make a part 2?
summary: you choose frank (alt ending to three’s a crowd)
pairing: fem!reader x dennis whitaker (unrequited), fem!reader x frank langdon
warnings/tags: abby and kids do not exist in this universe, jealousy, flirting, angst (so much angst), swearing, so much fluffy cuteness, descriptions of medical procedures/injuries that you’d expect from the pitt
notes: my baby deserves this and more ty xoxo (also this gif are we joking...)
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍
masterlist
[Part 1] [Part 2]
You spent long enough up on the roof to watch the sun be swallowed by the city skyline. Long enough that the pleasant breeze had started to bite, no longer soothed by the late July sun.
Long enough, hopefully, for the rest of the day shift to have finally gone home. Long enough for even the usual stragglers to have surrendered their scrubs and handed the department over to the night crawlers.
Long enough that maybe you could make it to your locker without running into either of them.
Abott's words followed you all the way down the fire escape stairs.
I think deep down you already know which one of them might give you that.
You hated how simple he’d made it sound.
You kept your head down as you crossed the department.
You didn’t have the energy for the jumpy, painfully careful silence with Dennis, and you definitely didn’t have the emotional fortitude for whatever Frank was doing now - the hovering, the jokes, the way he kept forcing you to look at him like he knew avoidance was the only defence you had left and had decided to dismantle it piece by piece.
Unfortunately, Frank Langdon had always been very good at finding cracks in your defences.
"I thought Robby banished you hours ago."
You stopped.
Closed your eyes briefly.
Then turned.
Frank was leaning against a row of lockers, arms folded, expression carefully casual in a way that put you immediately on edge.
His gaze settled on you in that same attentive way it always did.
"I'm going home now."
His attention flicked briefly to the bandage above your eyebrow.
"Good."
“What are you still doing here?” You asked as you turned to open your locker.
Waiting for you, the answer sat heavily on the tip of his tongue.
"Avoiding my plant parent responsibilities." Was what he said instead.
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as you rummaged through your locker.
Frank saw it.
Of course he did.
“I let some old guy convince me to buy a String of Pearls.”
A laugh escaped before you could stop it as you glanced over your shoulder at him.
Something softened in his face immediately, so quickly that it felt almost unfair - like he’d been waiting all day for proof you could still laugh.
“That’s like the hardest plant to keep alive.”
“I know."
His grin widened slightly.
"I didn’t have you there to talk me out of it.”
“I told you Frank Langdon doesn’t give paternal.” You answered as you shut your locker.
You turned and nearly walked straight into him.
Somehow he'd moved closer.
Standing close enough now that you could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Close enough to notice the exhaustion etched around his eyes.
For a moment neither of you moved.
Then Frank reached up, his fingertip brushed lightly against the bandage above your eyebrow. The touch was so gentle it almost hurt, enough to make your breath hitch and your pulse stumble.
"It was coming loose." He explained, voice low.
You swallowed as his touch lingered. "Oh."
Frank's attention remained fix on your forehead as he smoothed out the edge.
"Robby did a good job."
"You'd hope so."
His hand lingered for a second longer than necessary, then finally fell away.
Your skin felt cold, like it was automatically starved of his touch.
You hated how aware you were of him.
You took a subtle step backwards, needing to create distance.
For a moment the two of you stood there eyeing each other. The room felt uncomfortably full with all of the unspoken things neither of you seemed capable of saying.
Eventually you gestured vaguely over your shoulder towards the exit.
"I should probably go."
Your voice sounded strange to your own ears.
"Doctor's orders and all that."
Frank shoved his hands into the pockets of his scrub pants, looking away briefly.
“Ok."
Something about the way he said it made you pause. He wasn't pushing, wasn't finding another excuse to keep you talking, wasn't trying to make you laugh.
The fluorescent light caught harshly against the tired lines of his face. For once, he didn’t look confident. He didn’t look amused or easy or untouchable. He didn't look like the version everyone else saw.
Instead he looked like someone bracing himself to be left behind.
Your chest pulled tight.
Frank opened his mouth.
For a second you thought he might finally say whatever had been sitting between the two of you for weeks.
“Goodnight.”
You nodded once.
“Goodnight.”
-
Your apartment was quiet when you got home. Oppressively so, like you were being squeezed from all sides and might burst.
You kicked your shoes off near the door and stood there for a moment in the dim entryway light, staring blankly at the unopened mail scattered across the counter and your clean laundry still in its basket from days ago. Everything looked strangely untouched, suspended in time while your life seemed to have detonated somewhere outside of it.
You exhaled slowly and wandered toward the kitchen, your head throbbing faintly as your painkillers wore off. The ache pulsed dully behind your stitches, but it was nothing compared to the pressure that had lodged itself beneath your ribs ever since Javadi’s party.
Your gaze drifted absently toward the fridge as you unscrewed your water bottle.
The photos were still tacked there.
Your stomach twisted.
You needed sleep. Or alcohol. Or to get hit again in the head but hard enough this time to make you slip into a coma.
You made it halfway to your bedroom before coming to a stand still.
The stupidly beautiful stained-glass lamp sat glowing softly in the corner of your living room, casting muted lilac and amber light across the walls.
You still hadn’t confronted Frank about it, mostly because doing so would require acknowledging why he'd bought it.
And acknowledging that felt dangerously close to acknowledging everything else.
You walked over slowly, fingertips brushing lightly against the cool glass petals. The light shifted across your skin.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
You tried to push thoughts of him out of your head.
Tried not to think about the way he remembered your coffee order despite complaining about it every single time. Or the way he automatically shifted during procedures because he knew where you preferred to stand. Or the way he always knew when to make a joke or when to leave you to wallow after a bad trauma.
The way he'd somehow inserted himself into hundreds of tiny corners of your life without you ever noticing it happening.
You sat down slowly on the edge of your bed, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of today's shift finally seep into your bones.
Your phone buzzed suddenly beside you, making you jump.
You reached for it automatically.
Three messages from Dennis.
hey
sorry if this is weird but
i just wanted to make sure your head is ok
Your heart twisted painfully.
Because even now - even after all of this - Dennis was still careful with you. Still giving you space. Still terrified of pushing too hard.
You typed back a quick confirmation that you were fine before tossing your phone further up the bed, unwilling to look at it any longer.
The apartment fell quiet again.
Your hand unconsciously drifted up to your forehead, brushing over your stitches.
Without permission, your brain conjured the memory of Frank's hand ghosting over your skin. The way his eyes locked with yours, the cut of his jaw as he scanned your face for signs of hurt.
You huffed, flopping onto your back. Your hands settled on your stomach as you stared up at your ceiling.
You thought about Dennis’ smile, his big eyes that made him look like a baby deer caught in headlights, the way his hand always hovered just close enough to yours to never quite be touching. The farm. The way he looked at you like you hung the moon.
Then, like always, Frank elbowed his way to the front of your conscious.
The way his eyes seemed to always find yours in any room, locking you in place. The way his hand had brushed your waist in the photo booth, the heat of him radiating into you. The way you were never quite sure what he was thinking when he looked at you.
The way his biceps bulged when he crossed his arms, the way his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip as he listened to you talk.
The way praise from him somehow mattered more than it should. The way you secretly loved how he treated you differently to everyone else at work. The way your body reacted whenever he was even in the same room as you.
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying and failing to get Frank Langdon out of your head.
Because no matter which direction your mind tried to run, it kept ending up in the same place.
“Fuck.”
-
The next few shifts passed the same way all the others had since Javadi’s birthday.
Except now, people's eyes flickered to the stitches above your eyebrow before darting between you, Frank and Dennis. Not obvious enough to call out, but not subtle enough to miss either.
It felt like the whole department was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
You threw yourself into work with almost frightening determination, clinging to routine like it might save you from having to think too hard. You picked up extra cases before anyone else could grab them, volunteered for procedures, spent longer than necessary updating your notes at the nurses station just so you always had something to look busy with.
It worked with most people.
Not with Frank.
Frank Langdon, unfortunately, had made a career out of noticing things other people missed.
Which meant he noticed the way you suddenly remembered somewhere else you needed to be whenever he entered a room. The way you conveniently found an excuse to swap out on his cases. The way your eyes slid past him whenever he spoke directly to you. The way your body seemed to recognise his presence before your brain did and immediately started looking for an escape route.
And because Frank was Frank, he doubled down. Even worse than he had been before the Ogilvie incident.
Your last name was the first he called when a trauma rolled in, he stood just a touch closer than absolutely necessary as he waited to sub in during compressions, and whenever you got thirty seconds to breathe, he appeared as though summoned by some invisible force neither of you understood.
And every morning, before Shen could reach you, an iced latte with your name scrawled on it would appear somewhere within your line of sight.
You never saw him leave them, but you knew.
By the end of the week you were beginning to suspect he possessed the supernatural ability to sense your exact location at all times.
It was nearing the end of another brutal shift when you found yourself alone in the breakroom trying to force down half a protein bar and enough caffeine to survive the last two hours.
Your body ached. Your feet hurt. Your forehead still throbbed if you bent down too quickly. And emotionally, you felt like someone had scraped you hollow.
The door to the breakroom opened behind you.
You didn’t even need to look up to know it was Frank.
He leaned back against the counter beside the coffee machine, studying you quietly while it brewed.
