hi!! THANK YOU for writing reader x karadec 🙏🏻 you're doing the lord's work fr
can you maybe write a reader x karadec where they go undercover as a couple? or maybe karadec or reader comforting the other after a tough case!! would love if it was a pre-relationship or getting together!! but write whatever inspires you the most <3
IM SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY I HOPE YOU LIKE IT LOVE <3
you stand in front of the mirror, the dim light of the safehouse bathroom buzzing faintly above you. your reflection doesn’t even look like you anymore — smoky eyes, a tight black dress, a sharp edge to your mouth that’s supposed to say i’m dangerous, but you can trust me anyway. the undercover briefing was an hour ago, and now it’s just you and adam, waiting for the call that says it’s time.
he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with that quiet intensity that still makes your stomach twist. he’s dressed down for once — plain black shirt, dark jeans, nothing that screams cop. except his eyes. those always give him away.
“you don’t have to go in first,” he says, voice low.
you glance at him through the mirror. “we’ve been over this. if he’s there, he’ll recognize you before he recognizes me.”
adam pushes off the frame, stepping closer. his hands find your waist, fingers tracing the hem of your dress like he’s memorizing it. “that’s exactly what i don’t like about this,” he murmurs. “he’s unpredictable. last time he shot his own guy in the head just for hesitating.”
“and that’s why we’re here. to end it.” you turn, meeting his gaze fully now. “we can’t keep circling him forever.”
his jaw tightens, but he nods. you see the shift — the cop sliding back into place, the man who compartmentalizes everything until the only thing left is focus.
before either of you can say anything else, your earpiece crackles. morgan’s voice cuts through: “target confirmed. nightclub entrance, back side. he’s early. remember, no badges, no guns unless absolutely necessary.”
you take a breath, and adam squeezes your hand once before you both step out into the night.
the club is loud, pulsing, heat and sweat clinging to your skin the moment you walk in. you and adam separate immediately — he heads toward the bar, playing the part of someone looking for trouble, while you move through the crowd like you belong there.
through the haze of colored lights, you spot him. daniel cortez. arms covered in tattoos, smile like a blade. he’s surrounded by his men, their eyes scanning the crowd lazily but never missing anything.
you force yourself to smile when his gaze lands on you. “hey,” you say, sliding onto the seat beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “you’re cortez, right? i’ve heard things.”
he laughs, leaning back, amused. “depends on what kind of things.”
“the kind that make me curious,” you reply.
behind him, you catch a flicker of movement — adam at the bar, pretending to flirt with the bartender but his eyes never leaving you. you can almost feel his pulse from across the room.
the conversation with cortez drags on. you feed him lines morgan helped script, careful drops of information about fake contacts, fake shipments. he’s buying it, slowly.
then something shifts. one of his guys leans in, whispers something in his ear. cortez’s smile fades.
“you came alone?” he asks.
you feel it — that split second of danger, the kind that tastes like metal. “yeah. why?”
his hand moves fast. grabs your wrist. the cold press of a gun against your ribs.
“because i don’t believe you.”
you barely have time to react before chaos erupts.
you feel the world tilt the moment the shot cuts through the air — not the flash-bang kind of tilt from pure adrenaline, but a small, precise collapse behind your ribs that makes the floor decide it’s suddenly a bad idea to be even. for a second everything blurs: lights, faces, the thud of boots. your hand snaps to your side and comes away slick, warm. you taste iron before your brain catches up and tells you what it is.
adam is a second away from you and a century away at the same time. he’s already yelling your name, voice raw, but there’s something else there — a sound you’ve never heard from him, a crack in the armor that makes the whole room more dangerous. he moves like a bullet, coming for you, but you see the hesitation too: the trained calculus between getting to you and keeping everyone alive.
“don’t — don’t move,” he says, but it’s useless. you’re very, very aware of movement. you can feel the heat of your own blood and the burn when you try to breathe too fast. cortez is sprawling, his men collapsing into the kind of chaos you’ve trained to handle, but none of that matters because the world narrows into the spot on your stomach where pain is a new language.
morgan is at your other side before you really notice her. she’s calm in that impossible way she has — impossibly fast, impossibly composed. her hands are on you, fingers pressing where you need pressure, voice clipped and efficient into your earpiece. “apply pressure. cuff his right hand. oz, daphne, watch the exits. adam, your left — keep them covered.” her soprano steadies the storm.
adam’s fingers are shaking when he finds your wrist; his knuckles ghost white as he presses. you try to smile, to reassure him, but the motion tugs at the wound and hot light explodes in your vision. you suck in a breath that’s more sound than oxygen.
