Three chapter are up! You can read it on wattpad and ao3
This is not a story about the spy who infiltrated Richard Roper's empire.
This is the story of the woman he never saw coming.
Publicly erased and privately indispensable, she is Roper's secret-not an ex, but his essential partner. She is the architecture beneath the legend. When Jonathan Pine, a man of lethal calm and perfect timing, enters their orbit and wins Roper's fascination, she observes.
She logs the anomaly: the probing questions to her son, the calculated disruptions. Others see a charismatic newcomer. She sees a threat vector.
While Pine navigates a world of staged heroics, she operates in the silence beneath it. Let him think he's dismantling an empire. He's merely proving how well it was built by the one person he never thought to look for.
Three chapter are up! You can read it on wattpad and ao3
This is not a story about the spy who infiltrated Richard Roper's empire.
This is the story of the woman he never saw coming.
Publicly erased and privately indispensable, she is Roper's secret-not an ex, but his essential partner. She is the architecture beneath the legend. When Jonathan Pine, a man of lethal calm and perfect timing, enters their orbit and wins Roper's fascination, she observes.
She logs the anomaly: the probing questions to her son, the calculated disruptions. Others see a charismatic newcomer. She sees a threat vector.
While Pine navigates a world of staged heroics, she operates in the silence beneath it. Let him think he's dismantling an empire. He's merely proving how well it was built by the one person he never thought to look for.
Hey! I’m in uni now so having a hard time also taking time to write, I have more chapters of my story left to post but I’m thinking about moving it strictly to wattpad/ao3 and I’d love to post a different short story I’ve written a while ago but can’t seem to get to it. So sadly, it would be a no for requests for the time being, I am very sorry!
Summary: Pre-med perfectionist [Your Name] thought her gap year internship at The Late Night Hour would be a fun, low-stakes break before med school. Then she literally runs into Pedro Pascal backstage—and somehow becomes his secret lifeline in the chaos of live TV. Between cue cards, coffee runs, and chemistry that won’t quit, she starts to wonder: is this just a summer detour… or something more?
Tag list: @pascal-mynightlyobsession @wanniiieeee @theendwhereibegin
Pedro's still tucking himself back into his pants when you say it.
"Richard offered me a permanent job."
The words slip out too casually, like you didn't just shatter the bubble of post-orgasm warmth hanging between you like steam in the cramped closet. You regret them the second they leave your mouth.
Pedro stills—just for a second—but it's enough. You see it. The pause. The subtle shift in his jaw. His hands slow as he zips up, movements suddenly quieter. He doesn't look at you right away.
You smooth your shirt down, trying to keep your voice light, like this isn't a turning point in disguise.
"It's nothing glamorous," you add quickly. "Just Richard being... Richard."
Pedro finally turns his head, his brown eyes landing on you with something unreadable flickering behind them. He cocks a brow, half amused, half something else.
"You always pick post-sex cleanup to drop major life decisions on me?" he says, mouth twitching like he's trying to make a joke of it. But his voice is softer than usual. Careful.
You smile, even though it feels stiff. "Guess I'm a multitasker."
He watches you for a beat too long, and something in the air thickens. Not tension, exactly—just weight. Implication. Unspoken things sitting between you, sticky and impossible to scrub away.
He grabs his jacket from the hook behind you, his fingers brushing yours accidentally. You don't move away, but you don't move closer either.
"We'll talk about it later," he says. Not unkind. Just... final.
You nod once. That should feel reassuring.
It doesn't.
The hallway is a slap of fluorescent reality
You step out first, heart still racing—but now for entirely different reasons. Your hair's a mess, your lips are probably swollen, and you're half-aware that your panties are still wadded up in the pocket of your jeans. You don't dare look around to see if anyone notices.
Pedro steps out a moment later, head ducked slightly like he's blending in on instinct. He doesn't say anything, doesn't touch your arm, doesn't give you one of those knowing smirks he's usually so good at throwing your way.
He just slips his hands into his pockets and heads the opposite way down the hall.
No backward glance.
No wink.
No cheeky "you're welcome."
You bite the inside of your cheek, willing your brain not to overthink. But the thing is—Pedro always says something. Even when he's half-asleep or jet-lagged or pretending not to care, he always has a line. A look. A smirk. Something.
This? This silence is a statement.
By the time you're home, your thoughts are a mess
You toss your keys into the bowl by the door, change into your comfiest pair of leggings, and reheat pasta you don't actually want. You eat standing up at the counter, twirling noodles on your fork while Richard's voice loops in your head like a bad commercial.
"Not glamorous... but there's room to grow."
What does that mean? Grow into what, exactly? An overworked assistant who knows how to wrangle guests and hold a clipboard while her dreams atrophy in a cubicle?
You sigh and push your plate away, appetite evaporated. It's not like you haven't thought about it. You just didn't expect someone else to think about it for you.
You sink onto the couch and stare at your phone like it might give you answers. It's already flooded with texts from people on staff. Gossip. Disbelief. Pedro Pascal, in the flesh, just casually showing up for a last-minute segment. Everyone wants to know how you pulled it off.
But none of them know about the closet.
You scroll through the messages, double-tapping some, sending quick replies to others. You laugh once—soft and hollow—at one from Brooke:
"Girl. You're a witch. No other explanation."
And then your eyes flick to the top of the screen, to the one contact you haven't heard from.
Pedro.
Nothing.
You pace. You clean. You organize shit that doesn't matter
You wipe down the bathroom sink even though it doesn't need it. Fold laundry you should've done days ago. Rearrange the books on your shelf by color because why not.
But nothing fills the space in your chest that keeps humming like a live wire.
You reach for your old MCAT flashcards—the ones you keep in a box in your closet like they're some sacred relic. You don't know why you pull them out. Maybe to remind yourself that there was a time you had a plan. Maybe to remind yourself that you still could.
The flashcards feel heavy in your hand.
"Anion gap..." you mutter aloud, flipping one over. You stare at the answer but can't absorb it.
All you can hear is Pedro's voice, low and teasing, echoing from earlier.
"I want you. Right here."
Your cheeks flush again at the memory, but this time it's tinged with something bitter.
You were riding high—on adrenaline, on sex, on the win. And now? Now you're waiting for a text like you're sixteen again.
The worst part is, you're not mad at him.
You're mad at yourself.
For wanting him to say something he might not even know how to say.
The message comes just after midnight
You've already showered. Your hair's damp against your pillow. The room smells like eucalyptus and lavender. You're staring at the ceiling, sleep nowhere in sight, when your phone buzzes beside you.
You snatch it up too fast, trying to act cool even when no one's watching.
Pedro: We'll talk soon. Promise.
That's it.
No emoji. No kiss. No wink.
But it's something.
You stare at it until the letters blur. Until the tension in your chest starts to loosen, just enough to let your eyes close.
And when you finally fall asleep, it's with your phone clutched loosely in your hand, tucked under your pillow like a secret.
The light from the early morning sun seeps through the curtains as you wake up. The silence of your apartment is comforting, but something about the quiet makes the tension from last night feel sharper. You roll over, grabbing your phone from the nightstand, and your mind immediately drifts to Pedro's message.
The text from him reads, "We should talk when you have a moment."
A knot tightens in your stomach, and for a split second, your heart races. You know it's about the job offer, but still... the suddenness of the message leaves a feeling of unease.
You don't hesitate for long before you type out your reply: "Are you breaking up with me?"
A few seconds pass before his response pops up: "What? No! Of course not. I'm not breaking up with you, don't worry about that. I just think we need to talk about the job offer, that's all. It's important."
You breathe a sigh of relief, but a lingering confusion remains. Pedro's always been upfront with you, but something about this feels... different. The weight of his words sits heavy, but you don't let yourself overthink it. There's a moment's pause before you send your response: "Okay. Talk later?"
He replies almost immediately: "Yes, later. I'll call when you're free."
You glance at the clock—it's still early, but you decide you need a break from your thoughts. You pull on some clothes, grabbing your jacket and stepping out for a quick walk. A spontaneous coffee date with Lena sounds like exactly what you need right now. You text her, "Coffee?"
Her response comes swiftly: "Always. Where?"
You quickly suggest a café a few blocks away, one you both like for its quiet atmosphere and strong coffee. As you head out, you mentally replay the events of the previous evening. Everything with Pedro had been fine, but still, something about that message makes your mind race.
When you arrive at the café, Lena's already there, seated at a corner table. You spot her instantly—her usual expression of curiosity on her face as she waits for you to sit down.
"Hey, you!" she greets, giving you a warm hug before you take your seat across from her.
You smile at her, trying to push the heaviness from your mind. "Hey. Sorry to just text you like that, but I needed a distraction. It's been one of those mornings."
Lena raises an eyebrow, setting her cup down as she regards you. "Oh, I can tell. You look like you're carrying the weight of the world right now. So what's going on?"
You let out a sigh. "I just... got a message from Pedro. He wants to talk about the job offer. And I'm not sure what it means."
Lena's eyes immediately brighten with interest. "Pedro? Your Pedro? Well, I guess you did tell me things were serious between you two, so... are we talking 'serious' serious?"
