I realized I could barely find my old favs anymore so as all good libraries should have I’m creating a directory!
disclaimer!!! I do NOT own any of these fics, all credit goes to the lovely original authors
marvel
spiderverse
dc
the pitt
9-1-1
knives out
harry potter
hogwarts legacy
supernatural
criminal minds
star wars
stardew valley
wednesday
hunger games
various kpop
kpop demon hunters
misc (very few fics, less interacted with fandoms)
reading list now found at: @rereadsforlater
Also to be clear, I do not support J.K. Rowling, however she doesn't profit from fan works and this way I can interact with the series without her benefitting. Trans women are women, if you think otherwise, leave and please block me while you do.
disclaimer!!! I do NOT own any of these fics, all credit goes to the lovely original authors
eddie diaz
always safe with me - he's crushing on chris' babysitter, chris lowkey ruins the moment a few times, eddie is such a safespace which is what finally forces a confession
i love you, i'm sorry - he is the KING of repressing emotions, does not know how to handle love, has to learn the hard way by breaking her heart and by extension his own, angst, eventual reconciliation, he really does just hurt his own feelings for fun
evan "buck" buckley
fluff blurb - he's not used to just being friends first, so he doesn't realize he's slowly falling for his best friend
Jack Abbot finds out that you want to kiss him. It breaks his brain a little.
Because what do you, the angel of the pitt, everyone's favourite nurse, the one who holds the hands of parents and little kids and who sneaks snacks to those who are allowed food and who is so good and kind, want with a man like him.
A man who's scarred and missing a leg, who struggles to sleep through the night, and is a SWAT medic because his therapist told him to get a hobby. A man who's old and widowed and and and ..
But you don't see any of that. You see a man who is kind and yeah damaged but not broken. A man who is big and strong capable and helpful and loving and caring and so so good.
He hears it by accident.
That’s the worst part.
Jack isn’t meant to be in the stairwell — he’d taken the long way down because the lift was too crowded, too loud, too much. His knee had been aching, phantom pain curling up his missing leg like a bad memory, and the quiet seemed like a better option.
Then he hears your voice.
Soft. A little embarrassed. The way you sound when you’re trying to pretend something doesn’t matter as much as it does.
“I just— I don’t know, I think I want to kiss him.”
Jack stops.
Not pauses — stops. Like someone pulled the plug on him. Hand tightening on the rail, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat.
There’s another voice — Santos, maybe — teasing, disbelieving.
“Jack Abbot? You want to kiss Jack?”
You laugh, and it’s nervous now.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Oh, I’m making it weird. He’s—”
“I know what he is,” you cut in, quieter this time. Softer. Defending.
Jack doesn’t hear the rest.
He can’t.
Because his brain has already short-circuited.
You.
You, who sit with scared parents long after your shift ends.
You, who crouch down to eye level with kids and somehow make hospitals feel less like hospitals.
You, who sneak extra jelly cups to patients when they’re cleared for solids like it’s some kind of sacred mission.
You, who smile at him like he’s just… normal.
You want to kiss him.
Jack grips the railing harder.
It doesn’t make sense.
It doesn’t make sense.
Because what do you want with a man like him?
He’s too old.
That’s the first thing his brain offers up, quick and brutal.
Too old, too worn down, too done.
You’re light. You’re warmth. You’re everything soft in a place that eats people alive.
He’s—
He swallows.
He’s a man who wakes up at 3 a.m. because his body still thinks there are gunshots.
A man who reaches for a leg that isn’t there.
A man who became a SWAT medic because his therapist said find something that gives you purpose again and he didn’t know what else to do with himself.
A man who’s already had a whole life. A whole love.
A man who buried his wife and never really figured out how to come back from that.
And you—
You want to kiss him.
Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath.
“Jesus Christ.”
He avoids you.
Of course he does.
Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would clock.
But you notice.
You always notice.
He’s a little quicker to leave a room when you walk in. A little more careful not to brush against you in tight spaces. His usual low, dry commentary disappears, replaced with something… stiff.
It hurts more than you expect.
You corner him three days later.
Not aggressively. Not dramatically.
Just… gently.
He’s in one of the supply rooms, checking inventory like it’s the most important job in the world, and you slip inside, closing the door behind you.
“Did I do something?”
Jack freezes.
God.
That voice.
Soft and worried and directed at him.
He keeps his back to you for a second longer than he should.
“No.”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He exhales slowly, shoulders tightening.
You step closer.
“Jack.”
There’s something about the way you say his name — like it matters — that undoes him a little.
He turns then.
Big mistake.
Because you’re right there.
Close enough that he can see the tiny crease between your brows, the concern in your eyes, the way your hands fidget like you’re trying not to reach for him.
“You didn’t do anything,” he says, quieter now. Rougher.
“Then what is it?”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“You really wanna know?”
“Yes.”
You don’t hesitate.
That’s the problem.
You never hesitate with him.
Jack studies you for a long moment, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re real.
Then—
“I heard you.”
Your breath catches.
“…heard me?”
“In the stairwell,” he says. “Other day.”
Oh.
Oh.
Your face burns instantly.
“Oh my god.”
“Yeah.”
“Jack, I—”
“You wanna kiss me?”
