dana evans is your neighbour 18+, age gap, dry humping, pussy eating <3
you'd never lived in an apartment that held 'get to know your neighbours' night. strange concept, you were perfectly fine knowing just one other person in the building, not by name but politely smiling whilst you gathered your mail. you had enough friends, not a lot, but enough and work was tiring so if you could avoid small talk in the corridor then you were happy to.
then fliers appeared on the lobby notice board.
people have too much time on their hands, you exhaled as you read, also wondering how much buy in this would actually get. your night would be spent the same as any other single woman in their late 20s, finish work, take-out and real housewives, NOT mingling in the hall with strangers.
unfortunately for you, there was a lot of buy in. crowds of people flooded the communal space, all cradling beer bottles and plastic cups like it was some kind of frat party. you had no intention of staying, of chatting or getting involved in any measure but fighting your way through the stairwell, unnoticed with a bag of ramen, proved quite difficult.
"hey! you're 64b right? i'm 68, just above you" a sweet bubbly girl beamed at you, intercepting your path. she was most likely the organiser of this event, like she'd made it her mission to get to first name basis of every single resident in the building.
"oh, yeah. hi.." you weren't rude, you were tired. and you didn't need this adult-friend-making-speed-dating shit. "nice to meet you, i'm just gonna-" trying to slip past.
"you HAVE to meet your neighbours" she ignored your attempt to politely excuse yourself, ushering you back into the crowd of people so close to your front door.
the introductions were tedious, she pointed out the couple to your left, the old man directly beneath you. you stood half smiling, giving your name out and trying to find any morsel of energy to even give a shit. you just wanted to go inside, eat your ramen and go the fuck to sleep. but the conversation left no gaps for your escape, not that you didn't try. you knew politeness would be your downfall one day.
then—
"think you're all keeping this nice gal from her dinner" a petite blonde in grey-blue scrubs broke up the circle you were standing in, eyeing your ramen as she pulled a key from her bag. "and stacey, keep it down out here yeah? need some shut eye" she walked to the door opposite yours, turning the key and giving you a subtle wink as she let herself in.
"sure dana, don't worry we'll keep it-" the girl, whom you now know as stacey, called out as the door slammed "-down"
you smiled, finally finding your own queue to leave.
she found her way into your mind that night, the blonde in scrubs. you weren't sure how you hadn't noticed her before, being in such close proximity and all. not when collecting mail or leaving for work, maybe your schedules were polar to each other but you knew you'd have remembered her. and that wink, nice lady.
⋆˚࿔
after your brief encounter, you found yourself looking out for your neighbour a little more. she clearly kept to herself which just made you more curious. the scrubs suggested some kind of doctor or nurse, the one bed apartment told you she probably lived alone and you hadn't stopped thinking about her no nonsense approach to stacey. she was quite a bit older than you, you could tell that from her voice - a little deep, accent thick.
the day she walked past you she smelt like cigarette smoke and rich perfume, her ears were double pierced and she chewed gum with an open mouth.
the next time you caught her was brief. early morning, pre-7am, in the same clothes as last time. you were taking advantage of the mild air, heading out for a quick run before work and she was clearly starting her day.
you exchanged 'mornings' and then she was gone.
⋆˚࿔
summer brought a heat wave and unfortunately for your building, a strain on the air con.
it was early evening when you heard raised voices in the hall. you stepped closer to your front door, slick sheen across your chest from the growing heat inside your apartment, listening to the other side.
"no you need to come and fix this fuckin thing now. not tomorrow, now. it's 100° in here for christ sake"
you only heard one voice, like she was on the phone.
"jesus-" then silence.
you opened your door to see her stood in a tank and lounge pants, hair stuck to the back of her neck with the rest pulled into a claw clip.
she turned to face you at the sound of the door click, holding up her phone "building manager, piece of shit"
you laughed under your breath. "your AC out too?"
she nodded, shaking her head down at the phone with a raised brow, then shoving it into her pocket.
"spent my day off sucking on ice and trying not to pass the fuck out" her smile travelled from her eyes to her lips, skin creasing at the edges. she looked at you for a second, titling her head slightly. "we haven't met"
you opened your door more, stepping out into the hall. "we kinda did" you meant that first day she saved you from the crowd.
"mm not properly, doll" she folded her arms, face softening "i'm dana"
you told her your name and she smiled, like it fit you. "you new here? not really seen you around much" you asked her, curious to find any detail, big or small.
"i work a lot and never really been one for stairwell small talk"
"oh yeah, of course- sorry i just-"
"not you kid, the ole neighbourhood watch crew and their building parties" she clearly had the same view of 'meet your neighbour' as you did. your shoulders relaxed. after a second, "you want some ice tea? just made a jug" she gestured her hand towards her apartment.
"won't say no to that" you mumbled, smiling.
her apartment was nice, it mirrored yours just the opposite. you were right to assume she lived alone, there was just one of everything. no manly shoes in the entrance or photos of anyone other than what you assumed were her grown children.
she dabbed her forehead with the back of her hand as you both sipped and made the small talk you claimed to hate.
"so you a doctor or something?" you asked.
"close. nurse. down at pittsburgh general, have been for 32 years"
that confirmed the age gap you already knew was there. it shocked you, how she'd been in a job longer than you were alive and you didn't have to say it for her to know you were thinking it.
"let me guess, you were still in diapers when i was in college?"
"close. i was born about 5 years after you graduated i think" you didn't know why you said it, feeling rude after it came out but she just laughed, shaking her head as she sipped her tea.
"jesus. even my tattoos are older than you"
you weren't sure why you felt that in your stomach. you huffed a laugh to try conceal it, blaming the spreading burn on your neck on the stifling heat.
then her phone rang, you could vaguely hear the building manager say he couldn't come til tomorrow. she was an animated woman, hands flying around, voice raised. you wouldn't want to get on her bad side, you thought. you finished the last sip of your tea, setting the empty glass down and mouthing thank you before excusing yourself while she dealt with the dick on the other end of the line.
⋆˚࿔
you started seeing more of dana. passing in the hall, starting your day, taking out the trash. your conversations became longer and more than just greetings. sometimes you'd forget you were going to work and spend 15 minutes in the hall just chatting.
you got to know her more. she worked day shifts, had 3 daughters, she liked white wine (you saw her bringing a bottle home one night) and she loved her job.
she got to know you more too. where you went to college, how you were allergic to cats and loved to read on the door step when the sun was out.
your grocery hauls were complete opposites. hers were that of an adult with fruit and veg, bottled water, essentials. she made a joke at how your bags clinked like you were hiding the entire liquor store in there and she asked if you knew pop tarts were not a substantial breakfast.
since then, she'd be at your door a couple of times a week with filled tupperware. sometimes it was a full meal, other times fruit salads and home baked biscuits. you returned the favour by bringing a jug of margaritas to her doorstep on a saturday night.
"jesus h christ, did you blend these at all?" dana half laughed, almost choking on your lethal dose of tequila and lime.
you sat on giant cushions in the open window of the fire escape in dana's apartment, the half filled jug between you.
"it's saturday night. we're getting lit"
she rolled her eyes at your lingo.
"it's saturday night and you're getting drunk with your elderly neighbour" she corrected.
"it's my community service, helping out a senior citizen-" she swatted you, spilling some cocktail on your lap as your head fell back in laughter.
"fucker"
"i'm kidding you know" you said after a second. "you're literally like my closest friend right now"
you weren't sure if you were supposed to feel like this about friends. or what it even was you were feeling. you just knew you liked her company, perhaps more than you should. you liked getting to know her, wanting to know everything about her. you knew that you liked women but obviously, you assumed she didn't.
dana sparked up a cigarette, inhaling deeply as the smoke curled above the pair of you. she handed you the tab, exhaling and you took it between two fingers. your gaze didn't break from one another.
"quite fond of you too, doll" that smile again, the one that narrowed her eyes and showed the top of her teeth. fuck.
⋆˚࿔
it'd been a few months since you first met dana and your friendship had grown into something you both treasured dearly.
you'd end up at one another's place at least once a week. the nights when she wasn't too tired from her shift or you hadn't been pulled away by your other friends. you'd much rather spend your time with her, not that you'd admit it.
it was all nice and neighbourly. knocking on each others door with take-out or a bottle of wine. somewhere along the line you'd swapped numbers. that was originally for the purpose of dana taking in your parcels when you weren't home, keeping each other updated for anything in the building but it soon became a text chain between friends.
use the back entrance, stacey's on the rampage
got some of your mail, let me know when you're home and i'll come drop it
hey, is your power out?
don't suppose you fancy a glass of vino 🍷
one evening you'd managed to get yourself roped into going to the bar with some work friends. the cocktails fell down your throat far too easily and by 9pm you were more than tipsy.
you weren't quiet coming home. stumbling up the stairwell, talking to yourself, an oop when you missed the top step, dropping your purse. a door next to you clicked open.
"someone's had a good night" dana picked up your purse and you beamed up at her, pulling yourself up by the hand rail.
"daaaaana, hey"
"you smell like a brewery" she laughed, lightly holding onto your upper arm to guide you to your front door.
"just had a few drinkypoos" you hiccuped. "you wanna come in for one?" your words weren't slurrred but it was no secret you were drunk.
"i think you've had enough" she pulled your key from your hands as you struggled with the lock, turning the key in one smooth movement for you to enter.
you walked through your apartment to the sofa, falling onto it as dana dropped your purse next to you, headed to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.
she returned and you couldnt help but notice the glow on her face, the softness in her eyes. you took the glass and just held it. "drink" she urged, stern but not unkind.
sipping from the glass, you held her gaze. there was something between you, something that felt different in that moment. her finger came up to tip the glass further, pouring more liquid down your throat, until she was content you'd had enough.
"good girl" she took the glass away from you and despite your thirst being quenched, your mouth suddenly felt dry.
she saw you swallow thickly. her lips parted slightly. the skirt you were wearing had ridden up to your thighs with how you were sat.
"now get some rest"
you were still sat in the same position when you heard your front door click behind her. what you didn't see was dana stood in the hall for a second, breathless like she'd just ran the length of your apartment. you didn't know she thought about turning round, coming back in. not knowing what she'd say but considering it all the same. she pondered for a moment, one hand on her hip, the other tousled in her hair.
"fuck" she thought about how you'd looked at her just moments ago. how you reacted. her chest tightened, unknown feelings creeping their way into her conscience.
she didn't turn round. she fought the urge, heading into her own apartment.
you managed to sober up relatively quickly. downing more water, a couple advil and a luke warm shower to cool the heat between your legs. good girl, it replayed in your mind over and over as the stream poured onto your skin. what the fuck? your neighbour, your friend, a woman almost twice your age, a woman who you had no confirmation had any interest in women whatsoever, a woman you couldn't have.
it was hard to get dana out of your mind as you lay in bed, not that you really tried. the room was dark with the exception of a bedside lamp, quiet. it was then you decided to pick up your phone.
you: you awake?
you didn't expect her to be with the time. but then the bubble appeared.
dana: yeah, everything ok?
you hesitated for a second.
you: just wanted to say thank you for earlier
you: not sure i'd have made into my apartment without you
that's not really what you wanted to say.
dana: just doing my community service, helping out the drunk and disorderly...
you laughed at her using your own words against you.
dana: assume you're feeling better?
you: much
you: followed the nurses orders with water and two advil
it felt a little loaded to send but you did anyway. then the bubble appeared and disappeared enough times to cause you panic. you almost sent another message, something flat and obviously platonic, maybe even just a 'anyway, good night' to kill the conversation.
then—
dana: good girl
you didn't even know you were clenching your thighs til you felt the flutter between them.
in 64a, dana's mouth went dry as she pressed send. it was a lot for her, being bold like this. she didn't know what she was doing or what her intentions were but for once in her life, she ran with it. ran with the knot in her stomach, the throbbing sensation between her legs.
she waited for you. nervous at your reply. hoping she wasn't mistaken by this, whatever the fuck this was.
you: dana
fuck it.
you: can you come back over here
this could go one of two ways, the way you want or the way in which you've read this so incredibly wrong.
it was the longest five minutes of your life, between sending that message and hearing the knock on your door.
when you opened it, she was facing away. turning when she heard you. you could see her breathing heavy, the rise and fall of her chest. you stepped back slightly and she stepped in. then it was just the two of you, stood silent in your hall. your oversized tee had wet patches on the back from your damp hair, you saw dana's eyes glance once over you, suddenly aware you're naked on the bottom half beside underwear.
she was in similar loungewear you saw her in one of the first times. she wore a gold cross on her neck, something you'd noticed before but not really paid attention to.
"i-" you started. she stopped you.
"i don't know what i'm doing" her eyes wide, voice low. "this isn't- i've never-"
you extended your hand to hold hers.
"dana-"
"i don't know why i feel like this" there was an undertone of panic and vulnerability. "about you"
you could feel your heart in your ears, in your chest, in your stomach.
"i'm twice your age, i shouldn't feel like this about you" she spoke quietly, as if being loud would make something real.
"but you do"
a moment. your thumb brushed over her hand.
"i do"
before you could stop yourself, your lips were on hers. she stilled for a second, and then she let herself feel. she kissed you back, hands tentatively finding the base of your neck as yours found her waist.
then it got messy and heated and the two of you were stumbling from the hall to your bedroom one door down.
she was panting into your mouth as you led her backwards, calves hitting the bed.
"fuck dana, wanted this f'so long" you breathed between her lips. "tell me you want this"
dana moaned, it slipped out before she could stop it, pulling back from you. "want this. please"
you were soaked. you had been since you were full of booze and she'd touched your arm in the hall. but now her tongue was in your mouth and your hands were slipping under the hem of her tank, feeling skin you'd never felt.
"can i?" you tugged at the material and she nodded. she was naked under that, her hands came up on instinct to cover her bare tits, you replaced them with your own, pulling away slowly.
"wanna see you" she let you, your mouth watered at the sight. they were incredible, nipples hard from your fingertips ghosting over the skin. she exhaled deeply, breath hitching when your lips skimmed the flesh of her neck.
your fingers trailed from her chest, grazing skin down her sternum to the waistband of her trousers. you felt her move against you the closer you got. you flattened your palm against her stomach, sliding it beneath the elastic and finding her without panties, hot and needy, her bare cunt dripping and begging for you.
dipping your index and middle finger through her wetness, dana whimpered, mouth parting.
"mmm, fuck-"
you swiped your fingers a couple of times, spreading her wetness and then you pulled away. fingers glistening in the dim light. the noise she made when you sucked her off your middle finger made your pussy twitch.
"taste so good dana" you kissed her, light and loving. "so fucking good"
you pushed her softly onto the bed, standing above her as you pulled your t shirt over your head, leaving you almost equal in your clothing. her eyes wandered all over you and you watched her take it in. when you pulled her trousers down her legs, you couldn't believe the sight. her laid back, naked and yours.
when you crawled onto the bed, she moved herself back on her elbows to make space for you. you nudged her legs open by the knees, they fell apart with ease and she shuddered at the cool air against her bare cunt.
she was nervous. not because she was inexperienced - this may be her first time with a woman but she was no stranger to sex. in fact dana would have always considered herself a sexual person, in touch with her own desires however it'd been so long. so long since her divorce, since she'd slept beside someone, felt that kind of intimacy. then seeing your body and youth almost intimidated her. but the way you looked at her soon seemed to negate all of that.
when you were between her legs, lowering yourself to become face to face with the slick mess, she felt sexy. and wanted. you wanted her.
"oh my god- mmph" the first swipe of your tongue had her head thrown back. she lay flat on the bed as you worked her up, holding both thighs steady, licking up to her swollen clit.
you moaned into her, nails digging into skin as she started to roll her hips against your face. god it was hot. she whimpered and moaned and muttered your name over and over. "oh fuck, yes- there, that's-" her own cry cut her off as you curled two fingers deep. they slipped in with ease, her own arousal and your saliva dripping from your fingers as you pumped in and out.
you came up for air, resting your cheek on the inner of her thigh as you started fucking her, hard. the noises were obscene, slick and squelching with every move.
"doing so good baby oh my god i wish you could see what i can" you kissed her thigh, she moaned your name. "so fucking good"
"fuck you're gonna make- make me cum" her accent sounded thicker as she moaned, unbelievably sexy. you could tell she was close the way her cunt started to clench around your fingers. "don't stop"
like hell you would. hands squeezing her thigh, you worked your hand hard inside her and brought your lips to suck softly on her clit. the dual sensation had dana's back arching from the bed, handed fisted in the sheets and her toes curled against your back.
"yes yes yes ye-" with one final fuck of your fingers and pop of your tongue, she fell silent and rigid. then a looooong groan drew from the back of her throat, hoarse and deep. you worked her through it, until she was breathless and shaking, lifting your head up away from her.
"m gonna need a minute, hon"
you smiled. she was glowing, sweaty and messy. hair had fallen into her face, cheeks rosy and chest flushed.
"that was so fucking good dana" you kissed up her body, bringing your leg to straddle one of hers. your mouth landed between her tits, softly sucking the skin there, her hand found your back, stroking lazily across your shoulder blade.
"you're telling me" she laughed under her breath, still trying to regain some composure.
you were so turned on. seeing her cum like that, how bad she wanted you and you her. you hadn't even noticed your hips rolling against her thigh.
she had.
her hands snaked down your back, finding your ass. she squeezed over your panties, smirking at the wetness she could feel against her leg.
"did that turn you on huh?" she tensed her leg a little, giving you more to work against. "seein me cum like that?"
"shit" you moved harder against her, voice all whiny and strained.
"you wanted this for a while didn't you" her hands helped you, digging into your ass, pulling you into her. "wanted me, naked and wet for you"
you'd drenched your panties by now, dripping onto her skin. the wet material slick against your pussy felt so fucking good, your movements became more erratic, chasing your pleasure, needing to cum so bad. and her words only made it worse.
"good girl, just like that, gonna cum for me?"
fuck. there she goes praising you like that, knowing what it does, knowing that's what got you both here in the first place.
"fuck dana 'm gonna- mmm"
you fucked her leg whilst whining her name, brows knit, eyes screwed shut until—
"look at me. look at me when you cum baby"
your mouth fell open and everything building in the pit of your stomach grew hot and tight. you came all over her leg, a flood of wetness drenching you both, a guttural cry unleashed.
it shocked you both. how hard you came undone just from that. when you fell on the bed next to her, you both lay in silence, just the sound of hot breath and quiet traffic outside.
"stay tonight?" you managed, eventually.
when you turned your head, hopeful she'd agree, dana met your gaze with a glint in her eye.
"if you'll have me"
you kissed her. you didn't stop kissing her for a while.
she doesn't know i'd let her ruin all my days
emily prentiss x f!reader
tags: developing relationship, insecurities, hurt/comfort, body worship(?), smut, bottom!emily, top!reader, age gap not specified, smut with feelings, no use of yn
warnings: explicit content, minors please dni <3
summary: you don't understand why emily won't touch you.
word count: 4.5k
request: hiii, so for a fic request i was thinking something along the lines of unit chief emily and younger reader and they’ve been going out or dating for a little bit (...) and they haven’t done anything more than makeout because Emily’s a little insecure about being older (...)
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a/n: um im such a liar i said this would take a few days but i couldnt stop writing it so here it is ! ty for requesting <3 i had so much fun !!! hope u like it
Emily is obsessed with touching you any chance she gets.
It's surprising, really, the way she starts clinging to you when she finally feels like she's allowed to. When you're at hers, she keeps a hand on your hip while you cook dinner, she likes laying on the couch with you on top of her as you watch some random reality show. Emily keeps her face pressed into your neck, breathing you in, whenever she can.
And it's good. God, it's great. You want it all the time, you love how much she enjoys it, how close she keeps you. There's only one problem.
You want her. Constantly. And it seems like every time you try to move on to something more, she retreats. She kisses your cheek, your forehead, ending the makeout session as soon as it starts.
You don't push, you haven't been going out that long, anyway, and maybe she's still uncomfortable. Maybe you thought she’d be fine with it earlier because you were friends before, yet that might be the reason she's still uncertain, you're not sure. Although trying not to take it to heart is hard, especially when it seems like she doesn't want you as much as you want her, and you don't know if that's because she doesn't see you as her equal.
Being younger than her never really mattered to you. Ever since you started at the BAU you thought she was beautiful, attractive, sure, but she treated you like a colleague worthy of respect, even as her subordinate. Emily never made you feel like you were less than her or your teammates, which is why you never really thought about her age or yours as anything of a problem.
Perhaps you were wrong and she sees yours as a problem.
But there are moments in which you can't believe these conclusions. There are moments, when you're having dinner or just talking on a rare free night, that she looks at you and you can swear she wants you, too. At this point, anything could be true. You enjoy spending time with her, you care about her, and this one thing won't put you off a relationship that you believe can be really good, for the both of you. But this liminal stage ends up confusing you anyway.
Sometimes, your frustration gets the best of you.
You're on her couch, after dinner on a night when you're mercifully still in town. Emily never kisses like she doesn't mean it. She grips your hair and holds your jaw with her other hand, she tilts your chin slightly lower so she can get her tongue into your mouth. Emily sucks on your bottom lip like she's starved for it, then dives back in, leisurely feeling as you open up for her.
Scratching the back of your neck, she lets out a surprised sound when you pull her closer by the cheeks. When you get a leg thrown over her lap, though, she lays a hand on it softly, touching your thigh as if she's afraid you might break. Emily slows the kiss, kisses your chin, then your cheek, and still, with her lips swollen and cheeks red from effort, she smiles like nothing's happened.
“We should watch a movie,” she says, reaching over for the remote. You grip her arm, not letting her get away that easily.
“You're kidding me, right?”
Emily frowns, seemingly genuinely confused — if you weren't so frustrated you might've even found it cute. “I don't know what you mean.”
You chuckle humorlessly, resigned. This is fine. It's just something you'll have to get over. “Never mind,” you say, bringing your leg back from where it still rested over her, almost managing to stand up before she touches your hand.
“What's happening?” She asks, so lost that you actually feel bad. Seriously, what is she doing to you? “Did I do something?”
“No,” you sigh, “it's me. Pick a movie, I'll be right back.”
Emily's still frowning, but you get up, turning away from those sorry eyes. You can't help but feel bad that you put that look on her face when she hasn't done anything to earn it.
In the bathroom, you throw some water on your face. Chuckling ironically at yourself because the feel of the lace lingerie you have on is starting to annoy you. Lately, you've been choosing aesthetics over practicality with your underwear, just in case. Apparently, it was futile.
Reaching under your shirt, you remove your bra, tired of the uncomfortableness it brings. In a t-shirt of Emily's, you can barely tell you're not wearing it, anyway. Since you came straight from work, all you have is your laptop bag, not even pajamas in it, so she's lended you some. You figured you'd keep the lingerie on, again, just in case. Deciding it doesn't really matter, now, you get out of the bathroom and throw it in your bag, cursing the fact that you can't do the same with the bottom piece currently digging into your hips.
Back in the living room, Emily is sitting in silence. She's got a silk set on, some button-up shirt and pants that feel as soft as they look. You like seeing her this casual, comfortable at home, with you. Knowing you should focus on that, you smile at her when you sit back on the couch, your arms touching so she knows you're not upset.
“I couldn't choose,” she says in a low voice, sounding oh-so-dejected, pointing at the television.
Okay, does she have to make it this hard?
“I’m sorry, Em, I was just… upset about something else.” You try, touching her shoulder, letting her silver hair slip through your fingers. “I didn't mean to take it out on you.”
Emily shakes her head, a soft, yet genuine, smile on her face. “Don't worry about it.”
Biting your lip, you nod, still unsure but deciding to take her word for it. “There's a new thriller I thought you might like,” you change the subject, taking the remote from her hand and delighting in the fact that she snuggles up against you, her head on your shoulder, one of her arms around yours.
This is fine. This can be enough.
In bed, Emily has a terrible habit of scrolling through her work e-mails before you turn the lights off.
It usually ends in her getting annoyed at something or someone. She sighs, mutters about how she needs to stop looking at her phone before bed, then does it again then next night.
Tonight's no different. The only different thing is you're sitting next to her, leaning back against the headboard and reading a book, one you've read a thousand times. More passing your eyes over the words than actually absorbing them.
Emily huffs, takes off her glasses, places her phone on the nightstand, screen turned down. She turns on her side, still half propped up by pillows, and scoots closer. Her arm finds your waist, her head leaves the pillow to rest on your shoulder.
