I bring you some of my stories I've written, if you have a request, feel free to send an ask or message, and I'll do the best I can to give you a sweet/angsty/beautiful story...
Warnings: age gap, slight obsession (at this point, maybe yes), yearning, Cassie still overthinking a lot and still yearning for you but she’s an overthinker so. Use of y/n.
Summary: That damn answer. Cassie stopping herself from asking more, asking for details. Why couldn't she just have you? Why did she have to feel guilty for needing you?
A/N: HERE’S SECOND PAAART! I didn't think I'd make a second part of this, but somehow, I also knew this needed a second part. I didn't know if this would even be good or liked, but y'all are amazing. I love when y'all comment or send asks, I love it!🥹 So thank you for reading, thank you for giving me the happiness of going back to something I used to love so much. I do have another story I'd like to share, another Cassie story hehe. But first, I hope you guys enjoy this! Please share, reblog, comment, it'd help a lot after the shitty months I've had. Thank you for reading in advance!
Part 1.
*not my gif*
Cassie McKay has always been good at compartmentalizing. It is, honestly, one of the things that made her good at her job. You cannot spend twelve hours in an emergency department carrying everyone else’s panic around with you. You cannot hold a mother’s hand while her child is being wheeled into trauma and then walk into the next room and let the last person’s fear bleed into the next patient.
You learn how to separate. You learn how to put things into boxes. You learn how to close the lid. The problem is that you have never stayed in a box. Not once.
It has been six days since the dream. Six days since Cassie made the mistake of asking. Six days since a message appeared on her phone at three in the morning:
You: I had a weird dream and now I can’t sleep
And Cassie, because apparently she has learned absolutely nothing about self-preservation, had answered.
Cassie: what kind of dream?
She still hates herself for that. Not because of what you said. Because of what happened after. Because you had trusted her with something fragile. And Cassie had spent every day since destroying herself with it. She remembers the conversation too clearly. That is the problem. Not just the words.
Everything.
The exact blue light from her phone. The way the rain sounded against her apartment window. The way her heartbeat changed when the typing bubble appeared. She remembers staring at the screen like it contained something dangerous. Something alive.
Then:
You: you were in it
Cassie had stared at it. Had read it more than twice. She rememebers almost freaking out, she overthought it. So many ‘maybe’s’ in her mind. Because she didn't know what else to do with the feeling that moved through her. A strange, dizzy warmth, the kind she hadn’t felt in years, the kind she had no business feeling.
Then the conversation went on for a it. You apologizing for texting her, her saying to not apologize, and then…then she asked.
Cassie: what was the dream about?
And then…you answered.
You: you kissed me
Cassie still doesn’t know what to do with those words to this day. And the worst part? She didn’t answer after that. Didn’t know what to say. And you didn’t say anything else. And that…that freaked her out because Cassie doesn't know what happened in that dream.
She doesn't know if dream-you looked nervous.
She doesn't know if dream-you laughed.
She doesn't know if dream-you reached for her first.
She doesn't know if she hesitated.
She doesn't know if she was gentle.
She doesn't know anything.
And somehow, somehow, that has become worse. Because Cassie’s mind has filled in every blank. She tells herself she isn't imagining it. She tells herself she is just trying to understand.
That is a lie. She knows it is a lie.
Because understanding would mean accepting that you had a dream about her kissing you. Accepting that maybe you think about her that way. Accepting that maybe all those tiny moments she has spent dismissing weren't just Cassie projecting something onto someone who was simply kind. No.
Her brain has taken that unfinished conversation and turned it into a thousand possibilities. A thousand little versions of something she has spent months trying not to want.
The first night after the dream, she barely slept.
The second night, she slept for two hours.
The third night, she woke up reaching for her phone before she was even fully conscious. For one awful, embarrassing second, she thought you had texted her.
Then reality settled in. No message. No name lighting up her screen. Just Cassie alone in the dark. Wanting something she had convinced herself she didn't need. And she knows it’s her fault because she never answered back. She didn’t ask anymore, which was probably a hint to you to not answer her back anymore.
She hates herself for it. For keeping herself locked. For keeping this need locked away. Buried beneath work and motherhood and sobriety and responsibility. She built a whole life around being the person who doesn't need too much. The person who is steady. The person who knows better.