He says it bluntly. Like ripping off a bandage.
Your embarrassment falters.
Because under it… there’s no shame.
You swallow, then nod.
“Yeah.”
No hesitation.
No backtracking.
Just… honesty.
Jack shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to reset himself.
“Why?”
It comes out harsher than he means.
You blink.
“Why?”
“Yeah,” he repeats. “Why me?”
There’s something raw under the question now. Something fragile he clearly didn’t mean to show.
You step closer.
“Do you really not know?”
“No,” he says immediately. “I don’t.”
He looks almost frustrated about it. Like it genuinely doesn’t compute.
So you tell him.
“You’re kind.”
He scoffs, but it’s weak.
“You are,” you insist. “You just don’t make a big show of it.”
You take another step.
“You stay late for patients who don’t have anyone. You check in on people without making it a whole thing. You notice when I’ve skipped lunch and suddenly there’s a protein bar on my desk.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s just—”
“That’s you,” you cut in softly.
Your voice gentles.
“You’re good, Jack.”
He shakes his head again, sharper this time.
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
You don’t let him dodge it.
“Yeah, you’re hurt. Yeah, you’ve been through things I probably can’t even imagine. But you’re not broken.”
That lands.
You can see it.
“I don’t see a man who’s too old or too damaged,” you continue. “I see someone who takes care of people even when it costs him something. Someone strong. Someone safe.”
Your voice drops just a little.
“Someone I want.”
Silence.
Heavy. Thick.
Jack looks at you like you’ve just said something impossible.
Like you’ve rewritten the rules of his entire world.
“You don’t mean that,” he says, but there’s no conviction behind it.
“I do.”
You’re close now. Close enough that he could reach out.
He doesn’t.
“I’m not—” he starts, then falters. “I’m not easy.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I don’t sleep. I’ve got baggage. I’ve got—”
“I know.”
You say it so simply.
Like it doesn’t scare you.
“I’m still here.”
That breaks something.
Jack exhales, long and shaky, like he’s been holding it in for years.
“You don’t know what you’re signing up for.”
“Then let me learn.”
God.
You’re going to kill him.
He stares at you for a long moment.
Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him—
“You really wanna kiss me?”
You smile, just a little.
“Yeah.”
There’s a beat.
Another.
Then—
“Alright.”
It’s almost reluctant.
Almost disbelieving.
But there’s something warm under it now.
Something that wasn’t there before.
He hesitates only a second before lifting a hand — rough, careful — like he’s not entirely sure he’s allowed to touch you.
You lean into it without thinking.
That’s what does it.
That quiet, instinctive trust.
His thumb brushes your cheek, and he exhales again, softer this time.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
You smile.
“Worth it.”
His mouth finds yours like he’s been holding himself back for far too long—and finally, finally lets go.
It’s not rushed.
That’s the first thing you notice.
For a man who lives in chaos, who moves fast and reacts faster, Jack kisses you like he’s afraid of breaking the moment. Like he needs to feel it, make sure it’s real, make sure you’re real.
His lips press to yours, firm and warm, and there’s a quiet inhale against your mouth—like the contact alone steals the breath from his lungs.
Your hand comes up without thinking, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, grounding yourself.
He makes a low sound at that.
Soft. Surprised.
And then something shifts.
The hesitation melts.
His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, broad and steady, pulling you just a fraction closer as his mouth moves against yours again—deeper this time, more certain.
It’s still careful… but there’s heat under it now.
Something that’s been building for a long time.
You tilt into him, lips parting, and he follows instinctively, like he’s wanted this more than he’s been willing to admit. The kiss deepens, slow and consuming, his grip tightening just slightly—like he needs to keep you there, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.
You won’t.
You lean in closer, pressing into his space, and he exhales sharply against your mouth.
“Christ…” he murmurs, barely pulling back before kissing you again.
This time it’s less controlled.
Still not rough—but hungry, in a quiet, restrained way. Like every ounce of restraint he has is focused on not overwhelming you, even as he gives in to the feeling.
His thumb brushes along your jaw, your neck, grounding himself in you. In the warmth of your skin, the softness of you—so different from everything he’s used to.
You kiss him back just as deeply, just as sure.
Because you don’t see anything fragile here.
You see him.
And when your fingers slide up into his hair, when you hold him there like you want him, he falters for half a second—like it hits him all over again that this is real.
That you are choosing this.
Choosing him.
The next kiss is softer.
Slower.
But somehow even more intense.
He leans his forehead against yours when he finally pulls back, breath uneven, eyes still closed like he’s trying to hold onto the moment for just a second longer.
His hand doesn’t leave you.
It stays at your neck, thumb brushing back and forth in a quiet, almost absent motion.
“…You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.
Not accusing.
Not even warning.
Just… awed.
