summary: your boyfriend is taking his next role a little too seriously.
or
he’s committed and you’re slightly jealous of a musical instrument.
pairing: pedro pascal x f!reader
words: 3.3k
tags: 18+. minors dni. explicit sexual content, established relationship, domestic fluff, teasing, foreplay, penetrative sex, p in v, handplay, female orgasm, physical dominance in a romantic context. if i missed something please let me know.
masterlist
notes: hi my lovely besties! i hope you’re all doing wonderfully. i’m so excited to see pedro stepping into the world of a cellist and composer in his upcoming movie behemoth! production is supposed to start soon, and in honor of that, here’s a little something that’s been swirling in my head. as always, i hope you enjoy it and happy reading!
You were starting to suspect Pedro might actually be turning into a cellist.
What had begun as an endearing bit of method preparation; a gorgeous, oversized instrument following him around like a misplaced prop, had turned into something closer to a lifestyle. The cello was no longer just an accessory for the role—it was a living, breathing presence in your life.
It came along everywhere now: to the gym, to his morning meetings, to the quiet little Italian place where you liked to have dinner on Thursdays. You’d learned, with some resignation and a lot of affection, to make room for it: in the backseat, at the table, sometimes between you on the couch. The way one learns to accommodate a beloved pet, or an eccentric but well-meaning friend. And maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was absolutely insane. But it was also—undeniably—adorable.
•••
The cello rested awkwardly beside the table, its curved body gleaming softly under the restaurant’s golden light. You had to hand it to Pedro, most people brought flowers to dinner; he brought a full-sized string instrument.
He was halfway through telling you about the day’s training, something about bow control and posture, when the waiter stopped by to refill your glasses. Pedro paused mid-sentence, thanked him with that disarming warmth that made people linger a second too long, and then looked back at you.
You swirl your wine, grinning. “You do realize you’ve taken that thing everywhere this week, right?”
He glanced at the cello, pretending to think. “It was per the director’s request,” he said, with mock seriousness. “I’m just following orders.”
“Wow,” you said, leaning in, your tone teasing. “You’ve gone method. Who would’ve thought?”
He lifted his brows, lips curving into a sly smirk. “What can I say? I’m a man of depth and dedication. Next week, I’ll probably start speaking in musical notation. You’ll ask how my day was and I’ll answer in D minor.”
You burst out laughing, your laugh bouncing off the wine glasses and soft jazz floating through the restaurant. “That’s… honestly terrifying.”
“Romantic,” he countered, grinning.
“I think it’s cute,” you said simply, watching his reaction over the rim of your glass as you took a slow sip. His face flushed, just faintly, that soft pink you adored, that was creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears. You loved when that happened, when the confident, charming man the world saw gave way to this version of him: bashful, human, and entirely yours.
He shifted in his seat, pretending to adjust the napkin in his lap. “You’re dangerous when you say things like that.”
“I know,” you said, your smile lazy and satisfied. “It’s my superpower.”
The two of you lingered like that, caught in the comfortable rhythm of each other’s company, your knees brushing under the table, the cello case quietly beside you like the uninvited but tolerated third wheel.
About a month later, it was late morning when you heard his voice drift through the house: deep, unhurried, unmistakably his.
“Babe?”
You were in the bathroom, toothbrush in your mouth, foam and mint swirling as you leaned over the sink. “Bathroom!” you called back, mouth full, voice slightly muffled. His footsteps approached, that soft thud of his sneakers on the wooden floor, until he appeared in the doorway.
His curls were damp, clinging to his temples; the dark fabric of his t-shirt underneath darkened from sweat. The sight of him like that—flushed from exertion, skin glistening, eyes still heavy with morning warmth.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, voice still husky from his workout.
You spat out your toothpaste, rinsing quickly, the mint sharp on your tongue. “Hi, handsome,” you replied, catching his reflection in the mirror as you wiped your mouth with a towel.
“Got any plans tonight?” he asked, still leaning against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised.
You turned to face him fully, towel pressed to your lips. “Not really. Where are you taking me?”
“The orchestra,” he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You said softly, “Again?”
“Again?” he repeated, feigning shock, hand over his chest like you’d wounded him.
You laughed, shaking your head. “I don’t mean it like that, baby. It’s just—we’ve been to so many lately, it’s like some kind of record.”
He smiled and pushed himself off the frame, taking a step closer. “If it’s a record, I’d better make it count. You’ll thank me when you can recognize Shostakóvich blindfolded.”
You laughed into your towel. “I’m running out of fancy things to wear.”
“Not an issue,” he said easily, now standing close enough for you to smell the faint trace of his cologne under the salt of his skin. “I can buy you whatever you want. Matter of fact—” He reached for you, pulling you effortlessly against him. Your arms looped around his neck out of instinct, the towel falling to the floor. “Let’s have breakfast,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along your jaw, “and then head out shopping.”
“Right. Sometimes I forget I have a handsome, disgustingly rich boyfriend,” you teased, your lips curving.
He chuckled, his voice low. “And all yours.”
He kissed you then, soft and unhurried, the kind of kiss that left your skin humming long after it ended.
“I’ll take a quick shower,” he said as he pulled away, tugging his T-shirt off and tossing it onto the counter. His skin gleamed under the light, muscles relaxing now that he’d cooled down. “See you downstairs?”
“Want me to put on some coffee?” you asked, turning toward the door.
“Yes, please,” he said, running a hand through his curls.
“You got it, handsome.”
•••
Hours later, you sat beside him in the concert hall. It was a cathedral of sound and light. The chandeliers glimmered above, their golden reflections rippling across the sea of black tuxedos and glittering gowns. The faint scent of perfume mingled with polished wood and champagne.
Pedro looked devastating in his suit. His hand rested lightly on your thigh, fingers tracing idle circles through the fabric of your dress as the orchestra tuned, strings sighing in unison. When the first notes filled the air, his entire body seemed to change. His posture straightened, eyes narrowing in concentration. The joking man from breakfast was gone; this was someone else—quiet, reverent, as if the music had unlocked a secret chamber inside him.
You turned slightly, watching the way his face softened, the gentle movements of his head following the tempo. His Roman profile was cut against the stage light, the silver threads in his hair catching like frost.
You loved him like this. Focused, alive, his heart open in ways words could never reach.
Midway through, you glanced again. He was completely absorbed, lips parted slightly, eyes shining. You leaned back in your seat, content just to watch him be moved.
Later, in the car ride home, the city lights flickered across his face. Your head rested on his shoulder, your hands still intertwined, and he wouldn't shut up.
“Did you hear that variation on the theme in the second movement?” he said, eyes still bright with excitement.
You hummed a sleepy yes, even though you had no idea what he just said, your cheek pressed to the fabric of his jacket. His voice filling the space, filling your heart.
“Oh my god, it was beautiful—the way they modulated from G major into E minor,” he said, his voice hushed, almost reverent. “It felt like… like the sound of a confession. Just so intimate, so fragile. It’s wild how something can ache and heal you at the same time.”
You smiled, eyes half-lidded. “I liked when they played The Swan,” you said softly.
He turned to look at you, laughing quietly. “Of course you did. You always like the touching, pretty ones.”
“Because they remind me of you,” you murmured.
That shut him up. For a moment, he didn’t know whether to laugh or kiss you. So he did the only thing he could: squeezed your hand tighter and whispered your name like it was a melody only he could hear.
It was one of those Sundays that almost felt like a dream. The sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains, warmth settling into the bones of the house, the faint hum of the city just beyond the quiet. The air smelled like coffee and something citrusy from the candle you’d lit the night before. Somewhere in the background, Yo-Yo Ma’s cello moved through the room, soft and patient, filling every corner with that recognizable ache of beauty.
Most mornings now began with Yo-Yo Ma. You heard his cello more than you heard your own thoughts.
Pedro’s head rested on your lap, curls loose and soft, his stubble brushing lightly against the fabric of your pajama pants. He looked half-awake, half-dreaming, one hand tucked under his chin, the other loosely holding the edge of a book he’d given up on reading an hour ago. You were scrolling through your Kindle, not really taking in the words, absently running your fingers through his hair.
“You gotta stop doing that, mi amor,” he mumbled, voice heavy with sleep. “Or I’ll fall asleep.”
“Sorry,” you said, smiling, but didn’t move right away. You liked the weight of him there—solid and warm and entirely too human for how unreal your life sometimes felt. He sighed, eyes still closed, then lazily reached for his bookmark, the leather one you’d bought for him in that tiny shop in Notting Hill months ago, the one with the faint gold embossing, and slid it into his novel. Then he looked up at you, eyes soft, a little glassy in the sunlight.
“I’ve got a meeting with Ludwig this afternoon,” he said, voice rough from sleep.
You gasped dramatically. “Oh my god.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“Pedro,” you said, wide-eyed. “You’re going too far with this. I can’t believe you’ve resurrected Beethoven.”
He threw his head back into your lap, laughing. It was that deep, throaty, warm laugh that you loved. Your favorite of all of its variations.
“You’re funny,” he said, still smiling, his voice half-muffled against your stomach.
“I try,” you said, feigning modesty.
“It’s Ludwig Göransson,” he clarified, sitting up now and rubbing at his eyes. “I’ve been trying to shadow him for months. He finally said yes.”
You blinked. “Is there any chance I can come?”
He gave you that look—eyebrows raised, playful suspicion.
“I loved his Oppenheimer score,” you said quickly, leaning forward. “And The Mandalorian. Probably my favorite thing about the show.”
He gasped, mock-offended. “I thought I was your favorite thing about the show.”
“Debatable,” you said, unable to hide your grin.
He pressed a hand to his heart. “You’re mean.”
“And funny,” you countered, leaning towards him until your faces were close enough for him to steal a kiss—but you beat him to it.
The cello swelled softly behind you, those familiar notes folding around the moment like a soundtrack written just for the two of you. He rested his forehead against your shoulder, and you felt him smile against your skin.
“Let's stay like this for a bit,” he murmured. So you did. You stayed—sunlight moving across the floor, the house breathing around you, Yo-Yo Ma tracing invisible patterns through the air. It felt ordinary and extraordinary at once.
He’d become obsessed with the cello.
You would hear him play from the other side of the house, the notes sneaking through the walls like a secret you weren’t supposed to know. Pedro was adamant about learning as much as he could before filming started, even though he’s going to have a double for the playing scenes. He’d gone from screeching, unbearable sound to actually coaxing music from that damn cello. The same damn cello that now seems to consume most of his time, and you can’t help feeling a little jealous of it.
It was admirable how dedicated he was to the whole thing, but he would never let you see him play. At least, not for now; it's what he had said.
He had claimed one of the empty rooms in the house, turning it into his private sanctuary. One day you walk in, sunlight spills across a wooden table crowded with music sheets, dust motes floating lazily in the air. In the center of the room stands the cello on its stand, majestic and almost intimidating. A large, wooden chair sits beside it.
You approach, fingers brushing along the smooth neck, marveling at the craftsmanship. “Hey there,” he says, appearing in the doorway like a shadow stepping into sunlight. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice amused, dressed in all black, impossibly dashing, and dangerous.
You turn, caught, like a child sneaking candy. “I was just curious… I wanted to see who you replaced me for.”
He chuckles, soft and knowing. “Are you jealous of her?” His smirk was mischievous, almost wicked.
You scoff, a half-smile playing on your lips. “Unbelievable. Her?”
He just nods, as if the idea were perfectly normal. “I actually named her after you,” he says casually.
Your eyes meet, and your stomach flips. “You’re such a romantic, dude.”
“Well… yeah,” he shrugs. “And I figured, since she goes between my legs, it was… fitting.”
You grin, stomach tingling. Cheeky, charming, infuriating man. Your eyes drift to the cello again.
“Do you want to play her?” he asks, stepping closer.
You freeze. “Me? No—God, no.”
“C’mon, baby,” he coaxed, undeterred, moving toward the chair.
“I’d be terrible at it. No way,” you laugh nervously.
“I’ll guide you. Don’t be scared.”
“Um… alright,” you murmur, uncertainty clinging to you like a second skin.
He gestures for you to sit. Your knees wobble as you perch on the very edge of the chair. When he hands you the bow, your fingers brush, and sparks run straight through you.
“Okay, baby, here’s how it goes,” he murmurs, taking the cello in his hands. “It needs to rest at a comfortable 45-degree angle between your knees, against your chest. Pegs behind your neck, bout tips near your kneecaps.” He demonstrates, delicate but commanding.
His hands guide yours, parting your knees with a careful, intimate touch. “Don’t squeeze. Just steady it,” his voice low, deep, vibrating against your ear.
Your bare feet pressed against the cold floor. He moves behind you, sliding between your back and the chair, thighs bracketing yours. His hands rest on your arms, soothing and patient. You are stiff, unsure what you’re more afraid of: your lack of skill or how much your body responds to him.
He trailed a hand along your back, lifting you, straightening your spine. “You gotta sit properly. Make the cello hug you.” His breath brushes your neck, and you curse yourself silently for the shiver it draws from you.
You feel his chest press against your back. You exhale, adjusting as he guides you. “Perfect,” he whispers, voice low and intimate.
You bite the inside of your cheek, realizing he definitely knows what he’s doing.
“Now, we have four positions,” he murmurs, hands resting lightly on your waist, explaining each with precision. You remember in that instant one of the reasons you love him. Always gentle, soft-spoken, and patient. Even when your own anxiety threatens to pull you under, he is steady, unflinching.
“You don’t have to be so tense, baby,” he says, fingers kneading a knot in your back. Your skin prickles with goosebumps. “Relax.”
You let go a little, and he murmurs, “Good girl.” Your throat constricts, heat pooling in your chest and cheeks.
“Okay. Place your fingers here,” he guides, showing you exactly where. “Other hand, bow goes here.”
You follow his instructions, trembling slightly.
“First position: D, A, E, B. Drag the bow,” he instructs.
You do, and the sound is scratchy and jarring—but you had expected nothing less.
“That was terrible,” you groan.
“Hey, hey, none of that. We’re just starting.” He adjusts you, patient as ever, correcting your posture, hand on hand.
Again, you drag the bow. Again, you falter. And again. But slowly, clumsily, you find a rhythm, enough to make the notes recognizable.
“I knew you could do it, mi amor,” he breathes, and you blush, heat pooling in your chest and cheeks.
“How about,” he murmurs, “we do it together now? I’ll guide you.”
“Okay,” you whisper.
His hands cover yours, calloused and firm, brushing bruises of practice against the soft pads of your fingers.
