peds!reader who is on her emergency medicine rotation after spending most of intern year in inpatient and outpatient pediatrics. she's still adjusting to the pace of the ER, where everything is louder and faster. she asks a million questions, carries too many pens in her scrub pockets, and still occasionally gets lost trying to find supply rooms because she spent the last year living on entirely different floors.
peds!reader who's known santos since her first day in pittsburg, they met at a bar one night and quickly became friends. eventually they became roomates and took in poor whitaker.
peds!reader who is slowly started to observe that ever since frank langdon started working closely with her, everyone else in the department has decided they are witnessing “something.” she does not agree. at all. she is extremely normal about it. they are just professional friends. the fact that she immediately starts talking faster whenever he walks into a room is irrelevant.
peds!reader who talks a lot. not because she likes hearing herself speak, but because silence makes her nervous. she'll ramble while placing IVs, while charting, while walking between rooms.
peds!reader who is incredibly good with scared children. she can convince a terrified five-year-old to take medicine, talk an anxious teenager through stitches, and somehow perform an exam while discussing dinosaurs, taylor swift, or whatever hyperfixation the kid currently has.
peds!reader who discovers that frank is weirdly protective of her. not because he thinks she can't handle herself, but because he knows she runs herself into the ground trying to take care of everyone else.
peds!reader who stress bakes. after bad shifts she'll go home and make bread from scratch at midnight because kneading dough feels easier than processing emotions. her apartment constantly smells like fresh bread, muffins, or whatever recipe she found online at 2 a.m.
peds!reader who never quite understands how she became so important to langdon, and she can't help but think that maybe, maybe she should start listening to the others...
taglist [comment to be added] - @straykids1011 @h0e4fictionalme-n
summary: part two to this - 10 months after Frank Langdon broke your heart and ruined your friendship he's back in PTMC.
content/warnings: a little angst (sorry), drug use mentions, cheating mentions, some physical violence, smut, unprotected sex, oral sex(f receiving), penetrative sex, creampie(kinda), dirty talk, slightly pathetic!Langdon, no use of y/n NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY!
wc: 5k
notes: I'm so shocked that anyone read my first fic, I didn't plan on doing a part two. but thank you so much and here is hopefully a happier ending than last time!
"A new chief?" you whisper to Santos as you watch the older woman speak to the new med students.
You and Trinity Santos have grown close over the last 10 months. You've taken her under your wing during her intern year. And Robby has appreciated that. He likes to see his senior residents take on a leadership role. And you're sure that you're going to get your Emergency Medicine fellowship.
"How long do you think Robby will last on his sabbatical?" she teases as you examine the board.
"Five days," you say with a smirk as you sip your iced coffee. "How the fuck did we wind up working the 4th? What did we do to our Lord and Saviour?"
Santos bumps your hip, "He just wants to see his favourites before he goes."
You roll your eyes, "C'mon let's run the board."
"You're late, Dana!" you call as you come out of a trauma and reach behind the nurse's station for your iced coffee.
"Don't start with me, kid," she says pointing her sunglasses at you.
You give her a cheeky grin before looking up at the board. Lena, lets out a happy sigh, but Dana's eyes widen. You turn and see Frank Langdon walking into the ED. Your ED.
What. The. Fuck?
You grab an iPad, any iPad and rush off. You don't need to see him. Not after the last time you saw him. Not after what he said to you in the ambulance bay while you could still feel him inside you.
"What is he doing here?" you hiss to Santos as you find her walking out of a room.
She does a double take her eyes widening.
"Shouldn't he be in-"
"Robby didn't report it," you whisper back, grabbing her arm and pulling her into the breakroom. "He told me a few weeks after it all happened. I just didn't expect him to be back here."
Santos opens her mouth but the door swings open and Robby's head appears.
"Oh well if it isn't a much needed R4 and R2 hiding out in the breakroom," he says with a tut.
Santos and you raise your eyebrows at each other.
"Aren't you abandoning us?" you ask him as you start walking towards the door.
"Abandoning? Abandoning is a strong word," Robby says as you duck under his arm that is holding the door open for you both to return to the floor. "I'm taking a well-earned sabbatical."
Santos smiles at him, "Whatever you say boss."
Robby looks between the two of you and your matching mischievious smirks. "What did I do to deserve two of you in my ED."
"Not your ED for long," you say before scurrying off to find a patient.
"Mel and Langdon are very close," you say as you lean against the nurses' station.
Whitaker looks up at you with his usually nervous dispostion. "Uh, y-yea, I guess."
"I wonder what that's all about," you grumble as you jab at your iPad.
"Dr Grumpy," Jack Abbot calls out. "The iPad is not your personal stress ball."
You stick your tongue out at him before eyeing him up in his SWAT gear.
"Aren't you off today, old man?"
He snorts and walks away, shaking his head fondly.
This day is a shit show. But at least you've managed to successfully avoid Langdon all day. You're counting down the seconds til you can leave. You're hearing bits and pieces about him from others. The conversations he's had over the course of the shift.
He's still with Abby. He's been clean 10 months. He's the best dad to Tanner and Penny. It looks like he's got his happily ever after. And you...well you're just left behind. A mistake along the way. A bump in the road.
You'll catch up on charting tomorrow, you decide as you walk with purpose towards the breakroom to grab your uneaten lunch. Who has time in the Pitt? But when you walk in, you see the man that you've been avoiding all day sitting there.
The best laid plans and all that...
"Can we-" he begins as soon as his eyes meet yours and you just shake your head.
"No," you say simply. "No we can't."
You grab your things and go to your locker. You change quickly. You have no intention of waiting around for Langdon to catch you.
The thing is that Langdon knows your car. And he doesn't need to change, he doesn't need to gather his things.
"Robby's gonna be disappointed that you didn't stay for rounds," he says, leaning against your car door.
"He'll survive. But you won't if you don't fucking move," you say as you stand in front of him. Your arms fold in front of you, your denim jacket falling down your shoulder. Frank's eyes flick from your face to your bare shoulder.
"Please, I just..."
You shake your head.
"I know you're doing your world tour of apologies because you're in recovery. But I'm not doing this, not with you," you say.
"You didn't come to visit me," he responds and you can't help but laugh.
"Why the fuck would I come to visit you, exactly?"
"You're my best friend!" he says incrediously and you burst out laughing.
"Are you fucking serious right now?!" you yell. "You came to my apartment, high and-"
"I wasn't high!" he argues.
"You told me you were high! You told me-"
"I remember everything I said!" he snaps then pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes. "I thought I was fucked. I thought I would never see you again."
"So you decided to what?" you scream. "Blow everything up!?"
He just nods his head. He can't speak. He fucked up so incredibly. He spent the last 10 months alone. Well, his parents came up to help him set up his new apartment. He wasn't surprised when Abby threw him out. She was scared he was high around the kids. Penny was still practically a newborn.
"Look, I just...Abby-"
You look at him incredulously. Abby? Why would you want to talk about his wife right now? Oh fuck this. You know you shouldn't, you really, really shouldn't. But you've been taking self-defence classes with Santos and Mohan. You don't think as your closed fist lands right against his nose. And you can't help but smile at the satisfying crunch under your knuckle.
"What the shit?!" he screams. "Jesus!"
You immediately start panicking. And your hand is so fucking sore. You don't expect it to smart this much. And you both go into doctor mode. He rushes to examine your hand, and you press your fingers against his face.
"Not broken," you both assess at the same time. It's in that moment that you both laugh. It's ridiculous. You once were a well-oiled machine, a dynamic duo, you could finish each other's sentences. And now you can't even meet his eyes as they search for something in your face.
"You should get your hand looked at inside," Langdon says gently.
You're still mad at him. You're still devastated...heartbroken. He used you, you were just another hit for him. And despite how your heart raced when he examined your hand, you can't do this.
"Look, I'm going home. And you should do the same thing too. It's the Fourth of July, you should go home and spend it with your family," you whisper.
Last year, you had watched the fireworks together. This year? Well, this year you almost broke his nose.
Frank just nods his head and lets you get into your car. You make it a block away before you have to have to pull over and cry.
"Sorry what?" Santos asks Mohan.
"Yes, they were best friends. Lived together in med school. I'm pretty sure she's the godmother to Tanner, his oldest kid," Mohan says as they finish charting.
"What happened?" Whitaker pipes up.
"Well, you know he went to rehab," Mohan replies.
"That's not a very nice reason to not be friends anymore. Addiction is an illness, he can't help it," Mel says softly as she gathers papers to shred. "And she is nice. She's always been nice to me."
Whitaker makes a face, you can be a little bit like Santos when the mood takes. But you've never been cruel. And cutting someone out because of addiction seems cruel.
"We don't know what went on between them. He clearly betrayed her trust," Mohan responds.
"She broke his nose," Whitaker points out.
"I don't think it's broken," Santos simply responds with a shrug as their eyes flick up to see Robby praising Langdon.
"Doctor," Al-Hashimi calls you one afternoon. You smile, you like her. Well, you try to! She is not as easy-going as Robby. She likes to ride you, but she's fair, and she rarely yells.
You follow her to an empty exam room.
"You've been doing some really great work these last few weeks. I hear you're even assisting Dr Abbot on a research paper," she says.
You beam, nodding your head in pride. But before you can speak she continues.
"However, I've noticed you can be quite, well, difficult with certain other members of this team. And I'm sure you know that this is in fact a team. We all need to work together. So if you have a personal issue with Dr Langdon you really need to fix that. I can get Human Resources involved. But unfortunately I do think you need to leave your prejudices at the door," she says in that soft and calming cadence.
"Excuse me?" you say in pure shock.
"You wouldn't refuse to treat a patient because they have a history of addiction. You can't refuse to work with a fellow Resident because of his history."
You blink. Oh you're going to kill Langdon.
"Excuse me, Dr Al-Hashimi. I'm not refusing to work with him because of his addiction. I'm sorry that I gave you that impression. I just-"
"Well, I'm glad because I would hate to have this affect your chances at the Emergency Medicine fellowship next year," she says before walking away.
You are trying not to cry at that last sting. Langdon could ruin your career while he gets off Scott free. Al-Hashimi likes him. And while you and he always had an equal footing with Robby, you don't feel that way with your new boss.
You scurry off, finding a supply closet (cliché, you're aware) and press your hand over your mouth. Tears spill down your cheeks but at least you're being quiet. No one uses this one anyway. So when the door opens, you jump.
Fuck. You turn your back and scrub your face. You can't let anyone see that you're crying. Unfortunately, the person who has just walked in is the one who knows you the best. Your name falls off his lips like a prayer.
"Are you okay?" Langdon asks softly.
You're exhausted. You're furious. And you're lonely.
"Al-Hashimi is riding me," you finally confess, turning to look at him. "Because of you."
He looks shocked and mouths the word, "Me?"
You nod, "She thinks I don't wanna work with you because of the Benzos. Not because you fucked me, told me you only did it cos you were high and then..."
"And then?" he whispers looking at you in concern.
"Waltz back in here as if nothing happened."
He laughs at that. At you and you seriously consider punching him again.
"Like nothing happened?" he asks incredulously. "I'm repeating my R3 year. I'll probably lose my chances at a fellowship and have to leave the place I've worked my entire career. Robby hates me. And..."
"And?" you say, crossing your arms and pursing your lips.
"And Abby left me," he finally admits. He hasn't told anyone yet. He's still wearing his wedding ring, he's not ready for another set of pitying looks.
He fucked up and he's paying for it. He lost his family, lost his best friend and is likely to lose his dream job.
"I thought you weren't supposed to make big decisions in the first year of recovery," is all you can say.
He laughs again. "It wasn't my decision to make. She thought I was high around the kids...I wasn't...I swear."
You don't want to argue with him. It's not your business. So you put a hand out and squeeze his arm.
"I'm sorry, for what it's worth."
Over the next few weeks things between you and Langdon thaw. You're not best friends again. But you can speak to each other. You can work together. And Al-Hashimi is off your case.
Dana smiles at you as you go over a patient with Langdon.
"I'm glad you two have buried the hatchet," she tells you when he walks away. "I know he broke your trust. But you both need each other, kid."
You just shake your head. You haven't told anyone that the two of you slept together. What's the point? It will just muddy everything up. You just leave them to think that it was the lying about the drugs.
Slowly but surely, your stomach starts to flip when he compliments your work. You start joking around again, teasing, and you want to work with one another on cases again. You become that well-oiled machine again, and it makes working so much easier. You're not constantly thinking about avoiding him, taking coffee breaks around his schedule and feeling angry and wired all day.
Santos grabs your arm one evening when you're leaving.
"Why did you forgive him?" she asks. "What he did..."
You shake your head, "I just can't, Trin. I can't waste any more energy on hating him. I know it's getting to you too. Come over to mine and we'll have a girls night. Huh?"
And that's how you wind up telling Trinity Santos that you and Langdon slept together that day. That he berated her all day and then came to your apartment and cheated on his wife with you. That he destroyed all his ties to PTMC that day, in hopes of never being caught out or never having to face what he did.
And after you finish your second shared bottle of wine, you confess that you think you love him.
"Love him?" Trinity gasps as she pushes you off the couch.
"Shut up!" you giggle as you lay on the ground.
"What's going on with those two?" Langdon asks Dana as he watches you and Dr Abbot whisper with your heads close across the ED.
Dana blinks at the brunette man who has been coming into work with his wedding ring missing for the last week. No one comments. Frank has been through a lot over the last year. If he doesn't want to talk about what went on between him and Abby, that's none of the ED's business. Well, that's what Dana is thinking, not what Perlah and Princess think. They want to know. And they are watching how he watches every move you make.
"She's helping him with a research study. He gave her a recommendation for her fellowship next year," she said simply.
"But why is Abbot on days?" he asks with a huff.
Jack Abbot never worked days. But this week he hasn't left your side. And Langdon was riled. Every time he wants to grab you for a case, Abbot is already dragging you away. And if it's not Abbot it's Santos, who has become your new best friend, much to his annoyance.
You're not going to get this fellowship if you don't publish at least one more paper. And Abbot has been helping you through everything. He even swapped to days for the week to help you with the finishing touches of the paper. You're eternally grateful, but Jack Abbot is not an idiot. He can see how you and Langdon look at each other. And even if that wasn't the case, he's an Attending, he's your superior, he's your mentor. He would never cross that line with any of the Residents. Although Samira Mohan has been catching his eye ever since she walked into PTMC...
"Frank," Dana says gently. "Why don't you take the tongue lac in South 15?"
"Can we talk?" Langdon asks you when Abbot isn't glued to your side.
You look up at him with confusion. You hadn't worked a case together since the morning. So you aren't sure what the issue is. But you just nod. What you aren't expecting is for him to grab your elbow and drag you into the supply closet you were crying in a few weeks ago. You both know that no one uses it.
"What?" you ask him as he presses you into the room.
"I was just wondering, if you were, I mean I saw you and Abbot. I heard that you were..." he stutters.
You raise an eyebrow.
"I'll give you a second to rethink what you're asking me," you say calmly.
"It's just he's like really old," he says.
You nod your head, "Yea, he is like really accomplished too."
"I just didn't think that was your type," he answers.
He had heard Abbot asking if you were still free after work. No one had mentioned to him that you two are an item.
"My type? And what exactly would you know about my type, Frank?" you snap.
How fucking dare he? And in the middle of your fucking shift. It doesn't matter that you're not dating Jack Abbot. He's simply helping you with the next step of your career. You should push past him, but Frank Langdon is big. He's bigger than you remember. And he puts an arm out to stop you from moving. Your eyes flick to the way the muscles ripple under his skin. Your mouth goes dry.
"Your type," he whispers then, coming closer to you, crowding you back into the corner of the room. "Your type is someone who knows how to make you laugh. Your type is someone who knows everything about you intimately. Who knows what makes you tick."
"That's an awfully big ask," you breathe, as Langdon moves closer, his nose bumping yours. "I'd settle for tall, dark and handsome."
You feel Langdon's smirk more than see it as his lips press against yours. His hands are on your hips, your sides, cupping your breasts. His tongue presses past your lips and into your mouth. You let out a soft little, "Yes," as it happens. And you can feel his chuckle as his hips roll against yours.
Finally, you pull away, desperate for air. You need to breathe.
"Fuck, Langdon, we cannot do this here," you gasp.
You won't be a cliche, fucking in a supply room. He nods his head, he can't get caught having sex at work. He's already on thin ice. So he steps away. You both look completely and utterly fucked unfortunately. His hair is a mess from your hands tangling in it and there is a clearly formed tent in his scrub bottoms.
"You go," he teases. "I'll see you out there."
He steals one last kiss before you leave.
You bump into Jack Abbot just down the hall who has a smirk on his face.
"Will we reschedule your research review?" he asks you, bumping you with his hip.
"Um, no! Why?" you ask before his eyes flick up and a dishelved Langdon walks out of the same supply closet.
"Shut up, old man. And no I don't want to reschedule. If I don't get this research paper finished this week we'll miss the deadline. And I know you've published nine million papers over your career but I need to do this!" you beg him.
You have your phone on DND as you go through the final touches of the research paper with Abbot and you're so excited to send it off. You're back in for a shift at 7am so you agree to go for a celebratory drink on Friday. Santos, Mohan and Whitaker have already agreed to it. You're trying to twist Mel's arm but she says she has plans with her sister, Becca. How many times can anyone watch Elf?!
Your elevator is out, so you traipse up the stairs, ready for, what McKay has taught you as the three Bs - bath, book and bed. What you're not expecting to see is Frank Langdon sitting on the floor outside your apartment. He has a pizza box on his lap and he's dozing lightly. You kick him with your foot.
"What are you doing?" you ask.
"You said not here earlier. So I thought...maybe here," he confesses as he stands up.
"How long have you been waiting?" you ask with a laugh as you shove your hands into your hoodie pockets. You feel shy and silly.
"Well, the pizza is still warm!" he promises as you unlock the door.
You smile as he follows you in. Here's been in your apartment too many times to count. He knows his way around. You settle in front of the TV, on the floor with the pizza box. Langdon goes to the kitchen, grabbing two cans of Coke. He comes out and sits beside you with the pizza box in between you. You don't speak, just eat in a comfortable silence, watching something mindless on TV.
Finally, Langdon is the one to turn off the TV. He pushes the now empty pizza box away so he can pull you onto his lap. He wants to touch you. He wants to bury himself in you. He wants to just drown in you. You expect him to kiss you, but he doesn't. He just nuzzles into your neck.
"I never meant to hurt you," he whispers against your skin. "I just...I was so scared. I thought I was going to lose my job. Lose everything. And I thought, fuck, if I was gonna go to jail I wanted to be with you just once."
You grip his face, making him look at you.
"What you said in the Ambulance Bay," you respond, your voice weak.
He nods, "I know. I'm sorry. What I did was really, really selfish. I shouldn't have come here, I shouldn't have slept with you. And I knew I needed to push you away. But I never...I didn't mean it, baby. I promise."
At this, you let down your guard. You let him in and you kiss him. This isn't going to be easy, you'll remind him of that. Instead, you let him kiss you back. You let his hands wander your body, his lips trailing over your jaw, your neck.
The last time he was in your apartment, he was desperate. Hungry. On edge. But now, he had all the time in the world. And he was going to take it. He moved, rolling you onto your back. You look up at him, his big blue eyes scanning your face.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers, planting kisses to your lips over and over again.
You can't help but giggle between the kisses. The kissing doesn't stop as you both undress one other. Lazily, slowly, taking your time now that you have it. Now that no one is going to interrupt. You whimper as Langdon unclips your bra and flings it across the room.
"Langdon!" you giggle. "Do you know how expensive those are?! And where is it?!"
"Your apartment is not that big," he teases as he sucks a mark onto your neck.
You smack him, both for that comment and for giving you a hickey where everyone can see. But any annoyance disappears as soon as his large hands are cupping your breasts, kissing over them, sucking your nipples into his lips. You whimper and whine under him, you're soaking by the time he kisses down to your core. He groans out as he nuzzles against your panties. Frank Langdon was nothing if not a little pathetic.
"Please baby?" he whispers as he looks up at you with those big blue eyes. All you can do is nod.
And now he was clear-headed, he could really appreciate you. Last time he ate you out like a man starved, this time, he pulls down your panties and lets out a whimper at the sight of you again. He never thought he would see you again, and you're better than he remembers. Oh, and he remembers. He has remembered every night since he came back to work. Alone in his shitty apartment.
Your head falls back as his lips finally find your core and that sweet bundle of nerves at the precipice. He draws patterns over your core, making you whimper and whine. He watches your face contour into different levels of pleasure. This time, he presses a long finger into you, and you go cross-eyed. A second one is soon to follow. Fuck! It feels so good as his tongue focuses on your clit, as his fingers press against that sweet spot inside.
"Cum for me, sweet girl," he breathes against your core. "Please, baby, needa taste you again. Please?"
Desperate, his voice a little whiny. And you can't say no to him.
Your legs shake as you explode over his lips and fingers. You call out his name, one hand tangles in his thick locks. He works you through your high and then kisses back up your body. He leaves bites and love marks the whole way up. He's claiming you now.
You meet his sloppy and slow kiss, letting out soft, content sighs. When he pulls away, you begin to move down his body, but he stops you. Grabbing you and shaking his head.
"Not now baby," he whispers. "I need to be inside you."
He knows that if you get your mouth around him, he's done! You blush. You haven't made it off the floor of your living room. But neither of you cares. You kiss him again as he pushes his boxers off. These he doesn't throw across the room. You raise an eyebrow at this and he lets out a huff and rolls his eyes.
You smack him again and he chuckles before kissing you as he presses the head of his weeping cock against your opening. And this time it isn't hurried. He presses slowly, inch by inch into you. You grip his shoulders and he starts rocking into you. He whimpers and whines into your ear, whispering sweet nothings.
"That's it baby girl. You feel so good. So fuckin' good. Missed this. Missed you. Never wanna be without you again," he whines against your neck.
And you just nod in response, your moans getting louder and louder. You can't think as he rambles filth into your ears, his hands start grasping your breasts, his thrusts start getting faster and harder. Your pussy starts fluttering around his cock.
"You got another one for me, baby?" he growls finally, his own orgasm fast approaching. His own hand is no match for how addictive your pussy is.
Your vision goes white as you cum over his cock. You've never experienced an orgasm just as intense as this one. Frank Langdon feels dizzy as you tighten around his thick cock. His eyes lock onto yours as he reaches his brink.
He breathes out your name over and over as he fills you, his hips rocking against you in little aborted thrusts. He whimpers and whines as he cums in you.
He stays inside you, pulling you into a deep kiss, a happy kiss. A this is right kiss. You don't know how long you stay like this, until he is soft enough to slip out of you. You finally fall away from each other and you can't help the giggle that falls out of your lips.
"Are you laughing at me?" he asks as he looks at you.
You meet his gaze as you lay on your floor. And this time there's no interruption to your kiss. A kiss that feels right.
"Trin is gonna be so pissed at me," you whisper before falling into a fit of giggles.
a/n: l can't believe anyone read Sugar Talking, which is my first fic in almost a decade...So I had to make a second part as soon as I could. And while I know there were some requests for our gorgeous reader to end up with Abbot, worry not, I have some plans for one shots for him. Including Robinavitch!reader... I have more Langdon thoughts in my head as well. Would anyone be interested in a John Carter fic?
Summary : You eat questionable brownies and get high during your shift. Most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you, right? Well……at least until you confess your undying love to Dr. Frank langdon in front of the entire team
A/N : I had so much fun writing reader be unhinged and unapologetic when she's high. Mostly because I'm a little crazy too lmao.
Tagging my dearest @buckysdecaflove because I'm physically unable to not tag her when I'm writing about Frank langdon.
You don't know what's wrong with you.
Your head feels light and your feet sway every so often, yearning to dance. You gulp down a glass of water, willing away whatever distraction is consuming you.
Walking toward the ambulance bay you try to remember how you ended up feeling like a bar dancer mid shift. Although nothing much comes to your mind.
You had arrived at the hospital on time. Checked up on yesterday's patients to see how they were doing before moving on to the current ones.
By noon one of the nicer ladies who had come in two days ago with an ankle sprain from a stumble down the staircase had come in to get her paperwork sorted and had brought homemade brownies as a thank you.
“It'll help you loosen up” she had said. She probably meant having something sweet will help you be in a better mood for the day.
You had eaten about five pieces before stashing it away in the lounge to save for later.
Little did you know the brownies would do a lot more than ‘loosening you up’
You feel your body unbind even more as you stand there. The tightness in your shoulders from the day's work slipping away ever so slightly.
You're about to go back in when you see an ambulance turn the corner and stop with a sharp screech of the tires.
The paramedics start reciting vitals and numbers as soon as they drop out of the ambulance and wheel the patient out.
“A 27-year-old female presenting with reported perioral numbness after repeated use of a lip-plumping agent. Sensory loss is localized to the lips.”
