Hey girlie! I hope youâre well :) i was thinking about Page & Langdon today - how are they?? I miss them! Any way to trouble you for a Page x Langdon mood board? Maybe Page surprises him with some hot lingerie after he gets home and Langdon just absolutely short circuits??
they're doing well! you can catch up with them in robby and jack's stories, or alternatively i'm hoping to get their second fic out in a few months :)
You feel sick to your stomach, and you have no idea why.
You and Frank have been together for almost six months now. He spends more time at your place than he does his own. You've seen every facet of him - the good, the bad, and a whole lot in between.
So, really, a few flimsy scraps of lace should be a walk in the park. Frank is a thirty-year-old-man. He's seen lingerie before.
Just never on you.
Your experience before Frank is fairly limited - never with anybody you've wanted to impress. But you love him, and wanted to do something nice.
Ellis had promised you that he'd love it. He's a straight man. Come on. You could wear a trashbag and he'd still get hard.
Now that you're waiting for him to come upstairs, it doesn't feel like such a good idea.
You're examining yourself in the mirror, considering pulling the silk robe tighter around you, when he bursts into the room. "Hey honey-"
He cuts off immediately as his eyes land on your form.
A silence falls, and you find yourself compelled to speak. "I uh, I thought you might like it-"
"Like it?"
"It's stupid," You scramble, moving to cover yourself, when Frank shakes his head, reaching out to stop your arm.
"Sweetheart, I think I've died and gone to heaven."
It's been a whiiiiiile since I've written anything. After reading so many incredible fics circulating around Dr. Frank Langdon, I had to dust off my keyboard.
A few things before you read:
I was so impressed by the accuracy depicting the ER's protocol around conducting sexual assault rape kits and Dana's anger around the lack of police buy-in. As someone in the mental health space, this issue is paramount to depict accurately and respectfully.
Summary: When conducting a sexual assault evaluation with Dana, you (reader's nickname is "Butterfly") find yourself unable to remain in the room. As the Pitt's designated social worker, this should be par for the course...so why is it affecting you so much? And why does Dr. Frank Langdon feel such an urge to comfort you?
Trigger warnings: Mentions of previous sexual assault, reader depicts minor details of own personal experience. 18+, minors DNI
Featuring: Protective Dr. Langdon
Notes: No use of y/n, Dr. Langdon has not been married before. I wrote this without much proof reading, so forgive any errors, please.
Please read with caution if sexual assault or harassment are triggers for you.
"Now I'm going to swab the inside of your cheek, okay?" Dana checks in with the shaken woman sitting across from her, her voice softer than you've ever heard it. Gone is her sharp, abrasive tone, the one she reserves for "getting shit done." This isn't just another case to cross off, this is different.
The woman nods in response, eyes far away. Only hours ago, her body was used by someone without her consent. Only hours ago, she tried to fight off someone who she thought she could trust. His skin is still underneath her fingernails from her attempts at fighting him off. Dana has not swabbed those just yet.
You stand nearby, having asked your protocol questions surrounding the assault. The woman, Amy, gave you the answers in a far away voice. You knew asking these questions so soon was not ideal for victims of trauma. Often times, memories are stored in the emotional-processing part of the brain, the amygdala. Some of her memories around her trauma may not "unlock" until even days later. However, this was what the system required of you. And you tried to ask the questions as sensitively as you could.
As the Pitt's designated social worker, you should be able to handle this. Up until now, you had formed a bridge in your mind, this patient was on one side of the bridge, your own thoughts and emotions were on the other. It wasn't until the woman recoiled once the swab hit her mouth that the bridge you worked so hard to form suddenly gave way.
Dana pulled back instantly, apologizing and asking Amy if she would like a break. You don't hear her reply because your ears are ringing. It's the high-pitched buzz that happens when you plug an aux cord into an amplifier without adjusting the settings properly. Jarring and disorienting, causing your brain to flatline with almost no thoughts at all...until it comes racing back. Everything comes racing back.
Dana turns to you once she hears your sharp intake of breath. Her brow furrows, "You okay, kid?" She checks, immediately clocking the paleness of your skin and the thin line of perspiration that coats your forehead.
"Yes, um, yes." You stutter, hand reaching for the door handle automatically. Your nervous system shouts at you to, "Run, run, run." You shake your head and quickly mutter, "Just need to check on something." You turn quickly to the patient who is looking at you with questioning eyes, "I'm sorry, Amy. I'll...I'll be back soon Iâ" You leave without finishing your sentence.
Entering the Pitt during the first few moments of a panic attack is like entering a war zone without armor. Bodies race by you, monitors flash and beep loudly. You find yourself moving quickly without a decided destination. Maybe the stairwell? Maybe the roof? You let your body move without a direct order from your brain's command center.
Your brain buzzes as memories you worked hard to surpress come racing back.
His body holds yours down, and your eyes are so, so heavy. You try to move your limbs but they feel like they weigh thousands of pounds. Your brain screams, "GET OFF. GET OFF," but your voice is meek. Laughter. You hear his laughter as he slides your panties off of you.
You're walking so quickly that you don't realize Dr. Langdon has sidled up next to you, iPad in hand. "Heya, Butterfly. Any word on if the parents have been contacted for the kiddo in room four?" His question makes you jolt.
Taking in your abrupt movement in his periphery, he frowns. Frank reaches a hand out to gently touch your shoulder and asks quietly, "Are you okay?"
An arm pins your body down as you try to roll away from him. He won't let you go. His lips start to train down your neck, stomach, abdomen.
"I - I just need a minute, I need to get some air." You stutter out. Closing your eyes briefly as you feel more waves of panic.
Langdon quickly places his iPad down at the nurse's station, ushering you to the ambulance bay quickly. You're so far away from it all that you don't notice Princess and Perla's concerned faces.
Almost immediately, you feel the late morning air hit your lungs. Sitting on a bench by the door, you put your head between your knees and try to steady your breathing.
Langdon takes you in with a concerned look on his face, and sits beside you on the bench. His body turns towards you and his hand hovers just above your back, not quite touching. Based on your state, and your reaction to his gentle touch earlier, he doesn't want to add to your discomfort.
He's had panic attacks before. Namely his first few years in the Pitt. Despite appearing to be the most confident doctor on the floor, those early deaths, the lives he couldn't save, rattled him.
"Okay," He says, voice the calmest you've ever heard it, "Let's name three things you see."
Your head picks up from between your knees, your breathing still unsteady. He's starting a grounding exercise, one that you were taught while earning your social work degree. One that had not come to mind in your state of panic.
"Ambulance," you mutter, and he nods encouragingly. "Cigarette butts," you continue, breathing still making your words come out staggered, "And my sneakers."
He nods, "What about three things you hear?"
You go through the exercise with him. Three things you smell, three things you feel. Your senses slowly begin to return to you, and your breathing begins to return to its baseline.
Despite your return to the present, you're still plagued by the flashbacks that resurfaced during your panic episode. The result causes tears to well in your eyes.
"Hey, hey," he says gently moving a piece of your hair that strayed from your braid back behind your ear, "Can I um, can I put my arm around you?" He asks, a slight blush reaching his face as he asks.
You nod, no longer fearing him. Warmth. Support. Safety. These are the three things you feel when Frank Langdon embraces you.
The two of you had been dancing around each other for the past two months, that was for certain. When you were reassigned to the dayshift, you were immediately drawn in by him and the blue of his steely eyes. You were everyone's comic relief, usually bubbly and positive despite the heavy nature that comes with social work. Not to mention, you were damn good at your job.
Frank Langdon would be remiss if he didn't look forward to the shifts he shared with you. You broke the mold of a traditional social worker. Having gotten your masters just a few months prior to starting at the Pitt, you brought a new energy. Not yet jaded or burned out. Instead of blouses and crisp dress pants, you opted for seventies vintage dresses, band t-shirts, and tall boots that made you effortlessly cool. You somehow added color to the Pitt that lightened up the dull grey and white-toned fluorescence. You floated in beautifully, and left others smiling in your wake. That's why everyone called you Butterfly.
He was a goner from the very first shift he saw you.
On any other day, Dr. Langdon's arm around you would've made your belly swoop, and a blush form across your chest and cheekbones. On any other day, you would smile at him, eyes squinting in a shy but flirtatious way. But it wasn't any other day, and you felt the darkness you spent years keeping at bay start to creep it's way back in.
"Do you...want to talk about it?" Frank's voice is hushed, and you look up at him. His hair was falling into his eyes again, one of the signature Frank Langdon looks that made you swoon on a daily basis. Today, all you managed were a few timid heartbeats.
"Um," You sigh, remembering your therapist's advice to "not bury the emotions," when they rise. You assess your options: you either tell Frank, and hope he doesn't see you as broken, or you pretend you're fine. Considering he witnessed a full blown panic attack, you're not too sure you can get away with option two.
"I was helping Dana, you know with the sexual assault victim. Amy. Her name is Amy." You start, slowly, afraid to look at him in the eye. You glance up timidly and he nods encouragingly, eyes tracking your every movement. "Dana went to swab Amy's cheek. Collecting evidence for the report. And Amy looked just...distraught. Out of body."
Frank's grasp tightens around you, "That procedure can be extremely difficult." He says softly. "It doesn't get easier, but overtime â"
You cut him off gently, "Frank," you say softly, and he tenses. You hardly ever call him by his first name, and it puts him on edge. "The last time I went through that procedure it was for my own...my own assault."
He grows incredibly still. The hand that was rubbing your shoulder encouragingly stops mid motion. "What?" He asks, his voice sounding absolutely tormented.
"I know how it feels when your body doesn't feel like it belongs to you. When you're being held down unable to fight. And then when you're being swabbed, your body feeling like a specimen to send to a lab. Dana is, she's great, she is. But I knew what Amy was feeling. It's dehumanizing. It's....Frank, it's awful." You voice breaks as new tears spill over your lash line.
He lifts your chin underneath his fingertips. His brow furrows as he tries to catch each tear on his thumb, wiping it away. Something comes alive in the pit of his stomach. Seeing you like this awakens a fierce reflex to protect you from anything. From anyone.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Fuck, I â I'm sorry. " He says softly. He doesn't have any other words. He doesn't ask you any other questions. It's not the time. He closes his eyes as he holds you. He wants to make it go away for you. He wants to make the entire experience go away.
You allow your head to rest gently against his shoulder. One day, you'll tell him everything. For now, this is enough.
Iâm on a Pitt kick - annnny shot of a mood board of frank langdon? What if his girl is the ER Social worker and is threatened by a patient? Would love to see some protective Langdon đ Xoxoxo thank you for keeping my fantasies well fed!
The guy barely gets his hand on you before Frank is intervening. His grip is firm around the man's wrist, pulling him from you in one movement.
Frank has at least four inches on the guy, and he uses every single one of them to puff out his chest, ushering you behind him. "You do not touch her."
The man lets out a low scoff. "I was just trying to-"
"I don't care. You do not touch a member of staff like that. Not her, not anyone. Get back to your room, and we can continue this with security supervision."
For a second, he looks like he's about to argue, before sighing and retreating. Frank is immediately spinning on his heel, examining you. "Are you okay?"
"M'fine," You mumble, letting him slip his hand into yours. "You didn't have to do that."
He presses a kiss to your forehead. "He was about to grab you. That's not on. I'll go in with you when you need to see him again."
"Robby'll be so mad if you're not working-"
"Don't care."
You hum slightly, offering him a smile as you lean into his touch. "My hero."
Synopsis: Youâre the newest ER resident, fighting to prove yourself under the relentless scrutiny of Doctor Langdon, brilliant, distant, and impossible to read. When a fellow residentâs unwanted attention starts crossing lines, Dr. Langdon begins to take notice.Â
Tags: Workplace Tension, Jealousy, Forced Proximity, Protective Langdon, Power Imbalance, Sharp Banter, Mutual Pining, Emotional Confrontation, Eventual Kissing
Warnings: **Unwanted Advances**, Workplace Stress, Cold calling, Power Dynamics, Emotional Distress, Medical Setting
Words: 10k~
A/N: I am not American and have the barely any knowledge of how US medical school works so please ignore any inaccuracies!!
You're a new resident in the ER, the bottom of the food chain, badge still shiny under fluorescent lights, white coat not yet saturated with antiseptic and exhaustion. Your handwriting is still neat, your pockets still organized: penlight, trauma shears, folded index cards with drug doses written in careful ink.
You don't report to him directly. Technically. But in the way gravity technically doesn't report to the sun, you still orbit Dr. Langdon. You work with him. Somewhat under him. He doesn't sign your evaluations, but he signs off on your decisions with a look. Working relationship? None in sight. In fact, there is no relationship at all.
Your first week, you were bright-faced and buzzing with nervous energy, practically vibrating with inexperience and caffeine. You came early, stayed late, introduced yourself to everyone, nurses, techs, environmental services, even the attending who barely glanced up. You practiced your greeting before approaching Langdon. Professional. Confident. Approachable. You found him at a workstation, scrolling through labs like they personally offended him, jaw set, blue-gray eyes moving fast over the screen. You stepped forward anyway.
"Hi, my name is-"
"I need an ECG for room 5."
It wasn't loud. It wasn't rude. It was simply... final. He brushed past you mid-sentence, shoulder almost clipping yours, eyes already locked on another screen. No smile. No acknowledgment. Not even a nod. Just a task.
You stood there half a second too long, blinking at the empty air where he'd been, your prepared words shriveling in your mouth. Okay. Maybe not the best first impression. But you've had ego-driven seniors before, surgeons who bark, residents who talk over you, fellows who treat interns like background noise. You told yourself it wouldn't get to you. Some doctors treat interns like walking clipboards. It's nothing personal
Except with Langdon⊠it feels personal.
Not because he snaps or belittles you, he doesn't. He simply erases you. He moves around you like you're part of the furniture, like the crash cart or the supply cabinet. You'll present a patient and he'll redirect his gaze to the monitor before you finish your second sentence. You'll stand beside him in a trauma and he'll hand instruments past you like you're a gap in space. He never mispronounces your name because he never says it. The only acknowledgment comes when he orders scans or assigns the tedious exams no one else wants: "Full neuro exam. Rectal. Document everything." No inflection. No praise. No irritation. Just efficiency.
You begin to wonder if you've offended him somehow, if you said something wrong in that half-finished introduction, if he's already decided you're incompetent.
And worse is when he decides to quiz you. In front of everyone. It happens without warning. You'll be mid-sentence presenting, heart pounding but voice steady, and suddenly: "What's the mechanism of action? What's the dose adjustment in renal impairment? Why are we not worried about this potassium?" The entire workstation goes quiet. Monitors beep, keyboards click somewhere distant, but around you there's silence. You can feel everyone watching, feel the heat climbing your neck before the question's even finished. And he stands there, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, not cruel, not mocking, but unrelenting. Observing you like a case study, like pressure applied to see where the structure cracks.
Sometimes you get it right. Relief flickers through your chest. Sometimes you stumble, your brain scrambling because under his gaze the information feels locked behind a door you can't open. And when you stumble, he doesn't rescue you. He waits. Eyes steady. Clinical. Almost like he gets off on watching your ears slowly turn red.
You hate that your body betrays you like that, heat creeping up your neck, settling in your cheeks. You hate that your pulse pounds so loud you're convinced he can hear it. You hate that he notices. Because he notices everything: your hesitations, your second guesses, the way you grip your pen too tight, the way your breathing changes when you're unsure. He doesn't smile when you're right, just a short nod and a quiet "Good," as if competence is the baseline and approval unnecessary. But when you miss something, his correction is precise and sharp: "You're thinking too small. Don't anchor. You're not listening." Not cruel. Just exact.
You go home some nights replaying his voice in your head more than your patients. You'll be brushing your teeth and suddenly hear, âDiagnosis?â You'll lie in bed thinking about the way he narrowed his eyes when you hesitated. You tell yourself it's educational, that this is how you get better. And the worst part? You can't even say you dislike him.
He's brilliant.
You've watched him drop central lines like it's muscle memory, smooth, controlled, no wasted movement. Watched him read an EKG in three seconds and call a cath lab activation before anyone else saw it. You've seen attendings defer to him without realizing they're doing it. He moves through the ER with sharp assurance, diving into cases with quick, bold moves. He thrives here. The chaos seems to hum in tune with him, like he's tuned to the same frequency as crashing vitals and overhead pages. He requires little to no supervision. He makes sound judgment calls. He is a natural. Patients stabilize under his hands. Nurses trust his orders. Other residents watch him the way you do, carefully.
And you? You are just trying not to drown. You're triple-checking doses, replaying histories in your head, second-guessing your differentials, trying to look composed while your insides buzz with constant self-evaluation.
You tell yourself it doesn't matter that he's never asked where you're from. Never asked how you're settling in. Never once used your name unless it's attached to a task. You tell yourself you don't care that when other attendings laugh at something you say, he doesn't even glance up. That when you stay late to finish notes, he leaves without looking back. You tell yourself it's better this way. Clean. Professional. Unattached.
Except safe is a lie you tell yourself when you don't want to admit you're lonely.
By the end of that first week, your throat is raw from swallowing questions. Your feet ache in a way that makes you feel older than you are. Youâve learned the geography of the department, where the crash carts hide, which nurses will teach you without making you beg, which attendings like bullet points instead of paragraphs. Youâve learned how to move quickly without looking like youâre running.
What you havenât learned is how to exist here as a person.
Because Langdon doesnât leave room for personhood. Around him, you become a set of tasks. A pair of hands. A voice delivering data. And when he erases you, you start erasing yourself too, tightening your smile, shrinking your presence, making yourself smaller so you can be overlooked on purpose instead of by accident.
So when someone finally looks at you like youâre not just another intern-shaped obstacle in the hallway it hits harder than it should.
The other intern starts paying you attention in a way that feels deliberate.
It begins so small you almost convince yourself you imagined it.
His chair nudges closer when youâre both charting. Not close-close, not touching, but enough that the wheels squeak and the gap between your elbows becomes a suggestion instead of a fact. He angles his screen a fraction toward you like youâre a team. He asks questions he could absolutely look up himself.
âHey,â he says one night shift, voice pitched low over the constant chorus of monitors and overhead paging, âwhat did you put for your differential on the syncope in 12?â
You blink at him. âUh. Orthostatic, arrhythmia, anemia⊠dehydration⊠PE because sheâs on oral contraceptives and -â
He grins. âSee, that. Your brain. I like it.â
You stare at the note youâre writing, suddenly unable to remember how to spell dehydration.
Dating is the last of your worries. Youâve got exams that sit like bricks in your stomach, the kind you canât chew through or swallow, just carry. Youâve got skills checklists. Youâve got a list of procedures youâre terrified youâll never get smooth at. Youâve got attendings with eyes like scalpels and nurses who have seen every brand-new intern fall apart at least once.
You do not have time for any of it.
âYouâre doing fine,â he adds, as if he can read the thought scrawled across your forehead. He swivels his chair another inch closer. âSeriously. First week is brutal. I nearly cried in the supply closet.â
You snort despite yourself. âYou?â
âYeah,â he says, leaning in like heâs telling you a secret. âBecause I couldnât find the right size IV catheter and a trauma rolled in and I thought Iâd end up on the news as âintern who killed a man with incompetence.ââ
Your laugh escapes you before you can trap it. It feels warm in your chest. Dangerous.
He keeps talking. About normal things. Safe things. The cafeteria coffee that tastes like someone tried to brew despair. The bizarre number of adults who come in convinced theyâre dying because they ate a gummy vitamin on an empty stomach. The way the overhead voice always sounds slightly disappointed in everyone.
You find yourself relaxing around him in the same way you relax when you finally take off shoes that have been pinching you all day. Itâs not romantic, you tell yourself. Itâs not like that.
It canât be like that.
Because the ER is a world that eats softness for breakfast.
And because Dr. Langdon is still moving through it like a blade.
Dr. Langdon notices.
You donât see it at first, because youâve trained yourself not to look at him unless you absolutely have to. Not because youâre terrified, though thereâs a small, humiliating part of you that is, but because attention from him has never meant anything good.
Attention from Langdon means scrutiny.
It means: Why didnât you order that? Why is this missing? Whatâs your plan?
It means: Say it. Out loud. In front of everyone.
It means the slow, creeping heat up your neck while the other interns suddenly become very interested in their keyboards.
So you adapt.
You keep your eyes on your work. On your patients. On the numbers. On the tiny order sets and lab trends and checkbox decisions that feel like they weigh a thousand pounds when youâre new and everything could be a mistake.
You make yourself smaller around him.
Efficient. Neutral. Unremarkable.
You do not look at him.
But you feel him anyway.
You feel him the way you feel a storm building, pressure shifting, air charged, something metallic under your tongue. The sense that if you glance up, youâll find his eyes already there.
Itâs subtle at first.
Youâre at the central station, charting. The department hums in the background, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms, a stretcher rattling past, the overhead pager clearing its throat before announcing another consult.
Evan slides his chair closer.
Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just enough that the wheels squeak softly against the floor.
His knee bumps yours under the desk.
âSorry,â he murmurs.
He doesnât move away.
âMm,â you reply, eyes fixed stubbornly on the screen like the sodium level in room twelve is the most fascinating thing youâve ever seen.
Evan leans slightly toward you, pointing at your note. âYouâre writing like⊠a lot.â
âItâs thorough,â you say defensively.
âItâs pretty,â he says, too earnest.
You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you and tilts upward. âThatâs not a word anyoneâs ever used for my documentation.â
He shrugs, smiling. âFirst time for everything.â
You both laugh, quiet, contained, like youâre not sure laughter is allowed here.
Itâs small. Harmless. Normal. And thatâs why it stands out.
Because normal doesnât live here very long.
Across the department, someone calls, "Trauma to bay two!" The world shifts instantly, chairs scrape, nurses move, someone swears, a monitor alarm spikes. You and Evan stand in tandem, chairs skittering back. Your pulse jumps ahead of you, already in trauma mode. You grab your stethoscope, brain switching gears so fast it almost hurts.
You jog toward the bay and nearly collide with Dr. Langdon.
He's moving in the opposite direction, purposeful and fast, like the chaos parts around him by instinct. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't slow. You misjudge the distance. Your shoulder clips his chest, solid, unyielding, and the impact sends a sharp jolt through you. Your balance tips backward, stomach dropping as your heels slide against the polished floor.
And then his hands are on you. Both of them. Firm and strong. One gripping your upper arm, the other catching your opposite shoulder, fingers spreading instinctively to steady you before you can tumble. The contact is automatic, reflexive, controlled, but solid enough that you feel it everywhere. Through the thin cotton of your scrubs, straight to your pulse. His grip is steady, grounding, decisive. For a breath, you're chest to chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that your brain blanks entirely.
You look up. He's already looking down at you. Not annoyed, not amused. Focused. His jaw tightens slightly, eyes scanning your face as if confirming you're upright, intact.
"You need to watch where you're going," he says, voice low and even. But there's something under it, sharper than irritation.
Your hands are still half-raised from the impact, fingers curled against the front of his scrub top. You hadn't realized you'd grabbed him.
"I- sorry," you breathe.
He doesnât release you immediately. His hands remain at your arms a fraction longer than necessary, like he's making sure you're steady, like he's reluctant to let go before he's certain you won't fall. Then, slowly, his grip loosens. His fingers slide away from your sleeves. The absence of his touch feels abrupt.
"Room five's ECG?" he asks.
Back to business. Back to clinical tone. But your skin is still buzzing where he held you. And you're suddenly very aware that in a department full of motion and noise, he was the only thing that didn't move. This time he's not looking past you. He's looking at you. Really looking.
"I ordered it," you say quickly, throat tight. "It should be-"
"It should be done," he cuts in. Same tone, same efficiency. Except his fingers don't leave your elbow right away. You become acutely aware of everything, how close he's standing, how steady his gaze is, how your skin feels too tight.
"Go," he says.
You nod, stepping out of his grip. The loss of contact is almost as noticeable as the touch itself.
Behind you, Evan says, "Hey-" and then stops, like he's just realized he shouldn't have spoken. You risk a glance back. Evan is staring at Langdon the way you stare at a dog that hasn't decided whether to bite. Langdon doesn't look at him at first. Then he does. Brief. A glance. But it's cold and direct and unmistakably territorial. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.
He turns away, already moving toward trauma bay two with that confident, clipped stride, quick, bold, certain. Gloves snapping onto his hands as he walks. Voice cutting cleanly through the noise as he calls for airway equipment.
But as he passes the central station, his gaze sweeps the desk where you and Evan had been sitting. Where the chairs were too close. Where your knees had touched.
He slows. Just a fraction. Barely perceptible.
And then he's moving again.
The thing about Langdon is that he exists in two speeds, with no comfortable middle ground. One is absolute stillness, standing at the foot of a bed, hands in his pockets, watching monitors like they're about to confess something. The other is sudden, decisive action: gloves snapping on, voice cutting through chaos, ordering the room into obedience without ever raising it. You've seen him drop a central line like it was nothing, intubate like breathing, read an EKG and decide someone's fate in seconds. You've also seen him stare blankly when a patient cries, like he's waiting for the crying to finish so the real conversation can continue.
You don't know what he is right now, stillness or action. He's leaning against the nurse's station, coffee in hand, pretending to read a chart. But you know he saw. He saw Evan's chair close to yours. He saw Evan leaning in. He saw you laughing. It shouldn't matter. It's ridiculous that it does. But you feel the weight of his attention anyway, heavy and wordless, pressing against the back of your neck like a hand you can't brush away.
That night, you find yourself in the supply room, restocking IV kits. Itâs a small, quiet way of being helpful, trying to be useful, trying to be the kind of intern people donât regret letting into the room. The space is narrow and overbright, shelves stacked to the ceiling with gauze, syringes, saline flushes, and IV start kits in plastic-wrapped bundles that crinkle when you touch them. It smells faintly of antiseptic and cardboard, and the fluorescent light hums overhead like itâs tired too. You count under your breath as you stack the kits, one, two, three, because if your hands are busy, your brain doesnât spiral.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, the sound too loud in the small room. You hesitate before pulling it out, as if you already know who it is. You coming to grab coffee after? â Evan. You stare at the message like itâs a trick question, like thereâs a correct answer and youâre about to choose wrong. You want to say no. You want to say you donât have time, that you have to go home and study and sleep and prepare for tomorrow like youâre about to climb a mountain barefoot. You want to be disciplined, focused, untouchable. But you also want to say yes. Because youâre lonely. Because the ER is loud and relentless, and youâre new and trying so hard not to make mistakes that youâve stopped breathing properly. Because every interaction with Langdon feels like a test you didnât know you were taking, while Evanâs attention feels easy. Dr. Langdonâs attention, on the other hand, feels like a spotlight you canât escape.
You type: Maybe. Iâm still on shift. The three dots appear almost immediately. Iâll wait. Your heart does something annoying and fluttery at that, something you donât have time for. You tuck the phone away quickly, as if someone might see it and confiscate it, and grab another box of saline flushes.
You step sideways to reach the upper shelf, and nearly walk right into Dr. Langdon. Heâs standing in the doorway, blocking most of the light like a cutout, like heâs been there long enough to watch you but not long enough for you to notice. Your pulse spikes. Heâs in navy scrubs, sleeves pushed up slightly, forearms bare. He looks less like a physician and more like something carved sharp and deliberate out of the chaos. His face is the same calm mask youâve come to resent, composed, impassive, unreadable, but his eyes flick briefly to your pocket, then back to your face.
âBusy?â he asks. You blink. âUh⊠no. Just restocking.â Your voice sounds thinner than youâd like. A pause stretches between you. He steps inside, and the room feels smaller instantly, the shelves feel closer. Youâre suddenly hyperaware of how narrow the space is, how thereâs nowhere to step without brushing against him. Your brain tries to supply a reason for him to be here and comes up empty. âI need a 20-gauge,â he says. You nod too quickly and point toward the upper drawer. âTop left.â
He doesnât move. Not immediately. Instead, he looks at you, not through you, but at you like heâs trying to read a label you forgot to attach.
âYouâre doing a lot of socializing,â he says. The words land hard. Not loud or angry, just extremely personal. It hits you like a slap, not because itâs cruel but because it means he noticed.
Your mouth opens and nothing comes out for a second. âIâm- what?â you manage. His gaze doesnât waver. âAt the station.â
Heat floods your face, immediate and humiliating. âWe were charting,â you say, defensive before you can stop yourself. âAnd talking. Itâs not, I mean, itâs not like Iâm neglecting patients.â
âI didnât say you were,â he replies. Thereâs a faint, dry edge to his tone, not mocking, not quite, but more like something sharpened and carefully controlled. âThough I can see why youâd jump to that conclusion.â Your nails dig into your palm. âWhy are you even-â
He moves then. Steps closer. Close enough that you have to shift backward slightly to avoid bumping into the shelving behind you. He reaches up past you to grab the 20-gauge catheter. Itâs on the top shelf, which means he has to lean in, one arm braced lightly against the metal shelving beside your head, the other reaching over your shoulder. His chest is inches from yours. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint brush of fabric as his scrubs shift, the subtle scent of antiseptic and coffee and something clean and sharp that is just him.
Youâre in his bubble. Or maybe heâs in yours. Either way, itâs too close. Your breath catches. His fingers close around the catheter, but he doesnât rush to pull away. For a second, his arm is still braced beside you, his head angled slightly downward, close enough that if you tilted your chin up, youâdâŠ
You swallow hard. He straightens slowly, stepping back just enough to create space again. He slips the catheter into his pocket.
âYouâre new,â he says, voice quieter now, controlled. âDistractions donât help.â You stare at him.
âSo youâre what,â you say, pulse still unsteady. âGiving me advice?â
âIâm telling you to keep up,â he replies. There it is, the familiar tone. Cold. Professional. Precise.
He turns to leave, then stops in the doorway, like something invisible caught him by the collar. Without looking back, he adds, âEvanâs not as helpful as he looks.â You blink, thrown. âWhat does that mean?â His shoulders tense, just slightly, a small, betraying movement.
âIt means,â he says, voice flatter now, tighter, âthat not everyone who smiles at you is doing it for you.â The words hang in the air, heavy, layered. And then heâs gone. Just like that. You stand there among the saline flushes and IV kits and fluorescent hum, staring at the doorway like it might explain itself. Your pulse is still racing, your skin still buzzing where he leaned too close.
Your phone buzzes again. You almost drop it. Still alive? â Evan. You swallow. Your fingers hover over the screen longer than they should. Yeah. Just busy. You hit send. And you donât know why your hands are still shaking.
When you step back onto the floor from the supply room, the noise hits you all at once. Monitors chirp in uneven rhythms, someone argues with radiology over a delayed scan, a stretcher rattles past with a patient clutching an emesis bag. It should feel grounding, familiar chaos, something you can disappear into, but your skin still hums where Langdon leaned in, where his arm braced beside your head, where his voice dropped just enough to make his warning feel less like professional advice and more like something else entirely.
You tell yourself to shake it off. You adjust your badge, smooth the front of your coat, force your shoulders back into something resembling composure. You are fine. You are not a first-year med student flustered by proximity. You are a resident. You have patients waiting.
Evan is at the central station exactly where you left him, perched sideways in his chair with one elbow hooked over the back. He looks up immediately when you approach. His expression changes in a way thatâs almost imperceptible but unmistakable, his smile softens, his brows knit slightly.
âHey,â he says quietly. âYou look like you saw a ghost.â
You busy yourself with logging back into the computer, grateful for the barrier of the screen. âJust inventory,â you reply. âThrilling stuff.â
He doesnât laugh. He studies you instead. âWas he in there?â
You glance at him before you can stop yourself. âWho?â
Evanâs mouth tilts knowingly. âCome on.â
You donât answer, which is answer enough.
He swivels his chair closer, lowering his voice. âDid he say something?â
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You could tell him. You could repeat Langdonâs line about distractions, about not everyone smiling at you for the right reasons. You could admit that it rattled you more than it should have. Instead, you shrug.
âIt was nothing,â you say. âHe needed a catheter.â
Evanâs jaw tightens just slightly. âOf course he did.â
Thereâs a beat of silence before he nudges a paper cup toward you across the counter. You hadnât noticed it sitting there.
âCoffee,â he says. âI grabbed you one earlier. Figured youâd say yes eventually.â
You stare at it. You hadnât agreed. Youâd said maybe. Thereâs something about that, about him assuming, that makes you hesitate.