“We’re playing Salut d’amour,” he says, voice deep, reverberating through you. “Originally written for violin and piano by Edward Elgar. He wrote it for his wife as an engagement gift. One of my favorites.”
You want to turn and kiss him, but he’s already moving your hands over the strings, the notes filling the room. Your eyes follow his left hand, the bullseye tattoo between his thumb and index, and your body hums with awareness.
“Yes,” he breathes against your ear. “Good.”
You melt into him. If possible, he moves closer, nudging your body forward, then back, rolling together.
“Keep going, baby. Just like that,” he whispers.
Your body surrenders: to him, to the music, to the intimacy. His mouth finds your neck, placing feather-light kisses, and you moan, hips pressing involuntarily against him. You feel him hard against your back, and heat pools lower, your body responding without permission. Your cunt is wet and squeezing around nothing.
“See? You just have to feel it,” he murmurs, every word dripping with sensuality. The piece slows, the final notes lingering. His hands release yours, landing on your shoulders, head dipping toward your neck. Your body is flushed, slightly trembling.
“How was that?” he asks.
“So good,” you admit, breathless.
“I told you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin, sloppy, hot kisses. “Should we continue practicing… somewhere more comfortable?”
“Yes, please,” you whisper, warmth pooling through you, utterly undone and at his mercy.
•••
You straddle him on the bed, perched between his thighs like the cello had been in your hands, but this time it’s you in his arms, weight grounding and electrifying all at once. Every subtle press of his hips into yours sends shivers through your body.
“God, look at you,” he murmurs, hands firm on your hips, thumbs brushing your sides. “So perfect.”
You bite your lip, eyes fluttering shut as he slides deep inside you, filling you, stretching you in a way that makes your back arch. A moan slips out, and he chuckles low, nose grazing your neck.
“You like that, baby? All of me?”
“Yes… yes,” you gasp, tugging him closer, hands in his hair.
His hand circles your clit with maddening precision, slow, teasing, and you cry out, hips moving instinctively. “Feel that?”
You grind down, rocking against him, and he guides you, holding you steady, every thrust, every tilt deliberate. “God, you feel incredible… so tight, so wet… mine,” he growls, teeth grazing your shoulder. You press your lips to his, moaning against him, rocking perfectly in sync with his thrusts.
“Harder… yes, just like that,” you gasp, nails digging into his back.
His other hand traces your clit in perfect rhythm, driving heat through you. “You like that, huh? You like me making you feel this good?”
“Yes… oh, fuck, yes,” you cry, chest flushing, dizzy with pleasure.
He groans darkly, adjusting your hips, lifting slightly, thrusting deeper. “Keep going… that’s it, baby. So good, so perfect.”
Moans, gasps, and slick friction fill the room, every word, every brush of his lips, and every tilt of his hips pushing you higher.
“Pedro… I… I’m so close."
“Let go, baby,” he growls, circling your clit harder, thrusting deep.
You shatter, waves of heat and pleasure crashing through you, muscles trembling, utterly undone in his arms. He holds you close, chest pressed to yours, moving in slow, lingering thrusts as you ride the aftershocks together, bodies slick and trembling. A thrill surges through him. Every shudder, every gasp, every little moan that escapes your lips—it's beautiful, like music, like an orchestra composed just for him. Every sound, every little tremor of your body, is a note, a melody he wants to memorize, replay, and drown in forever.
note: sooo, what do we think? would love to hear your thoughts! thank you so much for reading, and don’t forget to like, reblog, or comment.
summary: your boyfriend is taking his next role a little too seriously.
or
he’s committed and you’re slightly jealous of a musical instrument.
pairing: pedro pascal x f!reader
words: 3.3k
tags: 18+. minors dni. explicit sexual content, established relationship, domestic fluff, teasing, foreplay, penetrative sex, p in v, handplay, female orgasm, physical dominance in a romantic context. if i missed something please let me know.
masterlist
notes: hi my lovely besties! i hope you’re all doing wonderfully. i’m so excited to see pedro stepping into the world of a cellist and composer in his upcoming movie behemoth! production is supposed to start soon, and in honor of that, here’s a little something that’s been swirling in my head. as always, i hope you enjoy it and happy reading!
You were starting to suspect Pedro might actually be turning into a cellist.
What had begun as an endearing bit of method preparation; a gorgeous, oversized instrument following him around like a misplaced prop, had turned into something closer to a lifestyle. The cello was no longer just an accessory for the role—it was a living, breathing presence in your life.
It came along everywhere now: to the gym, to his morning meetings, to the quiet little Italian place where you liked to have dinner on Thursdays. You’d learned, with some resignation and a lot of affection, to make room for it: in the backseat, at the table, sometimes between you on the couch. The way one learns to accommodate a beloved pet, or an eccentric but well-meaning friend. And maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was absolutely insane. But it was also—undeniably—adorable.
•••
The cello rested awkwardly beside the table, its curved body gleaming softly under the restaurant’s golden light. You had to hand it to Pedro, most people brought flowers to dinner; he brought a full-sized string instrument.
He was halfway through telling you about the day’s training, something about bow control and posture, when the waiter stopped by to refill your glasses. Pedro paused mid-sentence, thanked him with that disarming warmth that made people linger a second too long, and then looked back at you.
You swirl your wine, grinning. “You do realize you’ve taken that thing everywhere this week, right?”
He glanced at the cello, pretending to think. “It was per the director’s request,” he said, with mock seriousness. “I’m just following orders.”
“Wow,” you said, leaning in, your tone teasing. “You’ve gone method. Who would’ve thought?”
He lifted his brows, lips curving into a sly smirk. “What can I say? I’m a man of depth and dedication. Next week, I’ll probably start speaking in musical notation. You’ll ask how my day was and I’ll answer in D minor.”
You burst out laughing, your laugh bouncing off the wine glasses and soft jazz floating through the restaurant. “That’s… honestly terrifying.”
“Romantic,” he countered, grinning.
“I think it’s cute,” you said simply, watching his reaction over the rim of your glass as you took a slow sip. His face flushed, just faintly, that soft pink you adored, that was creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears. You loved when that happened, when the confident, charming man the world saw gave way to this version of him: bashful, human, and entirely yours.
He shifted in his seat, pretending to adjust the napkin in his lap. “You’re dangerous when you say things like that.”
“I know,” you said, your smile lazy and satisfied. “It’s my superpower.”
The two of you lingered like that, caught in the comfortable rhythm of each other’s company, your knees brushing under the table, the cello case quietly beside you like the uninvited but tolerated third wheel.
About a month later, it was late morning when you heard his voice drift through the house: deep, unhurried, unmistakably his.
“Babe?”
You were in the bathroom, toothbrush in your mouth, foam and mint swirling as you leaned over the sink. “Bathroom!” you called back, mouth full, voice slightly muffled. His footsteps approached, that soft thud of his sneakers on the wooden floor, until he appeared in the doorway.
His curls were damp, clinging to his temples; the dark fabric of his t-shirt underneath darkened from sweat. The sight of him like that—flushed from exertion, skin glistening, eyes still heavy with morning warmth.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, voice still husky from his workout.
You spat out your toothpaste, rinsing quickly, the mint sharp on your tongue. “Hi, handsome,” you replied, catching his reflection in the mirror as you wiped your mouth with a towel.
“Got any plans tonight?” he asked, still leaning against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised.
You turned to face him fully, towel pressed to your lips. “Not really. Where are you taking me?”
“The orchestra,” he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You said softly, “Again?”
“Again?” he repeated, feigning shock, hand over his chest like you’d wounded him.
You laughed, shaking your head. “I don’t mean it like that, baby. It’s just—we’ve been to so many lately, it’s like some kind of record.”
He smiled and pushed himself off the frame, taking a step closer. “If it’s a record, I’d better make it count. You’ll thank me when you can recognize Shostakóvich blindfolded.”
You laughed into your towel. “I’m running out of fancy things to wear.”
“Not an issue,” he said easily, now standing close enough for you to smell the faint trace of his cologne under the salt of his skin. “I can buy you whatever you want. Matter of fact—” He reached for you, pulling you effortlessly against him. Your arms looped around his neck out of instinct, the towel falling to the floor. “Let’s have breakfast,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along your jaw, “and then head out shopping.”
“Right. Sometimes I forget I have a handsome, disgustingly rich boyfriend,” you teased, your lips curving.
He chuckled, his voice low. “And all yours.”
He kissed you then, soft and unhurried, the kind of kiss that left your skin humming long after it ended.
“I’ll take a quick shower,” he said as he pulled away, tugging his T-shirt off and tossing it onto the counter. His skin gleamed under the light, muscles relaxing now that he’d cooled down. “See you downstairs?”
“Want me to put on some coffee?” you asked, turning toward the door.
“Yes, please,” he said, running a hand through his curls.
“You got it, handsome.”
•••
Hours later, you sat beside him in the concert hall. It was a cathedral of sound and light. The chandeliers glimmered above, their golden reflections rippling across the sea of black tuxedos and glittering gowns. The faint scent of perfume mingled with polished wood and champagne.
Pedro looked devastating in his suit. His hand rested lightly on your thigh, fingers tracing idle circles through the fabric of your dress as the orchestra tuned, strings sighing in unison. When the first notes filled the air, his entire body seemed to change. His posture straightened, eyes narrowing in concentration. The joking man from breakfast was gone; this was someone else—quiet, reverent, as if the music had unlocked a secret chamber inside him.
You turned slightly, watching the way his face softened, the gentle movements of his head following the tempo. His Roman profile was cut against the stage light, the silver threads in his hair catching like frost.
You loved him like this. Focused, alive, his heart open in ways words could never reach.
Midway through, you glanced again. He was completely absorbed, lips parted slightly, eyes shining. You leaned back in your seat, content just to watch him be moved.
Later, in the car ride home, the city lights flickered across his face. Your head rested on his shoulder, your hands still intertwined, and he wouldn't shut up.
“Did you hear that variation on the theme in the second movement?” he said, eyes still bright with excitement.
You hummed a sleepy yes, even though you had no idea what he just said, your cheek pressed to the fabric of his jacket. His voice filling the space, filling your heart.
“Oh my god, it was beautiful—the way they modulated from G major into E minor,” he said, his voice hushed, almost reverent. “It felt like… like the sound of a confession. Just so intimate, so fragile. It’s wild how something can ache and heal you at the same time.”
You smiled, eyes half-lidded. “I liked when they played The Swan,” you said softly.
He turned to look at you, laughing quietly. “Of course you did. You always like the touching, pretty ones.”
“Because they remind me of you,” you murmured.
That shut him up. For a moment, he didn’t know whether to laugh or kiss you. So he did the only thing he could: squeezed your hand tighter and whispered your name like it was a melody only he could hear.
It was one of those Sundays that almost felt like a dream. The sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains, warmth settling into the bones of the house, the faint hum of the city just beyond the quiet. The air smelled like coffee and something citrusy from the candle you’d lit the night before. Somewhere in the background, Yo-Yo Ma’s cello moved through the room, soft and patient, filling every corner with that recognizable ache of beauty.
Most mornings now began with Yo-Yo Ma. You heard his cello more than you heard your own thoughts.
Pedro’s head rested on your lap, curls loose and soft, his stubble brushing lightly against the fabric of your pajama pants. He looked half-awake, half-dreaming, one hand tucked under his chin, the other loosely holding the edge of a book he’d given up on reading an hour ago. You were scrolling through your Kindle, not really taking in the words, absently running your fingers through his hair.
“You gotta stop doing that, mi amor,” he mumbled, voice heavy with sleep. “Or I’ll fall asleep.”
“Sorry,” you said, smiling, but didn’t move right away. You liked the weight of him there—solid and warm and entirely too human for how unreal your life sometimes felt. He sighed, eyes still closed, then lazily reached for his bookmark, the leather one you’d bought for him in that tiny shop in Notting Hill months ago, the one with the faint gold embossing, and slid it into his novel. Then he looked up at you, eyes soft, a little glassy in the sunlight.
“I’ve got a meeting with Ludwig this afternoon,” he said, voice rough from sleep.
You gasped dramatically. “Oh my god.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“Pedro,” you said, wide-eyed. “You’re going too far with this. I can’t believe you’ve resurrected Beethoven.”
He threw his head back into your lap, laughing. It was that deep, throaty, warm laugh that you loved. Your favorite of all of its variations.
“You’re funny,” he said, still smiling, his voice half-muffled against your stomach.
“I try,” you said, feigning modesty.
“It’s Ludwig Göransson,” he clarified, sitting up now and rubbing at his eyes. “I’ve been trying to shadow him for months. He finally said yes.”
You blinked. “Is there any chance I can come?”
He gave you that look—eyebrows raised, playful suspicion.
“I loved his Oppenheimer score,” you said quickly, leaning forward. “And The Mandalorian. Probably my favorite thing about the show.”
He gasped, mock-offended. “I thought I was your favorite thing about the show.”
“Debatable,” you said, unable to hide your grin.
He pressed a hand to his heart. “You’re mean.”
“And funny,” you countered, leaning towards him until your faces were close enough for him to steal a kiss—but you beat him to it.
The cello swelled softly behind you, those familiar notes folding around the moment like a soundtrack written just for the two of you. He rested his forehead against your shoulder, and you felt him smile against your skin.
“Let's stay like this for a bit,” he murmured. So you did. You stayed—sunlight moving across the floor, the house breathing around you, Yo-Yo Ma tracing invisible patterns through the air. It felt ordinary and extraordinary at once.
He’d become obsessed with the cello.
You would hear him play from the other side of the house, the notes sneaking through the walls like a secret you weren’t supposed to know. Pedro was adamant about learning as much as he could before filming started, even though he’s going to have a double for the playing scenes. He’d gone from screeching, unbearable sound to actually coaxing music from that damn cello. The same damn cello that now seems to consume most of his time, and you can’t help feeling a little jealous of it.
It was admirable how dedicated he was to the whole thing, but he would never let you see him play. At least, not for now; it's what he had said.
He had claimed one of the empty rooms in the house, turning it into his private sanctuary. One day you walk in, sunlight spills across a wooden table crowded with music sheets, dust motes floating lazily in the air. In the center of the room stands the cello on its stand, majestic and almost intimidating. A large, wooden chair sits beside it.
You approach, fingers brushing along the smooth neck, marveling at the craftsmanship. “Hey there,” he says, appearing in the doorway like a shadow stepping into sunlight. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice amused, dressed in all black, impossibly dashing, and dangerous.