Then you came along.
And somehow wanting you feels less like falling apart and more like remembering a part of herself Cassie thought she had already lost.
The first time Cassie realized she was in trouble wasn't when she noticed you were beautiful. That would have been easier. Attraction is simple. Attraction is something you can acknowledge and move on from. No. The first time Cassie realized she was in trouble was when you remembered she hated cinnamon in her coffee.
A stupid thing.
A meaningless thing.
Something anyone could notice. Except you didn't just notice. You remembered.
The next morning she had walked into the department holding a coffee cup and said, "I fixed it."
Cassie had frowned. "What?"
"Your coffee." Then you smiled. "No cinnamon."
Cassie had stared at you. Because it was such a small thing, and yet somehow it felt enormous. Like being seen. Like being chosen. Like someone had looked at her closely enough to notice the details she had spent years convincing people weren't important.
Now you won't even look at her. And Cassie deserves that. At least, that is what she tells herself.
********************
"You know, if you keep staring at her, you're eventually going to burn a hole through the wall."
Cassie nearly dropped her pen. Dana was standing beside her.
Cassie immediately looks back down at whatever was in front of her. "I wasn't staring."
Dana glances across the room. Then back at Cassie. "Okay."
That tone. Cassie hates that tone.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Dana."
"Nothing."
"You have something to say."
Dana smiles. "I do."
Cassie sighs. "Say it."
Dana leans against the counter. "You have been avoiding her for almost a week."
Cassie's stomach tightens. "I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm busy."
"You have been staring at that chart for 15 minutes."
"So?"
"You already checked it once you finished with your patient."
"I’m trying to make sure I didn’t miss anything."
Dana snorts. "You never do that, McKay.'"
Cassie says nothing.
Dana raises an eyebrow. "That was your giveaway."
Cassie looks away. "I just have a lot going on."
Dana’s expression softened then.
There it is.
The part Cassie wasn't prepared for.
Dana stopping teasing.
Dana actually seeing her.
"Is this about her?" Dana asks softly.
Cassie doesn’t answer.
She didn't have to.
Dana sighs quietly. "Cass."
"I know."
"No, I don't think you do." Cassie looks at her. Dana nodded towards you. "She looks miserable."
The words hit harder than Cassie expects. "What?"
"She thinks she did something wrong."
Cassie’s chest tightens. "She didn't."
"I know."
"She didn't do anything."
"I know." Dana pauses. "Then why are you making her feel like she did?"
Cassie opened her mouth. Nothing comes out. Because she doesn't have an answer that doesn't make her sound insane. Because the truth is: you didn't do anything. You gave her exactly what she had secretly wanted.
Proof.
Hope.
Permission to wonder.
And Cassie has been running ever since.
“Just so you know…” Danna grins. “You look miserable too.”
Cassie snorts then, a small sided smile in her face. A real smile after the past few days. Small…but there. “Geez, thanks.”
“You’re allowed to have some lil love in your life, McKay…don’t mess it up.” Dana patted her back before she left.
Cassie then allowed herself to look back at you.
********************
That afternoon, you didn't bring her coffee. It shouldn't matter. It is just coffee. Except it does. Because routines become love languages when someone is careful enough. Because Cassie had gotten used to you appearing beside her every morning. Because she had gotten used to that smile. That little: "Morning, Cass." Like saying her name was something worth doing.
By the end of the shift, Cassie is exhausted. Not physically. That would be easier. No. She is exhausted from pretending. From looking away. From pretending she doesn't notice every time You walks past. From pretending she doesn't miss the person she is actively pushing away.
And then you find her. Standing outside after shift. Waiting. Cassie stops when she sees you. Because you looked nervous. And that is somehow worse. You are never nervous around her. Not usually.
"Hey."
Cassie's throat tightened. "Hey."
A pause. The kind that feels too big for two people who used to fill silence easily. Finally, you spoke.
"I think we need to talk."
And Cassie knows. She knows this is the moment she has been avoiding. The moment where she either tells the truth or loses you completely.