You chuckle lightly, but there's a nervous edge to it. "Well he did confess his love one month in. Yeah, things are... serious. But that message he sent? It made me wonder. I mean, we've talked about the job, but it feels like he's thinking about it a lot more than I am."
Lena nods thoughtfully. "Hmm. I get that. But you know he's only looking out for you, right? He's probably just worried you'll make the wrong decision."
You give a half-shrug, feeling a little conflicted. "Maybe. It's just, I've been so focused on what I want, I'm not sure if I've really considered how it affects us both."
Lena studies you for a moment, her expression turning more playful. "Well, while we're talking about Pedro, I was watching TV last night, and guess who I saw?"
You raise an eyebrow. "Who?"
Lena smirks. "Pedro. On your show! Didn't know he was scheduled to appear."
Your heart skips a beat. "Oh, yeah. It wasn't exactly planned. He agreed to fill in for someone last minute."
Lena's eyes widen with amusement. "A favor, huh? So, that's why he was on there. I thought I was imagining things for a second. How'd that go?"
You take a deep breath, trying to keep the casual tone, though you know Lena can see through you. "It went fine. I mean, he doesn't like the attention, but he was there because I needed help with a last-minute guest. It wasn't planned or anything. He just... agreed to do it."
Lena leans forward, clearly interested. "But you two didn't, like, get caught up in the heat of the moment, did you?"
You immediately flush, your eyes widening slightly. "Well, we... I mean, things got a little more intense than we expected."
Lena raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Intense? How?"
You let out a nervous laugh, trying to ignore the blush creeping onto your face. "Let's just say, after the show, things ended up... in a supply closet."
Lena's eyes widen with a mix of surprise and amusement. "In a supply closet? Are you telling me that wasn't planned?"
You groan and cover your face with your hands. "No, it wasn't planned! It just... happened."
Lena bursts into laughter, shaking her head. "I should've known! You two are something else. So, you didn't just get a favor from him last night, huh? Sounds like it was more than that."
You exhale slowly, feeling a bit of the tension ease. "Yeah, well... it wasn't just a favor. But it's complicated."
Lena's grin softens, her eyes filled with understanding. "I get it. It's always complicated with you two."
You nod, but deep down, you know the conversation with Pedro is still waiting to happen. And that's what you're truly nervous about.
The conversation with Lena is a welcome distraction, but the tension still lingers in your chest, the one that started with Pedro's message. His words echo in your mind: "We should talk soon." You can't shake the feeling that something's hanging in the balance. It's like you're waiting for something to happen, but you don't know what. You try to push the thoughts aside as Lena talks, but each time your mind drifts back to him, it tightens the knot in your stomach.
Lena, sensing the weight behind your words, offers one of her signature knowing glances. "I don't think he's trying to make things harder for you, you know? But maybe he's worried you're letting this whole... job thing push you into a decision you aren't ready to make. And yeah, maybe he's scared. He cares about you."
You nod, but there's an ache that just won't go away. "I care about him too, but this job... it's everything I've been working toward. It's more than just a paycheck, more than just 'Richard being Richard.' It feels like something I'm supposed to do. Something I need to do."
Lena leans back in her chair, her tone more teasing now, though there's no mistaking the edge of sincerity in her voice. "But you know, sometimes what you need and what you think you need are different things. You've got to figure out which one you want."
The conversation shifts as Lena orders another round of coffee, but the weight of her words hangs in the air. You try to ignore it, focusing on the present, on the ease of being here with her. But deep down, you know that Pedro's message isn't the only thing you'll need to resolve soon.
And as the afternoon stretches into evening, you can't shake the feeling that the conversation with Pedro is coming, whether you're ready or not.
The apartment is dark when you get home, but it doesn't feel peaceful. It feels quiet in the way that makes your thoughts echo louder. You drop your keys into the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes, mind already spinning.
You've barely had time to process Lena's reaction at the café—or Pedro's silence—when there's a soft knock on your door.
You open it to find him standing there, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes tired but focused. There's a beat of silence between you before he says, "Can we talk?"
You step aside, letting him in without a word. He doesn't kiss you, doesn't smile. Just walks past, like he's afraid that if he touches you too soon, everything might fall apart.
"I know you got the offer," he says after a long pause, turning to face you in the middle of your living room. "And I know you're thinking about taking it."
You nod slowly. "It's a real job, Pedro. I didn't think I'd have one of those lined up so soon."
"I get that. I do." He runs a hand through his hair. "But... it's not what you want. Not really. It's not why you stayed up studying, or why you worked through panic attacks and exams and sleepless nights."
His voice is steady, but there's something urgent in it now. "You didn't do all of that just to settle for something safe. You're allowed to take your time. You're allowed to breathe. But this isn't your dream."
You open your mouth to answer, to say something, anything—but your phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Pedro's still mid-sentence when you glance down, distracted. The subject line alone makes your stomach twist.
Official MCAT Results Available Now
Your heart pounds as you pick it up. You can feel him watching you, but his voice fades as you click into the email.
Official MCAT Results
Dear [Your Name],
We are pleased to inform you that you have successfully passed the Medical College Admission Test (MCAT). Your performance has met the required standard for medical school admission, and we are excited to see your next steps in this journey.
Score Summary:
• Overall Score: 515
• Percentile: 92nd
We commend you for your dedication and perseverance in reaching this milestone. As you continue to pursue your passion for medicine, we wish you the best in the next stages of your journey.
Sincerely,
Director, MCAT Examinations
Association of American Medical Colleges
You stare at the screen for a long time, not even breathing.
"I passed," you say softly, still not looking up.
Pedro blinks. "Wait... what?"
You finally lift your eyes to his. "I passed the MCAT."
For a second, he doesn't move—just looks at you, the shift in his expression almost imperceptible. Then, slowly, his lips part into a smile.
"You did it."
You nod, the words catching in your throat. "I actually did it."
And suddenly, the room feels different. Warmer. Calmer. The air between you no longer feels like it might crack.
He steps closer and cups the back of your neck gently, forehead resting against yours. "I'm so proud of you."
You close your eyes, breathing in the moment.
There's still so much to talk about. But for now, there's this.
Summary: Pre-med perfectionist [Your Name] thought her gap year internship at The Late Night Hour would be a fun, low-stakes break before med school. Then she literally runs into Pedro Pascal backstage—and somehow becomes his secret lifeline in the chaos of live TV. Between cue cards, coffee runs, and chemistry that won’t quit, she starts to wonder: is this just a summer detour… or something more?
Tag list: @pascal-mynightlyobsession @wanniiieeee @theendwhereibegin
Pedro's already halfway down the hall, his presence a steady pull as he disappears around the corner. The buzz from his appearance still hums in your veins, but as you turn back, Richard's gaze is fixed on you with an intensity that makes you swallow harder than usual.
"That was..." Richard's voice is flat at first, his hands half-extended as if to convey some kind of surprise. "Jesus. He really showed up."
"Yeah, he did," you say, trying to sound unaffected.
Richard's lips curl into something like admiration. "I've been around long enough to know how rare that kind of thing is. You got him. You pulled him off."
"I did," you reply. It feels strange, hearing it spoken aloud.
Richard watches you for a long second, his gaze considering. "Most people wouldn't have even thought of him as a possibility, let alone follow through. You've got guts."
You shift slightly under the weight of the compliment, but keep your expression neutral. "It was just a shot in the dark."
Richard raises an eyebrow. "Well, it landed."
His eyes narrow with something like contemplation, but before you can read it, he's speaking again.
"We've got a position coming up. Not glamorous. It's all back-office work—logistics, scheduling, a little bit of production management. A lot of grunt work, but someone needs to do it, and you could."
You freeze. The words hang in the air like an offer you weren't prepared to hear.
"Think about it," Richard says, already turning toward the hallway. "I'm not offering you anything just yet. But if you want it, there's room for you to grow."
It takes a few seconds for the tension in your chest to release. You nod, a slow response. "Thanks. I'll think about it."
"Good." He's already moving away. "Just don't let this be your peak."
You stand there a moment, the offer dangling in the air. But your phone buzzes, pulling you out of your thoughts.
Pedro
Pedro: Closet near the green room. 5 min. You owe me.
Your heart skips a beat, your fingers itching to respond.
You: What do I owe you exactly?
Pedro: You'll find out. Hurry up.
You hesitate, a half-smile playing at the edge of your lips. It's stupid, really, but you already know there's no backing out.
You head down the hallway, passing crew members who barely look up, too absorbed in their own work to care about your quiet little detour.
When you reach the utility closet, Pedro's leaning against the doorframe, his back turned, face lit with the same playful mischief. He doesn't look at you until you step closer, and even then, the smirk he shoots your way isn't entirely unkind.
"You're late," he says with a casual shrug, pushing off the door.
"I'm not late," you fire back. "You just have an unrealistic sense of urgency."
He chuckles, stepping closer. "I'm not the one who didn't fulfill my end of a bargain, now, am I?"
You raise an eyebrow, folding your arms. "I'm here, aren't I?"
"Doesn't count for much when you're standing there all smug," he replies with a grin, pushing the door open slightly more and stepping aside to let you into the cramped space.