You turn, caught, like a child sneaking candy. “I was just curious… I wanted to see who you replaced me for.”
He chuckles, soft and knowing. “Are you jealous of her?” His smirk was mischievous, almost wicked.
You scoff, a half-smile playing on your lips. “Unbelievable. Her?”
He just nods, as if the idea were perfectly normal. “I actually named her after you,” he says casually.
Your eyes meet, and your stomach flips. “You’re such a romantic, dude.”
“Well… yeah,” he shrugs. “And I figured, since she goes between my legs, it was… fitting.”
You grin, stomach tingling. Cheeky, charming, infuriating man. Your eyes drift to the cello again.
“Do you want to play her?” he asks, stepping closer.
You freeze. “Me? No—God, no.”
“C’mon, baby,” he coaxed, undeterred, moving toward the chair.
“I’d be terrible at it. No way,” you laugh nervously.
“I’ll guide you. Don’t be scared.”
“Um… alright,” you murmur, uncertainty clinging to you like a second skin.
He gestures for you to sit. Your knees wobble as you perch on the very edge of the chair. When he hands you the bow, your fingers brush, and sparks run straight through you.
“Okay, baby, here’s how it goes,” he murmurs, taking the cello in his hands. “It needs to rest at a comfortable 45-degree angle between your knees, against your chest. Pegs behind your neck, bout tips near your kneecaps.” He demonstrates, delicate but commanding.
His hands guide yours, parting your knees with a careful, intimate touch. “Don’t squeeze. Just steady it,” his voice low, deep, vibrating against your ear.
Your bare feet pressed against the cold floor. He moves behind you, sliding between your back and the chair, thighs bracketing yours. His hands rest on your arms, soothing and patient. You are stiff, unsure what you’re more afraid of: your lack of skill or how much your body responds to him.
He trailed a hand along your back, lifting you, straightening your spine. “You gotta sit properly. Make the cello hug you.” His breath brushes your neck, and you curse yourself silently for the shiver it draws from you.
You feel his chest press against your back. You exhale, adjusting as he guides you. “Perfect,” he whispers, voice low and intimate.
You bite the inside of your cheek, realizing he definitely knows what he’s doing.
“Now, we have four positions,” he murmurs, hands resting lightly on your waist, explaining each with precision. You remember in that instant one of the reasons you love him. Always gentle, soft-spoken, and patient. Even when your own anxiety threatens to pull you under, he is steady, unflinching.
“You don’t have to be so tense, baby,” he says, fingers kneading a knot in your back. Your skin prickles with goosebumps. “Relax.”
You let go a little, and he murmurs, “Good girl.” Your throat constricts, heat pooling in your chest and cheeks.
“Okay. Place your fingers here,” he guides, showing you exactly where. “Other hand, bow goes here.”
You follow his instructions, trembling slightly.
“First position: D, A, E, B. Drag the bow,” he instructs.
You do, and the sound is scratchy and jarring—but you had expected nothing less.
“That was terrible,” you groan.
“Hey, hey, none of that. We’re just starting.” He adjusts you, patient as ever, correcting your posture, hand on hand.
Again, you drag the bow. Again, you falter. And again. But slowly, clumsily, you find a rhythm, enough to make the notes recognizable.
“I knew you could do it, mi amor,” he breathes, and you blush, heat pooling in your chest and cheeks.
“How about,” he murmurs, “we do it together now? I’ll guide you.”
“Okay,” you whisper.
His hands cover yours, calloused and firm, brushing bruises of practice against the soft pads of your fingers.
“We’re playing Salut d’amour,” he says, voice deep, reverberating through you. “Originally written for violin and piano by Edward Elgar. He wrote it for his wife as an engagement gift. One of my favorites.”
You want to turn and kiss him, but he’s already moving your hands over the strings, the notes filling the room. Your eyes follow his left hand, the bullseye tattoo between his thumb and index, and your body hums with awareness.
“Yes,” he breathes against your ear. “Good.”
You melt into him. If possible, he moves closer, nudging your body forward, then back, rolling together.
“Keep going, baby. Just like that,” he whispers.
Your body surrenders: to him, to the music, to the intimacy. His mouth finds your neck, placing feather-light kisses, and you moan, hips pressing involuntarily against him. You feel him hard against your back, and heat pools lower, your body responding without permission. Your cunt is wet and squeezing around nothing.
“See? You just have to feel it,” he murmurs, every word dripping with sensuality. The piece slows, the final notes lingering. His hands release yours, landing on your shoulders, head dipping toward your neck. Your body is flushed, slightly trembling.
“How was that?” he asks.
“So good,” you admit, breathless.
“I told you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin, sloppy, hot kisses. “Should we continue practicing… somewhere more comfortable?”
“Yes, please,” you whisper, warmth pooling through you, utterly undone and at his mercy.
•••
You straddle him on the bed, perched between his thighs like the cello had been in your hands, but this time it’s you in his arms, weight grounding and electrifying all at once. Every subtle press of his hips into yours sends shivers through your body.
“God, look at you,” he murmurs, hands firm on your hips, thumbs brushing your sides. “So perfect.”
You bite your lip, eyes fluttering shut as he slides deep inside you, filling you, stretching you in a way that makes your back arch. A moan slips out, and he chuckles low, nose grazing your neck.
“You like that, baby? All of me?”
“Yes… yes,” you gasp, tugging him closer, hands in his hair.
His hand circles your clit with maddening precision, slow, teasing, and you cry out, hips moving instinctively. “Feel that?”
You grind down, rocking against him, and he guides you, holding you steady, every thrust, every tilt deliberate. “God, you feel incredible… so tight, so wet… mine,” he growls, teeth grazing your shoulder. You press your lips to his, moaning against him, rocking perfectly in sync with his thrusts.
“Harder… yes, just like that,” you gasp, nails digging into his back.
His other hand traces your clit in perfect rhythm, driving heat through you. “You like that, huh? You like me making you feel this good?”
“Yes… oh, fuck, yes,” you cry, chest flushing, dizzy with pleasure.
He groans darkly, adjusting your hips, lifting slightly, thrusting deeper. “Keep going… that’s it, baby. So good, so perfect.”
Moans, gasps, and slick friction fill the room, every word, every brush of his lips, and every tilt of his hips pushing you higher.
“Pedro… I… I’m so close."
“Let go, baby,” he growls, circling your clit harder, thrusting deep.
You shatter, waves of heat and pleasure crashing through you, muscles trembling, utterly undone in his arms. He holds you close, chest pressed to yours, moving in slow, lingering thrusts as you ride the aftershocks together, bodies slick and trembling. A thrill surges through him. Every shudder, every gasp, every little moan that escapes your lips—it's beautiful, like music, like an orchestra composed just for him. Every sound, every little tremor of your body, is a note, a melody he wants to memorize, replay, and drown in forever.
note: sooo, what do we think? would love to hear your thoughts! thank you so much for reading, and don’t forget to like, reblog, or comment.
summary: a love letter to almost. to the line they kept and the day they didn't. to letting go as an act of love.
or
it's the fourth of july and samira mohan is leaving and jack abbot has four years of things he never said and one day left to say them.
word count: 6.6k
tags: angsty, fluff, mentions of blood, grief and loss.
note: hey so i'm devastated and i actually wrote this with tears in my eyes. i can't believe i lost my girl samira mohan. i will forever miss her and as long as i'm alive mohabbot will live.
you can also read it on ao3!
The ambulance bay smells like exhaust and summer and the particular kind of unbearable heat that sticks in your skin. Samira stands in it anyway, arms crossed over her scrubs, chin tipped up toward a sky going pink at the edges, and breathes. Or tries to. The air comes in shallow and wrong and she has to remind herself, the way she's been reminding herself all day, that she is fine. She is fine. She is a fourth-year resident who has held people together at their seams and she is not going to fall apart in a parking lot over a man who will never think she's enough.
She made it outside before the tightening started this time, which she decides to count as a victory. The walls had been coming for her. She'd felt them all afternoon, the slow creep of pressure that starts behind her sternum and moves outward, filling her up from the inside until her ribs can't expand right. The second time today.
The first had been in chairs, of all places. In front of everyone - patients, families, the whole fluorescent audience of a busy ED afternoon - her chest seizing up so completely that Joy had grabbed her arm and Langdon had gotten her on a gurney before she could argue, running vitals, an EKG, the whole thing, and she'd lain there thinking this is it, this is how I go, a fourth-year resident dying of a heart attack at twenty-nine in her own hospital - but the EKG came back clean. Everything came back clean.
She can still hear the way the cruelty came into Robby’s voice once he understood what it actually was. The laugh beneath it. Is this a panic attack because of your mommy issues? Go home. I don't need the fucking liability. In front of all of them. Said like she was a punchline he'd grown bored of.
How could she have let that happen? How could she have been so careless, so exposed, so nakedly human in a place that punished you for it? She'd felt so stupid lying on that gurney, a perfectly healthy woman with a perfectly healthy heart that had simply decided it had too much in it. She'd felt so little. That was the word for it, always the word for it with him - little. Small. Helpless in a way she didn't know how to fight because you cannot argue someone into seeing you. Samira tips her head back further. The sky is doing something beautiful and she almost hates it for that, hates that the world keeps being beautiful today of all days. Her eyes are wet and she doesn't wipe them yet, just lets the warmth sit there, because there is no one to see her and because she has been so careful all day, so careful, and she is so tired of being careful.
Samira Mohan is polite with her sadness. She has always been this way, since before she can remember. She holds it gently, like something borrowed, like something that doesn't belong to her and so she has no right to set it down loudly. She doesn't want to be a burden. She never wants to be a burden. So she smiles when she can and when she can't, she stands in ambulance bays and looks at pinking skies and tells herself she is fine until it becomes true.
Everything has been falling apart. She is leaving. She is leaving and it should feel like freedom and some of it does, she thinks, she thinks it does, but standing here right now what she mostly feels is the particular vertigo of ending. Of closing a door on the room where she became herself.
Four years.
Four years of this building, these halls, these fluorescent lights that drain everyone's color. Four years of learning how to be a doctor inside these walls that hold all her failures and her firsts. The first time she ran a code. The first time she lost one. The first time she sat with a family in that small room and watched hope leave a person's face. PTMC made her. PTMC unmade her. She knows both things can be true.
She'd been so certain about leaving, once. Months ago, before the certainty curdled into something more complicated. The plan had made sense in the way that plans do when you build them out of feeling rather than logic - she would go, she would get closer to her mother, geography as remedy, distance collapsed, this time it will be different. She'd told herself that. She'd almost believed it. She was going to Graceland, in a way. Looking for something sacred in the going, something that would make her feel less like a person held together by obligation and routine. The fellowship was real and good and she wanted it, she did, but underneath the wanting was her mother's face, or the idea of it, the version of her mother she kept trying to find.
And then her mother called.
Not to say I've missed you or come home or any of the things Samira had been quietly rehearsing receiving. She called on a whim, breezy and bright, to say she was selling the house and going on a cruise with her boyfriend. Isn't that exciting!The house where Samira grew up. Gone. Her mother, sailing somewhere warm and far away with a man whose last name Samira still wasn't sure of.
She'd sat with the phone in her hand for a long time after.
So. Not that, then.
The thing about being a rebel without a clue is that eventually the clue arrives and it turns out you were never really rebelling against the right thing. She wasn't leaving for her mother. She was leaving for herself, had always been leaving for herself and that should feel clarifying and in some ways it does but mostly it opened up the bigger question underneath: what does she actually want? She has been turning this over for months. Which fellowship. Which city. Which version of Samira Mohan gets to exist after PTMC. Whether she has what it takes for the one she really wants or whether she is going to talk herself into the safer choice and call it wisdom. Whether staying is cowardice dressed up as loyalty. Whether leaving is ambition dressed up as escape.
She's made up her mind. The decision is done. She is going. She is going, and PTMC will go on without her, and the fluorescent lights will drain the color from someone else's face, and she will become a doctor somewhere new, in new walls, and she will carry this place with her the way you carry every room where something real happened to you.
But when she thinks about leaving, something in her chest does something complicated. She thinks about Robby and something in her chest does something else. She's spent four years trying to earn something from him. She knows this, intellectually, you can know something about yourself and still be helpless against it. Trying to earn his approval, his praise, some sign that she is doing well, that she is more than adequate, that all the hours and sacrifice and blood she has poured into this place have been seen. And some days she gets it. Some days he says something that makes her feel ten feet tall and she holds it for weeks, rotates it in her hands like a coin. But then there are days like today. Days when he looks at her and she can feel herself shrinking, can feel the shape of her becoming smaller and smaller until she barely takes up space.
I don’t need the fucking liability.
You should have known better.
Go home.
She doesn't want to miss him. She won't. She knows she won't.
What she will miss is what she wanted him to be. That's a different grief entirely.
The backhanded apologies he gave her. The praise he gives so freely to everyone else, watching him light up for the others, warm and expansive, and then turn to her with something cooler. She has spent four years understanding, on some level she couldn't name, that his damage was not about her. That the things he threw at her were not aimed at her, not really, not specifically, they were ricochets. Shrapnel. She just happened to be standing where he swung. She has known this. She has absorbed it and made it make sense and turned it into something survivable because that is what Samira does, she survives, she finds the framework that lets her keep going, and still—
Does he know? Does he know he is demolishing her in the process? Letting all of that damage damage her?
Always an angel, she thinks. Never a god.
She closes her eyes. Her chest is better out here. The tightening has loosened into something more like ache, which she can work with. She knows how to work with ache.
"Dr. Mohan."
She knows the voice without turning. She's known it for a long time. Low and unhurried, with that particular ease it has of arriving before it needs to, like he has nowhere to be but here. She wipes her eyes with the back of her wrist before she turns, a single clean motion, and faces him. Jack Abbot looks exactly as he always does in the middle of a shift, which is to say he looks like he was made for this - a bit rumpled, his gray hair doing whatever it wants, that particular aliveness in him that the night seems to sharpen rather than wear down. He is, objectively, an attractive man. She has thought this several times and filed it somewhere she doesn't open. He is also flirtatious in the idle, reflexive way of certain men who have simply always been that way - deployed equally on nurses and attendings and Ahmad, who laughs at his terrible jokes. Samira has watched him do it for four years. She knows the register. She tells herself that when it's aimed at her, it's the same thing.
She is maybe not always entirely convinced of this.
"I heard you were looking for me," he says.
She blinks. Her head is still in twelve places - Robby's voice, Mr. Diaz, Mr. Green, the tightening in her chest that only just let go, the sky going pink, the leaving - “What?”
