Will update when inspiration strikes! Also, I will accept requests, but I cannot promise to answer them very quickly if at all 'cause I don't want to feel pressure. Happy reading!
you can't claim that there are many different types of valid womanhood, then claim that your personally experienced version of womanhood is the only valid one, and then end with the conclusion that anyone who doesn't experience your version is not a woman. you just. you can't lol
Azriel's not a very spiritual person, doesn't tend to frequent the sacred Prythian Temples unless on business. His lack of trust in the Mother's pre-ordained plan likely stems from the Cauldron granting him his beloved mate almost 450 years ago only to rip her away from him a mere century later. But, he carries on in her memory; loves her brother and protects her beloved court for her because she no longer can.
After the sacking of Sangravah Temple, Azriel finds himself in hallowed spaces far more than he'd honestly like. He supports the Valkyries mission to train interested priestesses in the art of self defence, though, and will do whatever he can to help.
But the Mother is a cruel mistress, because the mate She gave him, stole from him, and made him live without for almost 350 years, now dons the robes of a devout priestess in a Temple on a remote island far off the coast of the Spring Court — and she has no memory of him; of any of them.
OR
You're the Princess of the Night Court, the beloved sister of Rhysand, the mate of the infamous Shadowsinger, and were killed alongside your mother and sister over three centuries ago.
Except you're not quite dead.
You've resided on this island for centuries with nothing to your name save the knowledge that you once had wings and no longer do. Memories of your past emerge from the shadows on your sacred island, but you don’t remember them.
They remember you, though.
playlist coming soon!
prologue: keep the goddess on my side [300 words] posting-Aug 16
summary: peter’s new arachnid senses often leave him disoriented—hibernating and waking up in places he doesn’t recognise. it’s a small problem, one he's willing to deal with on his own, till he wakes in your apartment with his arms wrapped around you.
pairing: peter parker x reader
content: no bnd movie spoilers (feel free to read if you haven't seen bnd), FLUFF, clingy! peter parker, comfort, light banter, arachnid! peter, peter goes through it, yearning
Peter hates most of the new developments that arrived with the enhanced levels of his arachnid half—and migraines are definitely top of the list. Particularly the ones that start early in the morning, muffling his senses and rendering him a zombie slob for the entire start of the day. He stirs in his sleep, a soft, pounding ache burrowed in the back of his skull. It's an irritating sensation, one he's already grown familiar with, worsening the overheating, the sensitivity that comes with his overloaded senses, the pull of nerves behind his eyeballs.
His nose burrows deeper into a comforting scent, arms tightening around something soft. Letting out a dragged sigh, low against his throat, the pain fades into something barely noticeable. A sort of relaxed relief that hasn't hit him in years, with his entire body growing slack and heavy, the kind that only comes after a restful sleep. One he hasn't achieved since—his gaze peers open, blinking heavily as his eyes adjust to his surroundings.
The first thing he catches sight of is a familiar bundled sight of hair, and the curve of a shoulder. He must be dreaming. The sunlight stings the sensitivity of his eyes, and he blinks harsher in an effort to recollect himself. His brows furrow as he loosens a hand, parting from his tight grip to run his fingers gently over the loosened hair.
He wasn't dreaming. Somehow, he was laying in your bed, hugging you like an oversized koala.
"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.
You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.
The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.
What has he done?
"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.
Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.
"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"
Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?
“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”
Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.
Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.
"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."
"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."
Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?
He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.
His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.
“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.
He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.
He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.
There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.
“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.
Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.
“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”
His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.
“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.
Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.
“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”
His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.
“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”
Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."
A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.
"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.
Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.
Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.
"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.
He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.
He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.
You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?
Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.
You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.
"Don't go." He whispers.
Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.
"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.
He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."
You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.
He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.
"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."
His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.
"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."
He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.
"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."
The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.
"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.
"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.
You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.
Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.
You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.
Apparently, today was its much-needed day.
Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.
Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.
"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"
He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.
Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.
Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.
Okay, sure. You could work with that.
He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.
Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.
He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.
You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.
"Spidey." You whisper.
He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.
"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.
His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.
"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."
His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."
"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."
His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.
"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."
It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.
You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.
It gets demolished within seconds.
As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.
You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.
Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.
"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.
His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."
You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.
"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."
His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.
"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.
If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.
"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.
Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.
“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”
It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.
"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.
If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.
You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."
Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"
His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”
Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.
He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.
He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.
"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."
His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.
You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.
"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.
He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.
The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.
It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"
"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."
The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.
You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"
"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"
"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."
You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."
"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."
"That's not true." You hum.
He blinks slowly, processing your words.
"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."
He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.
"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.
The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"
"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”
He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.
It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.
“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”
"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."
Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."
"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."
"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."
His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.
"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."
Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.
It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.
"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.
You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.
"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."
His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."
"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"
He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."
His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."
Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."
"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."
You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.
He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.
"Spidey." You call out.
He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.
"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."
He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."
Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.
You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.
You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?
Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.
You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.
"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."
"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."
Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."
"Why?"
"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.
You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."
His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"
"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.
"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.
"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."
You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?
You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.
Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.
Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.
"Peter. Peter Parker."
likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3!!
marvel masterlist - coming soon! (do let me know if you'd like to be added to a peter parker taglist, i may be making one as i have more fics coming up for him <3).
thinking about brendon park who finds your curly hair so fascinating. the man doesn’t care if the curls are natural or heat-styled, he just cares that they have a certain life to them.
i feel like he’s the type to take a coil and tug on it gently, and he’d get the biggest smile when he releases it, and it springs back up as if he’d never touched it. it’s such a simple thing, but he saw you do it once when you’d found a particularly structured curl, and thought it was the most entertaining thing in the world.
sometimes you’ll bat his hands away, but a lot of the time you let him be amused by the way your hair moves, because seeing the man you love adore your hair in every one of its states has helped you enjoy your hair in every shape it takes.
The popularity of the "incompetent stupid piece of shit husband and competent wife who loves him anyways" trope in media is a psyop to make women believe its normal to settle for an incompetent stupid piece of shit husband
This is why Pride is not just a party. It's a joyful celebration, but it's also a pointed and colourful two-finger salute to a world that stood back whilst so many of us died. And we'll never go quietly, never again.
This is literally what people are talking about when they say AI will be used to mainstream widely held bigotry. LLMs are trained on frequency and probability -> straight relationships are more well represented in the dataset -> straight pronouns and terms become the "correct" normal.
This is a form of backdoor bigotry from both normative facts (there are more straight than gay relationships) and well represented bigoted beliefs (men are superior to women).
Combine this with the mass of people inclined to believe (and being encouraged to believe) that if AI says and does something it must be correct
Warnings: pregnancy trope, secret dating? kind of angst and kind of fluff
Note: I know this is kinda short but I'll most likely keep revisiting this and adding little shorts to this series. Posting won't be regular cause I cannot deal with that pressure, but I hope you follow if you like because more drabbles will come! Also, I might write more Cregan things and other characters in the future as well. Enjoy <3
You’re asleep the moment the car starts. Your soft snores bring a smile to Mark's face as he navigates the Seattle streets. He takes a breath. The city is awash with lights and cars under the night sky. The car windows fog up in the cold. He knows there's something going on with you, but he doesn't know how to ask you about it.
The hospital is a mess; Izzie has cancer, whatever is happening between Big Grey and the Chief, and something to do with Yang. But you. You just give them all a shoulder to cry on, with your soft smile and listening eyes. Not a single person in Seattle Grace has a bad word for you, and Mark absolutely understands. He'd grown up knowing Derek's mother, who was also a giver. A lover. A listener. You had grown up with Ellis Grey for a mother (albeit an adopted one) and ended up being a lover. Why the senior Dr Grey adopted you was a mystery to all but you and Meredith.
"'re we here?" Your words are slurred with sleep.
"Yep." Mark gets out of the car and goes to your own door. He opens it and gives you a hand as you get out, wary of your earlier 'food poisoning' episode. You lean on him as you walk into the building and to the lift. It's quiet, comfortable.
In his apartment, you change wearily into a pair of your pants you found in his drawers and a hoodie. Mark's bed is warm, familiar. The stress of the day and the weight of all your secrets comes crashing to the front of your mind. Unconsciously, your hand drifts to your stomach.
I have to tell him. You know you will. But telling Mark about the baby means telling Meredith and Derek and the rest of the bloody hospital that you're dating McSteamy. Derek would have a stroke, and Meredith... You shake your head. Everyone has enough going on without this as well. You'll tell Mark when you're ready.
"You feeling better, sweetheart?" He's standing in the doorway, a towel sitting low on his hips. This is what got me pregnant. This right here. Lord have mercy.
"I'm fine, Mark. It wasn't that bad. I was talking to Derek about the wedding and I just..." You trail off. Mark smiles before walking to the cupboard to put some boxers on.
"Don't worry, I threw up on him once after I kissed a girl for the first time." You gasp.
"Really? Mcsteamy? You did not!" He climbs into the bed, kisses you and switches off the lamp.
"I really did, but no one would believe you if you told him." Cheeky.
Notes: Okay. After some very careful consideration and soul-searching, this is going to be the last official chapter of The Other Half. I'll still welcome asks, and writing prompt fills if I post/reblog them, but this is the end of the official series. I love Shop Girl and Bruce, and I think I'm leaving them in a good place; I hope you all feel the same.
Thank you as always for indulging my silly stories, and thank you for following me through this unexpected fic journey 💗💗
Warnings: Just smut and fluff.
Summary: You so rarely get to see Bruce this way—relaxed, calm, content…At least, you hope he’s content. Maybe his mind is racing with concern, with curiosity. You know that Bruce has a love and concern for Gotham. Sometimes you worry that you may never equal it.
But the city can’t love Bruce the way you do. It won’t take him into its arms, won’t bandage his wounds or lay awake worrying for him at night.
“Do I get a head start?”
Bruce chuckles at your question as he pulls the car up in front of the mansion.
“Depends. How far do you think you’ll be able to get?”
You hum as you consider, tipping your head from side to side.
“The first landing.” You realize as soon as you say it that there’s absolutely no way you’ll make it that far in your new shoes. Bruce seems to know it, too, his brows jumping as he nods.
“The first landing…And what do I get if I catch you?”
“Well, that’s up to you."
"Fine. Ten seconds—”
“Wait a minute.”
“What?”
“What if I make it without you catching me?”
