eren yeager's wife

call me red - they/them - 24 - queer : nanami kento is the only man i will kneel before

[littleredlie]

My Master Masterlist

This is the masterlist of masterlists where you can find all sorts of items and posts that inhibit my blog. Enjoy. Last Updated on March 17, 2020.

Fanfiction Series 

Oneshots/Drabbles/Imagines

Character Index

Requests (Currently Closed)

[metal-armed-muse]

─── 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓 ! 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐃𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐃𝐎𝐍 & 𝐃𝐑 𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐎𝐓 ?

GUIDE fluff ❤︎ angst ☁︎ smut ★ my fave ‹𝟹

✧ BABYDOLL [53K] ❤︎☁︎★ ‹𝟹 — bucky x camgirl!reader

➛ you swore you could keep your two lives separate: medical intern by the day, faceless fantasy online by night. but then Bucky Barnes walks in for a check-up… and later logs in to watch you strip. he knows. you don’t. and the deeper he falls, the harder it is to keep both worlds from colliding.

1 ⋆ 2 ⋆ 3 ⋆ 4 ⋆ 5 ⋆ 6

✧ LESSONS IN LOVE [38.2K] ❤︎☁︎★ ‹𝟹 — brother’s bestfriend!bucky x inexperienced!reader {college au}

➛ Being Steve Rogers’ sister meant years of boys looking at you like a warning sign. Now that you’re in college, your lack of experience becomes a major problem. So you ask your brother’s best friend to teach you everything. What starts as lessons becomes something neither of you have a name for yet.

1 ⋆ 2 ⋆ 3

✧ SNOWBOUND [10.8K] ❤︎★ — dbf!alpha!bucky x omega!reader {werewolf au}

➛ you don’t understand why your body is reacting this way to being under the same roof with your dad’s best friend. one thing you do know is that this isn’t normal.

✧ BAD AT TALKING [8.7K] ☁︎★ — bfd!bucky x f!reader

➛ maybe blurting out “i love you” in the middle of sex was not your best moment. but he’s your best friend’s dad. shouldn’t he know better?

✧ SECOND CHANCES [19.5K] ❤︎☁︎★ ‹𝟹 — congressman!barnes x med resident!reader

➛ one stolen night with congressman barnes leaves you with more than memories: a positive test and a man who's determined to prove he's worth a second chance.

✧ A SIMPLE FAVOUR [19.3K] ❤︎☁︎★ ‹𝟹 — senior!bucky x junior!reader {college au}

➛ Bucky Barnes is your senior. That’s how simple it should’ve been. But when feelings come into the mix, nothing is ever simple right?

✧ A TORTURE CALLED LOVE [17.5K] ❤︎☁︎★ ‹𝟹 — college! bucky x f!reader {enemies to lovers}

➛ You and Bucky have history. History of hating each other. One messy fuck in a bathroom later, you’re both scrambling to pretend it didn’t change anything. What better way to save one’s heart than by breaking the other first?

✧ BAD HABITS [12.2K] ❤︎★ — dbf! bucky x f!reader

➛ What’s so bad about Bucky Barnes? The fact that he watches you or calls you kid while he does it?

✧ SUGAR AND SWEET [2K] ❤︎ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ you’re craving something sweet, and your boyfriend does something a million times sweeter.

✧ DRUNK ON YOU [4.2K] ❤︎ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ you drink for the first time, and your boyfriend’s there for you at every turn.

✧ DAYS WITHOUT YOU [2K]★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ your boyfriend is back home after a mission. you’ve spent days without him and you are simply too horny to care about anything else.

✧ PLAY WITH IT [1.5K]★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ you wanted to read. he wanted your mouth full. guess who won?

✧ VULNERABLE [1.5K]☁︎★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ your boyfriend shows up wrecked, lips to your stomach, whispering need into your skin. and you give him the only thing he asks for: everything.

✧ MERCY [2.8K]★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ your boyfriend gets worked up and teases you when you’re getting ready for work, but you flip the switch and suddenly now he’s at your mercy.

✧ PASSENGER PRINCESS [3.4K]★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ you are turned on by your boyfriend’s veiny arms, and decide to be a brat…so naturally he fucks the attitude out of you.

✧ MEDIA DARLING [4.3K]★ — congressman!barnes x journalist!reader {dark!bucky}

➛ you are the reporter they bring in when there are men behind chairs too powerful to fear, the one with the questions no one else dares to ask. but when the new congressman snaps, the story you walk away with isn’t the one you thought you’d write.

✧ KITCHEN COUNTER ENCOUNTER [6K] ★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ during a casual movie night with the thunderbolts, you learn that Bucky Barnes cannot keep his hands to himself. later you learn the same fact again while being pushed against a kitchen counter.

✧ WILTED ROSES [2.2K] ☁︎ ‹𝟹 — 40s!bucky x f!reader {hurt/no comfort}

➛ when bucky barnes got drafted, you didn’t realise that will be the last time you ever see him. but he did leave behind something for you. this is a story about the grief that follows death, and the love that blooms out of it anyway.

✧ SWEAT [4.3K]★ — avenger!bucky x f!reader

➛ power outage due to a stark mishap? no problem. bucky’s got other ways to make you work out. sweat never seemed to stop him anyway!

✧ SLEEPING BEAUTY [3.3K] ★ ‹𝟹 — congressman boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ your congressman boyfriend comes home after a long day to find you in the deepest slumber. who’s he to deny himself of the inviting warmth?

✧ MOMMY DAIRIES DIARIES [4K] ★ ‹𝟹 — husband!bucky x f!reader

➛ your husband has always been obsessed with you. but he seems extra with all the looks he's been throwing at you feeding your daughter. whatever is on his mind?

✧ I WANNA RUIN OUR FRIENDSHIP [2.8K] ★ ‹𝟹 — bestfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ when your bestfriend has lost his touch with how to please a woman, you’re the only person he trusts enough to help him with it.

✧ JUST THE TIP [2.8K] ★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader {college au}

➛ you know you should be studying, instead you’re in your boyfriend’s bed, while he tries to lure you in with the promise of ‘just the tip’

✧ FALLING INTO YOU [1.9K] ❤︎ — bucky x f!reader {meet-cute}

➛ something does fall when you slip on ice. it’s not your body, just your heart.

✧ ALL MY FIRSTS [6.5K] ❤︎★ ‹𝟹 — 40s!bucky x f!reader

➛ most girls dream under the covers when the house goes quiet. you’re waiting for the soft scrape of boots on the fire escape, because the boy you’ve loved forever is climbing through your window, and this time he isn’t leaving before dawn.

✧ TILL YOU’RE MINE IN EVERY WAY [5.9K] ❤︎★ ‹𝟹 — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ when bucky sees you babysitting walker’s kid, something stirs inside him.

✧ SCENT OF SOMEONE ELSE [5.4K]★☁︎ — fwb congressman!barnes x f!reader

➛ congressman barnes comes home to you with another woman’s perfume still clung to him. but what can you say? he’s not yours.

✧ WRONG NUMBER, RIGHT CALL [5.7K] ★ — bfd!bucky x f!reader

➛ One bored afternoon, one wrong contact. Now your best friend’s dad knows exactly what you look like.

✧ NEIGHBOUR BUCKY HEADCANONS [4.7K] ❤︎★ ‹𝟹 — neighbour! congressman! barnes x f! reader

➛ In which Congressman Barnes is your neighbour

✧ FIRST AID [4.2K] ★ — tfatws!bucky x f!reader

➛ What starts as first aid gets dirty fast.

✧ BUCKY BARNES VS ONE ANNOTATED ROMANCE NOVEL [2.7K] ★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ Bucky finds your romance novel. Bucky reads the highlighted part. Bucky discovers you've both been silently wanting the same thing. Bucky proves he’s incapable of acting normal about this information.

✧ LINGERIE SHOPPING [4K] ❤︎ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ when your friend bails on you last minute, you go lingerie shopping with your boyfriend.

✧ THE GARTER EFFECT [5K] ★ — boyfriend!bucky x f!reader

➛ after the lingerie shopping, your boyfriend finds it hard to keeps his hands to himself, when you test his patience by wearing the garter you’d bought earlier.

TEETH ✧ FACE SITTING ✧ TAKING ✧ BREAK ✧ 69 ✧ BRO? ✧ SALT N PEPPER ✧ SHIRT ✧ SLOW ✧ SHY AND LACE DON’T MIX? ✧ THE QUIETEST MORNING ✧ INKED, PIERCED AND BREATHLESS ✧ LEFT OUT

⋆ JANUARY JUMBLE SCRIBBLES

⋆ BUCKY’S DREAM HOUSE ⤷ TASTE TEST [17.8K] ❤︎☁︎★ ‹𝟹 — executive chef! bucky x sous chef! f!reader

➛ Bucky Barnes doesn’t lose control. He doesn’t blur lines. But when his new sous chef looks at him differently, control doesn’t feel so important.

if you would like to be tagged for any of my future fics, comment here!

[winteryn]

LOVE, B librarian!bucky barnes x professor!reader [19.5k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: bucky barnes falls in love with you, his gorgeous literature professor, on his first day of college. four years and a degree later, he’s one of the librarians at the very same college he attended, and now there’s nothing stopping him from asking you out… if not for one tiny detail: his spectacularly clumsy and painfully shy nature. that’s when his colleague, several romance books and a pen come to his aid. — ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; she/her pronouns for reader; college au; pov switch; unspecified age gap (bucky is younger than reader and started college in his early 20s, so now he should be around 25); original characters; secret admirer!bucky; shy & clumsy!bucky; confident!reader; reader wears skirts and a dress; angst; insecurity & anxiety; mild jealousy; heavy yearning; unrequited love (according to bucky); fluff; mutual pining; smut; masturbation (m) & sexual fantasies (nipple play; riding; oral); mention of edging; public indecency.

A/N: hi barbies 🎀 this is my first ever collaboration and I'm so glad I could do it alongside the amazing, sweet people that are the stantastic members! and of course, thank you @miraclediviner for putting so much love into planning the bucky's dream house collab, and @metal-armed-muse for your feedback 🥹 hope you'll enjoy 🫶🏻 ps: read end notes if you'd like to know which books I quoted.

Back when Bucky was a student, the library had felt like a refuge, a place where every worry could be neatly pressed between the pages of a book and shelved away for later. Between the sound of pages turning somewhere in the distance and the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead that no one ever really notices until they stop working, expectations lower their voices and time stretches just enough for him to breathe.

Four years later, standing behind the front desk with a stack of returns balanced precariously in his hands, it feels… well, not so different, except that now he’s the one expected to know where everything goes.

Which, in theory, he does.

In practice, however…

“Barnes?”

Bucky blinks, the sharp sound of his name pulling him out of the slow drift of his thoughts, and as he looks up a little too quickly, the top book in his stack shifts just enough to send a brief flicker of panic through him before he tightens his grip.

“Yeah, yes,” he corrects himself mid-breath, stepping closer to the computer. “Sorry. I was just—uh—thinking.”

The blonde girl on the other side of the desk watches him mildly unimpressed, fingers drumming lightly against the wood.

“That’s usually how that works.” She replies dryly, nudging three books toward him. “Can you check these out?”

“Right. Yeah, of course.”

Bucky sets his stack down with exaggerated care, as if the pages would turn into ashes at the slightest bump, and begins scanning the books one by one, his movements just a fraction too aware of themselves. He knows how to do this, he’s done it hundreds of times. There is absolutely no reason for his hands to feel like they belong to someone else.

“Okay, so these are all set,” he hums, sliding them back across the desk with what he hopes resembles confidence. “You’re good.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, anytime. I mean, during open hours. Not, like, anytime anytime.”

The student pauses as she is putting her university badge back in her wallet just to send him a glare that reeks of poorly concealed judgment.

“… Right.”

She takes the books in silence and Bucky watches her go for longer than necessary before letting out a slow sigh, tipping his head back to the ceiling as his lips press together.

“Good recovery.” He murmurs under his breath.

“Buck.”

He doesn’t need to look to know who it is, there aren’t many people who call him that, but his head turns anyway. Steve is leaning casually against the edge of the desk with his arms crossed, expression already bordering on amused in a way that makes Bucky immediately defensive.

“You just told her not to come back.” Steve grins.

“I did not,” he huffs, words coming out a little too quickly. “I just clarified the hours.”

“I clarified.” He insists in response to his raised eyebrows, less animatedly this time, because arguing with Steve is like trying to hold water in his hands—pointless and inevitably messy.

His best friend’s grin only grows as he follows Bucky to the shelf he was previously organizing, but whatever he’s about to say next never makes it out, because at that exact moment the heavy front doors open with a quiet creak that still somehow cuts through everything else.

Bucky doesn’t think, nor decides. His body just knows, gaze lifting instinctively, like pulled by an invisible thread, and then, you walk in.

You move unhurriedly without being slow, composed without being rigid, the soft rhythm of your heels echoing faintly against the polished floor as you cross the entrance. There’s nothing ostentatious about you, nothing that demands attention in the obvious way. And yet, it gathers around you anyway, inevitable, drawn in by the quiet confidence you carry so naturally.

Bucky forgets how to breathe for a moment.

He has known you for years, but he’s never quite prepared for the way his chest seems to tighten and soften all at once, a reflex he has no control over.

“Oh,” Steve snickers beside him. “There she is.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, not when his entire focus has narrowed on you making your way to the front desk, already smiling in that easy, familiar way that feels like it belongs in this space just as much as the books do.

Darcy spots you at once, straightening with visible delight.

“You’re late.” She announces, though the accusation is entirely undermined by the grin tugging at her mouth.

“I’m fashionably late,” you set your bag down with a soft thud, your tone teasing. “There’s a difference.”

“There isn’t. You just enjoy making an entrance.”

“I enjoy making you wait.”

At that point, Darcy laughs, bright and unrestrained, and you follow a second later, the sound softer, but no less captivating.

And Bucky…

Bucky sighs.

It slips out of him before he can stop it, quiet but unmistakably there, the kind of sound that belongs more to a fairytale than to real life.

Without realizing it, his body shifts, leaning slightly to the side as if captured by your melody, and the way your expression changes as you speak: the subtle lift of your brows, the absent gesture of your manicured hand as you emphasize a point, the way—

The cart.

There is a cart behind him. A very real, very solid cart, stacked with books that are waiting to be sorted.

His elbow does not meet empty air so much as it fails to meet anything at all.

His balance tilts, center of gravity rearranging in a way that is both slow and horribly inevitable, and for one suspended, dreadful moment, Bucky is aware of what is about to happen, completely incapable of stopping it.

“Oh—”

The impact is catastrophic.

The cart slams into the nearest shelf with a jarring metallic crash that reverberates through the silent open space, books jolting and tipping, one slipping free entirely to hit the floor with a heavy, echoing thud that seems to stretch far longer than it should.

When the commotion dies, a religious silence settles back in its place, thick and absolute. And Bucky is on the floor, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer him an escape route.

“… I meant to do that.” He strains out to no one in particular.

Somewhere nearby there is a snort that is quickly hidden by a cough. On the contrary, Darcy doesn’t even try: her laughter breaks through the quiet, too loud.

Bucky refuses to look at you. He likes to believe he still has some dignity left and he intends to preserve it for at least another three seconds.

Footsteps approach, quick and entirely unsurprising.

“Jesus, Buck.” Steve frets, already crouching beside him, one hand braced on his shoulder as he looks him over. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, dragging himself up with Steve’s help, hands brushing at his clothes in a futile attempt to appear unbothered. “Yeah, I’m great. That was—great.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I just… misjudged the space.”

“You mean you forgot about the heavy cart behind you because you were too busy daydreaming?”

Blushing, Bucky bends down at once, grabbing the nearest fallen book if only to have something to do with his hands.

“I knew it was there,” he insists under his breath, suddenly feeling too warm.

Steve leans in slightly, voice close to a whisper. “She saw everything, you know?”

If a stare could kill, he would already be at his funeral.

“I’m aware.”

“You sighed.”

Bucky freezes for half a second.

His head snaps towards his friend. “I did not.”

“You totally did.”

“I breathed, Steve. Just like any other human being.”

“That was not breathing, man, that was you yearning like a damsel in distress.”

His eyes close in dejection, as if that might erase the last thirty seconds from existence.

“I hate you.” There’s no real weight behind it.

“No, you don’t.”

“… No, I don’t.”

With a satisfied grin, Steve straightens up while Bucky gathers a precariously balanced book, gripping it a little tighter than necessary.

“C’mon,” Steve adds, nudging him lightly. “Let’s clean this up before you take out a whole shelf trying to impress her.”

“I’m not trying to impress her.” Bucky mutters.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Despite every instinct screaming at him not to, Bucky decides to glance up. Just for a fleeting peak.

You’re still by the desk half-turned toward Darcy, but your attention has shifted, your frown flickering in his direction with a kind of faint curiosity that sends electricity straight through his veins. And for one ephemeral moment, it feels like you’re looking directly at him.

His grip loosens enough for the book to slip from his hands and hit the floor.

Again.

At least Steve has the decency to press his lips together to hide his laughter. “Are you going to offer her your handkerchief now that she looked at you?”

“Shut up.” Bucky hisses, already crouching down, thoroughly, completely doomed.

Bucky has spent a considerable amount of time—far more than he would ever willingly admit—trying to convince himself that what he feels for you can be contained within the boundaries of his own mind, that can exist without demanding anything from him other than the occasional, carefully controlled glances when he’s absolutely certain no one is paying attention. Because it would be easier to carry it if it remained small and undefined and safely unspoken. A feeling that could be tucked away between routine and responsibility like a pressed flower between the pages of a book, preserved but ultimately harmless.

The problem, unfortunately, is that it has never been harmless.

Not even at the beginning. And that is something his mind recalls with a kind of stubborn clarity that refuses to fade.

It had been his first day of college, a morning that should have easily blurred into all the others, marked only by nerves and unfamiliarity and the low thrum of anticipation that comes with stepping into an entirely new world. He had been running just slightly behind schedule, not enough to cause a scene, but the lecture hall was already filling when he slipped through the back doors, shoulders drawn in just a little as if that might make him less noticeable. His bag shifted awkwardly against his side as he scanned the room for somewhere that felt sufficiently out of the way.

The space itself had been warm with early sunlight, long beams of gold stretching through tall windows illuminated the rows of seats that were already occupied by students who seemed, at least from where he stood, far more composed and certain of themselves and their place there. And Bucky, who had never been particularly skilled at navigating spaces that required that kind of confidence, had done what he always did best in these situations: move swiftly and quietly out of the way like a scared little mouse, choosing a seat that allowed him to exist without the pressure of being perceived.

The room had smelled faintly of old wood and chalk, filled with the soft murmur of conversations that wove together into a low, indistinct hum. His notebook was rigid beneath his trembling fingers, the nervous energy still alive under his skin.

And then you walked in.

There wasn’t any dramatic shift or unnecessary urgency, yet your effortless composure altered the rhythm of the room all the same.

Bucky had looked up without thinking, his attention drawn by instinct, expecting nothing more than another ordinary face to catalogue and then promptly file away as part of the background of his new routine.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. 

There had been something in the way you carried yourself: assured without feeling unapproachable, and that inexplicably held him captive.

Bucky had found himself marveling at you doing something as simple as carefully setting your things down. You then turned to face the room, your eyes sweeping briefly across the rows of students, almost pleased.

“Good morning, everyone.” You had started, voice clear and even.

At the time, he had dismissed the gentle pressure behind his ribs without much thought, attributing it to the unfamiliarity of the environment. This was a completely new experience and therefore bound to feel odd at first, so Bucky had resolutely turned his attention to his notebook, pen moving a little too frantically across the page as he attempted to anchor himself to a practical and tangible task.

However, as you spoke—not just about the material, but around it, through it, as if literature was not a bunch of static concepts to be memorized, but a universe to be explored—his attention kept shifting not to what you were saying, but to how you were saying it. To the way your hands moved when you explained a particularly important paragraph, to the small pauses you allowed yourself when choosing your words, because precision mattered more to you than simply filling the silence.

You were the professor. The kind that doesn’t just teach students concepts and ideas, but changes something fundamental in the way they see the world. You taught nineteenth and twentieth-century literature—British mostly, with the occasional American detour—and spoke about it in a way that made it feel alive and still unfolding. 

You could recite passages without looking at the pages, entire lines of Pride and Prejudice slipping easily into conversation as if they had always belonged there, as if they were simply another language you spoke fluently. And you quoted your favorite poets with the same certainty. Never showy, never exaggerated. 

You carried that knowledge with that poised, quietly seductive composure of someone who knows—knows that she knows—and because of that, never needs to raise her voice to be listened to.

Watching you interact with students was fascinating. You truly listened, fully immersing yourself in their words to the point that even hesitant responses felt worth being heard. But most importantly, Bucky noticed the way your glossy lips curled around a smile each time someone was brave enough to participate—a genuine and unguarded curve that seemed to belong more to you than to the role you were occupying.

At first, he told himself it was normal. Students notice things about their professors all the time; admiration—academic or otherwise—is not unusual, it doesn’t mean anything beyond a simple appreciation for someone who is good at their job.

He held onto that explanation for longer than he probably should have.

Through the first few weeks of returning to that lecture hall, he always chose the same general area in the back that allowed him to exist without drawing attention to himself.

Except distance, Bucky would eventually realize, did very little to lessen the effect you had on him.

Somewhere along the way, his thoughts of you had become more constant and less easily dismissed. Bucky began to notice not just the obvious aspects, but the smaller, more specific details that had no real reason to matter to a student, and yet traitorously lingered in his mind before falling asleep.

Your fingers played with the corner of the page whenever you were concentrating on a passage. Your head moved in a small, curious tilt to an unexpected answer, because as you always said, “there is no correct, absolute way to interpret literature.” Your handwriting curved just slightly to the right across the board, neat but not rigid, structured but still distinctly yours. Your voice softened when reading aloud, as if you were stepping into the text rather than simply reciting it.

And Bucky found himself anticipating those moments.

It was a gradual, subtle change that sinked rather than struck, growing steadily in the background of everything else until one day, without any clear warning, Bucky became aware of it in a way that could not be easily undone.

Sitting in that same lecture hall, long after most of the other students had left, his notebook opened in front of him though he had long since stopped writing, and listening as you gathered your things at the front of the room, he realized that what he felt had extended far beyond anything that could be reasonably categorized as harmless or temporary.

Yet, he had not said anything. Because even allowing the words to take shape in his mind had felt like crossing a line he had no right to approach, let alone step over.

So Bucky had done what he deemed best at the time.

Keep it contained.

He finished the course, handing in his assignments and accepting your feedback with reverent attention, all while maintaining that same distance he had cultivated from the beginning.

He had graduated.

He had left.

He had told himself, at some point, that it would fade. That time would do what it’s supposed to do.

Except it failed.

Because now, standing in the same building years after his first day of college—the same quiet hum surrounding him, the same soft rays filtering through the windows—and watching you laugh across the room as if no time has passed at all… his heart still tilts toward you, inevitably drawn to your light.

It was a root that burrowed deeper instead of retreating, patiently lying dormant until it became, without his permission, far too ingrained to pull free. And the truth is, he did not just develop a passing affection, or carry a fleeting admiration that lingered longer than expected.

Bucky fell in love with you.

Silently.

Completely.

And he never really found a way to fall out of it.

By the time the library begins to empty, the building itself seems to settle back after holding its breath for the entire day. Chairs sit askew where students have left them in a hurry, some pens lie abandoned on the desks, and the overhead lights seem just a fraction too bright now that there are fewer people around.

Bucky has always liked this part of the day. There is something comforting in the slow winding down and the small, predictable tasks that come with closing. It gives him something to focus on that doesn’t involve thinking too much about the way your smile lingers behind his eyelids each time they flutter close, or how his own reaction to your sole presence was… deeply unfortunate.

You had left not long after his embarrassing fall.

He had not watched you go. Not obviously, at least. But Bucky had been aware of the subtle shift in the air when you moved toward the door, your voice lowering as you said something he couldn’t quite hear from where he stood, that made Darcy smile in a knowing, almost conspiratorial way.

He had pretended not to notice.

Bucky likes to think he is very good at pretending. Which is exactly why he doesn’t immediately react when he hears footsteps approaching the desk, lighter than Steve’s, accompanied by the casual sound of hands dragging across a surface, before coming to a stop right in front of him.

“Long day?” Darcy asks, her tone light to the point that it immediately raises suspicion.

Bucky firmly keeps his eyes on the screen.

“Not really different from the others.” He shrugs. The safest answer he can give without committing to anything.

She simply hums, leisurely leaning her elbows against the desk as she studies him with open curiosity.

“You fell over today.”

Bucky’s eyes flutter close for a moment.

“I tripped.” He corrects.

“You collapsed,” she counters deadpan. “There was a whole sound effect and everything.”

Muttering, he blinks at the screen to focus back on his task. “It was an accident.”

“Right,” Darcy draws the word out. “And the sigh?”

His fingers stop over the keyboard.

“What sigh?”

“You sighed.”

“I didn’t.” 

“Yes, you did.” She grins, far too pleased with herself. “It was, like—so romantic, yet a little tragic. Honestly, if I didn’t know better I would’ve thought you were rehearsing for one of those Netflix romantic movies.”

His lips part indignantly, but nothing comes out, because arguing will only make this worse. “I was just tired.”

“From sitting at the front desk all day?”

He squints at her, nodding once. “Yes.”

Tilting her head, Darcy considers him in a way that feels dangerously teasing.

“You know,” her fingers tap lightly on the wooden surface. “It’s kind of fascinating.”

Bucky doesn’t like that word.

“What?” 

“The way you look at her.”

There it is.

He blinks, going for his best deadpan face.

“Who?”

“Her,” she repeats, saying your name. “My friend. The professor who should’ve gotten the Teaching Excellence Award last year instead of that jerk Mr. Campbell.” She rolls her eyes. “The one you definitely did not sigh at earlier.”

Bucky lets out a short, incredulous breath, a nervous scoff slipping out before he can stop it. “What? No! Why would I even do that?”

The words come out too fast and high, tripping over each other in their urgency. His head shakes just a little too quickly as he leans back slightly, like physical distance might somehow reinforce the denial.

“We barely speak to each other.”

Darcy observes him in silence for exactly three seconds. Then her lips gradually twist into a smug smirk. Not unkind, but still, it suggests she has already decided how this conversation is going to end.

“Bucky,” she starts with a raised eyebrow, regarding him almost fondly. “You look at her like she invented happiness.”

A pathetic sound claws out of his throat, caught between a laugh and a choked whimper that does absolutely nothing to help his case.

“What are you even rambling about?” He insists with an exaggerated chuckle, though the conviction is… lacking.

“Hey, it’s actually kind of impressive. I didn’t think people did that in real life.”

“Look, Darcy, I don’t—” He starts again, then his shoulders fall. There is no version of this where he wins. “I’m just… looking. People look all the time, we have eyes for a reason. It’s not that serious.”

“Didn’t know ‘not that serious’ meant staring at someone like they’re the best part of your day.”

Heat violently creeps up the back of his neck, cruelly manifesting across his face with a red blush. He turns back to the computer screen in a poor attempt to hide it.

“You’re seeing things that aren’t there.” He mutters.

She shakes her head, and her blue eyes seem to soften, but it could be a trick of the light. “Bucky, I’ve known her for years, and I’ve known you for what, a few months? And even I can tell.”

That—unfortunately—lands like a punch to his stomach.

Swallowing, his gaze drops to the way his fingers curl weakly against the edge of the keyboard.

“I don’t…” He tries again, fainter this time, because the denial thinned precariously under the weight of being seen. “It’s not—it’s nothing like that.”

Darcy doesn’t interrupt him and that somehow makes it worse.

“She’s—” He sighs. “She was my professor. She’s older, and so… amazing. And—and pretty, and she’s got her whole life together, while I’m...” 

He gestures vaguely to himself, to the desk, to the library. As if that explains everything. “This.”

There’s a brief pause.

“You’re ‘this.’” Darcy repeats, her tone pensive rather than dismissive. “And what exactly is ‘this’ supposed to mean?”

Bucky huffs a small, humorless laugh.

“Temporary,” he swallows. “Unimpressive. A guy who falls over carts in the middle of the day because he can’t—” He cuts himself off abruptly, pressing his lips together.

“Because he can’t what?”

Bucky shakes his head again, eyes hardening. “It doesn’t matter.” With his back straightening a little, he mentally retreats back into that safe cocoon made of denial and insecurity that has protected him since middle school. 

She is quiet for a moment longer, studying him far less amusedly now.

“It’s been years, hasn’t it?”

His whole body stills and that says more to her than words ever could.

Sighing, she pushes herself off the desk. “You know,” her tone is casual as she adjusts her glasses. “She likes books because they say what people can’t bring themselves to say out loud.”

Bucky glances up at that, caught slightly off guard.

His colleague simply offers him a knowing smile.

“Just… something to think about.” She adds with a light tap of her knuckles on the desk, before turning, already stepping away as if the conversation has reached its natural conclusion. 

“Darcy.” Bucky protests tiredly, but the words don’t quite form anything coherent. She’s already waving him off without turning back.

“Lock up, Barnes.” She calls lightly over her shoulder. “And try not to fall over anything on the way.”

The door closes behind her with a final click, plunging the library back into a deafening silence.

Bucky stands there for a moment longer than necessary, his hands resting against the edge of the desk and his gaze unfocused as her words echo in his mind in a way he doesn’t particularly appreciate.

She likes books because they say what people can’t bring themselves to say out loud.

Exhaling and with a hand dragging down his face before letting it drop, his shoulders tighten as a sense of discomfort begins to surface in his chest.

Because it would be easy, in theory.

To do something.

To say something.

Huffing a quiet breath, Bucky shakes his head with a sad smile. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He mutters. 

The idea alone is absurd, so dangerous that he doesn’t have the courage to examine it too closely.

Because what would he even say? How would he say it?

The image forms anyway, uninvited and entirely unhelpful: him standing in front of you, words tangling somewhere between his brain and his mouth, his fingers fidgeting awkwardly and unnecessarily because they never know where to go, his voice catching on something as simple as your name—

He grimaces.

“Yeah,” he murmurs dryly, reaching for the stack of keys as he steps out from behind the desk. “That would go so well.”

He moves through the library methodically, switching off lights one section at a time, the space dimming in stages as shadows stretch across the shelves. By the time he finishes, the only light left is the soft, warm glow on the desk.

He pauses there, keys still jingling in hand, his tired reflection faintly visible on the black computer screen. With a tired sigh, Bucky reaches forward and turns the lamp off.

The click of the lock echoes faintly in the empty space, and just like that, another day is over. 

Morning, in theory, is supposed to fix things.

It’s a universally accepted fact: sleep settles thoughts. Tangled and overwhelming woes will loosen with rest, and even a few hours of unconsciousness create order and resolution where there was none. A reset that doesn’t require effort.

Unfortunately, this morning proves, with irritating efficiency, that theory and reality have very little interest in aligning. Because when Bucky wakes up, there is only a dull, persistent pressure behind his eyes that comes from thinking too much and sleeping too little, and the immediate awareness that nothing has been resolved overnight. In fact, if anything, as soon as his eyes snap open, his stomach starts somersaulting in ways that make focusing on anything else significantly harder.

His first conscious thought is, inevitably, you.

His second is the memory of yesterday.

He exhales slowly into his pillow, pressing his face against it like that might physically muffle his thoughts.

“Shit.” He mutters, voice still rough from hours of disuse.

He lies there for a moment longer, staring at nothing and fully aware that going back to sleep is not an option. Lingering in bed will only allow his mind to spiral harder.

So he gets up and carries it with him anyway.

By the time he reaches the library, the day has already begun without him. Once he pushes the door open, it’s the echo of familiar voices easily threading together that hits him first, suggesting an unspoken complicity built over shared breakfast and coffee breaks lasting more than they should.

Steve is leaning against the front desk, coffee in one hand and posture relaxed in that effortless way that means he has been awake and productive for hours. Sam is right beside him, mid-sentence, gesturing lightly with a half-eaten pastry, while Darcy stands across from them behind the desk, her own cup balanced precariously in one hand as she guffaws at something Sam has just said.

It’s… too lively. Especially for someone whose brain is still trying to catch up with the rest of his body.

“I’m telling you,” Sam warns jokingly. “If he falls again today, I’m not helping him.”

“Mind to remind us exactly when you ever helped?” Darcy asks, incredulous. “From where I was standing, you looked like you were choking on your own laughter.”

“Hey, I offered emotional support. And don’t act like you weren’t cackling on this same desk.” 

“Sam, you almost fell from your chair. You had tears in your eyes.”

He side-eyes Steve offended. “Because I was thinking about his wellbeing, man.”

Bucky seriously considers turning around. Ultimately, he decides against it, because that would be suspicious and he is already operating at a disadvantage.

When he steps fully inside, all three heads turn toward him almost automatically.

There is a brief, collective pause, before chaos descends upon him.

“Well, look who survived the big, bad cart.” Sam smirks with entirely too much energy.

Bucky simply sighs, regretting getting up from his bed.

“Good morning to you too.” He mutters, walking toward them and hoping they will drop the topic if he doesn’t engage too much.

“Good morning.” Steve echoes, his tone noticeably lighter than usual, which is never a good sign.

Darcy, on the other hand, narrows her eyes at him.

“You look terrible.” 

“Thanks.” Bucky replies flatly.

“You’re welcome.”

Sam leans forward on the wooden surface, arms crossed and eyes studying him with a barely concealed grin. “Did you sleep at all, or did you just lie there thinking about your life choices?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, which does nothing to stop him. 

“Man,” Sam continues, shaking his head. “You really committed to the tortured lover bit.”

“It’s not a bit.” Bucky sighs, dropping his bag on a chair.

Steve simply watches him, quieter and more observant, his gaze flicking briefly over the tension in Bucky’s shoulders and the slight heaviness in his movements.

“You okay?” 

Bucky simply shrugs. “Fine.”

His friend hums doubtful but doesn’t push. Sam, however, is desperately waiting for a reaction.

“So,” he claps his hands once. “About yesterday—”

“No.” Bucky’s head snaps toward him. 

Darcy beams. “Oh, we’re absolutely talking about yesterday.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Bucky insists, already bracing himself.