Because whatever this is—whatever you’ve just started—
it’s already gotten under his skin in a way he knows isn’t going away.
buck is used to jumping straight into relationships. he hasn’t really ever done the just friends first thing before. one could argue taylor kelly was that, but between them hooking up before being friends and buck going into their new friendship with feelings for her already, he doesn’t think it counts.
with you, it was strictly platonic. he’d met you, once, at maddie and chim’s house warming party. you’d made polite chit-chat with him, like you did with everyone else at the house, and that was it. then you started coming around more to offer to watch jee whenever maddie and chimney got too tied up at work or were tired or just needed some time to themselves.
usually uncle buck was up to the task, whenever he could, so it got a little confusing when you started to help out. schedules got mixed up—you’d end up showing up to pick her up at daycare on the same day, forgetting if it was your day or his to show up until maddie or chim reached out saying the daycare called to ask why jee hadn’t been picked up yet. it took awhile but you and buck finally started communicating enough where you got a rhythm down. sometimes he’d come over when it was your day though, just to squeeze in some time with his niece. through that trial and error, buck and you became… friends.
he learned your coffee order, you two had takeout so much together you memorized his order from every place you both frequented, he started slowly stocking maddie and chim’s pantries with snacks you liked so you had something to scour through when you had a solo day with jee. he texts you throughout the day to tell you about the weird calls he’s responded to that day, you tell him about all the weird book requests (and recommendations) you got at the bookstore. you watch documentaries together when you don’t have to watch jee.
you two build a routine, a familiarity. it’s been awhile since buck has made a new friend.
which is why it hits him like a freight train when, on his birthday, you show up to the party at hen and karen’s house and you ask where you can put his gift. a gift? buck strictly said no gifts and so far everyone had obliged. everyone but you.
“oh,” you say, a little embarrassed. sure, buck said no gifts but, he couldn’t have meant it… right? except of course he did. so, you let buck drag you to a different room where no one else is and he excitedly reaches for the small, wrapped box in your hands. “you don’t have to open it now,” you argue, your voice quiet with embarrassment. buck can see the red in your cheeks and the way you clutch the box in your hands so instead he shrugs and walks over to the closet where his jacket is.
“how about we put it away, and i’ll open it when i get home?”
and so that’s how you let buck convince you to come over to his place after the party, still wanting to open the gift with you instead of alone and you had to because “it’s my birthday!”
“it’s really… it’s nothing special,” you argue weakly, watching him tear into the wrapping paper from your seat on his couch. he’s sitting on the coffee table in front of you and shaking his head.
“i’m sure it’s perfect,” he volleys back, finally getting the box open to—“are these… recipe cards?” he spins the box the cards are in, in his hands. “they’re… they look handmade.”
“um, well, i saw this tutorial on instagram. about how to make them.”
buck looks up at you, not able to swallow the lump that’s forming in his throat as he waits for you to continue.
“you just… you complain, about not remembering recipes. mostly bobby’s. and he always teases you, makes you sweat a little before telling you. i figured writing it down might help,” your hands are in your lap, clasped together while you play with the rings you’re wearing. “maybe we could even… i don’t know… make our own. with jee. obviously.”
“obviously,” buck breathes out, scooting a little closer toward you, your knees between his spread out legs. “this is…” buck looks down at the cards, shaking his head when he sees you’ve already written one recipe down—jee’s favorite, the snickerdoodle. it was the first thing he baked for you, too. “you’re the best,” he settles on, though it falls flat in his ears, like it doesn’t do you justice.
“yeah, well… you’re kind of my best friend,” you shrug, swallowing nothing as you avoid his eyes. “happy birthday.”
and then the train feels like it’s sitting on his chest. stationed there. he’s your best friend.
“you’re mine,” he whispers. and he’s not sure in which way he means it, in which way he wishes it were true. but it makes him a little uncomfortable in a way that makes it hard for him to breathe, so he settles on a joke. “just, don’t tell eddie.”
when you laugh, he feels his chest get a little tighter. but, he laughs with you and moves toward the kitchen to find a place to put these, and to give himself some air.
Being best friends with Ginny Weasley was the easiest thing in the world. Or, at least, it had been at the start. The two of you had three simple rules.
#3. Always save each other a seat.
#2. Never lie to one another.
#1. Ginny’s brothers were off-limits.
It was rule #1 that you found yourself currently in contempt of. But how were you meant to know when you’d made that promise that a few years down the track everything would change?
———————————————————————
You had been best friends with Ginny Weasley for as long as you could remember.
It had started sometime in first year, when you found her crying in the girls’ bathroom after throwing a book at moaning Myrtle. You didn’t ask questions. You just sat next to her, pulled a Chocolate Frog from your bag, and said, “You don’t have to tell me. But if you want to, I’m here.” That was the moment it began. Since then, your friendship had become a constant in both of your lives. Like the hum of the Hogwarts Express, or the steady whistle of the wind through the trees by the Black Lake.
And there were rules. Unspoken at first, but eventually written down during a sleepover at the Burrow in a notebook charmed to sparkle and float around Ginny’s room. The most sacred of them all: “Don’t fall for one of my brothers. Ever.”
You remembered the moment it was written with almost photographic clarity. Ginny had been sitting cross-legged at the foot of her bed, face twisted with frustration as she doodled angry lightning bolts in the margins.
“Honestly, it’s like every girl who’s ever spoken to me suddenly wants to be my best mate the second they lay eyes on one of them,” Ginny muttered bitterly, tossing her quill down. “Lavender started cozying up to me last year and I thought maybe she actually wanted to be friends. But no. She just wanted to ask if Ron was ‘as tall in person as he looked from across the Great Hall.’ Gross.”