Any other day you would've asked questions, what lip plumper did she use and how often. If she's allergic to any agent. If she was familiar with the formation of the product she was using and what not.
But the sane part of your brain has turned itself off for who knows how long because when the lady is wheeled out and you look at her to assess damage, you burst out laughing like a lunatic.
Her lips are swollen three times their normal size and to your tipsy brain she looks extremely funny. As a doctor you must analyse the patient professionally and you have been doing that for years now except somehow, today you can't seem to focus on anything else but the fact that she looks like Kevin the cucumber to you.
You stumble back, laughing maniacally until your eyes water and you have to lean on the nearest pillar to stay upright.
All while the paramedics look at you like you've grown third head. The woman on the gurney has started to cry by now, humiliated by your reaction.
You're wheezing by the time Dr. Robby rushes out with Dana and wheels the patient in assigning cassie to her care before finding you again.
You've pressed a hand on your mouth, stifling laughter that's pouring out of you like water from a broken tap.
“That is very unprofessional of you, doc” robby condemns sternly “I'm really disappointed. I didn't expect this from you.”
He walks away with a borderline disgusted expression that you notice but fail to register as you toddle your way inside behind him.
But your feet have more of a sway now and before your mind can recognise the glass door in front of you, your body slams into it.
Heads turn in your direction. Patients, doctors, nurses.
They watch you analyse the door like its an otherworldly object and then you giggle. Squeaky and very amused.
“Oh I'm so sorry” you bow in front of the door “you didn't deserve it. Forgive me your highness” you salute, backing up into the waiting room and almost stumbling into someone's lap if not for Mel catching you.
“Whoa” she exclaims, guiding you inside the ER, muttering apologies to the watchful eyes you have earned.
You, meanwhile, are busy examining your own hand like it has just been discovered. “Mel,” you say very seriously, “my fingers feel like they’re on vacation.”
“She’s high!” santos deadpans.
“I’m not high,” you protest, then pause. “…I might be a little… elevated.”
The room has gone so still you could hear a pin drop. Robby is massaging his temples “Just the thing I needed on an already busy day”
Dennis and Santos are high fiving each other and trying to hide their laughter from the already frustrated attending.
And that is when dr. Langdon walks in with the most confused expression in the room. “Who died?” He inquires.
Mel loosens her grip in your shoulders just enough to fill Frank in with whatever situation you have going on right now.
And as if you haven't already done enough damage, you sneakily make your way towards the nearest trauma room.
Why? You have no idea?
It takes a few minutes for everyone to realise you're missing before chaos breaks out again, this time to find you. A few doctors take over on emergency patients while the rest few try to decide what to do with you, when they find you.
You're in the room with first patient you saw—a middle-aged man clutching his arm—who didn’t even get a chance to explain his injury before you gently crouched in front of him, eyes soft with deep, unwavering focus.
“That’s not why you’re hurting,” you say quietly, gesturing at his arm.
The man blinks. “I—what?”
“You’re carrying something heavier,” you continue, nodding slowly, like you can see straight through him. “The arm is just where it’s… showing up.”
Frank freezes mid-step as he recognises your voice.
Robby turns, following frank's line of sight. “Oh no.”
The man looks… oddly receptive. “I mean—work’s been stressful—”
“And no one listens,” you say, placing a hand over your heart. “But you deserve to be heard.”
“…What is happening?” Robby’s voice is annoyed.
Frank exhales slowly. “She must've had something she's allergic to.”
Robby turns to the rest of the team “If this is a prank and someone spiked her water or something, I swear you'll spend the rest of the day cleaning the morgue”
The team looks at each other having no idea at all before javadi perks up “I saw her eating brownies. I'm not saying anyone spiked them or anything but they did smell funky”
“Brownies?” robby raises an eyebrow in suspicion.
“Yeah” she confirms “remember Rosaline with ankle sprain?” Robby nods “she made them for her as a thank you. Said it would help her 'loosen up’”
Victoria punctuates ‘loosen up’ with sarcastic air quotations and robby facepalms.
“How many times have I told you guys to not take any edible stuff from patients if you don't know what's in it” robby condemns
“Because I remember saying we don't want another mass food poisoning episode like the motorcycle guy's donuts”
A few people chuckle and robby glaringly dismisses everyone to go back to work before turning to Frank.
Meanwhile, you are fully locked into what could only be described as an impromptu therapy session.
“You’ve been strong for too long,” you tell the man, who now looked like he might cry. “It’s okay to not be okay.”
A nurse walking by actually slowed down.
“…Is she staff?” someone from a nearby bed whispers.
“No,” Robby mutters. “She was. Five minutes ago.”
Frank steps in the room then, gently but firmly taking your arm. “Alright, that’s enough. Let’s go.”
You look up at him like he’s just interrupted a life-altering breakthrough.
“But he was opening up,” you protest softly.
“He can open up with an actual therapist,” Frank says, trying to guide you toward the exit.
You allow yourself to be pulled—briefly. Then you stop again. Eyes finding another patient with the curiosity of an orange cat.
An elderly woman sitting alone, staring at the floor.
You slip from Frank’s grip like it's nothing.
“Not again” Robby groans.
You approach her slowly, sitting beside her without a word at first. Then, very gently, you poke her arm with your finger, “Are you lonely?”
The woman looks up, startled. “…Yes.”
Frank closes his eyes, sighing.
“You remind me,” you start, voice soft and full of emotion, “that sometimes people just need someone to sit with them.”
The woman reaches for your hand.
“Oh my god,” princess murmurs. “She’s actually good.”
“THIS IS NOT THE POINT,” Robby hisses, scowling at her.
Frank steps forward again, more determined now. “Okay. We’re done. Come on.”
This time, he doesn’t give you the chance to wander. Hand wrapping securely around your wrist, steady and grounding, pulling you gently but firmly toward the exit.
You follow….for about three steps, before turning to face him.
And everything shifts. The chaos, the wandering thoughts, the strange emotional clarity—it all focusing into one single, intense point.
“Frank,” you start, wiggling your forearm currently held by him, to make him look at you.
Something in your tone makes him do just that. Eyes finding yours with calm but curious glint. “…Yeah?”
The ER, somehow, gets quieter. Waiting for whatever stupid thing you're about to say next. Trinity pulls her phone out to record your next tantrum for blackmailing purposes.
“I need to tell you something,” you say, completely serious now. “I am filled,” you place a hand dramatically over your chest, “with an overwhelming, undeniable, deeply profound—”
You hiccup. Frank blinks, waiting.
“—love for you.”
The ER drops into stunned silence. Absolute, complete silence. Somewhere in the background, a monitor beeps. Someone makes a choking sound. Perlah drops a clipboard. Someone hoots and robby glares at them.
And frank just stares at you. Completely bamboozled. You stare right back, eyes shining with sincerity so intense it could’ve powered the building.
“Sometimes when I see you,” you go on, voice hushed but intense, “my heart does that thing… like—tachy… tachy… the fast one.”
“…Tachycardia?” he offers.
“YES,” you point at him like he’s just proven your point. “That. My heart goes whoosh whoosh—clinically concerning.”
“And your face,” you continue, squinting at him like you're analyzing a scan, “is… statistically unfair.”
Frank blinks, cheeks already rosy with the grin he’s trying to swallow. “What?”
“Symmetry,” you say, gesturing vaguely around his face. “Off the charts. If there was, like, a scale? You would have broken it. Very… structurally sound face.”
Robby slaps a hand over his mouth. Totally rethinking his life decisions that lead him to witness this moment.
You lean even closer now, lowering your voice like you're about to say something scandalous.
“I think,” you whisper. Well try to, but your voice hasn't even lowered a notch “if someone did a CT scan of my brain…”
Frank, in all his glory, has the audacity to look tired “I don’t like where this is going.”
“…they’d find your face in there,” you finish proudly. “Just… floating around. Causing problems.”
Dennis and Santos turn away, shoulders shaking in sync.
“That’s not how CT scans—” Frank starts, brushing a strand of hair out of your face from where you’re trying to blow at it so it won’t fall into your mouth, completely forgetting the existence of hands to serve the purpose.
“No, listen,” you cut him off, grabbing his sleeve for emphasis. “It’s, like… chronic. Persistent. I have symptoms.”
“What symptoms?” he asks, more out of habit than intention.
You count on your fingers, very seriously. “Increased heart rate. Bad decision-making. Wanting to stare at you for… medically inappropriate durations.”
“Yes,” you nod. “Also I forget words. Like… all the time. Because my brain is busy being like “‘ooooh, Frank.’”
Frank is done. A laugh breaking out of him despite himself “That’s not a condition.”
“It is,” you insist. “It’s called… um…” You pause, thinking hard. “…you syndrome.”
You wait for a beat before softening a little, still completely unfiltered but quieter now.
“I think you did something to my system,” you murmur, more like you're talking to yourself. “Like… messed up my baseline vitals. Now everything’s just… you-shaped.”
That one hits harder than the others. Robby, for once, doesn’t interrupt. Probably taking in the intensity of the tender moment.
Frank just looks at you, caught somewhere between exasperation and something else he can't yet admit.
“…You’re not going to remember any of this,” he says. You tilt your head, considering that.
“Maybe not,” you say, shrugging. Then, with a small, crooked smile— “But my heart will. It’s very dramatic like that.”
You pause for a moment and then perk up like a meercat “Also I’m like… 80% sure I still want brownies.”
Robby groans. “Of course you do.”
Frank lets out a quiet sigh, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That tracks. But you're not getting any more brownies tonight.”
“Why not?” Your bottom lips jut out in what frank thinks is the world's most adorable pout.
He pulls your hand slightly until you're leaning against his shoulder replacing the pillar that you were hugging like it was your soul mate.
His eyes meet Robby’s for a second and a silent agreement passes between them “I've got her”
He guides you gently towards the ambulance bay, a hand resting on the small of your back, other holding you steady in case you stumble again.
“Where are we going?” You look up at him with soft expectant eyes, that sound like he can take you anywhere and you'd gladly go.
“To take care of your ‘me syndrome’”
You giggle. Bright and warm and frank feels something tighten in his chest. He talks to you the whole time, entertaining you and giving exaggerated excuses for why you can't have any more brownies, until he finds an empty ambulance and asks you to sit inside.
You try to climb it, but your body is loose. Swaying like a jellyfish. You flop forward into his chest after the third attempt of climbing in and failing.
He chuckles, palms coming around your ribs and gripping slightly before pulling you up and sitting you inside.
Your arms slide around his neck instinctively. Pulling him closer even after you're settled in properly.
His heart kicks wildly against his chest at the proximity. You're so close. So so close.
If he just leans in a little more…..
He's measuring the distance between you when your hand sneaks it's way up. Finding the cleft on his chin.
“This little divot” you smooth your fingers over it “makes me lose my mind. I want to touch it all the time. And you know what?”
He smiles, a genuine one “what?”
“When you're all grumpy…” you mimic his grumpy face and he chuckles “I don't look like that”
“You do” you nod passionately.
“When you're grumpy, and your chin juts out like this—” you mimic him again. Poorly again. “I want to kiss it”
Your cheeks have tinged red ever so slightly and it doesn't go unnoticed by him. “You want to kiss me?”
“Yeah” you look away, bashful “like this” you lean in closer, shy but sure, lips pouting aggressively as you place a very wet, but very chaste kiss on his chin.
Frank freezes.
He swears his heart has stopped beating for a moment. Kick starting again when you giggle against his chin.
He has to pull back slightly to avoid doing something he'll regret.
But you're determined right now. Grabbing him by the front of his scrubs and pulling him closer before resting your head on his shoulder.
“I love you so much. I'm gonna dream about it. We can be married and have lots of kids” you murmur near his ear. Voice dropping a little more as you grow sleepy.
“Lots of kids, huh?” his hand comes around you, holding you steady, other hand alternating between stroking your back and caressing your head.
“Yeah. Like ten. Or more if you want”
He laughs. It vibrates through his body and into yours. “That's a lot of kids”
You hum slightly. Breath turning even as your body goes slack against him.
Frank sighs, relaxed and a fond. Head resting on yours as he holds you just a little tighter.
He'll go inside eventually. Carry you unto the family room and lay you down on the couch for the rest of the shift. Maybe start an iv in case you need a little glucose to help with the hangover later on.
But right now. He lets himself live in the moment for a few more minutes.
Perhaps the brownie lady rosaline will face a lawsuit. Perhaps the team will have embarrassing videos of yours.
Perhaps you'd forget all about today.
But if you don't. If you remember what you said to him and if you mean it…..maybe he'll be brave enough and say a little truth of his own too.
The truth he's keeping buried inside him for a while now.
The truth that threatens to make itself known every time you smile at him.
And in this old ambulance and you in his embrace, he can't help it when it breaks through him and his mouth works on its own when he says “I love you too, sweetheart”
The pitt tag list : @herejustforbuckybarnes, @phoenix-in-writing, @emmathefanficgal, @letsgotothecityandfallinlove, @sashelp, @v33mustdie, @my4ncy, @patchs-curiosity-corner, @angel113431
Note : Frank Langdon is unmarried and single and his wife and kids don't exist in this parallel universe
summary. Ten months since you kissed your attending in the on-call room. Ten months of guilt, of telling yourself it meant nothing. Now he’s back, freshly divorced, and apparently you’ve learned absolutely nothing.
word count. 5.1K
warnings. smut, 18+, MDNI, inappropriate workplace relationship, power imbalance, public-ish sex (on-call room), unprotected pnv, pussy slapping, lowk mean langdon, possibly ooc langdon (in the series, we don’t see him doing relationship stuff, so who knows), cheating bc reader and langdon kissed when he was still married, reader makes bad choices, Langdon is toxic, reader is toxic, everyone is fucking toxic, no use of y/n.
notes. baby’s first long Langdon fic, please be nice to me 😭 took some liberties, made Langdon an attending, bc I genuinely didn’t know he was an R4? (In my defence, there’s only 3 years of residency for Emergency Med in my country) By the time I realised he wasn’t an attending, I’d already finished writing the fic. So please work with me here 😭 thank you @sheriff-bodecker for saving me from a crash out.
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They said he’d be back in eight months. Then they said it should be nine. Then ten. That was around ten months ago.
Somewhere during that, you’d stopped doing the mental arithmetic which was either personal growth or denial. Probably both. You’d stopped being able to tell the difference around the same time you stopped sleeping well.
You’d told yourself it would be fine. You’d been telling yourself that for so many months, you’ve started to believe it a bit.
He’d come back, you’d be professional, you’d be exactly what you were supposed to be. A third-year resident with a decent attending’s evaluation and no catastrophic personal decisions on her record.
That’s easy. Simple.
You’d kissed him once. People kiss people all the time. People kiss people once and recover. It's normal.
But people don’t kiss married people who are not married to them.
The kiss had happened on a Tuesday, which still bothered you, because things like that were supposed to have context. There should be a reason like bad shifts, long nights, the particular delirium of hour thirty of a 36 hour stretch.
The least it could’ve been is a Friday, when the week has already gone sideways.
You’d had none of that.
It had just been a regular Tuesday at the end of a totally regular shift. You were in the on-call room, Frank was saying something about the new bet, and you were laughing.
After that, details blurred. He’d kissed you. Or you’d kissed him. It was one of those things that happened in the half-second before the brain catches up with the body. His hand framed your jaw, the touch enough to send your body into a frenzy.
The brain soon caught up because you both pulled back. The kiss was brief enough that you could’ve called it an accident, if either of you had been willing to do that.
But neither of you were. So you just sat there afterward in the specific silence of two people who’ve tremendously fucked up.
He was married. He was your attending. Two reasons. Two very big, very destructive reasons.
You’d catalogued them both in real time, sitting three feet apart on a cot that smelled like disinfectant, staring at your respective patches of wall.
“That—” you’d started.
“Yeah,” he’d said.
And that was the whole conversation. The stand and the end of it.
As fate would have it, he went to rehab the next day. While he was there, his wife had filed for divorce. Dana told you that in the break room with the specific tone of someone who has noticed more than they’ve said.
You’d nodded and gone back to work and spent the subsequent months telling yourself that you were fine, that it was nothing, that you’d kissed him once and he’d gone to rehab and his marriage had ended and that it was his fate, not yours. That the divorce had nothing to do with you. That you weren’t a contributing factor in the quiet dissolution of a marriage you’d had no business brushing up against. That the timing was coincidence.
You’d repeated that one a lot. The timing was coincidence. It probably was.
It would be fine when he came back. You’d be fine.
You walked into the morning handoff and saw him standing at the nurse’s station with a chart in his hand. Your whole nervous system clocked you as the most terrible liar in the history of liars.
He was just standing there, and your hear rate was nearing a hundred. That’s not the behaviour of a person who’s going to be fine.
He hadn’t even looked up yet and your brain had already filed the entire situation under dangerous and started running contingency plans.
If things were going wrong already, he looked up and that was the start of things going wrong-er.
His eyes found you fast, without effort.
He gave you a nod. You nodded back. Very professional. Completely normal.
The handoff started. You listened and took notes and were a model of clinical focus. You also thought about the way his hand had felt against your face. About his wife. About whether she knew she’d been married to a man capable of kissing someone the way he’d kissed you, and whether that knowledge would’ve changed anything for her, or for you.
Fine. Completely fine.
You avoided him for the first four hours through a combination of genuine busyness and strategic routing decisions. It also helped that he was banished to the triage.
The east hallway was longer but the west hallway meant walking past him, so east it was.
You took your lunch break at a time you knew he wouldn’t be in the break room.
You reported back to Dr. Robby, and Dr Al Hashimi, even though she was new, and you don’t do well with new people.
Things were fine, even starting to look up, maybe a little more than fine, until Dr Al Hashimi brought him back.
That didn’t faze you though, because here’s the problem, the real problem, the one you’d been talking around for ten months.
He wasn’t married anymore.
That was one reason down. Which left you with one more reason.
That one was real and serious and you weren’t dismissing it. Except your body had apparently decided that one reason was an inconvenience rather than an actual deterrent.
Because every time his name appeared on the screen or his voice came, the back of your neck went hot and you thought about that Tuesday with a clarity that was frankly insulting.
You caught yourself thinking about it during a wound closure at two in the afternoon. His hand on your face. The fact that there was no hesitation in that kiss whatsoever. The small sound he’d made.
And underneath all of it, the thought you kept trying to bury: his wife had filed while he was in rehab. While he was already at the lowest point of his life, she’d filed. You didn’t know the marriage. You didn’t know what had happened inside it, what years of him had looked like from the inside, what she’d absorbed. You had no right to feel anything about it.
You felt things about it anyway. That was its own kind of guilty.
You were in serious trouble.
As most unavoidable things, he caught you in the supply closet at four. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
The tone was diagnostic, it was almost funny. Almost because it was happening to you.
You didn’t look up from the IV bag. “I’ve been busy.”
“You went around the triage like you were avoiding a plague.”
“I like the walk.”
Silence. You could feel him looking at you with that attending’s focus, the kind that made patients confess things they’d planned to keep to themselves, and you kept your eyes on the bag and your face very still.
“End of shift. On-call room. B wing.”
He walked away before you could respond, which was probably intentional.
You stood in the supply closet, contemplated your life choices and went back to work because you’re a resident and you have no other choice.
You should’ve probably got an Oscar or at least an Emmy, because you played ‘unbothered doctor’ so well for someone who was actively dying on the inside.
At 7.55, you handed off your patients.
At 8.36, you stood outside the B wing on-call room with your hand not quite on the door and had a brief, intense internal argument with yourself.
Do not open the door. What could go wrong?
It’s fine. It is absolutely not fine.
It’s one conversation. It's supposed to be one kiss too. Actually it wasn’t even supposed to be one kiss.
Against all odds, you knocked anyway and went in.
He was already there. Sitting on the edge of the cot, still in his scrubs.
The lights were off, it was just the small strip of light from the door. It was a terrible idea to notice what that did to the angles of his face, so you didn’t, officially. You let the door shut behind you. That should be better.
For the lighting, of course.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
All that waiting and you were back to that. You crossed your arms, which you were aware was a tell, and stayed near the door. Walking closer could and would result in improper physical contact.
“You heard about the divorce,” he said. Same way he’d say a diagnosis.
“Dana told me. A while ago.”
He nodded. “I wanted to tell you myself. I was—” he exhaled through his nose. “I was in rehab, so.”
“I know where you were.”
“Right.” He looked up to meet your eyes, you blamed your amazing dark adaptation. “How’ve you been?”
“Frank.” His name came out sharper than you intended. “Can we skip the—”
He stood up. “Yeah. Okay.”
He was closer standing up. You’d forgotten, somehow, in ten months of his absence, the specific fact of how he occupied a room.
There was no way anyone could ignore his presence. And you were not just anyone, you’re the one who kissed him, or who he’d kissed. Anyway, it’s much harder for you to ignore him.
You pressed your shoulders back against the door.
“I thought about you… in there. More than I should’ve. I’m aware that’s—” a pause where he looked like he’s recollecting himself. “I’m not telling you that to make something happen. I just didn’t want that to be the way things were left.”
You thought about what it meant, that he’d been sitting in a facility in western Pennsylvania doing the serious work of rebuilding himself, and you’d been one of the things occupying space in his head. Whether that was flattering or just sad, you honestly couldn’t tell. Both, maybe. It felt like both.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. You’ve been going out of your way all day. I’ve watched you do it.”
“Because this is complicated,” you interjected him too fast. “Because you’re still my attending. It’s your first day back from rehab, and you’re my attending, and I—” you stopped, because you had only one argument. “You’re my attending, even if the married thing is gone. I’m aware. But you’re still—”
“I know what I am.” He took a step toward you. “I know exactly what this is.”
“Then you know why I’m standing by the door.”
“Yeah.” He was close enough now that you could see the tiredness in his face, the hollowness of his eyes. He looked like a man who had been forced to do stuff, even if that stuff would only make him better. Whether he wanted to or not, the result was something steadier than what you remembered. It made things harder. “I know why you’re standing by the door.”
He just looked at you with those dark eyes, and you thought about the Tuesday, and the ten months after the Tuesday.
No, no you should not do this. You should absolutely not kiss him.
You pushed off the door and kissed him.
He met you in the middle of it. This kiss was nothing like the first time. The first time had been this cautious, surprised thing, a moment catching both of you off guard.
This was not that. This was the two of you grabbing at each other in the dark of an on-call room with the full information of what you were doing and doing it anyway.
His hands were in your hair and yours twisted in the front of his scrubs. The sound he made was nothing like the one he made ten months ago, but this one had the same effect. You’d be thinking about this for ten more months. Or forever, who’s to say.
He walked you back into the wall, kissed your throat and you let your head hit it. There was a moment when his hips pressed onto yours, and you realised with complete lucidity that this is going to be a disaster.
And then you stopped thinking.
“Frank—”
“Yeah.” His hands worked your scrub top up and over your head and yours did the same to his. You spread your palms on his chest and felt the warmth of his skin and the unsteady rhythm of his breathing, that somehow comforted you. That you had the same effect on him that he had on you.
Mirroring that, he looked at you in the dim light with an expression that had absolutely no composure left in it. You’d never seen his face like that before. It made your stomach bottom out.
“How long?” You were not entirely sure what you were asking.
He seemed to know anyway. “Longer than that Tuesday.”
That’s wrong on so many levels. On that Tuesday, you were an R2 and he was married. Which meant there’d been a stretch of time where Frank Langdon had looked at you in a way that wasn’t professionally appropriate while he was still going home to Abby. You didn’t know what to do with that. You filed it under later, which was the same drawer you’d been stuffing things into all night.
You also liked how he remembered that it was indeed a Tuesday. You did have the same effect on him, that he had on you.
Then, you grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his mouth back to yours.
He unclipped your bra with one hand, the other flat on the wall beside your head, and dropped it somewhere behind him like it was irrelevant. Which it was.
His palm cupped the heavy swell of your breast, thumb brushing the hardened peak of your nipple with a stroke that made your breath hitch. Soon after, his mouth dragged down from your throat to your collarbone, then lower, latching onto the sensitive bud with a hot, wet suction that sent a jolt straight to your core. You felt the warm pressure of his lips close around your nipple and your head knocked back against the wall.
“Frank—”
He only sucked harder, his tongue swirling around the peak in lazy, teasing circles while his teeth grazed the underside just enough to make you gasp. His eyes though, they were locked on your face the whole time. Watching.
That was the thing that made you unravel. The watching, constant and clinical and completely indecent all at once. Like he was memorizing every twitch, every flush creeping across your skin.
His teeth grazed again, a sharp little nip that bordered on pain, and you grabbed the back of his head to keep him there, which he seemed to find interesting, because he smiled against your skin before switching to the other side.
Your fingers tightened in his hair. He took his time. His patience was now pointed somewhere it had absolutely no business being.