“Read it out loud?” She asks, her voice muffled against your skin.
You don't add anything, only start reading to her from the top of the page. You know she's not asking to know the story, she just wants to hear your voice.
“As the king made no answer, the little prince hesitated a moment. Then, with a sigh, he took his leave. // ‘I make you my Ambassador,’ the king called out, hastily. // He had a magnificent air of authority…”
The cold tip of Emily's nose touches your skin where your shirt’s moved a little. She presses it closer, breathes you in. Leaves a featherlight kiss on your shoulder.
You close the book harshly in the middle of a sentence.
“You must be tired,” you say, placing Le Petit Prince on the nightstand. “We should get some sleep.”
Emily frowns, “you're acting weird.”
You look away to turn off the lamp. She catches your hand.
“Talk to me.” She asks, her voice so syrupy as it usually is this time of night. “Please?”
Taking a deep breath, you buy some time. Not nearly enough.
“Did I do something?” She asks again, crestfallen now. Your chest physically hurts.
“No, you didn't do anything.” Taking her hand, you lace your fingers together. “I mean it, Emily. This is my issue, I'll get over it soon.”
Frowning, “I’d like to help.”
You shake your head, kiss her cheek. “I think,” you whisper, “no, I know, you're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time.”
Emily only looks at you, eyes big and searching. Her profiler skills working at full speed and, still, she can't figure you out.
“I don't want to ruin it,” you finish. Squeeze her hand for good measure, to let her know you're there.
“I'm so confused,” Emily says, sitting up properly. “Why won't you tell me what's wrong?!”
“Why won't you have sex with me?!”
Alright, blurting it out was not how you wanted to do this.
You close your eyes, cheeks flaming. “Forget I just said that.”
When you look up, Emily looks… stunned. Her lips are softly parted and her eyes are wider than usual. Too bad you really want to kiss her.
“Let's go to sleep.” Imploring now, you try to pull your hand away. She doesn't let you.
“I'm sorry-” She starts, but you interrupt her.
“No! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say it like that, I was-”
Emily shuts you up with a kiss. Pressing your lips together, she holds your face in place as she kisses you. She doesn't deepen it, but she lingers, then softens.
“Stop talking,” she murmurs against your lips. “Please.”
You nod, pressing your lips together.
“I'm sorry. I didn't realize this was weighing on you.” Her voice is collected, like she sounds in the conference room. You want to shake her, tell her to yell or show that this is affecting her, too. “I never wanted to make you feel unwanted.”
“I don't-” You interrupt yourself before she can because, really, what can you say to that?
“I do want to have sex with you,” she says, calmly, but there's a light rubor to her cheeks, like it's hard for her to say it.
“Then- Why? Do you think it's too early? We've known each other for over a year.”
Emily nods, moving the hands that were resting on your shoulders to grip your own hands. “I don't think it's too early, I…” She shakes her head. “I don't know how to explain it.”
“Emily,” you say, finding that you really want to get that disheartened look off her face more than you want an explanation. Trying to convey in your tone what you feel about her. “You don't have to explain anything. We’ll do it when you're ready. If you're never ready, we'll never do it.”
“Simple as that?” She asks, slightly incredulously.
You shrug, “simple as that. I just wanted to know why, but that doesn't matter.”
Emily smiles, a small thing that you might've missed if you weren't paying attention. “You're so young,” she starts, confusing you again. It must show on your face because she quickly continues. “I'm not. And I don't look like I did at thirty anymore, or even forty. And maybe you should be with someone like that.”
Scoffing, you can't believe what she's saying. “You think I want to be with anyone else? I've been crawling up the walls because you won't touch me!”
Emily shakes her head negatively, “I believe you. When you say you want me, I can trust it. But I don't think you should.”
You cross your arms, dislodging her hands from yours. “That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but nothing really comes out.
“I don't care that you don't look like a wax figure. Do you care that my stomach isn't perfectly toned? Or that I have acne scars on my back? Cellulite?!”
“Of course not, but-”
“Emily!” You interrupt her. “I love you. God, why is that so hard for you to understand?”
She blinks. Silence engulfs the room.
“I was gonna wait, because we've only been together a month or whatever… But we've been friends for so long, and fuck it, it's out there now.” Holding her face between your hands, you bring it close to yours. “I love you. And I want you like I've never wanted anyone in my life.”
“I love you,” she whispers back. But you don't have time to react before Emily kisses you, holding you in place by the shoulders, forcefully pressing your lips together like a woman starved.
Moving a hand over her side, she grips it before you can leave it there, holding it in her lap and pulling back from the kiss. Emily touches her forehead to yours, breathing hard with her eyes closed.
“Sorry, I-” She gasps out. “I didn't think it'd be this hard.”
You nod, placing a comforting kiss to the side of her mouth. Pushing her softly against the pillows, you lean over her a little, but not enough to completely cover her body. Trying your best not to be overwhelming, you look all over her face, taking note of her breath coming in hard pants and her hands clenched in the fabric of your shirt.
“Emily.”
She opens her eyes, not realizing she'd even closed them in the first place. They're wide, searching your expression.
“Take a deep breath,” you suggest, touching your cheek to hers when she does so. “Again.” Matching her breaths, you keep her under you for a moment, hoping she can finally relax. “I'm going to tell you exactly what I'm going to do, and if you need me to stop, tell me, alright?”
Lifting your head, you lock eyes. Emily nods, pressing her lips together and managing to keep her breathing normally paced.
“I'm going to kiss you, now.”
And you do exactly that.
At least this is familiar territory. Emily quickly melts into you, her mouth welcoming your tongue in a practised move. You don't touch her anywhere else, only keep one of her hands in yours, the other resting by her head on the mattress. She lets out a small sound of approval, her neck lifting to get closer, head tilting for the best fit.
When she comes up for air, you lower your face into her neck. “Here,” you whisper. “Okay?”
Emily hums a consent. You kiss below her ear, slow and wet, enjoying the taste of her skin in the way she hadn't let you before. You've been dreaming about this for weeks, months, and the reality of it is better than you expected.
Placing kisses down her neck, you reach the base of it, right where it meets the skin of her shoulder. A particularly hard kiss there leaves a slightly red flush in the shape of your mouth. Emily gasps above you, her free hand moving to grip your shoulder. You let her hold onto you, let her feel the assurance of your body over hers.
You take your time exploring her skin. The exposed area of her chest glistens and flushes where you've kept your lips on it, enjoying the taste and the way she shudders, her back unclenching, lowering back onto her soft sheets.
“Can I take your shirt off?”
Not even having dared to undo a button, you wait for her approval. Emily looks up at you, an ethereal vision with her cheeks red and her lip swollen where she bit it to contain her own whimpers. She doesn't say anything, so you move your hands to your (her) own shirt, slowly lifting it off yourself. For a second, you'd forgotten you'd taken your bra off in the bathroom, but the chill in the room quickly reminds you of it.
Emily looks at you intently, her eyes mapping every bit of exposed skin. She licks her lips, placing her hands on your waist and squeezing softly. You nod at her encouragingly.
Dragging her hands up, she keeps her palms under your chest, not going further. You feel your skin heat up at the attention, but don't move to cover yourself, letting her look as much as she wants to.
Emily looks into your eyes again, "take it off.”
You don't waste any time. Swiftly opening the buttons on her silk shirt, you lower your head to breathe in every amount of skin that is gradually shown. When it's completely open, you kiss her sternum, the valley between her breasts, her stomach, but you don't move to push it off her body. Slowly, you taste every bit that's uncovered, feeling as Emily's hips move on their own accord, lifting up from the bed ever so slightly, a sight that you'll soon learn means she's aroused.
Getting your arms under her back, you pull her up, touching your uncovered chest to hers. “I'm going to take it off, now.”
Everything is said in your lowest tone, as if you're trying not to spook a scared stray. When Emily nods, you finally rid her of her shirt, throwing it somewhere on the floor and not caring to look. There is a much more interesting view right in front of you.
She lies back down, her eyes locked on yours, her hands gripping you at the height of your ribs. You move down with her, trying to stifle a smile but losing the battle, kissing her chest so she can't feel embarrassed.
“You're perfect,” you murmur against her skin, causing her to shiver at the warmth in your voice. Keeping your promise, you continue, “I'm going to taste you, now.”
Taking a nipple into your mouth, you smile around it when she whines. Sucking slightly, the sounds she lets out spur you on. This is so, so much better than you could've imagined. Emily moans when you move to her other breast, the cool air causing even stronger shivers on her wet skin.
After a while, when Emily's breathing is labored for an entirely different reason, you bring your face up to meet hers. You can never get enough of the way she kisses, so you ask for it again. A thumb on her chin, pressing it down to guide her jaw, loving the way she relinquishes her body to yours. Your tongues meet heatedly, and you moan at how she tastes, yet again. She groans in the back of her throat, gripping your hair strands and keeping you exactly where she wants you.
You touch her chest, taking care of it with your hands this time as she kisses you oh-so-sweetly, in that way only she can.
Coming up for air, you smile at the expression on her face, dazed and relaxed, at last. Surprisingly, Emily smiles back, a small tilt of her lips but a smile nonetheless.
“Can I take your pants off?”
She nods, running fingers through your hair to move it away from your face. Twisting it onto a low ponytail to keep it there, she runs her hands down your bare back, then your chest, mapping your body with her fingertips as best as she can reach.
You remove her pajama pants, leaving her underwear on for now. Closing your eyes, you try to center yourself. She's everything and she really has no idea.
“I really didn't plan for this,” Emily murmurs, pulling you back to the moment. She's gesturing at her underwear, you notice, a simple, black cotton pair.
“It's perfect.”
Standing up, you take off your, also borrowed, sleep shorts. Emily lifts her eyebrows at the sight of your lace bottoms.
You smile, “just in case.”
Emily, mercifully, laughs. A loud, free thing that settles your worry.
“You can stop narrating now,” she says, pulling on your hand so you straddle her hips.
“You sure?”
She nods, pulling on the back of your neck to kiss you.
As you kiss, you feel her hips bucking up into yours. Your hands find her body again, relearning every curve that you, for a while, thought you'd never get to see. Finding the edge of her underwear, you only look at her, waiting for a sign of discouragement. Emily only nods.
“Fucking hell,” you whisper unconsciously after finally, finally, getting her naked. “I've been wanting to do this for months.”
Emily lifts an eyebrow, “months?”
You hum in agreement, growing more speechless by the second. Kneeling between her thighs, you stare at her unabashedly, earning an impatient look from Emily, who clears her throat. “Sorry,” you grin up at her, delicately lifting one of her legs onto your shoulder. Emily closes her eyes as her cheeks heat up.
“You're perfect.” It feels like you can't say anything else. You desperately want her to understand that you've never meant anything more than this. “Fuck, Emily, you're stunning.”
She opens her eyes, looking away quickly when she notes the flame in yours, her face turned to the ceiling. You let her have it, not wanting her to be uncomfortable, and start kissing the inside of her thigh where it's resting near your face.
Her skin erupts in goosebumps. You can smell her so strongly from where you lay, your mouth starts salivating almost immediately.
In the end, you don't know if you taste her more for her pleasure or yours. Every minute that passes with your head between Emily's thighs, you feel yourself get more and more aroused. You know you're just about to become addicted to her, you'll want to do this every hour or every day and it's gonna be so hard to not jump her every morning in the office.
The sounds she lets out are a spectacle apart. Her throat raw from moaning, the whimpers and gasps that she produces every time you find just the right spot. Every time that deliciously raspy voice hits your ears it spurs you on, when she calls please! into the ceiling, when she keens as you slip a finger into her.
Two fingers pulling forward, your mouth sucking precisely on her clit — you learn that's the perfect recipe. Emily cries out, telling you not to stop, telling you it's exactly right, and just like that, don't stop, fuck.
There's barely a breathy, broken, “baby, I'm so close” before she comes into your mouth. Her thighs shake and her hips try shooting up as you hold her down, keeping her close and still with your tongue on her, tasting as she comes down. Her back arches in the most stunning arch and you want to do it all over again, keep doing it, all night, all week, if she'll let you.
When she pulls your face away, gripping your hair strands and trying to stop you, you whine at the separation.
Once you're face to face again, you pout jokingly at her. “I was enjoying that.”
Emily smiles, “yes, well, I need a minute.”
She brings you in for a kiss, groaning as she tastes herself on your tongue. You feel the wetness on your chin passing onto her face, your kiss messy in the best way possible. Emily nips on your bottom lip, then beams at you.
“I don't know why I was so worried.”
You shrug, “I don't know, either.” But your eyes soften in understanding. A kiss on her cheek to tell her you've got her.
“Your turn?” She asks, grabbing your hips with her hands already under the waistband of the lace. Emily keeps them there, giving you the same time you gave her. It's sweet, even if you've told her you were crawling up the walls, and that she can probably feel the damp spot on her thigh from where you straddle her.
“I'm not done yet.”
Getting up again, you remove your underwear, then sit down next to her and pat your lap playfully. Emily rolls her eyes, but complies, straddling your own legs this time.
Gently moving her legs where you want them, you get one thigh over hers, the other under, and she swiftly adjusts herself when she gets your intention. She keeps herself lifted, not resting her weight onto you yet, leaning down to touch her forehead to yours, more easily as you're slightly propped up against the headboard.
You hold her hips firmly, guiding her down to bring your centers together. Emily closes her eyes, shivering.
Kissing below her ear, you whisper, “ride me?”
Emily sighs next to your face, hiding hers in your neck. “I'm not twenty anymore.”
“That doesn't mean anything,” you say, taking her earlobe between your teeth and enjoying the way she shudders. “I'll guide you, hm?”
She doesn't say anything, but she nods, and her hips give a slight, barely there, thrust forward. You both moan in unison.
Keeping a tight grip on her hips, you encourage her to move.
It's dramatic, sure, but you feel like you've died and gone to heaven in the span of a few seconds.
Murmuring in her ear about how good she looks, how well she rides you, you delight in her needy whimpers. Emily lets out these enticing little gasps where she hides her face in your neck.
Still guiding her movements with a hand, you take another to touch her back softly, caressing the skin and feeling as beads of sweat start to form from the exertion. You don't stop praising her out loud, the vibration of your voice emboldening the undulation of her hips, and Emily grips the hand that's resting right there, a bruising hold that keeps you anchored.
It takes a little trial and error, but you find the perfect rhythm together. She lifts her head when she's getting close. Her neck strains as she approaches orgasm, you've noticed, her entire body tensing in expectation.
As her breathing gets more labored, her brows furrowing from the effort, you think you've never seen someone this beautiful, and you tell her just so. Her cheeks flame, still so unused to praise, but it still spurs her own, her thighs burning now from the merciless pace she sets. With a particular twist of her hips, she slightly moves off where you need her the most, but she looks so ruined, so gorgeous, almost reaching her peak, that you don't say anything. You have time. Now, you only grip her harder, letting her take what she needs from you.
Telling her how good she rides you, how perfect she looks above you, you watch in ecstasy as her back arches and she comes again, an almost sob of relief leaving her lips.
When she falls forward, spent, you wrap your arms around her and kiss her temple, then wherever you can reach. You whisper that you love her, she answers with a squeeze of your arm, still catching her breath.
“You've ruined me,” she says when she finally finds her voice again.
“I did no such thing.”
Turning her face to look at you, your noses brush together. “You probably fixed me.”
“Don't be silly,” you joke, nipping at her nose. “There was nothing to fix.”
“Huh,” she considers, pressing your lips together sweetly, like she can't get enough. “Somehow, I almost believe that.”
summary: baran thinks you’re just a huge flirt, but when you make another appearance in the ED and she gets to know a little more about you, she realizes maybe first impressions aren’t everything.
word count: 2.3k
tags: SUPER medically inaccurate; mcsteamy reader; female reader; mentions of overdose, vomit and blood (patient related); slowwwww burn; baran has a crush; you’re a flirt; cassie and yolanda make appearances
sequel to impressive first impressions
Baran could not stop thinking about you.
Ever since you’d showed up in the ED a couple weeks up, stitching up your own face, Baran found her thoughts constantly drifting to you. Your casual, flirtatious nature paired with competence and the obvious respect you garnered intrigued her. The more Baran thought about you, the more you became like a puzzle she was determined to solve.
When she had brought you up to Dana, the charge nurse simply waived her off. Thinking Baran had had a problem with your flirting, Dana told her, “Don’t worry about her. She’s a lover girl stuck on a surgeon’s schedule.”
Baran had asked a couple other people what they knew about you—subtly, of course—and the message was generally the same: you were a flirt, but a damn good doctor. She only wished you stopped by the ED more often so she could decide for herself.
As if you had heard her thoughts, your voice rang out, coming from the ambulance bay. “What’s open? I need a room prepped for a trach!”
“Trauma 2!” Someone yelled back, but Baran was focused on you, your crazed eyes and the way your entire front was splattered with blood.
Rushing over to walk alongside the moving gurney, already snapping on a pair of gloves, Baran called over McKay to assist.
“What do we have?” she asked as you entered the trauma room.
“Oxy overdose. Emesis and aspiration blocked the airway, so I went emergency circ,” you explained, barely giving her a second glance before turning to the paramedics. “On my count.”
As you transferred the man onto the trauma table, you started giving out orders, so naturally, Baran would have thought you were the trauma attending on call, not her.
“Somebody get Garcia in here,” you barked out to anybody who was listening as you readied yourself for a tracheostomy, putting on a gown, glasses, and gloves.
“Dr. Al-Hashimi.” Your urgent voice brought her out of her momentary shock from your commanding presence. “Lend a hand?”
As if like a switch, your tone changed from stern to flirtatious, and she wondered if this was how you always were. She ignored the slight coil in her stomach at the sight of the smirk pulling on your lips and stepped up to the table.
“So, you come here often?” Baran asked, trying to match your teasing tone, as she watched you carefully remove the emergency tube.
You laughed, looking up at briefly and wiggling your eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would actually,” Baran responded very matter-of-factly as she raised a challenging brow, her mouth forming a smirk of her own.
McKay snickered, causing you to glare at her.
“You ever do an emergency cric, Cass?” You put your friend on the spot, causing her to shake her head. “I’ll teach you,” you said slyly before looking back at Baran and winking. “You gotta be able to handle anything when you’re on street team.”
Baran’s eyes narrowed at this new piece of information about you. She’d thought learning more about you would help clear things up for her, but if anything, this only further confused her. Why would a plastic surgeon spend her off-time doing street team?
“Wow, you look like shit,” Garcia snarked, as she pushed open the door, hands already gloved and ready.
“All for you, Yoyo,” you replied smoothly with a flash of your signature smirk, earning an eye roll from the other surgeon.
Baran did her best to ignore the twisting feeling in her stomach as she watched the exchange between you two. You really were like this with everyone. Maybe your reputation did precede you.
“What’d I miss?” Yolanda walked over to stand by the patient’s head.
“Emergency cric conversion to trach,” you explained before asking Princess for a ten blade.
“First a slach trach and now this?” Garcia shook her head, clearly annoyed.
You looked up, your curiosity piqued. “Slash trach? Someone did a slash trach?”
Instead of responding, Yolanda transferred her stare from you to Al-Hashimi, causing you to do the same.
“You did a slash trach?”
Baran’s expression instinctively became defensive, which told you all you needed to know, and you let out a low whistle.
“Impressive.”
The warm hum of your voice caused Baran’s cheeks to warm, and she mentally chided herself. She was a middle-aged divorcée with a son, and here she was acting like a middle schooler with a crush.
“Dr. Mckay?” Your switched back into surgeon-in-charge mode as you addressed the resident. “Would you like to do the honors? I’ll talk you through it.”
“You never stop, do you,” Cassie quipped under her breath, picking up on your teasing suggestiveness that seemed never quite absent from anything you said.
You handed her the tube and moved to stand next to Yolanda.
“I’ve already created the window at the third and fourth tracheal rings,” you told McKay. “Now what?”
Cassie looked up at Baran, her attending, who nodded, giving the go-ahead.
“Insert the tube from a lateral position and twist in,” Cassie answered. You raised your eyebrow, prompting her to continue. “Once in position, inflate the cuff and insert the inner tube.”
“Good.”
As you observed the resident insert the tube, Yolanda leaned towards you, muttering in your ear, “I thought you hated the ED.”
“Street team,” you answered her unspoken question. Yolanda gave you a once over, and finally noticed you weren’t dressed in your usual scrubs.
“Missing your MSF days?”
This caught Baran’s attention, and she looked up from the patient and over to you. “You were with Médecins Sans Frontières?”
Everything she learned about you just continued to confuse her even more. Why would a plastic surgeon do a stint with MSF?
Tilting your head slightly, you met her gaze with a soft smile. “I spent some time with them in Yemen,” you replied curtly.
Baran could tell this wasn’t a topic you enjoyed discussing, and based on what she knew about the hospital airstrikes in Yemen, she could understand why.
“Tube’s in place, cuff’s inflated, and airway is sealed,” Cassie declared, bringing you back to the moment.
“Good work, Dr. McKay.” You nodded shortly, your words tired.
Yolanda noticed your shift in demeanor, and she could tell you were crashing. There was a reason you chose plastics over trauma.
“I got it from here.” She squeezed your elbow lightly as she motioned for transfer. “Go clean yourself off, Carrie.”
You took a deep breath and ripped off the gown. Following Yolanda as she escorted the patient out of the trauma room, you peeled off the latex gloves and threw them in the trash. Your hands were still caked in blood from your emergency procedure earlier, and you realized they were starting to shake.
Catching your faint reflection in the glass of the trauma bay, you saw your face was splattered with the man’s blood and your shirt was completely stained. As your mind caught up with what just transpired, you felt your anxiety start to crawl in your gut.
You rushed over to the nurses’ station and found the nearest trashcan before emptying your insides. The sight of your bloodied hands gripping the rim of the bin made you even more nauseous. Shakily, you pushed yourself off the ground and tried to ignore the stares, some of worry and some of disgust.
“I’m fine,” you announced to no one in particular, but you could see Dana’s motherly concern watching you, and you could feel a certain pair of brown eyes following you.
“I’m fine,” you repeated to yourself. Weaving through the ED, you were in a daze, your only focus being on getting this blood off of you, and didn’t hear Cassie calling your name.
Before the resident could chase after you, someone calling her name pulled her in a different direction. “Dr. McKay–” Perlah approached the station with a tablet in her hand– “x-rays are back on your CP patient in thirteen, and the mom is asking for you.”
Cassie sighed and took the tablet, sparing a glance back in the direction of where you had retreated, an imperceptible action that Baran had noticed.
“I’ll go check on her.” The attending gave the other woman a small, reassuring smile.
“Thanks.” Cassie nodded as she walked away.
When Baran pushed open the bathroom door, the last thing she expected to see was you without your shirt on using the article of clothing as a cleaning rag, but alas there you were. For a moment, she could only stare, letting her eyes linger on the way your back muscles flexed with each movement and on the few patches of scar tissue that contrasted against your smooth skin. Baran couldn’t help but wonder what your skin would feel like under her fingertips.
“You know, if you wanted to see me naked you could’ve just asked,” you joked weakly as you met her stare in the mirror.
“You’re not naked,” Baran deadpanned, causing you to smirk lazily.
“Maybe next time then.”
Taking a couple steps forward, Baran leaned against the sink next to you, the cool tile digging into the small of her back. She didn’t say anything, though, simply observing you.
“What?” you chuckled nervously, suddenly feeling very exposed under her watchful eyes.
Noticing the goosebumps that started to decorate your skin, Baran tilted her head. She had only met you once before today, but she couldn’t imagine you were one to shrink easily. Yet, she had to admit she liked seeing you squirm.
Deciding to put you out of your misery, she finally asked, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” you answered reflexively. Both of you knew that was a lie, but neither of you said anything. “I just need to get cleaned off. I’m actually need upstairs in—” glancing down at your watch, you sighed and ran your hands over your face– “ten minutes ago.”
“You sure you want to work after that?” Baran frowned, and you smiled softly at her concern.
“I just have a cleft palate and a free flap reconstruction on my plate today. Then on-call for the evening,” you said flippantly, causing the other woman to scoff.
“You say that as if both those operations aren’t multiple hours long.”
“I’ve had worse.” You shrugged, and after all that Baran had learned about you in the last hour, she believed you.
“Uh—” you held up your blood-soaked t-shirt awkwardly— “thanks for, um, checking up on me.”