You laughed back then, genuinely amused and a little horrified. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I were,” Ginny huffed, brushing her hair back with a quick, irritated flick. “Then there was Marietta. She was practically joined at my hip during dinner and the whole time she was working up the courage to ask if I’d introduce her to George. George!”
“She couldn’t even pretend to care about you, could she?”
“Not for a second,” Ginny snapped. Then her expression softened as she looked at you. “That’s why I like you. You’re not here for any of that rubbish.”
Back then you had smiled and laced your pinky through hers, swearing on it. Now, whenever it was even remotely brought up (like when Angelina tried to hangout with the two of you to get a date with Fred) you had to force yourself to smile, even as your heart twisted.
You hadn’t intended to fall for one of Ginny’s brothers, but sometime in the past four years, you had. Something about Fred’s clever jokes, his chaotic grin, and the way he always found time to check in on you had chipped away at your resolve. You had been entirely helpless to the painful and slow fall into irrevocable affection for the older twin, and you had said nothing, because of the rule. Because you loved Ginny.
You remembered her smile that night, soft and genuine.
“If I ever find out someone’s only in my life to get to one of them,” she said. “I’ll never forgive them. Promise me you’ll never do that.”
“Of course,” you had sworn.
You meant it, back then. You couldn’t have predicted you would genuinely fall for one of them. And you still meant it now, in your own twisted way. You had no intention of doing anything about your feelings. Loving Fred from a distance didn’t count. Did it?
But lately it had become harder to look away. He was noticing you, and not the way he noticed everyone else. Not with the performative charm or cheeky quips he tossed around like fireworks. No, he was watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. Catching your eye across the dinner table. Sitting closer than he used to, finding reasons to touch your arm when he laughed. Or maybe you were imagining it.
But you and Ginny had rules.
And you were already breaking rule #1.
———————————————————————
The Burrow was as chaotic as usual. The second you stepped through the crooked front door with Ginny, the scent of fresh bread and stewed onions wrapped around you like a warm blanket. The air was humid with the smell of summer earth and something sugary baking in the oven. A breeze drifted in from the open kitchen window, carrying laughter from the garden and the sounds of someone (probably Ron) grunting as he lugged trunks upstairs.
“Welcome home!” Molly was fussing as she grabbed each one of them by the face and planted a big kiss on their cheeks.
“Gross, mum!” The boys groaned and wiped their faces with their sleeves as they came into the house.
“My darling girls!” Molly greeted the two of you, pulling both you and Ginny into a tight hug.
“Hey, Mrs Weasley,” you greeted with a warm smile. You’d spend so much time here that the Burrow had come to feel like your second home, and the Weasleys like a second pair of parents.
“Oh, how you’ve grown up since the last time I saw you!” The stout woman patted your check affectionately, then stepped back to gesture to the already set table.
“Lunch, everyone! On the table, NOW!” Molly Weasley’s voice thundered through the house with such maternal command it could’ve made a mountain walk.
You hadn’t even had time to protest when Arthur took your trunk before you were swept up in the current of Weasley children charging into the kitchen like a herd of hippogriffs. Chairs scraped, plates clattered and elbows jabbed for better positioning. It was always a game of survival when it came to getting a good seat at the Burrow’s table.
Fred emerged from seemingly nowhere at your side, grinning like he’d just won a prize. “Well, well,” he said in that voice of his, low and amused, with just enough of a lilt to make your stomach flip. “Guess this seat’s mine, yeah?”
He reached for the chair to your left, the one you’d secretly been hoping he’d take, and yet, also dreading he would. You acted on pure instinct in panic and an act of self-preservation when you placed your hand firmly on the back of the chair before he could pull it out. “That one’s taken,” you blurted out a little too quickly.
Fred raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. “By who?”
And before your mouth could catch up with your thoughts, before you could invent some excuse or redirect him to the other side of the table, Ginny shoved past Fred, bumping him with her hip. “By me, you great big git. Rule #3, remember? Now move!” she snapped cheerfully, shooting you a triumphant smile as she slid into the seat beside you.
Fred snorted, placing a dramatic hand over his heart like he’d been wounded. “Betrayed. By my own blood.”
He dragged himself to the far end of the table with a theatrical sigh, collapsing into a chair beside George. You watched him from the corner of your eye as he stole a bread roll before the basket had even hit the table, catching you looking just in time to shoot you a wink. You felt heat rise to your cheeks.
Ginny leaned over, scooping potatoes onto your plate. “Honestly, you’d think they’d learn by now that we always sit next to each other. I think he did it on purpose just to mess with us.”
You forced a laugh, stabbing at a carrot with more force than necessary. “It’s exactly the completely irritating thing he’d do,” you said weakly.
But your heart was thudding too loudly in your chest to believe it. You had wanted him to sit next to you. Just a little. You could still feel the ghost of where his arm would’ve brushed against yours. How his knee might’ve bumped yours under the table. You could imagine it far too easily. Close enough to smell the spice and smoke of his cologne, to hear every stupid joke murmured just for you.
But then you looked at Ginny, happily chatting to her mum about the drive there, glowing with sun-kissed freckles and full of trust. The guilt returned with full force, crashing like a wave over your ribs. You weren’t going to mess this up. Not this.