"Dana said you were asking for me a while ago." He studies her face with that unhurried attention of his, taking inventory. "Everything okay?"
Oh. Right. Right, that had been hours ago. "Oh," she says, "yeah. It was—" She exhales through her nose and recalibrates. "I just wanted to ask you about a letter of recommendation. For the fellowship.”
Something moves across his face, brief and controlled. "Of course," he says. "Whatever you need, Mohan."
It lands on him the moment he says it. By giving her what she wants, he is letting her go. The letter will be good - he’ll make sure of it, he'll make it so fucking good that whoever reads it will have no choice - and that goodness will carry her directly out of his life. He is going to write her out of this hospital with his own hands and he is going to do it well because that is what she deserves and because he has never once been able to give her anything less than everything.
She wonders if he knows how it lands, whatever you need. A hand steadying her shoulder. She thinks probably he doesn't. She thinks he just means it. He does. That's the thing. He just means it.
"Thank you." She looks down at the concrete. "I would've asked Robby, but—"
"I will do it." His voice moves gently across hers before she can finish, rescuing her. He has always known which sentences she shouldn't have to complete. He has always gotten there first.
"Okay."
Silence settles between them. She lets him look at her because she has nothing left for performing, no energy to arrange herself into fine and he looks because he can't help it. Her bun has given up entirely, loose strands catching the last of the evening light, and her eyes carry the full dark weight of the day. She looks worn through. She looks like someone who has been asked for too much by too many people and given it anyway. She is still, to him, the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. He has thought this before and put it somewhere sensible and it keeps finding its way back, stubborn and inconvenient and entirely useless to him.
"Where?" he asks.
She looks up. "California. I think."
Jack hums. He is processing something and has decided, for now, to process it quietly. "California," he repeats.
"It's a good program."
"I'm sure it is."
She narrows her eyes slightly at his tone. "You have something to say?"
"I don't have anything to say."
"Abbot."
He looks at her for a moment, then away, his jaw working. "Why not here?" he says finally. "There are good programs here. There are great programs here."
"There are."
"So."
"So." She tilts her head. "I don't think there's anything for me here anymore."
Something violent moves across his face, it is fast but she catches it. He looks almost stung before he reassembles. "Nothing," he says flatly.
"Not the way there used to be."
He's quiet for a beat too long. Then: "What about the people who think you're the best resident they've seen in a decade?"
She blinks. "Is that — are you talking about yourself right now?"
"I'm speaking generally."
"You're really not."
The corner of his mouth moves. Almost a smile. Almost. "You'd be leaving a very strong department, Mohan. Statistically speaking."
"Statistically," she repeats, amused despite herself.
"The numbers don't lie."
"The numbers," she says, "also apply to the program in California, which has an exceptional attendings-to-residents ratio and a—"
"Okay, I don't need the brochure."
She laughs, and it surprises both of them. The first one all day, rising up through everything the day buried her under. It lasts only a second but he's already keeping it.
"It's a good opportunity," she says, softer now. "It's what I've been working toward."
"I know that." The words come out stripped of everything except the truth of them. "I know that, Mohan."
"Then why does it sound like you're trying to talk me out of it?"
He looks at her steadily, then exhales through his nose and looks away, and she watches him rein something in, put it back where it belongs, return to the version of himself that keeps the line."I'm not," he says finally. "I'm not trying to talk you out of it." A pause. "I just....I'll get you that letter."
She looks at him and nods. He is looking at somewhere past her shoulder, jaw tight, arms crossed, very carefully not looking at her face. Whatever she wanted. Whatever she needed. He would always find a way to offer it, even when the offering cost him. He understood this about himself. He had made a kind of peace with it. Not happily, but Jack knows his own nature. He was going to write her the best letter of recommendation she had ever seen. He was going to hate every word of it.
"I heard about your patients," he says. "I'm sorry."
Samira laughs, short and hollow, she has run out of the energy required to be gracious about it. "Great. Good to know my fuckups make the rounds.”
"It is not your fault." He says without decoration, without the careful softening most people reach for. "None of it is. Even if you feel like it is.”
She doesn't say anything. He watches her not say anything.
"Don't burden yourself with the what-ifs," he says. "It is not worth it. Trust me.”
And she does, that's the thing. She trusts him and sometimes it alarms her, the ease of it, how little work it requires. She doesn't entirely know what to do with that either.
"I really tried to make him stay," she says, and hates the crack in it, hates giving that to the open air. "I tried to get him what he needed—"
"And you did."
She looks at him and he holds her gaze, steady. "Earlier. You found a way." He doesn't elaborate because he doesn't need to. She hears it anyway - what's in the bag, I'll pay for it - his voice from hours ago, capable and immediate, no hesitation, just yes, whatever this patient needs, whatever she needed to do right by him.
She exhales."It's not fair," she says quietly. Not to him. To the air, to the pink stubborn sky, to no one in particular.
"I've come to learn most things aren't."
He says it without bitterness and that's what gets her, that's always what gets her about him. He has earned the right to be bitter a hundred times over and he just - isn't. Or if he is, he keeps it somewhere private and doesn't let it leak onto other people. She knows the outline of what he's lost. A leg. A wife. Years of himself, maybe, the version of himself that existed before all of it. He was young once and the world was relentless about taking from him and he is standing here in an ambulance bay talking her down from the edge of her own guilt like it's the most natural thing.
What she doesn't know, can't know, is that it costs him something to say it. Most things aren't fair. He has said this enough times that it comes out smooth, worn down to a manageable shape, but underneath it is still the original thing - still the hospital room, still the phone call, still the specific moment when the world rearranged itself permanently and didn't ask him first. Jack was so young and so doomed. He had been so angry, once. Furious, total and consuming, at the randomness of it, at the fact that trying hard and meaning well, doing his duty and loving someone completely turned out to be no kind of protection at all. He had carried that fury for years. And then, somewhere along the way, he just got tired of it. Put it down. There is a version of moving on that looks like peace from the outside and is mostly just exhaustion, and Jack Abbot knows that version intimately.
That's the thing about love - it erases. Not the person, never the person, he would not trade a single day of what he had, would not hollow it out for anything in this world. But love erases the after. The verdict. The door you close on yourself and dead-bolt from the inside and call permanent. He had been so certain. That he was done wanting, done reaching, done leaving himself open to the specific devastation of caring too much about someone who could be taken from you. He had written that sentence about himself and meant it and then Samira Mohan walked into his ED and without asking permission, without even knowing she was doing it, started taking the walls apart. Slipped into the parts he thought he had closed off for good. Just by being herself, fully and without apology, just by looking at him like he was worth listening to on the days he wasn't sure he was.
She erased the certainty that he was finished.
He doesn't know whether to be grateful. Some days it feels like grace. Other days it feels like standing at the edge of something very high and understanding, with complete clarity, exactly how far the fall is.
Still. Still, underneath all of it, there is this terrible desire to be loved. It never left. He had thought it might, thought grief might have the decency to take that with it when it settled, but it didn't. It stayed, embarrassing and persistent, this wanting. This need to matter to someone specifically, to be the person someone thinks of first, to be chosen. He doesn't talk about it. He wouldn't know how to begin. But it is there, it has always been there, and standing here looking at Samira Mohan's tired face in the evening light it is louder than usual in a way he doesn't have a name for yet.
Still, there is this quiet horror in him of being left behind. Again.
“No matter how hard you try," he says. "So there's no use in beating yourself up."
He's watching her. Grateful watching. She has caught him doing it before. She has never said anything.
Jack, for his part, is not trying to hide it. He is just looking at her. He has always just looked at her, openly, the way he looks at things he finds worth looking at, and if that reveals something about him then fine. He has stopped pretending otherwise, at least to himself.
In the eyes of Jack Abbot, Samira Mohan is completely visible. She has never had to perform for him, not once in four years. Never had to demonstrate her intelligence or arrange her competence where he could see it, never had to choose her words carefully or read the room for his mood and navigate around it. He already knew. He came to his conclusions about her early and they have never wavered and the consistency of it, the absolute quietness of it, took her almost a full year to trust. She kept waiting for the condition. The fine print. The version of his regard that turned out to be contingent on something she'd eventually fail to provide.
It never came.
He knew she was brilliant. He knew she was worth listening to, worth citing in rooms she wasn’t even in, worth trusting with the cases that mattered. He gave her the hard ones and stood back and let her work and never once looked surprised when she got it right. That was the thing that undid her, if she was honest. Everyone else's confidence in her had an edge of performance to it, a generosity she could feel the shape of. His was just factual. Like stating the weather.
He looks at her and she becomes a god.
He has spent four years watching her receive it uncertainly, watching her almost-believe it and then pull back, and it has never made him want to take it away. If anything it makes him want to give her more of it. Stack it up around her until she can't avoid it. Until she has no choice but to understand what she is.
He knows, standing here, that this is probably the last time he'll see her like this. He is memorizing it without meaning to.
He searches for her eyes.
She gives them.
"What do you need, Mohan?" he asks.
She almost tells him the truth. She almost says I need five minutes without Robby's voice in my head, I need to stop feeling like I am always one mistake away from proving everyone right about me, I need someone to take care of me, I need you to tell me I belong here, to stay — but what comes out instead is what always comes out when Samira Mohan is asked what she needs and doesn't know how to answer honestly.
"I need to get back to work."
Jack looks at her for a beat longer than necessary. He should tell her to go home. An exhausting day, two difficult patients, tears in the ambulance bay - go home, Mohan, sleep, wash it off. He is a doctor. He knows what a person looks like when they've given everything they had and then kept going anyway.
But he doesn't say it.
See, Jack Abbot was a selfish man when it came to Samira Mohan. He wanted her to stay. Here, where he could see her. Where he could give her the only things he was allowed to give her, the look what she did said aloud to a room, the hard cases that let her be everything she was, the glances he stole when she was deep in a problem, that expression she got, the one that meant the rest of the world had ceased to exist for her. She had a terrible day and she is running on nothing and he is standing here wanting her to stay because he cannot bear the alternative, which is her walking out those doors and taking whatever this is with her.
She makes him sick with desire. For her presence. For her laugh. For her intelligence, the precision of it, the way she thinks. To have her close. To be hers, in whatever shape that could exist.
"Okay," he says. "Whatever you need." He uncrosses his arms. "Let's get to work, Dr. Mohan.”
-
McKay finds her at the nurses' station sometime later, bag on her shoulder, heading out.
"Hey," Cassie says, stopping. She looks at Samira a little longer than necessary. ”You're staying?"
"Yup."
"How were the fireworks?" Samira asks. "Upstairs."
Cassie's expression changes into something fond. ”Beautiful, actually." A pause. "You should've come up."
"Maybe next time."
Cassie looks at her. They both know what that means. Cassie doesn't say it. She just puts her hand on Samira's shoulder and moves it in a slow circle, and Samira lets herself lean into it just slightly, just for a second, because she is so tired and she is allowed.
"Okay," Cassie says. "Take care of yourself."
"Thanks. You too."
She watches her go. Then Dana appears at her elbow, chart tucked under one arm, and says without preamble, "Abbot needs you in South 15, kid."
Samira straightens. "Right away.”
-
She's glad she stayed.
She won't be able to articulate why, at least not in words.
Abbot includes her in everything. Not out of pity, of course. Just because that is how he works, he treats her like a colleague he trusts, like her eyes on a case add something, like she belongs in the room, and she does. She knows she does. But it helps to be reminded.
Ellis makes sure she takes breaks. Abbot makes sure she eats - appears beside her somewhere past midnight, sets a matcha latte and something from the vending machine near her elbow without comment. She stares at it for a second and feels something very stupid and very true move through her chest.
They work a procedure together, around two in the morning, the two of them and one of the nurses, and Samira falls into the rhythm of it, the clean precise work of her hands, the back and forth of his instructions and her responses, and for a while there is nothing else. Just the two of them in tandem, in the way they always have been, the way she'd noticed early and then stopped noticing because it became ordinary, because she'd stopped being able to imagine it being otherwise.
She could stay here forever, she thinks. In this room, in this small ordinary extraordinary moment. Never go to the fellowship, never pack a box, never close the door on the room where she became herself. She lets herself want it, just for these two minutes, just while her hands are busy and bloody and the room is quiet and he is standing close enough that she could reach out and touch him if she was someone who did things like that.
"Excellent work, as always, Dr. Mohan," he says, pulling off his gloves, already moving toward the door. She watches it close behind him.
Always an angel, never a god, she'd thought, about Robby, earlier. But with Jack she is always a god. She has always been a god, in here, in this building, in his eyes. She just kept forgetting to look.
-
7 AM arrives in a haze. Her locker opens on the second try. She changes slowly, on autopilot. Her scrubs go in the bag. She checks her phone for the first time in hours - three missed calls, two texts, all from her mother. She closes the locker. She stands there for a second with her hand still on the cold metal, not thinking anything specific, just existing.
The parking lot is yellow with early morning and the air is still cool, the last merciful hour before the city remembers it's July. She has her bag over one shoulder and she is almost at her car when she hears footsteps behind her.
She turns.
Jack is standing a few feet away, and he has changed out of his scrubs - dark t-shirt, hair in a much better state than last night, like he went somewhere and put himself together before coming to find her. Like he wanted to be presentable for this. Like it mattered to him how he looked when he said whatever he came out here to say. He has an envelope in his hand.
"What am I going to do without my smartest resident here?" he says.
"Technically, I'm not your resident."
"Debatable."
"And you'll have everyone else."
Something shifts in his face. "But you're not everyone else, Mohan." He says it simply, a fact he's done arguing with. "And I've come to realize that is a problem for me."
She is so tired. That must be why she just lets it land, doesn't deflect or laugh it off. She just stands in the yellow morning and receives it. He takes a few steps closer and holds out the envelope.
She stares at it. "What is—"
"The letter. I figured you'd need it soon."
She takes it slowly, turns it over in her hands. "When did you—" She looks up. "You could've done it later. When you were rested."
He waves her off. "I—uh—snuck upstairs for a bit. It was no problem."
"Jack. You've been on shift since—"
"It was the easiest letter I've ever had to write," he says simply. Like that settles it. Like there was never any question.
She looks down at the envelope again and feels something move through her chest, slow and warm and devastating. He wrote it tonight. Somewhere between the procedure at two in the morning and right now, he sat down and wrote her out of this hospital with his own hands and then came to find her to give it to her in person.