His arms were folded loosely across his chest, his expression was deceptively casual. His eyes weren't.
"You look exhausted."
"Gee hello to you too." You remarked dryly.
A soft huff of laughter left him at that.
The sound wrapped around your ribs before you could stop it.
"You don't look exactly like the picture of health either."
“Yeah, but mine’s from old age and substance abuse.” He tilted his head slightly. “What’s your excuse?”
Your lips twitched as you shook your head.
“There’s something genuinely wrong with you.”
“I know." He nodded solemnly. "I've been diagnosed multiple times.”
A snort escaped before you could stop it.
Something in his expression softened immediately, like every tiny crack in your composure felt monumental to him now.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, which somehow made it worse.
Frank glanced down at the half eaten protein bar in your hand.
“Those things tastes like drywall.”
“You’ve had one?”
“Multiple. I lost a bet to Robby once and had to eat them for a week straight.”
You grimaced.
"That feels like a health risk."
"It was."
Before you could react, Frank leant forward and took a bite out of it while it was still sitting in your hand.
You blinked.
Frank pulled back, chewing thoughtfully. His eyes flicked up to yours as he winced.
"Yep." He said through a mouthful. "Still tastes like shit."
You stared at him.
"You did not just do that."
"Do what?"
You looked down at the mangled remains of your protein bar, then back at him.
"I don't remember consenting to you contaminating my food with your germs."
Frank rolled his eyes. "Oh please."
He pointed at the remaining piece.
"I could physically see you losing the will to live trying to finish that thing."
His hand gestured vaguely.
"I've done you a favour."
You laughed before you could stop yourself. A real one this time, the kind that bubbled out unexpectedly.
Frank grinned as he watched you laugh, like he was committing it to memory.
Like he'd forgotten whatever he was going to say next. Like hearing you laugh after weeks of distance had affected him more than he wanted to admit.
And for a brief moment, everything felt normal again.
Princess suddenly appeared at the doorway, the sound of your last name making you turn.
"Robby's looking for you."
You sighed, tossing the remains of the protein bar into the bin,.
"On it." You nodded.
When you turned back to Frank, his smile had faded. You felt your heart jump in your chest as his gaze met yours.
"I'll see you later."
His gaze held yours for a beat too long. Then he nodded, his Adams apple bobbing as he swallowed. "See you."
-
Two shifts later and you were in the supply closet, trying to find a very specific size of sutures.
Or at least that was the official reason you were there.
Unofficially, you were hiding.
The department had been relentless all day. Every room felt too crowded. Every interaction felt loaded. Every time you turned around it seemed like someone was watching you, waiting for whatever inevitable explosion everyone seemed convinced was coming.
"You know." A voice remarked casually behind you. "At this point I'm starting to think you genuinely hate me."
You nearly dropped the packet of suture kits in your hands.
“Jesus Christ.” You muttered, pressing a hand briefly to your chest as you turned to meet Frank's eyes. “Do you always move that quietly or are you doing it on purpose now?”
His mouth twitched.
Not an admission, but not a denial either.
You turned back to the shelves before your traitorous body could react any further.
“I’m serious.” His voice sounded closer this time. “You’ve fled from me four times today.”
You grabbed another box.
“I have not.”
“You literally turned around mid-conversation with Princess and walked into a curtain.”
Heat climbed your neck.
“That was unrelated.”
Frank hummed, unconvinced.
“Can I help you with something?” You asked, continuing to inspect shelves that no longer held anything you actually needed.
"Not really, I just like spending my spare time in supply closets."
You shut your eyes briefly.
There it was.
That stupid humour. That effortless ability to slip beneath your defences before you even realised they were lowering.
“Frank.”
His expression softened slightly at your tone.
"Are we going to keep doing this?"
The humour had vanished entirely when you turned around.
"Doing what?"
He shot you a knowing look.
The kind that made you feel far too seen.
The kind that always seemed to strip away every excuse you'd carefully prepared beforehand.
Your cheeks warmed instantly.
"Can we not do this at work?"
"We're always at work." He countered.
"That's not-"
"You've been avoiding me."
"I've been avoiding both of you."
The words came out sharper than you intended.
Frank’s face flickered.
"Yeah, I've noticed."
You swallowed, glancing down at the floor as your chest tightened.
You hated how well he knew you.
You looked at him properly then, frustration finally breaking through.
“What exactly am I supposed to do in this situation, Frank?”
Something flashed across his face.
Hope. Even after the party. After the silence. After you’d practically been running from him for over a week.
Frank studied you quietly for a moment before speaking.
“Talk to me.”
The simplicity of it nearly undid you.
Because underneath all the jokes and pushing and relentless attempts to corner you into engaging with him, that was all he’d really been asking for.
Not even to choose him. Just asking to not shut him out.
Your throat tightened painfully.
“I don’t know how to do this without hurting someone.”
For the first time in days, Frank stopped trying to be funny.
The humour left his face completely, exposing something far more dangerous underneath.
"Dragging yourself through hell trying not to make anyone unhappy is only going to hurt everyone else more. Especially you."
The honesty of it landed like a physical blow.
You looked away immediately, trying to ignore the way your heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of your chest out of your chest.
Before you could spiral further, Frank unexpectedly stepped closer. Close enough that you immediately became aware of every inch separating you.
"What are you doing?"
His arm lifted, resting against the shelf above your head.
"Helping."
Your eyebrows shut up. "Helping?"
His mouth twitched. "You seem stuck."
You hated him. Hated him for making your heart race at the worst possible moments, for looking at you like that, for refusing to let things stay simple.
You forced yourself to jut your chin up to meet his gaze.
"And how is this helping me, exactly?"
Frank's smile disappeared. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.
The movement sent heat shooting through you.
"Tell me you feel nothing."
"What?"
"Between us." He clarified, his eyes dragging over your face. "Tell me you feel nothing-“ He swallowed. “-and that this is all in my head.”
It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the small space in that moment. The mood shifted as any trace of amusement shifted from his features.
“Tell me-“ He repeated again, his voice quietening to a strained whisper. “-and I'll leave you alone. No more supply closet ambushes, no more coffees, perfectly respectable co-worker boundaries only.”
Your eyes involuntarily dragged from his forearm, to his bicep, all the way to his face, lingering on his mouth.
You swallowed, your pulse roaring in your ears. "Frank-"
"Tell me." And for the first time since you'd known him, it sounded dangerously close to pleading. Like he he needed to hear the confirmation so he could stop hoping, stop waiting.
You froze like a startled deer, your heart pounding in your chest as you felt his arm brush against yours.
“I-“ You started, your eyes involuntarily flickering down to his mouth, then back to his eyes.
You felt yourself inch just a touch closer. Barely noticeable, but Frank spotted it, his breathing changing instantly.
“I…”
The door to the supply closet swung open. The spell shattered instantly The sounds of the department rushed in at a brutal pace, the fluorescent lights streaming in.
Frank pulled away immediately, but not quick enough.
Dana stood there, one hand on her hip, brows raised as she glanced between the two of you.
You reacted on impulse.
“Found what I was looking for.” You announced to no one in particular as you blindly snatched a packet of sutures from behind you.
You ducked under Dana’s arm that was leaning on the edge of the doorframe, shooting her a sheepish grin before disappearing with the grace of a newly born lamb.
Dana turned and watched you go before settling her gaze on Frank.
“I was just-“
She raised a hand up to stop him. “I don’t want to know.”
Frank remained exactly where he'd been left standing, staring at the doorway like he could somehow will you back through it.
Then her expression involuntarily softened, letting out a small sigh as she studied his pathetic expression.
"You have to stop playing these games, kid."
Frank looked down at the packet of saline he'd apparently picked up at some point.
He couldn't remember doing it.
"Tell her how you feel."
A bitter smile tugged at his mouth.
"I'm trying."
Dana snorted.
"No. You're flirting."
Frank opened his mouth. Closed it again.
"What's the actual plan here?"
Frank didn't answer. Because he didn't have one.
At first he'd convinced himself that if he was patient enough, funny enough, persistent enough, eventually things would settle. Eventually you'd stop avoiding him. Eventually you'd look at him the way you used to.
But now, he couldn't help but wonder if you'd made your choice. A possibility that had been sitting quietly in the back of his mind for days.
He'd just been trying very hard not to look directly at it.
Dennis. The thought alone made something unpleasant twist in his chest. Kind, safe, the sort of guy people introduced to their parents.
The sort of guy who didn't have entire sections of his life he wished he could erase.
Frank swallowed.
Dana's expression shifted. She'd known him too long, seen too much.
"Tell her."
"What if I'm too late?"
Dana held his gaze.
She didn't tell him what she could see so plainly - that you and him were so clearly inevitable. That you were so clearly scared of the intensity of the connection the two of you shared.
"Then at least she'll know." Was all she said instead.
The words lingered long after she left.
Frank remained standing in the supply closet alone, staring at the doorway you'd disappeared through.
For the first time in weeks, he didn't immediately think about how to get you to talk to him. Or what excuse he could invent to keep you in the same room.
Instead he found himself wondering something far more dangerous. Whether Dana was right. Whether he'd already lost. Whether he'd be able to survive it.
And if he had, whether he was brave enough to tell you anyway.
-
Sleep proved impossible that night.
Your brain felt like someone had thrown every thought, feeling and memory you possessed into a blender and hit start.