“You fell.” Sam counts on one finger.

“For fuck’s sake—I tripped.” 

“You sighed.” Steve adds.

“I breathed.”

“You were in absolute awe.” Darcy counters with a beam.

“I was just curious.”

“I thought you were about to fall to your knees and ask her to marry you in the quad.” Sam smirks, taking a sip of his coffee.

“What—” He sputters, his cheeks quickly turning red at the slight implication of you... marrying him. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means,” Darcy cuts in, her tone taking a more serious note. “That you need to do something about it, Barnes. Now.”

Bucky looks at her like she grew a second head, then tucks his chin down, fidgeting with a stack of random papers lying close to the computer.

“Can we not do this right now? I slept like shit, my head is throbbing and I’m only running on a cup of coffee because I didn’t have any cereal left. Just… please.” 

Sam exchanges a fleeting, subtle look with Steve, before his lips part, eliciting a stressed groan out of Bucky.

“What if,” he hums, like the thought has just occurred to him, nothing more than a passing idea with no real weight behind it. “You just… didn’t talk to her.”

Bucky frowns.

“Is this a joke? I already don’t.”

“No, I mean on purpose.” He clarifies, eyebrows raising knowingly. “Like, instead of overthinking every conversation into oblivion.”

With a tired exhale, his eyes close momentarily as if the action alone could give him the strength to deal with his nosy friends. “Sam, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does,” his friend insists, straightening up. “Okay, listen. You’re bad at talking—or whatever it is that you do with her—we’ve already established that.”

“Thank you.” He replies sarcastically.

“So stop trying to talk!”

Bucky stares at him deadpan, mouth opening and closing as his brain elaborates.

“That is the worst advice you’ve ever given me!”

“Not talking is not the same as saying nothing.” Steve corrects quietly.

Bucky’s eyes land on him, more suspicious than confused. “What are you getting at?”

Darcy sets her coffee down with an air of finality. “Sam’s trying to suggest an alternative method.”

“Which is?”

Said man gestures vaguely. “Anything that isn’t you standing there and short-circuiting in real time.”

“That’s not—” Bucky sputters, frustrated. “I don’t short-circuit.”

All three look at him with different degrees of amusement, to which he can only sigh, tension leaving his shoulders at once.

“… Okay, I guess sometimes I kind of short-circuit.”

“Sometimes, he says… ” Sam coughs. “Anyway, just don’t put yourself in a position where you have to speak.”

“So what should I do?” Bucky asks sincerely curious for the first time that morning.

At his friend’s shrug, his head falls back dejected.

“This is going nowhere.”

At that point Darcy crosses her arms, leaning forward on the desk, eyes solemn and fixed on Bucky’s.

“Barnes, you don’t have to tell her… everything. No one’s expecting you to stand in front of her and confess your feelings like a fucking Hallmark movie.”

“Good,” Bucky mutters. “Because I’m not doing that.”

“But you could communicate something.” She continues.

“It’s not like I never talk to her.”

“I mean, you say ‘hi’.” Steve shrugs, grimacing at the memory of his friend nearly tripping over his own feet the time they ran into you in the hallway last month—one of the rare times they’d managed to pry him away from the library for more than five minutes.

Bucky points at him, pleased. “See?”

“Barnes, that’s barely a syllable.”

He frowns. “Okay, so what do you want me to do then?”

There’s a brief pause, the silence too heavy for Bucky to sustain and he’s ready to put an end once and for all to this useless discussion, but then Darcy shrugs nonchalantly. 

“Write it down.”

He freezes.

“What?”

“Write it down,” she repeats, like it’s obvious. “You’re better when you have time to think, not to mention the effect her mere presence has on you. Right? So think. Then write.”

“That’s—no,” Bucky frowns. “No, that sounds so much worse! That’s permanent.”

“It’d be on a piece of paper.” Sam quips up. “It’s literally the least permanent thing. One wrong gust of wind and puff, it’s gone.”

“You don’t even have to sign it.” Steve adds.

Hesitation glints in his blue eyes as they silently jump between their hopeful faces.

“You’re asking me,” he says slowly. “To write her a note.”

“No,” Sam corrects. “We’re asking you to write her a love note.”

“There is a difference.” Steve’s eyebrows wiggle teasingly.

“A very important one.” Darcy nods.

Sighing, Bucky’s gaze drops briefly to nothing in particular, his thoughts already starting to move faster than he can keep up with.

It’s a bad idea. It tastes like something he’s going to definitely regret a few months from now, like taking on a hobby you were so certain it was going to be funny and stimulating, but now it only steals your patience and money.

And then what’s he going to do when you are going to eventually find out the notes came from him? Resign and move to another state? How is he going to face you?

But what scares him the most, is the fact that the idea of confessing doesn’t feel as impossibly pathetic as it did yesterday night. 

“He’s thinking about it.” Sam sings songs into his cup of coffee. 

“I’m not—” Bucky starts, then shakes his head. “I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

Darcy takes a sip of his coffee. “I think you do, but you don’t have to come up with something from scratch. You already know the kind of books she likes.”

Bucky’s chest tightens faintly.

“Yeah.” He sighs, eyes timidly meeting the floor. “That I do.”

“Borrow something,” she continues. “Then make it yours. Oh! If it helps,” she perks up. “She’s coming by later for The End of the Affair. We’ve got this weird tradition going on every spring—I randomly pick one book for her every week and she treats it like rewatching a comfort show, except it’s all different love stories on pages instead of seasons on a screen.”

Bucky lets out a slow breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction, not exactly in defeat but in something closer to reluctant consideration. His lips press together, before resolutely looking his friends in the eyes.

“One.” His voice breaks embarrassingly, like it costs him everything to say it out loud. “Just one and… we see how it goes.”

Sam’s grin lights up the entire room.

“All we need is for you to try.” Steve gives him a pat of encouragement, though Bucky could use a lot more than that right now.

Just a note and they’ll finally leave him alone.

You arrive later in the day, the end of your teaching hours bleeding into the tranquil part of the afternoon, when the library becomes more about the familiar rhythm of study sessions and exchanging small pieces of conversation that never feel particularly rushed.

When you walk in, Bucky is at the front desk, pretending to be busy with some books he has already sorted twice.

“Hello, James.” You greet him easily, his name warmly rolling on your tongue like this is just another part of your day and not a personal attack to his soul that makes his entire nervous system briefly forget how to function.

Bucky looks up and immediately regrets it when he meets your eyes.

“Hi.” He answers, too quickly, too quietly, and then clears his throat as if that might fix the way it came out. “Hi.”

It doesn’t fix it at all. His ears go slightly red but you don’t seem to notice. Or if you do, you are kind enough to not comment.

“Long day?” You set your bag down and lean into the desk’s edge, one hand closing softly as your temple rests against it.

“Uh, kinda. Well, it’s nothing compared to that of a professor.” His fingers fidget nervously.

You smile faintly at that, like you understand more than you let on. “Don’t underestimate your job, James. You’re surrounded by voices that refused to disappear. And you take care of them. That counts for more than you think.”

His lips part slightly, failing to find any words that could rival your beautiful mind. He isn’t used to hearing his job described like it holds weight, more meaningful than a temporary position and a set of tasks he performs without thinking too much about them. 

Before he can think about anything worthy enough, your eyes glance sideways as Darcy appears from the back.

“There you are,” she bubbles. “I was starting to think you’d abandoned me.”

“I would never skip our afternoon gossip session.”

Bucky watches as the conversation flows without effort, leaving him standing just slightly outside of a bubble he doesn’t quite know how to enter. It’s actually adorable how his eyes try to stick to the books in front of him, yet still end up on you.

Darcy disappears again almost as quickly as she appeared, muttering something about “perfect placement” and leaving you and Bucky in a quieter space that immediately becomes more noticeable.

“I swear she gets more dramatic every week.” 

Bucky huffs something that might be a laugh if it were louder.

“Seems… consistent characterization.” He manages, regretting it the second it leaves his mouth.

There’s a pause in which Bucky considers walking into the nearest shelf and staying there, but then you smile. At him. Because of him. It’s a shy curve, amused and fleeting, that makes his heartbeat accelerate just enough to hope you won’t hear it.

His eyes are already flying away from your beautiful face, hands reaching for the nearest thing like it might save him from the way his blood is pumping wildly in his veins.

His fingers close around a stapler. A fucking stapler.

Your eyes follow his movements, until they are distracted by a book lying nearby with a yellow post-it stuck to the cover, your name elegantly written on it.

“Oh,” you perk up. “She picked it already?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nods once, your fingers lingering over the cover as if touching an old friend. The shift in your expression is immediate: the tiredness doesn’t disappear so much as it gives way, naturally bringing you back to life. He watches it happen with quiet wonder, struck by how easily something simple as a book can reach the very core of your soul.

“Mmh,” you turn it in your hands. “Good one to start my yearly re-reading.”

“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “Thought so too.”

You glance up at that, curious, but before the moment can stretch too far, Darcy reappears again to insert herself between you both with suspicious efficiency, and the conversation drifts easily into lighter territory, from complaints about deadlines to a sarcastic comment about your best friend’s enthusiasm for emotionally ruining you with the book she picked.

Bucky listens more than he speaks—as usual—until eventually, you gather your things, saying your goodbyes with the same lovely smile, and then you are gone again, slipping back out into the world beyond the library. One where Bucky can’t follow you.

So he stays behind, his stomach churning as your perfume invades his nostrils, and his cheeks warm, the same color of a strawberry.

The parking lot is less busier than expected as you settle into your car with ease, dropping your bag onto the passenger seat. A soft exhale claws out of your throat, your shoulders finally loosening and your head momentarily resting back against the headrest.

It’s only when you reach for your bag to adjust it properly that something about the book feels slightly off.

The edge of a white paper is sticking out from between the pages, just barely, but enough to catch your attention. You pause, frowning at it as you pick it up carefully. For a moment, you assume it must be nothing: maybe a forgotten bookmark, or a note Darcy accidentally left there. It wouldn’t be the first time it happens. She often leaves her things at your apartment, later in the week complaining about having lost them.

Still, there is something about the way it’s folded that makes curiosity swirl in your stomach as you open it with caution.

“I couldn't have thought of her more. Even vacancy was crowded with her.”

Of course you would recognize it immediately given how many times you have already read it. It’s a passage from the book itself, written in careful handwriting. Deliberately selected. And it’s… beautiful in its simplicity; romantic in a way that makes your breath slow without you meaning it to.

You read it once again, smiling softly at the gentle words.

And then you finally notice the second part.

“I hope your day was kind to you.

Love, B”

The shift in your expression is immediate. Because that is something personal, directed not toward a character, but toward you.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the edges as your heart gives a small, unexpected lurch, catching you off guard to the point you bring your palm to your chest just to make sure your body is still functioning. Sitting still, your mind tries to make sense of what you are seeing, and the thought of the note being a mistake crosses your mind pretty quickly. 

A misunderstanding, right.

Maybe this B left the note for someone else.

Maybe it’s a joke.

But the words are too intentional. A quiet, sincere message that doesn’t feel performative yet is entirely too thoughtful, causing your cheeks to heat up. It seems to be directed at you but you don’t link the signature to anyone in particular.

Your stomach twists in a strange, fluttering sensation as you read it one last time. Then, you finally lower the paper and stare at the parking lot in front of you for a moment longer, before carefully folding the note back up with trembling fingers, your pulse still uneven and your thoughts scattered in a way you don’t fully trust yet.

It could be nothing. But it doesn’t feel like nothing.

Once the note is safely placed back inside the same pages, almost reverently, you slip the book into your bag, out of your sight. 

The sky is gradually darkening with soft hues of orange and pink and you still need to stop by the store to buy some produce, yet you allow yourself to sit in silence for a couple of minutes, hands lightly resting on the steering wheel and gaze lost somewhere far away. And when you finally decide to start your car, the radio blasting some latest pop song, your thoughts can’t help but circle back to the words you just read.

You

say… do you know anything about a certain piece of paper inside the book you gave me?

Darcy

a piece of paper?

oh shit is it the receipt for that blue shirt I’m supposed to return tomorrow? bc if I miss it again I’m gonna lose those 60 dollars for good 😭

You

I thought you returned that yesterday? btw I don’t know what it is, looks like a love note I think? is this your umpteenth “subtle” way to tell me I have to start dating?

Darcy

no you said you were coming with me tomorrow

oh? I have no clue what you mean 😇

maybe the books took pity on your nonexistent love life and are finally starting to write back to you? wouldn’t that be something?

You

fuck off 🙄

Darcy

love you too <3

“He could not be mistaken. There were no other eyes like those in the world. There was only one creature in the world who could concentrate for him all the brightness and meaning of life. It was she.”

You don’t notice it, but your smile lights up every corner of my world.

Love, B

The following week, the book comes home with you without attention, just another familiar weight in your bag that you don’t think twice about once class starts.

It’s only later in your apartment, when you are finally allowed to exist without answering to anything or anyone, that you reach for it again almost absently. Now comfortable on your couch, you are already halfway into the thrilling anticipation of losing yourself in yet another story that has nothing to demand from you, except attention.

Once you open it, something small slips out before you even register the change in weight. The folded piece of paper lands on your knees with no sound, yet you flinch anyway. For a long moment you just stare at it with wide eyes, because this can’t be an accident, not anymore. 

The first note could have been an oversight, something forgotten, or probably meant for someone else. That’s why it had been easy, then, to push it into the background of your thoughts and let it become a harmless detail in an otherwise ordinary week.

Your fingers move before your brain fully agrees to it, the paper already familiar in its structure now: the same placement of a line from the book first, and beneath it, a simple, personal addition, almost disarming in how unremarkable it tries to appear.

Your eyes trace the words slowly, as if savoring every letter.

There is a particular kind of attention in it that doesn’t feel casual. Not in the way people are ordinarily kind, or polite. This feels like someone has been observing without announcing it, leaving behind traces of themselves instead of explanations.

When was the last time anything in your life felt like it was aimed at you specifically, rather than at the role you occupy, the version of you that is expected to respond in proper, predictable ways? And who would do something like this? Not in the dramatic sense of confessions, but in this understated, quiet way of slipping fragments of themself into pages, trusting that you would find them when you were meant to.

It feels almost intimate in its restraint.

And as your mind tries to analyze that, it naturally reaches for an old memory—an unconscious comparison. A place where you’ve been before, back when everything at work still felt new and open.

At some point in the last months of your previous relationship, your ex was part of your life like those people who exist just close enough to feel superficially involved. There were evenings you’d come home carrying the day still alive in you: students who had sparked a debate with their brilliant answers; stimulating discussions that had shifted something in your thinking; all the small, unremarkable moments that shaped your job into something more than a simple obligation.

He listened as if you were talking about the weather.

And over time, you learned how to adjust yourself around that. To smooth out the edges of your enthusiasm before offering it.

Your jaw tightens at how miserable you were.

After you broke up, you didn’t stop loving love. You just stopped expecting it to arrive in a form that chose you back. Books filled that space more easily than people ever did, love stories especially—those could be held at a distance, experienced without consequence. You could allow yourself to feel everything without needing to risk what came after. 

Until now.

The note in your hand doesn’t feel like it was ever meant to remain tucked away between the pages of a book. But you have to remind yourself to keep your feet on the ground. It’s too easy to misread things like this, assigning meaning where none is intended.

You should stop here. You almost fold it back and place it on the coffee table like an afterthought, ready to jump straight into the first page. But then, uninvited, a face appears at the edge of your memory.

The person you have seen behind the desk more than once. The way he looks up too quickly when you approach, as if he can sense your presence the moment you cross the threshold. The carefulness of his voice when he speaks to you. The way he seems to take up less space when you are near.

James.

You exhale sharply, as if that alone can dismiss the thought.

Sweet, kind and clumsy in a way that makes him easy to underestimate and difficult not to notice. But also younger, and most importantly, your student once, even if those years have settled behind you both by now.

There are boundaries that people like you don’t cross. And yet, the thought refuses to leave.

Sighing, you fold the note with precision, as if returning it to order might also restore the sense of control you are gradually losing track of. You tell yourself, as you set it aside, that there is probably a logical explanation behind this. Many things sound unreasonable when analyzed under the microscope between the walls of your own mind. But even as you try to convince yourself of that, you are aware that something in the air between you and that possibility has shifted. This is starting to become a pattern, and patterns begin to ask for interpretation whether you want them to or not.

The thought of someone seeing you as a creature that could hold that kind of light is enough to make your lips curl into a serene smile for the rest of the night.

“Do I love you? My god, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.”

You seemed a little tired today. I hope you’re being gentle with yourself.

Love, B

Sam is the reason Bucky is outside at all.

“Man, if I have to watch you reorganize the same shelf one more time, I’m reporting you.” He had said an hour earlier, already halfway to the front door before Bucky could argue. “You need air. Sunlight. Human interaction that isn’t whispering.”

“I talk to people.” Bucky had protested under his breath, grabbing his jacket anyway.

“Yeah,” Sam shot back, holding the door open. “At a volume only ghosts can hear.”

Now they’re crossing the quad on their way back to lunch, the faint bitterness of coffee still lingering on his tongue as the campus feels alive but not too overwhelming. Students are scattered across the grass, their smiles tired and their bags dropped carelessly by their side.

Sam is talking about something Bucky isn’t entirely following, gesturing with what remains of his drink, when it happens.

The collision is light, but the consequence is deadly for his poor heart.

You’re walking toward them from the opposite path, a heavy tote bag slipping slightly from your shoulder, completely focused on something you’re pulling out of it.

Bucky sees you before you see him but he doesn’t move out of the way fast enough. The impact of your arms bumping is barely more than a firm brush, but it’s enough to knock the balance out of what you’re holding.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry!” Bucky startles, already reaching forward as the books in your arm tilt dangerously. You manage to catch most of them, but a few slip free anyway, hitting the concrete with a dull thud.

“No no, it’s okay, that was me.” You apologize quickly, crouching down to pick them up, though you’re a fraction slower than usual, like your body is lagging behind your intention.

He is already on the ground, hands closing around your books before you can reach them, then arranging them in a neat stack.

“Sorry.” He mutters again, offering them back to you, though he doesn’t let go right away, not when you look this tired. Your fingers brush against each other for an ephemeral moment, causing a shiver to run down his spine, and when you straighten up, your eyes finally land on him.

“Oh, James!” Your eyebrows lift in surprise, voice warming almost instantly. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Bucky parrots back, a little breath caught in the word.

Up close, it’s easier to notice the heaviness under your eyes and the lazy curve of your smile—it takes a bit more effort to reach your face. Yet it’s the sparkle he’s used to see in your movements that worries him the most. The energy is still there but buried a little deeper than usual.

“You okay?” The question slips out before he can filter it, his eyebrows furrowing.

You blink, caught off guard not by the question itself but by how swiftly and directly he gets there.

“Yeah.” You nod at first. A small, polite answer that is meant to close the subject rather than invite more questions.

Although Bucky doesn’t say anything, something in his expression must give him away, because you let out a small breath that turns into a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Is it that obvious?”

He shrugs, a little awkward now that he realizes he crossed a line.

“Only if you’re paying attention.” He mumbles, then promptly looks down, like he’s said too much.

“Okay, I’m a little tired.” You admit, shifting the books against your chest. “It’s been a long week, nothing to worry about.”

Bucky hums pensively, like he’s been expecting that answer. “Yeah, you look—” He stops himself, frowning. “Not bad. Just—tired.”

You beam properly for the first time that day, a hint of amusement breaking through the lack of sleep.

“Wow. You really know how to cheer a woman up.”

“I didn’t mean—” His eyes go comically wide. “I just—”

The words trip over themselves before he can stop them.

“You are always beautiful.” He blurts out, too fast, too honest.

You still, eyebrows raised in shock. But as Bucky feels his stomach drop somewhere near his shoes, your expression brightens in a way that he almost feels like he has died and gone to his own personal heaven.

“Oh, thank you.” You momentarily glance down, a coy smile taking over your lips. Your voice is a low, breathy thing, but it lands heavier than anything else in the conversation so far.

His brain scrambles uselessly for damage control, for something to say that might undo the moment, but everything just sounds worse before it even forms completely.

Behind him, Sam lets out a quiet, poorly concealed snort, but Bucky ignores it.

“I—” He starts again, yet you’re still smiling at him. Which, somehow, makes it infinitely worse.

“You should get some rest,” he swallows, in a last, desperate attempt to direct the conversation. “If you can.”

It’s simple, a bit clumsy even with the way he can’t seem to meet your eyes as you study him like you’re not used to people saying that and meaning it.

“I will,” you nod. “Thank you, James.”

His hands twitch at his sides, wishing he could offer to carry your books, your bag, or say something useful, something that might actually help and not further push him to hide forever—but words fail him, dying in his throat.

You shift your weight slightly, lips parting as if you are about to say something else, when your gaze flicks past Bucky’s shoulder and lands on the man watching the scene like his favorite reality show.

“Oh—Sam?” You greet him, a little surprised.

His friend straightens immediately, stepping forward with a grin that’s just a little too knowing.

“Miss—” He starts, out of instinct more than anything else.

You groan softly, already shaking your head. “Oh God, no. Please don’t. We are not doing that.” You chuckle. “We are almost colleagues at this point. Or close enough, Doctor Wilson.”

Sam lifts his hands in surrender. “Force of habit.”

“It makes me feel ancient.” You add jokingly.

“You look far from ancient, professor.” Sam shoots back easily with a friendly wink.

Bucky glances between the two of you laughing like two old friends, a knot forming in his throat at how naturally the conversation unfolds, how easily Sam fits into it.

“How are you doing?” You ask him, genuine interest threading through your tone.

“Good,” Sam crosses his arms to his chest. “A lot more busy. They’ve got me running around a lot, but I guess that’s part of the deal.”

“You’ll be great at it.” You state without hesitation.

Sam grins. “Yeah, I know.”

You laugh at that, shaking your head.

“I’m serious,” you add a tad more serious. “You’ve got the right instinct for helping people.”

Sam briefly glances down at that, not used to compliments. “I appreciate that.”

There’s nothing wrong—nothing Bucky can point to and say this is why—and maybe that’s what makes it worse. Your interaction with his friend isn’t forced, not tentative in the way it always seems to be with him. It flows, not leaving room for hesitation, and hesitation is the only language Bucky’s ever been fluent in.

His hands keep hovering uselessly at his sides before one of them comes up to rub the back of his neck, an old habit he falls into when he feels disquieted. For a moment, he considers stepping in, adding something—anything—but he wouldn’t even know where to begin. He would rather leave in silence than try inserting himself into a rhythm that would carry on just fine without him, and probably end up being ignored. Even if he knows rationally that neither of you would do that to him.

So he stays where he is, half a step behind, listening. As usual.

You nod once, satisfied, then glance back at Bucky.

“Well,” you give him a little smile, drained but real, adjusting your grip on the books again. “I should let you both get back to it.”

“Yeah,” It comes out as an involuntary whisper, so Bucky quickly clears his throat. “See you.”

“See you around, James.”

You give Sam a small wave, then turn, walking across the quad until you gradually blend back into the movement of the campus.

There’s a beat of silence in which Bucky is still looking longingly in your direction, when Sam exhales.

“Wow.”

“I mean, wow.” He repeats at the lack of response, dragging the word out this time. “You just stand there and do that with no warning?”

“Do what?” Bucky mutters, already starting to move again.

His friend falls into step beside him, shaking his head. “You ever notice you stop blinking around her or is that just me?”

Bucky shoots him a look. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he continues, completely undeterred. “You were gone. I could’ve run around naked and you wouldn’t have even noticed.”

“I wasn’t that distracted.” Bucky replies flatly.

“Liar,” Sam counters. “You didn’t even know I was still there until she spotted me.”

Bucky can’t argue, because for once he’s right, but Sam doesn’t need to know that.

His friend shoots him a sidelong glance, lips already twisting into a small smirk. “You’re in trouble.”

He sighs tiredly, yet doesn’t even try to deny it.

“You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope... I have loved none but you.”

I get the feeling I’m already in deeper than I have any right to be.

Love, B

Darcy called it a “fair” exchange, half-sprawled against the front desk earlier that afternoon while Bucky pretended to log the latest entry of the day, hopeful she would eventually forget the whole thing if he looked busy enough.

“I helped you with the note thing,” she stated, like it was a perfectly reasonable transaction. “I require my payment now.”

He had eventually agreed, which in hindsight felt like the first mistake of the day.

It’s simple, really. In and out. Pick a pastry, hand the money and run back to the library where words are predictable and the space knows his name.

But the cafeteria is loud, exposed. Trays clattering, chairs scraping, too many conversations overlapping so nothing can be separated cleanly. And too many people existing too close together without thinking about it.

Bucky moves through it like he’s slightly out of sync with the floor beneath him. He’s been here before throughout these past few years, of course. With Sam, Steve… even Darcy recently, when she drags him out on their breaks, talking the entire time so he doesn’t have to. But being here alone makes such an ordinary task sound impossible. He is suddenly aware of his damp hands and how he shouldn’t let them hover uselessly at his sides. Of his posture, too straight or not straight enough. Of the fact that no one is guiding him through the space with casual familiarity, splitting the crowd ahead of him with easy conversation that makes him feel less like an intruder.

Bucky eventually reaches the display case feeling like he’s halfway through a side-quest that tastes more and more like an ambush. Pastries sit behind the glass in neat rows, almost judgmental in their little safe corner, yet he doesn’t really see them. His focus keeps slipping, attention unable to find anything to attach itself to for more than a second.

Two options blur together in his mind.

He should just pick one. It doesn’t matter, it’s just pastries. 

But he hesitates too long. A couple behind him shifts closer. Someone laughs too loudly nearby and it hits his ears too suddenly, his shoulders tightening instinctively, like his body is trying to make itself smaller.

He should choose. He should leave. He should do anything that involves not standing still like an idiot.

And then, without his permission, his eyes dart away mindlessly, stopping right to the far end of the room, on a face he knows too well. And the chaos is entirely forgotten.

You are here—always somewhere inside the rhythm of the building. But Mr. Fowler is here too, seated across from you like it’s the most natural arrangement in the world.

Professor Fowler is a math genius. He is always composed, always too comfortable in spaces that aren’t entirely his, sporting that cunning smile as if he were the sole keeper of the secret to having the last word in every conversation.

You are leaning forward, hands moving animatedly as you talk about something that matters more than anything else in the room. Maybe a student’s absurd answer in one of your quizzes. Or maybe is it something more personal? It doesn’t really matter, because Fowler is laughing and there’s nothing polite about that. He genuinely finds it funny. There is no hesitation, no carefulness.

And you answer that at once, smiling at him so easily.

That’s the first word that comes to mind, uninvited and unhelpful. Ease, Bucky realizes with unpleasant clarity, has a shape, and you and Fowler fit inside it without effort.

He has heard things before. Even if they came from voices that don’t matter, they start to form patterns when they repeat often enough in passing corridors, in the kind of giggles that bubble when something is slyly assumed.

Your names are linked together too lightly, followed by a glance that suggests there is nothing to confirm and nothing to deny, just the ultimate assumption everyone makes when two well-matched people keep ending up in the same orbit: both of them good-looking, established, sharp in their own fields. The sort of pairing that doesn’t need to be announced to feel plausible, which somehow makes it worse than a confirmation would have.

Bucky realizes he has stopped breathing properly at some point during that realization. His hands still hold nothing useful, and the counter is now farther than he remembers, his body having gradually drifted away without noticing. 

Across the room, Fowler says something, and this time you laugh—properly, head tipping back and eyes squeezing shut. And there is nothing performative in it, only familiarity unfolding candidly between you like it has always been there.

It feels real.

And it doesn’t include him.

He should have left the moment this stopped feeling like speculation and started looking like certainty. 

There are people who move through the world as if it already recognizes them, and people who don’t quite manage to step into that recognition without friction. So Bucky turns away and doesn’t look back.

There is no point in that, not when your smiles are for another man.

When he finally reaches the library, Darcy’s voice catches him before he can fully disappear into the stacks.

“Barnes,” she calls, far too bright for the way his day has just fractured. “Where is my muffin?”

“They ran out of pastries.” The shock at the way his own mind promptly provides him with a convincing lie doesn’t manifest on his face.

Darcy squints at his back like she is trying to decide whether something happened or it’s just one of his days. “You okay?”

With a non-committal hum, Bucky keeps walking until he’s standing in his usual dark corner, no memory of the steps in between and the people he brushed past along the way. The books are already there, waiting in the same order, and for a moment he simply stands in front of them.

Then, almost mechanically, he begins to rearrange them.

Not because they need it.

“She did not understand the beauty he found in her, through touch upon her living secret body, almost the ecstasy of beauty. For passion alone is awake to it.”

Sometimes I think standing too close to you would be enough to undo me. I find myself stopping thoughts before they become something I can’t easily take back.

Love, B

A single touch of his shoulder was enough for his cock to stir. Well, it wasn’t just that.

Bucky was talking with Steve in front of the library when he spotted you and Darcy making your way back after your break.

He didn’t realize he stopped speaking mid-response until Steve glanced at you and then back at him with understanding.

The effortless grace in your movements made it impossible for him to look away, a mixture of admiration and longing dancing in his own blue eyes... until they landed on your outfit. The skirt you were wearing moved differently than the ones he was used to, shorter and tight enough to sinfully cling onto the flesh of your thighs covered by sheer, light fabric that made his breath hitch embarrassingly loud.

And then you had come closer, and his knees almost buckled when he noticed how much skin your shirt was revealing. It’s pretty hot today and you were here for a conference organized by the Department of Literature. It’s only normal for you to put a little more effort in your outfits when you are not in class; you could be a little bit bolder.

The open collar was covering almost all of your breasts, still, the curve of your tits was completely visible for his eyes to feast upon.

The final blow was you touching him. You’re mid-sentence, when your foot caught on the uneven pavement, and his body just had to react before thinking. His hand was already around your waist, your fingers going for the nearest thing for support: his shoulder. You ground yourself for a moment as you corrected your step, thanking him with a sweet smile that will haunt him for weeks.

It was barely contact. An instinctive touch and nothing more.

Still, now he can’t stop the phantom brush of your digits on his covered skin from giving him goosebumps. Or the tingling sensation on his palm as it closes uselessly around nothing, trying to remember what the curve of your waist felt like.

It wasn’t long before Bucky had to excuse himself, conveniently holding his jacket in his arms because of the hot weather and low enough to hide his big bulge.

The walk to the restroom was nothing short of humiliating. He felt like every single pair of eyes was burning through his skin, judging him for popping a boner in the middle of a conversation with the prettiest woman in the world wrapped in tight silk and nylon.

It’s not the first time Bucky comes with your name on his lips, and images of you moaning and crying out under him rolling in his mind like the lewdest of movies. Still, it never happened in a public place.

As soon as he locks the door behind him, Bucky’s slacks are so unbearably tight he clumsily unhooks his belt, lowering them enough to relieve the growing pressure on his erection. He wishes to indulge in one of his perverted fantasies so bad, but it doesn’t feel right. Not here.

In a desperate attempt to calm down, he presses his back against the wall, sweat causing his hair to cling to his forehead and eyes squeezing shut. Until the image of the swell of your breasts comes back traitorously behind his closed eyelids, and that soon transforms into your naked tits bouncing in front of his face, nipples hard and glistening with his spit after he thoroughly kissed and sucked and pinched the sensitive nubs.

Yes, in his mind you are a sensitive little thing that needs her breasts worshipped. If he had a little more experience, Bucky is certain he could make you come just by toying with your nipples.

And then he thinks about that damn skirt. His fingers would lightly trace your soft skin covered by the pantyhose, ripping the fabric apart just to hear you gasp, and then taking his time in covering your pretty thighs with his mark.

Bucky always starts with the best intentions: slow, light touches, trying to make the pleasure last as long as possible. But he is far too eager to wait. He could learn to be patient for you, though. Edge you and himself for hours until you can’t take it anymore, indulge in your shaky thighs squeezing his head as his tongue teases your clit to bring you so close... and then pull away just to hear you beg and whimper for him to fuck you until you pass out, until the only thing your mind can remember is his name, and your pussy the shape of his cock.

A whimper claws out of his throat when his fingers instinctively reach down, wrapping around his length. Bucky is both long and thick, his palm sliding up and down, following the upward curve so easily. A shiver runs down his spine when he focuses on the tip, smooth and rounded, his hips jerking forward as his thumb smears precum across the crown.

He is sure you wouldn’t have any problems taking him. You are a determined, strong woman, and even if the stretches would burn at the beginning and your cheeks would be wet with fat tears of overstimulation, you’d still look down at him like a goddess with her favorite devotee, stubbornness burning in your eyes as you’d ride him with the little strength left.

Brows furrowed in concentration and head thrown back against the white wall, Bucky strokes his cock at a steady pace, lips parted around muffled breaths and low groans that fall into the palm pressed firmly against his mouth. At some point his eyes snap open, traveling down to the space between his legs, and his brain must really hate him, because it offers the image of you knelt there, shirt unbuttoned and skirt bunched at your hips, enough to expose your wet core. Your hand plays with his balls while your glossy lips stretch around his cock.

“Just like that, baby—fuck—”

His hips twitch in wild, frantic thrusts, the sloppy, wet sounds of his fingers picking up their pace echoing in the empty restroom. He is throbbing at the phantom feeling of your tongue tracing the veins and your lips closing around his tip to suckle on it like a damn lollipop.

He isn’t prepared for the violent, abrupt wave of pleasure that hits him only a few seconds later. Ropes of cum steadily paint his palm, a few, thin stripes spurting on the floor as his choked groans die behind pressed lips.

When the room finally stops spinning, Bucky tiredly slumps back against the wall, eyes accidentally falling on the mirror right in front of him. His chest heaves with rugged breaths and his hands are now dirty with his own cum. The sight makes his already red cheeks look like two tomatoes.

His cock is still out and half-hard—it makes such a crude picture next to his creased pants and underwear.

Only then shame curls hot in his belly.

“I have for the first time found what I can truly love—I have found you. You are my sympathy—my better self—my good angel.”

There are people you admire, and then there are people who quietly become part of how you think about everything else. I didn’t expect the difference to feel this irreversible.