You promised yourself right then and there: You would stay away from Fred this summer. No matter how many times he winked at you. No matter how charming his smile was. No matter how much your hands itched to reach for his under the table.
He was Ginny’s brother. And you were Ginny’s best friend. And those two things could never, ever mix.
———————————————————————
Your first few days at the burrow passed without a problem. Ron kept to himself mostly, sending letters back and forth to Hermione and Harry in between practicing quidditch with the twins. When the twins weren’t out in the field zipping about on their broomsticks, they were locked in their room. No one quite knew what they were up to in there, except for the intermittent explosion that shook the house and earned a few lectures from Molly. Percy was off on some sort of internship at the Ministry of Magic. Which of course left you and Ginny to your own devices.
Your plan of avoiding Fred had been going splendidly. The only times you would see him were during meals, and with the buffer of the whole family present there were no issues that had arisen. He’d not tried again to steal Ginny’s chair by your side. You’d worked to memorise his and George’s schedule, knowing what times to avoid the bathroom or the kitchen for snack break. You’d even taken to using the bathroom at the latest possible time, once the house had gone uncharacteristically quiet and you knew everyone else was in bed.
Hence why you were there now. The bathroom mirror was fogged with steam from the shower someone had taken earlier. You deduced it was probably Ron, based on the trail of damp footprints leading down the hall to his bedroom. You stood at the sink in your pyjamas, brushing your teeth, the tap running low to hide in the silence.
You leaned closer to the mirror and wiped a clean patch of glass to check your reflection. Your hair was a bit of a mess from a full day of hanging about the garden. Your skin a little tinged by the sun. The dim golden light from the hallway behind you spilled in from the half-cracked door, soft and flickering like candlelight.
The door creaked further open. You flinched, mid-brush. And then you nearly choked on your toothpaste. Fred stood in the doorway, shirtless, rubbing a towel over his wild and wet hair, a pair of well-worn pyjama bottoms slung low on his hips. Water glistened on his shoulders. His freckles were more pronounced under the soft bathroom light, and his grin was…absolutely illegal.
You turned back to the sink immediately, hoping the toothpaste foam in your mouth would distract from the fact your pulse had just shot up like a firework.
“Evenin’,” he said casually, like this was completely normal.
You didn’t answer, mostly because you couldn’t speak with a mouth full of mint-flavoured panic.
Fred moved behind you, stepping inside without hesitation and reaching for a comb that sat on the bench. You could feel his presence, radiating a warmth that pulsed just inches away from your spine. The tension twisted tighter with each breath. You were practically vibrating.
“You always brush your teeth this agressively?” he asked, his voice low and amused. “Looks intense.”
You spat your toothpaste into the sink and grabbed your cup to rinse. “Just thorough,” you muttered, praying your voice didn’t sound like it was shaking.
Fred leaned on the counter beside you, one arm braced as he turned his body toward you. “Right. Very serious business, dental hygiene. Sexy stuff.”
You gave a tight, nervous laugh and tried not to look at his collarbone, or his chest, or the single drip of water trailing down his sternum. You tried. But Merlin, you were failing.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” you asked, drying your hands quickly, your eyes fixed anywhere but on him.
“I was,” Fred said, tilting his head. “But then I remembered the bathroom gets much more interesting around midnight.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
He smiled, cocking a brow. “You’ve been sneaking in here late every night like you’re hiding something. Thought I’d investigate.”
“I’m brushing my teeth, Fred. Hardly a great mystery of the universe.”
He leaned a little closer, and your breath hitched before you could stop it. His voice dropped an octave, teasing but edged with something heavier. “Well, then maybe I’m the one with secrets.”
You hated that your stomach flipped. That your legs felt suddenly unsteady. That this was exactly the kind of moment you’d dreamed about for years, and yet now it was the last thing you could afford.
You cleared your throat, stepping back. “You’re ridiculous, you know.”
“And yet here you are,” he said. “Cornered. In a bathroom. With me.”
He was still smiling. But his eyes - those gorgeous hazel eyes - searched yours with something more than just mischief. There was the weight of a hopeful question in them.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake, Fred, put a bloody shirt on!” The moment shattered like glass.
Ginny appeared in the doorway, her eyes narrowing immediately as she took in the scene. Fred shirtless and grinning, you red-faced and stiff near the sink.
Fred didn’t move. He just glanced at Ginny over his shoulder, as if annoyed to be interrupted. “What?” he asked, unbothered.
“You’re disgusting,” she snapped, elbowing past him. “You can’t just wander around half-naked like some trollop!”
Fred looked delighted by that. “Trollop? Really, Ginny? You wound me.”
She made a face. “Honestly, you’re like a feral cat.” Then, without hesitation, she wedged herself firmly between you and Fred, standing like a barrier. Completely oblivious to the electric tension that had just been vibrating in the room.
Fred smirked at you over her shoulder, lips twitching, like he knew exactly what he’d done.
Ginny turned to you, unaware. “Ready for bed?”
You nodded mutely. Behind her, Fred gave you a lazy wink and finally retreated, tossing his towel over his shoulder as he strolled out of the room like he hadn’t just flipped your entire emotional state upside down.