âI donât know if Iâll be able to,â you say carefully. âAfter shift. I have notes. And I should probablyââ
âStudy,â he finishes for you, smiling gently. âYou always say that.â
You do hesitate. You feel it, how easy it would be to say no and retreat into the safe, disciplined version of yourself. But youâre tired. Your throat still feels tight from swallowing everything Langdon didnât quite say.
âMaybe,â you repeat, softer this time.
Evanâs smile widens. He takes it as encouragement, as progress. âIâll walk you to your car at least,â he says. âYou donât have to decide about coffee yet.â
Before you can respond, a voice cuts across the station.
âRoom twelveâs repeat labs?â
You recognize his voice before you register the words. It cuts cleanly through the background noise of the department, steady, level, impossible to ignore. You hadnât seen him approach. One second it was just you and Evan and the low murmur of shared conversation, and the next Langdon is there at the opposite end of the counter, close enough that his presence shifts the space.
He rests one hand lightly against the workstation, long fingers spread against the surface as he studies the patient board. He doesnât look at Evan. He doesnât even look at you at first. His gaze moves quickly over the columns of names and times and pending labs, absorbing everything in a way that makes you feel like the board itself is reporting to him.
âTheyâre pending,â you answer immediately, your voice sharper than you intend. You are suddenly very aware of how close Evanâs chair is to yours, how the paper coffee cup sits near your elbow like evidence.
Langdonâs eyes lift then.
Not the familiar quizzing look that pins you in place and demands an answer. Not the dissecting one that strips your plan down to bone. This is different. Quieter. Slower. His gaze settles on you with a kind of measured consideration that makes your stomach tighten.
âCall the lab,â he says. âTheyâve been slow all night.â
Thereâs nothing in his tone to object to. Itâs practical. Sensible. You nod and reach for the phone without argument, grateful for something concrete to do.
Beside you, Evan shifts. âI can callââ
âI asked her,â Langdon replies.
He doesnât raise his voice. He doesnât sharpen it. The words are delivered evenly, almost mildly, but they land with the weight of a closed door. Controlled. Clean. Final.
Evan stills.
You feel the change in atmosphere immediately, a subtle tightening that hums between them. Itâs the kind of shift that might go unnoticed by anyone not standing inside it, but you are standing inside it, and it makes your pulse stutter.
Langdonâs gaze drops briefly, and for a moment you think heâs returned to the board. He hasnât. His eyes flick downward, not to your face, but to the space between you and Evan. To the angle of your chairs. To the proximity that had felt harmless a minute ago. To the coffee cup by your hand.
Then his eyes return to you.
âRoom eight needs reassessment,â he says. âNow.â
You almost tell him you were about to go. The words rise instinctively to defend yourself, to prove youâre not distracted, not careless. But something in his expression holds you back. It isnât irritation. It isnât disappointment. Itâs something more tightly drawn, something that feels less like critique and more like containment.
âYes,â you say instead.
You push your chair back and stand. Evan stands too, instinctively falling into step with you. âIâll come withââ
âNo,â Langdon interjects smoothly. He shifts his attention to Evan for the first time, though he doesnât fully face him. âYouâre with me in bay three.â
Evan hesitates. âI thought I wasââ
âYouâre with me,â Langdon repeats, already turning away as if the matter is settled.
He doesnât look back at Evan again. He doesnât need to. The authority in his tone is enough.
You walk toward room eight with your heartbeat drumming faintly in your ears, acutely aware that Langdon didnât accuse you of anything. He didnât comment on the coffee. He didnât mention Evan by name. He didnât need to.
He simply rearranged the room.
And in doing so, he separated you.
Through the glass panels, you catch a glimpse of him in bay three. He stands beside Evan now, posture relaxed, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other gestures lightly toward the monitor. His voice carries in low, measured tones, the same voice he uses when heâs instructing, when heâs teaching without humiliation. Anyone watching would see nothing unusual. Just a senior resident guiding a junior.
But thereâs a tightness in his jaw that wasnât there before. A slight tension at the edge of his mouth.
Evan listens, nodding stiffly.
For a brief moment, Langdonâs eyes lift from the monitor and travel across the department.
They find you. It isnât accidental. It isnât wandering. Itâs deliberate.
His expression doesnât change, but thereâs no clinical distance in that look. No impersonal assessment. It feels direct in a way that makes your breath catch, as if heâs measuring something that has nothing to do with lab values or vital signs.
You look away first.
You tell yourself itâs because you have a patient waiting.
For the rest of the shift, the undercurrent remains. It isnât loud or explosive. Thereâs no confrontation. No raised voices. Just presence.
Langdon appears at your shoulder more often than strictly necessary, leaning in to review your notes and correcting details that are technically fine. He redirects you to different rooms whenever Evan drifts too close, assigning you tasks in that calm, unarguable tone. When he asks you questions, they sound casual to anyone listening, but thereâs weight beneath them, a focus that feels personal.
He doesnât touch you again. He doesnât mention Evan. But he watches.
And you can feel it, steady and unrelenting, like a hand hovering just at the small of your back.
Over the next few shifts, the changes are subtle enough that you can almost pretend they arenât happening.
Evanâs chair ends up beside yours more often than not. If thereâs an open workstation further down the counter, he ignores it. If someone else sits near you, he finds a reason to hover. It starts with proximity and the easy comfort youâd already let yourself accept. His knee brushes yours under the desk during charting, and at first you assume itâs accidental. The second time, he murmurs a soft apology without moving away. By the third time, you realize heâs angling his body toward you deliberately, his thigh resting just close enough that youâre aware of the contact even when youâre trying not to be.
When you pass charts back and forth, his fingers graze yours. The touch lingers half a second longer than necessary. He smiles each time, casual, like thereâs nothing loaded in the gesture at all. It would be easy to dismiss it as friendliness if you werenât starting to feel the pattern.
He compliments your work constantly, and at first itâs harmless. âYour notes are always the clearest.â âYou think through things better than most of us.â Itâs validating in a way that feels almost dangerous after the steady pressure of Langdonâs scrutiny. Where Langdon finds gaps, Evan highlights strengths. Where Langdon pushes, Evan reassures.
But then the compliments shift.
âYou know,â Evan says one night as youâre both reviewing labs, âyouâre wasted trying to get his approval.â
You glance at him. âWhat?â
He nods subtly toward the far end of the station where Langdon stands with a nurse, reviewing imaging. âYou work harder than anyone here. And he acts like youâre just barely keeping up.â
Your jaw tightens. âHe doesnât act like that.â
Evan raises an eyebrow. âHe doesnât even look at you unless heâs quizzing you.â
The words hit closer than you want them to.
You turn back to your screen. âHe looks at everyone like that.â
âNot like he looks at you,â Evan says quietly.
You donât respond, but you feel it settle somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.
Langdon does look at you differently. Youâve felt that shift. The attention that lingers a second too long. The quiet assessments that feel less clinical lately. The way he rearranges assignments without explanation.
You tell yourself itâs professional.
Evan doesnât seem to think so.
âYou deserve someone who actually sees you,â he continues, softer now. âNot someone who treats you like a project.â
The comment is too personal. It crosses a line you hadnât agreed to draw. You let out a short laugh to deflect. âIâm not looking for someone.â
âI know,â he says. âBut still.â
Thereâs something in his tone that makes your skin prickle.
Across the department, Langdon shifts position. You donât mean to look, but you do. Heâs no longer focused on the imaging. His posture has changed slightly, weight angled toward the station. His gaze isnât openly fixed on you, but it isnât random either. It passes over the counter, over the cluster of residents, and lands briefly on Evanâs hand where it rests too close to yours.
He doesnât say anything.
He doesnât have to.
The escalation continues in increments small enough that no one else would notice.
When youâre presenting a patient, Evan steps closer than necessary, shoulder brushing yours as he leans in to âadd context.â When Langdon moves into the space to ask a question, Evan shifts just slightly to remain between you and him, like itâs instinctive. Itâs subtle positioning, but you feel it every time.
One afternoon in the hallway outside radiology, Evan reaches for your elbow to steer you toward a case. His grip is light, but itâs firm enough that you stop walking. âYou donât have to impress him,â he murmurs. âYou know that, right?â
You pull your arm back gently. âIâm not trying to impress anyone.â
âYou always tense up when heâs around,â Evan says. âYou donât do that with me.â
Thereâs a reason for that. Being around Evan feels easy because thereâs no risk of humiliation. No sudden questions. No razor-sharp corrections. With Evan, youâre not constantly bracing.
With Langdon, you are always aware.
And lately, Langdon seems just as aware of you.
He appears beside you mid-conversation more frequently. He asks for updates directly from you, even when Evan has just spoken. When you and Evan are reviewing imaging together, Langdon inserts himself with quiet authority, leaning over your shoulder to point out a finding. His arm doesnât touch you, but the space between you shrinks until youâre hyperaware of the heat of him.
âYour interpretation?â he asks you, ignoring Evan entirely.
You answer. He listens. The intensity of his focus feels different now. Less about exposing flaws. More about pulling something from you specifically.
Evan notices.
You can see it in the way his jaw tightens when Langdon interrupts. In the way he lingers afterward, stepping back into your space the second Langdon walks away.
It becomes a pattern.
If Evan leans in, Langdon appears.
If Evan touches your wrist while handing you a pen, Langdon assigns you to a different room.
If Evan positions himself at your side during a trauma, Langdon directs him elsewhere with a calm, unarguable instruction.
âBay four,â heâll say, not looking at Evan. âYouâre needed.â
He never references you. He never mentions what heâs doing.
He just rearranges the board.
And every time, his gaze flicks to you afterward, measuring something.
The tension builds in layers. Easy warmth on one side. Controlled intensity on the other.
Evan grows more confident in his closeness. He stands a little nearer. Lets his hand rest at the small of your back when guiding you through a crowded hallway. Compliments your appearance once, casually, like itâs nothing. âYou look good today,â he says, eyes lingering just long enough to make it clear he means more than your documentation.
You laugh it off. You tell yourself itâs harmless. But youâre aware of the way Langdonâs attention sharpens when it happens.
He doesnât confront Evan. He doesnât confront you. He simply watches. And that might be worse than if he did.
Because thereâs no explosion. No scene. Just a steady tightening of something unspoken. His presence becomes heavier, his proximity more deliberate. When he stands beside you now, it feels intentional. When he corrects you, it feels personal.
Langdon offers pressure. Focus. A gaze that feels like it sees straight through you.
And the more Evan pushes, the more Langdonâs silence grows charged.
The shift is nearing its end when it happens. The waiting room has thinned, the chaos dulled into a tired hum. Itâs that strange hour where the ER exhales but never fully sleeps. The overhead lights feel harsher somehow, casting everything in pale fluorescence. You tell yourself you just need to get through the last few tasks, med reconciliation in room nine, discharge paperwork in twelve, restock the airway cart because no one else will.
You duck into the medication room to grab antiemetics for a patient who hasnât stopped vomiting since triage. The space is narrow and poorly ventilated, shelves packed with labeled drawers and locked cabinets. The lighting is softer in here, slightly dimmer than the hallway, giving everything a muted edge. The door swings shut behind you with a quiet click.
Youâre reaching for the ondansetron when you hear it open again.
You donât have to turn around to know who it is.
âHey,â Evan says quietly.
You glance over your shoulder. He closes the door more firmly this time, not aggressively, but enough that the latch catches.
âI just needed to grab something,â you say, gesturing vaguely at the shelves.
âYeah,â he replies, stepping inside. âI figured.â
Thereâs less space now. The room was small before. With him in it, it feels close.
You turn back to the cabinet, trying to keep it normal. âDid you need something?â
âActually,â he says, and his voice is different. Softer. Intentional. âI wanted to talk to you.â
You feel your shoulders tighten. âAbout?â
He exhales slowly, leaning back against the counter behind him. âAbout us.â
Your stomach drops.
âThere isnât an us,â you say lightly, trying to defuse whatever Ethan thinks is going on.
He smiles, but it doesnât quite reach his eyes. âCome on. Youâve been giving me a chance.â
You hesitate. That word. Chance. You remember the coffee. The maybe. The way you didnât shut him down cleanly because you didnât want to be harsh.
âI said maybe to coffee,â you reply carefully. âThatâs notââ
âItâs not nothing,â he interrupts gently. âYou didnât say no.â
He pushes off the counter and steps closer. Not abruptly. Not threateningly. Just closing the distance inch by inch.
âYouâve been leaning in,â he continues. âLaughing. Staying. You couldâve walked away.â
Your back brushes lightly against the shelving. You hadnât realized youâd stepped backward.
âI was just being friendly,â you say.
âAnd I was being more than that,â he says.
Thereâs something in his tone now that makes your pulse spike. Confidence. Assumption.
âYou deserve someone who actually sees you,â he adds quietly. âNot someone who only talks to you when he wants to correct you.â
Your chest tightens. You know who he means. The comparison feels like a hook under your skin.
âThatâs not fair,â you say, though youâre not entirely sure who youâre defending.
âI see you,â Evan says. âI see how hard you work. I see how he looks at you like youâre a problem to solve.â
You donât answer. He steps closer again. This time, thereâs no pretending itâs accidental.
Your brain blanks for half a second. Itâs not violent. Itâs not forceful. But itâs not invited either. The shock of it steals your breath. You freeze, muscles locked, trying to catch up with whatâs happening.
âYou donât have to impress him,â he murmurs. âYou donât have to prove anything.â
He leans in. You see it coming. You know what heâs about to do.
And still, you hesitate. Because you donât want to make a scene. Because you donât want to hurt him. Because you hate confrontation more than almost anything.
His other hand comes up to your shoulder, fingers curling gently but possessively. His face is inches from yours now.
And then he kisses you.
Itâs not rough. Not aggressive. But itâs claiming.
Your body doesnât respond. Thereâs no spark. No pull. No answering shift. Thereâs only heat flooding your face and the sudden, sharp realization that this is wrong.
In a spilt second you shove him back.
Itâs not dramatic. Itâs not a slap. Just a firm push against his chest that creates space between you.
âIâm sorry,â you blurt immediately, the words tumbling out on instinct. âI didnât meanâIâm sorry.â
He stares at you, stunned.
âWhy are you apologizing?â he asks.
âBecause I didnâtâI didnât mean to give you the wrong idea.â
âYou didnât,â he insists. âYou were into it.â
Your stomach twists.
âI wasnât,â you say, stepping sideways so youâre no longer pinned against the shelving. Your voice is quieter now, but steadier. âI wasnât.â
His expression hardens slightly, confusion edging toward defensiveness.
âI was tired,â you say, the embarrassment burning up your neck. âAnd I thought we were justââ
âJust what?â
âColleagues,â you finish.
Silence stretches between you.
You feel foolish. Guilty. Like youâve somehow created this misunderstanding even though you know you didnât ask for his hand on your waist.
âIâm sorry,â you repeat, because it feels easier than standing firm.
Evan exhales sharply. âI thought you wanted this.â
âI donât,â you say. The words land heavier than you expect.
He studies your face for a moment, searching for something, doubt, regret, invitation. Whatever heâs looking for, he doesnât find it.
âIs it him?â he asks quietly.
Your heart stumbles.
âWhat?â
âIs it because of him?â
You donât answer. The door handle rattles suddenly from the outside. Both of you look toward it instinctively.
And when it opens, it isnât a nurse who steps inside.
Itâs Langdon.
His gaze moves once, slow and deliberate.
He takes in Evanâs position first. The way Evan is standing too close to you. The way your back is angled toward the shelving instead of toward him. The small but unmistakable distance youâve created since pushing him away. The tension still held tight in your shoulders.
Then his eyes lift to your face. There is no surprise in them. No visible anger. No flare of temper. Only calculation.
For a moment, the three of you exist in a suspended pocket of silence. The ventilation hums softly overhead. The fluorescent light flickers faintly. Your pulse is loud in your own ears.
Langdon doesnât ask whatâs going on.
He doesnât look at Evan again immediately.
He looks at you.
âRoom nine is asking for you,â he says evenly.
His voice is steady, measured, perfectly professional. Anyone overhearing it would hear nothing but routine workflow. But you know the board. You know no one paged you for nine. The lie is clean enough that no one else would question it.
You swallow. âI was justââ
âI know,â he says.
The words are quiet, but they land with weight. Not accusatory. Not sympathetic. Just certain.
Evan shifts beside you. âSheâs with me.â
Langdonâs head tilts slightly, though he still hasnât fully turned toward him. Thereâs a faint tightening at the edge of his mouth, so small it would be easy to miss if you werenât watching him.
âYouâre needed in CT,â Langdon replies.
Itâs the same tone he uses when ordering imaging or redirecting a consult. Calm. Unimpeachable.
Evan frowns. âWe were in the middle of something.â
Now Langdon looks at him.
Itâs not a glare. Itâs not heated. Itâs colder than that. The kind of look that strips away assumption and leaves nothing but hierarchy.
âSheâs needed,â he repeats, and then his gaze shifts back to you.
âNow.â
He says it to you, not to Evan.
The emphasis is subtle, but unmistakable. His eyes hold yours when he says it, steady and unwavering, as if waiting to see which direction youâll move.
You donât hesitate this time. âOkay.â
The word feels small in your mouth, but you step forward anyway. As you move past him, youâre acutely aware of his presence in the doorway. He shifts slightly, not enough to block anyone outright, but enough that Evan would have to brush past him to follow.
Evan doesnât try.
Thereâs a flicker of irritation in his expression as he steps back. âFine,â he mutters.
Langdon doesnât acknowledge the tone. He doesnât need to. He simply turns and walks into the hallway, assuming you will follow.
You do.
The ER noise crashes back in around you, bright and unrelenting. A nurse near the station glances up as you and Langdon emerge from the med room together. Her eyes linger half a second too long, curiosity sparking. Another resident pauses mid-sentence, gaze shifting between the three of you.
No one says anything out loud.
But the shift is felt.
Langdon moves through it as if nothing is unusual. His posture is relaxed, shoulders loose, one hand slipping casually into the pocket of his scrubs. If someone were watching from a distance, they would see only a senior resident redirecting a junior. Efficient. Ordinary.
Except you were just inside that room.
You know it wasnât ordinary.
âRoom nine,â he says again, as if reinforcing the fiction. âTheyâve been waiting on reassessment.â
His tone leaves no space for debate.
You nod and move ahead, but he doesnât immediately peel away to another task. Instead, he remains within a few steps of you, close enough that you feel the steadiness of him at your back.
Evan reappears near the central station, jaw tight, watching. Langdon doesnât look at him. He doesnât address him again. The dismissal is complete.
As you reach the workstation to pull up room nineâs chart, Langdon stops beside you. He leans one hand on the counter, close but not touching, his gaze fixed on the screen.
âYou okay?â he asks quietly.
The question is almost clinical in delivery, but thereâs nothing clinical about the way his eyes flick over your face.
Itâs the first time heâs asked something like that.
You nod automatically. âIâm fine.â
His jaw shifts slightly, as if heâs weighing the truth of that statement.
âIf I wanted to embarrass you,â he says, voice low enough that it doesnât carry beyond the two of you, âI would have asked what was happening in there.â
Your breath catches.
âI didnât,â he continues. âThat was intentional.â
Thereâs no triumph in his tone. No self-congratulation. Just fact.
Heat spreads up your neck, but this time it isnât humiliation. Itâs something more complicated.
âI didnât need rescuing,â you reply, the defensiveness rising before you can stop it.
His gaze sharpens slightly at that.
âI know,â he says.
The simplicity of the answer unsettles you more than any argument would have.
âEthan mustâve missed the importance of the consent talk in medical school,â he says quietly, almost under his breath.
He saw enough. Not the kiss but enough to step in. And he did it without raising his voice, without making a scene, without staking a claim in words.
A nurse calls his name from across the station. âDr. Langdon, they need you upstairs. A helicopterâs arriving.â
His expression shifts instantly, smoothing back into its usual controlled neutrality, the personal sealed away behind professional focus. He nods once toward the nurse, already recalibrating.
Then his eyes return to you.
âWalk with me,â he says.
It isnât a request.
He doesnât wait to see if you hesitate. He turns, already moving toward the elevators, long strides confident and unhurried. For half a second you consider staying where you are, consider letting the moment dissolve back into workflow. But something in the way he said it, quiet, direct, deliberate, pulls you forward.
You follow.
The department parts around him as it always does. Nurses step aside without being asked. A tech moves a stretcher just enough to clear his path. You trail half a step behind at first, then fall into stride beside him. He doesnât look at you as you walk, but you are acutely aware of his presence. Of the contained energy in his movements, the tension held just beneath the surface.
When you reach the elevators, he presses the call button once. The doors open almost immediately.
He steps inside and turns, holding the door with one hand as it begins to slide closed.
âInside,â he says, his gaze locking onto yours.
You step in. The elevator doors slide shut with a muted thud, sealing you into a narrow metal box that suddenly feels far too small for both of you. The noise of the ER is cut off mid-breath. No monitors. No overhead paging. No nurses moving past with charts. Just the low mechanical hum as the car begins to descend.
Langdon stands opposite you at first, hands loosely at his sides, posture composed as ever. The fluorescent light overhead casts sharp lines across his face, emphasizing the hard set of his jaw. He doesnât look at you immediately. He presses the button for the lower floor with the same calm precision he uses to order imaging or start a procedure.
âYou canât let people corner you like that,â he says, tone level, controlled.
It sounds clinical. Detached. As if heâs discussing airway management.
You stare at the brushed steel wall instead of at him. âI wasnât cornered.â
He shifts his weight slightly, and you feel the movement even without looking. âYou were,â he replies. âAnd you didnât shut it down fast enough.â
Heat flares in your chest. âI handled it.â
âYou froze.â
The word lands hard.
You turn to face him fully. âYou donât get to dissect that.â
His eyes meet yours then. Steady. Assessing. Thereâs no mockery in them, no satisfaction at catching you off balance. If anything, thereâs tension threaded beneath the surface.
âYouâre here to work,â he continues. âNot to manage other peopleâs feelings.â
Something in you snaps.
âWhy do you care?â The question comes out sharper than you intended, but you donât pull it back.
His expression doesnât change. âI donât.â
Itâs automatic. Defensive. Too quick.
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. âRight.â
The elevator hums as it moves downward. You can feel the faint vibration through the soles of your shoes.
âIf you donât care,â you press, stepping closer despite yourself, âthen why do you always target me?â
That hits. You see it. The smallest tightening at the edge of his mouth. The brief flicker in his eyes that suggests youâve struck something real.
âI donât target you,â he says, but the certainty in his voice isnât as solid as it was a moment ago.
âYou quiz me in front of everyone. You call on me when you could call on anyone else. You make me feel like Iâm constantly one mistake away from being exposed.â Your voice is rising, not loud, but intense. âYou humiliate me in front of the entire station and then act like itâs teaching.â
The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, then continues moving. Neither of you look at the floor indicator.
âI push you because you can take it,â he says quietly.
âThatâs not an answer.â
âYou want an answer?â His composure fractures just enough for you to see the strain beneath it. âYouâre capable. More than you think. And you waste time trying to make people comfortable instead of being right.â
âYou think I care about making people comfortable?â
âI think you apologize when someone crosses a line instead of setting one.â
Your breath catches.
He steps closer.
Not abruptly. Not aggressively. Just enough that the space between you narrows from several feet to a breath and a half.
The elevator lurches and comes to a temporary halt between floors. The lights flicker once, then steady. The mechanical hum shifts into a strained whir.
You both feel it.
Neither of you mention it.
âYou warned me about him,â you say, your voice lower now, more deliberate. âWhy?â
His gaze sharpens. âBecause he doesnât see you.â
The answer is immediate.
You swallow. âHe does.â
âHe sees attention,â Langdon corrects. âHe sees access. He doesnât understand what you are.â
âAnd what am I?â you challenge.
He hesitates for the first time.
The pause is small but seismic.
âYouâre not naive,â he says finally. âBut you donât always recognize when someone is positioning themselves to own a piece of you.â
The words hang heavy between you.
âYou donât get to decide who gets me,â you reply, heart pounding so loudly youâre sure he can hear it.
His jaw tightens.
âI know.â
The admission is quieter than anything heâs said so far.
The elevator remains stalled, suspended in that strange mechanical limbo. The air feels warmer. Thicker.
You take another step forward before you can stop yourself. Now thereâs barely space between you. You can feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
âYou act like Iâm incompetent,â you continue, but your voice has lost some of its edge. It sounds almost unsteady now. âLike Iâm a liability youâre constantly monitoring.â
His eyes darken slightly.
âIf you were incompetent,â he says, âI wouldnât waste my time.â
Itâs blunt. Unvarnished. Entirely him.
âThatâs not reassuring.â
âItâs not meant to be.â
Your breathing shifts. Youâre aware of it. A little faster. A little shallower.
He notices. Of course he does.
âI donât humiliate you,â he says, voice lower now. âI refuse to let you hide behind being new.â
âAnd what does that have to do with him?â you press.
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes.
âI donât trust him with you.â
The honesty of it knocks the air from your lungs.
The elevator hum deepens as it prepares to move again, but the car remains suspended for a few more seconds that feel longer than they should.
âYou donât trust him,â you repeat slowly. âOr you donât trust yourself?â
The question lands harder than you expected.
His hand flexes slightly at his side.
âYou think this is about me?â he asks, but thereâs no heat in it. Only tension.
âI think you care,â you say. âAnd you donât know what to do with that.â
Silence fills the space between you. Dense. Charged.
The elevator jolts back into motion, but neither of you break eye contact.
âYou donât get to claim me because you noticed first,â you continue, voice barely above a whisper now. âYou donât get to decide who gets close.â
He inhales slowly.
âIâm not claiming you.â
The lie is softer this time.
The elevator slows as it approaches the next floor. The subtle deceleration shifts your balance forward slightly. Instinctively, his hand lifts, hovering near your waist as if to steady you, though he doesnât quite touch.
Your eyes drop to the space between you.
Then back up.
âYou stepped in,â you say. âYou redirected him. You separated us.â
âYes.â
No denial.
âAnd youâre telling me that wasnât personal?â
His jaw tightens again.
âIt was necessary.â
âFor what?â you demand.
His gaze burns into yours.
âFor you.â
The word lands in your chest like a weight.
Your breathing falters. The space between you shrinks further without either of you consciously deciding to close it. The elevator hum is the only sound now, mechanical and distant.
âI donât need protecting,â you whisper.
âI know.â
âBut you did it anyway.â
âYes.â
The silence between you stretches so tight it feels like it might snap.
The elevator hums as it descends, but the sound is distant, mechanical, nothing compared to the sound of your own breathing. You're standing too close now. You don't remember stepping forward, and yet there's barely an inch of space between your bodies. The fluorescent light above flickers faintly, washing his face in pale sharpness, jaw clenched, eyes darker than they were moments ago.
"You don't get to decide who gets me," you say again, but the edge in your voice has thinned into something more fragile. More honest.
His chest rises slowly, deliberately. "I know."
He says it like it costs him something.
You hold his gaze, refusing to look away this time. "Then stop acting like you do."
Something shifts in his expression then. Not anger. Not control. Something far more dangerous.
"You think I don't know that?" he asks quietly. His voice is lower now, rougher around the edges. "You think I don't know I don't get toâ"
He cuts himself off.
The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, the mechanical tension mirroring the strain in the air between you. You feel the deceleration pull you forward a fraction. His hand comes up instinctively to steady you, fingers wrapping around your waist before he can stop himself.
The contact is firm. Unthinking. You both freeze. His grip tightens.
For a split second, neither of you move. Your hands are hovering near his chest, your breath caught halfway between inhale and exhale. His thumb presses into the small of your back, anchoring you there.
His eyes drop to your mouth.
And something in him snaps.
His hand leaves your waist only to slide upward, fingers curling around your jaw. Not gentle. Not tentative. His palm is warm and solid against your skin as he tilts your face up toward his.
The kiss is sudden.
It isn't careful. It isn't sweet.
It crashes into you.
His mouth finds yours with a force that steals the air from your lungs. There's no soft lead-in, no hesitant brush. It's hunger and frustration and restraint breaking all at once. His grip on your jaw tightens just enough to hold you in place, to keep you there.
For half a second, you freeze.
Shock flares through you, bright and blinding.
And then you kiss him back.
Your hands fist into the front of his scrubs, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. The world narrows to heat and breath and the solid line of his body pressed against yours. The kiss deepens, not slow but desperate, like something long denied finally breaking free.
He makes a low sound against your mouth, almost angry, almost undone.
"Tell me to stop," he breathes, the words rough against your lips. But his mouth doesn't leave yours, can't leave yours, and his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. "Tell me you don't want this."
You don't tell him anything. You can't. Your brain has stopped functioning entirely, reduced to nothing but sensation, the heat of his palm against your skin, the press of his body, the way his breath hitches when you tug him closer.
His other hand slides back to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the tension in him, the battle between control and want playing out in the way his fingers flex against your side. He kisses you again, harder this time, deeper, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he's been thinking about this far longer than he'll ever admit.
"You have no idea," he murmurs between kisses, voice frayed, "what it's been like. Watching you. Every single day."
His lips trail to the corner of your mouth, then to your jaw, hot and insistent.
"Watching him touch you."
His teeth graze your pulse point, just enough to make you gasp.
"Smile at you."
His hand presses harder against your lower back, arching you into him.
"While I stood there. Pretending I didn't notice."
You can barely breathe. Your fingers twist tighter into his scrubs, knuckles brushing the warm skin of his chest where the V-neck gaps.
"Dr Langdonâ"
The kiss slows then, just slightly. Just enough to feel every point of contact, every slide of tongue, every shared breath. His thumb traces slow circles against your hip, grounding you both.
It is not gentle. It is not careful. It is everything you both tried not to let happen.
The elevator dings.
The sharp chime slices through the heat between you, dragging reality back into the small metal box.
Langdon pulls away first.
Not gently. Not reluctantly.
Abruptly.
His hand drops from your face as if the contact has burned him. He steps back, putting a fraction more distance between you, though the air still feels charged and thin. His chest rises and falls harder than youâve ever seen outside of a code, breath controlled but not steady. His jaw is set tight, a muscle ticking faintly near his temple. His eyes are bright, too bright, and thereâs something raw there, something unguarded that he would hate anyone else seeing.
âThis is a mistake,â he says, voice rougher than usual, like the words have scraped their way out of him.
You donât trust yourself to speak. You nod, staring at the closed doors in front of you, trying to slow your breathing, trying to gather whatever professionalism you have left and stitch it back into place.
The doors slide open.
Noise floods in, voices overlapping, monitors chiming, the distant whir of a stretcher being rushed past.
You step out first.
He follows.
For a few steps, you walk side by side without touching, without speaking. He has already rebuilt the mask, shoulders squared, expression composed, the efficient senior resident returning to his post as if nothing has happened. If anyone were watching, they would see nothing but hierarchy restored.
You make it halfway down the corridor before curiosity gets the better of you.
You glance back. Just for a second. You expect to find him cold again. Distant. Regretful.
Instead, you catch him watching you.
And he is trying, very clearly trying, not to smile.
Itâs subtle at first. The faintest curve threatening the corner of his mouth. The tightness in his jaw isnât anger anymore; itâs restraint. Not of temper. Of amusement. Of satisfaction.
Your heart stumbles painfully in your chest.
For all his talk of mistakes, he doesnât look like a man who regrets what he just did.He looks like a man who has finally stopped pretending.
The sight cracks something in you. You feel it before you can stop it, the answering lift at the corner of your own mouth. You try to suppress it. You fail.
Your eyes meet fully this time and something unspoken passes between you. The tension breaks.
A quiet, breathless laugh escapes him first, low, almost disbelieving. It pulls a matching sound from you, soft and incredulous and a little wild. You both turn your faces slightly away as if that will make it less obvious, less dangerous, but the laughter lingers in your eyes.
No one around you notices.
To everyone else, this is just another shift. Another trauma incoming. Another page overhead.
But the axis has shifted.
He straightens, composure sliding back into place, though the ghost of that almost-smile remains.
âHelicopterâs landing in two,â he says, voice steady again, but warmer somehow.
You nod, pulse still racing.
Everything has changed.
