Pairing: Taxi/Cab Driver!Bucky Barnes x Passenger!Female Reader
Summary: You’re Bucky’s favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You’re kind. You talk to him like he’s more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well.
He can’t help but fall for you.
But he’s just a cab driver. You deserve better than that. Better than him. So, he keeps things professional… until you lean on him one fateful night when the world feels too heavy.
He doesn’t just want to drive you home anymore.
He wants to be someone you can come home to.
Word Count: Over 12.2k
Warnings: Pining, mutual pining, slow(ish) burn, a bit of idiots in love, hurt/comfort, angst with comfort, slight jealousy, flirting, emotional breakdown, crying, insecurities, sick family member, Bucky Barnes (his POV and he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: @tavners suggested Bucky as a cab driver ages ago and the Barbie Dreamhouse helped bring him to life. Huge thanks to @miraclediviner for putting it together and for being patient and letting me submit this late and @stantastic-association for letting me participate. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Dividers by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The city sky was still light as Bucky pulled onto your street, a smile touching his lips briefly. Every week for the last three months he picked you up to take you to your brother’s apartment. Same time, same day without fail. He knew the route by heart. Could do it in his sleep.
Thursday had become his favorite day of the week thanks to you.
His favorite passenger.
Someone bright and soft during his long shifts and rough nights.
He came to a stop in front of your building, making sure he adjusted the heat so you wouldn’t be too cold. There was a blanket in the back just in case it wasn’t enough. He also changed the radio station to something he knew you’d enjoy but kept it low enough in case you wanted to talk.
He liked it when you talked to him.
“Do I look okay?” he asked himself, checking his hair in the mirror before he chuckled.
Bucky didn’t dress up a lot since he drove a cab for a living, but he tried to take a bit of pride in his appearance. Clean clothes and a subtle amount of cologne. Beard and hair kept neat, too, even with the bit of gray showing more in his chestnut strands these days.
He liked to think it gave him a refined look.
Something you might notice.
The steady hum of the engine grounded him as he looked at the door, his breath catching when you stepped outside. You paused on the top step, your gaze sweeping along the street as you adjusted the bag on your shoulder. Something warm bloomed in his chest when you spotted him and gave him that familiar soft wave and smile. He wanted to believe that smile was reserved just for him.
Get it together. You’re just her driver. Nothing more.
It didn’t stop him from hoping.
He straightened up when you made your way to the car and opened the door.
“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, sliding into the backseat.
The corner of his lips twitched at the familiar greeting. Not “driver” or “sir” or anything like that. Just Buck. Steve was the only other person who called him that.
It sounded right coming from you.
“You mean Friday Junior,” he teased, trying hard not to make a show of breathing in your scent.
There were plenty of passengers who practically bathed themselves in colognes and perfumes. It was enough to choke on before he aired out the cab. But not you. You always smelled so nice. So sweet.
Jesus fucking Christ. Get a grip.
“Same thing,” you teased back, slipping your shoes off and tucking your legs beneath you.
The first time you asked if it was okay for you to take your shoes off, he almost laughed. It surprised him more than anything that you cared enough to ask. Like you cared about his space and him. He didn’t mind as long as you were comfortable.
He always wanted you to feel comfortable and safe in his presence.
“We made it through another day,” you sighed.
“And your prize for making it through another day is spending time with me,” he joked.
You laughed, a soft sound like music to his ears. “Lucky me,” you said without a hint of sarcasm.
He cleared his throat, his heart skipping a beat. “Blanket back there and the heat’s on.”
“Thanks,” you said, adding above a whisper, “You’re so good to me.”
Bucky opened his mouth and closed it. “Just doing my job,” he said, the words bittersweet on his tongue.
“Well, I appreciate it.” You hummed a little as you dug through your bag. “And… I got something for you.”
He already knew what it was.
“Protein bar?”
“Protein bar,” you confirmed.
He made an offhand comment in the beginning about his favorite brand.
You surprised him by giving one the following week, and you have brought him one every week since then.
Part of him wanted to save the wrappers, but Sam shut that down by saying it was serial killer behavior.
Your fingers brushed his when he reached back to grab, a jolt running through his body and settling deep in his chest. “I think you’re too good to me,” he said.
It was a thoughtful thing for you to do.
“Just being a good passenger,” you said casually, but he caught the hint of affection there.
Something soft… and real.
Bucky glanced at you in the mirror, his gaze lingering longer than it should’ve when you covered yourself with the blanket and settled into the leather with a sigh. His chest puffed out a little, a sense of pride filling him since you used the blanket. He picked the softest and warmest one he had.
You looked completely at ease, like you belonged there.
“Heading to your brother’s place, or you gonna switch it up on me?”
“Same trip as always,” you replied.
Of course.
A visit to your older brother’s place on the other side of the city. Dinner. Helping your sister-in-law with some chores. Spending quality time with your niece and nephew.
Every Thursday.
He knew about your routine more than he probably should, but he couldn’t help but pay attention. It was nice knowing that you had family close by. Nice that you got to spend time with them.
Some nights though, you looked a little worn down by the time he brought you home.
He carefully pulled away from the curb and glanced in the mirror again, catching your eye. “How was your day?”
Bucky was polite to his passengers, but didn’t typically initiate small talk. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the people he transported. He did. But his job was to get people where they needed to go, not force them into conversations to fill the silence. If he sensed that they wanted to talk, he’d engage. Most were glued to their phones anyway. But not you.
Never you.
You groaned, your head falling back against the seat. “Work was a pain today. Short-staffed. Didn’t really get a full break. You know how that goes.”
He hummed sympathetically. “Sorry you had to deal with that.”
“Don’t be. Not your fault,” you said with a small shrug. “On the plus side, we’re close to the weekend, and I can relax once I get home.”
“Glad you can still see the bright side,” he said.
It wasn’t always easy to do that.
“I try.” You lifted your head with a soft smile. “How are you?”
He swallowed hard. It was nice to have someone outside of his normal circle ask him sincerely how he was doing. “Not too bad. Some guy tried to correct my driving.”
You sat up straighter. “Are you kidding me? You’re the best driver in the city.”
Warmth bloomed in his chest from how fiercely you defended him. You stated it like it was a fact. He wasn’t one to brag, but he was an excellent driver.
“I want his name,” you added, narrowing your eyes. “I’ll handle him.”
He laughed. “Oh, you’ll handle him, huh?” he asked, turning his blinker on.
“Oh, yeah,” you answered, his heart racing faster.
“I appreciate that,” he said above a whisper.
You really were something.
“And if I can’t, Alpine can scratch him up for me,” you mused lightly.
A wide smile broke out on his face. “Al’d make sure he never messed with anyone ever again.”
Alpine, his beautiful white cat. He found her in an alley when she was just a kitten, trying to stay warm on a chilly day. One look in her blue eyes and he knew he couldn’t leave her there.
“My place isn’t much,” he warned her when he crouched down. “But it’s warm and I have milk.”
She curled right in his arms and tried to burrow her face in his leather jacket.
She became his partner-in-crime from that day forward.
The feline flourished in his apartment, making herself right at home and sticking by his side whenever he was around. He admittedly spoiled her with toys and such, but she deserved it. She was also protective of him, quick to hiss at anyone who got too close, and could imitate his grumpy stare well. He knew she’d adore you.
He certainly talked about you enough to her.
He talked about you with his younger sister, too.
“Becca messaged me a bit ago, too,” he said, smiling a little. “You know how she likes to check in and make sure I’m not living off just protein bars and stubbornness.”
Becca didn’t live as close as your brother did, but he visited when he could. She visited, too, between work and her new boyfriend. She seemed happy, and that made him happy.
“And here I am giving you protein bars. I hope she doesn’t mind.”
“Not at all,” he promised. “She knows one extra bar a week won’t hurt.”
You smiled softly. “She cares a lot about you, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah,” he said warmly. “She does.”
And she liked that he had someone like you who cared, even when he tried to argue that you were just being nice.
“She isn’t just being nice, big brother. She cares.”
He liked to think so.
“Hey!” you said suddenly, leaning forward in your seat. “You know what I just realized?”
“What?”
“This is the thirteenth Thursday that you’ve driven me around.”
“Is that right?” he asked softly, knowing full well exactly how many Thursdays he had seen you.
Because he had been counting.
“That is right.” You settled back into your seat with a smile. “Feels like ages… and not long at all.”
It seemed like only yesterday to him.
He remembered the exact shade of blue you wore on the first ride, something pleasant against the harsh city lights. How you shivered when you slid into the car, and the smile you gave him when he turned the heat on. You were so beautiful. And kind.
The kindest passenger he had that day.
“Thanks for getting me here safely, Bucky! Happy Friday Eve!”
“Friday Junior,” he’d called after you like an idiot.
“Same thing!”
He was a goner.
Every week his crush grew stronger.
But every week he told himself he was just your cab driver and nothing more.
“Thirteen Thursdays,” he said. “That why you look so nice today?”
Your gaze flickered to your lap, smiling. “You think I look nice?” you asked gently.
His heart hammered in his chest. “Yeah. You always do,” he said honestly, willing himself to concentrate on the road.
Don’t make it weird. Don’t make her uncomfortable.
“Thanks, Buck,” you whispered.
He should’ve left it at that, but he didn’t.
“You sure I’m taking you to your brother’s and not some date?” he blurted out.
The air thickened in the cab, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. Something uncomfortable twisted in his gut. He paid enough attention to know that there wasn’t a ring on your finger, and you hadn’t mentioned having a boyfriend.
Not once.
But what if there was someone? What if one day you dressed up for someone else? What if you gave some other man that soft smile you always gave him?
His jaw clenched and he was thankful you couldn’t see his expression.
I have no reason to be jealous. She isn’t my girl. She can see whoever she wants.
I just wish it was me.
“A date?” Your laughter made its way to his ears. “Please. I’m very single.”
For a moment, all Bucky could hear was the sound of his heart slowing to a steady rhythm, effectively blocking out the moving vehicles around him. His next breath was easier, his grip loosening. It shouldn’t have been such a relief to hear that, but it was.
Single. Good. That’s good. Stay single. Stay away from bad guys. Stay… here. With me.
…I’m in deep.
“Haven’t dated in months,” you added.
That made him pause.
“Months?” he repeated. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, it’s true,” you said, quieter than before and gazing out the window. “Guess I haven’t caught anyone’s eye.”
Your words wiped out his relief. You didn’t have to say out loud that you were lonely. He sensed it. Recognized it.
It just didn’t make sense to him that you were alone. You were a catch. How were guys not lining up down the block to ask you out?
Your words also weren’t true. Because he was there and he saw you. Wanted you.
“Or… maybe you have,” he said carefully. “And they just haven’t said anything yet.”
A beat passed. “Maybe,” you said.
He tapped the wheel when he stopped at a red light.
Say it. Tell her. Tell her that she caught my eye. Tell her that she’s…
He sighed to himself, the cab feeling smaller than usual. He wanted to admit how he felt, but he couldn’t like this. It wasn’t right when he was in the driver’s seat and you were back there.
“And what about you?” you asked, turning away from the window. “You seeing anyone?”
He huffed out a laugh. “No.”
Women weren’t exactly fighting to date a cab driver.
“My ‘date’ nights are me, a book or a movie, and Al,” he told you. “That or kicking the guys out of my place once the pizza and beer are gone.”
You smiled. “Those sound like good nights to me.”
“They’re not bad,” he said casually.
As if the idea of a date night with you wasn’t painting a picture in his mind.
“You know,” you said, snuggling into the blanket more. “If you ever need anyone to critique your book or movie choices, I’m available.”
He didn’t think it was possible for his heart to trip over itself, but it did. “Yeah?” he asked, keeping his voice even.
“Yeah,” you said casually, but your eyes flicked to the mirror. “I mean, I’m sure you have great taste, but it doesn’t hurt to get my own confirmation.”
Bucky swallowed hard. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You smiled. “You better.”
The cab fell into a comfortable silence after that, but something shifted. You had given him an opening that would’ve been easy to take. But maybe you were just being nice. Maybe it didn’t mean anything at all.
Or it might mean everything.
He eased the car to a stop at your brother’s building minutes later. “Here we are.”
You slipped your shoes on and folded the blanket as best as you could. “Thanks,” you said, holding out the cash for him.
He reached back automatically to grab it, feeling that spark again when your fingers touched. He didn’t need to count it to know it was all there, along with a nice tip. You were generous.
Always.
“Anytime.”
You lingered when you opened the door. “Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“You look nice today, too,” you said.
It was a simple compliment, but it hit him square in the chest.
“Yeah?” he managed to ask.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling softly. “You always do.”
It was an echo of his own words to you.
Before he could respond, you slipped out and tapped the roof twice. “See you later. Drive safe.”
“See ya,” he whispered.
He didn’t leave right away. He watched as you made your way inside safely, his hand still clutching the cash. Glancing at the protein bar on the seat beside him, he exhaled.
You said he looked nice. Offered to watch a movie with him. Kind of.
But he was just your driver.
Nothing more.
“I’m in trouble,” he muttered.
By the time Bucky pulled back up to your brother’s building later that night, things felt quieter. But his mind didn’t. It was too busy racing with thoughts of you and wondering how long he could keep his line drawn in the sand.
You waved to him when you stepped outside, your steps a little slower. Your smile wasn’t as bright as earlier, but it was still soft and easy. It made sense. Family time after a long work day was tiring, even if it was nice.
“Hey,” he said once you got in.
“Hey,” you echoed, settling in.
“Good night?” he asked, easing back into the road.
“It was,” you replied, laughing a little. “But those kids wear me out.”
He smiled to himself. No way they didn’t adore spending time with you. “Sounds about right.”
“Did you have a good night?”
It was the best night because he got to see you again.
“Not too bad,” he answered.
You checked something on your phone and put it away. “Random, but I have a few extra dollars in my account, so I may do takeout for dinner tomorrow as an end of the week treat for myself.”
You could have takeout with me.
“Get those noodles from the place you like on 5th,” he suggested instead. “The number seven, right?”
Why did I say that?
“That’s right.” You giggled. “Am I that predictable?”
He almost said, “I notice everything about you.”
“You’re not predictable,” he replied instead, easing his foot off the gas. “I just… pay attention.”
Because you’re… you.
It was quiet for the rest of the ride.
He glanced back a few times and saw that your eyes were heavy. He hoped you were able to relax more when you got back to your place. You deserved the rest.
A pang of disappointment hit him when he got to your place, the drive seeming quicker than normal. “Here we are.”
You stifled a yawn. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
“Oh. I almost forgot.” You sat up, seemingly more awake now. “I have something for you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You already gave me a protein bar.”
“Well, this isn’t from me,” you said, handing him a folded piece of construction paper along with the cash. “It’s from my niece and nephew.”
He opened it carefully, his heart melting on the spot.
A drawing of a car stretched across the sheet. It was lopsided with uneven wheels and windows that were too big. There were two stick figures inside. One in the back with a large smile that was clearly you. And one in the front with brown hair, blue eyes, and a small smile.
It was him.
There was a message in crooked letters above the car, surrounded by glitter glue.
BUCKY DRIVING AUNTIE! YAY!
His throat tightened unexpectedly. “That’s us?” he asked with a hint of disbelief.
You mentioned him to your family?