Love, B

Classes have just let out, so the hallway is still quite full but thinning at the edges, students spilling out in clusters to move toward exits; some linger just a little longer than they need to. Bucky is standing off to the side, a folder tucked under his arm for the administrative office, waiting for the flow to clear before he moves.

You come out of one of the classrooms a few steps ahead of him, mid-sentence, turning slightly as you finish saying something over your shoulder to a student who stands by the door.

“That’s actually a really good point—just don’t stop there, okay? Push it a bit further and you’ll see where it goes. Actually, you know what? I have some articles about the psychological function of the Gothic in nineteenth-century literature, and I believe they could be very helpful for your essay. Just send me an e-mail to remind me, okay?”

The student nods, half-confident, half-lost, and you give her an encouraging smile before she heads off. You fully step into the hallway while adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, and only then your distracted gaze lands upon him.

“James.” Your eyes light up.

“Hey.” Bucky smiles coyly, shoulders straightening unconsciously.

You shift the thick stack of papers in your arms, catching Bucky’s attention.

“Monthly assignments?” He guesses.

You glance down at the stack, then back at him, lips already curling knowingly.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Your shoulders move with a deep sigh. “And they all seem to have been written at three in the morning, which makes them… pretty creative.”

He huffs a quiet chuckle, a mix of sympathy and amusement.

“Yeah, can’t blame them.”

“I don’t even mind the lack of sleep,” you continue. “It’s the confidence. They’ll write something completely unhinged and still conclude it like it’s the most solid argument ever made.”

That pulls a real smile out of him.

“Honestly, I respect that.” He says before thinking too hard about it. Then, almost immediately, “Not—the unhinged part. Just... the confidence.”

Something about your laugh shakes the butterflies in his stomach.

“No, I get it. There’s something admirable about committing to a bad take.”

He nods along, then hesitates like he’s deciding whether to say the next part.

“Are they actually bad? Or just… not what you were expecting?”

Your head tilts a little, considering him for a moment.

“Some of them are bad,” you admit quietly. “But some are... uh, unfinished thoughts, yes. Like they’re almost there, but they stop right before it gets interesting.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s worse, I think.”

Your eyebrows shoot up curiously.

“Because they could’ve been good... if they’d dared to go further.” He quickly explains, then immediately wonders if that sounds stupid. Too obvious. Too—

“Yes, exactly. Dare is the right word.” You sound elated to be finally understood. “They get scared.”

There’s a small pause in which you hurriedly look for one paper in particular, pulling it out from the middle of the stack.

“This one actually had a really good point,” you mumble to yourself as you frown at it, eyes smoothly skimming the text. “About how emotional restraint in early twentieth-century fiction isn’t absence, but displacement.”

Bucky looks up at that, interest showing on his features.

“Like—redirected?”

“Exactly,” you nod, a little more animated now. “But then they just didn’t follow it through.”

“They could’ve tied it to narrative voice,” he muses. “How what’s left unsaid actually shapes the way the story is told.”

“Yes!” You smile. “That’s what I thought.”

There’s a flicker of something in your expression—approval, maybe, or just satisfaction—that gives Bucky enough confidence to continue.

“Do you ever…” He clears his throat. “I mean—do you ever feel like they just don’t trust their own ideas enough?”

Your smile turns a little gloomy.

“All the time.” You shake your head. “They think there’s a ‘correct’ answer they’re supposed to land on, so they don’t follow their real thoughts on the matter.”

He nods, more certain now that the conversation is finding its rhythm.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Like they’re writing for approval instead of… figuring something out.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer than before.

“You read my mind.”

The words settle between you with finality, your gaze meeting his, surprised at first, like you’re still turning the conversation over in your mind. And Bucky doesn’t lower his eyes like he usually would.

He holds it, because stepping away first would mean breaking this rare moment he gets to enjoy just existing with you. Because there’s a soft attentiveness in your expression that makes it hard to pull back from.

Like he’s worth listening to.

The moment stretches for a second too long. Then another, until it no longer feels like a mere pause in a conversation, and giving away even the slightest of hints about his feelings for you is enough to scare Bucky into talking again.

He clears his throat first, the sound cutting abruptly through the quiet hallway as he looks down at the papers like they’ve suddenly become very important.

“Uh—” He has no idea how to finish that.

You blink like you’ve just been pulled out of a dream, your posture adjusting slightly as you look away as well, fingers tightening just a little around the stack in your arms.

A small, almost embarrassed breath leaves you.

“Yes—” You murmur, then shake your head faintly, as if resetting yourself. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s—” He mentions at the same time, then cuts himself off, heat uncomfortably creeping up the back of his neck.

The brief, clumsy overlap of words goes nowhere, but then you shift your weight, grounding yourself back into something familiar, something safe.

“Actually,” you take a small step closer, a little more composed now. “While I have you—”

His head snaps up a bit too fast at your wording.

“I wanted to ask you something about one of the students who’s been coming to the library a lot—tall, always looks like he hasn’t slept in three days? His name’s Peter. Peter Olson.”

Bucky blinks, searching his memory.

“… That doesn’t narrow it down much.” He admits hesitantly.

An embarrassed chuckle falls from your lips. “Fair. Mmh, well he usually sits by the back tables. Keeps switching books every couple of hours like he’s looking for something and not finding it.”

“Oh,” Bucky perks up. “Yeah. I know who you mean. The one who wears the same grey hoodie every day?”

“Yes, that’s him!” You snap your fingers. “I was just wondering if you knew him, since he spends so much time there. Has he ever said anything to you?” Your brows furrow. “Or anyone you know? He’s been struggling in class, and I can’t tell if it’s the material or something personal.”

It’s not the question per se that catches him off guard, but the way you ask it. Not like it’s your job, like you’re obligated to care.

“He doesn’t talk much,” Bucky starts slowly. “But he stays late. Sometimes he just plays games on his phone until we close.”

You nod pensively, like that confirms something.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I might check in with him,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. “Just... in general.”

You glance back at Bucky then, a soft smile already brightening your features.

“Thank you so much.”

He shrugs, hoping to come across as nonchalant as Sam. “Yeah, of course. Anytime.”

You shift your grip on the papers again, but you don’t move away immediately. Instead, you squint at him.

“Hey, are you doing okay?”

The question lands unexpectedly.

He blinks. “Yeah.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Just yeah?”

He chuckles at that. “I swear,” he repeats, a little more honest this time. “I’m good.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer, like you’re deciding whether to believe him or not. Despite your initial doubts, you nod anyway.

“Okay.”

No lecture, no attempt to force him to speak.

“Well,” you announce ruefully, taking a step back. “I really need to go and start grading these now. Thank you again, James.”

“No problem,” he gives you a thin-lipped smile. “See you around, and good luck with those.”

Bucky stays there minutes after the shape of your body has disappeared behind a corner, the folder meant for the administrative office still waiting in his hands.

Nothing big just happened. It was just a normal conversation, honestly. You didn’t say anything extraordinary, nor did anything that should linger in his chest like this. You talked about literature and essays. You exchanged ideas. You asked about a student. You asked about him... And then you let it be enough.

Later, when he’s alone, it comes back to him in pieces—the subtle pride burning in his chest at being on the receiving end of that kind of attention, like he exists in the same category as everything else you choose to care about.

“Her presence altered the flow of time itself, making the hours feel lighter when she was near and heavier when she was gone.”

I’ve started measuring time around the moments you are by my side. I didn’t realize how much that would change things until I started noticing the difference when you are not there. Something in me refuses to settle properly without you in my day. Am I going mad, or does that happen more easily than people like to admit?

Love, B

Irritation curls hot in his chest as Bucky focuses on his phone, on the message from Steve warning him he’s running late. Waiting alone like this has never sat well with him, not when the constant sense of not belonging thrums high in his veins.

He steps forward in line anyway—they discovered this quaint café years ago while looking for a place to study for the days they actually didn’t feel like opening a book at all—barely paying attention to what he’s ordering, until a familiar voice cuts through the jazz melody coming from the speakers.

“James?”

He turns around in surprise, because there you are, sitting at one of the tables by the window, one hand wrapped around a cup, the other lifting in a small, happy wave when you catch his eye.

His body stiffens at once.

There’s no distance of a desk between you, no quiet formality shaping the interaction, like a college hallway. You look… softer, somehow. Draped in light fabric that catches the faintest movement of your body even when you’re still. It’s a dress that falls more naturally than the usual careful lines of trousers and shirts he associates with you.

Why does Bucky feel like he’s committing the sweetest kind of sin, seeing this version of you that belongs entirely to yourself?

His phone is still in his hand, screen gone dark, but he doesn’t even register the weight of it, because in that moment, there is just you in a pretty dress and afternoon light, smiling up at him like you are an angel genuinely delighted to see him.

Only then does he remember he is supposed to respond.

“Oh—hi.”

“Hi,” you echo, your smile growing—easy and relaxed, fitting perfectly into a sunny Saturday morning. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh—waiting. For Steve.” He gestures vaguely with his phone. “He’s late.”

You laugh, a quiet, knowing sound. “Always the last one to arrive and the first to go away. I see nothing has changed.”

Your hand points at the empty chair in front of you. “You can come sit, if you want. I’m waiting for my friends too.”

It’s said so casually, like it doesn’t require consideration.

Bucky hesitates anyway.

“Are you sure?” He is immediately aware of how unnecessary the question is.

“Of course! We can keep each other company.” You bubble. “I don’t bite.”

That gets a small, startled huff out of him—half laugh, half whimper—before he steps closer to you than he’s ever been.

The first few minutes are clunky.

Bucky sits a little too straight, hands not quite knowing where to go, fingers brushing the edge of his cup like he needs something to keep him anchored to reality. His answers are short at first, slightly off-beat, but you don’t let the conversation stall.

“How’s work been?” You rest your chin on your closed hand.

“Uh—good. Quiet. Mostly just… books.” He winces a little at his lame answer.

“That’s literally my favorite category of things!”

A quiet chuckle escapes him, some of the tension easing from his shoulders thanks to your cheerfulness.

“Yeah, I figured.”

“You get to spend your whole day around them,” you continue. “That sounds like a dream to me.”

He shrugs, a reflex more than a response. “It’s just… temporary. You know, nothing serious.”

You don’t answer that right away.

“Temporary doesn’t mean meaningless,” you explain calmly. “And being around something you love every day isn’t small, James. Most people don’t even get close to that.”

He opens his mouth to respond—out of habit more than anything—but doesn’t have anything ready for that, in fact. And you don’t push it, opting to take a sip of your drink.

Sometimes silence says more than words ever could.

Somewhere along the conversation, things shift.

Maybe when you start telling him about one of your classes and how a student arguing with you over an interpretation somehow made you rethink your own reading of the text. Maybe when he finally finds himself asking a question without rehearsing it first. Maybe when you laugh again, and this time he doesn’t freeze around it.

“You let them argue about Joyce with you?” His eyebrows shoot up, a hint of disbelief slipping through.

“Of course!” Your eyes widen, like it’s obvious. “That’s the fun part. Otherwise it’s just me talking to a bunch of nodding heads for two hours.”

The corners of his mouth lift properly this time, not the small, careful version he usually allows in public.

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

You agree with a shake of your head, taking a sip of your second cup of latte. “You’d be good at it, actually.”

That catches him off guard.

“At… teaching?” He tentatively asks.

“Yeah. You pay attention. That’s half the job.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that either. So he just nods, a little slower this time.

“Have you ever considered that?”

His brows furrow in surprise. “Actually... no.”

You don’t react immediately, and for a moment he thinks the conversation might just drift away on its own, like so many of the others have, but instead you tilt your head slightly, studying him with that same quiet attentiveness that never fails to bring a blush to his cheeks.

“I’m serious,” you add, softer now. “You make people feel like what they’re saying matters. That’s rarer than knowing things, honestly. You can always study content, but some people never learn how to make someone want to keep talking.”

No one has ever framed him like that before, as if it were something worthy of praise rather than just a byproduct of him being timid, or quieter than most people.

His distant eyes drop briefly to the table as if the surface might offer him something solid to hold onto while his thoughts rearrange themselves around the idea, his fast heartbeat almost drowning any other sound at how beautifully you keep describing him and his job.

“I never thought about it like that.” He murmurs, not sure if it was meant for himself only.

You don’t push it further, just lean back into your chair with a serene smile.

“I’m telling you, there is a difference,” a voice behind you abruptly ripples through the quietness. “You can’t just say a flat white and a latte are the same thing.”

You flinch at the rising volume of the statement.

“They are basically the same thing,” another voice argues back, annoyed. “It’s milk and coffee. That’s it.”

“That’s like saying all literature is just words on paper. Don’t be ignorant, Joe.”

Bucky’s gaze flick up to you at once, a sparkle of amusement dancing in his eyes, like he’s silently asking if you’re hearing this too.

You are, clearly, because you’re biting your lips so hard to avoid laughing and draw their attention.

“There’s a texture, there’s a ratio—there’s an actual difference if you pay attention.”

“I am paying attention,” Joe replies, sharper now. “I just don’t think it’s worth pretending it’s deeper than it is, Mary.”

“That’s not pretending,” she counters quickly, almost cutting over him. “That’s just… caring about things.”

He lets out a short, disbelieving snicker. “No, that’s overcomplicating things that don’t need it.”

“Right, because you hate when things get too complicated.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know very well what I mean, Joe.”

“It’s coffee, Mary.” The guy insists exasperated, but there’s something defensive in his voice now, less certain. “You’re acting like it’s a personality trait.”

“Maybe it is,” she snaps back. “Maybe the way people choose things does say something about them.”

“Or maybe you just want it to.”

“Or maybe you just don’t notice anything.”

And just like that you watch Mary stomp out of the coffee shop with a sighing Joe right on her heels.

There is a brief, silent pause in which you and Bucky just stare at each other, before you both burst out laughing.

“They’re not wrong, you know?” You breathe out, still smiling. “People get very attached to their preferences to the point it becomes a personality trait.”

Bucky leans back a fraction in his chair now, more at ease than he had been at the start.

“I think it’s less about the coffee,” he crosses his arms to his chest. “And more about wanting to be right about something.”

You hum around a sip of your drink. “Or wanting something small to feel important.” You argue back. “It’s easier to defend a preference than to admit it doesn’t really matter.”

“Do you think people actually taste the difference,” he asks after a moment. “Or they just decide they do?”

A grin takes over your lips.

“I think sometimes they decide first,” you rest your chin back against your hand. “And then convince themselves their senses agree with them.”

It feels like that explanation applies to more than just coffee, to more than just the harmless debate that unfolded right behind you between two strangers who you will probably never meet again.

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary before he looks down again, almost unconsciously.

“Well, I think I’m in trouble.” His grin is poorly concealed.

That makes you smile. “Why?”

“Because I don’t think I’ve ever made a defining coffee decision in my life.”

“That’s fine,” you gesture with your hand. “Not everyone needs to be a person of conviction.”

He squints his eyes at you. “I feel like that’s not a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.”

He huffs out a laugh through his nose, shaking his head at your serious expression.

“Movies are like that too.”

That catches his attention a little more.

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone has one classic opinion they feel morally obligated to defend.”

“That’s… accurate, unfortunately.” He rolls his eyes, suddenly reminded of his sister and her obsession with Casablanca.

You lean back a little in your chair. “Like people who act like you personally attacked their family if your favorite movie is not some... I don’t know—” You gesture loosely with one hand. “French, silent short film from the twenties.”

Bucky closes his eyes tiredly, head falling back. “God, I hate those people.”

“I kinda am those people.” You eventually admit with a smirk.

That earns you a look.

“I’m joking!” Your giggle is so contagious his own lips twist into a small smile. “Well, maybe sometimes...” Your index finger rhythmically taps your chin as you think for a few seconds.

“I just love classics.”

“I don’t... actually like most classics.” He scrunches his nose.

You blink, slightly taken aback. “That sounded like a confession.”

“It felt like one. I’ve never told anyone.”

You lean forward in interest, whispering conspirationally. “Okay, so which ones don’t you like?”

He hesitates for a moment, like he knows this is about to become a problem. “Grease.”

Your expression falls at once, humor slipping away just as quickly as it came.

“What?”

“I didn’t say I hated it.”

“That’s worse.” Your eyebrows shoot up.

“How is that worse?” He frowns.

“Because it means you watched it and still chose neutrality.”

He stumbles over his words, hands raising in defeat. “Wait, wait. I didn’t choose anything. I just didn’t... connect with it.”

You straighten up slightly. “That’s not allowed.”

His lips press together, trying to hide a smile. “Why not?”

“Why?” You balk. “Because it’s Grease, James!”

“That’s not an argument.”

“It is culturally! It’s been around forever for a reason.”

That makes him laugh properly this time.

“Well, now I feel like Joe.” You chuckle at that, shaking your head in fake disappointment.

“This is exactly what I meant about people having strong opinions about things they don’t care about.”

You tilt your head at that, mildly affronted. “Excuse me, I care deeply.”

“It’s a musical.”

“It’s one of the musicals.”

At that point Bucky leans back on his chair with a glint of delight dancing in his eyes. “So I’m not allowed to just… not like it?”

“No.” You shrug, lips already twisting into a grin.

It makes him smile again, his ears burning a little at the fleeting realization that he just had a funny banter with you without making a fool of himself.

“Okay.” He sighs resignedly. “Then what do I get to dislike without being judged?”

You think about it seriously, arms crossing to your chest as you look out of the window.

“Ah!” Your face lights up. “Modern remakes of classics.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “That’s safe?”

“That’s universally safe.”

“I feel like you’re setting me up.” He squints at you.

“I swear I’m not,” you lift a hand in sincerity. “That’s just objective truth.”

Bucky’s blue eyes study you for a moment with something you can’t fully decipher, ultimately opting for a thin-lipped smile. “You’re impossible.”

His gaze inevitably falls on your lips, so lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice the way your own lies on his.

However, your phone lights up, the strong vibration of an incoming text breaking the spell. Bucky suddenly straightens up, expression sobering now that he has been pulled out of whatever quiet complicity had settled between you. Meanwhile, you throw the screen a quick glance, then your eyes fall back on him.

“My friends are here.”

Bucky moves quickly, pushing his chair back with too much strength, the scrape of it against the floor making a few heads turn.

“Steve isn’t here yet, right?” You ask, and then, more tentative. “Stay.”

As if surprised by your own request, you correct yourself frantically. “I mean, if you want to, of course. I just… I’d really like it if you stayed. I can introduce you to my friends.”

That’s when Bucky stops entirely.

Your eyes are so hopeful and devastatingly pretty, your expression open at how uncomplicated the request is even if it clearly costs you something to make it. 

He almost says yes.

It’s there, immediate, unfiltered, so close on his tongue. Because there’s no calculation, no expectation dressed up as politeness. Just the simple, disarming fact that you want him there.

Then the door opens. Voices spill in. Energy, movement, a kind of ease he hasn’t been part of in a long time.

And then—

Fowler.

Of course he’s here. Of course he belongs to this part of your life too.

Bucky bites his tongue and shakes his head before you can say anything else.

“No, it’s—I should go, really.” He is already stepping back. “Steve just texted. He can’t make it. I’ve got… stuff to do. Groceries.”

He knows you can see through his lie, but he doesn’t really care to fix it right now. Still, that small shift in your expression—disappointment flickering in your eyes before you smooth it over with a polite smile—shatters his heart to pieces.

“Oh. Okay,” you nod. “Well… I’ll see you on Monday, then?”

“Yeah,” his voice dims. “Yes. Monday.”

He doesn’t trust himself to stay longer than that.

Outside, the air suddenly feels colder than it should for a morning of late spring.

His feet don’t stop moving until he’s across the street. Then he turns back, even if he knows what’s going to see will make him lie awake all night.

Through the window, he can still spot you—only now you’re not across from him, not contained in that small, manageable space of a shared table.

You’re part of an organized mess, alive and warm. Inside jokes repeated over the years and questions that require only a knowing look.

Your friends lean in, talking over each other, laughter overlapping easily, and you’re right there in the middle of it—the center of it all—responding without hesitation, without that small pause he’s come to recognize when you speak to him.

Fowler is closer than that day in the cafeteria, seamless in the way he occupies the space beside you. You laugh at something he says, and it’s probably the same laugh he has heard just a few minutes ago. It shouldn’t matter but Bucky stands there longer than he means to. Long enough for the pit in his stomach to return and set him a few steps back in your blooming friendship.

Could he even call it that, what you had? Talking about literature, stopping for a meaningless chat in the hallways, and randomly bumping into each other on a Saturday morning?

He is just an acquaintance. Those are your friends. They fit in a way that doesn’t require adjustment, that doesn’t need to be questioned.

And Bucky thinks about how long it took him to stop tripping over his own words, how even at his best, it had taken effort to reach something that, for Fowler, seems to exist without trying.

He thinks about his job. Replaceable. A placeholder more than a direction.

He thinks about the way his life still feels like it’s waiting to start.

Your life looks full, complete in a way his isn’t. And the people in it... they belong there. They’ve already figured out what he’s still trying to understand.

He exhales slowly, the sound barely leaving his chest.

Whatever existed in that small space between the two of you inside that café, it’s meant to stay there. It doesn’t extend here and it never will.

This time, when he turns away, he doesn’t stop again.

By the time Bucky reaches the end of the street, the decision has already been made, agonizing but certain.

Tomorrow will be his last note.

“The human heart has a way of making itself large again even after it's been broken into a million pieces.”

I didn’t know how to write these notes in a way that didn’t sound like I was still your student trying to impress you. I think I’ve been confusing proximity with possibility, standing too close to something I was never meant to touch. I’m still a temporary version of myself, still borrowing space. Time. Confidence. And I don’t think I’m the kind of man you would ever choose. You… you’re not temporary. You come into people’s lives to brighten them with your presence, and I don’t believe I am worthy enough to deserve that kind of warmth.

So I think this is the right thing to do.

I am going to let you go.

Not because I want to, but because I don’t know how to keep loving you without shattering into pieces, until there’s nothing left to recognize.

Always yours, B

You don’t make it home today. The thought of this small, unexpected thing finding its place in your life without asking permission, like it has belonged there all this time, always returns persistently in the back of your mind. It has translated into pure anticipation of what you’ll find next inside your books, and today it has been impossible to ignore since the moment your eyes opened. You catch yourself thinking about it between lessons, tasks, in the small pauses where it blends with the image of a certain person, already fantasizing about what’s going to happen the next time you’ll see him again.

By the time you step into the library, you’re already smiling to yourself. It’s ridiculous, you know that. Nothing about a person anonymously writing you love notes should matter this much, it shouldn’t feel this addictive.

Despite the fact that the initial on the notes had been easy to dismiss at first, something vague enough to ignore, it gradually became impossible not to imagine a certain someone behind those words. You told yourself you’re being irrational, but as much as your brain tries to keep you grounded, it can’t stop your pulse from picking up every time that possibility takes hold in your thoughts.

You don’t rush, not outwardly. But there’s a lightness to your steps, a quiet impatience that shows in the way your fingers tighten slightly around the cover, in how quickly your gaze moves past Darcy. The world feels just a little less interesting compared to what you’re about to read.

It’s been a long time since anything has made you feel like this. Or, anyone.

You slip away from the main aisle, drawn toward a quieter corner where shelves grow narrower and the sun doesn’t quite reach that far in. Your fingers are already finding the page before you’ve fully stopped walking, a warm sensation blooming in your chest in a way that feels embarrassingly close to a suffocating excitement. And when the folded paper finally reveals itself, tucked exactly in the middle of the book, your smile grows, unguarded and bright.

For a brief, suspended moment, everything feels exactly as it should.

You finally stop between two rows of thick books, hands closing around the edges of the note with a familiarity that shouldn’t feel so natural. For a second, your thumb presses along the crease, tracing it once—enough for you to take a deep breath and calm down your wild heartbeat.

The quote registers first—your mind catching its tone before its meaning fully settles—and then your eyes move down, desperately looking for the rest. For an explanation.

Each line feels like a stab to your heart, those words completely stripped of the gentleness that had softened them until now. There’s no careful distance here, no hesitation disguised as sweet restraint. Whatever has been building silently inside your secret admirer has become an uncontrollable, raging sea, inevitably crashing your heart against the cliffs.

By the time you reach the last line, your breathing has changed.

Your palm rests on your mouth in an instinctive attempt to contain a sob. Your eyes sting without permission, blurring the edges of the words still lingering in your mind.

You read it over and over again.

It’s a goodbye.

And it doesn’t make any sense.

Nothing in the notes before had prepared you for this abrupt ending, for the certainty that your fate has already been decided without you. You try to trace it back, to find the moment where it might have shifted, something you might have missed—a look, a conversation, anything that could explain how it reached this point.

But there’s nothing.

Only the unsettling realization that someone has been feeling this deeply, this painfully, somewhere just outside your awareness. And now they’ve chosen to step away.

Your grip tightens around the paper.

The ache that follows in your chest surprises you more than anything else. These notes had become a small but constant reminder that someone out there saw you as something more than your role and a polite smile. You hadn’t fully realized how much of them you carried with you every day until now.

It had become a possibility you never allowed yourself to name. And now it’s being ripped away from you before you’ve even had the chance to decide if you wanted it.

A wet breath leaves your lips, the paper trembling faintly between your fingers as you lean back against the sturdy shelf, hands stiff on your thighs as you clench your jaw, trying to stop your chin from wobbling so embarrassingly fast in a public space.

That’s why you don’t hear him at first.

Bucky lethargically turns into the aisle with a few books in his arms, already half-thinking about where they belong. He slows when he notices someone ahead, instinctively preparing to move past without disturbing them.

Then he recognizes you, and his body locks into place.

You’re standing too still, your posture drawn inward in a way that doesn’t belong to you. Your bag has slipped from your shoulder, probably without you noticing, because it hangs awkwardly in the bend of your elbow. The fabric of your shirt was dragged with it, the collar now slipping just enough to expose the slope of your shoulder and your collarbones, the seam no longer primly sitting where it should.

You look… undone, in the most mortifying of ways.

And then his gaze drops. In your other hand, a book barely held, your fingers curled around it without intention, like you forgot it was there.

Realization hits fast enough to make his stomach turn, sharp and sudden.

His note.

The air leaves his chest in a shallow breath.

He had imagined you finding out, vaguely, distantly—but not like this. Not with you standing in one of the darkest corners of the library, alone and crying for the very thing he had convinced himself would never affect you so much.

A soft, shaky sniff pulls him sharply out of his thoughts, so Bucky decides that this is enough.

He steps forward, careful like approaching a wild, injured animal.

Your name comes out of his lips more hesitantly than he wants to admit.

Your chin lifts, a flicker of surprise, brief and disoriented, crosses your features, before you realize who is standing before you. At that point you straighten abruptly, instinctively composing yourself, though the traces of what you were feeling can’t disappear with a single swipe of your fingers.

“James.” You greet him with a slight bow of your head, your voice fainter than he has ever witnessed.

His heart hurts at the sight.

“Are you okay?” He whispers.

You nod too quickly. “Yes!” You exclaim, nodding eagerly. “Yes, of course. I’m fine, it’s just—” The sentence falters, dissolving before it can take shape. You shake your head then, swallowing. “It doesn’t matter.”

Bucky should leave. He set the decision in stone last night as he crafted his last note, deliberately, with the kind of resolve he doesn’t usually manage to hold onto for long. And even if right now you are shaken—holding onto that piece of paper that clearly matters to you more than he ever intended—Bucky should step back, let it end cleanly, before it could turn into something more complicated, more humiliating.

You’ll move on. In a few days, maybe a week at most, the notes will blur into a simple memory. You’ll return to your life, to the steady rhythm of it, to things that are real and lasting and meant for you. And eventually—months from now, years, it doesn’t matter—you might remember this with amusement. A strange, fleeting experience. A story to tell with a soft smile to your kids, about that shy, awkward student who hid behind borrowed words because he never quite had the courage to stand in front of you and speak them himself.

It’s exactly what he wanted.

But you’re still holding that damn piece of paper, and he knows every word written there.

“You don’t have to pretend.” He mumbles.

Your eyes lift to his again, searching now, something in his tone catching where everything else might have passed unnoticed.

“… James?” Uncertainty threads through your voice.

There’s a moment where he almost steps back, almost lets this dissolve into something safer.

“I didn’t think you’d read it here,” he blurts out, his voice strained at the edges. “I thought you’d take it home, or… later.”

Your back slowly straightens to face him as realization dawns on your face.

“You wrote this.”

Bucky nods, just once.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology comes quickly, choked, like it has been waiting all along in his throat.

“I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean for it to end up like this.”

“Like what?” You ask, voice steadier despite tears still blurring your vision.

“Like you having to deal with it.”

You shake your head, a small, almost disbelieving movement.

“That’s not—” Your eyelids flutter shut momentarily, chest raising and lowering with a deep breath as you try to find the right way to say something that suddenly feels more complicated than it should be.

“Why would you think this is something I have to deal with?”

He lets out a short, humorless breath.

“Because it is,” he says with too much certainty. “It’s not something you asked for.”

“And you decided that for me?”

He hesitates. “No. I just… didn’t want to make it harder for you.”

“Harder how?” You press, stepping closer without fully realizing it.

Bucky takes his time to look at you, properly, and whatever he sees in your expression seems to unsettle him more than the fear of being rejected.

“Because I’m not—” His jaw clenches as he searches for words that don’t sound as inadequate as he feels. “I’m not someone you would choose.”

You stare at him with furrowed brows, because of how easily he says it, how certain it sounds, like he has already accepted it as an absolute, indisputable fact.

“That’s not your decision to make.”

“I’m not deciding anything,” he replies, though his voice breaks. “I’m just being realistic.”

“You’re not,” you say, taking another step closer. “You’re assuming.”

“I’ve seen enough to know,” he sighs, and there’s something in the way his voice tightens that suggests he hadn’t meant to say even that much. “It’s not—this isn’t about whether I feel something. That part was never—” He stops, swallows back an embarrassing sob that dissolves his words into a whisper. “It’s about where I fit beside you. And I don’t.”

You silently study how he’s holding himself tightly, slightly leaning back, like he’s already preparing to flee.

“That’s not your decision to make.” You shake your head, stepping closer again. “You’re being afraid.”

He can’t deny that.

And that’s when you close the distance.

Your lips meet in a tender kiss. It isn’t rushed, but it isn’t hesitant either. It’s a decision made without overthinking, without giving him space to retreat behind that safe prison of insecurity he built to protect himself from being hurt.

Initially, Bucky doesn’t move, eyes wide and arms rigid at his sides.

This doesn’t make sense. Your lips on his.

It’s only when one of your hands touches his cheek, warm and hesitant, the other settling over the uneven rhythm of his heart, that his palms lift, almost cautiously, like he’s afraid you’re going to disappear with a single brush of his fingers. Just a figment of his imagination. A beautiful, sweet lie.

He cradles your cheeks, the touch so fragile, like a breath caught between speaking and silence. And your lips part gracefully against his, his tongue gaining more confidence the more you tease it with yours.

Bucky’s a mess by the time you pull back, his ears ringing and his breath shaky. You don’t leave him completely, the tips of your noses still brushing as his eyes desperately search yours for the slightest hint of regret. But he finds none.

“I don’t understand,” he breathes out. “Why would you—”

“Because I want you, James.” You answer simply.

“That’s not—That’s not supposed to go like this.”

Your eyes close with a sigh, and when they flutter open again, Bucky has to swallow back another apology as a set fresh of tears makes them glow so prettily under the dim-light.

“What if I don’t see you the way you see yourself?” Your head tilts. “If I don’t think you’re temporary. If I don’t think you’re out of place in my life.”

There’s a long moment where he just observes you in awe, the certainty of being unwanted he held onto for so long unraveling piece by piece, replaced by something far more delicate yet warm. So warm his chest feels full.

“Then why didn’t you—” His voice breaks, the question catching in his throat.

“Because you never gave me the chance.”

This time, Bucky doesn’t look away. His shoulders loosen, gradually, finally allowing himself to live in the moment. One of his hands shakily moves from your face, like he’s still not entirely sure you are real, and settles lightly against your waist. His eyes follow the movement, grounding himself in your body to convince himself this no longer feels like a ridiculous dream.

“Can I—” His lips press together at your grin.

He doesn’t finish the question. Instead, he simply leans in.

This time, the kiss is his.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💛 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist + collab masterlist

books quoted: 1. The End of the Affair by Graham Greene 2. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy 3. The Princess Bride by William Goldman 4. Persuasion by Jane Austen 5. Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence 6. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë 7. Il barone rampante by Italo Calvino 8. The Bridges of Madison County by Robert James Waller

time to expose myself: I've never read some of these books. yes I suck, I'm a terrible person, I'm illiterate, whatever you want 😩 some I just studied; others I discovered thanks to this story. all the quotes come from a long, thorough and agonizing research on different websites about romantic quotes (😭) and reddit (I swear I always find some interesting info every time I look up a topic I have no knowledge about). I tried to make sure each quote comes from a book with love/romantic relationships as one of the themes, but again, I had never even heard about some of them until a few weeks ago, so my knowledge entirely comes from google. I apologize if the english translation of some quotes is not 100% correct, I had to translate those myself because I could only find them in their original language.

[yummylavender-soap]

"“Yeah, anytime. I mean, during open hours. Not, like, anytime anytime.”" oh he has my heart and pussy already, I am enamoured <3

"“That was not breathing, man, that was you yearning like a damsel in distress.”" a damsel in distress that just hit the deck like a shit brick house

"“She’s older, and so… amazing. And—and pretty, and she’s got her whole life together, while I’m...” He gestures vaguely to himself, to the desk, to the library. As if that explains everything. “This.”" oh baby </3

"His fingers close around a stapler. A fucking stapler." please he's so funny

"“I couldn't have thought of her more. Even vacancy was crowded with her.”" this line was so perfectly selected omg

"Darcy | love you too <3" it's so nice to have Darcy included in a fic for a change!

"“Yeah,” Sam shot back, holding the door open. “At a volume only ghosts can hear.”" Sam Wilson continuing to be the funniest person on the planet

"“Yeah, you look—” He stops himself, frowning. “Not bad. Just—tired.”" oh honey I'm gunna need you to run that back and try again

"His hands keep hovering uselessly at his sides before one of them comes up to rub the back of his neck, an old habit he falls into when he feels disquieted. For a moment, he considers stepping in, adding something—anything—but he wouldn’t even know where to begin. He would rather leave in silence than try inserting himself into a rhythm that would carry on just fine without him, and probably end up being ignored. Even if he knows rationally that neither of you would do that to him." oh my god, this is so beautifully written, it's devastating. I hope you kissed the brick before you threw it </333333333

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Honey Girl. The Masterlist.