Bruce tips his head a touch, a smug smile curling his lips and sending a thrill zipping through you.
“Ten seconds,” He reiterates without answering your question.
“Just ten?”
“...Nine—”
“Shit!” You scramble to undo your seat belt, hurrying out of the car as you hear Bruce turn it off. You fumble with your key, shoving the heavy door open and moving as quickly as you dare in your new heels, heading up the steps of the grand staircase. Your stomach flips as you hear the door close behind you, but you don’t dare turn to look. You make it up the first few steps, heart ticking up in your chest as you hear Bruce’s footsteps quick and gain on you. You’re three steps from your target—
You shriek as Bruce’s arms hook around your middle, easing you to a stop as your fingers just miss the first landing. Your giggling is marred by your heavy panting as Bruce presses more heavily against you, easing the two of you down against the steps.
“So fucking close,” You manage.
“With a head start.” Bruce’s reminder is chased by a kiss to your shoulder. His hands smooth over your hips as you gently twist in his arms to face him, scooching back onto the landing. Bruce’s lips are on yours in a second, slipping tenderly against them. You draw your knees up to cradle his hips, groaning as he presses closer. His hands slip under your dress, easing the skirt higher. You swallow thickly, sucking in a nervous breath as his kisses drift to your neck.
“Bruce—”
“Mm.”
“Alfred—?”
“He’s at the penthouse.”
You let yourself relax at that, relieved that you won’t have to worry about him wandering by or hearing you. You bite your lip as Bruce’s hands smooth up your inner thighs, tipping your hips up as his fingers hook in the seat of your panties, exposing your heated flesh to cool air. You shiver as he brushes his knuckle gently against your plumping lips, his eyes growing dark as his gaze sweeps up your front.
He leans back, pushing your thighs wide with his broad shoulders. He eases your panties more tightly to the side, the lace pushing almost harshly against the crease of your hip. He holds your gaze as he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your mound. His kisses drift lower, his tongue teasing at your slit. Each touch has a hint more pressure than the last.
Your eyelids flutter, and you let your head tip back, lowering yourself against the rug on the landing. Bruce draws one of your legs up over his shoulders, baring you to him more fully. His tongue strokes your clit for a few moments before he delves lower, groaning softly at the taste of you. Your toes curl in your shoes as Bruce laps broadly across your pussy. He never settles, tongue and fingers stretching and teasing you until you’re shaking, grinding down into his touch.
Your whimpers and moans echo in the cavernous front hall as curls and twists his fingers, pushing you closer to your release. You finally cum with a shout, back arching as your hips bound against him. Bruce only draws away when you gently push at his forehead, his sucking kisses against your clit turning to a gentle nuzzle against your inner thigh.
You sigh softly as he draws his hand away, standing. You reach up, palming his hard cock beneath his trousers. He groans, taking hold of your hand and tugging you up.
“Lemme—”
“Not here.”
“Bruce," You pout.
“Don’t worry,” He leads the way toward the stairs. “I’m not done with you yet.”
“I don’t get another head start?”
“Do you really think you can outrun me after that?” Bruce asked, throwing you a knowing glance over his shoulder. You smiled guiltily, giggling as he grins.
--
“...You still awake back there?” You mumble. It’s a few long moments before Bruce lets out a soft, hazy hum, his arms tightening around your middle as he cuddles closer, nuzzling between your shoulder blades. You smile, rolling over to face him. His eyes are closed, hair mussed from where you had grasped and tugged it. Your body feels almost syrupy as you move against him. You’d been certain that he’d get up and check on the news once the two of you were through, but he’d stayed true to his word, cuddling up in bed even after you had gotten cleaned up.
You raise a hand, gently stroking his cheek. He hums, face tipping up into the caress. You know that you’re going to need to savor this while you have it. You so rarely get to see Bruce this way—relaxed, calm, content…At least, you hope he’s content. Maybe his mind is racing with concern, with curiosity. You know that Bruce has a love and concern for Gotham. Sometimes you worry that you may never equal it.
But the city can’t love Bruce the way you do. It won’t take him into its arms, won’t bandage his wounds or lay awake worrying for him at night.
Your hand settles on his jaw, thumb sweeping across his cheekbone. You smile as he turns his head, pressing a kiss to your palm.
But the city isn’t held by Bruce the way you are, either.
“Thank you,” You murmur. Bruce’s eyes blink open slowly, fixing on you as he smiles sleepily.
“For what?”
“For today. For…Everything,” You shake your head a little. “Everything that you do, and are, I just…Thank you.”
Bruce leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. His hands skim up your back, drawing you into his chest, legs tangling together as if you can fuse to one another.
“Today was good?” He mumble buzzes against your lips, and you grin.
“Today was amazing and you know it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Anything that could’ve made it better?”
You consider for a moment, gaze lowering to his chest. Michelle’s prediction rattles in your mind, and you can’t help but wonder…But—
“No—”
“What’s that face for?”
You can’t sneak anything by him.
“Nothing.”
“...Baby,” He plies softly. You sigh, shaking your head.
“It’s not—It’s just something Mish said.”
“What’d she say?”
“...She thought you were going to propose.”
Bruce doesn’t lean away like you expect him to. His hands just continue their gentle circles against your back.
“Did you think I was going to?” He asks.
“No.”
“Do you want me to?”
It’s a fair question; it’s something the two of you have neglected to discuss since your fight. And as happy as you are in this moment with Bruce, you know that it isn’t a true representation of your relationship. You’ve had as many lows as you’ve had highs, and the lows have been devastating.
“...I don’t know,” You admit. You hear Bruce draw a deep breath in through his nose, and you see him nod a little out of the corner of your eye.
“Okay.”
You don’t ask if he wants to. You don’t think you could handle the answer just now, either way.
“Well,” Bruce does let go of you then, reaching over and opening his bedside drawer, “There was one more thing I meant to give you today. Before you get jumpy, it isn’t a ring, but it is something special.”
You push yourself to sit up as Bruce scooches back, holding out a velvet jewelry box. Your brow furrows as you take hold of it. You give him a guarded, nervous look before you open it. Your stomach flips, and tears prickle at your eyes when you catch sight of your discarded lariat necklace. You haven’t seen it since you ripped it off and called him a coward, and you’d been certain you would never see it again. But there’s something different about it than you remember.
You reach down, trailing your finger over the strand and coming to stop just above another jewel.
“...I thought—”
“It was a diamond,” Bruce nods, “But…” He reaches out, gingerly lifting the necklace out of the box and fastening it around your neck. “I wanted to give it a personal touch.”
“What do you mean?”
Bruce traces his finger along the silver, brushing against the dangling emerald before he gently slides his fingers beneath the new addition.
“This was one of my mother’s pearls.”
Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you can’t move or breathe or think. Bruce’s gaze flits to your face, sweeping your no doubt stunned expression.
“I thought about proposing tonight,” He admits, “But I think we need more time. That doesn’t mean that I can’t make you a promise—a promise to be honest with you. A promise to love and cherish you for the rest of our lives. A promise to come home to you every night.” Bruce raises his hand, curling his fingers around your trembling jaw. “To keep my temper out of it, to push through the hard things with you instead of running from you—running from us. And to fight for this as hard as I fight for Gotham—and harder, when I need to.”
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, guns mentioned, injuries
word count: 7.8k
a/n: thank you all for still being here! i appreciate you lots. love reading your comments <33 i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
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Olivia's never experienced a more painfully awkward breakfast in her life. And she's sat through her parents 'let's-tell-our-child-we're-divorcing-over-croissants' breakfast and survived. But this takes the prize. Because this time she's hungover, struggling for her life as she fights the nausea and throbbing in her head, while she has to watch as the two of you slowly torture yourselves over toast and coffee.
It's mostly quiet except for the occasional scrape of cutlery and chewing—something hungover her usually would appreciate, but today it's killing her. It's like you take turns to look at each other, just missing the other by seconds, and she can see both of you wanting to speak, but neither of you does. When she tries to force conversation, everything dies in short, flat answers.
Olivia had come ready for damage control after your phone call—the one where you'd sounded so heartbreakingly sure everything was over. But after seeing Jack at the party? The gifts, the speech, flying her out, the way he'd looked at you all night. The problem had never been feelings.
She had liked Jack the first time she met him because it had been obvious then, too. The man loved you. Desperately. The problem was that everyone seemed to see it except the two of you.
So, she was certain that things would be okay again. She only needed to give you slight pushes—saw it in the way you didn't deny her every time, how your eyes looked hopeful when she talked about him—and then that kiss happened, and somehow everything got worse.
Olivia still didn’t know what the hell had gone wrong. You hadn’t been in bed when she woke up, and she hadn’t had a chance to corner you yet. But something had shifted. Yes, you'd been upset when she found you afterwards, but not like this. She still thought it could be salvaged with a few encouraging words—the man had kissed you in private for fuck's sake! If that wasn’t a sign that it wasn’t just pretend, what was?
But you looked different now. Quieter. Defeated in a way that made Olivia’s stomach sink.
She sits and watches as you barely touch your food, keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on your plate—except every few minutes, when you’d glance toward Jack before catching yourself and looking away again.
And Jack—
Jesus Christ. He looked awful. Kept reaching for things that didn’t need reaching for to end up closer to you. Refilling your coffee before you asked. Sliding the jam toward you without a word. Every few minutes, Olivia also catches him looking. Quick little glances when he thinks you aren't paying attention. Checking if you’d eaten. Watching your face. Looking away the second you turned.
Two idiots. Clearly sad. Clearly in love. She's seconds away from grabbing both your heads and smashing them together.
"I’ll be right back," she announces suddenly, shoving her chair back.
Your head snaps up immediately, panic flickering across your face. Jack looks up, too, but neither of you says anything, which somehow makes it worse.
She shuts the bedroom door behind her with a long, suffering sigh and collapses onto the edge of the bed, grabbing her phone.
Robby picks up on the second ring. "You're alive," he teases, voice still gruff with sleep.
"Barely," she groans. "These two are gonna kill me."
He laughs softly. There's a rustling sound on the other end, and she imagines him sitting up in bed, sheets falling down on his lap, chest bare—she needs to focus.
"That bad?" he asks.
"You have no idea," she says, rubbing her temple. "We need to do something about it—it's even worse than I thought."
Robby's silent for a moment. "Hmm," he says, voice turning serious. "I think I might have an idea."