“That’s us,” you said affectionately, making him wonder if that was for him or your niece and nephew. “They wanted to thank you for always getting me there and back every week.”
He swallowed, his throat dry. “You… talk about me?”
“Of course, I do,” you said like it was obvious. “You’re part of my week.”
He folded it back up like it was something fragile, your words slowly sinking in.
You talked about him. Your family knew he existed. Your niece and nephew had never met him, but still made him a card like he mattered.
His heart felt full.
And he didn’t know what to do with that feeling.
“Tell ‘em I said thanks,” he said quietly. “Really.”
“I will,” you promised, hesitating when you reached for the door handle.
You waited long enough for him to look at you over his shoulder. Long enough that his heart thudded. Hope flickered deep within.
She feels something, right? It can’t just be me.
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, but your eyes were soft. “I…” Your gaze flickered down before looking back at him, sighing a little. “I’ll see you next week, Buck.”
He exhaled, trying not to let disappointment show. Something passed between you. He felt it. It was real.
Or… maybe he just imagined it.
“Yeah,” he said, offering you a small smile. “Next week.”
“Good night.”
“Good night,” he repeated. “And thanks again for the card and tip.”
You smiled softly before you got out.
He leaned against his seat and once again stayed to make sure you got inside safely. You didn’t rush inside when you got to the door. You paused instead and glanced over your shoulder at the door, like you were waiting for him. It was an opening. Maybe.
But he didn’t take it.
He kept that line drawn.
You waved before you went inside, and he closed his eyes, the quiet surrounding him once again.
His fingers brushed the construction paper in his lap.
Steve and Sam would flip when he told them about it. Hell, they already did whenever he talked about you. He could practically hear them now once he gave them the recap of tonight’s events.
Sam shaking his head and saying, “She gives you protein bars, offers to watch movies with you, her family knows about you, her niece and nephew made you a card, and you didn’t ask for her number?”
Steve, a little quieter but no less insistent, with, “Buck… you’re allowed to want something.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. They acted like it was simple, like he could just ask and it wouldn’t change a thing. It would change everything.
He didn’t want to risk losing you or holding you back when he didn’t have you to begin with.
For now, he’d continue driving you where you needed to go and leave it at that.
Coward. Life’s too short.
He set the card aside and took one last look at your building.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “I’m in big trouble.”
Bucky arrived a couple of minutes early the following Thursday.
He told himself it was habit. Being mindful of traffic. Not because he was eagerly waiting for you.
Not at all.
And you also weren’t the reason he spent ten extra minutes picking out a shirt.
Just because she said I look nice…
He made a mistake of checking the group chat he had with Steve and Sam while he waited.
Sam: “Be a man and get her number.”
He gritted his teeth, quickly typing. He almost regretted confiding in them about you. It would’ve been easier to keep his mouth shut.
“Fuck off, Samuel. I am a man.”
The dots appeared with both of his friends writing something back.
Sam: “OOH. Samuel. My full name. Hit a sore spot, huh?”
Maybe he did.
Stevie: “Just go at your pace, jerk. We got your back.”
Some of the tension left his shoulders.
“Thanks, punk.”
He put his phone away and smiled just a little. They were good guys. Had been with him through thick and thin. Brothers.
Sam definitely acted like an annoying brother in the most supportive way.
And as much as he adored Becca, he didn’t want to bother his little sister with his lack-of-relationship woes. She had enough on her plate. He’d be just fine.
Eventually.
His attention snapped in your direction when you left your building and everything else faded away.
There you were again.
The same familiar sweep of your eyes along the street before you found him. The soft smile. The small wave. How you always looked incredible no matter if you dressed up or down.
Like tonight, you had on the same soft sweater you wore last month. It reminded him of comfort. It also made you look gentle in a way that made him want to take care of you.
The instinct hit him harder than before.
Yeah. I’m royally fucked.
He straightened up as you walked closer, his brows furrowing. You were still smiling at him, but your steps didn’t look as light as normal. There was tension in your shoulders.
“Happy Friday Eve, Buck,” you said, unfolding the blanket with extra care.
There was a touch of weariness in your tone under the warmth.
It would’ve been easy to miss if he wasn’t paying attention.
“You mean Friday Junior,” he said automatically.
“Same thing,” you murmured.
“Your brother’s place?” he asked gently.
“Same trip as always,” you replied just as gently.
He looked at you in the mirror after pulling away from the curb. You were already gazing out the window, relaxed but not completely. His chest tightened when he spotted the slightest frown on your face.
It didn’t belong there.
Is she okay? Was work extra rough?
He waited a couple of blocks before he asked, “Long day?”
Bucky didn’t want to push if you didn’t want to talk, but he did want to make sure you were okay. If something upset you, he wanted to fix it. If someone upset you, he wanted to handle it.
Let me help however I can.
“Yeah,” you replied after a second. “Long week, actually.”
“Those are the worst.” He tapped a finger on the wheel. “Becca always tells me to take a breath and not let the week eat me alive.”
“That’s good advice.” Something soft and a little sad flickered in your eyes. He didn’t know if his words triggered a memory, but it felt important. “Especially coming from a sibling.”
“It is,” he replied. “Siblings just get it some days.”
You hummed in agreement, but didn’t say anything else.
He bit his tongue. It was times like this when he wished he wasn’t driving. He wanted to turn around and give you his attention. You deserved it.
“Would it make you feel any better if I said you look nice today?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.
That brought a smile to your face. “It does make me feel better,” you said, your tone almost back to normal. “Thank you.”
He smiled back gently, the sound of the engine and low music filling the space for a moment. It didn’t fix your long week, but he was glad the compliment helped. He’d consider that a win.
“You look nice, too.” You craned your head to look at him. “I really like that color on you.”
His pulse jumped. The usual ease was coming back, the cab lighter. And you noticed his shirt.
I chose well.
“Oh, this old thing?” he teased, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Really brings out my eyes.”
You giggled. “It sure does.”
He stole another glance at you when you looked out the window again. You were tired, but you were okay. Still warm. Still you.
He felt like he could breathe again.
“Hey,” he said after another block, reaching into the console. “I, uh… made you a list.”
“A list?” Your eyebrows went up. “What kind of list?”
“Movies. Some I like. Some I think you’d like,” he clarified, passing it back to you before he could change his mind. “You did offer to critique them.”
“And you’re taking me up on it?” You gasped, putting a hand to your chest. “I’m both shocked and flattered.”
“You should be,” he deadpanned before grinning.
You smiled, a little tired but genuine. “The first title has a star next to it.”
“Because it’s my favorite and a good one to start with.”
“Did you get Steve and Sam’s seal of approval?”
He scoffed. “They’d like it. Enough oldies for Steve, and Sam has somewhat decent taste in recent stuff… but he’ll never know I said that.” He coughed into his hand and added, “They’ve heard about you.”
You smiled. “Is that right?”
“Yeah, I talk about more than I probably should.” He shrugged, but his left foot lightly tapped. “You’re a good passenger.”
And I’m just your driver.
Your smile faltered, just for a second, before you smoothed it over with a laugh. “And you’re a good driver.” You scanned the small piece of paper once more. “You put a lot of thought into this, didn’t you?”
Warmth rushed to his cheeks. “You should see the book list I’m making for you,” he muttered.
He valued your opinion, and the lists were a way for you to think of him between rides. A way to keep you two connected. Maybe it was selfish that he wanted you to have him on your mind.
But maybe it wasn’t.
“You’re making me a book list, too? Oh, I can’t wait for that.” You folded it neatly and put it in your bag. “I’ll watch the first movie tomorrow night.”
Another Friday night with no date? I wish I could man up and change that.
“I expect a full report next week,” he teased.
“You got it, Sarge,” you teased back.
His breath caught. “Sarge?” he repeated. “You remember my military ranking?”
Sergeant Barnes.
It was mentioned only once, just like the protein bars. A passing comment and nothing more. But you listened.
You remembered.
“Of course, I do.”
The same thing you said about mentioning him to your family.
He blinked rapidly, trying to steady the emotions stirring inside him as he drove. You continued to surprise him with your soft words and smiles, making him feel special in your eyes. You undid him in ways nothing or no one else could.
“Here we are,” he said minutes later.
“Thanks, Buck.” You gathered your things before you stopped, your inhale sharp. “Oh… you kept it.”
He followed your gaze to the dashboard. Your niece and nephew’s card was proudly on display. It was a beautiful reminder of you.
“Of course, I did,” he said, trying to play it cool. “It’s a nice drawing.”
“That’s really sweet, Buck.”
He shrugged a little, but heat crept up his neck. “It deserved a front and center spot.”
Your gaze softened more. “They’ll think you’re the coolest guy ever when I tell them.”
They made him feel cool by giving him the card.
“Guess I’ll have to try to live up to that.”
“You already are,” you said without missing a beat, passing him a protein bar with the cash.
His heart pounded in his chest. Another thoughtful gesture. More words that made him feel good.
Say something. Do something.
But he didn’t.
There was a small pause before you sighed and got out, the door gently closing behind you. Tap. Tap. The familiar rhythm against the roof should’ve felt normal and comforting.
But why did it feel like you were disappointed?
“See you later,” you said. “Drive safe.”
“See ya,” he exhaled.
He watched until you went inside, half tempted to hit the dashboard since he chickened out. He held himself back. There was no sense in taking his frustration out on the car. He could hit a punching bag later.
Maybe he could knock some sense into himself, too, and man up.
“Should’ve said something,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
Some of the frustration at himself faded when he looked at the card. He imagined your niece and nephew were the kind of kids who loved when the garbage men came by every week or drivers dropped off packages. They’d probably have a blast riding around in his cab, cheering him on for driving you around. If Becca ever had kids, they’d likely be the same way.
He wondered, briefly, if you’d ever meet her, and the thought didn’t scare him the way it should.
But what would your brother think of me? Would he think I’m good enough?
At the end of the day, didn’t it matter only what you thought and saw in him?
His phone buzzed.
Sam: “Well??? We’re waiting.”
Bucky stared at the message before typing back. “Dropped her off. Didn’t ask.”
Three dots appeared immediately. He didn’t want to look. Didn’t need the additional salt on the open wound of his self-doubt.
But he looked since he was a glutton for punishment.
Sam: “Man, if we can even call you that, you're killing me! I’m gonna lose the bet.”
Bet? What fucking bet?
Stevie: “There’s no bet. You’ll do it when it’s right.”
Sam: “Don’t make me get Becca and Sarah involved. I’ll do it.”
He tucked his phone away and shook his head. Tough and gentle love. He needed both.
And he needed just a little more time to convince himself to erase the line he had drawn.
The next passenger he picked up, a man complaining about the state of the economy, didn’t shift his focus fully away from you. The restaurant he dropped him at seemed like a nice one to take you to, something quiet and romantic. A couple of women he drove after that mentioned an acoustic concert in the park, which made him picture you leaning your head on his shoulder while listening to music together. Every passenger was like that, managing to tie something back to you.
He still got everyone where they needed to go safely since that was the job.
He just couldn’t stop thinking about you.
By the time he arrived to pick you up again, the city lights had taken over the streets. He spotted you immediately, your arms wrapped around yourself to keep warm. You looked about the same as when you went in. A little more tired, but okay.
And you still gave him a smile when you got in.
Smiling like she’s happy to see me.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he replied, double checking the heat. “Kids wear you out again?”
“You know it. They had so much energy tonight, and I almost stepped on a lego when I was chasing them around.”
“Occupational hazard of being a great aunt.”
“You know it.” You laughed a little. “They were also thrilled that you have their card up.”
That warmed his heart. “So, they think I’m cool?”
“The coolest.”
He smiled at the sincerity. He believed that they believed that. It was a feeling he needed to lean into more.
“Did you have a good night?”
“Yep. Just driving. Getting everyone where they need to go,” he answered.
And thinking of you. Always thinking about you.
He turned the radio up a notch after that instead of trying to fill the silence, letting you relax. For a moment, he pictured swaying with you. Minus the quick brush of your fingers, he hadn’t touched you in any way.
To hold you would be a gift.
“Hey, Buck?” you asked once he pulled up to your place.
“Yeah?”
You bit your lip. “I wanted to give you something.”
“Yeah?” he asked, his chest tightening in anticipation as you reached into your bag.
You hesitated before you nodded. “Yeah.”
Your hand shook a little when you passed him a small slip of paper with the cash. He unfolded it, blinking hard to make sure he was reading it correctly. He turned it over, too.
It was your handwriting. Your name. Your number.
You gave him your phone number.
His heart forgot how to beat before it thundered. He imagined this scenario for weeks, but he hadn’t prepared himself for the reality of it. He didn’t think the universe would be that kind to him.
“I just figured, this way you don’t have to wait until next week for my report on the movie. You could just text me and see what I think,” you explained, trying to play it off casually. “Or if you ever want to send me pictures of Alpine. Or you’re just… bored.”
His pulse roared in his ears. You wanted to hear from him. You gave him another opening while he kept mentally blocking the door with his foot.
You trusted him enough to want a connection outside of the cab and the rules he internally created and enforced.
“But you don’t have to,” you added quickly, reaching for the door handle. “I can wait until next week to talk to you and-”
“Wait,” he begged, trying not to panic. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he didn’t want to reach out. “I’ll, um… give you mine, too.”
You met his gaze in the mirror. He wanted to memorize how you looked at this moment. Hopeful. Beautiful.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he whispered.
He found a pen and a receipt, making sure his writing was legible as he jotted it down. Your smile when he handed it over soothed his nerves. The smooth thing to do would’ve been to put his phone number on the movie list when he gave it to you earlier. But this was better.
This felt more right.
“Thanks.” You tucked it away like it was something sacred. “I’ll text you.”
He nodded, his throat tight. “I’d like that.”
You stepped out into the cool air, glancing back at him. The tension was almost completely gone from your shoulders. The glow from the street lamps made your eyes sparkle.
He couldn’t look away from you if he tried.
“Good night, Buck.”
“Good night.”
Once you were inside, he glanced at your number again, reading it until the numbers ran together. He reached for the phone to message the guys and Becca before deciding against it. Sam would lose his mind. Steve would tell him not to overthink it. Becca would be somewhere in the middle. He didn’t need that tonight.
He wanted to hang onto this just a little longer and let it sink in that it was real.
Besides, it was just an exchange of phone numbers. You didn’t ask him out. He didn’t ask you out. He was still being professional.
But he did check his phone immediately when a new message popped up.
“Happy fourteenth Thursday. Thanks again for the ride.”
Still counting like me.
“Anytime. Get some rest. And let me know when you watch the first movie.”
A neutral message. Polite. Professional.
“I’m still in trouble.”
And he grinned like an idiot because of it.
You messaged him on Friday night.
He saved you under his contacts as MFP, my favorite passenger.
MFP: “Halfway through the movie.”
His fingers hovered over the screen. If he typed back too quickly, he’d look desperate. If he waited too long, he’d look aloof.
A full minute was enough time.
“And?”
He winced at himself. That was too short. Too blunt.
MFP: “They switched part of what happened in the book. Trying to reserve my judgement until the end.”
A sense of awe filled him. You read the book. Of course, you did. That made him want you even more.
But he couldn’t say that.
“I didn’t like the switch at first either, but keep watching. Trust me.”
MFP: “I trust you.”
That made his breath catch.