And as you fall into step beside him, the chaos of the hospital helipad rushing up to meet you, one thought threads clean and undeniable through the noise.
can you read my mind, i've been watching you [code blue]
You're not sure emergency medicine is for you. Frank Langdon is out to change that, one shift at a time.
this story is part of my universe 'code blue', which also features robby and jack stories, but each one is entirely individual, and can be read standalone
warnings: 18+ blog, mdni! not a huge amount in this one, canon medical gore, paediatric patient death, panic attack, r2!reader, we're pretending the addiction didn't happen, frank was previously married in this universe, but is now divorced and has no children, reader had leukaemia as a kid and young adult, is in remission now w/c: 11.2k
NEW YEARâS EVE
6AM
Something about the Pittsburgh cold makes you nostalgic for home. Omahaâs even colder than Pennsylvania this time of year - youâre lucky to get above twenty degrees. After the relentless heat of summer, youâre glad for a little chill.
Of course, youâd rather the roads werenât so icy that you didnât even want to chance driving. You had been treated to a half-hour trudge through the snow at five-thirty this morning. Your mother would have a heart attack had she known you were wandering around downtown Pittsburgh, alone and in the dark, but you figure what she doesnât know wonât hurt her.
Youâre more concerned about the walk home at the end of the shift. New Yearâs Eve is always a disaster - even if the night shift are more likely to get the really bad shit. Youâre not sure youâll be up for it, come dayâs end.
Pushing into the ED, you shoot a nod towards Abbot. Heâs always been nice to you - patient without being passive, and informative without being condescending. He has this odd way of keeping you calm during traumas - even when heâs watching you cut a hole into someoneâs throat, you donât feel like heâs judging you, or doing anything out with your best interests.
You wish you could say the same for Robby.
Itâs like heâs had it out for you since day one. From your very first shift, heâs seemed utterly convinced that youâre a bad fit for emergency medicine - better suited for something calmer, like psych.
Were it not for Frank, youâre pretty sure youâd have tried to get a permanent swap to nights - Abbot and Shen you could live with.
While you and Doctor Robinavitch donât exactly see eye to eye most of the time, youâll never be able to fault him for pairing you up with Frank on day one. Youâd heard chatter from the nurses the morning youâd arrived about him - apparently, heâd dated one of the labour and delivery nurses, before ghosting her a month in. Your hopes were less than high when Robby had announced youâd be shadowing him.
Sure, Frankâs a little arrogant. But heâs also been nothing but kind to you. He walks you through procedures, voice low as he murmurs soft instructions. His proximity is more than distracting, but youâve found it to be effective in the long run.
You want to do well. Want Frank to be proud of you. Maybe if you can make him like you, he wonât be as susceptible to Robbyâs dislike. You know they must all talk about the residents. Discuss who they think will make the cut, versus those who'll crumble under the pressure.
So far, your charm offensive seems to be working. In just a few months, youâve developed a rapport, to the point where Frank rarely works with any of the other junior residents. You've heard rumblings about favouritism from the nurses. It must be getting him into some kind of trouble.
You head for the lockers, and change out of your thermals and into your scrubs, before heading to Central for the morning brief. A few of the other doctors are milling about, and you watch Robby take Gloria across the room to talk away from you all.
He doesnât look happy.
That doesnât bode well for your shift today.
When Frank walks through the door, five minutes late as usual, his eyes find you immediately. Heâs already in scrubs, flashing you a smile as he deposits his bag.
âWho pissed in his cornflakes?â He asks, slipping in behind you as he watches Robbyâs scowl grow with every passing second he stands with Gloria.
âPulse has a boyfriend,â A voice cuts in from over your shoulder. You turn, coming face to face with a girl, round about your age. âHe came to pick her up after the night-shift, with a bouquet of roses. Robbyâs been in a shitty mood since. I donât think weâve been introduced yet. Resident?â
âUh, yeah,â You reply, and offer your name.
She tells you hers, ignoring the way Frank rolls his eyes. âEveryone calls me Skipper though. EMT. The Pittâs finest.â
âNo,â Frank corrects. âAbbot calls you Skip, and youâre so desperate to get into his pants that you adopted it-â
âFuck off, Langdon-â
âDonât you have a job to be doing?â
She sticks her tongue out, but begins to retreat anyway. âI just dropped Myrna off - told her youâd look after her today. And Iâm only going so that I donât have to deal with Robby. Hope you and your girlfriend have a fun shift!â
As soon as sheâs gone, Frank is turning to speak directly into your ear. âIgnore her. She doesnât know what sheâs talking about.â
âI didnât know Robby was into Pulse,â You comment, chancing a glance at your boss. His expression doesnât look any happier.
Pulse is the Dana of the night shift. Quite where she got her nickname, youâre not sure, but sheâs been good to you on the occasions your shifts have overlapped. On your first ever night-shift, sheâd pressed a coffee into your hand right when youâd been about to crash.
Youâve felt a little indebted to her ever since.
âHeâd never admit it, but I think heâs been into her for years. They were like that when I was a med student here.â
âHuh,â You murmur, falling silent as Robby finally makes his way over.
âAlright guys - busy day today,â He starts, clapping his hands together. âNew Yearâs is always rough for ERs - we can expect firework incidents, and more drunk and disorderly patients than we get at any point in the year. I want efficiency-â
A glance at Samira.
â-compassion-â
A glance at Trinity.
â-and assertiveness.â
His eyes land on you, and you fight the urge to shrink under his gaze. Itâs no secret that youâre not Robbyâs favourite resident. In fact, in a programme with thirteen residents at various levels, youâre not sure you even crack the top ten.
Frankâs definitely top three - potentially top one, now that Heather took an attending job in Philadelphia.
You can feel your cheeks starting to burn, embarrassment rising.
Everyone here knows youâre not cut out for emergency medicine. That youâre too weak for this specialty. Not a good enough advocate for your patients. You can almost hear his thought process.
Maybe family medicine is more your speed.
Then a hand claps down on your shoulder. You know before you even turn around that itâs Frank. âDonât mind him,â He murmurs, as everyone disperses. Like clockwork, Frank falls into step beside you. âHe doesnât know what heâs talking about.â
âHeâs the Chief of Emergency Medicine,â You reply, unconvinced. âI think he knows his stuff.â
âNot in this case,â Frank insists. âThis place needs empathy - which you have in spades. I bet if you asked every patient in here if theyâd rather be treated by you or me, theyâd choose you.â
âNo they wouldnât,â You roll your eyes.
âThey would so. And who cares if youâre not assertive enough? You shouldnât ever be alone in a scenario where thatâs an issue. You know Iâd coming running if you paged me, Page.â He finishes off with a grin, as you let out a sigh.
Page had been a recent development. After managing a whole shift without realising your pager was dead, and getting bawled out by Robby, Santos had taken to calling you the nickname. Unfortunately, it had spread like wildfire.
You wish Frank wouldnât call you it. Wouldnât see you like a failure.
Your brow furrows a little, and he frowns. âHey, come on - I was just kidding. But the sentiment still stands. You call, I come. Okay? What are you on today?â
âTriage. You?â
âUnfortunately not. Iâve got Santos today.â
On a normal day, youâd defend Trinity. You do like her, even if she is the root of your nickname, and has moderately abrasive tendencies. But today has already gotten off to such a terrible start, that you canât bring yourself to manage. âI should probably go, before Robby chews me out for being slow.â
7AM
âSo,â You start, glancing nervously at Whitaker. âYou ready to get started?â
Where youâd been hoping for some assurance from Dennis, youâre met with a stressed and nervous energy, maybe even worse than your own. âUh, sure?â
âGreat!â You force a smile, and lead him out to the waiting room. Almost immediately, youâre ambushed by a crowd. âUh, Whitaker, could you take a Ms. Precious Abebe to room three? She just needs sutured - can I leave you to that?â
He nods, and stands at your back.
âIâve been here for five hours-â
âThereâs green stuff coming out of this wound-â
âI was told Iâd be next, but someone else got to go-â
âSorry,â You interject, trying to move past to the middle of the room. âWeâll be with you as soon as possible. Weâre understaffed today, thatâs why things are a little backed up.â
A lie. But people tend to be more understanding if they think that this is out of the norm. That the Pitt isnât backed up twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
You check your iPad, glancing at the next name on the list. âBeth Garcia?â
A lady stands up across the room, away from the group that immediately approached you both. At first glance, thereâs nothing obviously wrong. Sheâs maybe a little pale, but thatâs about all youâd say. âHi,â She smiles.
You introduce yourself and lead her to one of the consultation rooms, leaving Whitaker to grab Ms. Abebe. âWhatâs brought you in today?â
âIâve had a really bad stomach-ache, for the past twelve-ish hours.â
You nod, sitting her up on the bed. âDo you mind if I have a feel?â
âGo ahead.â
You examine her abdomen, while asking some more questions.
Yes, it feels sharp and stabbing.
No, she hasnât eaten anything.
Thereâs been some vomit, but no blood. No changes to stool or urine output.
Six out of ten pain.
âAlright, well, Iâm going to take some bloods and do a quick ultrasound, just to rule out stones, okay? But then, until we get the results back, youâll have to go back to the waiting room, Iâm sorry. We donât have the facilities for everyone to wait back here.â
Normally, this is where patients get mad, if they havenât already. Nobody likes being seen, before being told you need to wait again. What they donât seem to realise is that the people who get seen immediately are the ones you very much do not want to be.
But Beth just nods again, and gets to her feet. âNo worries. I wrote the day off anyway.â
*****
âJesus Christ, can you look a little happier to see me?â Santos rolls her eyes, snapping Frank out of his haze. âI know Iâm not Page, but Iâd still like to learn something today, if thatâs alright with you.â
âYou know, you could really learn a few things from her,â He replies, unimpressed at being caught staring. âLike basic human empathy, for starts.â
âI have empathy,â She retorts. âJust not for you, or the three tonnes of hair gel you use each day.â
Frank grabs an iPad, glancing at the board. âWeâll take chest pain in four.â
If Frank was cherry-picking for himself, or for you, Trinity would be the first to call it out. But today, it benefits her, so she keeps her mouth shut, and nods.
âLook at this ECG. Tell me what you see.â
Trinity frowns, glancing across the different leads. No obvious STEMI anywhere, or hyperkalaemia. No obvious heart block that she can see, though itâs hard to tell with P waves at the best of times. Itâs not a very good tracing, but on the surface thereâs nothing wrong. âLooks alright to me. Maybe a little tachycardic?â
âLook closer.â
Letting out a huff, she examines it again, before sighing. âI donât see anything-â
âGreat. Now your patient is dead. Itâs bundle branch block. Left or right?â
âBundle branch block doesnât kill people, dumbass. Not like that.â With a guide, Santos refocuses on the ECG, frowning as she spots the telltale M shape on the V1 lead. âRight.â
âGood. And just because it wonât kill them particularly acutely, doesnât mean itâs not dangerous. Especially if you look at this guyâs past medical. But I want you to do the history, and discharge unless thereâs anything particularly worrying.â
With that, heâs gone.
Probably to try and find you. God, heâs such an annoyance.
So much for the chest pain being a good case.
8AM
When you were eleven, you were diagnosed with leukaemia for the first time. It had made for a brutal eighteen months, spent almost entirely in hospitals. You knew what the whisperings were. Neither the doctors, nor your parents, expected you to survive.
But somehow, things had started to look up, and you were in remission for your thirteenth birthday.
Everybody had told you how strong you were, how you could get through anything if you got through this. And for a while, you believed them. Believed that this was as bad as you were ever going to go through in your life.
Until your first year of undergrad when the fevers came back, the cancer following in its wake.
Youâd been certain you werenât going to survive that one.
Except, against every single odd, you pulled through, and are still here almost a decade later. Not without consequences, though. Each day brings a new fear of relapse, at the idea that youâll never fully be out of the woods. Sure, AML is normally more common in children. But youâd been well out of the risk zone for relapse when youâd fallen ill again, so you figure the universe is just out to get you.
Where your college experience was supposed to be your first taste of freedom, of dating and living life, youâd ended up living in a house across town from campus, with your parents as your caregivers.
You love your mom and dad. You do. Truly.
Moving to Pittsburgh is the only time youâve ever had in your life to try and discover who you are. Itâs not working out too well so far, granted. But you need this, either way. Even if all the guys youâve dated are complete douchebags, and youâre not entirely sure that orgasms exist.
Someone says your name, and you snap out of your funk. Turning, you almost collide with Robby, as he repeats it. âGot a teaching case. Come on.â
He doesnât slow down, just angles toward the workroom where the rest of the team is gathered. Itâs you, Mel and Javadi. All the younger residents and students, minus Whitaker on triage, and Trinity, who should be with Frank.
God, what youâd give to swap places with her right now.
âPatient in South Four needs an LP,â Robby says, glancing around the room. âGood teaching opportunity. I need a volunteer.â
You open your mouth.
Javadiâs voice cuts in first. âIâll do it.â
Sheâs already standing, chair scraping loudly against the floor, hand halfway raised. Robby hesitates, just a beat too long, then nods.
âAlright,â He nods. âLetâs go.â
You shut your mouth again. Swallow whatever it was you were about to say. Fall into step as everyone starts moving, telling yourself it doesnât matter, that you donât need to be the one who always steps forward.
The room is small, crowded with bodies and equipment and the low, nervous energy that always comes with procedures. Robby does the talking to the patient, asking you and Mel a couple of questions, while Victoria gets ready.
You can tell sheâs nervous, talking through each step like sheâs reassuring herself as much as anyone else. Robby stands opposite her, arms folded, supervising. You take the spot no one else claims, leaning back against the counter, hands tucked into your pockets.
You watch.
You watch her feel down the spinous processes, hesitate, adjust. Watch the way her shoulders tense when the patient flinches, the way she bites her lip in concentration. Nothing goes disastrously wrong. Nothing goes perfectly, either. It takes longer than it should, even though thatâs to be expected on your first try. She asks Robby questions she should already know the answers to. He answers them, clipped, professional, and detached.
Like heâd rather be anywhere else.
Maybe Frankâs right. This is potentially the worst mood youâve ever seen from him. Even over Pittfest. Maybe he is actually in love with Pulse, and this boyfriend news has thrown him for a loop.
You think about what youâd feel if Frank announced tomorrow that he had a girlfriend.
Probably pretty shitty.
The thought sends a shiver through you. At the image of you, and a heartbroken Michael Robinavitch, drowning your sorrows at the local dive bar, as the two most pathetic people in the Pitt.
When itâs over, Javadi exhales, smiling, flushed with relief. She thanks the patient, starts talking about how cool it was, how sheâs glad she got the chance, thanking Robby profusely.
He just nods, already peeling off his gloves. âNice work,â He says, neutral enough to be meaningless.
Youâre halfway out the door when you feel his hand brush your sleeve.
âHey,â He mumbles, as Mel and Javadi push past. âHang back a second.â
You stop in the hallway, the door swinging shut behind you. Robby rubs at the bridge of his nose, frustration finally breaking through.
âJavadiâs a fucking MS3,â He sighs. âShe shouldnât have been doing a lumbar puncture. It shouldâve been you.â
âAnd you hesitated,â He says. Flat. âYou always do lately.â
âThatâs not fair,â you shoot back, heat rising fast. âSo that was what⊠a test? Youâre just trying to make me look bad now?â
He doesnât soften. Doesnât give you the out. âI watched you open your mouth and then stop. You let a medical student jump in front of you.â
âShe volunteered,â You say. âMel and I were both going to speak, but I donât see you criticising her.â
âYou should have fought for it,â he says, voice sharp now. âThatâs the problem.â
You stare at him. âThe LP went fine.â
âFor her,â Robby says. âBecause I was standing there ready to bail her out. Because the patient got lucky.â He exhales, irritated, and drops his voice. âYou know better than that.â
Your jaw tightens. âSo what do you want from me?â
âI want you to stop acting like youâre invisible,â He snaps. âYouâre a resident. A good one. And you keep shrinking yourself like you donât belong here.â
âMaybe I just donât feel like fighting for every procedure,â You say quietly. âI thought fighting every step of the way to get here would be enough.â
âThatâs not how this works,â Robby says. âYou donât get to coast because youâre tired. Everyoneâs tired. You want to do well? Then step up. Because right now, youâre making my job harder.â
The words sting, and the tears threaten to prick at your periphery. You look away, down the hallway, anywhere but at him.
âI didnât realize I was underperforming,â You grit out.
âIf you were,â He replies, voice softening just slightly, âthis conversation would be different.â
You get the sense thatâs supposed to be some kind of praise. The smallest bone, thrown to make you feel a little better. Stop you from throwing yourself off the roof.
You nod once. Short. Controlled. âGot it.â
Robby watches you for a beat, like heâs deciding whether to say something else. Whatever he considers, he lets it go. âJust⊠be better about it,â he says. âI know you can be.â
You donât trust your voice, so you donât use it.
âI need to get back to triage,â You finally mumble, stepping away.
He doesnât stop you.
You walk down the hall faster than necessary, pulling the list of your jobs from your pocket like itâs an excuse. Bloods to be drawn, X-rays to be checked, prescriptions to be written. Concrete things you can do right.
Patients donât ask why you hesitate. They donât care who speaks up first. They just want you to show up, do the work, move on.
That, at least, you can manage.
9AM
It takes half an hour for your path to cross with Frankâs again. As if sensing your discomfort at your current patient, a drunk man in his seventies, Frank starts to float across the Pitt.
Pretending heâs not paying the utmost attention to the way your back stiffens with each passing exchange.
âNeed any help, Doctor?â He finally interjects, eyes darting between you both.
âWeâre just fine, actually. Sheâs takinâ real good care of me,â The patient, Darren, grins, eyes darkening just a little at the intrusion.
You shoot Frank a look over his shoulder, one that you hope screams help me. Much to your immense relief, he catches on immediately.
Darren isnât even sick. Heâs in for some sutures after falling on his way home. Quite where heâs been all night to only be heading home at nine, youâre not sure, but youâre not in the mood to find out.
âWhy donât I get started on your left side? Get you out of here twice as fast.â Frank smiles down at him, but thereâs a tick in his jaw that gives away his true feelings.
âNo, itâs okay-â
âDonât be silly!â Frank cuts Darren off, snapping the wristband of his gloves as he reaches for a suture kit.
A silence falls, tense and awkward as you both try and hurry through Darrenâs stitches, doing your best to work quickly without compromising the quality of care too much. If heâs left with a little bit of a scar, you wonât be too worried.
âAny plans for after this?â Darren finally asks, eyes glued to yours, ignoring Frankâs presence entirely.
âHm,â You murmur, pretending to give it serious thought. âProbably heading back out to triage to get the next patient in.â
âI meant after your shift,â He sighs, frustration seeping into his tone. âLike-â
âPage?â Frank interrupts. âYou know, Iâm sure I heard that Dana was looking for you.â
âAre you sure?â You arch an eyebrow, seeing right through his tactic.
âPositive,â Frank says easily, already stripping off his gloves. âSounded urgent.â
Darren looks between the two of you, clearly clocking that something has shifted, then scoffs. âGuess Iâll see you around, Doc.â Thereâs an edge to it now, more wounded pride than anything.
âTake care,â You reply, already turning away. âDoctor Langdon is the best of the best.â
Fifteen minutes later, Frank appears again, right as youâre leaving an easy consultation. Sirens wail somewhere down the street. Hopefully nothing major. Youâre not even four hours into your shift yet, and youâre already exhausted.
Frank leans against the railing, arms folded, looking almost⊠jealous? âGuy was⊠persistent,â he says at last, staring out across the Pitt instead of at you.
âThatâs one word for it.â You glance sideways at him. âThanks for stepping in.â
He shrugs. âPart of the job.â
Another pause. His foot taps against the ground, in a steady rhythm. âYou get that a lot?â
You frown slightly. âGet what?â
He exhales through his nose, a quiet huff. âCreeps hitting on you.â
âOh.â Understanding settles in. âSometimes.â
Frank nods, like that confirms something he already suspected. âDidnât like the way he was looking at you.â
âI had it handled,â you say gently.
âI know.â He finally looks at you then, expression unreadable. âI just-â He stops, shakes his head. âNever mind.â
You wait. He doesnât continue.
Moment over.
After a beat, he straightens, clearing his throat. âAnyway. Dana probably does need you. Place is chaos.â
You smile faintly. âThanks again, Frank.â
He gives you a crooked half-smile in return, slinging his stethoscope round his neck. âAnytime, Doctor.â
10AM
You hear the commotion before you see anything. On the way back from checking on Beth in the cafeteria, the noise from the waiting room bounces around the corridors, and you speed up your pace.
Inside, Whitaker is desperately trying to keep two men from attacking each other. Security is nowhere in sight. Neither is Dana.
Shit.
âHey, hey, whatâs going on?â You ask, voice raised considerably higher than your usual volume.
âThis bastard keeps talking shit about my wife-â
âYour wife is an uneducated moron!â The other guy yells, and the two make to try and get at each other again.
âWhitaker, get Ahmad,â You urge, before putting a hand out to try and keep them apart.
âDonât you dare touch me-â
The first man escalates to yelling, and you donât have time to react to him cocking his arm.
It takes you a second to realise whatâs happened. A sharp sting, the sound of skin-on-skin ricocheting across the waiting room, and suddenly your entire world is spinning. The impact is hard enough to send you stumbling as your head smacks into one of the pillars behind you.
You reach out for something, anything to keep you upright, but thereâs nothing, and you land awkwardly on your arm on the waiting room floor.
A warmth floods your face - a mix of embarrassment and the blood trickling from split skin on your cheekbone. You sit up, while all the patients take a few steps back, clearing out in a two metre radius.
Thereâs a single moment of shocked silence, before a voice breaks out across the ER. Dana Evans, your lord and saviour.
âWhat the hell is going on out here?â Her hands land on your shoulders, firm and steady as she helps you to your feet. âYou okay, kid?â
Arguments break out across the waiting room, while Ahmad appears in the doorway, Frank right behind him, eyes wide. He calls your name, and the tears that youâd been fighting so hard against suddenly prick at your periphery.
You donât want him to see you like this. Weak-willed, and unable to break up a single fight.
Much to your dismay, Danaâs immediately passing you over to him, a small push in his direction while she continues to yell at the man.
âAre you alright?â Frank murmurs, eyes searching as he checks you over. When he checks your temple, thereâs a little bit of blood at the crown. âShit, sweetheart - you hit your head.â
âYeah, no shit,â You manage, letting out a low groan as you scrunch your eyes shut. The fluorescent lights make you want to curl in a ball and try to pretend the last hour didnât happen. Maybe youâll get some trauma-induced amnesia and be able to forget the whole shift.
âMaking jokes. Thatâs a good sign.â His arm is wrapped round your waist, and he ushers you towards one of the trauma rooms. Once inside, he shuts the door, and dims the lights. âWhat happened out there?â
The lowered intensity already makes you feel a little better. âPatient demanding to be seen straight away. Didnât appreciate being told no.â
âYou shouldâve got me,â He replies, voice low as he inspects the cut, earning a hiss from you. âSorry.â
âYou canât fight my battles, Frank.â
âSure, but I couldâve fought that one.â Heâs razor-focused, hands gentle. âPutting antiseptic on now, then Iâll cover it, okay?â
You nod, and steel yourself for the cool sting. âIâm sure that would go down well with Robby. Punching patients on my behalf.â
âIâd do it,â He insists.
âI donât doubt that,â You mumble, offering a small smile. âAre you done yet?â
âI was going to send you for a CT-â
âFrank. I do not need a CT.â
âYou hit your head!â
You scoff a little. âBarely!â
âItâs a CT or a full neuro exam. Take your pick.â
Rolling your eyes, you allow him to guide you backwards towards the pillows, until youâre horizontal. âNeuro exam, I suppose. I have too much work for a CT.â
âIâll cover you-â
âYeah, okay. And then Robby will hate me even more than he already does.â
Nonetheless, you comply, and allow him to flash a light into your eyes to check your pupillary responses, before checking every single reflex you have. Itâs a more thorough exam than you were doing in med school. âFrank, come on. This is ridiculous,â You finally call, when he begins his series of special tests - saved only for the most serious of cases.
âGotta cover all bases, sweetheart. Canât have my best resident injured.â
âI am not your best resident,â You scoff, feeling heat rising to your cheeks.
He shoots you a look, before sitting down on the edge of the bed. âYou are hands down my best resident, are you kidding?â
âThereâs a difference between liking me as a person, and thinking Iâm your best resident.â
âOkay, fine,â He concedes. âYouâre my best resident, and my favourite person here. Happy?â
âFlirt,â You mumble, earning a deep laugh from the man beside you.
âOnly for you, honey-â Heâs cut off by his pager beeping, letting out a heavy sigh as he glances down. âDuty calls. Sit in here for fifteen, and only go back to work if youâre feeling a hundred percent. Anything less, and I want you to call me. Alright?â
You roll your eyes, but Frankâs expression is deadly serious. âI could still order a CT-â
âFine, fine! Iâll call you if I feel the slightest bit dizzy.â
âGood girl.â
You have to pretend that his words donât make you feel light-headed as he leaves the room. Frank is absolutely off-limits. Heâs one of your superiors, and getting involved with him could fuck up your entire working experience.
Heâs also been married before, and you canât imagine him going for an inexperienced resident whoâs spent a sizeable chunk of her life in hospital.
Youâll just have to get over this little crush.
11AM
You forget all about Beth until sheâs wheeled into North Seven, looking considerably worse than the last time you saw her. Frowning, youâre immediately checking the labs. Bloods are normal, other than a mildly elevated white cell count, and thereâs no fever. Itâs odd. Normally people with kidney stones are doubled over in pain.
Aside from the newly developed vomiting, she still insists sheâs fine.
Finally, you call Frank in. Heâs the only one you feel alright with admitting uncertainty to.
You donât realize how tense you are until he shows up and quietly leans against the counter beside you, glancing down at the charts in your hands. Beth lies in the bed looking smaller than before, curled slightly on her side. Thereâs an sick bowl near her hand now. She keeps apologizing for it. You keep insisting itâs the least gross thing youâve seen all day.
You turn back to the computer, jaw tight.
âUltrasoundâs clean,â You say, more to yourself than to Frank. âNo hydronephrosis. No obvious stones.â
Frank gives a small nod. âOkay. What are you thinking?â
âThat should make me feel better,â You continue, scrolling. âBut it doesnât.â
You flip through the vitals again. Still afebrile. Heart rate a little fast, but nothing dramatic. Labs next, mostly reassuring, except for the white cell count.
You glance back at Beth. Sheâs not restless. Not writhing. Just pale and tired, and probably sick of this hospital.
âSheâs vomiting,â You say slowly. âAnd she wasnât yesterday.â
Frank shifts, but lets you keep going.
âAnd she looks worse. Not better.â You pull up the urinalysis again, your eyes slowing this time, forcing yourself not to skim.
Blood.
White cells.
Nitrites.
Your chest tightens.
âItâs not showing up,â you murmur. âMaybe the stone is tiny, but itâs infected. Which is why I didnât see it on the ultrasound.â
Frank turns his head toward you.
âAn obstructed infection isnât always obvious,â You continue, the words coming faster now as the picture sharpens. âNo obvious findings if the blockageâs intermittent or higher up. Ultrasound can miss it. We need to send her for a CT, and get urology down here now. I think she has pyelonephritis.â
Orders spill out of you. IV fluids. Broad-spectrum antibiotics. Urology, urgent. Frank follows them all diligently, a look that you canât quite place in his eyes.
When you step into Bethâs room again, she looks at your face and immediately knows something has changed.
âIs something wrong?â she asks quietly.
âWe think you might be sicker than you look,â You murmur, gentler than you feel. âThereâs an infection in your kidney, and we need to take care of it properly. So weâre going to send you for a CT right away, and then get surgery down to have a chat, okay?â
She nods, trusting, even as they start preparing her for transfer. âThank you.â
You offer her as warm a smile as you can muster. âDonât mention it.â
As the bed is wheeled away, Frank remains beside you, gaze trained on your form.
âYou figured it out,â He says.
You stare at the doorway long after it closes. âI almost let the ultrasound talk me out of it.â
âBut you listened to her,â He replies. âAnd to yourself. Thatâs what a good emergency physician does.â
You exhale, slow and shaky, then straighten your shoulders, heat blossoming through your chest.
âAnyway, I should get back to Santos, before she complains to Robby and I get yelled at. Again.â
*****
You're standing at Central doing paperwork when a hand lands on your waist, steering you towards the front door.
"What are you doing?" You frown, glancing up at Langdon. "You're supposed to have Santos today."
"Santos can take it up with Robby if she's got a problem. We've got a trauma coming in, and I need my best resident."
It's a battle to pretend that his words don't make your heart soar. Sure, he's a little bit older, and he's one of your direct superiors, but a harmless daydream never hurt anyone.
The patient is wheeled in, and Frank talks you through a cricothyroidotomy - brushing off Garcia's sneering comments.
"The kid's got it. She'll be fine."
Hands trembling a little, you focus desperately on the task at hand. Thankfully, everything goes to plan, and soon the patient is stabilised, and ready to head for surgery.
Frank is right at your back, almost enveloping you. "Good girl," He murmurs, directly into your ear, and just low enough that no one else can hear. "You'll be doing these in your sleep soon."
"I doubt it," You snort. "I could only do it because you talked me through everything."
"Guess I'll just have to make sure I'm around for them all then. Professional expertise, and all that." Finally moving away, he shoots you a wink over his shoulder.
Youâre desperately trying to force yourself to focus on the task at hand. Documenting the procedure, and the treatment plan for the nurses to follow. Suddenly, your phone dings, the distinct sound of your Outlook app, and you freeze.
It canât be today.
You were told you wouldnât hear back for at least two weeks, and youâd only interviewed on Monday.
Ever since tensions have risen with Robby, youâve been considering your place in medicine. More specifically, your place in the Pitt. Whether youâre really cut out for this life. Doctor Abbot had advised you against it, told you that you should stay the year and make up your mind later, but youâd still found yourself applying for a couple of residencies.
Nothing crazy.
One in Boston. One in Wilmington. One in San Diego, in case you felt like the West Coast.
Youâve only interviewed for Boston so far. The others are in the New Year.
Hands trembling, you check your emails, to be met with a resounding yes.
Weâd be delighted to offer you a position on our family medicine programme, starting on the first of February next calendar yearâŠ
Youâre not filled with excitement. Youâd rather not move city again - finding yourself starting over, when youâve barely managed to scratch the surface of Pittsburgh. But there is a deep rooted relief, at the idea that someone wants you, and can see value in the way you practice medicine.
âWhatâs that?â From nowhere, Samira appears at your back, glancing over at your phone.
âOh! Nothing,â You say, immediately scrambling to shove your phone back in your pockets. âJust a scam email.â
âHm.â She sounds entirely unconvinced, but doesnât comment further. âWell, Langdon wants you in South 12. As usual.â
Her eyes gleam a little with the last sentence.
âShut up,â You grumble.
âWhat? I didnât say anything!â
âYou implied, and thatâs enough.â
12PM
Santos storms up to Robby near the charting computers, face flushed and eyes bright with anger. âIs this a joke?â she snaps.
Robby looks up. âWhatâs going on?â
She doesnât answer, instead opting to point. Down the hall, Frank is hovering by your side. Again. His hand is inches from your waist, grin crooked as he talks you through something on the board in front of you both.
Robby watches it happen, his mouth flattening. âHe left you?â
Itâs a question, but really he already knows the answer. Ever since you started working here, Frank has been afflicted with a severe case of tunnel vision. He can hardly function while youâre around. It would be endearing, if this didnât happen every year. He fixated on a girl for a while, and then broke her heart.
Granted, the heartâs are normally broken by now, but still.
Since his divorce, Frank hasnât been so great at holding down relationships.
âMid-presentation,â Trinity says sharply. âAgain. I was talking. He didnât even pretend to listen, just told me to follow my gut, and ditched me for her.â
Robby exhales. âHow many times today?â
âDoes it matter?â Santos fires back.