The sounds coming out of you had already exceeded what you’d have considered acceptable for an on-call room, but the part of your brain monitoring ‘acceptable’ had clocked out around the time he’d walked you into the wall.
Eventually his mouth moved lower. He traced the valley between your breasts with his tongue, dipping into the dip of your navel before kneeling slightly. His breath ghosted hot over the waistband of your scrub pants as his hands hooked into the elastic. His hand slid into your waistband.
“Here?” He asked against your navel.
“Obviously here.” Your voice came out wrecked. “Don’t stop.”
Something that was almost a laugh came out of him, felt more than heard. His fingers found you and you were already embarrassingly wet, slick heat coating his fingertips as he parted your folds with a slow, exploratory stroke, circling your entrance teasingly before dragging up to smear the wetness over your swollen clit.
Nothing could’ve prepared you for the sound he made. It was rough, involuntary, pressed into your skin like he was trying to muffle it.
“Christ.” Like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. His forehead dropped to your ribs. “Ten months.”
“Don’t.” The more he spoke about the ten months, the more you thought about how unfair and horrible this all is.
“Don’t what?” He looked up at you. Even in the dark the expression was legible. “I’m just observing.”
He worked one finger into you first, then a second, stretching you open with a curl that hooked right against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids, his thumb pressing firm circles over your clit in a rhythm that had your thighs trembling.
He worked two fingers into you slowly, watching your face do things you had no control over. The stretch of it pulled a sound out of you that you’d be cringing about in approximately two hours. His thumb found your clit and moved in a slow circle, the kind of pace that made it very clear he wasn’t in a rush, that he intended to do this for exactly as long as he wanted, and the fact that you had opinions about the timeline was charming but irrelevant.
Your hips moved. Chasing it.
He stopped.
Not all the way though. His fingers were still inside you, thumb lifted just enough. You made a sound that was not your finest moment.
“Tell me something,” he spoke against your skin, the soft underside of your breast.
“Frank—”
“You went around the hallway twice.” His fingers moved barely, a suggestion of a touch. “You took your lunch break forty minutes early. You reported to Al-Hashimi, who you don’t even know, rather than coming to me.” The fingers curled slightly and your jaw went slack. “So tell me. Have you been thinking about this all day, or just since you knocked on that door?”
“No—”
“Wrong answer.” He withdrew his fingers entirely and delivered a sharp, stinging slap right to your soaked pussy, the wet smack echoing in the dim room as your hips jerked forward involuntarily.
A fresh wave of heat flooded between your legs at the unexpected bite of it. The embarrassing part wasn’t the sound it made. The embarrassing part was how much more wet you got from it. You genuinely could’ve wept from the sudden emptiness, your clit throbbing from the impact.
He waited, eyes locked on yours, that gaze daring you to lie again while his hand hovered, fingers glistening with your arousal in the faint light. “Try harder.”
You bit your lip, thighs clenching as the sting faded into a pulsing ache, but he noticed and slid his hand back up your thigh, teasing the edge of your folds without giving you more. “Frank, please—”
“Not good enough.” Another slap, firmer this time, landing square on your clit with a slick, obscene sound that made your knees buckle, the jolt of pleasure-pain ripping a whine from your throat as your body arched toward him. His thumb brushed the stinging flesh soothingly after, just enough to make you chase it again.
The denial burned in your chest, but so did the need, coiling tighter with every denied thrust of his fingers. “All shift,” you gasped finally, the words tumbling out broken. “Since handoff. God, since I — ahhh — saw you.”
“Closer.” He rewarded you with one finger plunging back in, shallow and torturous, his palm grinding against your mound but not quite hitting where you needed it most. “But not all of it. Keep going.”
You shook your head, dignity fraying, as he added a second finger, scissoring them slowly to stretch you wider, the wet sounds of your arousal filling the room like an accusation. “I can’t—”
“You can.” He pulled them out again, the loss making you clench around nothing.
This time, the slap was a quick, targeted flick to your inner thigh, inches from your dripping core, making you spread your legs wider. “Or I walk out right now, and you finish yourself off thinking about what you almost had.”
The threat hung there, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over your hip instead, close but not touching, until the ache became unbearable. “All day.” The words came out before your dignity could intervene. “Since — Since you looked up and I imagined you bending me over the desk, fucking me raw right there with everyone listening.”
“Fuck.” Back in with his fingers, deeper this time, three fingers now, curling hard against your g-spot while his thumb pressed down with actual intent, rubbing firm, insistent circles over your throbbing clit that had your walls fluttering around him. And the sound you made echoed somewhere it shouldn’t have. “Was that so hard?”
“I hate you.”
“No.” His mouth was at your ear. “You’ve been wet since 7 AM — soaking through your panties during rounds, clenching around nothing everytime you heard my voice. Try again.”
He fucked you with his fingers in earnest,, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit with every thrust, building you up until your vision blurred.
You came with your fingers digging crescents into his arm, your forehead dropped hard to his shoulder.
The orgasm wrung you out in waves, and left you feeling stupid. He worked you through every second of it without stopping, prolonging it with a final, twisting curl of his fingers that had you gushing over his hand, your release slicking his wrist.
When you finally stopped shaking, he withdrew his hand and you heard him licking his fingers clean with a groan, the wet suction of his tongue obscene in the silence.
That alone made your skin go hot all over again.
When you looked at him, his expression was very focused and very dark and had no composure left in it whatsoever.
He kissed you before either of you could say something that would ruin it.
Getting the rest of the scrubs off was not graceful. Yours caught on your ankle, the cot made squeaks when you both hit it, his elbow found the wall with a thud that you both ignored.
He settled between your thighs, his thick cock nudging insistently against your soaked entrance, smearing your wetness along his length as he rocked his hips teasingly. His precum coated you in return.
He looked like exactly what he was: a man who’d done real damage, to himself and other people, who’d spent months in a room somewhere reaping what he sowed.
“Stop,” you said.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“I’m allowed to look at you.” He dropped his head to kiss your jaw, your throat. “You’re in my on-call room.”
“Your on-call room?”
“I was here first.” His hips shifted and you felt him right there. The blunt head of his cock breached you just enough to stretch your entrance, teasing the slick, sensitive rim without pushing deeper.
And every coherent thing you’d been about to say dissolved completely. Your body did something embarrassing and obvious, tilting your hips toward him, asking without asking. “You know what I keep thinking about?” He asked.
Words apparently couldn’t make out of your mouth, you only whined in response.
“You knocked on that door.” His words were muffled against your throat. “You stood outside it for a while first. I could see the shadow under the door. But you knocked anyway.” He pushed in, just the head, parting your walls with a slow, burning stretch that made you gasp as your body yielded to him inch by torturous inch, and breath left you entirely. “And now look at you.”
He paused there, buried only shallowly, his cock throbbing inside you as he gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, letting you feel every ridge, every vein pulsing against your clenching heat.
Then he pushed inside fully, bottoming out in one smooth, deep glide that filled you completely, your pussy stretching around his girth until your walls fluttered and gripped him like a vice.
The sensation was so overwhelming you could feel him nudging against your cervix. His whole body went still at it, every muscle locked, breath coming out slowly against your cheek while he waited.
You felt everything. You felt the stretch, the fullness, the particular and specific reality of Frank Langdon that your 2 AM imagination had constructed and gotten completely wrong.
You’d underestimated it. Ten months of underestimating it, underestimating him.
“Move,” you said when you could.
“Mm.” He pulled back slowly, dragging his cock out until only the tip remained, coated in your creamy arousal. He pushed in slower, grinding deep on the re-entry so his pubic bone pressed flush against your clit. “You had a whole plan, didn’t you? You’d stand by the door, hear what I had to say, then go home.” Another slow drag, the wet slide of him pulling free making your pussy clench emptily, and your fingers curled into his back. “What happened to that?”
“Frank—”
“You’re taking my cock in the on-call room is what happened.” His pace stayed measured, each push intentional, his hips rolling in a way that made his shaft stroke every sensitive inch of you. “All that effort today. All those reroutes.” His mouth brushed your ear. “And here you are, creaming all over me like you were made for it.”
“Shut up,” you managed, which would’ve landed better if your voice hadn’t cracked down the middle.
“You shut up.” He shifted his angle, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to open you wider, allowing him to plunge even deeper, his balls slapping wet against your ass with every thrust. He did it again, watching your face, filing it. “There. That’s the one —right there, where you're squeezing me so tight I can barely move.”
He pounded into you now with a rhythm that shook the cot, as he chased that angle, his cock splitting you open over and over, your tits bouncing with the force of it.
The filthy sounds of it were loud enough in the quiet room that you were dimly grateful for the distance to the nurses’ station.
Somewhere in the back of your head, your brain supplied that he’d been sober for ten months. This was his first night back. And you were here, you were the thing he’d come back to, or one of them. What did that make you in the story of his life. What part were you playing.
You pulled him closer. You’d think about that later.
You stopped trying to maintain anything. To hell with the composure, the distance, the careful architecture of self-possession you’d been constructing and maintaining for ten months.
It came down. All of it, at once, under the specific and targeted demolition of Frank Langdon. His forearms were braced on either side of your head, his face close to yours, refusing to let you look anywhere else.
“You feel—”
“Don’t stop.” Not at the sentence. At all of it.
“I know... you feel fucking incredible.” His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt in a brutal thrust that made your vision white out. “You’ve been wanting this since that day and so have I, and we both—” another thrust, harder, his pace turning feral as he fucked you into the mattress, the slick sounds of your pussy taking him mingling with his ragged grunts. His control was gone, you could feel it dissolve. “We both made different choices and none of them—” his rhythm stuttered. “None of them fixed it —none of them stopped me from jerking off to the memory of your mouth on mine, imagining this exact fucking thing.”
That almost made you cum. The thought of him jerking off to you, like marriage be damned. Your nails were in his back. You’d apologize for that later, maybe. The pressure was building fast and you grabbed his shoulder and held on, your cunt starting to spasm around him, milking his cock with rhythmic squeezes that had him cursing under his breath.
“Come on then,” he said, almost gone. “Let me feel it. You’ve earned it, all those months—cum on my cock like the good girl you are, let me fill this pussy up.”
You came apart completely. Your orgasm crashed over you in waves, your walls clamping down hard on his thrusting length, gushing around him as you cried out.
He shuddered and followed. His whole body went taut, cock pulsing as he spilled inside you, hot ropes of cum flooding you, marking you deep as he ground against your cervix with a final, broken groan of your name.
His weight was half on you, half off, his softening cock still twitching inside you, a trickle of your combined release leaking out around him.
You stared at the ceiling and let your pulse find its way back down from wherever it had gone.
He moved first. Rolled to the side, pulling out with a wet pop that made you both wince, his spend dripping down your thighs in a sticky reminder.
There was now cold where he’d been, and you didn’t react to it. You sat up, found your scrubs on the floor, and started putting yourself back together. He did the same beside you.
Your badge was near the foot of the cot. You lipped it back on. The normalcy of the gesture felt briefly insane. “I don’t know what this is.”
“Neither do I.”
That was honest, at least. You stood. He stayed sitting on the edge of the cot, staring at the floor. His usual composure was not fully reassembled. You’d done that. You did that to him.
When you got to the door, you could hear his voice, “tomorrow.”
Just tomorrow. Like it was already a given. like it was already on the calendar, like you’d both signed off on it somewhere between the wall and the cot and the rest was just the hours between now and then.
Your hand stayed on the door.
The thing was, he wasn’t wrong. You’d known it when you knocked. Known it when you kissed him, known it when you stopped running the argument halfway through and just let it go. Probably you’d known it since the day, ten months ago. Since you’d pulled apart and told yourself this was a thing that would not happen again.
The responsible and correct thing, the thing a person with any functional self-preservation instinct would do, was to say no. Or nothing. To leave and let the silence be its own answer. To remember that he is your attending, that this is your career, that you’d spent ten months building very sensible walls and had just spent the last forty minutes enthusiastically dismantling them.
You didn’t say yes.
You also didn’t say no.
You just let go of the door handle and walked out, and the thing that followed you down the hallway wasn’t guilt, exactly.
It was something more complicated than guilt. Something that didn’t have a clean name yet and would probably still be sitting in your chest tomorrow morning. Something you hoped would prevent you from knocking the same door at the same time tomorrow.
my masterlist !
extras. I lowk suck at writing mean characters, sorry if the smut was boring or bad 😭
I do have a taglist, it is just Bucky atp, but I do plan on writing Frank more. Lmk if you want to be added.
༊ — TEMPTATION. when javadi brings you, her roommate, along for a night out with her coworkers, frank can't believe his luck. he knows it's wrong, but when you look at him like that how can be look away?
༊ — cw .ᐟ 2.5k words. 18+. smut. adultery. oral ( m!receiving ). exhibitionism. shitty!langdon. unprotected p in v. reader is javadi's roommate. trinity ( might ) have a crush on reader.
༊ — notes .ᐟ pervy shitty asshole langdon u are so dear to me.
trinity didn't understand why he was here—let alone why everyone was so okay with it. she seemed to be the only one questioning it, wouldn't be the first time she was the one person questioning frank fucking langdon.
trinity had met you before, a few times—javadi had introduced you to the pittlings group chat months previous. always over drinks, or when your roommate needed mid-shift snacks.
frank on the other hand, to him you were fresh meat. only a name heard in passing, but not anymore. tonight you were real, and hanging on his every word.
it had been years since he felt like that—wanted. whether you meant it or not, the eyes you were giving him was making his blood pump faster. he'd let himself indulge in your flirting for now, he told himself—just an innocent flirt with javadi's hot roommate for the night.
trinity felt protective almost, with victoria too wrapped in mateo to keep an eye on you—trinity decided she'd take over. she knew how you were, too few thoughts in your brain to recognise when men were being gross.
and with langdon in your ear, trinity can only imagine the filth you're being subjected to. with a giggle and twirl of your hair, heading to the bar—trinity pounces.
"stop flirting with her." she slides in next to langdon, eyes harsh and walls up.
"i'm married, santos," the brunette speaks, raising his drink to his lips and swigging. she rolls her eyes, she knows his type—and you're temptation personified.
"she's... vulnerable."
"she's a big girl, trinity." langdon smirks, his eyes looking past her. straight to you—walking back to the two of them, wide smile and lashes batting. something fruity in your hand, staining the straw with lipstick as your lips wrap around the plastic.
frank shakes his head in pure awe. mischievous smile plastered on his face as you rejoin him, head tilted to look up to him. he leans down, lips grazing your ear as he whispers.
"you wanna dance with me?"
your lip is between your teeth, looking up to him through your lashes as he leans back. nodding your head softly, lips breaking into a smile. he's pushing his luck—his restraint—langdon knows it. but the way your skin feels beneath his fingers as he leads to toward the crowd is more than worth it.
the dive bar is small, the floor crowded and stuffy. your bodies pushed closer together than frank can handle right now, his hand still resting on your lower back. telling himself it's to keep you close—to keep an eye on you. but the way his lips are chasing yours speak otherwise.
the drink in your hand is quickly sipped, discarded to the side as your body moves to the beat. your arms drape around his neck, and he's done for. immediately pulling you into him, both hands tight on your back.
"fuuuck," he drawls, eyes rolling back as your hips sway against his. it's just a dance, he tells himself—he can forgive himself for that.
until it's not.
his hands start groping at your flesh, squeezing your hips. finding the gap in the fabric, fingers touching the skin of your waist between your skirt and top. langdon's hands are close to slipping under your skirt, and he's all too turned on to think about stopping.
frank's too lost in you to notice any eyes looking on, hands dipping below your skirt. fingers grazing the lace between your legs, eyes closed—forehead resting against yours. your breathing molding with his, eyes wide and wanting.
his fingers threaten to delve further—and there's nothing innocent about this anymore, he's accepted that. too far gone to give up now. and as your hips sway against his only have him closer to snapping.
frank knows he's fucked when your lips lean up to his, parted and seeking his. trinity knows there's no stopping you now, shaking her head and looking away as your lips reach his.
he feels guilty—briefly—as your lips softly touch his, but it's seconds before his are attacking yours. open mouthed as his tongue slips into your mouth, fingers softly exploring the lace of your underwear at the same time.
a soft moan slips between your mouths, and his knees almost buckle at the sound. frank's free hand slides up your neck, clutching the hair at the base of your skull.
his fingers meet your sensitive bud over the fabric, and your hips buck involuntarily at the feeling. the brunette smirks into the kiss, pulling your lips away from his by the grip on your hair. his lips trail down your throat, nipping at the skin on his pursuit.
your mouth hangs open, breathing uneven as his fingers slowly circle your bud. the lace of your panties against causing more friction that you can handle in this crowd.
"frank," you murmur, voice wavering. manicured fingers weave up his back, sliding between the hairs on his neck.
"hmm?" he hums, with a soft bite against your skin.
"take me home," you mumble, desperate as your hips buck once more. he has a flash of guilt in his mind—but it's gone as fast as it came. and the second the word 'please' leaves your lips, in that perfect pouty tone, he's nodding his head and leading you out of the bar with no questions asked.
you don't think about anything, anyone but him as you lead him up to your shared apartment. you're barely through the door before frank's lips are on yours, pent up and desperate. his hands grasp your cheeks, angling your face up to his.
your back hits the wall, hands sliding up below his shirt—up, and up until he grabs the fabric, tossing it behind him once it's over his head. his arms tense as your hands wrap around the muscle, hands either side of your head—resting against the wall. his chest is heaving, eyes darkening as he smirks down to you.
"you're trouble," he murmurs, shaking his head down to you—lips upturned. the smirk only deepening as he watches you drop down onto your knees. "oh, fuck." he drawls, head falling back in lust.
your fingers scramble with his belt, undoing the buckle slowly before pushing his jeans down to his ankles. frank's already hard behind his boxers, has been since he touched your skin for the first time. might have even been when you gave him those eyes as you spoke to him.
his shaft hits his happy trail as you free him from the fabric, both hands wrapping around the length of him. your hands move in unison, pumping him slowly as your eyes meet his.
"shit—" frank mutters, as he watches you take him in your mouth. gagging softly as his tip hits the back of your throat—not that it stops you. your hand wraps around the base of him, caressing what didn't fit between your lips.
"you're too fuckin' good at this." frank mumbles, bare chest heaving as his head hangs between his shoulders. hands still tightly pressed against the wall.
your eyes smile up to him, spit and slobber collecting at the corners of your mouth. only causing frank to twitch inside your throat, resisting the urge to thrust his hips against your face.
as soon as your head starts to bob, one his hands drops from the wall to wrap around your hair. slowly guiding your movements, bottom lip tight between his teeth as he desperately holds in his groans.
"fuck—fuck—you gotta stop, baby—shit." he mumbles, pulling your face away from his cock. the length dripping in your spit, hitting up against his stomach again.
"why'd you stop me?" you pout up to him, out of breath—pre-cum falling down your chin, a sight only making frank more desperate for you.
"wanna get fucked before i finish, don't you?" he taunts, hands hooking beneath your arms as frank pulls you up onto your feet. your cheeks flush pink, lips chasing his. he'll take that as a yes.
frank pulls your cami over your head before his lips crash onto yours again, tongue licking inside your mouth as he steps out of the fabric pooled at his feet. his hands grope and grab at your chest, before grasping hold of your hips and starting to walk you further into the apartment.
"which room?" he mumbles against your lips, unable to pull himself away for long enough to properly speak.
"left." you answer, word muffled into his mouth. he walks you backwards against the door, lips never leaving yours as he opens the door.
frank's quick to push your skirt down your legs, leaving a litter of clothes from the front door to your room. kicking the door closed behind him, as he pushes forward to your bed.
the silk sheets welcome you both, his body above yours. your baby blue lace panties the only fabric between you two. frank shuffles down, positioned between your legs as his teeth nip at the fabric. eyes looking up to you as he pulls the fabric down.
your hands tighten around the sheets of your bed, breathing heavy as you watch him discard the final layer of fabric from your body to the floor. his blue eyes are dark—half-lidded as he kisses up your body, arms hooked below your thighs as he reaches your lips again.
frank positions himself as your entrance, forehead resting against yours—breath mingling together as your jaw drops slack.
"fuck me." he groans, as his tip pushes through your walls. you can't help the way you're sucking him in, hands clutching the muscles on his back. nails digging in softly as he bottoms out.
his body weight shifts, resting against you as you adjust to his size. his big hands grab your thighs, pushing them further forward toward the bed as his hips start to rock.
"fuck, baby—you're so tight." frank groans, his lips touching yours as he speaks.
"hmm—! m'sorry," you murmur, brows knitted in pleasure as he picks up pace. thrusting in and out of your slick cunt like he was made to fuck you like this.
"don't be," he smirks, kissing at your lips. "it's fuckin' perfect."
frank can't get over how you look beneath him—doesn't think he ever will. his thrusts grow quicker, hips slamming against yours in a way that's sure to bruise. one of his hands drops your thigh, sliding down toward your heat.
leaning up onto his knees, eyes fixed on where he's fucking himself into you, watching the way you suck him back in. fingers flat against your stomach as his thumb circles your clit. his head lifts up, watching the curve of your body as you arch up from the mattress.
moans free fall from your lips, pornographic sounds echo into his ears. you look unlike anything he's ever seen, completely transfixed on how fucking hot you look taking his dick. your hands balls around the sheets again, holding on like a lifeline as his thumb elicits curses from your mouth.
"so f'ckin' big, frankie," you hum, mouth agape and eyes glued on him.
"shit, baby—don't." he huffs out a laugh, completely overwhelmed by you. he shakes his head, knocking himself out of the shyness he felt at your words.
"feel good?" frank mumbles, the hand on your thigh moving up to grasp your face. fingers against your jaw, as his thumb pulls down your chin to open your mouth.
you nod quickly, legs wrapping around his waist—ankles crossed tight against his back. his thumb pushes inside your mouth, tongue swirling around the digit.
"taking me so well, pretty girl." he coos, smirk on his face as his thumb speeds up against your clit. he can tell that you're close—the furrow of your brow, how heavy you're breathing, how tightly you're squeezing him.
his body falls against your chest, his face burrowed where your neck meets your shoulder. hips jackrabbiting against yours, his tip hitting your g-spot with every thrust.
frank's eyes squeeze shut—another flash of guilt. he always did have the worst timing. his mind is panicking. he's not wearing a condom, he's cheating on his wife, and the worst part of it all—he'd do it again in a fucking heartbeat.
you were sin bottled up in human form, and frank wanted to drink and drink until there was nothing left.
"frank, fuck—! m'so close,"
"shit, me too, baby," he mumbles against your skin, sucking a purple mark into your skin just to know he put it there.
frank quickly pulls out, his thumb still rubbing fast circles against your clit as he sits back on his knees again. his hand pumping his member, aimed at your heat.
"fuuuck." he drawls, head falling back as his load shoots white ropes over your cunt. drawing out his orgasm as his fingers don't let up against your bud, smearing his come over you.
your body convulses, screaming out his name like it was the only word to ever matter to you. his movements don't let up until you're begging him to stop.
"jesus christ." he mutters, collapsing next to you. catching his breath before turning to you, pushing your hair from your face.
"you good?" frank asks, softer than before, leaning up on his elbow. you nod your head, eyes heavy as you nuzzle into him. he should leave—he knows that. but he wasn't about to say no to you.
you're asleep, head on his chest, before he hears the front door open. drunken murmurs float through the apartment. his heart is in his throat.
"what the fuck?" mateo laughs, as he's shushed by victoria. "whose clothes are these?"
fuck, fuck, fuck.
"someone with my roommate," javadi assumes, used to your antics by now. frank didn't realise he was holding his breath until the click of victoria's door closing sounds out.
"i gotta go, princess," frank whispers, gently waking you up. god, he'd do anything to stay as he watches the flutter of your lashes. "m'kay." you murmur, half asleep.
he wants to say he'll call—wants to never leave. but he doesn't, even if he knows he'll be back. he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead before sliding out of the bed.
frank quickly heads for the hallway, pulling on the boxers and jeans he left there. doing up the buckle on his belt as he gets closer to the door, picking up the discarded shirt on the floor.
"dr. langdon?" mateo speaks from the kitchen island, next to the apartments front door. his mouth agape and holding back a shocked smile.
"not a fucking word, mateo." frank warns, unable to stop the smirk on his face as he pulls the shirt over his head. "not. a. word." he repeats, before leaving the apartment.
langdon is fucked, he knows it.
but he'll be back, without a doubt.
taglist .ᐟ @pittsick @str4wbsstuff @deansdeer @peachyfckingkeen @lavishmeup @amterasuu @userhotd @lvve-talks @filthgf @livsunst @delicatepointeofview ( to be added )
when santos teases whitaker about their cute new coworker
w.c: 1.2k
contents: dennis x social worker!oc, oc is female and uses she/her pronouns, lots of pining dennis, brief mention of childhood injury, just a bunch of awkward fluff all around
"so huckleberry, i heard she's single," santos said, sitting back in her chair.