He scratched behind Alpine’s ear, smiling when she purred. “She’s watching it and texting me. That’s good, right?”
She meowed happily.
He put the movie on, too, in the hopes that he wouldn’t keep checking his phone.
You messaged him again an hour later.
MFP: “My score: 8/10. Adventurous, heartwarming, and visually stunning. I see why it’s your favorite.”
He smiled, typing out, “Dinner and tell me more?”
He deleted it and started over.
“8/10? I’ll take it. What didn’t you like besides the book switch?”
MFP: “A one point deduction was for the book switch. Another deduction for the bad wig. I mean, a huge budget like that and they couldn’t give the lead some good hair? Tragic.”
Bucky chuckled. “You make a good point. It was pretty bad.”
MFP: “But movie wise? So far, so good for your taste.”
That was a win in his book.
You didn’t message him again until Saturday night.
MFP: “Is brinner an acceptable choice on a Saturday night?”
He smiled immediately.
“Brinner is an acceptable choice every night.”
MFP: “I knew you’d understand. I can eat while I watch the second movie on the list.”
“I bet you’ll give it a 7/10.”
MFP: “We’ll see if you’re right. Hope you're having a good weekend.”
He reread that statement twice. It felt measured. Careful.
“You, too.”
He read the message again after sending it.
Maybe it was another message that was too short.
And it was too late to erase it.
You sent him a photo of a white cat on Sunday.
MFP: “Is this Alpine’s doppelganger?”
He chuckled. The image wasn’t too far off but Alpine was prettier. He was a bit biased when it came to his feline.
“There’s no cat like Al.”
MFP: “I believe it. And you were right, but the way. 7/10. I deducted two points for the one terrible accent.”
He tilted his head and laughed again. He had almost forgotten about the bad accent. It was amazing how one actor or actress could throw off an entire scene.
“Much deserved deduction. Al would approve.”
MFP: “I’m honored.”
He didn’t hear from you for the rest of the day.
It was his turn to message you first.
“Hope you have water and caffeine to get you through Monday.”
He stared at it after sending. Maybe that too personal. Maybe it wasn’t enough.
MFP: “Do I have to have water?”
He laughed, picturing you scrunching up your face.
“Need you to stay hydrated.”
Because he cared.
MFP: “But what if I try to live on stubbornness like you?”
You’re too good to live on stubbornness.
“Still need water.”
MFP: “Yes, Sarge.”
Oh, that did something to him.
MFP: “But only if you drink some water, too.”
“I will.”
He would for you.
He didn’t hear from you on Tuesday.
That was fine. You were busy. You had a life outside of him. And he didn’t want to bother you.
But he checked his phone more than he should have.
You messaged him first thing on Wednesday.
MFP: “Is it Friday Eve yet?”
Relief hit him faster than he expected.
“Almost. You surviving?”
There was a delay this time. Long enough for him to notice.
MFP: “Barely, but I’m trying.”
He frowned a little.
“Hang in there.”
He hesitated before adding another message.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
There was another pause.
MFP: “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
He stared at it longer than he meant to.
Something about it felt different. Quieter. He could’ve been imagining it.
He sent one more message before he could stop himself.
“Can’t wait.”
He meant it.
Even if something told him tomorrow would feel different.
Bucky waited at the curb as patiently as he could, checking his hair three times. Just like every week before, he looked forward to seeing you. But this felt different because the texts had been good overall. Almost effortless.
Almost.
Tonight could be a turning point.
Bucky checked his phone again, even though he told himself he wouldn’t.
Sam: “You better not fumble this now that you got her number.”
Stevie: “Ignore him. Just be yourself.”
He huffed under his breath, locking the screen.
Like it’s that easy.
He turned his attention back to your building, his heart sinking the moment you stepped outside.
The usual sweep of your gaze didn’t happen since you were looking at your feet. You hardly seem to notice or care that your bag slipped from your shoulder. When you finally lifted your gaze, you looked worn out in a way he had never seen before.
It was like someone took the light inside you and dialed it down.
Everyone had bad days. That was a normal part of life. But this was you.
It didn’t sit right with him at all.
“Happy Friday Eve,” you stated with a dim smile, hugging the blanket against your chest like a pillow. Your fingers trembled just enough that he spotted it.
“Friday Junior,” he said because that’s what he was supposed to say.
Same thing.
You didn’t say it.
You looked out the window, your jaw tight enough that he could see the tension in your neck. There was no teasing either as he drove. No references to any of the messages between you, like brinner or the bad wig or accent from the movies. No jokes about staying hydrated or calling him Sarge.
There were no comments on anything.
Just the kind of silence that for the first time felt off between you two.
Something was wrong.
I fucked this up, didn’t I?
He thought back to every message he sent like he could figure out the exact moment things flipped.
He responded in a timely manner. He initiated at times so it wouldn’t all fall on you. They weren’t overly flirty but they weren’t cold either.
Maybe you expected more and he let you down.
Or maybe he leaned in too far with the “can’t wait” message and now you were pulling back.
“Hey, um…” He cleared his throat, his grip shifting on the wheel. “If I said something wrong, or if I upset you with one of my texts…”
“What?” Your head snapped toward him, your brows pinching. “Buck, no.”
He blinked, surprised at how quickly you shut that down when his mind was screaming at him. “You sure?” He bit the inside of his cheek. “You just seem off, and I didn’t want it to be because of me.”
He was sure he could handle just about anything but that.
He didn’t want to lose the one bright part of his week because he misread a moment or sent the wrong text.
“Buck,” you said, even gentler this time. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
His shoulders dropped. “Really?” he pressed, needing to be absolutely certain.
“Really. I like talking with you… a lot,” you promised, a shallow breath leaving your lungs. “I swear, it isn’t you.”
The weight in his chest eased enough for him to breathe but not enough to feel okay since your voice cracked. You liked talking to him, which was good. Better than good. But if he wasn’t the issue, it was something else. Something you weren’t telling him.
It worried him.
“Can I ask you something?” you asked softly.
“Yeah. Anything,” he said honestly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever asked you this.” You paused to consider your words. “Why do you drive?”
He inhaled. It wasn’t unusual for you to ask about him. But most people didn’t care enough to ask why he did this job.
You weren’t most people there, were you?
Your gaze was back on him instead of looking out the window, waiting patiently for his answer because you wanted to know.
Like Becca said… you care.
“I guess the easy answer is having a flexible schedule, getting decent money on the right nights, and it beats being in an office with some boss hounding me.”
You gave him a knowing, very small smile. “And what’s the real answer?”
He took a breath. “You remember I served in the army.” You nodded in acknowledgement. “When I got out… there was no clear objective. No structure.” His voice stayed even, but quieter. “It was just… a lot of noise.”
He stared at the taillights in front of him, lost for a moment.
His smile had been wrong for days when he got out. Everything seemed like too much or not enough. And the world didn’t slow down just because people couldn’t keep up.
“I had my friends. My sister. I wasn’t alone,” he said like it mattered because it did. Not everyone had that support. “But it still felt like I was supposed to be doing something… and I didn’t know what that was.”
You didn’t interrupt or rush him, so he continued.
“But this?” He gestured around the cab. “It gave me something again.”
A sense of purpose. A mission.
“I have an objective… orders,” he explained, tapping the dashboard. “I pick a passenger up and I get them from point A to point B. That’s the job.”
You nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”
“And how I get you there? That’s on me.” He tapped his chest. “If the weather’s bad, I take it into account. If there’s awful traffic, I adjust. If my usual route is blocked, I find another way.”
“So, it gives you a sense of control,” you mused. “You know what you have to do, but you choose how you execute it.”
He nodded. You seemed to understand. Not everyone did.
“It’s simple in a good way. Discipline and structure with adaptability.” He ran a hand along the wheel, smiling to himself. “I know what I’m supposed to do. I know I can do it well.”
He glanced at you in the mirror, vulnerability shining in his eyes.
“And at the end of the ride… I get someone where they need to go. Safely.”
He paused, the sounds of honking horns and engines surrounding him. It was strangely comforting. But the most comforting thing was your presence and tender expression.
“And sometimes… that’s enough,” he finished.
“It is. It matters,” you insisted, gently but firmly. “More than you think.”
You make me feel like I matter.
“I do my best.” The words came out nonchalantly but he meant it. “I can’t control what others do when they’re on the road, just like they can’t control me. But if something does happen, I fix it.”
Your expression shifted. “And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”
Bucky stilled before he realized it. That didn’t sound like you were talking about driving. He had a good read on people, but he couldn’t read between the lines of this. Couldn’t figure out why you were asking that.
What needs fixing?
“I just keep driving,” he finally answered. “Like Steve always says… We have to move forward.”
You shifted in your seat. “I guess it’s all we can do,” you said more to yourself than him. “And for what it’s worth, you really are doing a great job,” you added.
He inhaled sharply. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You help people every time you drive. You don’t just drive well. You do it safely, like you said,” you pointed out, giving him a small smile. “I always feel safe when I’m with you.”
Those words landed in the middle of his doubt in himself, threatening to tear it apart. There was trust within your compliment. It was pure in an impure world.
“Good.” He had to swallow to keep his voice steady. “I’m glad you feel that way.”
You smiled again, but it didn’t reach your eyes.
His chest ached. Every smile seemed to take more effort than it should, like you were chipping away little pieces of yourself. He hated that.
He hated that he couldn’t shoulder the weight still pushing you down, even just a little.
“Here we are,” he said once he stopped, quieter than before.
“Thanks, Buck,” you said, handing over a protein bar with the cash. “And I’m sorry if I made you think that you upset me.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, turning around as best as he could so he could see you. “You don’t have to do that with me.”
There was no reason for you to apologize when he was the one overthinking.
“But are you sure you’re alright?” he asked, searching your face for the answer your lips may not say.
Lean on me if you aren’t.
Something passed in your eyes and then it was gone. “I will be,” you assured him.
His stomach dropped when you took the blanket with you, like you forgot you were holding it. You clutched it like a lifeline as you walked away from the cab. He watched you go, reaching for the door handle. You disappeared into the building before he could follow, which he had never done before.
You weren’t okay.
For the first time since he met you, he had no idea how to fix it.
But something told him he was about to find out.
By the time he came back, he was tense. He told himself you just needed time with your family tonight. That whatever was on your mind eased with some laughter and familiar warmth.
It had to have helped.
…Right?
His heart didn’t sink when he saw you.
It cracked.
You had the blanket around your shoulders, trying to hold yourself together as you put one foot in front of the other. The look of sadness on your face wasn’t fleeting or light. It was the kind that settled in your bones.
What the hell happened?
You forced a smile when you met his eye and it twisted something inside him painfully.
Don’t do that. Please, don’t do that.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” you replied, your voice thin.
He didn’t drive off right away, giving you a moment to get your bearings.
But you didn’t.
You didn’t slip your shoes off or tuck yourself in. The blanket stayed around your shoulders like an afterthought. Your breaths were too measured. Too careful.
He held the wheel so tight that his fingers ached.
You were a heartbeat away from unraveling.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
The city bustled around like normal, but nothing inside the cab felt the same.
The air felt even heavier than earlier. The silence was too loud.. Louder than any word you ever spoke.
And you simply stared ahead like you were bracing yourself for impact.
His teeth snapped together, trying hard to keep himself in check. His job was to get you home safely. If you wanted to confide in him, he’d listen. But you didn’t have to lean on him.
He was just…
Your breath hitched on the next turn.
He made it three more blocks before he couldn’t take it anymore.
Fuck this. I’m not just your driver.
He switched lanes and turned down a road he had never taken on your route before. It was familiar to him, of course. Away from some of the noise. It had a soothing view, too.
Exhaling through his nose, he stopped the car and turned to look at you.
He recognized pain when he saw it. Had lived through it. He couldn’t recall ever seeing you look so fragile.
It’s okay to break with me.
“Hey,” he said carefully because you needed something gentle. “I know you said you’ll be alright… but you’re not.”
“I will be,” you said quickly, your lower lip trembling. “I have to be.”
“Hey…” he whispered again.
You don’t need to be strong tonight.
You shook your head automatically, your next breath shaky. “I don’t want to dump this on you.”
“You’re not dumping anything on me,” he promised, needing you to believe him. “You’re hurting.”
Your eyes filled and you tried to blink the moisture away.
He didn’t think when he got out of the cab, his body moving on instinct at the sight of your tears. He got in the back with you, leaving you enough space so you wouldn’t feel cornered. His hands rested on his knees, making sure not to touch you since he didn’t know if that would help or make things worse.
But he wanted to be there for you.
“Please, let me help,” he begged, his voice thick. “Even just a little.”
That did it.
A sob burst from your chest, your hand coming up to cover your mouth and failing to keep it in.
His heart stopped, his fingers curling to hold himself back from hauling you into his arms.
You hastily wiped your tears away that fell, like it would hide them. Your shoulders shook the more you tried to hold them in. Another broken sound escaped, the threads inside you slowly pulling apart.
“He’s sick,” you whimpered. “My brother…”
Your words were like a punch to the gut.
Oh, no…
“He has been for a while. They thought he was getting better, but the last couple of weeks have been bad,” you admitted, your face crumbling. “He barely made it through dinner tonight before he had to lay down.”
His jaw tightened in that helpless way when grief felt too close and overpowering.
“And the kids… They don’t get why their dad is so tired or why their mom looks so sad when she thinks no one’s looking.” You hiccuped, the sound raw. “And I’m trying to help when I can. I’m trying to be strong for everyone, but I’m scared and… I can’t fix this.”
His throat went tight.
“And if there’s a time that you can’t fix it? You can’t control what’s happening?”
It all made sense now.
The nights where you looked a little worn down. Your smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. Your light dimming. The talk earlier tonight.
While he had been overanalyzing his interactions with you, you were carrying this.
Alone.
And he couldn’t fix it for you.
“I help cook, clean, make the kids smile, but I don’t know what to do anymore,” you whimpered, looking at him with teary eyes. “It hurt for me to smile tonight.”
Trying to smile through pain was one of the hardest things a person could do.
“I’ve been holding this in and I… can’t anymore.”
Bucky couldn’t keep staying behind the line he drew.
Not anymore.
His arms went around you without another thought, strong and steady, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. You clung to him, your fingers curling in his shirt as you sobbed painfully into his neck. He closed his eyes, willing whatever being was watching over them to feed some of your pain into him.
Don’t do this to her. Give it to me. I can take it.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, cradling the back of your head as your cries continued. “I’ve got you.”
He didn’t say it was okay because it wasn’t. But he was there. Solid and real. Nothing else mattered except you.
“He’s my big brother. He’s a good guy. He’s supposed to be okay,” you choked out between sobs. “But he isn’t, and I can’t make it any better.”
He pressed his cheek to your temple. He knew how afraid Becca had been when he served and how relieved she was when he came back. If he were to get sick now… If anything happened to him…
“You just need to love him,” he whispered against your ear. “And you do. You have such a big heart.”
You cried harder, making him hold you closer.
“Just let it out,” he urged, rubbing your shaking back.
Minutes passed before your cries eventually slowed to small sniffles. Your body slumped against his, the tears wearing you out. And he held you through it all, letting you feel his warmth and comfort.
You lifted your head slowly, your cheeks wet. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“Don’t you dare apologize for that,” he said, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. “Sometimes saying it out loud makes it more real and it opens up the floodgates before you’re ready.”