Ginny looked at you and scrunched her nose. “Honestly. He’s so weird sometimes. Sorry you had to see that.”
You managed a smile, small and tight. “It’s fine. I’ve seen worse.”
But as you followed her down the hall toward the room you were sharing, your heart was still racing. Your skin still buzzed from his nearness. Your mind - the traitorous thing - kept replaying that moment when he’d leaned in, eyes soft, voice low.
And you knew then, with a certainty that made your stomach sink, that this summer was going to be really, really difficult.
———————————————————————-
It had been five days since The Bathroom Incident - a title you’d privately christened it with during your increasingly dramatic internal monologues. And for five blissful, tormenting, nerve-fraying days, Fred had been…good. No more shirtless intrusions. No surprise appearances when you were alone. No wandering conversations with too much eye contact and not enough space between your bodies.
Just casual, everyday Fred Weasley. Joking with his siblings, tinkering with George, throwing fruit across the kitchen, absolutely no more cornering you against a sink like he wanted to eat you alive.
You’d convinced yourself it was over. That he’d gotten bored of teasing you and moved on. That maybe you were in the clear.
Until this morning. You’d just woken up, sunlight stretching warm fingers across your face through the open window, when you heard it.
“We’re going into town for the Sunday market!” George’s voice rang out through the hallway. “Come on, grab your shoes!”
You sat up, blinking sleep from your eyes as Ginny barged into the room already half-dressed, tying her hair up with a ribbon. “You’re coming too,” she declared, tossing your shoes toward the bed. “It’ll be us and the twins.”
Your stomach turned. Just the four of you. On a sunny day. Walking into town. All together. You, Ginny, George…and Fred.
Before you could argue, Ginny had already bolted back out of the room, mumbling something about losing her favourite jacket.
You took less than five minutes to pull on a cute outfit and brush your teeth before you waked into the hallway, trying not to look like you were internally screaming. At the bottom of the stairs, Fred was waiting.
He leaned lazily against the railing, arms crossed over his chest, dressed in a sweater rolled at the sleeves and worn jeans. Casual and comfortable has never looked so dangerous before. The second he saw you, a slow grin unfurled across his face like a cat who’d spotted a cornered mouse.
“Well, well,” he said, voice soft enough that it felt like it was just for you. “Didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to get you all day.”
You blinked. “What?”
He pushed off the railing and took a step closer. Close enough that you caught the familiar scent of spearmint and gunpowder. “I mean, I’ve barely seen you all summer. I was starting to worry I’d developed a contagious rash and somehow wasn’t aware.”
You folded your arms. “Maybe you have. Have you checked?”
“Oh, thoroughly. I’m in top condition.” He winked, words dripping with innuendo.
You rolled your eyes, but your lips betrayed you with a small smile. He saw it - of course he saw it - and leaned in just a little more.
“You know,” he murmured, “I’d accuse you of hiding from me if I didn’t already know with certainty that you were.”
Your heart thudded too loudly in your chest. Before you could deliver a scathing comeback - or worse, blush - Ginny’s footsteps thundered down the stairs.
Fred stepped away with impeccable timing, shoving his hands into his pockets and grinning innocently as Ginny reappeared with a cropped jacket and her hair now tied in a messy ponytail.
“All right,” she said, tossing her eyes toward Fred. “You better not make me carry everything again.”
“No promises,” he said, already leading the way out the door.
The walk into town was bright and breezy, the gravel path crunching beneath your shoes. Fields blurred gold and green beside you, and wildflowers nodded gently in the tall grass. Ginny was by your side for the most part, until she got into a long conversation with George about quidditch and the two walked ahead, occasionally darting into little bursts of sibling bickering. It left you and Fred side by side more than once, though you always kept just enough space to pretend it wasn’t wanted.
The Sunday market stretched along the village square in a mismatched quilt of tents and booths. The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread, honeycomb, spiced nuts, and something fried you didn’t dare question. Laughter floated above the hum of shoppers and merchants calling out their deals.
You kept close to Ginny, using her as a human shield against Fred’s increasingly amused glances. The two of you stopped at a table of handmade jewellery, and your fingers drifted toward a delicate pair of crystal earrings shaped like intricate flower clusters. They caught the sunlight just right.
You picked one up, turned the tag over to see a sum that was too much. It wasn’t completely outrageous like the necklace Ginny had peered at with a pigeon’s-egg-sized stone, but it was more than you could justify. You set them down gently.
“Cute,” Ginny said, glancing over your shoulder. “But you’d probably lose them in, like, three days.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Ginny laughed and moved to the next booth, where a ridiculous plaid hat caught her eye. George followed, already pretending to model one for her.
And suddenly, it was just you and Fred again. You glanced up. He was already there, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on yours. He nodded toward the earrings. “Those were nice on you.”
You blinked. “I didn’t try them on.”
“I imagined them on you,” he said easily, his voice low and teasing. “I have an excellent imagination. In fact, I can picture anyone, anywhere in just about any position.”
You rolled your eyes. “You really never turn it off, do you?”
He stepped closer, the crowd bustling around you like a river splitting. “You’re one to talk. You’ve been flirting with me all morning.”
You snorted. “I have not.”