Olivia sits up immediately. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."
"Oh?" Robby replies, sounding far too pleased with himself. "You like me?
Her ears flush. "Oh, shut up!" she snaps, shifting on the bed. "Tell me your plan!"
"Yes, ma'am," he laughs.
"Any progress?" Parker asks as she leans against the counter, coffee cup balanced in one hand as she watches Shen stare blankly at the computer.
"None," Shen answers after a moment, drumming restless fingers against the desk. "Absolutely none."
Parker sighs and turns her attention down the hall as Abbot rounds the corner, a tablet tucked under his arm. He moves more slowly than usual—quieter, with less of his usual bark and bite.
"He's miserable," Parker murmurs. "Honestly, I’d prefer him to chew me out than to see him like this."
Shen follows her gaze and exhales through his nose. "Yeah."
Abbot pauses near the board, scanning patient updates. His jaw shifts like he’s grinding his teeth.
"Did you see her at rounds?"
Parker nods. "I think she looked even worse than Abbot does." She frowns, contemplating. "Do you think something happened?"
Shen bites the end of his pen. "No way, right? They seemed fine at the party."
Parker watches Abbot again. "...Yeah."
Jack knows he shouldn't be doing this. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't go back. But it's been weeks since the surprise party, weeks since that kiss, and weeks since he’s had a proper conversation with you.
You're still stuck on day shift, too. Through no fault of Robby’s this time—Gloria had stepped in, and suddenly you were staying put 'temporarily'. Temporary, his ass. At this point, he hardly ever sees you. Just quick hallway glances, elevator rides, and once in a while, a brief hug—but those are growing rarer.
So when the text came—the one he’d ignored for months—he answered. He put on his uniform, convincing himself it would be simple. Routine. A warehouse break-in—nothing major. Just in and out. But then someone panicked. Shots were fired, and everything went sideways.
Luke—a tall guy Jack barely knew—went down hard, hit in the side, then the jaw. Training kicked in before his mind could even catch up. Jack moved instinctively, dragging him to cover while bullets cracked overhead, stabilising him and applying pressure where needed.
After that, things blurred. Sirens. Movement. Noise. The Pitt. He barely registered the burning in his shoulder by the time Luke had already been rushed upstairs. Even then, he’d ignored it. Because Luke was alive. Because it barely hurt. Because—
Because maybe part of him didn’t care all that much lately. That thought sat ugly in his chest.
In the midst of it all, he had instinctively searched for you. Even in the chaos, he hadn’t seen you. Now that things had settled, he still can't find you. No glimpse of you in the hub, no voice echoing down the hall, no familiar figure moving between rooms. You're probably in an exam room, likely avoiding him.
His shoulder throbs harder.
"Fuck," he mutters. He steps toward the first empty room he sees, closes the door and pulls the curtain shut behind him. He gathers supplies one-handed, jaw tightening as he starts peeling off his shirt. It catches on the edge of the wound, and he bites back a hiss of pain.
Just as he throws the shirt on the bed, the door slams open. The curtain is ripped to the side violently as the door bangs shut. You stand there, breathing hard like you sprinted through the entire hospital. Your eyes are wild and desperate as you frantically sweep your gaze over him—face, chest, arms, stomach.
"I thought you got shot," you breathe out when you don't see anything out of place.
"You heard about my dramatic entrance?" he remarked lightly. "I was hoping for flowers, at least." He sits down on the bed, beginning to tear off the tape for the dressing.
That gets nothing from you. No eye roll. Not even an annoyed huff. Your chest is still rising too fast.
"What the fuck were you thinking?" you snap, voice cracking halfway through. "Why were you out there?"
"I—"
"Since when do you do that?"
Jack rubs at the back of his neck. "I've done it for about a year."
Your expression changes from confusion to hurt. "What?" Your brows furrow. "Have you done it while we've—" you trail off, hands gesturing between you.
"No," he says quickly and firmly. "No."
Your shoulders relax a bit, your breathing slowing as you watch him squeeze out saline and reach for a cotton swab. You frown, only then realising that he's sitting shirtless in front of you with a tray of medical supplies in front of him. The way he's favouring one arm, the ugly scrape across his shoulder— "Oh my god."
You move instantly, snapping on a pair of gloves, gently slapping his hand away. "Let me."
"It’s fine," he says automatically, even though he knows he can't reach it.
You shoot him a look sharp enough to silence him.
The room falls quiet as you step closer, reaching for a cotton swab with shaking fingers. You don’t say anything as you start cleaning the scrape. Your fingertips brush briefly against his skin as you adjust your grip, and something in his chest twists painfully. You haven’t touched him in weeks—not properly. No absentminded shoulder bumps, no hand on his back, no leaning into him during rounds—none of those quiet little gestures that used to come so naturally.
And now here you are, jaw tight like you're holding yourself together by sheer will, dabbing at the wound gently, fingers holding onto his shoulder to keep him still.
"Why do you do this?" you ask quietly as you place a dressing over it.
He tilts his head instead of shrugging. "It's better than golf," he jokes. You don't laugh. He tries again, "Midlife crisis?"
Maybe you’ll call him old, maybe you’ll roll your eyes—anything that’ll show him that he hasn’t ruined everything with that kiss. Instead, he hears a sniffle behind him.
Jack stills, turning to look over his shoulder. You're staring down at his back, jaw still tight, but now your eyes are also glassy.
"Whoa, hey," he turns around as you tear off your gloves and throw them into the bin forcefully. "Hey."
"I'm fine," you mutter, not looking at him.
"You're crying."
"I'm not." Your voice cracks on the final word, and Jack hates himself for choosing to respond to that text.
"Sweetheart," he says quietly, the word slipping from his lips before he can stop it. He hasn’t called you that in weeks.
You wrap your arms around yourself and sniff once again. You're still not looking at him. "You really scared me. I thought you got shot."
"Hey," he encourages softly. "Come here."
You hesitate, but then take a step closer to him. He reaches for your hands—they're still shaking a little. He’s not sure if you’ll let him, but you do. Before he can think better of it, he pulls you in between his knees.
He tilts his head, waiting until your eyes meet his. "I'm okay. My vest caught it—it’s just a graze."
"This time, maybe," you stress. "What about next time? You can’t control what happens out there, Jack."
He fights the urge to look away.
"You could’ve gotten seriously hurt," you add quietly.
"I know."
"I just—" Your voice wobbles again. "I don’t know what I would’ve done if—" You bite your lip hard and look away again.
He squeezes your hands gently, bringing your attention back to him. "I'm sorry," he says, and he means it. He wants to promise he won't do it again, but the words catch in his throat. You’ll be out of his life soon—not for good, but in a way that’ll tear the rest of his heart out, and he knows he won’t be able to fight it.
Then a tear drops down your cheek, and he can't stop himself. "If you hate this," he says softly, his thumbs brushing your knuckles subconsciously, "I won’t do it again."
You peer up at him, teardrops beading your waterline. He wipes your cheek gently. "What?"
"I won't go," he promises.
"Jack—"
"I mean it." The thought of seeing you cry breaks him. Not over him.
"Really?"
He can't say no when you look at him like that, like it means everything to you that he's safe. "Yeah," he says. "Really."
You stand there for a second, searching his face like you want to believe him, then something shifts in your face. You step back, drop his hands and wipe your face harshly.
You snap on a new pair of gloves and busy yourself with throwing out the supplies. "You don’t have to do that," you murmur. "I—I overreacted. You can do what you want."
Jack’s heart sinks, unsure what changed so suddenly. "You didn’t—"
"I did," you interrupt, a tiny laugh escaping you. "I just…" you trail off, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air. Whatever it is, you swallow it down.
"You should get some sleep," you say quietly instead. "You have to be back in a few hours."
Jack opens his mouth, but you’re already turning away.
"I didn’t mean to—" he starts. He isn't sure what he means, just that he wants you to look at him again.
"It’s fine," you cut in too quickly. You leave him sitting on the bed, staring at the closed door.
The next day, Jack comes in early, shifting awkwardly in front of you until you look up from the computer.
"Uh," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "You got a minute?"
You nod, instinctively looking at his shoulder. "Yeah?"
He gestures vaguely. "The dressing thing... It's kinda tricky one-handed."
You close the chart immediately. "Okay."
The exam room he leads you into seems to shrink, feeling even smaller with him standing there, his broad shoulders taking up space as he awkwardly settles onto the bed.
You stand in front of him with gloves on. "Take your shirt off," you say.
His mouth twitches. "You buying me dinner first?"
You raise an eyebrow at him.
He sighs. "Tough crowd." Slowly, he slips his shirt off.
You try not to stare and begin peeling back the dressing. The scrape looks better. You work in silence.
"How’s it look?" he asks eventually.
"Fine." You finish taping fresh gauze over the scrape. "You should still be careful," you say softly.
"I am careful."
You don't answer him.
He sighs. "…Careful-ish."
You almost smile. Almost.
"Thanks," he says quietly when you finish.
"No problem."
He lingers like he wants to say something. You do, too. Eventually, duty calls when rounds begin.
After that, you start looking at apartments like you'd promised. Stealing glances at listings between patients—careful not to let anyone else notice. Scrolling through options when sleep refuses to come. It gives your hands something to do when the house feels too quiet.
You try very hard not to think about how much you don't want to leave. You love this little house. You love sitting on the terrace, listening to the birds. You love curling up on the couch. You even love the coffee machine you can't figure out how to use.
For the first time, moving doesn’t feel impossible. Not with your new salary. It would be tight, sure. Painfully tight. Your student loans aren’t magically gone just because you graduated, but—
You could make it work.
A studio. A shitty kitchen. Questionable plumbing. Somewhere small. Somewhere yours. Somewhere that doesn’t make your chest ache. Jack would probably appreciate it if you left. Sooner rather than later. You wouldn’t blame him.
Ever since the shoulder thing, something had shifted again. Or maybe you had.
Because the embarrassment lingered. You’d panicked. Ran through the hospital like a crazy person because someone mentioned gunfire and Jack. Cried and acted like losing him would ruin you.
You’d scolded him like you were together. Like you had any claim over what he did with his life. And then he’d agreed too easily to stop. That somehow made it worse because obviously he’d just been trying to calm you down. Keep things easier and less awkward.
The sooner you could release him from his shackles, the better. Then he could live his life how he wanted.