You lasted maybe twenty minutes lying in bed before frustration finally forced you upright again.
The apartment was dark except for the lamp.
Soft lilac and amber light spilled across the tiles as you wandered barefoot into the living room, your oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder as you passed the couch.
The city glowed softly outside, the muted sounds of cars driving past offering some comfort that there were at least some other people that were still awake.
You were exhausted.
But every time you closed your eyes, your mind immediately betrayed you.
Dennis smiling softly across a diner booth.
Frank’s hand settling beneath your ribs in the photobooth.
Dennis asking if you wanted to come to his farm.
Frank saying I missed you like it had cost him something to admit.
You groaned quietly and dropped face first onto the couch cushions.
The apartment, unsurprisingly, offered no solutions.
After a moment, you rolled onto your back and stared blankly up at the ceiling.
Objectively speaking, the answer should have been easy.
Dennis was kind. Steady. Safe.
He listened carefully when you spoke. He noticed small things. He made space for people. He was one of your best friends. You socialised in the same circle of people. Your lives fit together neatly, logically.
So why did every thought somehow keep circling back to Frank?
Your eyes caught on the book sitting on your coffee table. You reached for it absentmindedly, hoping reading a few chapters might distract you and bring on sleep.
You barely managed to open it before something slipped free from between the pages, falling onto your lap.
Your breath caught.
The spare copy of the photo booth photos you had forgotten to give Frank.
You stared at them in your hand, at the softened edges, the slight bend through the middle from repeated use.
You’d been using it as a bookmark.
Not consciously. Not deliberately. Just… naturally.
A shaky laugh escaped you, the sound swallowed up by the empty apartment.
Your thumb brushed over the image instinctively.
Frank looking at you instead of the camera in each frame, like he physically couldn’t stop himself. And somehow, despite every logical instinct screaming otherwise, you looked at him the same way.
Because he’d seen you at your highs and your lowest of lows in this job. Seen you covered in snot, shivering in the stairwell after one of your first unsuccessful reductions. Seen you on days you weren't particularly likeable. Seen the mistakes, the self-doubt and had just accepted it. Accepted you.
Even now with all of this he’d never made you feel judged. Until Javadi’s, had never taken an opportunity to talk Dennis down, had respected your wishes to leave Dennis alone. All the while hiding his own feelings.
You had no doubt that he would be accepting of you being friends with Dennis. That he wouldn’t treat you any different if you didn’t choose him.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Because that was the thing you hadn’t fully let yourself acknowledge until now. Frank saw you.
The same way you saw him.
You knew every fault, every ugly scar, every secret and yet, despite that or more correctly because of that, you still wanted him.
And suddenly you understood why you’d been so desperate to avoid him these past weeks.
It wasn’t because you were confused anymore. It was because somewhere deep down, you already knew.
And knowing meant eventually having to say it out loud. Which meant hurting Dennis, risking friendships, changing things.
Your gaze drifted back toward the lamp glowing softly in the corner.
You were tired of this.
Tired of fighting your own reactions to him. Tired of pretending you didn’t feel the atmosphere shift every time he walked into a room. Tired of acting like your pulse didn’t immediately spike whenever he looked at you for too long.
Tired of fighting something that seemed determined to follow you wherever you went.
Tired of pretending that he didn't feel inevitable.
For the first time since Javadi's party, the panic that had been following you everywhere began to loosen its grip.
Not because the situation was any less complicated, but because you finally had the truth.
And as terrifying as it was, there was something strangely freeing about that.
You weren't trying to decide between Dennis and Frank anymore.
You were trying to figure out how to live with the fact that you'd already chosen.
And that was a very different problem.
-
You found Dennis during your next shift without really meaning to.
You had both just come out of back to back traumas, a multiple vehicle collision. Numerous resuscitations, intubations - the works. By the time you finally escaped, your scrubs felt glued to your skin and your head was pounding behind your eyes.
The ambulance bay was meant to be a welcome reprieve. Instead, you stopped short when you found the back of one of the parked ambulances already occupied.
He was sitting on the back step of one of the ambulances, elbows resting on his knees as he stared out across the parking lot. The afternoon sun was beginning to sink lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the concrete.
His curls were messier than usual, flattened in places where he'd clearly been dragging his hands through them all day. There were dark circles beneath his eyes too, the kind exhaustion alone didn't entirely explain.
As if sensing you looking at him, Dennis glanced up.
And froze.
The reaction was subtle enough most people wouldn’t have caught it. But you did.
The way he straightened slightly. The immediate softness in his expression. The almost imperceptible panic that followed right after it.
"Sorry-" You started. "I didn't mean to interrupt-"
"It's fine." Dennis brushed off your apology, gesturing to the space beside him. "You're not interrupting."
He wiped his hands on his scrubs as you came to sit beside him.
The metal beneath you was warm from the sun.
The distant sounds of the pitt drifted through the open bay doors behind you.
"Your cut looks like it’s healing well.” Dennis said after a moment.
"Yeah. Robby would probably kill me if I didn't follow the proper aftercare."
Dennis' mouth twitched, nodding in understanding as he fiddled with his watch strap.
Silence settled awkwardly between you. It was worlds apart to when you'd last been out here, when you'd seen Dennis flex his hand out of the corner of your eye and had wondered if he might take yours in his.
Now it was like both of you were standing on opposite sides of thin ice trying not to crack it further.
“This is weird.”
You huffed out a laugh.
“Yeah it really fucking is.”
Dennis rubbed the back of his neck lightly before speaking again.
"You don't have to worry you know."
Your brows knitted. "What?"
He shot you a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
“About me making things harder.”
Your chest constricted painfully.
“Den-"
“No, it’s okay.” He shook his head gently before you could continue. “I mean it.”
The steadiness in his voice somehow made it worse. Because you could hear how hard he was working to keep it that way.
Your throat tightened.
Because somehow, even now, he was trying to make things easier for you.
“I didn’t want any of this.”
“I know.”
He studied you for a moment.
"That day he came back-" Dennis looked away. “I knew.”
The confession landed softly between you, like something he'd been carrying for a very long time.
You didn't interrupt.
Dennis stared out towards the parking lot.
“You two have this thing.”
He glanced down briefly, like he was trying to find the right words.
“The way you look for eachother in a room. The way you somehow always end up next to each other, the way you work like you’re in each other’s heads…” He trailed off as he swallowed heavily.
You stared at him, unable to speak.
“You may not realise it yet but...” A sad smile pulled briefly at his mouth. “I think it’s always been him."
Dennis shook his head slightly as glanced down at his hands. "Even if I don't really understand why."
"If it makes you feel any better... I don't understand it either." You murmured after a moment.
There was a moment of heavy silence. You saw something flicker across Dennis' face. Because you hadn't denied it, hadn't tried to explain your actions. You'd only confirmed he was right without actually saying it.
"It doesn't."
The honesty of it landed hard.
When he looked back at you, there was no accusation in his expression. Just vulnerability. Raw and unguarded in a way Dennis rarely allowed himself to be.
"I think... I think I'm going to need some space."
You knew it was coming, but it didn't make the blow land any less heavy.
"Of course." Your voice cracked slightly.
Dennis nodded, more to himself than anything. He glanced down at his hands again, trying to hide the wetness of his eyes.
And suddenly every instinct you had screamed at you to fix it.
You wanted to hug him, to tell him he was one of your best friends and that nothing had to change - but you couldn’t. Because both of you knew that would be a lie.
"I'll always care about you Den."
The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them.
Dennis visibly flinched. Not dramatically, but enough that it felt like watching a bruise form.
"Whitaker." He corrected quietly.
"Please."
Your chest had constricted so sharply you thought it might cave in entirely.
Because you knew he was trying to put distance between himself and something that hurt. Trying to become your coworker again because being your Dennis was no longer an option.
"Whitaker." You repeated quietly.
Dennis looked up at you after a moment.
"I'll always care about you too."
For a second neither of you moved.
Then he let out a long breath and scrubbed both hands down his face.
“Even if your taste in men is objectively questionable.”
That broke the tension just enough for you to huff out a watery laugh.
And even though he smiled again, you could still see the pain written all over his face.
And as you sat beside him in the fading afternoon light, watching him stare out across the parking lot, you found yourself desperately hoping that time would eventually give you back some version of what you'd lost.
-
Despite your conversation with Dennis, you were still doing your best to avoid Frank.
You knew it was unfair, bordering on immature and most definitely cowardly.
The confusion that had been plaguing you for weeks was gone now, replaced by a terrifying sort of certainty that felt infinitely harder to deal with.
Because confusion at least gave you somewhere to hide. Confusion meant you could tell yourself you didn't know. That you needed more time. That eventually everything would sort itself out.
Now you had no such cover. Instead, you now had to figure out how you were going to say the things you wanted to say out loud.
And once you did that, there would be no taking it back.
You lasted exactly three more days before everything fell apart.
You were in the last half of a relatively uneventful shift by pitt standards when Dana asked you (or really, told you) to assess a new patient in room 5.
"Can do." You answered, rerouting to the other end of the hall.
"Langdon's already assessed her in triage."
You ignored the way your stomach fluttered at the sound of his name. God, you were pathetic.
"Thanks."
Princess appeared beside you and handed over a tablet as the two of you headed down the hall.