Fred tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Okay. Not flirting. Actively ignoring me. Which is basically the same thing, just in reverse. It has the same effect.”
You laughed despite yourself, cheeks warm. “You’re impossible to tolerate.”
“And yet you’re still here talking to me.” He leaned in, voice dropping, “What does that say about you?”
You opened your mouth to retort, but then Ginny reappeared, holding up a hat so absurdly shaped it looked like a squashed owl. “Do I look insane or fabulous?”
“Both,” George said immediately.
“Perfect,” she grinned.
Fred stepped back again, and just like that, the moment dissolved.
The walk home was slower, the sun dipping lower in the sky. You carried a small paper bag of sweets Ginny had insisted on buying, and Fred whistled absently as he kicked pebbles down the lane. You didn’t speak again, but you felt his presence the entire way.
Back at the Burrow, the house had returned to its gentle, midday hum. You’d taken a shower first, and Ginny had waited until she heard the water stop before swapping places with you. By the time you stepped out, dried off, and slipped back into your clothes, it was nearly time for afternoon tea.
You returned to Ginny’s room, searching for a brush to untangle your wet hair. And there, sitting neatly on Ginny’s bed, right where your pillow had been, was a small white box tied with a black ribbon.
Your heart stopped. You looked around like someone might leap out from the closet yelling “Gotcha!”
But no one did. You approached slowly, eyes wide, and lifted the box. Inside, tucked in soft tissue paper, were the delicate and dazzling earrings from the market. With them was a folded note in crooked handwriting: Couldn’t let them get away. Thought you might wear them next time you’re trying so desperately not to look at me. - F.
You clutched the box like it might combust in your hands. Footsteps creaked from the hallway. Ginny.
You moved fast, your heart hammering as you shoved the box into your trunk, the tissue and ribbon crumpled in your fist. You nearly tripped getting the top shut before the door opened.
Ginny strolled in, towel around her hair. “Whatever you do, don’t touch the blue shampoo bottle. I think one of the boys messed with it.”
As she unwound the towel, her usually ginger locks dropped around her shoulders in a curtain of green. You forced a smile, heart still galloping, hands still tingling.
“Oh Gin,” you said, covering your mouth, every nerve in your body on high alert. “Let’s get that fixed up. I’m sure your mum will have something to help.”
You took her by the shoulders and led her out of the room, mind still stuck on what you were leaving behind. The earrings were hidden. The note, too. Your secret was safe. Though now, you were technically at risk of breaking another rule.
#2. Never lie to one another.
———————————————————————
The kitchen of the Burrow smelled like butter, thyme, and the kind of warmth only a Weasley home could conjure. The windows were fogged slightly from the heat of the cooking. You stood at the counter beside Ginny, a cutting board in front of you and a particularly potent batch of onions halfway sliced beneath your trembling hands. Your eyes stung fiercely.
“I swear, I think I’m going blind,” you sniffled, blinking rapidly as tears dripped down your cheeks.
Ginny laughed, pointing her wooden spoon at you. “Oh come on, don’t be dramatic. It’s just an onion!”
“I’m not being dramatic, my eyeballs are melting—” You let out a soft, strangled laugh, wiping at your face with your sleeve and slicing again.
The two of you had been helping Molly for the past hour, peeling vegetables, shelling peas, and listening to Celestina Warbeck crooning softly from the wireless. The afternoon sun cast long strips of light across the warped wooden table, and despite the heat and chaos of the kitchen, it was cozy. Familiar. Safe.
Or at least, it had been, until the back door suddenly burst open with a crash.
“—AND HE SCORES! WHAT A MOVE FROM THE LEGENDARY BEATER!”
“OH, SHUT IT, YOU OVERGROWN GNOME—”
Fred and George exploded into the kitchen like a pair of firecrackers, both sweaty and flushed, yelling in Quidditch commentator voices as they barrelled through the doorway. George had a quaffle tucked under one arm. Fred was lunging for it like a seeker gone mad.
Molly spun around from the stove. “Boys! Absolutely not! Not in my kitchen!”
But it was too late. Fred dodged Ginny, slipped on the corner rug, and stumbled directly into you. You barely had time to gasp before the impact jolted your arm. The knife in your hand slipped.
“OW! bloody hell!” You recoiled instinctively, dropping the knife and clutching your hand. Blood was already rising fast to the surface of your finger, running in a hot, red line down your palm and onto the floor.
“WHAT did I just say?!” Molly’s voice could’ve curdled milk.
“Fred!” Ginny shouted furiously. “You idiot!”
“Oh, shit, you’re crying!” Fred’s eyes widened as he saw your tear-streaked cheeks and the blood on your hand.
You glared at him, though your vision was blurry. “It’s the onions, you twat!”
But your voice trembled. From the pain. From the sheer overwhelming chaos of it all. And - fine - maybe from Fred being way too close again.
Fred looked properly horrified now. “Merlin, I didn’t mean to. I was just…George was…right, c’mere. I’ve got something that’ll help. C’mon.”
Before you could protest, he was already gently but insistently guiding you toward the stairs, his hand warm on your back. You wrapped a kitchen towel around your bleeding finger, trying to keep the pressure steady as you glanced back at Ginny.
