[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
warning(s): sweetness and fluff because we need it here
a/n: i’m here writing a little fic ahead of tomorrow of reader and dunk and egg, and this had me thinking.. 🥹💗
first and foremost, dunk is the man who treats your marriage like a vow he renews daily. there is no honeymoon “phase” or where things wear out over time and he knows it, because everytime seeing you, being with you.. is just like the first, and he shows it not only in that dumbfounded face he pulls, but in the little things. like the way he holds you from behind, pulling you into his arms in surprise, or mending the latch on the outside gate before you’re even able to ask. cradling you in his arms as he carries you to bed, peppering kisses to your forehead.
and because of this, he’s still always faintly surprised you chose him, sinking into deeper thought than he means to when he looks at you. even years gone by with that ring on his finger and many memories, he still feels as if he’ll wake up from a dream and you’ll vanish..
and speaking of rings, whether you are highborn or lowborn like him, before you were ever married he made you both promise rings. it’s a rather sappy thing he often thinks but it’s one of his most prized possessions, thick sweetgrass and a reed from the nearby river and a twig, all harshly pressed and weaved together around his finger and eventually around yours. for a while it was all he could afford and though he wanted to impress you, he didn’t want to, couldn’t, leave you without either. and when you were granted that beautiful silver, engraved and gleaming and just as special, underneath his and your own still sat your very own twine ring. and it’s the one he fiddles with..
he is hopelessly gentle in love, as that much is very well clear, those big hands bring careful touch. and he is constantly checking in with you, your breath, your eyes, the way your body leans toward or away. always there to pull you into that bone crushing hug, the kind that seems to melt the anxiety and upset away just by pressure and his warmth. he is also a good reader of people, at least when he knows you well enough and loves you like he does you. his mere presence curing the ills before you voice them.. or even those times when you get needy and wanting, he isn’t as sly as he tends to be, when he wants you, which is always, it’s written all over him— but he never rushes, ever.
“I’m here love, just tell me what y’need.”
dunk still blushes when you compliment him, please compliment him.. he goes so red and he loves it, he can’t deny it and he wouldn’t. to be loved by you is a gift in itself. years married and down the line he’s still rubbing his hand over his face to hide his flush when you call him handsome.
he has a tendency to carry you places without thinking. over puddles when the over the path and it’s raining, or where the dirt road gets that a little too dirty sometimes. and when you’re feet ache after a long day he takes no time in scooping you up either into his lap to doze, rubbing at them softly, or across the room to simply hold you. he even makes excuses to do it, even when the weather isn’t that bad or you protest you can walk, he slings you over his shoulder though you weigh nothing with a smile tapping a light hand to your backside.
his way of clumsy is endearing, because he means well and he is constantly trying new things.. like recipes he picks up from the road or new ways to garden he overheard at a market stall. though the bread burnt in the oven and the apple tree from last season didn’t quite ripen and grow, he still tries again, and you are most definitely the test subject to be beside him.
dunk kisses your knuckles at any given time, it’s his way of relieving stress, other than holding you of course.. before tourneys, before difficult times and talks, before leaving for the road for a little while though he dodges it as much as he can.
he likes (loved) being bossed around, he lets you do it because it’s the security he is used to but with the love he hasn’t received. and hearing your little commanding voice is if not the sweetest and most gorgeous sound he’s ever heard.
no matter where you both end up nor where you come from, he has never and will never hesitate to stand up for you, even in a room full of lords and swords, with more standing than himself. he could care less if it came to you being in harms way, he is unmoving and certain, proud in the way he talks about you, nodding to you from across the room, “That’s my wife.”
he laughs louder around you, smiles easier, because there is nothing around past or present that could make a living so simple and worthwhile than with you.
dunk would fight armies for you— but would rather spend a quiet evening by the fire with you curled against his chest, attempting to read a book you’re still teaching him to read sentence by sentence.
and he feels like home, wherever you are, his scent his smile, his way too big tunic draped over your body. he makes sure he finds a way to make it that way..
synopsis: you’re at the height of your career, one of the biggest pop stars in the industry, while luke is regaining his popularity with their newest tour. what happens when two bright burning stars collide?
y/n: baby’s first chella!!!!! can’t believe i headlined n1
liked by yourbestfriend, sabrinacarpenter, and 6,518,092 others
gracieabrams: so proud!!! you killed it
y/n: ugh ily
user74: you’re really made it 🥺
sabrinacarpenter: what’s between 7 and 9? you 8!
y/n: you’re so…. LMFAODIDJJS
sabrinacarpenter: wow… okay
yourbestfriend: you’re a star!!!!!!
y/n: ily!!!!!!
user91: this is so insane i rmr when you were posting covers on yt
luke5sos: evolved at coachella n2
liked by michaelclifford, calumhood, and 5,819,472 others
user87: so proud of you guys 🥹🥹
michaelclifford: 😎😎
calumhood: come a long way from the take me home tour
luke5sos: grateful for every minute man
ashtonirwin: proud of us boys!
user17: you guys were so good i was there!
republicrecords: 2 of our artists headlining.. pretty cool @y/n
The vampire Armand, doting after his first and only creation.
Sfw. maybe a little ooc. I havent written something for armand in…. Idek.
This is from a prompt L requested about makers checking in on their baby vampires fangs!
His presence was always a balm to you. He made sure of it. You deserved nothing less.
His child- his creation. The only person in this world he wanted to preserve when it fell away. He had walked a lonely road for some time- met vampires of all ages and experience. What he had found was.. abused vampires handcrafted more abuse, starting with their children.
He could be different. He could break the wheel. It started with you, now. It started with love.
You turn before he gets the chance to announce his presence. Your eyes soften fractionally when his figure comes into view in the warm lighting.
“How are you faring?” He inquires. “Has the sickness passed?”
Armand gives you a once over with his eyes. Not too sickly, not too malnourished. Your eyes have yet to fully change over. One of them was a vibrant hue, the other remained rather human. He smiles fondly at your strange case of heterochromia.
“Im hungry,” you reply, the pit in your stomach seemingly endless.
“As all vampires are, my love. It’s a sickness that starves.” He slowly makes his way to you. He greets you with a kiss to the cheek. “I will bring something home to you when the sun is done setting.”
“Or someone,” you joke. He stifles a laugh.
“Or someone.”
Comfortable silence fills the space between you. You find yourself fixing the collar of his shirt.. it was a strange texture. Suede on the torso, the sleeves a vertically ribbed fabric. A silver zipper- youre not sure how he wasn’t burning. Perhaps an undershirt. Despite the slight sting you unzip it partway to peek.
His hand flies to yours to capture it. “Ah-ah. What are we doing?” He accuses in a taunting manner.
“You’re wearing a weird shirt.” You respond, distracted by its not-quite-teal, not-quite-green color. Emerald? No…
He notices your fangs when you speak. They rest strangely on your bottom lip.
“Look up for me?” He requests, wanting to get a better look.
“Huh?” You ask and begin to lift your head. He rests a finger under. Your chin. Even with your mouth resting he can see the little pinpricks of your canines.
“Your fangs, my love. What happened here?” He’s never seen anything like it. You frown.
“Whats wrong with them?” You bare your teeth to show them off and he cant help but crack an endearing smile.
“They look fake.” He cant resist laughing. “Like the plastic kind humans wear for costumes.”
“Dont say that!” You cover your mouth with one of your hands, no longer focused on his clothes. “Youre just saying that because I called your shirt weird.” You protest.
“No, my love- its not a bad thing.” He promises, trying to move your hand. “You’ve just got scraggly fangs. Like a cat. Its not bad!”
“Yes it is. Everyone is gonna know Im a vampire.”
“It will get better,” he reassures you, even if he doesn’t truly know.
You shake your head.
“Yes it will.” He doubles down. “Its cute. It is.”
“Armand,” you give him a serious glance and he doesnt budge on his opinion.
“Give me a kiss,” he asks. You cant resist that. Fine, one kiss.
“I love you.” He reminds you.
“Even if-“
“Armaaaand!”
“No, listen- even if your fangs take up half of your mouth.” He leans to pepper one more kiss to your nose. You turn your head and he misses, getting your cheek. Then the corner of your lips.
“Sto-o-op!” You’re laughing now.
“See? Look at that smile.” He points out. “Beautiful.”
You groan. Hes so sappy sometimes.