She takes a few steps closer. She thinks about the four years of him keeping his distance, the careful professional register he maintained so consistently she'd almost convinced herself she'd imagined everything underneath it. Almost. He is her superior and he has always known it, has always held that line with a kind of grim integrity that she respected and resented in equal measure. She used to think it was just how he was. Then she started to understand it was a choice he made, daily, because he thought it was the right thing.
She wonders what changed. She wonders if it was always going to be now, at the last possible moment, when she is already leaving.
"What can I do," he says, "to make you stay, Samira?"
And there it is. Years of it, finally said out loud in a parking lot at seven in the morning with the sun coming up behind him and the envelope still warm in her hands.
"Jack—"
"I mean it."
"I know you mean it." She exhales. "That's the problem."
He looks at her and she looks back, the morning sitting between them.
"You're leaving," he says, making peace with it in real time. She can see him doing it.
"I'm leaving," she confirms.
"And I'm—" he stops. Laughs once, short and humorless, looks at the ground. "I'm four years too late and I know that. I kept the line because it was the right thing and I would do it again and I hate that I would do it again."
"I know."
She thinks about pushing on a bruise. How she has been thinking about him exactly like that for so long, returning to the ache of it, the specific tenderness that proves something real is underneath.
"I don't want you to stay because I asked you to," he says. "That's not what I want for you." He shakes his head. "I want you here with me. Of course I do. But I also want you out there. Being the best. Conquering the world." A pause. "In a place where your skills are truly seen. Where you are appreciated the way you deserve to be appreciated." He says this last part like it hurts him and like he means it completely, both things at once, and she understands that this is what love looks like when it is being honest about itself.
"You should go. I know you should go. You'd never forgive yourself if you didn't try."
He steps closer. His hands come up to her face, gentle and certain, cupping her jaw, and she reaches up and covers them with hers. His hands are warm. She can feel the steadiness in them, the same steadiness that has been there every time he has stood next to her in a trauma bay, every time he has talked her down from the edge of her own doubt.
"Then why are you—"
"Because I needed you to know." His voice is low and certain and it moves through her. "Before you go. I needed you to know."
He looks at her the way he has always looked at her, and then he says the things he has never said, the things he has been keeping in the closed-off rooms all these years and he says them plainly, without decoration, the way he says everything he means.
"You are the most brilliant doctor I have trained in twenty years of doing this," he says. "And I don't say that lightly and I don't say it to make you feel good. I say it because it is the most accurate thing I know." His thumbs move slightly against her cheekbones. "You are going to change things, Samira. I have watched you work for four years and I have thought, every single time, that medicine is lucky to have you. That our patients were lucky to have you. That I was—" he stops, voice faltering. "That I was lucky to have you."
Her eyes are going wet. She is so tired of crying today and she is going to cry again anyway.
"I know that maybe you didn't want to hear this from me. That maybe there was someone else you—" he doesn't finish it. They both know who lives in that sentence. "And I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry that wasn't what it should have been for you."
She looks down, feeling naive and little, then back up at him.
"I thought I did," she says. "For a long time, I thought that's what I wanted. For him to—" she stops. Shakes her head. "But that doesn't matter now."
"Samira—"
"It doesn't," she says, and she means it, he can hear that she means it, maybe for the first time. "It really doesn't."
"And for what it's worth," she adds, something almost like a smile finding her face, small and tired and real, "I could've gone without you ever saying any of this out loud and I would've known anyway." She looks at him steadily. "You always made it clear, Jack. Every single day, in every way you knew how." A pause. "So. Thank you for that."
"It was the easiest thing in the world. I didn't think," he says, quieter now, "that I could feel like this again. About anyone." He says it like a confession. "I had made my peace with that. Or I thought I had. And then you walked into my ED and I realized, slowly and then all at once, that I had not made any peace at all. I had just been waiting without knowing I was waiting."
"Jack...I'm still leaving," she says, not necessarily a warning nor a wall - just the truth, offered to him honestly, because he deserves that. “I want you to know that. Whatever this is, whatever today is — I'm still going. And I don't know what that means for—" she stops. "I don't want you to say any of this and then resent me for it later."
Her breath catches. Jack laughs softly - at himself, at the situation - shakes his head.
"I will love you either way, Samira. I will love you if I see you every week and I will love you if I never see you again."
She breaks, a little - politely as always, trying not to make a mess of it.
And then he kisses her, and it is so sweet.
It is not desperate. It is the kiss of a man who has thought about this for years and is taking his sweet time now that he finally can, slow and so tender it makes her eyes go wet all over again. She kisses him back with everything she has, which is considerable, and he feels it move through him like a current. She makes a small sound against his mouth and her hands find his chest first, then move up and then her fingers are in his hair and she is pulling him closer and he goes willingly, gratefully, his hands still cradling her face like something he cannot believe he gets to hold.
He has never been so glad of anything in his life.
When they finally pull back he rests his forehead against hers, both of them breathing. The morning is fully here now, the sky gone from pink to gold, and somewhere across the country California exists, waiting for her, indifferent and bright and full of everything she is going toward. She closes her eyes for a moment. He pulls back just enough to look at her. His thumbs still at her cheekbones. His eyes asking something his mouth is leaving up to her.
He asks again. ”What can I do, Samira?”
He wasn't hers. She wasn't his. But he was so good at making her feel like they belonged to each other. Like the wanting went both ways, somewhere between forever and nothing there was a room with both their names on it and they had both always known where the door was. She has given this place everything she had. She is leaving in pieces and she is leaving whole, both true at once.
Maybe in some other version of this - some kinder dimension where neither of them had anything to lose and the line didn't exist and she wasn't leaving - they would have found each other sooner. They would have been taller there, she thinks. She would have let herself be loved without first checking whether she deserved it and he would have reached for her without needing the permission of her leaving to finally do it.
Maybe in that place they get the whole thing. The ordinary life of them, coffee and arguments and waking up together on a Sunday, all the mundane sacred dailiness of two people who chose each other without the clock running out. But she knows what she wants now.
"Take me home, Jack," she says softly. "Will you?"
Something in his face opens, a window in a room that has been closed a very long time. He has spent years wanting things he wouldn't allow himself. He is done with that now.
“Of course. Whatever you want, Samira." he says.
She smiles at him. He takes her hand and tips his head down, pressing his lips to her hair. A kiss that says I see you and I have always seen you and there are three thousand miles between here and there and I will love you across every single one of them. I will follow you anywhere. I will find you again.
summary: flashbacks from cillian’s pov trace the unraveling of a long marriage, his struggle to feel at home in his own life, and the slow, startling way you slip into the spaces he thought were closed off for good.
pairing: cillian murphy x popstar!reader
word count: 5.1k
warnings: angst. cussing, slight age gap, mentions of alcohol and divorce. no use of y/n, heavily inspired by ts and ttpd. if i missed something please let me know. (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this, most importantly cillian's wife, who im sure is a sweetheart irl. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)
a/n: hi everyone! i know it's been a long time and idk if there are people who are still interested in this but i got time and inspiration and decided to finish a draft i had of this so enjoy!
masterlist
Three years ago
The flat smelled like burnt food and eucalyptus, which probably meant someone had tried to cook and then lit a candle to hide the shame. He liked that. Places that weren’t perfect. Places where mugs didn’t match and the bookshelves sagged in the middle and people talked over each other because they were used to being heard.
Tom’s place had always been like that, half bohemian, half collapsing under the weight of a thousand dinner parties. He’d known Tom since his theater days. Now Tom was thirty-something and had a flat in Kentish Town with framed posters of old New Order gigs and a group of friends who were somehow all beautiful and vaguely in bands.
Cillian stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the lounge, nursing a bottle of beer that was too warm. The cap had twisted off like it had been opened and closed again. There was probably a metaphor in that, but he didn’t feel like reaching for it.
The lights were low. The birthday banner drooped. Someone had queued Selfless by The Strokes on the old speakers in the corner, and that was when he noticed you.
Sitting on the counter, one hand wrist-deep in a bowl of crisps like you were digging for treasure.
You looked the same, more or less. Hair a bit longer. A thin gold chain catching the light at your neck. You were talking to someone he didn’t recognize, someone tall and too interested, and Cillian found himself moving into the kitchen before he thought better of it. As he approached you, the guy you were talking with turned to him and flashed a quick, polite smile before exiting the room.
“You’re treating that snack bowl like it owes you money,” he said, leaning one shoulder against the fridge.
You looked up and smiled like you’d already known he was there. “It does. For emotional damages.”
That made him laugh. Not much had changed. Same wit. Same sharp tongue softened at the edges by whatever you were drinking. Same way you said things like you were writing the scene as you lived it.
“I thought you were on tour,” he said, even though he already knew you’d wrapped last week. He still followed the breadcrumbs for some reason he didn't quite know. Quietly.
“Finished. Now I’m drinking gin and pretending I know anyone here besides Tom and you.”
He opened the cupboard, found the limes—of course he knew where Tom kept them. He’d been here enough. He pulled out a knife and started slicing.
“You’re very domestic tonight,” you said.
“Because I know where the citrus lives?”
“Exactly. Only someone terrifyingly well-adjusted knows where the citrus lives in a flat that isn’t theirs.”
He handed you a wedge. You took it. Your fingers touched. Nothing happened. Or maybe everything did, but it passed between you like a secret handshake.
He couldn’t quite remember when the friendship had happened. It had just… formed. Not in any grand, operatic fashion, but in the half-lit spaces of afterparties and dressing rooms, in the back corners of award shows where the music was too loud and the air too thin.
He’d never quite known what made you linger by his side. He wasn’t charming in the way others were; he wasn’t boisterous or easy with strangers. He could be taciturn to a fault, drawn inward in ways that often puzzled those who tried to get close. But you hadn’t seemed to mind. You didn’t ask much. You didn’t require performances from him, which was, perhaps, the most generous thing anyone had ever offered.
You looked tired, not in a way that detracted from beauty, but in the way that revealed it. The dark circles beneath your eyes only made you seem more real to him, more here. Your face, though bare and worn by travel, still radiated something luminous. It struck him suddenly that he would rather be in this room with you, half-drained and mouth full of chips, than anywhere else.
You didn’t see each other often; you worked too much, and he avoided crowds as if his life depended on it, but you were his go-to when he wanted to talk about everything and nothing. When he wanted a pint without pretense. When he wanted to feel less like a man who had lived too many lives and more like someone simply living.
And yet, you made space for him in texts sent from dressing rooms, in little voice notes from long drives, in postcards you still insisted on sending when you passed through strange towns. He’d find your handwriting scrawled with a song lyric or a line from a book you’d once talked about over a long, tipsy dinner.
Cillian often felt petulant and sullen in moments like this, like some adolescent boy in a novel who can’t bear to admit he’s fond of someone. It was odd. He was 46, for Christ’s sake, and still, the feeling remained. He thought of his home, of the quiet rhythm of it. His children; teenagers now, making their own way. His wife, whom he loved with a steadiness that had grown stronger with time. He didn’t question that.
But something in you made him feel like a version of himself he didn’t get to be very often: someone looser, a little less haunted by the passage of time.
He wasn’t sure what that meant. Perhaps nothing at all.
And yet, standing beside you in this kitchen, the air filled with the sound of some easy rock song that he didn't recognize but fit the moment so perfectly from the speaker in the other room, he felt… moved. That was all. Not by desire, but by the strange grace of it all. The luck of knowing someone who asked nothing of him and yet gave so much.
"You okay there, Cill?"
He blinked. "Sure, why?"
You grinned and reached for the salt-rimmed glass you’d just finished assembling. "You spaced out for a moment there. Looked like you were about to write a sonnet about the limes."
He gave a soft laugh, one that curled up at the edges. “I was composing an elegy, actually. For the last lime that gave its life for your very elaborate drink.”
“Ah, a noble fruit. Gone too soon.” You held your glass up, inspecting it like a critic. “I like to think it died for a good cause.”
He smiled at that. You were closing the cap of the gin, and he saw how your mouth moved along with the lyrics of the song.
"You know this?"
"Yeah, Falling Apart by Slow Pulp. Band from Wisconsin. They're really good."
He nodded. It never ceased to surprise him how easily you seemed to know so many different songs. Ones he’d never even heard the name of, let alone placed. That was your thing. Not in a showy kind of way, but in a quieter, almost accidental sense. You just absorbed things—bands, lyrics, odd bits of trivia—like someone always half-listening to the world and somehow catching all the good parts.
“You still writing things down on napkins?”
You smile at him with reticence, as if you're not sure if he's mocking you or genuinely interested. "Sometimes," you admit, reaching into your front pocket to pull out a crumpled napkin with scribbled lyrics on it. "It's your lucky night, Murphy."
You hold it out to him, and he takes it, careful with it. Reads. His brow tugs faintly inward.
You couldn't have, you couldn't have
Stuck your tongue down the throat of somebody
Who loves you more
So I will wait for the next time you want me
Like a dog with a bird at your door
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Jesus.”
He doesn’t look at you right away. He often wonders who and what inspires these lyrics, but he knows better than to ask. Maybe he'll find out one day.
“Good Jesus or bad Jesus?” you ask lightly, though your voice has a soft edge to it.
“Definitely good Jesus,” he says, and when he finally meets your eyes, there’s something close to awe in them. He could swear your cheeks go a little red. “Yeah… those don’t always make it to the albums. Too sad. Too…"
"Too intense, too beautiful, perhaps?"
"Perhaps."
He folds the napkin, deliberately, and places it on the counter.
“So,” you said, glancing at him again, “how are your boys?”
The question landed gently, but with weight. He wasn’t sure why it surprised him. You always asked like you meant it.
“They’re good,” he said, then paused. “They’re… them. You know?”
You looked at him, waiting.
“They’re taller every time I see them. One of them suddenly got opinions about music, and the other’s convinced he’s going to reinvent Star Wars.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Reinvent it?”
“Yeah. Not watch it. Reinvent it. From scratch. He says the Jedi ‘need a rebrand.’”
You laughed. “He’s not wrong.”
He grinned. “He’s fifteen.”
“That’s even better. Delusions of grandeur start early.”
“Oh, totally. And now they mock every movie I’ve ever been in. One of them saw Sunshine recently and texted me, ‘You were kinda jacked in this, what happened.’"
You broke into a laugh that made the kitchen feel warmer.
“That’s brutal.”
He shook his head. “Unprovoked! I’m just there, making coffee, and I get roasted by a teenager on a random Tuesday.”
“You’ve raised little comedians.”
“Monsters,” he corrected, but he was smiling. “But funny ones.”
He watches you bring your drink to your lips and take a sip. "And how’s work?” you asked, your voice casual but not distracted.