"molly?"
"no, dana." santos let out a huff and rolled her eyes. "obviously i'm talking about molly. you've been staring at her for the past fifteen minutes."
it's not that he had been staring per se, but it was just so hard to look away from what dennis considered the most alluring creature on the planet. molly brady had just started working in the Pitt as a pediatric social worker and dennis really couldn't seem to get enough of her. the way her hair moved when she walked, the smell of her clothes, the concentrated look on her face when she wrote. he was trying to be subtle, but subtle wasn't really his forte.
"i have not been staring at her. i just, uh, want to make sure she's doing okay. it is her first week after all."
dennis shifted in his seat. his scrubs suddenly felt too tight and he felt his face heat up. the last thing he wanted was santos teasing him about a crush.
"well, lover-boy, i just happen to know that she needs help with a case. maybe you could sneak in there and be her prince charming," santos teased.
"that's stupid." he looked around, double-checking that no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. "kind of."
molly scrunched her face up. she had been trying to open the lid of the coffee can for about three minutes. it seemed as if the last person to make coffee was bruce banner post-transformation.
"need any help?"
she looked towards the open door and was met with an unfamiliar silhouette illuminated by the bright light of the emergency department. she squinted, unsure who it belonged to. her brow furrowed and she could feel her eyes straining in the dark of the break room.
the lights flickered on and molly's eyes adjusted, the stranger's mousy brown hair and soft eyes came into focus.
molly had only had a few real interactions with dennis whitaker. sure, their paths crossed every few minutes: shoulders bumping in the hallway or paperwork handoffs, but they hadn't had many actual conversations. he was a resident. she wasn't even a doctor. aside from being assigned to the same patients, they didn't really have any reason to talk.
"no, i think i've got it," molly answered.
"o....kay. i just wanted to double check. you've been in here for a few minutes and robby needs you to talk to the kid in 22. she's scared or something about her surgery."
dennis shut the door behind him and moved next to her.
"i could come if you want. y'know, to explain or whatever. i just thought you might want some hel-"
the lid finally snapped off with a loud pop and the recoil caused molly's arm to snap back and smack dennis right in the face.
"OW!" he reached up to cup his the area, rubbing slightly.
dennis let out a chuckle. "it's okay, it doesn't really hurt that bad. i'm just dramatic, i think."
molly paused. "oh, okay. uh, let me get you some ice, anyway." she headed to the freezer, pulling out a small icepack and wrapping it with a towel. "you really shouldn't stand that close to someone when they're making coffee. you could get burned or something.
"noted." dennis's lips curled up into a small smile.
he took a moment to study her. she held the ice pack to his face with such gentleness, like she was afraid to break him. her eyes were fixated on the spot where she hit him, as if she could freeze away what happened.
molly took a gentle hold of the other side of his head and dennis's breath hitched.
his stare slowly moved to her lips. they were pink and puffy, pulled slightly apart in concentration. he thought about what it would be like to kiss her.
molly seemed to notice the direction of his gaze. too afraid to say anything, she opted to just ignore it. he was probably just zoned out, anyway. no way dennis would be into her. he was a resident. molly knew better than anyone that residents were too engulfed in their work to care about a relationship. if she was looking for a workplace romance, a med student might be a better bet.
dennis looked toward the door, scanning the other side of the window for traces of life. it partly was in effort to make sure no nosy coworkers were looking in, and partly to seem nonchalant. his heart rate felt embarrassingly high and his palms felt clammy.
he was in an impossible-to-stay-calm situation. he moved his eyes back to molly.
"so, i heard that you were living in the hospital," molly announced.
dennis looked down at his feet and shifted his weight against the counter. "did santos tell you that?"
molly pulled away, peeling the damp paper off the ice pack, eyes trained on the ground.
“no. i saw you. not like, actually in the room. but i came in early and saw you walking to the bathroom in your pajamas."
he paused for a moment, not entirely sure what to say. not only did his cute coworker have to nurse him back to health after getting smacked in the face, but she also knew he used to be homeless.
“it was just for a little bit."
molly stayed silent. she crumpled up the paper towel and moved toward the trash can.
"my paychecks hadn’t hit my account, y’know? i live with santos now, though. so it's okay."
"oh." she looked up at him, with an expression different than what dennis had expected. her eyes weren't squinted and her brow wasn't furrowed. there wasn't any judgement or pity in her face, just curiosity. "sounds rough."
"well, i didn't have to pay any bills and there was all the bad coffee i could hope for, so it wasn't that bad if you ask me," he chuckled.
"if it makes you feel any better, i haven't unpacked any boxes and my only friend in pittsburgh is the old lady that lives next to me,"
dennis raised an eyebrow.
"beats homelessness,"
molly laughed. like, really laughed. the type of laugh that made her stomach hurt and brought tears to the corners of her eyes.
something in his chest started to flutter, and dennis realized how much he liked making her laugh.
"how old is old, anyway?" he asked, starting to scoop coffee grounds off of the counter. "like, robby old or..?"
"eighty-four."
"that's not that bad."
"yeah, but she keeps trying to set me up with her grandson," molly huffed.
"nothing wrong with networking." dennis shrugged, hoping to pull another laugh from molly.
it didn't work.
"i guess so, i'm not really interested in him."
dennis rubbed his neck, trying to calm the bile that was slowly making its way up his esophagus. he knew it was weird to ask, but before he could stop himself his mouth was opening.
"who are you interested in?"
molly blinked, not expecting the question.
"y'know i ju-"
the door suddenly flew open revealing a very out-of-breath melissa king.
"quick-huff-whitaker-gasp-crushed leg" she hunched over, hands on her thighs in an attempt to catch her breath.
"oh, uh, yeah. i'm coming." he looked at molly, shifting on his heels. "i'm really sorry."
and just like that, he slipped out the door, leaving molly alone with an empty coffee pot and her unfinished answer.
"you know, i saw alllll of that," santos said.
dennis felt that oh-so-familiar heat emerge from his cheeks.
Okay but imagine reader and Dennis who had a one night stand and then like a month later she ends up in the er and he gets assigned as her doctor. she needs to take a pregnancy test for some medical reason and turns out she is preggo
𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞, 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞 ♡
Uh, such a cute (and juicy!!) idea! Thank you for the request, hun <3
Dennis Whitaker x f!reader || Masterlist || Spotify
summary: After fainting in a grocery store, you end up in the ER. Turns out your stay comes with a couple surprises. Not only who your doctor turns out to be, but what you thought was just stress also turns out to be something more.
word count: 9.9k
note/tags: Afab!reader. No use of y/n. One night stand. Unplanned pregnancy. Fluff/tiny bit of angst? May contain medical inaccuracies. Dennis is a sweetheart.
You sit yourself down on the side of the hospital bed with a mix of self-pity and embarrassment, hunched slightly forward with your elbows on your knees. The fluorescent lights overhead make everything feel harsher than it should be, and the faint smell of disinfectant only makes the nausea rolling in your stomach worse.
You swallow hard, pressing the back of your hand against your mouth. This is ridiculous. People go to the ER for actual emergencies. Broken bones, car accidents, things that bleed or stop working. Not because they passed out in the middle of a grocery store. The nurse who brought you in gives you a sympathetic smile as she logs something into the computer in the corner of the room.
You like her, she seems nice, and you have the feeling that she’s rooting for you, like she is on your team. It’s not often you feel that when you’re in places like this.
Usually, it’s the opposite. Usually, it feels like you’re being evaluated, quietly measured against some invisible standard you’ve already failed to meet. But she doesn’t look at you like that. There’s no impatience in the way she moves, no thinly veiled skepticism when she glances in your direction. Just calm, steady attention.
You drop your hand back into your lap, fingers curling together. The nausea ebbs slightly, replaced by a dull, lingering shakiness that makes your limbs feel like they don’t quite belong to you.
“Your doctor will be with you in just a minute,” she says kindly. “In the meantime, I’m gonna start taking your vitals, alright?”
You nod, shifting slightly on the bed as another small wave of nausea rolls through you. “Yeah, okay,” you mumble.
She gives you a small, reassuring nod before reaching for a blood pressure cuff and wrapping it around your arm. Quietly explaining while she does so.
“Just relax,” she says softly.
You try. The cuff tightens, squeezing your arm, and you focus on the steady hum of the machine instead of the lingering unease in your stomach and now your arm, before it slowly loosens again.
She glances at the numbers on the monitor. “Well, your blood pressure is on the lower side,” she says. “That could definitely explain the dizziness.”
You just nod, not really trusting yourself to say anything without your voice giving you away.
“Did you eat today?”
“Yeah, some toast,” you admit. “That’s about it.”
She nods again before reaching for your arm to remove the cuff, her touch light and careful as she slides it off. “Alright,” she says softly, setting it aside. “And have you been eating normally lately?” she asks.
“No… not really,” you admit. “I’ve been feeling kinda sick the past few days.”
“Nauseous?”
You nod again.
“Okay. Have you experienced any stomach pain?”
You shake your head. “Not really.”
“Any vomiting?”
“No…” you hesitate, glancing down at your hands. “But there have been a few times I’ve felt like I might,” you admit, your voice quieter now.
Then, in that same neutral, routine tone, she asks, “Any chance you could be pregnant?”
The question lands heavier than it should. You’re just about to blurt out no, out of pure instinct, something automatic, easy and safe. But the word catches in your throat. Your love life hasn’t exactly been active the last year or two. And that’s why your brain wants to say no without thinking.
But there was that one night about a month ago.
It was the kind of night out that wasn’t supposed to turn into anything. Just a way to get out of your own head for a few hours, to feel normal again. You hadn’t expected anything from it. You had just met up with some of your friends, some of your friends’ friends. And a few people who turned out to be friends of friends of friends –people you didn’t know, names you didn’t catch, faces that blurred together after a while.
You hadn’t planned on staying long. Just a drink or two, a laugh and a light conversation, then leave. But then you noticed him. He looked even more out of place than you felt. Leaning against the wall, drink in hand, like he wasn’t sure where he belonged. His eyes roamed the room but didn’t settle on anyone, not until they landed on you.
You smiled first, almost without thinking. He looked surprised, a little caught off guard, and then he smiled back, awkwardly, nervously, but genuine. And somehow, that was enough. It was awkward, sure, but real in a way that made you want to stay a little longer than you first intended.
You started talking. He was one of those friends of friends of friends. The kind of person you could’ve missed entirely if things had gone just a little differently that night. At first, just small talk to fill the time, but then it wasn’t just small talk anymore. It was laughter and shared glances, a kind of ease that felt like it had slipped through the cracks of the night. He was charming in a quiet, unassuming way. Sweet, earnest, a little clumsy, completely unlike anyone you’d met in a long time.
And it was so nice. Someone kind, nervous, and a little awkward. Someone who had made you feel lighter than usual. One drink became two, two turned into standing a little closer than before, conversations dipping softer, quieter. There had been a moment, just a small one, where neither of you were really talking anymore, just looking at each other like you were both trying to decide something at the same time. And then you had.,.
You swallow. Your fingers curl tighter in your lap, nails pressing lightly into your skin
“There might be a little chance.”
The nurse doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look at you differently. She just nods, like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.
“Alright. We’ll have you take a pregnancy test just to rule it out.”
Your stomach twists again, though this time it’s not entirely because of the nausea. Because technically, there is a chance.
The thought settles heavy, sinking somewhere deep in your chest. The nurse gives you a small, reassuring smile, like nothing about this is unusual, like this is just another step in a routine process.
“I’ll see if your doctor is ready now,” she says gently.
“Okay,” you manage, your voice quieter than you intend. “Thank you.”
The curtain shifts as she steps out, leaving you alone with the low hum of the machines and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. You exhale slowly, leaning forward again, elbows resting on your knees, trying to ground yourself.
It’s probably nothing. It has to be nothing. Low blood pressure. Not eating enough. Stress. Your fingers tighten together, then loosen again as you force yourself to breathe.
After a while the curtain rustles. You glance up, and everything in you stills. You are met by a friendly smile from your nurse, kind brown eyes, soft and familiar. But it is not her who makes your breath catch. It’s the person stepping in behind her.
He is looking down at the ipad in his hands, brows slightly furrowed in concentration, like he’s trying to finish reading something before stepping fully into the room. It gives you a second, just one, to see him without being seen.
The familiar slope of his shoulders. The way he holds himself, a little unsure, like he’s still getting used to being here. Light brown hair falling over his forehead, and curling up at the nap of his neck.
Then he looks up, and his eyes meet yours. Those wide, blue eyes, you remember all too well.
“This is Dr. Whitaker,” the nurse says softly, her tone carrying the gentle authority of routine, but your gaze doesn’t leave him. She tells Dennis your name, not knowing that he already knows it. “We already took her blood pressure, and you ordered a pregnancy test.”
His gaze flickers briefly toward the nurse, then back to you. “Thank you, Perlah,” he says, voice small.
There’s a pause, the kind that makes the air between you feel thicker. She gives him a quick look, a brow slightly raised, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Then she gazes back to you, smiling softly, as if nothing unusual has happened.
“If you need anything, you can call on the button and I’ll be back. But in the meantime, you’re in good hands with Dr. Whitaker.”
You give a small nod, your throat tight, words catching somewhere between nervousness and surprise. She steps out, the curtain swishing closed behind her, and the door closes, and suddenly the room feels impossibly quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing a little louder, your heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears.
“Hi,” he says, an awkward smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, just enough to make it feel human, approachable.
“Hi,” you manage, your voice smaller than you would like, uneven, caught somewhere between nerves and surprise.
“So, uh, you fainted…” he continues, voice careful, like he’s stepping lightly around fragile ground. His fingers tap lightly on the edge of the ipad, a subtle rhythm that seems to mirror your racing heartbeat.
You glance down at your hands, twisting them together in your lap. “Yeah… I guess,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper.
“Uhm.. If you would prefer another doctor, I can call them in,” he says, voice gentle, careful not to push. His gaze flickers to your face, giving you space, but holding just enough attention to make it clear he’s listening.
You shake your head quickly, almost automatically. “No… no, it’s fine,” you murmur. “You’re… you’re fine.” Your voice catches, tight and shaky.
He nods, a small, understanding smile tugging at his lips. “Alright,” he says softly.
There’s a pause as he studies you, and even in the sterile, buzzing hospital room, there’s a strange sense of understanding between you. The way he leans slightly, careful not to crowd your space, makes it clear he’s not in a rush.
“I could understand from Perlah that you have been feeling nauseous… Can you tell me when it started? And if it’s been constant, or comes and goes?”
You hesitate, twisting your fingers tighter in your lap, and then let out a quiet breath. “A few days… maybe longer,” you mumble. “It… comes and goes. Mostly in the mornings, but sometimes I feel it all day.”
He nods slowly, laying the ipad gently on the counter beside the computer, before sitting down on the stool near the bed. The movement is careful, deliberate, as if he’s trying to make the space feel less clinical and more… manageable.
Neither of you say anything for a moment. “This was not something I had expected today” he then says softly, his tone low and careful, like he’s aware of how fragile the moment feels.
You glance up, caught somewhere between nerves and disbelief. “Yeah… me neither,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.
He gives a small, awkward smile, rubbing the back of his neck as if to ease the tension.
“I, uhm… I regretted not asking for your number that night,” he admits softly, voice low, careful, like he’s letting you in without forcing anything. There’s a vulnerability there, subtle but impossible to miss.
You feel your chest tighten, words catching in your throat. “Me too…” you hear your own voice, small and fragile, but it somehow feels like the only honest thing you can say. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, it’s heavy, yes, but also intimate, like the room has shrunk around just the two of you.
He nods slowly, as if letting your words sink in, the awkward smile lingering just a moment longer before he shifts slightly on the stool, just enough to lean a little closer without closing the space between you.
“I… I kept thinking about it,” he admits quietly, voice almost swallowed by the hum of the fluorescent lights. “I mean not in a weird way! Just… I don’t know, wondering if I’d get another chance to actually talk to you.”
Your heart tightens, and your fingers curl in your lap again. “We did a little more than just talking that night…”
He blinks, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Right.” His eyes flicker away for a moment, like he’s gathering courage, before returning to yours.
The quiet stretches, heavy but intimate, as if the room itself has shrunk to hold just the two of you in this suspended, fragile moment.
“A lot of things can make someone feel nauseous, or make them faint” he continues softly, like he’s searching for the right words, careful not to overstep, not to make you feel any more exposed than you already do. His voice, low and careful, like he’s trying to build a bridge across the nervous tension in the room. “Low blood pressure, stress, anxiety, not eating enough… but we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
You nod, your throat tight, the simple act of acknowledging him feeling heavier than it should. Your fingers fidget in your lap.
He pauses, letting the words settle. “The first thing we’ll do is a urine pregnancy test. It’s quick and easy, just to rule it out before we look at other causes. Pregnancy can lead to low blood pressure and nausea, so it’s a standard step,” he explains gently, keeping his tone calm and steady, though there’s a subtle hesitancy in his voice, like he’s aware of how loaded the moment feels. He meets your eyes, letting the weight of the words hang without pressing you, giving you space to react.
“And what if it is positive?” you say, though it’s closer to a whisper, your voice catching, trailing off as your fingers twist in your lap. The words feel heavier than you expect, like stepping over an invisible line.
He looks at you for a long moment, eyes steady, patient, giving you space to let the words settle without rushing in. His lips press into a thin line before he finally speaks, slow and careful.
“Then, uhm… Then we’ll figure it out,” he answers softly, like the word takes a second to find its way out. His voice is gentle, a little unsteady, but sincere in a way that makes it land.
His words make something in your chest tighten, then loosen all at once. It’s something warm, unfamiliar in a moment that should feel cold and clinical. You swallow, your fingers stilling in your lap for the first time since he walked in. It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t answer the question hanging between you. But it softens it, just enough to breathe around.
Your eyes stay on him, searching, like you’re trying to understand how he can feel so steadying, while looking so nervous at the same time.
He clears his throat softly, like he’s grounding himself back into the role he’s supposed to be playing here. Professional, steady, your doctor. But there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t quite let him be just that.
His hand shifts against his knee, fingers curling slightly, like he’s grounding himself the same way you’ve been trying to. His gaze flickers briefly away, then back to you, and there’s still that same openness there, uncertain, but real.
For a second, it feels like he might say something else. But instead, he exhales quietly and gives a small nod, almost to himself.
“Okay,” he says, softly, like he’s settling into something steadier. “I’ll go get you something to drink, so uh…” he trails off, glancing briefly toward the door before looking back at you. “So you can take the test,” he finishes, voice quiet, the words coming out a little uneven.
The words hang there, simple and clinical on the surface, but they don’t land that way between you.
His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than it needs, like he’s checking something unspoken. Making sure you’re okay. Or maybe trying to make himself believe that you are.
You nod, even though your throat feels tight again. “Okay.”
He gives a small nod back, almost mirroring you, like that’s enough to anchor him.
“Okay,” he echoes. But he doesn’t move right away.
There’s a hesitation, subtle, but there. His fingers press lightly against his knee, then release, like he’s debating something he doesn’t quite let himself say.
“Hey,” he adds softly, drawing your attention back up to him. Your eyes meet his again. “If you start to feel lightheaded again… just lay down, and use the call button, alright?” he says, slipping gently back into that steady, professional tone, but it’s warmer now. More personal.
You nod, even though your throat feels tight again. “Okay,” you whisper.
He watches you for a moment longer, like he’s making sure you really mean it. Like he’s trying to memorize something. Your expression, maybe, or just the fact that you’re still sitting there, still steady.
“Alright,” he says softly. “I’ll be right back.”
You nod again, a little more firmly this time, like you’re trying to hold onto that steadiness he’s offering you.
“Okay,” you repeat, barely above a whisper.
He gives you one last look, longer than necessary, softer than it should be, and then finally turns, pulling the curtain aside. The hallway noise spills in again, distant and impersonal. Voices, footsteps, the faint clatter of something metal against tile. It all feels far away.
And then he’s gone. The curtain falls back into place with a quiet swish, and the room settles into stillness again. You sit there for a moment, unmoving. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers loosely intertwined now instead of clenched. Your breathing is a little uneven, but not as tight as before.
· · · · ·
Dennis leans back against the cool wall just outside the exam room, exhaling slowly through his nose like he’s been holding his breath for the past ten minutes without realizing it. His heart is still beating a little too fast, faster than it should for a routine case. For any case, really.
So for a moment, he just stands there, staring down at the floor, trying to put himself back together into something useful, something professional.
Because the second he walked into that room and saw you he was brought back to that night he met you, and that night wasn’t supposed to follow him here. It had been… simple, surprisingly so. Unexpected, but simple. A rare kind of ease he didn’t often get.
You had felt easy, talking to you had felt easy. Being around you had all felt easy, and nice, but also kind of terrifying in a way he hadn’t really let himself sit with until now. Dennis lets out a quiet breath, dragging a hand down over his face. Yeah. That’s the word. Terrifying. Not because of what happened, but because of how easily it had happened.
Trinity had dragged him along to the bar, and he hadn’t even wanted to go. Pittsburg hadn’t felt like home yet, not really. It still isn’t really, but that night had felt like something close to it. Or at least like a break from everything that didn’t.
Everything still feels slightly unfamiliar, like he is walking half a step out of sync with the rest of the world, but with you, he hadn’t felt so out of sync. It was as if something real had slipped in where it wasn’t supposed to. No expectations, no pressure, no weight. Just someone sweet, someone pretty and kind, who laughed at his awkward jokes like they were actually funny. Smiled at him like you meant it.
He shifts, the back of his head resting briefly against the wall as he now stares up at the fluorescent lights. They buzz faintly, steady and indifferent, like none of this matters outside of that room.
But it does. Because you’re in there. And there’s a chance that… He cuts the thought off before it can fully form, jaw tightening. This must be scary enough for you, he can’t let himself spiral. Because right now, your health, the test, the possibility… it’s about you. Not him
He technically doesn’t even know if he is the father if it turns out that you are pregnant. You could have had other sexual partners within the period of a possible pregnancy. And you would be totally justified in that.
The thought lands quietly this time, without resistance. And he lets it, because it’s true. You would be justified. It’s your life, your choices, your body. One night, no matter how real it felt to him, doesn’t give him any kind of claim or expectation.
Dana is standing by the nursestarion, watching him with that same calm, observant expression she always has, but there’s something a little more knowing in it now. Subtle, but enough to make him straighten instinctively when he notices that she’s looking at him.
“You okay, kid?” she asks, tone light, but not casual enough to ignore.
He nods a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
Dana doesn’t push. She just tilts her head slightly, letting the silence hang long enough for him to notice he’s holding himself too rigidly. Then she turns, returning her focus to the computer in front of her, fingers moving over the keyboard with practiced ease.
He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut for a second before opening them again, blinking a few times, to get himself back together. You need fluids. Ideally something with sugar. That’s an easy task, something manageable he can do right now. Fluids and a pregnancy test, he can get you that.
· · · · ·
You sit in the quiet for a moment, the hum of the fluorescent lights filling the space between your thoughts. Your fingers fidget in your lap, twisting together, letting the tension work itself out in small, unconscious movements.
The shock of seeing him, of him being the one stepping into the room, of being told that he was the doctor that should help you, curls around your chest, tightening in a way that makes your breath catch even though you’re trying to calm yourself.
Your gaze drifts toward the door, half-expecting it to open again, for the curtain to rustle, for him to step back in like this is all some strange, suspended moment that hasn’t quite decided what it is yet.
Out of all of the ER’s in Pittsburgh and all the doctors, it had to be him. The thought doesn’t even feel real when it settles in your mind. It just… sits there, heavy and impossible, like something that belongs to a different version of your life.
A month ago, he was just a stranger. Someone you weren’t supposed to see again, at least not under these circumstances. But somehow, here he is. And here you are. It’s not like you wouldn’t have wanted to see him again but not like this.
The thought settles heavy in your chest, quieter than the others, but somehow almost sharper. Because you had thought about it. Seeing him again. Not in any serious way. Not something you let yourself linger on too long, but it had crossed your mind in those quiet moments afterward. A passing what if. A soft, almost embarrassing curiosity about whether you’d ever run into him again.
Maybe at another bar, or at a house party Trin would drag him along to. Somewhere casual, somewhere easy. Somewhere you could’ve just smiled when you saw him, maybe teased him a little about that awkward first conversation, and about what followed, asked for his number this time without overthinking it. Something simple.
Your chest tightens faintly. Because that version of it doesn’t exist anymore, and it never will, no matter what that test says.
Your stomach shifts again, a low, uneasy roll that makes you press your lips together. You swallow it down, one hand coming to rest lightly against your abdomen, as if that might steady something deeper than just the nausea.