“I know.. I know,” you retort. “You tell me all the time.”
He drapes himself over you, trying to smother you in a hug. “You deserve to hear it until you loathe me.” He insists.
being in love with steve harrington, who can't see a life beyond nancy wheeler, is incredibly difficult part two found here
steve harrington x fem!reader (s2 era)
word count | 2.4k
auroralwriting's masterlist ⋆˚｡
be warned! | general sad themes, unrequited love...?, steve is an unintentional dick, angst, fluff, jonathan byers being a good friend, no nancy hate, upside down is canon, ambiguous-ish ending maybe for a part two, not proof-read!!
notes | I haven't written in literal ages (thanks, school!) so if this one sucks.. then I didn't post it! But I love Steve and I'm super excited to post for him. I've been a Stranger Things fan since 2016. Genuinely. Big moment for little me. Hope you enjoy!
If you would have thought that you'd be spending your Friday night curled in your sheets, tucked under your duvet, crying like a kid, you would've at least brought yourself a snack to comfort you. Maybe a water to calm your raw throat.
But this was an unexpected rush of emotions, brought on by none other than Steve Harrington himself.
The problem was, you didn’t even have the capacity of being mad at him. Because Steve Harrington didn’t try to hurt people. Well, maybe Jonathan Byers, or Billy Hargrove if he was being a dick, but never someone innocent. Never you.
He was a storm that only ever noticed the damage once everything was already wet and ruined and wrecked.
Your face was damp, your pillowcase stuck to your cheek. Your throat felt like you’d swallowed sand, or maybe even glass. Your hair was a mess, some pieces stuck in your tear-streaked face.
You stared at the ceiling long enough for the darkness to start moving in your peripheral, for the shadows to look like something crawling. Something stretching its arms across your bedroom walls like the Upside Down had figured out where you lived.
It didn't. Not tonight, at least.
Tonight, it was just the dull ache in your heart and the sound of Steve's voice rolling around in your brain.
Your eyes stung when you blinked. Your chest kept doing that stupid thing, that tight, breathless ache like your body couldn’t decide if it wanted to sob or vomit.
You pressed the heel of your hand to your mouth to keep quiet. To contain the sobs that tried to escape past your lips and echo off your walls. To try and contain your own feelings, just for one more minute.
The worst part about what Steve had said wasn't that he said it. No, Steve didn't really think before he spoke. It was how easy it was for him to say, how naturally it came.
You’d been talking about nothing. Literally nothing. The kind of conversation you had when you wanted the time to pass a little quicker. The kind of conversation most people would run from. Just small talk.
You’d said something about how boring Hawkins felt lately.
Steve had scoffed, soft and fond, like you’d just said the funniest thing in the world.
"Yeah," he’d said, smile tugging at his mouth, eyes drifting somewhere far away. "I don’t know. It wasn’t always like this."
Your stomach had fluttered, stupidly hopeful. "What changed?"
He’d shrugged. And then, like it was a confession he’d been carrying in his mouth all day:
"Nancy."
Just her name. Nothing else. Like that was the beginning and the end of it. Your smile had stayed on your face out of pure muscle memory.
"Oh," you’d said, trying to conceal whatever disappointment you felt. Like it didn't feel like swallowing a piece of glass.
Steve had laughed a little, like he hadn’t even noticed the shift in your voice. "I mean--not, like, now, you know," he’d added quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just.. I don’t know. It was.. different. When it was her."
Nancy Wheeler was perfect.
You couldn't even deny it. She was a perfect student, a great daughter, insanely pretty, incredibly and obnoxiously loyal, strong and resilient. Nancy Wheeler might've been proof God had favorites.
Stomach riddled with knots, you nodded anyways. Because you were good at being the person people talked to when they couldn’t have what they wanted.
Steve Harrington liked Nancy Wheeler like she was the air he breathed.
A creek from your window caught your attention suddenly, the sound unusual for a window that stayed closed unless it was summer. You froze for half a second, heart jumping like you’d been caught doing something illegal.
The window opened, and to your surprise, Jonathan Byers poked his head in.
"Hey," Jonathan’s voice came through, careful. "You awake?"
"No," you replied, wiping your tears away with your pillowcase before Jonathan could spot them.
His reply came quick. "Can I come in anyways?"
You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The door pushed open a little more and Jonathan stepped in like he didn’t want to startle you. He didn’t turn on the light. He didn’t do that overly bright what’s wrong? voice that made you want to crawl out of your own skin.
"You left school early," Jonathan noted. Because of course he noticed. Jonathan was too observant for his own damn good. "You feeling okay?"
You swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might swallow you whole if you stared long enough.
"Yeah," you lied again, because lying was easier than saying Steve Harrington broke me in half and didn’t even notice that he did anything wrong.
Jonathan didn’t move for a moment. You could feel him standing there in the dark, the weight of his attention steady and quiet.
"Okay," he said finally.
The word didn’t sound like he believed you. It sounded like he was letting you have the lie without punishing you for it. You heard the soft shift of him sitting on the edge of your bed. The mattress dipped slightly from the weight of him sitting.
"I’m not here to interrogate you," Jonathan added, voice low. "I just… wanted to check on you." You blinked rapidly, trying to force the sting away. "Steve was worried when you didn't show up in last period."
Even the sound of someone saying his name made you feel like you were going to faint. "I bet."
The tone in your voice was enough to tell Jonathan something had happened with Steve to make you leave. He just knew you that well, the way someone knew another person when they've grown up together.
"What'd he do?" Jonathan's voice held a hint of something angrier than worry. In some ways, Jonathan wasn't fully trusting of Steve still.
Which, yeah. Fair.
"He was talking about.. her," you said, and even the word tasted bitter. "Nancy."
Jonathan didn’t flinch. He didn’t defend her. He didn’t insult her. He didn’t turn it into some dumb rivalry just because he got the girl in the end. He just listened.
You let out a small, shaky breath. "He said her name like.." you struggled, blinking away tears that refused to stop. "Like it was the only one that mattered."
Jonathan didn't push you to go on. He waited, shifted a little, but stayed patient, eyes trained on your face like he was watching your every miniscule movement.
You turned your head slightly, staring into the darkness until you could barely make out Jonathan’s outline.
"I think I’m in love with him," you whispered, the words stinging your tongue.
"Yeah," Jonathan said gently. "I figured."
Your eyes snapped open, horrified. "You--you knew?"
Jonathan made a small sound that might’ve been a shrug. "You’re not that subtle."
"I thought I was subtle," you croaked, obviously mortified.
"No," Jonathan said, almost fond. "You’re.. obvious. In a way that’s kind of painful to watch."
You let out a broken laugh that immediately dissolved into a sob. "Oh my God. Does-Does Steve.."
Shaking his head, Jonathan replied with a chuckle, "No. I don't think he has a clue."
"I hate it," you said, voice shaking harder now. "Because he’s--he’s nice to me. He’s sweet, and he makes me laugh, and he looks at me like I matter sometimes, and then he talks about Nancy like she’s the whole world and I feel like--"
"You're the second option when she's not around."
You blinked, staring at Jonathan with wide eyes. He'd just read your mind perfectly. It was a little bit jarring.
"Yeah," you softly said, "like I'm his backup when Nancy's not around."
"Steve’s a.. good guy," he said, and the way he said it wasn’t worshipful. It was careful. Honest, even if he hated that it was. "But he’s not careful with people. Not always. Not in the way you are."
Your kindness transcended life itself. The way you cared for everything and everyone, even if it was stupid Tommy Hagan or one of the kids. The way you thought about each word carefully before you spoke. The way you held yourself softly and gently.
"What do I do?" Jonathan turned to you like he didn't quite expect those words.
He thought for a moment, taking a slow, deep breath in. "Give yourself time. Give yourself space. You're more than whatever Steve makes of you. And he's just a stupid boy." You laughed at that, sniffling at the end. "Let yourself feel what you're feeling. Then pick yourself back up and be better. Not for him, for you."
"When'd you get so wise?"
"Probably when I learned there's a whole world under our own." He paused. "Listening to Nancy rant will also do that, too."
"Thank you," you whispered. "You're a good friend."
Jonathan’s eyes softened in the dark, like your words hit him somewhere he didn’t talk about.
He didn’t smile the way Steve smiled; big and easy and careless. Jonathan smiled like it was a privilege.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Well.. I’m trying."