One morning, you don’t hear him come home. You’re curled sideways on the couch, laptop balanced against your knees, rental listings spread across the screen. You barely register movement until a familiar hand sets a paper bag down beside you.
"Breakfast," Jack says.
You glance up too quickly and slam the laptop halfway shut, like you'd got caught doing something you shouldn't have been doing.
His eyes flick downward, catching the word lease. He stills, and something unreadable passes over his face. "Didn’t mean to interrupt," he says quietly, then he heads for the kitchen fast.
You stare after him, chest twisting.
"Hey, sweet cheeks," a familiar warm voice greets you as you round the corner.
You glance over, offering a tired smile. "Hi, Myrna. You doing okay?"
"Yeah," she says, raising her cuffed wrists slightly. "Better if you let me out of these."
"No can do," you say, already walking backwards toward the hub. "Sorry."
She lets out an exaggerated grumble that usually makes you laugh, but today, you simply rub the heels of your palms hard against your eyes. Sleep has been awful lately. Even worse than before. For weeks, the same haunting images replay in your mind: Jack bleeding, Jack unconscious, Jack upstairs, Jack—
You stop yourself before your brain can finish that thought. Because imagining what would’ve happened if he had been the one shot, if that shoulder graze had been just inches over—
"You okay, sweetie?" Dana asks, lifting her glasses to look at you more closely.
You immediately straighten and drop your hands. "Yeah, I'm fine," you say quickly. "Just tired."
Which isn’t technically a lie. You are tired. Exhausted, honestly. Still adjusting to attending life. Still trying to prove to the hospital that they didn't make a mistake when hiring you. Simultaneously cursing and praising them for keeping you on day shift a little bit longer.
"We’ll get through it," Dana says, mistaking your expression for stress about the overflowing waiting room and how you'd been running around all day, barely able to catch your breath.
You nod once. "Yeah."
But honestly? The day has been good—busy, but good. You caught a medication error that could have had serious consequences and handled a complex consult. You kept the board moving. The pace allowed you no time to think, and if you just pushed through another few hours, maybe you’d be tired enough not to dream tonight.
Suddenly, the ambulance bays swing open behind you. "Agitated on scene," Ziggler reports as they wheel a patient inside. "Had to give midazolam en route. Vitals stable, but he’s a big guy—took three of us to get him on the stretcher."
You step in beside them, nodding. "Any known head injury?"
"Not clear. Witnesses reported he fell before we got there. Could be alcohol involved."
You exhale slowly. "Okay." Turning, you catch Trinity's eye and nod for her to join you.
Ziggler adds, "No obvious trauma on primary survey," as you guide the stretcher into a room. The transfer goes smoothly—monitor hooked up, vitals steady, respirations normal.
As you step closer to the bedside, the patient stirs slightly. You watch Trinity adjust the pulse oximeter and check his pupils.
"His respiratory rate’s picking up," you note.
"The sedation should still hold," she states.
You don’t answer immediately. You’ve seen this before. "He’s coming up early," you say.
And then—
His eyes snap open. Not slowly or smoothly, but suddenly; confused and unfocused. His head turns slightly, and his breathing sharpens.
"Hey," Trinity says quickly, her voice calm. "You’re in the hospital. You’re safe."
The patient shifts too quickly, his upper body attempting to rise.
"Sir, don’t sit up yet," you say calmly.
Trinity moves in. "Hey—" she starts.
"Trinity, don’t—" you start to warn, but it’s too late. The patient surges forward, and you react without thinking, grabbing Trinity's arm and pulling her back.
This leaves you at an awkward angle, and his elbow strikes your side as he moves. A sharp, crushing pressure slams into your ribs, knocking the breath out of you mid-inhale.
You try to steady yourself with your hand on the railing, but your fingers slip, and your head catches the side of the bed. Everything dulls for half a second as you crumple to the ground, groaning.
Trinity’s voice slices through the chaos, calling out your name in concern. You can't respond. "Hola Hoop!" she screams. She moves back, trying not to further agitate the patient, keeping her eyes on him when all she wants to do is glance down at you.
Footsteps sound in the distance—fast, hurried. The room fills with more people, and you catch glimpses of arms securing the patient. You hear shouting, someone calling for more sedatives.
You attempt to sit up but instantly double over as pain flares in your side. Gentle hands reach down to assist you. It’s Dana. You blink hard, struggling to breathe.
"I'm okay," you manage to say, slowly standing. Dana keeps her hands on your arm the entire time, her brow furrowed with worry.
"I just got the wind knocked out of me," you say, lifting your head. Something drips down on your nose, and when you wipe it away, your fingers come back bloody.
"Mm," she mutters.
Robby appears beside her, panting. He scans you quickly, already assessing the situation, barely glancing at the chaos behind him. "What happened?" He grabs gauze and gives it to you. It stings when you press it against your forehead.
"She hit her side and her head," Trinity blurts out. "Hard." You shoot her a glare.
Robby shares a glance with Dana. "Okay," he says, replacing her touch on your elbow. "I've got you."
"I can walk," you say.
"Great," Robby says. "Walk to an exam room, then." He ignores your groan and guides you out the door into an empty room. "Sit."
"I'm fine," you mutter, taking in shallow breaths.
"Mm," he says while snapping on a pair of gloves. "Let me be the judge of that. Sit down." You listen this time.
He stops in front of you, his voice softening as he looks down at you. "What exactly happened?" He gently touches the edge of your wound, shifting your face around. The bleeding has slowed, and when he doesn't immediately do anything, it confirms that it's superficial.
"I'm fine."
He frowns, pulls out his flashlight, and begins checking your pupils.
"Patient woke up early," you sigh. "Too little sedation. He was confused." You shrug and regret it instantly. Pain flashes white-hot. You mask it.
"You get hit anywhere besides your ribs?"
You glare at him, knowing he already knows. Still, you indulge him. "My head."
"Did you black out?" He lifts his finger, and you follow it.
"No."
"Nausea? Dizziness?"
"No." You answer all of his questions and follow his orders, knowing it's the only way you can get out of this room.
He nods when he's satisfied with your neuro exam and then gestures at your scrub top. He pulls it up slowly. The bruise already blooming along your ribs looks ugly. Robby presses lightly on it, and you hiss despite yourself.
"That bad?"
"It’s not bad," you correct him, but he raises an eyebrow as if not buying it. He presses again, and when your breath catches painfully, you finally admit, "…It hurts."
He rolls his stool back. "Okay. I’m ordering you a CT and chest X-ray."
"Robby, no. I'm fine," you protest. "I just need a moment."
He doesn't answer you.
You try again. "Robby, we’re understaffed."
"You’re not going back on shift like this," he turns and types something into the computer. "Jack would kill me," he mumbles, mostly to himself, but you hear it all.
"Don't call him."
"What?"
"Don't call him. I'm fine," you say. "He doesn't need to worry."
"Too late," Robby says as he takes a seat again. "Dana already filled him in."
"What?" You close your eyes slowly. "Great."
Robby frowns as he begins preparing to clean the wound. "What's going on with you two?"
"Nothing," you retort sharply, then let out a sigh. "Really, nothing. I just don't want him to worry over nothing."
You don't want a lecture again. You don't want a reminder of what he thought of you the last time this happened.
You straighten again, looking at Robby hopefully, "Can I come back if things look fine?"
Robby exhales slowly. "Maybe."
The usual ten-minute drive to the hospital is cut to a reckless five when Jack receives the call from Dana.
You got hurt. That's all he needed to hear before he was up and out of the house. A patient hit you. You hurt your side and your head.
Dana hadn't sounded panicked, but head injuries could be serious. You could be bleeding internally while he was driving. While he wasn't there with you.
He parks haphazardly in front of the ambulance bay, not caring that he's blocking the entrance. He tosses the keys to Whitaker, who stands outside with his phone, then pushes through the door without waiting for a response—he ignores the dumb expression on Whitaker's face.
"Where is she?" he calls, the second he spots Dana.
"In there," she replies, pointing. She grabs his shoulder before he can take off. "Easy there, soldier; she’s okay."
Maybe so, but he needs to see it for himself before he’ll believe it. He flings the door open and finds you sitting on the edge of the bed. He quickly assesses you: one hand is bracing your side, your breathing is shallow, and you blink more slowly than usual. Your jaw is tight, brows furrowed, and there’s dried blood on your face.
His jaw tightens before he can stop it. He hears Robby start to explain—
"Possible rib injury, head strike, CT ordered—"
You cut him off. "I’m fine," you say, then look at Jack. "You can go home again."
His brows furrow. He knows what you're like when you're in pain—how you downplay it and try to hide it. He steps closer instead.
"I don’t need a CT," you insist, starting to rise.
Jack exhales. For some reason, you’re negotiating this like it’s optional. It isn’t. "Sit down." He keeps his voice steady. "No," he says as your mouth opens. "Sit down."
You scowl but sit after a second, your breath catching slightly. A flicker of pain crosses your face before you manage to mask it. It lasts barely a second, but he sees it.
His tone softens. "You’re going for a CT." He glances over at Robby. "I can take it from here."
"Jack—"
He doesn’t respond, just holds his gaze steady, and Robby steps back with a sigh. "The wound is superficial. Neuro exam is clear."
Jack nods, snaps on a pair of gloves and sits down. He’ll do his own assessment after cleaning you up.
"I'll come get you when it's your turn," Robby says, shutting the door softly behind him.
"So," Jack says, tilting your face to get a better look at the wound, "you come here often?"
You huff an annoyed breath, easing the tension in his chest. Annoyance is a good sign. "Very funny."
He continues to work in silence, cleaning the blood away, irrigating the wound, and closing the cut with a butterfly stitch. "This probably won’t leave a scar."
"Good. I was really worried about that," you mutter. "Don’t want my face to look like Scarface."
"Even if it did, you'll still be the prettiest woman in the E.D," he says with an exaggerated wink as he turns around to discard his gloves.
You huff another breath, but this time it's softer, less annoyed.
"Can I see?" he says softly, nodding at your side. You nod, and he pulls up the fabric slowly. His jaw tightens again, his fingers hovering just above the bruise before settling cautiously against your side.
"Jesus," he mutters quietly. He pulls the shirt down again after a moment.
You fiddle with the ends of it. "I didn’t do it on purpose," you say quietly.
"What?"
"I didn’t mean to get hit," you say, eyes fixed somewhere near his shoulder instead of at him.