"Patient is Rosie McLean, 74 years old, came in complaining of intermittent chest pain and general fatigue. Vitals are stable.”
You nodded, flicking through the file notes as Princess opened the door.
"Hi Rosie, I’m-“
You stopped short for a moment, your name dying on your tongue as you took in the patient in front of you.
It was the lady who owned the vintage store.
Maybe she wouldn't remember you, she must see hundreds of people every-
You watched as her eyes lit up with unmistakable recognition immediately, sparking panic through your entire system.
"I know who you are, you're the lovely girl from the other week." Rosie beamed.
Princess shot you a look that demanded an explanation.
"Rosie here owns a very nice vintage store." You explained in response as you pumped a handful of sanitiser onto your hands. "And helped me decorate about half my apartment."
"You didn't tell me you and your boyfriend were doctors dear." Rosie continued happily.
Princess' head snapped towards you so fast you were surprised she didn't sustain whiplash.
"Boyfriend?"
Fuck.
"He's not my boyfriend." You corrected lightly. "Anyway, should we talk about what's brought you in today-"
Rosie frowned. "What do you mean he's not your boyfriend?"
You laughed awkwardly. "He's just a friend." You insisted, ignoring Princess' eyes practically burning holes into the side of your face.
"Nonsense." Rosie scoffed, waving a dismissive hand
"When that boy came back to buy you that lamp he couldn't stop talking about you." Rosie shook her head, apparently delighted at the idea of having an audience.
"Going on about how you worked so hard and never bought yourself anything nice and that you deserved something beautiful for your new apartment. How he wanted to give you a little piece of himself for your new place."
Your heart was now actively attempting to leave your body.
The room suddenly felt much smaller.
Princess looked moments away from exploding.
Rosie glanced towards her. "Now what kind of friend says that?"
"Not a single one I've ever had." Princess agreed, a smirk so wide it was almost offensive.
"And the way he looked at her." Rosie shook her head. "That's true love my dears."
"I'd pay very good money to see that."
You shot Princess a look, which she very intentionally ignored.
“Anyway." You cleared your throat pointedly. "Let’s get back to-“
The door opened before you could continue.
Your stomach dropped when you locked eyes with Frank.
“Sorry to interrupt.” His eyes flickered to Princess. “Did we get those results back yet on our patient in Room 3?”
“Not yet.” Princess answered.
“Ok thanks.”
Frank’s eyes lingered on you for a moment.
That was all it took.
"There." Rosie immediately pointed between the two of you.
"See?"
Your soul left your body.
“Meant to be.”
Princess froze, then slowly turned towards you and Frank.
"Wait-" Her eyes widened. “Langdon’s the guy you were in the vintage store with?”
Nobody answered.
"Oh my god."
You wanted the floor to open beneath you. Frank looked like he was considering throwing himself into traffic. And Rosie looked thrilled.
-
You somehow managed to get through Rosie’s consult without anymore mentions of Frank or you collapsing into an embarrassed pile of mush on the floor.
But by the time you were stripping off your gloves, your entire body felt wound impossibly tight.
Because now there was another person that was going to start telling you what you'd already started admitting to yourself.
You threw your gloves into the bin and hurried out of the room before Princess could corner you and demand answers.
You could practically feel her running to tell Perlah everything, which meant that by the end of your shift the entire floor would know.
The pitt suddenly felt far too small.
Your breathing had started to feel strangely uneven by the time you reached the hallway. You turned sharply, heading straight for the on-call rooms.
Just five minutes to yourself, that’s all you needed.
But of course, that wasn’t what the universe had planned for you.
You’d barely shut the door behind you when you heard a faint knock.
“Yeah?” You called out, unable to hide your exasperation.
“Sorry.”
Your stomach flipped violently when the door opened.
“It’s fine.” You said, watching as Frank took that as permission to step inside.
“You ok?”
The door clicked shut behind him.
“Yeah I just-“ You inhaled sharply. “Don’t think I was ready for Princess of all people to find all of that information out.”
Frank nodded in understanding, eyes tracking every micro expression on your features.
“I get it, going furniture shopping with me is pretty much rock bottom.”
“Yeah that was my cry for help if you didn't realise.”
“I know, that’s why I’ve booked you in for one of our complimentary psych sessions.”
The tension eased just enough as your mouth curved slightly.
His eyes sparked as he watched your face.
Like always, Frank knew exactly what to say to get you to stop spiralling, to make you feel like you could actually take a breath.
You leant against the hospital bed, crossing your arms in front of your chest.
“Thank you.” You said quietly after a moment.
His brows knitted. “For what?”
“The lamp. I never said thank you. It's..." You glanced away briefly before looking up at him through your lashes. "It's perfect."
“It was nothing." He shrugged lightly. "You deserve it."
You studied him for a moment.
“Did you really say all that stuff to Rosie when you went back to buy it?”
"What stuff?"
You shot him a pointed look.
"The stuff about me working hard and deserving something nice."
"Yeah I did."
"Frank..."
"What?"
A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "You do work hard and you never buy yourself nice things. The least I could do was buy you that lamp."
The honesty in his voice stole the air from your lungs. Like he couldn't even understand why any of that would be surprising. Of course he'd wanted to give you something that would make you happy.
"And did you say the other thing?"
A faint flush crept up the back of Frank's neck. It was subtle. If you hadn't spent years studying his expressions, you might have missed it entirely.
Frank let out a breathless sort of laugh, dragging a hand over his jaw.
"What? About me wanting to give you a piece of myself for your new place?"
He took a step towards you.
"Because I said that too."
The air shifted between you then.
That dangerous pull that always seemed to happen when the two of you were alone too long.
Frank seemed to feel it too because his expression changed almost imperceptibly, humour fading into something quieter. More vulnerable.
"You know, you never gave me an answer the other day."
“Frank-“
“No, wait.” His voice came out rougher than intended. Softer. “Just - give me like… thirty more seconds before you start avoiding me again.”
You stared at him.
He took your silence as permission to continue.
“I need to say some things. And then you can give me your answer.”
And suddenly all the confidence people associated with Frank Langdon felt paper thin.
Your stomach contorted painfully, your nerves making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.
“Okay.” You breathed out.
Frank looked down briefly, like he was trying to organise thoughts he usually kept hidden behind jokes and sarcasm and easy charm.
Then he looked back at you.
And for the first time since you’d known him, Frank Langdon seemed genuinely nervous.
“Last year when Robby found the drugs in my locker…” He swallowed once. “My first thought wasn’t about my job.”
Your breath caught.
Frank’s eyes stayed fixed on yours.
“It wasn’t about what other people would think. About the fact I might lose my job or go to prison. About letting Robby down.”
His mouth twisted slightly.
“It was you.”
Your chest constricted violently.
“All I could think about was you finding out.” He continued quietly.
Frank laughed softly under his breath, but there was no humour in it.
“I hated the idea of you looking at me differently. Of losing your respect and trust.” His voice roughened further now, every carefully constructed layer of confidence starting to splinter apart in front of you.
“And then you showed up at rehab with a bag full of contraband takeout.”
“You have no idea what I had to go through to sneak that in there by the way.” You joked faintly.
A small smile twisted up on his lips.
“And then even after I told you what I'd done, I came back here and you still looked at me like…” He stopped himself, jaw tightening briefly. “Like I was still me.”
Frank shook his head once, almost frustrated with himself.
“And you know what the really fucked up part is?” He asked quietly.
Your stomach flipped.
“What?”
“When I came back…” He exhaled slowly through his nose. “I saw how much you'd grown, saw the connections you'd made. And I told myself that I'd give you space, that I'd already fucked up my chance."
Your pulse thudded painfully.
“But then you’d smile at me.” His laugh was quiet and wrecked at the edges. “Or make a joke. Or look at me like my opinion mattered…” He cut himself off briefly. “And then I couldn't stay away."
The room felt unbearably warm suddenly, because you knew exactly what he meant.
Frank’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again, restraint visibly tightening through his shoulders.
"And I was too selfish and scared to let you go." He admitted.
That shattered something in you completely.
Because beneath all the teasing and persistence and pushing, you finally understood the truth, Frank hadn’t been chasing you because he thought he was entitled to you. He’d been chasing you because he was terrified that if he stopped reaching for you, you’d stop seeing him.
You pushed off the edge of the bed to move towards him.
"Luckily for you, that's not your decision to make."
You felt yourself step closer before you consciously decided to.
Frank stilled.
"That thing between us…" You breathed out, your voice quieter now, stripped of all the excuses and deflections you'd been hiding behind for weeks. "Every time I'm in the same room as you, every time I think about you, every time I look at that lamp sitting in my apartment…"
A helpless laugh escaped you.
"I feel it, Frank."
He looked at you like the ground beneath him had shifted.
His eyes searched your face carefully, as though he was looking for hesitation, for uncertainty, for any sign that you might take the words back.
He didn't find it.
"And I was so scared to admit it." You continued. "Because once I admitted it, it became real. And real meant consequences."
Your eyes drifted briefly to his mouth before finding his gaze again.
"But now I have, I can't fight it anymore."
The corner of your mouth lifted.
"I don't want to fight it anymore."
Every inch of him was focused entirely on you as you took another step closer.
"There's your answer."
Frank looked at you for a long moment.
Like he was trying to convince himself he'd heard correctly. Like he was terrified this was another dream he was about to wake up from.