Your throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t grief that flooded you. It was gratitude. The kind that made you feel a little pathetic, because it shouldn’t have been this rare to be treated gently.
Jonathan stood up slowly, like he didn’t want to jostle the air. He hovered for a second, awkward in that way he always was when things got too tender. "Just get some sleep, okay? Nancy said she wants you to come over tomorrow to make sure you’re feeling better."
"Tell her I’ll use the door like a normal person," you teased, feeling a bit lighter. Jonathan chuckled, still deciding to exit out your window.
It shut behind him, and the room was quiet again. But it didn’t feel as empty.
Saturday morning came like a punishment.
You woke up with your throat still raw, your eyes swollen, and your stomach hollow like you’d been starved for years. The house felt too normal and bright. It made you want to scream.
You managed to wash your face and brush your teeth without looking too closely at yourself in the mirror, because the girl staring back just didn’t quite feel like your normal self.
Downstairs, you barely tasted breakfast. You barely heard your parents talking. You just moved like a shadow, pulling on your shoes, grabbing your jacket, stepping outside into the cold.
The air was sharp enough to wake you up fully.
Unfortunately.
Hawkins didn’t give you the luxury of staying in bed forever. Neither did the Wheeler’s’ front porch, where you found yourself standing, trying to use your jacket to shield you from the nip in the air.
You lifted your hand to knock, but the door opened before you even could.
Nancy Wheeler stood there in a sweater and jeans, hair pulled back, eyes alert like she’d been waiting for something terrible to happen. When she saw you, her gaze flicked over your face with that same sharp observation Jonathan had.
Something in her expression softened.
"Hey, I’m glad you felt up to come by," she smiled softly. "Come on in."
You hesitated for half a second, then walked in slowly, wiping your palms against your jeans like you could scrub the nerves away.
Then you saw him. Steve Harrington. The one person your heart yearned for, yet broke for. It was awfully poetic. It was also really, really bad timing.
He looked up when you walked in. And his face--his stupid face--lit up with relief? Or maybe a touch of warmth?
"Hey," Steve said, voice bright. "There you are."
Your chest tightened so suddenly it almost stole your breath.
There you are. Like you belonged to him. Like you were something he could count on.
Your mouth went dry. Nancy’s eyes flicked to Steve for a fraction of a second. Then back to you. It was no secret Jonathan had shared your words from last night with her. It was also obvious he did not tell Steve.
Steve took a few steps closer, brows drawing together in a look of confusion.
"Are you okay?" he asked, quieter now. "You weren’t at school yesterday. Jonathan said you--"
Your stomach sank at your name on Jonathan’s tongue, like it had passed through other mouths and become something public. You knew he wouldn't do that, but it still made you anxious. "I’m fine," you said automatically, then stopped yourself.
No. Jonathan told you not to do that.
You swallowed, forcing the truth out in a more real way. "I wasn’t feeling good," you said. "That’s all."
Steve’s face shifted, concern deepening. "Okay," he said. "Well.. I’m glad you’re here now."
The words shouldn’t have hurt. They did anyway. Because being glad you were here didn’t mean he wanted you. It just meant he liked having you near. And that was the problem. You didn’t want to just be near, you wanted to be everywhere he was. To invade his space like a parasite that he would welcome.
Nancy cleared her throat, stepping forward slightly like she was giving you an exit. "We were just going over everything again," she said. "Making sure we’re ready if.. anything happens."
Her voice didn’t tremble when she said it. But her eyes flicked to the windows, to the shadows beyond them. And you remembered, suddenly, that your heartbreak didn’t exist in a bubble.
There was an entire other world beneath yours. A place that didn’t care about Steve Harrington’s feelings. Or yours.
Jonathan appeared in the hallway, hair still messy, expression unreadable until his eyes landed on you. Then, he softened. Like he was proud you came anyway.
"You okay?" he asked again, but this time it wasn’t about Steve.
You nodded once, barely. "Yeah," you whispered. "I’m okay."
Jonathan held your gaze for a beat, like he was reminding you: Give yourself time. Give yourself space. Be better--for you.
Steve shifted beside you, glancing between you and Jonathan like he could feel the tension but didn’t know why. Then he did the thing that made your heart do something awful. He smiled. He leaned in slightly, voice dropping like it was a secret meant only for you.
"Hey," Steve murmured, almost shy. "Did I do something?"
Your breath caught. You just stood there, frozen, because the truth was a loaded gun in your throat. Because the answer was yes.
Yes, Steve.
You did.
But you didn’t do it on purpose. That almost made it worse.
You swallowed hard, forcing your face to stay neutral. "No," you said softly. "Just.. really don’t feel the best still."
Steve’s shoulders eased immediately, relief washing over him so fast it was insulting.
"Okay," he breathed out, smiling again like you’d just saved him from something. "Cool. Cool."
You hated yourself a little, because part of you was still happy to be the one who made him feel better.
getting frustrated over a stupid argument and crying in front of Frank, his smart ass facade disappearing immediately.
looking at you with those huge pretty puppy eyes and taking you in. he thought you looked so delicate, tugs on something inside him. Some kind of protective instinct.
he'd coo sweet things to you.
"Hey.." he'd whisper while you covered your face. trying to turn away and hide from him. trying to calm down and keep quiet.
"Baby 'm not mad at you. Please-" his voice would be smooth and quiet. like you were something fragile. when you aren't able to face him he'd pull you closer. "Cry to me baby, it's okay. I'm not going anywhere." ignoring your weak attempts to squirm away. an arm would snake around your waist. He'd hold your face to his chest. big, tattooed hand firm against the back of your head. each little sniffle and choked croak in your throat made him melt.
you were his sweet girl. he hated to see you so sad.
he'd kiss the top of your head and shush you all soft. whispering small little "I love yous" and "I'm sorrys."
when you finally calm down he'd pull away just enough to peek down at your face. your puffy cheeks, swollen eyes. "Still so pretty." he'd swoon. cupping your face between his palms. the rough pads of his thumbs swiping over your damp, sensitive skin. he'd kiss where there would still be faint traces of tears. feather light against you. it'd make you feel sort of special. tension dissolving with each graze of his lips.
Denis x f!reader who is Santos best friend and has no idea that she got a new roommate and turns out he is cute 🥺🙂↕️ (looove your writing!)
𝐔𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲 ♡
Omg, yes!! such a cute idea! and you're right, he is so cute <3
Dennis Whitaker x f!reader || Masterlist || Spotify
summary: An unexpected visit over takeout leads to quiet first impressions, gentle curiosity, and a surprising easy evening.
word count: 3.1k
note/tags: Fluff. No use of y/n. Reader and Santos are best friends. Mention of background Sntos x Garcia. Let’s just pretend that Dennis has his season 2 haircut here.
You don’t knock like a stranger. You knock like someone who’s been here a hundred times before, it’s how you always knock when you visit Trin. Two quick raps before you shift the bag of takeout to your other hand, already half-turning to check your phone while you wait.
Trinity didn’t answer your call, but you decided to come anyway, because you’ve never needed an invitation before. You also have a key, just like she has one to your place.
You smile to yourself, thinking about a funny thing that happened at work, that you’re excited to tell her about. But when the door opens the smile dies on your face, because the person standing in the doorway is not your best friend. It’s a guy… A guy you have never seen before.
He looks like someone who wasn’t expecting anyone. Soft brown curls falling over his forehead, slightly mussed like he’s run his hands through them one too many times. He is in a loose hoody and a pair of pajama pants, looking just as startled as you feel. His blue eyes so wide he looks like a deer caught in headlights.
You blink. He blinks.
“Hi,” he says. His voice is gentler than you expect.
“Hi,” you answer, confusion filling your brain.
You glance past him into the apartment. Same couch, same framed print you helped Trin hang. Same overwatered houseplants, that for some reason, still refuses to die. Wrong person.
“…Is Trinity home?” you ask carefully.
He hesitates like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to answer that. “No, she, uh. She picked up an extra shift.” He steps back automatically, like he thinks he’s in your way.
You stare at him. He shifts under it.
“I-I’m sorry. I’m not, like, breaking in. I live here.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You live here?”
He nods, a little too fast. “Yeah. I moved in a couple weeks ago.”
A couple weeks ago… She was at your place three days ago, yapping about some surgeon she stabbed with a scalpel, and who she definitely has a crush on.