Like me being a coward about my feelings for you.
You leaned into his touch briefly. “I didn’t want to be a burden,” you said, your voice wrecked.
“You’re not.” He pulled back enough to really look at you. “You never could be.”
You searched his face, your lip trembling again. “Am I doing enough?”
Your grief already cut open his heart, but your question made him feel the blade all over again.
“You’re doing more than enough. You’re showing up for everyone. That matters,” he swore to you, echoing some of your earlier words as he held you tighter. “More than you know.”
Your eyes shimmered again, but the tears didn’t fall.
“And you can lean on me whenever you need to,” he added, giving you a tender smile. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
You smiled back faintly. “Thanks, Buck.”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Anytime.”
You let go of his shirt, but didn’t make an effort to move out of his arms. He didn’t move either, taking a second to breathe with you and memorize how it felt to hold you. He’d keep you in his embrace all night if he could.
“Can I just...” You glanced down, your fingers absentmindedly tracing a pattern on your thigh. “Can I say something?”
“Anything,” he answered, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders.
Say whatever you need to. I got you.
“Seeing you… talking to you,” you began. “I always look forward to it.”
You lifted your gaze, somehow more exposed and vulnerable than your earlier tears.
“It’s the best part of my week,” you admitted.
Bucky froze completely.
You exhaled shakily, like you said too much.
“I didn’t want to fall apart in front of you,” you went on while his brain was scrambling to catch up. “But everything felt heavy and I just… I felt safe enough that I could. So… thank you. For that.”
He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Your words flowed through him, filing every crack he couldn’t seal shut himself.
I’m the best part of your week?
Not work, your friends, or even your family?
Me?
Since the beginning, he told himself to stay in his lane and keep things simple. To be professional. Driver and passenger. That was it.
But you were here in his arms, trusting him enough with something so raw and admitting that he was the one thing that made your week a little lighter.
Him.
And he was still acting as if there was a line he shouldn’t cross?
His thumb brushed your shoulder. You looked to him for comfort tonight. You needed him in a way.
Maybe you wanted him, too.
If that were true, what the hell was he waiting for?
Don’t rush her. Don’t make this about me.
“I appreciate you telling me that,” he whispered once he found his voice. “Let’s get you home, okay?”
You nodded, your energy spent as you shifted from his hold. He felt the loss immediately, the cab feeling colder. But he didn’t linger, as much as he wanted to.
He moved back to the driver seat grudgingly and started the engine.
You weren’t too far from your place, but he drove a bit slower and checked the mirror more than he needed to. You had your legs curled up now, your eyes heavy but open. Not distant or shut down. Just tired.
You had a good reason to feel tired.
But you also gave him a smile when you caught him looking the last time. A small, real one. Because you felt safe.
You’re safe with me.
The lights didn’t seem as harsh when he turned onto your street. The breeze wasn’t as strong. The world seemed to realize you needed little wins after breaking down.
Neither of you moved right away when he parked.
“Hey.” He turned slightly in his seat, your expression glassy but more clear when you handed him the money. “I’m gonna walk you to your building tonight.”
It wasn’t a question or suggestion.
Should’ve been doing that since the first night.
“I’d like that,” you uttered.
“And you can take the blanket,” he offered when you started to fold it. “If you want.”
“Really?” Your eyes widened in realization. “Oh, my God. I took it with me earlier. I’m so sorry.”
Bucky had to smile at the way you looked genuinely distressed, like you had done something unforgivable.
“It’s okay,” he said gently. “You had a lot on your mind.”
You hesitated, but didn’t set it down. “Are you sure I can take it with me?”
“Yeah.” His gaze softened. “I put it back there so you’d be comfortable, and it kinda defeats the purpose if you don’t use it.”
He wouldn’t be there to hold you tonight if you cried again, so the blanket would have to do. It was a small piece of comfort. A small piece of him.
Warmth filled your eyes. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he replied, meaning it in more ways than one.
He stepped out first, going to your door to open it. He didn’t rush you as you gathered your things, letting you go at your pace. He understood how the body lagged sometimes after everything spilled over.
And his hand was already outstretched to help you out if you wanted it.
You took it.
Instead of the usual spark when your fingers touched, something steadier and grounding moved between you both.
It felt like your hand belonged with his.
It feels right.
He helped you out and fell in step beside you, matching your pace without thinking. Your thumb brushed his skin, making his grip tighten a fraction when he glanced at you. Faint exhaustion lingered in your body, but you weren’t as tense. Your breathing had evened out.
The hurt was still there, but you were safe.
You made it to the door, the light above it casting a glow over you, but you didn’t reach for the handle or let go of his hand.
The soft good nights usually happened at the car, but not tonight.
“Thank you for tonight,” you said above a whisper.
He nodded, everything from the last few weeks pressing into his mind.
Sam on one shoulder. “Be a man and get her number.
Steve on the other. “You’re allowed to want something.”
The teasing. The smiles. The protein bars. The card your niece and nephew made. The movie list.
How you quietly gave him your number. The careful texts. The deeper talks.
The way you trusted him and broke in his arms tonight.
The way you said he’s the best part of your week.
The way he was done pretending that there wasn’t something there between you.
Time to erase the line for good.
He kept your hand in his, refusing to retreat into neutral territory. “I, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. “I was thinking.”
You gazed at him expectantly.
“I know things are… a lot right now,” he said, trying to be careful and not add pressure when you had so much on your mind. “With your brother and everything.”
Your grip tightened on the blanket, but you nodded for him to continue.
“And I’m not trying to…” He huffed a little, almost frustrated with himself. “I’m not trying to make things harder for you.”
That was the last thing he wanted to do.
“You’re not,” you said, stepping closer. “You never could.”
That gave him just enough courage to keep going, taking one last deep breath.
Just say it.
“I just… I don’t want to keep pretending that I’m just your cab driver anymore. Not after tonight,” he said, his forehead almost touching yours. “Because you’re the best part of my week, too.”
Your breath caught enough that he felt it.
“So. When things feel less heavy, or you just need a break…” His heart was pounding now. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”
He didn’t breathe as the question hung in the air.
Opening up and asking you out wasn’t going to magically erase the pain or worry you felt. It wouldn’t fix what was happening with your brother. But you didn’t need to go it alone.
You stared at him, almost like you were afraid he’d take the offer back. “Dinner?” you echoed.
“Yeah. Dinner. With me,” he said, his voice low. “No meter running or route. Just… us.”
Just the two of you enjoying each other’s company.
“Because I want to see you outside of the cab.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I want to critique movies and books with you and eat pizza or noodles or brinner and just talk. I want Al to finally see my favorite passenger in person.”
A small laugh escaped you, the sound like sunlight appearing after a storm.
“But only if you want, and only when you’re ready.”
You stared at him for a long moment before you smiled, one that reached your eyes for the first time tonight.
“I’d like that,” you said
The rush of relief hit him so fast it almost made him lightheaded. You wanted to have dinner with him. You wanted to see him outside of the weekly routine.
“Yeah?” he asked, just to be sure.
“Yeah,” you replied, tender and certain. “Is… tomorrow too soon?”
Bucky blinked, genuinely thinking he misheard you.
Tomorrow?
His heart stuttered. He expected an offer to check your schedule or something weeks down the line. But not this.
“Tomorrow?” he repeated breathlessly.
You nodded, a tad shy. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re free… and it’s not too fast or anything?”
Too fast?
I’ve been waiting fifteen Thursdays now for this.
“It’s not too fast.” He shook his head, a faint, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “It’s actually kinda perfect.”
“It is?”
“It is,” he said, more certain. “Tomorrow’s great.”
Tomorrow meant you wanted this. Not just someday down the line, but now. Even with everything going on.
“We can keep it easy,” he said, his thumb moving over your knuckles again. “Whatever you’re up for.”
“Movie?” you suggested, a small hint of your usual warmth slipping back in. “And noodles?”
He laughed. “Number seven?”
“Number seven,” you confirmed, your smile widening.
“Alright. Noodles and a movie at my place.”
“It’s a date,” you whispered.
A date.
You were still standing close. Close enough that if he leaned in just a fraction… God, he wanted to kiss you. More than anything.
The two of you took an important step. He finally stopped being a coward. You didn’t hold everything in.
But he didn’t kiss you.
Tonight wasn’t about that.
His forehead, however, did intentionally brush yours this time.
“I’ll text you,” he murmured.
“I’ll be waiting.”
And I’ll be counting down the minutes.
You squeezed his hand before finally stepping back, his blanket tucked against your chest. “Good night, Buck.”
He memorized the way you gazed at him, basking in that glow. “Good night.”
You slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. There was no drop in his stomach. No nerves.
He didn’t have to wait for another Thursday to see you again.
He finally turned back toward the cab, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to physically process what just happened.
Dinner and a movie.
You wanted to spend time with him.
“Jesus,” he muttered happily under his breath as he slid back into the driver’s seat.
His gaze drifted to the backseat, landing on the empty space where you had been curled up just minutes ago, his blanket wrapped around you, trusting him with something rough and fragile.
When he picked you up tomorrow, you could sit in the front beside him.
His phone buzzed, his heart picking up before he even saw your message.
Of course, it was you.
MFP: “Curled up on the couch with your blanket. Thanks again. For everything.”
It gave him peace of mind knowing you made it into your place safe and sound since he only walked you to the building door.
“Thanks for letting me help.”
He made a difference tonight.
He almost set the phone down when another message popped up.
MFP: “My brother was awake when I reached out.”
He held his breath. Was he okay? Did something happen?
“Yeah?”
Three dots appeared long enough that he sat up straighter.
MFP: “I told him we’re having dinner tomorrow, and he said he’s looking forward to meeting the guy who keeps me safe every week.”
He reread the message until the screen went dark.
Your brother, the one you were terrified for, wanted to meet him.
Becca would want to meet you.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to ground himself. Something earnest and dangerously close to overwhelming spread from his chest, the card on the dashboard staring at him. It brought a smile to his face.
“I’d be honored to meet him. I’ll have to make a good first impression.”
As a big brother, Bucky sensed and respected that he would be a bit protective of you.
MFP: “You already have.”
The additional layer of assurance did wonders.
MFP: “Get some rest tonight, okay? Happy Friday Eve.”
There it was.
Soft, familiar, and you.
“You, too. And it’s Friday Junior.”
MFP: “Same thing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” he whispered, happiness filling him to the point where he thought he’d float away.
He shot off a quick message to the guys and Becca. “Got a date tomorrow night. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
With a smile, he put the phone away. He could already see Sam losing his mind and Steve would try and fail to act subtle about it. Becca would demand every detail after. He’d wait until later to see and hear their stunned reactions.
For now, he was going to drive and get a few more people where they needed to go.
But not before taking one last look at your building and picturing you curled up with his blanket.
Fifteen Thursdays.
Fifteen weeks of watching you slip into his cab with tired eyes, soft smiles, and sweetness that made a difference in his day. Fifteen weeks of falling for you in steady increments. Fifteen weeks of chances he almost let slip by because it took him some time to feel brave.
And tonight he erased the line he drew in the sand for good because you mattered more.
You let him see you and it was a beautiful thing.
“Tomorrow,” he said again like a promise, starting the car and pulling away from the curb.
Tomorrow there wouldn’t be a meter running or rearview mirror glances. No pretending it was just another ride. It would just be you and him.
He was counting down the minutes.
And for once, he didn’t feel like he needed to second guess any of it.
Whew! Did we make it? This isn't the end for these two. It's very much a beginning. Would love to hear your thoughts!
Ohh my my my, this is lengthy but it is so worth it!
This is such a beautiful story I love these 2. I love the slow burn. I love the growth. I love all. Of. It. Period. This fic is amazing thank you so much for sharing it with us!!! 💛
“You cannot actually be serious.” If it was possible your jaw would have been on the floor. When you came home from running errands to see Bucky standing uninvited at your door you were a bit worried. Naturally you let your friend in. Now you are wishing you had instead left him outside in the cold.
“Why not the two of you would be great together” Bucky insists.
You scoff but before you can interject he keeps going.
‘You yourself have said the two of you would be great together if only you could get the timing right."
“First of all I told you that in confidence! Second of all the fact that our timing is off is exactly the reason why it wouldn't work. We’ve never even been on an actual date and you are talking about us getting married.”
“You can date, of course you can date! But if we want this to work you’d have to be Married by September.”
“Yes because 8 months to date, fall in love, and plan a wedding is a perfectly reasonable timeline." You grab a bottle of wine and head to the couch steeling yourself to endure whatever other schemes this man has come up with.
"You're right… the only real problem is wedding planning." Buck manages to brush off the vulgar gesture you make in his direction and continues on his mission.
"Come on be reasonable, you guys have known each other forever it's not like you're strangers."
“Yes, we’ve been friends for a long time but what you're talking about is us going up in front of god and all of our friends and family and promising to be together forever. Sure we get along and he’s one of the few people I would consider for my team on a game show…”
“Those all sound like great positives to me.” The brunette interrupts you.
“BUT we’re talking about marriage. More importantly we are talking about a marriage the whole world will be watching and analyzing. We’ll be living in a fish bowl and if things get rough or it doesn’t work we’ll just be stuck together.” Bucky opens his mouth but you hold up your hand forcing him to hold his comments till the end.
“I mean we’ve never even had sex the two of us could be stuck in a sexless marriage for the next 6–10 years with absolutely no alternatives.”
“Ok well first of all if for some reason the two of you became mortal enemies I've heard the house has plenty of extra rooms. Second of all you two are definitely sexually compatible.” Bucky proclaims.
You scoff “how could you be so sure?”
“Well I know what he likes and more importantly I know what you like, so trust me the two of you won’t have any problems there.” Bucky gives you a mischievous grin so infuriating you have to stop yourself from slapping him, instead you silently gag.
“Ok I am normally a sex positive person but everything you just said gave me the ick.”
Bucky lets out a full belly laugh at that, “The idea of having sex with Steve gives you the ick? Maybe you're right this won’t work.”
“No, not having sex with Steve,” you say as your face heats. “Just you apparently imagining me and Steve…ya’know”
“I promise that I only think about you and Steve in compromising positions exclusively for research purposes.” Bucky says with a wink.
Finally losing your patience you pick up the closest pillow and whack your friend upside his head
Steve is sitting on the floor of his kitchen with a pint of ice cream in his lap when his phone starts to ring. Now he doesn’t need caller ID to know it’s you calling. He knew Bucky was going to go talk to you today and based off his friends' vague texts it seems like it didn’t go well. Although if Steve is being honest he didn’t expect it to.
He picks up but doesn’t even bother saying anything. If he knows you…which he does, he knows you’ll be coming out the gate hot.
“Did you know about this!?”
He shouldn't, he knows he shouldn’t but he can’t help himself...
“Know about what sweetheart?”
“Steven Grant Rogers for the love of all that is good and Holy I swear!” He hears you take a deep breath trying to calm yourself down, and he can’t help but smile.
“Yes, I knew about Bucky’s idea, he’s been pestering me about it for a while now….”
“He’s been pestering you about marrying me for a while now?”
“Well he’s been pestering me about getting married in general, but you are a fairly new addition.” He states before shoving a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth before he can reveal anything else.