A pregnancy test. The words echo faintly in your head, softer now, but the words aren’t feeling any less heavy. You exhale shakily, dropping your hand back into your lap.
It’s probably nothing. You cling to it again, even as doubt presses in at the edges. Low blood pressure, not eating enough, stress. All things that make sense. All things that don’t change your life in an instant.
Unlike the alternative.
Your foot taps lightly against the side of the bed, a quiet, restless rhythm. And then, without meaning to, your thoughts drift back to that night. The way everything had felt so easy. Like you hadn’t been trying so hard to be okay for once. Like you hadn’t been overthinking every word, every movement.
He was different. Not in any obvious, overwhelming way. Not in the kind of way that demands attention the second someone walks into a room. No, he was much quieter than that. Softer. He hadn’t tried too hard. Hadn’t filled every silence or pushed every conversation forward like he needed it to go somewhere. There had been pauses, small ones, where neither of you spoke, and somehow they hadn’t felt awkward.
Or actually, they had, a little at least, but not in a bad way. Not the kind of awkward that makes your skin itch or your mind scramble for something to fill the space. It was just a little unsure. Like both of you were still figuring each other out in real time, neither quite knowing what to say next, but not wanting to walk away either.
You remember noticing that. The way he looked at you like he was actually listening. Like he wasn’t just waiting for his turn to talk. Your chest tightens faintly. And the way he smiled. A little unsure, a little crooked, like he wasn’t entirely used to it landing somewhere it was truly wanted. It had made something in you soften.
You shift a little on the bed, the paper cover beneath you crinkling softly. The sound feels too loud in the quiet room, making you pause for a second before exhaling slowly. Time feels strange in here, stretched thin. You have no idea if it’s been a minute or five since he left the room–maybe even ten.
Your gaze drifts back to the curtain again, like it might give you some kind of answer. It doesn’t. It just hangs there, still and closed, separating you from everything outside this room.
You exhale slowly, shoulders rising and falling in a measured attempt to stay grounded. But without anything to distract you, your thoughts keep circling back to the same place. The test, him, that night.
Because if it’s negative… Your chest lifts slightly with the thought, something almost like relief brushing against the edges of your ribs. Then this can just stay what it was. A strange coincidence, an almost, something soft and unfinished that you can tuck away and maybe, maybe, come back to later, under different circumstances.
Your throat tightens faintly. Maybe you would actually get that second chance. Maybe you could both laugh about this someday. The absurdity of it, running into each other here, of all places.
But if it turns out to be positive… Your lips press together. The thought doesn’t finish forming before your stomach twists again, sharper this time. Your hand instinctively comes back to rest against your abdomen, fingers pressing lightly like you’re trying to steady the unease from the outside.
If it is positive, everything changes. Not just tonight, not just this moment. Everything.
Your breath comes out a little uneven, and you force yourself to inhale slowly through your nose, exhale through your mouth, like you’ve done a hundred times before when things start to feel like too much.
It wouldn’t just be yours to figure out. Your eyes flicker toward the door again, something uncertain settling in your chest. It would be his, too. Not in the same way, of course. Not in the way it would live in your body, change your body, ask things of you every single day. But it would still be his as well as yours. Shared.
And that thought, that’s the one that lingers the longest. Not fear, exactly. Surprisingly, not even panic. Just a heavy, unsure weight. Because you don’t really know him. Not beyond a single night and a handful of soft, unfinished moments. And yet, you know enough to remember the way he looked at you. The way he touched you. The way he held you as you both caught your breath afterward. He didn’t rush you, didn’t push, didn’t make anything feel like it had to be more than it was.
Your chest tightens again, quieter this time. Would that change? Would this, whatever this is, turn him into someone else? Or would he still be that same person, just in a situation neither of you had asked for?
The thought lingers, unanswered as a soft knock breaks through the quiet before the door opens again, the curtain shifts, not waiting long enough for you to respond to your own questions.
Your head lifts instinctively. Dennis steps back in, the back of one hand pushing the curtain aside, in his arms he’s holding five different small sealed cups, a bottle of water, a can of La Crox. And in his right hand he’s holding another type of cup wrapped in sterile plastic and a packet of test strips.
His eyes find yours immediately. And for a second he hesitates. Like he’s checking the temperature of the room.
“Hey,” he says softly, stepping inside as the curtain falls closed behind him again. His voice is gentler this time, steadier, like he’s had a moment to pull himself back together. But there’s still something there under the surface. “I, uhm, I didn’t know what you like, so I brought a few options,” he finishes a little awkwardly, lifting his arms slightly like it might explain itself, as if he’s only just now realizing how much he’s carrying
Your lips part slightly, a quiet breath slipping out before you can stop it. “Thank you,” you say softly.
The cups shift a little in his hold, and he lets out a small, self-conscious breath before stepping closer to the table beside your bed. “I might’ve… overestimated how many choices you’d need,” he adds quietly.
There’s something almost endearing in the way he says it. Like he’s aware of it, but not enough to undo it. You can’t help it, the faintest hint of a smile tugs at your lips, soft and brief, but real.
“It’s okay,” you murmur.
He gives a small nod, like your approval matters more than it maybe should, like it settles something in him. He put the cups down on the little table next to the bed beside you, a little more carefully than necessary, like even that small action requires focus.
“The apple juice is, uh… probably better,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, gesturing lightly toward it. “You need some sugar.”
“Okay.” You nod, meeting his eyes with a sudden feeling of shyness. “I like apple juice.”
“Yeah?” he says, a little too quickly, like he didn’t expect an actual answer. Then he lets out a small, almost sheepish breath, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sweet, shy smile, like he is happy to learn even the smallest thing about you.
You nod again, a little more certain this time, though the warmth creeping up your neck gives you away.
“Yeah,” you murmur, almost like you’re confirming it for both of you.
His smile lingers for a moment longer than necessary. He removes the lid before handing you the juice cup. You take a sip, the sweetness hitting your tongue a little sharper than you expect, but not unpleasant. It settles something small in your stomach, even if the unease doesn’t fully go away.
You lower the cup slightly, your fingers still wrapped around it. “Good?” he asks, a little tentative, like he’s not entirely sure why it matters so much, but it does.
You nod. “Yeah… it helps.”
Something in his shoulders eases at that, just a fraction. “That’s good,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
There’s a quiet pause, the kind that feels softer now, less strained. Like the edges of the moment have smoothed just a little.
“I know this is… a lot,” he says finally, voice lower now, less clinical, more honest. “The fainting, and feeling sick, and then… this on top of it.” He gestures vaguely, like the words possible pregnancy is too heavy to just drop into the space between you again.
You let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the cup in your hands. “Yeah… it is,” you admit quietly.
He nods, like he understands that in a way that goes beyond just the medical side of things. His fingers shift against the edge of the table, restless for a second before stilling again. There’s something else sitting with him now. You can see it. He glances at you, then away, then back again, like he’s circling something he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch.
“I, uh…” he starts, then stops, a faint crease forming between his brows. He lets out a small breath through his nose, almost a quiet laugh at himself, like he’s aware of how awkward this is about to sound. “I’m trying to figure out how to ask this without making it weird…” he admits softly.
Your grip on the cup tightens just slightly.
“I don’t want to assume anything,” he starts, the words slow, deliberate. “And you don’t have to answer if you’re not comfortable, I just…” he exhales softly, like he’s trying to steady himself. “Timing-wise…” He trails off, glancing at you briefly, then back down, then back up again. Then, more carefully. “That night was, what… about a month ago?”
You nod slowly. “Yeah.”
He nods too, like he expected that, but hearing it still makes something in him settle—and tighten at the same time.
“Okay,” he murmurs. Then another pause. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with,” he says. “Really. I mean that.” His hand comes up briefly, rubbing the back of his neck again before dropping back down. “It’s just… medically, it helps to know, and…” he hesitates, then corrects himself, more honest now, “and not just medically,” he admits, quieter now.
That lands a little heavier. The way he says it, so careful, so indirect, makes your chest ache a little. He’s not pushing. Not claiming anything. Just asking for a place in something that maybe don’t een exist, but already feels bigger than either of you can name.
“There hasn’t been anyone else,” you say softly.
His eyes widen just the slightest fraction, a flicker of relief passing through them before he smooths it down into calm attentiveness. He doesn’t smile or anything, but you can see the tension in his shoulders ease, just a little.
“Okay,” he says softly. His voice low, steady and careful. “That… helps, a lot. Thank you for telling me.” He lets the words hang for a moment, letting them settle between you both.
“Dennis?”
He blinks at your voice, a faint pause filling the space as if the single word pulled him up from a careful orbit around himself. His eyes flick to yours, wide, attentive, the weight of that moment settling on him too. “Yeah?” His voice is soft, still careful, like he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next but ready to meet it.
“Can I get your number?”
You don’t even know why you are asking him right now, the timing is weird, but it suddenly feels very important.
His eyebrows lift just the slightest fraction, like the question took a second to land. “Yeah,” says finally, voice low, almost shy. “Of course.”
You pull out your phone, swiping your thumb across the screen and unlocking it with quiet, deliberate motion, trying not to let your hands shake. You open up your contacts, fingers hovering over the ‘+’ button for a new entry. Your thumb hesitates just above the name field for a moment, and then, with a quiet breath, you type in Dennis. You tap the number field and carefully hand the phone toward him, your fingers brushing briefly against his as he takes it.
His hand is warm, steady, and there’s a soft, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he glances down at the screen. He types in his number slowly, deliberately, like he’s memorizing the motion as much as the digits. Then he hands the phone back to you.
“Thank you,” you say softly as you press the button to save the contact. You tuck the phone back into your pocket.
He hesitates for a second, like he is weighing something, then finally lifts his phone. “Uh… can I get your number too?” His voice is quiet, careful, almost shy, as if he’s afraid of breaking the fragile rhythm between you.
You feel a small warmth rise in your chest at the request. “Of course.”
It’s his turn to pull out his phone, fingers fumbling just slightly as he unlocks it. You watch him for a moment, the soft concentration on his face, the way his eyebrows draw together just a little, and it makes your chest tighten in a good, nervous way.
You hold out your hand, and he hands over the phone, your fingers typing again, warm and familiar before handing it back to him again. His eyes meet yours with that shy little smile before pressing save.
He glances down at the small collection of cups on the table beside your bed, then back up at you, eyes soft and careful. “Do you need some more to drink?”
You shake your head just slightly, still feeling the warmth from the phone exchange linger in your chest. “Maybe just a little,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you intend, like the words are tentative, testing the space between you. You have to be able to pee to take the test, but you don’t feel ready, even though you know you should.
The thought of standing up, moving, letting go of control for even a moment, of taking a test that could change everything, twists your stomach in a way that has nothing to do with nausea.
“What would you like?” he asks, eyes soft, giving you room to choose without pressure.
“Just some water.”
He nods right away, like the answer really matters “Yeah, okay,” he says softly, reaching for the bottle. He screws the bottle open before handing it to you, the sound of the plastic breaking softly in the quiet as the seal of the bottle cap breaks.
You take a small sip, then another, your throat easing as the water settles. He stays where he is, close but not too close, his weight shifting slightly from one foot to the other. His hands hover like he’s not entirely sure what to do with them, before one comes up to rub the back of his neck again.
“So, uhm, Perlah will come back in a few minutes,” he says, voice a little uneven at first before he steadies it. “She’ll, uh… take you to the bathroom. And she will explain what to do, she is definitely a lot better at that than me.” He clears his throat softly, a small, sheepish smile tugging at his lips. He shifts his weight again, glancing briefly at the door before looking back at you, softer this time. “And then it only takes a few minutes,” he adds. “For the result, I mean.”
A few minutes. It sounds so short, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. You swallow, taking another sip of water, letting the coolness settle. “Right.”
There’s a soft knock at the door before either of you can say anything else. The curtain shifts a second later, and Perlah steps in, her presence gentle but efficient, like she’s done this a hundred times before.
“Hi,” she says with a small, reassuring smile, glancing between you and Dennis before focusing on you. “How are you feeling?”
You hesitate. “A little better,” you manage.
“Alright.” She nods, like that’s enough for now. “When you’re ready, we’ll have you give us a urine sample so we can run the test, okay?”
“I, uhm, I think I’m ready,” you say, your voice small, almost swallowed by the quiet room. You take a last sip from the water bottle before setting it down on the table
“Okay.” Perlah nods, her smile steady and patient. You’re glad you know her name now, you had been too nauseous and out of it to catch it when she first introduced herself and you were too embarrassed to ask again. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”
Dennis hands her the specimen cup, sealed in clear wrapping, along with the small box of testing strips. His movements are careful, almost tentative, as if he’s afraid to break the fragile rhythm of the room. Perlah accepts them with a nod, her hands steady and practiced.
“Follow me, hun,” Perlah says gently, her voice warm but professional. She steps toward the door, holding it open for you with a soft, encouraging smile. Dennis shifts slightly, giving you a reassuring glance before staying where he is, letting you move forward.
When you reach the bathroom, she gestures toward it. “Alright, just like I said. You can use the cup here. When you’re done you can just leave the cup on the counter and I will take it to testing.”
“Okay, thank you,” you say quietly, your fingers tightening just slightly around the cup.
Perlah gives you one last reassuring nod. “I’ll be right outside, but you can take all the time you need,” she says softly, before stepping back and letting the door close behind you.
The small click of it feels louder than it should. For a moment, you just stand there. The bathroom is simple, clean, thank god. The cup in your hand feels light, but your chest doesn’t. You let out a slow breath, your shoulders rising and falling as you try to steady yourself.
When you’re done, you set the cup carefully on the counter before washing your hands. You catch your own gaze in the mirror, and for a second, you don’t quite recognize yourself.
You let out a sigh before looking away. You dry your hands slowly, buying yourself an extra second before reaching for the door. When you open it, Perlah is right where she said she’d be. She looks up immediately, her expression soft and steady.
“All set?” she asks.
You nod. “Yeah.”
“Perfect.” She steps inside, her movements easy and practiced as she picks up the cup from the counter. “I’ll take this to testing now. It won’t take long.”
You nod again, even though your chest tightens at that.
She pauses for just a second before stepping back out, her voice gentler now. “You can head back. I’ll come find you as soon as we have something.”
“Okay,” you murmur. “Thank you.”
The walk back feels quieter than before, like the air has thickened somehow. When you step through the curtain, Dennis looks up immediately, like he’s been listening for your steps. His shoulders ease the second he sees you.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey.”
There’s a small pause as you move back toward the bed, sitting down carefully. Your hands come together in your lap, fingers beginning fidgeting before you even notice that you’re doing it. It’s starting to become a bad habit.
Your eyes drift to his hand for a second, then back up to his face. He notices, just barely, and something in his expression softens even more.
For a second, neither of you says anything. Then, slowly, carefully, he steps closer. You scoot just slightly, making space for him without thinking about it. He notices. Of course he does. He sits down beside you, careful with the distance, close, but not crowding. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the quiet steadiness he carries with him.
Your hands are still fidgeting in your lap, fingers twisting together, and after a moment, his gaze drops to them. But it’s not in a way that makes you self-conscious.
Then his hand shifts. Slowly, deliberately, he rests it on the bed beside yours. It’s tentative, like a question, an option.
You hesitate, your breath catching just slightly. Your fingers still for a moment, like they’re deciding something before you are. Then, almost without thinking, they drift, just enough to brush against his.
The contact is light. Barely there. But it’s enough. His shoulders drop a fraction, like something in him settles.
“Sorry,” he murmurs softly, though he doesn’t pull away. “I just…”
“It’s okay,” you say quickly, your voice quieter than you expect. You glance down at your hands for a second, then back up at him. “It’s… nice.”
That earns the smallest, most relieved smile from him. “Okay,” he says, almost to himself.
The silence that follows feels different again. Still quiet, still heavy with waiting—but softer around the edges now. Less alone.
Your thumb shifts slightly against his without you realizing it, a small, grounding motion. His hand responds instinctively, just barely tightening, like he’s anchoring himself there too.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks after a moment, voice gentle. “Or… not talk about it,” he adds quickly, a hint of nervousness slipping back in. “Either’s okay.”
You let out a small breath, your gaze drifting somewhere past him for a second. “I don’t even know what there is to say yet,” you admit.
“Yeah,” he nods. “That’s fair.”
“I think I’m just scared of knowing,” you add, quieter now.
He doesn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”
The honesty of it sits between you, simple and unguarded. And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe. But it doesn’t stop your heart from skipping a beat as the sound of soft, but firm knock lands against the door. It cuts clean through the quiet and both of you still.
Your hand tightens just a fraction before you even realize it, and he responds immediately, steady, present.
“Hey,” Perlah’s voice comes gently from the other side before she steps in, her expression changing for a split second when she sees the two of you sitting on the bed. Not judgment, just a slight surprise. Like she’s clocking the moment and choosing, very deliberately, to handle it gently.
Your heart jumps into your throat. She steps fully inside, glancing between the two of you, briefly, not intrusive, before her attention settles on you.
“The results are ready to be confirmed, so I need Dr. Whitaker for a moment,” Perlah finishes gently. The words land softly, but they shift something in the room immediately.
Dennis stills beside you. There’s a small pause, like he’s switching something inside himself, stepping back into a role he can stand on. His hand slips from yours this time, slower, more deliberate. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “Of course.” He says to Perlah before he glances at you, and for a second the doctor is still there, but there’s something else underneath it. Softer. More personal. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
You nod, even though your chest feels tight. “Okay,” you echo, your voice barely above a breath.
He hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, like he wants to say something more. Then he doesn’t. Instead, he gives you a small, reassuring nod before standing.
Perlah steps back slightly to give him space as he moves toward her. There’s a quiet efficiency in the way they fall into step with each other, like this is familiar ground for her and something he’s trying very hard to navigate correctly.
The curtain shifts closed behind them. And just like that, you’re alone. The room feels different without him in it. Quieter. And now bigger, somehow.
You stare down at your hands, still curled slightly like they’re remembering the shape of his. Outside, their voices are low. Too low to make out clearly, it’s just the soft murmur of conversation, the faint rustle of something, the clinical rhythm of confirmation.
Minutes stretch. Or maybe it’s seconds. Yeah, it probably is just second, but you have a hard time telling. Every second in here feels like a minute. Your knee starts bouncing before you notice it, a restless energy you can’t quite contain. You press your hands against them to make them still, but the movement doesn’t fully stop.
But then the curtain moves. Dennis steps back in, and you know. You don’t know how, but you just know. It’s in his face, not panicked, nor cold, but very careful. Grounded in a way that feels intentional, like he’s choosing how to hold this moment before he gives it to you, but there is still a small hint of both nervousness and shock that he can’t really hide.
“Hey,” he says softly.
Your throat feels tight. “Hey.”
He doesn’t come all the way in right away. There’s a brief pause, like he’s giving you a second to breathe, to brace, like he understands that once he says it, there’s no taking it back. Then he steps closer.
“Can I sit?” he asks gently.
You nod. He sits beside you again, leaving just a little space this time, professional and careful, but still close enough that you don’t feel alone.
A breath passes. Then another. And then, quietly. “So… as your doctor I needed to confirm the result.” He glances at you, just briefly, like he’s making sure you’re with him. “And, uh… It did come back positive.”
The words settle into the room slowly, like they don’t quite know where to land. Positive. For a second, everything feels very still. Your ears ring faintly, like the world has stepped just half a pace away from you. Your gaze drops somewhere between your hands and the floor, unfocused.
Positive. It echoes again, quieter this time, heavier. Your breath comes in, but it’s shallow. Not enough. You swallow, your throat tight, like there’s something lodged there that won’t move.
“Hey.” His voice is soft. Careful.
You don’t look up right away.
“I know this is… a lot,” Dennis adds gently, and there’s something in the way he says it, like he’s holding the weight of it with you instead of just handing it over.
You let out a small breath, but it shakes on the way out. “Yeah…” you manage, though it barely sounds like you.
Silence stretches again, but it’s different now, thicker, more real.
Your hand drifts, almost without thinking, back to your abdomen. It rests there lightly, like before, but now the gesture feels different. Your chest tightens.
“I…” you start, then stop. Your voice doesn’t want to cooperate. You shake your head slightly, a small, almost helpless motion. “I don’t know what to say. I thought it was just stress.”
“That’s okay,” he says immediately. Too quickly, almost, like he doesn’t want you to feel like you have to say anything. “You don’t have to say anything right now.”
You nod faintly, even though your thoughts are anything but still. Everything is moving too fast and not at all at the same time.
“Would you hate me if I kept it?” You can’t stop the words before they leave your mouth, you don’t even know why the thought feels so important to you, but in this moment it’s a question every fiber in your body needs an answer to. You don’t look at him, you can’t. It’s like something in you is bracing for impact.
Dennis stills. “Hate you?” he repeats softly, like he needs to hear it again to believe it.
You don’t look at him. Your gaze stays fixed somewhere low. “I don’t know…” you murmur, your voice small, fragile in a way you can’t quite hide. “I don’t even know what I want.” Your voice barely holds together by the end of it.
“No,” he says. His voice cuts in softly, but not sharply. Just catching you before you spiral too far ahead of yourself.
You still. You don’t look at him.
There’s a small pause. You can feel him shift beside you. not away, just adjusting, like he’s trying to meet you where you are without crowding you.
“No, I wouldn’t hate you for that,” he repeats, quieter now, but no less steady. “ Not for anything.”
Your throat tightens. You swallow hard. “I just,” you shake your head slightly, your voice barely holding together. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m allowed to feel about it. It’s like…” your breath stutters, “like if I even think about wanting it, I’m already messing everything up.”
That lands deeper than you expect it to. There’s a shift beside you again, closer this time, but still careful. Always careful. “You’re not messing anything up,” he says gently.
You let out a quiet, shaky breath, but it doesn’t quite steady you.
“I don’t even know what you’d want,” you admit, finally glancing at him, your eyes searching his like you’re bracing for something you’re not sure you can handle.
That’s what this is really about. Not just the question. Him. You don’t even know what you want, but not knowing what he wants somehow feels worse. Not knowing what you want is overwhelming, but not knowing where he stands? That feels like standing on something that might give out beneath you at any second.
“I want you to be okay,” he says first. It’s not a deflection. It’s just the most honest place he can start. Then, after a small breath. “And yeah,” he adds, quieter, more personal now, “I care about what happens. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.”
Your chest tightens again, and you gather all your courage to look up and meet his eyes again. There’s something so rawly vulnerable in his expression now.
“But that doesn’t turn into pressure on you,” he continues quickly, gently. “It doesn’t get to.” His hand shifts slightly on the bed, closer again, still not assuming, still leaving the choice with you. “This is your decision,” he says softly. “Not mine to make for you, or mine to judge.”
You swallow, your throat still tight, but something in your chest has shifted, just enough that you can breathe a little deeper than before. “I know,” you say quietly, and you mean it. You can feel how careful he’s being, how hard he’s trying not to tip the balance one way or the other.
A small pause. Then, more carefully. “If you kept it, I wouldn’t hate you.” His voice softens even more. “And I’d… want to be there. If you wanted me to be.” That last part is quieter, almost tentative. “Honestly, I would want to be there even if you wouldn’t want me to.”
He stops himself. Like he hears it as he’s saying it and realizes how it might sound too much, too fast, crossing a line he’s been so careful not to cross.
A small breath leaves him, and he shakes his head slightly, softer now, correcting, not taking it back, just placing it better.
“I mean,” he says quietly, “I wouldn’t force that. I wouldn’t show up where I’m not wanted.” His eyes meet yours again, steady, open. “But I wouldn’t just stop caring either.”
That lands differently. No pressure, just truth.
“But we don’t have to figure everything out right now,” he continues, voice steady but soft. “This is just… information right now. Okay? Just one step.”
“Just one step,” you repeat, like you’re testing the shape of it.
His thumb shifts lightly against your hand, careful, reassuring. “Yeah.” The words sit between you, quieter now. You both let the silence settle. Your breathing evens out a little more, your shoulders lowering inch by inch, like your body is finally catching up to what your mind is trying to process.
His hand is still there, steady against yours. Not holding tight, not claiming, just present. Close enough that you can feel it if you need to. And you do.
“You need to stay for monitoring,” he says gently, voice slipping a little more into something professional, but still soft, still him. “Just for a couple of hours. Given the fainting earlier, we need to make sure everything stays stable. And we have to check a few other things, just to be sure,” he finishes gently, smoothing the sentence as it comes together.
He glances at you, like he’s checking how it lands before continuing. You nod, a small, quiet motion, your eyes still on him. “Okay,” you say softly.
“It’s just routine things,” he adds, softer again. “Blood pressure, heart rate, maybe some blood work. Nothing invasive unless we have a reason,” he adds quickly. “And we’ll talk you through everything before we do it.”
You nod again, a little more firmly this time.
“Okay…” A small breath leaves you. “That sounds… manageable,” you admit.