“I’m Dennis,” he adds, as if that might help. It does not.
Your dear friend Trinity Santos sure has some explaining to do.
“Right…” you say slowly, before telling him your own name, and something like recognition flickers over his face. “I guess Trin isn’t coming home anytime soon?”
“Yeah, she only left about an hour ago, and it’s a 12 hour shift, so…”
“Hm,” you hum softly, rocking back on your heels.
You hesitate for just a moment, it’s your best friend’s apartment, but there’s a strange man standing in the doorway, but he also looks like he apologizes when other people bump into him. Worn hoodie. Pajama pants. White tennis socks. Hair just a little too messy. He doesn’t look threatening. He just looks tired. Soft around the edges. Like someone who hasn’t quite caught up on sleep. And if he really is gonna live with Trin you’ll have to get to know him anyway.
“Are you hungry?” you ask suddenly, lifting the takeout bag slightly.
He blinks at you. “Me?”
“No, the cactus,” you deadpan.
His mouth twitches before he can stop it.
“I, uh. I mean, I can Venmo you,” he says quickly. “I don’t want to just—”
“It’s fine,” you cut in. “I bought too much, anyway.” That part isn’t even a lie.
He hesitates, clearly waging some internal moral battle about accepting food from a girl he just met in his borrowed doorway.
“Okay,” he says finally, it’s soft. “Yeah, I’m a little hungry.”
You nod once before stepping inside. He closes the door gently, too gently, like he’s worried it might take offense while you toe off your shoes.
“She said you had a key,” he says.
“I do.”
“Right, yeah, okay.”
A stretch of silence follows. You can feel him standing a polite distance behind you while you set the bag of food on the coffee table before turning again. He’s still watching you, but in that way that doesn’t feel invasive. Just careful, like he’s trying to read the room and not take up too much space in it. There are faint shadows under his eyes. A crease between his brows that looks like it lives there now.
“So,” you say. “You’re Trin’s…?”
He flushes. “Coworker.”
You wait.
“And roommate,” he finishes, like it pains him to assume the title.
“Huh.” You cross your arms and tilt your head. He straightens slightly, as if bracing for interrogation. “So you work at the ER?”
“Yeah, student doctor.”
“Ah.”
That explains the exhaustion. The way he looks like he’s halfway between here and somewhere much louder.
“And she just didn’t think to mention that she moved a man into her apartment?”
His ears go red. “I thought she would have.”
“Well, she didn’t,” you say flatly. “Probably been too busy being in love with that surgeon,” you finish dryly under your breath.
His head snaps up. “What?”
“Oh, she didn’t tell you?” you ask sweetly.
He looks horrified. “No… I mean, I don’t—”
You laugh, the sound finally breaking some of the tension in the room. “Relax, I’m kidding. Mostly.”
He exhales like you just pulled him back from the edge of a cliff. He bites back what might be a smile. It’s subtle, shy, like he doesn’t fully trust it, and something about that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time. “I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“You didn’t,” you reply automatically.
But it is weird. Because now that the shock is wearing off, you’re noticing things. Like the way he keeps his hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie so they won’t fidget, like he’s not sure what to do with them. Or the way he stands slightly off to the side instead of directly in front of you, as if he’s instinctively making space. The way he looks at you when you speak, so attentive, even if it makes him look a little startled every time your eyes meet.
“You look familiar,” he says suddenly.
You frown. “I do?”
“There is a picture of you on the fridge.” His mouth twitches. “I think it’s from new years.”
You close your eyes. “She did not keep that up.”
“It’s very much up.”
Mortification floods you. He’s smiling properly now, small, but real. And god, he’s cute. It’s in an unpolished way, like he hasn’t realized it himself yet.
“Great,” you groan. “Love that for me.”
“It’s a nice picture,” he offers gently. “You look very happy on it.”
That catches you off guard. You swallow. “She has dozens of normal pictures of me,” you mutter
“She likes that one.”
“Of course she does…”
There’s a small pause, and when you look back at him, he’s not laughing at you. He’s just looking. Careful and thoughtful. His ears go a little pink again. “She talks about you a lot.”
That catches you off guard. You weren’t expecting that. Not that you didn’t think your best friend wouldn’t talk about you. Of course she would. You just didn’t expect it to land like that. Or that she talked about you to a guy who lives in her apartment without you knowing about it.
“A lot?” you repeat carefully.
“Yeah.” He nods, then immediately looks like he regrets how quickly he answered. “Not, uh. Not in a weird way. Just… Normal best friend amount… I think.” He pauses. “I don’t actually know what the normal amount is.”
You stare at him for a second. Your pulse picks up, not from fear, but from the strange little warmth of realization. Trin’s world includes this guy now, and apparently, you’re still very much part of it.
“The normal amount,” you repeat slowly.
He winces a little, like he can hear how that sounded. “I just meant, you know, she mentions you. In stories. In passing. When something reminds her of you.”
“It’s only good things, I hope,” you say, almost teasing, though your voice has a little edge of vulnerability. It’s weird sitting with a stranger who knows more about you than you do about him.
He glances up at you, earnest and careful. “Yeah, definitely.”
“That’s a relief.”
“She also said you’d show up unannounced from time to time,” he adds carefully.
“Oh,” you say, caught between amusement and mild exasperation.
“And that if you did, I shouldn’t panic.”
You blink. “Are you panicking?”
He hesitates. “…A little.”
You laugh again, softer now. He lets out a quiet laugh too, almost sheepish, and scratches the back of his neck like he’s aware he’s still on thin ice with you.
“See?” you tease lightly, “Nothing to worry about. I only come bearing food.” You lift the bag slightly.
“Right,” he says, giving a small nod, and a smile, that has no business being that sweet. “That I can handle.”
You set the bag down again, careful not to make things awkward, and watch as he settles a bit more into the room, shoulders loosening like someone letting go of a weight they didn’t realize they’d been carrying.
You gather plates and glass from the kitchen and start to set them out on the coffee table. You don’t say much while you do it. The quiet hum of the apartment, the faint scent of takeout, and the subtle shuffle of Dennis moving around you is enough.
Once the plates and glasses are arranged, you sink into the couch, giving him a small, easy smile. “So you are a student doctor,” you start, resting your elbows on your knees, “and Trin just moved you into her apartment after just meeting you. What else do I need to know about Dennis..?”
“Whttaker,” he says, a little hesitant, as if testing whether you actually want the answer. “Uhm, I don’t know. I’m from Nebraska, grew up on my family’s farm
You tilt your head, studying him, letting the image form in your head. Him being a small town farm boy kind of makes perfect sense. And you can’t help but find it kind of cute too. The way his hands seem used to work, the quiet attentiveness in the way he moves, the soft hesitation in his voice when he’s unsure.
“Farm boy, huh?” you muse lightly, teasing but warm.
He chuckles softly, a little sheepishly, running a hand through his mussed hair. “Yeah… I guess so.”
You grin, letting the small moment stretch out. There’s something easy about sitting here with him, even though you barely know him, there is something unforced about him. The quiet steadiness of someone used to work and responsibility, but without the arrogance that usually comes with it.
“So, Nebraska to Pittsburg,” you say softly, leaning back, curious now. “That’s a bit of a leap.”
He swallows, smiling faintly. “Yeah… I wanted to do something different, I guess. Something where I could… make a difference. The farm’s great, but… I wanted to try something else.”
You nod, letting his words settle. There’s a sincerity to him that’s hard to ignore, the kind that doesn’t feel performative. It’s just him, quietly explaining his path. “I get that,” you say, your tone easy, reflective. “It’s brave, doing something so different.”
He shrugs, still soft, still careful, like he doesn’t want to overstate himself. “I wouldn’t call it brave… just… I don’t know. I guess I needed to know I could do more than what I grew up with.”
You smile, a little warm, a little amused. He meets your smile with a faint one of his own, hesitant, like he’s not sure he deserves it, but it’s genuine all the same.
You lean back a little further, letting yourself absorb the small, steady rhythm of the apartment around you. The soft shuffle of his movements, the faint hum of the fridge, the smell of food, it all feels oddly grounding.
You eat and talk, and it’s easy. Conversation flows in little bursts, quiet and comfortable, like you’re not filling the space so much as letting it exist with someone else in it. He talks about the hospital, the long hours, the chaos, the small victories, and you listen, curious to hear about from a different perspective than Trin’s, asking the occasional question that pulls out a little more of him without forcing it.