"Hey." He waits until you look at him. "I know."
Your brows pinch together like you don’t believe him.
Jack exhales through his nose and drags the stool closer until he’s right in front of you. One hand settles carefully over your knee. "Sweetheart, I’m not angry at you. I'm—" scared. The word sits right there, lodged somewhere behind his teeth.
He looks away instead, jaw working once before he settles on, "I’m just glad you aren’t hurt badly."
You study him quietly.
"I just…" He glances down, shakes his head once. "Dana called and said you got hurt, and suddenly I’m thinking about head injuries and internal bleeding and all the shit that could be wrong before I even get here."
His voice stays steady, but only barely. "And then I walk in, and there’s blood on your face."
You look down at your hands. "I didn’t mean to scare you."
"I know, sweetheart." He waits until you glance back up. "I promise I'm not mad. Not at you."
You nod, looking like you accept his answer. He keeps your gaze for a moment, then stands and helps you settle more comfortably onto the bed.
As soon as Jack’s certain you’ll be fine alone, he storms out of the room to find Robby. Spotting him, Jack pulls him into the break room and struggles to steady his breathing.
"Jack—" Robby starts, already sensing where this conversation is headed.
Jack crosses his arms tightly, straining the fabric of his shirt. "She shouldn’t have been in there by herself."
"She wasn’t alone," Robby replies.
"You know what I mean." Jack's voice remains low but cutting, controlled in a way that shows he’s trying hard not to lose his cool. "She got hit hard enough that she needs a fucking CT scan."
Robby leans back against the counter, arms crossed. "Yeah," he says. "But she also pulled Santos out of the way before things turned worse."
Jack’s jaw clenches.
"Jack," Robby says softly now. "You’re scared."
"I'm pissed."
"No," Robby says simply. "You're scared, so you're pissed."
Jack looks away. Because yeah. Fine. Maybe.
Robby continues, "That doesn’t mean she stops being good at her job."
"I know she’s good at her job." That's not what this is about.
"Then trust her."
Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Because he does trust you. That’s the problem. You were good enough to run toward things that could hurt you. He knows you'll do it again.
Robby sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look, if I thought she was being reckless, I’d speak up. If I thought she couldn’t handle herself, she wouldn’t be here right now." He pauses. "She made the right call. The patient surged. Santos froze. She did what you’d have done."
Something in his expression shifts despite himself. Jack exhales slowly, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "...I hate this job sometimes," he mutters.
Robby chuckles. "Join the club. We’ve got t-shirts if you’re interested."
That gets a faint laugh out of Jack.
Robby nudges his shoulder lightly. "Go check on her before she decides she’s medically cleared and sneaks back onto the shift."
Jack’s eyes narrow at the thought. It’s not a question; you would absolutely do that. He shakes his head and pushes away from the counter. "...Thanks," he mutters.
Jack stays with you through it all.
From the CT scan to the X-ray, and through the heavy silence in between, he never leaves your side. He positions himself just out of the technologists’ way but remains close enough to notice if you shift incorrectly. The only time he steps away is when he isn’t permitted to stay, and he’s quick to return the moment he can.
When you’re wheeled back into the ER bay, you insist on getting into the bed by yourself, but you can feel his hands hovering just behind you.
You shift wrong, and pain flashes through your side. "Fuck," you hiss quietly.
Jack’s there before you can even regain your balance. One hand rests on your waist, the other steadies your arm. "Easy."
You blink at him as he helps you settle in. His hand remains firm on your waist while the other supports your arm until you're fully seated. It’s only once you’re steady that he takes a small step back—still close enough to catch you if you sway.
And then there’s nothing to do but wait. That’s the worst part. Waiting gives you time to feel things you’ve been outrunning.
"I’m fine, Jack," you say again. "You can go home."
Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at you, not angry but also not convinced. Just… steady in a way that says he’s not participating in the argument.
Trinity appears at the edge of the curtain before either of you can speak again. She hesitates when she sees both of you. "I—I’m really sorry," she blurts out. "I didn’t think—he moved too fast and—"
You lift a hand slightly. "Hey, it’s fine," you say. "You couldn't have known."
Trinity still looks like she might combust from guilt. Her eyes flick to Jack, then back to you, unsure where to land. "I can—do you need anything? I can stay—"
"No," Jack interjects immediately.
Trinity blinks at him.
He continues, quieter but still firm: "You’ve done enough. She needs rest."
Trinity hesitates one second longer, then nods quickly. "Okay. Okay, yeah. Sorry again." She slips out, letting the curtain fall back into place.
"You didn't have to be that harsh," you murmur.
"You got hurt because of her. She needs to know that," he says.
You sigh. "It was an accident. She couldn't have known what would've happened."
"Maybe," he says, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed. He sighs after a second, "These chairs suck."
You snort, wincing slightly. "Well, what did you expect? If the hospital can't afford more nurses, we're not getting the good chairs."
He huffs. "Still."
Jack calls out from his night shift. You tell him three separate times that he doesn’t have to. He ignores you all three times.
By the time you're discharged, he's there, clearly settled in for the long haul. And as you walk into the house, he keeps one hand on your elbow, as if afraid that if he lets go, you might just collapse.
"I can walk," you grunt for the fourth time.
"Congrats," he says flatly, still not dropping his hand.
You roll your eyes but don’t pull away. Mostly because your ribs feel like they’re trying to murder you. Also because—
Well. His hand is comforting.
Inside, he hovers like a worried shadow. He guides you to his room and then to the closet for a change of clothes. When you mention wanting to shower, he frowns. He glances at the door and then back at you.
"I won't lock the door," you assure him with a sigh.
He nods, exhaling reluctantly. "I'll be right outside. Just yell if you need anything."
You raise an eyebrow. "It's just a shower."
His expression remains serious. Before you can say anything else, he rummages through his closet and emerges with one of his button-up shirts. "You can’t lift your arms properly," he points out, awkwardly holding it out. "This is easier."
You look at the shirt, then back at him. You have your own shirts, but you take it anyway. "…Thanks."
He shrugs in response.
The shower sucks. Everything hurts. Washing your hair hurts. Breathing hurts. Existence hurts. By the time you’re done, your head is throbbing again. It's not a concussion. Robby had been annoyingly clear. You got lucky. No concussion, no fractures, no internal bleeding. Just bruised ribs and a nasty bump on the head. You don't feel particularly lucky.
Jack fusses the second you emerge. He follows you to the dining room table, makes you food, and then proceeds to stare until you eat it. After a few painful bites, he helps you stand, his hand finding your elbow again. You don’t mention that you’re perfectly capable of standing on your own this time.
He starts steering you down the hallway toward his room.
You stop. "What are you doing?"
"You can sleep in my bed."
"What?"
"It’s better for your ribs."
You frown. "My bed is fine, Jack."
"Mine is firmer," he says immediately.
You stare. He's right. Your mattress is softer, cheaper, but perfectly fine under normal circumstances. Less ideal when every breath feels like a knife.
Still, you hesitate. "That’s really not necessary."
Jack exhales slowly, visibly trying not to argue. "There’s also more space."
You blink.
"For pillows," he adds hastily. "You’ll probably need to stay propped up. Plus, you hit your head, and I need to keep an eye on you."
You narrow your eyes. "I don’t have a concussion."
"You still have a head injury."
"It’s minor," you say, crossing your arms, only to regret it as pain flares up. You uncross them gingerly. Jack notices but stays quiet.
"You shouldn’t be alone tonight," he says, quieter now.
You look away first. "…I’ll be okay."
"I know," he says softly. "I just wanna keep an eye on you."
Something in your chest aches worse than your ribs because he sounds so careful, so concerned. You shake your head and slowly turn toward your room, hoping he’ll let you go. "I’ll be fine."
Jack doesn’t argue, which somehow feels worse. You take three steps before hearing movement behind you. He returns from the dining room, carrying a chair.
"What are you doing?"
He shrugs. "If you’re sleeping in there, I’m staying in there."
"Jack," you protest.
"What?"
"Your back’s gonna hurt."
He shrugs again and pushes your door open with his shoulder. "I’ll survive. I've slept on worse things." He sets the chair down beside your bed and sits down, like that’s the end of the discussion.
You stare at him from the doorway. At the chair. At him sitting there with crossed arms waiting for you. He means it—he’ll stay there if necessary, on that hard chair rather than crossing any lines by sharing your smaller bed. It's gone too far echoes in your head, but the image of him sitting there all night for you is too much. You're too tired, too sore, to keep this going.
With a long, exhausted sigh, you finally relent. "…Fine."
Jack looks up.
Avoiding his gaze, you mumble, "Your room... I’ll sleep in your room."
His expression softens in an instant—too quickly, almost as if he had been trying hard not to hope you’d agree. "Okay," he says quietly. Then, gentler, "C’mon."
And when his hand brushes lightly against your back as he helps you toward his room, you don’t move away. He helps you get into bed, positioning the pillow so you hurt the least amount. There’s a glass of water and some painkillers on the bedside table. His fingers brush back your hair, and you lean into his touch before you can stop yourself. For a moment, both of you freeze.
He steps back first. "I'll be right back."
You can hear him rummage around, and then he enters with the chair in his arms again.
"…Jack."
He sets it beside the bed and angles it towards you. Then he sits again, arms crossed.
You stare at him. "What are you doing?"
He frowns like the answer should be obvious. "Looking after you."
"No," you say slowly. "Why are you sitting there?" The whole idea of sleeping here was so he wouldn't stay in that chair.
He shrugs. "You’re hurt," he adds. "It's better if I—." He nods down at the chair, like that explains everything.
You exhale slowly and pat the mattress beside you. "C’mon. I didn’t mean to take your bed from you."
He hesitates, which somehow stings more than the chair itself.
You try to hide your hurt with humour. "Okay, well, I guess this way, there’s more distance from your snoring."
Jack just shakes his head at you. He lasts maybe forty minutes in the chair before you wake in pain, attempting to turn and failing without hissing.
Before either of you thinks about it too hard, he's helping reposition the pillows, one hand braced carefully at your ribs. It's easier for his leg to crawl onto the other side of the bed, and he stays there waiting until you fall back to sleep. He doesn't even realise when he falls asleep half on top of the blankets.
Jack checks on you constantly during that first night. He’s alert every time you shift, every breath that seems off, and even the tiniest sounds. The moment you move, he’s awake.