Cassie hates how relieved she feels. Which is ridiculous. Because this is exactly what she has been avoiding. A conversation. An explanation. The possibility of finally saying something out loud that she has spent months trying to keep locked away. And yet the second you say those words, Cassie realizes she has been waiting for this.
Not because she wants to fix it. Because she wants permission to stop pretending.
"Okay." It comes out quieter than she intended.
You looked down.
That hurts. Cassie doesn't know why that hurts so much. Maybe because you have always looked at her. Always. Even when everyone else in the room was talking, you had this way of making Cassie feel like she was the only person worth listening to. Now you can't even meet her eyes. And Cassie knows exactly why. Because Cassie taught her that.
********************
They stand outside the hospital. The parking lot is mostly empty now.The kind of quiet that only happens after a long shift. The emergency department behind them is still alive—ambulances coming and going, lights flashing through the windows, people still running toward things that need fixing. But here? Here it's just them. Two people who have spent six days trying not to admit that something changed.
"I did something." You say it so quietly Cassie almost doesn't hear her.
Cassie immediately shakes her head. "No."
"You don't even know what I was going to say."
"I know you."
That made you look up. And for one second, just one, Cassie sees the old you. The one who smiles when Cassie says something ridiculous. The one who teases her. The one who makes her forget she is supposed to be careful. Then it disappears.
"I told you about the dream."
Cassie goes still. There it is. The thing they have both been circling. The thing sitting between them. The thing Cassie has been replaying every night.
"I shouldn't have."
"Y/n—"
"No, I shouldn't have." Your voice cracks slightly. "I don't know what I was thinking."
Cassie feels something twist in her chest. Because you looked embarrassed. Not hopeful. Not excited. Embarrassed. Like you regretted trusting her.
"I was tired, and it was late, and I guess I just..." You laugh softly. "Forgot that maybe some things are better kept to yourself."
Cassie feels suddenly angry. Not at you. Never at you. At the fact that this person, who has spent months making Cassie feel cared for, is standing here apologizing for having feelings.
For wanting.
For dreaming.
For being human.
"You don't have to apologize."
You look at her. "I do."
"No."
"I made things weird."
"You didn't."
"I literally told you I dreamed about you kissing me."
"And?"
You blink. "What do you mean, and?"
Cassie almost laughs. Because she knows. She knows exactly what you were thinking. You think Cassie is uncomfortable. You think Cassie has been avoiding you because the idea of being wanted by her was too much. You think Cassie walked away because you crossed a line. You have no idea that Cassie has spent nearly a week drowning in the opposite problem.
"You think I haven't talked to you about it because I was upset."
Your expression changes. "Wasn't that why?"
"No."
"Then why?"
Cassie opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. Because there are some truths that feel impossible to say. There are some feelings that sound ridiculous once they're outside of your head. Especially when you're Cassie McKay. Especially when you're fourty-three years old. Especially when you've spent years convincing yourself that wanting someone too much is the fastest way to lose yourself.
"I was scared."
Your face softens. "Of me?"
"No." The answer comes immediately. "No, baby…" The petname comes so naturally she doesn’t even notice.A beat. "That's the problem."
The rain starts lightly. Tiny drops catching in your hair. Cassie notices. Of course she notices. She notices everything about you. That's the problem.
She notices the way you shift when you’re nervous.
The way you press your lips together before saying something vulnerable.
The way you always give people space even when you wants to move closer.
"You told me you dreamed about me kissing you."
You nod slowly. "I know."
"And then you went to sleep. Well…I also didn’t text."
A small, confused smile appears. "Yeah?"
"You just..." Cassie shakes her head. "You just simply said that."
You stare. "What?"
Cassie laughs once. It is not a happy laugh. More like disbelief. "I've spent six days trying not to think about it."
Your expression changes. "Cassie..."
"No, listen." She looks away. Because saying this while looking at you feels impossible. "I didn't avoid you because I didn't want to know." A pause. "I avoided you because I did."
Silence.
The kind that feels like the world holding its breath.
"I wanted to know what happened."
You didn't move. "What?"
"In the dream." Cassie finally looks at her. "I wanted to know what happened, but I never asked." Her voice drops. "What did I do?"
You just watched her. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." Cassie exhales. "I kept wondering…did you ask me to? Did I just do it? Did you hesitate? Did I hesitate? Did you laugh? Did you look scared? Did I?"