It’s not awkward. Not exactly. And you both become more and more comfortable as the conversation goes on. It’s just… new, and surprisingly easy, and quietly charged with a kind of curiosity that makes the time stretch just enough to notice the little details.
You finish your meal slowly, savoring the food more than usual, not because it’s anything special, but because the quiet company makes it feel different.
You catch yourself watching him for a fraction longer than necessary, how his sleeve rides up when he reaches across the table, the way his eyes flicker with thought before he answers a question, the faint crease in his brow when he’s concentrating. There’s something grounding about him, like he fits into the room in a way that doesn’t demand attention but gently claims it anyway.
When the last bite is gone and the plates are cleared, neither of you rush to fill the silence. Instead, it stretches comfortably, a shared space of quiet that feels almost rare. You realize, with a little shock, that this is one of the easiest first encounters you’ve ever had with someone new. And you can’t help but wonder what it says about Trin, that she could bring someone into her world, and somehow, immediately, they belong.
Dennis finally leans back slightly, a small, self-conscious smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you for dinner, it was nice,” he says softly, almost hesitant, as if he’s testing whether politeness is enough.
You shrug lightly, grinning. “No problem. I don’t know what I would have done with all that food if you hadn’t been here.”
He nods, a little relieved, and the corners of his mouth lift into a faint, genuine smile. “Yeah… I didn’t expect company, honestly. But, uh… it was nice. Really.”
You tilt your head, studying him for a beat, letting the words settle in the quiet room. “Well,” you say softly, “I’m glad I showed up then. I still can’t believe you’ve lived here for weeks without me knowing about it.”
He shifts slightly in his seat, a soft laugh escaping him, low and hesitant. “Yeah… sorry about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I really thought she would have told you.” His blue eyes flick to yours for a moment, careful, curious.
“No need for you to apologize,” you say, letting the words come easy, softening the moment. “It’s not your fault she hasn’t told me. She probably just wasn’t in the mood to have me yelling at her for inviting a guy she has known for one day to live in her apartment.”
Dennis lets out a quiet laugh, the kind that’s both embarrassed and relieved, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Yeah… that sounds about right.”
A stretch of silence follows, comfortable this time, not awkward. He shifts slightly in his seat, then leans back, letting out a small sigh that feels more like relief than anything else. “She really does things her own way,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But… I think it works. Somehow.”
You smile, soft and easy. “Yeah, it usually does. She has this… talent for making people fit into her world, whether they want it or not.”
Dennis glances at you, a faint, curious smile tugging at his lips. “I guess I have to be very thankful for that.”
You let the silence settle again, but it’s different now, lighter, threaded with something unspoken but not uncomfortable. The way he moves, the careful attentiveness in his posture, the faint warmth in his smile, it all makes the silence feel like it isn’t empty at all, just shared.
He looks tired, the kind of bone-deep weariness that comes from long hours and little sleep, but it doesn’t make him any less present. If anything, it makes the quiet weight of him feel even more real, real and grounded. You can’t help but notice the faint dark circles under his eyes, the slight slump in his shoulders, and yet there’s a steadiness to him, a calm that quietly balances the room, but you don’t want to overstay your welcome, he looks like someone who could needs to go to bed sooner rather than later.
You shift slightly on the couch, weighing whether to linger or give him space. There’s a softness to him, the kind of quiet presence that makes the room feel fuller just by being in it, but also the kind that suggests he could really use rest.
“Alright,” you say after a moment, leaning back into the couch, “I think I’ve learned enough about Dennis Whitaker for one evening. But you better be ready, Trin’s going to want to know everything I’ve found out.”
He raises an eyebrow, a small grin appearing. “Everything?”
“Everything,” you confirm, playful but firm. “No secrets from me. I’m her best friend, after all.”
He laughs, and it’s a little more freely this time. “Of course.”
You help gather the empty plates and glass, taking them back to the kitchen and putting the leftovers in the fridge for Trin when she gets home, but he insists on washing up when you offer to help with that too.
He shakes his head gently, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Nah, it’s fine. I’ll take care of that later. You’ve done more than enough already.”
“Alright, if you insist” you say, “I guess I’ll let you have your alone time with the dishes.”
He chuckles, the sound low and easy, and then there’s a comfortable pause.
“Well,” you then say, forcing a little more brightness back into your voice. “I should get going.”
He follows you to the door, stopping a few steps behind you, his hands in the pockets of his pyjama pants as he watches you reach for the door knob.
You turn your head, catching a glimpse of him over your shoulder. “Dennis?”
He looks up like he wasn’t expecting you to use his name.
“Yeah?”
“If you murder my best friend, I will beat your ass.”
He blinks. Then, almost imperceptibly, he smiles. “Noted.”
You open the door, the hallway air feels cooler than it should. You walk halfway down before you realize your heart is beating way faster than it has any right to. You pull out your phone to text Trinity.
YOU HAVE A MAN LIVING IN YOUR APARTMENT??!!
Three dots appear almost immediately.
oh yeah. lol
did u meet huckleberry?
isn’t he sweet
You glance back at the closed door. Sweet, yeah, that might be the problem.
the concept of being with dennis whitaker since high school and being engaged when he starts to visit amy on the farm…
he insists he’s just helping her out of the good of his heart but then after a while, he starts drifting further away because he’s exhausted—he works long hours at the pitt and then at the farm and now he’s barely home…
he starts missing date nights and even your anniversary and he promises to make it better every time and in his hopeful and naive haze, dennis truly believes everything is okay…
until he comes home one night to an empty house…
he thinks you just went on a late night errand but then he goes into your bedroom and the sheets are freshly washed and your book and chapstick aren’t on the nightstand, and the closet door is cracked and your clothes aren’t in there either…
and so he starts to search the whole house and every trace of you is gone; your favorite perfume, every haphazardly placed hair tie, your magnets on the fridge…
and now he’s hyperventilating, his mind just can’t make sense of this new environment that lacks a single hint of you, it’s air suddenly cold and dry…
he stumbles for his phone, trying to call but it just keeps going to voicemail and eventually, his hands are shaking to hard to keep dialing—tears are streaming down his face and he’s muttering “no, no, no” under his breath over and over again…
he’s tearing through everything, searching and searching like he’s gonna find you in a cabinet, or find something of yours, some remnants of you, left behind, but there is nothing…
and then eventually he finds it, sat neatly on the coffee table: your engagement ring and an unmarked envelope…
he can’t really read the note through his tears but he catches the important stuff, the stuff that makes him want to puke: you’re so sorry but you just can’t take it anymore, you’re so alone in this city you moved to just for him and you just can’t handle being pushed aside anymore, and you love him too much to say it in person so you hoped this letter was enough and that everything worked out for him…
he shoves the letter away, coffee table scraping against the floorboards as he scrambles backward like running away from the words will make them disappear…
he’s clawing at his chest, trying to breathe but he just can’t, and the moonlight is glinting off of the little diamond on your ring—but is it your ring anymore? you’d given it back, it wasn’t yours and you weren’t his anymore…
he manages to wrestle his phone into his hands and calls the first number he sees, the last one that called him; santos picks up after two rings…
“huckleberry?”
“she— she—” but he can’t manage the words, jaw chattering. “i don’t— everything is gone and she’s—”
“i’m on my way.”
trinity runs in through the door that dennis forgot to lock, half expecting to see you passed out on the floor, but instead, there’s her huckleberry…
he’s on his knees by the crooked table, bent over with his forehead pressed against it, trying to catch his breath—trinity catches sight of a crumpled page of stationary and something shiny under…
she kneels down by dennis, wrapping her arms around his shaking frame, and he nearly falls into her, muttering near nonsense against her shoulder…
“she left me… she’s gone, everything’s gone… all my fault.”
content: dennis and reader are married, she/her pronouns for reader, pet names (sweetheart, baby), dubious medical talk, cursing, reader took the Whitaker surname, no use of y/n, implied bisexual reader (bc im in love with dana)
word count: 5.3 k
summary: four times Dennis’ coworkers wanted to meet Dennis’ wife and the one time they did
notes: as a midwestern girlie myself, i would 100% bake for these people. like, they deserve it and food is THE love language of the midwest. ALSO yes i know that it should be dennis’s but i fucking hate the way that looks so you can read dennis’ instead (i am allowed to do this as a person whose name ends with an s)
line dividers from @hyuneskkami
1. Robby
Dennis Whitaker isn’t what most would consider a private person. His coworkers know about his brothers and his hometown and his nieces and nephews, he just never mentioned a love life of any kind. They had assumed it was because his love life didn’t exist. It’s typical with med students, focused on school and their internship. Too busy to find time for another person in their hectic lives. No one judged him. Really, they understood. Then, a few weeks after his graduation, Dennis walks into work with a gold band shining on his left ring finger.