There’s the faintest hint of relief in his expression, not because the situation is easier, but because he seems to care a lot about your reaction.. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s the goal.”
“Thank you for being so nice to me,” you say quietly. The words come out softer than you expect, but they feel important to say.
He stills for just a second, not surprised exactly, but like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says gently.
You shake your head a little, your fingers shifting faintly against his. “I know,” you murmur. “But still.” Your eyes meet his again, steadier now. “Thanbk you for not making this feel worse,” you finish softly.
The words hang there for a second, fragile but honest. He doesn’t answer right away.
You can see the moment it lands, really lands, in the way his expression shifts. Something quieter, more affected than he’s been letting himself show.
“I’m really glad to hear it didn’t,” he says finally, voice low, but a sheepish smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, small and a little self-conscious, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with being seen like that. His gaze dips for a second before coming back to you, even softer now.
Your fingers move slightly against his again, a small, unconscious motion, but you don’t pull back at all. There’s a pause. Then, more quietly.
“If everything looks good, you should get discharged around the time my shift ends, so if you… I don’t know, uhm… maybe we could go grab something to eat after,” he says quietly, almost as if testing the idea out, letting it hover between you. “If you want to.”
You blink, caught off guard, but the thought warms your chest in a way nothing else has in hours. “Yeah,” you manage, voice small but steady, “I’d like that.”
A small, genuine smile spreads across his face, softening the tension you didn’t realize had been holding you so tight. “Okay,” he says, letting the word linger, careful not to rush it.
Your fingers brush against his again, just slightly, and he doesn’t pull away, instead of that ,his thumb brushes lightly over yours in a small, steadying motion. The room feels a little softer, the air a little warmer, and for the first time in hours, the tight coil in your chest loosens just enough for a small, real breath to escape. And for now, in this little moment of time, that’s enough. He’s on your team.
Okay but imagine reader and Dennis who had a one night stand and then like a month later she ends up in the er and he gets assigned as her doctor. she needs to take a pregnancy test for some medical reason and turns out she is preggo
𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞, 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞 ♡
Uh, such a cute (and juicy!!) idea! Thank you for the request, hun <3
Dennis Whitaker x f!reader || Masterlist || Spotify
summary: After fainting in a grocery store, you end up in the ER. Turns out your stay comes with a couple surprises. Not only who your doctor turns out to be, but what you thought was just stress also turns out to be something more.
word count: 9.9k
note/tags: Afab!reader. No use of y/n. One night stand. Unplanned pregnancy. Fluff/tiny bit of angst? May contain medical inaccuracies. Dennis is a sweetheart.
You sit yourself down on the side of the hospital bed with a mix of self-pity and embarrassment, hunched slightly forward with your elbows on your knees. The fluorescent lights overhead make everything feel harsher than it should be, and the faint smell of disinfectant only makes the nausea rolling in your stomach worse.
You swallow hard, pressing the back of your hand against your mouth. This is ridiculous. People go to the ER for actual emergencies. Broken bones, car accidents, things that bleed or stop working. Not because they passed out in the middle of a grocery store. The nurse who brought you in gives you a sympathetic smile as she logs something into the computer in the corner of the room.
You like her, she seems nice, and you have the feeling that she’s rooting for you, like she is on your team. It’s not often you feel that when you’re in places like this.
Usually, it’s the opposite. Usually, it feels like you’re being evaluated, quietly measured against some invisible standard you’ve already failed to meet. But she doesn’t look at you like that. There’s no impatience in the way she moves, no thinly veiled skepticism when she glances in your direction. Just calm, steady attention.
You drop your hand back into your lap, fingers curling together. The nausea ebbs slightly, replaced by a dull, lingering shakiness that makes your limbs feel like they don’t quite belong to you.
“Your doctor will be with you in just a minute,” she says kindly. “In the meantime, I’m gonna start taking your vitals, alright?”
You nod, shifting slightly on the bed as another small wave of nausea rolls through you. “Yeah, okay,” you mumble.
She gives you a small, reassuring nod before reaching for a blood pressure cuff and wrapping it around your arm. Quietly explaining while she does so.
“Just relax,” she says softly.
You try. The cuff tightens, squeezing your arm, and you focus on the steady hum of the machine instead of the lingering unease in your stomach and now your arm, before it slowly loosens again.
She glances at the numbers on the monitor. “Well, your blood pressure is on the lower side,” she says. “That could definitely explain the dizziness.”
You just nod, not really trusting yourself to say anything without your voice giving you away.
“Did you eat today?”
“Yeah, some toast,” you admit. “That’s about it.”
She nods again before reaching for your arm to remove the cuff, her touch light and careful as she slides it off. “Alright,” she says softly, setting it aside. “And have you been eating normally lately?” she asks.
“No… not really,” you admit. “I’ve been feeling kinda sick the past few days.”
“Nauseous?”
You nod again.
“Okay. Have you experienced any stomach pain?”
You shake your head. “Not really.”
“Any vomiting?”
“No…” you hesitate, glancing down at your hands. “But there have been a few times I’ve felt like I might,” you admit, your voice quieter now.
Then, in that same neutral, routine tone, she asks, “Any chance you could be pregnant?”
The question lands heavier than it should. You’re just about to blurt out no, out of pure instinct, something automatic, easy and safe. But the word catches in your throat. Your love life hasn’t exactly been active the last year or two. And that’s why your brain wants to say no without thinking.
But there was that one night about a month ago.
It was the kind of night out that wasn’t supposed to turn into anything. Just a way to get out of your own head for a few hours, to feel normal again. You hadn’t expected anything from it. You had just met up with some of your friends, some of your friends’ friends. And a few people who turned out to be friends of friends of friends –people you didn’t know, names you didn’t catch, faces that blurred together after a while.
You hadn’t planned on staying long. Just a drink or two, a laugh and a light conversation, then leave. But then you noticed him. He looked even more out of place than you felt. Leaning against the wall, drink in hand, like he wasn’t sure where he belonged. His eyes roamed the room but didn’t settle on anyone, not until they landed on you.
You smiled first, almost without thinking. He looked surprised, a little caught off guard, and then he smiled back, awkwardly, nervously, but genuine. And somehow, that was enough. It was awkward, sure, but real in a way that made you want to stay a little longer than you first intended.
You started talking. He was one of those friends of friends of friends. The kind of person you could’ve missed entirely if things had gone just a little differently that night. At first, just small talk to fill the time, but then it wasn’t just small talk anymore. It was laughter and shared glances, a kind of ease that felt like it had slipped through the cracks of the night. He was charming in a quiet, unassuming way. Sweet, earnest, a little clumsy, completely unlike anyone you’d met in a long time.
And it was so nice. Someone kind, nervous, and a little awkward. Someone who had made you feel lighter than usual. One drink became two, two turned into standing a little closer than before, conversations dipping softer, quieter. There had been a moment, just a small one, where neither of you were really talking anymore, just looking at each other like you were both trying to decide something at the same time. And then you had.,.
You swallow. Your fingers curl tighter in your lap, nails pressing lightly into your skin
“There might be a little chance.”
The nurse doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look at you differently. She just nods, like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.
“Alright. We’ll have you take a pregnancy test just to rule it out.”
Your stomach twists again, though this time it’s not entirely because of the nausea. Because technically, there is a chance.
The thought settles heavy, sinking somewhere deep in your chest. The nurse gives you a small, reassuring smile, like nothing about this is unusual, like this is just another step in a routine process.
“I’ll see if your doctor is ready now,” she says gently.
“Okay,” you manage, your voice quieter than you intend. “Thank you.”
The curtain shifts as she steps out, leaving you alone with the low hum of the machines and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. You exhale slowly, leaning forward again, elbows resting on your knees, trying to ground yourself.
It’s probably nothing. It has to be nothing. Low blood pressure. Not eating enough. Stress. Your fingers tighten together, then loosen again as you force yourself to breathe.
After a while the curtain rustles. You glance up, and everything in you stills. You are met by a friendly smile from your nurse, kind brown eyes, soft and familiar. But it is not her who makes your breath catch. It’s the person stepping in behind her.
He is looking down at the ipad in his hands, brows slightly furrowed in concentration, like he’s trying to finish reading something before stepping fully into the room. It gives you a second, just one, to see him without being seen.
The familiar slope of his shoulders. The way he holds himself, a little unsure, like he’s still getting used to being here. Light brown hair falling over his forehead, and curling up at the nap of his neck.
Then he looks up, and his eyes meet yours. Those wide, blue eyes, you remember all too well.
“This is Dr. Whitaker,” the nurse says softly, her tone carrying the gentle authority of routine, but your gaze doesn’t leave him. She tells Dennis your name, not knowing that he already knows it. “We already took her blood pressure, and you ordered a pregnancy test.”
His gaze flickers briefly toward the nurse, then back to you. “Thank you, Perlah,” he says, voice small.
There’s a pause, the kind that makes the air between you feel thicker. She gives him a quick look, a brow slightly raised, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Then she gazes back to you, smiling softly, as if nothing unusual has happened.
“If you need anything, you can call on the button and I’ll be back. But in the meantime, you’re in good hands with Dr. Whitaker.”
You give a small nod, your throat tight, words catching somewhere between nervousness and surprise. She steps out, the curtain swishing closed behind her, and the door closes, and suddenly the room feels impossibly quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing a little louder, your heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears.
“Hi,” he says, an awkward smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, just enough to make it feel human, approachable.
“Hi,” you manage, your voice smaller than you would like, uneven, caught somewhere between nerves and surprise.
“So, uh, you fainted…” he continues, voice careful, like he’s stepping lightly around fragile ground. His fingers tap lightly on the edge of the ipad, a subtle rhythm that seems to mirror your racing heartbeat.
You glance down at your hands, twisting them together in your lap. “Yeah… I guess,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper.
“Uhm.. If you would prefer another doctor, I can call them in,” he says, voice gentle, careful not to push. His gaze flickers to your face, giving you space, but holding just enough attention to make it clear he’s listening.
You shake your head quickly, almost automatically. “No… no, it’s fine,” you murmur. “You’re… you’re fine.” Your voice catches, tight and shaky.
He nods, a small, understanding smile tugging at his lips. “Alright,” he says softly.
There’s a pause as he studies you, and even in the sterile, buzzing hospital room, there’s a strange sense of understanding between you. The way he leans slightly, careful not to crowd your space, makes it clear he’s not in a rush.
“I could understand from Perlah that you have been feeling nauseous… Can you tell me when it started? And if it’s been constant, or comes and goes?”
You hesitate, twisting your fingers tighter in your lap, and then let out a quiet breath. “A few days… maybe longer,” you mumble. “It… comes and goes. Mostly in the mornings, but sometimes I feel it all day.”
He nods slowly, laying the ipad gently on the counter beside the computer, before sitting down on the stool near the bed. The movement is careful, deliberate, as if he’s trying to make the space feel less clinical and more… manageable.
Neither of you say anything for a moment. “This was not something I had expected today” he then says softly, his tone low and careful, like he’s aware of how fragile the moment feels.
You glance up, caught somewhere between nerves and disbelief. “Yeah… me neither,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.
He gives a small, awkward smile, rubbing the back of his neck as if to ease the tension.
“I, uhm… I regretted not asking for your number that night,” he admits softly, voice low, careful, like he’s letting you in without forcing anything. There’s a vulnerability there, subtle but impossible to miss.
You feel your chest tighten, words catching in your throat. “Me too…” you hear your own voice, small and fragile, but it somehow feels like the only honest thing you can say. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, it’s heavy, yes, but also intimate, like the room has shrunk around just the two of you.
He nods slowly, as if letting your words sink in, the awkward smile lingering just a moment longer before he shifts slightly on the stool, just enough to lean a little closer without closing the space between you.
“I… I kept thinking about it,” he admits quietly, voice almost swallowed by the hum of the fluorescent lights. “I mean not in a weird way! Just… I don’t know, wondering if I’d get another chance to actually talk to you.”
Your heart tightens, and your fingers curl in your lap again. “We did a little more than just talking that night…”
He blinks, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Right.” His eyes flicker away for a moment, like he’s gathering courage, before returning to yours.
The quiet stretches, heavy but intimate, as if the room itself has shrunk to hold just the two of you in this suspended, fragile moment.
“A lot of things can make someone feel nauseous, or make them faint” he continues softly, like he’s searching for the right words, careful not to overstep, not to make you feel any more exposed than you already do. His voice, low and careful, like he’s trying to build a bridge across the nervous tension in the room. “Low blood pressure, stress, anxiety, not eating enough… but we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
You nod, your throat tight, the simple act of acknowledging him feeling heavier than it should. Your fingers fidget in your lap.
He pauses, letting the words settle. “The first thing we’ll do is a urine pregnancy test. It’s quick and easy, just to rule it out before we look at other causes. Pregnancy can lead to low blood pressure and nausea, so it’s a standard step,” he explains gently, keeping his tone calm and steady, though there’s a subtle hesitancy in his voice, like he’s aware of how loaded the moment feels. He meets your eyes, letting the weight of the words hang without pressing you, giving you space to react.
“And what if it is positive?” you say, though it’s closer to a whisper, your voice catching, trailing off as your fingers twist in your lap. The words feel heavier than you expect, like stepping over an invisible line.
He looks at you for a long moment, eyes steady, patient, giving you space to let the words settle without rushing in. His lips press into a thin line before he finally speaks, slow and careful.
“Then, uhm… Then we’ll figure it out,” he answers softly, like the word takes a second to find its way out. His voice is gentle, a little unsteady, but sincere in a way that makes it land.
His words make something in your chest tighten, then loosen all at once. It’s something warm, unfamiliar in a moment that should feel cold and clinical. You swallow, your fingers stilling in your lap for the first time since he walked in. It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t answer the question hanging between you. But it softens it, just enough to breathe around.
Your eyes stay on him, searching, like you’re trying to understand how he can feel so steadying, while looking so nervous at the same time.
He clears his throat softly, like he’s grounding himself back into the role he’s supposed to be playing here. Professional, steady, your doctor. But there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t quite let him be just that.
His hand shifts against his knee, fingers curling slightly, like he’s grounding himself the same way you’ve been trying to. His gaze flickers briefly away, then back to you, and there’s still that same openness there, uncertain, but real.
For a second, it feels like he might say something else. But instead, he exhales quietly and gives a small nod, almost to himself.
“Okay,” he says, softly, like he’s settling into something steadier. “I’ll go get you something to drink, so uh…” he trails off, glancing briefly toward the door before looking back at you. “So you can take the test,” he finishes, voice quiet, the words coming out a little uneven.
The words hang there, simple and clinical on the surface, but they don’t land that way between you.
His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than it needs, like he’s checking something unspoken. Making sure you’re okay. Or maybe trying to make himself believe that you are.
You nod, even though your throat feels tight again. “Okay.”
He gives a small nod back, almost mirroring you, like that’s enough to anchor him.
“Okay,” he echoes. But he doesn’t move right away.
There’s a hesitation, subtle, but there. His fingers press lightly against his knee, then release, like he’s debating something he doesn’t quite let himself say.
“Hey,” he adds softly, drawing your attention back up to him. Your eyes meet his again. “If you start to feel lightheaded again… just lay down, and use the call button, alright?” he says, slipping gently back into that steady, professional tone, but it’s warmer now. More personal.
You nod, even though your throat feels tight again. “Okay,” you whisper.
He watches you for a moment longer, like he’s making sure you really mean it. Like he’s trying to memorize something. Your expression, maybe, or just the fact that you’re still sitting there, still steady.
“Alright,” he says softly. “I’ll be right back.”
You nod again, a little more firmly this time, like you’re trying to hold onto that steadiness he’s offering you.
“Okay,” you repeat, barely above a whisper.
He gives you one last look, longer than necessary, softer than it should be, and then finally turns, pulling the curtain aside. The hallway noise spills in again, distant and impersonal. Voices, footsteps, the faint clatter of something metal against tile. It all feels far away.
And then he’s gone. The curtain falls back into place with a quiet swish, and the room settles into stillness again. You sit there for a moment, unmoving. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers loosely intertwined now instead of clenched. Your breathing is a little uneven, but not as tight as before.
· · · · ·
Dennis leans back against the cool wall just outside the exam room, exhaling slowly through his nose like he’s been holding his breath for the past ten minutes without realizing it. His heart is still beating a little too fast, faster than it should for a routine case. For any case, really.
So for a moment, he just stands there, staring down at the floor, trying to put himself back together into something useful, something professional.
Because the second he walked into that room and saw you he was brought back to that night he met you, and that night wasn’t supposed to follow him here. It had been… simple, surprisingly so. Unexpected, but simple. A rare kind of ease he didn’t often get.
You had felt easy, talking to you had felt easy. Being around you had all felt easy, and nice, but also kind of terrifying in a way he hadn’t really let himself sit with until now. Dennis lets out a quiet breath, dragging a hand down over his face. Yeah. That’s the word. Terrifying. Not because of what happened, but because of how easily it had happened.
Trinity had dragged him along to the bar, and he hadn’t even wanted to go. Pittsburg hadn’t felt like home yet, not really. It still isn’t really, but that night had felt like something close to it. Or at least like a break from everything that didn’t.
Everything still feels slightly unfamiliar, like he is walking half a step out of sync with the rest of the world, but with you, he hadn’t felt so out of sync. It was as if something real had slipped in where it wasn’t supposed to. No expectations, no pressure, no weight. Just someone sweet, someone pretty and kind, who laughed at his awkward jokes like they were actually funny. Smiled at him like you meant it.
He shifts, the back of his head resting briefly against the wall as he now stares up at the fluorescent lights. They buzz faintly, steady and indifferent, like none of this matters outside of that room.
But it does. Because you’re in there. And there’s a chance that… He cuts the thought off before it can fully form, jaw tightening. This must be scary enough for you, he can’t let himself spiral. Because right now, your health, the test, the possibility… it’s about you. Not him
He technically doesn’t even know if he is the father if it turns out that you are pregnant. You could have had other sexual partners within the period of a possible pregnancy. And you would be totally justified in that.
The thought lands quietly this time, without resistance. And he lets it, because it’s true. You would be justified. It’s your life, your choices, your body. One night, no matter how real it felt to him, doesn’t give him any kind of claim or expectation.
Dana is standing by the nursestarion, watching him with that same calm, observant expression she always has, but there’s something a little more knowing in it now. Subtle, but enough to make him straighten instinctively when he notices that she’s looking at him.
“You okay, kid?” she asks, tone light, but not casual enough to ignore.
He nods a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
Dana doesn’t push. She just tilts her head slightly, letting the silence hang long enough for him to notice he’s holding himself too rigidly. Then she turns, returning her focus to the computer in front of her, fingers moving over the keyboard with practiced ease.
He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut for a second before opening them again, blinking a few times, to get himself back together. You need fluids. Ideally something with sugar. That’s an easy task, something manageable he can do right now. Fluids and a pregnancy test, he can get you that.
· · · · ·
You sit in the quiet for a moment, the hum of the fluorescent lights filling the space between your thoughts. Your fingers fidget in your lap, twisting together, letting the tension work itself out in small, unconscious movements.
The shock of seeing him, of him being the one stepping into the room, of being told that he was the doctor that should help you, curls around your chest, tightening in a way that makes your breath catch even though you’re trying to calm yourself.
Your gaze drifts toward the door, half-expecting it to open again, for the curtain to rustle, for him to step back in like this is all some strange, suspended moment that hasn’t quite decided what it is yet.
Out of all of the ER’s in Pittsburgh and all the doctors, it had to be him. The thought doesn’t even feel real when it settles in your mind. It just… sits there, heavy and impossible, like something that belongs to a different version of your life.
A month ago, he was just a stranger. Someone you weren’t supposed to see again, at least not under these circumstances. But somehow, here he is. And here you are. It’s not like you wouldn’t have wanted to see him again but not like this.
The thought settles heavy in your chest, quieter than the others, but somehow almost sharper. Because you had thought about it. Seeing him again. Not in any serious way. Not something you let yourself linger on too long, but it had crossed your mind in those quiet moments afterward. A passing what if. A soft, almost embarrassing curiosity about whether you’d ever run into him again.
Maybe at another bar, or at a house party Trin would drag him along to. Somewhere casual, somewhere easy. Somewhere you could’ve just smiled when you saw him, maybe teased him a little about that awkward first conversation, and about what followed, asked for his number this time without overthinking it. Something simple.
Your chest tightens faintly. Because that version of it doesn’t exist anymore, and it never will, no matter what that test says.
Your stomach shifts again, a low, uneasy roll that makes you press your lips together. You swallow it down, one hand coming to rest lightly against your abdomen, as if that might steady something deeper than just the nausea.
A pregnancy test. The words echo faintly in your head, softer now, but the words aren’t feeling any less heavy. You exhale shakily, dropping your hand back into your lap.
It’s probably nothing. You cling to it again, even as doubt presses in at the edges. Low blood pressure, not eating enough, stress. All things that make sense. All things that don’t change your life in an instant.
Unlike the alternative.
Your foot taps lightly against the side of the bed, a quiet, restless rhythm. And then, without meaning to, your thoughts drift back to that night. The way everything had felt so easy. Like you hadn’t been trying so hard to be okay for once. Like you hadn’t been overthinking every word, every movement.
He was different. Not in any obvious, overwhelming way. Not in the kind of way that demands attention the second someone walks into a room. No, he was much quieter than that. Softer. He hadn’t tried too hard. Hadn’t filled every silence or pushed every conversation forward like he needed it to go somewhere. There had been pauses, small ones, where neither of you spoke, and somehow they hadn’t felt awkward.
Or actually, they had, a little at least, but not in a bad way. Not the kind of awkward that makes your skin itch or your mind scramble for something to fill the space. It was just a little unsure. Like both of you were still figuring each other out in real time, neither quite knowing what to say next, but not wanting to walk away either.
You remember noticing that. The way he looked at you like he was actually listening. Like he wasn’t just waiting for his turn to talk. Your chest tightens faintly. And the way he smiled. A little unsure, a little crooked, like he wasn’t entirely used to it landing somewhere it was truly wanted. It had made something in you soften.
You shift a little on the bed, the paper cover beneath you crinkling softly. The sound feels too loud in the quiet room, making you pause for a second before exhaling slowly. Time feels strange in here, stretched thin. You have no idea if it’s been a minute or five since he left the room–maybe even ten.
Your gaze drifts back to the curtain again, like it might give you some kind of answer. It doesn’t. It just hangs there, still and closed, separating you from everything outside this room.
You exhale slowly, shoulders rising and falling in a measured attempt to stay grounded. But without anything to distract you, your thoughts keep circling back to the same place. The test, him, that night.
Because if it’s negative… Your chest lifts slightly with the thought, something almost like relief brushing against the edges of your ribs. Then this can just stay what it was. A strange coincidence, an almost, something soft and unfinished that you can tuck away and maybe, maybe, come back to later, under different circumstances.
Your throat tightens faintly. Maybe you would actually get that second chance. Maybe you could both laugh about this someday. The absurdity of it, running into each other here, of all places.
But if it turns out to be positive… Your lips press together. The thought doesn’t finish forming before your stomach twists again, sharper this time. Your hand instinctively comes back to rest against your abdomen, fingers pressing lightly like you’re trying to steady the unease from the outside.
If it is positive, everything changes. Not just tonight, not just this moment. Everything.
Your breath comes out a little uneven, and you force yourself to inhale slowly through your nose, exhale through your mouth, like you’ve done a hundred times before when things start to feel like too much.
It wouldn’t just be yours to figure out. Your eyes flicker toward the door again, something uncertain settling in your chest. It would be his, too. Not in the same way, of course. Not in the way it would live in your body, change your body, ask things of you every single day. But it would still be his as well as yours. Shared.
And that thought, that’s the one that lingers the longest. Not fear, exactly. Surprisingly, not even panic. Just a heavy, unsure weight. Because you don’t really know him. Not beyond a single night and a handful of soft, unfinished moments. And yet, you know enough to remember the way he looked at you. The way he touched you. The way he held you as you both caught your breath afterward. He didn’t rush you, didn’t push, didn’t make anything feel like it had to be more than it was.
Your chest tightens again, quieter this time. Would that change? Would this, whatever this is, turn him into someone else? Or would he still be that same person, just in a situation neither of you had asked for?
The thought lingers, unanswered as a soft knock breaks through the quiet before the door opens again, the curtain shifts, not waiting long enough for you to respond to your own questions.
Your head lifts instinctively. Dennis steps back in, the back of one hand pushing the curtain aside, in his arms he’s holding five different small sealed cups, a bottle of water, a can of La Crox. And in his right hand he’s holding another type of cup wrapped in sterile plastic and a packet of test strips.
His eyes find yours immediately. And for a second he hesitates. Like he’s checking the temperature of the room.