“you’re gonna be okay,” adam says, which is partially hope and partially a command he’s trying to make true. you hear the sirens already, distant and merciful. someone else — daphne, maybe — is yelling for medics.
the medic’s hands are professional and fast, warm towels and cold tools, an oxygen mask that smells of hospital and sterile things. the precinct falls away; everything becomes a montage of instructions. you’re lifted onto a stretcher, the world moving around you like a carousel gone too fast. adam climbs beside you and refuses to let go, one hand on your shoulder, the other holding the hand that’s still warm from the pressure you and he shared. he keeps talking, details and nonsense and what he ate for breakfast — anything to keep your voice hooked to him.
in the ambulance, the fluorescent lights hum. your breath is shallow; the pain is a presence now, a constant, dull animal under your ribs. morgan rides in with you, her face a mask of focus. she keeps answering questions from selena on her phone, relaying who shot, where the exit was, how many rounds. every now and then she leans in and rebates the conversation down to you. “blood loss is controlled,” she says, and somehow that sounds like a fact from a textbook and a promise both.
adam’s hands are busy the entire ride — checking your bandage, tracing your jawline, murmuring to you like you’re a fragile thing he can coax back into shape with words. when you close your eyes, it’s his voice that makes the dark less terrible. “stay with me,” he tells you like it’s the most important case of his life. for him, it is.
the hospital is fluorescent and cold and then less cold because every square foot of it hums with care. scans. questions. a surgeon with tired eyes explains things that sound enormous — possible internal bleeding, a bullet that lodged in muscle, they’ll know more after they open it. adam stands at the foot of the bed while they wheel you toward the OR, his face a map of grief and anger and something softer that makes the edges of your fear blur.
you go under with his name on your lips. not a prayer, not exactly, but a tether. you wake up to beeps and a cotton taste in your mouth and the constancy of a hand — adam’s — that never left your fingers. the pain is a brand new thing, wide and humming, and morphine rolls over it like fog. the doctor’s voice is calm, the good news quiet and steady: a graze to the liver, some muscle damage, a fragment they took out, the bleeding controlled. you’ll heal. you’ll have scars.
you’re half-asleep when the door opens, that soft hydraulic sigh you’ve learned to recognize even through the fog of morphine. adam slips in like he’s afraid of waking the ghosts in the corners. the room is dark except for the low amber light above your bed. you can feel him before you see him — the weight of him near you, the faint smell of soap and his leather jacket, the uneven rhythm of his breathing.
you shift, groaning a little when the movement tugs at your side. “you’re still here,” you mumble, voice hoarse.
he smiles, the tired kind. “yeah. couldn’t sleep.” he sits down on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you. “you look better.”
“liar,” you whisper. “i look like i got shot.”
“you did.”
you huff out something that might be a laugh. “right. forgot.”
he hesitates, then reaches for your hand. his thumb traces the tape around your IV like it’s the most delicate thing in the world. for a while, you both just sit there in silence — the steady beeping of the heart monitor filling the space where words don’t know how to fit yet.
“they said it missed your liver by less than an inch,” he says finally. “an inch.” he swallows. “i keep thinking about that.”
you watch him, the way he’s staring at your hand instead of your face. there’s a shadow under his eyes, the kind that only comes from guilt and too many sleepless nights.
“adam,” you say softly. “you can stop blaming yourself now.”
his jaw tightens. “you were bleeding out in my arms. i’m not sure i can.”
“you didn’t pull the trigger.”
“but i didn’t stop him soon enough.”
you squeeze his hand — weak, but enough to make him look up. “you saved me. that’s enough.”
something flickers across his face — relief, disbelief, maybe both. he shifts closer, still careful, and you lean into him, your head finding that spot on his shoulder like it’s supposed to be there. the hospital sheets rustle, the antiseptic smell fades a little under the warmth of his skin.
for a while, neither of you speak. it’s just breathing, slow and even, the sound of a city that keeps moving outside your window. you let your fingers wander over the hem of his sleeve. “you know,” you say quietly, “this isn’t how i imagined our first week of dating.”
he laughs under his breath. “yeah, same. i was thinking dinner, maybe a movie. not… bullet extractions and hospital gowns.”
you grin faintly. “you sure know how to show a girl a good time.”
he turns his head, his cheek brushing your hair. “guess we’ll have to make it up to each other when you’re healed.”
“i’ll hold you to that.”
“good.”
there’s a knock on the door then — soft, hesitant. morgan peeks in first, followed by oz with his usual too-loud whisper. “she awake?”
you roll your eyes. “unfortunately.”
“hey, you’re lucky,” daphne says, stepping in with a bouquet of flowers they probably stole from the nurse’s desk. “oz wanted to bring balloons that said get well soon, champ.”
oz grins, completely unbothered. “you got shot. that’s like, peak badass points. you deserve balloons.”
morgan shakes her head but there’s warmth in her eyes. “we’re just glad you’re okay. you scared everyone.”
you glance at adam, who’s still sitting close enough that his knee brushes yours. “yeah,” you say, smiling faintly. “i noticed.”
selena shows up last, all business as always. “you’ll need at least three weeks before you’re cleared for field work,” she says, flipping through a file. “and no, i don’t care what the doctor says if he tries to rush it.”
you nod. “understood, boss.”
she gives a small approving nod, then looks between you and adam. “you did good work. both of you.” it’s brief, but from her, it’s practically a love letter.
once they all leave, the silence returns — softer this time, more comfortable. the flowers sit awkwardly on the windowsill, bright against the sterile white of the room.
you shift, grimacing at the pull of the stitches. “so,” you murmur, “what happens now?”
adam looks at you for a long moment. “now? you heal. i annoy the nurses. and when you’re better…” he pauses, searching for words. “maybe we see what this thing between us looks like without all the near-death stuff.”
you smile, eyes half-lidded. “so you’re asking me out again. brave.”