Series Synopsis - The Universe shows you your soulmate when it feels like you need them most. When you least expect it, you're given yours - Bucky Barnes. Your Dad's best friend. You can try to refuse it all you like; but the universe wants what it wants. There's no denying fate.

Pairing - Dad'sBestFriend!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader - soulmate au

Warnings - smut. age gap (but all legal and consensual - they don’t meet until reader is in her 20s). cursing. angst. alcohol consumption.

Word Count (so far) - 65k

Author's Note - another idea i've had for so long!! set in a beautiful coastal beach town - picture sunshine, sailing, beaches and your dad's hot best friend. what more could you want?

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Nine - the reveal I didn’t choose.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Christmas.

Chapter Thirteen.

to be continued…

The Playlist.

The Moodboard.

[nigelgraz]

The sketch is sketching for once🛐

[ponyosmom35]

Dr. Micheal 'Robby' Robinavitch

Dr. Robby x fem nurse reader

Synopsis: Robby falls in love with a young nurse and fights it every step of the way. But when you know, you know.

Warnings: eventual smut, smut, 18+, MDNI, angst, fighting, slow burn, co-workers to enemies, enemies to friends, friends to lovers, blood, gore, medical inaccuracies, pittfest, panic attacks, mentions of suicide, mentions of drug OD, mentions of abuse, violence against medical staff.

🦋 - fluff

🌧️ - angst

🔥 - smut

Pre season one:

one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve | thirteen | fourteen | fifteen | sixteen

season one:

7 am | 8 am | 9 am | 10 am | 11 am | 12 pm | 1 pm | 2 pm | 3 pm | 4 pm | 5 pm | 6 pm | 7 pm | 8 pm | 9 pm

Blurbs:

During the ten months between season one and two (can be read as a standalone)

I love you (18+) 🔥🦋

whats going on in that head of yours? (18+) 🔥🦋

Intimacy (18+) 🔥🦋

nobody can touch you the way that I do (18+) 🔥🦋

dreams (18+) 🔥🦋

date Night 🦋

baths (18+) 🔥🦋🌧️

he gets assaulted (18+) 🔥🦋🌧️

Exposure 🦋🌧️ :

one | two | three

More blurbs:

the roof 🌧️

home 🦋

the warning 🔥🦋🌧️

season two:

7 am | 8 am | 9 am |

[rkkuna]

everyday struggle i fear

[geminiwritten]

hold still ; michael ‘robby’ robinavitch

summary: you have a sex dream about your attending that leaves you hot, flustered, late for work, and completely off your game. then things go from bad to worse when gossip spreads and the entire emergency department finds out—including dr. robby.

notes: i honestly haven't been this excited or motivated to write in forever, and i just really hope it doesn't suck. this one feels a little different, kind of like... it just flowed? my writing feels less mechanical, i think? i don't know, i feel like i've been stuck in a rut and even though this isn't perfect, it feels like i finally enjoy writing again. i put so much love into this and tried so hard to get the characters right, i just really hope you guys enjoy! please, please let me know what you think!

warnings: more sitcom than drama (just let them have a good day, i beg you), swearing, italics, reader can drive, medical descriptions, blood, medical procedure descriptions (it's not super graphic though), most definitely incorrect medical information (my friend is a doctor, i am not), implied age gap but never specified, very likely incorrect tagalog (i'm sorry in advance), reader doesn't know tagalog, implied smut but nothing explicit, reader gets injured (and stitches), and making out (on shift, lol, nothing graphic but still, mdni please).

word count: 12763

You wake all at once.

Not slowly, not gently, but with one sharp inhale like you’ve surfaced from deep water.

For a second you don’t know where you are. Your room is too warm, the air too heavy, every inch of your skin flushed and slick with sweat. Heat clings to you, your heart pounding wildly in your ears, sheets twisted tight around your legs, and for one disorienting moment you swear you can still feel him—warm hands, breath close, the dizzying pull of something forbidden and overwhelming.

The echo of his voice follows you up from sleep, low and wrecked and impossibly real.

Dr. Robby.

Your stomach flips.

“Fuck,” you mumble into your pillow, already mortified, already knowing your brain has crossed a line it absolutely shouldn’t have this time.

Because it didn’t feel like a dream. It still doesn’t. Fragments flash behind your eyelids—the way he touched you, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, the teasing burn of stubble where he shouldn’t have been close enough to touch.

You roll onto your back and drag both hands over your face, groaning quietly as awareness settles in piece by piece. Your pulse refuses to slow, every nerve still humming like your body missed the memo that none of it actually happened.

You stare at the ceiling.

“…You have got to be kidding me.”

This wasn’t random. Not by a long shot.

It was him. Your attending. The stubborn, overworked, infuriatingly competent man who makes unresolved emotional baggage look hot. The man you have to see in barely two hours.

A small, helpless sound escapes you as you roll onto your side again, squeezing your eyes shut.

This is a problem.

A very real, very immediate, absolutely unprofessional problem.

And yet, you still don’t move. You lie there too long, cheeks burning despite the fact that no one else can see what you’re replaying in your mind. Warmth lingers beneath your skin, pooling low in your belly as you let yourself remember every phantom touch. Every whispered word. The look in his eyes as he’d settled between your legs and—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

You bolt upright, your hand flying out to find your phone.

You’re still hot, still flushed and sticky. Still half-dreaming about Robby and his goddamn hands—but now? Now you’re late. Horribly late. Because that alarm isn’t your wake-up alarm—it’s your backup alarm. The one that goes off when it’s time for you to leave for work.

“Fuck!”

You throw the covers back and rush into the bathroom. You strip quickly out of your damp sleep shirt, tossing everything on the floor before stepping into the shower without even waiting for the water to warm. Which is exactly what you need, you remind yourself as you hiss beneath the cold spray.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in front of the mirror in your black scrubs, trying to fix your hair and will the colour to drain from your cheeks. But it’s stubborn. Bright. Hot to the touch and utterly telling.

“Jesus Christ,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut for a second too long.

A second you don’t have.

With a deep breath, you turn, grab your bag, and sling it over your shoulder, wondering whether running to the hospital might actually be quicker than your usual commute at this time. Traffic is never great—you never truly know which route will get you there fastest—but now you’re about to hit peak hour.

You spend the entire drive trying to think about literally anything other than the dream—patient charts, upcoming shifts, whether your stethoscope is in your bag or your locker—but your thoughts keep slipping sideways, traitorous and vivid.

So vivid.

Stop thinking about his hands.

Stop thinking about his voice.

Stop—

You groan softly and turn the radio up louder.

It doesn’t help.

By the time you pull into the hospital parking lot, you’re almost twenty minutes late. You slam your car door shut, hike your bag higher on your shoulder, and practically run toward the ER doors.

“Woah,” Donnie says, quickly stepping out of your way. “Someone’s in a hurry.”

You don’t reply. You just keep going until you hit central, then slow to a hurried walk—head down, eyes fixed on your feet, praying everyone is already too busy to notice you.

“You’re late,” Dana says.

You stop mid-step, more out of habit than intention.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I—”

“Shit, hon, you okay?” She steps around the desk, peering over her glasses. “You look like you’re burnin’ up.”

You step back before she can press a hand to your forehead.

“I’m fine, I swear.” You keep backing up. “Just my—my car’s A/C isn’t working and I’m a little warm. That’s all.”

You know she doesn’t believe you. This is Dana you’re talking to, not some brand-new, bright-eyed RN. Dana can see through any and all bullshit, and by the look on her face, she isn’t buying this at all.

“I’m fine,” you say again, forcing a smile before turning sharply on your heel.

Only to turn right into something solid.

Warm. Tall. Unmoving.

“Shit, I—”

You look up.

And your entire nervous system shuts down.

Dr. Robby.

“Sorry,” you blurt instantly, stepping back so fast you nearly trip over your own feet. “I didn’t see—I mean, I was looking, just not—”

His hand is still wrapped around your elbow, grounding you in place, and for one terrible second all you can think about is how close he is. How close he’d felt last night. How real it feels right now.

His eyebrows lift slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “You alright?”

“Yes,” you say too quickly. “Fine. Totally fine.”

You are not fine.

Your face feels nuclear, and you’re suddenly aware of everything at once—his height, his proximity, the way his sleeves are pushed up, the fact that he’s looking directly at you like he’s trying to figure something out.

His head tilts slightly.

“You’re late,” he says, not unkindly.

“I know.”

Neither of you move for a moment.

You can feel your pulse in your throat. Your chest. Lower.

“I—I’m gonna—”

You don’t even finish before you turn away, hurrying down the hall toward the lockers. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire—and every thought in your head is so wildly inappropriate for where you are right now you feel like you might throw up.

“Damn.” Santos appears beside you, her eyes flicking between your face and the tablet in her hands. “Either you’re febrile or you just did something really embarrassing.” She tucks the tablet under her arm. “What gives?”

You shoot her a flat look as you key in the code to your locker. “Nothing gives. I’m fine.”

She snorts. “Sure. That tone is really selling it.”

You take a deep breath and turn toward your locker, shoving your bag inside before unzipping your jacket and shrugging off. You stuff that in too—then sling your stethoscope around your neck, shut the door, and turn back to your fellow R2.

She looks concerned now, brows drawn as her eyes track over your face and neck.

“You’re seriously flushed,” she says. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“I’m fine.” You turn and start walking back toward central. “Just running late, okay? Now can I start my shift before—” You stop yourself, his name catching somewhere in your chest. “Before I have an attending down my throat for slacking off?”

God. You could have chosen better words.

“Okay, whatever,” Santos mutters, holding her tablet out again. “Sorry for caring.”

She gives you a sarcastic little eye roll before veering off around the other side of the nurse’s station and ducking into one of the active patient rooms. You watch after her for a second before a voice across the room steals your attention.

He’s on the other side of central, nodding along while Mohan and Whitaker brief him on a patient—and looking entirely too hot for seven-thirty on a Monday morning beneath harsh fluorescent lights.

“Stop it,” you whisper to yourself, pausing at the nurse’s station to collect a tablet.

“Stop what?”

You startle, head snapping toward the man suddenly beside you.

“Jesus Christ, Dr. Abbot,” you sigh. “Are you trying to get me admitted for a heart attack?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You already look halfway there.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, I get it. I’m red and I’m sweaty—can everyone please stop commenting on it now?”

He chuckles. “Sorry. Didn’t realise you’d already been bullied about it.”

You sigh again and turn your attention to the board, tipping your head back to read it.

“Why are you still here, anyway?” you ask.

“Wanted to see my favourite resident,” he says. “You sure you don’t want to come back to nights?”

You huff a laugh through your nose. “I love you, Abbot, but nights aren’t for me.” You glance across the nurse’s station, where Dana and Robby are now discussing the latest incoming trauma. “I just miss Dana too much.”

Abbot snorts. “Dana?”

You look back at him. “Yes. Dana.”

Amusement flickers across his face. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you say, too quickly. “I mean, who—what else would—”

“Doctors,” Javadi interrupts, stepping in front of you both. “Sorry to interrupt, but could I get a second opinion on a patient in South Twenty-One, please?”

Abbot nods, glancing at you. “I’ll go. You settle in.” The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Maybe check in with your attending.”

Then he turns and walks away with Javadi at his side.

You stare after him—eyes wide, pulse racing, wondering what the fuck he meant by all that.

You’ve always suspected Abbot might be a mind reader, but that? That was something else. Too knowing. Too dangerous. And now you need to figure out what the hell he thinks he knows.

“Doctor,” Perlah calls from behind the desk. “Could you check on Central Twelve? She’s still complaining of pain after morphine and Zofran.”

You turn to her, shaking your head as if that might knock your thoughts back into place. “Uh—yeah. Of course. Central Twelve, heading there now.”

She gives you a curious look, brows drawn, but you turn away before she can ask any more questions.

On your way to C12, you pull up the patient’s chart—seen by Whitaker about half an hour ago—and double-check the morphine and Zofran doses she received. You pause just outside the room, drawing a deep breath and reminding yourself that you are at work. You don’t have time to be flustered. You don’t have time to worry about what Jack Abbot may or may not know. And you definitely don’t have time to obsess over the imaginary rasp of Robby’s beard against your thigh that you can somehow still feel.

When you push the door open and step inside, you’re the picture of professionalism. You offer the patient a polite smile, introduce yourself, and start the routine checks that feel more like second nature than work.

After the exam and a brief conversation, you order two more milligrams of morphine, review the labs Whitaker sent, and make a note to check back in fifteen minutes. Then, still intent on avoiding your attending, you bury your nose in your tablet and move on to the next patient waiting in South Sixteen.

Pressure-like chest pain. Diaphoretic, no shortness of breath. Initial ECG normal. Labs pending.

“Alright, Mr. Mullens,” you say, squirting a pump of sanitizer into your palm. “We’re going to get some scans done so we can get a better idea of what’s going on. If the pain gets worse before then, let us know.”

The man nods. “Thank you, Doc.”

You smile, stepping out into the hallway. “I’ll be back soon to check in.”

As soon as you turn around, you look for Robby, making sure you’re not about to run into him again. Literally.

You spot him all the way across central, walking with Santos toward the North hallway. Good. You’re safe. And if all goes well, maybe you’ll manage to avoid him for the entire day. Maybe you won’t have to come face to face with the face you can still see buried between your legs.

Fuck.

Your pulse kicks, heart beating too fast as you remember the way his eyes had watched you in your dream. It’s almost too much. Even the phantom memory of it is making you breathless.

God. If it ever actually happened, you might pass out.

“Why would you even think of that?” you mutter to yourself, stopping at the nurse’s station.

When you finally look up, Perlah and Princess are watching you closely, speculation sparkling in their eyes.

“Sobrang pula ng mukha niya,” Perlah murmurs.

Princess nods. “Hindi lagnat ’yan.”

Perlah lowers her voice even more. “Sa tingin mo ba may kinalaman ito sa crush niya?”

They both laugh quietly, turning away from you as if it isn’t you they’re gossiping about.

“Malinaw,” Princess says.

You give them both a tight smile before glancing up at the board, searching for something suitably distracting and far away from nosy nurses and unfairly attractive attendings.

You’re just about to head back toward the South hallway when a gurney crashes through the ambulance bay doors.

“Trauma Two!” Dana calls. “Robby!”

Abbot is already moving, meeting the paramedics halfway and guiding the gurney toward T2.

He points at you as he walks. “With me.”

“Shit,” you mutter, dropping your tablet on the desk and jogging over.

“Thirty-two-year-old male, MVC, restrained driver,” the paramedic says. “Front-end collision, airbags deployed. No LOC. Increasing shortness of breath during transport. Breath sounds decreased left side.”

“Let’s get him on monitor,” Abbot says, moving to stand opposite you at the head of the bed. “On my count.”

Robby steps in at your side, like he always does—close enough that you feel him before you see him.

His arm brushes yours.

Your stomach flips.

Focus.

“One. Two. Three,” Abbot counts.

You transfer the patient from gurney to trauma bed, and Santos starts cutting away clothes.

“Two large-bore IVs,” Abbot tells Jesse. “Trauma labs. Portable chest X-ray.” Then he looks at you, brows raised. “Breath sounds?”

“Oh—uh—” You fumble with your stethoscope, pressing it to each side of the patient’s chest. “Diminished on the left.”

You reach for the patient’s neck, fingers steady despite the noise around you.

“Trachea midline.”

Abbot nods, then turns to Santos. “Let’s get ultrasound.”

“BP holding?” Robby asks.

The sound of his voice sends goosebumps racing along your arms—and you shiver before you can stop yourself.

“Pressure’s 118 over 76,” Jesse replies. “Stable.”

Robby glances at you, brows drawn. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, without looking up. “Never better.”

“Absent lung sliding on the left,” Santos announces.

“Likely pneumothorax,” Abbot says, looking at Robby.

“Sats dropping,” Jesse calls. “Eighty-nine.”

Robby nods once. “Okay. We’re putting in a chest tube.”

“Chest tube tray. Twenty-eight French. Left side,” Abbot orders.

You try to move out of the way, but Robby’s hand catches your elbow—and you can’t help but look up. His dark eyes meet yours with an intensity you’ve never noticed before, and suddenly your lungs forget how to work.

“You’re up,” he says. “I’ll walk you through it.”

You know there’s no time to argue. You know you can’t. Shouldn’t. This is your job. And it’s not like you could say no to this man even if you wanted to.

You swallow. “Okay.”

Robby nods, then looks at Jesse. “Alright, let’s get some lido. Sutures ready. Hook up suction.”

You turn back to the patient, watching Abbot position the left arm above his head while Jesse preps the area—chlorhexidine swab, sterile drape. The rustle of sterile gowns and the snap of gloves fill the room as you pull on your own and push a pair of protective glasses up your nose. Then you grab the lidocaine from the tray and lean over the patient’s left side, steadying your hand as you guide the needle in.

The room is quieter now—save for the steady beeping of the monitors—chaos narrowing into focus as everyone watches you sink the needle into the patient’s skin.

“A little deeper,” Robby murmurs.

Your breath catches, but your hands stay steady.

You can feel him just behind you, leaning close, his warmth bleeding through your scrubs and setting your whole body on fire.

“Now find the rib,” he instructs. “Stay above it.”

You discard the needle onto the tray and start feeling ribs, counting down until you find the space.

“Scalpel,” you say, refusing to take your eyes off the spot your fingers found.

Jesse places the scalpel in your hand, and without hesitation, you cut a three-centimetre incision.

“Good,” Robby murmurs.

Your pulse thrums beneath your skin.

“Clamp,” you say, your voice almost breaking.

Jesse takes the scalpel from your hand, replacing it with a curved clamp.

You insert the clamp, pushing past muscle layers, and begin to spread. It feels forceful. Too much. Invasive, even though you know this is exactly what you’re supposed to do.

Robby steps closer. “Commit to it.”

His hand covers yours to adjust the angle, add pressure—until you feel the pop. And it takes every ounce of your self-control not to react. Not to whimper at the very normal, very professional way your attending is guiding you right now.

“Now sweep,” he says, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.

You insert your finger into the space, confirming entry into the pleural cavity and checking for adhesions—then nod. You don’t dare turn your head as you hold your hand out for the tube. He’s too close, too warm. You can smell the faint scent of soap on his skin even over the antiseptic and metallic tang in the air.

“Inserting tube,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else.

You start guiding the tube in—slow and controlled—feeling every millimetre of movement.

Until it stops.

Too much resistance.

“Up,” Robby says, his hand covering yours again. “Aim higher.”

He adjusts your wrist slightly, guiding the pressure.

You swallow hard and nod, hoping no one else can hear your uneven breathing—but knowing Robby definitely can.

He helps you apply more pressure, firmer now, angle corrected, and the tube starts moving again.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl. Keep going.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Heat floods your face. Your chest. Lower.

His voice echoes from your dream. Breathless. Panting. Words whispered against your skin.

Fuck. Now is not the time.

You tighten your grip on the tube and push.

Then—

A rush of air.

“Air return,” Abbot says, a hint of pride in his tone. “Now secure it.”

Robby steps back, and you hear the snap of his gloves coming off.

“O2 sats climbing,” he announces.

“Cool,” Santos says, grinning at Abbot’s side. “I’m doing the next one.”

You barely look up. You can’t. Your whole face feels like it’s on fire. You've never blushed this hard before. You’ve never been this hot in your life. And you’ve definitely never been this horny in the goddamn trauma bay.

“You good to finish up?” Robby asks Abbot.

Abbot nods.

From the corner of your eye, you see Robby step toward the door, glancing over his shoulder with a small, impressed smile.

“Nice work, Doctor.”

You don’t reply. You just nod, lips twitching with a soft smile as you keep your eyes on the patient.

As soon as you finish suturing and securing the tube, you step back, tearing off your gown and gloves as if that’ll somehow give you a reprieve from the heat beneath your skin. Jesse takes your place beside the patient, nodding along to Abbot’s orders while he and Kim start cleaning up.

You shove your gown, gloves, and glasses into the biohazard bin and head for the door without looking back—which is exactly why you don’t notice Santos trailing you.

“That was so cool,” she says, startling you.

“Jesus,” you mutter. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

She frowns. “Sneak? I was right behind you. It’s not my fault you’re all weird and jumpy today.”

“I’m not—” You glance across central to make sure Robby isn’t somewhere in your path to the ambulance bay. “I’m not weird and jumpy.”

Santos scoffs. “Right. And I’m not behind on my charting.”

You don’t bother arguing with her. You just keep walking—and she follows. All the way through the ER and out to the ambulance bay, where you stop just before the curb and draw a deep breath. It isn’t nearly as refreshing as you’d hoped, but a break from the fluorescents is always welcome.

“Okay,” she says, folding her arms. “What is with you today? You’re never this off. I’ve seen you perform procedures you’d only read about without a single assist from the attending. And I know you’ve done a chest tube before.”

You don’t answer. You don’t even look at her. You just tip your head back and stare at the roof of the ambulance bay, wondering whether it might collapse and save you from this conversation.

“And on that note,” she goes on, “Dr. Robby knows you’ve done a chest tube before, so why the hell was he being so patient? I swear he’s got a soft spot for you. Javadi pointed it out a few weeks ago and I honestly don’t know how I missed it. I mean—has he ever yelled at you?”

You finally look at her, brows drawn. “I—uh—no, I don’t think so.”

“Exactly,” she says, stepping closer. “And please tell me I heard wrong, but did he say good girl to you back there?”

As soon as she says it, your cheeks burn with renewed intensity. You can feel your heart in your throat, beating out of rhythm and way too fast for someone who is definitely not in a life-or-death situation.

And Santos notices—because of course she does.

Her eyes go wide. “Oh my God. This totally has something to do with Dr. Robby.”

“Shut up,” you mutter. “It’s not—”

You stop yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and pinching the bridge of your nose.

Santos isn’t going to let this go. You know her. She’s too inquisitive, too nosy, and there’s not nearly enough chaos today to distract her.

“Okay, fine,” you sigh, looking up, face burning. “I had a sex dream about him and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

She stares at you for a second.

“A sex dream?”

You nod miserably.

Her mouth twitches—then she snorts.

Not a polite laugh. A full, startled snort she tries—and fails—to muffle behind her hand.

“Oh my God,” she says. “I knew you had a thing for him, but a sex dream?”

“Would you stop saying it?” you hiss, glancing nervously around the empty ambulance bay.

She laughs a little harder. “Was he good?”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “I regret everything.”

“Hey,” she says, still laughing as she drops a hand on your shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.”

Your head snaps up. “If I asked?”

She shrugs. “Why not shoot your shot?”

“Because he’s my boss!”

“He’s your attending,” she says. “Technically, Dr. Underwood is your boss. Dr. Robby just supervises you.”

You shut your eyes again and draw a deep breath, trying to steady your pulse.

“Okay,” you say, squaring your shoulders. “I’m done with this conversation. I’m going back to work, and you’re not telling anyone what I just told you. Okay?”

She mimes zipping her lips. “I’m a vault, I swear.”

You nod. “Good.”

Then you turn and start walking back inside, trying not to conspicuously check for Robby on your way to the nurse’s station. Santos is still at your heels, still wearing an amused grin as if your humiliation is her exact brand of humour.

“One more question,” she says, stopping beside you as you grab another tablet from the rack.

You sigh. “What?”

She leans in. “Did he say ‘good girl’ in the dream too?”

Your pulse jumps.

“Goodbye, Dr. Santos,” you say, turning quickly on your heel.

“I’m taking that as a yes,” she calls after you.

You ignore her, turning toward S16 to check on your chest pain patient.

“Hey, Mr. Mullens,” you say as you push back the curtain. “How are you feeling?”

The older man sits up a little. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” You pull up his chart on your tablet. “The pain hasn’t gotten any worse?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“That’s good to hear,” you say, quickly flicking through his lab results. “Your first labs look reassuring, but we’ll repeat them in a couple of hours just to be safe.”

You glance up, and he nods.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

You smile softly. “If the pain gets worse, or if you start having trouble breathing, press the call button.”

“Will do.”

You offer him one last nod before tucking your tablet under your arm and squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you exit the room.

The second you step into the hall, you take a deep breath, finally feeling like your lungs remember how to work. Like your pulse might finally be settling into something resembling a normal rhythm. Like maybe—just maybe—you can survive the day if you stay distracted with work long enough not to think about last night.

About his voice—low and rough in your ear, whispering something you can’t quite remember.

Except the way it made your spine arch.

Or the moment he’d braced his hands on either side of you, his head dipping just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath before he—

“Doctor.”

You jerk slightly, heat rushing straight back into your face as the memory evaporates.

“Sorry—what?”

Whitaker, now standing in front of you, clears his throat. “Nothing. I just—you looked a little out of it.”

You shake your head and turn toward central. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m a little off today.”

He nods, falling into step beside you. “Santos mentioned.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Santos mentioned what?”

“Just that you were out of it today,” he says quietly, staring at the floor.

You stare at him. “And?”

He shrugs, but it’s stiff. “And nothing.”

You stop at the nurse’s station and drop your tablet on the desk.

“I swear to God, Whitaker, if she told you—”

“She didn’t tell me anything,” he says, clearly panicked now. “I—I’ve got to go check on a patient.”

Then he’s gone, hurrying off toward the South hallway.

Fuck.

You told Santos barely ten minutes ago and she’s already told Whitaker?

So much for being a vault.

“What’d I tell you about swearin’ on God, little lady?” Dana asks, peering over her glasses from the other side of the desk.

You sigh, resting both forearms on the counter. “Sorry. Rough morning.”

“Tell me about it,” she says, glancing down at her tablet. “Sprained ankle in North Four wants an MRI and a wheelchair escort to the parking lot. Psych hold in B2 tried to climb out the bathroom window. Ogilvie ordered the wrong labs and blamed the computer. And someone—” she pauses, squinting toward where McKay is assessing a patient, “—keeps leaving half-empty coffee cups everywhere like we’re running a café instead of an emergency department.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“And we’re only on hour two,” she adds, looking back up at you.

“Lucky us,” you mutter.

She sets her tablet down and slides her glasses off, folding them into the breast pocket of her scrubs.

“What’s with you, hm?” She leans in. “First you’re late, then you run out of trauma like you’re about to pass out. That’s not like you, kid.”

You shrug. “Just a little off today.”

She watches you for a second, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. She’s not stupid. She knows there’s more to it than that—but Dana isn’t the type to push.

She hums quietly.

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll pretend I believe that.”

You give her a small, appreciative smile as you push off the counter. “Love you, Dana.”

She just shakes her head, the corner of her mouth lifting as she glances back down at her tablet. “Yeah? Then check on North Four for me and see if you can get ‘em discharged.”

You nod. “North Four, on it.”

You start to turn away, then stop yourself and swivel back toward her.

“Hey—uh—is Abbot still here?” you ask.

“No, he left right after the MVC trauma,” she replies without looking up.

“Oh.”

“Why? You need him?” she asks. “I’m sure whatever you need, Dr. Robby can—”

“No,” you say quickly. “Nope. I’m good. Totally fine. Don’t need anything at all.”

You hug your tablet to your chest and start turning away again.

“Everything’s fine!”

You don’t dare look back. You just keep walking toward the North hall, completely missing the sceptical look Dana sends after you—and the confused look on Robby’s face as he glances between the two of you.

On your way to N4, you pull your phone out of your pocket and tap on Dr. Abbot’s contact, typing quickly.

So much for saying goodbye to your favourite resident.

Then you hit send and tuck your phone back into your pocket.

You’re not actually offended. Not really. This is the ER. People barely have time to finish a sentence, let alone say goodbye.

You’re just… nervous.

Nervous because Abbot thinks he knows something—and you need to figure out what that is before he decides to say something to Robby and make this whole situation infinitely worse.

You stop outside N4 and take a deep breath—your hundredth deep breath of the morning. You can do this. This is the easy part. The patients. The work. The familiarity of what you do every day. You just need to focus on this for the next twelve hours and definitely not the way you can still feel the weight of his hand on your hip, steady and certain, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he—

“Nope,” you tell yourself out loud. “Absolutely not. Focus.”

You shake your head as you step into the room and slide the curtain back, greeting the patient with your practiced mask of cool, calm, and collected. You manage to convince them they don’t need an MRI, since their ankle is only sprained, but you do get Ahmad to escort them out in a wheelchair—and now you owe him ten bucks and a bagel tomorrow morning.

Then you move on to the next patient. And the next.

The next few hours pass by in a blur of minor catastrophes. A migraine that melts away with the standard cocktail of Toradol, Reglan, and Benadryl. A Lego piece extracted from a three-year-old’s nose while Whitaker distracts the squirming patient. Three stitches in the eyebrow of a man who swears he doesn’t drink before 10AM—even though you can smell the alcohol on his breath. An overworked woman with chest pain that turns out to be a panic attack. A teenager with a swollen knee and a devastated look on his face when you suggest he might be benched for the rest of the season.

And at half past noon, you step into C9. Mid-thirties, right lower quadrant abdominal pain, nausea, mild fever—what you can already guess is appendicitis.

“Hi, Ms. Park, how are you feeling?” you ask, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm.

She winces. “Not so good.”

“It says here you’re having abdominal pain, nausea, and a bit of a fever,” you say. “When did that start?”

She nods. “Early this morning. Four, maybe.”

You set your tablet on the cart, grab a pair of gloves, and drag a stool beside the bed. “Mind if I take a look at your abdomen so I can get a better idea of what’s going on?”

She nods and tips her head back against the pillow, hands falling either side as you start palpating her lower abdomen. It doesn’t take more than a few presses for her to hiss and lift a hand, trying to push you away.

“Sorry,” she says, voice strained. “It hurts a lot.”

“That’s okay.” You scoot back and rise from the stool, peeling off your gloves. “I’m going to order a CT scan to take a better look, and we’ll give you something for the pain and something for the nausea in the meantime.”

You step around the bed and grab your tablet off the cart.

“A nurse will come in shortly to start fluids too,” you add. “You’re probably a little dehydrated if you haven’t been able to eat or drink much this morning.”

She looks at you with wide eyes. “I don’t know if I want a CT. Isn’t that a lot of radiation?”

“It’s a relatively small amount,” you reply evenly, “and it’s the best way for us to see what’s going on inside your abdomen. I can assure you, it’s very safe.”

“I try to avoid unnecessary radiation,” Ms. Park argues, shifting uncomfortably. “Is there another option?”

“Ultrasound can sometimes help, but it’s not always reliable in adults,” you say. “A CT scan will give us the clearest answer.”

She hesitates, eyes dropping to her lap. “Well—could I please speak to the doctor in charge?”

You open your mouth to reply when someone steps in beside you. Tall. Solid. Close enough to make your pulse skip and your stomach take a nosedive.

“You are,” Robby says, arms folded. “She’s the physician managing your care right now, so we’ll follow her recommendation.”

You step to the side, nearly tripping over nothing, clutching your tablet to your chest.

“Uh—Dr. Robby, this is Ms. Park,” you say quickly. “Thirty-five, right lower quadrant pain since early this morning. Nausea, no vomiting, low-grade fever at triage. Tenderness at McBurney’s point. I’ve ordered labs and a CT abdomen to rule out appendicitis.”

Robby nods once. “That sounds appropriate.”

Ms. Park sighs.

“Alright,” she says, a little more pleasantly now. “If that’s what you recommend.”

She doesn’t even look at you as she says it—her eyes stay fixed on Robby, softening in a way that makes you briefly consider poking her appendix again.

Not that you can blame her.

Your gaze flicks to Robby, wondering if he’s noticed the sudden change in demeanour—or the way she’s practically making heart eyes at him.

But he isn’t looking at Ms. Park.

He’s looking at you.

You clear your throat, quickly glancing back down at your tablet. “Uh—that’s good. Great. I’ll finish the orders now, and a nurse will be by shortly with some pain relief.”

Ms. Park gives you a brief nod before turning back to Robby with a smile that makes you want to roll your eyes. Robby just nods, squirts a pump of sanitiser into his hand, then steps out of the room—and you try not to follow too closely.

You slide the curtain shut before turning into the hall, half expecting Robby to be gone—but he isn’t. He’s still standing there, holding his tablet in one hand while the other scrubs at his jaw in that mildly anxious way it always does.

“Nice work in there,” he says without looking up.

Heat floods your face.

“Thanks,” you say with a tight smile. “And thanks for backing me up.”

He glances at you over the top of his glasses.

“You had it handled.”

You clutch your tablet to your chest. “Well—uh—thanks anyway.”

Then, before you completely lose the ability to function, you turn on your heel and start down the hall—but not fast enough to miss Dana’s voice.

“Careful, Robinavitch,” she says dryly. “You’re hovering.”

“I supervise,” Robby mutters.

Dana hums.

“Uh-huh. I’ll pretend I believe that.”

Hovering?

You tighten your grip on your tablet as you hurry down the South hall, pretending you know where you’re headed.

Robby wasn’t hovering. He was just doing his job. Right?

He hovers around every resident and med student.

It’s not like he was—

You shake your head.

No—Dana’s just teasing. It’s her thing. It’s practically her love language.

You stop short when you reach the end of the hall. Elevator ahead. Restrooms to your right.

Nowhere else to go.

“You okay, Doctor?” McKay asks, stepping out of the ladies’ room.

You blink. “Uh—yeah, I just—”

You’re not sure what excuse to use now—standing in the middle of the hall, staring at the elevator, white-knuckling your tablet like you’re one bad patient away from a psychotic break.

“You look like you’re buffering,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Why don’t you take a break?”

You shake your head. “I don’t need a break.”

Her brows lift as she gently places a hand on each of your shoulders, turning you back the other way. “Alright. Well, why don’t you go sit down and catch up on your charting?”

She starts guiding you slowly back up the hall.

“Charting,” you echo, a faint frown forming between your brows. “Yeah. That’s a good idea, actually. I haven’t done much all day.”