Baran didn’t need to know you well to see how uncharacteristic your stuttering was, and she bit back a grin. As you moved towards the door, she realized you were still clad in only your sports bra.
“Wait.” Her voice echoed lightly against the empty stalls as she slipped off her jacket.
“Woah,” you laughed, turning on your heels. “At least buy me a drink first.”
Baran merely rolled her eyes. You were relentless.
“As much as I’m sure many people would appreciate the view, I’m not sure HR would want you walking around the hospital without a shirt.” She held out the jacket, which you accepted with a raised brow.
“Are you included in these ‘many people’?” You lowered your voice as you put on the jacket, zipping it up in one motion.
Ducking to hide the tint on her cheeks, Baran shook her head. “You wish,” she muttered.
You let out a noncommittal sound before tugging at the sleeves of the jacket.
“Thanks,” you said, your voice returning to a gentler tone.
“You’re welcome.” Baran saw her opportunity and pushed herself off the sink. “Though, I think you looked better without it.”
Your eyes widened, visibly taken-aback by her forwardness. With a satisfied smile, Baran slid past you and exited the bathroom, leaving you to swallow a taste of your own medicine.
The sound of the door closing behind her shook you out of your momentary stupor. Taking a deep breath, you were immediately enveloped by the smell of the faint perfume that clung to Baran’s jacket.
There was something about the scent that exuded a quiet boldness, a scent so undeniably her, and you couldn’t get enough.
contains: youngerdom!reader, sub!dana, eye rolling, dana's nicknames for reader, kitchen counter sex, oral sex, fingers in mouth.
description: annoying Dana although out her 12 hour shift is the only way you get to taste her tonight.
a/n: sorry for the long wait. i was swamped
wc: 1.4k
“Hey, boss. can I go out for a smoke?” you slide across the counter of the nurses’ station, wriggling your eyebrows at Dana who’s eyeing you through her glasses.
She let out a breath, not finding your tactics amusing. “You were just out for one, weren’t ya?”
You gave her a shrug and looked down as you pick at your cuticles, as well as to suppress the laughter that threatened to escape your throat.
“What can I say? Being an R3 is tough.”
“You’ll fry off your lungs before you even finish your residency, kid.”
You rolled your eyes at the nickname, a groan following soon after. “Quit calling me that. I’m not one of your nasty children.”
Dana’s lips quirked into a smirk at your reaction, her head shaking when your face scrunched into a scowl. “Yet you’re here acting like one.”
Your head snapped up at her comeback, mouth hung open as if you just heard the most painful insult.
“And that’s why i’m going out for a smoke.”
“You better watch it, doctor. Being stubborn won’t get ya anywhere.” Dana scolded, her voice now turning serious and has that cold edge that you love.
You didn’t turn around to respond, instead you waved a hand at her before sliding through the exit.
It wasn’t long before the both of you arrived at your shared house—Dana’s house, to be exact. Her kids moved out and you moved in, although they pay the two of you visits from time to time.
The car ride was silent, you were focused on the road while Dana was looking out the window—but you can tell that she wanted nothing to do with you.
You’ve been getting on her nerves all day. Running your mouth to the med students around her, going out for a smoke after every patient, and joining Santos on her bitchiness spree.
She wasn’t having any of it. It was on purpose though. You always knew how to get her worked up, and even though this “method” of yours is dangerous because you can’t really predict Dana’s reaction—it’s surprisingly effective.
When you stepped inside the house, Dana walked ahead and entered the kitchen to cook whatever she could find for the both of you.
You were left behind, dropping your keys to the bowl on top of the drawer at the entrance, hanging your jacket to the clothing rack, and taking off your shoes before following suite.
Dana was already frying eggs and bacon on the barely heated pan and you slowly creeped up behind her, hands snaking around her waist.
You could tell that she was taken aback by how quickly she got tensed, but she eventually relaxed into your touch—a relieved sigh escaping her mouth that she didn’t even hear.
“You mad at me?” you mumbled against her silver hair, your thumbs sliding up and down her sides.
Dana shook her head, hand resting on your wrist as she craned her head to face you. “You were getting on my nerves. But, that’s your purpose in my life huh?” she chuckled, head shaking.
“You know i’m only trying to make your life shine brighter.” you whispered and pressed a kiss behind her ear that sent a shiver down Dana’s spine.
“Because I love you..” you trailed off, the same way your lips trailed kisses from her jaw down to her neck—where you left tiny bruises on her pulse point that made her whimper.
“And I want you to feel good. So, so good.”
Dana’s back slightly arched when your hands went under her shirt, you pulled down her bra and fumbled with her now hardened nipples—her bottom lip getting caught between her teeth as her wetness pooled between her legs.
“Fuck..” she whispered and leaned further into your touch.
Your right hand fumbled with the stove to turn it off and you swung Dana around, making her face you and her flushed face.
Her eyes looked up hungrily into yours, orbs travelling from your lips and back into your eyes.
Dana didn’t say anything, instead she pulled you into a kiss—her tongue immediately slipping inside your mouth that you eagerly took in. You sucked gently on the muscle, your hands coming down to squeeze her ass that made her tiptoe.
The kiss you shared became sloppy and it wasn’t long before Dana was sat on the counter with you standing between her legs—your hands squeezing her bare tits as you discarded her shirt and bra moments ago.
You pulled away from the kiss, your mouth moving to her collarbone then to her chest before you took one of her nipples in your mouth.
Dana’s eyes closed, her hands springing to clutch your hair as you sucked hungrily on her breast.
You alternated between her right and left tit, hand massaging one as you sucked the other.
“Wanna taste you.” you whispered and slowly got down on your knees as you looked up at Dana’s lazy eyes, your hands tugging at the waistband of her sweats that made her lift her hips.
You took them off, slowly sliding them down her legs that made Dana bite down on her lip as the soft material tickled her skin.
Once they were off, you spread her legs wider—mouth watering at the sight of her sopping wet cunt just waiting eagerly for your tongue.
Dana’s hand went behind your head, as if pushing you towards her heat.
You chuckled and pulled her hand down. “Eager, huh?” you teased, earning an eye roll from the woman.
“A picture’ll make it last longer.”
“I can’t taste a picture, sweetheart.” you grinned and leaned froward to lick a bold stripe up her slit, her back arching at the sudden sensation.
You sucked on her clit, your thumb teasing her entrance—finger going in and out just slightly to make her pussy twitch and clench hungrily around nothing.
She whined, a rare sound that you could ever hear from Dana, and that pushed you over to the edge.
You made out with her pussy, tongue licking her hole while your thumb pressed tightly on her swollen clit.
You eventually pulled your tongue out, and before Dana could even protest—you replaced it with your fingers, her walls so slick that you easily slid a third finger in.
Dana’s eyes rolled, her mouth hanging open as various curses escaped her throat. Her hips buckled forward, her hole swallowing the entirety of your fingers’ lengths that made a delirious sound echo in the kitchen.
“You feeling good, baby?” you smiled against her clit, eyes looking up to find Dana’s face scrunched up with her hands fumbling with her tits.
“F-fuck.. yes.” she slurred, making you grin and twist your fingers to rub her clit with your thumb.
Dana practically screamed at the added pleasure, her chest starting to heave when a familiar knot started forming in her stomach.
Her hands grasped at everything, your fingers sliding in and out of her at a deliberate pace that made sloppy sounds from how wet she is.
You took notice of the way Dana’s thighs flexed and how her moans started getting louder, your mouth replacing your thumb’s place on her clit—tongue flicking over the sensitive nub as you helped Dana cum.
“Fucking c-christ.. i’m cumming.” she trembled, eyes shutting tightly.
Dana’s hands flew up to your head as she pressed it forward, her breathing getting heavy as you ate her out and fucked her most sensitive spot with your fingers.
It didn’t take long before Dana’s cum started coating your fingers, her legs trembling harshly as she came hard on your fingers.
You grinned at the sight of your fingers drenched in her cum, and you slowed down your pace—only wanting to help her come down from her high.
Dana’s brows furrowed and she whined before pushing your hand away.
And you did, knowing that she was starting to get overstimulated.
You slowly pulled your fingers out, seeing moe of Dana’s cum gush out of her pussy.
“Came hard, didn’t you?” you teased, earning a flick to the forehead from Dana.
You got up from your knees and stared intensely into her eyes as you slipped your cum-coated fingers inside your mouth, tongue licking your digits clean before releasing them with a pop.
“You rascal.” Dana grinned and pulled you down for a kiss, her tongue entering your mouth once more as you shared her cum on your tongue.
wc: 1,307 // tags: flower shop au, cassie mckay x reader, slow-burn, pining, fluff, age gap, mutual pining, confessions, established reader owns a shop, cassie is a disaster lesbian, mutual pining, happy ending
takes place after cassie asked the reader on a date, so this is their first date.
────୨ৎ────
The next day, Cassie texts you at 4:00 PM.
"Still on for tonight?"
You stare at your phone for a full minute before typing back.
"Yeah. Where are we going?"
"There's a place. Italian. Low key."
"I like Italian."
"Good. Me too. I'll pick you up at 7."
"You don't have to pick me up. I can meet you."
"I want to pick you up."
You stare at your phone again. Maya is watching from the café.
"Who are you texting?" Maya asks.
"No one."
"You're smiling at your phone like an idiot."
"I'm not smiling."
"You're smiling."
You put your phone in your pocket. Go back to work. You're still smiling.
---
Cassie pulls up at 7:00 on the dot.
You're waiting outside the shop. You locked up early. Changed twice. Settled on a sweater and jeans. Not too dressy. Not too casual. You've been standing on the sidewalk for five minutes, pretending you weren't watching for the car.
Cassie's sedan pulls up. The window rolls down.
"Hey," she says.
"Hey."
"You look..." She stops. Starts again. "You look nice."
"Thanks. You too."
Cassie is wearing a dark sweater. The same brown leather jacket. Her hair is down. She looks nervous.
You get in the car. The passenger seat is still pushed back too far. There's a hoodie on the back seat and a granola bar wrapper in the cup holder.
"Sorry about the mess," Cassie says.
"It's fine, Cassie."
"Ok... cool."
She puts the car in drive.
---
The restaurant is small. Red checkered tablecloths. Candles in glass jars. A man at a piano in the corner playing something slow.
Cassie holds the door open. You walk in.
"Reservation for McKay," Cassie tells the host.
"Right this way."
You're led to a table by the window. Cassie pulls out your chair. You sit. Cassie sits across from you. She puts her hands on the table. Then takes them off. Then puts them back on.
"You're nervous," you say.
"I'm not nervous."
"Your hands are shaking."
Cassie looks down at her hands. Puts them in her lap.
"Sorry."
"Don't be sorry."
The waiter comes. You order. You both get water. The waiter leaves.
"You're not drinking?" Cassie asks.
"I don't really drink."
"Good. Me neither. I mean — I don't. Not anymore."
You nod. Don't ask.
"I used to," Cassie says anyway. "A long time ago. Different life."
"Okay."
"You're not going to ask about it?"
"Do you want me to?"
Cassie thinks about it. "No. Not yet."
"Then I won't."
Cassie looks at you. Really looks. Like she's trying to figure something out.
"You're different," she says.
"Different how?"
"I don't know. Easier. Most people ask too many questions."
"I figure you'll tell me when you're ready."
Cassie nods. Picks up her water glass. Puts it down.
---
The food comes. Pasta for you. Gnocchi for Cassie. You eat. You talk. Nothing heavy. Where you grew up. How you ended up in Pittsburgh.
You talk about the shop. How you opened it three years ago. How it was a laundromat before. How you gutted it yourself.
"You did the renovation?" Cassie asks.
"Most of it. My friend helped with the electrical."
"That's impressive."
"It's just drywall and paint."
"It's not. It's a business. You built it."
You look at her. Cassie is serious.
"Thanks," you say.
Cassie talks about Harrison. His obsession with video games. His refusal to eat vegetables. The way he leaves his shoes in the middle of the hallway every single day.
"He sounds great," you say.
"He's a pain in the ass. But yeah. He's great."
"Does he know you're here?"
"He knows I have a date. He's with his dad this weekend."
"And he was okay with it?"
"He said you were nice. And that your shop smells good."
You laugh. "That's high praise from a twelve-year-old."
"He's not wrong about the shop."
Cassie says it like it's nothing. Then she adds, quieter: "Or about you."
You look down at your pasta. Feel your face warm.
---
After dinner, you walk back to the car. The street is darker now. The shops are closed. A few cars pass. The air is cold.
"I had a good time," you say.
"Me too."
"I was nervous."
Cassie looks at you. "You were?"
"Yeah. I thought you were going to be smooth."
"Me? Smooth?"
"You're older. I thought you'd have it together."
Cassie laughs. "I don't have anything together."
"I'm starting to realize that."
"Is that a problem?"
You stop walking. Turn to face her.
"No," you say. "It's not."
Cassie stops too. You're standing under a streetlight. Her blue eyes are almost gray in this light.
"Can I kiss you?" Cassie asks.
"Yeah."
Cassie leans in. Slow. Like she's giving you time to change your mind.
You don't change your mind.
The kiss is soft. Brief. Cassie tastes like wine and something else. Something warm.
She pulls back. Looks at you.
"Okay," she says.
"Okay."
"That was..."
"Yeah."
Cassie nods. Shoves her hands back in her pockets.
"I should take you home."
"Yeah."
---
You drive back in comfortable silence. Cassie keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console. Your hand is on your own leg. Your fingers are inches apart.
Cassie pulls up in front of the flower shop. Your car is parked out front.
"This is you," Cassie says.
"This is me."
You don't get out.
"I had a really good time," you say.
"Me too."
"Like, really good."
Cassie smiles. A real smile. "Yeah."
"Do you want to come in?" you ask. "For tea or something?"
Cassie hesitates.
"I have to open early tomorrow," you add. "So not late. Just... tea."
"Tea," she repeats.
"Tea."
Cassie turns off the car.
---
Inside the shop, you flip on the lights. The café is dark. The flowers are quiet. You lead Cassie to the back, where the small kitchen is.
"Sit," you say, pointing to a stool.
Cassie sits.
You put the kettle on. Get two mugs. Tea bags. Honey.
"You don't have to do all this," Cassie says.
"I want to."
You wait for the water to boil. The kitchen is small. You're close. Cassie's knee is almost touching your hip.
*"Can I ask you something?"* Cassie says.
"Sure."
"Why gardenias?"
You lean against the counter.
"My grandmother grew them," you say. "In her backyard. She had this whole garden. It was the only thing she was precious about. Everything else she let grow wild. But the gardenias, those were hers. She'd spend hours on them. Watering. Pruning. Talking to them."
"Talking to them?"
"She said they needed encouragement."
Cassie smiles.
"She died when I was twenty," you continue. "The garden died with her. I couldn't keep them alive. Tried for a year. Killed three plants."
"So you understand the succulent thing."
"I understand the succulent thing."
The kettle clicks off. You pour the water. Hand Cassie a mug.
"So now I sell them," you say. "Instead of growing them. It's easier."
"Do you miss it?"
"The garden?" You think about it. "Yeah. Sometimes. But the shop helps. Watching other people take them home. Keep them alive. It's not the same, but it's something."
Cassie wraps her hands around her mug.
"I'm going to keep mine alive," she says.
"The gardenias I gave you?"
"Yeah."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"Good pressure."
You drink your tea. The shop is quiet. The street outside is quiet.
"I should go," Cassie says finally. "You have to open tomorrow."
"Yeah."
You walk her to the door. Cassie stops on the sidewalk.
"Same time next week?" she asks.
"I'd like that."
"Okay."
Cassie leans in. Kisses you again. Slower this time. Less nervous.
Every time you try to do your makeup around Cassie, she all of the sudden needs all the kisses in the world. You love it nevertheless, until you get to your lips.
You just finish your lip combo, popping your lips from the final layer of lip gloss to blend everything together. As you put everything away and putting things in your purse you hear cassie coming in the room. "Hey princess, you ready?" You would look up at her. "Yea, I just finished" you smiled. Suddenly her lips meet yours for a few seconds. Lost in the kiss you didn't know it at first until you looked in the mirror. All the color on your lips transferred on to hers and she licks them with a smile of satisfactory.
"Cassieee." You huffed, not knowing how a simple kiss smudge your lip gloss right off. "Its like your eating my gloss off." Cassie gives you a semi apologetic look. "I know baby, I'm sorry."
She noticed you slightly annoyed and turn you towards her. "You just look so kissable you know…" she says cupping your cheeks together, studying around your face.
"Okay how about I fix it." You in response gave her a silly look. "Hey don't look at me like that, i promise ill make it look good." Giggling you stood and and let cassie sit on your chair while you straddle her lap. You gave her all of the products that you used and she started. She looked so serious and focused, now you wanted to kiss her but had to resist it. "okay now pop your lips." looking in the mirror and blend everything. Shockingly, went well for someone who doesn't do any type of makeup.
You croak your face to the side "So what girl have been teaching you this, huh?" You say jokingly with a smiling
"Well i got a beautiful femme that i watch do this 300 times a day, of course i know a thing or two."
IM SORRY! IM BACK I SWEAR!! I ADDED LENGTH TO THIS ONE TO MAKE UP FOR MY ABSENCE
Masterlist
Cassie’s room was dim in the way late afternoons always seemed to be in her apartment. Dana had come over a few hours ago to drop Mila off with you at Cassies apartment. Warm light spilled through the curtains in uneven stripes, catching on the abandoned takeout containers sitting on the dresser and the half folded laundry at the foot of the bed.
The soft hum of traffic outside mixed with the faint sound of Mila’s white noise machine down the hall in Harrisons bedroom. It made everything feel strangely intimate.
Safe.
Safer than the couch had earlier when you cracked yourself open and told Cassie of your past but now you two were in her bed.
Cassie laid stretched out on her stomach beside you, chin propped up against her forearm and pillow as she watched you carefully. Not in a pressuring way. Never in a pressuring way. Just attentive. Like she was trying to memorize every expression that crossed your face before you could hide it from her.
You sat against the headboard with your knees bent slightly, fingers twisting nervously in the sleeve of your hoodie.
“I do want this with you, Cass,” you finally whispered.
Your voice was so quiet she almost thought she imagined it.
Cassie’s eyes softened immediately.
But you still couldn’t look at her.
Your gaze stayed glued somewhere near the blankets pooled around your lap, your breathing uneven like you were bracing for impact.
“But…” Your throat tightened. “I can’t have this with you without telling you what I know I need to.”
Cassie shifted slightly, slow enough not to startle you. One hand slid across the comforter until her fingers brushed yours.
“You don’t have to rush. You did so good earlier,” she murmured.
You swallowed hard.
Her fingers curled gently around your hand before bringing it to her lips. The kiss she pressed to your knuckles was absentminded. Tender. Like affection came naturally to her when it came to you.
“We have all day and all night,” she reassured softly. “I’m listening.”
That finally made you look at her.
Just for a second.
Your eyes scanned her face carefully, almost suspiciously, like you were waiting to find hesitation hidden somewhere inside her expression. Regret. Doubt. Discomfort.
But Cassie only looked patient.
Open.
So painfully open it made your chest ache.
“I’m bad at receiving care,” you admitted quietly. “Any kind of care.”
Cassie stayed silent, letting you keep going.
“And I know it’s a bad habit but…” You laughed nervously under your breath. “It’s like if I accept someone taking care of me, then I’m also accepting that I’m a burden to them.”
The words came out rushed at the end, like you hated hearing them aloud.
Cassie’s brows pulled together instantly.
“Y/n—”
“And I don’t want to feel like that anymore,” you continued quickly, your voice shakier now. “I really don’t. During the pregnancy and after the baby shower I actually started working on it. Like genuinely trying. I was talking more, letting people help me with things, letting myself… be around everyone.”
You exhaled hard through your nose.
“But then my parents showed up at the hospital and it just—” You shook your head, frustrated tears already stinging your eyes. “It felt like all the progress I made got blown up by like… a million childhood trauma bombs.”
Cassie blinked at you.
Then, despite herself, she snorted.
“Trauma bombs?” she repeated, trying not to smile.
You groaned immediately, hiding your face in embarrassment.
“I don’t know.”
“No, no.” Cassie laughed softly now, warm and breathy. “That was actually a pretty accurate description.”
Your own laugh slipped out quietly, fragile but real.
The tension eased just enough for you to breathe again.
Cassie reached over then, resting her hand carefully against your thigh. Her thumb stroked back and forth slowly through the fabric of your sweatpants.
Your eyes flickered down to her hand automatically before lifting back to her face.
“You’ve done so good though,” she said softly.
You shook your head immediately.
“No—”
“Yes.” Her tone turned firmer. “I mean it.”
The seriousness in her voice made you still.
“You aren’t the same woman that walked into the ER a few years ago avoiding eye contact with literally everybody.” Her lips twitched slightly. “Do you know how intimidating you were?”
Your nose scrunched faintly. “I was not intimidating.”
“Baby, you glared at Abbott for offering you a granola bar.”
“He interrupted my charting.”
Cassie laughed quietly. “Exactly.”
You tried not to smile.
“But that’s my point.” Her voice softened again. “There was a time where none of us really knew you. We knew your work. Your intelligence. Your skill. We knew you were brilliant and scary and weirdly good at trauma procedures—”
“Weirdly?”
“You’re like a machine in the trauma bay,” she defended.
You rolled your eyes softly.
“But now…” Cassie continued, her gaze growing gentler.
“Now everyone knows you. The real you. The one that stays late to help the nurses. The one that cries over NICU babies. The one that keeps snacks in her locker for med students because she remembers what it felt like to forget to eat during shifts.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“And we love you,” she said quietly.
“I love you, Y/n.”
The words hit you so suddenly your breath caught.
Your entire body went still.
Cassie watched it happen in real time. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your lips parted soundlessly. The way you looked almost overwhelmed by the confession.
“…Love?” you whispered.
Barely audible.
Cassie nodded without hesitation.
“You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met.” Her voice stayed calm, steady, certain. “You’re gorgeous, you’re kind, you’re funny in that really dry way that catches me off guard every single time, you’re smart as hell, you’re an incredible doctor—”
“It’s barely been two months,” you interrupted weakly.
Cassie frowned slightly.
“What?”
“Since Mila was born.”
Understanding softened her features instantly.
“Oh.” She moved closer. “Baby.”
You looked embarrassed suddenly, like you regretted saying it at all.
“You gave birth less than two months ago,” Cassie continued gently, “but you were being a mother long before that.”
You stared at her quietly.
“You baby proofed the apartment before you were even showing. You had pediatric appointments scheduled months ahead of time. You researched car seats like your life depended on it.” She smiled softly. “You bought tiny socks and cried about them for twenty minutes.”
“They were really small.”
“I know.” She grinned. “And you wrote in that journal constantly.”
Your expression changed immediately.
“…How did you know about the journal?”
Cassie’s smile softened into something fonder.
“You used to sit in the nursery late at night writing.”
Your eyes widened.
“You saw that?”
—
One night, when Cassie had stayed over while Harrison was spending the weekend at Chad’s, she’d woken up in the middle of the night to an empty bed.
At first she thought you were in the bathroom.
She’d called your name softly, voice still thick with sleep, but there was no answer.
The bathroom light was off.
That was when she noticed the faint glow spilling from the cracked nursery door.
Cassie remembered padding quietly down the hallway, and finding you curled into the rocking chair by the window with one of the quilts youd brought draped over your legs.
The room had looked soft around you.
Moonlight lit the edges of your face while your hand moved quickly across the pages of a worn brown leather journal balanced against your thigh. Every now and then you’d pause to think, absently rubbing your palm over your stomach before writing again.
You looked so focused.
So full of love already.
Cassie remembered leaning quietly against the doorway just watching you for a moment longer than she probably should have.
Admiring you.
The curve of your stomach beneath one of her old t-shirts.
The sleepy crease between your brows.
The gentle sway of the rocking chair.
The way you looked completely consumed by the tiny life growing inside you.
Cassie had almost interrupted you.
Almost.
But something about the moment felt private in a sacred kind of way.
So instead she’d gone back to bed and pretended she hadn’t seen anything at all.
After that, though, she noticed the journal everywhere.
At the kitchen table while you drank tea.
Balanced beside patient charts during slower shifts.
Tucked beside you on the couch.
Held against your chest before bed.
She never asked about it.
Because she figured whatever was written inside belonged only to you.
—
“Yeah,” Cassie said softly now. “I saw.”
You looked stunned.
“I didn’t read it,” she added quickly. “I swear.”