You don't say anything when you see that he's moved to the bed, and he doesn't either. But he keeps his distance, lying rigidly on the far edge of the mattress like touching you might somehow make things worse. Somewhere during the night, still half-asleep and in pain, you inadvertently shift closer. When you awaken again, you find his hand loosely wrapped around yours. The second he realises you're awake, he instantly lets go.
"Sorry," he murmurs quietly.
You don't answer. You just close your eyes again, a different ache settling in your chest.
The second night, you're not sure why you wake up. There’s a blanket tucked around your shoulders. Jack’s still asleep with one arm stretched awkwardly toward your side of the bed like he’d fixed it without waking properly.
By the end of the first week, things have shifted. You stop waking every time you move wrong. Breathing no longer feels like punishment, and turning in bed has become more uncomfortable than impossible. Sometime during that first week, Jack quietly stopped pretending the chair was still an option.
Somewhere along the way, the physical distance between you also disappeared. Sometimes you'd wake to find yourself closer than you remembered falling asleep—your shoulder brushing his chest, one of his hands loosely curled near your waist like he'd reached for you in his sleep and stopped halfway.
For the first time in weeks, despite the pain, you sleep. No nightmares. No gunfire. No waking up imagining Jack bleeding out somewhere you can’t reach. Because with him there—warm, solid, and close—your brain finally quiets down.
You tell yourself it’s practical. His mattress really is better. Firmer. Easier to breathe on. Less painful to get up from. You tell yourself that staying another night makes sense. Then another. Then somehow—
Another week passes. And you’re still there. By then, you don’t technically need help anymore. Breathing feels almost normal, and the bump on your head is gone.
You could return to your room—probably should. But every night seems to end the same way: you drifting closer in your sleep, Jack pulling you in without thinking, one arm heavy around your waist, your face nestled against his chest.
You tell yourself it’s just because moving hurts. Because untangling yourself would disturb him. Because his room is colder. Because—
You stop examining it too closely. It’s easier that way because you know what you're doing is only gonna hurt you in the end. It almost starts feeling normal again, and with every little thing, you catch yourself hoping. Then you remember the hallway.
I should’ve never agreed to this.
The hope curdles again.
Going back to work takes another week.
Jack hates it, insisting that it's too early and that you should take another week off. Eventually, he relents since you'll be back on night shifts—with him. You assure him you’ll stick to light duty: no lifting, no trauma rooms unless absolutely necessary. You listen—mostly—trying to let your residents take charge whenever possible.
You're still hurting, and maybe you should’ve taken a few more days off, but that's not the worst part. That's how normal everything has started feeling again. The heating pad after shifts. Coffee waiting while you chart. Pain medication offered before you even remember it's time for it. Parker and Shen grinning whenever they see the two of you together.
It should’ve felt reassuring. Instead, some days it made you want to scream. Because none of it made sense anymore. Not after the kiss. Not after the hallway.
The longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to ignore that eventually something will have to give. You needed to move back to your own bed. Look at apartment listings again. Print out the divorce papers.
One morning after rounds, Robby lingers like he’s debating something. "Hey," he says. "You two got a second?"
"No," Jack says flatly.
Robby ignores him. He herds both of you toward a quieter corner near the supply room. You lean back against the wall automatically, careful of your ribs, relieving the dull ache after twelve hours of work. Jack's hand lifts like he wants to steady you, but he drops it again after a second.
Robby notices but says nothing. Just pinches his brows together and hopes that what he's doing won't backfire. "There’s a convention in Cleveland this weekend," he says carefully.
You groan immediately.
Jack blows out a frustrated breath. "Why do I feel like this is about to become my problem?"
"Because it is," Robby admits, wincing slightly.
"Seriously?" you sigh.
Jack exhales through his nose. "Fine. I’ll do it."
You turn toward him instantly. "What? No. You have the weekend off."
"You’re still recovering," he counters.
"I’m fine."
Jack shoots you an unimpressed look. "You’re leaning against a wall right now."
Before you can argue further, Robby clears his throat, looking surprisingly guilty. "Actually…"
Both of you turn to look at him.
"It’s a two-person thing."
Silence hangs in the air.
"…Oh," you say slowly.
Robby immediately starts retreating before either of you can object. "Thanks, guys," he says quickly. "I owe you one."
"Robby—" you start, but it’s too late. He steps around the corner fast.
You let out a sigh, and Jack follows suit.
"Well," he says after a second. "Looks like we’re going to Cleveland." He doesn't sound particularly happy about it.
You aren't exactly thrilled about it either. Hours trapped in a car. A convention neither of you cares about. He could have gotten a weekend to himself, but now, instead, he was stuck with you.
He sighs, then says, "I'll bring the car round."
You nod. "Okay."
There’s a beat where neither of you moves. Jack shifts his weight like he’s about to say something else, then doesn’t. Instead, he just gives a short nod and turns away.
a/n: ahhh almost there!! and we finally get trouble's injury scene that i have had planned since the start. a few of you have suggested it as well and i've just been waiting in excitement for it!! :DD
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your boyfriend loves you with his whole heart. and sometimes, you’re not sure what to do with something that big.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, established relationship, touch/love-starved reader, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, brief smut, implied past trauma/abuse but nothing explicitly mentioned, heart-aching fluff, character analysis
𝐚/𝐧: flipping my favorite trope onto reader. this one's for all my peeps who have a tough time with physical touch and emotional intimacy
♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡
Your boyfriend loves easily.
Affection stitched directly into the lining of him, inseparable from the rest of his body.
Touch, to Steve, is instinct before intention.
Automatic and unthinking, his hands find you the way roots find water.
Waiting in line at the fall fair, he hooks two fingers through your belt loop and sways you gently side to side while the Ferris wheel spins overhead in smeared red and gold light.
The air smells like fried dough and cinnamon sugar, cold autumn wind carrying bursts of laughter through the crowds. Steve stands behind you with his chin resting on your shoulder, warm chest pressed loosely to your back while he argues passionately about kettle corn versus popcorn.
Once in a while, he'll slide his thumb beneath the cuff of your sleeve mid-sentence, stroking the pulse point at your wrist, completely unaware that your heart is beating itself raw under his fingertips.
It’s impossible to explain it.
How overwhelming it feels to be loved by someone so thoroughly.
Because Steve never hesitates.
Never acts like affection is something shameful.
Love pours out of him, as naturally as body heat.
If your hands are cold, he interrupts himself halfway through a story just to catch your fingers and tuck them into his jacket pockets alongside his own, rubbing warmth back into your knuckles while continuing his sentence without missing a beat.
If you yawn during movie night, his arm is around your shoulders before the sound can finish leaving your mouth. “C’mere, sleepy girl,” he murmurs automatically, pulling you sideways against his chest.
If your shoelaces come untied in the middle of the sidewalk, he drops immediately to one knee with a distracted, “hang on, baby.”
Rainwater hisses along the curb while he reties the bow tighter this time, fingers quick and practiced, one hand steadying lightly against your ankle. His knuckles brush your skin through your sock and you have to stand there, holding your breath until your lungs ache with it, staring down at the concentration pulling his brows together.
Wondering what it must be like to love someone with your whole heart and not feel like it’s going to break you open.
He’s warm everywhere, your Steve. Warm hands, warm mouth. Warm stomach pressed against your back beneath blankets. He smells like laundry detergent and faint cedar cologne rubbed into the collar of his jackets. Sometimes vanilla chapstick, sometimes mint gum. Always Steve.
And the kisses are constant too.
Quick, thoughtless ones, born entirely from fondness.
The corner of your mouth while waiting for the microwave to beep. Your forehead when he passes behind you in the kitchen. Your shoulder while you lean over the sink brushing your teeth side by side. The back of your neck when he reaches around you for orange juice in the fridge, mumbling a sleepy, “morning, honey,” against your skin before kissing beneath your hairline.
Sometimes he just looks at you for a second. Expression softening imperceptibly, like some private thought crossed his mind, and then he leans over and kisses your cheek with this quiet little hum in his throat.
Like loving you tastes good.
And god, the neck kissing.
It’s terrible.
And right now, in the middle of a museum gallery so quiet you can hear shoes squeak against polished floors, he’s doing it again.
You’re trying to read the plaque beneath some enormous renaissance painting—something about divinity and grief, oil on canvas—but Steve is behind you, arms folded around your waist while he scans the museum brochure one-handed.
One of his hands has slipped beneath your cardigan, warm palm spread low across your stomach.
“Okay, so,” he murmurs near your ear, voice low enough that the sound vibrates through you, “there’s the Greek sculpture thing upstairs, or... there’s apparently a room with these like, tiny dollhouses?”
You wrinkle your nose. “That sounds horrifying.”
“Right?” His lips brush the shell of your ear as he speaks. “Like what if one of them’s haunted?”
Then his mouth finds the hinge of your jaw.
One lazy, distracted kiss.
His lips are soft, slightly chapped from the cold outside. Warm breath spills across your skin afterward, making your pulse jump beneath his mouth. He lingers there, nose nudging lightly against your neck while he keeps mumbling off different sections of the museum.
You feel the shape of his smile against your skin when he finds another ridiculous exhibit.
“Apparently there’s a room that’s just chairs.”
“That can’t be true.”
“No, I swear to god.”
Then his mouth drifts lower.
Open-mouthed kisses this time.
Slow enough that warmth blooms beneath every press of his lips. You feel the faint scrape of his teeth catch your skin playfully before he smooths over it with another softer kiss, his thumb stroking across your stomach.
Your entire body tightens around the feeling.
The worst part is knowing that he isn’t trying to fluster you.
Steve isn’t performing intimacy.
He just never second-guesses affection.
Unlike you.
For you, every touch feels catastrophic.
The second Steve touches you, awareness crashes through your body all at once—your pulse, your breathing, the weight of his hand, whether your hair smells okay, whether your stomach feels too soft beneath his palm, whether someone across the gallery can see this.
Whether you deserve to be loved this openly at all.
“....and Robin said there’s some painting of a guy eating his own son which honestly seems kinda—”
He stops, hand stilling against your stomach.
“Babe?”
You blink hard, staring at the plaque without reading a single word.
Steve leans back, concern creasing immediately between his brows.
“Hey,” his hand slides higher, rubbing gently over your ribs. “You okay?”
“Hm? Mhm.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Another lie.
Your skin still burns where he kissed you.