Most of his coworkers didn’t even notice it at first. The ED is a place where people wear gloves more often than not. Bare hands are rarer than covered ones. Robby is the first one to spot it. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just shakes Dennis’ hand and shoots him a quiet congrats, kid. It’s not until Trinity spots the new jewelry that everyone finds out. Because Trinity Santos cannot keep her mouth shut to save her own life.
“You’re married!”
“Um, yeah?” Dennis rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He’s not sure if it’s always been a habit of his or if he picked it up from Robby. What he is sure of is that he hates the way every single doctor and nurse within earshot turns to study Dennis. Like he’s their newest toy. The grin on Princess’ face almost makes him wish he had stayed in bed with you this morning. (He wishes that every morning, though.)
“When did that happen?” It’s Mel’s voice this time. No judgement. No gleam in her eye. Just genuine curiosity that makes Dennis want to hug her.
“After I graduated. We, uh, we’ve been dating since high school.” And Dennis hates how much his voice shakes. He should be able to boast about you to anyone who will listen because you’re the most amazing person he knows. But his cheeks are hot and his throat feels just a little tight. Dennis can see Trinity open her mouth, no doubt about to make fun of him for marrying his high school sweetheart. Then Dana is stepping in front of him, shooing away nosy residents with a wave of her hand and a single noise. Robby’s hand is on her shoulder again.
“If you ever want to bring her with you after work, feel free.” Robby’s voice is soft and deep, a smile on his face that says nothing except pride. Dennis nods slowly and Robby squeezes his shoulder once before pulling back.
Dennis practically stumbles through the door. It’s late. A bit later than he wishes it was. The shift ran long because of a multi-vehicle crash on the highway. They didn’t lose anyone, but it was a hard-fought battle. Dennis can still smell blood in his nostrils.
“Denny? That you?” Your voice is like a balm on the exhausted open wound that is Dennis Whitaker. He makes his way toward the living room of your tiny shared apartment to see you sitting on the couch. The television plays some nature documentary that he’s sure you’re not watching. You look over the back of the couch and smile so warmly that Dennis thinks he might melt. “Welcome home, baby. Dinner is staying warm in the oven for you.”
“I love you so much.” He can’t help muttering as he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. You just laugh, reaching back to pat his hip before pushing off the couch.
You follow Dennis into the kitchen, sitting at the rickety dining table with exactly two chairs at it. He pulls out the food you left in the oven, carrying it over to the table, just short of collapsing into the chair. You watch as he eats, crumbs falling back onto his plate, unable to hold back a smile. You’ve known the man for two decades and he still doesn’t know how to eat without making a mess.
“So…how did it go?” You reach out to run a finger over Dennis’ wedding band. The gold is scuffed and scratched in a few places. You bought your rings together at a thrift store, old and used but no less loved. He flips his hand over, intertwining your fingers.
“Trin was loud. But Robby said you’re invited to our after-work hangout. If you ever want to.” Dennis pauses, running his thumb over your knuckles with such gentle reverence you would think he’d studied you in undergrad instead of theology. “They, uh, they want to meet you.”
“Do you want me to meet them?” You ask quietly, keeping your eyes on Dennis’ hand in yours. He squeezes slightly and you already know the answer. As much as Dennis loves his coworkers, there’s something about you being his and only his. Not having to combine his home and work lives. It gives him an escape. You just squeeze back, finally meeting his eyes. “Wanna wait a little longer?”
“I’m sorry.” He leans down, pressing his forehead against your joined hands. You just smile, running your free hand through his curls. He lets out a breath you’re sure he hadn’t known he was holding. “You are the most amazing wife ever, Mrs. Whitaker.”
“And you are the best husband I could ever want, Dr. Whitaker.” You pull back, standing from the chair with a creak of the old wood. “Now, come on. Shower, then bed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
2. Dana
“What d’ya got there, kid?” Dana’s voice cuts through Dennis’ thoughts and he looks down at the large foil pan in his arms. Like, so big he needs both arms to carry it. He smiles that signature shaky smile and awkwardly readjusts the pan in his hold.
“Treats. From Mrs. Whitaker.” He can’t help the way he straightens up a bit when he says it. He loves that he gets to call you that now. Dennis told you at least five times the night before that you did not have to bake anything for his coworkers. You steadfastly ignored him as you carefully measured out the ingredients. He only stopped after five because you looked so cute with flour on your nose. Dennis peels back the lid to reveal chocolate and caramel and oats in some kind of layer bar, already cut and carefully arranged in the foil pan. Dennis doesn’t know what exactly went into them. He’s no chef. If it were up to him, Dennis would eat strictly fast food, takeout, and frozen dinners. “They’re carmelitas, I think?”
Dana reaches in and grabs one, taking a bite before Dennis can even say anything. She lets out a noise that Dennis really doesn’t want to hear from his coworker and shoves the rest of the square in her mouth.
“Whitaker, tell your wife that if she ever wants to divorce you, I am more than willing to take your place.” Dana mutters, grabbing another bar as she continues chewing. “Seriously, these things are gonna kill me and it’ll be worth it.”
“Aren’t you married?”
Dana just laughs, turning away without another word. Dennis can only shrug, continuing his journey to the staff break room to place the foil pan on the small counter by the fridge. He pulls the little paper sign you made out of his bag, placing it next to the tray before heading toward his locker.
It takes about thirty seconds for every single nurse and doctor in the Pitt to realize they’ve been offered a sweet treat. Even the night shift stops by the break room on their way out. Dennis personally gets pats on the back from Dr. Abbot and Robby and about ten other people who he’s not sure he’s ever met before today. It feels…nice? A bit strange, to be thanked and congratulated for something he didn’t even do.
The day is dreadfully slow. As much as Dennis hates the idea of people in pain, it's starting to grate at him by the end of the day. Only two ambulances came in, one of which was from the nearby old folk’s home. And most of the people in the waiting room either ate something bad and are overreacting or are straight-up rude. It’s trying, but Dennis supposes it’s better than losing patients.
By the time he finally makes it around to the break room at the end of the day, hoping for a bite of the sweet treat you made, only crumbs are left in the bottom of the foil pan. He smiles. Not the shaky one he gives when people ask him questions (even when he knows the answer), but something soft and solid. Mostly because he knows how happy you’ll be when you find out that the staff of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Emergency Department are, on most days, hungrier than a pack of wild hyenas.
“I think our grocery bills are about to go up.” Dennis murmurs against your head as he places his customary greeting kiss there. You look over the back of the couch to see him empty handed and you grin.
“Are you telling me I’m required to bake for your coworkers now?” You tease, turning to lean forward against the back of the couch. Dennis just raises a brow, grinning down at you. You two know each other better than you know yourselves some days. “I’m not complaining, baby. They can be my guinea pigs when I try new recipes. And you know me. I have no idea how to cook for less than twenty people.” Dennis laughs and you think it’s the most wonderful sound you’ll ever hear. “Plus, I’m not the one who pays for groceries.”
“About that—” Dennis tugs his phone out of his back pocket, clicking open the bank app. He grimaces at the Loans tab and focuses on his Checking. “I got my first paycheck. I thought I could help out with rent this month.”
You smile softly, reaching out to play with the longer curls at his nape. “Dennis, we agreed. I graduated and got a job so you could focus on your student loans. I pay rent and bills, you get groceries and my own resident fix-it man.” You press a kiss to his cheek.
“I want to help you out.”
“I know, baby. But I want to help you more.” Your eyes close as you tug Dennis’ forehead against yours. He hums out a long sigh and you laugh softly. He’ll bring it up again and it’ll go exactly the same. You think that’s okay if it means you get to hold him like this.