Then something inside him finally gave way. Pure, overwhelming relief. The kind that came from carrying something heavy for so long you'd forgotten what it felt like to put it down.
He moved, bringing the two of you close enough now that your breath tangled together.
“If I kiss you right now." He said quietly, voice rough enough to make your stomach flip violently, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back."
Your breath caught.
No games, no ambiguity. Just Frank standing in front of you offering his heart with shaking hands.
"I don't want to go back, ever."
For a second neither of you moved.
The silence stretched between you, heavy with anticipation and relief and every feeling that had been building for months.
Then Frank's hand lifted slowly to your jaw, his touch careful.
You leaned into it instinctively.
And then he kissed you.
The kiss was soft at first, more emotion than urgency, years of friendship and months of longing finally finding somewhere to go. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck as he drew you closer, and the moment your fingers tangled in the front of his scrubs you felt the last of his restraint disappear.
The kiss deepened instantly. Your back met the edge of the hospital bed, Frank stepping closer without breaking the kiss. His hand settled at your waist, squeezing tightly like he was grounding himself just as much as he was grounding you.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathing a little harder than before.
Frank rested his forehead against yours and let out a disbelieving laugh.
"Jesus Christ."
A helpless smile spread across your face.
"Yeah."
He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, his gaze moving slowly across your face as though he was committing every detail to memory.
"You're so fucking beautiful."
You actually thought your heart might burst out of your chest at that.
You reached up instinctively, brushing your thumb lightly along the line of his jaw.
Frank's eyes fluttered shut for a moment, blindly finding your other hand and squeezing it gently.
And in that moment, everything finally felt exactly the way it was supposed to.
"Careful Langdon." You murmured after a moment, your tone making his lashes flutter open.
"That's starting to sound like preferential treatment."
His eyes darkened a touch, the Frank Langdon smirk you knew too well reappearing on his lips.
“Trust me, you haven’t seen what actual preferential treatment looks like yet.” He murmured.
“Is that so?” You whispered, nose bumping against his.
He hummed against your mouth, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips.
“Well." You continued, your hands fisting the material of his scrubs again. "You know I've always been a visual learner.”
That was all it took for him to hastily press his lips against yours again.
-
The next few days at the Pitt felt strangely fragile.
Not bad. Not awkward in the catastrophic, world-ending way you’d feared.
Just… delicate.
Like the three of you had survived an explosion and were now carefully stepping through the debris trying not to trigger another one.
You knew that Santos knew. You could see it in the way she looked at you, at the disappointment that flashed across her features. That was another unintended fallout that you were desperately trying to piece back together.
You and Frank had decided it was best to keep everything under wraps, which was proving to be impossible because Frank constantly looked like he was visibly restraining himself from touching you.
A few weeks later, the photobooth strip quietly appeared on the inside of Frank’s locker.
Then you started arriving to work together, a coffee already in your hand before Shen could pass you one.
And then one evening Dana caught the two of you making out in Frank's car.
If people hadn’t caught on by then, they certainly had now.
Dennis was still making a very concentrated effort to avoid being alone with either of you for too long. And although it hurt, you understood that he needed a little space to reassemble himself. But, you’d seen flickers of your past friendship emerge in stressful situations - enough to give you hope that things would eventually settle into something comfortable.
Frank understood, even encouraged you to talk about how you missed Dennis being in your life, comforted you when you confided in him.
All of which only made you fall for him harder. Because he was the same calm, secure man he’d always been. Still only wanted whatever would make you happy.
“You’re staring again.” You muttered under your breath as you updated your charts.
“I’m literally reading a patient file.”
You glanced sideways.
Frank was, in fact, not reading the patient file.
He was looking directly at you over the top of it, staring at you with the same intensity that he always did.
“You’re annoying.”
“Funny, that’s not what you said last night.”
Heat flared immediately up your neck.
Unfortunately, McKay happened to be walking past at the same time.
“You know, there’s a thing called appropriate workplace behaviour, and this conversation most certainly does not fall into that category.”
Frank grinned unapologetically.
“You’ll survive.”
“I actually might not.”
Javadi snorted beside her.
Frank glanced over at you, shooting you a wink before heading to his next patient. You couldn't hide the smile on your face as you turned back to your charting.
The ease of it startled you sometimes.
How quickly you and Frank had fallen into this.
Or maybe not fallen. Maybe just… stopped resisting.
Because now that everything was out in the open, it felt almost absurdly obvious.
The way you automatically orbited each other. The way your humour bounced off each other effortlessly. The way you read each others minds. The way he looked for you in every room like it was instinct.
You noticed all of it now.
And apparently so did everybody else.
“You know.” Mateo mused later that same shift when he found himself beside you in the breakroom. “I always thought after you and Langdon finally hooked up it would resolve your weird sexual tension, but it just seems to have made it worse.”
You nearly spat your coffee out.
“What?”
Mateo shrugged casually.
“It’s almost uncomfortable for the rest of us dude.”
“Oh my god.”
From one of the chairs, Princess pointed at you.
“See? Look how red she gets whenever someone mentions him.”
“I do not-“
“You’re practically a tomato.”
-
Later, you were back at the nurses station and of course, Frank was hovering nearby.
“Everyone knows.” You murmured low enough to ensure that it only reached his ears, keeping your eyes fixed on the screen in front of you.
“Knows what?”
You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.
“About us.”
Frank hummed thoughtfully.
“Well it’s not exactly hard to figure out, what with you practically drooling over me constantly.”
Your lips pursed as you tried to fight a smile.
“Don’t pretend you’re not the obsessed one Langdon.”
“Never said I wasn’t.” He shot back smoothly.
The answer came so quickly that you actually looked up from your screen.
A laugh escaped before you could stop it when he winked at you.
You shook your head and turned back to your computer.
“So…” He added after a moment. “Mine tonight? I may or may not have got a booking at that new place around the corner.”
Your smile widened. “Sounds perfect.”
“Cool.”
After a moment, Frank's hand brushed yours beneath the desk, the touch brief enough that nobody else would notice.
You glanced sideways instinctively.
Frank was already looking at you.
His mouth twitched slightly when he caught you staring back.
And somehow, for the first time in a very long time, everything felt steady.
Frank glanced down at your hand still resting beside his. Then back at you.
That familiar look settled across his features, the one that had followed you through through years of friendship and months of denial.
The one you'd finally stopped pretending not to understand.
Your stomach fluttered anyway.
“Your staring is becoming a workplace hazard."
Frank's smile widened.
“Guess you'll just have to file another comp claim."
You rolled your eyes.
But your hand turned over beneath the desk, threading briefly through his before one of the nurses called out for Langdon.
And as Frank disappeared down the hallway, you found yourself watching him go.
Halfway down the hall, he glanced back.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he disappeared around the corner.
And despite the chaos unfolding around you, you found yourself smiling too.
Because after months of fighting it, denying it and overthinking it into oblivion, you'd finally stopped asking yourself what if.
Finally stopped running from it and started running towards it.
Towards him.
And now, you didn't think you ever wanted to stop.
As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍
His hips are grinding into yours, not thrusting, grinding. His cock never leaves the confines of your warm pussy, only moves ever so slightly between your fluttering walls, in a way that makes you feel every ridges and veins that adorn his dick.
Jake’s lips are leaving open mouthed kisses where his head is nudged in the crook of your neck.
“Fuck, you feel so good…” he practically whines out into your skin.
The lazy desperation in his voice makes you clench. Jake has always been loud in bed, never been ashamed of it. If he feels good, he’ll make damn sure you, along with the whole neighborhood, knows it. But there’s just something so much more unguarded, shameless, and loud about him when he is sleepy. It’s like all and every inhibitions are gone, not that he has any to really begin with but still.
He lifts his head from your neck, green eyes half lidded and mouth slightly agape from pleasure, it’s one of the very rare occurrence where a smirk isn’t stretching out his lips.
His mouth crashes into yours sloppily, tongue coming out to tangle with yours. A string of spit still connects the two of you when he pulls back.
“Do you feel good, baby ? Tell me how I make you feel,” he moans out, desperate to hear your praise.
But words are hard to find in your state. The slow, lazy and downright sloppy grinding he’s doing is rubbing perfectly against a spot that has your brain almost leaking out of your ears. And the sounds he is letting out are only fueling the coil that’s growing tighter and tighter in your lower belly.
One of your hands is in his hair, fingers threading through his messy blonde locks while the other is raking down his back, nails leaving bright red marks that have him whimper out, eyes rolling to the back of his head.
“So good, Jake, you make me feel so fucking good,” you manage to get out, words slurring with the soft but deep pleasure you’re experiencing.
You feel his dick twitch inside of you at your words, his hips stuttering slightly in their lazy roll. His head dips down, mouth attaching to one of your nipples, his tongue swirls around it as a guttural groan vibrates in his throat.
“Shit, Jake…” you softly cry out, arching into him, chasing the wet heat of his mouth.
“‘M not gonna last, sweetheart,” he warns, lips moving against your now puffy nipple.
His eyes are half closed, he looks so vulnerable, so strangely submissive in that instant and the knowledge that it’s your body, you, who has him like that sends you over the edge. It’s not a mind blowing orgasm, not the tsunami you are used to with Jake, but it’s nonetheless intense. Soft waves of pleasure roll off you, akin to the rhythm of Jake’s hips grinding into yours.