He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Long days lately. Like—twelve, fourteen hours sometimes. And all of it… heavy.”
You tilted your head. “What are you working on again?”
He hesitated, out of habit more than secrecy. “Just this biopic thing. Period piece. Lots of suits and silence.”
“Sounds intense,” you said, and he caught the twitch of a smile. You already knew. Maybe not the full scope, but enough.
“It is,” he admitted. “Chris is directing it, so it’s very… you know.”
“Precise?”
He laughed under his breath. “That’s a polite way of putting it.”
“I try,” you said, raising your cup like a toast.
He shook his head fondly. “It’s good, though. Just… there are days when I go home and I can still hear the echo of it. In my chest, you know? Like it stays with you.”
“Sounds like it’s living in you.”
He nodded slowly, not needing to say more.
You were quiet for a beat, looking down at the rim of your cup, then back up at him. “Do you like that? When a role sticks like that?”
He thought about it. “I do. But it’s exhausting. Being in someone else’s skin that long. I forget how to come back to mine.”
You didn’t say anything for a second. Just stared at your drink, thinking.
Then, with sudden brightness, you pointed to the far end of the kitchen. “Hand me that. The bowl.”
He turned and spotted it: a tacky plastic bowl filled with leftover party favors. Glow sticks, plastic rings, candy bracelets, and—
He frowned. “Are those temporary tattoos?”
“Bingo.”
You dug through it until you found what you were looking for—a small sheet with a red anatomical heart, inked in simple black lines.
You held it up. “We’re fixing your identity crisis.”
He gave you a look. “What, with a cartoon organ?”
“It’s symbolic,” you said, dead serious. “It means you’re still in there. Somewhere.”
“You’re mental.”
“Absolutely. Wrist, please.”
Cillian sighed but extended his wrist. You pressed the tattoo to his skin, smoothing it carefully with a damp paper towel.
When you peeled it back, the little heart gleamed on his pale skin, red and stubborn.
“There,” you said, satisfied. “Now if you forget who you are, just look down.”
He stared at it. It was silly, sure. Childish. But it stayed with him more than he wanted it to.
“You always do this,” he said softly.
“What?”
“Make things feel like they mean more.”
You shrugged. “Maybe they already do.”
Before he could respond, someone popped their head into the kitchen. “Hey, Cillian—someone's looking for you!”
He nodded, muttered something, but didn’t move just yet.
As you hopped down from the counter, you brushed your knuckles gently over the edge of his wrist, not intimate, not anything that could be mistaken.
“I’ll see you out there,” you said with a small smile.
And you were gone.
But the tattoo stayed. All the way home. All the next day. Faint by the third, but not forgotten.
He kept the empty wrapper in his coat pocket longer than he’d ever admit.
Two years ago
He didn’t usually call. A text, maybe. A link dropped without context. Sometimes a photo of a record sleeve with nothing but a question mark. That was his language. Disjointed, implicit, safe.
But that night, it felt strange not to hear you. He missed your voice without realizing it. So he rang. He was at home, barefoot in his kitchen, leaning against the counter with a chipped mug of tea going cold beside him. It was half past eleven. Rain tapped against the windows in a steady rhythm. The house was dark except for the glow from above the stove. Everyone was asleep. Or pretending to be.
You picked up on the third try. He imagined you squinting at the screen, confused.
“Cill?” you said, soft, like you weren’t sure it was really him.
“You’re alive,” he said.
“You’re calling,” you shot back. “Is this an emergency?”
“Sort of. I’m down to the wire for the BBC show. Need a final track to close it out. I’ve gone blank.”
You sighed, mock-dramatic. “And naturally, I’m the emergency contact for all musical meltdowns.”
“You say that like it’s not an honor."
“Right. I’ve been training for this since you sent me a My Bloody Valentine CD that didn’t even play.”
“It played,” he said. “Eventually.”
You laughed. He closed his eyes for a second. It was strange, the kind of tranquility that settled when you were on the other end of the line. Like his brain stopped buzzing so loudly.
“Alright,” you said, like you were taking out a clipboard. “Give me the vibe.”
“I don’t know. It’s late. Something bleak, but not dramatic. Something that sounds like headlights hitting wet pavement. Like… the moment just after you say too much.”
“Oh, so your usual brand.”
“Exactly.”
You hummed thoughtfully. “Okay. The Gold. But not the Manchester Orchestra one. Phoebe’s version.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, letting the idea move through him like a slow tide. He could hear it already: the hush in her voice, the spaces in the song like breaths held too long.
“Yeah,” he said. “Fuck. That’s good.”
“Bit understated, maybe. But it aches in the right places.”
He nodded, then realized again that you couldn’t see him.
“What about Fiona?” he asked, softly.
"Which one?"
He hesitated. “Something with teeth, but slow. A little bitter.”
You didn’t even hesitate. “I Know. But I don’t think you’re brave enough.”
“Maybe not for radio.”
“No. But for sitting alone in your kitchen at midnight? Absolutely.”
He glanced at the clock. 11:37 PM.
“Are you spying on me?”
“Is the mug in your hand chipped?”
He looked down. It was. He smiled. “Alright, that’s scary.”
“I know you. That’s all.”
A pause settled there. Not heavy. Not expectant. Just full.
He leaned into the silence. Let it rest between you like steam on glass.
“How’ve you been?” he asked, quieter now.
“I’m okay. Just busy. Trying not to go feral.”
“Hard this time of year.”
“Hard all the time.”
He swallowed. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“No.”
“Did I do something?”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he hated them.
Not because they weren’t sincere, they were, but because they sounded so small. Boyish. Clumsy in a way that made him wince.
There was a pause on your end. Just a second. But in that space, something in him collapsed inward, like a wave folding in on itself before it ever touches the shore.
He wasn’t the sort of man who asked questions like that. Not out loud. Not unless something had already broken. But this wasn’t that. You hadn’t vanished. There’d been no fight. No rupture. Maybe a low-grade drifting apart.
So why had he said it?
It embarrassed him, how easily the insecurity surfaced. How unguarded he’d been with you.
He felt like a teenager again, pacing his old bedroom with the corded phone pressed to his ear, trying to decode silences and second-guess tones. Only now he was nearly fifty, married, greying, a father, and still, somehow, wondering if someone he cared about was slowly backing away and he just hadn’t noticed the first step.
He rubbed the back of his neck. The air felt closer now. Heavy with something unsayable.
Maybe you’d just outgrown him. Maybe he was a relic to you now. Someone who used to be sharp and strange and full of fire, and had become reliable. Predictable. The kind of man who talked about which tea was his favorite and forgot to text back.
You hadn’t answered yet. And that silence, it wasn’t unkind. But it gave him time to feel stupid.
Juvenile.
Then: “No, of course not. Why would you—life's just… messy.”
He nodded, rubbing his temple. “Yeah.”
There was a comfort to this, talking in circles, never quite landing on the thing. It was safer that way.
“You want a few more recs?” you offered gently.
“Please.”
You rattled off a few titles—some he knew, some he didn’t. He wrote nothing down. He’d remember.
“Alright,” you said after a minute, voice lighter. “Get back to your tortured-artist hour. Don’t forget to pretend the playlist was all your idea.”
He smiled again. “Wouldn’t dream of giving you credit.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Thanks.”
A pause. Then, a little softer: “Call me next time before you lose the plot, yeah? Not after.”
He let that settle.
“Yeah,” he said. “I will.”
You didn’t say goodbye, and neither did he.
The line just ended, but the air still felt full.
Later that night, he’d listen to The Gold on his earbuds, staring at the ceiling. He wouldn't play it on the show.
Some things, he figured, were just for him.
One year ago
Cillian let the door close behind him with a soft click. He dropped his bag by the wall, coat damp and clinging, and stood there for a moment like he wasn’t sure if he should even come in.
She was at the sink, arms folded, the radio low. The Smiths—her music, not his.
Oh, Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head…
He tried to joke. “Christ, you always put that one on when you’re in a mood.”
She turned slowly. “You were meant to be home hours ago.”
“I told you there were interviews—”
“And I told you the boys had their thing tonight.”
His face fell. “Fuck. I thought that was tomorrow.”
“Course you did.”
“I’m sorry, alright?”
“Sorry doesn’t show up and clap for them, does it?”
He bit the inside of his cheek, then shrugged his coat off. “It’s not like I was out partying.”
“No, you were playing the genius on red carpets. Like always.”
He frowned. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make me out to be the villain for doing my job. I provide—”
She cut him off, sharp now. “No one asked you to be a martyr, Cillian.”
He stared at her, then looked away. “It’s never enough for you, is it?”
“No,” she said, quietly. “Because I stopped needing anything from you a while ago.”
That silenced him. For a long beat, they just stood there. The kettle clicked off behind her, forgotten.
He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “What’s that meant to mean?”
“It means I’m tired.” She took a shaky breath. “Of living with a ghost.”
“I’ve been working. For us. For the family.”
“No. You’ve been working for you. You just bring the rest of us along like luggage.”
That one hurt. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed now too, mirroring her. “You think I like being away all the time? You think I don’t miss anything?”
“I think you miss the idea of us,” she said. “Not the actual people. Not me.”
He scoffed. “Right. So now I’m some selfish bastard who doesn’t care about his own family.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t care,” she said, suddenly weary. “I said you’re not here.”
They both fell quiet. The tension deflated a little, not resolved, just worn out.
The song kept playing in the background. “If you're so funny, then why are you on your own tonight?”
She sat at the table. He didn’t follow immediately.
Then, finally, he moved, slowly, and sat across from her. His eyes were red around the edges.
He wasn’t crying, not quite. But close.
“You know what’s sad?” he said. “I don’t even know how to fix this.”
She nodded, small. “I don’t think it needs fixing. I think it’s already done.”
He looked at her like he was seeing someone he used to know.
“Feels like quitting.”
“No,” she said softly. “Feels like letting go.”
He didn’t argue.
They didn’t talk about lawyers.
Or the kids.
Or who’d move out.
But it was decided—it was over.
Six months ago
He spotted you the second he stepped into the afterparty, Oscar in hand, tie slightly loosened, the rush of the night still humming in his chest like static.
You were in black. He had no idea what kind of fabric it was, something silky, maybe satin, maybe sin itself, but it moved like a whisper every time you turned your head. And you turned your head a lot when you laughed, which was often, and usually at your own expense.
You caught his eye across the room and beamed. Not politely. Not for show. Just for him.
“Congratulations,” you said as he approached, already grinning. “I told you. I said it this morning, didn’t I?”
“You did,” he said. “Very cocky of you.”
“Well. I like to back a winner.”
He held the statue up between you. “Still doesn’t feel real.”
“I was sitting there,” you said, “clutching my wine, and I swear to God, I nearly screamed. You looked so… stunned. Like you’d wandered into the wrong part of the building.”
“I sort of had.”
He was still looking at you. You were incandescent. That’s what his wife used to say about women who dressed up for events like this. Incandescent, like they were catching fire from the inside. That’s how you looked now.
You sipped your drink. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah.” He paused. “Just… haven’t really breathed since I got up there.”
“Well then, Mr. Murphy, I propose we fix that.”
You clinked your glass gently against the edge of his Oscar. “To breathing.”
“To breathing,” he said, almost smiling.
There was no tension. Not yet. You were just talking and talking, the way you did when you were nervous, he’d noticed that early on, how the nerves never silenced you, just made you funnier, quicker, a little more dangerous.
“Can I say something, and don’t get all awkward about it?”
“That’s a good way to begin any sentence, love.”
“I’m really, really proud of you,” you said. And you weren’t performing it. There was no gush, no faux gravitas. Just steady, sincere admiration. “I know you hate all this. And I know you’d rather be anywhere but here. But you did it. And it’s well deserved.”
He wanted to say something. Something clever, something cutting, something about how no award ever felt better than standing in front of you and hearing you say that. But then—
“Murphy!” someone shouted. He turned half toward the voice, nodded.
And that’s when he arrived.
Tall, sharp-jawed, confident in the way only a certain breed of actors ever were. He looked vaguely familiar, an indie darling or maybe someone who’d played a Marvel villain, and Cillian already didn’t like him.
“Hey,” the man said, shaking Cillian’s hand. “Congrats, brilliant work. Seriously.” Then he turned to you, and his whole posture changed. Opened. Brightened. “And you—massive fan, love your music. You’re fantastic.”
You smiled, caught off guard. “Thank you.”
“I know this is forward,” he said, with all the charm of someone used to getting yeses, “but would you dance with me?”
There was a split-second pause. You looked to Cillian, maybe checking his expression, maybe expecting him to interject, to say she’s with me, even though you weren’t.
But he only stepped aside.
“Go on,” he said lightly, hand slipping into his pocket. “He’s not wrong.”
You laughed once, softly, and took the man’s hand.
Cillian watched them walk toward the dance floor. He didn’t follow. He didn’t joke. He just stood there, silent, invisible now, holding a golden statue, watching someone else make you laugh.
From across the room, his wife caught his eye. She was sitting with one of the boys, her body turned inward, her smile faint, familiar. She raised her glass in his direction, not as celebration, but as habit.
He didn’t go to her, either.
He stood in the center of it all.
He didn’t know why it felt like the loneliest moment of his life.
Three months ago
The back garden was still. Everything in it looked freshly washed, the grass slick and green, the patio stones pale under the sun, and the sky a wide, impossible blue.
Cillian sat on the back step, elbows on his knees, nursing a mug of tea he hadn’t touched in ten minutes. His sleeves were rolled up messily, and his shirt had one button undone too many. He wasn’t exactly unkempt. Just lived in.
The screen door creaked. His eldest stepped out, barefoot, holding a piece of toast in his mouth and his phone in one hand.
“You’re up,” Cillian said, glancing sideways.
“Technically.”
The boy sat beside him, stretching his long legs out onto the flagstone. “It’s hot.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“It is.”
Cillian squinted at him. “You’d think the sun was a threat, the way you talk.”
“I’ve got delicate Irish skin.”
“You’ve got lazy Irish skin.”
That earned him a small grin. They sat in companionable silence for a bit, just listening. The birds were busy, and somewhere over the fence, someone’s radio was playing a bit of Van Morrison—just loud enough for Cillian to catch a few chords.
"Have you talked to Mum recently?"
"No, not really."
There was caution in his voice.
“I didn’t want her to go,” he said after a while, not looking at his son. “I asked her to stay. I tried.”
“I know.”
The boy paused to take a bite of his toast. Crumbs scattered over the step. “She called us yesterday."