Every question feels like a confession. Because they are.
Your voice is barely there. "Cass."
"I know."
"No, I don't think you do." A sad little smile appears. "You really don't."
Cassie frowns. "What?"
You looked down. "I didn't just dream about the kiss."
Cassie freezes. "What?"
"I mean, I did." A pause. "But that's not what woke me up."
The rain gets heavier. You take a breath. "I woke up because of the way you looked at me."
Cassie doesn't speak. She can't.
"You looked..." you search for the words. "...like you couldn't believe you were allowed to want me."
Cassie's heart stops. Because that is too close. Too close to the truth.
"You were just looking at me." You smile sadly. “And you looked terrified."
Cassie's throat tightens. "I am."
"Why?"
‘Because I wanted you. Because I shouldn't. Because you make me forget every rule I've ever made for myself. Because you make me feel young and reckless and alive. Because I have spent so long surviving that I forgot what it felt like to actually want something.’ She wanted to scream it…but all that came out was…
"I don't know how to do this." The confession slips out before she can stop it.
Your eyes soften. "Do what?"
Cassie laughs quietly. "This." She gestures between them. "You. Wanting someone." A pause. "Letting someone want me. And letting myself want someone like you. You’re…perfect."
And there it is. The thing underneath everything. Not the age difference. Not the fear of what people would say. Not even the dream. The real fear. That you could get close enough to matter. And Cassie has already lost enough people she loves. She doesn't know if she can survive needing another person.
You take one small step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough that Cassie notices.
"I never wanted you to feel like you had to be different with me." You spoke softly.
"I know."
"I never wanted you to feel guilty."
"I know."
"I just..." You huff a small laugh. "I like you."
Simple. Honest. No dramatic confession. No big speech. Just the truth.
"I like you, Cass."
Cassie closes her eyes. Because somehow that is worse. Because she knows. She has known. But hearing it? Hearing you say it? It feels like someone opening a door she has been standing outside of for months.
"I like you too."
The words barely make it out. But they do. And once they're there, she can't take them back.
Your breath catches. "You do?" A small smile appeared on your face.
Cassie almost smiles. "Yes."
"Then why do you keep running?"
And there it is. The question. The one she has been avoiding.
"Because I wanted to kiss you."
You go completely still.
Cassie looks down. "I wanted to kiss you before you ever told me about the dream." A pause. "I wanted to kiss you after." Another. "I wanted to kiss you every time you smiled at me." Her voice shakes. "And I hated myself for it."
Your expression breaks. Not in sadness. In understanding. "You thought wanting me was wrong."
Cassie doesn't answer. She doesn't have to.
And you say the one thing Cassie never expected. "Cassie," A pause. "You don't have to earn being loved by making yourself smaller. You’re allowed to want and have things."
That almost breaks her. Because no one says things like that to Cassie. Not anymore. Not after years of being the strong one. The dependable one. The one who holds everything together.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then you whisper: "Do you still want to?"
Cassie looks up. "What?"
"The kiss."
Her heart pounds.
"Do you still want to?"
And suddenly, after all the guilt and fear and nights staring at her ceiling, the answer is so simple it almost hurts.
"Yes."
She doesn't rush. That is the thing Cassie notices later. She doesn't lose control. She doesn't fall apart. She chooses.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like she is finally allowing herself something instead of stealing it.
Her hand comes up to your face. She pauses. You lean into her touch. And that tiny movement…that trust…is what undoes her. And then…she closes the tiny space.
The kiss is nothing like the one Cassie has imagined a thousand times. It is better. Because it is real. Because you’re real. You kiss her back with softness and tenderness. Because there is no dream to wake up from. No impossible scenario. No guilt hiding in the dark.
Just you.
Warm and close and smiling slightly when Cassie pulls back like she can't quite believe she did it. Neither of you speaks.
Finally Cassie whispers: "So..."
You laugh softly. "So."
A smile appears. "Was it anything like the dream?"
You look at her. Really look. And for once, Cassie doesn't look away. "No."
Cassie's eyebrows lift. "No?"
You smile. "Because in the dream…you looked like you couldn’t have me. And now..." A pause.