“I know.” Your voice came out quieter than before.
Cassie’s thumb brushed gently against your thigh again.
“And I know how much being a good mom means to you,” she said. “So when I say you already are one, I need you to believe me.”
Emotion climbed painfully into your throat.
“And coming from a mediocre mom,” Cassie joked lightly, “you’re doing pretty well, baby.”
You laughed wetly through the tears gathering in your eyes.
“I mean it.” Her smile softened again. “You’re amazing with Harrison too. That kid adores you.”
“He’s easy to love.”
“Still.” Cassie grinned. “I’m pretty sure he likes your house more than Chad’s and mine combined.”
That pulled a real smile from you.
The kind that made Cassie feel warm all over.
Silence settled between you after that.
Not awkward.
Just full.
You sniffled quietly before whispering, “I love you too.”
Cassie’s expression changed instantly.
Like something inside her cracked open.
“A lot,” you admitted shakily. “I think I always had like… a work crush on you.”
Cassie barked out a laugh.
“A work crush?”
“Shut up.” You laughed embarrassedly. “I wasn’t really into dating. More of a one night stand to release tension kind of person.”
Cassie raised a brow immediately.
“Oh? So what, you wanted me to be a one night stand?”
“God, no.” Your answer came so fast it made her grin. “No, I wanted more.”
The honesty in your voice made her chest tighten.
“And I still want more,” you whispered. “So much more with you.”
Cassie sat up then, slowly moving until she was directly in front of you.
Close enough that your knees brushed hers.
You watched her carefully, your breathing already beginning to change.
“I’m fucked up, Cass,” you admitted suddenly, voice trembling again. “And I don’t want to ruin this. Or ruin things for the baby or Harrison.”
Cassie’s face softened immediately.
“You have shitty parents,” she said gently. “And I’m a recovering addict.”
You looked down.
“But we also have two amazing kids,” she continued. “And we’re both good doctors. And you—” Her fingers tilted your chin upward carefully. “You are not broken.”
Your eyes shimmered.
“It genuinely hurts me,” she confessed quietly, “when you disappear back into the version of yourself the world forced you to become.”
Your breathing stuttered.
“Because you don’t live there anymore.” Her forehead nearly touched yours now. “You’re here. With me. With Mila. With your friends. With us.”
The word us nearly undid you.
“I really like you, Cassie McKay,” you whispered.
You nodded shakily.
“And I love you, Y/n L/n.”
Cassie smiled instantly.
The weight in your chest finally cracked apart after that.
Not all at once.
But enough to breathe.
Enough to lean closer without fear swallowing you whole.
You both stayed there staring at each other for a long moment, the air between you growing heavier by the second.
Your eyes dropped to her mouth unconsciously.
Cassie noticed immediately.
A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as she watched the need slowly melt into your expression.
“What?” she whispered teasingly.
“Hm?” Your voice sounded breathless.
Her eyes darkened slightly.
“What do you want?”
The question shattered whatever restraint you had left.
You grabbed the front of her shirt and kissed her hard.
Cassie made a soft surprised sound against your lips before immediately kissing you back, one hand sliding into your hair as her other instinctively landed on your waist when you climbed into her lap, the tiny whimper that left you as she tightened her hold on your hair went straight to her head.
“Jesus,” she breathed against your mouth.
You kissed her like you were starving for it.
Messy and needy and completely overwhelmed with emotion.
Cassie tried to keep up, kissing you back hard for a few seconds before she finally pulled away to catch her breath, chest rising sharply.
But the second she moved back, you chased after her immediately with a frustrated sound, trying to reconnect your lips.
Cassie laughed softly under her breath, catching your face gently before you could.
“Hey, hey,” she murmured, trying to pull your attention back to her.
Your breathing was shaky.
Fast.
“Please,” you begged quietly.
The desperation written across your face made something in Cassie’s chest twist painfully.
You looked completely unraveled.
Flushed cheeks. Swollen lips. Wide eyes fixed on hers like she was the only thing grounding you to the earth right now.
Cassie swore softly beneath her breath.
“Fuck,” she whispered, almost more to herself than to you. “Do you know what you look like right now?”
“Cass,” you whined, trying to lean in again.
The sound nearly destroyed her composure.
Still, she forced herself to stay steady, one hand sliding up to hold your jaw carefully so you’d focus on her.
“You wanna do this,” she said softly, voice lower now, “you gotta stay quiet so we don’t wake the baby.”
That immediately grounded you a little.
Your eyes flickered toward the hallway for half a second before landing back on her face.
You nodded quickly.
Cassie’s expression softened at how hard you were trying.
“There she is,” she teased gently. “Thought I lost you for a second.”
You huffed out a breathless little laugh, embarrassed, before grabbing lightly at the front of her shirt again.
“C’mere,” you whispered.
Cassie smiled helplessly at that.
Then she took your face in both hands and kissed you deeply, guiding you backward against the mattress carefully so you wouldn’t fall awkwardly onto the pillows.
The kiss was slower this time.
Still intense.
Still emotional.
But softer around the edges.
Cassie kissed you like she was trying to reassure you of every single thing she’d said moments before. One hand stayed cradling your jaw while the other rubbed slowly along your side, grounding you every time your breathing hitched.
And when you made another tiny sound against her lips, she couldn’t help smiling into the kiss.
“So needy,” she whispered teasingly.
Your face immediately burned.
“Shut up.”
Cassie laughed quietly, forehead dropping against yours for a moment.
“Can’t,” she murmured. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
got a few requests for something sort of like this in my inbox, so here ya go!
Mornings like this weren’t exactly your favorite. You were facing a 12-hour holiday shift at PTMC just after completing one the day before. You were beat and wanted nothing more than to snooze your alarm just one more time. But your girlfriend, Cassie, was good about getting you out of bed on the difficult mornings. On days when you both worked the same shift, you had a deal: she’d make breakfast and coffee and you’d drive.
You pulled your car into a spot in the PTMC parking garage, turning off the ignition as you looked at your girlfriend, holding your hand out to her. She smiled and put her hand in yours.
“Ready?” She asked. You nodded your head. After getting out of the car, she stopped you after you’d grabbed your bag out of the trunk, giving you a long, languid kiss. You arched your eyebrow at the redhead.
“What was that for?”
Cassie shrugged. “I dunno, probably won’t get to do that for another 12 hours, so.”
You laughed, pulling her close to you. “We got this.”
------
The Pitt, as always, was a flurry of chaos. You and Cassie were barely even able to put your things away in the locker room before Ellis grabbed you both for hand offs. The first few hours of the shift flew by with all of the traffic coming in and out of the ER, and you knew it would only get more chaotic as the day went on.
Cassie had spent the majority of her morning with some lighter, easier cases. She was circling back to the east side of the ER to check on a patient who’d come in with what ended up being a sprained ankle.
“How’s it going over here, Mr Hancock?” Cassie asked, rubbing sanitizer into her hands. The patient looked at Cassie and smiled.
“Better now,” Brian replied.
Cassie laughed softly as she pulled the scans out of the folder she brought. “The x-ray is back on your foot, and it’s your lucky day, no fracture.” She held the film up to the light so Brian could see. “So, ACE wrap, ice, rest, elevate, and you can take ibuprofen if you need it.” Cassie put the scans back in the folder and handed them over to the patient.
“…So that’s it?” He asked.
Cassie looked at him, a little confused. “Well, if it’s too painful to bear weight, we can give you crutches to use for a day or two.”
“So I won’t be seeing you again?” Brian said, giving Cassie a look.
Cassie smiled and looked down, fully understanding now that he was hitting on her.
“Uh…no but…it was nice meeting you Brian. My colleague Princess here will give you those crutches and some extra ACE wrap.” As Cassie turned to walk away, Brian tried one last time.
“You know, I was planning to go down to the pier tonight, to watch the fireworks. Maybe around…9:00? Not sure what time your shift ends but I thought maybe we could…?”
Cassie stopped and gave Princess a look, who smiled and shrugged her shoulders. She let out a small chuckle as she turned back to him. “I’m flattered Brian, really, but I’m uh, I’m actually in a relationship.”
It was Brian’s turn to laugh now. “Fair enough, Dr McKay, I just figured I’d shoot my shot. For what it’s worth, he’s a lucky guy.”
“Actually uh, she’s a lucky lady,” Cassie said. “She’s actually, right over there.” She motioned to you standing at the central desks, filling out your charts from the morning.
Brian nodded his head and held out his fist to Cassie. “Nice work, Dr McKay.” Cassie laughed and fist bumped Brian.
------
It was around 11:00 am now. You sat in the break room alone eating the yogurt you’d brought from home. It was the first time you were off your feet since your shift had begun at 6:00 am. Cassie walked into the room and plopped down in the chair next to you, sighing, grabbing the bag of trail mix you were planning on digging into next.
“Hi, love,” she said, leaning over and giving you a quick kiss on the head.
“Hi,” you replied giving her a sly smile. Cassie raised her brow.
“What?” She said through a mouthful of peanuts and raisins.
“Little birdie told me you got asked on a date tonight,” you said, finishing your yogurt.
Cassie rolled her eyes. “Oh my god, I’m gonna kill Princess.”
“Can’t keep anything a secret in the Pitt babe,” you joked, getting up to toss your yogurt container in the trash. “Look I think it’s cute! You should be flattered. And how lucky am I that I get to be dating the hot doctor in the ER?”
“Listen when I told him that I was with you, he fist bumped me and told me ‘nice work,’ so if anything you should be flattered,” Cassie retorted. She also stood to throw away the empty bag of trail mix. You gave her a look.
“I was gonna eat that, by the way,” you said, crossing your arms and stepping closer to her. You brushed her bangs out of her face.
“Yeah well, I guess I’ll just have to make it up to you tonight,” she said. “After my date, obviously.”
“Oh yeah, obviously,” you said, laughing. At that moment, Dana came into the break room, eyeing the two of you.
“Hey, lovebirds, if you’re not too busy, we could use a little extra help out here. Kid with a major trauma from messing with fireworks and hospice patient with a broken femur both en route.”
Both you and Cassie sprang into action, giving each other one final smile before heading back into the chaos of the ER.
Idk if you’re accepting requests rn but I literally had such a horrible day at work yesterday and I wanted to request something with Cassie and like fem!reader coming home to Cassie and just being completely exhausted and completely just overwhelmed and whatever and just wanting to be held by Cassie….maybe some smut it’s really up to you :)))
you feel your head buzzing,, moments of your work replaying in your head constantly as you scoop out your keys,,, it somehow feels like hours until you manage to dig them out of your bag. it's as if everything is programmed to frustrate you, and go wrong today. a load groan of yours radiates of the apartment walls once you enter,, before you croak out your girlfriend's name weakly.
you hear her footsteps shuffle towards you at an alarmingly fast speed,, before she's standing right in front of you. mumbling a drawed out 'baby' that leads you to believe she saw through your emotional well being in a matter of seconds. steady hands quickly work on lifting the bag of your shoulder, the thumb of her other hand lazily massaging a tense spot on your upper back.
"i made dinner for you," she shared, still slowly rubbing that soreness away, all while softly leading you to the kitchen. "harrison's already in bed, it's late." she sets down your bag, gesturing for you to take a seat.
she heats up a portion,, as comfortable silence fills the room. besides the small clicking of the microwave.
cassie watching you eat . . (ㅅ´ ˘ `) she has this loving look on her face,, she loves taking care of you. also thinking of her gently careesing any skin she can reach, wheather it be your arm or your thigh while telling you various stories from her work at the ER. when you're way to exhausted to talk.
her helping you shower,, softly rubbing the soap in. and when your eyes get heavy, and you almost fall asleep on her shoulder as the warm water envelopes the both of you. she'll tenderly help you put your pjs on,,
cuddling while she runs her fingers through your hair,, lulling you to sleep with the promise of "tommorow being a better day".
Summary: When a disagreement finds a solution at home.
Word Count: 8.7k
Warnings: MDNI 18+, no use of Y/N, mentions, Smut
A/N: Also, please, y'all, any comments are so appreciated! I love hearing your thoughts and feelings on my fics!
Masterlist
The emergency department after midnight had its own climate.
Not quiet. Never quiet.
But the noise changed after midnight. It thinned out around the edges, sharpened in odd places, became the soundtrack of people running on training and caffeine instead of rest. Monitors chimed from half-curtained rooms—a persistent electronic chorus that never quite synchronized, each machine singing its own rhythm. Phones rang unanswered for one beat too long before someone snatched them up mid-ring, voices clipped and efficient. Wheels rattled over tile with that particular hollow sound that only hospital corridors produced, echoing off walls the color of institutional beige that someone had once optimistically called "warm sand." A man near triage loudly informed security that he had "rights as a taxpayer," his voice carrying that specific pitch of someone who'd been waiting three hours and had reached the end of whatever patience he'd walked in with. Somewhere deeper in the unit, a toddler cried with the kind of stamina only toddlers possessed—that relentless, hiccupping wail that suggested they could keep going indefinitely if necessary.
The fluorescent lights made everyone look more exhausted than they already were. They cast a greenish pall over skin, deepened the shadows under eyes, turned the living into something closer to ghosts. The air smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee and something else—something metallic and organic that you could never quite name but recognized instantly as the scent of emergency medicine at 1 a.m.
You stepped off the elevator from pediatrics with your white coat half-buttoned, badge clipped crooked, and the consult page still glowing on your phone. Your feet ached in a way that suggested you'd been standing far longer than sitting today. There was a smear of something purple on your sleeve—probably marker from the art therapy session in 3 West, though you couldn't remember exactly when that had happened. Time moved strangely in hospitals. Hours collapsed or stretched depending on what filled them.
ED consult: 7M fever x5 days, vomiting, tachycardia, abdominal pain. Please evaluate. Physician: Santos, T.
You had read it three times.
Not because Trinity's name was unfamiliar.
Because it never felt neutral in the hospital.
Down here, she was Dr. Santos. Emergency medicine resident. Fast hands. Sharp mind. The kind of doctor who could run a code with the calm efficiency of someone conducting an orchestra, every movement precise, every order clear. Adult ER most nights—chest pain, strokes, overdoses, traumas rolling in from MVAs with that particular chaos that came with mangled metal and shattered glass, psych holds that required security and soft voices in equal measure, septic elderly patients waiting on beds that never came fast enough because the hospital was always, always full.
Children came through the ER, yes.
But children were not the center of her world at work.
They were yours.
And at home, she was Mumu.
The woman who let your daughter paint yogurt on the highchair tray because "sensory development matters," even though it meant twenty minutes of cleanup afterward. The woman who could settle Alma from a full tantrum in thirty seconds flat by scooping her up and whispering nonsense in her ear—made-up words in a sing-song voice that somehow worked every single time. The woman who pretended she was bad with kids except for the fact that she was extraordinary with one very specific child. Who knew exactly how Alma liked her bedtime stories (with voices, always voices, and the dragon had to sound Scottish for reasons neither of you understood). Who could negotiate with a two-year-old about vegetables with the same focused intensity she brought to difficult patients.
You crossed into the unit, your shoes squeaking slightly on the freshly mopped floor near the entrance. Someone had spilled something earlier—there was a yellow caution sign still up, though the floor looked dry now.
Jenna, one of the nurses, spotted you from triage. She was in her mid-forties, had been working this ER for longer than you'd been out of med school, and had the kind of unflappable competence that made her invaluable during the worst shifts. Her scrubs were covered in cartoon cats. She'd once told you they were a psychological weapon—patients underestimated you when you wore cartoon scrubs, and sometimes that was useful.
"Room nine," she called, pointing with a pen. "And good luck."
You slowed, adjusting your stethoscope where it had twisted around your neck. "Why luck?"
Jenna grimaced theatrically, the expression pulling at the tired lines around her mouth. "Because your wife is in a mood."
"She usually is."
"Tonight it has edges."
Then she vanished behind a curtain before you could ask more, leaving you standing in the middle of the corridor with that statement hanging in the air like a warning flare.
You found Trinity outside room nine.
She stood with a tablet in one hand, scrub sleeves shoved to her forearms in that way she did when she was deep into a shift and had stopped caring about appearances. Dark hair escaping the bun she had probably secured hours ago and forgotten about ever since—there were pieces falling around her face, one strand caught against her cheek. There was a coffee stain near the hem of her scrub top, a dark bloom against the navy fabric. Her jaw was set in that particular way that meant she was either thinking hard or annoyed, and sometimes both.
She looked tired in the very specific ER-doctor way: held upright by discipline alone. You could see it in the set of her shoulders, the way she held herself with perfect posture despite the fact that she'd probably been on her feet for twelve hours straight. There was a tightness around her eyes that you recognized—the look she got when she was running on fumes but couldn't afford to show it.
When she saw you, something in her face softened.
Just for a moment—a brief flicker of recognition that went beyond professional. The corner of her mouth almost curved. Her eyes warmed slightly.
Then closed.
The walls went back up so smoothly you might have imagined that moment of softness.
"Thanks for coming down," she said.
Professional. Neutral. Too neutral.
The voice she used with consultants she didn't know well. The voice that was perfectly polite and completely impersonal. You hated that voice more than you hated her irritation, because irritation at least meant she was letting you see something real.
"Tell me about him."
She handed you the tablet, and your fingers brushed hers briefly. Her skin was cold—she always ran cold during long shifts, something about standing still in air-conditioned rooms between bursts of activity.
"Seven-year-old male. Fever for five days. Intermittent vomiting. Poor PO intake. Abdominal pain worse tonight. Heart rate one-fifty in triage while crying. Temp 103.1 rectal. Dry mucous membranes on exam. Soft abdomen on my exam. No focal RLQ tenderness. No guarding. No rebound. Lungs clear bilaterally. No rash. No meningismus. No photophobia."
Her recitation was crisp, clinical, complete. You scanned the tablet while she talked, taking in the vital-signs flow sheet. The heart rate had come down slightly since triage but was still sitting at 140. Respiratory rate elevated. Blood pressure on the lower end of normal for age.
"What have you given?"
"Tylenol fifteen minutes ago. Zofran. Started maintenance fluids—he's down about ten percent based on mom's report of his normal weight."
"What labs?"
"None yet."
You looked up.
Trinity's jaw flexed, a tiny movement that you wouldn't have caught if you didn't know her face as well as you knew your own.
"I wanted a reassessment after fluids and antipyresis before sticking a terrified seven-year-old ten times."
The words were measured, but there was something underneath them. Something defensive.
"He's had five days of fever."
"I can count."
"Then why no labs?"
"Because I was treating the child in front of me, not the differential in your head."
There it was.
The first spark.
The thing that had been building since you walked off the elevator, maybe since before that. You could feel it in the air between you—that particular tension that came from being married to someone you also sometimes had to work with. The collision of personal and professional, the difficulty of separating Dr. Santos from Trinity, from Mumu, from your wife.
You handed back the tablet, your movements careful and controlled.
"I'm going in."
Room nine was dimmer than the hallway, and the change in light made you blink as you entered.
The overhead lights were off, leaving only the exam lamp—currently angled away toward the wall—and the blue-green glow from the monitor. Someone had tried to make it less frightening in here. There was a poster on the wall showing cartoon animals in various states of medical examination: a bear getting a blood pressure cuff, a rabbit with a stethoscope, a giraffe with a thermometer. The room smelled like fever sweat and that particular sour smell of a child who'd been vomiting, underneath the ever-present antiseptic.
Ethan lay curled on his side under a thin hospital blanket—the kind that was more symbolic than functional, white with those thin blue stripes. His cheeks were flushed bright red against pale skin, that hectic fever flush that made children look like dolls. Hair damp against his forehead, dark with sweat. He had his eyes closed, but you could tell he wasn't sleeping—his breathing was too irregular, his body too tense. An IV ran into his left hand, secured with enough tape to survive a nuclear blast, the way pediatric IVs always were. The bag of normal saline hung above him, dripping steadily.
His mother stood immediately when you entered, moving with the jerky quickness of someone who'd been sitting still too long while anxious. She was younger than you'd expected—maybe early thirties, wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt that suggested she'd been pulled from home in a hurry. No makeup. Hair in a messy ponytail. The kind of exhausted that came from five days of a sick child and probably not much sleep.
"Hi," you said gently, keeping your voice low and warm. "I'm one of the pediatric doctors. I came down to take another look at Ethan."
Her relief was instant and visible, washing over her face like a wave.
"Oh, thank God." Her voice cracked slightly. "I've been so worried. He's never been sick like this. The fever won't break, and he keeps saying his stomach hurts but then also his chest, and I don't—I don't know what's wrong and nobody seems—"
She cut herself off, glancing toward the door where Trinity had just stepped in behind you.
You felt that glance like a physical thing.
You hated that reaction—not because the mother was wrong to feel relieved, but because you knew Trinity heard it too. Heard the implication that the pediatrician was here now, the real help had arrived, as if Trinity hadn't been managing this child perfectly competently before you showed up.
You moved to the bedside, pulling the stethoscope from around your neck.
"I'm going to examine him, okay? Ethan, buddy, can you roll onto your back for me?"
He moved slowly, reluctantly, the way sick children did. His eyes opened—glassy and unfocused with fever. Brown eyes, you noticed. There were tear tracks on his cheeks.
"I know you don't feel good," you said quietly, warming the stethoscope between your palms. "I'm going to listen to your heart and your belly. The stethoscope might be a little cold even though I warmed it up. Sometimes they're just rude like that."
A tiny flicker of something—not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment.
You examined him carefully and methodically, aware of Trinity standing near the door, watching.
Heart rate fast—you could feel it under your fingers when you checked his pulse, that rapid flutter that was too quick even accounting for fever. Radial pulse present but thready. You counted silently. Definitely 140s, regular rhythm at least. Respiratory rate elevated, shallow breaths. When you pressed your stethoscope to his chest, his heart sounded like it was running a race—quick and forceful, the S1 and S2 sounds coming so rapidly they almost blurred together.
Lungs clear; Trinity had been right about that. No crackles, no wheezing, air movement equal bilaterally.
Abdomen soft, but you didn't like his color. Didn't like how he winced when you palpated even gently. Didn't like the way he was breathing—not quite labored but not comfortable either.
Cap refill slower than you liked. You pressed on his fingernail and counted. Three seconds. Should be less than two.
When you asked where it hurt, he pointed vaguely to his chest, then to his stomach, the gesture imprecise, like that of children who couldn't quite articulate what they were feeling.
"Does it hurt when you breathe?"
A small nod.
"Does it hurt all the time or just sometimes?"
"All the time." His voice was hoarse, probably from the vomiting.
You straightened, your mind already running through differentials. Five days of fever. Vomiting. Tachycardia out of proportion to fever. Chest pain. Abdominal pain. Decreased perfusion.
Nothing good lived at the end of that list.
You turned to Trinity, keeping your voice low. "He needs labs."
Trinity crossed her arms, and you recognized the posture. Defensive. Preparing for battle. "In a minute."
"Now."
The mother looked between you, and you could see the confusion starting to creep into her expression, the beginning of worry that the doctors were disagreeing about her son.
You softened immediately, turning back to her with a reassuring smile that you didn't entirely feel. "We're going to step outside for one moment, okay? You're doing great. Ethan's doing great. We just need to coordinate the next steps."
Trinity opened the door first, her movements sharp.
You followed, very aware of the mother's eyes on your back.
The hallway outside room nine was loud enough to hide tone, but not words.
The ambient noise of the ER wrapped around you—someone laughing at the nurses' station, a phone ringing insistently, the beep of a monitor alarm from somewhere down the hall, the squeak of gurney wheels. But none of it was loud enough to cover what needed to be said.
"He needs labs now," you said, keeping your voice level but firm.
"He is getting fluids now," Trinity replied, matching your tone exactly.
"That is not mutually exclusive."
"No, but timing matters."
"You're stalling."
Her eyes flashed. "I'm prioritizing."
"He's had five days of fever."
"And screaming vitals in triage because he was terrified."
"And persistent tachycardia now, after Tylenol and fluids."
"He just started fluids twenty minutes ago."
"You know kids compensate until they don't." You kept your voice low but couldn't quite keep the edge out of it. This was pediatrics 101. Children maintained normal blood pressure, normal perfusion, normal everything right up until they couldn't anymore, and then they crashed hard and fast. "His cap refill is three seconds. He's tachycardic. He's been febrile for five days with no clear source."
"And you know every fever child isn't occult myocarditis."
The word hung in the air between you.
You stared at her.
"I didn't say every."