She folds her arms tight. âI know Pageâs a second-year. I know sheâs more experienced. But Iâm his intern today. I keep getting stuck with all the shitty cases, because of him.â
Robby nods slowly. âDid you say something to him?â
âWhat, so I can look like a needy first-year?â Santos scoffs. âNo. Langdonâs never listened to a single word Iâve said. He certainly wonât start today.â
âGo grab coffee or something,â Robby says gently. âIâll deal with it.â
Santos hesitates, then nods, jaw clenched as she walks away.
Langdon comes back a minute later, flipping through labs, clearly in a hurry, until he nearly runs into Robby.
âOh - hey,â Frank mumbles, obviously preoccupied. âIf this is about the admit in Three-â
âItâs about Santos,â Robby cuts in.
Langdon stiffens. âWhat about her?â
âYou keep leaving her,â Robby says flatly. âYouâre the senior. Sheâs your intern. Yet every time Page needs something, you disappear.â
âThatâs not fair,â Langdon says quickly. âPageâs cases are more complicated.â
âSheâs a second-year,â Robby replies. âShe should be able to wait. Or handle it herself. Your intern canât. You need to be teaching. Not favouring.â
Langdon frowns. âIâm not favouring anyone.â
Robby raises an eyebrow. âThen why does Santos feel like she doesnât exist?â
Frank opens his mouth, closes it. His eyes flick instinctively down the hall toward you, as you help an old lady into a wheelchair.
Robby catches it. âThere. That. Thatâs exactly what Iâm talking about.â
âIâm just trying to help Page,â Langdon insists. âShe doesnât always speak up. Youâre hard on her.â
âAnd Santos does?â Robby shoots back. âSheâs brand new, and impulsive. She needs structure, not abandonment. Someone to work on her communication skills with her.â
âI didnât abandon her.â
âCall it whatever you want, but she calls it favouritism.â
He bristles, eyes narrowing. âThatâs not what this is.â
âIntent doesnât matter,â Robby says, already turning toward Central. âImpact does. And right now, your intern thinks you donât give a damn.â
Frank follows, irritation simmering. âThis is being blown way out of proportion.â
âListen, I donât know whatâs going on between the two of you-â Robby starts, and Frankâs brow furrows.
âWho? Page?â
â-but you cannot ignore your teaching duties for your girlfriend.â
âShe is not my-â
âAlright, not girlfriend. Friend with benefits, or whatever the kids call it these days. Hook-up, I donât care-â
âPlease donât ever say the word hook-up again,â Frank groans.
âYouâve run enough staff members out of this hospital,â Robby warns, continuing the walk to Central to inspect the admissions list.
Frank follows, trying to fight the outrage building in his chest. âThat is not true-â
âCailey in neuro?â
âShe got a fellowship at Hopkins!â
âHm, yeah. Right after you dumped her for Madeline in geriatrics. Who you then dumped for Calista in admin. Who got shafted for Valerie in respiratory. All of whom, coincidentally, no longer work at this hospital anymore.â
âThatâs not my fault!â Frank protests. âAnd besides, Page and I are not sleeping together.â
âItâs not not your fault. And even if youâre not fucking⊠itâs crystal clear you want to.â
âThatâs beside the point,â He huffs, eyes darting around the Pitt to make sure youâre nowhere near. Heâd rather die than let you overhear this conversation.
âDo not hurt her,â Robby says firmly, drawing Frankâs attention back to him. âSheâs had a rough transition. Complicating things wonât help.â
âYeah, no thanks to you! She thinks you hate her-â
âI donât hate her. I just want her to do well. She has potential, but she-â
â-needs to be more assertive,â Frank parodies, rolling his eyes. âYeah, I know. She knows. Itâs all you ever fucking say to her. She tried that today, and she got punched. So Iâm not sure how good your advice is.â
1PM
The nurses think theyâre subtle with the gossiping. Theyâre not, but by some miracle you donât hear it. The comments passed between Perlah and Princess every time you and Frank interact. The knowing looks that Dana throws Robby on each staff night out, when Frank never fails to gravitate towards you as the night wears on.
Theyâre half-surprised that neither of you have found the betting board, shoved in one of the lounge cupboards.
Santos. $20. Theyâre already fucking, but it ends when he breaks her heart.
Samira. $10. Theyâve been secretly dating since they met, and theyâre screwing with us all.
Skipper. $30. Havenât met Page, but she seems too good for him - they date for a while and then she leaves him for someone better looking and more successful :)
Abbot. $50. They get together before Robby gets another girlfriend
McKay. $15. He screws things up somehow
Pulse. $5. Leave them both alone!
Dana. $50. Theyâre pining for each other - will get together before this year is out.
*****
Your pager goes off. Paeds. Unresponsive.
Youâre already moving by the time the words finish registering, feet carrying you through hallways you could navigate blind. Robby and Frank are there when you arrive, sleeves pushed up, expression solemn as Skipper reads off vitals.
They wheel her in fast, followed by an anxious father and a terrified father.
You wish you could bring them some comfort, but thereâs nothing to be done. Not when their daughterâs life is on the line.
Sheâs small. Too small. Limbs thin to the point of fragility, chest barely moving. Someone says anorexia, says cardiac arrest, says ROSC, and your brain files it all away with brutal efficiency.
Your eyes catch on the teddy bear clutched in her hands.
As they move to transfer her, her fingers loosen. The bear slips free and hits the floor, landing on its side in the chaos. No one notices. No one can.
Something twists in your chest.
Not now.
You step in without being asked. Your voice stays even as you call out vitals, as you move where youâre needed, as your hands do exactly what theyâve been trained to do. Tubes, monitors, numbers that refuse to feel abstract when the patient looks like this. When she looks like a child who should be worrying about spelling tests, not dying.
Robby looks at you once, quick and sharp. âYou with me?â
âYes,â you say, and this time itâs true enough.
You donât look at the bear again. You donât think you can.
But despite everything - the compressions, the meds, the desperate coordination⊠she doesnât make it.
The monitor flatlines.
Robby curses under his breath. The team goes still. An anguished cry escapes from her motherâs lips, while her father can do nothing but stare, eyes darting between the doctors, as if imploring them to do more.
Thereâs a sudden commotion. A bustle of people, as the parents rush out in a flurry of sobs, Robby and Kiara on their heels. Trying to find them a room for their grief, when itâs too much to be in the same room as their dead daughter.
When itâs over, when the room finally empties, when the chaos recedes, you bend and pick up the teddy bear from the floor. Itâs lighter than it should be. Thatâs when your hands start to shake.
Just a little.
And then the tears come.
2PM
Itâs like somebodyâs crushing your chest, as you start to gasp for breath. The bear sits discarded in the corner, itâs eyes boring deep into your soul. You think you might die if Robby sees you like this. If anybody, other than Frank, sees it.
Short, sharp breaths arenât enough to fill your lungs, and you can see Frankâs brow furrow as he crosses, the room. âHey, youâre alright, Iâve got you.â
His voice is low, murmured just for you, and he pulls you in tightly. The embrace helps a little, but you can still feel tears start to trickle down your cheeks. A wave of shame washes over you.
This is what comes with the territory.
Death.
You donât know what it is about this case thatâs bothered you so much. Itâs always hard⊠losing people, but the idea of continuing on with your shift right now makes you want to bawl.
Maybe itâs time you consider that offer from Mass General. If you switched now, you could be trained in family medicine before you hit thirty-five. A fresh start, away from a boss that hates you and a senior resident who youâre so painfully in love with that you can barely function.
Frankâs glancing outside, making sure the coast is clear, before he laces his fingers through yours, and pulls you out into the corridor, and into one of the supply closets. Face burning, youâre endlessly grateful nobodyâs around to watch you fall apart like this.
âI-I-â You begin, but your voice cuts off in another sob.
âSweetheart,â Frank mumbles, thumb catching your tears as he gives you a quick once-over. âCome on. Breathe with me. Itâs okay.â
In vain, you try and follow his breathing patterns, but youâre still too worked up. âI donât think I-Iâm meant to be here,â You finally manage.
âWhat do you mean?â
âHere. The Pitt. Emergency medicine. I donât know. All of the above. R-Robby was right, and I think maybe I need to think about Boston-â
âWoah,â Frank interjects. âWhat the hell does Boston have to do with any of this?â
Eventually, you pause, Frankâs hands settling on your forearms. His grip is tight, as if heâs scared youâre going to disappear from under him.
This had not been how you planned on breaking the news to him. Hell, you still arenât even sure youâre going to take it. But itâs looking better and better as an option each day. âI applied for a family medicine residency at Massachusetts General - I got an offer through this morning.â
âWha- but, why? I thought you liked the ER? Thought you were settling in?â
âCome on, Frankie. You know Iâm not cut out for this-â
âBullshit - is this about Robby this morning? Because heâs just in a shitty mood because of Pulse. Nothing else. He hasnât been laid in a really long time, and-â
âItâs not Robby, itâs me - I mean, god, just today Iâve been hit, yelled at, and cried over a patient Iâd known for fifteen minutes.â
âYeah, and that empathy is why youâre a hell of a doctor,â Frank argues. âThis ER needs you so badly, honey, and Iâm so sorry youâve been made to feel otherwise.â
When you donât reply, he storms on.
âDonât go to Boston. Stay here. Please.â
âI donât know that thereâs anything for me here,â You whisper, eyes shining as you meet his gaze.
âIâm here.â Heâs never sounded so firm, lip between his teeth as he watches for any changes in your expression.
A silence falls between you both, chests still heaving, before he makes a sudden movement. When he kisses you, the air is sucked from your lungs for a very different reason. Hands fisting in Frankâs scrub top, itâs all you can do just to stay upright.
Initially slow, it doesnât take long to build to tongue and teeth, your breaths coming in sharp gasps as he presses you against the counter.
âFrank,â You whimper, barely pausing as you melt into his touch. His knee slots between your thigh, anchoring you to him. His hands drop to your waist, pulling you to him as tightly as possible. Heâs everywhere, and itâs somehow not enough.
It feels like a lifetime before he finally pulls back, breathing heavily as he rests his forehead against yours. âCanât tell you how long Iâve wanted to do that for.â
âIâd actually really like to know how long youâve wanted to do it for,â You mumble, letting out a laugh when he starts to pepper kisses across your face.
âSince about thirty minutes after you arrived on your first day.â
âWell, I think Iâve got you beat then, because Iâve wanted to do that since the second I met you.â
He kisses you once more, soft and slow as he moulds against you. âYouâre incredible.â
âShut up,â You scoff, but heâs immediately shaking his head.
âItâs true! I donât lie.â
âYou lie all the time. To Trinity, about not eating her bagel when you did, to Robby when you said you had plans and couldnât cover, to Whitak-â
âAlright, alright, I lie a little. But not to you. Never to you.â
Someone walks past the closet, making you jump. Turns out, itâs very easy for the world to shrink down to just you and Frank. âWe should uh⊠we should get back out there.â
âYeah, of course,â He nods, finally taking a step back. âShould really get back to Santos.â
He makes a face, and you have to bite back a laugh. âSheâs not that bad.â
âTo you, maybe. She hates me.â
âAnd whoâs fault is that?â You both make for Central, smiles dropping when you see everybody gathered around the phone.
Frankâs at your heel, a hand resting on your lower back. It appears that subtlety is not his strong suit. âWhatâs going on?â
Robbyâs expression is grave. âA bomb just went off at the New Yearâs celebration - weâre the closest, weâll be getting most of the casualties.â
You think you might be sick.
3PM
You get fragments of details, ricocheting round the ER from various sources. At Pittsburghâs biggest gathering for New Yearâs, which usually lasts all day, there had been a bomb. Right in the middle of the city centre.
Thereâs no telling how many casualties youâll have yet.
The police think it was a suicide bomber. Beyond that, thereâs nothing.
Just confusion, where nobody knows exactly whatâs going on.
The first wave hits like a wall.
Abbot, Shen and Ellis have all made their way in to help out. Robbyâs taken triage, while Shen runs reds with you, Cassie and Samira, while Abbot floats. Frankâs on pinks with Whitaker, while the other residents spread out across the less severe cases.
You barely have time to breathe before a stretcher is pushed into your bay, Skipperâs partner rattling off details as you fall into step beside her. Early twenties. Found near the blast radius. Breathing fast, skin clammy, pupils blown wide with shock.
You take over automatically.
âHi there,â you say, voice steady even as your heart hammers. âYouâre at Pittsburgh General. Iâm one of the doctors, and I need you to keep your eyes on me, okay? Weâre going to treat you as best we can.â
Airwayâs clear. Breathing shallow but present. Pulse fast, thready
You call for fluids. Oxygen. Get a pressure cuff on.
Eventually, she stabilises. Itâs still not wonderful - sheâs covered in burns that plastics are going to have a field day with, but you can send her to the surgeons to make that happen.
Thereâs no time to dwell on it.
The next patient is worse. Middle-aged, unresponsive, brought in with CPR already in progress. Skipperâs perched on top of his stretcher, working furiously. Jack is at her back, a hand hovering to keep her steady with each twist and turn of the gurney. Someone calls out the time down. Three minutes. Your heart constricts, but youâre already snapping gloves on, reaching for a defibrillator.
âContinue compressions,â You order, sharper than you mean to. âLetâs get pads on.â
Abbot takes over from Skipper, allowing her to get back out to the ambulance. You glance at him, in case he wants to take over, lead the case. All you get is a reassuring nod. âAll yours, kid. Iâm at your disposal.â
The room narrows to rhythm and timing. Pause for breaths, then compressions start again as you place each pad.
âCharging. Clear!â
You clear back, heart in your throat. The shock lands, the body jolting once before going still again.
For a split second, nothing happens.
Then⊠âPulse.â
Itâs faint, but itâs there.
The relief is dizzying, almost painful. You steady yourself against the bed as the room surges back into motion. Airway secured, lines placed, vitals shouted aloud. Jack claps you on the back, and you snap back to work.
This patient wonât need surgery, thankfully. Just a stay in critical care to check brain activity.
You catch Frankâs eye from across the bay; he gives you a sharp nod, pride flickering through the exhaustion while he works on an elderly man, missing a leg.
The third stretcher comes in a flurry of noise, as she crashes en route from the front door to Central.
CPR is started, with you on compressions this time.
But this feels different to the last. Something low in your gut tells you that this woman isnât surviving.
You spend ten minutes on CPR. Longer than Robby would have liked, youâre aware. But heâs still outside directing patients, and you canât quite bring yourself to stop.
Time of death is called, and the words sit heavy in the air. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stay upright, to stay professional as the team disperses. Thereâs a name on the chart. Someone who came here to celebrate and didnât get to leave.
Someone who doesnât get to see the new year.
You step back, hands curling into fists at your sides.
Frank appears without a word. He doesnât touch you, not here, but he doesnât leave either. Itâs fleeting. You both have endless patients to get to. But itâs grounding. âYou okay?â He asks quietly.
You nod. Then shake your head. Then nod again. âThereâs more coming,â You say, voice tight.
âI know,â he replies. âYouâre doing great.â
You draw in a breath, square your shoulders, and turn back toward the noise.
Two saved. One lost.
4PM
The patient comes in already shouting.
Mid-thirties, male, reeking of alcohol and stinking of marijuana. Heâs bleeding, a head wound and maybe a forearm, but itâs the way his eyes track the room that sets you on edge.
Fight-or-flight tipped violently toward fight.
Somehow he lands in your bay, Skipper throwing you a guilty look as she drops him off. "Sorry. I'd give him to Frank, but he's elbow deep in some guy's guts right now. Told him to get his ass over to you as soon as he was done though."
"Don't worry about it," You reply, smile tight, as you turn to the patient.
âSir, I need you to stay on the stretcher,â You say, calm and even, hands raised just enough to be non-threatening. âWeâre here to help you.â
âI donât need help,â He snaps, trying to sit up. âI need you to get your hands off me.â
âI havenât touched you,â You reply gently, already signaling for Ahmad with a glance. Except, the ER is so full of noise that nobody's paying any attention.
He doesnât like that.
He swings his legs off the bed, movements sloppy but forceful.
Blood drips onto the floor, dark and slick under the harsh lights. The smell of iron hangs in the air, mixing with the weed. It's somehow worse than the burning flesh smell.
âSir-â You start.
He shoves you.
Itâs sudden enough that you donât have time to brace. Your heel slides in the pool of blood, traction lost, and for a split second all you can see is the floor rushing up to meet you.
A hand clamps around your waist.
Strong. Steady.
Frank.
He yanks you back against him, arm locked tight around your middle as you regain your footing. Your back hits his chest, solid and real, and you gasp.
âThatâs enough,â Frank says, voice low. âYou do not touch her.â She is trying to help you."
Ahmad rushes in after that, hands on the patient as he makes another swing at you both. He keeps yelling, but heâs already being moved, already no longer your problem.
You'd put money on him being taken to Abbot.
There's nothing he likes more than taking down obnoxious men a few pegs.
Frank doesnât let go right away.
âYou okay?â He murmurs, pitched just for you, thumb flexing once at your side like he needs the reassurance that youâre still upright.
âYeah,â You say, though your heart is racing hard enough to make your ears ring. âYeah, Iâm okay.â
He releases you reluctantly, eyes scanning you head to toe with barely restrained panic before he steps back. Re-thinking his movement, he presses a quick kiss to your temple before moving towards the hallway. "Can't have two concussions in one day, sweetheart. You'd think we abuse you."
âLangdon,â Robbyâs voice cuts in. âYouâre needed out front - take triage for a little bit.â
Frank hesitates, looking at you.
âIâm good,â You repeat, more firmly this time, offering as much of a smile as you're able.
He nods once and goes, jaw clenched tight.
You look down.
Thereâs blood on your shoe. Not yours.
Thereâs no time to spiral.
The next patient crashes minutes later. Hypotensive. Internal bleeding suspected. Everything moves fast. Walsh is at your side, as you try and figure out how to proceed.
âWeâre losing her,â someone says.
"She needs a chest tube," You breathe, leaping into action before Walsh can talk you out of it.
*****
Robby finds you by the desk a few minutes later, when the lull finally begins. There are still patients being brought in regularly, but it's not as fraught anymore.
With most of the patients stabilised, everyone's allowing themselves to breathe a little easier.
âYou did good today - handled the pressure well,â He says.
You glance up, surprised. âI just did what needed doing.â
He studies you for a moment, then sighs. âI was hard on you earlier. With the lumbar puncture. With⊠everything.â He rubs a hand over his face. âThat was unfair.â
You donât answer right away. Youâre still coming down, still replaying everything in your head.
âYou have real potential here. And it was just... so infuriating that you weren't making the most of that,â Robby continues. âYou trusted your instincts today. That matters. And it shows that you're meant to be here.â
âThank you,â you say quietly.
5PM
âShit!â You curse, as the final patient of the night manages to spray blood directly across your face. Just your luck.
Frankâs at your side immediately, the way you can tell heâs been itching to be all night. With all the chaos of the last few hours, youâve barely been able to keep track of each other. âYou okay?â
âBloody. But fine.â
Robby emerges from Central, eyes darting between you both. âIâve got this one. Go get cleaned up. You both did good work today. Donât want to keep you here any longer than necessary.
You flash Robby a grateful smile, hoping that this is the beginning of some kind of truce.
The exhaustion is beginning to seep into your bones, and youâre easily pliable under Frankâs arms as he guides you towards the staff lounge, currently deserted. He clicks the door shut behind you, and reaches up into the cupboards above the sink.
âLong day,â You sigh, resting against the counter, eyes fluttering closed. âAnd a shitty end to the New Year.â
âSaved a lot of people though,â Frank counters, positioning you so that he can clean you. His expression is focused, lip between his teeth as he dabs at your face with a cloth.
âDo I look like an extra from The Walking Dead?â You murmur, trying not to imagine how difficult itâs going to be to get the blood out of your hair. So much for a new start going into the new year.
âYouâre too pretty to be on The Walking Dead,â He replies, and you roll your eyes.
âLiar.â
âItâs true!â He protests. âClose your eyes for a sec-â The cloth brushes across your eyelids, as Frank lets out a small hum. âThere. Thatâs you.â
You offer him a grateful smile. âThanks.â
âYeah, no problem.â His voice is quiet, almost contemplative, his hand still hovering near your cheek.
A sudden wave of self-consciousness rushes through you. You havenât looked in a mirror since midday- god knows what you look like right now. âWhat?â
âJust thinking,â He shrugs, discarding the cloth before his other hand pushes a stray hair from your face.
âAboutâŠ?â You trail off, arching an eyebrow.
âHow I really donât want you to go to Boston. How I think youâre perfect in Emergency Medicine. How much Iâd like to kiss you again.â
A smile spreads across your face. Itâs been the worst shift of your life, hands down, and yet youâre not sure youâve ever been happier. âAre you just thinking about it or are you actually going to make a move?â
âSomeoneâs impatient,â Frank murmurs, before his hands drop to your waist and he pulls you in, kissing you deeply.
Itâs softer than the first kiss - less desperate. Your hands fist his scrub top, and you sigh into his movements. Thereâs none of the usual early awkwardness - trying to work out the dynamic, the push and pull. Itâs like you and Frank have been doing this for years.
Finally, he pulls back a little, resting his forehead against yours.
âPity itâs not midnight,â You breathe, and he lets out a low laugh.
âWeâll just have to do it again, then.â
âVery smooth, Langdon.â
âAnd Boston?â Thereâs an air of nerves to his tone, like heâs not quite sure where he stands. Where you both stand. Together.
âYou can decline the offer right now, if you want.â
The door to the office swings open, and you both leap apart as Dana sticks her head in. âDonât mind me,â She starts. âJust need a pen.â
Once the door closes again, you worry that the moment is ruined. That today is just going to go down as an almost. Instead, Frank speaks. âDo you have plans tonight?â
You wish you could say you did. But in a new city, you havenât quite managed the friends thing yet. Omaha to Pennsylvania is a long way, and your plans had involved a glass of wine, and a viewing of When Harry Met Sally. Lip between your teeth, you shake your head.
âCome out with me,â He urges.
âTo do what?â
âAnything. Iâll pick you up at eight - we can go get drinks, catch a firework show, whatever you want.â
Itâs the easiest decision of your life. âOkay, yeah,â You smile. âThat sounds fun. I uh, I donât have my car, though. Might take me a little bit to get home.â
His jaw drops a little. âYou walked?â
âSeemed like a good idea at the time,â You shrug.
âOkay, well. Change of plans. Iâm going to drive you home, and then go get changed myself, and come back to pick you up.â
âYou donât have to do that,â You start, but Frank is immediately shaking his head.
âDonât bother, sweetheart. Sweeping you off your feet does not involve a two mile walk home in the dark. Iâm driving.â
6PM
Danaâs been aware of you both all day. Aside from being Charge Nurse, and her duty to keep track of the staff, sheâs been paying extra special attention to you and Frank Langdon.
Even if she hadnât walked in on you both about to jump each other, she wouldâve noticed the shift. Normally after traumas, youâre withdrawn and quiet. A little aloof with everybody, even Frank.
Tonight, your demeanour is relaxed, and the smile hasnât left your face as you follow Frank out of the hospital.
Frank isnât much better. His body has been angled towards you, ever since you both emerged from the supply closet, and his fingers keep twitching, as if heâs suppressing the urge to reach out for you.
She has a feeling she might be collecting some money from Perlah tomorrow - the two of them have had an ongoing bet about whether Robby or Frank will get their act together first. Perlah had been firmly Team Robby, on the grounds that heâs been pining for the night-shift charge nurse for literal years, and surely he couldnât drag this out much longer.
Dana, on the other hand, always knew that Frank had it in him.
Heâs afforded the luxury of being mildly less fucked up than Robby, and heâs in very close proximity to you on almost every shift.
Knowing thereâs some money coming her way from the betting pool helps too.
The eyes never lie, and the two of you have been gone for each other since day one.
She does see the irony in a very occasion for you both sprouting from a hellish shift, but she figures someone deserves to be happy tonight.
Danaâs gaze follows your figures out to Frankâs car, and she has to bite back a smile when he leans down to press a kiss to your cheek, before opening the door for you.
Maybe theyâll all get a Pitt wedding before long.
pairing: bradley âroosterâ bradshaw x fem!reader
summary: youâve always been the anywhere-but-here girl, so nobody expects you to move back home to north island. what youâre not ready for is your childhood friend bradley, who slips back into your life so easily it makes you wonder why you ever left.
tags: mitchell/maverickâs daughter!reader, opposites attract, free spirit x straight-laced, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining
warning(s): avoidant attachment style (ish?), reader tucks hair behind ear, wears a bikini, drinks alcohol, and is four years younger than bradley, suggestive content
word count: 11.9k
note: did i write this instead of doing my mountain of grad school readings? why yes i did. anyway, this has been such a long time coming and iâm so excited to get my first rooster fic out!! also there are no mentions of your mother/you being maverickâs biological child for inclusivity xx
masterlist
You reached the coast just before sunset, the kind of golden hour that made everything look idyllic. The air blowing through the open window tasted faintly of salt and home.Â
You turned up the radio, letting the familiar guitar riff of a Fleetwood Mac song cut clean through the noise. You were prone to drowning things out with music; it was a great way to avoid your own thoughts.
The car wasnât new. You couldnât afford new. But she had personalityâa red 1970s convertible youâd found through a guy in Venice who insisted she âran like a dream,â which was only true if that dream involved the occasional stutter uphill. You named her Cherry because subtlety was overrated.
Your whole life fit neatly inside Cherry: two suitcases in the trunk, a stack of half-filled notebooks on the passenger seat, and a battered guitar case in the back seat.Â
Youâd spent the last few years chasing inspiration across cities like it was a full-time job with no benefits. Youâd written songs in shared kitchens, poems on bar napkins, and once had an Oscar-worthy breakdown in a Portland laundromat when someone stole your clothes and left you with nothing but the denim shorts and old Top Gun sweatshirt you were wearing.
Life experience, you called it. Character development, if you were feeling generous. But after your last roommate tried to start a kombucha brewery in the bathtub, you decided it was time to come home.
Once you passed San Diego, the road curved inland toward the base. You slowed down, mostly because you always did here. The air had that sharp metallic tang of jet fuel that never quite left your memory.Â
You didnât mean to look up. But then you did, and that was your first mistake.
Four jets cut across the sky in formation, sunlight bouncing off their wings. The sound reached you a few seconds later, deep and thunderous, vibrating straight through your chest. Your breath caught before your brain could even register why.
It always made you think of Bradley.
You wondered if one of those pilots was him. Seeing those jets reminded you that heâd stayed while youâd run.
You forced your eyes back to the road, heart doing that inconvenient nostalgia thing you pretended not to notice. You told yourself you were older now, grounded, emotionally evolved.Â
By the time you pulled into The Hard Deckâs parking lot, the sky was washed in peach and gold. The sign out front was still a little crooked, still sun-faded, and the gravel crunched under your tyres exactly the same way it had last summer. You turned off the engine and let the quiet sink in.
Your reflection in the rear-view mirror looked tired, but you could pass it off as intentionalâmessy eyeliner, bitten lips, wind-swept hair.Â
You got out and stretched, legs stiff from the drive, and reached into the back seat for your patchwork shoulder bag. The strap was a little frayed where it rubbed against your shoulder, but you liked it that way. It was the one thing you took with you to every city youâd called home.Â
Inside, the bar hummed with life in that low, comforting way youâd missed. The clink of glasses, laughter, the faint buzz of a jukebox humming in the corner. You could have closed your eyes and known exactly where you were.
The Hard Deck hadnât changed since youâd visited your dad last summer. The same scuffed floorboards. The same pool tables that leaned slightly to the left. The same smell of salt and spilt beer baked into the walls.Â
Pennyâs touch was everywhere. The neon sign over the bar gleamed a little brighter. The old jukebox, once half-broken and temperamental, now glowed in the corner like it had been restored within an inch of its life.
Eight years ago, it had been different. Louder, rougher around the edges. A full-on Navy haunt when Bradley was just another new aviator at Top Gun, eager to show you his favourite spots.
Bradley had taken you straight to the piano.
You could still see him there, sleeves rolled, hair too long, grin wide enough to make you forget how to speak. The room had been packed, people shouting, drinks sloshing, but heâd been completely lost in the song. Youâd tried to keep up, but your hands knew guitar strings, not piano keys.
Bradley had only laughed, covered your hand with his, and pressed your fingers into the right chord. His touch had been light, sure, and entirely unfair.
âSee?â heâd said, still grinning. âYouâre getting it.â
You hadnât been. Youâd been too busy trying to remember how lungs worked.
Now, the jukebox played something jaunty, and you blinked as the memory desolved. The Hard Deck had changed since your first visit, and so had you.
âWell, look who it is!â
You turned toward the voice, already smiling. âPenny!â
Penny Benjamin was making her way around the bar, sun-kissed and grinning, all warmth and disbelief. She pulled you into a hug that smelled faintly of citrus and salt air.
âPete wasnât kidding,â she said, holding you at armâs length. âHe told me you were moving back for real this time. I didnât believe him. Heâs been saying that for, what, two summers now?â
You laughed. âYeah, well, I wasnât sure I believed me either. But I think Iâm ready to stay in one place for a while. Maybe even put down some roots.â
Pennyâs smile softened. âMusic to my ears. And if you need something to do while those roots take hold, I could always use another pair of hands behind the bar.â
You blinked, pleasantly surprised. âYouâre offering me a job?â
âOnly if youâre not too good for us locals now,â she teased. âPete says youâve been living the free spirited artistic dream. But I remember those drinks you made at the barbecue last summer. Youâve got some serious skills.â
You grinned, warmth blooming in your cheeks. âI could start once Iâve unpacked, assuming youâre serious.â
âDead serious.â Penny ducked behind the counter, filled a glass with Coke, and added a wedge of lime. The ice clinked as she slid it toward you. âOn the house. For my favourite Mitchell.â
You picked up the glass, hiding your smile behind the rim. âDonât let my dad hear you say that.â
âOh, please,â she said, smirking. âHe already knows.â
You took a sip and let the comfort of being home settle in your chest. For the first time in years, you werenât just passing through.
You were people-watching, entertained by the group of pilots playing darts and arguing about whose landing had been cleaner that day, when someone slid onto the stool beside you.
He was broad, blond, and cocky. The kind of man who probably practised his smirk on reflective surfaces. The service khakis gave him away instantly; neat, pressed, and impossible to mistake for anything but Navy. You knew more about pins than the average tourist, and the ones over his pocket told you everything you needed to know.
This man wasnât just Navy. He was an aviator. Judging by the overconfident lean and movie-star grin, youâd bet good money this was the infamous Hangman youâd heard about from your dad.
âWell, hello there,â he drawled, flashing a grin that you could tell had a high success rate. âDonât think Iâve seen you around before. You visiting?â
You tilted your head, giving him your best imitation of a curious outsider. âSomething like that.â
Hangman leaned closer, elbows on the bar, radiating charm. âLet me guess. Youâre a tourist. Beach trip, maybe? Or did you come to watch the planes?â
You widened your eyes just enough to sell it. âPlanes? You mean the Navy ones?â
Penny briefly caught your eye from behind the counter, her mouth twitching like she was desperately holding in a laugh.
âYeah, sweetheart,â Hangman said, grinning wider. âThe Navy ones. You ever been on base before?â
You shook your head, sipping through your straw with deliberate innocence. âNo, canât say I have. But Iâve always heard the pilots around here are impressive.â
He straightened a little, grin turning self-satisfied. âThatâs one word for us. I could show you around sometime, give you the full experience.â
You leaned in, mirroring his posture, voice just soft enough to make him listen closer. âThe full experience?â
âStrictly professional,â Hangman said, not even pretending to mean it. âThough, fair warningâonce youâve flown with a pilot, nothing else really compares.â
You blinked up at him innocently, hiding your grin behind your straw. âIs that so?â
âAbsolutely.â Hangman rested a hand casually against the back of your stool, confidence oozing from every pore. You were about to give in a little and see how far heâd go when a familiar voice cut in.
âHangman, step away from my daughter.â
Youâd never seen a man pale so fast. Hangman froze, his grin disintegrating as he turned toward the source. âSir?â
You spun on your stool, already smiling. âDad!â You jumped up to hug your dad, laughing against his shoulder while Hangman looked like he was praying for a time machine.