Cassie can’t help but smile. “Now I am allowing myself to.” She says softly, so softly.
The rains keeps falling on them, neither of you care one bit. Cassie bites her lip softly as she stares into your eyes, stroking your cheek as you place your hands on her sides.
“God, this is so cheesy…” Cassie mumbles.
You laugh, pecking her lips. “Maybe we shouldn’t keep standing here in the rain. We need to get dry.”
Cassie pulls away enough to stare at her. “Do you…maybe…”
“Yes.” You whisper so rapidly without even thinking.
Cassie stares at you. So lovingly. In disbelief. “I’ve wanted you for so long…I’ve…” Cassie laughs. “I thought I was going insane because I couldn’t keep you out of my mind.”
You laugh softly, leaning in to brush your nose against hers. “That makes us two.”
Cassie smiles against your lips. “You’ve haunted me so stunningly…” She whispers. “And god…I’m so done pretending.”
“Then don’t.” You whisper back, wrapping your arms around her neck. “Please stop pretending. Because I want you too, and—”
Cassie obeys. So easily, as she captures your lips in hers again. Because she’s been wanting this for so long. She’s been wanting this so badly. She’s been yearning for this. She’s been feeling guilty for wanting this, and she was done with it. Because you were in her arms, asking her…allowing her. How can she be guilty as sin when you were right here allowing her to want you?
Warnings: age gap (Cassie is 43, reader is 28, I dunno why I chose that age lol), slight obsession (maybe?), yearning, Cassie overthinking a lot and yearning for you in a sinful way.
Summary: It was wrong…right? Having a crush on your coworker. On your younger coworker. But you were so beautiful. So sweet and kind. How could she not? How can wanting someone feel sinful?
A/N: And I'm baaaack✨ So, it's been a wild ride for a few months. So much happening in my life, and yesterday was the cherry on top. So, to distract myself, I decided to slowly come back to writing. I might be rusty, mostly right now I'm focusing on song-fics. I have so many unfinished stuff but I'll get there. For now, my newest (has been for four months lol) crush is Cassie McKay. I actually have another version for this song. I got carried away with an idea and ended up writing something so different from what I thought lol. So hope y'all like this. Please share, reblog, comment, it'd help a lot after the shitty months I've had. Thank you for reading in advance!
Part 2.
*not my gif*
Cassie knows exactly how old you are.
That is, unfortunately, part of the problem.
Not because you’re a kid…you’re not. You’re grown, sharp, capable, entirely old enough to know your own mind.
But you are younger than her by fifteen years, and Cassie feels every single one of them in moments like this.
Three in the morning, the apartment quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the rain tapping against the kitchen window, and Cassie is standing barefoot in an oversized T-shirt with her phone in her hand, staring at the text you sent her forty minutes ago like it personally insulted her.
You: you awake?
Nothing suggestive. Nothing even flirtatious, technically.
Just two words from you, sent after a rough shift. Probably because you forgot your charger in Cassie’s car and wanted to know if you could grab it tomorrow.
That’s it. That should be it.
And yet Cassie has been standing in the dark kitchen for the better part of an hour because the sight of your name on her screen at 2:17 a.m. did something awful to her pulse.
It isn’t normal. That’s the part she keeps circling back to.
Not the wanting itself, Cassie has wanted people before. She knows what attraction feels like, what it means to notice someone, to imagine the weight of a hand or the press of a mouth.
No, what isn’t normal is how completely you’ve taken over her inner life.
How you’ve become the first thing she looks for at work without meaning to. How her mood shifts depending on whether you’re on shift with her. How she’s started collecting details about you like a thief; your coffee order, the songs you hum under your breath when you’re charting, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re concentrating, the exact shape of your laugh when something catches you off guard.
It feels childish.
Embarrassing.
Like being dragged backward into some version of herself she thought she’d long outgrown.
Cassie is fourty-three years old. She has a son old enough to roll his eyes at her. She has a mortgage and a retirement account and a lower back that acts up when she’s too stressed.
She should not be standing in her kitchen at three in the morning wondering what it would feel like if you kissed her.
And yet, her thumb hovers over your text. She types yes. Deletes it. Types that you can grab it tomorrow. Deletes that too. Because neither of those is the problem.