You step in, but your hand rests on the door, ready to leave if he pushes too far. "So, what exactly do I owe you for pulling that off?"
Pedro glances down at you, his smile faltering, and for a moment, he looks almost too serious. "You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you? There's a price to pay. And I think you already know what it is."
You feel your pulse quicken as his voice drops low, a hint of heat threading through it. But you're not backing down. Not this time.
"No," you reply slowly, voice low but firm. "I don't think I do."
Pedro's grin returns, sharp and playful. "I think you do. But if you're not ready to pay up that way, I'm open to negotiations."
You tilt your head, a challenge in your gaze. "Negotiate? What, do you think you're that important?"
His laugh is low, smooth. "I don't need to be important. I just need to know what you're willing to offer me." He steps a little closer now, his eyes fixed on yours. "What are you going to give me to settle the debt?"
You take a breath, the air between you thick with something unspoken. You should walk away. You should tell him you're not playing this game. But something about his cocky smirk, that confidence he wears like a second skin, makes it hard to say no.
You lean in just slightly, your voice low as you offer a challenge of your own. "If I'm going to owe you anything, I think we can come up with something a little more interesting than a quick favor in a closet."
Pedro's eyes darken, something flickering there, as if you've given him a challenge he didn't quite expect. "You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?"
"Nope," you reply, voice almost a whisper. "I'm not."
Pedro takes a breath, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. Then he steps closer, his lips brushing just past your ear as he murmurs, "What if I want a quick favor in a closet?"
The supply closet is cramped, shelves digging into your side as he crowds you against the wall, but you don't care-not when he's looking at you like this, all soft-eyed and smug.
"You were incredible out there," you admit, smoothing a hand over his shoulders.
He hums, leaning in until his lips brush yours-just a whisper of a kiss, teasing.
"Yeah?" Another kiss, deeper this time.
"I said 'however I want', remember?"
You laugh, but it melts into a gasp as his hands slide under your shirt, palms warm against your waist. His mouth follows, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck while you fist his hair, tugging just to hear that filthy groan against your skin.
"You win." You moan, the scent of his cologne and the faint sound of his breath already making your knees weak.
"Pedro-"
"Shhh." His thumb brushes your bottom lip, his other hand slipping under your shirt, calloused fingers tracing your hip.
"You said if I come do that segment, I could have whatever I wanted." His teeth graze your earlobe. "Want you. Right here."
You gasp as his mouth crashes onto yours, hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping in like he's memorizing your taste. His hands are everywhere-tugging your hair, gripping your thigh to hike your leg around his hip, grinding his hardening length against you with a groan.
"Fuck, you feel good," he growls, nipping at your neck. "Been thinking about this all damn day."
You fumble with his belt
but he catches your wrist, pinning it to the wall. "Ah-ah. My reward, my rules." His free hand slips to open the first button of your jeans, pulling down both your jeans and panties to reveal your appetizing core, pink and swelling with desire for his pretty little mouth.
"Pedro," you groan, stepping one leg out of your jeans for his easier access.
"Been thinking about you since the moment I woke up this morning, couldn't wait for you to come home so I could eat you up."
"Fuck, yes" you sigh, granting permission for his sinful mouth to send you to ecstasy.
The minute his lips press a kiss onto your clit, you find your knees already trembling in satisfaction, and your hold returning to a clump of his hair, signalling your urgency to feel more. With this action, he licks a stripe up your folds and you can feel yourself clenching at the contact where you need him so desperately.
You coo in delight as he begins to work at your pussy, tongue deliciously swirling around and exploring every inch of you.
He surprises you by inserting a slender finger into your hole without warning, causing a growl to escape the back of your throat.
You take your free hand, the one not gripping onto his dark curls, and cover your mouth to prevent any further sound escaping, bearing in mind the location of this encounter somewhere in the back of your mind, yet not so much that you let it affect your enjoyment right here and now.
Inserting a second finger, Pedro continues to eat you out with such skill that you wonder if you will last beyond this orgasm you can feel emerging. Daring to not take any more risks that the one that is engaging in sexual activity in the workplace, you change the movement of your hand from pushing his face down onto you and tug for him to pull away.
"Pedro, I'm close... need you.. inside of me."
"Oh fuck yes" he grunts, clambering unsteadily to his feet, the evidence clear that he had been indulging in your sweet juices, lips gleaming pink.
The contact of his clothed erection grinding against your bare core is a sensation that sends shivers down your spine.
He takes a hold of your hands and trails them down to his zipper.
You eagerly tug at the zip, able to feel his hard member beneath his trousers as you do so and the anticipation is now more than real. As you pull down the material between you and his cock, so ready to be where you need him the most.
You wrap your arms around his neck and placing a leg at his waist, indicating your readiness. He eases himself inside of you, taking a hold of your thigh with a firm grip, and allowing himself to be face to face with you
You breathlessly mumble something incoherent, overcome with arousal, making such a simple word sound so erotic. He hasn't even started thrusting into you yet as he waits for you to adjust to his size, but already you know you're putty in his hands.
The moment he begins to pull out and snaps back in within the second is the moment you could swear you have never felt so good in your life. Damn, he fits you so perfectly, hitting all the right places, pounding into you against the door, causing it to repeatedly make sound each time you move back onto it, but the two of you are beyond caring.
Not only is he seeking his own high, but he pays attention to you also, fondling your tender breasts over your shirt, then reaching underneath to trace gentle circles around the nipples that soon turns into a more harsher pinch and that alone makes you let out an additional mewl to the ones emerging from your throat at the feeling of him being inside of you. The way he continues to explore your mouth with his own is only an added bonus to an already sensual experience.
Releasing himself from the kiss, practically touching noses with you, he mutters "Mierda y/n, you feel so fucking good; Tan buena." Taking in your moans, he is seemingly unable to use bigger words as he indulges in the amazing feeling your core gives him, now vigorously plunging in and out of you repeatedly.
You pull him back in for more passionate making out in the hope that this will mute your sounds at least a little, but he can't resist pulling away to look at your face as you come undone.
Getting closer and closer to your high, you throw your head back with a bump to the door but the minor pain from the impact goes ignored by you, fully giving yourself to this carnal activity. Moving his mouth to your neck, your pleasure is heightened by the feeling of his warm breath to your neck as he plants kisses in a trail leading down to your collarbone where he settles and bites a piece of the skin, gently sucking and playing around with it with his tongue.
You shudder in pleasure, whimpering as quietly as possible, as his words encourage your peak there and then, because you'd be damned if you ever found a sexier voice than his. This moment felt beyond your wildest fantasies, and who would have thought a moment like this would be in a closet?
Chasing his own high, Pedro pounds into your relentlessly, unable to wait to hit his peak also, and another wave of pleasure rushes through you as in just seconds, he builds you up to another orgasm, and only then is it that his hot seed ejects into you and he slows down his thrusts.
Chests heaving up and down, the two of you remain in this position for a minute or two, taking in the appearance of each other's glow. If Pedro looked glorious during sex, he looked impossibly handsome right now; fucked out brown eyes, slightly damp curls from the sweat you hadn't noticed either of you had accumulated, rosy cheeks sitting above that perfect jawline... But the main thing that makes this look so perfect and breathtaking is that it's all for you and all because of you.
Finally pulling himself out from you, Pedro lifts his boxers back up, followed by his trousers, and he pulls you in for a soft kiss before he looked around for a packet of tissues, he helps you clean up the mess he has produced.
As you gaze up to him, he plants a kiss on your forehead.
Summary: Pre-med perfectionist [Your Name] thought her gap year internship at The Late Night Hour would be a fun, low-stakes break before med school. Then she literally runs into Pedro Pascal backstage—and somehow becomes his secret lifeline in the chaos of live TV. Between cue cards, coffee runs, and chemistry that won’t quit, she starts to wonder: is this just a summer detour… or something more?
A/n: First time writing for Dean Winchester! Hope I captured him well (I’m only in season 4!)
The neon glow of the bar sign flickered across the wet pavement, painting streaks of blue and red over puddles. Inside, the air smelled of old wood, spilled beer, and faint smoke. You perched at the far end of the counter, fingers tracing the rim of your glass, letting the low hum of the jukebox blend into the background. Nights like this were usually uneventful—but tonight, something felt different. You could almost feel the threads of fate tugging at the edges of the ordinary.
The door swung open, and the familiar scent of leather and gasoline hit you first. Dean Winchester moved with casual confidence, eyes scanning the bar as if measuring everyone for threat or opportunity. Sam followed quietly, observant and analytical, notebook clutched loosely in one hand. You didn’t lift your gaze, but your senses tuned in, noting every shift in posture, every glance.
Dean slid onto the stool beside you. “You see anything… strange around here?” His voice was casual, but sharp enough to set your instincts on alert.
You tilted your head. “Depends on what you call strange.”
Sam stepped closer. “We’re investigating some disappearances… people going missing under odd circumstances. Anything unusual you noticed?”
You let a small, knowing smile tug at your lips. “Maybe. But sometimes, people see things that aren’t really there.”