"You implied zebra hunting."
"I implied pediatric pattern recognition."
She laughed once without humor, a sharp exhalation that wasn't really a laugh at all.
"There it is."
"What?"
"The part where peds comes downstairs and assumes the adults forgot how children work."
"That is unfair."
"So is acting like I'm reckless because I mostly see adults."
Her voice dropped lower, and you had to lean in slightly to hear her over the ambient noise. There was something raw in her expression now, something that went beyond this specific patient.
"I know I'm not the pediatrician in this marriage. I don't carry stickers in my pocket. I don't sing through throat swabs. I don't have a drawer full of toys and a voice I use for scared five-year-olds. But do not confuse that with incompetence."
The words landed like a slap.
You felt heat rise behind your ribs, that particular flush of anger mixed with hurt.
"I never called you incompetent."
"No," she said, and her voice was quiet now, almost too quiet. "You just look at me like I need supervision."
Before you could answer—before you could figure out what to say to that, how to untangle the professional from the personal, how to explain that you weren't questioning her competence but you were questioning her judgment on this specific patient—Jenna appeared holding a tray of collection tubes.
She looked between you with the expression of someone who'd walked into a domestic dispute and was deeply regretting her life choices.
"So," she said carefully, "should I get labs or fake my death?"
Both of you answered at once.
"Yes."
Jenna sighed, the sound long-suffering and deeply familiar. "Healthy marriage."
Then she slipped into room nine, leaving you and Trinity standing in the hallway.
Despite yourself, despite the anger still simmering under your skin, you nearly laughed.
Trinity glared at you.
"Don't."
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were thinking it loudly."
The next hour moved fast, the way hospital time did when things were actually wrong.
Labs drawn—Jenna was a magician with pediatric sticks, got the IV on the first try while you distracted Ethan with questions about his favorite video games.
Fluids running at maintenance rate, the pump beeping softly every time you walked past.
Repeat vitals showed improvement in heart rate—down to the 130s—but then drifted worse again 20 minutes later. Back up to 140s. The nurse frowned at the monitor and rechecked manually. Still elevated.
Troponin added to the lab order after your insistence, your voice perhaps sharper than it needed to be when you told the unit coordinator to add it.
BNP added after Trinity suggested it before you could, her voice carefully neutral.
Neither of you commented on the addition.
Neither of you acknowledged that you were thinking the same thing.
You orbited the room in clipped efficiency, two planets in the same solar system, pulled by the same gravity but careful not to collide.
She distracted Ethan during another stick by asking if dinosaurs got fevers, her voice taking on a lighter quality that you recognized from home. "Because I feel like a T-Rex with a fever would be really dramatic about it. Just lying there like 'I'm dying, bring me soup.'"
Ethan had almost smiled.
You calmed the mother, explaining each test in clear but not frightening terms, walking the line between honesty and reassurance.
She called cardiology, her voice crisp and professional on the phone. "This is Dr. Santos in the ED. I need a consult on a seven-year-old with five days of fever and persistent tachycardia. Troponin pending."
You rechecked perfusion, pressing on Ethan's fingernails again, his toenails, looking at his mucous membranes. Still dry. Still pale.
She adjusted fluids, increasing the rate slightly.
You caught each other reaching for the same chart twice, your hands nearly colliding over the tablet.
The first time, you both pulled back.
The second time, Trinity's fingers brushed yours and stayed there for half a second longer than necessary.
At 1:42 a.m., the first abnormal troponin result came back.
You saw it first, refreshing the lab screen for the third time in five minutes.
Your stomach dropped.
Troponin: 2.3
Normal was less than 0.04.
Trinity was beside you before you spoke, appearing at your shoulder like she'd been summoned. She read the screen once.
Then again, as if the number might change if she looked at it differently.
"Damn."
"Yep."
"No victory lap," she said, her voice tight.
"Wasn't planning one."
"Good."
She was already moving, and you recognized this version of Trinity—the one who appeared during real emergencies, when there was no time for ego or argument, only action.
"Jenna—repeat EKG now. Get cardiology on the phone and tell them we have a troponin level of 2.3. I want bedside ultrasound in nine."
You were moving too, pulling up the previous EKG on the computer, comparing it to the vitals trend.
No more fight.
Only medicine.
Only the thing you were both good at, the thing that had brought you together in the first place—this shared language of emergency, of pattern recognition, of knowing when to move fast.
The room changed shape instantly.
Suddenly there were more people—the ultrasound tech wheeling in the machine, Jenna back with the EKG leads, another nurse you didn't recognize helping to reposition Ethan.
The mother began crying the second more people entered, that immediate understanding that more people meant something was wrong, meant this wasn't just a virus, wasn't just something that would resolve with Tylenol and time.
You moved to her side immediately, putting yourself between her and the organized chaos happening at the bedside.
"We're moving quickly because we found something helpful," you said clearly, making sure she could hear you over the activity. "That's good. It means we know where to focus. It means we're not guessing anymore."
She nodded, but the tears kept coming. "What did you find?"
"His heart is working harder than it should be. We think he might have inflammation around his heart muscle—it's called myocarditis. It can happen after viral infections. The good news is we caught it, and we know how to treat it."
Trinity was at the bedside, her hands gentle despite the urgency as she helped position the EKG leads on Ethan's chest.
"Ethan, buddy, stickers on your chest. You don't have to like it."
He whimpered, overwhelmed by the sudden attention, the number of hands touching him.
"Honestly," she said, her voice dry, "same. I hate stickers on my chest too."
The nurse snorted.
You caught Trinity's eye across the room, and something passed between you—not quite an apology, not quite forgiveness, but acknowledgment. We're on the same side. We're doing this together.
The EKG printed with that distinctive mechanical sound, the paper scrolling out in a long ribbon.
Trinity grabbed it the second it finished, her eyes scanning the tracing with the speed of someone who'd read thousands of these.
She handed it straight to you without a word.
You scanned it, your heart sinking further.
Sinus tachycardia. Diffuse ST elevations. T wave changes.
"Myocarditis," you said quietly.
"Likely," she confirmed, already reaching for the phone.
"PICU."
"Already arranging transfer."
The ultrasound tech had the probe on Ethan's chest now, the screen showing the grainy black and white image of his heart. You moved closer to look. Even without being a cardiologist, you could see the problem—the left ventricle wasn't contracting the way it should. The movement was sluggish, inefficient.
Decreased ejection fraction. His heart was struggling.
You moved together then with the frightening ease of people who knew both medicine and each other deeply. You anticipated what she needed before she asked. She handed you things before you reached for them. When the mother asked if Ethan would be okay, you both turned to answer, and Trinity gestured for you to take it—acknowledging without words that this was your specialty, that the mother would hear it better from the pediatrician.
When Ethan's mother started apologizing for not bringing him sooner, her voice breaking over the words, both of you answered at once.
"This is not your fault."
You met eyes over the bed.
Trinity's expression was soft now, the defensiveness from earlier completely gone.
Then you both went back to work.
By 2:31 a.m., Ethan was upstairs in PICU.
Stable for now—as stable as a seven-year-old with acute myocarditis could be. Cardiology had seen him. The PICU team had taken over with their specialized monitoring, their careful medication titrations. The mother and father—who'd arrived somewhere in the chaos, still in his work clothes from a night shift—were with him now, sitting on either side of his bed in that vigil parents kept.
The room downstairs sat empty except for rumpled sheets and a dinosaur sticker still stuck to the bed rail, a small green T-Rex that Jenna must have given him at some point.
You stood in the doorway staring at it, your body finally registering how tired you were. Your feet ached. Your back hurt. There was a headache building behind your eyes that suggested you were overdue for water and food and probably sleep, though sleep seemed like a distant fantasy.
Trinity came to stand beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touched.
The ER kept humming behind you as if nothing had happened. Someone laughed at the nurses' station. A phone rang. A new patient was being wheeled past toward triage, an elderly woman clutching her chest. The machine kept turning, indifferent to individual dramas.
Finally, Trinity said, "You were right."
You kept your eyes on the bed, on that dinosaur sticker.
"He was sick."
"You were right sooner."
"I don't need that."
"I know."
"Then why say it?"
"Because I was defensive." She paused, and you could feel her looking at you even though you weren't looking back. "Because you were right and I didn't want you to be right, and that's a terrible reason to delay labs on a sick kid."
You turned then.
She looked wrecked now that adrenaline had worn off. Hair half fallen out of the bun, pieces sticking to her neck. Dark circles under her eyes, made worse by the fluorescent lights. Coffee stain still there on her scrubs. A new stain too—blood, probably from an IV start, small and dark near her collar.
But her eyes were clear. Honest.
"I wasn't trying to embarrass you," you said quietly.
"I know."
"I was trying not to miss something."
"I know that too." She swallowed, and you watched her throat move. "I hate when you talk to me like I'm not good at my job."
That landed cleanly, precisely, right in the center of your chest.
"I don't think that."
"Sometimes you act like because you're the pediatrician, you outrank me on anything child-shaped."
"That's not—" You stopped. Took a breath. "That's not fair."
"Neither is you using Alma as proof."
Your brows rose. "Excuse me?"
"When she's sick," Trinity said, voice lower now, more vulnerable than angry, the walls coming down in that way they only did when she was too tired to maintain them, "you answer like a doctor first. You go into doctor mode. Sometimes I don't need a consult. Sometimes I need my wife."
The fight lost all its oxygen at once.
You stepped closer, into her space, close enough to smell the coffee and antiseptic that clung to her scrubs.
"You could tell me that."
"I shouldn't need triplicate paperwork to tell my wife I want her to be my wife instead of my colleague."
Despite everything—the exhaustion, the tension, the fight that had been simmering all night—you laughed.
Her mouth twitched, that almost-smile that meant she was fighting it.
"There she is," she murmured.
You reached up and touched the fold in her scrub collar, straightening it even though it didn't need straightening. Your fingers brushed the skin of her neck, and she inhaled slightly.
"I'm always on your side."
She swallowed again, and when she spoke her voice was rough.
"I know."
The overhead speaker crackled to life. "Dr. Santos to triage. Dr. Santos to triage."
Neither of you moved.
The speaker repeated the call.
Still neither of you moved.
Then Trinity said quietly, her eyes on your mouth, "I'd like to continue this argument at home."
"Why?"
Her eyes slid over your face, then lower, down your throat, across your collarbones, then back up.
"Because some parts are better horizontal."
You nearly choked on air.
"Trinity."
"What?"
"We're at work."
"Yes."
"You're impossible."
"You're flushed." She reached up and touched your cheek with one finger; her hand was still cold, but her touch burned. "Right here. You get pink right here when you're thinking about me."
"I'm not—"
"Liar."
The speaker called for her again, more insistent this time.
Trinity sighed and stepped back, the loss of her proximity immediate and physical.
"I have to—"
"I know."
"But after—"
"I know."
She looked at you for one more long moment, and there was promise in that look, heat and intent and something that made your stomach flip.
Then she turned and walked toward triage, and you watched her go, your heart doing something complicated in your chest.
The drive home felt like punishment.
Every red light took too long, the seconds ticking past with excruciating slowness. You sat at the intersection of Fifth and Penn, watching the light stay red for what felt like hours.
Every slow car ahead of you felt personal. A sedan doing exactly the speed limit in the left lane. A truck that couldn't seem to decide if it was turning or not. A taxi that stopped randomly in the middle of the street to let someone out.
Rain streaked the windshield in silver ribbons, the wipers beating a steady rhythm that did nothing to calm your nerves. The city was suspended in that strange blue-gray pre-dawn light, the sky starting to lighten at the edges but not quite ready to commit to morning. Street lights still on. A few early commuters already on the road. The world caught between night and day.
Trinity drove with both hands on the wheel.
That alone told you how bad it was.
Normally she drove one-handed, casual, the other hand on the gear shift or resting on the center console. But now both hands gripped the wheel at ten and two, her knuckles slightly pale with pressure.
"You're staring," she said, her eyes fixed on the road.
"You're tense."
"I'm driving."
"You're gripping the wheel like it insulted you."
"It did. It's not getting us home fast enough."
At the next red light, she looked over.
Her gaze dipped to your mouth.
Then your throat.
Then lower, tracing the line of your collar, the shape of you under your coat.
Then back to the road when the light turned green.
Your breath caught.
"You did that on purpose."
"I've been at the hospital fourteen hours. Nothing about me is intentional right now."
"Liar."
Her hand slid off the wheel and onto your knee.
Firm.
Warm despite how cold her hands had been earlier.
Her thumb traced a small circle against the inside of your knee, a touch that was simultaneously casual and deliberate.
Then back to the wheel when she had to turn.
"You're evil."
"I'm efficient."
The rain picked up, drumming harder against the roof. The wipers moved faster. Trinity leaned forward slightly, peering through the windshield, and you watched the way the dashboard lights cast shadows across her face. The line of her jaw. The curve of her neck. The way her throat moved when she swallowed.
You were staring again.
She smiled without looking at you.
"I can feel you looking."
"I'm not looking."
"Your eyes are burning holes in the side of my head."
"That's medically impossible."
"And yet."
Another red light. This one is at the turn onto your street.
Trinity's hand found your thigh this time, higher up, and squeezed once before returning to the wheel.
You made a sound that was embarrassing.
"We're almost home," she said, and her voice had dropped into that lower register that meant she was thinking the same things you were thinking.
"Not fast enough."
"Agreed."
The elevator ride up was worse.
Too small.
Too bright.
Too slow.
The building's elevator was ancient, probably original to the 1960s construction, and it moved with the speed of continental drift. You'd complained about it before—when carrying groceries, when Alma was melting down, when you were late for something.
Now you wanted to file a formal complaint with the building management.
Trinity stood on the opposite side of the elevator, her back against the wall, watching you.
Neither of you spoke.
The numbers ticked up with agonizing slowness. Three. Four. Five.
The elevator dinged at each floor, a cheerful sound that felt mocking.
Six. Seven.
Trinity's eyes hadn't left you.
You could feel the weight of her gaze like a physical thing, tracking over you, taking inventory. You knew what she was seeing—the flush that had started in your cheeks and was spreading down your neck. The way your breathing had gone slightly uneven. The way you were very carefully not looking at her because if you looked at her you were going to do something inadvisable in a semi-public elevator.
Eight. Nine.
"You're thinking very loudly," Trinity said.
"I'm not thinking anything."
"You're thinking about what happens when we get inside."
Ten. Eleven.
"I'm thinking about sleep."
"Liar."
Twelve.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened with a mechanical wheeze.
You unlocked the apartment with hands that were not entirely steady, the key scraping against the lock before finding the slot.
The second the door clicked shut behind you, Trinity caught you by the waist and turned you into it.
Her mouth was on yours instantly.
All the restraint she'd worn for hours—through the shift, through the fight, through the careful professionalism of working together, through the agonizing drive home—vanished at once.
You gasped into the kiss and she swallowed the sound, her mouth hot and demanding against yours. Her hands moved to your hips, pulling you flush against her, and you could feel the entire length of her body pressed to yours.
Keys hit the floor with a clatter that neither of you acknowledged.
Her hands moved under your coat, pushing it off your shoulders, and you helped shrug it off without breaking the kiss. It fell somewhere behind you. Your badge followed, the lanyard catching on your collar before you yanked it free.
"You were impossible tonight," she murmured against your mouth, her lips brushing yours as she spoke.
"You were wrong tonight."
"I was never wrong."
"You apologized."
"I was strategically flexible."
You laughed, and she kissed the sound away, her tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your knees weak.
The fight had changed shape.
What had been sharp in the hallway was molten now, transformed into something else entirely. All that tension, all that frustration, all those hours of careful distance—it was fuel now, burning hot and bright between you.
She walked you backward down the hall one slow step at a time, kissing you between breaths, mouths colliding and parting and finding each other again. Her hands were everywhere—your waist, your ribs, your back, sliding under your shirt to find skin.
You hit the bedroom wall with a soft bump that knocked a picture frame slightly crooked.
"There it is," Trinity said, her voice rough.
"What?"
"The smug look you get when you know I'm losing patience."
"I'm not smug."
"You're unbearable."
She kissed you again, harder this time, her teeth catching your bottom lip.
Your hands found the hem of her scrub top and pulled, and she raised her arms to let you drag it over her head. It joined the growing pile of discarded clothing in the hallway.
She stood there in her sports bra and scrub pants, hair completely destroyed now, lips swollen from kissing, and looked at you with eyes that were dark with want.
"Bedroom," you managed.
"Good plan."
The bedroom was dim, curtains half-open to the growing dawn light.
The bed was unmade from this morning—yesterday morning, technically, a lifetime ago. One of Alma's books lay near the pillows, something about a bear and a moon. Backup Bunny was tucked against the headboard, the stuffed rabbit that Alma insisted needed to sleep in your bed when she wasn't sleeping in it herself.
Domestic and intimate all at once.
Trinity tugged her scrub top over her head—you'd already done that in the hallway, you remembered distantly—and tossed it aside. No, wait, that was her sports bra. She was pulling that off now, and you lost your train of thought entirely.
You stopped to look at her.
Messy hair falling around her shoulders now that the bun had finally given up. Flushed mouth. Tired eyes with shadows underneath that spoke of too many long shifts. Beautiful in the rawest possible way—not polished or perfect, but real. Solid. Yours.
She caught you staring.
"What?"
"You're very attractive when furious."
"I'm not furious anymore."
"You pinned me to a wall."
"That was communication."
You laughed, and she used the distraction to push you backward onto the mattress.
You landed with a soft bounce, and then she was climbing over you slowly, deliberately, one knee between your legs and then the other, settling her weight on top of you.
For a moment she only looked at you, propped up on her hands, her hair falling around both of you like a curtain.
Then she kissed you slower this time.
No fight in it now.
Only want.
Only relief.
Only the bone-deep satisfaction of finally, finally being alone together after hours of careful distance.
Her hands moved over your waist, your ribs, your back with the familiarity of someone who knew exactly how to touch you and exactly what each reaction meant. She knew that you were ticklish just below your ribs on the left side. Knew that you liked pressure more than feather-light touches. Knew that if she kissed the spot just below your ear you would make that sound that she loved.
She kissed that spot now, and you made that sound, and she smiled against your skin.
"There it is."
"You're smug."
"I'm knowledgeable. Seven years of research."
Her mouth moved down your neck, tracing the line of your throat, pausing to feel your pulse jumping under her lips. Her hands worked at the buttons of your shirt, clumsy with urgency, and you helped her, fingers tangling together until the shirt was open and she was pushing it off your shoulders.
"You're exhausted," you whispered, even as your hands found the drawstring of her scrub pants.
"I know."
"We could sleep."
"No."
"You need sleep."
"I need this first."
The honesty of it made your chest ache.
You touched the shadows beneath her eyes, gentle, and she turned her head to kiss your palm.
"You ran yourself ragged tonight."
"So did you."
"I got paged into your war zone."
"You arrived hostile."
"I arrived correct."
She rolled her eyes and kissed you again, and you felt her smile against your mouth.
The room quieted around you, the city sounds fading into background noise. Somewhere outside, a car alarm went off and then stopped. A siren wailed in the distance. The building's pipes clanked the way they always did in the morning when other people started their showers.
But in here, there was only the sound of breathing, of fabric sliding against skin, of quiet laughter and softer sighs.
Sheets tangled around your legs as you shifted, pulling her closer. Her skin was warm now, no longer cold from the hospital's air conditioning. You could feel her heartbeat against your chest, still elevated, racing for different reasons now.
Morning light crept slowly higher across the wall, painting everything in shades of gold and rose.
Trinity's hands mapped familiar territory—the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, the soft skin of your inner thigh. She took her time despite the urgency, relearning what she already knew, finding the places that made you gasp and arch into her touch.
"Still with me?" she murmured against your collarbone.
"Where else would I be?"
"You got quiet."
"I'm busy."
"Busy thinking?"
"Busy feeling."
She lifted her head to look at you, and her expression was soft now, open in the way it only was in private. "Good."
You pulled her down into another kiss, deep and slow, your hands sliding into her hair. She made a sound low in her throat and pressed closer, the weight of her body a comfort and a provocation all at once.
At some point, laughter replaced the last of the tension—when she tried to be smooth removing your pants and nearly fell off the bed, when you couldn't get your sports bra unhooked, and she had to help, when you both reached for the same thing and bumped heads.
"Graceful," you said.
"Shut up."
"Very smooth."
"I'm going to leave."
"No you're not."
"You're right, I'm not."
At some point apology became touch, and touch became forgiveness, became reconnection, became the physical manifestation of everything you couldn't quite say in the hospital hallway.
Trinity's mouth found your breast and you arched into the contact, your hands tightening in her hair. She took her time there, lavishing attention until you were squirming beneath her, breath coming faster.
"Trinity—"
"Mm?"
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"You know what."
She lifted her head, eyes dark and pleased. "I want to hear you say it."
"I want you to touch me."
"I am touching you."
"You know where."
Her smile was wicked. "Specific requests get better results."
You would have been annoyed if you weren't so desperate.
"Touch me. Please. Properly."
"Well, since you asked nicely."
Her hand slid down your stomach, over your hip, between your thighs, and you stopped breathing entirely for a moment.
She touched you like she did everything else—with complete focus, total attention, the same intensity she brought to difficult procedures and complex patients. Like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
Her fingers found you wet and ready, and she made a satisfied sound.
"This for me?"
"Who else would it be for?"
"Good answer."
She started slow, relearning your rhythm, finding the pressure and pace that made your hips lift off the bed. You were sensitive, wound tight from hours of tension, and it didn't take long before you were close.
"Look at me," she said quietly.
You opened your eyes—when had you closed them?—and met her gaze.
"There you are," she murmured, and increased the pressure just slightly, changed the angle just enough, and you came apart with her name on your lips.
She worked you through it, gentle now, until you were shaking and oversensitive and pulling her hand away.
Then she was kissing you again, soft and sweet, while you caught your breath.
"Okay?" she asked against your mouth.
"Very okay."
"Good."
You could feel her smiling.
When you could move again, you rolled her onto her back, reversing your positions. She went willingly, settling into the pillows with a satisfied expression.
"Your turn," you said.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
And you did. Wanted to taste her, touch her, take her apart the way she'd just done to you. Wanted to feel her come undone, wanted to be the reason for it.
You kissed down her body, taking your time, pausing to lavish attention on her breasts until she was squirming. Her hands found your hair, not pulling, just holding on.
When you settled between her thighs, she was already breathing hard.
You started slow, teasing, using your tongue in light strokes that made her hips shift restlessly.
"Stop playing," she said, her voice strained.
"I'm not playing. I'm savoring."
"Savor faster."
You laughed against her and she gasped at the sensation.
Then you stopped teasing and gave her what she wanted—firm pressure, steady rhythm, the pattern you'd learned over seven years of practice. You added your fingers, sliding into her easily, and she moaned.
"Yes—like that—don't stop—"
You didn't stop. Kept the same pace, the same pressure, feeling her get closer. Her thighs trembled on either side of your head. Her hands tightened in your hair. Her breathing went ragged.
"I'm—I'm close—"
You hummed acknowledgment and she made a desperate sound.
Then she was coming, her whole body tensing and then releasing, and you worked her through it until she was pushing you away, too sensitive.
You crawled back up her body and she pulled you into a kiss that tasted like both of you, messy and perfect.
"Okay?" you asked, echoing her earlier question.
"So okay."
"Good."
You settled beside her, and she immediately rolled into you, tucking her head under your chin. Her arm draped over your waist, her leg sliding between yours, the full-body contact that she always sought after sex.
For a while neither of you spoke.
The apartment was still except for your breathing gradually slowing, synchronizing.
No monitors.
No pages.
No overhead calls.
Just the woman beside you and the quiet after surviving something—the shift, the fight, the fear of missing something important, the reconnection.
At some point Trinity pressed her forehead to yours and whispered, "I'm sorry."
"For what part?"
"The hallway arrogance."
"Specific."
"I'm growing as a person."
"Disturbing."
She smiled, and you felt it against your skin.
Then softer, more serious:
"I hate when we become opponents."
You slid your hand to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair.
"We're not."
"No," she said. "We're not. We're on the same team. Even when I forget that."
"Especially when you forget that."
She kissed you then like she meant it.
Long and warm and certain.
A promise and an apology and a reconnection all at once.