She sighed and shook her head as she turned off the light of the kitchen and then walked back to her room to lay down.
The problem is that if she answers you right now, you’ll answer back, and then there will be another text and another after that, and before she knows it she’ll be sitting on the edge of her bed at three-thirty in the morning smiling at her phone like an idiot because you said something funny, and she is too old to be doing this.
Too old to be wanting you like this.
Too old to be imagining how your lips tasted. Too old to be imagining you in her arms. Too old to get excited about you sending her random songs that could mean nothing, and yet, she enjoys each song. Too old to imagine how your lips would feel against her skin.
Too old to be losing sleep over the possibility that maybe you want her too. She kept recalling things she never did, and yet, her mind was filled with thoughts of it. Of you.
Cassie locks her phone and tosses it onto the counter like it burned her. Then she leans both hands against the cool marble and closes her eyes.
This has gotten out of hand.
It was manageable at first, or at least she thought it was.
A harmless crush, if she was being honest. A passing thing. You were funny and smart and shameless in a way that made everyone around you feel a little brighter. You flirted with half the department and called everyone pet names in that lazy, playful voice of yours that made it impossible to tell when you meant anything by it.
Cassie told herself she wasn’t special. Told herself she didn’t want to be. Then you started saving her a coffee when you worked mornings. Started showing up in doorways with that grin and saying, “Thought you forgot to eat again,” while handing her half your sandwich or a full one.
Started touching her without thinking, fingers at her elbow steering her out of the way of a gurney, palm at the small of her back in crowded hallways, your knee bumping hers under the break room table while you talked about nothing.
Tiny things.
Nothing things.
The kind of things that should not matter.
Cassie let them matter anyway. That was her mistake. No. Wanting you wasn’t the mistake. The mistake was realizing, slowly and then all at once, that the way you looked at her was different. That you watched her when you thought she wasn’t paying attention.
That your voice changed when you said her name, dropping into something softer, something private. That one night after a brutal shift, when she was leaning against the ambulance bay wall trying not to cry from sheer exhaustion, you stepped into her space and touched her cheek so gently it nearly took her knees out from under her.
“Cassie,” you’d said quietly, thumb brushing beneath one of her eyes, “it’s okay…you’re allowed to cry too, you know?”
She’d looked at you then, really looked, and seen it. Not imagined it. Not wished it into being. Seen it. The warmth in your expression. The concern. The awful, unmistakable tenderness of it. And because Cassie is a coward in exactly the ways that matter, she stepped back. She made some excuse about getting home, about being tired, about needing sleep.
You’d let her go. Of course you had. That’s part of what makes this worse. You’ve never pushed. Never crossed a line she didn’t draw first.
Never made her feel cornered or silly or like she’s imagining things. If anything, you seem almost careful with her sometimes, as if you know there’s something fragile in the space between you and you’re trying not to scare it off.
Cassie doesn’t know what to do with careful. She knows what to do with reckless. Reckless she can fight. Reckless she can call a bad idea and walk away from. But careful. Careful makes her want to stay. And staying is dangerous.
Because it means thinking about your mouth when she’s brushing her teeth before bed. It means replaying the way you laughed last week when she snapped at you for stealing fries off her plate, the way you’d just smiled and said, “You’d miss me if I stopped.”
It means wondering whether you know what you’re doing when you stand too close, when your hand lingers half a second too long at her waist, when you look at her with those open, impossible eyes and make her feel like she’s seventeen and stupid and standing on the edge of something that could ruin her.
Cassie hates it.
Worse…she loves it.
That’s the part she can’t forgive herself for. Because she knows better. She should know better.
She has spent fifteen more years in the world than you have. Fifteen more years learning how quickly people can become habits, how attraction can turn into attachment before you realize you’ve crossed a line, how badly it can hurt when you build a life around the wrong person.
She should be the responsible one here. The adult in the room. The one who sees this for what it is and puts an end to it before it becomes something harder to survive.
Instead she’s lying in bed at night imagining what it would feel like if you climbed into it beside her.
Not sex, not at first. That would almost be easier.