Now Steve is not normally one to lie but this one is necessary. He can’t tell the truth, that he’s been head over heels for you since about 30 seconds after you met. That Bucky immediately caught on to this fact and has been pestering him ever since.
Years ago, when Steve first started on this career path Bucky told him 'if you want to go all the way you need a wife'. That’s just how these things work unfortunately. And of course Steve pictured you, when he thought about what he wanted in life you were always right there. If he had to hazard a guess Bucky was probably picturing you too… but only cause he knew how bad Steve had it for you….
But Steve can’t admit any of this to you not yet, maybe not ever, so instead he plays dumb.
“I don’t like it either but there is some truth to what he’s saying.”
“You don’t like the idea of marrying me?” You instantly deflate hearing this. Obviously things between you and Steve had been on the platonic side but you thought maybe there was something there….
“What no doll, not you specifically I just mean…” Steve pauses “Look I don’t love the idea of a transactional marriage for my own personal gain. I always figured if I got married it would be for all the…traditional reasons.”
“Oh you mean some cows? Maybe a large dowry? I can check and see if my family has any unclaimed property to make it really worth your while Rogers.”
Steve can’t help but chuckle at your snark, “Ok your defense mechanism is noted, but you know what I mean…”
“Yeah,” You sigh heavily, Sinking down to the floor of your kitchen you tip your head back against the fridge. “I know what you mean.”
There's a stretch of silence. You aren’t worried though, in fact you normally love these quiet moments between you and Steve. Silence between the two of you has always been comfortable.
You clear your throat and bring up a fact that has haunted you for years.
“We’ve never even been on a date.”
“We’ve gone out before.”
“Yes, as friends we’ve never been on an actual date. You know where I try on 9 outfits and end up going with the first one I try on. And we’re both excited but nervous wondering…”
“You’d be nervous to go out with me?” Steve interrupts.
“I’m nervous to go on a first date with anyone, nerves are the main criteria for a first date.”
“OK, so we need nerves for a date, anything else? Flowers maybe?”
“If you don’t already know the answer to that question then this is hopeless and you might as well move on to the next name on the list Rogers.” you quip.
“There isn’t really a list sweetheart, it’s just you.” Steve puts down the ice cream and sits up straight. What was once comfortable silence now grows heavy, Steve panics worried he’s said too much.
“Look, it's a big decision.” He reassures you “Why don’t you take a couple days and think about it. And I promise if you say no it’s alright I understand. We'll go back to normal and pretend this never happened ok?."
“Ok, you're right.” You say nodding your head in agreement. Standing you walk to the counter and pick up the “gift” Bucky left for you.
“Hey Steve,” you falter, then take a deep breath and find your voice. “No matter what happens you have my vote.” You tell him staring at the ROGERS FOR PRESIDENT pin in your hand.
A/N - WELCOME TO PRESEIDENT!STEVE x Reader - or I guess the more accurate description is presidential candidate Steve. Spoiler alert he (probably) wins the election. I finished this first part what feels like forever ago this story is born of my love of all things Steve Rogers and all things West Wing.
Be honest what did you think? Do you want to see more of these 2? Did you have suspicions? I wanna know! Give a girl a reblog and maybe a little screeeeccchhh in the comments?
summary: When the Emergency Department staff creates a secret betting pool to guess who their pampered "ER Barbie" resident is dating, they look at every available doctor on the floor—completely oblivious to the truth. But when an accidental sedation sends her to her own trauma bay, her secret emergency contact rushes down from the third floor, proving that "Park the Shark" always sweeps the board. 7.6k
The fluorescent hum of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center’s Emergency Department had a specific cadence at three in the morning. It was the hour when the adrenaline of midnight casualties began to curdle into the slow, bone-deep ache of a twenty-four-hour cycle.
You stood at the central nursing station, the sharp, clean scent of your expensive Jo Malone pear-and-freesia perfume acting as a thin, defiant barrier against the ambient odors of iodine, old coffee, and dried blood.
"I don’t understand how you still smell like flowers and looking like you just stepped out of a Sephora commercial.” Trinity Santos muttered, her fingers flying across the electronic medical record terminal with an aggressive, rhythmic snapping sound. She didn’t look up at you; her sharp, fiercely ambitious eyes were entirely consumed by her discharge summaries. "It’s statistically improbable. You’ve been running codes since yesterday afternoon."
You offered a small, tired smile, adjusting the stethoscope around your neck. "Good soap, Trinity. And a lot of hydration."
"It's not just the soap," Dennis Whitaker mumbled from three chairs down. The R1 was currently buried under a stack of intake forms, looking thoroughly overwhelmed and resembling a puppy that had been repeatedly dropped in the mud. His hair was standing on end from where his frantic fingers had plowed through it all night. "You don’t have the gray skin, either. The rest of us look like we’ve been exhumed from a shallow grave. You look like you’re about to film a commercial for skincare."
"That’s because she’s our ER Barbie," Dana Evans said, her voice dropping into that smooth, authoritative alto that could instantly quiet a chaotic resuscitation bay. The charge nurse walked past the desk, dropping a fresh stack of lab slips into Dennis’s trembling inbox.
She gave you a long, discerning look, her eyes drifting down to your hands. "Perfect manicure, too. Every single shift. I’m convinced you have a portal to a spa hidden in the supply closet."
You tucked your hands into the pockets of your black scrubs, your thumbs brushing against the smooth fabric. You felt a familiar, secret flush rise along your neck—not from the teasing, but from the private knowledge of why those nails were always painted a delicate, perfect nude, and who had paid for the standing appointment at the salon downtown.
"She has to have a sugar daddy," a low voice rumbled from the corridor. Dr. Nick Barker from Radiology lounged against the doorframe, a digital tablet balanced on his forearm. He gave you the slow, practiced smile he usually reserved for trying to bump his scans to the top of the priority list. "Nobody on an R2 salary can afford those organic green juices you drink every morning, or that specific line of French moisturizers I see in your locker. Come on. Admit it. Who’s the lucky bastard?"
"I don't have a sugar daddy, Nick," you said, your voice soft but even. You were used to the banter. Being soft-spoken in a place as loud as Pittsburgh Trauma often made people assume you were fragile, but you’d learned long ago how to let their assumptions slide off you like water. "I just manage my budget well."
"Right. And I’m the Chief of Medicine," Nick chuckled, lingering a little too long near your shoulder as he leaned in to show you a chest X-ray. "By the way, if you’re free after the shift change tomorrow, I found this new place in Shadyside. Great coffee blends and pastries. Very your vibe."
"She’s busy, Barker," Frank Langdon interrupted, stepping between you and the radiologist with the easy, golden-boy confidence that had earned him the title of "ER Ken" among the lower-level staff. As your senior resident and primary mentor in the ED, Frank possessed an easygoing charm that made him immensely popular, but he was also fiercely protective of you.
He dropped an arm over your shoulders, a completely platonic gesture of exhaustion that nevertheless made Nick’s eyes narrow. "She’s helping me review the chest tube placements from last night. Go back to your dark room."
Nick scoffed but moved off, throwing a backward glance that lingered on your face.
Once he was out of earshot, Frank dropped his arm and groaned, rubbing his face. "Seriously, though. If you don't pick one of these guys soon, the security desk is going to turn into an actual casino."
You paused, your pen hovering over a trauma flow sheet. "What do you mean?"
Frank blinked down at you, his face cracking into a look of disbelief. "You don't know? Still? You've been a resident here for two years and you're still this oblivious?"
"Know what?" you asked. Still having no clue on what he’s saying.
From the corner of the desk, Melissa King looked up from her notes. The R3 was brilliant, her neurodivergent focus often making her seem detached until she dropped an incredibly specific observation with absolute certainty. "They are referring to the betting pool," she said, her voice flat and precise. "It has been active for approximately four months. It is currently located on the old whiteboard in Ahmad’s office. The current total pool is one thousand and forty dollars."
You stared at her, your mouth opening slightly. "A betting pool? About what?"
"Your love life," Trinity said, finally looking up with a sharp, wicked grin. "The entire auxiliary staff is involved. The nurses, the techs, half the residents from three different departments. Even some of the paramedics from the city rigs have money down. Everyone wants to know who ER Barbie is going to settle on."
"That's... that's a human resources violation," you stammered, the heat in your cheeks now very real and very bright.
"It’s a morale booster," Dana corrected from around the corner, not sounding even remotely apologetic. "And honestly, the odds are fascinating. Ahmad keeps the sticky notes organized by department."
"Who is on it?" you asked, a sudden, cold spike of panic hitting your stomach. Your thoughts immediately flashed to a specific third-floor office with a heavy oak door and a nameplate that read Chief of Orthopedic Trauma. If his name was on that board, the entire hospital would be scorched earth by sunrise.
"Well," Frank said, counting on his fingers with a smirk. "Robby has a hundred and twenty bucks under him. Dr. Abbot has a few nurses convinced his 'SWAT Daddy' energy is going to win you over. Barker aka Prince Eric from Rads has forty dollars down that you’ll cave to his coffee invitations by June."
"And you?" you asked Frank, your voice rising slightly.
"Oh, we’re the top tier," Frank laughed, entirely unbothered. "The night shift techs have 470 bucks that you and I are currently having casual sex in the call rooms to relieve stress. They think we’re a matching set. ER Ken and ER Barbie. It’s poetic."
"Frank!" you shrieked. A few nurses and patients looked on your side.
"Don't look at me, I didn't bet it!" he said, raising his hands in surrender. "And then there’s the wildcard pool. Victoria Javadi—the MS4 who follows Yolanda Garcia around like a lost duck—she accidentally let slip that she thinks you have a massive, closeted crush on Yolanda. So now there’s a small but dedicated group of surgical nurses betting that you’re going to come out and run away with our favorite lesbian trauma surgeon."
You let out a long, shaky breath, your hand instinctively dropping to your pocket where your phone sat silent. "This is ridiculous. None of those are true. None of them."
"Exactly," Trinity said, her eyes shifting back to her monitor. "Which means the pot keeps growing. The rule is, if the year ends and you’re either still single or you end up with someone nobody put a sticky note for, the entire cash pot goes to you as a consolation prize for having to deal with our garbage personalities."
"Well, then I look forward to my one thousand dollars… and more," you said with a wink, trying to make your voice sound light, trying to hide the way your heart was currently hammering against your ribs.
You excused yourself under the pretense of checking on a patient in Bay 4, but as you walked down the corridor, your mind was miles away from the ED. It was back in the high-walled, sterile confines of the third-floor operating suites, where the man who actually owned every single square inch of your thoughts was likely currently resetting a shattered femur with the terrifying, aggressive precision that had earned him his name.
Park the Shark.
They didn't know. None of them knew. They saw the expensive perfumes, the perfect skin, the pilates-toned silhouette under your scrubs, and they thought of sugar daddies or handsome senior residents. They didn't see the dark, quiet office on the upper floor where you spent your rare overlapping hours, or the way those large, powerful hands—hands that could splinter bone with a surgical mallet—could be so incredibly, devastatingly soft when they were tucked into your hair behind closed doors.
Your mind drifted back to how it had started, two years ago, when you were just a fourth-year medical student doing your mandatory surgical rotation. You had been terrified of the third floor. Everyone was. The orthopedic trauma department was notorious for its high-octane, hyper-masculine energy, and at the center of that vortex was Dr. Brendon Park.
He had just been promoted to attending that year—a meteoric rise that surprised absolutely no one given his sheer, unadulterated brilliance. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and imposing, with dark eyes that always seemed to be calculating the exact load-bearing capacity of whatever room he was standing in. He didn't walk through the corridors; he commanded them. His voice was a low, resonant baritone that rarely rose in volume but possessed a sharp, cutting edge that could make an entire room of residents freeze in their tracks.
On your first day, you had arrived early, your scrubs slightly too big, your pink notebook clutched to your chest. You were soft-spoken, polite, and undeniably pretty—qualities that Brendon immediately took as signs of weakness.
"You're in the wrong wing, student," he had said, not even looking up from his lightboard where a shattered pelvis film was displayed. "Pediatrics is a floor above. Dermatology is down the hall. They have better lighting for skincare."
You had bitten the inside of your cheek, your small frame stiffening. "I'm scheduled for orthopedic trauma, Dr. Park."
He had finally turned his head, his dark eyes sweeping over you with a slow, dismissive coldness that made your breath catch. "You won't last the week. This isn't a clinic where you hold hands and pass tissues. This is carpentry on human beings. It's loud, it's bloody, and it requires physical force. Go find a department that matches your... delicate disposition."
For the first two weeks, he had made your life an absolute hell. He ignored you during rounds until it was time to pimp you in front of the entire team. He would look past three senior residents, fix those dark, terrifying eyes on you, and ask questions that were well beyond the scope of a medical student.
“Explain the biomechanical advantages of an intramedullary nail over an open reduction internal fixation for a type three composite tibial fracture in a patient with peripheral vascular disease.”
The residents had shifted uncomfortably. Trinity, who had been an intern then, had smirked, waiting for you to cry.
But you hadn't cried. You had taken a soft, deep breath, looked Brendon straight in his unyielding, handsome face, and answered. Your voice had been quiet, but it hadn't wavered. You detailed the shear forces, the preservation of the periosteal blood supply, and the long-term weight-bearing benefits with absolute, flawless accuracy.
You had watched his left eyebrow twitch—the only sign that he was surprised.
"Adequate," he had muttered, turning back to the patient. "But your suture technique on that laceration yesterday looked like a middle-school home economics project. Do it again on the practice foam until your fingers don't look like they're made of glass."
The turning point had come during a late-night shift near the end of your rotation. The department had been hit with a six-car pileup on the Parkway, and every single bay was overflowing. You had been on your feet for eighteen hours, your back aching, your hands raw from scrub solution. You had found Brendon in the empty doctors' lounge, staring out the window at the gray Pittsburgh rain, a cold cup of black coffee in his hand.
The exhaustion had made you brave. Or perhaps it had made you stupid.
"Do you hate me, Dr. Park?" you had asked, the door clicking shut behind you.
He hadn't turned around immediately. When he did, his expression was unreadable, his dark hair slightly messy from the surgical cap he had worn for ten hours straight. "I don't have the emotional bandwidth to hate students."
"Then why do you do it?" you had pressed, taking a step forward, your small fists clenching at your sides. "You underestimate me every single day. You tell me I belong in pediatrics. You criticize my techniques even when the other attendings say they're fine. If you want me off your service, just sign the transfer. Stop torturing me."
Brendon had stared at you for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he had set his coffee cup down on the table with a slow, deliberate click. He had walked toward you, his massive frame completely eclipsing the light from the hallway. You had backed up until your shoulders hit the wall beside the door, but he hadn't stopped until he was standing bare inches away. The scent of him—sterile soap, cold air, and something deeply, intensely masculine—had flooded your senses.
"You think I want you off my service?" he had murmured, his voice dropping into a register so low it made your chest vibrate. His dark eyes had traveled down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, filled with an intensity that made your knees feel weak. "You are entirely oblivious, aren't you?"
"Oblivious to what?" you had whispered.
"To the fact that I can't think straight when you're in the room," he had said, his aggressive confidence suddenly fracturing into something raw, something that sounded dangerously like a confession. His hand had come up, his long, scarred fingers hovering just a millimeter away from your cheek, not quite touching you. "I look at you, and I see someone who doesn't belong in this meat market because you're too good for it. You're soft, you're quiet, and you answer every single one of my impossible questions perfectly just to prove me wrong. I don't want you to leave. I'm terrified that you will."