The rest unfolded in waves—heated, tender, playful, then slow again. The kind of intimacy built less on novelty than on knowing. Knowing how to make each other laugh mid-kiss. Knowing where hands naturally belonged. Knowing when teasing should give way to sincerity. Knowing that sometimes the best sex wasn't about fireworks but about coming home to each other after a hard day.
You made love again, slower this time, trading positions and control, taking turns bringing each other to the edge and over it. Trinity's stamina was impressive considering she'd been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, but she'd always been stubborn about finishing what she started.
Later—much later—tangled in sheets and warm morning light, Trinity lay half over you catching her breath. Her hair was everywhere, a dark curtain across the pillows. Her skin was flushed and damp with sweat. She looked thoroughly debauched and completely satisfied.
You brushed hair from her forehead, gentle.
"Horizontal apology accepted."
She laughed weakly into your shoulder, the sound muffled and breathless.
"Needs follow-up."
"You're unbelievable."
"I'm thorough. Evidence-based practice requires multiple trials."
"That's not how that works."
"Prove it."
You turned and kissed her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth.
For a while neither of you spoke, content to just breathe together, to exist in this quiet space you'd carved out from the chaos of your lives.
The morning light was fully established now, streaming through the curtains in golden bars. You could hear the city waking up outside—traffic increasing, someone's music playing faintly from another apartment, the building coming to life.
Your phones buzzed on the nightstand, the vibration loud against the wood.
Neither of you moved.
They buzzed again, insistent.
Trinity groaned, the sound long-suffering. "Huckleberry."
You reached for the phone, squinting at the screen.
alma awake. demanded waffle. asked where mumu/mama are. seemed disappointed by my face. she's fine but i think she's plotting something
You laughed into Trinity's shoulder, your body shaking with it.
She took the phone and typed one-handed, her other arm still wrapped around you:
keep her alive. one hour
Then she dropped the phone and rolled toward you again, her mouth finding yours.
"We should shower," you said against her lips.
"Yes."
"We should sleep."
"Yes."
"We should get our child."
"Yes."
She kissed you once, smiling against your mouth.
"But first."
"Trinity—"
"Follow-up care matters. I'm very committed to thorough patient follow-up."
Your heart did something complicated at the casual way she said love, like it was just a fact, like it was as natural as breathing.
"You're impossible."
"You love me anyway."
"I really do."
She kissed you again, deeper this time, and you let her prove whatever point she was trying to make about thoroughness and follow-up care.
An hour later—closer to ninety minutes if you were being honest—you emerged from the bedroom showered and dressed in clean clothes that didn't smell like hospital.
Trinity was in soft pants and one of your old t-shirts, her hair still damp and pulled into a messy bun. She looked younger like this, softer, the resident physician persona completely shed.
You were in jeans and a sweater, comfortable and warm.
The apartment smelled like coffee—Dennis must have made a fresh pot.
You found him in the living room with Alma, who was indeed eating a waffle. She had syrup on her face, her hands, and somehow in her hair. She was also wearing her pajamas inside out and backwards, which suggested she'd dressed herself.
"Mumu! Mama!" She launched herself off the couch the second she saw you, waffle abandoned.
Trinity caught her mid-leap, swinging her up with the ease of long practice. "There's my girl. Did you have fun with Uncle Denny?"
"No. He doesn't know the songs."
Denny looked affronted. "I know songs."
"Not the right ones."
"I know plenty of songs."
"You don't know the dragon song."
"What dragon song?"
Alma looked at him with the withering disdain only a two-year-old could muster. "The dragon song. With the Scottish dragon."
You caught Trinity's eye and both of you fought smiles.
"That's a very specific song," Denny said diplomatically.
"It's the best song."
"I'm sure it is."
Alma had already moved on, squirming in Trinity's arms to look at both of you. "Why you gone so long?"
"Mama and I were at work," Trinity said. "We had to help some people who were sick."
"Did you fix them?"
"We did our best."
"Did you use the listening thing?" She pointed at her toy stethoscope, which you'd forgotten on the couch.
"We did."
"Can I listen?"
"Later, baby. Right now we need to thank Uncle Denny for staying with you."
Alma turned to Denny with the solemnity of a tiny judge. "Thank you. You can go now."
Trinity choked on a laugh.
You tried to look stern. "Alma, that's not polite."
"But I said thank you!"
"Yes, but—"
Dennis was already standing, grinning. "It's fine. I can take a hint. Some of us have to work today anyway." He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. "She was great. We watched cartoons, had breakfast, played with approximately eight thousand toys that are now all over the floor."
"You're a saint," you said.
"I'm well compensated." He headed for the door, then paused. "Also, you both look significantly less homicidal than you did yesterday, so whatever you did, keep doing it."
"Dennis—"
"I'm leaving! I'm gone! Enjoy your family time!"
The door closed behind him.
Alma was already wiggling to get down, and Trinity set her on the floor. She immediately ran to her toy box and started pulling things out with the focused intensity of someone on a mission.
Trinity moved to stand beside you, her hand finding yours.
"We have approximately thirty seconds before she demands our full attention," she said quietly.
"Better make them count."
She turned and kissed you, soft and quick and sweet.
When she pulled back, she was smiling.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi yourself."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
"Even when I'm impossible?"
"Especially then."
"Mama! Mumu! Come play!"
Trinity sighed. "Duty calls."
"It does."
But neither of you moved for another moment, standing in your living room in the morning light, hands linked, the sounds of your daughter playing filling the space around you.
This was the other side of those long shifts, those difficult fights, those moments of tension in hospital hallways.
This was what you came home to.
This was what made it worth it.
"Come on," you said finally, tugging her toward where Alma was building something elaborate with blocks. "Let's go see what she's making."
"It's going to be a castle."
"How do you know?"
"It's always a castle."
She was right. It was always a castle.
You settled on the floor on either side of Alma, who immediately began directing you both with the authority of a tiny general. Trinity caught your eye over her head and smiled, and you smiled back, and for a moment everything was exactly as it should be.
summary: You tend to stare at cassie a lot without realizing. Unfortunately for you, most of the pitt staff is far too observant for their own good. OR, 4 times your coworkers caught you staring at cassie + 1 time she caught you staring back.
pairing: cassie mckay x female!reader
word count: 3k
a/n: i was in desperate need to write some cute cassie fluff, after spending the entire last week with a fever caused by an ear infection and a sore throat AND still going into work!!! So this was what came out of it <3
1.
It all started near the nurses’ station, during hour four of a twelve hour shift.
Cassie stood near one of the trauma room doors consulting with an attending about a discharge plan. Her black scrubs were slightly wrinkled from moving around, her jacket sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, and her arms were crossed tightly over her chest while she listened intently to what was being said.
A few loose strands of hair had escaped her short braid, framing her tired face, and somehow the exhaustion only made her look unfairly more attractive than she already was.
You stood at the nurses station, a tablet balancing loosely around one of your hands, the screen showcasing a half-finished patients chart opened on it, as your fingers stopped and hovered over it.
Dana stood beside you, sipping her coffee from her cup, like it was the only thing keeping her standing at the moment. Technically, you were supposed to be charting. But in reality, your attention and your gaze had drifted all the way across the ED.
To where Cassie was.
Dana slowly lowered her coffee cup, her gaze flicking from you to Cassie and then back again. One of her eyebrows lifted so high up in her forehead she could’ve sworn it disappeared into her hairline. The corner of her mouth twitched like she was fighting for her life not to smirk.
“Hey, kid.”
You startled so bad you nearly dropped the tablet you held in your hands straight onto the nurses station countertop. But your grip tightened around it on the very last second before it could, a relieved exhale escaping you. Your eyes were wide when you finally looked at Dana.
Dana barely even looked at you, not shaken in the slightest by your sudden outburst, as she continued. “Quit making eyes at McKay and finish your charting.”
That was all it took for your whole face to turn into a crimson shade of red, as you pretended to busy yourself with anything you could. “I was not making eyes—”
Dana finally turned her head to look at you, giving you a long stare. “You keep staring at her like that,” she took another slow sip of her coffee,“I’m gonna have to file an incident report.”
A snort came from nearby.
Emma who was standing a few feet away, sorting over medical supplies, quickly covered her mouth with her hand when your attention snapped in her direction.
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face before desperately pretending to scroll through the patients file on the tablet.“I was just going to consult with her.”
Dana’s grin widened immediately as she looked at you over her cup. “Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”
"Dana!” you whimpered, your voice muffled as you dropped your head into your hands. “It's not like that."
The older nurse let out a quiet laugh under her breath, entirely unconvinced by your words.
Across the ER, Cassie glanced over at the sound of the small commotion. Your eyes met for exactly one second, before you looked away so quickly you almost gave yourself whiplash.
Beside you, Dana absolutely lost it.
“Oh,” she cackled, pointing her coffee cup at you “you are down bad.”
2.
Santos noticed because Santos notices everything.
Trauma Two still smelled faintly like iron and antiseptic after the disaster of a case you’d just wrapped up. The room was a mess of discarded packaging, stained gauze, and a lingering exhausted silence now that the adrenaline had finally worn off out of all of you.
You stood near the bed, stripping off the now bloody disposable gown, and peeling off your gloves, throwing them into the overflowing bin in the room. Across from you, Santos mirrored your actions with her ever so sharp efficiency, despite the fatigue written all over her face.
Just outside the room, Cassie stood by the PURELL hand sanitizer dispenser on the wall. She rubbed the sanitizer over her hands slowly, staring down at her hands like she was someplace else entirely. The lights of the ED washed her out slightly, making her exhaustion more evident now. Her shoulders looked tense beneath her scrubs, her jacket was now gone, discarded on the back of a chair in the nurses station somewhere.
You caught yourself staring at her again.
From her tensed shoulders, to the way she flexed her fingers, after rubbing them clean, like her hands hurt. To the way she lingered standing there, just for a second too long, her eyes closing briefly while she clasped her hands together tightly, like she was trying to pull herself back together before moving to the next patient.
Your chest twisted worriedly at that.
“Will you just ask her out already?”
You inhaled so sharply you nearly choked on nothing but air.
“Santos!”
“What?” She answered, shrugging while tossing her bloody gloves into the trash. “I'm just saying. You stare at her like a Victorian man seeing ankles for the first time.”
“I do not.”
Santos slowly turned towards you then, her lips pursing and her eyebrows furrowing in her forehead has she looked you over with complete disbelief written across her face.
“You absolutely do.”
You groaned as one of your hands came up to the brim of your nose. “Oh my god.”
A laugh threatened to escape Santos, but she swallowed it down as she moved towards the sanitizer dispenser by the door, pumping some of it into her palm.
“Oh, and for the record,” she added casually, as she rubbed her hands together. “McKay definitely stares back.”
Your head snapped up so fast your neck almost cracked.
Santos, who looked like she was expecting a reaction of the sort, smirked.
“Yeah,” she said, “thought that might get your attention.”
3.
Cassie had fallen asleep in the break room during her small break. That alone felt unnatural enough to make you stop in your tracks as you walked past it.
She had one of her arms curled beneath her head, her bangs messy against her forehead. The light of the room cast a soft glow across her face, making her look strangely younger and softer, and less like the competent resident physician everyone relied upon.
You stood there in the doorway far longer than you initially intended to. You just couldn’t help yourself, she looked so peaceful in that moment.
“You know she’s not going to disappear if you blink, right?”
You startled violently, one of your hands flying up to your mouth to muffle a gasp that threatened to escape.
Javadi stood beside you leaning in the doorway, nursing a cup of coffee in one hand, while the other came up and gently held the frame of the door, as she looked both fascinated and surprised by the situation.
Behind the two of you, Whitaker stood with his hands clasped behind his back, as he glanced towards where Cassie was asleep sitting by the table, only to immediately look away again, clearly uncomfortable intruding in her space like that.
“It’s really not,” Whitaker added in a low, careful voice, trying not to wake Cassie up.
Javadi didn’t even seem to acknowledge him completely. “I just think this is emotionally very intense,” she went on, still watching you like she was analysing a patient. “Like… French cinema intense. The kind where nobody communicates and everyone suffers silently yet beautifully.”
You stared at her, your mouth slightly open, genuinely unsure if you were being insulted, diagnosed or profiled, or every single one of the above all at once. Yet, still baffled by the comparison she so thoroughly seemed to have put so much thought into.
Whitaker shifted his weight awkwardly as he stood between the two of you, his hands half-raised like he wanted to physically put an end to the conversation. “We should probably let her sleep.”
“Right, yes, obviously,” Javadi nodded, agreeing immediately. Then, as if she forgot what she had just said, she leaned back in, lowering her voice even further, as if that was even possible. “But also McKay definitely has, like… a strong energy. You know? She’s humble. Very ‘main character in a hospital drama’ like.”
You made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a choke. Whitaker looked instantly alarmed at the sound, but nevertheless confused.
“What? She does.” Javadi shrugged her shoulders.
“She might hear you.”
From the small table in the corner of the room, Cassie shifted ever so slightly, one arm moving just enough to adjust her head, but she stayed asleep.
Javadi’s eyes went wide as she stared at the both of you with genuine panic. “Oh my god, do you think she heard me?”
Whitaker exhaled slowly, like he’d narrowly survived something. “We should all probably go,” he said, already stepping back into the hallway.
Javadi nodded again, but pointed at you as she backed out of the doorway, still whispering like she was delivering classified intel. “For the record, I support this.”
You stared at her, eyes wide, as you swallowed thickly.
“The age gap may be a little… questionable” she said, gesturing vaguely between you and the table where Cassie was still asleep in, “Which is fine! I have nothing against it! And i don’t think either of you cares about it any way.”
Whitaker froze mid-step, looking like he wished the floor would swallow him whole.
Javadi, completely aware of the meaning behind her own words, gave you an awkward smirk, along with a final little nod like she’d just closed a case file, and just stepped back into the ED once more, as if nothing had happened.
Leaving both you and Whitaker dumbfounded.
4.
The ED was chaotic like it usual was during the day shift. The waiting room was overwhelmed with restless patients awaiting their turn for god knows how many hours. Nurses rushed between the beds, monitors beeped, phones rang, and stretchers were wheeled down the hallways.
But even through all that, Cassie still moved with that same controlled intensity she always did.
You were standing with Samira near one workstation, the both of you bent over a fresh set of labs that had just gotten down from upstairs. The two of you were going through the possible next steps to take, considering the results you just got back.
Meanwhile, Cassie was with a patient in one of the curtained bays across the hall.
You tried not to look. You really did.
But it was almost impossible not to notice the way she stood slightly bent beside the bed, bringing herself to be eye level with a young girl who looked terrified and overwhelmed. Her voice was low but steady, completely calm, and one of her hands rested briefly on the bedrail like an anchor while she spoke. She held eye contact with the young girl the entire time, until eventually the girl’s breathing slowly started to even out.
You didn’t realise you were watching until Cassie tilted her head and let out a small yet soft chuckle at something the girl had said. It was quiet, but it still cut straight through the noise of the department.
Your head had lifted on instinct. Because, of course it did.
Samira didn’t even bother to look up from the lab results. “She’s good with people.”
You blinked, caught off guard, and forced your attention back to the screen before she could notice anything else. “Yeah,” you said quietly agreeing with her words. “She is.”
But your eyes drifted back towards Cassie anyway.
Samira glanced over properly this time, watching her for a moment. “She stays longer with difficult patients than anyone else around here.” She added, almost matter-of-factly.
Something warm twisted inside your chest at that. “Yeah,” you repeated yourself once again, softer this time.
Samira looked back at you then, and this time she actually paused, as she took in your expression. “Oh.”
Your stomach dropped instantly, your gaze shifting from Cassie to her. “What?”
“You really like her.” Samira’s mouth curved into a small, knowing smile. “You do know she likes you too, right?”
You felt heat rush straight through your entire face. “Please don’t say things like that.”
Samira raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “She checks in on you every shift.”
Your heart tripped over itself. You looked down at your hands like they might save you from having this conversation. “That’s not—”
“Half of the ED has noticed.”
You froze, as your gaze snapped towards hers in absolute dread. “Half the ED?”
Samira nodded once, completely unbothered, as she shrugged. “There’s even a betting pool going around.”
“Oh my god.”
Samira winced apologetically, as she took in your horrified expression. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
But it was already too late.
+ 1
Cassie started to notice you staring long before anyone did.
Not because you were obvious, although, according to half of the ED, you absolutely were. But rather because Cassie was exceptionally good at reading people.
For instance, she noticed when patients lied about their pain because they were embarrassed or afraid. She noticed the way family members hovered when they were reticent to ask whatever they wanted to ask. She noticed the small details, the trembling hands, the exhausted eyes, and most importantly, the forced smiles.
And she also noticed you.
At first, it was the little things. The way your attention seemed to drift towards her almost everytime she walked through the department. Or the way she could feel someone watching her during shifts, only to glance up and find you immediately snapping your attention elsewhere.
Every. Single. Time.
Cassie would look up from a workstation, or a trauma bay, and there you’d be, looking at her with this soft, distracted expression like you hadn’t even realized you were doing it.
And then, just as her eyes went to meet yours, you’d instantly look down at a chart, or at a monitor, or a tablet, fiding anything and everything around you to be fascinatingly more interesting.
The first few times it happened, Cassie didn’t think much of it, she had just brushed it off.
But then, somewhere along the way, and agaisnt her better judgement, she started to expect it. Looking forward to it.
And today was no different.
The ED had settled into one of those rare quiet moments after the many hours of utter chaos. Everyone seemed to move slower now, exhaustion dragging at everyone’s shoulders. And as for Cassie, she stood at the nurses station finishing up her charts, one hand curled loosely around a cup of now lukewarm coffee.
That's when she felt it again.
That familiar weight of your gaze on her.
This time, she didn’t look up right away. Instead she took a few moments to dwell on the feeling of your eyes on her. She felt the corner of her mouth twitch faintly, as she tried not to smile to herself, and continued to pretend to read through the chart in front of her. In all honesty, she had found this whole situation strangely endearing.
She took another slow sip of her coffee, pretending to focus on the screen for another minute before finally lifting her head. And rest assured, there you were.
Standing across the station with a tablet tucked awkwardly against your chest, completely distracted from whatever you were supposed to be doing. You were just staring at her again, your expression was soft and distant, like the rest of the department had vanished all together.
Something warm settled quietly in Cassie’s chest at the sight of your soft expression, and so before she could stop herself, she smiled at you. Not those polite, tired half-smiles she gave most of the time during her shifts. No. This time she smiled a real, soft and warm smile.
Your eyes widened immediately the second you realized she was smiling at you. Panic flashed across your face almost instantly, as you looked down at the tablet pressed against your chest so quickly, as your fingers fumbled nervously across the screen.
Cassie let out a small snort under her breath. Then, she carefully placed her coffee cup down on the counter and made her way towards where you stood.
“Hey,” she said gently once she reached you.
You froze on the spot. Your eyes, still wide and helpless, slowly lifted to meet her gaze. "Hi..."
Cassie tilted her head forward slightly in your direction, her hands slipping into the pockets of her scrub pants while she studied you with barely concealed amusement. "You do that a lot, you know?"
Heat rushed across your cheeks instantly, as you averted your gaze to somewhere over her shoulder, swallowing the big lump that had settled in your throat, as you asked. "Do what exactly?"
Her warm, calm and patient gaze was steady on yours just enough to make your heart stutter. "Stare at me," she explained, "and then pretend you werent."
Embarrassment flickered across your face, as you whished the floor would open up and swallow you whole. "Im so sorr—"
Cassie chuckled quietly before you could finish. “It’s okay, I'm not upset about it.” She moved to lean lightly against the counter now, her posture relaxed, as she shrugged. “I think it’s sweet.”
The tension in your shoulders loosened slightly upon hearing her words. "You do?"
Cassie nodded once, still watching you with that same warm look. “Yeah," she said softly. "I do.”
For a second neither of you said anything. The noise of the ED blurred into the background again, but Cassie barely noticed any of it.
She was too busy watching you adorably unravel in front of her.
As for you? You were too busy trying desperatly not to melt from embarrasment in front of her and the entire department.
“I'll stop.” You said quietly after a moment.
Cassie's smile faltered slightly at your words.
“No. Don't.” She said, far too quickly.
Then after a second, her warm and soft smile returned, as she added quietly, a little more composed this time.
summary: A patient gets a little too comfortable making crude comments to you. Your girlfriend Cassie gets protective.
pairing: cassie mckay x female!reader
word count: 2.8k
a/n: this was supposed to be a small blurb but it turned out bigger than I expected... we all needed protective secret girlfriend cassie <3
The thing about working in a Trauma Medical Center, was that everything was unpredictable. Especially when it came to people. They were the most unpredictable part of it all. One moment they would appear calm, and the next they would unravel in ways no amount of training could’ve fully prepared you for.
It wasn’t uncommon for patients to get frustrated, to yell, or to even lash out when they were in pain, or fear, or when confusion took over. Sometimes at you, sometimes at nurses, or at whoever happened to be the closest. But through the years you learned not to take it personally. You learned not to let it affect you, to stay steady, to keep your calm, and your tone even while everything around you threatened to spiral.
That was, until today.
You could’ve sworn some unknown strength was out to test your limits. Like the universe had decided to stack every difficult interaction into a single shift, just to see how much you could take before you cracked.
When you had pushed open the door to room seventeen, you already knew this was going to be one of those cases. Since the patient had arrived at the PTMC, he was restless, impatient, and demanding attention from everyone and anyone who walked past. You adjusted your grip on the test results in your hands, squared your shoulders, and walked in anyway, keeping your expression professionally neutral as the monitor beeped steadily beside the bed.
The man was already sitting up when you entered. One arm hung loosely over the side of the bed as if he owned the space rather than occupied it. His eyes tracked you immediately, slow and assessing, with a crooked half-smile.
“You got a boyfriend, sweetheart?”
You kept your expression neutral, as you went and checked the patient’s chart on the room’s computer. “I’m just here to discuss your test results,” you said evenly, as if his words hadn’t landed at all.
The middle-aged man’s grin widened at that, like he was enjoying your discomfort far more than the conversation itself. “C’mon,” he pressed, voice light but insistent. “A pretty thing like you’s gotta have somebody waiting at home.”
You ignored the comment, keeping your focus on the chart as you continued your assessment. The routine of it usually helped you to stay anchored. “Your head CT was clear, but it’s best to keep you in for observation for another few hours just in case,” you said, your tone steady and professional.
The man let out a short, incredulous laugh, shifting slightly in the bed as if your response had personally offended him. His hand lifted, palm up, giving a dismissive gesture to what you were saying. “Oh, c’mon,” he pressed, dragging the words out. “You not even gonna give me anything?”
You stepped back from the computer slightly, your focus now on him, already done with the conversation and ready to leave the room, as your grip tightening briefly on the test results you were holding. “A nurse will be in with your discharge updates later,” you said calmly.
The man leaned back slightly in the bed, a crooked grin still tugging at his mouth as his eyes lingered on you a moment too long. “How about we go grab a drink tonight?” he said, his voice lowering. “I promise you I’d show you a good time.”
Your stomach turned immediately, a sharp and instinctive discomfort settling in your chest that you tried really hard not to let it show on your face. You stood straighter now, grounding yourself. “Sir, that is highly inappropriate,” you said flatly, your tone clipped and professional, as your face remained neutral.
He let out a short, dismissive laugh under his breath, as if your discomfort was mildly amusing to him. “You should smile more,” he added, voice light. “Might make you look less uptight.”
You exhaled slowly through your nose, grounding yourself as you prepared to dismiss the man once more.
“Is there a problem here?”
A voice cut in from behind you.
A voice that belonged to none other than, Dr. Cassie McKay.
She stood in the doorway, arms crossed firmly over her chest, her eyebrows furrowed as her sharp gaze moved across the room, briefly taking in the patient, before landing on you and settling there just a fraction longer than necessary.
And judging by the look on her face, she’d heard enough.
Cassie stepped into the room slowly, her movements deliberate as if she had all the time in the world. Her expression remained calm, but you noticed the tightness underlaying in her jaw.
The man smirked, clearly unfazed by the shift in room, as if he still believed he held some control over the situation. “Not unless she thinks there is,” he said, leaning back against the pillows with a lazy confidence as he pointed at you with a tilt of his chin.
Cassie’s eyes flicked toward you briefly. One look. That was all it took for something in her expression to change. She tilted her head to the side, and lifted her eyebrows towards the man lying there, as if to let him know that in fact there was a problem.
The patient scoffed, rolling his eyes as if the reaction around him was entirely exaggerated. “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, shifting in the bed, somewhat uncomfortably. “I was joking.”