No, what undoes her is the softer stuff. The humiliatingly intimate things. Your head on her shoulder while the TV plays in the background. Your socks kicked off by her couch. The shape of your body curled into hers under the blankets, your hand sliding warm and sleepy beneath the hem of her T-shirt.
Cassie stares at the ceiling and thinks about you saying her name in the dark. She thinks about your mouth against her throat. She thinks about how easy it would be to ruin herself if you ever asked.
And then, because apparently self-destruction is a hobby now, she thinks about the age difference. About what people would say if they knew. About the way some of the younger nurses already tease her for being “old” whenever she references a song they don’t know or complains about her knees after a double shift.
About you laughing and saying, “You’re not old, Cass,” the first time you heard it, your hand warm around the coffee you had brought her. “You’re just dramatic.”
She had rolled her eyes.
You had smiled.
Then, quieter, like the words had slipped out before you could stop them: “I like that you’re older.”
Cassie had nearly dropped her coffee.
You must have seen it on her face, because your own expression changed immediately, surprise, then panic, then that breathless little laugh you do when you’re trying to cover embarrassment.
“I just mean,” you had said too fast, “you know things. You’re calm. You don’t freak out over every little thing like the rest of us.”
Cassie had stared at you.
You had gone pink all the way to your ears.
And for the rest of the shift, Cassie could barely look at you without hearing it again.
I like that you’re older.
She hates how often she thinks about that sentence. How many different ways she’s replayed it. Sometimes in your voice, soft and shy and a little startled. Sometimes in the darker corners of her imagination, where the words sound lower, rougher, spoken into her mouth with your hands at her waist and your body pressed close enough that she can feel exactly how bad an idea it would be.
Cassie turns onto her side and drags a hand over her face.
This is pathetic. She is pathetic.
No one is making her do this. You’re not seducing her. You’re not luring her into anything. If there is a line being crossed here, it’s in the privacy of Cassie’s own mind, and she is the one crossing it every night.
She’s the one replaying your laugh until she falls asleep. She’s the one wondering whether you’d taste like coffee or peppermint or the cherry lip balm she once saw you pull from your pocket. She’s the one taking innocent moments and making them filthy just by wanting them too much.
Like yesterday, when you bent down beside her desk to plug in a monitor and your shoulder brushed her thigh.
That was it.
An accident.
Barely a touch.
And Cassie had spent the next ten minutes staring at the same chart without reading a single word because all she could think about was your hand sliding higher, your mouth at her knee, your voice going soft as you asked if she wanted—
She stopped herself there.
Too late, because the heat is already there, low and aching and humiliating. Cassie throws the blankets back and gets out of bed. The apartment is cold under her bare feet as she crosses to the bathroom, flicks on the light, and grips the edge of the sink with both hands.
Her reflection looks tired.
Haunted, maybe.
A woman in her forties with sleep-creased skin and messy hair and a mouth that still feels too aware of one younger woman who has never even kissed her.
It would be funny if it didn’t feel so much like losing control.
“What are you doing?” She asked herself quietly. There is, of course, no answer. Only the truth she doesn’t want to say out loud: she is wanting you.
Not abstractly. Not harmlessly.
Specifically. Constantly. In ways that make her feel guilty not because she’s done anything wrong, but because she hasn’t, and she still can’t stop.
She imagines you with an ease that terrifies her. At work, cornering her in the supply room with that bright, reckless smile and asking why she keeps looking at your mouth.
At home, barefoot in her kitchen, wearing one of Cassie’s old T-shirts and nothing else.
In bed, climbing into her lap and taking Cassie’s face in your hands like you know exactly what you’re doing to her.
She imagines telling you no. Imagines how quickly that no would fall apart if you touched her throat and whispered, “Then tell me to stop.”
Cassie’s eyes close. Her head drops forward. This is what the guilt really is, she thinks. Not the age gap, not even the wanting itself. It’s the fact that if you asked, she doesn’t know that she’d be good enough to refuse.
That if you looked at her with that careful, open expression and said her name in that soft voice and kissed her once, just once, Cassie might give you everything she’s spent months trying to keep from you.
Her restraint.
Her sleep.
Her dignity.
Maybe worse than that. Maybe the quiet, carefully ordered life she’s built around never needing too much from anyone.
Because you make her need. That’s what’s so dangerous about you.