And underneath all the panic is something worse.
Fear and hunger, knotted so tightly you can’t separate them anymore.
Wanting him closer, wanting him to keep touching you forever. Wanting to crawl inside every warm, gentle thing he gives you and stay there.
Not knowing what you’d do if he ever stopped.
Because as terrifying as it is to be loved this softly, you think losing it might actually destroy you.
“You wanna sit down for a sec?” Steve asks quietly. “I think I still have that granola bar in my bag if you’re hungry.”
You almost laugh, because of course that’s where his mind goes.
Care.
Always care.
“No, I’m okay,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “We can keep going. The uh, Greek sculpture thing sounds good.”
He watches you for a beat longer than comfortable, thumb rubbing against your hipbone through your jeans.
“Okay,” he says finally.
His hand slides up your arm, gently fixing the cardigan slipping off your shoulder. His fingers brush your neck in the process, absentmindedly smoothing your hair back into place too.
And then, because he’s Steve—because affection lives inside him so naturally he doesn’t know how to love except with his whole body—
He reaches down and interlaces your fingers with his.
Warmth immediately fills the spaces between your knuckles, his callused fingers curling around yours with steady, secure pressure.
He keeps holding your hand the entire walk toward the staircase, thumb stroking across your skin while he talks about haunted dollhouses and ugly marble babies and whether you think ancient Greek people had chest hair.
And isn’t it terrifying, how quickly your body has learned what safety feels like in someone else’s hands?
...
It isn’t just the touching.
You almost wish it was.
Because that would be easier to understand.
A touch can be explained away:
Steve’s just naturally affectionate. Steve likes physical contact.
But it’s not just that.
It’s the way he loves you without condition. Without making you earn it first.
A few weeks into dating, he showed up at your apartment carrying a bouquet so enormous it nearly blocked his entire face.
When you opened the door, all you could see were flowers.
Soft cream roses crowded against pale pink delphiniums, petals curling delicately at the edges like silk ribbon. Deep burgundy dahlias bloomed low in the arrangement, velvety and dark as spilled wine, white baby’s breath drifting between everything like tiny bursts of snowfall.
And hidden right in the middle were your favorites.
Blue hydrangeas.
Dusty-blue petals clustered together like storm clouds at dusk, edges fading lavender where the light caught them.
You had pointed them out exactly once while passing a florist downtown.
Three seconds, maybe.
You remembered slowing briefly in front of the shop window because they looked beautiful beneath the warm yellow display lights. Rain had just started misting softly against the sidewalk and Steve had been halfway through ranting about some middle schooler trying to rent an R-rated horror movie with a fake ID. You’d smiled at his story before murmuring, almost absentmindedly, “Those are so pretty.”
That was it.
You hadn’t even thought he heard you.
But Steve Harrington has a habit of holding onto the tiniest details about you like they're something precious.
“Baby, I swear to god,” Steve was saying now as he stepped inside your apartment, nudging the door shut with his foot, “I had the craziest day today. This guy at work tried to return a tape completely melted.”
The bouquet landed in your arms before he shrugged off his jacket.
“Melted,” he repeated, horrified, running a hand through his hair. “Like, fully warped. Looked like somebody cooked that thing in a microwave.”
You stared down at the flowers.
The bouquet was heavy enough that you had to support it with both arms. Thick stems pressed cool and damp against your palms beneath layers of cream florist paper, the wrapping folded slightly unevenly around the flowers and tied together with rough twine that looked suspiciously hand-done.
Not florist-perfect, but Steve-perfect.
The flowers smelled dizzyingly alive: sweet rose perfume softened by rainwater and the cool, earthy scent of freshly cut stems.
“…um, Steve?”
“—and Keith asked me if I did that,” he huffed, toeing off his shoes. “I mean, can you believe that shit? What does he think I do at work all day, destroy tapes for fun?”
“Steve.”
“Yeah?”
You blinked at him slowly.
“What’s…” Your throat tightened strangely around the words. “What’s this for?”
He looked down at the bouquet like he’d genuinely forgotten he walked in carrying it.
“Uh…” His brows lifted slightly. “Flowers?”
He laughed softly after saying it, confused.
But you didn’t laugh.
Because your brain was already doing what it always did: rummaging frantically for conditions. For expectations and hidden meanings tucked beneath kindness.
Your heartbeat started creeping unpleasantly high in your throat.
Was it an anniversary?
Oh god.
Had you forgotten something?
Your stomach dropped, dates scrambling uselessly through your head too fast to follow. One month? Six weeks? Was there something couples were supposed to celebrate this early? Had Steve done something thoughtful and now you were standing there empty-handed like the worst girlfriend alive?
The cellophane crackled beneath your tightening grip.
“Did I…” You cleared your throat quietly. “Did I forget something?”
Steve’s forehead wrinkled.
“Huh?”
“The flowers.”
“What about ‘em?”
Your voice came out impossibly small. “Why’d you get these?”
“Uh, ‘cause I…” He huffed a tiny laugh through his nose, head tilting. “’Cause I wanted to?”
His confusion only made your chest tighten more.
“Is it our anniversary or something?”
His frown deepened. “What? No.”
“Then… why?”
Steve stared at you for a second, slightly open-mouthed now, the soft amusement on his face fading into gentle concern.
“Baby, they’re just flowers.”
You stared back helplessly.
“But why?” you asked again, quieter this time.
“Well, I…” He shrugged one shoulder slightly. “I saw them. And I thought about you.”
The apartment suddenly felt very quiet.
You looked back down at the bouquet in your arms.
The hydrangeas were even prettier up close, petals shifting between pale blue and soft lavender depending on how the light hit them. Tiny sprays of baby’s breath caught between larger blooms like stars scattered through clouds.
A single sunflower tucked near the back, drooping sideways because Steve probably had the bouquet strapped into the passenger's seat on the drive over.
Your throat burned.
“That’s it?” you asked quietly.
Steve let out a soft breath through his nose.
His socked feet whispered against the floor as he stepped closer, one hand rising to cup your cheek.
Big enough to hold the entire side of your face, his palm enveloped you in warmth. Your lashes fluttered at the feeling of his thumb sweeping beneath your eye, brushing over the apple of your cheek, soothing something there without even knowing what hurt.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s it. I saw ’em and thought you’d like them.” His mouth tugged into a small smile. “You stared at those flowers for like, ten minutes.”
You huffed weakly. “It was not ten minutes.”
Steve’s smile widened, encouraged by the sound of your laugh.
“There was this whole wrapping station thing too,” he added, gesturing proudly toward the bouquet still overflowing from your arms. The cream paper rustled softly as he touched it, uneven folds bunching around the stems where the twine had already started slipping loose on one side. “The lady kept trying to help me but I told her I could handle it.”
He tipped his head, inspecting his own work. “Pretty good, right?”
You looked down again.
The wrapping really was crooked. One corner folded inward strangely while another flared too wide, baby’s breath poking free through gaps in the paper.
It couldn’t have been more beautiful.
Steve’s grin turned sheepish, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly, I think she stopped helping 'cause I was stressing her out.”
A quiet bubble of laughter escaped you, and the second it did, you noticed the way his face changed. Grin softening, eyes gone warm at the realization that he’d made you smile.
That was the other unbearable thing about him.
How carefully he watches for your joy, waiting for the next chance to do it again.
He really had done all this just because he wanted to.
No special occasions—he just saw something beautiful and immediately thought of you.
You blinked quickly, staring down at the velvety rose petals before he could notice the dangerous sting gathering behind your eyes.
Nobody had ever remembered little things about you before.
Not enough to act on them later.
Certainly not enough to drive across town carrying an absurdly oversized bouquet because of one passing comment you barely remembered making yourself.
But Steve noticed everything.
The tea you always reach for when you’re sick. The songs you hum in the car without realizing. Which side of the bed you like to sleep on. Which sweatshirt you wear when you’re sad. The way you peel pepperoni slices off pizza before eating.
The flowers you paused to admire for three seconds on a rainy sidewalk weeks ago.
Your fingers tightened carefully around the bouquet.
“Thank you,” you managed quietly.
Steve smiled, stepping closer until the bouquet crushed lightly between your bodies, cellophane crinkling in the quiet of the apartment.
“Yeah. Anytime, baby,” he hummed, bending down to press his smile into the curve of your mouth, as natural as breathing.
...
You don’t know why you get like this.
Why your body reacts like it’s bracing for impact when all he’s doing is being gentle. Why his affection makes your chest ache the way it does.
Why your first instinct is always to freeze.
Body going stiff whenever Steve wraps himself around your back in grocery store checkout lines, chin hooked over your shoulder while he complains about magazine prices and rubs his thumb beneath the hem of your shirt.
Sometimes he brushes your hair behind your ear mid-conversation and keeps talking without even realizing he did it. Sometimes he reaches for your hand in his sleep, eyes still closed, finding you beneath the blankets when his body notices your absence before he does.
And you wonder why, in all those sweet, wonderful moments—when he kisses your forehead while waiting for the microwave to beep, when he pulls you against his chest during movies, when he drops to his knees on dirty pavement because he doesn't want you to trip over your laces, when he holds your face in both hands like it’s something precious—you feel this horrible urge to apologize afterward.
Sorry I’m difficult.
Sorry you picked me.
Sorry you don’t realize yet there are easier people to love.
Love had always arrived transactional before him.
Conditional.
Dependent on being easy enough, pretty enough, quiet enough, useful enough.
But Steve loves you without condition.
And being seen that intimately by someone so good—someone as warm and earnest and sincere as Steve Harrington—feels unbearable sometimes.
Maybe that’s why nights like this overwhelm you so badly.
A fancy dinner downtown stretches long past sunset, candlelight flickering gold across Steve’s face while he steals bites from your plate despite insisting twenty minutes ago he was “seriously so stuffed.”
Wine leaves his cheeks faintly pink by the time you leave the restaurant. His tie hangs loose, crooked around his throat, top buttons undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows. Summer heat still clings to the sidewalks even this late at night, thick with blooming jasmine spilling from flower boxes outside storefronts. Somewhere farther downtown, music drifts through open bar doors, muffled bass and laughter carried through the warm air.
Steve's hand never leaves your lower back, fingers flexing gently against you whenever the crowd thickens, pulling you instinctively closer to his chest.
By the time you drift into the park, your heels are dangling from one hand and your body feels pleasantly heavy from the wine.