Dean caught the edge of meaning immediately. He leaned in slightly, grin spreading. “Or maybe some people know things they shouldn’t.”
“Maybe,” you said lightly, but the tone hinted at more than mere teasing.
After the bar, you kept your distance, shadows your ally. Dean paused under a lamppost, consulting a map, scratching at his jaw. Sam muttered quietly about local folklore. You stayed far enough to remain unseen, close enough to intervene if necessary.
The warehouse should have been a simple lead. They crept inside, weapons ready. Then the demon appeared—fast, brutal, and relentless. Sam went down first, slammed into a crate, groaning. Dean lunged but was overpowered, thrown against a wall with a sickening crack.
You stepped forward, hands glowing with golden light and shadowed energy, the air humming with power. The demon froze, sensing something it had never encountered. In one fluid motion, energy erupted from your palms, flinging it across the room in a blinding flash. It dissipated, leaving the brothers breathing heavily on the concrete floor.
Dean groaned, clutching a deep gash in his ribs. Without hesitation, you knelt beside him, placing a warm, glowing hand over the wound. The bleeding slowed, then stopped, and the pain ebbed.
“You… healed me?” he rasped.
“Were you in the way?” you replied, faint amusement in your tone.
He didn’t move. His eyes held yours, awe, gratitude, and something darker—something primal.
You arched an eyebrow. “Don’t pretend it’s not obvious, Winchester. You’ve been looking at me like you want to get in my pants since we met.”
Dean coughed, scrambling for a denial. “Wait… you can read minds too?”
You laughed softly. “No. You’re just predictable. If Sam wasn’t cozying up with Ruby, he’d be staring at me the same way.”
Sam groaned, rubbing his jaw, muttering about how unbelievable this was.
The drive back to the motel was quiet, heavy with adrenaline. Dean kept glancing at you, trying to read you, while Sam’s thoughts seemed consumed with analysis and caution. When you stepped inside, Castiel was already standing near the door, his presence making the air dense.
His gaze fell on you, and for the first time, even he looked unsettled. “You weren’t supposed to meet them yet,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Dean’s brow furrowed. “Uh… yeah, you could explain that?”
Before anyone could answer, Uriel appeared, storming in like a whirlwind. “Samuel Winchester! I warned you: no more use of your powers against Samhain! And yet…” His gaze seared Sam, anger radiating off him in waves.
Sam swallowed, trying to stay calm. “I only—It was necessary! You weren’t here to stop it!”
“Necessary or not, you defy orders!” Uriel snapped, stepping closer. “You overstepped. Endangered the plan. The consequences—”
You stepped between them, calm but impossible to ignore. “Stop.” The room seemed to shift under your presence. “Sam saved the people you were ready to kill. Yes, the seal has been broken, but he saved them.”
“No.” Your voice left no room for argument. “He did what you wouldn’t.”
For a tense moment, the air thrummed with potential violence. Then, with a frustrated scowl, Uriel dissipated, leaving a charged silence.
Dean, wide-eyed, finally broke it. “Okay… what are you?”
Castiel stepped forward, voice calm, measured. “She is… extraordinary. Far beyond what you can comprehend.”
Dean blinked, frowning as he absorbed that. “Yeah… that explains a lot.”
You let a faint smirk tug at your lips. “Extraordinary enough to win the war,” you said simply. “I carry power from God and from Azazel. That’s why I exist. That’s why I’m here.”
Sam stepped closer, cautious. “Both powers? How… how do you control that?”
“I’ve always been… different. Stronger than most,” you said, letting your eyes sweep over them. “Control is everything. And sometimes, you have to be dangerous to protect the people worth saving.”
Dean’s gaze lingered, a mix of awe, fascination, and a spark of something else he didn’t quite understand. “Yeah… explains why even angels tread lightly around you.”
You grinned, teasing. “I’m full of surprises. And you, Dean Winchester… predictable. I can read you without trying.”
Dean blinked, a blush rising. “Oh really? You’re saying you know me already?”
“Exactly what you’re thinking,” you replied lightly, letting the tension simmer. “But don’t worry—you’re predictable.”
The room grew quieter as Sam slipped toward the bed and eventually fell asleep. You and Dean were left in the hush of the night, tension and attraction threading every glance.
“You really do throw me off my game,” he murmured.
“And you,” you said, voice playful, “aren’t as subtle as you think.”
Dean leaned closer slowly, grin tugging at his lips. “I can’t help it.”
You let the silence stretch, then leaned in, meeting him halfway. The kiss was deliberate, slow, testing, then deepening naturally as desire and curiosity found release. Fingers pressed lightly against muscle and warmth, his hands tangled gently in your hair.
When you parted, breaths mingling, Dean’s grin was cocky yet soft, awe and vulnerability mingled in his expression.
“Predictable,” he murmured.
“Guess you are,” you replied, letting your thumb brush his jaw, eyes sparkling with amusement and something tender.
For the first time that night, the angels, the demons, and the war outside didn’t matter. There was only you, him, and the slow burn of a connection just beginning.
Summary: Pre-med perfectionist [Your Name] thought her gap year internship at The Late Night Hour would be a fun, low-stakes break before med school. Then she literally runs into Pedro Pascal backstage—and somehow becomes his secret lifeline in the chaos of live TV. Between cue cards, coffee runs, and chemistry that won’t quit, she starts to wonder: is this just a summer detour… or something more?
Tag list: @pascal-mynightlyobsession @wanniiieeee @theendwhereibegin
There’s something you forgot about life after the MCAT.
It’s the stillness.
Not just the absence of panic, but the quiet, steady hum of a brain that isn’t running simulations twenty-four hours a day. You wake up now without your chest tightening. You fall asleep without mental flashcards playing on loop. It takes two full weeks for your eye twitch to go away, and when it does, Pedro cheers like you won a championship.
“You’re different,” he says one night while brushing his teeth in your bathroom. He’s shirtless and damp from the shower, a towel hanging low on his hips, and his eyes meet yours in the mirror with a sleepy sort of softness. “You’re still you, just… less clenched.”
“I’m not clenched.”
“You used to floss like you were trying to saw your gums off.”
You roll your eyes, but he isn’t wrong.
He’s been staying over more. You’ve stopped counting how often. It’s easier now—less logistics, less pretending it’s casual. Some nights you’re at his place, curled under his enormous blankets, eating Thai food in bed and half-watching old movies. Other times he shows up at yours with a duffel bag and a tired smile. There’s no talk about what it means, but there’s a rhythm forming. A pattern. A pull.
And it’s starting to feel real. Not temporary. Not like a summer thing.
Just yours.
You’re halfway through a bowl of cereal at your desk when everything goes to hell.
One of the junior producers bursts through the door with wide eyes and a clipboard held like a weapon.
“They canceled.”
Everyone stops.
“What?” your boss asks sharply. She’s across the room with a headset on, already juggling a reshoot and a lunch delivery that never arrived. “Who canceled?”
“Our guest,” the producer says. “Just now. Their team pulled the plug. Personal emergency.”
The silence that follows is sharp and immediate.
The guest. The guest. The entire episode’s promo had been built around this person. The teasers, the graphic packages, the segment transitions—everything. Their face is literally on the screen behind you, frozen mid-laugh in a B-roll clip.
You glance at the clock. Just over four hours until showtime.
“We’re fucked,” someone mutters.
Your boss hangs up the call she was on and starts pacing like she’s trying to dig a hole in the floor.
“Okay. Okay. Do we have anyone who can come in? Even if it’s not live?”
“I can call a couple of reality people,” someone offers. “Maybe do a game segment instead?”
“No. No, we need someone with an actual fan base.”
“Get the chef who brought dogs that one time?”
“He’s in Chicago.”
“What if we do a flashback show?”
“We just did one.”
The room fills with overlapping voices—names thrown out, ideas half-formed, rejections landing before full sentences even finish. You can feel the energy spiral into desperation. Phones come out. Someone’s yelling about union rules and travel times. A guy from lighting is eating a granola bar with the expression of someone watching a train crash in real time.
And then, because you’re running on cereal and hubris, you say, “What if I can get Pedro Pascal?”
It doesn’t land right away.
You’re not even sure you said it out loud until someone turns.
“Like… on Zoom?” a PA asks, confused.
“No,” you say slowly. “Like, in person.”
Another silence.
You can feel your cheeks heating up, but you keep going. “I just—I think I can ask him. He’s not in Budapest anymore. I mean, he was, but I—he might be in town.”
Someone actually laughs.
Your boss raises an eyebrow.
“Okay,” she says, voice flat. “You think you can get Pedro Pascal to do a last-minute segment today?”
“I can try,” you say. “I’m not promising. Just let me try.
She waves you off with a hand, clearly assuming this is going nowhere.
“Sure. Do your best. But if he says no, we’re doing the dog psychic again.”
You step out into the hallway, shut the door behind you, and immediately call him. Your heart is pounding so hard it’s making your hands shake.
He picks up on the second ring.
“Hey, cariño,” he says. “Everything okay?”
“Okay, don’t say no yet.”
He makes a soft, suspicious sound. “That’s never a good start.”