The way your pussy helplessly clenches around him seems to be his breaking point.
“Oh fuck,” his voice reaches a surprisingly high pitch as his body stills, muscles locking up, taken hostage by the pleasure overflowing his body.
His orgasm only prolongs yours as you feel his cock desperately twitch inside of you, painting your insides white. The feeling of his warm release has you fluttering around him and he lets out a little pitiful whine from the overstimulation.
Jake’s breath is heavy when he finally comes back down, his cum slowly leaking out of you, forming a white ring at the base of his cock, where he is still comfortably seated inside of you. He leaves open mouthed kisses along your throat, his eyes almost completely closed now as he looks up at you, his orgasm having completely drained him.
“I love you so much.”
Author’s note : it is my strongest belief that Jake is LOUD in bed, and I will stand by it.
Also, I’m working on a true Natasha smut fic (not a Drabble, an actual fic), so I hope you guys are gonna like it !💞
summary everyone in the party seems keen on getting as far away from jason as possible, but you make it your responsibility to try to help him and tell him about the upside down cws canon-typical discussions of violence & death, mentions of abuse (billy canonical, chrissy implied), injuries/scars, dealing w/ grief & trauma wc 4k
this took so long to write because i just started my new adhd medicine and it's making me real drowsy but anyway. hello jason carver apologists <3
Adjusting was a difficult thing for anyone.
It presented itself differently for different people, and for you, it had been somewhat challenging in the first few months after arriving at Hawkins. You’d been born and raised in California, and you were used to the sun and the temperate weather. You were used to being able to go to the beach when you wanted to and being around people who you had grown up with.
Things changed when your mother met someone. He wasn’t a pleasant man. You were between Max and Billy in terms of age, so you had some understanding of what was happening at home, but you didn’t know how to deal with it. All you knew was that you were someone who was used to helping people; you weren’t one to allow someone to suffer for no reason when you believed that there was something that you could do about it. You’d been the one to try and help Billy, even though he bore no real relation to you as anything other than a step-brother instead of someone related by blood.
The first time that you ever saw him being berated, the first time that you saw things get physical, you tried to interject; there was only so much a fifteen-year-old girl could do, though. Billy didn’t want you to protect him, anyway. Maybe because he was too prideful to admit that he was being abused, or maybe because he didn’t want you to have to deal with what he dealt with. Either way, there was little you could do to help.
So you adjusted to Hawkins, instead.
Max and Billy both had a hard time adjusting for different reasons. They made friends after a bit, but it was clear that neither of them really wanted to be in the new place that they were in. But you made peace with it. You were on the straight-and-narrow. Your grades were top-notch, you were respectful and polite, and you ended up trying out for the volleyball team and the cheer squad.
While you were studying and joining clubs, it became somewhat apparent that everything in Hawkins wasn’t as it seemed. You were involved with something called the Upside Down, something that resulted in everyone you knew nearly dying before your step-brother actually did die. Once Billy was gone, so was the man who was footing most of the bills. You ended up moving into a trailer park with your sister and mother, but neither of them was really taking it well.
Not you, though. You kept up appearances and spent most nights sleeping over at Chrissy Cunningham’s house when you were allowed to. But through it, you became one of the more respected, popular girls at school. People liked you because you were nice and normal, and people questioned how you were related to Max, who had become more reclusive since seeing Billy die.
It wasn’t that you weren’t affected by it. Seeing anyone die, let alone your own step-brother, and then having to move and keep the secret of what really happened at Starcourt Mall that night was hard. But you were in therapy, you didn’t pull away from the people who were close to you, either. You let them help you, let them comfort you when they figured that you were probably upset. You let people in while Max pushed people away, and that made it different for you when everything went down.
But there was some context needed, really.
The thing was, when Billy was still alive, you weren’t really allowed to be around boys. He was only two years older than you, but he was still older than you, and you were still in the same school. He didn’t trust boys around you, so you were mainly only around the girls at school. Chrissy was one of your closest friends. She was sweet, she helped you adjust to being new to the cheer team, and she helped you practice when you were having trouble with some harder moves that everyone had trouble with in the beginning.
She also happened to know that you had a massive crush on Jason Carver.
It had come out one night when you were at her house. She was close friends with Jason. The two had dated a few years back, but she said that they had decided that they were better off as friends. It wasn’t that they didn’t care about each other, because they did, it was just that they had gotten what kind of care they felt wrong when they started dating. So, when you were talking about him, and you got all mousy, it wasn’t hard for her to figure out that you liked him.
She knew that you had to keep it under the radar if you were going to be talking to him, so as to not upset Billy, so she helped you keep it a secret from him when she played matchmaker and tried to get you two together without anyone else present. Through her matchmaking scheme, you did end up being close friends with Jason. But the summer had been difficult with Billy dying, and fall had been mainly spent getting used to everything again. And then the year was just going by so fast.
You and Jason were both still deciding where you wanted to go to college, and that meant that neither of you knew if you were going to see each other ever again after the school year ended. It almost felt counter-productive to admit that you liked him when you knew that you had such limited time together before graduating, but you did find yourself hoping that he would ask you to prom.
The night of the championship game, you had ended up going back to Benny’s old diner with him and the team to celebrate their win. It was the first time that Hawkins had won in years, and it was all thanks to Lucas Sinclair, someone whom you had grown to know well because of the Upside Down. It was nice seeing him fit in, but it was mostly nice being able to spend the night with Jason.
Things weren’t so nice in the morning, though.
The news of Chrissy came a little bit after everyone woke up, but something seemed off. The most obvious answer was that it had something to do with Eddie. He was the last person there with her, and he had run away after she died. There was no one else there, and no one else who knew Chrissy. But why would he do something like that? If you weren’t somewhat (vaguely) familiar with him, maybe you wouldn’t give it any more thought because, to an outsider, it seemed like a pretty clean and dry case. The older boy, who happened to be a drug dealer on the side, had a dead girl in his trailer and was on the run. Sure. Easy. But it wasn’t that easy when you knew about the Upside Down and when you knew that a death like that just wasn’t physically possible.
But it was like Jason had gotten some kind of tunnel vision. It was the easiest answer, and one of his best friends was dead. He needed someone to blame, and he didn’t know anything about the Upside Down. On the one hand, maybe it would be better if he stayed like that. Knowing about the Upside Down put people in danger, people like Billy, like Chrissy. You didn’t want him to be in danger. But Chrissy didn’t know about the Upside Down, neither did Fred, and yet they had both just died in the same way, and there was no way that Eddie could have done anything to Fred - he didn’t even know Fred.
All of that could only really mean that he wasn’t the one to do it, and even if he did somehow develop serial killer tendencies overnight, the things that had happened weren’t physically possible for one human being to do to another human being. Something else was happening, and based upon everything that you knew, that something else had to do with the Upside Down. This meant that Jason was putting himself in harm’s way every single day just because he didn’t know what was happening.
While the others might be somewhat okay with that, they also didn’t really know him. But you did. You were close with him, you spent a lot of time with him, and the idea of him even being involved with this was something that put you off. But he was actively trying to hunt Eddie down, and that meant that he was somehow getting himself tangled up in the Upside Down. So, while the others were investigating a lead on someone named Victor Creel, you were looking for Jason to see if you could try to reason with him.
The words of your sister rang in your ears as you sat across from him. He was partially ready for Chrissy’s funeral, his hands adjusting his tie while you made sure that your hair was in place. But you knew that you needed to say something, you needed to do something. But Max had made a good point earlier - what if he just doesn’t believe you? What if you go out of your way to tell him the truth, and he thinks that you’re insane and ends up getting himself killed anyway?
But he’s willing to believe in the supernatural, isn’t he? He believes that Eddie’s ‘satanic cult’ is somehow behind all of this, so clearly he’s willing to suspend the element of disbelief at least a little bit; otherwise, he wouldn’t be getting involved with this at all.
“Can you help me with this?” Your eyes left your hair as you heard Jason speak from across the room. He seemed to have given up on his tie, a sadness in his eyes that lingered even when they connected with yours in the mirror. Had Jason ever lost someone he cared about before? You were almost tempted to believe that he hadn’t, and now he was experiencing all new emotions for the first time.
Moving to stand in front of him, your fingers wrapped around his tie as you started to do it for him. You’d seen Jason with them on before, but it was possible that he was just too upset to do it right now or that he usually had someone do it for him.
“Doesn’t feel real that we’re going to her funeral, you know? I mean, I know that she’s dead but- it just sucks.”
“I know, I-”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t say that to you. I know what you’ve been through.”
It hadn’t been even a year since you saw Billy die. As far as everyone in the town knew, he had gotten you and Max out of the mall and ended up dying in the flames. In reality, he had been the one to take the brunt of the attack from the Mind Flayer. But people couldn’t know that there was a Mind Flayer, so the fire excuse was just something that had to stick.
“It’s okay. Just because my step-brother died doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be upset about our friend dying.” Your voice was soft, gentle. “She was my best friend, it doesn’t feel right that I’m not with her right now but… here we are.”
You adjusted his collar around the tie once it was on properly, smoothing down his suit before looking at him. His features were always so perfect, even the birthmark on the side of his nose made you feel all soft inside. Jason was almost too perfect, too pretty, but you could never get tired of watching him.
“I need to tell you something.”
“What is it?”