The grass is cool beneath your bare feet. Damp earth presses between your toes as you wander deeper along the meadow paths, fireflies blinking through the dark around you like floating embers.
Steve is halfway through retelling some ridiculous story his students had told him earlier that day, pausing every other sentence because he keeps getting distracted trying to kiss you.
Grass stains smear across the knees of his expensive slacks when he finally pulls you down beside him into the field.
“Steve,” you protest weakly, glancing at his pants.
“What?” he asks innocently, tightening his hands around your waist.
“Those are gonna stain.”
“Mm.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, grin lazy. “Worth it.”
You lose track of time there.
Talking between kisses, lying shoulder-to-shoulder in the grass while Steve points out constellations he names wrong on purpose just to make you argue with him. His fingers comb slowly through your hair while your head rests against his shoulder, skin sticking together in the humid night air.
And by the time he gets you home, you’re half-floating.
Steve crowds you against the apartment door before the lock has even clicked shut.
Both hands on your waist, lips sealing over yours. The force of it nudges you softly into the door, his body fitting against yours as he grunts low into your mouth like he’s been holding himself back all night.
Sweet burgundy wine still lingers on his tongue when his lips part against yours.
He’s warm everywhere.
Warm hands sliding beneath your dress, warm mouth against your throat. Warm breath ghosting over newly exposed skin every time he pauses to look at you.
And he does pause, constantly.
Heavy-lidded hazel eyes drag across your face, your throat, the curve of your body beneath his hands, lips gone slack from that third glass of Merlot though his smile tells you he’s drunk on more than just the wine.
His palms skim along the back of your thighs while he kisses down your neck, the soft scrape of his stubble pulling a shaky breath in the shape of his name.
He smiles against your skin, feeling your fingers clutch tighter at his shoulders.
“C’mere,” he murmurs softly.
The bedroom lights stay low when he walks you backward toward the bed.
Blue comforter wrinkling beneath you when he eases you onto your back, following you down, kissing over every inch of exposed skin while your heartbeat stutters harder with each press of his mouth.
Broad palms smooth upward beneath your dress while his lips trail lower, the slow descent of it dizzying; his mouth dragging across your collarbone, the center of your chest, down your stomach, your ribs, each kiss separated by warm breaths and playful nips that make your muscles jump.
And when he kneels at the foot of the bed—nudging your legs apart carefully, lovingly, thumbs stroking slow circles into the soft skin inside your thighs as he settles himself in between—he lets out this quiet little sigh.
Like nowhere else on earth could possibly compare to this.
“Pretty girl,” he murmurs against you, pressing the words directly into your skin. “You’re so beautiful.”
His fingers hook beneath the waistband of your underwear while he glances up at you through heavy lashes, tongue darting briefly to wet his lower lip.
You reach for his hair quickly, panic flaring.
“Steve,” you whisper. “Wait.”
His hands still immediately where they rest on your hips. “What’s wrong?”
You swallow hard. “Nothing, I just...”
Your head spins pleasantly and horribly all at once from the wine and the heat and the sweet boy kneeling between your thighs looking at you like you hung the moon.
“I should shower first.”
His brows pull together. “Why?”
“Because,” you laugh weakly. “I’m sweaty.”
Steve smiles at that, like it’s the sweetest thing he’s heard all day.
He leans in even closer, nose brushing over your clothed mound before he presses a slow kiss there.
“Baby,” he murmurs against you, “I don’t care.”
“Steve...”
“I mean it.”
His hands glide upward along your waist, warm and heavy as velvet, fingertips grazing your ribs on the way up.
“I like you like this,” he says softly.
Then he takes in a breath.
A deep, deliberate pull through his nose, the warm drag of air against the damp fabric making your thighs twitch around him.
“You smell good,” he murmurs, kissing you there again. “Like summer.”
Your face burns, but Steve only smiles wider, already halfway gone.
“Just stay,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you. We can take a bath after, promise.”
He turns his head to the side, nose nudging affectionately along your inner thigh before he closes his lips around the sensitive skin there. The suction is soft at first, teasing warmth into you before the pressure deepens just enough to sting pleasantly.
A new love bite starts to bloom, petal-soft and tender, like a flower kissed awake by rain. His mouth traces over it, soothing the flush of it back into softer color with gentle, unhurried pecks.
“So pretty,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss over the bruise-tinted skin. “My perfect girl.”
To be loved this intensely feels like it could swallow you whole.
Like the warmth of it could burn straight through you.
You don’t even realize you’ve started crying until your breath catches sharply in your chest, a raw, jagged gasp tearing from your lungs.
Steve’s head snaps up instantly.
You jerk your face away in horror, both hands flying to cover your eyes before he can see.
God.
Oh god.
Not now.
Why now?
“Baby, are you—”
His voice cuts off the second your breath stutters again, louder this time.
The mattress jolts beneath you as he pushes upright, fast enough that the bed frame gives a small protesting creak.
“Hey, hey—what’s wrong?”
You can feel him at your side immediately, his quick, uneven breaths brushing against your hands where they're pressed tight to your face.
“Baby, what happened?”
His fingers curl around your wrists, firm but impossibly gentle.
Always gentle.
“Did I hurt you? Did I do something?”
“N-no,” you choke out immediately.
“Then what?” His voice starts to break slightly, turning sharp with worry. “What is it? Honey, what’s wrong?”
You shake your head helplessly, unable to form the words, unable to explain.
The lamp clicks on beside you. Warm amber light spills across everything at once: rumpled sheets and discarded clothes, Steve kneeling beside you, shirt open at the collar, belt buckle undone and tie hanging loose around his neck.
The flowers from dinner are on the dresser.
Slightly uneven in their vase, waterline crooked, the hydrangeas beginning to open wider in the warmth of your apartment.
Embarrassment crashes over you like a wave.
Perfect.
A night he’d planned so carefully—reservations at the candlelit Italian place downtown, your favorite wine already waiting at your table, flowers arranged before you’d even walked through the door—
And now you’re crying halfway through sex because your brain can’t handle something as simple as being loved.
You turn your face away again instinctively, shoulders curling inward, but the tears don’t stop. They come harder, messy and humiliating, gasps of air ripping through your chest no matter how hard you try to swallow them down.
You feel Steve’s hand slide up your spine.
Slow, slow passes between your shoulder blades, fingertips pressing gently.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to hide, okay? You don’t have to hide from me.”
“I’m sorry,” you choke out, wiping at your face uselessly. “I-I don’t know w-why I’m—I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry—”
“No, hey, don’t apologize, baby. Don’t say sorry.”
You resist him weakly when he tries to gather you in his arms.
You can’t look at him.
Can’t stand the thought of seeing the concern on his face after ruining this.
“I just—” You let out a shaky breath, voice cracking completely. “Fuck, I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Steve stills at that.
Then slowly, carefully, he takes your wrists fully in both hands.
You let him this time. Arms trembling the entire way down as he lowers your hands into his lap. You still refuse to meet his eyes, staring instead at the heavy rise and fall of his chest. His crisp white shirt is wrinkled, open at the collar, a faint pink bite mark just above his collarbone where you kissed him during the taxi ride home.
His gaze presses into you, heavy and intent, trying to read what you can’t say.
“I need you to look at me,” he says quietly.
“I can’t.”
“Yeah,” he answers immediately. “You can.”
Another tear slips down your cheek. He catches it without hesitation, wiping it away with the pad of his thumb.
“Please,” he whispers, softer now. “Look at me.”
You finally do.
Steve’s hair is a mess, chestnut strands falling across his forehead where your fingers had been tangled moments ago.
His eyes—warm honey and green and amber all blurred together beneath the low light—are pained, tight with worry and unbearably expressive.
“There's nothing wrong with you,” he says, unshakably certain. “Nothing.”
His lips are swollen from kissing you, parted slightly with how hard he’s breathing.
It’s so painfully clear, how panicked he is.
Steve’s face never hides anything
It doesn’t know how to.
When he’s happy, it shows in the soft wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
When he’s worried, it gathers in his brows, in the tight set of his mouth.
And when he loves, it radiates from him so naturally it feels endless. Like sunlight.
You wonder what that must feel like.
To love someone without fear.
To offer tenderness without expectation, without the quiet dread that grows the more there is to lose.
He reaches up slowly, clearing tear-sticky strands away from your temples, thumb brushing beneath your eye. Still trying to read what hurts, the furrow in his brows asking without words.
You want to tell him.
For him, you’d try.
But the truth feels monstrous once it reaches your throat.
How do you explain that being loved by him feels unbearable sometimes?
That every touch lands somewhere deep inside you that still expects pain?
That he gives and gives and gives, asking for nothing in return, and yet some terrified part of you waits for the bill to come due?
How do you explain that it makes you feel broken, not knowing how to take something he gives so easily?
You part your lips, throat dry and aching.
Steve waits, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your wrists.
Patient.
Always so fucking patient with you.
“I just...” Your voice shakes. You stare at his mouth instead of his eyes, because it’s easier than being seen.
“...I just really love you.”
It rushes out so quickly.
And in a horrifyingly beautiful moment of clarity, you realize it’s the first time you’ve ever said it to anyone.
Ever.
Steve goes still. His brows soften, eyes drooping at the corners. His lips part soundlessly for a second.
“Oh,” he breathes.
You feel his hands twitch against yours, squeezing your fingers unconsciously.
“I love you too,” he says, immediate and certain. “I... I love you so much it’s kind of insane.”
He watches you for a moment, thumb rubbing slow over your knuckles.
“Is that... is that why you're crying? 'Cause you love me a lot?”
A small, startled laugh breaks through your tears; it sounds so simple when he says it like that.
It isn’t simple.
But maybe it also is.
So you nod, watching him visibly come back to himself, drawing out a shaky breath, shoulders dropping heavily like he’d been bracing too, just in a different way.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. C’mere.”
This time you don’t hesitate.
You fold into him, feeling his arm wrap securely around your back, the other cradling the back of your head.
And what you always used to brace against—tonight, you sink into willingly.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your hair.
You let your eyes slip shut, burying your face in the crook of his neck, fingers crinkling his shirt as you hold on tight.
“I love you,” you whisper again, the words pressed softly against his skin.
Thank you, you mean.
Thank you for being gentle with me.
Thank you for waiting.
Thank you for loving me like it’s easy.
Thank you.
♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡
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