“yeah, well,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “you’re worth the risk.”
your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with pain.
“come here,” you whisper, and he leans in, careful, tentative. his lips graze your forehead first — soft, lingering. it’s not a promise, not yet, but something close.
and for the first time since the shooting, you let yourself breathe without flinching.
the next day, the nurses move you from the emergency ward to a quieter room with a window — small mercy, but the view of the city lights almost makes the place feel less like a battlefield. you’re propped up with too many pillows, a blanket tucked around you, your stitches pulling every time you breathe too deeply. adam’s been there all morning, pretending to read the newspaper but watching you like you might disappear if he blinks too long.
you catch him looking again and grin. “you know it’s weird when you stare at me while i’m trying to drink hospital soup.”
he sets the paper down, pretending to be offended. “i’m supervising. last time you tried to sit up too fast, you almost ripped a stitch.”
“that was yesterday,” you say. “today i’m fine.”
“you said that yesterday, too.”
you roll your eyes. “you’re impossible.”
he leans back in the chair, arms crossed, that faint smile playing at his mouth. “you like me anyway.”
you don’t bother denying it.
he disappears for a few minutes, and you assume he’s gone to make a call or harass another nurse about your medication schedule. instead, he comes back with a brown paper bag and two sodas from the vending machine.
“what’s that?” you ask, suspicious.
“our first official date,” he says, pulling out takeout containers. “hospital edition. finest cuisine this side of the fourth floor.”
you laugh, which hurts, but it’s worth it. “you did not just bring me hospital cafeteria food as a date.”
“no, see, the cafeteria food was plan b. i bribed the nurse for real food. tacos. from that place you like near the precinct.”
you blink. “you actually remembered?”
“of course i remembered. you yelled at oz for eating your leftovers once. that kind of trauma sticks.”
you shake your head, smiling despite the pain. “you’re ridiculous.”
“and yet, here you are.”
he sets everything up on the rolling table — napkins, salsa packets, even the sad little plastic forks. he sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that his knee bumps yours. the air smells faintly like disinfectant and cilantro.
you take a small bite, closing your eyes. “oh my god. actual food. i might cry.”
“don’t cry. your vitals will spike and the nurse will blame me.”
“worth it,” you mumble through a mouthful of taco.
for a while, it’s easy. the world shrinks to soft laughter, crumbs on hospital sheets, the sound of his voice low and warm when he tells you about the chaos back at the precinct — oz making bad jokes, morgan sneaking your favorite coffee into the break room, selena pretending she’s not worried.
he watches you as you talk, and for once, the worry in his eyes softens into something quieter. “you’re tougher than i thought,” he says.
you raise a brow. “what, because i survived being shot?”
“no,” he says. “because you’re smiling through it.”
you look down at your hands. “if i stop smiling, i’ll think too much. and i already did enough of that last night.”
he nods, then reaches for your hand again — always gentle, always hesitant, like he’s still not sure what he’s allowed to touch. you let him, fingers curling around his.
the silence between you stretches, comfortable. the hum of the machines fades into background noise.
“you know,” you say after a moment, “most people would’ve run for the hills by now. we’ve known each other what — eleven months? and i already bled all over your shoes.”
adam smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching. “they’re washable. and i don’t scare easy.”
“you should.”
“maybe,” he admits. “but i don’t.”
you tilt your head, studying him. “why not?”
he meets your eyes, unflinching. “because when i saw you go down, i realized i didn’t want to imagine any version of this job without you in it.”
you blink, taken off guard. the air shifts, heavy and fragile at once.
“that’s… not very casual of you,” you murmur, trying to sound light.
“yeah,” he says, smiling softly. “guess i’m not very good at casual.”
the nurse interrupts before you can reply, coming in to check your vitals. she glances at the food, at adam sitting cross-legged on your bed, and raises an eyebrow. “i see the dinner service has improved.”
you grin. “best date i’ve had in months.”
the nurse chuckles. “don’t make a habit of getting shot just for the room service.”
when she leaves, adam leans in a little closer. “you heard her. no repeat performances.”
you pretend to think. “fine. but only if you promise the next date doesn’t involve IV drips.”
he laughs, and it’s the kind that fills the whole room, warm and quiet and real.
later, when the lights dim and the hallway goes still, he doesn’t leave. he just stretches out on the narrow bed beside you, careful not to touch the bandages. his arm slips around your shoulders anyway, tentative, protective.
you rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm beneath the hospital’s hum.
“adam?” you whisper.
“yeah?”
“don’t get used to me being this soft. once i’m out of here, i’m back to being your bossy, overconfident pain in the ass.”
he chuckles, low and sleepy. “good. wouldn’t want you any other way.”