She nods. “See? I’m full of good ideas. And you are seriously concerning me today.”

You give her a look. “I’m fine. Everyone is just being—”

“Caring?” she offers.

You roll your eyes. “Overbearing.”

She shakes her head, laughing quietly as she steers you toward the nurse’s station.

“Here,” she says, pulling out a chair in front of a vacant computer. “Sit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you mutter, dropping down at the desk.

She steps behind you, pushes the chair in, then leans over your shoulder.

“Good girl,” she murmurs.

Your entire spine locks.

“What was that?”

McKay straightens, already grinning.

“Charting,” she says lightly, tapping the monitor. “Try it.”

“But—you just—”

She laughs under her breath, already backing away.

“Finish your notes, doctor. You don’t want to have to stay late.”

Then she’s gone, shaking her head again as she disappears back toward triage.

You sit there for a few seconds longer than you should, staring after her while your brain desperately tries to reboot.

“Fucking Santos,” you mutter, finally turning back to the computer.

“You called,” Santos says, appearing on the other side of the desk.

Your eyes snap up. “You.”

Her brows lift. “Me?”

“Yes,” you snap. “You’ve been telling people.”

She tries—and fails—to suppress a smile.

“Not technically.” She leans forward, resting both forearms on the counter. “I only told Huckleberry, but McKay overheard. Can you blame me, though? It’s the most interesting thing to happen around here today.”

“Yes,” you hiss. “I can blame you. And I will blame you if—”

You stop, your eyes flicking past her to where Robby has just stepped out of C8, chart in hand and head bowed. Santos frowns for a second before following your gaze over her shoulder.

She snorts. “Oh my God. You can’t even function.”

“Who can’t function?” Whitaker asks, stepping up beside Santos.

You drop your head into your hands and sigh. “Great. They’re multiplying.”

Santos leans closer. “Hey, what’s the song that plays in your head whenever he walks past? Is it, like, SexyBack, or more… Like a Prayer?”

Whitaker snorts softly, his cheeks turning pink.

You glare at Santos. “Neither.”

“You’re right.” She nods thoughtfully. “I can practically hear the Careless Whisper sax playing in your mind right now.”

Your eyes go wide as you snatch a pen off the desk and lob it straight at her—but she dodges it easily.

“Wow,” she says, still laughing. “I’m on fire today.”

“Is that so, Dr. Santos?”

You recognise the voice before you even see him—because of course you do. You dream about that voice.

“That would mean you’ve caught up on all your charting and discharged your patient in North One?” Robby asks as he steps up beside Santos.

Her grin drops. “Uh—yeah. Actually, I was just on my way to North One.”

Her eyes slide back to you as she pushes away from the desk, lips pressed tight to keep herself from laughing.

“Dr. Whitaker,” Robby says. “Are you hovering?”

Hovering?

Whitaker glances up. “Oh—uh—no. I was just finishing some orders.”

“Good. You can finish them on your way to discharging South Twenty.”

Whitaker nods, barely even glancing at you as he grabs his tablet off the desk and turns toward the South hall.

Then Robby looks at you, holding up the pen you threw at Santos.

Your pulse stutters.

“Think you lost this,” he says, leaning forward to drop it on the desk.

“I threw it,” you blurt.

He hesitates, the corner of his mouth twitching before he turns away.

“I know.”

You watch him go until he turns a corner and disappears—then you look down at the pen.

“Fuck,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I need today to end.”

You slide the pen aside and force your attention back to the computer—to the cursor blinking patiently beside the single word you’d managed to write since sitting down.

Right.

Charting.

You manage exactly four more words before you’re interrupted again—something about your abdominal pain patient in Central Nine.

With a sigh, you push away from the desk, grab your tablet, and head for C9.

After confirming Ms. Park does indeed need an appendectomy and contacting Garcia for a surgical consult, Dana stops you in the hall to ask if Mr. Mullens can be discharged from South Sixteen. Then Javadi grabs you to present a calf laceration that you end up supervising while she sutures it, and after that Whitaker calls you in for a second opinion on a dizziness patient in North Five.

The hours start to blur together. You bounce from one room to another, just barely finishing your notes in between patients and med students and reviewing labs. By the time you finally make it back to the desk again, you’ve almost—almost—forgotten about why your heart is still beating a little too fast.

“Back to charting?” Princess asks.

You nod. “The never-ending task.”

She gives you the same quiet, speculative smile she gave you this morning.

“You seem off today,” she says.

“I’m fine,” you mutter. “Just tired.”

“And red,” she adds before turning away.

You frown, pressing a hand to your ridiculously hot cheek as you turn back toward the computer. If this keeps up, you’re more likely to end the shift as a patient than a doctor.

With a small sigh, you scoot your chair closer to the desk and pull the chart back up. Your eyes flick to the corner of the screen, to the little clock telling you that you only have a few hours left. A few hours to finish your charting, discharge a couple more patients, and keep avoiding Dr. Robby. Then you’re free. Then you’ve got at least eight solid hours to sort yourself out before you’re back here tomorrow.

Just as you position your fingers over the keyboard to start typing, your phone vibrates in your pocket—and your pulse jumps.

Abbot.

You quickly pull it out, swipe up, and open the notification.

Sorry. Too busy mourning the loss of my status as your favourite attending.

Your stomach drops.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

You stare at the text for an unreasonable length of time—heart pounding, face burning, thoughts racing. Abbot definitely thinks he knows something. Something he shouldn’t know. Something he’s probably very wrong about. Something you need to figure out and shut down immediately.

Before he decides to say something to Robby about whatever it is he thinks he knows.

“Hey,” Dana says, stopping on the other side of the desk. “Thought you were working?”

You clear your throat. “Uh—yeah. Sorry. Got distracted.”

Her brows lift. “Distracted, huh? That’s exactly what we want in emergency medicine.”

Then she shakes her head and walks away.

You tuck your phone into your pocket and turn your attention back to the chart in front of you. The chart of exactly five words—the first of many unfinished charts standing in your way of going home on time.

And today is not a day you want to stay back.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard again, eyes flicking over the few words already written. It takes a minute—probably longer than it should—but eventually you remember how to do your job and start typing.

The ER fades into background noise—monitors beeping, nurses chatting, the rumble of beds rolling past—and for the first time all day, you feel focused. Steady. Until—

“Robby,” Dana calls, “can you come over here for a sec?”

Your fingers slow over the keys—and against your better judgment, you glance up.

“Mrs. Alvarez,” Robby says fondly. “What brings you here?”

Your brows draw together as you study the older woman sitting on the bed. She looks familiar, and Alvarez rings a bell, but you can’t quite place it.

“Perlah,” you say, without fully looking away from the woman. “Who’s Mrs. Alvarez?”

“She used to work here,” Perlah replies. “She was the night shift charge nurse before Lena. Partially retired a couple years ago, but she’s covered a shift or two since then.”

You tilt your head. “Oh.”

“She probably asked for Robby,” Princess chimes in. “She always had a soft spot for him.”

Perlah tries to muffle her laughter. “Katulad ng ibang kakilala natin.”

Princess laughs behind you, but the sound barely registers. You’re too captivated by the scene unfolding in front of you. The very normal, very professional interaction that is hardly out of place in an ER—yet for some reason, it feels like you’re watching an adult film made specifically for you.

Mrs. Alvarez’s bed is parked up against the wall—a sight that would normally remind you to look for patients to discharge, but right now that’s the furthest thing from your mind.

Robby has pulled a stool up beside her, leaning in while she talks, forearms resting loosely on the bed rail. He nods along as she explains what’s wrong, his expression soft, his posture relaxed. There’s absolutely nothing obscene about it—but your pulse is still racing.

There’s just something about the way he listens—really listens—that makes it difficult to look anywhere else. That makes it difficult not to envy Mrs. Alvarez right now.

“Let’s take a listen,” he says after a moment, voice low and steady.

Your stomach does a strange little flip.

It’s such a normal sentence. Completely harmless. Totally professional. You’ve probably said the same thing yourself at least three times today. But hearing it in that voice—calm, warm, just rough enough at the edges to carry across the department—does something deeply unhelpful to your concentration.

He slips the stethoscope from around his neck, the tubing sliding through his fingers with the kind of easy familiarity that only comes from years of doing the same motion over and over again. The movement is quick, practiced, almost absentminded.

Still, your eyes follow it.

They follow the way he leans forward, one hand bracing lightly against the mattress while the other presses the diaphragm of the stethoscope gently against Mrs. Alvarez’s chest.

“Deep breath for me.”

Your pulse stutters.

Because suddenly—unhelpfully, vividly—you remember exactly how those hands felt in the dream.

The same steady fingers. The same calm voice, dropped just a little lower when he leaned close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath near your ear.

His hand had been wrapped around your wrist—firm but careful—guiding your hand above your head and pinning it against the pillow.

“Hold still,” he murmured.

The memory is sharp enough that for a second you can almost feel it again. The weight of his body pressing into the space between your knees, the quiet authority in his voice when he spoke, the way his fingers tightened against your skin just enough to keep you right where he wanted you.

Your hands had curled into the bed sheets as his lips traced the line of your jaw, his voice dropping again—softer now, almost thoughtful.

“Look at me.”

Your breath had caught in your throat when you did.

Because he was watching you the same way he watches patients—calm, focused, completely absorbed—except the attention felt different in the dream. Slower. Heavier. Like he was studying every reaction you gave him and deciding exactly how much more you could handle.

Your pulse had started racing the second his gaze dropped to your mouth.

It wasn’t subtle.

Just a brief shift of his eyes—thoughtful, almost curious—but the heat that followed it made your stomach tighten.

His thumb found its way back to your jaw, tracing slowly along the curve of it as if he were considering something. Following the line of your chin as he tipped your head back just slightly beneath his hand.

You hadn’t realised you’d stopped breathing until his fingers stilled.

“Breathe,” he said quietly.

The word brushed over your lips.

You remember the way your chest rose when you obeyed him—slow, unsteady—and the way his gaze followed the movement before drifting back to your mouth again.

God.

The corner of his mouth had lifted slightly then, like he’d noticed exactly what he was doing to you.

Like he wasn’t in any hurry to stop.

His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your throat, fingers warm against your skin, thumb resting just beneath your chin as if he were holding you there—not tightly, just enough that you stayed exactly where he wanted you.

And the entire time he watched you with that same quiet concentration.

Like this was just another thing he was very, very good at.

“Hey,” Santos says, appearing beside the desk. “Your abdominal pain in C9 just went upstairs.”

You blink at her. “Already?”

She shrugs. “Garcia signed off.”

You nod once, shifting awkwardly in your chair as you turn back toward the computer, trying very hard to ignore the heat pooling low in your belly.

“You good?” Santos asks, as if you haven’t been asked that enough today.

You clear your throat, eyes flicking briefly back to Robby and Mrs. Alvarez. “Yeah. Fine.”

She follows your gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“Wow,” she says. “You’re down bad.”

You glare at her. “I’m charting.”

“You’re drooling.”

You quickly lift a hand to your mouth, swiping at the corner.

Santos smirks. “Metaphorically.”

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

“Fuck who?” Whitaker asks, appearing beside Santos.

Santos grins. “Well, it depends who you’re asking, because if you ask—”

“Santos,” you warn.

She laughs. “Come on. It’s just a joke.”

“Isang biro?” Princess says, smiling. “Walang nakakatawa sa paraan ng pagtitig niya kay Robby.”

Your stomach drops.

You might not understand Tagalog, but you sure as hell know what that last word was.

“Santos,” you say, slowly rising from your chair. “How many people have you told?”

She presses her lips together sheepishly. “Again, technically? Just Huckleberry.”

“And—and I haven’t told anyone,” Whitaker adds quickly.

“Ano ang pinag-uusapan nila?” Perlah says behind you.

Princess shrugs. “May alam lang na sikreto si Santos.”

Your eyes widen. “Santos, I swear—”

“Relax,” she says. “They’re not talking about the dream. They were talking about your staring.”

Princess steps forward. “A dream? What dream?”

You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

“Wait,” Perlah says. “Did she have a dream about—”

Santos smirks. “Yep.”

“Oh,” Princess gasps. “That’s why she’s been so weird today.”

Perlah snorts.

Princess mutters something else in Tagalog that makes them all laugh again.

“Oh my God, Santos!” you say again, louder this time. “I’m just trying to get through the day without my attending finding out I had a sex dream about him and you’re telling the entire emergency department?”

Silence.

Perlah is staring at you.

Princess is staring at you.

Whitaker looks like someone has just pulled the fire alarm inside his head.

And Santos—

Santos is very carefully not looking at you anymore.

“What?” you snap. “No more jokes?”

No one answers.

Instead, Princess’s eyes flick slowly past your shoulder.

Whitaker clears his throat.

Santos presses her lips together, the corners twitching like she’s fighting for her life not to laugh.

“What?” you repeat, glancing over your shoulder.

And there he is.

Your attending—standing just a few feet from the nurse’s station, tablet still in one hand, glasses sliding slightly down his nose as he looks at you over the top of them.

Your stomach drops so violently it feels like all your organs have fallen out of your body.

He clears his throat.

Once.

“Alright,” he says evenly. “Back to work.”

That’s all it takes.

Perlah and Princess busy themselves on the other side of the nurse’s station.

Whitaker rushes off toward triage.

Santos lingers just long enough to give you a look that promises she will never let this go before she slips away too.

And then it’s just you.

And him.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just adjusts the tablet in his hand, pulls his glasses off, folds them into the pocket of his scrubs, and turns away.

And as he steps away, you could almost swear you see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Almost as if he’s fighting a smile.

But that would be ridiculous, right?

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to remember how to move.

How to function.

You can feel Perlah and Princess watching you. Waiting for you to do something other than stare at the spot your attending had been standing when you announced your sex dream about him to the entire department.

God.

This has to be some kind of HR violation.

Robby is probably on his way to find Dana right now so she can tell you to go upstairs and talk to someone about misconduct. If you’re not fired, you’ll be transferred.

Or worse—night shift.

You gasp and fumble for your phone, pulling it out of your pocket.

Abbot's message thread is already open when you swipe up and start typing.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Then you hit send and tuck your phone away again.

It’s a ridiculous thought, but maybe if you can talk to Abbot and explain that this was all just one giant misunderstanding, maybe he can convince Robby not to hate you for it. Maybe he can convince Robby to let you finish your residency at PTMC without it being painfully awkward for both of you.

Because as funny as this is to Santos and the nurses, you’re not so sure Robby will see it that way.

Not when you’ve let it affect your work.

Not when you just embarrassed him—and yourself—in front of the entire emergency department.

You draw in a slow breath and grab your tablet off the desk.

All you can do now is your job.

All you can do for the next hour is avoid Robby and pray Abbot will hear you out when he comes back on shift.

You turn deliberately toward the North hallway and pull up the lab results for Whitaker’s dizziness patient, keeping your eyes fixed on your tablet as you walk.

The department hums around you like it always does—monitors beeping, beds rolling past, nurses calling out vitals—but you can still feel eyes on you. Whether it’s the nurses or the med students, or even a patient who overheard your outburst, you know you’re being watched.

Whispered about, probably.

But if you don’t look up, it doesn’t count. Right?

By the time you circle back to central, Mrs. Alvarez has already been discharged, which you take as a small mercy. Then you duck into South Fifteen to check on a teenager with a sprained ankle who is mostly interested in whether he can still play soccer this weekend. After that it’s a quick review of labs for a chest pain patient in Central Ten—normal troponins, thank God—and a brief stop at the nurse’s station to sign off on discharge instructions Dana has already printed.

None of it requires you to look up very much.

Which is ideal.

You spend the next half hour moving steadily from room to room—listening to a set of lungs for a persistent cough in North Three, answering a worried daughter’s questions about her father’s blood pressure in South Twenty-Two, and checking a set of repeat vitals on a dehydration case Princess flagged earlier. Every task is perfectly ordinary. Completely routine.

And through all of it, you make a very conscious effort not to look for your attending.

Not that you’re avoiding him.

Obviously.

You’re just… busy.

You still see him, though—across the hall, talking to patients, nodding along while med students present. He doesn’t look up. Never looks at you. Just keeps walking, keeps working, keeps nodding.

Like nothing happened.

And somehow, that’s worse.

You’re on your way back from dropping discharge paperwork at the front desk—walking a little slower than you should as you wonder how long until the end of your shift—when McKay calls out from triage.

“Hey, you busy?”

You stop mid-step. “Always. What’s up?”

“Can you grab me a suture kit?” she asks. “I’m out in here.”

“Of course. What size?”

“Four-oh nylon. Whatever's closest.”

You nod. “On it.”

“And maybe send a med student to grab more from supply,” she calls as you walk away.

You don’t reply. You just duck into Trauma One—thankfully empty—grab a kit, then call out to Ogilvie on your way back, telling him to go get more suture kits for triage as soon as he’s free. You don’t even wait for him to answer, but you do hear him turn to a nurse and ask where supply is.

You wedge your tablet under one arm as you head back toward the triage bay. With the kit held against your chest, you start peeling back the sterile packaging—since you know McKay’s already halfway through cleaning whatever it is she needs to suture up.

You’re just being helpful.

But the plastic seam is stubborn, and just as you turn into the bay the wrapper gives with a jerked tear—and the scalpel slides free.

You shift to catch it, but the blade grazes the inside of your upper arm before you can pull away.

“Oh—shit.”

It’s not dramatic. Just a sharp sting at first, and for a second you assume it’s nothing more than a scratch.

Until the warmth starts to trickle down your arm and drip from your elbow.

“Damn,” you sigh, watching a small droplet of blood hit the floor.

McKay glances up, eyes going wide. “What the hell happened?”

She quickly takes everything out of your hands, and you lift your arm to inspect the damage.

“Scalpel slipped.”

McKay winces. “That’s going to need stitches.”

Ignoring the confused patient still sitting in the triage chair, she grabs a wad of gauze off the cart and presses it against your arm.

“Hold this,” she says. “I’ll go get someone to take over here, then we can—”

“It’s alright,” a familiar voice says from somewhere behind you. “I’ll deal with this.”

Your stomach drops.

“Oh.” McKay glances over your shoulder, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Thanks, Dr. Robby.”

Fuck.

You turn slowly, one hand still clamped over the gauze on your arm.

He’s already so close—barely half a step away—and you have to tip your head back to look up at him.

“Let me see,” he says, voice low.

You hold your arm out obediently.

His fingers brush yours as he peels back the gauze, and your pulse jumps.

“Alright.” He nods once, something indistinguishable flickering across his face. “That needs stitches.”

Before you can respond, his hand closes lightly around your wrist, guiding your arm back toward your side as he turns you with him.

“Come with me.”

The touch is brief, professional—but when his hand shifts to the small of your back to steer you out of triage, the warmth of it makes your heart stutter out of rhythm.

“Dana,” he calls, walking quickly through central. “What’s open?”

Dana looks up from the desk just as the two of you pass. Her gaze flicks from the gauze on your arm to Robby’s hand still resting lightly at your back, and something sharp and knowing slides into her expression immediately.

“Central Eleven just got cleaned,” she says.

Robby nods once. “Thanks.”

Dana’s brows lift just a fraction as she watches the two of you step into the room, like she’s just connected several very interesting dots.

You move automatically toward the bed, trying not to feel disappointed when Robby’s hand leaves your back. He shuts the doors on both sides of the room, then slides the curtain closed—and every move makes your heart rate climb higher.

“Lay back,” he says.

Your whole body flushes with heat as you adjust yourself on the exam bed, trying desperately not to think about the other circumstances in which he might give you that instruction.

He rolls the stool beside the bed and reaches for your arm, turning it out gently.

His fingers are warm as he removes the gauze.

You try not to think too hard about his fingers.

“It’s a clean cut, at least,” he says after a second.

You nod. “Sharp blade.”

Like he didn’t already know that.

He releases your arm long enough to pull on a pair of gloves and gather what he needs from the tray beside the bed. You watch him move around the room with that same quiet efficiency that has been ruining your concentration all day—steady hands, calm voice, not a hint of hurry even though the department outside the door is probably chaos.

“Come a little closer,” he says, almost absentmindedly—as if he doesn’t know what saying something like that is going to do to you.

You shift against the mattress while he lifts your arm again, angling it under the exam light.

He’s so close now you can hardly breathe. You can feel his breath against your cheek, his warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your scrubs, every touch careful as he starts cleaning the cut.

The antiseptic stings enough to make you tense.

“Easy,” he murmurs, steadying your arm. “It’s not that bad.”

“I’m aware,” you say quickly. “I do actually work here.”

“Yes,” he says mildly. “I’m aware of that too.”

You risk a glance at him then—and immediately regret it.

He’s standing now, leaning close enough that you could count every fleck of grey in his beard. Close enough to notice the way his glasses have slid slightly down his nose while he concentrates on the wound. His fingers move with careful precision as he prepares the needle driver, completely focused.

Completely calm.

Completely unaware that your brain is still stuck somewhere between the nurse’s station and a very inappropriate dream.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flips—and when you squeeze your eyes shut, that exact moment from your dream flashes through your mind again.

The lidocaine burns for a second when he injects it, and you suck in a breath before you can stop yourself.

“Breathe,” he says automatically.

God.

If he could stop with the direct quotes from your dream, maybe you would actually be able to breathe.

You clear your throat, staring stubbornly at the wall now while he begins the first stitch.

“Try to relax,” he adds quietly.

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “I’m trying.”

His hands pause for the briefest moment.

Then he glances up at you over the rim of his glasses.

“You of all people should know better than to open a suture kit while walking.”

You let out a small, embarrassed breath and shift slightly on the bed while he works, trying not to react every time the needle passes neatly through the edge of the cut.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s been a weird day.”

“Mhm.”

The sound is absentminded, the same one he makes when a patient is explaining symptoms he already understands. His attention stays on your arm while he ties the knot and reaches for the next stitch, movements calm and precise, like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.

“You seemed a little distracted earlier,” he adds after a moment.

Your stomach tightens.

“Busy department.”

He hums again as he adjusts your arm slightly.

“Not exactly what I meant.”

You stare at the ceiling again, your pulse racing dangerously fast.

“It’s not unusual, you know,” he says after a moment, his voice calm and thoughtful as he works. “There’s actually quite a lot of research on it. In high-stress environments people’s subconscious tends to latch onto someone they admire rather than… straightforward attraction. It’s a way of organizing all that pressure—long hours, constant adrenaline, the need to trust the people around you.”

He pauses briefly to adjust the stitch.

You feel like you’re about to throw up.

“Hospitals are particularly good at creating that kind of dynamic,” he goes on. “Everyone’s exhausted, everyone’s relying on each other, and if there happens to be someone who seems steady in the middle of all that—someone people look to when things go wrong—it’s very easy for admiration to blur into something else.”

Another small pause, the thread tightening neatly under his fingers.

“It’s rarely intentional,” he adds, quieter now. “Most of the time the person experiencing it doesn’t even realise what their brain is doing.”

You finally look at him. His face is barely inches from yours, close enough that you can see the faint crease between his brows while he concentrates on the last stitch, all of his attention focused on closing the cut.

“Wait,” you say slowly. “So… I—I’m not fired?”

His hands still for the briefest moment before he glances at you, genuine confusion flickering across his face.

“Fired?”

You swallow. “For… you know. The thing I said. Out there. To the entire department.”

He huffs a small laugh—barely a breath.

“Why would you be fired?” he says mildly. “Embarrassing yourself in front of the nurses isn’t exactly grounds for termination.”

Your face burns.

He sets the needle driver down and reaches for the scissors, his tone settling back into that same calm, matter-of-fact rhythm.

“You shouldn’t have let it distract you from your work, though,” he continues. “That’s the only part I was concerned about. But one off day doesn’t suddenly erase an otherwise solid record.”

You stare at him.

“Concerned?”

“Mhm.”

He snips the suture, then reaches to adjust your arm slightly under the light, examining his work.

“First you were late,” he says, almost absently. “You were flustered during the chest tube. You’ve been avoiding traumas all day—” His eyes meet yours briefly. “And your attending. You’ve barely caught up on your charting, and you’ve unintentionally encouraged the nurses’ gossiping.”

Your stomach drops.

“Not to mention,” he adds, just a little drier now, “the pen you threw at Dr. Santos for—what? Teasing you, I presume.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Because suddenly, Dana’s voice echoes through your mind.

Careful, Robinavitch. You’re hovering.

Hovering?

Like the way he’d stood so close while you placed that chest tube. The way his hand had settled at your back when he guided you out of triage.

Why was he even there to begin with?

Santos’ voice cuts through your mind next.

I swear he’s got a soft spot for you.

I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.

And suddenly the entire day looks… different.

Not like an attending keeping an eye on his resident.

Like a man trying very hard not to make it obvious he was paying attention to you.

Robby smooths the edge of the dressing over the sutured cut, pressing it down carefully as he glances back up at you.

“Keep that dry for the next—”

And that’s the moment your brain finally catches up.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, your hand shoots out and grabs the front of his scrubs, fingers bunching the fabric at his chest as you pull him the few inches closer.

Then you kiss him.

It’s not graceful.

It’s barely even planned.

Just a quick, impulsive press of your mouth against his—warm and startled and over almost as soon as it begins.

For half a second, he doesn’t move at all.

“Oh—fuck. I—”

You drop his shirt like it’s suddenly on fire and lean back on the bed, horrified.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt. “I don’t know why I just—”

The apology dies halfway through, because Robby hasn’t stepped away.

He hasn’t leapt back, shocked or offended. He’s just… there.

Where he was when you grabbed him—close enough that you can still feel his warmth, with one hand resting lightly near your arm where he’d been finishing the dressing. For a second he simply watches you, studying your face with the same quiet concentration he uses when he’s working through a diagnosis, like he’s trying to decide whether the last thirty seconds actually happened.

Your pulse is hammering.

“I shouldn’t have—” you try again.

His hand lifts.

The movement is slow, deliberate, and before you can finish your sentence his thumb and forefinger settle lightly around your chin, tilting your face upward just enough that you have to look at him.

Your breath catches.

He hesitates for the briefest moment, his gaze moving across your face as if he’s still weighing the decision.

Then he leans in.

The first contact is firmer than you expect—his mouth warm and solid against yours, the faint scrape of his beard against your skin as he adjusts the angle. His glasses are still on, the frame nudging the bridge of your nose when he shifts closer. His nose bumps yours before he tilts his head, finding a better position.

For a second it’s almost restrained.

Then it isn’t.

His grip on your chin tightens a fraction as he deepens the kiss, tipping your head back against the pillow while he leans over you. The change is sudden enough that your hands catch the front of his scrubs again without thinking. The fabric bunches in your fingers as he moves closer, the pressure of his mouth shifting—slower now but more certain, like he’s stopped pretending he’s about to pull away.

The beard you’d been trying not to notice all day brushes your cheek again when he moves, softer than you expected, and when his teeth graze your lower lip for half a second the sound that escapes you is embarrassingly honest.

He exhales quietly through his nose against your skin.

Not stopping.

If anything, the opposite.

His free hand comes down beside your shoulder on the mattress to brace himself as he leans over you, the movement tilting your head back further while his mouth finds yours again—deeper this time, the rhythm of it suddenly practiced enough to make your stomach flip.

Like this is something he hasn’t done in a while.

But definitely knows how to do.

And the entire time his thumb stays lightly under your chin, holding you exactly where he wants you while he kisses you like he’s still trying to decide whether this is a mistake—and losing that argument by the second.

You barely notice when he shifts closer again, the movement subtle but unmistakable, his hand tightening slightly against the mattress beside you as if he’s about to lean in further, about to let himself forget the door, the department, the fact that this is an exam room in the middle of a shift—

The curtain whips open.

“Been looking for you, Robinavitch—”

Abbot stops dead.

For half a second no one moves.

You’re still on the bed, Robby bent over you, your hands fisted in the front of his scrubs while his hand is still braced beside your shoulder.

Abbot’s gaze flicks from your grip on Robby’s shirt, to Robby’s face, to the dressing he’d just placed on your arm.

His eyebrows climb slowly toward his hairline.

“Well,” he says after a beat. “I wish I could say I'm surprised, but…”

Robby straightens immediately.

Not panicked. Not flustered.

Just very, very still for a second before he adjusts his glasses and steps back from the bed like he’d simply been finishing a routine procedure.

“Jack,” he says evenly.

Abbot folds his arms, the corner of his mouth already curling upward.

“Michael.”

The silence stretches just long enough for the humiliation to fully settle in.

Abbot glances at you again, then back at Robby.

“Should I come back later,” he asks mildly, “or are you two… just about done here?”

The heat that floods your face is instantaneous, and you slide off the bed so fast you nearly fall.

“Don’t get it wet for twenty-four hours, stitches out in a week unless there’s redness, swelling, drainage, fever—I know the drill,” you ramble, slowly backing toward the door.

Robby has already turned back to the tray, calmly disposing of the suture needle like none of this is remotely unusual. Only the faint redness creeping up the back of his neck gives him away.

Abbot doesn’t move. He just stands there, arms folded, with a look of deep theatrical satisfaction on his face.

“This,” he says pleasantly, “is exactly what I meant, by the way.”

Your stomach drops.

“What?”

His brows lift.

“Your text.”

Your eyes widen.

Abbot tilts his head, studying you for a moment before glancing toward Robby again.

“I mean, honestly,” he adds. “I leave you two alone for what—ten hours?”

“What day shift does is none of your business, Dr. Abbot,” you mutter, trying to slip past him.

Abbot’s mouth twitches.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he says. “It seems very much like my business now.”

You snort, the sound escaping before you can stop it.

“Don’t be jealous,” you say, glancing over your shoulder as you step out the door. “He’s still your boyfriend.”

Behind him, Robby drops the gauze into the bin and gives a quiet shake of his head, laughing softly despite himself.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs.

Abbot’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Your girl, huh?”

Robby scrubs a hand over his beard and turns away.

“Shut up.”

You’re not sure you were supposed to hear that last bit—but it makes your heart race anyway.

The second you step into the hallway, the emergency department crashes back in around you—monitors beeping, nurses calling for labs, a stretcher rattling past that you have to dodge. Almost like the last fifteen minutes never happened at all.

“Hey, Doc,” Princess calls from the nurse’s station. “North Five, dizziness patient’s daughter is looking for a doctor, but Whitaker’s stuck in chairs.”

“And Javadi needs you in South Seventeen,” Perlah adds. “Something about a rash.”

“Oh—and imaging’s back on your sprained ankle kid,” Santos says. “He’s asking when he can get out of here.”

You nod. “Uh—right. Okay, yeah. I’ll just—”

“Hey,” Dana cuts in, appearing beside you. “You okay? How’s the arm?”

You blink down at the fresh dressing like you’d almost forgotten about it.

“Oh. Yeah. It’s fine.”

She studies it for a second before her gaze drifts up to your face—and her brow lifts.

“Uh-huh,” she says slowly.

You frown. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says lightly, starting to walk away. “Just thought that looked like beard burn.”

She gives a small shrug, then glances back over the top of her glasses.

“But I know my doctors are far too professional for that.”

Your entire face goes hot.

You open your mouth—then close it again, because there is absolutely nothing you can say to that without making it worse.

Santos leans across the desk at the nurse’s station, squinting at your face.

“…Oh my God.”

Her eyes widen.

“Oh my God.”

Your stomach sinks.

Will this day ever end?

© 2026 geminiwritten

[youngstarkitty]

Me searching x reader fics after gaining a new fictional crush after watching a movie/serie

[apfelkernchen]

"You stole my cart."

Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader

Dr. Jack Abbot x you

When you went grocery shopping you didn't expect to come home with the number of a very handsome ED doctor

---

It was supposed to be a quick grocery run. In and out. 

Ten minutes, tops.

You needed to stock up on food and a few essentials - you were almost out of everything. As you tossed items in your cart, you did the math in your head. Ever since losing your job after the White House cut funding for your project, you’d been careful about money.

Bananas. Coffee.

You frowned at your list. 

Rice. You forgot the rice. You left your cart and walked back toward the entrance, grabbed a bag, then returned to where you thought you’d been.

Milk. Yoghurt. Cheese.

You kept moving.

Then - a voice behind you cleared its throat. “Excuse me?” 

You ignored it. You didn’t feel like talking to strangers.

The voice came again, closer this time. "Excuse me? I think you took my cart.” 

You turned - and froze. 

A man stood there, taller than you, salt-and-pepper hair, tired eyes framed by fine lines. Handsome. A few years older maybe. One hand rested casually on another shopping cart.

Your shopping bag sat inside it.

Oh no.

Fuck.

You looked down at the cart you were holding. Wrong cart.

“I am so… so sorry!” you blurted, already pulling random items out. “I didn’t even look. I just - wow, okay, this is embarrassing."

“It’s fine. Happens all the time.”

You blinked. “No it doesn’t.”

He smiled. “Okay maybe not. But its called being polite.”

That made you laugh despite yourself. You switched carts quickly. “I’m really sorry.” 

“It’s really fine.” He leaned lightly on the handle. “I was wondering why my cart suddenly had oat milk in it. Thought my night shift brain did it again.”

You laughed. “What do you do?”

“Doctor. ED. At the PTMC.”

You stared at him. “That’s something.”

He shrugged. “Someone has to do it.”

There was something unfairly charming about him. Easy smile, calm presence, confident without pressure. You could imagine him at a patients bedsite.

“Should I ever need a doctor to give me bad news” you blurted. “I hope it’s you.”

Silence.

Then you realized what you’d just said. You flushed immediately. “Sorry. That’s really stupid.” 

He grinned - actually grinned. “Not the worst pickup line I’ve heard. Definitely top ten. Congratulations.” 

You laughed, still embarrassed but warmed by how easy he made it. 

“It’s one of my many hidden talents.” you say finally.

A small pause settled between you - the kind that usually ends conversations. Instead he offered his hand.

“I’m Jack.”

You told him your name and shook it. His grip was warm, steady.

“Nice to meet you.” he said, eyes glinting. “Even under this criminal circumstances.” 

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

“You stole my cart.”

“It was an accident.”

“Yeah” he said dryly. “That’s what you’ll tell your lawyer.”

You laughed again. 

There was an ease to him - funny without trying, confident without effort - and suddenly you realized you were  standing in the middle of the aisle talking to a stranger like you’d known him longer than five minutes.