“Hey,” he says softly, stepping inside as the curtain falls closed behind him again. His voice is gentler this time, steadier, like he’s had a moment to pull himself back together. But there’s still something there under the surface. “I, uhm, I didn’t know what you like, so I brought a few options,” he finishes a little awkwardly, lifting his arms slightly like it might explain itself, as if he’s only just now realizing how much he’s carrying
Your lips part slightly, a quiet breath slipping out before you can stop it. “Thank you,” you say softly.
The cups shift a little in his hold, and he lets out a small, self-conscious breath before stepping closer to the table beside your bed. “I might’ve… overestimated how many choices you’d need,” he adds quietly.
There’s something almost endearing in the way he says it. Like he’s aware of it, but not enough to undo it. You can’t help it, the faintest hint of a smile tugs at your lips, soft and brief, but real.
“It’s okay,” you murmur.
He gives a small nod, like your approval matters more than it maybe should, like it settles something in him. He put the cups down on the little table next to the bed beside you, a little more carefully than necessary, like even that small action requires focus.
“The apple juice is, uh… probably better,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, gesturing lightly toward it. “You need some sugar.”
“Okay.” You nod, meeting his eyes with a sudden feeling of shyness. “I like apple juice.”
“Yeah?” he says, a little too quickly, like he didn’t expect an actual answer. Then he lets out a small, almost sheepish breath, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sweet, shy smile, like he is happy to learn even the smallest thing about you.
You nod again, a little more certain this time, though the warmth creeping up your neck gives you away.
“Yeah,” you murmur, almost like you’re confirming it for both of you.
His smile lingers for a moment longer than necessary. He removes the lid before handing you the juice cup. You take a sip, the sweetness hitting your tongue a little sharper than you expect, but not unpleasant. It settles something small in your stomach, even if the unease doesn’t fully go away.
You lower the cup slightly, your fingers still wrapped around it. “Good?” he asks, a little tentative, like he’s not entirely sure why it matters so much, but it does.
You nod. “Yeah… it helps.”
Something in his shoulders eases at that, just a fraction. “That’s good,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
There’s a quiet pause, the kind that feels softer now, less strained. Like the edges of the moment have smoothed just a little.
“I know this is… a lot,” he says finally, voice lower now, less clinical, more honest. “The fainting, and feeling sick, and then… this on top of it.” He gestures vaguely, like the words possible pregnancy is too heavy to just drop into the space between you again.
You let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the cup in your hands. “Yeah… it is,” you admit quietly.
He nods, like he understands that in a way that goes beyond just the medical side of things. His fingers shift against the edge of the table, restless for a second before stilling again. There’s something else sitting with him now. You can see it. He glances at you, then away, then back again, like he’s circling something he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch.
“I, uh…” he starts, then stops, a faint crease forming between his brows. He lets out a small breath through his nose, almost a quiet laugh at himself, like he’s aware of how awkward this is about to sound. “I’m trying to figure out how to ask this without making it weird…” he admits softly.
Your grip on the cup tightens just slightly.
“I don’t want to assume anything,” he starts, the words slow, deliberate. “And you don’t have to answer if you’re not comfortable, I just…” he exhales softly, like he’s trying to steady himself. “Timing-wise…” He trails off, glancing at you briefly, then back down, then back up again. Then, more carefully. “That night was, what… about a month ago?”
You nod slowly. “Yeah.”
He nods too, like he expected that, but hearing it still makes something in him settle—and tighten at the same time.
“Okay,” he murmurs. Then another pause. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with,” he says. “Really. I mean that.” His hand comes up briefly, rubbing the back of his neck again before dropping back down. “It’s just… medically, it helps to know, and…” he hesitates, then corrects himself, more honest now, “and not just medically,” he admits, quieter now.
That lands a little heavier. The way he says it, so careful, so indirect, makes your chest ache a little. He’s not pushing. Not claiming anything. Just asking for a place in something that maybe don’t een exist, but already feels bigger than either of you can name.
“There hasn’t been anyone else,” you say softly.
His eyes widen just the slightest fraction, a flicker of relief passing through them before he smooths it down into calm attentiveness. He doesn’t smile or anything, but you can see the tension in his shoulders ease, just a little.
“Okay,” he says softly. His voice low, steady and careful. “That… helps, a lot. Thank you for telling me.” He lets the words hang for a moment, letting them settle between you both.
“Dennis?”
He blinks at your voice, a faint pause filling the space as if the single word pulled him up from a careful orbit around himself. His eyes flick to yours, wide, attentive, the weight of that moment settling on him too. “Yeah?” His voice is soft, still careful, like he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next but ready to meet it.
“Can I get your number?”
You don’t even know why you are asking him right now, the timing is weird, but it suddenly feels very important.
His eyebrows lift just the slightest fraction, like the question took a second to land. “Yeah,” says finally, voice low, almost shy. “Of course.”
You pull out your phone, swiping your thumb across the screen and unlocking it with quiet, deliberate motion, trying not to let your hands shake. You open up your contacts, fingers hovering over the ‘+’ button for a new entry. Your thumb hesitates just above the name field for a moment, and then, with a quiet breath, you type in Dennis. You tap the number field and carefully hand the phone toward him, your fingers brushing briefly against his as he takes it.
His hand is warm, steady, and there’s a soft, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he glances down at the screen. He types in his number slowly, deliberately, like he’s memorizing the motion as much as the digits. Then he hands the phone back to you.
“Thank you,” you say softly as you press the button to save the contact. You tuck the phone back into your pocket.
He hesitates for a second, like he is weighing something, then finally lifts his phone. “Uh… can I get your number too?” His voice is quiet, careful, almost shy, as if he’s afraid of breaking the fragile rhythm between you.
You feel a small warmth rise in your chest at the request. “Of course.”
It’s his turn to pull out his phone, fingers fumbling just slightly as he unlocks it. You watch him for a moment, the soft concentration on his face, the way his eyebrows draw together just a little, and it makes your chest tighten in a good, nervous way.
You hold out your hand, and he hands over the phone, your fingers typing again, warm and familiar before handing it back to him again. His eyes meet yours with that shy little smile before pressing save.
He glances down at the small collection of cups on the table beside your bed, then back up at you, eyes soft and careful. “Do you need some more to drink?”
You shake your head just slightly, still feeling the warmth from the phone exchange linger in your chest. “Maybe just a little,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you intend, like the words are tentative, testing the space between you. You have to be able to pee to take the test, but you don’t feel ready, even though you know you should.
The thought of standing up, moving, letting go of control for even a moment, of taking a test that could change everything, twists your stomach in a way that has nothing to do with nausea.
“What would you like?” he asks, eyes soft, giving you room to choose without pressure.
“Just some water.”
He nods right away, like the answer really matters “Yeah, okay,” he says softly, reaching for the bottle. He screws the bottle open before handing it to you, the sound of the plastic breaking softly in the quiet as the seal of the bottle cap breaks.
You take a small sip, then another, your throat easing as the water settles. He stays where he is, close but not too close, his weight shifting slightly from one foot to the other. His hands hover like he’s not entirely sure what to do with them, before one comes up to rub the back of his neck again.
“So, uhm, Perlah will come back in a few minutes,” he says, voice a little uneven at first before he steadies it. “She’ll, uh… take you to the bathroom. And she will explain what to do, she is definitely a lot better at that than me.” He clears his throat softly, a small, sheepish smile tugging at his lips. He shifts his weight again, glancing briefly at the door before looking back at you, softer this time. “And then it only takes a few minutes,” he adds. “For the result, I mean.”
A few minutes. It sounds so short, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. You swallow, taking another sip of water, letting the coolness settle. “Right.”
There’s a soft knock at the door before either of you can say anything else. The curtain shifts a second later, and Perlah steps in, her presence gentle but efficient, like she’s done this a hundred times before.
“Hi,” she says with a small, reassuring smile, glancing between you and Dennis before focusing on you. “How are you feeling?”
You hesitate. “A little better,” you manage.
“Alright.” She nods, like that’s enough for now. “When you’re ready, we’ll have you give us a urine sample so we can run the test, okay?”
“I, uhm, I think I’m ready,” you say, your voice small, almost swallowed by the quiet room. You take a last sip from the water bottle before setting it down on the table
“Okay.” Perlah nods, her smile steady and patient. You’re glad you know her name now, you had been too nauseous and out of it to catch it when she first introduced herself and you were too embarrassed to ask again. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”
Dennis hands her the specimen cup, sealed in clear wrapping, along with the small box of testing strips. His movements are careful, almost tentative, as if he’s afraid to break the fragile rhythm of the room. Perlah accepts them with a nod, her hands steady and practiced.
“Follow me, hun,” Perlah says gently, her voice warm but professional. She steps toward the door, holding it open for you with a soft, encouraging smile. Dennis shifts slightly, giving you a reassuring glance before staying where he is, letting you move forward.
When you reach the bathroom, she gestures toward it. “Alright, just like I said. You can use the cup here. When you’re done you can just leave the cup on the counter and I will take it to testing.”
“Okay, thank you,” you say quietly, your fingers tightening just slightly around the cup.
Perlah gives you one last reassuring nod. “I’ll be right outside, but you can take all the time you need,” she says softly, before stepping back and letting the door close behind you.
The small click of it feels louder than it should. For a moment, you just stand there. The bathroom is simple, clean, thank god. The cup in your hand feels light, but your chest doesn’t. You let out a slow breath, your shoulders rising and falling as you try to steady yourself.
When you’re done, you set the cup carefully on the counter before washing your hands. You catch your own gaze in the mirror, and for a second, you don’t quite recognize yourself.
You let out a sigh before looking away. You dry your hands slowly, buying yourself an extra second before reaching for the door. When you open it, Perlah is right where she said she’d be. She looks up immediately, her expression soft and steady.
“All set?” she asks.
You nod. “Yeah.”
“Perfect.” She steps inside, her movements easy and practiced as she picks up the cup from the counter. “I’ll take this to testing now. It won’t take long.”
You nod again, even though your chest tightens at that.
She pauses for just a second before stepping back out, her voice gentler now. “You can head back. I’ll come find you as soon as we have something.”
“Okay,” you murmur. “Thank you.”
The walk back feels quieter than before, like the air has thickened somehow. When you step through the curtain, Dennis looks up immediately, like he’s been listening for your steps. His shoulders ease the second he sees you.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey.”
There’s a small pause as you move back toward the bed, sitting down carefully. Your hands come together in your lap, fingers beginning fidgeting before you even notice that you’re doing it. It’s starting to become a bad habit.
Your eyes drift to his hand for a second, then back up to his face. He notices, just barely, and something in his expression softens even more.
For a second, neither of you says anything. Then, slowly, carefully, he steps closer. You scoot just slightly, making space for him without thinking about it. He notices. Of course he does. He sits down beside you, careful with the distance, close, but not crowding. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the quiet steadiness he carries with him.
Your hands are still fidgeting in your lap, fingers twisting together, and after a moment, his gaze drops to them. But it’s not in a way that makes you self-conscious.
Then his hand shifts. Slowly, deliberately, he rests it on the bed beside yours. It’s tentative, like a question, an option.
You hesitate, your breath catching just slightly. Your fingers still for a moment, like they’re deciding something before you are. Then, almost without thinking, they drift, just enough to brush against his.
The contact is light. Barely there. But it’s enough. His shoulders drop a fraction, like something in him settles.
“Sorry,” he murmurs softly, though he doesn’t pull away. “I just…”
“It’s okay,” you say quickly, your voice quieter than you expect. You glance down at your hands for a second, then back up at him. “It’s… nice.”
That earns the smallest, most relieved smile from him. “Okay,” he says, almost to himself.
The silence that follows feels different again. Still quiet, still heavy with waiting—but softer around the edges now. Less alone.
Your thumb shifts slightly against his without you realizing it, a small, grounding motion. His hand responds instinctively, just barely tightening, like he’s anchoring himself there too.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks after a moment, voice gentle. “Or… not talk about it,” he adds quickly, a hint of nervousness slipping back in. “Either’s okay.”
You let out a small breath, your gaze drifting somewhere past him for a second. “I don’t even know what there is to say yet,” you admit.
“Yeah,” he nods. “That’s fair.”
“I think I’m just scared of knowing,” you add, quieter now.
He doesn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”
The honesty of it sits between you, simple and unguarded. And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe. But it doesn’t stop your heart from skipping a beat as the sound of soft, but firm knock lands against the door. It cuts clean through the quiet and both of you still.
Your hand tightens just a fraction before you even realize it, and he responds immediately, steady, present.
“Hey,” Perlah’s voice comes gently from the other side before she steps in, her expression changing for a split second when she sees the two of you sitting on the bed. Not judgment, just a slight surprise. Like she’s clocking the moment and choosing, very deliberately, to handle it gently.
Your heart jumps into your throat. She steps fully inside, glancing between the two of you, briefly, not intrusive, before her attention settles on you.
“The results are ready to be confirmed, so I need Dr. Whitaker for a moment,” Perlah finishes gently. The words land softly, but they shift something in the room immediately.
Dennis stills beside you. There’s a small pause, like he’s switching something inside himself, stepping back into a role he can stand on. His hand slips from yours this time, slower, more deliberate. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “Of course.” He says to Perlah before he glances at you, and for a second the doctor is still there, but there’s something else underneath it. Softer. More personal. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
You nod, even though your chest feels tight. “Okay,” you echo, your voice barely above a breath.
He hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, like he wants to say something more. Then he doesn’t. Instead, he gives you a small, reassuring nod before standing.
Perlah steps back slightly to give him space as he moves toward her. There’s a quiet efficiency in the way they fall into step with each other, like this is familiar ground for her and something he’s trying very hard to navigate correctly.
The curtain shifts closed behind them. And just like that, you’re alone. The room feels different without him in it. Quieter. And now bigger, somehow.
You stare down at your hands, still curled slightly like they’re remembering the shape of his. Outside, their voices are low. Too low to make out clearly, it’s just the soft murmur of conversation, the faint rustle of something, the clinical rhythm of confirmation.
Minutes stretch. Or maybe it’s seconds. Yeah, it probably is just second, but you have a hard time telling. Every second in here feels like a minute. Your knee starts bouncing before you notice it, a restless energy you can’t quite contain. You press your hands against them to make them still, but the movement doesn’t fully stop.
But then the curtain moves. Dennis steps back in, and you know. You don’t know how, but you just know. It’s in his face, not panicked, nor cold, but very careful. Grounded in a way that feels intentional, like he’s choosing how to hold this moment before he gives it to you, but there is still a small hint of both nervousness and shock that he can’t really hide.
“Hey,” he says softly.
Your throat feels tight. “Hey.”
He doesn’t come all the way in right away. There’s a brief pause, like he’s giving you a second to breathe, to brace, like he understands that once he says it, there’s no taking it back. Then he steps closer.
“Can I sit?” he asks gently.
You nod. He sits beside you again, leaving just a little space this time, professional and careful, but still close enough that you don’t feel alone.
A breath passes. Then another. And then, quietly. “So… as your doctor I needed to confirm the result.” He glances at you, just briefly, like he’s making sure you’re with him. “And, uh… It did come back positive.”
The words settle into the room slowly, like they don’t quite know where to land. Positive. For a second, everything feels very still. Your ears ring faintly, like the world has stepped just half a pace away from you. Your gaze drops somewhere between your hands and the floor, unfocused.
Positive. It echoes again, quieter this time, heavier. Your breath comes in, but it’s shallow. Not enough. You swallow, your throat tight, like there’s something lodged there that won’t move.
“Hey.” His voice is soft. Careful.
You don’t look up right away.
“I know this is… a lot,” Dennis adds gently, and there’s something in the way he says it, like he’s holding the weight of it with you instead of just handing it over.
You let out a small breath, but it shakes on the way out. “Yeah…” you manage, though it barely sounds like you.
Silence stretches again, but it’s different now, thicker, more real.
Your hand drifts, almost without thinking, back to your abdomen. It rests there lightly, like before, but now the gesture feels different. Your chest tightens.
“I…” you start, then stop. Your voice doesn’t want to cooperate. You shake your head slightly, a small, almost helpless motion. “I don’t know what to say. I thought it was just stress.”
“That’s okay,” he says immediately. Too quickly, almost, like he doesn’t want you to feel like you have to say anything. “You don’t have to say anything right now.”
You nod faintly, even though your thoughts are anything but still. Everything is moving too fast and not at all at the same time.
“Would you hate me if I kept it?” You can’t stop the words before they leave your mouth, you don’t even know why the thought feels so important to you, but in this moment it’s a question every fiber in your body needs an answer to. You don’t look at him, you can’t. It’s like something in you is bracing for impact.
Dennis stills. “Hate you?” he repeats softly, like he needs to hear it again to believe it.
You don’t look at him. Your gaze stays fixed somewhere low. “I don’t know…” you murmur, your voice small, fragile in a way you can’t quite hide. “I don’t even know what I want.” Your voice barely holds together by the end of it.
“No,” he says. His voice cuts in softly, but not sharply. Just catching you before you spiral too far ahead of yourself.
You still. You don’t look at him.
There’s a small pause. You can feel him shift beside you. not away, just adjusting, like he’s trying to meet you where you are without crowding you.
“No, I wouldn’t hate you for that,” he repeats, quieter now, but no less steady. “ Not for anything.”
Your throat tightens. You swallow hard. “I just,” you shake your head slightly, your voice barely holding together. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m allowed to feel about it. It’s like…” your breath stutters, “like if I even think about wanting it, I’m already messing everything up.”
That lands deeper than you expect it to. There’s a shift beside you again, closer this time, but still careful. Always careful. “You’re not messing anything up,” he says gently.
You let out a quiet, shaky breath, but it doesn’t quite steady you.
“I don’t even know what you’d want,” you admit, finally glancing at him, your eyes searching his like you’re bracing for something you’re not sure you can handle.
That’s what this is really about. Not just the question. Him. You don’t even know what you want, but not knowing what he wants somehow feels worse. Not knowing what you want is overwhelming, but not knowing where he stands? That feels like standing on something that might give out beneath you at any second.
“I want you to be okay,” he says first. It’s not a deflection. It’s just the most honest place he can start. Then, after a small breath. “And yeah,” he adds, quieter, more personal now, “I care about what happens. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.”
Your chest tightens again, and you gather all your courage to look up and meet his eyes again. There’s something so rawly vulnerable in his expression now.
“But that doesn’t turn into pressure on you,” he continues quickly, gently. “It doesn’t get to.” His hand shifts slightly on the bed, closer again, still not assuming, still leaving the choice with you. “This is your decision,” he says softly. “Not mine to make for you, or mine to judge.”
You swallow, your throat still tight, but something in your chest has shifted, just enough that you can breathe a little deeper than before. “I know,” you say quietly, and you mean it. You can feel how careful he’s being, how hard he’s trying not to tip the balance one way or the other.
A small pause. Then, more carefully. “If you kept it, I wouldn’t hate you.” His voice softens even more. “And I’d… want to be there. If you wanted me to be.” That last part is quieter, almost tentative. “Honestly, I would want to be there even if you wouldn’t want me to.”
He stops himself. Like he hears it as he’s saying it and realizes how it might sound too much, too fast, crossing a line he’s been so careful not to cross.
A small breath leaves him, and he shakes his head slightly, softer now, correcting, not taking it back, just placing it better.
“I mean,” he says quietly, “I wouldn’t force that. I wouldn’t show up where I’m not wanted.” His eyes meet yours again, steady, open. “But I wouldn’t just stop caring either.”
That lands differently. No pressure, just truth.
“But we don’t have to figure everything out right now,” he continues, voice steady but soft. “This is just… information right now. Okay? Just one step.”
“Just one step,” you repeat, like you’re testing the shape of it.
His thumb shifts lightly against your hand, careful, reassuring. “Yeah.” The words sit between you, quieter now. You both let the silence settle. Your breathing evens out a little more, your shoulders lowering inch by inch, like your body is finally catching up to what your mind is trying to process.
His hand is still there, steady against yours. Not holding tight, not claiming, just present. Close enough that you can feel it if you need to. And you do.
“You need to stay for monitoring,” he says gently, voice slipping a little more into something professional, but still soft, still him. “Just for a couple of hours. Given the fainting earlier, we need to make sure everything stays stable. And we have to check a few other things, just to be sure,” he finishes gently, smoothing the sentence as it comes together.
He glances at you, like he’s checking how it lands before continuing. You nod, a small, quiet motion, your eyes still on him. “Okay,” you say softly.
“It’s just routine things,” he adds, softer again. “Blood pressure, heart rate, maybe some blood work. Nothing invasive unless we have a reason,” he adds quickly. “And we’ll talk you through everything before we do it.”
You nod again, a little more firmly this time.
“Okay…” A small breath leaves you. “That sounds… manageable,” you admit.
There’s the faintest hint of relief in his expression, not because the situation is easier, but because he seems to care a lot about your reaction.. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s the goal.”
“Thank you for being so nice to me,” you say quietly. The words come out softer than you expect, but they feel important to say.
He stills for just a second, not surprised exactly, but like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says gently.
You shake your head a little, your fingers shifting faintly against his. “I know,” you murmur. “But still.” Your eyes meet his again, steadier now. “Thanbk you for not making this feel worse,” you finish softly.
The words hang there for a second, fragile but honest. He doesn’t answer right away.
You can see the moment it lands, really lands, in the way his expression shifts. Something quieter, more affected than he’s been letting himself show.
“I’m really glad to hear it didn’t,” he says finally, voice low, but a sheepish smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, small and a little self-conscious, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with being seen like that. His gaze dips for a second before coming back to you, even softer now.
Your fingers move slightly against his again, a small, unconscious motion, but you don’t pull back at all. There’s a pause. Then, more quietly.
“If everything looks good, you should get discharged around the time my shift ends, so if you… I don’t know, uhm… maybe we could go grab something to eat after,” he says quietly, almost as if testing the idea out, letting it hover between you. “If you want to.”
You blink, caught off guard, but the thought warms your chest in a way nothing else has in hours. “Yeah,” you manage, voice small but steady, “I’d like that.”
A small, genuine smile spreads across his face, softening the tension you didn’t realize had been holding you so tight. “Okay,” he says, letting the word linger, careful not to rush it.
Your fingers brush against his again, just slightly, and he doesn’t pull away, instead of that ,his thumb brushes lightly over yours in a small, steadying motion. The room feels a little softer, the air a little warmer, and for the first time in hours, the tight coil in your chest loosens just enough for a small, real breath to escape. And for now, in this little moment of time, that’s enough. He’s on your team.
Dennis Whitaker saved your life when you were seventeen and scared. You thought you were saving his by leaving, taking your baby girl with you.
Now it's been eight years of no communication and not knowing your whereabouts you're in his ER, arms wrapped around a little girl and he doesn't know where to go from here.
Ebb and Flow - You trapped him in a lie, the merciful thing to do is let him go.
WORD COUNT: 11.3K
Snap Back - A walk down memory lane and words unspoken.
WORD COUNT: 7.9k
Finding Home - He was always your home, you just got lost on the way back
WORD COUNT: 6.3K
EXTRAS:
Feels Like the First Time (18+ MDNI) - You and Dennis have sex for the first time.
WORD COUNT: 2.3K
The Following Years - You and Dennis through instagram snapshots (smau)
Denis x f!reader who is Santos best friend and has no idea that she got a new roommate and turns out he is cute 🥺🙂↕️ (looove your writing!)
𝐔𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲 ♡
Omg, yes!! such a cute idea! and you're right, he is so cute <3
Dennis Whitaker x f!reader || Masterlist || Spotify
summary: An unexpected visit over takeout leads to quiet first impressions, gentle curiosity, and a surprising easy evening.
word count: 3.1k
note/tags: Fluff. No use of y/n. Reader and Santos are best friends. Mention of background Sntos x Garcia. Let’s just pretend that Dennis has his season 2 haircut here.
You don’t knock like a stranger. You knock like someone who’s been here a hundred times before, it’s how you always knock when you visit Trin. Two quick raps before you shift the bag of takeout to your other hand, already half-turning to check your phone while you wait.
Trinity didn’t answer your call, but you decided to come anyway, because you’ve never needed an invitation before. You also have a key, just like she has one to your place.
You smile to yourself, thinking about a funny thing that happened at work, that you’re excited to tell her about. But when the door opens the smile dies on your face, because the person standing in the doorway is not your best friend. It’s a guy… A guy you have never seen before.
He looks like someone who wasn’t expecting anyone. Soft brown curls falling over his forehead, slightly mussed like he’s run his hands through them one too many times. He is in a loose hoody and a pair of pajama pants, looking just as startled as you feel. His blue eyes so wide he looks like a deer caught in headlights.
You blink. He blinks.
“Hi,” he says. His voice is gentler than you expect.
“Hi,” you answer, confusion filling your brain.
You glance past him into the apartment. Same couch, same framed print you helped Trin hang. Same overwatered houseplants, that for some reason, still refuses to die. Wrong person.
“…Is Trinity home?” you ask carefully.