“No,” Cassie said calmly. Her voice was quiet with authority as she took a small step forward, her posture straightening. “You were being inappropriate to a resident,” she continued, her gaze never leaving his. “There’s a fine line between humor and harassment.”
The man shifted awkwardly for the first time since you’ve entered the room.
Her voice remained perfectly steady as she continued. “I suggest you treat her and any other staff respectfully for the remainder of your stay, or I’ll personally have security remove you from the department.”
You stared at her a little longer than you meant to.
Because you’d seen Cassie de-escalate difficult patients a hundred times before, with her calm voice, her steady hands, and her quiet patience. It was all part of what made her so good at what she did.
But this…
This was different.
It felt like something under all of her usual control had fled somewhere else the second she heard him talking to you that way.
Cassie glanced at you, from where she was standing, her expression softening just enough for you to notice. Her eyes lingered on yours a second too long, silently checking on you, before she shifted once more and pulled her professional persona back into place.
She gave a small nod and turned back to the patient.
“I’ll take over from here,” Cassie said evenly.
The patient muttered something under his breath, but noticeably quieter this time, yet you didn’t stay long enough to properly hear him anyway. You just nodded at Cassie once, as you made your way out of the room. The door softly clicked shut behind you as you stepped out.
The second you stepped into the hallway, you exhaled slowly, trying to shake the uncomfortable feeling out of your chest. The ED stretching on with its usual controlled chaos, and distant chatter, the normal steady rhythm of a department that never really paused.
It shouldn’t have gotten to you this much.
Maybe it was because you were exhausted, or maybe because he wouldn’t stop looking at you like that, or maybe because Cassie had heard half of it. Still, you couldn’t seem to shake it off. It was like something about that interaction had left your blood boiling under your skin. Even as you walked away from the room to the nurses’ station, with the hopes to take your mind out of it, you still couldn’t seem to brush it off.
A few minutes later, Cassie appeared beside you.
“You okay?” she asked quietly as she leaned beside you, closer than she should have while you’re at work.
You glanced up briefly, suddenly very aware of everything around you, the nurses, the residents, anything and everything all at once. The ED kept moving like it always did, too busy to notice anything that wasn’t urgent. Too busy to notice the two of you.
“I’m fine,” you answered quietly, glancing briefly at her.
Cassie tilted her head slightly to the side, as she looked at you totally unconvinced by your words.
Cassie’s expression didn’t change, but you knew her well enough by now to notice the tension in her jaw. She had always been able to read you like an open book. She knew all of your teeny tiny tells you always thought you hid better than you did. She knew the things you wouldn’t dare to say out loud.
“You don’t have to pretend it didn’t bother you,” she said quietly.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Because the thing was, it had bothered you. How couldn’t it?
You looked back down, this time at your hands that were fidgeting on top of the nurses’ station counter. The noise of the department filled the space between you again, but it felt distant now, like it belonged to a different part of the ED entirely.
Cassie stayed there beside you, close enough that you could feel her presence without her needing to say anything else.
You looked back up at the ED as you answered quietly. “I just didn’t want to make it a thing.”
Cassie’s response didn’t come immediately, but when it did, it was soft yet firm in a way that made it clear she wasn’t letting this go. “You weren’t making it a thing,” she said. Her gaze stayed on you for a beat, steady and unblinking in that way that always made it hard to look away from. “He was harassing you.” She stated so matter-of-factly.
You glanced down once more, trying to shake it off. “I had it under control,” you said quietly, like repeating it might make it feel truer.
“I know you did.” She answered straight away, no hesitation in her words.
You looked up at her just in time to catch her shifting her weight against the counter beside you, her elbows resting lightly against it, her arms crossed loosely now that some of the previous tension began to leave her. She continued, her voice firmer, “I still wasn’t going to let it slide.”
Cassie exhaled slowly through her nose, gaze dropping briefly to her crossed arms before moving back to you again. “You shouldn’t have to put up with that,” she said quietly. “God, no one should.” Her jaw tightened once more, like she was replaying the words she heard from that man in her head. “People don’t get to talk to you however they want.”
You swallowed once. "Yeah, I know."
There was something about the way Cassie cared for people, for you. It was in her bloodstream at this point, something as easy and instinctive as breathing. You’d seen it a hundred times before.
In the way she’d pull a chair up beside a scared patient, staying with them without any judgement. The way she spoke to the difficult and angry ones, like she could see straight through their act. Cassie had this way of meeting people exactly where they were, like she understood how ugly life could get and didn’t hold it against them for it.
She leaned back slightly against the counter beside you, uncrossing her arms, leaving them to lay onto the counter as she rolled her shoulders to easy some of the days tension out. “He crossed a line.”
“He did,” you agreed, still half-distracted by the way she was able to turn a patient’s demeanor completely with a single sentence.
Cassie huffed softly, almost amused. “I swear I was two seconds away from jumping him.”
That made your head up snap up towards her.
“Cass!” you gasped lowly, an incredulous smile breaking through you before you could stop it.
She just shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s still on the table.”
A laugh slipped out of you, quick and surprised, before you could stop yourself. Cassie’s eyes softened immediately at the sound, like it itself was enough to ground her.
You glanced around instinctively at the passing staff nearby, suddenly hyperaware of where you were both standing. The middle of the ED was not exactly the ideal place for your girlfriend to be saying things like that, or to look at you like that. But you brushed it off, as no one seemed to be paying attention to the both of you.
Cassie huffed quietly under her breath, a faint sound that was almost a laugh, like she couldn’t believe the situation had even happened in the first place. “What?” she said, tilting her head slightly. “He was making you uncomfortable.”
Her tone wasn’t defensive. She seemed to be stating a mere fact, like it was the simplest explanation in the world.
Then, without really thinking about it, Cassie’s hand lifted to smooth the edge of your ID badge where it had flipped awkwardly against your scrub top. The gesture was small, automatic. Something she didn’t seem to register as anything unusual. Like in that moment she just had the urge to touch you. To feel you.
Her fingers lingered for half a second too long before she let go. “I hated it,” she added quietly.
You held her gaze for a moment as something soft settled deep in your chest, as you looked at her properly now, really looked. Your gaze was filed with a quiet fondness that you didn’t bother hiding, showcasing something warm and steady, because of the way she had entered that room without thinking twice. Not hesitating, not even once, the second she realized you were uncomfortable.
You let out a quiet breath, as you shook your head, something between disbelief and amusement still lingering in your chest as you shifted a little closer to her, under the completely flimsy excuse of grabbing a chart from the rack beside her.
“You know,” you said softly, voice dropping just enough for only her to hear, “you getting all protective like that was actually really hot.”
Cassie blinked, as she was completely caught off guard.
She halted for a second, like her brain had briefly refused to process what she’d just heard. “What?” she asked, eyebrows lifting slightly as she looked at you.
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself grounded, as you placed the random chart on the countertop, glancing down at it pretending to look busy. Before you could stop yourself a small smirk made its way to your lips, impossible to hold back now that you’d finally managed to catch her off guard for once.
“The whole threatening-to-get-security thing?” you continued, lightly. “Very attractive, actually.”
To your immense satisfaction, a faint crimson color immediately crept into Cassie’s cheeks, subtle, but definitely there.
Cassie looked away for half a second, shaking her head as she bit her bottom lip, one hand coming up to rub briefly at the back of her neck before she glanced at you again. “You’re unbelievable,” she muttered quietly, though the small upturn in the corner of her mouth betrayed her seemingly annoyed pretense.
“You literally defended my honor in there.”
Cassie looked at you flatly for half a second, though you could see the barely contained amusement through the small glint in her eyes. “I told a patient not to harass my girlfriend.”
That word landed warm in your chest.
Girlfriend.
Even now, it still got to you.
It was the way she said it, so simple yet so casual. Like she hadn’t just completely short-circuited your brain by saying it so naturally in the middle of the crowded ED.
You tilted your head slightly, unable to stop smiling. “Still hot.”
Cassie let out a quiet breath through her nose, shaking her head a little like she was trying very hard not to laugh. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, though there was no real bite behind it.
“Well,” Cassie said after a moment, clearing her throat lightly like she was trying to pull herself back into professional mode, “we should probably get back to work.”
Even then, she still lingered for a second.
Then she started to walk backwards and away from you through the crowded department, not without pointing at you briefly her movements small but deliberate. “We’re revisiting this conversation later.”
The promise in her voice sent a warmth straight through you.
You bit back a smile as you watched her shake her head briefly, as she started to blend back into the movement of the department like she always did.
But before she could get too far, you called after her, “I hope so.”
Cassie glanced back at you once over her shoulder.
And the look she gave you?
God.
You were definitely not surviving that conversation later.
“You are so pretty,” you say, singular and simple and full of adoration.
“You’re drunk,” Baran counters, taking you in, the haziness of your eyes, the sheen of sweat on your brow, how deliciously warm and soft you look. But it’s moments like these that Baran feels the weight of the ring box heavy in her work locker — the only place she thinks you won’t find it.
You’re out for drinks with some of the night shift crew, but you can’t stop texting and calling your girlfriend.
Notes: some tooth-rotting fluff to offset the angst that is to come with other fics. alcohol, hurt/comfort, minor anxiety attack, neurodivergent reader, sexting, masturbation
Baran hears the ping of two text messages from the end table, but it isn’t your text tone, so she ignores it. It’s a Thursday night, and she’s curled up on the couch with a blanket and a memoir she’s been meaning to read for a while, a mug of tea close by.
The house is emptier than usual. Baran’s son is with his dad for the weekend, and you’re at a bar with Shen and Ellis. The three of you try to go out semi-regularly. First it was to blow off steam with fellow “night crawlers” — a name Baran found distasteful but liked the way you said it low in her ear. But then Shen and Ellis started dropping by for dinner, and Baran was grabbing lunch with Shen without you, and before any of you realized it you’d all become friends.
Still, going out is more your thing, and Baran rarely drinks, so she gave you a lingering kiss goodbye and told you to be safe and have fun.
Your text tone sounds in the quiet living room, and Baran sets down her book, reaching over to grab her phone. You usually send her a selfie or two when she’s not out with you, something Baran always looks forward to. Reading the texts on her lock screen, however, draws a frown.
9:24 pm
John Shen: I fucked up
9:25 pm
John Shen: It’s probably fine
9:28 pm
Azizam: do you still love me?
Worry and irritation well in Baran in equal measures. She taps the call button, feeling you probably need to hear the answer in your ear and not from a screen.
9:29 pm
Outgoing call: Azizam
Call declined.
Baran’s worry grows, and her fingers fly. As an emergency medicine doctor, she’s adept at remaining measured and logical in almost any situation, but when it comes to you or her son, something much more urgent and primal fights for dominance.
9:29 pm
You: You know I love and adore you very much.
You: Is everything OK?
9:30 pm
Azizam: can’t talk they’re playing party in the usa
9:30 pm
You: And that’s more important than finding out if I still love you?
9:31 pm
Azizam: needed to hype myself up in case
This does not ease Baran’s worry. She knows you know, on some level, this is silly. If Baran were ever going to say something so devastating — and she had no plans to — she wouldn’t do it over text while you’re at a bar. But you are in your head enough to type it out and send it, which twists in Baran’s gut.
9:31 pm
You: Please call me when your song is over, so you can hear me say it.
Azizam reacted with: ❤️
Baran opens her thread with Shen, her irritation now simmering into something resembling a rubber band pulled taut right at his head.
9:31 pm
You: Are you the reason my girlfriend is asking me whether I still love her?
9:33 pm
John Shen: Shit
9:34 pm
Incoming call: Azizam
“Am I being needy?” are your first words to her, nearly shouted over the club music blasting through the earpiece.
Baran takes the phone an inch away from her ear, blinking, a weary hum catching in her throat. She’s not a fan. And neither are you — too chaotic and overstimulating. Probably Shen’s choice in venue tonight.
There have been times that Baran’s had to keep a steady, grounding hand on the nape of your neck and another on your knee to keep it from bouncing. You’re a good sport — always wanting to be supportive of Shen’s favorite spots, a quality she loves about you — but there are nights the two of you just go home. And in the quiet car, you hide your overwhelmed and embarrassed tears in the window as Baran rubs the top of your thigh.
It’s something you perceive as a contradiction to how cool and collected you are as an emergency medicine doctor. Baran recognizes it as rooted in control because she too needs it in certain ways to feel safe. You’re a skilled physician — you expect all possible scenarios, and you’re prepared for each one. You know how to mentor because you know how residents work, what they need, how they learn. It’s all planned and logical and built from years of experience and practice. Outside of work, things are more unpredictable. And loud crowds are one of your more sensitive spots. You’re ashamed of it, but Baran has never once made you feel that way.
You sound anxious and unsure on the phone. Baran takes a breath and settles deeper into the couch. She wishes she were there with you.
“Honey, where is this coming from?” she asks softly, carefully.
“That’s not a no.”
Baran presses her lips together. We’re not doing logic tonight, she sees.
“Asking me one time if I love you does not make you needy. But it does make me worry,” she says with so much love and gentleness. It seems to break through to you.
“I’m just anxiety spiraling,” you groan, the sounds of the club getting a degree quieter. Baran frowns and circles her fingers soothingly around her forearm, imagining it’s yours.
“Walk me through it.”
Talking through your thought process doesn’t always make you see a situation more clearly, but it’s the best Baran can do so far away.
“It’s stupid. This club is too loud. It’s crowded, and I’m hot, and I’m, like, trying not to make the walls close in by taking shots. And I just…is me being on nights hurting us? Are we okay? I feel like you’ve been distant lately, and —”
“Azizam, pause. Take a breath,” Baran cuts you off, firm but tender. It’s exactly what she suspected was happening, minus taking shots to quell a panic attack, which is something she’ll address in more depth with you later. “If I weren’t happy with any aspect of our relationship, I would tell you. You’ve never had to guess how I’m feeling. That’s still true.”
Baran pauses, listening, but you’re quiet, and she thinks there may be something hot clawing up your throat. So she just breathes evenly on the phone with you, and when she thinks you’re okay, she speaks.
“I love you. More than words.”
“I love you,” you sigh, the tension gone from your voice. There’s her girl. A small smile tugs at Baran, and she’s itching to hug you and kiss your skin where your neck meets your shoulder.
“Are you satisfied?” she teases lightly.
“Can you say it again?”
Baran smiles lazily, chewing her lip. She likes when you ask for what you need.
“Kheyli dooset daram. I love you very much. With all my heart.”
“Mmm. Okay, I’m satisfied,” you hum happily, and Baran’s heart swells.
“Enjoy the rest of your night, drink water, call me if you need me, and come home to me soon.”
“I love you so much.”
When you end the call, Baran takes a deep breath and opens her texts with Shen.
9:41 pm
You: What the fuck did you say to her?
9:43 pm
John Shen: She was saying how she wants to feel closer to you since you’re on opposite shifts, and I told her not to stress it. Everyone goes through rough patches
9:44 pm
You: Are you kidding me?
You: What would possess you to say that?
Especially in a place already known to make you anxious, Baran thinks.
9:45 pm
John Shen: Like I said, I fucked up
John Shen: I wanted her off the trail!
John Shen: 💍💍💍
Baran laughs humorlessly, shaking her head as she types, a scoff under her breath.
9:45 pm
You: ???
You: She wasn’t ON the trail.
9:55 pm
John Shen: I thought you were planning something or whatever??
9:56 pm
You: Yes, and I would prefer she not think I’m breaking up with her when it happens.
Baran told Shen she’s planning to propose specifically so that he could tell her if you started to suspect — not for him to actively make you think Baran is harboring ill will toward you. Most of your shifts were together, so he saw you more than most. He would have a fairly accurate read on your mindset.
You and Baran have talked about your future together several times, and you’re both on the same page. A proposal wouldn’t be unexpected, but Baran wanted it to be a surprise. She didn’t want you coming home one day already knowing. None of this, of course, stops Baran from being terrified you’ll say no. She loves you so much it hurts sometimes, and she cannot imagine doing the rest of this life without you. And asking you to marry her puts that all on the line.
Baran takes a breath and tosses her phone to the other side of the couch. She tries to focus back on her book with little success and wonders if she should get Ellis involved to run interference on Shen. No, that would be an even worse idea.
Her phone pings, and she grabs it.
10:02 pm
John Shen: Well, she seems fine now
Baran rolls her eyes and stands up. She needs a long, steamy shower.
10:35 pm
Azizam: parker is being disgusting
Azizam: she knows i’m yearning and she’s being cruel by making out with someone right in front of me
Baran sees the text when she’s doing her skincare routine and chuckles, the mirror still fogged up. She finishes rubbing lotion into her leg before replying.
10:42 pm
You: I highly doubt it’s malicious, my love.
You: You’re yearning?
You get cute when you’re drunk, clingy and sweet. A little too loud, a little chaotic, but you always come back to Baran and give her the softest, most pathetic eyes as your hand slides places it shouldn’t be in public and you kiss her cheek and her ear until Baran shivers and pulls you reluctantly away.
Your next text comes through as Baran settles on top of the covers, resolved to stay up a while longer and wait for you. She doesn’t always, but you’re dipping into a neediness Baran can never resist.
10:47 pm
Azizam: can you send me a pic of your lips?
10:47 pm
You: No?
10:47 pm
Azizam: pretty pretty please, sweetie
10:48 pm
You: You have many, many pictures of me on your phone.
10:49 pm
Azizam: i want your lips
Azizam: i want to kiss you
Baran’s stomach flips, and when it settles, there’s heat swirling low in her core. She licks her lips, sitting up in bed.
10:49 pm
Outgoing Facetime: Azizam
As soon as the call connects, Baran sees your flushed, grinning cheeks as they come closer to the screen. You give it several exaggerated, smacking kisses before pulling your phone back a respectable distance. Baran hums, a lovesick smile on her face, eyes hooded.
“You know, you can come home and kiss me yourself,” she says, lolling her head to the side as she watches you.
“You are so pretty,” you say, singular and simple and full of adoration.
“You’re drunk,” Baran counters, taking you in, the haziness of your eyes, the sheen of sweat on your brow, how deliciously warm and soft you look. But it’s moments like these that Baran feels the weight of the ring box heavy in her work locker — the only place she thinks you won’t find it.
“Am not. Still true, though.” There’s a slight slide to your words that you clearly don’t hear. You frown. “Did you shower without me?”
Baran’s hair is damp, and her skin is glowing with various oils and creams that you always tell her smell wonderful right before you dip your nose into the skin behind her ear, lips skating. And the only thing Baran can think about is how she wants you in her arms.
“It’s almost 11 pm, azizam. Yes, I showered without you.”
“Baby, no!” You look urgently devastated, a dramatic groan leaving your lips, petulant in a way you only are when you’re disinhibited. Like when you match her son’s early morning grumbles over a healthy breakfast instead of pancakes, Baran shouldn’t, but she finds it endearing.
You love showering with Baran — for more than just the obvious reasons. There’s something reverent in the way you often insist on taking a soapy washcloth to Baran’s body, trailing over her curves as you pull her close and leave delicate kisses to her shoulder. Or, you just watch her with the most loving, steady eyes. And when she lets you wash her hair, you dig expert fingers into her scalp, and she always leans back into you, humming contentedly. You don’t even have to touch her, and Baran has never felt more worshipped than when she’s naked with you.
Before Baran can tell you she’ll shower again if it’ll wipe away that sad puppy dog look, Ellis is sliding up next to you.
“You are bringing down the energy in this whole fucking club,” she accuses playfully, wrapping an arm around you and squeezing. “B, no offense, but your girlfriend is kind of codependent and sappy when she’s drunk.”
“I am not drunk!” you insist, looking at Ellis, who raises her brow and glances between you and Baran as if looking for backup.
“You are, eshgham,” Baran agrees easily. Ellis grabs the phone from your hand.
“Byeee!” she grins at Baran. The call ends.
Both Ellis and Shen have an ease to them that she doesn’t see in the day shift. They have their flaws — both a little too unsympathetic in the ED for Baran’s taste — but they have firm boundaries and shed their work personas like snakes each morning, something she respects. And around the dinner table, they’re funny and easy to be around, and Baran knows you’re in good hands.
11:02 pm
Azizam: [image attached]
It’s a photo of you, Ellis, and Shen in a new, quieter looking bar. Shen is sipping something fruity looking, waving at the camera. You’re grinning, and Ellis is holding up two stiff-looking drinks. Baran knows without a doubt you’re going to be hungover tomorrow, all grumpy and far away and disheveled. Good thing Baran enjoys taking care of you.
You reacted with: ❤️
11:07 pm
Parker Ellis: [video attached]
Parker Ellis: down bad
It’s a short clip of you talking animatedly with Shen. Ellis zooms in on your face and then pans down to your hand, where your phone is open to a selfie of the two of you curled up on the couch last month.
Baran feels her heart swell and contract in her chest, and she pulls up the same photo on her camera roll. She’s molded into your side under a blanket, her head tucked under your chin, her hand around the back of your neck. And you’re smiling like you just won the lottery.
11:21 pm
Azizam: i need you so bad right now
Baran’s scrolling through instagram, missing you next to her, when the notification appears. She smirks, wondering when you’d finally start getting like this.
11:22 pm
You: Oh?
11:23 pm
Azizam: fuck
Azizam: what are u wearing?
Baran rolls onto her back, sighing, hair splayed out. She can picture you, breathing measured, maybe pressing your thighs together. Feeling hot and desperate thinking about her. And Baran loves making you ache.
But you’re also out with friends, and Ellis has already ragged on you for being clingy twice tonight. Do you really want to do this right now?
11:24 pm
You: Shorts and your t-shirt.
11:24 pm
Azizam: looking at a pic of ur neck rn
11:25 pm
Azizam: fuck you. sext me for real
Baran raises her brow and settles deeper into the bed, one hand skating over her belly absently. She knows what photo you’re probably looking at. It’s innocent enough. Baran wasn’t paying attention, smiling and craning her neck to look behind her at a dinner party. If she let you, she knows you’d leave dark marks up the length of her every chance you get. It does something maddening and insatiable to you. Baran, of course, uses this to her advantage.
11:27 pm
You: You want me to tell you my fingers are on my neck, wishing it was your mouth?
You: Running over my chest.
You: Up my inner thigh.
11:27 pm
Azizam: yes
Azizam: are they?
They are. Dancing and light but enough to start setting Baran’s nerves on fire. She spreads her thighs and slides her fingers down over her underwear.
11:27 pm
You: Maybe.
11:28 pm
Azizam: show me
Azizam: need your mouth on me
Baran hums. One hand slides under her shirt — your shirt — lazily, teasing a nipple that pebbles too easily. Her breath catches, and clarity descends on her. You’re out with friends. You deserve to enjoy it — while staying in the present moment.
11:31 pm
You: You should focus on Parker and John. You’ll have me all to yourself when you get home.
11:32 pm
Azizam: [image attached]
It’s a photo of you in a bathroom stall. Your hand is holding up your shirt and bra against your sternum, chest exposed to the air. Your nipples are hard, and Baran’s lips part, her previous text completely wiped from her memory. On instinct or some base need, her fingers slide under the elastic of her underwear. Of course she’s wet.
11:33 pm
You: Baby…
You: You are so fucking gorgeous.
She stares at the photo, jaw slack. What she wouldn’t give to have her hands on your breasts, your nipple in her mouth right now. Baran’s fingers circle her clit, gathering wetness, working herself up as easily and thoughtlessly as breathing.
11:35 pm
Azizam: thinking about u
Azizam: [image attached]
Baran moans. It’s a photo of your hand in the low bathroom lighting. A stringy slickness connects your middle two fingers. She can practically taste you on her tongue, feel how your hand would grip her hair, feel the way your hips would rock into her mouth. And she can feel that familiar tension coiling in her, her muscles tensing.
11:36 pm
You: Oh, sweetheart.
You: That wet and desperate just from thinking about me?
You: I’d get on my knees for you right there in the stall.
You don’t reply right away, and Baran has a sinking suspicion you got pulled away from your phone. She groans, closing her eyes and feeling unfairly frustrated and horny. She should stop, wait for you like you have to wait for her. But you’ll be too drunk for her to fuck you when you get home, and you’re going to throw yourself at her anyway. And she’ll feel less pent up and guilty about it if she’s not hot and bothered when you walk through the door. So, Baran stares at the photo of your fingers and slides two inside of herself.