He glanced toward the front of the store, then back to you. 

“I really need to go to bed.” he said, soundeing apologetic. “And I’d rather ask than regret not asking.”

Your heart gave a small jump. 

“Okay?” 

“I’d like to take you out sometime. Maybe dinner. I’ve got a couple of days off, starting Friday. What do you think?”

Straightforward. No games.

You blinked surprised - then smiled. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.” His smile softened.  “You seem fun to be around. Even if you are a petty thief.” 

You laughed. “I’m not a criminal.” 

He leaned a little closer. “Maybe. But definitive trouble.” The warmth in his voice made your stomach flutter.

“So what do you think? Dinner?”

There was a tiny moment where you could’ve said no. But you didn’t want to.

“Okay. Yeah.”

His smile widened just a little. You exchanged numbers. 

“I’ll text you” he said. 

“You better do” you replied before you could overthink it. 

He smiled, gave a small wave and walked away. With the right cart this time.

You stood there for a moment, smiling to yourself. Then you went back to shopping. 

Maybe it would turn into something. Maybe not. 

But you’d just been flirted with by a very handsome ER doctor with an easy smile. That was definitely something.

The text came the next afternoon. 

Dinner on Friday? - Jack

You didn’t even expect him to contact you. So you stared at your phone for a ridiculous amount of time before answering, smiling like an idiot. 

This next days felt ridiculous - in the best way. You went shopping - just browsing, you told yourself - and ended up trying on dresses. Eventually you picked one that made you feel good. Tight. Black. Short. You deliberately didn’t look at the price tag. 

Friday came way too fast. You arrived at the restaurant a few minutes earlier, smoothing your dress, heart beating faster than it should. You were nervous. Trembling. Your last date had been a long time ago.

Then you saw him walking toward you. Black shirt. Easy smile. And that calm, grounded energy you remembered from the supermarket. 

“Hey” His voice was warm, relaxed.

“Hey” you replied, a little shellshocked. 

He smiled like he noticed but didn’t comment on it.

“You look beautiful.”

You blushed. “Thank you.”

He lead you inside. The restaurant was cozy - low lighting, smell of garlic and tomato sauce, quiet music humming in the background.

The waiters face lit up immediately. “Doctor Abbot!” he said warmly, clapping him on the shoulder. “My favourite guest.” 

Jack smiled, a little sheepish. “Hey Marco.” 

Marco turned to you, grinning. “Best guy I know. Treated my daughter once - even stayed past his shift to make sure she’s okay. He never has to pay here.” 

You grinned. 

Jack groaned softly. “I always pay, Marco.” 

“Yeah, yeah” Marco said. “But dessert is always free.” 

He handed you the menu and walked away. You looked at Jack amused. “Popular hm?” 

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. “Just ignore it.” 

“I’m impressed.” 

He shook his head. “It’s not a big deal. It’s my job.” 

But the way he said it told you it actually mattered to him.

Dinner flowed easily. Conversations moved from nervous small talk into real things without either of you forcing it. You talked about work - or the lack of, in your case -, travel, small, old stories, small embarrassments that somehow felt safe to share. He listened - really listened - like you were the only person in the room. 

When Marco brought a bottle of red wine you accepted a glass. Jack declined. 

You noticed and glanced at him, unsure if you should ask. 

“Doesn’t mix well with the meds I’m taking.” he said simply. 

No drama. Just facts. 

You nodded, curious but too shy to push.

As the night went on you felt warm and relaxed, pleasantly tipsy - laughing more easily, leaning closer without realizing it. 

Dessert arrived. Marco gave Jack a dramatic wink. 

“Tiramisu.” he announced proudly to you. “Dr. Abbots favourite.”

You stifled a laugh when you saw Jacks face. Mortified, like Marco had revealed a deeply guarded secret.

Hours passed without either of you noticing. At one point you looked around and realized the restaurant was nearly empty. 

You froze. “Did we just talk for… like…three hours?”

“Yeah.” He smiled. “I was having a good time.”

Your chest fluttered. You blushed.

When the check arrived, Jack reached for it immediately. You made a half-hearted attempt to grab it, but he waved you off gently. 

“Of course” he said when you thanked him, suddenly flustered.

Outside the air was cool and quiet. He asked where you lived and walked you home. Conversation flowed easily - like it always seemed to with him. You felt save. Seen.

At your door you turned to him, suddenly shy. 

“I had fun.” you said - an understatement, considering this had been the best evening you’d in years.

“Me too” he said softly.

A small pause settled between you - the kind that could go somewhere. Your heart raced and it had nothing to do with the wine.

He stepped closer - close enough for you to feel his warmth, smell his cologne - and pressed a soft, respectful kiss to your cheek. You felt the brush of stubble, the gentle warmth of his lips. Almost old-fashioned.

You held your breath.

He smiled - that easy warm smile.

“Good night” he said.

“Good night” you replied, trying not to sound too disappointed that the evening ended there. 

He turned and walked away, hands in his pockets. You watched him for a moment before stepping inside, leaning against the door, smiling like an idiot. Nothing had happened. And everything had happened.

You kicked off your shoes and your coat. Your phone buzzed while you were brushing your teeth. You glanced at the screen and your heart stumbled when you saw his name. 

Thank you for tonight.

Simple. Warm. Very… him. Your stomach flipped like you were sixteen again.

You typed a reply too fast, deleted it, rewrote it, let it sit for a few minutes. You didn’t want to seem too eager.

Finally lying in bed, you sent it.

I had a really good time too.

You stared at the screen afterward, smiling into the dark like a madwoman. And you hoped he was doing the same.

A few days later another message popped up.

Coffee and a walk in the park? Tomorrow?

You didn’t even pretend to hesitate this time.

Yes!

You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face for the rest of the day.

The second date felt even easier. Even in broad daylight. Even without alcohol. Coffee cups, warming your hands, slow walking paths, leaves crunching under your shoes. Conversation flowed like it hadn’t paused since dinner.

You talked about everything. He listened, laughed, shared a few stories of his own - funny, quietly thoughtful, sometimes edged with irony. 

You noticed how calm you felt around him. No performance. No trying. It felt just so … easy. 

At one point you laughed so hard you had to stop walking. You’d watching ducks in the pond and he mentioned how much he liked the sound of their tiny paddle-pats in the water. It was so sweet,  so sincere, that you lost it completely. He pretended to be offended for a moment, then watched you with that soft smile again.

“You laugh with your whole body.” he said.

You wiped tears from your eyes, suddenly self-conscious. “Is that bad?”

“No.” His voice softened. “Its nice.”

You smiled, caught off guard. 

By the time he walked you home, the sun was already dipping lower. You stood in front of your building, feeling warm and hopeful. Maybe this time, you thought… maybe he’d kiss you.

He stepped closer. Hesitated. Your heart lifted. And then another soft respectful kiss on your cheek. 

“Thank you for today” he said.

You smiled but a little confusion crept in.

“Yeah, sure” you replied, blinking quickly. 

You watched him walk away, frowning slightly. Was he not interested? Was he just careful?  Were you imaging the connection? Did you smell weird?

You went upstairs trying not to overthink it. 

Your phone buzzed before you even finished taking off your coat.

I had a great time today x

You smiled despite the chaos in your head. At least he’d added a kiss in text, if not in reality. 

Me too x

A few seconds later:

Brunch on Sunday?

You stared at the message, laughing softly. He clearly liked you. So why the cheek kisses? You shook your head, smiling anyway.

I’d love to! x

Brunch was at another place he clearly loved. You realized that the second you walked in - the hostess smiled brightly, calling him “Jack” and “dear”, the rest of the staff greeting him like an old friend.

“Morning Doctor” the waitress said warmly, sliding menus onto the table.

Then she looked at you. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. A knowing smile. Leaning in while pouring coffee she whispered “You are the first women he’s brought here. It’s usually just him and Doctor Robby. Nice to see him on a date.”

Your cheeks warmed. Jack groaned quietly. She laughed and walked away.

“It sounds like Robby and I are married.” he muttered. “He’s just one of my closest friends and this place is close to the hospital. That's all.” 

You laughed. “It’s fine.”

He smiled, then looked back at the menu.

Brunch was easy too - sunlight pouring through the windows, a cheeky mimosa loosening your nerves, conversation flowing effortlessly.

You talked about childhood memories, favorite movies, university stories, the strange moments that somehow made you feel closer. Every time he laughed something inside you softened.

And still - when he walked you home - nothing. No hand-holding. No lingering touch. Just another warm kiss to your cheek.

“Goodbye” he said gently.

You watched him walk away again, pleasantly happy but increasingly confused. 

Ten minutes later - a text:

I had a great time today x

You smiled but didn’t reply this time. 

Next morning another text:

Cinema tonight? x

You chuckled.

Sure thing x 

He was perfect at the movies. Of course he was.

He bought popcorn before you could ask, carried the drinks, made easy jokes in line that made you relax instantly. You sat side by side in the dark theatre, shoulders almost touching.

Almost.

Your heart raced. You barely followed the movie. You kept glancing at him, waiting for some sign - but he didn’t move.

Halfway through the film you decided to be brave. You let your hand drift toward him. He shifted suddenly and nudged the popcorn toward you.

“Want some?” he whispered. 

You froze. He thought you were reaching for popcorn. You took some, smiling politely, trying not to laugh - or die - from embarrassment.

It was fair to say you weren’t great at flirting.

After the movie he walked you home again. The night air was cool. You shivered slightly. He immediately draped his jacket over your shoulder. Your heart fluttered.

Progress.

Outside your building you talked for a bit. Then - the usual soft kiss to your cheek.

“Just bring the jacket next time” he said with a smile. “Good night.”

He turned to leave. You didn’t move.

You just stood there, confused and frustrated. He’d gone a few steps before he looked back.

When he saw you still standing there, he frowned slightly and walked back.

“Everything okay?” he asked gently. 

You took a breath, heart pounding.

“Do you not like me the way I thought?”

The words hung between you. 

His eyes widened. “What? No - I-” He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck. “I really like you.”

You blinked. “Then… why are so … careful?”

He laughed quietly, embarrassed. “That’s not a bad thing, you know?” he said quickly. Then he hesitated. “I haven’t been on a date in years. I honestly don’t know what the right moment is anymore.” He glanced at you. “I don’t want to be creepy. Or pushy. I want to respect you.”

He gave you a small, awkward smile. “Maybe i’m just a big coward with a handsome face.”

Relief hit you so suddenly you laughed.

He looked nervous now - which somehow made him even more adorable.

Without thinking you reached for his hand. His fingers stilled for a second, then gently curled around yours.

You smiled, leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his lips. Barely there. Then you stepped back, grinning.

“Feel respected.” you said .”Goodnight Jack.”

You slipped inside before you could lose your nerve, heart racing.  

The second your door closed your phone buzzed. You laughed softly before even looking.

I knew you were trouble.

A second message followed.

I can’t stop smiling x

You bit your lip, grinning.

You’re welcome x

Wanna keep reading? Here's part 2: Wanna grab coffee?

[notyourlovemonkey]

Falling Around You | A Michael Robinavitch one shot

gif by: @doctorobinavitch

Summary: Maybe if you told yourself enough, you would get over him; over the coffee mug that somehow became yours, over the silence that had once felt intimate, over the version of Michael Robinavitch who never asked for more until someone else nearly did.

Pairing: Michael Robinavitch / f!attending Reader (no physical description of reader, no use of y/n). Rating: M. Tags: Friends with benefits relationship ending. Robby being a royal asshole and emotionally constipated. Also a jealous bitch (🙄​). Post-breakup tension. Age gap (reader is an attending, so nothing too scandalous). Angst. Fluff. Medical inacuracies. Word count: 13.1k words (oops 😅​). a/n: Well......... I've been trying to write this shit for like a month. I've edited it a thousand times, changed things, moved things from one place to another... it's come to a point where I hate it now 🤣​. But I wanted to write something for Robby and 13.1k words is too many to just delete... so.... I hope someone enjoys this 😅. I have read it two thousand times but it's possible there are weird things in weird places after all the changing so... sorry. Inspired mostly by two Ingrid Michaelson songs, I'm Through and Over You (this song is the one who gave it its title and inspired the summary structure). Give them a listen if you don't know them, fantastic lyrics.

MASTERLIST

The evening had arrived in that ugly stretch where everything became cumulative; no single case impossible, but enough unfinished things piling over one another that every interruption felt personal.

A psych hold was shouting at security near triage, radiology had called twice asking why a patient still had not been transported, and one of the interns had managed to enter fluids under the wrong patient and was now trying to look invisible while correcting it.

At the main desk, Dana was signing discharge paperwork when Santos appeared beside her with the kind of expression that usually meant she had noticed something she intended to share.

“Did she already leave?”

Dana did not look up immediately.

“A few minutes ago.”

Santos leaned to glance toward the corridor anyway, as if you might still reappear.

“She looked… different.”

That made Perlah raise her head from the chart she was updating.

“Different good?”

“Date good; gorgeous,” Santos said, already smiling.

Perlah gave a small sound of approval.

Dana finally lifted her eyes.

“You knew?”

“She asked me whether red lipstick was too much for a Thursday.”

“That depends,” Perlah said, “on whether there’s a person attached to Thursday.”

“There is,” Santos replied. “Upper floor. Cardiology.”

At the next workstation, Robby continued reading a chart with such stillness that, if someone did not know him, they might have assumed he had not heard any of it.

Dana knew better.

Perlah looked interested now.

“Who?”

“Álvarez.”

“The one who dresses like he owns a private elevator?”

“That one.”

Perlah nodded slowly.

“Tall.”

“Very.”

“Annoyingly symmetrical face.”

“Exactly.”

Dana returned to her paperwork, though not before noticing that Robby had stopped scrolling.

“He asked three times apparently,” Santos added.

That got Perlah’s full attention.

“You’re kidding.”

“No. First time last month, apparently. Then again two weeks ago. She said no both times.”

“And now?”

“And now apparently she said yes.”

Perlah smiled faintly.

“Well. Good for her.”

The click of a mouse came harder than it needed to from the adjacent station.

Nobody looked directly at him. It had been a month since you had ended whatever it was that had existed between the two of you, and even now Robby still disliked how impossible it was to assign the right word to it. Not relationship. Not casual either, not after six months of nights that had developed their own habits without permission.

Your toothbrush beside his sink because at some point it had become easier than pretending you would not stay over again. The way you used to leave his apartment before sunrise on early shifts wearing yesterday’s clothes and carrying coffee he had made because you always claimed his machine somehow produced better coffee than yours. The way your hand reached for the sleeve of his shirt when you laughed, absentmindedly, as if touch had stopped being deliberate long before either of you noticed.

It had acquired structure despite both of you avoiding naming it.

Then one night you had sat across from him in his kitchen, quiet in a way he understood too late, and told him you could not continue something that had no intention of becoming safer.

You had said it calmly. That part still bothered him. Honesty, delivered gently enough that arguing against it would have made him sound cruel. 

He had not asked you to stay. That also bothered him. More than he’d like to admit.

A month later the absence had become specific in ways he had not expected. No messages after difficult shifts. No quiet knock on his apartment door. No second coffee appearing beside him before he noticed he needed one. No reason for him to look up when someone crossed behind him because your steps had become familiar enough that he used to know when it was you without checking.

And what unsettled him most was that you had adjusted. You still spoke to him normally. Still asked for labs, discussed consults, corrected residents, signed charts. You smiled when appropriate. You laughed with Santos. You had not once looked like someone carrying the same loss.

One of the new residents approached him then, asking whether they should repeat blood gases before transport. He answered too sharply. The resident muttered thanks and retreated.

Santos glanced sideways, then lowered her voice just enough to make the next words conversational.

“I’m happy for her, honestly.”

Perlah nodded. “So am I.”

Dana capped her pen.

“Cardiology has better hours.”

“That helps,” Santos said.

“And expensive restaurants,” Perlah added.

That made Santos grin.

“Apparently Verdanza.”

Even Dana looked mildly impressed at that.

“Ohhh… Upper-floor confidence.”

The trauma pager sounded before anyone could continue.

Everything shifted at once; voices changed, gloves snapped into place, movement replaced conversation. Robby crossed into trauma bay one already pulling gloves on, issuing orders before the stretcher had fully stopped.

The patient was unstable enough to demand complete attention; hypotensive, confused, abdominal tenderness worsening by the minute.

For a while the room narrowed correctly. Numbers. Breathing. Pressure. Blood. Usually that was enough to clear everything else. Tonight it failed somewhere around the moment he looked up to check the monitor and saw the clock above it.

By now, if dinner had started, you would already be seated. Probably listening politely. Probably deciding whether the man deserved your actual laugh or merely the courteous version. That thought stayed longer than it should have.

When surgery finally took the patient upstairs and the bay emptied again, Dana entered behind him to review the board before sign-off.

At first she said nothing, simply reading. Then, without looking up, she asked, “Did Lewis deserve that?”

Robby stripped off one glove.

“What?”

“The answer you gave him sounded like he had insulted your family.”

“He asked a question already answered in the patient’s history.”

“He asks questions like that every day.”

He said nothing.

Dana signed one line, moved to the next.

“You have also checked the same sodium result three times tonight.”

“I was reading.”

“You were elsewhere.”

That irritated him enough that he reached for the clipboard too soon, nearly taking it from her hand before she had finished.

Dana let him.

“She looked happy leaving,” she said.

He did not answer.

“She has not looked particularly happy leaving lately.”

That made his jaw shift once, almost imperceptibly.

Dana noticed. After a few seconds she continued.

“Apparently Álvarez asked more than once.”

He looked at her then. Only briefly. Enough.

Dana met the look without expression.

He set the clipboard down harder than intended.

“I don’t know why everyone suddenly cares who she has dinner with.”

“I don’t think everyone does.”

The corridor behind them filled briefly with noise; transport wheels, voices, a monitor alarm starting and stopping.

Dana left the tablet where she was updating a chart.

“I think most people noticed you were easier these past months.”

That reached him more directly than he liked.

She continued in the same even tone.

“You laughed more. Ate occasionally. Stopped looking like every day offended you personally.”

He looked away first.

“That is an exaggerated reading.”

“Possibly.” She cleaned her glasses. “But whatever changed, it changed back.”

The silence after that was long enough that another person might have filled it. Dana did not. When she finally stepped away, she left him with one last sentence, delivered almost lightly.

“If you intend to stay annoyed every time cardio calls downstairs, at least make sure you don't take it out on the residents.”

Then she walked off before he could decide whether defending himself would help at all.

****

Verdanza had the kind of lighting designed to flatter everyone equally; low enough to soften edges, warm enough to make glass gleam, every table spaced just far enough apart that conversations stayed private without the room ever feeling empty.

It was exactly the sort of place you would have expected someone like Álvarez to choose. Elegant without trying too hard. Expensive without needing to announce it. The kind of restaurant where the waiters somehow appeared before anyone needed anything and disappeared before becoming noticeable.

By the time the first glass of wine arrived, you had already confirmed three things you had not entirely trusted when Santos had talked about him when she found out he’d asked you out: he was, in fact, very good-looking (of course, you knew this); he did own the expensive watch (which you’d seen before); and, far more inconveniently, he was also easy company (this was new).

Not the polished kind of attentive that immediately felt rehearsed. He listened properly, asked questions because he wanted answers, and when you mentioned a particularly absurd case from two weeks earlier, he laughed in exactly the right place instead of pretending to understand emergency medicine better than you did.

“I still think,” he said, leaning back slightly, “that anyone who voluntarily chooses your department deserves either admiration or psychological evaluation.”

“We say the same thing about cardio every time one of you complains about stairs.”

“That’s because stairs are a poor system. Elevators exist.”

“You work two floors above us.”

“Two floors can still be too much after twelve hours.”

You smiled despite yourself.

It had been easier than expected. That was part of the problem. Because you had come prepared for discomfort; for arrogance, perhaps, or for the faint exhaustion of having to carry half the conversation yourself while pretending not to notice.

Instead, dinner moved with natural rhythm. He’d asked about your residency; you told him just enough to keep things moving, then listened while he described the particular misery of cardiology rounds under a department head apparently feared by half the building.

When the main course arrived, he remembered without prompting that you had said earlier you disliked cilantro. When your glass emptied, he refilled it while still talking, as if courtesy belonged to him naturally rather than as performance.

And still, somewhere beneath all of it, there was a distance you could not close. Because every now and then, without invitation, another comparison surfaced.

It wasn't a fair one, but it was persistent. The way Álvarez held eye contact while speaking reminded you how rarely Robby did when conversations drifted too near anything personal, as if direct eye contact became harder the moment words mattered.

The ease of this dinner made you think, absurdly, of all the evenings with Robby that had never looked like dates at all; food half-forgotten because one of you arrived too tired to care, Chinese takeout on his kitchen counter, hospital coffee reheated because neither of you wanted to leave the apartment once you were both there.

No candles. No reservations. No intention beyond the next hour. And yet you had often left those nights feeling fuller than you did now, seated in a place where the wine cost more than the meal Robby usually kept in his fridge. 

Álvarez was saying something about a trip to Lisbon when you caught yourself missing the rough warmth of Robby’s apartment in winter, the old lamp near his sofa that always made everything look softer than daylight did.

You brought your attention back fast enough that Álvarez did not seem to notice.

“Sorry,” you said, smiling. “Long shift brain.”

“I’m flattered you came despite long shift brain.”

“You asked three times. At some point saying no starts sounding rude.”

That made him laugh, genuinely.

“I accepted that risk.”

“I noticed.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you in a way that remained pleasant rather than invasive.

“And? Worth insisting?”

The question was light. Easy. Exactly the kind of opening you had wanted, once. A man asking openly. A man sitting across from you in public, interested without ambiguity, making no secret of why he was there. The version of things you had told yourself made more sense.

Because this was what you had asked Robby for, although never in those exact words. Movement. The sense that affection was allowed to go somewhere instead of circling the same safe ground until one of you became tired of pretending it did not matter.

Across from you sat a man who had asked clearly, chosen a date properly, and would almost certainly ask again if tonight ended well. He looked like possibility. And you wanted, very honestly, to feel possibility answering back.

Instead, after half a second too long, you smiled and said, “You chose well.”

“Meaning the restaurant?”

“Meaning tonight.”

He accepted that answer easily. Why wouldn’t he.

You looked down at your glass after he returned to his story, fingers resting around the stem while your mind betrayed you again, because what came back was not Verdanza, not candlelight, not the quiet elegance of polished cutlery.

It was Robby standing half-awake in his kitchen at one in the morning, looking annoyed because you had stolen the mug he had just poured for himself.  You had laughed. He had taken it back, drunk from it anyway, then handed it to you again without comment. 

Such a small thing. So stupidly ordinary. And somehow the memory pressed harder than the perfectly chosen evening in front of you.

Which was frustrating, because none of this meant you had been wrong. You had not been wrong. Robby had given you closeness inside limits he refused to name. You had wanted more because eventually staying inside those limits had started to hurt.

That remained true. So did the fact that sitting here, across from a man offering exactly the openness you thought you needed, your heart still seemed to be waiting somewhere else.

You hated that. Because you wanted this to work. Wanted the warmth in Álvarez’s voice, the deliberate attention, the ease, to arrive where it was supposed to. Wanted your mind to stop measuring another man against someone who had never once asked you to stay.

By dessert, Álvarez was telling you about a conference in Geneva he was trying to avoid attending, and you were laughing in the right places, answering when needed, present enough that he had no reason to suspect how divided your thoughts remained.

When the waiter cleared the plates, he asked, gently, “Would it be very ambitious if I said I’d like a second try before another month passes?”

You looked at him. At the open expression, the patience, the complete absence of games. This should have felt simple. It almost did. And because some part of you still believed wanting the right thing might eventually become feeling it, you smiled.

“Less ambitious than the first three attempts.”

That made him grin.

When you walked back toward the valet stand beside him, the night air felt cooler than expected. You reached for your coat and, before he noticed, wondered whether Robby had eaten anything after shift or if Dana had once again been right and he had gone through twelve hours on coffee and irritation alone.

********

The hallway outside your apartment was quiet enough that the sound of your own heels reached you first; softened by carpet, steady, slightly slower than usual because the evening had left you more tired than expected.

You were already searching inside your bag for the keys when you saw him. Robby stood a little apart from your door, near the wall opposite, jacket still on, shoulders carrying the stiffness of someone who had either arrived five minutes ago or had been standing there long enough to regret it.

The surprise came sharp enough that your hand stopped inside your bag. Then irritation followed almost immediately, because midnight was too late for surprises from him and because he looked exactly as he always did after long shifts; tired, severe, dark hair slightly disordered, as though nothing about tonight should have been capable of touching him at all.

“What are you doing here?”

His gaze dropped briefly to your face, then lower, to the coat still buttoned, the lipstick not fully gone, the fact that the evening was visible before either of you had said a word.

“You got home late.”

The tone was flat enough that you almost laughed.

“Were you timing it?”

“No.”

“You’re standing at my door.”

“I was nearby.”

“That’s a lie.”

Something moved in his jaw. Something closer to restraint failing in slow motion.

You took the keys out at last, though you did not move toward the lock.

“If this is about work, it can wait until tomorrow.”

“It’s not about work.”

Of course it wasn’t. The silence that followed stretched too long for strangers, too charged for two people who had supposedly become good at pretending normality.

When he spoke again, his voice came lower.

“So that’s it?”

You frowned.

“What exactly is it?”

“You disappear to dinner with some cardiologist a month after-”

“What?” you cut in, incredulous already, “disappeared?.”

He ignored the interruption.

“-and everything’s fine.”

The irritation sharpened.

“And what did you expect? Mourning clothes?”

His eyes stayed on yours now, steady and unpleasantly direct.

“I expected six months to mean more than apparently they did.”

That struck hard enough that for a second you simply stared at him.

Then something in you gave way; the sudden exhaustion of hearing him arrive this late to a conversation he had refused when it mattered.

“You did not just say that.”

“I’m saying it.”

“I can't believe this.”

You took one step closer before you noticed you had done it.

“For a month I have watched you act as if I should continue behaving exactly the same so you can stay comfortable, and now you show up at my apartment because I had dinner with someone who asked properly?”

His expression changed, irritation surfacing openly now.

“That’s not what this is.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then explain why you are standing here at midnight sounding offended that I went on a date after you made absolutely sure I knew there was nothing to wait for.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, a gesture you knew too well; the one he made when words were there but arriving in the wrong order.

“You seem very comfortable with it.”

That almost made you laugh for real.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“You think this has been comfortable?”

“You look fine.”

There it was. The sentence that finally stripped away the careful control you had held for weeks.

Because of course that was what he had seen. The surface. The fact that you still worked, still answered questions, still crossed the department without falling apart in public because adulthood demanded at least that much. How you’d refuse your work to be affected by you dying inside.

You looked at him and felt something hotter than sadness rise.

“I look fine because I refused to humiliate myself for your convenience.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“That’s dramatic.”

“No, Robby, dramatic would have been staying when every part of me knew I was waiting for something you had already decided not to give.”

The corridor felt smaller now, your voice lower only because anger had made it steadier.

“I stopped acting normal tonight, if that helps you. I spent two hours across from a man who did everything right while half my mind kept wondering whether you had eaten dinner or if Dana had to force you to take five minutes between cases.”

He said nothing. You hated that he said nothing, because silence from him had always been the place where feeling disappeared before you could reach it.

“So no,” you went on, quieter now, “I did not bounce back quickly. I simply, finally, understood that what happened between us was finished.”

His gaze dropped briefly, then returned.

“Finished enough for dinner at Verdanza.”

The bitterness in that sentence was almost ugly. You gave a short laugh that had no humor in it.

“You know what’s unfair? That you are angry I accepted exactly what you left me with.”

“That’s not what I left you with.”

“It is exactly what you left me with.”

The words came faster now because once they had started they were no longer interested in caution.

“You wanted me warm enough to stay, close enough to matter, but never enough to ask anything difficult from you.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

His voice hardened.

“You don’t know what I-”

“No,” you cut in, and this time the hurt came through whether you wanted it or not, “I don’t, because every time there was a chance to know, you shut the door before anything real reached the sentence.”

He looked away first. Only briefly. Long enough that it made the next words easier and harder at once.

“You standing here tonight accusing me of not giving a damn is unbelievable.”

You had not planned to say the next part. It arrived because anger had worn through the last careful layer.

“I loved you, and for six months I took whatever part of you you were willing to offer and kept quiet every time it hurt. Never asked for more than you were willing to give. Not once. So how dare you accuse me of not caring enough.”

That changed his face. Not visibly enough for anyone else perhaps, but you saw it because six months had taught you where his reactions lived when he could not hide them quickly enough.

For the first time since you started the hallway conversation, he had no answer at all. The silence that followed was different now; heavier, stripped of irritation, full of the thing both of you had managed not to name until too late.

You turned before he found words, because suddenly staying there felt dangerous. The key entered the lock. The door opened. Only then did you look back.

His name rose automatically and stopped before leaving your mouth the way it always had before; softer, closer, familiar. Instead you chose distance because it was all you had left.

“Good night, Dr. Robinavitch.”

You stepped inside and closed the door before he answered.

********

Robby had slept badly and in fragments; not fully asleep, not fully awake either, drifting through the kind of restless half-night where thoughts repeated without changing shape.

By the time he parked outside the hospital, he already knew the exhaustion would not pass as ordinary fatigue because what stayed with him had nothing to do with hours slept.

It stayed with him in precise pieces. Your face in the corridor. The controlled anger in your voice. The moment you stopped protecting him from the truth of it.

I loved you. Not love. Past tense. Which somehow made it worse. Because there had been no strategy in the sentence, no attempt to force guilt where it did not belong. You had said it the way people finally put down something heavy they were tired of carrying alone. And he had stood there with nothing useful to offer back.

He reached the ER already aware that his own mood would be visible if anyone looked long enough, which meant Dana certainly would.

The department had the familiar early shift rhythm; bright monitors, overnight fatigue still hanging in corners, coffee appearing in paper cups, handover not yet fully finished. Javadi was at the desk arguing quietly with one of the residents over whether an ECG had been uploaded. McKay was reading labs. Dana stood near triage reviewing admissions…

And you were already there. Scrubs on, hair tied back, pen in hand, speaking to one of the interns while checking something on the board.

For half a second he only looked. Because nothing about you suggested someone who had slept much either. But there was strain in the way you held yourself, something tighter through the shoulders, your face carrying that faint stillness people acquired when they had already spent effort before the day properly began.

You noticed him almost immediately. Your eyes lifted, found him, held for exactly the correct professional length. No more.

“Morning.”

The word arrived clean, polite, perfectly normal.

“Morning,” he answered.

Then you looked back to the intern and finished whatever instruction you had been giving without hesitation. No pause. No visible aftershock.

He hated how much he noticed the precision of that.

The intern nodded and left. You crossed to the central desk, signed something, asked Dana whether room six had been cleared, listened to the answer, thanked her.

Every movement measured. Every word exactly where it should be. Controlled enough that last night could have belonged to another version of you entirely.

He set his bag down harder than necessary. Dana noticed, though mercifully said nothing.

The handover began around him, voices overlapping, overnight updates moving case by case. He listened to Jack because habit forced him to. Retained enough because experience always did the work even when his mind lagged behind.

But every few minutes his attention slipped sideways. To the fact that you were not looking at him unless required. To how carefully ordinary your tone remained when you asked for imaging on one patient and clarified medication on another. To the absence of all the small things he now recognized only because they had vanished.

You no longer arrived beside him automatically when a difficult case came in. No longer leaned slightly into his space when both of you reviewed the same scan. No quiet joke under your breath before handover when the overnight resident had clearly made a mess of something.

A month, and still his body kept expecting patterns your absence had already erased.

That unsettled him more now because last night had stripped away the last excuse that he had misunderstood what the ending cost.

I loved you. The sentence returned again, unwelcome and impossible to push aside. Not because he doubted it. Because he believed it immediately. And because once he believed it, the last six months rearranged themselves into things he should perhaps have understood sooner.

The nights you stayed even when your own apartment was closer to your early shift. The way you had learned his moods without asking. The patience you gave him whenever silence arrived where another person might have demanded speech. The fact that you had never once asked directly for anything, only stayed long enough that eventually your leaving became the only honest sentence left.

He had not stayed six months with anyone in years. That thought came with unpleasant clarity while Dana explained an overnight admission and Mel interrupted to ask about missing blood cultures.

Not because six months meant commitment automatically. But because six months had happened without effort. Without calculation. Without him once deciding to stop it. Which, for him, already meant something he had deliberately avoided examining while it was easy to leave unnamed.

Because the truth underneath all of it was embarrassingly simple; he had kept opening the door when you came over, kept making room, kept learning the exact sound of your key turning in the lock after late shifts because not hearing it had become way less appealing.

And now the sentence that remained was the one he had not answered.

At the far end of the desk, Princess asked you something about a discharge summary. You answered, then reached for a tablet just as it slipped from a pile. It nearly fell. He moved before thinking, catching the edge first.

Your fingers touched the device at the same moment. A small contact. Barely nothing. Still enough that both of you stopped for half a second.

“Thanks,” you said.

Again that same tone; courteous, correct, distant in a way you had never used with him before. You took the tablet and moved away. No lingering. No glance back.

He stood there holding nothing now, watching you cross toward room four, and understood with uncomfortable precision that last night had not relieved anything. If anything, it had made the absence sharper because now he knew exactly what had existed inside it.

Dana, beside him, signed another order without looking up.

“You look even worse than yesterday,” she said quietly.

He did not answer. This time she let the silence remain.

Across the department you were speaking to a patient’s family, expression patient, voice calm, every part of you already where the day required you to be. And all he could think, with growing irritation at himself, was that you had loved him long enough to say it aloud only when it no longer served you at all, while he had spent months behaving as if naming anything would somehow make it less survivable.

A trauma call came overhead. Movement resumed instantly. He followed everyone else because work still demanded that much.

But even crossing into the bay, gloves half on, he carried the same unfinished thought: that staying away from you had apparently never been the difficult part. The difficult part was realizing too late that he had never actually wanted to.

********

The trauma call came three minutes after Dana finished handover; abrupt enough that whatever remained of the morning vanished under movement before anyone had time to settle into routine. Motor vehicle collision, two incoming, one unstable.