3. Trinity
Around an hour before his shift ends every day, Dennis starts counting down the minutes. It’s a bad habit. He knows. It disappoints him more often than not. When the shift handoff goes long or there’s some kind of last minute trauma. So, yeah, it’s a terrible habit to have. But he can’t help it. He’s not counting down until his shift ends. He’s counting down until he can see you again.
“Hey, Whitaker!” The voice that comes from behind Dennis is unmistakably Trinity’s. He’s honestly surprised she actually used his name. “The residents are going to the bar on Grant.”
“Uh, good for you?” Dennis murmurs, glancing back at the clock. 6:52. He’s probably only got thirty minutes before he can leave if handoff goes well. Not likely, but he can hope. That means no more than forty-five minutes until he can see you again. Dennis loves his job. He just hates how often it keeps the two of you apart.
“Huckleberry.” Dennis turns away from the clock, back to Trinity. She has the most unimpressed look on her face that Dennis has ever seen. “All the residents.” Dennis just tilts his head, nodding along slowly. Trinity sighs as he doesn’t answer and reaches out to grip his shoulders. “That includes you, Doc.”
She says it like it’s obvious, but Dennis hadn’t actually considered the idea that he would be invited along. That he would go. He sees these people almost every day for over twelve hours. Does he really want to spend even more time with them?
(Yes. Dennis loves the people he works with. It took Dennis almost ten years to feel as comfortable around you as he does around his coworkers friends. Probably something to do with trauma bonding in a place where horrid sights outnumber the people who can help them.)
“Oh. Uh, sorry. Can’t. My wife is expecting me at home.” Dennis says, maybe a bit too quickly. It sounds like an excuse even to his own ears and Trinity has never been one to give up.
“C’mon, invite Mrs. Huckleberry along then. I, for one, would love to meet the woman who agreed to marry you.” She grins, jabbing at Dennis’ ribs with her shockingly sharp elbows. He can’t help smiling.
“I know. I’m lucky.” Dennis looks back over at Trinity to see her pretending to gag, fist in front of her mouth. He rolls his eyes and swats at her arm. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a wife. Don’t worry, it only took me twenty years.”
“Twenty—I thought you were high school sweethearts.” Trinity stares at Dennis with wide eyes, brow furrowed tight as she looks him up and down.
“Well, yeah. But we’ve known each other since forever. I mean, there was only one school. And our year had a really small kindergarten class. It just…took me a while to finally ask her out.” Dennis smiles fondly at the memory. He had been continuously tripping over his words when you grabbed his—admittedly very sweaty—hands and said you’d love to go on a date with you, Dennis Whitaker. It was like his entire world paused for that single moment, captured in your warm gaze. Not that Dennis could ever tell Trinity that. She teased him enough already.
“Nevermind. I don’t want to meet her if this is what I have to put up with.” Trinity actually shoves at his face with her hands, groaning as he laughs.
“Do you really want to meet my coworkers?” Dennis asks, lights off as you both lay in bed. His warm chest is pressed against your back as he holds you against him. You always have trouble sleeping when he gets home late.
You shift, turning to face him. Light from the city outside your apartment illuminates his face. The window has curtains, Dennis just hasn’t gotten around to hanging them up yet. Always busy with work or spending time with you. Things that are more important than a piece of fabric. You don’t mind if it means you can see his face like this.
“I mean, you seem really close. And it’d be nice to put a face to a name.” You lift a hand, running your fingers through his curls. He showered when he got home and his hair is still wet. He’ll wake up later, complaining about the damp spot on his pillow and move even closer to share yours. You’ll pretend to be annoyed. “But if you’re not ready for that, I can wait.”
“God, I don’t deserve you.” Dennis’ voice vibrates against the back of your neck, humid breath warming the skin. He wraps his arms tighter around your waist, like you’ll disappear if he lets go. You let him, even though you would never leave. You think that even if Dennis tried to push you away, you would stay glued to his side. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. Those were the vows you made when you married Dennis Whitaker. You had been practicing them in your head for almost a decade.
“You’re stuck with me anyway, love.” You lift one of his hands to your lips, kissing the back softly. Sheets rustle as you tug them up over your shoulder. You press back against Dennis’ chest and hum softly. “Now go to sleep already.”
Dennis doesn’t say anything. Just pulls you impossibly closer and lets his eyes fall shut. Approximately three hours later, he shifts you both on the bed so his head rests on your pillow, murmuring something about how his pillow is wet. You pretend to be annoyed.
4. Mel
It’s a quiet day in the ED. Not that Dennis would ever say that out loud and risk incurring the wrath of whatever deity watches over the hospital. If any. So he keeps his mouth shut and focuses on the charts he’s been avoiding. Dennis prefers to chart by notepad, so he always ends up transcribing for hours on end. It’s a great way to practice his typing, he supposes.
“Hey, Whitaker?”
Dennis glances over to see Mel at the computer next to him, wringing her fingers nervously. He hums in reply, folding his notes away. Any excuse to avoid charting. His eyes feel like they’re about to slide out of their sockets.
“Why didn’t you tell any of us you were getting married?” Mel’s voice shakes slightly in that way Dennis has learned is low-level anxiety. The kind that builds the more you ignore it. In the half second before Dennis can speak, Mel is opening her mouth again, ears pink. “I just—I mean, we were all so surprised. And…well, I’ve never been to a wedding.” Dennis can’t help the tiny smile that grows on his lips, just barely quirking up. “Sorry, that was probably rude.”
“No, it’s just…” Dennis has to think for a moment. He loves you. He wants to show you off, let everyone know that you’ve already been snatched up. But, at the same time, he doesn’t want you to be connected to this part of his life. He doesn’t want the blood on his hands to stain his time with you. You’re his oasis from the world of antiseptic and death that he lives in every day. Compartmentalization, he’s heard it called before. It feels ugly to call it that. He doesn’t want to keep you hidden away in a box. But how the hell does he say that out loud? “Do you have someone that makes you just forget about all the bad things?”
The ED feels like it stops. Mel doesn’t answer for a moment, but her face is easy to read. She’s thinking about it. Like she wants to consider her answer before responding. Like it’s important. It makes something warm bloom in Dennis’ chest.
“Becca. My sister. She, uh, yeah.”
“My wife, uh,” Your name rolls off his lips and he realizes that Mel is the first person he’s said it to. It’s always been my wife or Mrs. Whitaker. To define you as an individual, not simply an extension of Dennis, loosens something in the tense muscles of his shoulders. “She’s like, a break from it all? I just guess I don’t want to expose her to all this, if that makes any sense.”
“It does.” Mel’s voice is soft as she rolls closer. Her hand hovers near Dennis’ arm like she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to touch him. Dennis leans to the side just enough to make contact and Mel’s hand presses against his bicep. “I understand.”
And it’s that easy.
The two don’t speak after that, silently typing away in a never-ending attempt to catch up with charting. Keys clack as doctors and nurses alike scurry by, busy with their own tasks and patients. It creates a pattern of background noise that lets Dennis fall into a rhythm in his charting. He glances over at Mel once. She smiles like she understands.
“I think you should meet my coworkers.”
He says it suddenly as you curl against him on the couch. The television buzzes quietly in the background, forgotten as you shift to look at your husband. (Oh god, he’s your husband. That fact still amazes you sometimes.)
“What?” Your voice wobbles a bit as you hold back a surprised laugh. Dennis moves underneath you, something nervous rumbling in his chest. You run a hand up his neck, carding your fingers through his curls. He leans into the touch “Hey, you mean that?”
“Yeah, I—” Dennis breaths in slowly and releases his breath with the same careful consideration. “Mel asked today. About why, y’know? I was explaining it to her and it felt…like an excuse? I don’t want to keep you in a box. Like I’m ashamed of you or something—”
“Den, Dennis. Look at me, baby.” You grab his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes shine wetly in the soft lamplight. The shadows on his face flicker as the TV continues to play, forgotten across the room. No matter how beautiful your husband may look in this moment, you hate to see him anything but happy. So you smile and press a soft kiss to one of his cheeks. “I know you’re not ashamed of me, Dennis.” You press a kiss to his other cheek. “And I get why you’re hesitating. It’s just been us since we moved here. It’s hard to change like that.” Another kiss, this one to his forehead. “But nothing will ever change that I am here and I’m not going anywhere.”
