Can you please write something where Ethan survives and reader is his nurse at the hospital and he falls in love with them and when he’s given a second chance at life (his case is overruled for emotional and physical abuse and manipulation by his dad which made him commit the crimes he didn’t want to commit) he tries his best to win over reader despite his past??
EVERYBODY SAID UR A KILLER BUT I COULDN'T STOP THE WAY I WAS FEELIN' ethan landry
warnings no smut!! 1,346 words
HE DIDN'T LOOK LIKE THE KILLER IN THE HEADLINES. no smirk, no malice, no trace of the boy who helped orchestrate horror. the hospital was quiet, just the faint sound of the lights humming. but the news? screamed felon, criminal, a killer. you told yourself he was just another patient, but he wasn't, he was ethan landry.
ethan was transfered to a forensic psychiatric hospital for evaluation, no wonders a bloody massacre would leave someone wounded, especially who did it. his case was overruled for emotional and physical abuse and manipulation by his dad, you read his story, once, twice then a third time, the words didn't change, neither the current situation. hey said he wasn’t in control, that the crimes were someone else’s hands moving through him. you weren’t sure if that made it better or worse. you were weirdly drawn to it, fascinated some would say.
so when the hospital assigned as his nurse you already knew everything, you understood every detail of him without him knowing. it was like meeting a celebrity. but you weren't a fool. he was a murderer. another big part of you was terrified to meet him. when you first met him, he didn’t speak. just stared at the ceiling, bandages tight around his chest, an IV dripping slow forgiveness into his veins. the other nurses avoided the room too much history, too much blood attached to his name. but you didn’t. maybe you were curious, or maybe it was pity, though you hated that word.
but him? there was no other thought in his head besides you. your name echoed through his mind even when you weren't around. it was like every time you were together his chaotic crime scene and abuse of a brain turned into a silent candle lit dinner, with you. always you.
sometimes, when you checked his vitals, his eyes would flicker toward you, cautious, like he expected you to flinch away. you never did.
“you’re not scared of me,” he said one morning, that was the first time he spoke to you. his voice cracked, as if unused.
“should i be?” you asked, more softly and romantic than you meant to.
he thought for a long time before answering, eyes fixed on the floor.
“maybe,” he whispered, “but i wouldn’t want you to be.”
it was strange how someone could sound so guilty and nervous for breathing.
his mind rambled in thoughts, how he should say things, what he would say. ethan wasn't the killer everyone thought he was. at least thats what you gathered from weeks of checking on him and serving him dinner with a soft smile on his face. and you shouldn't even think about it, but you had to admit it. he was gorgeous. even with those shitty hospital lights that flattered no one, even with puffy eyes, even with his curls stuck to his forehead from sweating, fuck! even with blood all over his face from committing a fucking massacre. he was...perfect.
days blurred into weeks, and the hospital’s routine swallowed you both. you’d find yourself looking for excuses to stop by his room new dressings, medication changes, pointless checks that didn’t really need to be done. he never smiled, not fully, but sometimes his gaze softened when you spoke.
maybe he was healing. maybe you were just convincing yourself he could. or maybe, just maybe it was love.
weeks turned into months, and ethan’s recovery was slow physically, emotionally, everything. he’d started talking more, sometimes about meaningless things, sometimes about everything that hurt. the staff said progress was progress. you told yourself that too, though you weren’t sure what kind of progress it was when he started waiting for you at the door every morning.
“you’re late,” he said once, grinning just a little.
“it’s 7:02,” you replied, trying not to smile back.
you shouldn’t have found it endearing the small jokes, the way his eyes followed you when you checked the monitors, or how he’d ask about your day even though he wasn’t supposed to. it wasn’t supposed to matter. he was a patient. but ethan had this way of making even silence feel personal.
sometimes you’d catch him sketching nothing elaborate, just rough pencil drawings on scrap paper. the other nurses said it was part of therapy. he’d never show them to anyone, but once, when you were changing his bandages, he pushed a folded page toward you.
“don’t laugh,” he muttered.
it was a drawing of the hospital garden the one you’d told him about weeks ago, when he was too weak to walk there himself. it wasn’t perfect, but he’d remembered every detail, even the cracked stone path and the patch of wild daisies near the fence.
“you said you liked it,” he said softly, eyes down. “so i tried to remember it how you described it.”
you didn’t know what to say. no one had ever drawn something for you before.
after that, little things started to change. he’d sit up straighter when you entered the room. he’d remember what tea you drank, how you took it. he’d make you laugh, quietly, when the halls were too heavy with silence.
and once, when you had a bad day.
“sit,” he said gently, patting the chair beside his bed. “you look like you’ve been carrying the world around all day.”
you wanted to remind him that you were the caretaker, not him.
but instead, you sat.
for a moment, the hospital didn’t feel so cold.
maybe he was still haunted by everything he’d done maybe he always would be but the way he looked at you wasn’t the way a killer looked at anyone. it was the way someone looked when they were trying to earn the right to be seen as human again.
ethan was stronger now. he could walk without wincing, talk without hesitating. the nurses said he’d be transferred out soon, maybe even discharged if things went well.
you told yourself that was good news. it was what you’d wanted for him, wasn’t it?
except every time you caught him smiling at you from across the hallway, it felt like something in your chest tightened. he’d gotten bolder lately. less quiet, less afraid of what you might think of him.
“you know,” he said one afternoon, voice low and teasing, “you make it really hard to focus on recovery.”
you looked up from the clipboard, arching a brow.
"yeah,” he said, grin small but sure.
“you walk in here and suddenly i forget all about therapy, pain, trauma it’s just you and... " he held back.
"that stupid little smile.” he said, like a weight lifted off him.
you tried to glare, failed, and turned away to hide the warmth creeping up your neck.
“you’re impossible,” you murmured.
“yeah,” he said, softer now.
that night, after rounds, you found yourself lingering in his room longer than usual. the lights were dim, and he was sitting up, the sketchbook balanced on his knees.
“what are you drawing this time?” you asked.
he hesitated, then flipped it around. it was a portrait
it wasn’t perfect, but it was gentle. kind. it looked like how he saw you not tired or guarded, but alive. the little pencil strokes made him look more human.
“you shouldn’t-” you started, but he cut you off.
“i know,” he said. “but i wanted to.”
he set the book aside and looked at you like he was memorizing your face.
“you’ve been the only person who’s ever looked at me like i’m worth something,” he said quietly.
“i don’t know how to stop wanting that.”
you swallowed hard, because he meant it. there wasn’t any manipulation or darkness behind his words just truth.
“ethan…” you warned, though you didn’t sound convincing even to yourself.
“just one thing,” he said, moving closer. “before they move me. before everything changes again.”
his hand brushed your wrist, hesitant but sure, giving you the chance to pull away. you didn’t.
“thank you,” he whispered. and then, almost like he couldn’t help it, he leaned in.
his lips met yours soft, uncertain, careful. a question, not a demand. you froze for a second, then let yourself answer it.
guess even criminals can learn to love.
@dumbslvtforethan on tumblr
a/n sorry this is really long haha