The doors opened almost before the paramedics finished calling ahead. Everything after that happened in the familiar compressed rhythm the department knew by heart; stretchers crossing the threshold, voices layering over one another, gloves snapped on, monitors attached before the first full set of vitals had even been spoken aloud.

Robby reached the first stretcher at the same time you did. Young male, pale, semi-conscious, blood across the left side of his shirt, breathing too fast.

“Pressure dropping,” the paramedic said. “Started crashing five minutes out.”

You were already cutting through fabric while Robby checked airway.

“Chest sounds diminished left side,” he said.

“Needle tray,” you called.

Perlah was already opening it.

The room tightened around the patient. Monitor alarms sharpened. Someone called out systolic pressure.

Robby’s hand stayed steady against the patient’s upper chest while you positioned the needle, and for half a second there was no hallway, no previous night, no argument waiting unfinished somewhere under both your skin. Only work. Only timing.

“Now,” he said.

You inserted cleanly. Air released. Pressure improved almost at once.

“Better,” Dana said from the monitor.

“Get blood ready,” Robby answered.

You were already moving to the other side before he finished, checking abdomen, fingers precise despite the pace.

“Rigid.”

He looked immediately where your hand had gone.

“Yeah.”

“FAST now.”

“Already on it.”

You reached for the probe and gel without asking because he had extended his hand for it before realizing he did not need to; you were already there, already placing it, already angling the screen where both of you could see.

Dark fluid appeared. Neither of you needed words for the first second. Then together:

“OR.”

That made Javadi glance up briefly because the synchronization was exact enough to sound rehearsed.

In truth it was not. It was more than a year of proximity in small moments and difficult cases, of learning how the other moved under pressure until anticipation became muscle memory.

The patient moaned when transport adjusted the stretcher. You leaned closer, voice changing immediately; calm, low, controlled in the way patients trusted instinctively.

“Stay with me. You’re doing fine.”

“Second patient incoming,” Santos called from the next bay.

Dana answered before anyone else.

“I’ll take two. Finish here.”

The first patient destabilized again just as surgery arrived. Pressure dropping faster now.

“Push another unit.”

Already done; the line was open before he looked because you had reached for it while he was still checking the monitor.

He heard himself say your name then. Not doctor. Just your name, because the line had kinked and he needed the tubing lifted.

You corrected it instantly. No hesitation.

For one second your fingers brushed when you handed the line back. Nothing visible changed. Still, he felt it. And because trauma rooms were cruel places for memory, that tiny contact pulled last night into the present with unpleasant force; your voice in the hallway, low and shaking only at the edges when you had finally said what he had apparently been too careful, too cowardly, or too late to hear sooner.

I loved you.

“Pressure holding,” Perlah said.

Surgery moved in. The patient left two minutes later, wheels rattling toward the elevator. Only then did the room breathe.

The second bay remained active; Dana still with the other patient, Santos passing instruments, a resident trying not to get in anyone’s way. You stripped your gloves off first, dropped them, reached automatically for a clean paper towel.

For half a second you stood beside him exactly the way you used to after difficult saves; close enough to share the same silence, shoulders almost aligned, both watching the doors through which the patient had disappeared.

And it felt so dangerously familiar that he understood at once why normal had become impossible after six months. Because under pressure, before thought interfered, the old shape returned immediately. You and him. One movement anticipating the next. No explanation needed. No wasted words.

The problem was that now he knew what that had cost you while he treated it as something that could remain suspended forever.

Across the bay, Dana handed off instructions to a resident, then looked over just long enough to notice the stillness beside him.

You broke it first.

“His pressure would’ve crashed in transport if you hadn’t called the chest first.”

Professional tone. Steady. No trace of anything else.

He looked at you.

“You saw it too.”

“I saw it after you did.”

“That’s not true.”

A faint breath left you that might have become a laugh under another version of this morning.

Instead you checked the chart again.

“Surgery will want repeat labs before noon.”

And there it was again; distance folded neatly into work, as if last night had happened somewhere separate from fluorescent lights and trauma bays.

You turned to leave.

He heard himself before deciding to speak.

“You didn’t sleep.”

That stopped you. Only slightly. Not enough to turn fully. Neither of you moved for a second while noise resumed around you; phones, footsteps, voices, another monitor alarming from triage.

Then you answered without looking back.

“Neither did you.”

And crossed the bay before he found anything useful to say after that.

********

The department never fully settled after the trauma. It rarely did on mornings like that; one serious case pulling the rhythm off balance just enough that everything afterward felt half a beat too fast. Phones kept ringing, two admissions were still waiting on beds, and someone in triage had decided chest pain became more urgent if repeated every twenty seconds to the nurse behind the glass.

Robby had just finished reviewing post-op notes when movement near the main doors pulled half the desk’s attention without anyone openly admitting it. Álvarez.

He came in wearing hospital scrubs under an open white coat, badge clipped properly, coffee tray in one hand as if visiting the emergency floor belonged naturally in his day.

Santos noticed first.

“Well, well, well,” she said under her breath, not quietly enough to be private, “cardiology has descended.”

Perlah looked up from the chart she was signing and smiled immediately.

“Still annoyingly symmetrical.”

Dana kept writing.

“At least he uses elevators instead of calling repeatedly.”

You were near triage when he spotted you. Your face changed before you could stop it; not dramatically, but enough that Robby saw surprise soften into something polite and warmer than the tone you had used with him all morning.

Álvarez crossed the floor without hesitation.

“I was told mornings down here require bribery.”

He held out one of the cups.

You laughed lightly, genuinely enough that Robby felt it in a place he already disliked.

“That depends who you asked.”

“Santos,” Álvarez said, glancing briefly toward the desk.

“Then you were set up to overspend.”

“I suspected that.”

You took the coffee. He had remembered your order too, apparently, because you looked down once and smiled in that small involuntary way people did when something unexpectedly matched.

“Thank you.”

He kept talking to you. He couldn't hear the whole thing, but the exchange lasted barely two minutes more; low voices, easy tone, him saying something that made you shake your head before he was called by someone upstairs and forced to step back.

“I’ll let you work then,” he said. 

He left with the same calm confidence he had arrived with, disappearing toward the elevators before the desk fully resumed pretending not to have watched.

Santos waited three seconds.

“I respect persistence.”

Dana gave her a look.

“Try charting.”

“I am charting in spirit.”

Robby returned to the file in front of him because anything else would have looked too obvious. It did not help.

The coffee sat beside a tablet now. His eyes found it twice in less than a minute.

Three patients later, you crossed into the medication storage alone. He noticed because he had started noticing where you were before thinking about it. By the time he followed, he had not fully decided to.

The room was narrow, cold under fluorescent light, shelves stacked with supplies and enough privacy that voices changed automatically once the door closed behind him.

You were checking labels when you heard it.

“What is that?”

You turned, brows drawing slightly together.

“What is what?”

He nodded once toward your hand.

“That.”

For a moment you simply looked at him, then understood.

“Coffee?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Answer like you don’t know what I mean.”

The tiredness already present in your face sharpened into something less patient.

“I know exactly what you mean. I’m deciding whether you deserve an answer.”

That stung more than it should have.

“Are you seeing him again?”

The question came rougher than intended. Immediate. Unprotected. And because he heard it fully once spoken, he also understood how little right he had to ask.

You understood too, your expression changed at once.

“You don’t get to ask me that.”

He knew you would say that. Still, hearing it did not help.

“I did anyway.”

“And I answered.” You put the vial back harder than necessary. “No, Robby, you do not get to stand in my apartment telling me I moved on too quickly and then corner me at work because someone brought me coffee.”

“I’m not cornering you.”

“You followed me into supply!”

He glanced once toward the closed door, which made the truth impossible to argue. 

Your voice stayed low, controlled only because walls in hospitals were thinner than they looked.

“What exactly are you hoping for here?”

“I’m trying to understand.”

“No,” you said immediately, “you’re trying to arrive at the part where my life remains paused enough that you still feel comfortable.”

His jaw tightened.

“That’s unfair.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“You had six months to understand what was happening.”

“And you had one dinner.”

The answer left him before caution arrived.

Your eyes fixed on him fully now.

“One dinner?”

“Yes.”

“That is your argument?”

“I’m saying one month later-”

“One month later I had dinner with a man who asked openly, showed up openly, and did not behave as if basic clarity were some kind of threat.”

The words hit exactly because they were true enough to leave little defense.

He said the only thing that still burned more loudly.

“You looked fine.”

This time your laugh held no softness at all.

“Still stuck on that.”

“You did.”

“Because I am not performing grief in triage for your comfort.”

He looked away first, briefly.

That gave you just enough room to continue.

“You know what the worst part is? You still think because I kept showing up and doing my job, none of it cost me anything.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you keep implying.”

Your hand closed around the edge of the shelf behind you, not dramatically, simply because anger had made stillness necessary.

“I went to dinner because I am trying very hard not to remain attached to someone who never once asked me to stay.”

The room stayed silent after that. Cold fluorescent light. The distant sound of a monitor outside. Somebody laughing too loudly near triage.

He looked at you and understood, again, how little language he had for the part of this that mattered. Because what he wanted to say first was not clean enough to survive saying.

That he had noticed the missing toothbrush. That he had nearly texted a thousand times and deleted every message. That his apartment had become unbearable in precise, ridiculous ways. Instead what came out was:

“Do you want to see him again?”

The question sounded worse than the first one. More exposed. You heard that too. For a second your expression changed; some brief flicker of fatigue under the anger.

Then you answered honestly enough to hurt.

“I wanted to want to.”

That affected him more than yes might have. Because he understood immediately what lived inside that sentence. You wanted this to work. Wanted yourself elsewhere. Wanted the thing he had failed to become. And still it had not fully worked.

The thought should have relieved him. Instead it made everything more complicated.

You straightened, already done with the conversation before he was.

“We are not doing this.”

He stayed where he was.

Your hand reached the door. Then you left him alone between shelves of saline and unopened gauze, with the coffee downstairs cooling by your chart and no clearer idea than before whether he had improved anything at all.

*********

The morning argument in supply had not repeated itself. You had kept your distance without theatrics. Professional, brief when possible, your tone even enough that anyone watching casually would have seen nothing unusual beyond fatigue. Which, in an emergency department, explained almost everything.

A consult call interrupted Robby halfway through writing notes; then Whitaker appeared beside Santos near the desk.

“Wait,” Whitaker said, catching up to something apparently already underway, “so he actually came down here with coffee?”

Santos did not lift her eyes from the monitor.

“With very good coffee.”

Whitaker looked impressed.

“That’s strong.”

“Cardiology has resources.”

“Did it work?”

At first Robby paid no attention beyond the usual half-hearing of nearby conversation.

Then Santos answered.

“She said no.”

His hand stopped over the keyboard.

Whitaker frowned.

“To the coffee?”

“To the second date.”

That made Whitaker blink.

“What?”

“He asked before leaving. She thanked him, smiled, said no.”

“Seriously?”

Santos finally looked up.

“Apparently some people remain difficult even when approached by a hunk like Álvarez.”

Whitaker glanced instinctively across the department, searching for you.

“But she liked him, didn’t she?”

“She liked dinner,” Santos said. “That is not always the same thing.”

The silence after that lasted no more than two seconds around the desk. Long enough for Whitaker to shrug and move on to the next question about discharge instructions. Long enough for Robby to realize he had stopped reading the sentence in front of him entirely.

No second date.

The fact arrived oddly; not exactly relief, because relief implied simplicity and nothing about the last twenty four hours had offered that.

Instead it unsettled him in a different direction. Because he remembered the supply room.

I wanted to want to.

At the time he had understood the sentence only as unfinished frustration. Now it acquired shape. You had gone. You had tried. And afterward still said no.

That should not have mattered as much as it did. It did anyway.

Across the floor, you were speaking to an elderly patient seated near curtain three, crouched slightly so the woman did not have to tilt her head upward to answer you. Your voice did not carry fully, only fragments; reassurance, medication instructions, a question repeated more slowly when the patient did not hear it the first time.

Then you smiled; not the guarded one you had used all morning, but the small warm expression you gave patients when trying to lower fear before treatment. The woman smiled back immediately. You touched her forearm lightly while explaining something else, then stood when her daughter arrived.

Robby watched longer than he intended. Because distance had distorted things in one direction; anger, sharp words, hallway silence, supply-room walls.

But from across the department you looked mostly what Dana had implied earlier; tired, holding yourself together through effort rather than ease. Carrying something and refusing to let it spill where work did not deserve it.

Whitaker returned, now asking Perlah where to file an amended consent form.

The conversation shifted again. Still, the sentence stayed.

She said no. Not to him. To the possibility. Or perhaps simply to timing.

He disliked how quickly his mind searched for meaning inside a decision that might have had none to do with him at all. That made him force his attention back to typing the chart. It lasted perhaps forty seconds before another glance betrayed him.

This time you were alone near the medication counter, checking doses before handing a tray to one of the nurses. The moment your hand lowered after passing the tray, the expression slipped almost completely; fatigue visible now that nobody needed anything from it. A small thing. A tired exhale. Eyes closed briefly before reopening. Then your face returned to normal because someone called your name.

He had seen you do that before, months ago, after difficult nights when you thought nobody was paying attention. Back then he had usually said something; ‘eat something’, ‘sit down for five minutes’, ‘stop pretending coffee counts as lunch’. Sometimes you ignored him. Sometimes you listened.

The familiarity of remembering that with such clarity felt unpleasant now, because the impulse to cross the floor and say exactly one of those things arrived before sense did.

He stayed where he was. Dana appeared beside him carrying a tablet. Without preamble she handed it to him.

“You missed potassium replacement on bed six.”

He took the tablet.

“I didn’t miss it.”

“You delayed it enough that I noticed.”

He corrected the order without answering.

Dana waited, then said quietly, “You also stopped pretending not to listen when Santos speaks.”

That drew a glance from him. Dana’s expression remained neutral.

“I listen when everyone speaks.”

“No,” she said, “today you listen selectively.”

Before he answered, a nurse called for one of the attendings in room two. You responded first. Moving quickly, already back inside work before the rest of the floor adjusted.

Robby watched you go, then looked down again at the tablet with the chart he had barely started reading.

The no should have simplified something. Instead it left him with the increasingly inconvenient sense that nothing between the two of you had actually settled at all; not your anger, not his, not whatever had remained unsaid after you closed the apartment door the night before.

And perhaps worst of all, because honesty had become difficult to avoid after that hallway sentence, he knew now with uncomfortable certainty that hearing you had refused another dinner did not feel like victory. It felt like being handed proof that neither of you had managed to leave cleanly. Which made the distance harder to respect and harder to cross.

********

By the time the shift finally loosened its grip, the department had fallen into that exhausted quiet that never truly meant calm; fewer voices, slower movement, monitors still sounding somewhere in the background but no longer layered over one another like static.

Dana had left ten minutes earlier after handing off the last admissions. Santos was still arguing with Whitaker near triage about whether an order had been entered twice or simply ignored once. Perlah had disappeared toward radiology.

The fluorescent light in the staff corridor felt harsher after twelve hours.

You were there when Robby stepped through; coat over one arm, bag already on your shoulder, keys in hand, clearly two minutes from leaving and looking as if those two minutes mattered.

Neither of you spoke at first. The corridor was narrow enough that silence became immediate rather than neutral.

Then he said the only thing that had remained in his head since midday.

“You said no.”

Your fingers tightened once around the strap of your bag. The reaction was small, though not small enough to hide recognition.

“So you heard that too.”

“Santos doesn’t lower her voice.”

You gave a short breath that was almost a laugh but lacked enough ease to become one.

“No. She doesn’t.”

You moved as if to continue toward the exit. He stayed where he was, which forced you to stop unless you intended to brush past him. The choice annoyed you visibly before you even spoke.

“What now?”

He had no prepared answer. That became obvious to both of you almost immediately. The long shift had stripped away whatever confidence anger sometimes gave; what remained felt rougher, less defendable.

“Why no?”

The question came quieter than before, but no less direct. You looked at him for a second as if deciding whether exhaustion excused honesty or made it dangerous. Then your face changed; not anger first, but that tired restraint he had watched you wear all afternoon finally thinning.

“Do you hear yourself?”

“I asked a question.”

“You keep asking questions as if timing stopped mattering.”

“That doesn’t answer it.”

“No,” you said, sharper now, “because not every answer belongs to you anymore.”

He knew that. Still stayed. Still asked.

“What do you want me to say, Robby?”

The corridor felt even narrower now. Behind the closed doors farther down, someone rolled a cart past, wheels rattling briefly before fading again.

You looked at him directly, and because fatigue had worn through whatever remained of caution, the words arrived without softness.

“What do you want me to say? That I still love you? That I’m pathetic enough to still cling to that when you made it very clear how far this was ever supposed to go?”

He did not move. Did not interrupt. You kept going because now that the sentence had begun, it clearly had no interest in stopping halfway.

“That I sat through dinner with a man who did everything right and spent half the evening wishing it was you?”

Your voice had stayed low, but emotion had sharpened it enough that every word reached cleanly.

“That I said no because pretending I was available felt dishonest, and I was already hurting enough without adding that to the list?”

He swallowed once, jaw tightening. You noticed. It did not soften you.

“For weeks,” you continued, “I have done exactly what you seemed to want; showed up, stayed normal, kept work simple, said nothing you did not ask to hear. Then suddenly you decide I’m moving too fast, not fast enough, too fine, not fine enough… honestly, I don’t even know which version bothers you most.”

“That’s not-”

“I broke it off because staying had started to hurt in ways I couldn’t keep pretending were manageable. I left because every time I thought maybe you would say something real, you gave me silence and expected me to understand that was enough.”

The bag strap slipped slightly on your shoulder; you adjusted it impatiently.

“And now every time you come near me, you act as if I owe you explanations for trying to survive the choice you forced me to make.”

That struck harder because part of him knew exactly where the accusation bent unfairly and exactly why he still could not reject it fully.

He looked down once, briefly, then back at you.

“I didn’t force you.”

The answer came quieter than everything before. You stared at him.

“No?”

“No.”

“You didn’t?”

“You made your choice.”

There it was; the defensive instinct arriving too late and sounding weaker than he intended. Your expression changed again, this time into something sadder and much more dangerous because sadness in you always came quieter than anger.

“I made my choice because you never made one.”

That left no easy answer. He knew it immediately.

The silence stretched. Long enough that the distant noise from triage returned; phones, someone laughing, a monitor alarming and being silenced. When he finally spoke again, the words came slower, pulled rather than chosen.

“I didn’t know you were there.”

The sentence was rough enough that you frowned slightly.

“Where?”

“At that point.”

You understood before he clarified further. Your face did not soften.

“You didn’t know I loved you.”

“No.”

A breath left you through your nose, almost disbelief.

“Robby, I stayed six months.”

“I know.”

“You think I stayed six months out of convenience, when every part of me already knew I was in too deep?”

He looked at you and, for once, did not defend himself quickly enough to hide what was actually there. Because the truth had become difficult to avoid after a full day of carrying your words through trauma bays and charts and the sight of you saying no to someone else without him hearing it directly.

“I knew you stayed,” he said, voice lower now, “I just…”

The sentence stalled. You waited exactly long enough to confirm he had nowhere to finish it.

“You just what?”

He looked away once, jaw tightening again. 

“I didn’t think too hard about why, because if I did, it stopped being simple.”

That settled differently in your chest. Not enough to undo anything. Enough that your anger lost some immediate edge and became something more tired again.

“Simple for who?”

He had no answer that did not condemn him. Which, judging by your expression, you understood. You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder.

You stepped around him then, this time without him stopping you. At the end of the corridor, before the exit doors, you paused only once. Not turning fully.

“Go home, Robby.”

And then you left him there with the fluorescent light, the unfinished sentence still sitting where he had failed to complete it, and the first real certainty he had allowed himself all day: that whatever happened next would require saying something harder than anything he had managed so far.

******

The loss stayed in the department long after the room had been cleaned. Not because anyone said much about it; the opposite, really. The silence after a failed save often carried more weight than noise ever did.

A girl, sixteen, brought in after an aneurysm no one had seen coming quickly enough. Stable for four minutes, then gone in less than ten after that. Too young, too sudden. Parents arriving just late enough to see the end and not the attempt.

By the time the paperwork began, the whole floor had shifted into that muted rhythm that followed cases nobody liked carrying home. You had spoken only when necessary afterward; clear instructions, chart finished, a short answer to Perlah when she asked for confirmation on medication disposal, and then, while everyone else remained occupied with the practical aftermath, you slipped out with the kind of discretion people used when they needed five minutes no one should interrupt.

Robby noticed because he had been noticing all day anyway, though this time the absence arrived with sharper urgency.

He finished signing the death note Dana had handed him, looked up once toward the corridor, then toward triage. You were nowhere. 

“Where is she?”

Dana did not pretend not to understand who he meant.

“Roof.”

The answer came immediately, as if she had expected the question before he asked it. He looked at her. Dana kept reading for another second, then finally lifted her eyes.

There was no softness there, only the tired practicality of someone who had watched enough people mishandle timing to distrust instinct.

“Go then,” she said. He hesitated just long enough that she added, dry as ever: “And don’t fuck it up, Robinavitch.”

The stairwell to the roof was colder than the floor below, concrete holding the night chill even indoors. By the time he pushed open the final metal door, the air hit properly; cold enough to sharpen breath, carrying distant city noise from below without detail.

You were near the ledge, shoulders drawn tighter than usual against the wind. You did not turn immediately when the door opened. Probably already knew who it was. The roof light behind him cast enough shadow that your face stayed half obscured until he stepped closer.

At first neither of you said a thing. The city spread below in scattered lights, ambulance sirens somewhere far enough away to sound detached from the building beneath your feet.

“I wasn’t hiding,” you said at last, eyes still forward.

“I know.”

“You asked where I was.”

“I did.”

A small breath left you, not laughter exactly.

“She told you.”

“She did.”

This time you looked sideways, briefly.

“And still sent you?”

“She told me not to fuck it up.”

That almost earned the faintest shift at the corner of your mouth. Then it disappeared.

The silence returned, heavier now because there was nothing around it but wind and distance. He stood beside you, though not close enough to touch.

“She was sixteen,” you said quietly.

“I know.”

“I hate the ones where you can see exactly when the family understands before anyone says it.” 

Your voice stayed level, but tired enough that the strain underneath showed anyway. You looked down at your hands on the concrete edge.

“One minute they think there’s still time.” The city noise below seemed to rise and fade in the space before the rest came. “Then suddenly there isn’t.”

That was what finally shifted something in him, because for the last twenty-four hours he had been circling some version of the same thought without managing to say it cleanly. 

“You should have told me you weren’t okay.”

“I just needed air.”

“I know.”

You nodded once, as if that answer belonged nowhere but there.

Another silence followed. Not hostile, stripped of enough energy that neither of you could maintain anger properly.

He had thought several times on the stairs what he should say first. Every version had sounded wrong by the time he reached the roof. In the end the truth arrived before polish.

“You asked me what I wanted you to say.”

That made you turn your head properly this time. He kept looking ahead because saying it while meeting your eyes immediately felt harder than expected.

“The truth is I’ve been thinking since last night that the worse part is what I should have said months ago.”

Wind moved your hair loose near your cheek. You did not interrupt.

He went on because stopping now would have been worse.

“You were right. I kept it simple because the moment I admitted it wasn’t, it stopped being something I could pretend I controlled.”

His voice stayed low, rougher than usual, not from volume but from the effort of saying anything that exposed too much at once.

“You stayed long enough that it stopped feeling casual long before either of us said it out loud.”

That reached you; he saw it in the way your expression altered, very slightly, not softer exactly, but more attentive now than guarded. He looked at you then. Properly.

“And that scared the shit out of me.” The words came cleaner than expected once they started. “Because I haven’t let anyone stay that long in years, and instead of asking myself why I kept opening the door when you showed up, I decided not asking was easier.”

Your throat moved once before you answered.

“Robby-”

“No, let me finish this once before I ruin it halfway.”

That earned the smallest pause from you. He exhaled once through his nose, gaze dropping briefly toward the concrete before returning.

“When you left, my apartment felt wrong in ways I couldn’t even explain without sounding ridiculous.”

The corner of your mouth moved faintly despite yourself. He noticed and continued.

“The mug you always took first stayed where I left it for almost a week because moving it felt…” He searched for the word, failed, gave up searching. “Wrong.”

Then came the sentence he had carried since the corridor outside your apartment, impossible to leave unsaid now that everything else stood exposed beside it.

“I love you.”

The wind seemed louder for one second after that. Not because anything changed outside, only because the words existed now where they had not before.

He did not let silence romanticize them.

“I love you, and that terrifies me more than I expected anything still could.” His voice tightened there, honesty making it rougher. “Because now I understand exactly why I kept trying to reduce what this was; if I admitted what it had become, then losing it became real too.”

You were looking at him fully now. With the stunned stillness of hearing something long delayed arrive in the wrong season and still matter.

He did not move closer. Did not make it easier.

“I should have known before you had to tell me angry in a hallway that you loved me.” That one almost broke at the edges despite him trying to keep it even. “I should have understood six months was already an answer.”

“You waited until I was already trying to stop.”

“I know.”

No defense. No explanation beyond that.

You looked back toward the city, then down at your hands. When you spoke again, your voice had lost the sharpness from the corridor, though not the hurt.

“You don’t get to say that and expect everything to become simple.”

“I don’t.”

“Because it doesn’t.”

“I know that too.”

The honesty in how quickly he accepted that finally made something in you shift; not forgiveness yet, but the first visible crack in the rigid control you had worn all day.

For the first time since he stepped onto the roof, your shoulders lowered slightly.

“I’m still angry,” you said after a moment, voice quieter now, almost tired enough to be honest without force.

“You should be.”

There was no hesitation in how quickly he answered. That made you glance at him. The honesty remained there, stripped of the usual instinct to protect himself with distance.

“You think saying it now changes what the last month felt like?”

“No.”

He did not soften it. Did not reach for easier words.

“I think saying it now is late.”

The answer sat between you in the cold air. Then he looked at you properly again, and this time whatever remained guarded in him seemed finally too tired to stay upright.

“But I also think I already let you slip through my fingers once, and if there’s even the slightest chance this could still be ours, I’m not letting fear decide for me again.” The sentence came low, roughened by everything he had not said sooner. “I’m not doing that again.”

Something moved in your expression before you could stop it; hurt still there, disbelief still present, but no longer untouched by what he was giving you now because for the first time it was not half-offered, not hidden inside implication.

You held his gaze longer than before. Long enough that he saw the exact second resistance gave way to something else; maybe the quiet recognition that this was the thing you had waited months to hear said without retreat attached.

When you spoke, your voice dropped even lower.

“You don’t get to make promises you’re afraid of tomorrow.”

A faint breath left him, almost bitter, almost self-aware.

“I’m terrified of tomorrow.”

That nearly made you smile. Nearly.

“Good,” you said, because some part of you still needed him to feel the edge of what he had delayed.

“I am,” he admitted. “Terrified enough that I should probably have said all of this badly a long time ago instead of pretending fear counted as caution.”

The wind lifted a loose strand of hair across your cheek. Before you could move it back, his hand rose; slow enough that you could have stepped away if you wanted, fingers brushing it aside with a care that felt almost more intimate now than it had any right to.

You did not move. That alone changed the space between you. His hand remained there a second longer than necessary, thumb near your jaw, waiting without asking out loud. You closed your eyes, and he noticed.

And because anger had not disappeared but love hadn’t either, because the roof was cold and the day had been too long and hearing him afraid somehow mattered more than hearing him certain, you closed the last inch yourself.

The kiss began almost cautiously, which lasted no more than a breath. Because six months of restraint, one month of absence, and two days of saying everything too late had nowhere gentle left to go.

The moment his mouth answered yours properly, whatever discipline either of you had brought to the roof gave way with startling ease; his hand left your cheek only to return more firmly, fingers spreading along your jaw as if confirming you were still there, while the other settled at your waist with the instinctive certainty of something remembered before it was consciously chosen.

You had missed this more than pride had allowed you to admit. Not just the physical familiarity of him, though that struck immediately; the exact pressure of his mouth, the way he always seemed to hesitate for half a second before deepening a kiss as if still giving you room to refuse, the warmth of him against the cold night air, the immediate sensation that something inside you, tense for weeks, had recognised home before reason had time to intervene.

It changed quickly after that first restraint broke. Your hand rose to his cheek almost without thinking, fingers holding on because suddenly standing apart felt impossible after everything that had just been said. He drew you closer with a quiet urgency that matched the way he kissed; with the unmistakable intensity of someone who had spent too long denying himself exactly this and no longer trusted distance to remain harmless.

The kiss deepened until breathing became uneven on both sides, every pause brief and incomplete because neither of you quite wanted to be the first to step back. There was apology in it, but also something far less tidy; hunger sharpened by absence, frustration that had survived every argument, and the almost painful relief of discovering that none of it had faded despite how determined you had both tried to appear.

When you parted for air, it lasted only long enough for him to look at you once, forehead nearly touching yours, before you kissed him again because one month had been long enough to learn that missing him had not obeyed pride either. This time he exhaled against your mouth, a sound low enough to almost disappear into the wind, and his hand at your waist tightened just enough to betray how much control he had lost compared to the careful restraint he usually carried.

The city below kept moving, sirens somewhere distant, lights flickering across nearby buildings, but up there none of it reached properly; the roof had narrowed to breath, cold air, and the increasingly undeniable fact that being in his arms again felt so immediately right it almost angered you all over again.

You kissed him until the ache of the last month shifted shape; not gone, not forgiven, but absorbed into something warmer and far more dangerous because now there was no pretending this had ever been casual for either of you.

By the time you finally broke apart properly, breathing uneven, his forehead rested briefly against yours as if distance now required effort. Neither of you stepped back.

“I still haven’t forgiven you,” you murmured.

“I know.”

“And I may be furious again tomorrow.”

“I know that too.”

This time the smile came, faint but real despite yourself. His thumb moved once against your cheek, almost absent-minded now, as though touch had already remembered what absence had interrupted.

*********

Morning light came softly through the blinds, pale light cutting across the bedroom in narrow lines that reached the floor first, then the edge of the bed, then the part of the sheet gathered low around your waist.

Another month had done what neither of you had quite trusted it would at first; not erase what had hurt, but smooth the sharpest parts enough that mornings had stopped feeling fragile.

Not every day had been effortless. There had been cautious conversations, a few moments where old habits still surfaced, where he withdrew too quickly or you looked at him as if measuring whether he meant what he now said more easily than before.

But there had also been dinner dates that lasted longer than planned, shifts ending with him waiting instead of pretending coincidence, nights when you stayed without either of you treating it like something accidental.

Enough that this no longer felt like borrowed space. Enough that his apartment had quietly started adjusting around you again.

The room looked exactly as it always had in the morning; too little decoration, one chair permanently occupied by folded scrubs, books stacked without order near the window, the kitchen visible beyond the half-open bedroom door where the first light caught the counter.

The difference was in the details that had stopped pretending to be temporary; your bag near the dresser without being packed in haste, the extra bottle of shampoo in the bathroom, your sweater folded badly over the chair because he had picked it up the night before instead of leaving it where it fell.

You had woken once in the night when he shifted and, even after weeks of relearning each other without the old uncertainty attached, still noticed how instinctively he reached for you in sleep; one arm finding your waist before he was fully conscious, as if even asleep some part of him disliked empty space now.

That had become almost embarrassingly consistent.

Now he was awake again, though only just, head turned slightly toward you while you searched the floor.

“What are you looking for.”

His voice came rough with sleep, lower than usual, the question spoken without opening his eyes fully.

“My shirt.”

“It’s on the chair.”

You found it where he said, half caught under your bag. When you picked it up and started pulling it on, he watched in silence for a few seconds, still lying back against the pillow, hair more disordered than he usually allowed past sunrise.

“You know you could stop doing that.”

You looked over while fastening the buttons.

“Doing what?”

“Getting dressed like you’re about to disappear before coffee.”

The answer came with that half-awake honesty he still seemed least capable of filtering in the morning, and because a month had softened enough between you, there was no immediate caution behind it now, only something warmer and oddly familiar.

“I have my own place.”

“So do I.”

“That is a weak argument.”

“It isn’t if you consider how often you spend the night here. Twenty days in the last month.”

You gave him a look, one sleeve still half-buttoned.

“You’re counting?”

“I’m noticing.”

“Hm.”

He pushed himself up slightly, resting back against the headboard now, blanket low at his waist, and the expression he wore carried that same thing which had appeared more often these last weeks; a kind of reluctant tenderness he still did not fully disguise once he was too tired to try.

“There’s already half your stuff here anyway.”

You glanced toward the bathroom door where, annoyingly, he was not entirely wrong; toothbrush, hair tie, two skincare things, the book you had brought three nights ago and left on his kitchen counter because he had started asking what you were reading and then actually listening to the answer.

“That is not an invitation.”

“No,” he said, watching you carefully now, “but it probably should be.”

The answer settled quietly enough that neither of you moved for a second afterward. He did not retreat from it. Did not soften it into something lighter.

You finished buttoning the shirt more slowly this time.

“That sounded suspiciously like you asking me to move in.”

He looked at you with the same expression he had worn more than once lately when honesty arrived before caution and he decided not to fight it.

“Maybe I’m learning that saying things before they become complicated works better.”

That finally pulled a smile from you; small, real, impossible to hide completely.

“You realise most people don’t go from emotionally unavailable to accidental domesticity in under a month.”

“I’m not aiming for speed. I’m aiming for less stupidity.”

You sat on the edge of the bed then, turning slightly toward him. The mattress shifted under the weight.

He looked more rested than he had in months, and because you noticed, he noticed you noticing.

“I slept,” he said after a moment, almost as if the fact still surprised him every time he admitted it aloud.

“You usually sleep.”

“Not like this.”

The answer came immediately. No irony. No deflection. He leaned back slightly, one hand pushing through his hair before it dropped again, searching almost automatically for yours on the sheet until his fingers found your hand.

“I forgot what eight uninterrupted hours felt like.”

That changed the tone again; not lighter now, only more honest in the way mornings sometimes forced.

You looked at him properly. He held your gaze.

“Since when?”

He exhaled once through his nose, thinking.