Not that you’re younger. Not that you’re beautiful. Not even that you flirt like breathing and laugh with your whole mouth and say her name like it belongs to you.
It’s that you make Cassie feel fifteen years younger and fifteen years more terrified all at once. Like there is still time to ruin herself for the right person. Like there is still time to want something this badly and survive it.
Her phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. Cassie startles so hard she nearly knocks over her toothbrush.
She looks down. Your name.
Again.
A second text.
You: if you’re asleep ignore me lol but I had a weird dream and now I can’t sleep
Cassie stares. The room goes very still. She should not ask. She knows she should not ask. But curiosity is a cruel thing, and wanting you has already eroded enough of her common sense that the rest gives way easily.
Her fingers move before she can stop them.
Cassie: what kind of dream?
The three dots appear almost instantly.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Cassie’s pulse is in her throat now, too loud, too fast. When your answer comes through, it’s only one line.
You: you were in it
Cassie reads it once.
Twice.
A third time, just to make sure she isn’t hallucinating from lack of sleep.
Her hand tightens around the phone. There are a dozen possible interpretations for that sentence. A hundred. Maybe you dreamed you were late for shift and she was covering triage. Maybe you dreamed you borrowed her charger and forgot to give it back. Maybe this is nothing. Maybe you are not standing on the other side of the same line she’s been pacing for months.
Maybe.
But the air in the bathroom has gone hot and thin anyway, and Cassie can’t seem to get enough of it. Her thumbs hover uselessly over the keyboard. She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know what would be safe to say. So of course what comes out is the worst possible option.
Cassie: that sounds dangerous
The reply takes longer this time. Long enough for Cassie to regret everything. Long enough for her to start drafting excuses in her head, ways to laugh it off tomorrow if she has to, ways to pretend she didn’t mean anything by it.
Then your answer arrives.
You: yeah
You: it was
Cassie closes her eyes.
There it is.
Not a confession. Not exactly. But close enough to make her knees weak. Close enough to make the entire apartment feel charged, like one wrong move could split it open. Her phone buzzes again before she can recover.
You: go back to sleep, Cass
You: I’m sorry
You: I shouldn’t have texted
And that, somehow, stupidly, that’s what undoes her. Not the tension. Not the implication. The apology. The way you retreat the second things get too close to the edge, as if you’re trying to protect her from something you don’t even know she’s already drowning in.
Cassie stares at the messages until the screen dims. Then she unlocks it again. Types once. Deletes. Types again. This time she sends it before she can lose her nerve.
Cassie: you don’t have to apologize to me for wanting something
The message goes through. Cassie’s breath catches the moment it does. Because that is not neutral. That is not safe. That is, in fact, maybe the most honest thing she has said to you in months.
Three dots appear immediately. Stay. Disappear. Come back. Cassie feels sick with anticipation. Finally, your answer arrives.
You: good
You: because I don’t think I’m going to stop
Cassie stared at the screen until the words blur. Then she laughed once, softly, helplessly, at the woman in the mirror who thought she was still in control of any of this. She set the phone down for a moment. Turned off the bathroom light and grabbed the phone again. And went back to bed knowing full well she’s not going to sleep at all.
She stared at her phone again, at that last message you had sent. God, the need to ask you to come over. Or ask if she was allowed to go. She bit the inside of her cheek, then her lower lip. She sighed as she typed.
…so it’s been so long, life is pretty hard, too many responsibilities.
But I miss writing so much and I kind of wrote something to ‘Guilty as Sin’ by Taylor Swift…with Cassie McKay…🫢 well I already have like…2 fics for Cassie and so many unfinished ones for the rest of the characters I write for lol.
have u seen the pitt? if so I would luv if u wrote for cassie mckay, u would write her so gooood
hello anon🫡
welp, I got this like…2 weeks ago? but didn’t have time to answer it haha been way too busy, will explain later. And it was like they smelled that I was watching the pitt, cause yes, hun. I did watch it. And also yes…I am very much in love with Dr. Cassie McKay.
I did write a one shot. But…since it’s been so long since I’ve written anything, and posted, I am not sure if it’s any good and if anyone would actually enjoy it🥴 I’m a bit insecure as always but extra this time hahaha