“You are the love and light of my life.” Dennis’ lips press to yours softly and you both laugh into it. This is exactly how you think it should always be. By Dennis Whitaker’s side, both of you smiling like idiots.
+ 1
Your phone rings while you’re at work. It’s not uncommon. What is strange is that it’s Dennis that’s calling you. He doesn’t call while you’re both at work, one of the many unspoken rules the two of you have. So when you see his smiling face light up your screen, you immediately answer it, panic growing in your chest.
“Denny? What’s up?” You try to keep your voice even, taking long, deep breaths.
“Mrs. Whitaker, this is Dr. Robinavitch at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. I’m calling about your husband.” The voice that comes through is deep and rough. A voice that wasn’t made for yelling but has adapted to it nonetheless. The panic writhes around in the pit of your stomach now, like a living thing.
“Is Dennis okay? Did something happen to him?”
“Whitaker is fine. He was hit by a gurney and fell. He hit his head on the floor and has a mild concussion. We’ll probably keep him overnight just to make sure there are no complications.” The voice is stern and straight to business, but there’s a softness to the edges of his words. You hear him sigh on the other end of the line. “Dennis will be fine.”
You take a deep breath. Then another. The phone digs into your fingers as you grip it tightly. You take another breath and force your fingers to relax. Dennis is fine. He’s okay. Breathe. “Can I come see him?”
“Of course.”
Dr. Robinavitch quickly gives you directions to the hospital, even telling you which parking lot is closest and would have the most parking this time of day. You jot it all down as he speaks, messy handwriting you probably won’t be able to decipher later. Not that you need to. You call a cab to pick you up. Dennis had to get to work early, so you let him take the shared car and you took the bus.
The line in the waiting room is long and the more you wait, the more panic grows up your throat. You scratch nervously at your neck as you glance around. It smells like metal. Red is everywhere. Drops on the floor from a kid with a bloody nose. Staining the towel of an older man as he holds it against his wrist. Blooming across a woman’s blouse as she cradles bruised knuckles. You look away. It’s not that you’re a stranger to blood, you just…prefer to be far away from it.
“How can I help you, hon?” You hear. The woman behind the glass looks you up and down once. Then again. Makes sense. You’re not obviously injured. You feel your cheeks heat.
“Hi. Um, I’m visiting a patient. Dennis Whitaker? He works here.”
“Mrs. Whitaker?” The woman brightens just slightly, the customer service mask slipping just enough for you to see a glint in her eye. It disappears just as quickly and she points toward the double doors. A young woman steps out, dark hair pulled back. “Santos! Mrs. Whitaker!”
Santos turns toward you immediately. Yeah, that’s definitely a glint. You suddenly know that this is Trinity. It’s the shirt under her scrubs that gives it away. Dennis has always liked that Trinity wears them. He always calls her in for pedes cases when Trinity’s shirt has a cartoon on it. Today you can see the tuft of Tweety Bird’s feathers atop his head.
“Mrs. Whitaker.” Trinity’s voice has a lilt to it that you recognize from Dennis’ brothers when they would tease the two of you. She seems to stalk closer and you meet her eyes slowly, anxiety still quietly simmering in your chest.
“You must be Trinity.” You hold your hand out for her to shake, offering up your first name. Trinity’s grip is solid, hard. Like she’s testing you. The thought makes you smile. Dennis’ oldest brother had done the same thing when the two of you announced your engagement. “Everyone keeps calling me Mrs. Whitaker. Must be confusing. You can use my first name.”
Trinity just shakes her head as she leads you toward the double doors. They buzz open as she scans her badge and it’s just as chaotic as it had been in the waiting room. More, even. Trinity swiftly guides you down a dizzying series of turns until you’re stopped in front of a room. You can feel eyes on you from the large desk in the middle of the open area. You try your best to ignore them, focusing on Trinity.
“That’s what Huckleberry calls you, so it stuck.” Trinity shrugs, pushing the door open. Another woman sits at his bedside, blonde hair braided back and glasses perched on the long ridge of his nose. Mel, maybe? Then, you turn back toward Trinity, one brow raised high.
“Huckleberry?”
“Hey, baby.” Dennis’ voice comes from the cot on the other side of the room. You immediately turn toward him, surprised at the slow thickness of his voice. Your name rolls off his tongue and it sounds so sweet that you’re almost embarrassed. This is a mild concussion?
“Hey, Den. How’re you feeling?” The woman in the seat next to Dennis’ bed stands, letting you sit. You read the nametag, Dr. Melissa King. She smiles wide and bright. The chair is plastic and probably designed to be uncomfortable, but as you grab Dennis’ hand and he smiles up at you, you know this is where you want to be.
“Been better. Why’re you here?” There’s a dinosaur bandage on his forehead, just above his brow bone. You reach up to soothe it softly, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to the shiny plastic. Dennis leans into it, giving you that familiar soft smile. You can’t help smoothing back his curls.
“Dr. Robinavitch called me. Said you fell.”
Dennis just hums. You glance around the room and realize it’s just the two of you. You’re not sure when Mel and Trinity left. You think you can remember seeing Mel drag the younger woman quietly out of the room. But as your gaze sweeps across the window, you can see a few people gathered around what seems to be the main desk. They occasionally glance over at the room. At you two.
You can name some of them. The older blonde is obviously Dana. You look down at Dennis to see him following your line of sight. You grin. “Dana, right? I don’t know, Denny…I might just have to leave you if she asks.”
“Don’t even joke about that. She’d probably take you up on it.” You both laugh softly, Dennis squeezing your hand softly. The door clicks open quietly and an older man steps inside. He’s wearing glasses that you can only assume are readers with how far down his nose they are. “Dr. Robby.”
The man steps closer, tablet held under one arm as he looks Dennis over carefully. “Whitaker.” His voice is fond. Soft and warm like a parent. Or maybe just a teacher who cares too much. Robby turns toward you, holding out a hand. You stand and take it. “Mrs. Whitaker. Nice to finally meet you. Michael Robinavitch, we spoke on the phone.”
“You as well.” The chair is just as uncomfortable the second time you sit in it. “Thanks for watching out for Dennis. He’s told me all about you. Really admires you and the work you do.” Dennis groans on the bed, cheeks red. You grin, squeezing his hand tighter. Robby smiles as he watches the exchange. You don’t notice, too busy watching as Dennis tries to hide his face with a pillow. You pull it away before he can suffocate himself. “It’s the truth, Den. Did you want me to lie to your boss?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Robby smiles easily, typing something on the screen in his hands before turning back to Dennis. There it is again. That glint. “Ready for visitors, Whitaker?”
Dennis groans yet again.
The night is spent with you never leaving Dennis’ side. He groans and grumbles as his coworkers share embarrassing work stories with you that he had purposefully not shared. You respond in kind, telling them about his sweaty hands when he asked you out and how he somehow managed to get a calf to imprint on him. Dana proposes to you twice, grin sharp. You only blush a little.
You think you get it, why Dennis is already so close with these people. You loved Broken Bow. Still do. But the people there were always pretending to be perfect, putting up fronts so the neighbors wouldn’t know their dirty secrets. Here, in this hospital, everyone is just themselves. They laugh loudly, bully each other playfully, smile wide. You think you get it. Why Dennis has never brought up moving back to Nebraska. Why he wants to stay here. You do too. With him. With this new family the two of you have created.
“Hey, Mrs. Huckleberry. You’re comin’ with us next Tuesday. That place on Grant. Whitaker knows where it is.” Trinity says as she files out of the room. Something about patients and how every single doctor in the ED cannot be visiting with Dennis. It’s not a question. Not even a request. You laugh.
“Sure thing, Trin.”
Extra
“My sister just texted me. Her wedding is next September.” You mention casually. Dennis nods, pulling out his phone calendar and jotting down the dates he’ll need off. You grin as another text pops up. “She wants to know when you’re gonna put a ring on my finger.”
Dennis doesn’t even look up from his phone as he responds. “After I graduate. You should marry a doctor, not a med student.”
Your eyes widen just a fraction and you smile so sweetly it feels like your teeth are already rotting. You can’t help grabbing his hand and pressing a kiss to the rough palm.
“Yes.” You murmur against his palm. He tilts his head and you grin. “You can ask me again when you graduate, but I promise my answer will be the same. So, yes, Dennis Whitaker. I will marry you.”
His eyes widen and you laugh as his cheeks burn red. God, you love this man.
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