“I need a favor. A huge one.”
“You always need a favor. That’s part of your charm.”
You inhale. “Our guest canceled. Like, just now. We’re supposed to tape in four hours. And I maybe kind of told everyone I could get you instead.”
There’s a pause.
“You what?”
“I panicked.”
He laughs under his breath, but there’s an edge of disbelief to it. “You told your network that you could get me?”
“I didn’t tell the network, I told my boss. And a couple producers. And maybe the graphics guy.”
“Querida,” he groans. “Do you know how insane that sounds?”
“I know. I know it’s crazy. But they laughed at me.”
“Oh, well then of course I’ll come—because your pride is wounded.”
You can hear movement—fabric rustling, a drawer opening.
“I’m begging,” you say softly. “You’ll look like a hero. And I’ll owe you.”
“Owe me how?” he asks, voice dropping just enough to make you squirm.
“However you want.”
He hums. You can practically see the grin.
“You’re making that offer way too easily.”
“Because I’m desperate.”
He exhales.
“You don’t even have to do the interview. Just walk onstage and breathe. People will lose their minds. Please.”
Another long pause. Then:
“You swear they won’t ask why I’m in town?”
“I swear.”
“No ‘What are you working on next’? No cute little quips about mystery girlfriends?”
“I will murder anyone who tries.”
“Fine,” he says finally. “But if anyone gives me shit, I’m leaving mid-segment and taking your earpiece with me.”
“You’re my favorite person.”
“I know.”
Pedro slips through the studio entrance like a ghost—hat low, hoodie zipped up, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.
Only there are no cameras here. Not yet. Just a flurry of PAs and segment producers who stop dead in their tracks at the sight of him.
You’re waiting by the hallway that leads to the green room, a headset hanging loosely around your neck. The moment you see him, something inside your chest unlocks.
You walk toward him, deliberately slow.
He pulls down his hood. You catch the way his eyes warm when they land on you, but his voice is casual when he says, “Still can’t believe you dragged me into this.”
“You love the chaos,” you murmur. “Admit it.”
Pedro follows you around the corner, and once you’re out of view from the others, he leans in. “I would’ve said no, you know. If it weren’t you asking.”
You glance at him. “I know.”
He walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours.
“Tell me,” he says, “what do I get in exchange for saving your ass on live television?”
You raise an eyebrow. “My eternal gratitude?”
“Nope.”
“A home-cooked meal?”
“Mm, warmer.”
You step into the green room. The moment the door shuts behind you, he turns to face you—close enough that your back nearly hits the wall.
His voice drops. “You remember the first time we met?”
You blink. “Yeah. Of course I do.”
“You were so nervous you led me into a supply closet.”
“It wasn’t a closet.”
“There were mops. It was definitely a closet.”
You huff a laugh. “I was trying to impress you.”
“You did.” His smile twists. “You still do.”
You feel heat rise up the back of your neck. He notices.
Then, his voice dips low. “So I think it’s only fair… that tonight, you take me back to that hallway. After the show. No interruptions. Just us.”
Your heart skips. “Pedro.”
“You said I could ask for anything,” he whispers. “That’s what I want.”
Your breath catches. He’s not even touching you and your knees feel unreliable.
“I’ll think about it,” you say, because you’re stubborn.
He smirks. “You’ll do more than that.”
The studio hums with that nervous pre-show energy—crew members rushing around, a producer counting down seconds on their fingers, the host flipping through cue cards she won’t end up needing.
Pedro sits relaxed in the guest chair, one ankle over his knee, watching it all with that easy, unbothered calm. You can tell he’s done this a hundred times. Still, when he glances your way, there’s a flicker of something quieter—something meant only for you.
The sound tech finishes clipping his mic, and the host leans forward, smiling. “You ready?”
Pedro returns the smile, but there’s a glint behind it. He lowers his voice, leaning in slightly so only she—and you, a few feet away with your clipboard—can hear.
“Just so we’re clear,” he says, smooth but firm. “I’m doing this as a personal favor. For someone here.”
The host lifts a brow, teasing. “Alright… should I be nervous?”
He shrugs, grin tugging at one corner. “No, just a few ground rules. Don’t ask why I’m in town, don’t bring up my relationship status. If anyone does, I’m walking. Deal?”
She laughs under her breath, amused but slightly startled by how serious his tone almost sounds beneath the charm. “Deal.”
He leans back, satisfied. “Good.”
Before you can even process the look he shoots you—half warning, half mischief—the stage manager’s voice booms:
“Alright, we’re live in three… two…”
The lights shift, the audience hushes, and the host’s smile turns camera-ready.
The cameras start rolling, host greets him,
“Due to an unexpected scheduling conflict, our originally scheduled guest couldn’t join us tonight,” the host says, smiling at the camera. “But don’t worry—we’ve got something even better. Please welcome… Pedro Pascal!”
The crowd erupts.
Pedro walks onstage with easy grace, hands in his pockets, head ducked just enough to be bashful without being shy. He takes his seat, flashes that disarming smile.
“So, Pedro, thank you for stepping in at the last minute,” the host says.
He chuckles, leaning back. “Well, I do my best. It’s a pleasure to be here—especially under such interesting circumstances.”
She laughs. “You’re known for handling surprises well. But tell me, how do you keep your cool in situations like this?”
Pedro straightens up, flashes that warm, self-deprecating smile that makes people instantly love him. He waves, walks to the center, and sits down beside the host like he was born in that chair. He tilts his head, voice smooth. “I think it’s just part of the job. Sometimes you roll with it, sometimes you get lucky.”
The audience laughs, unaware of the weight behind it.
Everything goes smoothly—Pedro warm and charismatic, the audience eating up every word. The host tries a few playful questions, and he just laughs and rolls with it.
When the cameras stop rolling, there's a collective exhale of relief from the set.
Pedro, still in the same easygoing mood, is chatting with the host and some crew members. You're standing off to the side, taking a breath and feeling the tension finally slide off your shoulders. But before you can completely relax, you see Richard approaching. He's giving you that look again, the one that says he knows something, but isn't about to push.
You smile to yourself, your heart still racing from the earlier exchange. You glance toward Pedro, whose smile is warm as he gathers his things to leave.
But then, his eyes meet yours, and there's something more than casual in his gaze. He steps toward you, slow, deliberate, "You okay?"
You turn slowly, meeting his gaze, a mix of warmth and something darker flickering in his eyes.
"I'm fine," you answer, though the answer is a lie. The heat from the moment lingers, thick and suffocating. "You were great, though. Like, way better than I expected."
Pedro smiles, but there's a certain edge to it now. "I told you, cariño, I've got a few tricks up my sleeve."
You bite your lip, stepping closer to him. His presence seems to fill the hallway, and the air between you feels heavy. Just a few steps and you're within arm's reach.
"You know," he says, his voice dropping just low enough to send a ripple of heat down your spine, "I've been thinking about what you owe me."
You glance up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Still going to hold me to that, huh?"
"Of course," he murmurs, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand in a way that has your pulse quickening. "You offered me anything. And I'm a man who knows what I want."
You open your mouth to respond, but the words die in your throat when he leans in just enough that you can feel his breath on your ear.
"Don't worry, querida. I'll let you think about it." His voice is so low it vibrates through you. "But we both know what I want."
He pulls back just as quickly, his smile smooth, like the teasing is nothing more than a game. But the air between you is charged now, as if every moment is a countdown.
And then, almost as if nothing happened, Pedro turns about to walk away, but then Richard steps in, a quiet chuckle escaping him.
"You know, I have to ask..." Richard's voice cuts through the quiet hum of the set, his eyes bouncing between you and Pedro with that familiar glint of curiosity. "How exactly did you pull this off?"
You freeze for a moment, but Pedro doesn't miss a beat. He meets Richard's question with an easy smile, his voice steady. "Well, Richard, when someone asks you for a favor like that, you can't just say no."
Richard snorts softly, clearly amused but not done. "Uh-huh. But what's the real story here?"
Pedro's smirk widens, and he casts a glance at you. "She's a very persuasive person," he says, a hint of admiration in his tone.
You raise an eyebrow at Richard. "Just asked him," you say casually, though your heart is still thumping in your chest.
Richard raises an eyebrow of his own, clearly intrigued but not entirely convinced. He glances at Pedro, then back to you. "Just asked him? Hmm."
Pedro chuckles, clearly enjoying the teasing. "Yeah, Richard. Sometimes it's as simple as that."
Richard watches you for a long moment, his expression turning from amused to thoughtful. "I've gotta admit, I don't know how you did it, but it sure looks like you worked your magic."
Pedro shrugs playfully. "I'm just here for the ride."
Richard snorts in disbelief but shakes his head. "Yeah, right. You two are something else."
With a final grin at you, Pedro turns to leave. "Take care, querida," he says, his voice low and full of warmth.
You give him a small smile in return, and as he disappears out the door, you feel the air between you shift. The tension, the heat, the quiet moments shared that only the two of you understand.
Richard watches him leave, then turns to you with a knowing look. "I've gotta say, you really know how to pull off the impossible."