Your breath had hitched. The world had seemed to tilt on its axis.
After that night, everything had changed, though the rest of the hospital remained completely blind to it. In the OR, when the lights were dimmed for laparoscopic views, his gloved hand would occasionally brush against yours—a lingering, electric touch that sent tremors down your spine.
During long, grueling reconstructions, his eyes would lock onto yours above his surgical mask, holding your gaze with an intensity that felt more intimate than a touch.
There had been late-night talks in his locked office, sitting on the edge of his desk while he sat in his leather chair, talking about your future, your debts, your fears. There had been quiet, freezing nights on the hospital rooftop, standing close enough to feel his warmth but never touching, the sexual tension between you becoming so thick it was almost suffocating.
You would go home to your small, cramped apartment, and he would go to his townhouse in Mt. Lebanon, and you would lie in your bed, your hands tracing your own skin, closing your eyes and imagining his heavy, powerful body pressing you down into the mattress. You knew, from the tight, strained look on his face whenever he bade you goodnight at the elevator, that he was doing exactly the same thing.
But he wouldn't touch you. Not properly.
"You're a student," he had told you fiercely one night when the tension had nearly broken you, his hands gripping the back of his office sofa so hard his knuckles turned white. "I am an attending. I will not compromise your career, and I will not give anyone in this hospital a reason to say you didn't earn every single thing you achieve. We wait."
And you had waited. You had worked, you had studied, and you had kept his secrets.
Then came Match Day.
The envelope had revealed you were staying at Pittsburgh Trauma, but in the Emergency Department—a choice that had surprised the surgery team but made perfect sense to you. You wanted the front lines, the fast pace, the variety.
That night, after the celebrations had died down, you had gone to his office. He had locked the door, pulled the blinds, and for the first time in nearly a year, he had crossed the room and taken you in his arms. The kiss had been explosive—a release of twelve months of dynamic, repressed yearning that left both of you breathless and trembling.
That was the night the waiting ended. That was the night he had taken you home, stripped you of your clothes with a desperate, heavy reverence, and made you his in every possible way.
"You're doing that thing again," Frank said, snapping his fingers in front of your face.
You blinked, shaking yourself out of the memory. The ED was still there. The fluorescent lights were still humming. "Sorry. What?"
"You had that look. The one where you go to your happy place," Frank said, adjusting his stethoscope. "Come on, we have an influx coming from an overturned bus on the Interstate. Yolanda is already down here looking for extra hands. Let's move."
The next few hours were a blur of high-volume trauma medicine. You moved from bay to bay with fluid efficiency, your soft voice providing a calming counterpoint to the chaotic shouting of paramedics and the screech of monitors. You managed a dislocated shoulder, stabilized a flail chest, and helped Dr. Yolanda Garcia set up an emergency peritoneal lavage.
"Nice work, Barbie," Yolanda said, wiping a splash of saline from her face shield as she stepped back from the bed. The trauma surgeon gave you a warm, appreciative pat on the shoulder. "Your hands are steady. Sure you don't want to switch to general surgery? I could use a resident who doesn't pass out at the sight of an open retroperitoneum."
"I'm happy where I am, Dr. Garcia," you said, smiling shyly .
From across the bay, you caught Victoria Javadi—the MS4—watching you with wide, worshipful eyes, her cheeks flushing slightly when you noticed her. You couldn't help but think of the betting pool in Ahmad’s office and had to suppress a giggle. If only they knew that your heart, your body, and your bank account were entirely monopolized by a man who made Yolanda look like a pacifist.
By the time your shift ended at seven in the morning, your legs felt like lead. You walked down to the locker room, peeling off your soiled scrubs and throwing them into the linen bin. You stood in front of the mirror, washing your face with the expensive, gentle cleanser that Brendon insisted on buying for you.
When you had first matched and your relationship became official, you had tried to maintain your fierce independence. You had grown up with nothing, surviving med school on ramen and mounting student loans. But Brendon had completely demolished your defenses with the same aggressive confidence he used in the operating room.
It had started when you complained about being exhausted and wanting to find a way to stay fit outside the hospital. The next day, a confirmation email arrived for a fully paid, unlimited annual membership at the most exclusive pilates studio in the city, located right down the street from your apartment.
“Brendon, I can’t accept this,” you had told him that night, standing in his kitchen while he cooked dinner—another thing he insisted on doing because he claimed you lived on garbage. “It’s too expensive. I have loans.”
He had stopped chopping the organic vegetables he had delivered to his apartment weekly, turning to look at you with that dark, unyielding gaze. He had walked over, taking your small hands in his massive, warm palms.
“Listen to me,” he had said, his voice low and fiercely protective. “I know about your debts. I know how hard you worked to get here. You spend your entire life taking care of people who are broken into pieces. Let me take care of you. I have the money, and it gives me pleasure to know that you are safe, that you are healthy, and that you have the things you want. Do not rob me of that.”
He hadn't stopped at pilates.
When he came over to your apartment and opened your fridge, his face had contorted in utter horror at the sight of your Trader Joe’s frozen meals, sodium-packed instant noodles, and processed snacks. "You are putting garbage into your body," he had scolded, his voice firm, his hands on his hips as he glared at a box of frozen pizza. "You work eighty hours a week in a high-stress environment. Your cellular health requires proper nutrition."
The next day, a high-end organic grocery delivery service began arriving at your door every Sunday, stocked with fresh berries, organic greens, wild-caught salmon, and pre-prepared healthy meals. When you tried to transfer him the money, he had flatly rejected it, locking his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck.
"I make half a million dollars a year, and you are drowning in six-figure medical school debt," he had whispered against your skin, his tone softening into that rare, fiercely protective warmth he reserved only for you. "Let me take care of you. I like knowing you are eating well. I like knowing you are pampered when you're away from this hellhole. Your skin, your hair, your health—they belong to me to protect. Let me do this."
He had extended that logic to everything. When you lamented the dark circles under your eyes and the stress breakouts from not getting enough sleep, he booked you monthly appointments at a top-tier medical spa. He paid for your expensive skincare regimens, your manicures, and the luxury perfumes you loved. You had fought him on it initially, but he had simply kissed you into submission, whispering against your lips that he liked his woman spoiled, healthy, and beautiful.
You pulled on a fresh pair of leggings, a soft cashmere sweater—another gift—and sprayed a light mist of your pear perfume. You looked perfectly refreshed, a stark contrast to the absolute exhaustion vibrating through your muscles.
As you walked past the security desk on your way to the exit, you saw Ahmad, the ED security guard, sitting in his small glass office. Through the open door, you could see the corner of the whiteboard.
There it was. A cluster of neon-colored sticky notes, each one bearing a name and a dollar amount. The sticky notes were a testament to your popularity.
Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch : $120
A heavy favorite among the older nursing staff. You genuinely believed you had a sweet, father-daughter style mentorship with him, but Robby definitely felt a certain attraction, entirely held back by the massive age gap and the terrifying prospect of a hospital board inquiry. He had even secretly tossed fifty dollars into the pool under a pseudonym, just out of sheer curiosity to see if he even registered as a contender.
Dr. Jack Abbot : $330
The rugged, former army doctor who doubled as a medic for the SWAT team. You actually did have a minor, harmless high school-style crush on Abbot. A few weeks into your residency, you had seen him roll into the bay in his full tactical gear, sweaty, soot-stained, and undeniably commanding. It was a fun work crush, completely separate from your reality, but the staff had noticed the way you blushed whenever he spoke to you in his low, gravelly military cadence. Abbot, being a man of action, had caught wind of the pool and placed a cool hundred dollars on himself, mostly out of competitive spite.
Dr. Nick Barker : $100
The Disney Prince-like who constantly pined for you, tailoring his schedule just to deliver imaging results to you in person.
Dr. Frank Langdon : $470
The senior resident and your close friend. A massive portion of the residents bet that you two were secretly engaging in casual, stress-relief sex in the call rooms.
The Wildcard Bet: $20
A small, cynical faction of paramedics bet that you actually liked women, pointing to your friendly interactions with Dr. Yolanda Garcia, the brilliant, openly lesbian trauma surgeon who often praised your calm demeanor under pressure.
You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping your lips. It was hilarious, really. They were all betting on an impossible game.
Because nobody had written the name Brendon Park.
Two nights later, the stars aligned in a way that rarely happened in residency: both you and Brendon had a scheduled night off together.
You were sitting at the high marble island in his Mt. Lebanon townhouse, a glass of expensive red wine between your fingers. The apartment was sleek, modern, and quiet—a perfect sanctuary from the madness of both of your workplace.
Brendon was standing at the stove, his broad back turned to you, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the thick, vascular forearms that could manipulate orthopedic hardware with ease.
You were feeling loose, relaxed, and a little bit mischievous from the wine.
"So," you said, your voice sliding into a soft, teasing cadence. "I found out something interesting at the guard station the other night."
Brendon didn't turn around, but you saw his shoulders drop slightly into an attentive posture. "What's that?"
"Apparently, the entire ED has a betting pool about my love life." you laughed, entirely missing the way Brendon’s entire body instantly went rigid.
The motion of his spatula stopped. For a second, the kitchen was entirely silent except for the hiss of the chicken searing in the pan. Then, he slowly turned around. His dark eyes were hooded, his face a mask of cold, sharp focus that made your stomach do a delicious, familiar little flip.
"A betting pool," he repeated, his baritone voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register.
"Mmhm," you said, taking a sip of wine, completely oblivious to the storm brewing behind his eyes. You thought he’d find the absurdity of it amusing. "It’s on a whiteboard in Ahmad’s office. The techs, the nurses, the paramedics—they’ve all put money down on who I’m going to end up with. Or who I’m currently... you know, seeing."
Brendon leaned back against the counter, crossing his thick arms over his chest. The soft, protective boyfriend you had spent the evening with had vanished, replaced instantly by the possessive, dominant man who ruled the third floor. "Give me the names."
You blinked, realizing too late that you had miscalculated. "Oh, it's just silly gossip, Brendon. It's not a big deal."
"Give me the names, sweetheart," he commanded, his voice softer now, but with an underlying weight that left absolutely no room for negotiation.
You swallowed against the sudden dryness in your throat. "Um... well, Nick Barker from Radiology is on there. He apparently has a hundred dollars down that I’ll go out with him."
Brendon’s eyes narrowed into slits. "Barker. The one who always goes down the ED to read scans in person with you, that bastard couldn’t be more slicker.”
“Continue.” he said coldly, you felt it in your spine.
"And... Dr. Robby which is so weird because he’s like a dad to me and uhh… Dr. Abbot," you continued quickly, wanting to get it over with. "And some of the staff put money on Frank."
"Langdon," Brendon growled, his jaw clenching so hard you heard the click of his teeth. "The senior who thinks dropping his arm over your shoulders is an acceptable form of communication."
"We're just friends, Brendon! He’s my senior—"
"I don't care what he thinks he is," Brendon said, his voice entirely flat, entirely territorial. He flipped the stove off, walked around the island, his steps slow and deliberate, until he was standing right in front of your stool. He reached out, his large, warm hand gripping your chin, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to look into the dark, burning depths of his eyes. "They think you're available. They think they can pass you around like a prize, betting on who gets to touch what belongs to me."
"Brendon, it’s just a joke—" you whispered, your heart pounding, your skin instantly flushing with a high, electric heat.
"It is not a joke." he interrupted fiercely, his voice cutting like a scalpel. “You think it’s funny that these bastard attendings and residents are looking at you, fantasizing about you, putting a price tag on your body?” The sheer intensity of his jealousy made your breath hitch, a wave of heat blooming deep in your core. Brendon was a profoundly possessive man, but seeing him this worked up over the hospital gossip was incredibly intense.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "Do you know what it does to me, hearing that? Knowing that these men look at you every day, thinking they have a chance?"
"I don't look at them," you gasped, your hands coming up to grip his thick wrists. "I only see you."
"Good," he said, his voice dropping into that deep, authoritative but gentle tone that always made you completely surrender. "Because if I see Langdon or any of those guys touch you again, I’m going to break their radius and reset it myself. Without anesthesia."
"You're insane," you whispered, a breathless laugh escaping you while unconsciously clenching your thighs together.
"I'm serious," he corrected, his hand sliding down from your chin to wrap around the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. He pulled you off the stool and into his chest, his mouth crashing down onto yours with a terrifying, hungry intensity.
It wasn't like his usual gentle kisses. This was the kiss of a man who had been reminded that his treasure was being eyed by thieves. He tasted of rich wine and dark promises. He backed you up against the kitchen wall, his heavy thigh sliding between your legs, pressing upward against your core until a soft moan was forced out of your throat. He broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, his eyes wild and dark as he looked down at your flushed face. "I am going to fuck you so hard tonight that you won't be able to think about anything but my name when you're standing in front of that white board tomorrow."
He lifted you effortlessly, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist. He carried you to the bedroom, throwing you onto the mattress with a heavy, passionate force. He stripped your clothes off with fierce efficiency, his eyes devouring every inch of the body he had paid to pamper, the body he cherished above everything else.
When he entered you, it was deep, slow, and devastatingly possessive. He held your wrists pinned above your head with one massive hand, his fingers anchoring you to the bed while his body drove into yours with a rhythmic, unyielding power.
"Tell me it’s mine." he growled against your throat, his teeth biting gently into the soft skin over your collarbone.
"It’s yours," you cried out, your back arching off the sheets, your mind entirely consumed by the sensation of him filling you, stretching you, claiming you. "Brendon, please... I'm yours."
"Say it again," he commanded, his pace quickening, his thrusts becoming harder, more aggressive, driving you closer and closer to the edge.
"I- I’m yours… I belong to you," you sobbed, your eyes watering from the sheer intensity of the pleasure. "Only you, Brendon. Only you."
He let go of your wrists then, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against his sweating, muscular chest as he delivered the final, deep strokes that sent you shattering into a brilliant, blinding orgasm. He followed you over the edge a second later, a low, animalistic groan tearing from his chest as he came inside you, his heavy body collapsing against yours, holding you so tight it felt as though he wanted to fuse your bones together.
Later, in the quiet dark of the early morning, as you lay with your head on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart, you smiled into the darkness.
Let them bet, you thought. Let them play their little games. They would never, in a million years, guess the truth.
The morning shift had been an absolute nightmare. A multi-vehicle accident on the bridge had flooded the ED with critical patients and by noon, the department was functioning on pure chaos.
You were in Bay 2, attempting to stabilize a patient who had been brought in with a severe closed head injury. He was a massive man, a construction worker, easily six-foot-four and over two hundred and fifty pounds. He had been unconscious on arrival, but as the intracranial pressure began to fluctuate, he suddenly surged into a state of violent, disoriented ICU psychosis.
"Whoa, whoa! Sir, stay down!" you shouted, your voice swallowed by the noise of the room.
The patient screamed, a wild, animalistic sound, and began flailing his massive arms. He ripped his IV lines out, spraying blood across the sheets. He threw himself sideways, trying to scramble off the gurney.
"I need restraint lines and chemical sedation now!" you called out to the R1, Dennis Whitaker, who was standing at the foot of the bed, his eyes wide with absolute panic.