âHi, sweetheart.â Maverick looked entirely too pleased with himself when you parted. Calm, casual, just enough smugness in his voice to let you know heâd seen the whole thing. âYou two know each other?â
âNot officially,â Hangman said tightly, posture stiffening like heâd just remembered how to stand at attention. âI was just, uh, welcoming her to town.â
âSure you were,â Penny said, sliding Maverick a beer down the counter without missing a beat. âVery hospitable of you, Hangman.â
You grinned, unable to resist chiming in. âSuch a gentleman. Itâs generous of you to offer to show me around my hometown, but I think Iâll manage just fine.â
A loud laugh burst from the pool table. Payback, naturally. âHangman, you hitting on the bossâs daughter?â
The reaction was instant. Phoenix nearly dropped her cue, doubled over with laughter until Bob caught her arm to keep her from tipping forward. Coyote choked on his beer.Â
Fanboy muttered something that sounded like âOh, dead man walking.â
Hangman went very still. âI donât know that I would call it âhitting onâ her,â he said faintly, but the damage was done.
You turned toward the group, the picture of composure despite the glee bubbling under your ribs. âNice to meet you all,â you said sweetly. âIâve heard so much about you.â
âBet you have,â Phoenix said, still giggling. âDidnât think Iâd ever see someone wipe the smug off Bagmanâs face, but damn, I owe you a drink.â
Bob smiled shyly from where he stood beside her. âItâs nice to meet you,â he offered.
âSame here,â you said warmly. âYou must be Bob. Dadâs mentioned you. All of you, actually,â you added, motioning to the group. âIâm really excited to finally meet you.â
âDamn, Hangman,â Coyote said, laughing as he clapped Hangman on the shoulder. âAt least you went down swinging.â
âYeah, straight into the ground,â Payback said, grinning. âClassic Bagman.â
Hangman groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. âYou all done, or should I start digging my own grave?â
âDonât worry,â Maverick cut in, clearly enjoying himself. He clapped Hangman on the back with mock sympathy. âYouâll have plenty of chances to rebuild that ego in training tomorrow.â
That sent another round of laughter through the group, and you couldnât help it. You reached up to hug your dad again, squeezing him tightly. âI miss you.â
No matter how far youâd run from his career, his shadow, or the kind of roots that terrified you, you always came back to this. Your dad had been the one steady presence in every stage of your life, the compass that never stopped pointing you home.
âMissed you too, kid,â Maverick said quietly, squeezing back before leaning away with a proud smile.
When you turned again, the rest of the squad had gathered around, curiosity replacing their laughter. Phoenix leaned her hip against the bar, Coyote nursing a beer beside her.Â
âSo,â Phoenix said, studying you with a spark of amusement, âyouâre Maverickâs daughter. Explains the confidence.â
You smiled. âConfidence or trouble?â
âBoth,â Coyote said immediately, and everyone laughed again.
Phoenix tipped her bottle toward you, still smiling. âSo what brings you back? Visiting, orâŠ?â
âActually,â you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, âIâm moving back home. Figured it was time. Iâm crashing with Dad until I find my own place.â
âThatâs brave,â Payback said. âLiving with your old man again? You must really love him.â
Maverick just smirked. âSheâs always had excellent taste.â
That drew another round of laughter and groans, and you rolled your eyes affectionately. âHeâs already trying to recruit me as his new copilot.â
âDonât tempt him,â Phoenix said, grinning. âYouâd probably be better than half the guys in this room.â
You laughed, then nodded toward her. âIâve been dying to meet you! Howâs life in an elite squadron treating you?â
Phoenix lit up, leaning one elbow on the bar. âAside from putting up with these idiots, itâs been great.â She broke off mid-sentence, gaze darting past you. âBradshaw!â Phoenix waved him over with unfiltered enthusiasm. âAbout time.â
Your pulse stumbled.
Bradley paused in the doorway, tall and sun-browned, the golden bulbs casting a warm glow across his shoulders. The barâs hum seemed to fade, or maybe it only did for you.
Phoenix glanced between you, her grin softening into curiosity. âYou two must know each other, right?â
You tried to keep your tone light, though your smile wavered at the corners. âYeah. We know each other.â
When you finally turned to face Bradley, his eyes were already on youâwarm, surprised, a little disbelieving. Eight years apart, and it still hit like free fall.
Youâd kept in touch for a while, after things between him and Maverick had soured. But life stretched the distance until texts faded to yearly birthday wishes, and visits stopped altogether. Maverick had moved off North Island, Bradley had been deployed more often than not, and youâd convinced yourself that growing apart was just the natural order of things.
Now, standing here, it didnât feel so natural at all.
Bradleyâs mouth curved, soft with disbelief. âDidnât think Iâd see you here.â
âGuess Iâm full of surprises,â you said softly.
The corner of his jaw ticked, just the smallest flicker of something you couldnât read.
Phoenix glanced between you again, realising sheâd just stumbled into something layered. âOkay,â she stretched the word out, raising her hands.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Bradley smiled, small and genuine and a little dazed, and closed the distance.
âCome here,â he said, and you were already stepping forward.
Bradley pulled you in without hesitation, his hand warm and solid against your back. The scent hit first: soap, sun, and that clean cotton smell that always clung to him. His shirt was rough with salt and sweat, the kind of texture that reminded you he lived half his life on tarmacs and flight decks.Â
His breath was close in your ear, even and steady, until you realised yours wasnât.
âI didnât believe Maverick when he said you were moving back,â Bradley murmured.
You smiled against his chest, trying not to inhale like someone deprived of oxygen. âSurprise again.â
When you stepped back, the air felt thinner. His hands lingered a beat too long, brushing your arms before he dropped them like heâd only just remembered how intimate it was. His gaze flicked briefly to your mouth, then away, and you pretended not to notice.Â
You both pretended a lot of things.
âStill playing?â Bradley asked, his voice a little rougher than before.
âGuitar? Yeah. You still ignoring my playlists?â
He laughed, and the sound made your heart tighten. âOnly the ones labeled âfor when youâre feeling emotionally constipated.ââ
You tilted your head. âSo, all of them.â
That earned you a real grin. You hated how quickly it short-circuited your brain. He looked goodâtoo good.Â
âYou lookâŠâ Bradley trailed off, as if the word was somewhere he wasnât supposed to go. âDifferent.â
You raised a brow. âGood different, or âemotional crisisâ different?â
âDefinitely good.â His voice dipped lower, softer. âYou were always beautiful, but youâre glowing now.â
And there it was again: the pull. The quiet, magnetic thing that never really went away, no matter how much time or distance tried. You found yourself leaning closer without thinking, caught between instinct and caution, until your hand brushed his where it rested on the bar.
The contact was brief but enough to send a quick jolt through your body before you both instinctively pulled back, hiding behind awkward smiles.
âSo,â you said lightly, thumb swiping at the condensation on your glass. âHowâve you been, Rooster?â
He smirked, eyes glinting. âItâs so weird to hear you say my call sign.â
You gasped theatrically. âRude!â
âYou can call me whatever you want,â Bradley said, quieter now. âBut youâre the only one who still calls me by my name.â Something flickered behind his eyes, unguarded and dangerous. âI guess I missed the sound of it in your voice.â
Before either of you could say something you couldnât take back, a voice cut through the moment.
âHey, nerds!â Fanboy was waving from across the room, grinning like a man who had just spotted a plot twist. âCome join us! We know youâre childhood friends, but we want a chance to get to know Maverickâs daughter.â
You smiled, eyebrows arched at your so-called childhood friend. âWhat do you say, Bradley?â
Hearing you say his name brought another wide grin to his face. âI wouldnât want to deprive your adoring fans,â he teased.
When Bradley gestured toward the booth, you followed. His hand brushed the small of your back as you passed; light enough to seem accidental, but enough to make your heart trip over itself.
When your dad invited you to a beach day with Penny and the squadron, youâd said yes before he could finish the sentence. An afternoon of dog-fight football, popsicles, and sand in your sunglasses felt like the kind of chaos you used to live for in childhood summers with Maverick and Iceman.Â
The afternoon sun brushed the waves with golden glitter. When Maverick called everyone over, you knew exactly what he was about to do. After the usual warm-up theatrics and fake groaning, teams were picked, and everyone persuaded your dad to join in.
Phoenix hooked your arm, already grinning. âCome on, youâve got to see this circus up close. Hangmanâs in peak insufferable form.â
You laughed, brushing sand from your shorts, and followed her. Bradley was already leaning back, shoulders flexed under the sun, tossing the ball to himself with that effortless control that made your stomach flip.Â
He looked like he belonged in a recruitment ad for hot, emotionally unavailable Navy pilots.
Bradley caught your eye, winked, and sent the ball your way like a dare you werenât ready for. You jumped, barely keeping it from hitting your chest, and stumbled back laughing.
âCareful,â he called, jogging closer. âWouldnât want you spraining anything important.â
âDoes my pride count?â you shot back.
âAbsolutely,â Bradley said, grinning, and you had to fight the urge to glance at his hands. Lately, they had developed a suspicious habit of finding you. âIâm very thorough.â
Phoenix snorted, but gave no other commentary on his double entendre. You decided to ignore the very specific flutter that word sent through your chest. Thorough. Great. Fantastic. You were doomed.
You joined the team opposite Maverick and gave him the universal two-finger Iâm watching you warning. The squadron hollered happily, and you could hear Fritz and Omaha exchanging bets on which Mitchell would be victorious.
Phoenix filled you in on the unspoken rules: always dive like itâs life or death, and neverâunder any circumstancesâlet Hangman get a free pass. It was easy enough to remember, especially with the Texan cackling at you from the other side of the beach.
The game started officially, Penny refereeing from the sidelines with exaggerated seriousness. You fell into a rhythm quickly, laughing harder than you had in years. Sand flew everywhere, the sun warmed your shoulders, and Bradley kept finding reasons to brush past you as you ran. He always seemed to be exactly close enough for your brain to short-circuit.
Every accidental touch made your heart skip.
âHey, Mitchell,â Hangman called, standing close enough that you could smell his sunscreen. âYou think you can take me down?â
âCute,â you said flatly, flicking sand in his direction. âI may not be in the Navy, but donât forget who raised me. I donât do anything halfway, and I donât lose.â
He raised both hands in mock surrender. âYouâre scary. Iâll admire you from a safe distance.â
Phoenix groaned. âEmphasis on âdistance,â Bagman. Sheâs busy kicking your ass, not dodging your pickup lines.â
âWell said,â you declared, grinning and offering Phoenix a high-five.
âItâs nice to have you around,â she said earnestly. âEveryoneâs already decided youâre one of us. Roosterâs obviously obsessed with you, but that goes without saying.â
Your eyes flicked to Bradley, who was laughing at something Bob had done. You told yourself you werenât constantly glancing his way and dragged your eyes back to the game. You weret, of course, but denial was your favourite coping mechanism.
Hours passed in a blur, and you managed to avoid breaking anything. Hangman teased relentlessly, but with Phoenix and Bob around to back you up, you felt like you belonged. Bradley stayed close, subtly protective, saving you from catastrophic falls.
Eventually, Penny called out, âSnack and water break. Youâve earned it!â
Everyone collapsed onto towels in the setting sun. Bob handed you a towel, and Hangman leaned back, sunglasses low, pretending to evaluate your performance.
âThanks,â you said dryly, wiping sweat off your forehead. âYour compliment is noted.â
You headed toward the coolers, only to realise the tie on your bikini top had loosened in the chaos. You made your way over to Bradley, your arm contorted behind you to keep the strings from coming undone.Â
He was sitting on a towel near the coolers, arms resting on his knees, watching Yale and Harvard fight over the last rocket-shaped popsicle.
âBradley?â
He looked up, eyebrows lifting like heâd been caught doing something he shouldnât. âYeah?â
You shuffled a fraction, smiling unsurely. âThe tie on my bikini came undone, and I canât quite reach it. Could you fix it for me?â
Bradleyâs eyes went wide. You caught the faint hitch of a breath before he tried to mask it. You sat in front of him with your back turned, showing him how you held the strings together.Â
He froze for a beat. Then another. His shoulders tensed, fingers twitching, too aware of the bare expanse of your back. Bradley shifted forward carefully.Â
You felt him before he touched you. His hands hovered near the strings, uncertain, cautious, as if he could break something with a wrong move. Your shoulders tensed when his fingertips brushed the skin of your back.Â
âOkay,â Bradley murmured. His voice was quiet, not commanding or joking. You caught the slight hitch in his breathing. Not fear, exactly; more like anticipation.
He looped the strings slowly, once, twice, adjusting. Gentle. So slow it felt like he was measuring time against your pulse. You were hyper-aware of the way his fingers pressed, the careful tilt of his wrists, how his arms flexed slightly with the tiniest tension.Â
You tried to keep your breathing quiet, but his shallow inhales gave him away. It felt like Bradley was holding everything back, keeping his distance in every movement, even while he was behind you.
His thumbs brushed the dimples at your lower back and a shiver zipped up your spine.Â
âThere,â Bradley said quietly. His knuckles grazed your back again, lingering just long enough for heat to bloom where he touched you.
You felt every shift of his weight, every slow exhale that brushed your neck. The rest of the squad and your dad were chatting nearby, but you werenât thinking about them. You were thinking about Bradleyâs hands; how careful they were, how he couldnât quite seem to stop touching you.
You glanced over your shoulder, meeting his eyes. He swallowed, his pupils dark, wide, and attentive. He was mesmerised by the shape of your shoulders, the tilt of your head, and the way you were biting your bottom lip subconsciously.
You wanted to say something clever. Something that wouldnât make your knees fold. What came out was a whisper-soft, âThanks,â which was neither clever nor steady.
Bradley didnât move. He let his hands hover, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate lines into your skin. For a long moment, all you felt was the light drag of his fingertips.
You let yourself shift, just enough to meet him, just enough to let your bodies acknowledge what neither of you was saying. Not with words. Words would make this interaction real, and you werenât ready to face that reality yet.Â
Bradley started to say something, but Phoenixâs voice cut through the air. âWho wants chips?â
You cleared your throat and stood, brushing sand off your legs. âMe,â you said, pretending your voice didnât wobble.
You had been in town for a month, long enough to get sand permanently stuck in your shoes and afford a deposit on a nearby apartment. You had Pennyâs generous customers to thank for that one; they tipped better than any bartending job you had in bigger cities.
The new apartment wasnât much, just one bedroom, a minuscule kitchen, and the worldâs most dramatic plumbingâbut it was yours. And you loved it, even if the previous tenant had painted the bedroom a colour best described as the dark blue of an existential crisis.
You wanted sage green; something calm that didnât make you feel like you were sleeping inside a sad thought.
The squad had all promised to help paint, because apparently manual labour was their version of team bonding. Youâd stocked the fridge with drinks and ordered enough pizza to feed your notoriously hungry friends. Then the texts started. Bob had âa thing.â Phoenixâs âerrandâ mysteriously lasted four hours. Hangman sent a single thumbs-down emoji, which you assumed meant âno chance in hell.â
So when you opened the door and found only Bradley standing there, you werenât surprised. He stood holding up a six-pack like a peace offering. His shirt was faded and soft-looking, hanging loose over his jeans in a way that made your brain short-circuit for a second.
He raised the beers. âLooks like itâs just us.â
You pretended to find that funny instead of vaguely panic-inducing. âLucky you.â
Bradleyâs eyes flicked past you into the apartment. âYou sure about that? Thatâs a lot of wall.â
You stepped aside to let him in. âWell, your cowardly pilot friends backed out at the last minute. Iâm filing a formal complaint with their superior officer in the morning.â
âGetting Mav involved,â Bradley said, brushing past you. âBold choice.â
âDesperate times,â you muttered.
Youâd already tried to scrub the old navy-blue paint off the walls, but the result looked like an avant-garde crime scene.Â
Bradley took it all in with an amused glance. âYou started without supervision.â
âIâm an independent woman,â you said, reaching for a can of paint with exaggerated confidence. âI donât need supervision.â
âYouâre holding the can upside down.â
You looked down. ââŠThat feels like an opinion.â
Bradley laughed under his breath, low and warm, and picked up a roller. âCome on, Picasso. Letâs paint ourselves a masterpiece.â
He crouched and opened the can for you, forearms flexing as he stirred the sage green paint and poured it into the paint tray. You tried not to stare and failed miserably.
The first few minutes were quiet except for the squeak of rollers and the hum of classic rock playing from your Bluetooth speaker. The playlist was mostly your doing: Tom Petty, Springsteen, and a few guilty pleasure tracks you hoped Bradley wouldnât notice. If he did, he didnât say anything.
Bradley painted like a man on a mission: slow and careful strokes, all precision. You, on the other hand, were a little more abstract. Less plan, more chaos with flair.
That had always been the difference between you. Bradley had his life plotted like a flight path, every box ticked and corner squared. You were impulsive, chasing whatever caught your interest in that moment. That probably explained why he was in the Navy, and you were affectionately known as the âanywhere but hereâ girl.
âYours looks better,â you admitted eventually.
Bradley didnât look over. âYears of repainting Navy housing.â
âOf course,â you said. âAll those government-issued beige walls really sharpened your technique.â
He chuckled, rolling another line of paint. âYes, Iâm very well-rounded. Wait till you see me fold laundry.âÂ
You pretended to swoon, voice all old-Hollywood and dramatic. âOh, Rooster, your talent is simply too much for a girl to bear! Do you also do your own taxes?â
Bradley rolled his eyes but didnât bother to hide his grin. âKeep your pants on, Grace Kelly.â
You fought a grin and lost. âActually, I was going for Katharine Hepburn, but thank you!â
It was ridiculous how easy it was, how quickly you fell back into this rhythm; the back-and-forth, the teasing. The kind of ease that made you forget how long it had been since youâd really laughed like this.
You both reached for the paint tray. Bradleyâs fingers brushed yours, touch, but it set off a spark in your stomach. Neither of you pulled away. You blamed the beer, the heatâanything but what it actually was.
âYou missed a spot,â you said, because your brain was desperate to fill every silence.
Bradley leaned in to look, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. âNo, I didnât,â he said, squinting at the wall.
âYou did. There.â You pointed, mostly to distract yourself.
Bradley sighed, mock suffering in his voice. âYouâre bossy when youâre right.â
âAnd yet you love that about me.â
That stopped him for just a second too long. Bradley looked at you, smiled, and nodded absentmindedly. âYeah,â he said finally. âSomething like that.â
You tried for casual, reaching for your beer. âYouâre getting sentimental, Bradshaw. Careful.â
He wiped a streak of paint off his arm with a rag, the muscles in his forearm becoming taut. âDonât tell Hangman. Heâll make it weird.â
âHe already makes everything weird. Whatâs one more?â
Bradley laughed, that low, familiar sound that always seemed to settle somewhere in your chest. You couldnât tell if the room was warmer now or if it was just you. Probably just you.Â
The next song that came on made you pause. It was your favourite Otis Redding song, a soulful track that made everything feel too close, too soft around the edges.
Bradley stilled, putting the roller down to admire his painting progress. âI love this song,â he said, smiling faintly. âYou really went for the classics.â
He hummed a few notes under his breath, low and rough around the edges. Then he sang along to the chorus, and you stilled like your body had turned to stone. Bradleyâs voice fit the song perfectly; unpolished but warm, a little like arriving at home after a long trip.
âStill showing off, I see,â you teased to hide how your heart was doing double backflips.Â
Bradley shrugged, eyes still on the wall. âOccupational hazard.â
âYeah, right. I think you just like reminding people youâve got range.â
He laughed, the sound soft and deep. âWell, I did say I was well-rounded. Iâm just living up to expectations.â
âUh-huh,â you said, even though your voice came out thinner than you meant. Bradleyâs singing was doing something to your insides that you didnât particularly feel like acknowledging.
Bradley mustâve noticed your silence because, without warning, he started singing along louder, like he couldnât help it. His voice filled the room, easy and lazy and heartbreakingly good.
You rolled your eyes fondly, grinning. âOkay, rockstar, youâre ruining my productivity.â
Bradley dipped his roller, smirking. âYou werenât very productive to begin with.â
âExcuse me,â you said, gesturing to your wall. âI did this one all by myself!â
âUh-huh,â Bradley said, mimicking your tone. âMeanwhile, I did the other three.â
By the time the playlist ended, the walls were painted a soft sage green. The room looked lighter, like it could finally breathe. Bradley stepped back, hands on his hips, inspecting the walls. A smear of green paint streaked his jaw, and somehow that made him even more endearing.Â
âNot bad,â Bradley declared. âCould almost pass for professional work.â
You pretended to inspect your section. âYeah, I feel bad. Iâm too broke to pay you.â
âIâll settle for the pizza thatâs definitely cold by now.â
You huffed a laugh. âBig spender.â
He shrugged, grabbing his beer and taking a sip. âItâs the company Iâm here for, anyway.â
You blinked at that and were suddenly too aware of how close he was; of how his shoulder brushed yours as he turned to look at the wall again. You caught the faint scent of his cologneâwarm, clean, maddeningly familiar.
Just like that, the room fell away, and you were transported back eight years.Â
After showing you all his favourite Navy spots on North Island, Bradley had driven you home in the same Bronco heâd driven in high school. The radio was tuned to a classic rock station that kept losing signal, and every few minutes, heâd reached out to fix the dial.
At the time, you hadnât seen him in eight years.Â
Bradley had cut you out alongside Maverick when you were both teenagers, and it wasnât until your twentieth birthday that you finally reached out. By then, heâd been twenty-four, two years into his Navy career, and hoping youâd call.
Thereâd been a lot of phone calls, the occasional letter, the postcards youâd sent him from wherever you happened to be that month. But none of it had felt quite real until you were sitting beside him again, the windows rolled down, the salt air blowing through the cab.
Bradley looked older, of course. Broader through the shoulders, quieter in his movements. The loud boy who used to tease you about your terrible driving had been replaced by someone who carried himself differentlyâsteady, restrained.
Youâd tried to hide how much that unsettled you.
âStill got the same car,â youâd said, nodding at the dashboard.
Bradley smiled, eyes still on the road. âSheâs reliable. Thought about upgrading, but I couldnât do it.â
âToo sentimental?â
âToo broke,â heâd corrected, grinning.
Youâd laughed, and the sound surprised you. You hadnât realised how much youâd missed the way Bradley looked at you like he was storing the moment away for later.
Heâd finally achieved his dream and been sent to train at Top Gun, and when he told you, you hadnât hesitated to drive down from Santa Barbara to see him. Youâd told yourself you were only catching up, but the truth was impossible to ignore now.
âHowâs Mav?â Bradley had asked after a while, voice careful.
Youâd inhaled sharply.
You and Bradley had reconnected a few years ago, but youâd never once talked about your dad. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend the distance was because Bradley had devoted his life to following in his fatherâs footsteps, and youâd devoted yours to getting as far away from your fatherâs career as possible.
The truth was messier. Maverick had set Bradley back four years, pulled his papers to the Academy, and they hadnât spoken since.
Youâd shrugged. âStill flying. Still impossible to live with.â
Bradley had nodded. âGuess some things donât change.â
âGuess not,â youâd said. âIâm just lucky Dad was too sentimental to sell the house, so I donât have to pay for an overpriced hotel whenever Iâm home.â
The silence that had followed hadnât been uncomfortable. It had been the kind of silence you only had with someone who already knew most of your stories.
When Bradley had pulled up in front of your childhood house, the porch light flickered on automatically. Youâd forgotten how small it had looked, how the paint had peeled from the railing where you used to sit and talk with Maverick for hours on end.
Bradleyâd cut the engine and turned to you.
âThanks for the ride,â youâd said, because it had felt like the safe thing to say.
Heâd nodded. âAnytime.â
Youâd unbuckled your seatbelt but didnât move. Bradley hadnât either.
âSo,â youâd said, âTop Gun.â
Bradley had smiled faintly. âYeah. Guess I finally made it.â
âYou always were the overachiever,â youâd teased.
âOne of us had to be,â heâd teased you right back.
Youâd rolled your eyes. âHey, I got into college! I just decided not to go.â
Bradley had chuckled, and for a second, youâd seen the boy who used to sit on that same porch with you every summer. He and Carole used to make their way down from Virginia every year when you were growing up, and the two of you were always thick as thieves.
The memory had tugged at something in your chest. Youâd cleared your throat. âYou look good, Bradley.â
âThanks,â Bradley had said quietly. âYou too.â
Youâd meant to leave it at that, but the way heâd said it had made your pulse jump.
Heâd leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the steering wheel. âYou ever think about those summers? The ones beforeâeverything?â
âAll the time,â youâd said before you could stop yourself.
Bradley had nodded once, eyes flicking down, then back to yours. âI missed you,â heâd said simply.
The words had hit like a wave. Youâd imagined Bradley saying them for years, but now that he had, you hadnât known where to put the feeling.
âYou didnât have to disappear, you know,â youâd said. âWhen Dad pulled your papers, he didnât mean for you to disappear from our lives.â
Bradley had exhaled slowly, leaning back in his seat. âI know. But I couldnât call you. Not then. I was so angry; at him, at myself, at the universe. I didnât want you caught in the middle.â
âYou didnât even give me a choice.â
His jaw had tightened. âYou were still in high school. I was eighteen and angry at the world. You had your own life to figure out. I thought I was doing the right thing.â
Youâd laughed softly, without humour. âYou always think youâre doing the right thing.â
Bradley had looked at you then, and for a second, youâd seen every year that had passed between you. He might have looked the same, only broader and tanner, but Bradley Bradshaw wasnât the naive eighteen-year-old heâd been ten years ago.
âLet me walk you to the door,â Bradley had said, because no matter how much time had passed, Carole had raised him to be a gentleman.
Heâd got out of the truck and come around to your side, opening the door for you. It had been such an old-fashioned gesture that it made you laugh, but the sound broke halfway out of your throat. Youâd stepped out and headed for the porch together.
The boards had creaked softly beneath you, and Bradley had come to a stop as youâd fished your keys out of your bag.
âWell,â youâd said, âthis is where you say goodnight and make me regret every life choice that led to this moment.â
Bradley had smiled that familiar half-smile youâd heard through the phone every few days. âSomething like that.â
Heâd taken a step closer. The space between you had seemed to shrink without either of you deciding it should. For a second, neither of you had spoken.
When Bradley had reached out, his hand hesitated in midair before finding your face. His thumb had brushed along your cheekbone, the touch feather-light, almost reverent.Â
Bradleyâs voice had dropped, rough at the edges. âFor what itâs worth, you are the most amazing person I know.â
You hadnât answered. You couldnât. Youâd only tilted your chin up, and heâd leaned in at the same time. No hesitation now.
The kiss had been slow, too careful, like youâd both been afraid to break whatever fragile thing had survived all those years apart. Bradleyâs hands had found your waistâtentative at first, then sureâand youâd sunk into the warmth of him.
When youâd finally pulled back, your heart was pounding so hard you could barely hear yourself think.
Bradley had looked a little dazed. âIâve wanted to do that for a long time.â
âTwo years?â youâd said.Â
That had been when youâd noticed a shift in your phone calls. Youâd been travelling the world, Bradleyâd been trying to prove he deserved to be sent to Top Gun, and things didnât feel so platonic anymore.
Heâd grinned, soft and knowing. âTwo years.â
Youâd smiled back. âGo before I talk you into staying.â
âIâll bring you coffee and pastries tomorrow morning,â Bradley had promised, still grinning.
Then heâd walked down the path to his truck. Youâd watched him go, his figure lit briefly by the headlights as he started the engine. Heâd waved once through the open window before pulling away.
The sound of the engine had faded, leaving the street quiet again.
And for a second, you saw another version of him in the same spotâa year later, walking away from the same porch, but with his jaw set and his eyes red from crying.
Youâd watched him go then, too. But that time, he didnât look back.
You blinked, and it was gone. Just Bradley again; older now, standing in your newly sage green room. He was still the person whoâd known you when you thought you had the whole world figured out.
âHey,â he said quietly, tilting his head. âYou okay?â
You nodded too fast, trying to play it off. âYeah. Just thinking.â
Bradley smiled a little. âDangerous habit.â
âTell me about it.â
You both stood there, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the wall like it held the answers to things neither of you was brave enough to ask.
You had never been the type to throw a housewarming party, but a ladiesâ night felt doable. Low-stakes controlled chaos. You unpacked the last of your boxes that morning and figured it called for celebration.Â
So you texted Phoenix and Halo. By eight oâclock, there were two bottles of wine open, pizza boxes on the counter, and a shuffling indie playlist in the background.
Your little apartment smelled faintly of pizza and garlic bread. Youâd lit a candle on the coffee table for ambience, but now the wax had melted into a crooked puddle.
âSo,â Phoenix said, pointing her wine glass at you, âhowâs it feel being back? Youâve been here what, five months?â
âSix,â you said. âAnd surprisingly not miserable.â
ââSurprisinglyâ?â Halo echoed, grinning.
You leaned back into the cushions. You could feel the wine in your cheeks, warm and loose, making honesty come too easily. âIâve always wanted to get out of North Island. Like, the second I was old enough to dream about leaving, I was halfway gone in my head.â
Phoenix arched an eyebrow. âThat bad?â
âNot bad,â you said quickly. âJust⊠limiting. My dadâs great, he really is. But his great love has always been the sky, you know? Flying, teaching, all of it. And that comes with a certain lifestyle. Constant motion, waiting on calls, never really belonging to yourself. I spent my whole life watching him break the rules and still have to bend to someone elseâs orders, and I swore Iâd never do that.â
Halo poured herself another glass and nodded slowly. She shifted closer, her knee brushing your leg. âSo you ran.â
You smiled. âConstantly. I was the âanywhere but hereâ girl. New cities, short leases, jobs I didnât care about. I convinced myself that if I kept moving, Iâd eventually land somewhere that felt right.â
âAnd now?â Phoenix asked.
You hesitated, swirling your wine like it might spill if you said too much. âNow I donât want to run. For the first time ever. Which is⊠weird.â
Halo tilted her head. âWeird how?â
You thought about it for a moment. âItâs kind of a relief, honestly. I like my job, I like my apartment, I even like that I can walk to the beach in under ten minutes. But itâs also a little scary. If Iâm not running, what am I doing?â
Phoenix gave you a look that said sheâd already guessed the answer. âMaybe youâre staying for a reason.â
You caught her smirk and groaned. âOh, donât start.â
âIâm just saying,â Phoenix said, all mock innocence. âCertain people seem to be one of the reasons you want to stick around.â
ââCertain peopleâ who go by chicken-related callsigns?â Halo added, and Phoenix snorted.
You groaned. âNot this again.â
Phoenix grinned into her glass. âCome on, itâs so obvious! You and Rooster have been orbiting each other since you arrived. Everyone sees it.â
âEveryone?â you asked.
âEveryone,â Halo confirmed. âHe looks at you like heâs trying not to. Which, honestly, makes it so much more obvious.â
You laughed softly, though something in your chest tightened. You fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, your stomach fluttering with nerves. âYouâre both reading too much into it. Weâre friends.â
Phoenix leaned forward. Her voice dropped, low and sure, her eyes steady on yours. âFriends donât look at each other like that. Friends donât fix your shower head without being asked, or volunteer to pick up IKEA furniture over an hour away. I think the two of you are more than friends.â
You smiled, a little sadly. âNot so much. We, uh, used to date, though.â
For a second, both women blinked at you like youâd spoken in a foreign language. Then Phoenix choked on her wine, coughing into her hand as Haloâs eyes went huge. Her hand shot out, gripping Phoenixâs arm like she needed something to hold onto.
âIâm sorry, what?â Phoenix said once she recovered.
Haloâs jaw dropped. âYou dated Rooster?â Her voice came out an octave higher than usual, and she squeezed Phoenixâs forearm for emphasis.
âBack when he first got sent to Top Gun,â you said. âI moved into my childhood house for a year, got a job waitressing in the next town over, and⊠yeah. We dated. I mustâve been twenty-four, Bradley twenty-eight.â
Phoenix straightened on the couch, her glass halfway to her lips and forgotten. âHold on. That year? I was at Top Gun with him. He never said a word.â
You shrugged. âWe werenât exactly shouting it from the rooftops.â
Halo let out a scandalised gasp. She twisted toward Phoenix, and the two of them started hitting each otherâs arms out of excitement.Â
âOh my god,â Halo exclaimed. âThatâs why he used to skip out on bar nights?! We thought he was just being old and boring.â
Phoenix let out a snort, shaking her head. âYouâre telling me I sat across from that man every day for months and he never once mentioned he had a girlfriend?â
You nodded, smiling a little at the memory. âHeâd drive out to see me after training. Weâd grab dinner or sit on the porch and talk for hours. Sometimes heâd stay the night if he didnât have early drills. We decided not to tell anyone.â
Halo blinked, her expression softening as the air shifted. Her hand fell from Phoenixâs arm. âWhy not?â
Your throat was tight, the words catching halfway up. Phoenixâs gaze softened when she noticed. Her hand settled over yours. You took a sip of wine before answering.