You hold his gaze, but your thoughts are elsewhere. You nod slowly. "You have no idea."
Hi! So I just started watching supernatural and like everything I watch, I became obsessed and started searching for good fics! Would absolutely love some recommendations for lengthy ones with plot (only ones I’ve found are pvp and while I appreciate smut I’m searching for a bit more)
I’m specifically looking for Dean Winchester fics!
The stroller wheels squeaked faintly as you nudged them through the glass doors of Diagnostics. Three young doctors sat at the conference table, heads bent over charts. No sign of their department head.
The brunette woman—Cameron, you assumed—was on her feet in an instant. She opened the door wide, polite smile already in place.
"Thanks," you said, easing the stroller inside. You didn't hesitate; you rolled straight to the leather chair at the head of the table and sat, stretching your back with a sigh before leaning to scoop your son from the stroller.
From the corner of your eye you saw Cameron's brows rise. She glanced at the two men—Chase and Foreman—telegraphing a whole conversation: wrong chair, wrong room, wrong species of chaos.
The blond one cleared his throat. "Maybe we can help you? Are you here for yourself, or the baby?"
"Hospital for me," you said, settling the baby against your shoulder. "This office? For him."
Cameron's face softened on instinct. She leaned in just enough to get a better look. "He's beautiful. Gorgeous eyes."
You grinned. "He got those from his dad."
The door swung open behind them.
"Is there a reason you're all standing here like unpaid extras?"
You turned automatically. "My fault," you admitted.
House limped in, folders under one arm, cane ticking out his impatience. His fellows scattered like pigeons, clearing a path. He tossed the folders onto his desk and dropped into the chair you'd just vacated. His eyes flicked to you, then the baby.
"Why'd you bring an infant to a hospital?"
"He missed his daddy," you said simply.
House tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "He, or you?"
You chuckled and brushed your thumb across his sleeve. "He. I've got a postpartum exam. You two get some quality time while I get poked and prodded."
The Ducklings were frozen—three open mouths, equal parts scandal and fascination.
"You didn't say you had an appointment," House muttered, then raised his voice without looking away from you. "And why are you three still loitering like statues? Go solve something before I replace you with vending machines."
The volume startled the baby; his face scrunched, lower lip trembled, and a thin cry threaded the air.
House sighed, pushed himself up, and reached for him. "Didn't mean to yell, kid. Lucky for you, you won't remember."
The fussing stopped almost immediately once he was folded into House's arm, cheek pressed to the rumpled cotton of his shirt. Those wide blue eyes blinked up, taking inventory. House glanced down, unimpressed.
"What are you looking at? Haven't you ever seen disappointment before?" he said dryly. Then, lower so only you could hear: "Also lucky you get unrestricted access to mommy's breasts whenever you want. Since you joined the party, daddy lost his rights."
"Greg," you hissed, heat jumping in your cheeks.
He shrugged, feigning innocence. "What? Jealousy builds character."
Cameron looked like she might faint from secondhand tenderness; Chase was trying not to smirk; Foreman pinched the bridge of his nose like the union rep for professionalism.
House ignored them, settling back with your son anchored against his chest. The baby rooted once, found nothing of interest, and went back to staring. House's hand came up—awkward, then confident—tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against a tiny back until the small body relaxed again.
"See?" he said. "Piece of cake. Calms down faster for me than for you."
You arched an eyebrow. "Enjoy it. You're on duty for the next hour."
"Great. I'll start him on differential diagnosis. Or poker."
"Greg."
"Fine. Diagnostics it is. Better for brain development."
You leaned in, pressed a kiss to your son's forehead, then bent and pressed a quick one to House's cheek. "Be good."
"Not in my contract," he muttered, but his arm tightened minutely.
You left for your exam, bag slung over your shoulder, and the moment the door clicked behind you, oxygen rushed back into the room.
"She's—he's—" Cameron started.
"Don't," House barked.
They scattered, but Chase risked, "He looks like you."
"Poor bastard," House said.
A few minutes later, the door opened again.
Wilson stepped in, glanced at the stroller by the wall, then at House—sprawled with the baby propped easily against his chest, tiny hand fisted in his shirt.
"It's called multitasking, Jimmy. Solving medical mysteries while shaping young minds."
"And by shaping young minds you mean—"
"Teaching him that Uncle Jimmy talks too much," House said.
The baby let out a soft coo, startling Wilson into a laugh. "He's comfortable. With you."
House shrugged, eyes still on the small face tucked against him. "He doesn't know better yet."
Wilson tilted his head. "Maybe he does."
House finally looked up, glare sharp enough to end the conversation. "Careful. If you go sentimental, I'll have to fire you."
Wilson chuckled, shaking his head as he left.
When you returned, the bullpen was quiet. Through the glass you could see him still in his chair, your son now asleep against his chest. His hand rested on the baby's back, the steady tap-tap of his fingers absent, replaced by something closer to a protective hold.
You pushed the door open softly. "Well?"
House glanced up. "He cried once, drooled twice, glared at me a lot. Basically a smaller version of you."
You smiled, moving to the desk. "And you?"
"Managed not to break him. High bar."
You reached for your son. For a moment, House didn't move, then he shifted carefully, handing him over with more care than his words suggested.
"Check up?" he asked.
"All clear," you said, settling the baby back in the stroller. "Everything's fine."
He nodded once, watching you adjust the blanket. Then he pushed himself upright with a grunt, cane in one hand. "I'll bring dinner. Something you'll actually eat, something I'll regret later."
You raised a brow. "And for him?"
House's mouth twitched as he glanced at the baby. "He's already got the good stuff. The rest of us settle for takeout."
You laughed softly, leaning over to kiss his cheek again before you headed for the door. "See you at home."
House smirked. "Don't let him forget who the fun parent is."
You rolled your eyes, pushing the stroller out through the glass doors — but you caught the way his gaze lingered on the two of you until you disappeared down the hall.
Summary: Pre-med perfectionist [Your Name] thought her gap year internship at The Late Night Hour would be a fun, low-stakes break before med school. Then she literally runs into Pedro Pascal backstage—and somehow becomes his secret lifeline in the chaos of live TV. Between cue cards, coffee runs, and chemistry that won’t quit, she starts to wonder: is this just a summer detour… or something more?
Tag list: @pascal-mynightlyobsession @wanniiieeee @theendwhereibegin
The set is alive with the usual hum of activity—lights flashing, crew shouting commands, and the low drone of distant conversation. Pedro stands on the edge of the scene, trying to focus on the script in his hands. It's hard today. His eyes flicker to the clock, then back to the pages in front of him. Every second feels drawn out, like time itself is stretching to delay him from getting back to the one thing that's constantly on his mind.
You. Your test.
He runs a hand through his hair, a half-hearted attempt to calm the restlessness brewing in his chest. The world around him feels muted, not because the set isn't bustling, but because his thoughts keep looping back to you—sitting in some sterile, air-conditioned room taking the MCAT.
It's hours away from the final bell, but he can't shake the weight of it. The anxiety of the unknown. He knows you've been preparing for this day for so long, but the sense of helplessness gnaws at him more than he wants to admit.
A sharp, invasive click of a camera catches his attention. The photographers are everywhere, crowding the entrance to the catering tent, snapping shots in the moments when he's most distracted.
"Pedro! Is it true you're dating your co-star?" one of them shouts, leaning in close, camera lens trained on his face. The others follow suit, shouting questions—each more intrusive than the last. His patience is worn thin, but he forces a smile. He's learned over the years to give them just enough, nothing more.
He half-smiles, his jaw tense. "I'm here to work, that's all." his voice steady but strained.
But another shout freezes him. "Are you seeing anyone? Someone special?"
The question lingers, sharp and invasive, a jagged reminder of everything that isn't easy. The actress from the interview earlier—her joking comment about kissing him—resurfaces in his mind. He should laugh it off, shrug it off, but instead, irritation flares up. It's not jealousy. Not exactly. It's the constant noise. The rumors.
His jaw tightens, and he takes a long, controlled breath. He smiles again, but it's different this time—a touch too tight at the corners. "I'm focused on work," he says, turning to walk away from the swarm of questions.
The cameras keep clicking. The questions keep coming. Pedro can feel the tension in his chest rise with each invasive second. Still, he stands his ground, offering the calmest facade he can muster.
But when he finally breaks away from the cluster of press, he retreats into the quiet of his dressing room, staring at his phone. He opens the messages, half-typed words sitting in his drafts. His thumb hovers above the screen, but he stops himself. What's the point of texting you now? It won't change anything.
With his phone in hand, he taps through a few messages, but his thoughts wander back to you. Your test. His mind drifts to what you're feeling, how your nerves must be dancing under the surface, how he wishes he could be there with you. His thumb brushes over the screen, a message half-typed, but he deletes it.
What could he say? It wouldn't change anything.
He shakes his head, tossing the phone onto the couch and letting out a slow breath. "Focus," he mutters to himself. "Focus on the scene."
But it doesn't work. His thoughts slip back to you, to how he hopes, more than anything, that you're getting through it.