He hesitates like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to answer that. “No, she, uh. She picked up an extra shift.” He steps back automatically, like he thinks he’s in your way.
You stare at him. He shifts under it.
“I-I’m sorry. I’m not, like, breaking in. I live here.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You live here?”
He nods, a little too fast. “Yeah. I moved in a couple weeks ago.”
A couple weeks ago… She was at your place three days ago, yapping about some surgeon she stabbed with a scalpel, and who she definitely has a crush on.
“I’m Dennis,” he adds, as if that might help. It does not.
Your dear friend Trinity Santos sure has some explaining to do.
“Right…” you say slowly, before telling him your own name, and something like recognition flickers over his face. “I guess Trin isn’t coming home anytime soon?”
“Yeah, she only left about an hour ago, and it’s a 12 hour shift, so…”
“Hm,” you hum softly, rocking back on your heels.
You hesitate for just a moment, it’s your best friend’s apartment, but there’s a strange man standing in the doorway, but he also looks like he apologizes when other people bump into him. Worn hoodie. Pajama pants. White tennis socks. Hair just a little too messy. He doesn’t look threatening. He just looks tired. Soft around the edges. Like someone who hasn’t quite caught up on sleep. And if he really is gonna live with Trin you’ll have to get to know him anyway.
“Are you hungry?” you ask suddenly, lifting the takeout bag slightly.
He blinks at you. “Me?”
“No, the cactus,” you deadpan.
His mouth twitches before he can stop it.
“I, uh. I mean, I can Venmo you,” he says quickly. “I don’t want to just—”
“It’s fine,” you cut in. “I bought too much, anyway.” That part isn’t even a lie.
He hesitates, clearly waging some internal moral battle about accepting food from a girl he just met in his borrowed doorway.
“Okay,” he says finally, it’s soft. “Yeah, I’m a little hungry.”
You nod once before stepping inside. He closes the door gently, too gently, like he’s worried it might take offense while you toe off your shoes.
“She said you had a key,” he says.
“I do.”
“Right, yeah, okay.”
A stretch of silence follows. You can feel him standing a polite distance behind you while you set the bag of food on the coffee table before turning again. He’s still watching you, but in that way that doesn’t feel invasive. Just careful, like he’s trying to read the room and not take up too much space in it. There are faint shadows under his eyes. A crease between his brows that looks like it lives there now.
“So,” you say. “You’re Trin’s…?”
He flushes. “Coworker.”
You wait.
“And roommate,” he finishes, like it pains him to assume the title.
“Huh.” You cross your arms and tilt your head. He straightens slightly, as if bracing for interrogation. “So you work at the ER?”
“Yeah, student doctor.”
“Ah.”
That explains the exhaustion. The way he looks like he’s halfway between here and somewhere much louder.
“And she just didn’t think to mention that she moved a man into her apartment?”
His ears go red. “I thought she would have.”
“Well, she didn’t,” you say flatly. “Probably been too busy being in love with that surgeon,” you finish dryly under your breath.
His head snaps up. “What?”
“Oh, she didn’t tell you?” you ask sweetly.
He looks horrified. “No… I mean, I don’t—”
You laugh, the sound finally breaking some of the tension in the room. “Relax, I’m kidding. Mostly.”
He exhales like you just pulled him back from the edge of a cliff. He bites back what might be a smile. It’s subtle, shy, like he doesn’t fully trust it, and something about that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time. “I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“You didn’t,” you reply automatically.
But it is weird. Because now that the shock is wearing off, you’re noticing things. Like the way he keeps his hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie so they won’t fidget, like he’s not sure what to do with them. Or the way he stands slightly off to the side instead of directly in front of you, as if he’s instinctively making space. The way he looks at you when you speak, so attentive, even if it makes him look a little startled every time your eyes meet.
“You look familiar,” he says suddenly.
You frown. “I do?”
“There is a picture of you on the fridge.” His mouth twitches. “I think it’s from new years.”
You close your eyes. “She did not keep that up.”
“It’s very much up.”
Mortification floods you. He’s smiling properly now, small, but real. And god, he’s cute. It’s in an unpolished way, like he hasn’t realized it himself yet.
“Great,” you groan. “Love that for me.”
“It’s a nice picture,” he offers gently. “You look very happy on it.”
That catches you off guard. You swallow. “She has dozens of normal pictures of me,” you mutter
“She likes that one.”
“Of course she does…”
There’s a small pause, and when you look back at him, he’s not laughing at you. He’s just looking. Careful and thoughtful. His ears go a little pink again. “She talks about you a lot.”
That catches you off guard. You weren’t expecting that. Not that you didn’t think your best friend wouldn’t talk about you. Of course she would. You just didn’t expect it to land like that. Or that she talked about you to a guy who lives in her apartment without you knowing about it.
“A lot?” you repeat carefully.
“Yeah.” He nods, then immediately looks like he regrets how quickly he answered. “Not, uh. Not in a weird way. Just… Normal best friend amount… I think.” He pauses. “I don’t actually know what the normal amount is.”
You stare at him for a second. Your pulse picks up, not from fear, but from the strange little warmth of realization. Trin’s world includes this guy now, and apparently, you’re still very much part of it.
“The normal amount,” you repeat slowly.
He winces a little, like he can hear how that sounded. “I just meant, you know, she mentions you. In stories. In passing. When something reminds her of you.”
“It’s only good things, I hope,” you say, almost teasing, though your voice has a little edge of vulnerability. It’s weird sitting with a stranger who knows more about you than you do about him.
He glances up at you, earnest and careful. “Yeah, definitely.”
“That’s a relief.”
“She also said you’d show up unannounced from time to time,” he adds carefully.
“Oh,” you say, caught between amusement and mild exasperation.
“And that if you did, I shouldn’t panic.”
You blink. “Are you panicking?”
He hesitates. “…A little.”
You laugh again, softer now. He lets out a quiet laugh too, almost sheepish, and scratches the back of his neck like he’s aware he’s still on thin ice with you.
“See?” you tease lightly, “Nothing to worry about. I only come bearing food.” You lift the bag slightly.
“Right,” he says, giving a small nod, and a smile, that has no business being that sweet. “That I can handle.”
You set the bag down again, careful not to make things awkward, and watch as he settles a bit more into the room, shoulders loosening like someone letting go of a weight they didn’t realize they’d been carrying.
You gather plates and glass from the kitchen and start to set them out on the coffee table. You don’t say much while you do it. The quiet hum of the apartment, the faint scent of takeout, and the subtle shuffle of Dennis moving around you is enough.
Once the plates and glasses are arranged, you sink into the couch, giving him a small, easy smile. “So you are a student doctor,” you start, resting your elbows on your knees, “and Trin just moved you into her apartment after just meeting you. What else do I need to know about Dennis..?”
“Whttaker,” he says, a little hesitant, as if testing whether you actually want the answer. “Uhm, I don’t know. I’m from Nebraska, grew up on my family’s farm
You tilt your head, studying him, letting the image form in your head. Him being a small town farm boy kind of makes perfect sense. And you can’t help but find it kind of cute too. The way his hands seem used to work, the quiet attentiveness in the way he moves, the soft hesitation in his voice when he’s unsure.
“Farm boy, huh?” you muse lightly, teasing but warm.
He chuckles softly, a little sheepishly, running a hand through his mussed hair. “Yeah… I guess so.”
You grin, letting the small moment stretch out. There’s something easy about sitting here with him, even though you barely know him, there is something unforced about him. The quiet steadiness of someone used to work and responsibility, but without the arrogance that usually comes with it.
“So, Nebraska to Pittsburg,” you say softly, leaning back, curious now. “That’s a bit of a leap.”
He swallows, smiling faintly. “Yeah… I wanted to do something different, I guess. Something where I could… make a difference. The farm’s great, but… I wanted to try something else.”
You nod, letting his words settle. There’s a sincerity to him that’s hard to ignore, the kind that doesn’t feel performative. It’s just him, quietly explaining his path. “I get that,” you say, your tone easy, reflective. “It’s brave, doing something so different.”
He shrugs, still soft, still careful, like he doesn’t want to overstate himself. “I wouldn’t call it brave… just… I don’t know. I guess I needed to know I could do more than what I grew up with.”
You smile, a little warm, a little amused. He meets your smile with a faint one of his own, hesitant, like he’s not sure he deserves it, but it’s genuine all the same.
You lean back a little further, letting yourself absorb the small, steady rhythm of the apartment around you. The soft shuffle of his movements, the faint hum of the fridge, the smell of food, it all feels oddly grounding.
You eat and talk, and it’s easy. Conversation flows in little bursts, quiet and comfortable, like you’re not filling the space so much as letting it exist with someone else in it. He talks about the hospital, the long hours, the chaos, the small victories, and you listen, curious to hear about from a different perspective than Trin’s, asking the occasional question that pulls out a little more of him without forcing it.
It’s not awkward. Not exactly. And you both become more and more comfortable as the conversation goes on. It’s just… new, and surprisingly easy, and quietly charged with a kind of curiosity that makes the time stretch just enough to notice the little details.
You finish your meal slowly, savoring the food more than usual, not because it’s anything special, but because the quiet company makes it feel different.
You catch yourself watching him for a fraction longer than necessary, how his sleeve rides up when he reaches across the table, the way his eyes flicker with thought before he answers a question, the faint crease in his brow when he’s concentrating. There’s something grounding about him, like he fits into the room in a way that doesn’t demand attention but gently claims it anyway.
When the last bite is gone and the plates are cleared, neither of you rush to fill the silence. Instead, it stretches comfortably, a shared space of quiet that feels almost rare. You realize, with a little shock, that this is one of the easiest first encounters you’ve ever had with someone new. And you can’t help but wonder what it says about Trin, that she could bring someone into her world, and somehow, immediately, they belong.
Dennis finally leans back slightly, a small, self-conscious smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you for dinner, it was nice,” he says softly, almost hesitant, as if he’s testing whether politeness is enough.
You shrug lightly, grinning. “No problem. I don’t know what I would have done with all that food if you hadn’t been here.”
He nods, a little relieved, and the corners of his mouth lift into a faint, genuine smile. “Yeah… I didn’t expect company, honestly. But, uh… it was nice. Really.”
You tilt your head, studying him for a beat, letting the words settle in the quiet room. “Well,” you say softly, “I’m glad I showed up then. I still can’t believe you’ve lived here for weeks without me knowing about it.”
He shifts slightly in his seat, a soft laugh escaping him, low and hesitant. “Yeah… sorry about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I really thought she would have told you.” His blue eyes flick to yours for a moment, careful, curious.
“No need for you to apologize,” you say, letting the words come easy, softening the moment. “It’s not your fault she hasn’t told me. She probably just wasn’t in the mood to have me yelling at her for inviting a guy she has known for one day to live in her apartment.”
Dennis lets out a quiet laugh, the kind that’s both embarrassed and relieved, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Yeah… that sounds about right.”
A stretch of silence follows, comfortable this time, not awkward. He shifts slightly in his seat, then leans back, letting out a small sigh that feels more like relief than anything else. “She really does things her own way,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But… I think it works. Somehow.”
You smile, soft and easy. “Yeah, it usually does. She has this… talent for making people fit into her world, whether they want it or not.”
Dennis glances at you, a faint, curious smile tugging at his lips. “I guess I have to be very thankful for that.”
You let the silence settle again, but it’s different now, lighter, threaded with something unspoken but not uncomfortable. The way he moves, the careful attentiveness in his posture, the faint warmth in his smile, it all makes the silence feel like it isn’t empty at all, just shared.
He looks tired, the kind of bone-deep weariness that comes from long hours and little sleep, but it doesn’t make him any less present. If anything, it makes the quiet weight of him feel even more real, real and grounded. You can’t help but notice the faint dark circles under his eyes, the slight slump in his shoulders, and yet there’s a steadiness to him, a calm that quietly balances the room, but you don’t want to overstay your welcome, he looks like someone who could needs to go to bed sooner rather than later.
You shift slightly on the couch, weighing whether to linger or give him space. There’s a softness to him, the kind of quiet presence that makes the room feel fuller just by being in it, but also the kind that suggests he could really use rest.
“Alright,” you say after a moment, leaning back into the couch, “I think I’ve learned enough about Dennis Whitaker for one evening. But you better be ready, Trin’s going to want to know everything I’ve found out.”
He raises an eyebrow, a small grin appearing. “Everything?”
“Everything,” you confirm, playful but firm. “No secrets from me. I’m her best friend, after all.”
He laughs, and it’s a little more freely this time. “Of course.”
You help gather the empty plates and glass, taking them back to the kitchen and putting the leftovers in the fridge for Trin when she gets home, but he insists on washing up when you offer to help with that too.
He shakes his head gently, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Nah, it’s fine. I’ll take care of that later. You’ve done more than enough already.”
“Alright, if you insist” you say, “I guess I’ll let you have your alone time with the dishes.”
He chuckles, the sound low and easy, and then there’s a comfortable pause.
“Well,” you then say, forcing a little more brightness back into your voice. “I should get going.”
He follows you to the door, stopping a few steps behind you, his hands in the pockets of his pyjama pants as he watches you reach for the door knob.
You turn your head, catching a glimpse of him over your shoulder. “Dennis?”
He looks up like he wasn’t expecting you to use his name.
“Yeah?”
“If you murder my best friend, I will beat your ass.”
He blinks. Then, almost imperceptibly, he smiles. “Noted.”
You open the door, the hallway air feels cooler than it should. You walk halfway down before you realize your heart is beating way faster than it has any right to. You pull out your phone to text Trinity.
YOU HAVE A MAN LIVING IN YOUR APARTMENT??!!
Three dots appear almost immediately.
oh yeah. lol
did u meet huckleberry?
isn’t he sweet
You glance back at the closed door. Sweet, yeah, that might be the problem.
Summary: After a long hospital shift, you’re relaxing at home when your coworker and friend Dennis shows up late at night.
Warnings: Smut +18 minor DNI, friend!dennis whitaker x friend!afab!reader, explicit content, somnophilia, oral (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, creampie, softdom!Dennis, unprotected sex (don't do it), dennis having a wet dream, vaginal sex, praise, consensual sex, garsantos mention, let me know if I'm missing something.
Words Count: 2.1k
Authors Note: I NEED HIM SO BAD, if you have any ideas, whether smut, angst, or fluff, you can send them to me. I'll be writing everything you send me about them or other characters. You can check the rules section (it's pinned to my profile). Sorry for any written mistakes english its not my first language.
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It was eleven o'clock on a Saturday night. The bass from your speakers thumped through the living room as "Be My Lover" pulsed loudly, the kind of throwback track that always made you forget the exhaustion of a long hospital shift. You arrived home about an hour ago, you changed your clothes so quick some very short shorts and a loose t-shirt that reached your waist, messy hair, stomach growling. Takeout menus glowed on your phone screen while you danced between the coffee table and the kitchen, half-deciding between sushi or burgers, swaying your hips like no one was watching.
You were reaching for the payment method when your screen changed quickly “Denny’s calling”.
Weird. He never called this late.
"Hey, what's up?" you answered, pressing the phone to your ear and lowering the music with your free hand.
"Can you open the door?" His voice sounded tired, edged with something like defeat.
You blinked. "What? You're... here?"
"I'm standing outside your apartment right now. Please open up."
The line went dead.
"What the fuck?" you muttered, heart picking up speed. You paused the music completely, padded barefoot to the door, and peered through the peephole.
There he was, Dennis Whitaker, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, a backpack slung over one shoulder and a plastic bag dangling from his other hand. The smell of warm food hit you the second you opened the door.
"Denny? What the hell, dude?"
He gave you that crooked half-smile, the one that always looked a little sheepish. "Trinity invited Yolanda over. Again. And I know I won't be able to sleep tonight with them on the other side of the wall. I brought some food, because imagine that you hadn't eaten yet." He lifted the bag—fresh burgers, fries, from your favorite spot and a couple of Coca-Cola’s. "Can I crash here?"
You stepped aside immediately, letting him in. "Of course. Jesus, you look wiped.”
You let Dennis inside, the warm aroma of burgers and fries filling your apartment instantly. He kicked off his shoes by the door, looking relieved as hell, and set the bag down on the coffee table while you turned the music back on low.
“Trinity and Yolanda are fucking again?” you asked, already grabbing plates.
He groaned, running a hand through his messy hair. “Every fucking weekend lately. I’m happy for her, I guess, but Jesus Christ, the walls are thin and we had a twelve hour shift. I just need one night of actual sleep. I don't understand how they can have sex after twelve hours of shift work."
You laughed softly and bumped his shoulder. “Well, you’re safe here. Let's eat before it gets cold.”
You both dug in on the couch, burgers juicy and fries perfectly salty, washing it down with ice-cold Coke while the bass from the earlier song still hummed faintly in the background. Conversation stayed light—hospital gossip, stupid patient stories, how Yolanda apparently had a loud laugh and an even louder everything else. By the time the food was gone, you were both full and relaxed.
“Movie?” you offered.
“God yes.”
You picked something mindless and fun, some action flick with explosions and zero emotional stakes. Dennis stretched out beside you on the couch, one arm draped casually along the backrest. Halfway through, his eyes were already drooping. By the time the credits rolled, he looked dead on his feet.
He stood up with a sigh, grabbing his backpack. “I’ll crash on the couch. Thanks again for letting me stay here.”
You shook your head immediately. “No way. That couch is a torture device. You’ll wake up with a fucked-up back and be useless tomorrow. Just sleep in the bed with me. It’s big enough.”
He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “You sure? I don’t want to impose—”
"Oh, come on, you're not bothering me, and seriously, this sofa isn't good for sleeping, I'm telling you from experience," you said, being completely honest.
He chuckled tiredly and gave in. You both brushed your teeth side by side like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You slid under the covers first, and he followed, keeping a respectful distance at first. Within minutes, his breathing evened out into deep sleep. You followed soon after, the familiar scent of him.
You woke up slowly in the dark, disoriented by the heat pressed against your back.
Dennis had shifted in his sleep. His chest was flush to your spine, one strong arm curled loosely around your waist, and his hips… God. He was rocking against you, slow and unconscious, his cock already fully hard and straining against the front of his night pants. The thick ridge rubbed right between your ass cheeks with every sleepy roll of his hips, separated only by thin fabric. A low, rough sound rumbled in his throat—almost a groan.
The first instinct would be to move, wake him up, and put him on the couch, but after months of dreaming about Dennis, it was impossible to move. Besides, he looked too beautiful and peaceful, having a wet dream while rubbing against you.
Your pulse spiked. Heat pooled low in your belly as you stayed perfectly still at first, feeling every deliberate, needy grind. His breath was hot against the back of your neck, ragged now. His hand on your stomach flexed, fingers spreading like he wanted to pull you even closer.
You let out a tiny, involuntary whimper.
That small sound must have pierced the dream, because Dennis stirred. His hips stuttered, then pressed forward harder, more deliberately. His voice came out low and gravelly, still half-asleep but unmistakably hungry.
“Fuck— you like that, right?” he murmured against your skin, lips brushing your shoulder. His breath was hot, uneven. The thick, heavy length of his cock throbbed against your ass, grinding slower now, more intentional, as if testing whether you’d pull away.
You didn’t. Instead, you arched back just enough to press your ass firmer against him. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat.
“Been dreaming about this… about you. For months.” he rasped, voice thick with sleep and sudden lust. His hand on your stomach slid lower, fingers slipping under the hem of your loose t-shirt, palm hot against your bare skin. He cupped your breast, thumb brushing over your already stiff nipple, rolling it slowly.
You gasped as he pinched lightly, sending sparks straight to your core. Your shorts were already damp between your thighs. Dennis rocked against you again, the fat head of his cock catching against the fabric covering your pussy from behind, teasing the seam.
“Dennis…” you whispered, voice shaky with need.
He kissed the back of your neck, open-mouthed, teeth grazing. “Tell me to stop and I will. But fuck, I don’t want to.”
“Don’t stop,” you breathed.
That was all he needed.
Dennis’s hand left your breast and slid down your belly, straight into your tiny shorts. His thick fingers found your soaked folds immediately. He groaned loudly against your neck as he spread your wetness, circling your swollen clit with two fingertips.
“So fucking wet for me already,” he growled. He pushed one long finger inside you, then another, curling them deep while his palm ground against your clit. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers pumping into your pussy filled the dark bedroom. You moaned, pushing back onto his hand and against his throbbing cock.
He finger-fucked you steadily, scissoring and curling until your legs trembled. His hips never stopped that slow, filthy grind against your ass, his cock leaking precum through his pants.
“Need you naked,” he muttered. He pulled his hand free, making you whine at the loss, and quickly yanked your shorts and panties down your legs in one rough tug. You kicked them off while he shoved his own pants down, freeing his cock. It slapped heavy and hot against your bare ass thick, veined, the head slick and flushed dark.
Dennis hooked your top leg back over his thigh, spreading you open from behind. He rubbed the fat head of his cock up and down your dripping slit, coating himself in your juices, teasing your entrance and clit with every pass.
“Been dying to feel this tight little pussy,” he whispered right against your ear, then pushed forward.
The thick head stretched you open slowly. You both moaned as he sank in inch by inch, your walls fluttering and gripping around his girth. He was big, thick enough that you felt every ridge and vein as he filled you completely, bottoming out with a deep groan when his hips pressed flush against your ass.
“Fuck… so tight. So perfect,” he breathed.
He stayed buried deep for a moment, letting you adjust, kissing and biting along your shoulder and neck. Then he started moving slow, deep rolls of his hips, dragging his cock almost all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt. The angle had him hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust.
Your hand reached back, gripping his hip, urging him deeper. He picked up the pace, fucking you harder, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder. His hand returned to your clit, rubbing tight circles while he pounded into you from behind.
“God, you feel even better than I imagined,” he groaned. “So fucking hot and wet… squeezing my cock like you don’t want me to leave.”
You were moaning steadily now, pushing back to meet every thrust. Dennis suddenly pulled out, making you cry out in protest, but he flipped you onto your back in one smooth motion and settled between your spread thighs.
He looked down at you, eyes dark with lust, hair messy. “Want to see your face when you come on my cock.”
He pushed back inside you in one long stroke, deeper than before. You cried out, back arching. Dennis leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy, hungry kiss—tongues sliding, teeth nipping—as he started fucking you hard. The bed creaked with every powerful thrust. He hooked one of your legs over his arm, opening you wider, driving his cock into you at a relentless pace.
You could feel every inch of him—stretching, filling, rubbing perfectly against your g-spot. His balls slapped against your ass. Sweat slicked your skin where your bodies met.
He broke the kiss to bury his face in your neck, sucking a mark there. “Come for me, baby.”
His words and the relentless drag of his thick shaft sent you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you—walls clamping down hard around him, thighs shaking, a loud moan tearing from your throat as pleasure ripped through every nerve.
Dennis groaned deeply, hips stuttering, but he didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, drawing it out, then slowed just enough to pull out again.
He moved down your body, spreading your thighs wide. Without warning, his mouth was on you—tongue licking broad stripes up your soaked pussy, sucking your clit between his lips. He moaned against your folds, tasting you greedily, two fingers sliding back inside you and curling.
“Fuck, you taste so good,” he growled between licks and sucks. He ate you like a man starved, tongue fucking into you, then focusing on your clit until you came again, grinding against his face, fingers tangled in his hair.
Only then did he climb back up, cock slick and shining with your juices. He flipped you onto all fours, hands gripping your hips hard as he lined up and slammed back inside you in one brutal thrust.
This angle was even deeper. He fucked you hard and fast, one hand sliding around to rub your clit again while the other held your hip, pulling you back onto his cock. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping, your moans, and his low, filthy groans.
“Gonna come soon,” he warned, voice strained. “Where do you want it?”
“Inside,” you gasped. “Fill me up.”
“Fuck—yes.”
He pounded into you even harder, chasing his release. His rhythm faltered as he got close. With a deep, broken groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard—thick ropes of hot cum pulsing deep inside you, filling you up as his cock throbbed and twitched.
He kept shallowly thrusting through his orgasm, milking every drop, until you both collapsed sideways onto the bed, He withdrew from you, watching his semen come out of you.
Heavy breathing filled the quiet room. Dennis wrapped his arms around you from behind, kissing the back of your neck tenderly now, completely different from the raw hunger moments before.
“Been wanting that for so fucking long,” he whispered against your skin, voice hoarse. “Not just tonight… every time I saw you at the hospital.”
You smiled, still catching your breath, “Maybe… we do that again in the morning?”
He chuckled lowly, nipping your shoulder. “Yes.”
And so both fell fast asleep until the following morning.
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Happy 20th Anniversary of Neil Banging Out The Tunes!!!!!
More rarer images of Neil, my beloved:
20 years.
I find it so beautiful that this little rat's life has been remembered with love for 20 years and will be hopefully for decades to come. Truly a marvel of the internet.