âMy dad was still a taboo subject back then,â you confessed. âAnd Iâm not a local celebrity, but being Maverickâs daughter means Iâm a familiar face on North Island. We knew word would get back to him if people found outâor at the very least back to Uncle Ice. Besides, Bradley was in the middle of Top Gun, and I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. It was supposed to make things simpler.â
Phoenix snorted. âSounds simple,â she said sarcastically. Halo gave her a nudge, a silent reminder to be gentle.
You smiled. âYeah, we really nailed that part.â
The humour in your voice faded a little. âIt was a good year, though. He was the perfect boyfriendâthoughtful, steady, stupidly chivalrous. Heâd make me coffee in the morning and kiss my hand before he left for work. Heâd tell me about flying without realising his whole face changed when he talked about it. I really loved him. ButâŠâ
You sighed. âBut he was always going to belong to the sky. And I couldnât. I didnât want to be someone waiting for the next deployment or living by his schedule. I wanted to travel, to work, to not feel like I was stuck in my childhood house lying to my dad about who I was dating. We were in completely different places. So I left.â
Phoenix watched you for a moment; her usual sharpness softened. âDid he know you were going to?â
You nodded. âWe both did. We just didnât say it out loud. One day he dropped me off after dinner, and that was it. He hugged me one last time, and we pretended we werenât both crying. He walked down the path, got in his truck, and drove away. I was in Nevada by sunrise.â
For a long second, none of you spoke. The music hummed quietly from the speaker, a slow song.Â
Halo reached out, her hand resting briefly on your knee. âHey,â she said quietly. âThat sounds brutal.â
You shrugged, though your throat felt tight. âIt was a long time ago. Now weâre friends again. Or something close to it. We painted my apartmentâthank you for abandoning me, by the way. I know a set-up when I see one,â you added, giving them a meaningful look. Phoenix and Halo didnât even pretend to be ashamed. âWe still hang out in group settings, and we never told my dad what happened between us. Itâs easier than I thought it would be.â
âExcept you still look at him like you used to,â Halo said, tilting her head and grinning.
You gave her a small, helpless smile. Your chest ached, a soft pull just beneath your ribs. âYeah, maybe. But weâve both changed. Things are different now.â
Phoenix set her glass down on your coffee table. âFor what itâs worth, I think heâs still completely in love with you.â
You laughed softly. âYou think everyoneâs in love with everyone.â
âMaybe,â Phoenix said, grinning. âBut Iâm right about this one.â
The conversation drifted after that, back to work gossip and whether Halo should see her ex while she was in town.
You could still feel the warmth of their closeness long after the laughter faded. But the subject of your history with Bradley lingered long after theyâd gone home, and the apartment was quiet.Â
You stood by the sink, washing wine glasses. Youâd spent years convincing yourself that staying meant settling. But now, standing there in your own little kitchen with three empty glasses and an ache in your chest, you werenât so sure.
Your dadâs house still smelled the same. Youâd expected it to feel different now that it wasnât yours, but it didnât. Just more lived in. There were photos on the mantel that hadnât been there before, a new coffee mug beside the old ones, a few of Pennyâs things scattered across the counter.
You heard them before you saw them, their voices mixing with the sound of the stove fan. Maverick was chopping tomatoes, Penny stirring something on the hob, both laughing at a story you couldnât quite catch.Â
You leaned against the doorway for a second and watched them. Your dad looked lighter than he used to, and so did Penny. A quiet warmth crept in and you were happy the two of them finally figured things out.
When they noticed you, you were smothered with hugs and affection until you pulled away, laughing. Penny finished up the pasta, Maverick opened a bottle of wine, and conversation flowed the way it always did when the two of them were together. You didnât have to fill any silences or think too hard.
Then there was a knock at the door.
âCan you grab that?â Maverick asked, wiping his hands on a towel.
You went to open it and stopped short when you saw Bradley on the porch.
âHey,â he said, his voice even.
âHey,â you said finally, your voice softer than you meant it to be. You smiled, because thatâs what youâd always done around Bradley. âDidnât know you were coming.â
Bradley shrugged, eyes flicking past you toward the kitchen. âMav invited me. Guess he forgot to mention it.â
âRight.â You stepped back to let him in, trying to ignore the faint smell of his cologne mixing with the sea air. âCome on, theyâre in the kitchen.â
He nodded, but his smile never reached his eyes. There was a tightness to him that hadnât been there the last time you saw him. You told yourself it was nothing, but your pulse didnât slow as you followed him inside.
Dinner didnât go badly. If anything, it went almost too well. The four of you talked and laughed, the kind of easy rhythm you could fall into without thinking. You and Bradley had done this dance before; pretending you were just old friends, nothing more, nothing less.Â
He sat across from you, relaxed enough to look natural. He passed you the parmesan, smiled when Penny teased Maverick, and joined in when your dad told stories from the hangar. You found yourself smiling back, and for a while, it felt like old times.
After dinner, you and Bradley both tried to stand, but Penny waved you down.Â
âAbsolutely not. Youâre guests,â she said, already stacking plates. Maverick backed her up, grinning at your protests.
So you and Bradley ended up outside on the porch, on the same old bench that had been there since you were a kid. The wood creaked under your weight.
You sat with your hands clasped loosely in your lap. Bradley leaned back, one ankle crossed over the other, silent in a way that wasnât quite comfortable.
âSo,â he said eventually, his tone careful. âYou told Phoenix.â
You turned your head toward him. âTold her what?â
Bradley gave you a look, eyes narrowing just slightly. âAbout us.â
You blinked, surprised. âOh. Yeah, it came up.â
He let out a short laugh, but there wasnât any humour in it. âYou didnât think to give me a heads-up before dropping that little piece of history into squad gossip?â
You frowned, sitting up. âIt wasnât gossip. It was just a conversation.â
âAbout something between you and me,â Bradley said, voice low but edged. His arms crossed over his chest like he needed somewhere to put the frustration.
You shifted slightly, mirroring the gesture without meaning to. âBradley, itâs been eight years. Itâs not like I was giving them details or spilling your secrets. We were talking; weâre friends.â
Bradley turned toward you fully now, eyes catching the light from the kitchen window. âYou think I want everyone looking at me like some guy who couldnât hold on to Maverickâs daughter?â
You stared at him, caught off guard. âThatâs what this is about? What other people think?â
His jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek jumping. âDonât do that.â
âDo what?â
âMake me sound shallow just because I care how it looks.â Bradleyâs tone was clipped, defensive.
You exhaled, trying to keep your voice even. âI didnât tell Phoenix and Halo to hurt you.â
âI know you didnât,â he said. His voice cracked a little on the words. âBut it still did.â
That stopped you for a second. âWhy?â you asked quietly.
Bradley looked at you for a long moment before answering, his fingers tapping once against his knee. âBecause you didnât just leave town back then. You left me too.â
You felt your throat tighten. âYou were never really here, Bradley.â
His mouth pressed into a line. âThatâs not fair.â
âIsnât it?â You turned toward him, heat rising in your voice. âYou were always chasing the next posting, the next mission, the next step. I couldnât even get you to slow down long enough to talk about what you wanted for dinner without it turning into logistics.â
Bradley pushed a hand through his hair, eyes flashing. âI was trying to build somethingâto have a plan. Thatâs what people do when they care.â
You let out a short, sharp laugh. âYou cared more about the plan than me.â
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. âYou didnât know what you wanted.â
âI was twenty-four,â you said, your voice rising. âI was still figuring it out.â
âAnd you decided you couldnât do that with me around!â
âThatâs not true!â You were on your feet now, before you realised it, pacing a few steps toward the railing. âI loved you, but I couldnât keep being the girl waiting for you to come home.â
Bradley stood too, his voice rougher now. âYou couldâve told me that.â
âI did,â you shot back. âYou just didnât want to hear it.â
Bradley let out a sharp exhale and turned away, hands on his hips. âYou think it was easy for me? I had no one, alright? My mom was gone, Mav and I werenât talking, and youââ He broke off, jaw tight. âYou were supposed to be the one person who didnât walk away.â
You stared at him, your chest tightened. âYouâre kidding.â
He frowned. âWhat?â
âYou think it was easy for me?â you said, your voice shaking. âLying to my dad? Pretending I didnât still talk to you, didnât stillââ You stopped, swallowing hard. âDonât put it all on me.â
âIâm not putting it on you, Iâm telling you how it was!â Bradleyâs voice cracked with something raw. âYou had a home here. You had Maverickâwherever he was deployed that year. You had people who actually gave a damn. I had empty apartments and transfer papers.â
âYeah, I âhad Maverick,ââ you echoed. âSome relationship we had that year, what with me lying to him every day.â
Bradleyâs mouth opened, then closed again. His jaw flexed. âI didnât think you wanted to tell him.â
âHeâs my dad,â you said, voice rising. âThe only parent Iâve ever had. Deciding to lie to his face every time he asked if Iâd heard from you wasnât something I did lightly. But we agreed to keep it quiet, remember? You didnât want anyone to know.â
âI was protecting you,â he said quickly, taking a step closer.
You gave a short, incredulous laugh. âNo, you were protecting yourself. Protecting your perfect image, your golden-boy career, your chance to prove you werenât just Gooseâs son dating Maverickâs daughter.â
Bradleyâs eyes flashed. âThatâs not fair.â
âMaybe not,â you said, your voice shaking. âBut itâs true.â
He groaned, frustration sparking again. âYou think you were the only one carrying something? You had your dadâsomeone who was always in your corner. I had to do it all on my own.â
Your throat burned. âYou had me!â
âUntil I didnât,â Bradley shot back. âUntil you decided you couldnât handle it anymore and ran.â
That one hit deep. Your arms crossed instinctively, a weak sort of shield. âYou make it sound like I didnât even try.â
Bradleyâs voice rose. âYou didnât stay.â
You inhaled sharply, feeling your eyes sting. âAnd you didnât even notice I was falling apart!â
He froze, chest rising and falling fast.
âI couldnât breathe, Bradley,â you said quietly, voice breaking. âDo you know what that felt like?â
His expression softened for half a second, but then his shoulders straightened, defensive. âYou were always the âanywhere but hereâ girl,â Bradley said. âI shouldâve seen it coming. Youâve been running your whole life.â
You took a shaky breath, blinking hard to keep your eyes clear. âAnd youâve been chasing ghosts,â you said, voice low. âYour father, your career, whatever version of yourself you think you owe him. I wasnât going to stick around and become everything I was scared of growing upâliving life according to someone elseâs orders.â
The words hung between you, heavy and hot. Neither of you moved for a long moment.
Bradley finally exhaled, his shoulders dropping. âI shouldnât have said that,â he muttered. âThat you ran. Thatâs not fair.â
You didnât answer at first, watching the way his hand flexed at his side, like he didnât know what to do with it.
âI was the one running,â Bradley said finally, quieter now. âFrom everything. Every mission, every deployment, every new postingâwhatever kept me busy enough not to think.â He gave a small, tired laugh. âI thought if I just kept working, Iâd never end up like my dad.â He trailed off, swallowing hard. âBut I was scared all the time. Terrified, actually. Of chaos, of losing control, of you seeing me come apart.â
You turned toward him, your voice softening. âBradleyâŠâ
âI didnât want you to go through what my mom did,â he went on, voice rough. âThe waiting, the worrying. I thought keeping it quiet would protect you. But maybe I was just protecting myself. Because if something happened to me, and you were stillââ He stopped, clearing his throat. âI couldnât live with that.â
You stood still for a moment, feeling the wind shift, the scent of salt in the air. âI knew all that,â you said quietly. âI knew why you did it. Why you pulled away.â
Bradley looked at you then, searching your face.
You gave a small, sad smile. âYou werenât the only one who was scared. I felt stuck. Living in my childhood home again, pretending I wasnât lying to my dad every day⊠it was like being sixteen all over again, except worse, because I actually had something to lose.âÂ
You shook your head, the motion small. âGrowing up with Maverick taught me to rely on myself, to move fast, to never get too comfortable anywhere. So when things started getting real with you, I panicked. I didnât know how to sit still.â
Bradleyâs expression softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. âYou thought if you kept moving, you wouldnât need anyone.â
âYeah,â you said, voice low. âAnd then you ruined that theory completely.â
That drew the faintest ghost of a smile from him. âYou think I meant to?â
You huffed a small laugh, the tension easing between you. âPretty sure you didnât. You just existed, and that was enough.â
Bradley ran both hands over his face, dragging them down to his jaw. âYou know, I thought Iâd made peace with it,â he said. âI told myself I was over it. Then you moved home, and suddenly it all came flooding back like it never ended.â
You let out a slow breath, your heartbeat still loud in your ears. âTell me about it.â
Bradley huffed a quiet laugh, then went still again. âYou really didnât mean to tell Phoenix?â
You shook your head. âNo. I wasnât thinking. It just came up, and I trusted her not to tell anyone. I guess I didnât think sheâd bring it up to you.â
âShe told me we were being dramatic,â Bradley admitted, chuckling.
âSheâs not wrong,â you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth.
That earned you a smile backâtired, but real. The tension between you eased, but it didnât fade completely. Bradley looked at you again, softer this time. âYou look different.â
âSo do you,â you said, the corners of your mouth twitching. âIn a good way.â
His brow lifted just slightly, like he didnât quite believe you.
You took a slow breath. âYou know, Iâm proud of you.â
Bradley blinked, caught off guard. âOf me?â
âYeah,â you said, your voice steady. âYou worked so hard for everything, and you did it without a safety net. Without anyone really holding you up. You built the life you wanted from nothing, and thatâsââ you exhaled softly, searching for the right word, âthatâs brave. Doing it scared, doing it alone, is a hell of a lot braver than doing it with the kind of confidence someone like my dad has.â
His expression flickered, somewhere between disbelief and something warmer.
âI know your parents are proud of you,â you went on. âYou did all the things you used to talk about when weâd sneak onto the tarmac and youâd point at the sky like it already belonged to you.â You smiled faintly, eyes unfocused for a moment. âYou made me want to find somewhere that actually felt like home. And the only place thatâs ever even come close was North Island, that year I was here with you.â
Bradley stared at you, silent for a long time. Then he leaned back slightly, shaking his head as if trying to get a handle on whatever was building in his chest. âYou always did know exactly what to say.â
âThatâs not true,â you argued softly.
He smiled at that, small and rueful. âYou know what I always admired about you? How easily you fit in anywhere. You could move halfway across the country, not know a single person, and by the end of the week youâd have a new routine anda new friend group. I used to think that was your version of magic.â
You laughed under your breath. âIt was survival.â
âMaybe,â Bradley said, eyes lingering on you. âBut itâs also something I wish I had. I still have all your postcards. Philly, Austin, Chicago. I keep them in the top drawer of my desk, like little reminders that thereâs more to the world than checklists and orders.â He hesitated, his thumb rubbing along the edge of his jaw. âYou never settled for anything less than what felt right for you. And I think thatâs what I learned from that year: if I could be just a little more like you, Iâd be a much happier man.â
You smiled, small but real. âYou do look happier. Iâm glad I got to be a tiny part of that.â
Bradley looked at you for a long beat, eyes softening in the golden porch light. âFor what itâs worth, youâre still the most amazing person I know,â he said quietly. âYou were always so beautiful. You still are, more than ever.â
You smiled sadly, your shoulders lowering. âYouâre the most amazing person I know too, Bradley.â
He laughed under his breath, then after a beat, said, âI missed you.â
You froze, every nerve in your body alert. âDonât.â
âWhy not?â His voice was low now, quiet in a way that felt dangerous.
âBecause itâs not fair,â you said, breath unsteady. âYou canât just say that now.â
Bradley shifted closer, eyes flicking to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. âYou think I planned this?â
âI think you always have a plan,â you said. âThatâs the problem.â
He smiled, small and tired, running a hand along his thigh. âMaybe this time I donât. Maybe Iâve learned that not everything has to be perfect. That life with the people you love isnât about checklists and timelines.â
You blinked at him. âYou really mean that?â
âI do,â Bradley said, voice softening. âBeing with you showed me I could let go a little. So, Iâm taking the chance to tell you I still love you.â
The space between you shrank. You could see the faint crease between Bradleyâs brows, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you and didnât know if he should.
âBradley,â you said quietly.
He reached up anyway and brushed his thumb along your cheek. You tilted your head slightly, closing the tiny gap, your pulse pounding in your ears. His fingers slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, tilting your face closer, and you inhaled sharply.
âYou have no idea how many times Iâve dreamed of this,â Bradley murmured before connecting your lips.
You let out a breath you hadnât realised you were holding. The kiss started slow, tentative, but the second your lips moved, Bradleyâs restraint shattered.Â
His hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and the rest of the worldâthe ocean breeze, the light streaming in from the kitchen window, the creak of the porchâfaded out.
He groaned low in your mouth, and it made your knees weak. Teeth caught briefly on your lower lip, and you parted just enough for him to deepen the kiss, tilting his head so your mouths fit perfectly together. Every touch, every brush of skin against skin, was electric.Â
You could feel the tension of the last eight years unravelling between you with every press, every gasp, every tiny, desperate shift closer.
Bradleyâs hands moved to your waist, gripping the curve of your hips with a hunger that mirrored your own. You pressed against him, leaning into his warmth, letting yourself melt into the familiarity of him. It was reckless and indulgent and everything youâd wanted for ten years without ever saying it out loud.
âYou have no idea what you do to me,â Bradley whispered between kisses.
You laughed, a soft, shaky sound, and kissed him again, harder this time. âIâve been waitingââ
âFor far too long,â he interrupted, nipping your jaw, then pressing his forehead to yours. âI know, gorgeous. But weâre here now.â
Bradleyâs mouth moved over yours again, teasing then demanding, hands everywhere you wanted them. Your fingers tangled in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him close, shocked at how easy it felt to lose yourself in him again.
His lips trailed down your jaw, your neck, each kiss leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He whispered your name against your skin, and it made something inside you shatter and mend all at once.Â
âYouâve been mine all along,â Bradley murmured, voice urgent. âEven when we werenât together, I still loved you. You were all I thought about, every single day, for ten years.â
âI love you,â you breathed, cutting him off with another deep, desperate kiss. âI always loved you.â
When you finally broke apart, gasping, you rested your foreheads together, both of you laughing breathlessly. Bradleyâs hands stayed on your waist, yours on his chest.
âIâve missed you,â he admitted, voice ragged.
âIâve missed you too,â you breathed back, and it was impossible to say whose smile was brighter.
Inside, Penny froze mid-step, dish towel in hand, staring out the window.Â
âAre theyââ she started, eyes wide as she watched you and Bradley tangled together on the porch. âAre they kissing?â
Beside her, Maverick leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a grin slowly spreading across his face.Â
âDid youâ?â
âOf course I knew,â he said smugly. âIce and I had a long-running bet about when theyâd get back together.â
Penny tore her gaze away from the window to stare at him. âYouâre kidding.â
Maverick shook his head, smile softening, voice low and fond. âCanât believe he got the exact month right.â
Hey love! Im curious if youâd be open to a jealous flatline Bradley mood boardâŠcould be smutty or not! Idk why that trope always gets me
Bradley can feel a muscle in his jaw ticking, and he hates it.
There's no reason for this red-hot flash of anger to be licking at his periphery - he has complete and total trust in you. The sparkling diamond on your finger is proof enough, paired with a gold band that matches his own, your wedding date inscribed on the inner ring.
The best day of his life.
He'd just been gone for a couple of minutes, grabbing his laptop while you'd changed out of your scrubs. On your way back to him, you appear to have been accosted by one of the EMTs.
Lewis. He's new.
And either a complete moron, or the world's biggest sleaze. Bradley hasn't worked out which yet.
His instinct is to go over there - loop an arm round your waist, kiss you deeply, and tell the kid to go fuck himself. But he's also acutely aware of the fact that you can fight your own battles, and would be less than impressed with a display of toxic masculinity.
So, he stands a healthy distance away, and pretends to read some emails while you try and detach yourself. It's not going well - every time you try and end the conversation, Lewis finds some meaningless conversation thread to tug on. Finally, you let out a sigh. "Sorry - my husband's waiting for me. I should get going."
Lewis tracks your gesture towards Bradley, who waves. Crossing the ER in a few steps, you press yourself into his side, allowing Bradley's hand to slot into the pocket of your jeans.
If Bradley Bradshaw was a mature man, he'd walk you out to the Bronco, before driving you home and cooking you dinner. Instead, he spins you until you're against his chest, dipping you in a deep kiss that's definitely workplace inappropriate. When he finally loosens his grip, you let out a laugh. "Are you seriously jealous of a twenty-three year old kid?"
He shrugs, having the decency to look a little bashful. "Needs to know his place if he's gonna be working here."
You hum a little. "He's got nothing on you, babe."
I'm back from the dead. Just a super short drabble featuring a pining Bradley â not proofread, just for fun :)
Pairing: Bradley Rooster Bradshaw x Bartender reader
Rating: T
She talks with her hands when she's animated. A fire burning in her eyes as she recounts a story, an interaction, or even the mundane. Her hands move as wildly as her hair from the breeze of the fan mounted on the beam across from her. And he is transfixed.
It doesn't matter that she's talking with Mav and not him. He simply can't look away. When Rooster locks in, he locks in completely â no outside distraction could break his focus. Not when it came to fighter jets, and not when it came to her.
She's new to the Hard Deck. The friendly, bubbly but sincere employee that Penny brought on over the past few months. She is a favorite amongst the Dagger Crew for a variety of reasons: she's fun, she's empathetic, and she pours a stiff drink.
The squad recognized quickly Rooster's not so secret admiration, often teasing him for his school boy crush. But he doesn't want to rush into things with her. She isn't just a girl at the bar on a Saturday. He's had plenty of experience there, plenty of experience getting off and spending the evening with a pretty woman. But she isn't one of those. When it comes to her, he proceeds with intention.
Which is why, as he observes from across the bar, her head tipped back in a laugh as she pours Mav his favorite draft, he allows a small smile to paint its way onto his face. He and Mav hit a stride lately, the tension dissipated but the hurt still scabbing over. They had years to make up for, but they both operated in a slow but steady trajectory towards healing.
Tipping the last sip of his IPA onto his tongue, he proceeds towards the bar, glass in hand.
"Another one, Rooster?" She greets with a small smile. The kind that lifts on one side of her mouth, her eyes bright and teasing.
"How'd you know?" He jokes, handing his empty glass to her. "How you holding up tonight, Sweetheart?"
The other corner of her mouth joins in and lifts to complete her easy smile. She hasn't told him, but she melts a bit when he calls her that. "Holding my own just fine. You know I love a good Thursday night rush."
He nods. He does know this. He loves to watch her in her element. Bouncing from patron to patron, bottle opener shoved into the back pocket of her jean shorts, converse high-tops pivoting her between taps and bottles. She greets each patron with her warm smile, leaning in towards them to ensure she hears their order, and waving their card with a soft "Open or closed?"
Rooster always leaves his tab open when she's working. He likes to make trips back to her corner of the bar, waving the next person ahead of him if Penny comes to grab his drink order. Penny pretends not to notice.
Rooster stares at her as she expertly pours his next round, the foam running over slightly onto her hand as she tips the glass at an angle. He imagines licking the beer from her fingertips, placing her delicate fingers in his mouth. "Hope these Navy boys are being good to you." He says, only half joking.
She laughs, "Nothing I can't handle. I'm a big girl, Bradley."
His heart stutters a little in his chest. His name on her lips sounds sweeter than anything he's ever heard. His given name, not his call sign. It feels more personal. Intimate.
"Yeah, I know Sweetheart," He says softly.
There's a part of her that's begging him to make a move. She's heard the lore from Hangman: Rooster is known to sit on his perch, afraid to take the leap. She looks at him now as she hands over his beer, eyes almost pleading. His fingers brush hers as he accepts the pour, but she doesn't pull away just yet. The pint glass is suspended mid air with both of their hands balancing its weight.
"You know, Rooster," she says, finally pulling her fingers away and propping a hip against the bar, "When it comes to me, you can jump from your perch any time. I guarantee you'll like the outcome."
His cheeks stain red as he stares at her, mouth ajar. It takes him a few seconds to respond, eyes darkening and voice dropping, "That so?"
She grabs her dish towel to clean up the nonexistent smudge next to his pint glass that rests on the bar top. Looking up from under her lashes she responds without hesitation, "Take the leap."
One-shot collection following you and the daggers as President Tom Kazansky's senior staff. This is pretty heavily inspired by The West Wing - unless otherwise stated, one-shots are standalone, but I would recommend going chronologically in the order below.
Requests for this AU are open, and please ignore any political inaccuracies
COMPLETED.
teaser/introduction to the au
main series
down bad - you're called into work on your day off for an emergency, and bradley wants to know why you're dressed up
if you're too shy (let me know) - assigned with the gargantuan task of organising paperwork for the state of the union, bradley learns something about you that he didn't know
i wish you would - when bradley's told that he'd be saved in the event of a nuclear war, but none of his friends make the cut, he doesn't know how to feel about it. he also doesn't know how to feel about his feelings for one of said friends.
heartbeats - president tom kazansky drops a bombshell that could destroy his re-election campaign
falling in - jake meets his match on live tv, while you're tasked with thanksgiving celebrations
say don't go - when sickness strikes the west wing, bradley ends up taking care of you
false alarms - a lot can change in a week when it comes to washington - political alliances, work trips, relationships?
sweet nothing - bradley's determined to make your first official date a good one, but the white house has other plans
wildest dreams - part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - tragedy forces you to re-evaluate your relationship with bradley
i'm with you - when bradley struggles to readjust to normal life after the shooting, you don't know how to help him
hits different - you turn thirty, bradley and jake try to start a fire, and president kazansky has news
everywhere - when your ex turns up at the white house, bradley does everything in his power to keep him away from you
stop and stare - you get some worrying letters after a controversial speech, and bradley doesn't know how to deal with it
holy ground - you and bradley take an anniversary trip to san diego, and javy has a question for maverick
if i could change your mind - bradley spends some time on javy's campaign, and comes to a decision he's not sure you'll like
my boy only breaks his favorite toys - it feels like you're the last one to learn about bradley's job. the fight that follows is the worst one you've ever had with him.
in the living room - with bradley away on the campaign trail, you can't seem to adjust to life back home
out of the woods - bradley finds himself unable to protect you, and begins to wonder if it's all worth it
everlong - it's the final countdown to the election. four months to make or break america. can the machado campaign do it?
landslide - it's election night! javy machado vs evan pitt, and it's far tighter than any of you expect
revival - the end.
one-shots/drabbles
executive decisions: origins - your very first day on the campaign trail, and bradley mistakes you for someone else (prequel!)
the very first night - you make the decision to leave tom kazansky's campaign and bradley does not take it well (prequel!)
false alarms (the bonus parts) - after you and bradley finally get together, it feels like the entire universe is conspiring to keep you apart. drabble! doesn't affect plot
an executive decisions christmas
i miss you, i'm sorry - When Bradley takes a job at the other side of the country without consulting you, it breaks your heart that he didn't trust you enough to tell you. Ending things with him is the hardest decision you've ever had to make. But when you run into him three years later, and it's obvious neither of you are doing well, do you have it in you to take him back? Or are you both doomed to the same mistakes that broke you apart the first time? This is an Executive Decisions AU, and takes place instead of In The Living Room, but can be read standalone.
head-canons/extras
dating political staffer!bradley bradshaw would include...
Rooster wasn't for you. You were opposites in so many ways - he was an extrovert to your introvert. The center of attention to your wallflower. You weren't interested in a one night stand, and he couldn't offer more. So his volunteering to help with Friendsgiving was just a friendly gesture after you returned from a deployment...right?
âJust a minute!â you called, swiping a strand of hair from your face. The knocking stopped, and you quickly washed the flour from your hands, drying them on the towel thrown over your shoulder while heading to the door.
And there, standing on your front step as the sun started to rise, was Bradley. His normally styled curls were sleep-mussed, his grey t-shirt clinging to his arms and untucked from his Navy PT sweatpants. The smile on his face grew as he took you in - sweatpants, a baggy sweatshirt dotted with flour, fuzzy socks, and not a stitch of makeup. The difference from your normally put-together appearance was stark. âMorning, Duch.â
âYouâre late.â Laughing, he held up a bag of microwavable frozen corn.
âHad to turn around when I forgot my contribution.â Rolling your eyes, you stepped back to let him in, watching to ensure he removed his shoes before following you into the kitchen.
âThe turkeyâs already thawed and in the sink. I just need you to clean it out, and I can take it from there.â Bradley nodded, tossing you the corn before going to the kitchen. You put it in the freezer and walked to the downstairs bathroom to wash your hands before resuming your spot at the counter, picking up your bread lame and staring at the unbaked loaf. A part of you wanted to do a simple score, knowing that it would just be eaten, but the hostess in you demanded a more intricate design. The indecision tore at you. To buy time, you sprinkled the top with more rice flour.Â
âCan you get me the trashcan?â Bradley asked, and you nodded, quickly abandoning your project. After you set it beside him and pulled off the cover, he tossed the netting and plastic. You couldnât help but notice his biceps flex as he shifted the turkey. But you shrunk back when he reached into the cavity and pulled out the giblets and gravy package, shaking your head at his raised eyebrow. He discarded them as you braced yourself, nose scrunching when he removed the neck. âYou alright there, Duch?â he teased.Â
âGross.âÂ
âItâs just a turkey neck,â he said, holding it closer to you. You jumped back.
âI will throat punch you if you touch me with that.â He laughed, edging it closer, and you raised a fist. There was a reason a condition of you hosting everyone for Friendsgiving was someone else cleaning the turkey.
âDidnât take you for being squeamish.âÂ
âYou would be, too, if your grandpa chased you around the house with it when you were a kid, and you had to lock yourself in a bathroom to escape.â At his barked laugh, you shook your head. âI told that to my ex, and he thought it was funny to put it in his zipper and chase me around the house with it. If floppy dick isnât attractive, a turkey neck sure as shit isnât.âÂ
Bradley choked on a laugh. For as prim and proper as you were at times - hence the callsign Duchess - you sometimes reminded everyone that you also had a military sense of humor. âMaybe you just havenât seen the right âfloppy dick,ââ he smirked, dropping the neck into the trash.Â
Shrugging, you glanced away from him when the oven beeped, alerting that it was preheated. âYouâre right. Bob probably has a pretty one.â A rosy flush crept up his cheeks as he turned back to the turkey and forced a laugh. Bradley didnât want to hear that you were thinking about Bobâs dick. âPut it in this afterward, and Iâll dry it.â After dropping the roasting pan beside him, you rewashed your hands.
Standing in front of your bread, you bit your lip to keep from giggling as you contemplated scoring a dick into the dough but decided to go with a traditional wheat stalk. To your surprise, he grabbed the roll of paper towels by the sink and patted the turkey dry, even the cavity. As you removed the Dutch oven from the preheated oven, he tied up the trash bag and took it out. After putting the bread into the oven, you set the timer and moved to the sink, glancing at Bradley when he came back in. Standing beside you, he reached for the soap and lowered the water temperature before scrubbing his hands. Removing the hand towel from your shoulder, you draped it over his after drying your hands. âThanks,â he murmured.Â
âThanks for taking care of the turkey.â Standing by the island, you crouched to retrieve a cutting board. The sound of other cabinets closing made you peek over the countertop to see him rooting through the overhead storage. âAre you looking for something?âÂ
âCoffee mugs.â Biting back a retort about making himself comfortable, you pointed to the right of the stove. You bit your tongue when he grabbed two mugs - including your favorite - and went to the wet bar where the full pot was finished brewing. Placing the cutting board on the counter, you grabbed a knife from the block and were surprised to see a mug of coffee beside your workstation. Murmuring your thanks, you grabbed the creamer from the fridge along with packages of herbs and butter. âWhat are you making?â Bradley asked.