Cillian didn’t react, just blinked out at the lavender near the fence, heavy-headed and swaying with the early heat. “Yeah?”
"She told me not to let you sulk,” his son said eventually.
Cillian raised an eyebrow. “She said sulk?”
“She said, and I quote, ‘Don’t let your father turn into some tragic novelist just because we broke up.’”
Cillian snorted, then laughed, a full, warm sound that cracked something open in the air. “Christ.”
“She said you’d probably buy a typewriter.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Please don’t.”
Cillian gave him a sidelong look. “What if I start writing poetry? Mournful, rambling, heavily symbolic stuff. All lowercase.”
“Then I’m moving in with Mum.”
That got another laugh. It felt good, brief, ordinary, like the old days.
He set the mug down beside him and looked out at the garden, the stones they’d laid together one summer when the boys were small, the lavender bush she’d planted by the fence. It was still standing. Blooming, even.
"We're fine, Dad."
Cillian nodded. “That's all I care about.”
A pause.
“You going to be alright, too?”
He let the question settle. Then looked at his son, not at the baby he remembered, but the near-man beside him. Taller than him now, voice deeper, but the same eyes.
“Eventually.”
He didn’t miss her, exactly. That wasn’t the feeling. It was stranger than that, like stepping out of a house he’d lived in for years and turning to see it still there, the lights off, the curtains drawn. No hatred. No regret. Just the eerie hum of absence. They’d been kids when they married, barely formed people trying to build something permanent with borrowed tools.
Now it was over, and he was relieved, truly, but the quiet that followed unnerved him. He didn’t know what to do with it. Like his body was still adjusting to the lack of friction. It was easier, yes, and lighter. But sometimes, in the mornings especially, when the kettle was boiling and the boys were still asleep, he felt untethered. Like he should be bracing for something. Like his heart hadn’t caught up to the fact that there was no one to fight with anymore.
Just himself.
Another silence. Comfortable this time. Then—
“You’re not gonna start dating weird women now, are you?”
Cillian raised an eyebrow. “Define weird.”
“Like crystal-healing types. Or influencers. Or do videos about gut health. I’ve seen what happens to famous men after divorce, and it’s grim.”
He laughed, head back, deep and bright and surprised. Cillian grinned in spite of himself.
“That’s oddly specific.”
“I’ve been online.”
“I’ll try not to date anyone who’d make you need therapy.”
“No promises?”
“None whatsoever.”
They sat there, legs nearly touching, the kind of closeness that was earned slowly over years of school runs and bedtime stories and quiet disasters. The sun moved overhead like a lazy hand across a windowpane.
“D’you want to go into town?” the boy asked. “Could get those lemon things you hate.”
“I don’t hate them.”
“You say you do. Every time. After eating three.”
“I respect them. They’re complicated.”
“Right.”
Cillian stood and stretched, squinting at the sky like it owed him something. “Go put shoes on.”
The boy rolled his eyes and vanished back into the house, muttering something he couldn't make out.
Cillian lingered for a second longer. The house behind him, the garden ahead, and the quiet certainty that even broken things could hold shape in the light.
He picked up the mug and followed his son inside.
a/n: thank you for reading! please share your thoughts with me and don't forget to like or reblog.
summary: one summer with the man you can't have, but can't stop thinking about.
pairing: cillian murphy x popstar!reader
word count: 5.5k
warnings: 18+ (minors dni). mentions of sex. angst. cussing, slight age gap, mentions of alcohol and divorce. no use of y/n, heavily inspired by ts and ttpd. if i missed something please let me know. (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this, most importantly cillian's wife, who im sure is a sweetheart irl. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)
a/n: hi everyone! this turned out pretty long so i will be splitting it into parts so it's easier. next part will be posted soon. i hope you all have as much fun reading this as i had writing it. enjoy!
part two / part three
The breeze riffled through your hair as you drove, the sun warming your skin through the open windows. The Irish countryside stretching out before you, lush and green, with rolling hills and quaint villages dotting the landscape. The scent of wildflowers and the sound of nothing but the wind in the trees filled your senses.
It was rare, really. The silence, the feeling of complete freedom, and the solitude that enveloped you. A fleeting escape from the chaos of your everyday life.
The ping of your phone interrupted the peaceful moment. You tapped on the pop-up notification after briefly glancing at the directions to your destination. It was a message from Cillian. Well, two, actually. One was asking how far you were, and the other was a Spotify link followed by a question mark. Ever since he started hosting his bbc radio show, he's been sending you potential songs for his playlists to get your opinion. Not that he needs it anyway. But you always appreciate being included in his process.
Your lips curled into a smile as you clicked on the link. The familiar sound of The Blue Nile's "The Downtown Lights" flooded the car, instantly making you feel a wave of nostalgia. It's been ages since you've listened to that song. The synth-pop melody carries you up the pine-dotted path to where his house perches atop a hill, overlooking the crashing waves below. You've been here a couple of times, and yet it never gets less breathtaking. The Victorian architecture contrasting beautifully with the rugged coastline, creating a scene straight out of a painting.
The car glides right past the wrought iron gates, and you cut the engine in front of the stone steps leading up to the grand entrance. You shoot Cillian a quick text letting him know you're here, unbuckle your seat belt, and hop out of the car.
The June sun beats down on your skin instantly, heat radiating off the cobblestones as you open the backdoor to look through your bag for a hair tie. The smell of saltwater mingles with the sound of gulls overhead, sending you into sensory overload. "Gotcha," you mutter to yourself as you finally find the hair tie and pull your hair back into a loose bun.
"You drove here?" you hear him call out from behind you, his voice tinged with surprise. "And you're alone?" you turn around to see Cillian walking towards you, a curious expression on his face.
"I actually had to throw a tantrum to convince them to let me come alone," you reply with a chuckle, feeling a sense of pride at your small victory. "I was like, It's Ireland. What's the worst that could happen?"
Being who you are means being guarded against any potential danger or harm at all times, being driven to almost everywhere, and always having a security team around.
Cillian laughs, a sound that makes your heart flutter and makes you want to hear it again and again. "Well, I'm glad you made it here in one piece, love," he says with a grin. "You're not a very good driver."
Your cheeks flush with embarrassment. You did regret your decision to drive from the airport 10 minutes later when you realized you were on the wrong side of the road. But he didn't need to know that.
"I made it in one piece, didn't I?" you playfully retort, trying to salvage your wounded pride. Cillian chuckles and shakes his head with a twinkle in his eye. You stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. He looks good, you thought. Unbelievably good. Well rested. His jet black hair was perfectly styled, even though you know he didn't put any effort into it—the slightest hint of silver at the temples, his sharp jawline, and those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through you. Though they looked a little tired, as if he had been through a lot since the last time you saw him.
You quickly avert your gaze, feeling a rush of heat on your cheeks.
"It's good to see you," you finally manage to say, trying to sound casual. Cillian's smile softens, and he replies, "It's good to see you too." He opens his arms, inviting you in for a hug. The soft fabric of his t-shirt brushes against your skin as you embrace him, and for a moment, everything feels right in the world.
"Come on, let's get inside," he says, leading you towards the house. Once inside, you make your way to the kitchen. The house was quiet; you wondered if anyone else was home. Cillian's family wasn't by any means loud or boisterous, but the silence felt heavier than usual.
"You hungry, love?" Cillian asks, opening the fridge, pulling out a white ceramic container, and setting it up on the kitchen island. You take a seat on one of the stools while he stands across from you.
"For something sweet?" you smile, seeing the container filled with what seems to be a piece of strawberry sponge cake. His mom must've made it. "Always," you reply. He hands you a spoon and takes one for himself, the two of you sharing the dessert in comfortable silence.
Until he broke it.
"How was Madrid?" he asks softly.
"It was good, great crowd," you reply, taking another bite of the dessert. "But tiring," you add, feeling the exhaustion of the long trip settling in.
"How many nights did you perform?"
"Four."
"Jesus, that's quite a lot, isn't it?"
Your eyes meet his; confusion clear in your expression. "You think that's a lot? Didn't you used to do four or five nights in a row of the same play?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "for months…?
"Yeah, but that was a different kind of exhaustion," he explains, taking another bite. "Performing the way you do in front of a live audience for three hours is a whole different ball game, love."
Love.
There it was again. That godforsaken term of endearment that he seemed to throw around so casually. It made your heart race every time he said it, even though you knew it probably meant nothing to him. But the way he looked at you now, with a hint of admiration in his eyes, made you wonder if maybe—
"Want the last bite?" he offered, taking you out of your thoughts. He pushed the container towards you, a small smile playing on his lips. His gaze was intense, as if silently urging you to take it.
"Oh, hello," a voice exclaimed from behind you, breaking the moment. You drop the spoon on the counter, a little startled. As if you were caught in the act of something forbidden. You turned around to see Yvonne, Cillian's wife. She said your name with a surprised tone, making you feel guilty for some reason. "I didn't know you were here," she continued, her eyes flickering between you and her husband.
You started to rise from your seat, confusion clouding your thoughts. That's weird. Cillian usually lets his wife know when you're visiting, but this time it seems like he didn't. She walked towards you, enveloping you in a hug. "When did you get here?" she said.
"Not long ago," you replied, relieved that she didn't seem upset. "I, uh, wanted to take a break and thought Ireland might be a good place to do that," you added, hoping to diffuse any tension that may have arisen. She nodded understandingly. "And you're staying here?"
"Oh, no, no," you quickly assured her. "I rented a place nearby, so you don't have to worry about me."
"Nonsense," Cillian interjected. "You can stay here. There's plenty of room."
"She's already paid for it, Cillian," Yvonne retorted, giving him a stern look.
Something was definitely off.
This was the last thing you wanted. You've specifically chosen the cottage for two reasons. First, to have space. The whole point of this trip was to finally have peace and write music. You've been stuck for months, not being able to find inspiration in your usual surroundings. Everything felt dull inside you all day, an emptiness that was smothering.
Second, you needed to stay the fuck away from Cillian. Being close to him was dangerous territory, one you didn't want to navigate right now. The plan was to come and visit and occasionally hang out and that's it. The thought of being in such close quarters with him was overwhelming. Staying here meant risking your heart and sanity.
You hesitated, also not wanting to intrude on their space but Cillian insisted.
"Okay…How about if I stay for a couple of days and then move to the cottage?" you suggested, hoping to compromise. "Sounds perfect to me," he said.
This was going to be a long summer.
For the next few days, you dream too much, don't write enough, and try to find inspiration everywhere. As you settled into the routine of staying at Cillian's, you found yourself enjoying the peaceful surroundings and his company more than you expected. The days seemed to blend together, filled with laughter, deep conversations, and stolen glances that left your heart racing.
But you also felt constantly distracted by his presence, making it difficult to focus on your writing or anything else, for that matter.
All you could think about was him.
The piano room surrounded you with its warm, inviting atmosphere, and you found yourself drawn to it more often than not. The big windows overlooking the garden let in streams of sunlight, casting a warm glow over the bookshelf. You felt the softness of the carpet as you sat on the grand piano bench, running your fingers along the keys absentmindedly.
You started humming a tune that had been stuck in your head for days, the words appearing softly and effortlessly as you played:
Please
I've been on my knees
Change the prophecy
Don't want money
Just someone who wants my company
[Hum, Hum, Hum]
Who do I have to speak to
About if they can redo
The prophecy?
The humming went on whenever you didn't know what to say next, filling in the gaps between the notes on the piano and the lyrics:
A greater woman has faith
[Hum, Hum, Hum]
I'm so afraid I sealed my fate
No sign of soulmates
I'm just a paperweight
[Hum, Hum, Hum]
Spending my last coin so someone will tell me
It'll be ok
[Hum, Hum, Hum]
The melody filled the room until you stopped abruptly, frustrated that the lyrics weren't coming as easily as before. You closed your eyes with a groan, trying to clear your mind. "Fuck," you muttered under your breath, elbows resting on the keys of the piano.
"You good?" Cillian's rough voice broke through your frustration, causing you to look up and offer a weak smile. You don't know how long he's been standing there or how much he heard of your struggles. "Just hitting a wall with this song," you admitted, running a hand through your hair.
"Ah, I see," he nodded sympathetically. He moved towards the records stacked on the shelf and pulled one out, placing it on the turntable. "I don't want to mess with your creative process or anything, but maybe a break with some music will help," he suggested.
Radiohead's "Fake Plastic Trees" began to play, taking over the room with its haunting melody.
"So you play one of the saddest songs ever?" you deadpanned, "Thanks."
He chuckled softly, "You were playing some pretty intense stuff; I figured it would fit right in."
Oh, so he did hear you.
"Ah, I know it's different from my usual stuff," you said quietly, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious about your music. "I might scrap that one. They might not be onboard with the change."
"And why's that?"
Thom Yorke's voice faded into the background as you contemplated his question, unsure of how to respond.
You shrugged, "I listen to sad music, not make it."
"I liked what I heard," he reassured you, "and change is good. It keeps things interesting."
His low voice was soothing, and you found yourself feeling more at ease with the idea of trying something new. Pop has been your comfort zone for so long, it's what stands out of you, but most importantly, it's what sells. At least, that's what's important to the industry. Maybe it was time to push yourself out of it.
"I guess you're right," you replied, a faint smile creeping onto your face.
"As always," he said, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. He stood leaning against the table where the record player sat, arms crossed, looking as if he had too many things to say and not enough words for them.
"Would this be a good time to ask you if everything's okay?" you inquired, noticing the weight of unspoken thoughts in his eyes. "With Yvonne, I mean," you added, nervous to bring up the topic.
That first day, when you arrived at the house, you could sense there was something going on between them. Something bad. The tension in the air was so obvious, but you didn't want to pry. However, as the days went by, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that she hadn't been around or the absence of a certain ring on his finger.
"And here, I thought you were never going to ask," he replied, his words laced with sarcasm.
"I was waiting for you to bring it up," your voice trailed off, unsure of how to proceed. "I-I didn't want to overstep."
He studied you for a moment, or at least, you assumed that was what he was doing. Finally, he averted his gaze and cleared his throat,"We've separated."
A cold feeling settled in your chest as you processed his words. The reality of the situation hit you like a ton of bricks, and suddenly everything made sense. "Cillian," is all you managed to say, the concern evident in your voice.
He still wouldn't look at you. Knowing him, in moments like this, he wouldn't want to be coddled or pitied, so you save your apologies for later.
"What happened?"