"What do I give? What do I give?" Dennis stammered, his hands shaking as he reached into the medication cart.
"Versed! Five milligrams, IV or IM, now!" you ordered, leaning over the patient’s torso, using your entire body weight to try and pin his shoulders down so he wouldn't fracture his cervical spine against the metal rails.
"I've got it! I've got it!" Dennis cried, his voice cracking. He scrambled forward with a syringe.
What happened next occurred in a fraction of a second.
The patient threw his head back, his massive arm swinging upward in a blind, violent arc. His fist caught you squarely in the chest, lifting your small frame off the bed and throwing you backward. At the exact same moment, Dennis, completely panicked and stumbling forward to try and inject the patient, tripped over the monitor cables.
The needle in his hand went flying as he went down.
You hit the hard linoleum floor with a sickening thud, the breath knocked completely out of your lungs. Before you could even register the pain in your back, you felt a sharp, sudden puncture in the soft meat of your shoulder. Dennis had landed directly on top of you, his hand plunging the syringe into your arm in a blind, terrified reflex before he even realized what he was hitting.
It wasn't five milligrams of Versed. In his panic, Dennis had pulled a pre-loaded syringe of a high-dose, rapid-acting paralytic and sedative combination meant for an RSI kit.
"Oh my god! I'm sorry! I slipped! I didn't mean to—" Dennis’s voice sounded like it was underwater.
You tried to speak, tried to tell him it was okay, but your tongue suddenly felt like a massive, leaden weight in your mouth. The room began to spin, the fluorescent lights stretching into long, blinding streaks of white. Your limbs grew incredibly heavy, then entirely numb.
"Hey! Hey, look at me!" Frank’s voice boomed from somewhere above you, his hands grabbing and shaking your shoulders.
You tried to blink, but your eyelids refused to cooperate. The last thing you registered was the sound of Dana Evans shouting for a crash cart and the frantic, terrifying realization that you were slipping into complete unconsciousness.
Dana Evans was an absolute force of nature. Within two minutes, she had organized the bay, helped Frank safely intubate the combative construction worker, and had you lifted onto a fresh gurney in the adjacent isolation room.
"Her vitals are stable, but she's completely out," Frank said, his voice tense as he checked your pupillary response with a penlight. "Whitaker gave her a full dose of an RSI cocktail. She’s breathing on her own, thankfully, but she’s going to be under for at least a few hours until it metabolizes."
"That idiot," Trinity Santos hissed, standing at the door with her arms crossed, looking ready to murder the R1. "He should be banned from carrying sharp objects."
"We need to notify her family," Dana said, her fingers already flying across the computer terminal at the desk. "She’s a resident, she has to have an emergency contact on file in the employee portal."
Frank stood over you, his face lined with genuine worry. He reached down, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead—a platonic gesture of comfort for his friend. "Yeah, see who’s listed. She said her parents live out of state. Check if she has a local contact."
Dana clicked through the secure HR database, her eyes scanning down the page of your digital employee file. "Let's see... Emergency Contact... Primary..."
Suddenly, Dana’s fingers stopped moving. Her eyes widened, her jaw dropping open in a display of pure, unadulterated shock that none of the staff had ever seen from the veteran nurse.
"What is it?" Trinity asked, stepping closer to the monitor. "Is it an ex? A friend?"
Dana blinked, staring at the screen as if it were written in ancient hieroglyphics. "No. It's... it's a local number. And the name..."
"Who is it, Dana?" Frank asked, getting impatient.
"It's Dr. Brendon Park," Dana whispered, her voice cracking slightly.
The entire nursing station fell dead silent.
"Wait," Frank said, a nervous laugh escaping his chest. "Park? As in Park the Shark? The ortho chief? Why the hell would he be her emergency contact? Did she accidentally list her old surgical rotation supervisor?"
"The relationship field," Dana said, her voice dropping into a tone of absolute awe, "does not say supervisor. It says Partner."
"What?!" Trinity whispered-shouted, her brain instantly short-circuiting. "That's impossible! He’s... he’s a robot! He doesn't have a partner! He doesn't even have friends! He eats glass for breakfast!"
"I'm calling it," Dana said, her hand already reaching for the desk phone, her internal professional compass overriding her shock. "He’s listed. If she’s injured, he has to know."
She dialed the number. It rang exactly once before a deep, harsh baritone boomed through the speaker, loud enough for Frank and Trinity to hear.
"Park."
"Dr. Park, this is Dana Evans from the ED. We have an emergency involving—"
"Is she hurt?" The shift in his voice was instantaneous. The cold, professional distance was completely stripped away, replaced by a raw, terrifying panic that made Dana’s breath catch.
"She’s stable, Doctor, but there was an incident in Bay 2. An intern accidentally sedated her during a patient altercation. She’s unconscious—"
The line went dead. He had hung up.
"Well," Frank said, his face completely pale as he looked from the phone to your sleeping form. "I think the betting pool just exploded."
It took exactly seventy-four seconds for Dr. Brendon Park to travel from the third-floor orthopedic suites to the ground-floor Emergency Department.
He didn't use the elevator. He took the stairs, throwing the heavy fire doors open with a violence that echoed down the hall. When he burst into the ED, he was still in his blue surgical scrubs, his face set into an expression of such pure, unadulterated fury that the paramedics standing by the entrance instinctively scattered out of his path.
"Where is she?" he roared, his voice bouncing off the concrete walls.
Ahmad, sitting in his security office, looked up from his monitors, his jaw dropping as he saw the towering orthopedic chief marching toward the main desk like a localized hurricane.
"Bay... Bay 6, Dr. Park," Dennis Whitaker squeaked, his voice cracking as he tried to hide behind a stack of clean linens. He was hyperventilating, entirely aware that his medical career—and possibly his physical safety—was now in imminent danger.
Brendon didn't even look at the intern. He shoved past the central desk, his dark eyes locking onto the isolation room where you lay.
Frank Langdon was standing outside the door, his hands in his pockets, trying to maintain his composure as his senior resident status dictated. "Dr. Park, listen, she’s fine. Her vitals are—"
Brendon stopped bare inches from Frank’s face. The difference in size and pure, aggressive presence was staggering. "Get away from her door, Langdon."
"Dr. Park, I'm her senior resident—"
"If you don't step aside in the next three seconds," Brendon whispered, his voice vibrating with a quiet, lethal intensity that made Frank’s golden-boy confidence instantly evaporate, "I will personally ensure you spend the rest of your residency doing rectal exams in the clinic. Move."
Frank moved. He stepped aside, his hands raised in surrender.
Brendon threw the door open and stepped into the room, the heavy glass slider clicking shut behind him, cutting off the sound of the entire ED staff who had now gathered around the nursing station, staring through the windows with wide, terrified eyes.
The moment he reached your bedside, the terrifying "Shark" completely dissolved.
Brendon dropped to the stool beside your gurney, his massive frame suddenly looking incredibly small as he reached out, his hands trembling—hands that never shook, not even during the most complex spinal reconstructions. He wrapped his large, warm palms around your face, his thumbs gently wiping away a trace of dried sweat from your temple.
"Baby," he choked out, his voice thick with a raw, agonizing emotion that none of the people outside could have ever imagined him possessing.
"Baby, look at me. Open your eyes." He checked your pulse, his fingers pressing against your carotid artery with a desperate, frantic tenderness. He checked the monitor, his eyes scanning the oxygen saturation and heart rate with the practiced speed of a top-tier surgeon, his shoulders finally dropping a fraction of an inch as he confirmed you were indeed stable.
He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes closed tightly as he let out a long, shuddering breath. "God damn it, baby... you scared me to death."
Outside the glass, the audience was utterly paralyzed.
"Did he... did he just call her baby?" Trinity whispered, her nose practically pressed against the glass window.
"Look at his face," Dana said softly, a small, knowing smile finally breaking through her shock. "That man doesn't just love her. He's absolutely consumed by her."
Frank stood beside them, rubbing the back of his neck, a look of profound realization dawning on his face. "ER Barbie... and Park the Shark. Holy hell. The expensive perfume. The pilates. The organic food. It wasn't a sugar daddy. It was him."
"He bought her a Burberry jacket last month," Dennis whimpered from the back of the crowd, still clutching his linens. "I saw the delivery receipt in her locker. I thought she won a lottery."
"You're an idiot, Dennis," Trinity muttered, not taking her eyes off the scene.
Inside the room, the world was completely quiet. The high-dose sedative was beginning to lose its grip on your brain, the dark clouds in your mind slowly parting as a familiar, deep baritone voice anchored you back to reality.
You blinked, your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks. The blurry shape above you gradually resolved into the sharp, handsome face of your boyfriend. His dark eyes were bloodshot, his jaw tight, his expression a mix of profound relief and lingering fury.
"Brendon...?" you whispered, your voice incredibly raspy, your hand weakly twitching inside his grasp.
"I'm here, baby," he murmured, his voice incredibly soft, incredibly sweet as he leaned down to press a tender, lingering kiss to your lips right in front of the entire hospital staff. He didn't care about the rules anymore. He didn't care about the secrets. He had almost lost you, and nothing else mattered. "I'm right here. You're safe."
You managed a small, groggy smile, your fingers curling around his thick thumb. "Did... did Dennis sedated me?"
Brendon let out a low, dark chuckle, his thumb rubbing your cheek. "He did. And he’s currently praying for a quick death. But don't worry about him. Focus on me."
You looked past his shoulder, your eyes finally registering the crowd of nurses, residents, and techs standing outside the glass door, their faces a collective mosaic of absolute, unadulterated shock.
You saw Frank staring at you with his mouth open. You saw Trinity looking like her entire worldview had been shattered. And you saw Ahmad, the security guard, slowly walking out of his office, a giant marker in his hand, heading toward the whiteboard.
"Brendon," you whispered, the realization finally hitting your drug-addled brain. "The... the betting pool."
Brendon looked over his shoulder, his eyes locking onto the crowd outside with a cold, protective glare that made half of them instantly step back. Then, he turned back to you, his face softening into that private, beautiful smile that was reserved only for you.
"Let them look," he murmured, leaning down to kiss your forehead, his large hand anchoring you safely against his chest. "Let them look, sweetheart. They’re about to owe you a lot of money."
“You cannot actually be serious.” If it was possible your jaw would have been on the floor. When you came home from running errands to see Bucky standing uninvited at your door you were a bit worried. Naturally you let your friend in. Now you are wishing you had instead left him outside in the cold.
“Why not the two of you would be great together” Bucky insists.
You scoff but before you can interject he keeps going.
‘You yourself have said the two of you would be great together if only you could get the timing right."
“First of all I told you that in confidence! Second of all the fact that our timing is off is exactly the reason why it wouldn't work. We’ve never even been on an actual date and you are talking about us getting married.”
“You can date, of course you can date! But if we want this to work you’d have to be Married by September.”
“Yes because 8 months to date, fall in love, and plan a wedding is a perfectly reasonable timeline." You grab a bottle of wine and head to the couch steeling yourself to endure whatever other schemes this man has come up with.
"You're right… the only real problem is wedding planning." Buck manages to brush off the vulgar gesture you make in his direction and continues on his mission.
"Come on be reasonable, you guys have known each other forever it's not like you're strangers."
“Yes, we’ve been friends for a long time but what you're talking about is us going up in front of god and all of our friends and family and promising to be together forever. Sure we get along and he’s one of the few people I would consider for my team on a game show…”
“Those all sound like great positives to me.” The brunette interrupts you.
“BUT we’re talking about marriage. More importantly we are talking about a marriage the whole world will be watching and analyzing. We’ll be living in a fish bowl and if things get rough or it doesn’t work we’ll just be stuck together.” Bucky opens his mouth but you hold up your hand forcing him to hold his comments till the end.
“I mean we’ve never even had sex the two of us could be stuck in a sexless marriage for the next 6–10 years with absolutely no alternatives.”
“Ok well first of all if for some reason the two of you became mortal enemies I've heard the house has plenty of extra rooms. Second of all you two are definitely sexually compatible.” Bucky proclaims.
You scoff “how could you be so sure?”
“Well I know what he likes and more importantly I know what you like, so trust me the two of you won’t have any problems there.” Bucky gives you a mischievous grin so infuriating you have to stop yourself from slapping him, instead you silently gag.
“Ok I am normally a sex positive person but everything you just said gave me the ick.”
Bucky lets out a full belly laugh at that, “The idea of having sex with Steve gives you the ick? Maybe you're right this won’t work.”
“No, not having sex with Steve,” you say as your face heats. “Just you apparently imagining me and Steve…ya’know”
“I promise that I only think about you and Steve in compromising positions exclusively for research purposes.” Bucky says with a wink.
Finally losing your patience you pick up the closest pillow and whack your friend upside his head
Steve is sitting on the floor of his kitchen with a pint of ice cream in his lap when his phone starts to ring. Now he doesn’t need caller ID to know it’s you calling. He knew Bucky was going to go talk to you today and based off his friends' vague texts it seems like it didn’t go well. Although if Steve is being honest he didn’t expect it to.
He picks up but doesn’t even bother saying anything. If he knows you…which he does, he knows you’ll be coming out the gate hot.
“Did you know about this!?”
He shouldn't, he knows he shouldn’t but he can’t help himself...
“Know about what sweetheart?”
“Steven Grant Rogers for the love of all that is good and Holy I swear!” He hears you take a deep breath trying to calm yourself down, and he can’t help but smile.
“Yes, I knew about Bucky’s idea, he’s been pestering me about it for a while now….”
“He’s been pestering you about marrying me for a while now?”
“Well he’s been pestering me about getting married in general, but you are a fairly new addition.” He states before shoving a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth before he can reveal anything else.
Now Steve is not normally one to lie but this one is necessary. He can’t tell the truth, that he’s been head over heels for you since about 30 seconds after you met. That Bucky immediately caught on to this fact and has been pestering him ever since.
Years ago, when Steve first started on this career path Bucky told him 'if you want to go all the way you need a wife'. That’s just how these things work unfortunately. And of course Steve pictured you, when he thought about what he wanted in life you were always right there. If he had to hazard a guess Bucky was probably picturing you too… but only cause he knew how bad Steve had it for you….
But Steve can’t admit any of this to you not yet, maybe not ever, so instead he plays dumb.
“I don’t like it either but there is some truth to what he’s saying.”
“You don’t like the idea of marrying me?” You instantly deflate hearing this. Obviously things between you and Steve had been on the platonic side but you thought maybe there was something there….
“What no doll, not you specifically I just mean…” Steve pauses “Look I don’t love the idea of a transactional marriage for my own personal gain. I always figured if I got married it would be for all the…traditional reasons.”
“Oh you mean some cows? Maybe a large dowry? I can check and see if my family has any unclaimed property to make it really worth your while Rogers.”
Steve can’t help but chuckle at your snark, “Ok your defense mechanism is noted, but you know what I mean…”
“Yeah,” You sigh heavily, Sinking down to the floor of your kitchen you tip your head back against the fridge. “I know what you mean.”
There's a stretch of silence. You aren’t worried though, in fact you normally love these quiet moments between you and Steve. Silence between the two of you has always been comfortable.
You clear your throat and bring up a fact that has haunted you for years.
“We’ve never even been on a date.”
“We’ve gone out before.”