Her phone pings again when she’s sweaty and twitching and catching her breath, fingers slick as they rest on her stomach, careful not to touch the sheets.
11:44 pm
Parker Ellis: stop engaging with her!!!! you’re intruding on girls night
Parker Ellis: whore
Baran groans and closes her eyes briefly, embarrassed and just about fed up with Ellis and Shen. She just wants her baby in bed with her.
11:49 pm
You: Inappropriate. I am an attending.
12:03 am
Parker Ellis: rolling my eyes rn
Parker Ellis: not My attending
Parker Ellis: don’t be bitter. bar bathrooms are gross. i’m saving her from a yeast infection
Baran decides to ignore that and pointedly not think about what Ellis interrupted you doing.
12:06 am
You: Isn’t John with you?
12:08 am
Parker Ellis: he’s one of the girls
Baran is drifting between waking and sleep when her phone pings and jolts her out of it, her face smashed into a pillow and her bedside lamp still on. She swallows and drags her phone to her face.
12:39 am
Azizam: Parker found me texting :(
Azizam: we’re at a new bar
Azizam: need you to fuck me slow to this song on repeat btw. it was on the radio
Azizam: [Spotify Link] Southland by Lindsay Lou
This wakes Baran up a little, and she’s selfishly happy to know you didn’t get too far in the bathroom. She opens the link and listens as she replies.
12:44 am
You: Noted, baby.
You: Are you drinking water?
12:45 am
Azizam: i’m not a pussy
12:45 am
You: If you want me to go down on you when you get home, you’d better be drinking water.
It’s a ruse, and Baran thinks you know it, but your response is cute.
12:45 am
Azizam: on it boss
Baran is woken up from a deeper sleep to another ping. The song you sent is still playing softly on repeat, and you stop it. Baran can see why it turns you on and already has plans on how she’s going to fuck you to it.
1:21 am
Azizam: r u sure ur ok that m on nights?
The spelling and insecurity in your text tells Baran you have not, in fact, been drinking water. She exhales slowly, an unfair sort of annoyance twinging in her sleepy mind. Not at you, with whom she’s never truly annoyed. It took a long time — some unlearning and careful assurances — for you to be so raw and honest with Baran about your more prickly anxieties. And she took that vulnerability very seriously. No, Baran’s just tired, impatient you’re not with her, and feeling a little needy herself.
1:24 am
You: Yes. But if you want to talk more about it in the morning we can.
1:25 am
Azizam: what if u stat reesnting me
1:25 am
You: Do you resent me for being on day shift?
1:25 am
Azizam: no
Baran rubs her eye and yawns. You’re drunk, and she’s half asleep, and she doesn’t see the point in either of you pursuing such a delicate subject any further.
1:26 am
You: I love you.
1:26 am
Azizam: I LOV Y
Baran smiles, her eyes dry. You’re easily distracted. Giving up on sleep until you’re home, she goes back to scrolling on social media, too tired to pick her book back up.
1:47 am
Incoming Facetime: Azizam
“Baran!” you smile.
“Hi, honey,” Baran coos, her voice raspy and low, her head resting on her bent arm over the pillow. If you were more clear-headed, you would have started fawning over it. Despite how tired she is, Baran loves that you want to talk to her so much while you’re drunk and away from her. It sparks something fond and possessive in her.
“Would you love me if I were a worm?” You’re definitely slurring now.
“What?” Baran is caught off guard.
“If I turned into a worm, would you still love me? Shen said I should ask you.”
She opens and closes her mouth, unsure what that even means, when a familiar voice drifts to her ears, the equally familiar face following quickly into view.
“Dude, you can’t just leave me at the bar. You’re supposed to be my wingman.”
“Dr. Santos?” Baran asks incredulously, shocked into formality. She’s wearing smoky makeup and a swooping top and talking to you with the ease of good friends — a connection Baran is sure just happened tonight.
“Oh, shit,” Trinity hisses, ducking out of view. You blink at Santos, confused, and she slowly, sheepishly returns to the camera. “Hi Dr. Al-Hashimi.”
More awake now, Baran raises an eyebrow.
“How’s your 102-degree fever?” she asks humorlessly, sitting halfway up to offer herself some semblance of authority as she reprimands her resident while laying in bed at two in the morning.
“Better, yeah,” she winces, and you laugh suddenly.
“You didn’t tell me you called out sick,” you blurt, and Trinity glares at you.
“I didn’t want you telling my boss I’m here,” she accuses, motioning to your phone.
“So, you thought I’d go home to my future wife and not tell Baran I saw you and Whittaker at the gay bar?”
Baran’s ears ring, something sharp and hot shooting through her. She remembers the first time she brought up marriage to you, you were watching Bridesmaids together. You’re a few years younger than Baran, and unlike her, you’d never been married before. You didn’t have a kid to think about. Though, you loved Baran’s son dearly, and she loved that you loved him — and that he loved you back.
Have you ever thought about it? Marriage? She asked carefully as your head lay in her lap, and she played absently with your hair. Your fingers stilled on Baran’s thigh, and in the few seconds of silence, Baran thought she might throw up.
Are you asking? You murmured, turning to look up at Baran with unreadable, sparkling eyes.
Yes, she said easily, and then blinked, understanding too late what you meant. I mean, yes, I’m asking if you’ve —
Yes, you cut her off. With the right person. Yes.
She can’t believe she ever for one second doubted you might say yes if she got down on one knee. Baran shouldn’t have then, and she certainly doesn’t now that you’d called her your future wife. The shock quickly melts to a steady warmth that seems to blossom throughout her entire body, an easy sureness she knows is there for good.
“You’re really fucking irritating,” Trinity says to you emphatically, working her jaw, but she knows this situation is her own fault, so there’s no real bite to it. It brings Baran back to the present.
“Whittaker’s there, too?” she drawls, knowing Dennis is definitely on the schedule tomorrow.
“Ooooo, Dr. Santos, you are in so much fucking trouble. I gotta go, babe,” you say, pressing your fingers to your lips and then the camera before the call ends. Truth be told, Baran isn’t really irritated, but she can’t let Trinity know that.
She looks back down at your contact card, a soft, sweet photo of you greeting her. A wave of affection sweeps over her so intensely it knocks the breath from her. Her future wife. Baran swallows down the lump of emotions building in her and focuses on texting you.
1:52 am
You: Be safe. Make good choices. Come home soon. I love you.
1:52 am
Azizam: 😍❤️👅🐱
Baran lays back down, setting her phone by her head and staring at your contact photo like a lovesick teenage girl. She doesn’t wake up this time when Shen’s text comes through.
2:09 am
John Shen: ETA 20 min
John Shen: BTW, I think she’s onto you
Baran is stirred awake by the bed dipping next to her and quiet curses. A groggy noise rumbles in her chest, her limbs too heavy to move, her eyelids like lead.
“Back to sleep, honey,” you whisper, your words coming out a little slurred still, unsteady as you crawl toward her on the soft mattress.
Baran forces herself to turn over, another incoherent, almost whiny noise rising in her. She licks her lips and swallows, her eyes blinking open to see you settle next to her in a t-shirt and underwear.
“Azizam,” Baran mumbles happily, and you grin, leaning over to kiss her.
Instinctually, Baran fists the front of your shirt and drags you closer, her other arm wrapping around your shoulders. Your lips slide against hers, both of you uncoordinated and sloppy from alcohol and sleep but content in it. The thick, sweet smell of the bar lingers on you, along with the faint familiar tang of your sweat, and your tongue dips between Baran’s lips. She moans faintly, and you scoot closer so you can intertwine your legs, your hips pressing into hers.
“I drank water,” you breathe against her mouth, sliding your kisses to her jaw and her neck, wet and open. Baran sighs, more awake now, her core muscles twitching. One thing that really gets Baran going is sleepy sex, and you are definitely using this to your advantage. She remembers her faux promise to you and smiles, tangling a hand in your hair.
“Sleep, eshgham. We have three days together. Just you and me,” she sighs, tilting her chin to limit your access to her neck. You hum softly, dipping your face to her shoulder.
“Dooset daram,” you mumble into Baran’s skin. You know a few phrases in Farsi now, but according to you, this is the most essential, the one you learned first. And every time you say it, it makes Baran weak in the knees.
Her hand tightens in your hair, and she kisses your head, holding you firmly against her. She can feel you drifting off to sleep already, muscles relaxing, breathing even. And Baran feels that stubborn tightness in her throat again now that she finally has you in her arms.
She hadn’t known exactly when she was going to do it, waiting for the perfect time to present itself. This weekend. She’s going to propose to you this weekend.
summary: when baran sees you suturing your own face, she is immediately intrigued.
word count: 1.1k
tags: female reader; plastic surgeon reader; no use of y/n; inspired by mark sloan stitching his own face; robby slander (only if you rly squint); you’re telling me baran wouldn’t have a competency kink? okay…
You hated the emergency department—or “the pitt” as it was so fondly called by said department and trauma surgeons alike. It always amazed you how Walsh and Garcia so frequently made the trip down to the basement. You did your best to avoid emergency consults, often sending your residents down when you could, but being one of the best plastic surgeons, you couldn’t avoid the pitt forever—as much as you would’ve liked to.
It wasn’t that you were against emergency medicine or that you had some vendetta against the people who worked downstairs, but the chaos and frenzy of it all simply unnerved you. During your rotation at MassGen’s trauma center, you’d seen your fair share of MCIs and drunken accidents, too many for your liking actually. You also knew about the rising trends of violence in the ED, something you wanted to do your best to avoid.
Though, it would be just your luck that your first ED consult in months resulted in a laceration across the cheek, thanks to an unhappy—and misogynistic—patient, whose blood alcohol was definitely above the legal limit.
“Shit,” you hissed as one of the residents rolled a sodium-chloride-soaked cotton swab over your wound. “See, this is why I avoid it down here.”
“You got the right idea,” McKay huffed, and you could tell she’d already had a rough day. It was only ten, but that’s what emergency medicine did do to you.
As she draped a cloth over your shoulder, coming back with a needle holder in one hand and pair of forceps in the other, you frowned. “What are you doing?”
“You need stitches,” Cassie stated.
“I know,” you replied. You were the best plastic surgeon east of the Mississippi. Hell would have to have frozen over for you to let some resident do your stitches. “Hold the mirror.”
You lifted the hand-held mirror up for her to take. She gave you an incredulous look but nonetheless swapped her suture supplies for the mirror and held it up for you so you could stitch up your own face.
Across the floor, Baran walked out of a trauma room and approached the nurses’ station. Taking a quick scan of the department, her eyes landed on an attractive woman in Central 2 doing sutures on her own face. She watched as the doctor’s, the dark blue scrubs being a dead give away, hands moved expertly and swiftly, and she couldn’t stop the warmth from flooding her abdomen.
“Why is there a woman doing her own sutures in our emergency department?” Baran asked Dana, her gaze remaining on you.
The charge nurse bit back a smile at the single word choice, implying a shared responsibility, something Dana had come to admire—even like—about the new attending. Baran understood her rank and responsibility but never shouldered the burden alone.
“I doubt she’d let anyone else do ‘em,” Dana snorted as she quickly glanced up to see where Baran looking before returning to her tablet.
“Who is she?”
Dana told her your name. “Plastics surgeon,” she said with a certain tone as if to explain your actions.
Baran seemed to pick up what Dana was suggesting because she raised her eyebrows and nodded.
“Hey, hotshot,” Dana yelled over to you.
“Yeah?” You called back, still focused on your task at hand.
“When you’re done showing off, I got someone here I want you to meet.”
You chuckled lightly, careful not to disrupt your work. Baran watched as you smoothly tied up your sutures, exchanged a few words with McKay, a smug yet easy-going smirk on playing on your lips, and exited the trauma bay.
As you approached the central station, your eyes widened slightly at the unfamiliar woman who was leaning against the counter, her curly hair pulled back halfway so as to not get in her face. While you didn’t make frequent trips down to the pitt, you knew most, if not all, of the doctors and nurses—mainly through Emery and Garcia’s rants but that was a moot point—and you were sure you would remember a woman as striking as her.
“Barbie, this is Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi,” Dana said, motioning her hand between you and the other attending. “She’s here while Robby’s on sabbatical.”
You rolled your eyes at the nickname the charge nurse had coined for you after you’d so generously fixed her broken nose, the first time.
Holding out your hand, you introduced your real name. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Baran shook your hand with a faint smirk, and you tried to ignore the way your insides fluttered at the feeling of her skin against yours.
“Impressive work,” she hummed, eyeing your sutures. She could see they were neat and precise. You’d be left with only a ghost of a scar.
“You should see what else I can do,” you replied with the arrogance of a surgeon, lowering your voice suggestively.
Baran raised her brow, struck by your forwardness.
“No flirting in front of me,” Dana snarked, shooting you a knowing look over the bridge of her glasses. You felt your cheeks warm, but your smirk widened.
“There’s plenty of me to go around, Evans,” you teased as you leaned forward against the station. She gave you a deadpan stare, used to your flirtatious remarks, and you snickered.
“Ignore her.” Dana turned to Baran, not giving you the satisfaction of a retort. “She’s not down here often anyways.”
As if on cue, your pager beeped against your hip. Briefly, you skimmed the message before looking back up at the new attending.
“Well, maybe now I have a reason to visit more often.”
You let your eyes linger in hers, momentarily getting lost in the warmth of her chocolate orbs, before pushing yourself off the station.
“Duty calls.” You held up your pager, which was buzzing again. “It’s been a pleasure, ladies.”
You glanced back at Dana, bowing your head slightly, and she simply dismissed you with a wave of her hand, but you could see a glint of affection in her eye.
“It was nice to meet you, Dr. Al-Hashimi.”
“Baran,” she corrected quickly, surprising even herself.
“Baran,” you echoed, a small and sincere smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.
If she wasn’t enamored by you before, the way her name naturally rolled off your tongue surely did it in for her.
“Well, Baran, I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” she said your name, and you decided you’d never hear it the same way again.
Turning on your heels, you headed back towards the elevator, the stinging in your cheek replaced by the tingling feeling of Baran’s gaze on your retreating figure. As you pressed the button for your floor, you caught one last glimpse of her and nodded with a faint smirk before the elevator doors shut.
You couldn’t wait for your next emergency consult.
Pairing: Baran Al Hashimi x Younger!Fem!Reader | WC: 1455 | T/M Rated
Summary: A surprise dinner and an ever more surprising conversation.
Warnings: Age gap, inexperienced reader, tad bit of hurt/confort, established situationship vibe but we are all good, discussions of first time.
A/n: First time writing for her, I love her but still figuring her out. Based on *gunshot*
AO3!!!!!
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It had been some long weeks. Your work was drilling you into the ground, researching, filling applications, the dreamer's endless pursuit of begging for scientific funding in a country rapidly falling apart. You were tired, eyes and shoulder heavy as you dragged yourself back to your apartment for the night. The little place was already warm and lit when you opened the door, the smell of food cooking hitting you in an instant. What the hell?
"Baran?" You called out, she was the only person in town with a key.
"Aroosakam?" She appeared from the kitchen still in her work clothes, holding a wooden spoon and a rag. Your last strings cut at the sight, you were exhausted. The deep feeling of home that hit your soul shouldn't be so etched considering this was your mentor, a mentor you had kissed and made out with a couple times, but still, she was what? 13 years? your senior. "Are you okay?"
You could blame your cycle making you softer, more pliant, yeah, it was a good excuse. In three steps you dropped your bag and stopped in front of her "Mhm" You nodded, cupping her face and searching into her eyes, quickly capturing her lips in a kiss, she smiled against you, the rag hand pulling you closer by the hip in an instant. Your hand clutched to her curls, fisting it to pull her closer as her tongue asked permision to enter your mouth, gentle against you. You granted access, caressing your teeth over her tongue as she did, which made her chuckle against your lips.
"Always a biter" You bit down a tad harder on her lower lip, draggin back to look into her eyes before letting go with a wet pop. She chased your lips with closed eyes and a loopy smile, holding you imposibly closer by the waist.
"I think the food is burning" Baran's eyes widened as she let go of you, rushing to the kitchen to stir whatever she was cooking, that thankfully did not burn. You came to sit on the counter next to her. "Excuse me, Dr. Al Hashimi, but what exactly are you doing in my home?"
"Clara called" She lowered the stove and came to rest between your legs, not touching you "Said you looked, and I quote, 'Like a fucking zombie, Baran, the poor girl is going through it'. When I asked her what did she want me to do, that she was your mentor now and not me, she told me a colorful version of 'I'm not an idiot' and hung up". Your legs circled around her hips and pulled her closer to the counter with a smile, Baran's hands moved up your thighs, clutching, blunt nails tracing the rought cloth of your trousers.
"So you are on nanny duties" Her deadpan was kinda funny. She tended not to think about the age gap... you were so smart and out in the world that your age tended to fly over her head, prodigy perks you would call it. She groaned and swatted your leg.
"You went around kissing your nannies?"
"It's an habit I'm willing to start" Your hand trailed up her arm, falling into the neck of her shirt. "Can I touch you?" She nodded and your finger dipped lower on the neckline. Just tracing her skin eased down your frown from the hellish week you had had, her heart gentle against your caress. Your hand cupped her neck, thumb caressing before you hid your face against it. Baran's chuckle echoed against your body as she came even closer to you and hugged you.
-
Once she had frowned at you until you downed two bowls of vegetable stew, and as you finished washing the dishes you heard her move over on the sofa. The clacking was quite familiar, a badge.
"You are on shift?!" Her sheepish smile was hard to hide. "Baran Al Hashimi! You-!" It was her turn now to step forward and kiss you, even if just for you to lower your voice at this time.
"It was a slow night in the VA, I just took an extended dinner period" She said against your lips, pecking, only the pecking turned into a full kiss, and that kiss ended with her on the sofa, you on top of her, not to mention her hands were quick to descend into your ass. Your arms were around her neck, pulling her flush to you as your hips moved on their own accord. She inhaled deeply as her lips traveled lower down your neck, teeth grazing your skin.
"Baran, work"
"In a minute, Aroosakam" With amazing strength she adjusted you on top of her, your full body weight resting now on her legs. This was not looking like a minute, this was looking as a write up on her file.
"Baran..." She began lifting your shirt, kissing you up. "Doctor Al Hashimi!" You pulled her back against the sofa, her brown pleading eyes found yours. You tried to move from on top of her, her hands still keeping you close. Fine. Your hand on her chest, you held Baran back against the cushions. "You have to go to work"
"I will" She rolled her eyes with a smile, and a more profesional demeanor fell into her posture. "But you have to promise you will go to bed and sleep, no sofa, no TV, no scrolling for hours" You opened your mouth to speak "If you even dare say nanny..." it closed.
"Fair, but I do need to ask you a favour" The fire was already burning. The hand on her chest assumed a most tactical approach and she arched into your hand, you kneeded her lightly, thumb caressing over cloth. She grabbed you once again, a little bit breathless, hands on your hair as you spoke against her lips. "I'll go to sleep, you'll go to work, then to bed, but in two days when weekend grants us more than an hour of time together" Your lips fell to her neck, bitting her pulse point and her hand dropped to your inner thigh, fingers skimming uncharted territory. Your voice became airier, "I want us to meet, and for you to finally fuck me" The hand in your hair tightened and she pushed you back.
"Aroosakam..." Doll... Her eyes searched yours, she was suddenly serious.
"Please, please, please" You practically begged, legs opening a tad, pulling back a little, granting her hand more access. "I want it to be you, I need to." You felt your body on fire already. "Please, when this passes and we are both well rested and completely aware, could you?"
Baran's hands fisted where they were, how could she say no to you when you asked like that, when you asked that, when you asked. You searched her face, waited, she was looking at you but not answering, her smile had gone, and suddenly, in your haze, in your tiredness, you felt it like rejection.
"Oh, okay" You detangled from her body, you understood, the dynamic, the power, maybe it wasn't like that... maybe she just didn't want to. "Forget I asked" Ok, now you needed to get away from her, from the heat of her body. You needed a shower, to scrub yourself "You are needed at work, Dr. Al Hashimi" You tried to leave the sofa but were pulled back, she held your hand, you stood over her, and her big brown eyes looked up at you.
"Are you sure, Aroosakam?" Her hands trailed up and down your sides. "Me?" You nodded.
"I trust you" You adverted your eyes, "I'm scared and tired, and I trust you". Her mask of doubt crumbled.
"Okay. Yes." She nodded, stepping out of her haze and smiling up at you.
"Great" You said, the fear slowly disappearing from your chest. "Cool, uhm... work. You need to get back to work"
Baran eyed the clock on your wall "Oh, shit!" She jumped from the sofa, scrambling to grab her things. "Okay, so I'll see you this weekend" She said walking towards the door.
"Baran" She looked up like a deer in headlights, and you showed her her hospital badge. "Only if you actually want to" You moved closer and handed her the badge. Baran secured it on her clothes before pecking your lips, you answered, giggling at her butterfly kisses.
"Of course I want to, gosh you have no idea how much I want to" Her hands went down to your hips, your ass, and pulled you close. "Now, give me a proper kiss" You granted her maybe 10 seconds of your tongues battling before you all but pushed her trough the door.
a/n: one of my personal headcanons is that cassie is a girlkisser but didn't realise until a while after her divorce. this is basically that :p
mdni, implied age gap (definitely not a focal point), reader has been out as queer for a while, unspecified sexuality though, strap-on use
cassie thought that she had never been interested in women before. she'd only dated men in her youth before eventually settling down with a man. her sexual history consisted solely of encounters with men.
so naturally, she became pretty confused when she got to know you and experienced the same flutter in her chest she had only ever felt for guys.
she recognised it immediately—she didn't go through a period of thinking you you were just "really good friends", and she never tried to convince herself that it wasn't real. that didn't make it any less confusing, though.
she made sure to tell you as much, "i've never felt this way about another woman before. but..." she paused in the way she sometimes did that told you she really wanted her words to come out the right way. "but i wanna try."
you were so enamoured by her sudden onset shyness. you'd never seen her be so tentative and it amused you so much that you couldn't help but tease her about it. "wanna try what?"
her laugh echoed in your head for minutes after she stopped. the image of her burying her reddening face in her hands burned itself into your eyelids, it was all you could see when you closed your eyes for a while.
"i wanna try being with a woman. with you."
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
'being with you' had been steady. it started with the two of you spending more time together one-on-one. you came to understand that cassie, as personable as she was, savoured time at home. so a lot of your date nights were really just getting ready for bed together.
you loved showing her face masks you loved, pushing her down on her sofa and straddling her hips so you could massage excess serum into her skin.
she'd ask if it was really necessary, to which you'd insist, "it hydrates the skin better, and it'll make you glow. more than usual, anyway." for her sake, you pretended not to notice the way her face got more crimson in hue.
after some months, she introduced you to harrison. she told you she was certain that he'd like you. "who wouldn't?" she had said.
she introduced you as "mommy's girlfriend", which only served to make you fall for her even more. knowing that she cared about you enough to integrate you into her life like this? it was dizzying.
you felt like she was serious about you. you weren't just a fling or an experiment. little did you know, she thought of you as her future.
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
what was certainly interesting was showing cassie how to have sex with a woman. leading by example, of course.
your first time together lasted a few hours. it was very much stopping and starting—periods of actual sexual activity interspersed with conversation and laughter that probably took up most of the time in bed. but it was undoubtedly authentic.
the way cassie looked up at you every once in a while whilst she went down on you, the way she touched you like you were made of glass. it was all unbelievably sensual.
cassie could hardly believe it either. she felt like she had been born again, like she was a different woman. she certainly didn't feel like the cassie mckay she had always been when you were instructing her on how to use a strap-on.
her mind was blurry as looked down at you. you had told her to lift your legs up, put them over her shoulders. and when she started to fuck you, she swore she almost could have come from the sounds you were making. the cries that she was drawing out of you.
as she rolled her hips against yours, the smooth silicone of the strap gliding in and out of your velvety walls, you couldn't believe she had never slept with a woman before. her fingers were virtually dexterous against yours clit in a way that made you think she had been lying about you being her first girlfriend.
soon enough you were coming for her, grasping your hands on her hips in a desperate attempt to get her to fuck you through your climax. like a perfect girlfriend, she did.
she pulled out of you and laid by your side with a gentle sweep of her hand over your chest. then had the audacity to ask, "was that good for you?" you had no idea how you were going to handle her when she started getting more confident in the bedroom.
cassie being a clueless lesbian is canon to me.
pls someone give me a reason to write more about her
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