He waved his hand dismissively, still avoiding your gaze. "Nothing, really," he said, his tone final. He didn't look upset, but rather resigned to the situation. "It hadn't been working for a long time; we both knew it was coming. I guess we were holding on for the boys more than anything." You could see the sadness in his eyes, despite his attempt to appear nonchalant. The weight of his words hung in the air, leaving you feeling defeated and unsure of what to say next. You don't think there's anything you can say that will make this or him feel better.
And boy, did you wish you could take away his pain with just a few words.
Cillian walked slowly over the piano, stopping in front of it. He streched his arms over the wooden soundboard, gripping the edges tightly as if seeking some sort of solace in the instrument. He finally looked at you.
"Why didn't you say anything, Cill?" you asked softly, "I would've—"
"You would've what?" he interrupted, his voice strained with emotion. "I didn't want to worry you, you have more important things than my marital issues."
You could see the pain in his eyes, and it tore at your heart to see him suffering in silence. "You're my friend. These things are important to me, Cill," you said gently, reaching out to touch his hand in a gesture of comfort. He flinched slightly at your touch, but then relaxed, leaning into your hand.
He didn't say anything, but you knew he appreciated your words. You could tell by the way his shoulders slumped in relief and the way his fingers loosened their grip on the edge of the piano.
One morning, you woke up to the wind gently rustling through the trees outside your windows. The morning light was clear and clean, leaking through the glass and falling against the walls of the room in soft patterns. It felt too early to be awake, too peaceful to disturb the tranquility of the moment.
You roll over to look at the little clock on the bedside table: 6:20 AM. It wasn't worth trying to go back to sleep, so you threw the covers and climbed out of bed, feeling the cool wood floor beneath your feet as you walked to the bathroom.
You splash cold water on your face and brush your teeth, trying to wake yourself up fully. Holding up your hair, you tie it into a ponytail while walking over the bedside table to grab your phone and airpods. You put one in your ear and hit shuffle on one of your morning playlists. You couldn't function without some music. "Keep On Loving You" by Cigarettes After Sex starts playing.
On your way to the kitchen, you walked by Cillian's room and noticed the door was slightly ajar. Who the hell sleeps with their door open? Psychos, probably. Curiosity getting the best of you, you peeked inside to see him sprawled out on his bed, body illuminated by the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, characteristic warm and cool shades revealing every hollow and speck of bare muscle. He slept with every limb stretched out, a stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor. It was a rare sight, quite poetic.
He looked so peaceful, completely unaware of your presence. So you let your mind wander.
You imagined yourself crossing the room, pulling yourself on top of him. You imagined the way his bare body would look beneath you, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his dark hair messy around his face, his skin warm against yours. His hands—rough and soft at the same time—running over your thigh, your breast, your neck. You could almost feel the heat of his touch, the intensity of his gaze as he looked up at you.
But then reality snapped back into focus.
"Fuck," you muttered under your breath. This was just a fantasy, a dangerous game to play with someone who was somewhat off-limits. But truth be told, the temptation was becoming harder to resist with each passing moment. It was all you could think about ever since he told you about his troubled marriage.
It took a long time for your heartbeat to slow. You headed to the kitchen to get some coffee, hoping that the caffeine would help clear your mind. As you rummage through the cabinets for a mug, his voice startles you from behind. "Need some help with that?" he asks, making you jump.
For a moment you thought you were still imagining things, but you turn around to see him standing there with a t-shirt on as opposed to five minutes ago. Great, him walking around shirtless in his kitchen, sleepy-eyed, messy hair, and rough morning voice would've been lethal.
"I've got it, thanks," you reply, shaking the mug slightly in your hand. You quickly pour yourself some coffee and try to focus on the task at hand: looking for the sugar.
"Sleep well?" he asks, voice still husky from sleep, his accent more prominent. He's rifling through the cabinet for a mug of his own. You can't help but notice the way his muscles flex under his dark t-shirt as he reaches up. You hum in agreement, trying to hide your blush as you take a sip of your coffee. "You?"
"Grand," he replies, pouring himself a cup of coffee and leaning against the counter. You exchange small talk about the upcoming day, but your mind keeps drifting back to how good he looks in the morning light.
"Any plans for today other than locking yourself in the piano room?" he teases, and you shoot him a playful glare. "Maybe I'll actually venture outside for once," you quip, laughing.
"How does the beach sound like?" he asks, "The boys are coming over, and they're bringing some friends, and I thought a trip would be a nice change of scenery."
"I could use some sun," you admit, feeling a smile tug at your lips.
"Let's make it a beach day then," he suggests, setting his mug on the sink. "We leave at 10, piano woman."
"Ha ha, very funny," you say sarcastically, rolling your eyes. "But I'll hold you to it, annoying man," you reply.
"Annoying man?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow. "I thought I was your favorite person."
"Only on days that end in 'y'."
•••
"Are you done with your sad boy music?"
Cillian bursts out laughing, the sound taking you by surprise. He's been playing Radiohead on repeat for the whole car ride, and you were starting to feel like you were in a melancholy music video. "I like their music as much as the next person, but I think I need a break from the sadness," you say.
"Fine, fine," Cillian concedes, reaching for his phone to change the song. The bleak atmosphere in the car lifts as "Linger" by The Cranberries starts playing, filling the space with a more pleasant vibe. Cillian glances at you, he's wearing dark shades that hide his eyes, but you can still see his stoic expression softening as he catches you smiling at the change in music.
"Better?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Instead of answering, you start silently singing along to the lyrics, gesticulating dramatically for added effect. Cillian smiles at your antics, his own lips twitching in amusement as he watches you. The boys were so caught up in their conversation with their friends in the backseat that you were pretty sure they weren't even paying attention to the music or your impromptu performance. With a small smile on your face, you face out the window and enjoy the rest of the car ride in content silence.
When you arrive at your destination, all of you unbuckle your seat belts once Cillian puts the Bronco in park. You all pile out of the car, stretching your legs and taking in the sights around you. You close your eyes for a second and take a breath. The sea air, you loved that smell.
•••
A few hours later, after countless swims and some snacks, you find yourself lying on a beach towel, book in hand, feeling the warmth of the temperature on your skin. You're reading a book you picked up at an airport several months ago by Elin Hilderbrand, or the queen of beach reads, as many call her. You were completely engrossed in the story until you felt Cillian settling down next to you.
His hair was damp from the water, and his skin was slightly glistening. Gosh, he looked absolutely stunning. "Mind if I join you?" he asks.
"Not at all," you reply, closing the book and sitting up. "Having fun?"
"Lots," he says with a smile, reaching over to grab his sunglasses. The two of you sit in comfortable silence. The laughter and chatter of his sons and friends coming from the water redirects your attention back to the beach scene before you. You look back at Cillian, his eyes fixed on his sons.
"They love you, you know," you say softly, watching the genuine joy on his face as he watches his children.
"I don't know if I'm doing it right," he says, eyes still fixed on the boys. "I worry I might've fucked them up by letting my relationship with their mother fall apart."
He continues, "Sometimes I feel they resent me for it."
"Why do you feel that way?"
"I don't know, they just seem distant sometimes. Like they're holding back."
"Hey, that's normal for kids to have mixed feelings about their parents' separation. I was so happy when mine got divorced because it meant no more fighting, but it was also tough to adjust to the changes. It's very conflicting stuff," you say, huffing a small laugh. "Also, they're teenagers now, right? That's a tough age to navigate even without the added stress of divorce."
Cillian nods in agreement, exhaling out a yeah.
You squint against the sunlight beaming behind his head before continuing.
"You're a great dad, you always have been. Just show up and be there for them when they need you, even if they don't always seem to appreciate it. They'll remember it in the long run," you offer, remembering how much your own father's presence meant to you after your parents' divorce. "And I'm not a parent, but what parent feels like they're doing everything right all the time, anyway?"
Cillian turns to look at you. He studies your face for a moment before offering a small smile. "I guess you're right," he says sincerely.
"Fork found in kitchen," you retort, breaking the tension with a bit of humor.
He chuckles, "That's clever."
"Well," you continue, "I've been accused of many things over the years, but being unoriginal isn't one of them."
He laughs. Just like he did back in the car: a genuine, carefree laugh that makes you feel a little lighter.
"Want to go for one last swim, piano woman?"
You roll your eyes. "Will you stop calling me that?"
"Not likely," Cillian replies with a grin. "It's too fitting."
You stand up and stretch. You're wearing a one-piece teal-ish swimsuit that you swear you only chose based on comfort and not because it makes your ass and breasts look fantastic. Cillian's eyes linger on you for a moment before he looks away, and you swear you can see a hint of a blush on his cheeks. He doesn't move.
"Are you coming or…?"
"Right, one last swim," he finally says, standing up and following you towards the water.
Maybe that one last swim wasn't a great idea after all.
And why is that?
Because not even five minutes into the water, you thought it would be a good idea to jump from a high rock, and now you're sitting in the car with your knee scrapped, throbbing in pain, and regretting your impulsive decision.
•••
"You're so fuckin' stubborn."
You try to move into a more comfortable position while ignoring the pain shooting up your leg by pressing a hand against one side of the door to keep yourself steady. "And you're so clearly overreacting."
Cillian pushes his bedroom door open. He's also clearly pissed. The ride back to the house was deathly silent. Well, not silent. His sad boy music made a return, and this time with Broken Social Scene. You couldn't ask him to change the music without starting another argument. Even the kids were quiet, beyond asking several times if you were okay, which you assured them you were. Obviously a lie.
As Cillian walks around the room, you reach for your midi white beachy dress and look down at your knee in horror. It's no longer just a bruise, but a gash that is slowly oozing blood. Not as much as before, but still. It looks nasty underneath the shirt Cillian used from his car as a makeshift bandage.
He grabs the first aid kit from a shelf and turns around to face you.
"Take off your dress."
"Pardon me?"
"Take off your dress so I can properly clean and bandage the wound," Cillian repeats, his expression serious. You look down at the blood-stained fabric as if you needed any more confirmation. "Off, C'mon."
You stiffen at his demand, your body going completely rigid at his bossy tone. You watch him stride into his bathroom. He pushes aside some stuff on the counter and tosses the kit onto the counter.
Okay, yeah. He has good reason to be upset. You had no business jumping from that rock.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he'd said before, right when he went to get you. And now you can see the anger still simmering beneath the surface.
You can hear him shuffle in the bathroom while you remove your dress. You still have your swimsuit on underneath, but you feel exposed without the extra layer. Maybe the pain is catching up to you or the fact that you have upset him or that he's waiting for you in the bathroom to take care of you but tears sting your eyes as you try to process the situation. You take a moment to collect yourself. You cannot go in there like this, he cannot see you this vulnerable. At least, not now.
He's braced against the counter, head hung low, when you push open the bathroom door. You nearly back out to give him some space or time to compose himself, but his eyes meet yours and his expression straightens. He clears his throat and then freezes. "I—you're wearing your swimsuit."
"I am. Were you expecting me to change into something else?"
"No," he grumbles, "I mean, nevermind."
He turns back and starts grabbing sterile gauze, his movements slightly jerky. He gestures for you to sit on the counter. "Up."
"I'm not sure I can do that given my—" Before you're done speaking, he scoops you up and sets you on the counter. Your hands are locked around his neck, and his are firmly gripping your waist. They fit perfectly there, like they're made to hold you close.
He reaches behind him, both your faces close together now, and grabs your wrists, pulling them away from his neck and onto your thighs. He puts a hand on your uninjured leg, his touch gentle yet firm. "This is going to hurt." You stare at his impossible blue eyes and think to yourself: yes, this is going to hurt.
"Oh, shit shit," you gasp, gripping his forearm. "Holy fuuuck."
"I've got you, breathe," he commands, and you allow yourself to focus on his voice, letting it ground you. The antiseptic burns both your nostrils and knee as he continues to clean the wound, the pain shooting through your leg causing you to clench your teeth.
"I'm sorry," you breathe out.
There's nothing but silence in response.
"I told you multiple times not to go up there," he finally says, his voice tinged with frustration. "And yet."
"I know," you whisper, feeling guilty.
"Don't do that again," he commands, his accent thickening with emotion. "You could've hurt yourself even more."
"I know," you repeat, not sure how else to respond.
His head is bowed in concentration as he finishes cleaning the wound, his hands steady despite the anger in his voice. You can see his dark eyelashes fluttering slightly as he works. He applies a little more pressure to the bandage than he should've, and you let out a soft moan. This doesn't go unnoticed by him.
The air in the room seems to shift. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you see something soften in his gaze before he looks away.
"You're not supposed to like that."
Your cheeks heat up immediately.
He's gotten closer to you, your hands somehow made their way to fist his navy blue linen shirt. His body is between your legs, the delicate material of his pants brushing your skin. His breath is warm against your cheek as he leans in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I can't say I mind it either." Your heart races at his proximity, unsure of what to do next.
His hands slide up your thighs, gently caressing your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He's going to kiss you, and you can't help but wonder if it's the right decision to let him.
But now is not the time to be rational about it.
"I'm not gonna stop you," you say quietly, "I wouldn't know how."
His eyes darken, pupils dilating with desire. He doesn't move.
It's like you're both aware of the line you're about to cross, so neither of you moves.
You keep your eyes firmly on his face. His lips inch closer to yours, and you feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Your body is angled towards his, hand gripping the edge of the counter. Your slightly damp hair, now cold, making you shiver.
He's impossibly hard against you, the material of his pants is thin, and you're aware of every inch of him pressing against your throbbing core.
"And I wouldn’t know how to stop kissing you," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. He shifts slightly, causing his erection to press even more firmly against you, both letting out a soft moan. His mouth hovers just inches from yours, just kiss me, you thought.
There's a knock on the bedroom door, which is, by the way, open.
"Dad?" You both freeze.
The bathroom door is slightly ajar, offering a sliver of privacy but not enough to shield you from any potential interruptions.
"Yes?" Cillian calls out, trying to sound casual despite the intense moment that was just interrupted. "We're ordering takeout, do you want anything?"
"No, buddy, we're good, thanks," Cillian replies, his voice strained as he tries to keep his composure. You hear the steps retreating down the hallway.
Cillian steps back, and the absence of his body against yours is jarring. It clearly would've been a mistake to take this further, but a mistake that would've felt so fucking good.
"We shouldn't do this."
He clears his throat. "Yeah."
He moves towards the door, his movements tense and purposeful. "I'm gonna—" he says, motioning the door.
"Yeah," you quickly reply, "I got it."
You watch him leave, the air heavy with unspoken words and unfulfilled desires.
a/n: thank you for reading! please share your thoughts with me, let me know if you guys enjoyed it :)
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