The sterile white lights flicker above you, casting a pale glow over everything in the room. The test is endless. One section bleeds into the next, the ticking clock a constant reminder that time is slipping away. You can feel the pressure building in your chest, every breath heavier than the last. Your hands are trembling, but you can't afford to stop.
The MCAT is a mountain, each question like a rock you have to scale before you can rest. You push through the first section, forcing your mind to stay sharp despite the waves of exhaustion threatening to pull you under. It's hard to concentrate on the words. Everything feels like it's floating in a haze, and you can barely catch hold of one thought before it slips away.
You glance at the clock again. Just over an hour until it's time for the break. You just need to make it through. You'll rest then. You hope.
The second section is worse. Your eyes feel heavy, the words on the page start to blur. You try to focus, to clear the fog, but it's not enough. Doubts creep in—am I good enough for this? The fear that you won't pass weighs heavily on you, but you push it down. You can't stop now.
The final section feels like a marathon. Every question is a hurdle, and you're too tired to keep jumping. The anxiety builds in your chest like a wave you can't escape. The clock ticks down, and finally, the bell rings.
It's over. The exhaustion hits you like a physical blow.
You want to collapse. You want to scream. But instead, you stand up, gathering your things mechanically, your fingers numb as they fumble with your bag. The tension in your shoulders is unbearable, your neck stiff from hours of sitting in one spot, your mind running on empty. You're barely aware of your surroundings. You head to your car, your movements robotic, your mind numb.
The drive home is a blur of motion, the road stretching in front of you like a never-ending ribbon. Your hands grip the steering wheel so tightly, your knuckles ache, but your mind is elsewhere. The radio is on, but it's just background noise, a static that you can't tune into. You're zoning out, caught in the weight of everything that happened today and the unknown of what comes next.
You pull into the driveway, your car tires grinding over the gravel, the quiet night air surrounding you. The drive home feels like a fog, your thoughts still tangled in the haze of the test, the exhaustion of the day pressing down on you. Everything feels distant, like you're floating outside your own body, disconnected from the world around you.
The front door creaks when you push it open, but you don't bother turning on the lights. The house is dark and still, only the faint glow of your phone's screen and the hum of the refrigerator filling the space. You kick off your shoes, barely even registering where they land. Your feet drag as you shuffle toward the bedroom, peeling off the clothes from your body like they're too heavy to wear anymore.
Pedro's hoodie is sitting there on the bed, like a promise, and without thinking, you pull it over your head. It's still warm, the fabric soft and thick, swallowing you up in the familiar scent of him—woodsy cologne mixed with something else, something uniquely Pedro. You tug it tighter, curling into the comfort of it. You need that right now.
The wine bottle sits on the counter. You open it, no hesitation, and pour yourself a glass. The deep red liquid swirls as you lift the glass to your lips, the rich taste coating your tongue. It's exactly what you need—a moment of stillness, a moment just for you. Another sip. Then another.
You set the glass down next to you as you collapse into the couch, your body heavy and loose. The TV flickers in the background, some random show you don't even care about. Your eyes don't really focus on it. You're too drained, too emotionally spent to pay attention to anything but the buzz of the wine warming your veins.
You drink again. And again. The seconds blur into minutes, time slipping away without you noticing. The glass is empty before you realize it, and you pour yourself another one, your fingers a little unsteady as you do. You feel the alcohol working its way through your system, dulling the sharp edges of your thoughts, numbing the anxiety that had held you tight all day.
Another sip. A long one. The wine doesn't taste as sharp anymore, just comforting, like it's smoothing over the rough parts of the day. Your body is sinking deeper into the cushions, and you're not even sure if you're still fully awake, the haze of the alcohol and the day's exhaustion blending into one long, hazy fog.
You finish the second glass, and the room spins just a little as you set the glass aside, your legs stretched out across the couch. The TV noise fades into the background, and your thoughts drift, slowing down like everything else. You reach for your phone, check the time. Late. Too late to be thinking about anything other than sleep.
But before you can fully succumb to the exhaustion, a knock shatters the stillness.
You blink, the sound jerking you upright. Your head swims for a moment as the wine hits you more strongly, but you can't ignore it. Who could be here? At this hour?
You sit up too quickly, and your vision spins a little, the alcohol taking the edge off your thoughts but making your body feel unsteady. You stumble toward the door, half-dazed, and peer through the peephole.
And there he is.
Pedro.
Standing on your doorstep, wearing that same familiar smile that has always been your favorite sight in the world. He looks... exhausted but impossibly handsome, his hair a little messy from the flight, his eyes tired but warm, full of something you can't place.
For a moment, you can't move, can't process what you're seeing. He's standing there, in the flesh, and your heart skips a beat. You blink twice, your breath catching in your chest as the reality of the moment finally settles into your brain.
Your hand trembles slightly as you pull the door open.
"Hey," he says softly, his voice low and warm, but you can hear the tiredness in it, too. "I thought you might need a little company."
You're speechless for a moment, just staring at him. You want to say something, anything, but you're too overwhelmed by the sheer fact that he's here, that he flew all the way from Budapest to show up unannounced. You laugh nervously, still a little drunk, still trying to make sense of the situation.
"Pedro, what... why are you—" you begin, but the words fall away as you try to process everything.
Before you can say anything else, he steps inside, and his eyes immediately fall on the half-empty wine glass in your hand. A soft chuckle escapes his lips as he reaches out and gently takes it from your fingers.
"How much did you drink?" His tone is teasing, but there's concern behind it, as he takes a sip without waiting for your answer.
You blink, suddenly aware of the half-empty bottle on the counter, the way your body feels loose and warm, the dull buzz of the alcohol still coursing through you. You laugh softly, a little embarrassed. "Somewhere between plenty and a lot," you say with a lopsided smile. "Maybe a little more than I should've."
He raises an eyebrow, a smirk dancing on his lips. "You're lucky I'm here to keep an eye on you," he says, his voice softening as he studies you. "I was going to ask how your day went, but... maybe I should start with how much wine you've had."
You can't help but smile back, the warm, familiar feeling of his presence settling into you. "I'm fine," you say, your voice light, your heart beating faster now that he's here. "You're here now, so... I think I'm more than fine."
He grins at you, his eyes soft and affectionate as he steps closer, pulling you into a hug that feels like home, like everything is right again.
The door clicks shut behind him, and he pulls you into an embrace, wrapping his arms around you. The feeling of his warmth against you, the soft scent of him, is exactly what you need right now. It feels like home.
You exhale, your body leaning into his, overwhelmed with the relief of him being here. "I can't believe you're here," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion, the wine giving everything a hazy, blissful edge. You hug him tighter, as if trying to keep him close, as if you could make the moment last forever.
Pedro laughs softly, his hands settling at your back, holding you against him. "I told you I would surprise you, didn't I?"
You look up at him, eyes wide with disbelief, but the excitement spilling out of you in every word. "I didn't think you meant this soon! I thought I had at least a couple more days to mentally prepare for this kind of shock."
He smiles, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. "I couldn't wait that long. How did it go?" His voice is gentle, genuine, but there's a glint of concern in his eyes.
The question should feel easy to answer, but somehow, it makes your stomach tighten. You shake your head, resting your cheek against his chest. "I don't want to talk about it," you mutter, the words muffled against the fabric of his shirt. You don't have the energy to relive the stress, the pressure, the exhaustion from the test. Not right now. All you want is to be here with him.
He chuckles softly, understanding. "Alright, we don't have to. We'll focus on you getting some rest instead, yeah?" His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer. His warmth wraps around you like a blanket, and for the first time today, you feel like you can breathe.
You nod, your head resting against his chest as you close your eyes for a moment. Everything feels so much better now that he's here, holding you, the comforting weight of him reminding you that you're not alone.
After a few seconds, you feel him shift. His hand gently pulls the wine glass from your fingers, but this time, you don't protest. Instead, you smile up at him. "What? No more for me?"
Pedro lifts the glass to his lips, taking a long sip, his eyes briefly closing as the taste hits his tongue. "You've had enough of this for now," he teases, savoring the wine as he lowers the glass. "This is a really good wine, by the way."
You laugh softly, your cheeks flushed from the alcohol. "Well, you did buy it."
He chuckles, shaking his head. "I guess I do have good taste after all." His voice is playful, affectionate, and the way he looks at you—like you're the best thing he's seen all day—makes your heart flutter.
You watch as he finishes the rest of your wine, the glass empty in his hand. "Alright," he says, setting it down on the table beside you, "I think you've had enough."
You groan in mock protest, but it's half-hearted, the wine making everything feel lighter. "I wasn't finished," you pout.
"I think you've had more than enough to make up for it." His grin widens as he shifts, pulling you into his side and tucking you against him. "Now, let's get you comfy."
You snuggle into his side, leaning your head on his shoulder, feeling the softness of his hoodie against your cheek. He pulls the blanket up over the two of you, his hand finding yours, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your skin. You can feel the steady beat of his heart under your ear, and it's like the world outside doesn't matter anymore.
The TV hums quietly in the background, and you realize it's playing The Bubble, Pedro's movie. You chuckle softly, your lips pressing against his chest. "Out of everything, you're watching this?"