“Yes, as friends we’ve never been on an actual date. You know where I try on 9 outfits and end up going with the first one I try on. And we’re both excited but nervous wondering…”
“You’d be nervous to go out with me?” Steve interrupts.
“I’m nervous to go on a first date with anyone, nerves are the main criteria for a first date.”
“OK, so we need nerves for a date, anything else? Flowers maybe?”
“If you don’t already know the answer to that question then this is hopeless and you might as well move on to the next name on the list Rogers.” you quip.
“There isn’t really a list sweetheart, it’s just you.” Steve puts down the ice cream and sits up straight. What was once comfortable silence now grows heavy, Steve panics worried he’s said too much.
“Look, it's a big decision.” He reassures you “Why don’t you take a couple days and think about it. And I promise if you say no it’s alright I understand. We'll go back to normal and pretend this never happened ok?."
“Ok, you're right.” You say nodding your head in agreement. Standing you walk to the counter and pick up the “gift” Bucky left for you.
“Hey Steve,” you falter, then take a deep breath and find your voice. “No matter what happens you have my vote.” You tell him staring at the ROGERS FOR PRESIDENT pin in your hand.
A/N - WELCOME TO PRESEIDENT!STEVE x Reader - or I guess the more accurate description is presidential candidate Steve. Spoiler alert he (probably) wins the election. I finished this first part what feels like forever ago this story is born of my love of all things Steve Rogers and all things West Wing.
Be honest what did you think? Do you want to see more of these 2? Did you have suspicions? I wanna know! Give a girl a reblog and maybe a little screeeeccchhh in the comments?
Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.
for my blizzard bacchanal, here's your prompt: sitting by the fire
can't wait to see what you do with it!!
♡ @witchywithwhiskey
@witchywithwhiskey you sent this prompt to me during the last snow storm and I got it done just in time for this latest blizzard. 😆 Here you go babe hope you are warm and cozy and have enough food and stuff to hold you over till the roads are clear!
Pairing - Jay Halstead x reader
W/C - 1K
A/N - I know Jay is not one of the normal babes I write for but we must give the muse what she wants.
It was days like this that made you rethink your choice to move to Chicago. You thought you knew winter but when you moved to the windy city, well that changed your definition. You are only halfway through January and that fact depresses you more than anything. These cold dark months feel absolutely endless when you are in them. Every year it feels like it takes longer and longer to get to spring.
You are trudging home to the apartment you share with your boyfriend Detective Jay Halstead. It's Friday and although you are so excited for it to be the weekend you are also dreading it. Why? Because free time means house hunting.
You both liked your current place but you definitely needed something bigger. The two of you aren't exactly in a rush but with the current market you know it's going to take a while so you try and look as much as you can.
Especially considering the fact that there are a whole lot of advantages to moving in the winter. The main one being no one else is willing to so you can get much better deals.
You make your way inside assuming you'll have the place to yourself for a least a few hours before Jay gets home. But when you open the door you are surprised to find your boyfriend there waiting for you.
"Hey there you are" Jay says as he comes out of your shared bedroom "Just in time, I got your suitcase out for you already. Why don't you change out of your work stuff and pack your bag and we can get going."
"Get going?" You ask planting a kiss on his cheek. "Get going where?"
"That is a surprise" he winks as he assists you in disrobing your many layers of winter clothing,
"All you need to know is that we are getting away for the long weekend. Just the two of us." He whispers as he kisses your head. You are thoroughly confused as you were pretty sure he had work this weekend but all he does is give you a sly smirk and nudge you back in the direction of the bedroom so you can pack. A little while later Jay is loading your bags into the car and the two of you take off winding through the frigid Chicago streets.
You must have dozed off during the drive because next thing you know Jay is gently shaking you awake. You open your eyes, and are thoroughly confused, because your favorite detective has pulled into the driveway of a house you don't recognize. Albeit it's a very cute house but still it's one you are unfamiliar with.
"Babe, who's house is this? And what are we doing here?"
"Well this is Sargent Bradford's house and he was kind enough to lend it to us so I figured we could get away and spend the weekend here."
"I mean that's really sweet and all, but why?"
"Well I figured it would be pretty nice to have a trial run before we put an offer in." He says giving you a smirk.
"An offer? Are you? Is this place for sale?" You ask looking around for a real estate sign.
"Officially, not yet." Jay explains "You see Bradford is putting in his papers, he's retiring end of next month. Apparently him and the wife are sick of Chicago winters. They plan to sell this place and move to Phoenix where their oldest and her kids live." You turn in your seat and face your boyfriend completely hooked on every word he's saying. He hasn't said the magic words yet but you are pretty sure you know where this is going and you are practically jumping out of your seat.
"They aren't planning to put it on the market for a couple more months. But they are gone for the next 2 weeks. He gave me the keys told me I could check out the place, He even offered to let us stay here a few nights."
At this you interrupt "Hence the spur of the moment weekend getaway"
"Exactly" He gives you another one of his smirks one that warms you up from the inside out. "He said we could stay here while they're gone and if we like the place it's ours. They won't even put it on the market we'll just work out our own deal."
"Jay are you serious?"
"Of course. So what do you think? Figured we could spend the weekend here get a feel for the neighborhood. See how this place holds up to the cold."
You have no words you're only response is to wrap your arms around your boyfriends neck and pull his face to yours. You kiss him with everything you have because you are so excited to start this next chapter with him.
As you both come up for breathe your foreheads rest against each other Jay gives you one more quick peck before he goes to get out of the car "Come on let's go check it out" He says dangling the keys like a taunt. You practically sprint you are so eager to explore this potential new home.
You two do a through inspection of the place. Thankfully the heat works and it's not too drafty in here which bodes well for if you actually decide to live here. Jay and you cook dinner together in the recently renovated kitchen and talk about potential changes you would make.
After dinner you decide to cozy up in the living room. This room might be your favorite room of the house it gets a ton of natural light, has plenty of space and a gorgeous fireplace. As it turns out your boyfriend actually knows how to make a fire. Who knew? A very useful skill especially this time of year. The pair of you grab some blankets curl up in front of the fire and talk about the beautiful life you'll build together in your future home.
Ok cause right now I don't really like her. I love all the Frank plot points though. And she's taking away from my Frank time TBH. But who knows maybe she'll surprise me. 🤷🏾
This Wetnessday the good weather demands a cute summer dress. You pick your favourite and then head out to enjoy the good weather. While you're strolling in the park and enjoy the sun on your skin you catch the eye of someone who needs to have you.
Who will stop at nothing to get you? And will you let them?
fae Ransom
biker Steve
single Dad Andy
xoxo Wetnessday anon 💦
I'm good! I'm happy to hear you are too☺️ Hope the spring is treating you well, with lots of sun and blooms 🩷
Today your ask got my mind to work, in a good way!
At first it paused to wonder what's fae Ransom doing in a casual human park? I'm sure his realm has lush woodlands, meadows and such, so our parks, however beautiful, probably don't match. Besides, why would Ransom of all high fae decided to be among simple, lower humankind? Was he banished? Is he bored? Is he hunting?
Then, because my thoughts always love to go towards Steve, I made a happy little sigh. To imagine Steve mounting a bike and watching you, studying you, maybe stalking a bit 🥵
Single dad Andy somehow didn't stay too long in my mind here. Not that I have anything against him, not in this case, just the first two caught my attention more. Which resulted in...
Ransom's face scrunched in disgust when a group of teenage girls passed by him, their laughter so high pitched they might as well be screeching banshees.
They were loud and they had a listening device that boomed equally loud, too-bass based music. Despite no one around giving their consent to listen to that crap.
His eardrums (and his music taste) were bleeding raw.
He didn't mind the volume. Actually, he was quite known for throwing and participating in many parties. But this here, in the human side of the veil, there was too much cacophony and chaos of it all. He really couldn't stand being here for long.
Though they had good ice cream. Like the one he was having at the moment - a rich chocolate taste, with surprising bursts of salted caramel, and unexpected addition of heavily sweet yet sour cherry.
"You're either growing an addiction to ice cream, or you're here to start the same conversation. Again."
Draped in human clothes, Ransom considered himself blended enough with the masses, despite not having an ounce of human blood in him. He knew if anyone paid close attention, they'd see he looked different.
But the man next to him stopped looking so ethereal, though Ransom knew the same blood pumped in their veins.
He glared at Steve, who sat all spread on his motorcycle that was parked at the edge of the park, in a spot overlooking both pristine greenery and the lake sparkling ahead.
"Can't I just visit my older brother?" He asked, taking another lick of the sweetness.
"Sure you can." Steve nodded. "But you never just visit. It's either to hide from grandfather's schemes, or to complain about responsibilities."
"Responsibilities I have to deal with because you bailed." Ransom spat accusingly.
Steve gave him that look, which he often used to do in the past when Ransom was throwing a tantrum and knew damn well that Steve was right all along.
"I honored the responsibilities for over a thousand years." Steve reminded him. "I would continue to, if the corrupted council didn't fear losing their power and wealth."
"Which they would, if you sat on the throne." Ransom pointed out the obvious.
Steve and him may have grown in the same family, in the same palace, under the same grandfather's watch, but Steve was always a defiant one. Not rebellious for the sake of it, but to fight the injustice and rusty, conservative frames the fae kingdom was locked in.
Grandfather often clashed with Steve, however in front of the council and nobility he always took Steve's side. Ransom knew it was less out of respect for Steve and more to underline the fact that Steve was his successor.
Which didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. In the end, the council's poison destroyed many loyalties Steve had built over the years; including framing and banishing his best friend.
That was enough to drive Steve away from the throne he was born to sit on.
He left. Out of his own volition.
Leaving Ransom with the mess and the doom of having to wear the crown himself.
"They would." Steve agreed, a cheeky smirk curving his lips.
"So come back and do that," Ransom's voice remained somewhat petulant, but there was a vulnerable helplessness to it, one a little brother might display toward the older, protective one.
Steve's face softened as he looked at him. Blue eyes, that were so similar to Ransom's, now held only the color of Mediterranean Sea, lacking the swirls of the stars on the night sky.
"No, Ran." He replied. "You may complain about the responsibilities, but we both know you don't really hate the prospect of becoming the king. Just some aspects of it."
"Yeah, like the fucking council." Ransom rolled his eyes. "But I'm not gonna bail beyond the veil and live among people just to spite them."
"It's not that bad." Steve laughed, leaning forward on his bike. "I actually like it here. Besides, I've figured out a way for you to show the council the middle finger and keep the crown on your head."
"Which is?" Ransom tensed a bit, seemingly in suspicion, but Steve knew his brother enough to recognize interest. And eagerness to stir shit.
"As a king, you'll have to marry-"
"Don't fucking remind me!"
"Stop whining and listen, you snail shell." Steve snorted at Ransom's indignant face. "You have to marry. The exact law for it states the bride has to carry the fae blood and light."
"Where are you going with this exactly?" At the moment he wasn't seeing any loophole in that script.
Then Steve's smirk returned and his index finger pointed at something in the park.
No, at someone, Ransom realized as his gaze followed the direction.
There you were, strolling through the park in a pretty pastel sundress, enjoying a cup of ice cream. You looked cute, sweet even. In a way that could provoke a fae like him to debauch you.
Ransom was about to accuse Steve of getting senile from spending too much time in the human world, since at first nothing made sense here, but as spoiled and shallow everyone thought him to be, he was actually exceptionally smart.
"How do you know she's of fae bloodline?" He asked Steve, but his gaze remained on you, following your every move.
"We were younglings when Abraham left the realm." Ransom was barely two hundred then, didn't pay any attention to the politics and nuances then, but he remembered the echo of that name.
"After his wife was sentenced, right?"
"For aiding humans, yes." Steve nodded. "He came to live among humankind and with time found a new companion. A human woman. They had children. She's their descendant. Abraham's descendant."
"So technically, she carries the fae blood and light." A slow smirk and a glint in his eyes, Ransom took a long lick of his melting ice cream. "Lawfully, she can be my wife. But since she's human, it will piss the fuck out of the council and cause a general chaos in the kingdom."
"Might even cause grandfather to pass to the stars." Steve grinned.
"I'll burn him a beautiful pyre." Ransom laughed in delight.
I also had a giggly thought of throwing some good kind of chaos Steve's way 😈 He's living a rather steady life, with just a dash of adrenaline from running a small biker club.
How about her suffers some consequences of bailing on the fae throne?
In the form of a fae woman who was supposed to marry him, if he became king, and she's adamant on him being a proper fiancé and husband. She followed Ransom to finally find Steve in the human world and now she's on his doorstep with her belongings, moving herself in 🤭
Ohh I love every little nugget you drop for this universe. Steve being forced to keep an agreement. I bet she'd really give him a hard time. He would have to work so hard to truly win her over. 😂
Here’s a little piece I’ve been working on inspired by this post. I use no physical descriptors with my character so you should (hopefully) have no trouble picturing yourself in this scenario with our sweet baby Steve. Feel free to reblog, comment or drop a message in my inbox/asks but even if you don’t I appreciate you!! Happy reading!!!
Steve Rogers x Reader
Warnings: very, very slight illusion to past sexy times. Tooth rotting fluff.
Word Count: 938
AO3
You tiptoe entering the kitchen quietly yawning while stretching your arms above your head. You are surprised by the time on the clock, knowing it’s unusual for Steve to sleep this late. Whether it’s the serum or a result of all the trauma he’s experienced, or a combination of both - Steve doesn’t sleep much and usually rises with the sun. Wanting to take advantage and give your boyfriend something nice to wake up to, you decide to cook him some breakfast. Double checking the door to the bedroom is closed. You inspect the kitchen and see what you can whip up for the two of you.
Moving around your kitchen you collect everything you’ll need. Bread, eggs, milk, vanilla and a sprinkle of cinnamon. You get started on mixing the ingredients for your french toast. Cooking up the breakfast wearing one of your Steve’s shirts and some pajama shorts you think back to the night before. You’re a little achy, but in all the best ways as you reflect on your long night with your super soldier boyfriend. A nice dinner out; last night was Steve’s pick - a cute little farm to table place, it might be one of your new go to spots the food was absolutely delicious. After the two of you came back stumbling through the door. Desperately needing one another it took you awhile to actually make it into the bedroom. You chuckle to yourself as you run your fingers gently across your lips where the ghost of his touch still lingers. Shaking your head and coming back to the present moment focusing on the task at hand.
What is your favorite form of potato? - Honestly Idk I love them in all forms.
What's your favourite herb? - Thyme
What's your favourite fruit? - Green Grapes
What's your favourite kitchen utensil? - wooden spoon - but the flat ones if you know the kind I'm talking about. They are so versatile.
Favourite sandwich filling? - Does mayo count? Probably tomato. I love tomato.
Favourite chips? - Kettle cooked! Just salt I like my chips very basic and I really only like them on a side with a sandwich or with dip.
What is the best chocolate bar? - Crunch bar
What's your favourite Sunday roast? - Black Beans and white rice, insert protien, and ripe plantains.
What's the best pasta? - Noodle? Tortellini. Pasta Dish? Carbonara
What's your favourite way to eat eggs? - POACHED. Always and forever although I refuse to learn to make it myself so I get it as a nice treat when I go out to eat.
Favourite dish from your childhood? - Mac & Cheese baked of course. My Aunt's recipe is probably my fav