âA marinade since I didnât brine the turkey.âÂ
âYou want a hand?âÂ
âIâve got it,â you said automatically. âIâve got a schedule.â He didnât need to know that you were already behind after falling asleep on the couch early last night and forgetting to set your alarm. And he definitely didnât need to know that youâd only been awake for 20 minutes before he arrived. If you put your head down and focused, everything would still be ready to eat at the agreed-upon 3:00 PM. Some of your time to get yourself ready would just have to be sacrificed. For some reason, youâd insisted that everyone dress nicely for Friendsgiving. Wearing a uniform almost every day didnât give you any opportunities to dress up, and sometimes it felt nice to wear something other than jeans and a t-shirt.Â
Setting your tablet up, you navigated through the bookmarked recipes and rinsed the herbs before pulling them from the stems. Bradley leaned against the counter beside you and sipped his coffee while glancing around the kitchen. Seeing him relaxing there, one leg crossed over the other and looking like heâd just rolled out of bed, made something flutter in your chest.Â
âYou know, you could have saved a lot of time if youâd just agreed to let Hangman fry the turkey.â
That made you snort. âI just finished my renovations - the last thing I want is for my house to burn down.â It had taken months to get your home exactly how you wanted it. After twelve years in the Navy, you were ready to put down some roots, and buying a home had seemed like the smart thing to do. Living in a construction zone for the last year hadnât been fun, but a well-timed deployment meant you werenât there for the worst of it. The results were worth the pain, and youâd jumped at the chance to host when you got back and realized most of the squad had no plans for Thanksgiving. You couldnât wait for them to see the changes in the Craftsman that had been a definite fixer-upper when you purchased it. The kitchen had been completely gutted and replaced with double ovens and quartz countertops, and the smaller kitchen island had been moved and changed to a wet bar with a wine fridge, replaced with an oversized one. The popcorn texture was scraped from the ceiling throughout the house, the floors redone, and the walls painted. The primary bath had been updated with a large soaker tub and walk-in shower, and you loved the giant closet. The guest bathrooms still needed work, as did the yard, but those were projects for later.Â
âIt looks good, Duch,â he said softly, gaze holding yours for a long moment. You felt those inconvenient butterflies again and shoved them aside, dropping your eyes to the cutting board. Bradley wasnât for you. You were too different - he enjoyed nights out at the bar, while you liked to spend time at home. He liked being the center of attention while you preferred to blend into the background. Besides, he didnât seem much like a relationship guy, given the number of flings he had at the Hard Deck, while the idea of casual dating gave you hives. Pushing away from the counter, Bradley reached under the sink for a trashbag, putting it into the can before washing his hands. He moved closer, nose twitching slightly at the scent of rosemary, and braced his big hands on the countertop beside you. âAlright, what can I do?âÂ
âYou donât - â
âLemme help.â His eyes met yours, smiling when you sighed.Â
âFine. The meat injector is in here,â you said, bumping one of the drawer handles with your hip. âAnd Iâll need the chicken stock from the pantry.â Pouring the stock, herbs, and a couple of sticks of butter into a stockpan, you handed Bradley a silicone spatula and told him to stir. You rolled your lips together to keep from smiling when he pulled his phone from his pocket and watched videos of turkey injections before declaring he would be in charge of it. Reluctantly, you agreed. Once the marinade had cooled, the bird was given a second drying, you had finished the coffee, and Bradley had rewatched the video three times, it was time. He studied the turkey through narrowed eyes as you tried not to laugh. âYou want to - â
âAh!â
âThe breast and thighs - â
âIâm doing it, Duch,â he cut you off.Â
âWell, remember that if it turns out dry.â The unimpressed look Bradley shot you made you grin as you put your chin in your hand and motioned for him to proceed. The tip of his tongue poked through his lips as he filled the injector and hovered the needle over the turkey. His eyes darted to you, and you raised an eyebrow. âYou can tap out at any time, Rooster.â Instead of replying, he pierced the meat and pushed down on the plunger. You couldnât help but laugh when he yelped, marinade spraying in his face after pushing too hard. But when he reached to wipe it away, you caught his hands. âDonât put turkey germs all over your face,â you scoffed, towing him toward the sink. You held his chin while cleaning his face with wet paper towels.Â
âNow youâre just messing with me,â he chuckled when you scrubbed his mustache, but he didnât pull away. His breath was hot on your hand, and his smile soft when you reached up to dab away a speck of garlic in his eyebrow. Balling up the paper towel, you shook your head.Â
âWash your face with soap to make sure you donât get salmonella. Cycloneâll kill me if youâre out with food poisoning.â Turning on the water, you ensured it was warm before getting a clean washcloth. The oven timer beeped as you dug through the linen closet, and you hurried back into the kitchen, throwing the towel on the sink beside him and grabbing the pot holders to take out your bread. Once it was on the wire rack to cool, you moved to the turkey.Â
âWhatâre you doing?â Bradley demanded, turning while drying his face.Â
âTaking over.â You gasped when he closed the space between you in a few strides, wrapped his arm around your waist, and lifted you away from the counter. âBradshaw! What the hell?â
âTold you Iâm doing it,â he chuckled in your ear. Once back on your feet, you spun in his hold and stared at him. Butterflies erupted in your stomach at his cocky smirk.Â
âFine, but if you waste more of my marinade, youâre out of my kitchen.â
âDeal.âÂ
Thankfully, there were no further incidents, but you kept a close eye on him while slicing up a loaf of bread youâd baked two days before and let go stale for stuffing. After covering the roasting tray with tin foil, the bird went back into the fridge to rest for a few hours. âThanks, Rooster. I guess Iâll see you later?â
âWhat else can I do?âÂ
âYou donât - âÂ
âI want to help. I havenâtâŠâ his eyes dropped to the floor as he shrugged. âI never got to do this before. My mom and I would always go to my cousinâs for Thanksgiving before she died, and it always seemed kinda fun.âÂ
Everyone on the squad knew that Bradleyâs parents had passed when he was young. He didnât mention them often, but you noticed heâd get quiet sometimes when people talked about their families. So his volunteering the information felt important, and glancing at the clock showed that you were still behind schedule. âFine.â
âYeah?â he asked, excitement flashing in his eyes.Â
âDonât look so happy - youâre doing prep work. You can peel potatoes, assemble the veggie tray, and roast the garlic. I need to work on sides and desserts.âÂ
And he did. Bradley followed your instructions, grimacing while peeling potatoes over the trash can until you took out a plastic bag and put it in the sink for him to do it there. You kept an eye on him as he cut the spuds into uniform pieces after explaining that they wouldnât cook evenly for the mashed potatoes, somewhat worried that he would cut himself. Rather than deal with the onions, you delegated the task and tried not to laugh at his near-constant sniffles and swipes at his watery eyes as you diced peppers. Once you dug out the hand-me-down crystal platters, he arranged the veggies youâd prepped the night before while making pies. Dips were mixed, and cans of olives and bottles of pickles were opened and drained before being plated.
Other than bumping into one another when going for the fridge at the same time, it wasnât too bad sharing the kitchen. The coffee pot was quickly emptied, and Bradley brewed another between shredding blocks of cheese. You sang along with your playlists, his deep voice joining on a few songs while teasing you about others. When you sang about karma being a kink, he watched your hips sway at the sink, clenching his jaw when you sang a breathy âoh god.âÂ
He slid the roasting tray into the oven when the turkey was rested and ready to cook. âNow what?â he asked, turning to look at you.Â
âNow we keep an eye on it for about four hours. Baste and re-inject it every hour or so,â you shrugged. A glance at his watch showed it would be almost 2:00 PM by the time it was ready. As though realizing it would still be hours before eating, his stomach grumbled its discontent. He blushed when you smirked. âI guess the least I can do is make my sous chef breakfast. Get the muffins and butter from the fridge for me.â Â
âDid you make these?â he asked, setting the containers beside you as you heated a skillet on the stove.
âI did - family tradition is grilled muffins on Thanksgiving morning. You okay with blueberry?â At his nod, you started slicing muffins in half. Rather than giving you space, Bradley stayed at your elbow. A comfortable silence fell, broken only by sizzling butter. His gaze met yours when you glanced up at him, and a smile tugged at his mouth.Â
An image of reaching up to bury your fingers in his messy curls and tugging his mouth down to meet yours flashed through your mind. Your fingers twitched with the urge to do it, eyes drifting to his mouth and lingering there for a moment too long. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and you forced yourself to look away, heat creeping into your face.Â
You nearly jumped out of your skin when he reached up to shift a strand of hair that had fallen from your messy bun. âIâm glad you're back, Duch,â he said, voice slightly raspy.Â
Forcing a laugh, you plated two muffins and handed them to him. âEveryone misses the mom friend of the group when sheâs deployed.â Your eyes darted to his stomach when it growled again, just in time to see the front of his sweats twitch. Pretending you didnât see it, you nodded to the living room. âThe parade is recording if you want to watch it.âÂ
Bradley opened his mouth as though he would say something before taking the apparent dismissal. Alone in the kitchen, you touched your cheek and felt warm skin. With a deep breath, you grilled yourself a muffin as the sound of the broadcasters came from the living room. After topping up your coffee, you joined him. He sprawled on one end of the couch, plate balanced on a thigh as he sipped his coffee. Sitting on the opposite side, you crossed your legs and let out a soft groan. Only a couple of hours standing in the kitchen and your back was already starting to protest. âWhat else do you have to do this morning?â he asked after a moment.
Mentally running through your list, you sighed. âI need to do some cleaning and get into the attic. Iâll start cooking a bit closer to noon, so things just have to be warmed up.â
âWhat do you need from the attic?âÂ
âMy nice china. My parents bought my sister and I sets for our hope chests when we were kids.â
âWhatâs a hope chest?â
âYou know, stuff youâd need once you get married?â When his eyebrows shot up, you shrugged. âThey werenât really serious about it - it was more of a joke. But, every once in a while, theyâd buy something for us and put it away for when we were older and say it was for our hope chest.â Taking a bite of muffin, you gave him a sad smile, âMineâs more of a âhopelessâ chest,â though. I guess they finally gave up on me getting married because they gave it to me when they sold their house and moved closer to the grandkids. I figured Iâd get it out and use it instead of having it sit in the cardboard boxes itâs been in for over two decades.â Something passed over Bradleyâs face but disappeared in an instant. Wanting to change the subject, you asked, âWhat do you usually do for Thanksgiving?â
âNothing. Itâs just another Thursday.â When you frowned, he lifted a shoulder. âA couple of times, I went to the Officerâs Club, or someone would invite me over. But most of the time, I just make myself a turkey sandwich and catch up on sleep. What about you?â
âIf Iâm not with my family, then this. When I first commissioned, I went to the O-Club with some friends but missed cooking and hanging out. And you know how hard it is to go home for the holidays.â He nodded even though he didnât. Bradley never asked for the time off unless he was dating someone who insisted on it. With no family to visit, he was happy to volunteer when there was reduced manning and allow others to take leave. âSo I invited a couple of people from my squad over, and that was that.âÂ
âItâs a lot of work.â
âIt is,â you agreed. âBut itâs worth it.â Bradleyâs fingers curled around his plate and in his sweatpants, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath. When he shifted forward, you quickly stood and reached out your hand for his empty plate. âDo you want another one?â Shaking his head, he stood and took your plate.Â
âDo you?â Swallowing hard, you shook your head and watched him walk back into the kitchen. Biting back a groan, you gave yourself a moment to collect yourself. Things had beenâŠdifferent⊠since youâd gotten home. And as much as you enjoyed these quiet moments alone with Bradley, it also stung. Youâd thought the time away would help, but as soon as you were back, it was like no time had passed. He was still there, partnering for foosball in the Ready Room and coaxing you to go to the Hard Deck. Making sure that you sat next to him in briefings. Offering to look at your car when it made a noise.
Friends. Thatâs what friends do for each other. After all, he did the same for Nat.Â
Collecting the empty coffee mugs, you followed him to the kitchen and watched as Bradley cleaned up the mess and set it in the sink. âDonât feel like you have to stick around, Rooster. I can handle getting everything ready.âÂ
âIâm happy to help if you want me here. Iâd just sit at my house watching TV and wait to come back if I went home.âÂ
Chewing the inside of your lip, you bit back a wave of want. âDonât think this gets you out of the dress code,â you replied, forcing your voice to be cool while allowing your eyes to run the length of him. âIâm serious - slacks and button-downs, not sweats.âÂ
Laughing, he snapped a salute. âYes, maâam. Iâll make sure I run home and change to pass your inspection.âÂ
The rest of the morning was a blur, punctuated by moments of stark clarity.Â
Bradleyâs hands on your waist as you climbed down the attic stairs.Â
Biceps flexing as he carried your Christmas tree to a spare bedroom to set up tomorrow.
His elbow bumping yours as he dried the china and set it aside. Â
The look of concentration on his face when he basted and injected the turkey again.
His body passing close to yours as he emptied the dishwasher and you assembled dishes.
Just after noon, he went home to get ready while you showered. People were due to arrive around 1:30 PM, and you were back on schedule with your unexpected assistant.Â
Sooner than you expected, there was a knock at the door. Groaning, you capped your mascara, shimmied into your black sheath cocktail dress, and went to answer it. Bradley stood on the porch, having changed into a pair of slacks and one of his nicer Hawaiian shirts, hands in his pockets. Folded over his arm was a coat, and he grinned at you when he caught you looking at it. âWasnât sure if I would pass inspection without a sports coat,â he chuckled, allowing his gaze to rake over you. A flush rose on your cheeks as you reached behind yourself to pull up the dress zipper. It caught just above the top of your thong. âYou look⊠youâre fine.â Chuckling, he shook his head.Â
âTurn around, Duch.â After a beat, you stepped back to allow him inside and did as he said.
âThereâs a hook and eye at the top,â you said and inhaled sharply when you felt his fingers brush the back of your neck. The smell of his cologne enveloped you, and you bit back a moan when his hand moved to your lower back and tugged the zipper up. After a beat, you turned to face him and were surprised by how close he was. His mouth curved into a smile as he looked down at you, hand resting on your waist.Â
âYou look fine, too,â he said softly. Your hands itched to move to his chest. Bradleyâs eyes drifted to your lips, and your breath caught as his fingers flexed around you. If asked, you would have sworn you felt the lightest pressure pulling you closer - but then someone knocked on the door. Stepping out of his hold, you smoothed your hair down and ignored the brief moment his hands hung in suspension before being shoved back into his pockets.Â
âI came early to see if you needed a hand,â Phoenix said when you opened the door. In her hands was a tray, and sheâd also chosen a cocktail dress for the occasion. Her normally tied-back hair was loose around her shoulders.Â
âHey,â you smiled, hoping that you werenât blushing. Natâs eyes shifted over your shoulders and narrowed slightly.Â
âWhat are you doing here?âÂ
âSame as you - seeing of Duch needed help.â
âHeâs been here all morning,â you blurted out, flushing when both sets of eyes landed on you. âHeâs taking care of the turkey.âÂ
âThe guy who hates cooking is in charge of the main dish?â Nat smirked. âProbably would have been better letting Hangman fry it.â
âHeâs being supervised,â you assured, glancing over your shoulder to see him rolling his eyes. Stepping back to let Nat into the house, you accidentally bumped into Bradley, who held your hips to steady you. Quickly moving away from his touch, you took the tray from her and motioned for them to follow you into the kitchen. âI havenât had a chance to put any drinks out, but thereâs some coffee left and wine chilling. I still need to make the cocktails, but thereâs also soda and flavored water.â The two followed you, exchanging a look that you missed.
As soon as he entered the kitchen, Bradley tossed his coat onto the wet bar and moved to the oven, flipping on the light to check the turkey before glancing at his watch. âI need to do the last basting, right?âÂ
âItâs about that time,â you agreed, glancing at the clock. Digging through a drawer, you pulled out an apron and put it on, crossing the strings behind your back before tying them in a bow across your stomach. You thought you heard a murmured âJesus Christâ when you turned around to see him holding the pot holders.Â
You could feel Nat watching as you worked together to remove the turkey and then return it to the oven, popping olives into her mouth and smirking. âLooks like you guys have it down,â she said. âDonât need my help at all.â
âNope,â Bradley said, drowning out your, âYou can feel free to relax.âÂ
âMight as well do something since Iâm here,â she shrugged, pushing off her elbows. âWhat can I do?âÂ
And so, with a third set of hands, you set them to making large batches of seasonal cocktails while you cut the bread youâd made that morning, covering it with slices of brie and dried cranberries before drizzling it with honey. A quick scroll through your schedule gave you the times to start cooking, and you preheated the second oven.
The house slowly filled as more of the squad arrived. Countertops were quickly covered with their contributions - thankfully, more than beer and wine, and only a few sides repeated -Â and you mentally shifted your schedule to accommodate the additional dishes.
Mav, Penny, and Amelia were the last to arrive, with her new bartender, Georgia, in tow. Penny had asked you if she could invite her, given that the woman was new to the area and didnât have anywhere else to spend the holiday. Youâd replied with, âThe more, the merrier,â just like you had for everyone elseâs requests to bring a guest.Â
But you regretted that sentiment when you saw how she zeroed in on Bradley, staying close to him while you worked in the kitchen. The few times you broke away to mingle - showing off your renovated home, making sure that everyoneâs glasses were topped off and that they didnât need anything - you saw her hanging off his arm, giving him a simpering smile that set your teeth on edge. And, while sheâd adhered to the dress code, you werenât exactly thrilled to see that her breasts were nearly spilling out of her low-cut dress.Â
âYou need anything, Duchess?â Payback asked, setting down the pitcher of spiced ginger pear and bourbon.Â
âIâm good,â you replied, wiping your hands on the dish rag thrown over your shoulder and blowing a loose strand of hair from your face. âTurkey should be done in a few minutes; once it rests, we can eat.âÂ
âThanks for doing this,â he said, glancing over at your full house. Aviators were sprawled across your living room and spilled out into the backyard. It was exactly what youâd hoped for when redesigning the house - plenty of space to comfortably entertain.Â
âIâm happy to, Payback,â you smiled, allowing him to pull you in for a hug. âBeats having a quiet house for the holidays.âÂ
âWant me to get the turkey out for you?âÂ
âIâve got it covered,â a voice said behind you, and you couldnât help but wonder about Bradley's slightly sharp tone as you pulled away from the hug.Â
âGot it,â Payback replied, raising an eyebrow and lifting his hands. âLet me know if you need anything, Duch.â Squaring your shoulders, you turned to face the man behind you and forced a smile.Â
âIâll clear off a spot on the stove for you to put the pan, and then weâll let it sit for half an hour.âÂ
âThen itâll be done?â
âThen youâll have officially made your first turkey,â you nodded. When the timer went off, Bradley quickly pulled the bird from the oven and set it on the stove, closely inspecting his work.Â
âDoes it look right?â
âYes, relax.â
âDid you make it?â a smokey voice asked, and you felt your shoulders rise. Glancing at Georgia, you saw Bradleyâs eyes dart between you.
âHe did,â you answered, smiling at the woman.Â
âI just followed her directions,â he replied.Â
âIt looks great!â Georgia giggled. Forcing a smile, you undid the apron strings and pulled it off before excusing yourself. You could feel eyes on you as you walked down the hallway to your bedroom and shut the door, retreating to your en suite.
After washing your hands for the millionth time, you quickly applied lotion while examining your appearance in the mirror. Compared to Georgia, you looked matronly with your hair pulled back and a higher neckline. Sure, your dress was classy - somewhat tight and falling just above your knees - but not attention-grabbing.Â
Not that you were trying to grab anyoneâs attention.
A knock on your bedroom door startled you, and you peeked out to call, âWho is it?â
âRooster.â Glancing back in the mirror, you saw your cheeks were slightly pink and scowled at your reflection.
âGet it together,â you hissed before turning off the light and going to open the door. And there he was, smiling down at you.
âYour phone was going off,â he said, holding up your cell. When your eyes flitted toward it, the device unlocked to show your family group chat was going off. Taking it from him, you swiped up to see videos and pictures. A smile crept onto your mouth as you clicked the first and heard your older sisterâs voice.
âGuess what?â she said before tossing a card down and throwing her hands up. Cheers and laughs broke out, and you could hear your nephew complaining as your grandmother said, âLooks like Mom won!â
The camera panned to show your other nephew licking whipped cream off his pie, utterly unfazed by the family now pounding on the table in a drumroll. Catching Bradleyâs interested expression, you moved so he could see the screen. Scrolling through the other videos, you watched your mom roll down a hill with the boys and your dad holding a glass of wine with your brother-in-law. The sight made your heart clench, and you sighed. Being away from family on the holidays was the worst. Thankfully, they all understood that your job didnât always give you the flexibility to be with them.
âLooks like a fun group.â
âThey are. Iâm glad I get to spend Christmas with them.â He nodded, a flicker of sadness and something else in his eyes. âWhat are you doing for Christmas?â
âMavâs already told me Iâm spending it with him and Penny.â
âSounds like fun.â You knew a complicated dynamic existed there but didnât want to pry. His shoulder lifted, eyes drifting to your now dark phone. And thatâs when you recognized the look on his face - longing. âHey, you okay?âÂ
âYeah, Iâm fine.â When he saw your unconvinced expression, he sighed. âHolidays kind of suck when you donât have family.âÂ
âIâm sorry, Bradley.â Something in his expression changed when you said his name and reached out to touch his arm. His eyes darted from your hand to your face, and you quickly pulled away. But he was faster, catching your fingers and holding tightly. Your breath caught with the intensity of his gaze, and he stepped into your room. His breath was warm on your face when you refused to retreat. Lifting your chin, you saw his throat bob when he swallowed. Â
âHey, thereâs a timer going off,â Bob called down the hall.Â
âBe right there,â you yelled back, pushing lightly against Bradleyâs chest and forcing space between you. But when you tried to shake off his hand, he held fast. âI need to go, or something will burn,â you breathed. Reluctantly, he nodded and released you.Â
Youâd already removed the green bean casserole and macaroni and cheese from the oven when Bradley reappeared. Unsurprisingly, Georgia glued herself to his side as he sipped his drink. Though you could feel him looking at you, you refused to meet his gaze.Â
When everything was ready, you looked over your kitchen and nodded approvingly. When the guys offered to carve the turkey, you turned them all down and delegated that task to Bradley. âHe earned it,â you said, glancing at him before busying yourself with opening another bottle of wine. With Coyote and Fanboy at his elbows critiquing his cuts, you steered clear of that part of the kitchen and chatted with Penny while pulling out silverware.Â
Hangman refused to let you go around the room and tell people that food was ready, instead pulling out a chair and helping you stand on it before whistling loudly to get everyoneâs attention. âDinnerâs served!â you said, placing a hand on his shoulder, his arm around your hips to keep you steady. âThank you for bringing something, and please help yourself. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone - Iâm glad I get to spend it with you.â Lifting your wine glass, you took a quick sip and laughed when Hangman lifted you off the chair to set you back on the floor.Â
Choosing to wait until your guests had a plate, you leaned against the wet bar and smiled tiredly, watching your hard work be devoured. There werenât enough chairs for everyone at the table, so the group spread into the living room. You took a few pictures and sent them to your family.Â
Someone stepped in front of you, pulling your attention from your phone. âYouâre not gonna eat?â Bradley asked.Â
âJust waiting for the line to clear,â you replied, forcing a nonchalant tone. The corner of his mouth twitched as he shook his head.Â
âCome on, Duch.â His fingers curled around yours, drawing you from the counter and into the line. Grabbing one of the smaller salad plates, you let him push you in front of him, taking small amounts of almost every dish while he served himself larger portions. After topping up your wine, you walked to the living room and felt him behind you, ignoring Georgia's attempt to get his attention. He motioned for you to take the last spot on the couch and sat on the floor. âJesus,â he moaned after taking the first bite of turkey.
âMmmm,â you agreed. âYou did a good job.â
âWho would have thought the guy who made the barracks evacuate after he burned ramen would make a good turkey,â Nat smirked. Bradley flipped her off, unable to keep the proud grin off his face.Â
Dessert was eaten, and the last bottle of wine finished before 7:00 PM. The house felt quiet as it slowly emptied, and you hugged everyone goodbye. Already, tentative plans for a Christmas party formed even as you fought off a yawn. After assuring Penny that you were fine cleaning up, she left with Mav and Amelia in tow.Â
Which left only Bradley.Â
The sound of running water drew you back into the kitchen, and you paused in the doorway at the sight of him rinsing silverware and loading the dishwasher, a hand towel thrown over his shoulder. âI can take care of that,â you said quickly. Bradley glanced at you and shook his head.
âRelax, Iâve got it. Can the plates go in here, or do they need to be hand-washed?â
âThey can go in there.â Ignoring the order, you walked around the house, picked up empty glasses and forgotten dishes, and set them by the sink. Donning your apron, you surveyed the leftovers, âDid you want any of this?â
âYeah, Iâll take a plate.â Nodding, you started to put the food away. Thankfully, there wasnât a lot left. Everyone had been happy to take leftovers, and you were glad youâd had the forethought to buy containers for them to keep.Â
The silence was comfortable, and you were stifling yawns with the back of your hand. Between the turkey, wine, and lack of sleep the night before, you were ready to change back into comfy clothes and pass out. Without prompting, Bradley started to cut up what was left of the turkey, placing some in the containers youâd portioned for him before putting the rest in the fridge. You started the dishwasher when it was full and wiped down counters. After tossing the rest of the turkey, he took the trash out.
When the door swung shut, you took the opportunity to stretch, moaning when your back popped before bending at the waist and letting your arms dangle. As much as you enjoyed hosting, your body took a beating, being on your feet all day. You would definitely need to invest in some mats to make the kitchen floor more comfortable before your next full day of cooking.Â
Even when the door opened, you felt too good stretching to stand up straight. You heard Bradley chuckle and then the sound of water running, followed by the snap of a trashbag being shaken out. Finally, you stood and threw out a hand to steady yourself when the world spun. Hands wrapped around your hips and drew you closer. âYou okay, honey?âÂ
The term of endearment caught you off-guard and had clearly slipped out by the flush on Bradleyâs cheeks. âHoney?â you echoed, quirking a brow.
âDuchess,â he corrected.Â
âRooster.â Your hands rested on his forearms, feeling the muscles flex as his fingers clenched around your hips. Taking a deep breath, you felt your chest brush his. His lips quirked into a wry smile. âWhat?âÂ
âJust waiting for something to interrupt.â At your questioning look, he chuckled. âBeen trying to kiss you all day, and something always gets in the way.âÂ
âWhat?â you breathed, shock written across your face.Â
âBeen thinkinâ about kissing you since that night at the Hard Deck, actually.âÂ
âT-the Hard Deck?â
âYup. Before you deployed.â Heat rushed to your face at the memory - or lack thereof - of your going away party. There had been one too many shots, and you had a vague recollection of Bradley driving the Bronco. Of him telling you not to throw up while he helped Nat into her apartment before taking you home. Half carrying you to bed and making sure you had water and medicine - warm hands on your face and a raspy laugh. Â
âWhen I was drunk?â
âWhen you told me you liked me.â Mortified, you felt a sudden flush of heat and tried to pull away, but he held firm. âBut that you didnât think I was a relationship guy.âÂ
âRoo - â
âI am. A relationship guy,â he clarified, tongue darting out to wet his lips. âFor the right woman.â Your mouth was dry, unable to force out a single word. âI was gonna say something before you left, but you avoided me. And then you were gone for three months.â
âI⊠you messaged me.âÂ
âWasnât exactly something I wanted to say over email,â Bradley chuckled. âI like you too.âÂ
âWhat about Georgia?â
That drew him up short, and a confused look crossed his face. âThe bartender?âÂ
âYeah. She⊠I mean, sheâs clearly interested. And more your type.â Groaning, he leaned down to rest his forehead on yours.
âHoney, Iâm not interested in her. And sheâs not⊠ask Nat. Sheâs been on my case about myâ - he lifted a hand to make air quotes - ââhoe phaseâ since I got out here.â That drew a snort from you, and Bradley pulled away to smile at you bashfully. âGimme a chance, Duch.âÂ
Hesitating a moment, you took another deep breath and gave the butterflies in your stomach free rein. Hands shaking, you wrapped your arms around his neck and nodded, unable to keep from matching his smile.Â
Moving slowly, as though afraid to spook you, Bradley leaned down and brushed his nose to yours. âAs much as this is doinâ things for me,â he said softly, pulling at the apron strings tied at your stomach, âI think weâre done in the kitchen tonight.â Biting your lip, you could only nod, leaning away as he tugged it over your head, balled the apron up, and tossed it behind you. With his hands back on your hips, he walked you backward and lifted you onto the counter, stepping between your knees. âThis alright?âÂ
âYeah,â you whispered, allowing yourself to reach out and run a hand through his curls. Bradley's eyes closed when you lightly scratched his scalp, and he swayed closer. His breath ghosted over your lips and -Â
âFucking Christ,â he groaned when his phone started to buzz. You jumped, feeling the vibration against your shin, and laughed as he dropped his head into the crook of your neck. Your breath caught, feeling his lips on your throat. When he reached into his pocket and scowled down at the screen, you saw Natâs name before he sent the call to voicemail.Â
Leaving the phone on the counter, he smirked and guided your legs around his waist as your arms went around his neck. His hands cupped your ass as he lifted you. In the doorway to the kitchen, he paused long enough for you to slap the walls until the lights turned off before walking toward the couch and lowering himself onto it. Your knees dug into the cushion on either side of him, forcing the hem of your dress higher.Â
From this angle, he had to look up at you. Hands migrated from your ass to thighs, callouses lightly scraping and fingertips darting under the fabric to trace shapes on your skin and drag the hem higher. Lightly, you ran your thumb along the scars on his chin before ghosting over the ones on his cheek that had always intrigued you. A moan rumbled from his throat as he followed your touch, mustache tickling the delicate skin of your wrist. Blushing, you wondered how it would feel on your inner thighs. He chuckled, kissing your cheek, âWhatâre you thinking thatâs got you red?âÂ
Rather than answer, you turned and kissed him - just a light brush of your lips against his that seemed to catch him off-guard. You stared at one another for a long moment until he guided you closer. His mustache prickled, not unpleasantly but different, when he kissed you again. It was sweet and unhurried, a direct contradiction to the hardness you felt straining against his zipper.Â
Pulling away, you smiled tentatively down at him, seeing the remnants of your lipstick on his mouth. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and you leaned forward to press your lips to them. âHi,â you said softly.
âHey.âÂ
âYou like me?âÂ
âYeah. You like me?âÂ
Rather than reply, you captured his lips again. âDrunk words,â you said between kisses, âare sober thoughts.â He barked a laugh before tugging you closer and licking into your mouth.Â
âShoulda said something earlier,â he chided, gripping your ass tightly. âCoulda been doing this for a long time.âÂ
âBlame the tequila.â The word came out as a moan when he trailed kisses down your neck, and you felt him smile.Â
âThank god for tequila,â he mumbled, nuzzling your breasts and making you grind down on him. Bradley caught your hands when your fingers trailed down his chest to tug at his shirt. âNuh-uh, honey. Gonna take you on a couple of dates before we get to that.â
âWhat?âÂ
âNo more âhoe phase.ââÂ
âMaybe just one more night?â That made him laugh again as he shook his head.
âNo, Duch. Wanna do this right with you.âÂ
âIâve heard the stories. I know you would.â When you rocked against him, he pinned your hand at your lower back and stilled you with a hand on your hip. He growled your name and smirked when your thighs clenched.