He let you take his hand, let you bring him to the bed so you could sit down next to each other while you tried to broach the subject that you were trying to bring up. You had to tell him about the Upside Down; there had to be some way. But everything felt insane. Was it really any more insane to trade one monster that you can’t really see right now to thinking that Eddie Munson was possessed by some sort of demon that gave him the ability to murder people without touching them?
It was all insane - you just needed him to see that your insanity was the real one.
“I… um- there’s-so… Billy didn’t die in a fire.”
“The mall burned, though. Did-”
“It was… there’s this… this thing. You know the curse, like everyone keeps saying that we’re cursed and that people are always dying in this town and stuff?”
“Yeah, but-”
“And the girl with the superpowers that people kept talking about but everyone decided had to be fake?”
“I… yeah.”
“It wasn’t Eddie that killed Chrissy, it was something else. The same thing that killed Barb and Billy and everyone else who’s died recently. It keeps happening, and the same thing that happened to Chrissy is happening to my sister. Something picked her. There was… she was seeing these things in the last couple of days she was alive. Like… clocks and stuff. There was this grotesque-looking creature that she told me about that was like- shaming her and stuff. Making her sad, miserable, and scared. And now she’s dead, and the same kind of thing is happening to Max, but she’d got her music, so she’s okay for now.”
“I don’t understand. Eddie was the last person with her.”
“Yeah, because of the thing. She was seeing this thing, and it was making her so anxious on top of everything she was going through with her parents, and she went to Eddie for drugs but-”
“Have you seen him?”
You were quiet for a minute, tapping your fingers on your leg before relenting. “Yeah.” You admitted, keeping your voice low. “I know where he is, but I know he didn’t do it. He ran because he thought it was a ghost or whatever, but it wasn’t a ghost. It was… I have-”
Letting go of his hand, you moved to pull up your cardigan’s sleeve so he could see the giant slash marks on your forearm. The scar was unnatural, like some sort of small dinosaur had done it rather than an animal or something of that nature. You’d covered them up from the moment that you got them fighting against one of those creatures because they looked so awful, but you’d show them to Jason if you had to.
“One of these things almost killed me, and you have to at least admit that this shit doesn’t look like anything you’ve ever seen before.”
Jason’s hands were gentle on your arm, inspecting the scar tissue as though it was the first time he was seeing your skin. He’d noticed that you always covered up your arms, but he figured that it was just some unfounded insecurity that you had, so he never mentioned it to you. When you refused to get in the pool during a party he was having, he almost tried to talk to you about it, but he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, so he never brought it up to you.
“Listen, I know it sounds insane, but it’s not any more insane than thinking that Eddie Munson has superpowers that he uses for evil. There’s a thing, a terrible, terrible thing. And I never told you because I didn’t want you to end up-”
Now you did choke up a bit, your face turning away from him. Everyone who knew was in constant danger; your sister could die if something went wrong in what you were doing, and your step-brother was already dead. Your mom didn’t know what was going on, but just the fact that she had lost so much was making everything a little bit more difficult for her than it needed to be. She hated being in the trailer park, and she hated being in Hawkins now that she had lost the person who had her move here in the first place.
“End up what?” His hand had moved from your arm at some point, one remaining there and caressing your skin with his thumb in a comforting sort of way, while the other turned your head so you were looking at him. “Dead?”
“Yeah, dead. And now… now it’s choosing people so randomly. Chrissy and Fred didn’t know about this, and Eddie was never involved in this stuff before. And it’s like you’re in danger anyway, and I don’t want anything to happen to you. I can’t lose you, I can’t. I can lose a lot, but not you.”
Jason had always meant more to you than most people did, but that was something that you tended not to share. Sure, Chrissy knew you had a crush on him and teased you a little bit for it, but it was more than just a crush.
“You won’t, okay? I believe you. But I need to keep you safe, too. So if you want to go be with your sister after the funeral, you can be. But I want to come with you.”
“No, Jason-”
“What if you’re with her and it picks me just because you said something? What if it’s after the people you care about? I want to come with you, so let me.”
The thing was, he wasn’t entirely wrong. Chrissy was your best friend, and Max was your sister. The Upside Down had killed your step-brother, too. But Fred felt like an outlier, someone who was close with Nancy. Maybe it was punishing the entire Party for standing up against it - maybe he would be next, and maybe it wouldn’t be drawn out like Chrissy was.
“Fine, okay. You can come with me, but don’t get yourself hurt. Promise me that you’re not going to get yourself hurt.”
“I promise, but you need to promise me the same thing.”
Your eyes searched his for any sort of deception, but you found nothing. “Okay, yeah, I promise too.”
So you went with him to the funeral, and afterwards you had to surprise everyone when you showed up with Jason Carver in tow. You had known that they would be gathered at the trailer park to discover what they had learned so far, but they were all a bit surprised to see that he was with you. He wasn’t someone any of them were hoping to see, even though they all knew that you were close.
“Why-”
“I told him about everything; he knows it wasn’t Eddie.” Your voice was calm as you waved one hand to dismiss the concerns that you knew were about to come from Nancy. Your other hand was still holding onto Jason’s, something that neither of you had stopped doing since around the time that you had left the funeral. “I know we’re supposed to talk about it before we tell people, but I needed him to know.”
Max seemed the least surprised out of anyone. She knew that you adored Jason, that you always had, so she seemed almost a bit relieved that you’d at least talked about something of meaning, even if you hadn’t told him how you felt about him.
“Fine, but how much did you tell him?”
“Probably not enough.”
It was Steve who motioned for you both to sit down. He’d gone through something quite similar, from what you’d heard. He had been a bit of an asshole to everyone before, but he changed a bit over time. He had been exposed to the Upside Down, and now he was used to all of this. He seemed more keen on letting you bring your friend into the fold than anyone else did, but everyone still took the time to explain everything to him in great detail until it was decided that the group would part ways for the night.
Max decided that she was going to go off with Lucas, whom Jason had apparently been unable to find for the last day. But you decided to go back to Jason’s home, not feeling comfortable with the entire prospect of him knowing, because you were worried that it was going to put him in some sort of danger.
He was lying beside you in bed, his eyes trained on the ceiling. If any of you got any sort of meaningful sleep, it would be a miracle.
You expected him to just turn onto his side and try to sleep, but you were surprised to find his hand wrapped around yours. Your fingers squeezed against his before you turned your head to look at him, your eyes locking with his blue eyes.
“I had a sign.”
“What?” Your eyebrows furrowed after he spoke, confusion clear on your face while you tried to make sense of what he was trying to tell you.
“I was going to ask you to prom, I made this cheesy sign that I wanted to show you, and Chrissy was supposed to help with it. I just thought- I mean, I never told you, but I always really liked you. I just didn’t want to ruin things, even though Chrissy kept telling me that you liked me back. I figure she’d want me to tell you the truth now, just in case.”
Silence filled the room as you actually contemplated what he was saying, but it wasn’t something uncomfortable. It couldn’t be when you leaned over to press a kiss to his forehead. “I like you, too. I’ve liked you for a while, I just never knew how to tell you. I guess now’s as good a time as any.”
Jason’s eyes had fluttered shut when you kissed his forehead, but he did open them before he spoke again. “Can you kiss me on the mouth?”
There was a light fluttering in your stomach when he asked that, but you obliged. Leaning over, your lips pressed softly against his. It was careful, not like you’d never kissed before, but like you wanted to savour the way that it felt to kiss him.
He was careful with the way that he kissed you, one hand holding onto your cheek while the other remained intertwined with yours. Jason kissed in a way that made it clear that he had been thinking about doing this for a while, that this wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment thing that he was doing because he was grieving. This was something personal to him, and something that you probably should have been doing a long time ago.
When he pulled back, you didn’t let him go far. Your arms were around him, your head resting against his chest. Jason just held you tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. It was easier to fall asleep that way, easier than it had been in a while. Nothing was going to happen to either of you tonight, not without you being there to stop it, at least.
Everything was different now, and the strict line that you had placed between the life that you had known about the Upside Down and the life that you had with Jason and Chrissy was now incredibly blurred. You’d always made a point of keeping the normalcy separate from the crazy part of your life, and it had worked thus far. But it was only a matter of time before all of the people close to you were involved with it in some way. You’d lost Chrissy, and maybe, had she known about what was happening, she could have been saved. Regardless of whether that was true or not, you weren’t going to make the same mistake with Jason if you could help it.
So that change was just something that you were going to have to adapt to… so long as you both made it out of this alive.
being a kid and hearing adults say stuff like "woah 2011 was 4 years ago haha" didn't really convey the fucking horror of a youtube video crossing my recommended labelled "9 years ago" and it's from 2017. that's not true. 9 years ago is 2010 or something. don't lie.
Summary: A new med student documents a series of differential diagnoses to your and Jack's relationship as she tries to figure out what exactly the dynamic is.
Warnings: Fluff, Miscommunication
Notes: This was just a fun, silly little fic to write. I hope you enjoy! As always, tysm for reading! :P
It was the first day that interns were able to do rotations through the Pitt during the night shift. In the short time that Amara had been there, she was able to observe a lot of things. So many cases were ones that she had spent years learning about from different textbooks. There was one case that she couldn’t quite figure out though: what was going on with you and Dr. Abbot.