Pedro's laughter rumbles through his chest, and he shakes his head. "Of course you are. You love to torture me." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "But I guess it's fitting."
You laugh, feeling lighter than you have all day. Everything is right in this moment—the warmth of him, the comfort of his presence, and yes, even the ridiculousness of the movie in the background.
He presses a soft kiss to your hair, and you sigh, content. "I'm so glad you're here," you murmur, barely above a whisper.
"Me too," he replies, his voice filled with a quiet intensity. "I'm not going anywhere, cariño."
For the first time all day, you feel truly at ease. The weight of the test, the uncertainty, the exhaustion—it all seems to melt away in the quiet comfort of his presence. You let yourself drift, the warmth of his embrace and the steady rhythm of his breathing grounding you. This is what you need right now, more than anything: him.
His fingers continue their gentle tracing on your skin, and you feel a soft, drowsy smile tug at your lips. Despite the uncertainty of your future and the turmoil of your emotions, you know one thing for certain. This moment, right here with him, feels right.
"You're really here," you whisper, as if saying it aloud will make it more real, more permanent.
"I told you I would be," Pedro responds, his voice a little deeper now, the exhaustion from the flight mixing with his affection for you. "And I meant it."
Pedro shifts slightly, turning to face you more fully, his hands gently cupping your face. "You're amazing," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your forehead. "I hope you know that."
A soft laugh escapes you, the warmth of the moment wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. "I'm just trying to survive," you reply, voice tinged with exhaustion.
He smiles, that same soft, affectionate look in his eyes that always makes your heart skip a beat. "You're doing more than surviving. You're thriving. Even when you don't see it."
His words settle in the quiet space between you, a gentle reassurance that pulls you closer to him. It's like he knows exactly what you need to hear, even without you saying a word.
For a while, you stay like that—quiet, content, the world outside fading into the background. The exhaustion of the day catches up with you slowly, but with him here, with his warmth and presence, you feel safe, grounded. And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself rest.
You’d known Gregory House for years, long before you were his colleague. Back then, you were still “James’s kid sister,” the med student tagging along to lunch when your brother wanted to show off his best friend. House had looked you up and down, deadpan, and told James you looked like you still needed a hall pass. James had sputtered; you’d laughed. House noticed.
Through the years you were in and out — rotations, residencies, your own career. You saw him often enough to get used to the sharp tongue and the limp, but he never turned his bite on you. He was merciless with James, but with you, he drew a line. Out of respect. For House, that meant something.
When you finally returned as an attending, you weren’t James’s little sister anymore. You were a physician in your own right, and sooner or later your paths crossed with House’s cases. He gave you the same razored sarcasm he gave everyone else — at first. But there was an undercurrent of familiarity in the way he needled you, the kind that said he remembered the girl who laughed instead of flinched.
You weren’t blind. You knew the line he’d drawn. And you were the one who broke it.
One late night, after a case was closed and the team had gone, you lingered in the conference room while House wiped the whiteboard clean. He moved slower than usual, stalling.
“You know,” you said, breaking the quiet, “for someone who lives to torment people, you’ve never really gone after me.”
He didn’t look over. “You’re Wilson’s sister.”
“So?”
“So even I have rules.” He finally glanced at you, eyes sharp. “Why bring it up?”
You closed your folder. “Because I’m going to kiss you.”
His hand tightened on the cane. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“Probably.” You stepped closer. “But so are most of yours.”
You kissed him, deliberate, steady. For a second, he froze. Then he kissed you back, muttering when you pulled away, “Your brother is going to kill me.”
“That’s your problem,” you said, and left him there staring at the whiteboard.
James noticed, of course. He noticed the way House leaned against your office door a little too often, the way your arguments had the cadence of people who knew exactly where the other’s weak points were. He didn’t explode. He simmered.
It didn’t explode right away. It curdled.
For a week, James stopped doing the easy things with House: no cafeteria detours, no reflexive “you coming?” text at the end of clinic, no swing-by with takeout and a tired shrug. Lunch became “I’ve got a consult.” Poker night became “not tonight.” When House needled, the comebacks were automatic and efficient, stripped of warmth, like he’d switched to economy settings.
House noticed—of course he noticed—and chose not to notice. He got louder with everyone else and quieter with James, the way he does when he’s waiting for a scalpel that hasn’t fallen yet.
It fell on a Tuesday, after a discharge summary and before the elevators.
James cut him off in the corridor. “My office.”
House stared at the cane tip for a beat as if considering whether it could teleport him elsewhere, then followed.
Door shut. Blinds half-closed. The old battlefield.
“My sister?” James said. No sputtering, no fluster. Just tired anger honed to a point. “You couldn’t pick literally anyone else?”
House leaned on the glass. “Statistically, ‘literally anyone else’ is a field contaminated by your divorces.”
“This isn’t a joke, House.”
“I didn’t make it one.” He kept his voice flat. “She’s an adult. She knows what I am. She walked in with her eyes open.”
“That’s not the point.” James’s jaw tightened. “You crossed a line.”
House’s eyes flicked up, finally meeting his. “No. I respected it for years.” A beat. “She crossed it.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“There are two things you hate more than my honesty,” House said. “My timing and my method. I spared you both.”
James exhaled through his nose, furious at the logic because it was… not wrong. “You should’ve told me first.”
“Why? So you could give me a speech about boundaries and I could give you a speech about autonomy and then we both pretend the speeches changed anything?” House’s mouth twitched, humorless. “Congratulations. We’ve just had the hypothetical version.”
A long silence. Then, quieter:
“If you hurt her—”
House cut him off, but his voice wasn’t sharp, just stripped. “I know.”
James looked at him, really looked, and whatever he saw made the next words come out flatter, smaller. “I don’t know if I’m more angry at you for not telling me, or at myself for knowing you wouldn’t.”
House didn’t answer. He didn’t apologize either. He just shifted his weight off the cane and left, which—between them—counted as a retreat.
House told you that night with the same economy he uses for a diagnosis he’s already certain of. “Your brother is angry,” he said, sitting on the edge of your desk like a cat that pretends it hasn’t been shooed. “You should go let him be angry at you, too. He likes to distribute his emotions evenly.”
So you did.
You found him in his office, tie loosened, staring at a file he clearly wasn’t reading.
“You’re mad at the wrong person,” you said.
“Am I?” His voice was sharp, but tired.
“You’re mad at him because you’re scared for me. And you’re mad at me because you’re scared for him.”
His mouth twitched. You’d landed the argument before he could mount it. He tried anyway. “He will test you. He’ll push you away just to prove you won’t stay.”
“I know.”
“He’ll use pain as an alibi.”
“I know.”
“He’ll pretend to be worse than he is because it’s easier than admitting he can be better.”
You smiled faintly. “I’ve known that since he insulted my shoes and then handed me his umbrella.”
That cracked him. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. You want the truth?”
You waited.
“I’m going to give him hell. Because he’s given it to me for a decade, and because he needs friction to believe anybody means what they say. I’m going to push him, and I’m going to pretend I’m against this when he’s unbearable. But I’m not. I’m not against it.”
Relief warmed your chest.
“You’re the first variable he hasn’t tried to game,” James said. “You see him without trying to fix him. Somehow that makes him want to be better.”
You crossed the desk and hugged him. He let you, awkward and sincere. When you pulled back, his smile was wry. “But I reserve the right to tell him he crossed a line at least once a week.”
“Deal,” you said.
Cuddy was next.
She didn’t hear it from gossip; she saw it herself. House leaning against your office doorway in that too-comfortable way, your smile lingering a fraction too long. She’d been around him too long not to recognize the signs.
That afternoon she called you in.
“Is there something going on between you and House?”
There was no point lying. “Yes.”
Her mouth tightened. She leaned back, folding her arms. “Do you have any idea what you’re getting into? He’s unbearable. Brilliant, yes. But impossible. He pushes everyone away, and if you think you’re going to be the exception—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “You’re too young for him.”
It stung, but you kept your voice even. “It’s not about age. And I don’t need you to like it. I just need you to let us do our jobs.”
Her eyes narrowed, something flickering there — not just protectiveness, but something closer to jealousy, an old history she’d never admit out loud. She smoothed it away quickly, speaking as the administrator again.
“Fine. Then here are the rules: no covering for him, no expecting him to cover for you. If I see blurred lines in patient care, it’s over. For both of you.”
“Understood.”
She studied you a moment longer, then shook her head, almost to herself. “You’ll see. He’ll make you miserable.”
You didn’t argue. You just met her gaze until she looked away.
House didn’t change overnight. He was still sarcastic, reckless, infuriating. You fought, sometimes bitterly. But he also showed up for dinners when you asked, bit back cruelties he once would’ve fired without thinking, let you sit with him in silence when the pain was bad instead of pushing you out.
James ribbed him in public — “my sister, Greg?” — but more often than not you caught the flicker of relief in his eyes. He gave House friction, but not obstruction.
Cuddy enforced boundaries with clipped efficiency, but she, too, noticed the subtle edges House sanded down around you. She wouldn’t call it approval, but she didn’t intervene.
For House, that was as much as anyone was going to give him. And for you, it was enough.