“Since before the roof, honestly.”

That earned a softer expression from you than he probably expected. He noticed that too, and because he had grown visibly worse at stopping himself when tenderness appeared, his thumb moved slowly across your knuckles before he spoke again.

“It got worse when you left,” he admitted. “Then better again the first week you started staying.”

There was no performance in it. Only the kind of plain truth he seemed finally determined not to hide behind careful language.

“You realise improved sleep metrics are still not a particularly moving argument for me moving in.”

“It’s not the only one.”

“You have others?”

Something in his face shifted; softer now, unguarded enough that it almost felt private even though you were the one seeing it.

“You leave books open in three rooms at once.”

“That sounds like criticism.”

“It isn’t.” His hand tightened lightly around yours. “You steal my lucky mug every morning.”

“That one is mine now.”

“I know.”

A pause settled, warm rather than uncertain. Then, because perhaps a month had made him bolder in the specific ways that still surprised both of you, he reached up and caught your hand before you could lean away fully, drawing you back just enough that the movement left you closer than before.

“You also do that thing,” he said, voice lower now, still rough with sleep, “where you act like you’re leaving and then stay another forty minutes.”

“And that is not complaining?”

“It’s the opposite, actually."

Before you answered, he kissed you; slowly at first, mouth warm against yours, lingering with the kind of care that had become increasingly natural these last weeks, as though mornings had taught him something the roof could not; that sometimes what mattered most was simply staying close long enough to let silence feel easy.

You kissed him back without resistance, and he deepened it almost immediately, one hand still holding yours while the other rose to your cheek with absent familiarity, like someone who had repeated this enough times in a month to stop pretending each gesture needed thought.

When you finally drew back, his forehead rested briefly against yours, and for a moment he stayed there as if the closeness itself had become difficult to interrupt. Then, still close enough that neither of you had fully recovered your breath, he spoke against the small space between you, voice quieter now than before.

“And because I love you.”

You did not move.

His thumb shifted once near your cheek, almost absently, though the words themselves carried none of that ease.

“In case my highly compelling domestic arguments were failing.”

That finally brought a smile, though softer than amused.

“You waited until after the mug discussion to say that?”

“I thought easing into it looked wiser.”

You chuckled and he kissed your forehead.

“I’m saying it here because this is the actual reason.”

His gaze held yours now without hesitation, and there was something almost disarming in how plainly he chose not to hide inside humor this time.

“I don’t want you moving in because you sleep here half the week already, or because I sleep better, or because somehow all my mornings got used to you before I noticed.” He paused only briefly. “I want it because I love you, and because at some point this stopped feeling like you were staying over and started feeling like the apartment only makes sense when you’re in it.”

That left the room quieter than before. When you looked at him, whatever answer he found there seemed enough for the moment, because his mouth curved faintly before he added, almost under his breath:

You stayed there for a second, still close enough that his hand had not left your face, looking at him as if weighing whether the version of him currently sitting in rumpled sheets and making unexpectedly coherent emotional arguments was in fact real or some temporary side effect of too little sleep.

“That,” you said at last, “was dangerously smooth, Robinavitch.”

His expression shifted just enough to suggest he knew exactly how unusual that sounded coming from him.

You let your fingers slip from his hand only to finish buttoning the shirt you still had half undone, deliberately slower than necessary while he followed the movement with suspicious attention.

“So?” he asked after a moment, tone careful now, because for all the new honesty there were apparently still limits to how confidently he expected outcomes.

“So,” you repeated, reaching for your bag.

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” you agreed, sliding off the bed at last. “It’s not.”

He watched you stand, already narrowing his eyes with the first signs of understanding.

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Absolutely.”

“For how long?”

You glanced back while picking up your shoes.

“At least until tonight.”

That finally made him exhale something halfway between disbelief and reluctant amusement.

“You’re going to let me stew at work all day after that speech.”

“You survived six months of ambiguity. I imagine you’ll manage one shift.”

“That feels like punishment.”

“It is punishment. Kind of.”

You leaned down then, kissed him once more; shorter this time, but with enough warmth that whatever complaint he had prepared dissolved before it arrived.

When you drew back, he still looked faintly unconvinced by your methods.

“Tonight,” you repeated softly, already moving toward the bathroom door.

He watched you go, hair still disordered, expression caught somewhere between resignation and the unmistakable awareness that he had brought this entirely upon himself.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

You Wouldn't Want It

(if you knew what it was) - Chapter 2

Pairing: Father Jud Duplenticy x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+Only

Notes: ...Yeah we all knew I’d wind up here. Welcome to the lastest two-parter. Set after the events of Wake Up, Dead Man. Be careful down there, there’s a loooooot of ex-Catholic trauma.

Title from the Florence + the Machine song Moderation.

Next part will have explicit sexual content.

Length: 3.7K

Warnings: Reader is an ex-Catholic; yearning; angst; slow burn; mom guilting; Catholic trauma; discussions of death; discussions of faith

Summary: A month. You can survive a month. You’ll teach children’s liturgy and CCD, keep your head on straight—and you will not, under any circumstances, think about that priest’s neck tattoo. 

What kind of priest has a fucking neck tattoo? 

It's your second thought upon shaking the hand of Reverend Jud Duplenticy. Your first thought is that he has kind eyes. He takes your hand in both of his, tells you that he's glad to make your acquaintance. 

"I understand I'll be seeing a lot more of you." 

And it's a fair statement for him to make, but your mind is wending to the way his hands are closed around yours. 

They feel strong, warm and firm, and his head is turning to look at your mother as she agrees, as she tells him that you'll be taking over her position as the leader of the children's liturgy, and teaching CCD classes in her absence while she's recovering from her upcoming hip replacement. 

“She may even stay for Christmas for once,” Your mom needles, and it takes everything in you not to roll your eyes.

"Well," Reverend Duplenticy lets go of your hand, and clasps his together, "I'm looking forward to it." 

And that makes one of you.

-- 

Your childhood bedroom has remained untouched entirely: same posters on the wall, same canopy bed, same dent where you’d once thrown and smashed a snow globe out of frustration. The walls are still sky blue, though some of the corners are marred by dust and cobwebs, and the floor still creaks loudly in two places: by the closet, and just under the window. 

So much of it is unchanged—but you aren’t. You’ve grown in your time away from home. You’ve hardly come back since you left Chimney Rock, but in the handful of times you have, you’ve always fallen into old habits. 

Chimney Rock hadn’t been good for you before, and you know that you can’t let yourself fall into the mood that always took you over when you were there. 

You lower yourself onto the mattress, eyeing your suitcase where it sits in the corner of your room. Still packed, too. You could just pick it up, get in the car, hire a home health aid, and…And then you hear the whistle of the kettle downstairs, your mom hollering for the dog to get off of the couch. And you let yourself flop fully back onto the bed, drawing in a long, deep breath. 

A month. You can survive a month. You’ll teach children’s liturgy and CCD, keep your head on straight—and you will not, under any circumstances, think about that priest’s neck tattoo. 

-- 

You watch the kids chase one another around the church grounds as their parents chat, bundled against the cold in the wake of mass. You know that a few of the kids in children’s liturgy are also going to be in your CCD classes twice a week for the next few weeks, so you’re trying your best to match the names and faces that you’ve only loosely begun to associate with the gaggle of them. 

You sense someone coming up beside you, eye the triangular spread of his shadow before you feel the brush of his chasuble against your arm. 

“First children’s liturgy,” He speaks up before you can, “How’d it go?” 

“You’re being polite.” 

“Whaddayou mean?” 

You cast the reverend a sidelong glance, and he puffs out a soft laugh, letting his gaze drop to the ground before flitting back to yours. 

“It really wasn’t that bad,” He insists—but you know that he’s trying to soften the blow. 

The way the kids had acted in tracked for the way your mother always had been with them when you yourself was a child: an absolute doormat with everyone else, but a pillar of fire where you were concerned. And children's liturgy had started alright, but you’d quickly lost control of the class that took place in the small room off of the vestibule. What took the cake had been the group of them scream-singing Frozen lyrics at the tops of their lungs. 

You’d been hopeful that no one in the church had heard much of it, but the knowing smiles and stifled laughter that had rippled through the congregants as you led the kids back inside told you everything that you needed to know. You’d spent the rest of mass sitting on a bench in the garden, reveling in the warmth of the November sun and contemplating your entire life. 

“You could’ve come back in, rejoined the service," He adds. 

“Hm? Oh, no. No,” You chuckle softly, shaking your head, “Not really my, uh. Not really my thing.” 

“Mass isn’t your thing? Should I be worried that you’re teaching CCD?”

You look up, prepared to insist that there’s no need for him to be worried—but he’s smiling at you. You think there’s a hint of a tease there, too, but you resolve yourself not to read into it, looking toward the children again. 

“Don’t worry, father. I’ll keep ‘em on the straight and narrow.” 

-- 

You’re covering two CCD classes: the second grade, and the fifth grade. You review the materials while sitting in a cafe between remote meetings for work, opening the powerpoint that your mom has been using. What have you got for the second graders this week…

God is Angry

“Same,” You mutter, clicking through it. Genesis 3—the fall…Now the serpent was more crafty than any other beast of the field that the Lord God had made. 

God is angry. Your brow furrows, and you lean back in your seat, toying with the handle on your coffee cup. God is angry. 

“Reviewing for this week’s class?”

“Jesus!” You startle slightly at the sound of his voice, and Jud holds his hands up in apology as you press your palm over your pounding heart.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“No, no. It’s okay,” You reassure him, “And yeah. Just refamiliarizing myself.” 

“Is everything alright? You seem unsettled, if you don’t mind my saying so.” 

“You mean besides the light heart attack you just gave me?”

His lips twist with a guilty smile. “You seemed unsettled before that.”

“I’m just…” You turn back to the screen, nodding toward it. “How this is phrased. It doesn’t sit well with me.” 

“May I?” He nods to the chair opposite you. 

“Oh—” No, say no. Whatever he thinks he should do or wants to do, whatever he’s offering, you don’t need the help. You don’t need to bed in this community any more than you already have. “Sure.” 

You expect him to sit across from you, but he’s taking hold of the chair and sliding it around to sit beside you. Oh—kay. 

“What gives you pause in teaching the lesson as it is?” He asks, leaning against the table beside you. “What about the phrasing doesn’t sit well?” 

“God is angry. God was angered, sure, but this makes it sound like He’s perpetually angry. I mean don’t get me wrong, He was kind of a dick in the Old Testament—sorry,” You wince, but he simply chuckles. 

“No, it’s alright. My mentor, Bishop Langstrom, used to say that in the Old Testament, the Lord was like a temperamental bachelor, but in the New Testament, becoming a father really changed Him.”

You huff a laugh. “That’s good.” You click through a couple of slides, take in the bullet points, pictures of an evil snake. “It’s just…” You sigh. “God used to scare the crap out of me when I was a kid. And I know that’s kind of the point sometimes, but hammering home these ideas of banishment, of sin. When you’re that small, it can freeze you into inaction...I don’t think children should be afraid of God if you’re trying to teach them to put their faith in Him.” 

“Is that fear why you stopped going to church?”

You tip your head a touch, casting a sidelong glance in his direction as you try to weigh how truthful you should be. You don’t want to insult him—not when he's made it his life.

“It’s not why. Didn’t help, but it’s not why.” You turn back to the slides. “I think this version of the lesson could work for the fifth graders, but for the little ones…There’s just gotta be a better way to teach this.” 

“Well,” Jud shifts in the seat beside you, “This is your lesson. You can teach it any way you see fit.” 

“My mom would hate that.” 

“Will your mom be in the room?” 

Not physically, but the specter of her disappointment willl be. “I guess not.”

“How would you have wanted it taught to you when you were a kid?” 

“I don’t know. Frame it a little more softly, I guess. That there are consequences for disobeying rules, you know, like getting your allowance held back for a week because you didn’t finish your chores—not that I’m saying being banished from the Garden of Eden is equal to getting your allowance taken away—” You hurry to cover, but he shakes his head. 

“It’s alright, I know what you mean. The older kids have more of a sense of the world, of consequences, but the little kids, they may not understand. And you’re right: they shouldn’t fear God.” 

You glance toward him again, finding a contemplative pout on his lips. When he meets your eye again, you allow yourself to hold his gaze. You smile a little bit as he does. 

“Rewrite it,” He urges, patting your shoulder. “You know what they need to hear.” 

“Thanks, father.” 

“Sure.” He stands, setting the chair back on the other side of the table. And you should let it go there, but—

“Hey, uh,” You shift in your seat. “Would it be okay if I sent the updated lesson over to you, just…Make sure I’m hitting all of the points? I’d show it to my mom, but she’d call me a blaspheming little heretic again and insist on continuing to teach when she’s supposed to be resting.” 

“‘Again’, how many times has she called you a blaspheming little heretic?” He chuckles, though his smile droops when you don’t tease in return. “Of course you—Yes, I’d be happy look over the slides when you’re done.” 

“Thanks. I’ll email ‘em to you?” 

“That works.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Have a good day.” 

“Yeah, you, too.” You give him a small smile as he leaves, and force yourself not to look after him, instead opening a new powerpoint presentation. You’ve got twenty minutes until you have to log on to your next meeting—that’s enough time to get a start on this. 

-- 

Just a lesson, that’s all it is. That’s all it should be. But emailing that powerpoint turns into a weekly meeting at the rectory to discuss the slides for CCD. You figure that he’s just being kind the first time, but the more time you spend with him, the more warmed you are by him. 

Holding his gaze is like basking in the warmest sun in winter, a solace in your otherwise chilly existence in Chimney Rock. Your lessons get better. You manage to get children’s liturgy under control. And—

“I understand you’ll be assisting with the Christmas concert for the children’s choir?” 

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling as you watch him shuffle through a few things on the desk in the rectory’s office. 

“One of the parents asked if I can lend a hand,” You shrug. “And how’d you hear about that, exactly?” 

“Honestly?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Came up when I came by to take your mother’s confession. Not during the confession!” He points at you, a smile creeping onto his lips as you bite back a laugh. “I’m not breaking congregant-pastor confidentiality.” 

“Didn’t think you would, padre.” 

Jud’s smile widens, his head ducking, and you have to shake your head to clear the fluttering feeling welling in your belly. 

“Thanks again for coming to the house to take her confession,” You add. “She really appreciated it.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind. I know her hip’s been bothering her, the cold can make joints more stiff.”

“Uh-huh…Are you okay over there?” You ask, watching him shuffle through a few more papers, a precious wrinkle forming between his brows. 

“Uh…Yeah, it’s just, um…It’s in here somewhere. This all used to be very well-organized, but the system’s kinda shot. Louise comes in on like a weekly basis—lovely woman, volunteers, but she can’t keep it all straight and things have been busier with the holiday coming up, so. I can’t always keep up with all of this—Ah! Ha!” He unearths a bland folder and flips it open. “Here we go. Forms to offer a mass. Knew they were down there somewhere.” 

“Awesome,” You take it from him, eyeing the sections to be filled out. “I’ll get this to my mom.” 

“Great. And yeah, you can just return it whenever.” 

“Thanks.” You cast your eyes toward the sprawling mess on the desk. “Do you need help with, uh…” You wave toward it. 

“Huh? Oh, no,” He scrubs his hand across the back of his neck. “Just need to take, like, an afternoon and actually work through it.” 

“Okay.” 

“Thanks, though.” 

“I wasn’t offering,” You tease. Jud’s smile widens, and you have to fight the urge to shake your head again. You can’t clear the feeling out that way, not when he's watching you. 

“Hey, can I ask,” He rounds the desk, leaning back against it. “Why don’t you sit through mass?” 

Your brows pop up in surprise. 

“Oh. Uh,” You scramble for an answer. “I just stay back to clean up after children’s liturgy. Once the biblically-themed coloring pages and word searches come out and the crayons start flying, I mean, oof. It’s a war zone in there.” 

“Uh-huh. So what’s the real reason?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head. “I’m not gonna knock it to you, but religion’s just. It’s not my thing.” 

“Have you tried lately? When’s the last time you spoke to Him?” 

“The big JC? I dunno. It’s been a minute.” 

“Have you considered giving it a try?” 

“There something you know that I don’t? Are we back to toeing the line of congregant-pastor confidentiality?” 

Jud shakes his head. “I just mean that with your mom’s surgery coming up—it’s a difficult time. It can help to have somewhere to turn.” 

“Honestly father, I’m a real ER catholic. Only time I’m praying is if something goes really, seriously wrong.” 

“Well,” He plants his hands on the desk, and it takes everything in you not to look at them. “I will pray that you won’t need to.”  

“Appreciate you taking one for the team.” 

And his smile stays in place, but something in Jud’s eyes dims. It’s like a little kick in the teeth. You fidget with the form in your hands, eyes nervously sweeping the fields.

“I know I can come off as flippant, but I, um. I never mean anything that I say about this stuff maliciously.” 

“I’ve never felt that you did.” 

“Good. Okay,” You nod, taking a couple of steps back. “This is all getting a little too sincere for me, so I’m just,” You jerk your thumb over your shoulder. “I’m gonna go.”

“Sure—Hey, I know surgeries can be stressful, even when they’re routine, so if you need someone to talk to—not to pray, necessarily,” He hurries to clarify, and you nod. 

“I know what you mean. Thanks.” 

“Anytime.” 

And from most other people, you’d think that was a passing offer. 

But with Jud, you have little doubt that the man would ignore anyone’s call, even at the most inconvenient of times.

-- 

You know that she’s going to be fine. 

You told yourself that the week before, the day before, the night before—even when she insists on sitting you down and telling you where all of the important papers are: the will, financial documents, her funeral arrangements. 

"I filled this out for you, just in case," She slides the form to offer mass across the table toward you, and you blanch to see her name filled in. “It's the sort of thing you'd forget, but it's very important to me. And I want the catering for the gathering afterwards to be from Bernardi’s—”

“Catering? Mom, I’m not gonna need to know this stuff for tomorrow,” You argue. She props her hand up on her good hip, stares you straight in the eye, and insists: 

“Well you’re gonna regret saying that when I flatline on that table.” 

Wonder of wonders, she isn’t been able to comprehend why that upset you. 

You know she’s going to be fine. You’ve been saying that to yourself since you got up that morning; as the two of you orbited one another in stony, awkward silence; as you silently partook in the mandatory fasting she was required to do ahead of being anesthetized. 

You pack a few things for the hospital: a couple of books, your laptop, your headphones to tune everything else out until you get the text that she's in the recovery room—because that is the only text you’ll be getting. 

But when you open your bag to pull out your laptop, you hear the rustle of the beads, and you go still. You hesitantly let the laptop go and take them up instead, drawing out the old rosary beads that have a permanent home in your backpack, purse—whatever it is that you’re carrying on a given day. 

You eye the emerald-hued shine of them, draw your fingers over their coolness as your eyes drift to the silver, Christless cross, the arms of the remaining piece bent and disfigured. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been looking at them when you hear: “How’s it going?” 

You look up to see Jud standing there, a smile on his lips—though it seems to waver as he takes your manner in. 

“Is your mom alright?” He adds. 

“Yeah, fine. They took her back, like, ten minutes ago, I think. I doubt she’s even under yet. Just waiting.” You shift in your seat, fingers closing around the beads in almost an embarrassed fist. “What are you doing here?” 

“I had to attend to an elderly parishioner. Last rites.” 

“Shit, I’m sorry.” 

“S’alright,” He offers a sympathetic smile. “It’s all part of the tapestry.” 

You nod, gut twisting as you lower your gaze back to your hands. It’s only a few seconds before Jud is sitting in the vacant seat beside you, another moment before his fingers hesitantly reach out, brushing across the few rosary beads poking out from your grasp. It’s like being caught with your hand in the Lord’s cookie jar. 

You unfurl your fingers, revealing the full length of the rosary, and Jud looses a quiet hum. 

“They’re beautiful. May I?” 

You nod again, and Jud lifts them carefully. Your gaze follows them, takes in the tender way his fingertips smooth over the rosary as yours had, then still as he reaches the cross. 

“Are they your mother’s?” 

“...They’re mine.” 

You see Jud’s head turn toward you in your periphery, but he doesn’t say anything for a moment. Maybe he’s trying to find a way to broach the conversation without scaring you off. 

“What happened here?” He finally asks, and you eye the bent crucifix where it’s pillowed in his broad palm. 

“I don’t know.” Then, tipping your head a touch, “I was told something, but I don’t know if it’s true.” When Jud makes no answer, you glance toward him to find him simply waiting. You sigh through your nose. 

“When I was…God, what, eleven? Twelve? I was at a CCD retreat for Confirmation. Day-long, nothing crazy. But at the end of the day, the woman running the retreat pulled me aside. Took my hand, put the beads in them, and said, ‘I think you’re going to need these.’” 

“What did you think that meant?” 

“Honestly? That the bridge we were gonna have to go over on the way home was gonna collapse—I’m serious!” You can’t help but smile as Jud tries and fails to stifle a laugh. “I was a kid, all of that stuff was still glorious and mystical to me. I thought she knew something I didn’t. I clutched those things in my hands all the way home. But nothing happened.” You shake your head. “I don’t know, maybe she saw that I wasn’t in with the other kids. Maybe it’s something she did in every retreat for someone.” 

“And the cross?” 

“She said she was hit by a bus.” The reminder makes you shift uncomfortably in your seat, a shiver rippling down your spine. “That everything else was ruined, but that the cross had survived.” You shake your head, tipping it back against the wall. “I don’t…I don’t remember her face. Couldn’t tell you about her hair, her skin, her smile, but I remember the pain in her eyes. And I couldn’t understand…Why she was giving them to me.” 

“Maybe for moments like this.”

“Maybe. Kinda feels wrong to still have them,” You admit. “They should’ve gone to someone with faith.”

“There is no hard-and-fast rule on what faith is, you know, it varies from person-to-person. Not going to mass doesn’t mean you’re faithless.” 

“Not believing in God is kind of a qualifier, though, isn’t it?” 

“Do you not?” 

You turn a wary eye toward Jud, expecting disappointment—but there’s nothing but his usual warmth and curiosity. 

And chalk it up to the nerves, the panic that had risen in you when your mom had forced you to sit through that conversation last night, the growing and inappropriate interest that you’ve felt toward him for these last couple of weeks. But your truth spills out. 

“You make me want to.” 

You force your focus back to the beads, unwilling to witness what saying that may bring to his surface. Neither of you speak or move for a few moments. Jud holds the beads back out, and you take them. And then he lays his palm out on the armrest between you. 

“…This isn’t gonna get liturgical, is it?” You ask dryly. 

“Only if you want it to.” 

“I’d really rather it didn’t.”

“Okay.” 

A pause, an inviting little wiggle of his fingers that makes you laugh in spite of yourself, and then your hand rests atop his. His fingers close around yours as they had the first time you met, just as warm and sure. 

“I’ll wait with you.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“I’m going to.” 

Your free hand smooths over the ridges of the beads, absently counting their number without allowing yourself to conjure up your well-remembered prayers. 

“Okay.”

Next Part

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[whosscruffylooking]

𝔰anctuary masterlist

summary: You grew up knowing the church as a place of rules, not refuge. As Jefferson Wicks’ niece, you learned early how to sit still, keep quiet, and survive under watchful eyes. When a new priest arrives in Chimney Rock—one who notices too much and speaks too carefully—you expect him to become just another fixture of a building that never protected you. Instead, you learn that sanctuary isn’t always found where it’s promised.

Taglist Form

chapter I

chapter II

chapter III

chapter IV

chapter V

chapter VI

chapter VII

chapter VIII

[voguesriot]

mmmm father jud duplenticy i want u baddddd… brb pretending to be his pretty little wife because of eastern rites in the catholic church where priests can stay married if they were wed pre-ordainment

[bruisedboys]

saving grace ⭑ jud duplenticy

jud, filled with guilt, finds himself at your house, looking for a safe haven after doing something he regrets OR in which jud makes a stop at your place before going to the police station

a/n: heavy spoilers for knives out 3! reader is a member of the church and there’s some religious imagery but obviously I’m not trying to make fun of anyone’s beliefs. hashtag peace and love! (also jud might be ooc here but I simply do not care)

father jud duplenticy x fem!reader, 2k words

Jud isn’t sure his being here is a very good idea.

He’s been standing at your doorstep for five minutes, soaked to the bone, mud caked all over his face and clothes. His heart punches at his chest relentlessly. It hasn’t stopped pounding since he saw (or thought he saw) Monsignor Wicks rise from the grave. And everything that followed. 

He’s not even entirely sure how or why he ended up at your place. It was all a bit of a haze, the rain and the mud and the resurrection of Wicks, Jud following Wicks into the trees, rain blurring his vision. Something had taken hold of Jud, then, and in the chaos of it all he’d stabbed Wicks through the chest. Only, he’d come out of his haze to find it wasn’t Wicks who he’d killed. It was Samson. 

He’s ended up at your doorstep for reasons unbeknownst to him. Jud realises all at once that he really shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be dragging you into this. He just killed an innocent man, didn’t he? He’s probably going to jail. He should—

The door opens and Jud almost jumps out of his skin. You appear behind the door. Warm light pours out of the doorway from behind you, catching Jud like a deer in headlights. 

“Father Jud? What are you…doing here?” 

You give him a once over. Jud remembers he’s covered in mud from head to toe and almost turns tail. The sight of you is enough to make him plant his feet. He’s a priest, sure, but he’s not immune to pretty girls with kind eyes like yours.

“Hello,” he says awkwardly. “Sorry, how did you know I was here?” 

You laugh, not nearly as awkward as him but definitely a bit confused. “You've been standing there for a while. I could see you through the window. I was waiting for you to knock.” 

“Oh.” 

Your eyes linger on Jud’s wet clothes, his muddy shoes. He’s not sure what to say because he’s not even sure why he’s here. He opens his mouth to tell you he’s sorry to be a bother, he’ll be going now, but you beat him to it. 

“Do you want to come inside?” You say. “It’s pouring.” 

Jud nods before he knows what he’s doing. Your presence draws him in like a dog on a leash. “Yeah. Yes, please.” 

You open the door all the way and step back. Jud scuffs his shoes on the mat as best he can before stepping inside. Still, he drips rainwater all over your entryway. 

“I’m sorry,” he says hastily. “I don’t—“ 

You shake your head. “It’s okay.” You give him a kind smile he doesn’t deserve. “I’ll get you a towel. Wait here, okay?” 

You disappear around the corner. Jud shuts the door behind him, muffling the sound of the pouring rain. He’s shaking, though he’s not sure if it’s from the cold or what he’s just done. 

Jud listens to you move around in the hallway, the soft thud of your footsteps on the carpet. He really likes you. He supposes it’s part of the reason he somehow ended up at your doorstep of all places. You’re the only one who’s been kind to him since the moment he got here. Everyone else acts weird around him. You’re different. You were never devoted to Wicks like the rest, you never acted cold or cruel towards Jud. You were always nothing but lovely to him.

If it wasn’t for the murder Jud just committed, he’s sure he’d’ve asked you to dinner sometime once he found the courage. 

You return with a towel, interrupting Jud’s chain of thought. 

“Here,” you say, holding it out to him. “You must be freezing.” 

Jud looks into your face, and suddenly feels sick to his stomach. It was a mistake to come here. He’s only made it worse, taking advantage of your kind nature when he doesn’t deserve it. It’s not fair on you for him to show up like this after what he’s done. Guilt rises rapidly in his throat like bile. 

“I’m okay,” he says quickly. “Listen, I…I shouldn’t be here. I should go.” 

He spins around abruptly and reaches for the door handle, desperate to be out of your warm house, out of sight of your soft gaze. He’s undeserving of you, and the guilt makes his skin crawl. He manages to get his hand on the door handle before you stop him. 

“Wait, Jud.” 

Your hand wraps around his elbow. Jud freezes. He doesn’t think you’ve ever called him just Jud before. Always Father Jud. Something about it makes him stop in his tracks. 

He twists to look at you. Your face is etched with worry, your pretty eyes boring into his like you could read his every thought. 

“Stay,” you utter. 

Jud opens his mouth to decline, but you’re faster. 

“At least until the rain dies down?” You add, almost pleading with him now. 

Something about the way you say it, your hand on his elbow and your eyes swimming with concern, makes Jud reconsider. 

He swallows, then nods. “Okay. But just until—“ 

You gasp then, pulling your hand away from his elbow. “You’re bleeding!” You exclaim, eyes flitting from his elbow to his face. 

Your fingers have come away stained deep red. Jud notices for the first time that his shirt sleeve has been ripped open. There’s a gash in his skin just below the bend of his elbow. Wine red blood spills out and mingles with the deep brown mud tainting his pale skin. 

“Oh, um.” Jud twists his arm around to get a better look at the wound. “I’m fine, it doesn’t hurt.” 

Your brow furrows. “It looks really bad,” you say worriedly, biting down on your bottom lip. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.” 

Without warning, you grab his hand and start to tug him down the hallway. Jud protests but you ignore him. You drag him to your bathroom and flick the light on. 

Jud stands with his back against the counter next to the sink, feeling like a fish out of water in your small, clean bathroom. He watches as you open the cupboard behind your mirror, pulling out a first aid kit and a washcloth. 

You move to stand in front of him, gentle with concern as you take his arm in your hands. You carefully push his sleeve up to his elbow, your fingers dragging across his skin. Jud ignores the trail of starlight your hands leave in their wake. 

Jud watches your face as you take the damp washcloth and press it to his arm, cleaning away the blood and dirt from around the wound. You’re so gentle with him it almost aches. You’re closer to him than you’ve probably ever been, so close it feels cruel. He could count every one of your freckles if you looked up. A stray lock of hair falls from behind your ear and Jud’s hands itch to tuck it out of the way for you. Is this his punishment for the sin he’s committed? To have you so agonisingly close and yet completely out of his reach? 

“It’s not too deep,” you say softly, setting the washcloth aside once the wound is clean. Jud’s skin tingles pleasurably where you’ve touched him. Your eyes flick up to his, “Does it hurt much?” 

Jud hesitates. He feels as if there’s something lodged in his throat. Guilt and something else, something he can’t explain but that’s got nothing to do with his sin and everything to do with the way you look at him. He swallows. 

“No,” he says honestly. “Not at all.” 

You hum and pull a bandage from the first aid kit. You start to wrap it around his arm but Jud stops you. 

“I can do it,” he says, stopping your hand midway around his forearm. “Please. Let me.” 

You look a bit stunned, but you let him. Jud doesn’t tell you why. The truth is, he feels like a fraud, sitting here and letting you look after him when he’s done something so unforgivable. He’s unworthy of your care. You wouldn’t look at him the same if he told you what happened. He still has no idea why he came to you first; it was like his feet carried him here on their own accord. Like divine intervention, only it wasn’t quite that. It was something else entirely.

He knows he should’ve gone straight to the police station. He’s only making it worse by being with you. Still, some part of him needed you. Needed your kind eyes and your pretty smile. Some part of him was looking for an angel to save him. 

You’re silent as Jud finishes wrapping his arm one-handed. The silence feels thick and heavy, weighing on Jud’s heart like it’s trying to squeeze the truth out of him. As soon as he’s done with the bandage, he’s opening his mouth to spill his guts before he can stop himself. 

“Listen, Y/N…I’m sorry I came here.” 

You’re clueless, meeting his eyes with a mix of concern and curiosity. 

“It’s okay,” you say softly. 

Jud shakes his head. “No. No, it’s not okay, because I did something really bad.” He chokes up then, the words getting half stuck in his throat but he keeps going, unable to stop himself, “I did something awful, and maybe I didn’t mean to do it but I certainly didn’t stop myself when I had the chance. I did what I thought was right, but it turns out it wasn’t right at all. And now I’ve dragged you into it, and you don’t deserve that because you’re—“ 

“Father Jud,” you interrupt. 

Jud stops short. You place your hand in his and look at him so intensely he almost looks away. 

“You don’t have to call me that,” he says. He feels unworthy of the title, anyway. “Just Jud. Please?” 

“Okay. Jud,” you say slowly. “Whatever it is you’ve done, it’s gonna be okay.” 

“But—“ 

You shake your head. “It’s okay. You’ve told me yourself that everyone makes mistakes, right? No one’s perfect.” 

Jud wants desperately to believe you, but he just can’t. He wishes he could tell you everything, but he’s not sure he has the courage. 

“There’s no coming back from what I’ve done,” he utters. 

Slowly, like you’re unsure of yourself, you reach for Jud. You take his face in your hand, your touch feather light as if you’re scared he’ll push you away. He doesn’t. He stays very still, his heart pounding as you press your palm to his jaw. 

“Jud,” you say softly, uttering his name like it’s a prayer. “Whatever it is, whatever you’ve done…you can be forgiven.” You meet his eyes, earnest and tender. “You know that.” 

Jud falls silent. The light overhead paints your face with golden warmth. Your words seem to fill the room with a sort of radiance, and for a moment, Jud feels as if he’s under the gaze of an angel of God. If it weren’t for your hands anchoring him to reality, he’d be sure he was dreaming. 

But then the moment passes and you’re just a girl. A gentle, good girl who has no idea what he’s done. And he’s just a guy who’s guilty of something horrible. He ducks his head, suddenly grief-stricken. 

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and he’s not sure if he’s talking to you or to God or to Samson, but right now he feels that if anyone could hear him say it, he’d want it to be you. “I’m so sorry.” 

Grief and guilt washes over Jud in a wave, and he breaks down in tears, unable to stop himself. His chest aches, guilt cold and sharp like a knife in his heart. You don’t waste a second in stepping forward and wrapping your arms around him, curving them around his back in a warm embrace. Jud, though he feels abhorrently undeserving of it, wraps his own arms around your waist, gripping you like you’re his lifeline. His saving grace. Maybe you are. 

You rub his back soothingly, letting him cry into your shoulder, ignoring his stained clothes and his tainted heart. 

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I’m here. You’re not alone. I’m right here.” 

Jud didn’t think he believed in angels. But here, in your tiny bathroom, covered in dirt and sin but wrapped in your arms, he changes his mind. 

-

good thing he didn’t actually kill samson am I right guys…thank you for reading and please consider reblogging if you enjoyed! 🤍

[two-bees-poetry]

[katestewartt]

#QUEEN OF ICONIC LINES