âLiked that, huh?â he teased. âMs. Prim and Proper Duchess likes to be bossed around?â Heat flooded your face, and he chuckled again. Without warning, he stood, and you squeaked, trying to keep from falling. But he held you steady and set you on your feet, towering over you. âCan I stay over?â You didnât hesitate in nodding, and his kiss was rough before he pulled away and swatted your ass. âGo get ready for bed while I lock up.âÂ
When you emerged from the bathroom, face cleaned and in your panties and a tank top, Bradley was lying in the middle of your bed in just his boxers. Groaning, he looked at you and shook his head. âWhere are those sweats from this morning?âÂ
âYou want me to wear sweats to bed?â you asked, leaning against the doorframe and raising an eyebrow. His hand drifted down to his hard cock, squeezing lightly. âYouâve seen me in less at the beach.â
âTrying to do this right, honey.â Rolling your eyes, you walked to your dresser and pulled on sweatpants before digging out a pair of fuzzy socks. He laughed when you tossed them at his head, setting them aside as you circled the bed to lie beside him. Quickly, he pinned you beneath him, settling in the cradle of your thighs. As he licked into your mouth, you felt his hips rolling against yours. âStill too damn sexy,â he murmured against your lips.Â
âHousewife lingerie does it for you?â you teased, running your hands through his hair. Rather than answer, he looped an arm under your knee and drew it up, allowing you to feel him better. âFuck.â
âNot tonight.âÂ
And, unfortunately, he was true to his word. Anytime your hands strayed to his boxers, he pinned them over your head, seemingly content to tease and kiss all night.Â
Eventually, though, you could no longer keep from yawning. After setting his alarm - Bradley was on duty in the morning while youâd taken the day off - he tucked you against him, your back to his chest. His cock pressed against your ass as he kissed your shoulder, hand slipping under your shirt to brush the underside of your breast. Sighing, he murmered, âBest Thanksgiving Iâve had in a long time.âÂ
I have a wine buzz and haven't written in forever. Ted Lasso is renewed for another season and I'm missing these characters so much, I couldn't wait any longer. Please excuse any typos, this is a stream of consciousness.
Love you all!
Note: This one-shot takes place prior to season 3 (before Ted returns to the States & before Roy and Keeley break up â because if I'm honest, that wrecked me.)
Summary: When Richmond's latest employee gets a makeover from Rebecca and Keeley, Ted finds it hard to keep his eyes off of her...and he's not the only one
Warnings: Body insecurity, minor ED mention, creepy men, jealous/protective Ted
Three months had passed since your first day working as a Communications Manager at AFC Richmond. While you loved reporting into Higgins, you knew you needed to find some female energy. He was adorable, but he wasn't someone you could share your dating woes with. Needless to say, it didn't take long for you to join the girl gang on their daily lunch breaks.
Your dating life was a hot topic for Rebecca and Keeley, namely because the two had relationships of their own. You didn't mind though. Frankly, you needed their input on the string of dates you'd been on, your most recent leaving much to be desired. They loved to give you honest feedback, and joke about the suspected crush Ted had on you. This, to your knowledge, was far from true. He was nice to everyone.
Speaking of â "Hey there, ladies!" Ted greets the three of you from the doorway of Rebecca's office.
"Ted, hey!" You reply, grateful for the reprieve of your latest dating disaster recap. "Whatcha doing up in this neck of the woods?"
He smiles, a faint blush twinging his cheeks, "Oh ya know, just wanted to swing by and say hello to my favorite coworkers."
Keeley and Rebecca both glance your way discretely and you promptly ignore them.
"Ted, why are you really here?" Rebecca asks, cutting straight to the chase.
"Right, well," he shakes out his shoulders and stands taller, "I wanted to double check with you on the dress code for tonight. Is this like a suit thing? A golf shirt thing? A toga thing?" He laughs at the end of his joke while you simultaneously snort out your nose.
Clapping a hand over your mouth in embarrassment you just let out a humiliated, "Oh my god."
You're met with a chorus of laughter and a stare from Ted that makes you want to melt. It's that soft look he gives, eyes curved around the edges, a smile on his face.
"That was fucking adorable," Keeley says between laughs. "Anyways, Ted." She turns to address him, "I will answer that question given my role as the resident party planner. Please look your sharpest, we will have donors at the event so, dress to impress, yeah?"
"Aw fuck," You say, before looking wide eyed between Keeley and Rebecca. "Sorry. Slipped out. I had no idea this was a, like, fancy thing." Suddenly you're hit with a wave of anxiety. You'd thought you could get by with a casual but professional look. Clearly you'd missed that memo.
"Oh my god." Keeley says, gripping your arm, "This is my moment. I'm going to Princess Diaries you."
"Hey now," Ted points a finger at Keeley, "Miss Thermopolis was perfectly fine the way she was. Frankly that Paolo guy had a bad attitude."
Rebecca barks out a laugh, "I have to agree. Plus this case isn't nearly as difficult. I mean, look at her, she's stunning." Rebecca's compliment draws a deep blush to your face.
"I'm not equipped to handle compliments, please stop before my face starts on fire," you moan. You don't miss Ted's soft chuckle from the doorway.
"Oh come ON," Keeley begs, shaking your shoulders as Rebecca laughs besides her. "You always look beautiful babes but please, please let me."
You roll your eyes and look exasperatingly at Rebecca for help. She just shrugs in response, a silent communication that you were, in fact, NOT winning this argument.
"Ok FINE. But only because I'm like, two seconds away from spiraling over my lack of outfit options."
"Prin-CESS of Genovia," Ted salutes you as he turns to head back down to the locker room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One thing you hadn't expected was the wave of dread settling over you as you looked through the racks of dresses. A history of disordered eating left you feeling depleted when it came to body confidence.
Rebecca, ever the intuitive friend, notices first. "It's a lot, I get it. Trust me, do I get it," She huffs out a self deprecating laugh. You nod with a small smile. "You're going to look beautiful in anything you wear. We'll find the perfect dress."
It took an hour before you finally found the perfect dress. Pulling back the dressing room curtain, Keeley lets out an excited squeal and Rebecca nods in satisfaction. "Absolutely stunning," she compliments.
You smile at them both, looking in the full length mirror at the short but tasteful little black dress. It clung to your curves in the most flattering way, showing a little cleavage while also being appropriate for a work event. You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt this beautiful.
"Ok Ted is going to lose his fucking shit," Keeley holds both hands up to her cheeks, "And I know you're going to deny that he likesâ"
"Who said I'm denying anything?" You reply, a newfound confidence in you.
Keeley and Rebecca cause a scene in the dressing room with their loud reactions to your comment. "Fucking YES," Keeley high-fives Rebecca, "Ok put it on my card, we're on a time crunch. We need to do hair and makeup at mine."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At eight o'clock on the dot, the three of you (and Roy, your chauffeur for the evening), arrive at the venue. Your stomach flutters at the thought of seeing Ted tonight, and you're suddenly concerned your look is too much.
"Um, Rebecca." You prompt, before opening the car door, "Are you sure this isn't...too much?" You gesture to yourself. Your hair was blown out and styled with loose waves (a la Keeley) and she'd insisted on a "dewey makeup look." Needless to say, it was a lot more than you usually wore, but at the same time, not too over the top. Your mind raced as you tried to fend off the negative self talk encroaching on your evening.
"Love," She takes your hand, holding it in hers, "You are absolutely stunning. Tonight? Tonight you're just an elevated version. The Vixen Version."
"THE RICHMOND VIXEN," Keeley shouts excitedly as Roy turns to her with a soft smile.
"Oh, yes, I love that!" Rebecca snaps her fingers, "Now go, I need to witness Ted's reaction."
As it turns out, Ted wasn't the only one with a reaction â half the Richmond team also couldn't keep their eyes off of you. "Love, don't take this the wrong way, but you look unbe-fuckin'-lievable." Jamie greets you with his classic smile, and you laugh and roll your eyes.
"Thank you Jamie, you look wonderful yourself." The two of you had a totally platonic friendship. He was not your type, and frankly, you were too tame for him.
"You should dress like that more often." Jan Maas says from beside him, "I think you'd probably have a boyfriend if you did, no?"
You throw your head back in laughter as Jamie shoots him an incredulous look, "What the hell is wrong with you, mate?"
Jan Maas looks confused, as if he didn't insult your daily wardrobe, and you give him a pat on the shoulder, "Maybe you're onto something there."
You take a minute to scan the room, meeting eye contact quickly with Ted, who smiles and sends you a wave.
"I'll be back, boys," You say to Jamie and Jan Maas, heading over towards Ted. You feel his eyes on you, and don't miss how they rake over your body. Your prior insecurities fade as you make your way toward him, his kind eyes making you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.
"Well hi there," He greets, and you give him a quick hug. His hand lingers for a few seconds on your lower back as you pull away.
"Ted, you look nice!" You compliment, taking in his navy suit.
"Oh right back atcha. That dress is â" he stutters over his words, and you smile with a blush staining your cheeks.
"It's courtesy of Keeley," you finish his sentence, sparing him.
He shakes his head with a small smile, "I was gonna say, that dress looks fantastic on you. If it's not too forward of me."
Your heart slams against your chest as you take in his words. Was he...flirting?
"Not too forward at all," You say, staring down at your heels shyly.
"Damn near took out half the team when you walked in here." Ted joked, his eyes twinkling.
"Oh shut up," you smack his arm, face turning even more red.
"Gettin' all red again," He points out, and you could swear you hear him say "Adorable," softly, as if to himself.
"Urgh I know, all the foundation in the world can't cover it." You start to fan at your cheeks, "Stop making me blush on purpose. It's mean."
He smiles, taking a sip of his beer, "I apologize, you're right. I gotta be chivalrous. Say, what do you think about â"
A man interrupts Ted and moves in to stand beside you, "Sorry to interrupt, Coach Lasso," He greets, and Ted gives him a curt nod.
The mystery man turns to you and extends his hand, "I don't believe we've met, I'm James Langley, President of the AFC Richmond Board." He smiles at you, his eyes twinkling in a way that doesn't sit well.
You introduce yourself, smiling politely, and nervously run a hand through your hair when he continues to ask you questions as if Ted isn't even there.
You glance sideways at Ted, who is standing by idly with an unimpressed look on his face. You've never seen Ted Lasso regard someone with disdain before, and you'd be lying if you didn't think it was sexy.
"Thank you for supporting the team," You say as the conversation hits a lull, "Ted and I actually need to make some rounds, meet the rest of you generous donors!" You say with a false sense of gratitude. Not that James Langley picked up on it, he was too busy staring at your chest.
"Ted," You say extending your arm to the side as the two of you make a speedy escape.
"Fucking creep," Ted mutters, his hand once again finding your lower back to help guide you through the crowded space.
Once you take refuge on the far side of the room, you let out a laugh, "Didn't realize my eyes relocated to my chest," you comment, shaking your head at James' blatant lack of decorum.
"Ain't right," Ted shakes his head, that same sexy angry look on his face, "What, he thinks just because he gives the club thousands of pounds a year he can stare at you like that?"
Your eyes soften as you gently touch his arm, "It's okay Ted," you say.
"No, no it ain't. I'm sorry that you had to endure that. I shoulda done something," He runs his hand frustratedly over his mustache.
"Ok, no it's not okay that he's a total creep. But it's okay now, we're hanging over here," You run your hand up and down his arm gently, trying to ignore the electric current flowing through you as a result.
"Yeah," He nods, his eyes going soft again.
"Plus," You say, grabbing two flutes of champagne off of a passing waiter's tray, "I like hiding in a corner with you." You hand Ted the other flute and the two of you clink them in cheers.
He smiles at you so genuinely it nearly breaks your heart, "Me too."
You both stand in silent contentment for a few minutes before Ted clears his throat and looks at you, "So that date you were telling Rebecca and Keeley about before I walked in today..."
You groan, "I swear to God, Ted, don't make me relive it."
He laughs and shakes his head, "Well, I couldn't help but overhear that he took you to the Crown and Anchor, which is actually my turf." He points to his chest in a joking way.
"Is that so?"
"Indeed. And ain't nobody deserves to have a bad time at the Crown and Anchor."
You laugh at that, "I am so sorry to report that was me. I had a bad time at the Crown and Anchor."
Ted smiles, looking down at his feet before his eyes meet yours. Suddenly a bit more vulnerable, "How 'bout a redo?"
Your cheeks warm as you consider his words, "A redo?"
He nods, searching your eyes and his mouth lifting up at the corners when he sees a smile overtake your face, "Yeah. You and me, a drink at the Crown and Anchor after this fancy circus is done?"
You take a sip of champagne and pretend to think it over, "Yeah, I think I'd like a redo."
hold me hard and mellow
pairing: hozier x female!reader
rating: explicit (18+)
tags: Miscommunications/Misunderstandings, Pining, Drunk Flirting, Drunk Sex
words: 4.0k
[Read it on AO3]
title from Pillowtalk by Zayn
divider by: sylusz
Though your 30th birthday was months ago, itâs difficult to ignore some of the changes that aging has brought on. Youâve noticed a few new gray hairs sprouting where there were none before, and your cheeks have lost some of the cherubic plumpness that made you look like a high schooler attempting to swindle shops for alcohol every time you wanted a beer. These changes donât bother you. In fact, youâre excited to look a little bit older, more like your actual age.Â
What catches your attention is entirely different. Something embarrassing, really. Something that youâve been mildly self-conscious of while living in a giant, moving tin can with several other people and absolutely no privacy.
It takes exactly one Google search to confirm what you already started to suspect.Â
Why am I so aroused all the time???Â
The question marks arenât necessary, but they feel right given how perplexed you are by this development. Whatâs returned is page after page of different threads and message boards, all filled with women over the age of 30 confirming that, yes, their libido also increased with age. In fact, it seems fairly commonplace for women to experience their sexual peak a little bit later in life.Â
While youâre relieved that this phenomenon isnât unusual, youâre still frustrated by the fact that you feel insatiable. Thereâs absolutely no time to take care of yourself as often as youâd like, no space with enough privacy to even try. Your bunk on the tour bus is your only sanctuary, but even then, the curtains are easily ripped from their velcro tabs, and someone is always awake when youâre at your most desperate.Â
Hotel rooms arenât any better. You always end up sharing the space, which you canât begrudge anyone for, really. Itâs a matter of pragmatism made up for by all of the other perks of touring with Hozierâor, Andrew, as he prefers from colleagues.Â
Therein lies your other issue: Andrew is currently the bane of your entire fucking existence. Not for any malicious reason, itâs justâŠwell, you have eyes, and heâs an attractive lad. A kind lad. Funny, sensitive, talentedâthe list goes on. But heâs Hozier, for Christâs sake. If heâs not a household name by now, heâs very well on his way with the release of âToo Sweet,â perhaps to his chagrin.Â
Honestly, itâs just a silly crush that you would handle a lot better were it not for the fact that you live within 20 feet of the man constantly. Youâre either singing on stage behind him, or sitting a stoneâs throw away from him on the bus. The only reprieve you get is on hotel nights, but even then, youâve been dragged out for dinner and drinks on several occasions, somehow always ending up either seated directly across from him or squished into a booth next to him.Â
Recently, youâve been trying to maintain a reasonable distance. Youâve stepped out of rooms heâs entered, hidden around corners as he strides by, and recused yourself from group outings for your own peace. Itâs not as though anything would ever come of your crush, and itâs better to maintain space than force yourself into proximity to him and suffer at the hands of your own libido.
Honestly, you never expected him to take notice. Sure, heâs kind to you, and heâll strike up a conversation with you when heâs in the mood, but otherwise, youâve always thought of yourself as inconsequential. Not like Alex or Rory who have been with him since the beginning. Not like Larissa who enmeshes themself into the fold with their radiating energy and charm, nor Kamilah who is the human embodiment of glee. Â
Tonight is another night of planned avoidance. The group is getting ready to go out for dinner and enjoy their evening off before the show the next night. Youâve already declined the invitation in the group chat, already fended off Joy and Mel who follow you with exaggerated pouts and pleas. In the end, they respect your decision to stay behind and promise to bring something back for you.Â
With the next few hours to yourself, you curl up in bed and crack open the same book youâve been attempting to read for the past few daysâsome fantasy novel with a gratuitous amount of steamy, spicy scenes that areâŠa little silly, if youâre being honest. But itâs fun, nearly brainless entertainment. A dessert of a novel, or perhaps the after-dinner mint.Â
A quiet, polite knock at the door startles you out of your reading not even 20 minutes later. You wonder if itâs Mel, if she forgot her damn room key again, and hop out of bed in your pajama shorts and tank top without another thought.Â
When you open the door, youâre surprised to find that itâs Andrew on the other side, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie.Â
âOh, hey!â You greet, befuddlement obvious in your voice. âWhatâre you doing here? I thought you went out with everyone else.â
Andrew shakes his head. âNah, I wasnât feeling up for it tonight.â
âAh.â Thereâs a few beats of silence as you stare at each other, until you finally ask, âDidâŠdid you need something, orâŠ?â Because, really, why the fuck is he here?
Heâs quiet as he studies you, head tilting to one side. Youâve never been on the receiving end of his scrutiny beforeâat least, not that youâre aware of, anyway. Itâs slightly intimidating, mostly because of his stature, but also because his attention is solely directed on you in a way you havenât experienced previously.Â
Finally, he lets out a little huff and asks, âAre you avoiding me?âÂ
Your eyes go wide and your mouth drops open. You quickly snap it shut, a flush already making your ears go hot.
âNo! Of course not! What gave you that impression?â Lies, lies, lies, but what are you supposed to say to a question like that?Â
Andrew looks rightfully unconvinced. âI justâŠhavenât seen you around lately.âÂ
He noticed?
âRight, yeah, uhâŠâ You flounder for a response, rubbing your clammy palms against your shorts. âIâve justâIâve been busy, yâknow? With stuff. And things.âÂ
âStuff and things,â Andrew repeats back slowly with a half-smile.Â
You nod, smile tightly. âMhm. Stuff and things. Matters, even! And, umâŠaffairs. States of affairs.âÂ
âOf course.â He nods sagely. âIt just seems like one of those very important matters that youâre tending to might be avoiding me.âÂ
âOh,â you reply lamely. âItâsâIâm notââ Youâre beginning to panic, trying to think of anything to get out of this conversation that doesnât involve slamming the door in his face.Â
âBecause you havenât gone out with us in weeks,â he continues as you stammer. âAnd youâre fairly quick to leave any room that I enter. Or, is that just a coincidence?âÂ
Annoyance buzzes beneath your skin.
âThere have been stranger occurrences, Iâm sure,â you reply evenly.
âRight. Iâm sure.â He pulls a grimace of a smile, lips pressed together tightly as he knocks once on the doorframe before taking a step back. He almost looks dejected, though thatâs probably just wishful thinking on your part.Â
Youâre ready to close the door on him, ready to curl back up under the blankets and try to sleep off your embarrassment. Just as he begins to turn away, Andrew stops and turns back to you with a curious half-smile.Â
âWould you like to go down to the hotel bar with me, then?âÂ
You blink. âWhat?âÂ
He shrugs easily, assuredly. âSince youâre not avoiding me, come down and get a drink with me.â
Anxiety grips your heart as your stomach flutters. Itâs a bad idea. A terrible one, even. Being alone with Andrew under the influence of alcohol? You can only imagine that being a one-way ticket to a massive disaster that ends with you getting kicked off the tour entirely. God knows what dumb shite will spill out of your mouth the moment you start to feel loose.
His smile turns coy as he tilts his head. âOr I could always bring something up for you. Theyâve a lovely wine list here.âÂ
You swallow, searching his face as he raises a questioning eyebrow at you.Â
Finally, you sigh and let your head rest against the doorframe. âYouâre not going to let this go, are you?âÂ
Andrew laughs, shakes his head. âNo. Unless you tell me to fuck off, of course.â
You canât help but smile and shake your own head. âI would never. Can you give me a few minutes, though? I canât go down looking like this.âÂ
He waits outside like a gentleman, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. He smiles as you reappear in clothes more suitable for a public settingâmerely a hoodie and a pair of jeans, but itâs good enough for a booth in the dimly lit, fairly empty hotel bar.Â
You order a glass of blush wine, smirking when Andrew requests the bottle for the table instead.Â
âAre you trying to get me drunk?â Itâs light, airy, asked as a joke and nothing more.Â
Andrew looks at you with a sly tilt of his head. âTrying to find reasons for you to stay a while.â
The answer stuns you, your face going pink as you avoid the waiterâs amused expression.
He orders a glass of Woodford Reserve, neat. When the waiter drops it off, he holds it out to you for a taste, and you hold out your wine glass in turn. The whiskey is bitter, spicy, and makes you cough into the crook of your elbow as the amber liquid burns all the way down to your stomach.Â
âGood lord,â you splutter as he grins at you. âThatâll put some hair on your chest.â
You study him as he sips from your wine glass, as he tilts his head in thought and nods to himself assuredly before commenting that itâs actually quite good despite blush wines not being his thing.
âSoâŠâ you start, hands folded on the table as you level his stare.Â
âSoâŠâ he echoes as he rests his head in his hand, elbow planted firmly on the table. âWhy have you been avoiding me?â
The question startles a laugh out of you. âStraight to it then, yeah?âÂ
He shrugs, takes another sip of his drink. âItâs not typically how I operate.âÂ
âOh?â You tilt your head, an exaggeration of his own mannerisms. âAnd what makes me the lucky one to be graced with your focus and attention?â
Andrew chuckles. âI think youâre trying to dodge my question.âÂ
âAnd I think youâre trying to dodge mine.â You smirk before taking a sip from your glass.Â
Thereâs a brief pause as he studies your face. âHonestly? I think my ego is a little bruised.â You raise an eyebrow at him, and he continues, âYou canât deny that youâre avoiding me, yeah? Itâs been fairly obvious. And IâŠwell, you've been on my mind, is all.âÂ
Once again, youâre stunned into silence. Heâd been thinking of you? Apparently so, and often enough that heâs not only noticed the distance youâve maintained from him, heâs actually hurt by it. The thought of hurting him at all makes your chest feel tight.
âItâs not personal,â you say weakly.Â
âFeels personal,â he retorts. âHave I done something or said something toâŠI donât know, make you not want to be around me?â
âNo! No. Of course not.â
Andrew frowns. âI havenât made you uncomfortable, have I? I try not to be too forward, but I suppose itâs the Pisces in me. Or something. Alex told me that once, I donât know.âÂ
You blink. âYou havenât made me uncomfortable.â Not in the way he would expect, anyway.
His cheeks turn rosy as he runs a hand through his curls. He seems almost frustrated, as though your answers perplex him further. Andrew takes another sip from his drink, and you decide to follow suit, gulping down the last of your wine. Before you can even reach for it, Andrew takes the bottle and begins to pour a generous refill into your glass.Â
You meet his eyes as he sets the bottle back down with a thud before bringing the glass up to your lips again. He watches you carefully, unable to maintain your stare as his eyes flit to your mouth, your throat, your fingers carefully curled around the stem.Â
âGood. Grand.â He sighs. âIf I havenât made youâŠI mean, is there something else, then?â Your puzzled expression makes him frown. âOr, someone else, rather?â
The gears slowly begin to turn in your mind.
âSomeoneâŠelse?âÂ
It must be your tone, the obvious confusion in your voice that clues him in, a look of understanding softening his features. Embarrassment quickly overtakes him as he covers his reddening face with a nervous laugh.Â
âYouâyouâve no idea what Iâmâ? Oh, JesusâŠâ He avoids your eyes as he slams back the remainder of his drink in one go, then sets the glass down with a wince and a grimace. âI think we may have a misunderstanding here.âÂ
Your own embarrassment has you speechless, mouth opening and closing as you process what heâs just said. Surely, he didnât meanâŠ? No, he couldnât mean that, because things like that donât just happen, at least not to you. Not when itâs Andrew of all people.Â
Itâs the wine that grips your throat and controls your voice, and you laugh incredulously as you ask, âOh my god, do you have a crush on me?â
He groans into his hands, then smooths them back over his hair before collapsing onto the table with a laugh. His face is tinged pink with drunken embarrassment, and he smiles at you before turning to hide his face in his arms.Â
âIn no uncertain terms,â comes his muffled reply.
You laugh again and cover your own face, unsure of what to say. Your heart feels like it might beat out of your chest, your pulse thumping as a familiar heat begins to pool in your stomach.Â
After a moment, Andrew lifts his head again and pulls himself from the table until heâs upright once more. His eyes are tinged red now, bloodshot from booze. Your own head swims as you rest your head in your hand and smile at him warmly.Â
âDâyou want to know why I was avoiding you?â You avert your gaze to the table, then sigh before the words tumble from your mouth. âBecause youâre too fucking attractive. How am I supposed to get anything done when you walk around looking like this?â
He splutters a laugh as you gesture vaguely towards him. âOh?âÂ
The wine bottle is nearly empty now as you encourage him to pour some for himself in the empty glass on the table.
âItâs terribly inconsiderate of you,â you hum, and you catch his grin before he takes a drink.
Andrew grins. âMy apologies for being such a distraction. Iâd no idea I caused such distress.âÂ
You chuckle and eye him coyly. âI wouldnât necessarily call it distress.â
âWhat would you call it, then?â
âHmmâŠâ You scrunch your face as you pretend to think. âIntrigue, certainly...and the uncanny ability to make meââÂ
âAnything else for you?â The waiterâs voice startles you both, and you whip your head up to look at him wondering how much of that he heard. If heâs heard anything, he doesnât let on. Instead, he mostly looks bored, and you can see the black booklet in his hand that surely contains the check.Â
Andrew is quick to take it and scribbles in his room number for the charge, nearly shoving the booklet back into the waiterâs hands with hasty thanks.Â
Youâre both drunk enough to make bad decisions that you know youâll regret come morning, but itâs difficult to care about that when heâs pressing you back against the wall in the elevator and kissing you like youâre his only source of air. When his hands are all over you like youâre the only thing anchoring him to reality.
âCâmon,â he murmurs as the doors open to let you onto his floor.Â
You stumble over yourself with a whispered, âShit!â as he pulls you over the threshold of his room, and he laughs and apologizes before flipping a light on.Â
Andrew is a messy creature, and his room looks as though his overnight bag spontaneously exploded while he was out. Itâs weirdly charming, another reminder that he is, in fact, just a regular fucking guy with standard quirks.Â
A thrill runs through you when he kisses you again, softer this time as he cradles your face in his hands.Â
âAre you sure youâre okay with this?â The question is sudden, his eyes wide as he searches for any hint of doubt.Â
Youâre quiet for a moment as you turn the question over in your mind. Even in an inebriated state, heâs still so concerned about your comfort, your consent. Itâs unsurprising given how anxious he seems in general, but itâs sweet all the same.Â
Finally, you rest a hand on his arm and look up at him with a smirk. âWhat I was saying earlier, about you and intrigueâŠwell, you have a knack for making me weak in the knees, amongst other things. Itâs typically based on your proximity, though.âÂ
You see his mouth turn up in a half-smile just before he crowds closer to you, pulling you flush against him as you wrap your arms around his neck and laugh into another kiss.Â
âI donât normally do this,â he breathes just before moving to kiss along your neck.Â
âI feel like I should be the one saying that.â You gasp when he bites down, not hard enough to cause any truly lasting damage, but enough to know that youâll still be wearing his marks come morning. A thrilling thought, though youâre sure youâll be mobbed by the ladies and Larissa for details later on.Â
Your hoodie is in the way, impeding his access, and he steps away to tug at the hem until youâre helping him peel it off. He stares at your chest, clearly surprised by your lack of bra and the way your nipples pebble beneath the thin fabric of your tank top.Â
âIn my defense,â you say with a smirk, âI didnât expect all of this to happen.â
He laughs quietly as he walks you back towards the bed. âYouâll hear no complaints from me.âÂ
The sheets are rumpled and easily kicked away as you shuffle back on the mattress. Andrew drops kisses along chest, teeth grazing your skin and leaving little imprints. You squeak when he shoves your shirt up roughly, and he throws an apologetic look your way.Â
âSorry, just a bit enthusiastic,â he muses.Â
You laugh, feeling breathless as his hands wander along your newly bared skin.Â
âYouâll hear no complaints from me.âÂ
His responding laughâ a low, warm sound, sweet as honeyâmakes you blush. You gasp when he gently bites your nipple just before taking it into his mouth. It sends a shiver through you as he moves to the other, and you squirm beneath him, almost glad that youâre too drunk to really be embarrassed at the moment.Â
Once your jeans are off and tossed away, Andrew freezes, his eyes greedily taking in your nearly nude body before snapping back up to meet your stare. He dips a hand beneath the waistband of your pantiesâa simple black pair without any details or flair, because you didnât expect to have Andrewâs hand shoved into them like this.
He seems surprised to find you an already slick mess, his fingers dipping easily into you before pulling them back to rub your clit in slow circles.Â
âI told you,â you huff a harsh laugh that breaks into a small moan. âWeak in the knees, amongst other things.âÂ
Andrewâs grin is obscured by his hair that curtains his face. He continues to touch you slowly, methodically, while capturing you in a kiss and swallowing down every little sound that escapes you.Â
He breaks the kiss with a small gasp and asks, âWhat do youâhow do you want toâ?â
Youâre far too impatient for anything that isnât his cock inside of you right fucking now. Youâre aching, feeling empty in a way that you have so many times over the past few weeks. Except this time, the object of your affections is stumbling over himself to rummage through his bag after you ask about protection.Â
âYouâre wearing too many clothes,â you muse as he approaches you again with something square in hand.Â
âSo are you,â he shoots back, and he watches in awe as you slip your underwear off and cast them aside without batting an eye, emboldened.
He licks his lips before saying weakly, âOh, youâre going to be the death of me, arenât you?â
Andrew is far too impatient to remove everything, barely able to focus on even shoving his own jeans down and hastily rolling on a condom with shaky hands.Â
The feeling as he presses into you is heavenly, so full, warm, and satisfying. You bury your face into the crook of his shoulder as he sets an even pace. The slick sound of your arousal makes you blush, but itâs obvious how much it spurs him on, delighting in your bodyâs reaction to him, his touch, his everything.
Weeks of wishing and wanting, and now you canât hold back your moans as he fucks you the way youâve imagined. You can feel the way he stretches you as he fills you, and he gasps when you clench around him.Â
âFuck,â he whispers, eyes screwing shut as he takes a deep breath.Â
You reach up and brush a stray curl from his face. âAre you okay?â
When he opens his eyes, he gives you a little smile and a nod. âYeah, yes, grand,â he huffs, then lets his head fall forward until his forehead rests against your shoulder. âYou feel so fucking good.âÂ
He grips your thigh and squeezes gently, a silent bid to get your legs around him.Â
At first, heâs slow, taking his time as he kisses you between breathy laughs and whispered swears. It isnât until you murmur, âYou donât have to treat me so preciously,â in his ear that he hums and shifts to press your legs further, damn near folding you in half. But itâs good, so fucking good, and you can barely form a thought as your eyes roll back and flutter as he picks up his pace.
And, Jesus, how are you already so close to your peak? Another testament to your seemingly insatiable desire. You cry out when he rubs a thumb against your clit roughly, out of sync with his thrusts as you press back and grind against his palm.
The stimulation is enough to send you tumbling over the edge. Tears blur your vision as you let out small, sobbing moans against his neck. Each wave of pleasure has you clenching down around him. and then heâs snapping his hips one, two, three more times before groaning in your ear while his cock twitches with his release.
Andrew is quick to collect you into his arms after collapsing next to you in bed. He reaches blindly for a blanket to tug over both of you, seemingly more of a courtesy than anything. You allow yourself to relax into him, nuzzling his shoulder before settling with your head on his chest.Â
âWow,â he says after his breathing has evened, and he laughs quietly as he squeezes you.Â
âYeah,â you hum.
Thereâs another stretch of silence, and your eyes begin to feel heavy as you follow the pattern of his breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest.Â
Another small laugh from him stirs you, and you look up at him questioningly.Â
âWeâre going to feel fucking awful tomorrow, arenât we?âÂ
âOh, yeah.â
âIs a hungover breakfast a proper first date, dâyou think?âÂ
You grin at him and lean up to press a kiss to his cheek.Â
âProper? No. But we havenât done things by the book so far.â
Śâ°â†none of these stories belong to me! this is a masterlist of all ted lasso stories iâve read and reblogged! just thought it would be nice to have them all in one spot! (if your fic is on here and you wish not to be, please let me know!) some with have summaries if provided <3
* Ted has feelings for the new AFC Richmond marketing managerâbut canât seem to tell her. When one Bantr match gets her a little too excited, Ted finally takes matters into his own hands.
ââč operation seduce ted by @thisismysecondrodeo
* You've been dating Ted for a while and things seem like they're going wellâŠso why haven't you slept together?
prguitarman
blakekathryn
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