Amara had many different differential diagnoses:
Divorced
Situationship
Enemies
Telepathically Connected
Siblings
Unfortunately, all of the evidence she had gathered supported each of the options equally, which made every moment more confusing than the last.
Hour One
Dr. Abbot seemed nice. His whole “Nightcrawlers” speech was a little weird, but overall endearing; especially for the new interns. Amara walked up to him directly after he was done speaking to everyone and most people had shuffled away.
“Hi Dr. Abbot, it’s my first rotation here tonight, I was just wondering who I should stick with?” She asked.
Dr. Abbot opened his mouth to respond, before you interrupted him.
“I can’t believe you, you know that?!” You almost yelled, shoving your finger in Dr. Abbot’s chest.
Amara jumped at the sudden intrusion with wide eyes, watching the scene before her play out.
He smirked looking down at you as he crossed his arms, “Oh, really?”
“Yeah! Really!” You say, “You ate my fucking leftovers!”
“They were in the staff fridge.”
“You knew they were mine! I put them there!”
“Seems like a design flaw, princess.”
You looked one second away from committing an unethical war crime against Dr. Abbot. He seemed entirely unbothered.
Amara schooled her face as quickly as possible when Dr. Abbot turned back to her to respond as you stormed away with a huff.
Differential Diagnosis:
Enemies
Hour Two
Amara tried to stay out of your way after the first interaction she saw you have with Dr. Abbot. But, the ER was a small place, and it wouldn’t do well to try and avoid you for too long. When a trauma came in from a MVC, she stuck by your side to watch as you ran the entire show.
Dr. Abbot was there too. Amara was in awe. She had studied for years how different kinds of resuscitations worked. The communication each code required from everyone. She had never seen anything like this.
When things started to go badly, the room almost went silent. She watched as you and Dr. Abbot both worked on the patient like one cohesive unit. Neither of you needed words to let the other know what you needed, or where you needed them. It was a fluid procedure, flawless.
Differential Diagnosis:
Telepathically Linked
Hour Three
A nurse had asked if Amara could go grab something from one of the supply closets. It took her a while to find the right one because she was still finding all of the different ins and outs of the Pitt.
Finally, she came across the supply room in question. Before her hand could even turn the handle, the door swung open.
You were there. Cheeks flush, breath heavy, hair tousled. Dr. Abbot was behind you, she saw his neck was pink, and he was in the process of tying his scrub pants.
“Oh! I- uh…” Amara started, too embarrassed to form a complete sentence.
You froze. Jack froze. Amara looked mortified.
Time stood still for one long moment.
Finally, you cleared your throat, “Did you need something?”
“Oh! Yes! Uh…the nurse, she uh…”
You followed her gaze to Jack’s hands, still working on tying his scrubs. You closed your eyes and questioned every moment that had led up to this. You took a deep breath in as you glared at him silently communicating your frustrations.
“What were you looking for?” You asked, trying to refocus Amara’s attention.
She looks at you and shakes herself out of her haze.
“Tape! The tape without the latex…”
“Third shelf back, second from the top.” Jack says coolly.
“Okay,” Amara nodded.
“Okay,” Jack said.
A pause.
“Thanks,” she whispered as she grabbed the tape and scurried away.
Differential Diagnosis:
FWB (Confidence: HIGH)
Hour Six
Six hours into her shift, Amara finally got to use the restroom. It wasn’t unusual that she would be on her feet all day, but nothing could have prepared her for the absolute chaos that was the PTMC’s emergency department. There wasn’t a moment to spare, and as an intern she kept getting pulled in every direction.
When she finally had a moment of peace in the restroom, she gathered her thoughts about the day thus far. Everyone seemed great! Crus was a phenomenal teacher, some of the other students were fun to work with, and Lena seemed to be a great heart at the center of it all.
She still couldn’t work out what the situation was with you and Dr. Abbot though. And that bugged her. She had worked her ass off to get in to med school, she’d be damned if she couldn’t read the room and figure out what the situation was with the two of you by the end of the night.
On her way back from the restroom, she saw the two of you in an empty patient room.
“You forgot to pick her up?” Jack asked.
“I thought you were going to pick her up!” You replied.
“It’s not my weekend! It’s yours!”
“It’s like every weekend is my weekend! You always pick up shifts or volunteer with the SWAT team. How do you think she feels? Huh?”
The wheels in Amara’s head turned. She tried piecing the puzzle together, but it felt like every hour brought forth new evidence that contradicted the last! Now it sounded like a custody battle was happening in room 16. First, she saw you nearly rip Dr. Abbot’s head off, then she saw how flawlessly the two of you worked together, which was promptly followed by what seemed to be a quickie in the supply closet, and now you were arguing about who’s weekend it was for some unknown kid?
Differential Diagnosis:
Divorced
Hour Eight
“Hey are you guys still recruiting?” Lena asks from across the nurse’s station.
You and Jack look up from the chart you’re working on.
“No, we stopped.” You say disappointed.
“Decided it was probably best for us to act normal.” Jack says.
You and Jack exchange a look. One that only comes from years of being bonded together.
Amara’s brows furrow in confusion. What would two doctors be recruiting for? It’s not like they’re the ones who are hiring everyone. There’s managers for that. They couldn’t possibly be part of an MLM, Amara was sure the salary of an attending could let them afford to live comfortably on their own.
As she tried harder and harder to wrack her brain for any more context about the conversation, it hits her. Recruiting. There was really only one option that explained everything she had seen earlier that morning.
The arguing. The silent communication that came from years of knowing each other. The secret supply closet meetings. The custody agreements. The recruiting.
It was so obvious, she wasn’t sure how she didn’t see it all before.
Differential Diagnosis:
Cult Leaders
Hour Eleven
The longer the shift drug on, the more Amara was determined to understand what exactly was going on with you and Dr. Abbot. She didn’t think about the fact that running on only four hours of sleep, sheer determination, and at least 300mg of caffeine was the only thing keeping her going right now. That wouldn’t impair her judgement at all. Right?
She went to grab a granola bar from the breakroom when she saw you and Dr. Abbot in two of the chairs.
“Jack. Give me my jacket.”
Jack looked down at the garment, “This isn’t your jacket.”
“Yes it is. It quite literally has my name on it.”
“It’s our jacket then”
“No.”
“Besides,” Jack starts, “You left it at my house.”
“More like you stole it from me.” You grumble.
“I borrowed it.”
“For eight months? Really?”
“Semantics…”
You huffed.
Amara could practically see the lightbulb that illuminated above her head. Of course! The only way she could possibly believe that either of you could get on each other’s nerves like this, or have access to each other’s houses, or understand each other in the unsettling way it seemed you did, would be to understand that you must be siblings!
She listened in as you continued to bicker.
“Jack.”
“Not happening.”
“Jack, I swear to god…”
“Nope.”
“You are literally fifty years old.” You deadpan.
“All the more reason I should have the Jacket and not you, you spring chicken.”
Differential Diagnosis:
Siblings (DEFINITELY)
Hour Thirteen
The shift ended more hectic than anyone expected. A massive MVC made sure that all hands were on deck until the morning crew was fully ready to take over. Amara had learned a lot in her first day. She just needed confirmation about one final case before going home.
“Uh…Lena? I have a question before I leave.”
Lena looked up from the computer where she was talking to the day shift charge nurse, Dana.
“What’s up, hun?” Dana automatically responded.
“Well I uh, I just was curious about two of the doctors.”
Both nurses' brows furrowed. It was never a good sign when someone started blatantly questioning things on their first day, even if they were ultimately right in the end.
“Go on,” Lena urged.
Amara looked down at her notes before making eye contact again, “I just wanted to know about Dr. Abbot and…” She looked over at you and nodded her head in your direction.
Both Dana and Lena’s eyes tracked toward you.
“What about them?” Dana said with a knowing smirk hiding just under the surface.
“They’re siblings right?” Amara asked.
As Lena took a sip of tea, it immediately sprayed over the keyboard as soon as she comprehended what amara was asking. Dana tried, and failed, to hide the big grin on her face.
The commotion made you look over and walk toward the nurses station.
“Everything okay? Was there something you needed, Amara?” You asked, “You should go home and get some rest. It’s been a long night.”
Dana and Lena both laugh as they look between you.
And in that moment, Amara believed that fate was real. And it had a vendetta against her. Because Jack came up and immediately wrapped his hands around your waist from behind. You instinctively leaned into his touch. He spun you around and pulled you in for a gentle, but knowing kiss.
Amara’s jaw was on the floor. Dana and Lena couldn’t stop laughing. You looked concerned for everyone.
“She thinks you guys are siblings!” Lena howled.
Your eyes widened and cheeks involuntarily turned a shade of pink.
“I didn’t mean-”
You and Jack both break out in laughter now as well.
“I was trying to get a read on you all day and I couldn’t figure it out!” She said.
“Aw, sweetie,” You said kindly, “We’re just married.”
“Yeah,” Jack interrupted, “For too damn long.”
You slapped his shoulder. He smiled down at you.
It all made sense. The fighting, the steamy closet session, the bickering, and silent communication.
No telepathy.
No cult.
No divorce.
Just…marriage. Everything that happened wasn’t pointing to some differential diagnosis Amara had believed to be true at different points in the day. They all pointed to you and Jack, two peas in a pod who apparently were good at confusing the interns.
Dangerous information for the next incoming class.