“Go, go,” she called, exasperated. “Before you bleed into the mashed potatoes.”
George had dropped the quaffle and was already picking up the knife from the floor, apologizing to Molly in the most unconvincing tone possible.
You followed Fred up the stairs, your heart pounding harder with every creak of the steps. You told yourself it was just because of the injury. The adrenaline. The pain. Not because you were heading into Fred Weasley’s bedroom for the first time.
The door clicked open, and he stepped aside to let you in.
His room smelled faintly of parchment, broom polish, and something warm and boyish and entirely him. It was surprisingly neat for a Weasley. Trunks were stacked in a corner, shelves cluttered with joke prototypes, and Quidditch posters pinned crookedly across the walls. There was a pair of socks hanging off the end of his bedpost. A sweater crumpled on the floor. But it felt lived in, personal. Like stepping into a corner of his world you were never supposed to see.
You froze awkwardly in the doorway.
“You can sit,” Fred said, waving a hand at the bed. “I promise my mattress doesn’t bite.”
You managed a weak laugh and perched on the edge, careful to keep your hands to yourself.
He crouched in front of a trunk and rummaged around. “Right, here. We just finished a batch of this last week. Might sting, but it works miracles.” He pulled out a small tin with a garish orange and purple sticker slapped across it.
You squinted at the label. “WWW? What’s that stand for? ‘Weasley’s Weakest Work’?”
Fred grinned, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “Close. Thirty-three percent correct, actually. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. George and I, we’re starting a joke shop. After Hogwarts.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Wait, seriously?”
He nodded, pride sneaking into his voice. “We’ve been designing products for years. We’ve got a whole trunk full of prototypes. Salves, candies, decoy spell crap. You’d love it. You’re basically our ideal test subject - easily injured and highly opinionated.”
“Charming,” You snorted. “So is that what the hexed shampoo fiasco was all about? Ginny was furious. Her hair was green for days.”
“No, that one was just for fun,” Fred sat beside you now, close enough that you could feel the heat of his arm. He gently peeled the blood-soaked towel from your hand, and you hissed.
“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice suddenly soft. He dipped his fingers into the tin and dabbed the salve onto your cut.
It was cool and tingly and smelt like peppermint. Within seconds, the pain dulled, and you watched in shock as the raw skin knitted itself closed.
Your mouth fell open. “That’s…actually brilliant.”
“I know,” he said smugly, wrapping a thin bandage around your finger. “And, don’t worry. It won’t scar. Just reapply twice a day.”
“How are you not rolling in money already?”
He laughed and you smiled, until you realised you were still holding hands. Neither of you moved. And the silence that settled between you wasn’t casual anymore. It buzzed. Tense and breathless.
Fred’s eyes lifted to meet yours, his thumb unconsciously brushing over the inside of your wrist. “Why’ve you been avoiding me?”
You blinked. “I haven’t.”
He tilted his head. “You have. You’ve been dodging me like I’ve got dragon pox. Why?”
You tried to smile. To brush it off. “Maybe I just don’t like you, Fred.”
He leaned in, his voice low and serious now. “Or maybe it’s the opposite.”
Your breath hitched. He was so close you could see the golden flecks in his eyes. Count each of the freckles dusting the bridge of his nose
Before you could answer - before you even knew how to answer - the door burst open.
George stood there, eyebrows raised. “Alright, you two, break it up. Dinner’s ready. And Mum’s not in the mood to wait.”
You yanked your hand back, your face going hot.
Fred sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Cheers, George. Great timing.”
George grinned knowingly and stepped aside. You stood quickly, muttering a thanks under your breath and rushing out the door, heart hammering, head spinning.
This summer was going to ruin you. And you finding it a lot harder to mind at all.
———————————————————————
The attic smelled like dust and old wood, warmed faintly by the day’s leftover sun and lit only by a string of enchanted fairy lights that twinkled like stars overhead. The ghoul in the corner moaned softly to itself, chewing on what remained of Fred and George’s bribe - a sticky handful of Drooble’s gum and a crumpled chocolate frog box. For now, it was satisfied. Mostly.
When you climbed through the attic hatch behind Ginny, the stale air hit your face like a wave. Ron, Fred, and George were already sprawled across the mismatched rugs and floor cushions in a circle, a deck of enchanted cards floating lazily in the center.
“There you are,” Fred said as you and Ginny slid the hatch shut behind you. His eyes flicked to yours briefly and he smirked like he had been waiting specifically for you.
You tried not to react, though your stomach was already betraying you with its little flip. He looked far too smug for someone sitting crisscross in moth-eaten socks and a Quidditch tee.
“About time,” George chimed.
“Don’t push it,” Ginny said, elbowing her brother before tossing a pillow to the ground and flopping down.
You settled in beside her, your knees brushing the woven edge of the rug, directly across from Fred. Unfortunately, he was watching you. Still. And you knew he hadn’t stopped.
The bottle of firewhisky came out shortly after. Fred uncorked it with a flourish, holding it up like it was some ancient treasure.
“Compliments of the cabinet behind Dad’s broom collection,” he announced.
Ginny laughed. “Mum’s going to have your head if she finds out.”
“She won’t,” George assured her, “unless someone blabs.”
“Ron,” said everyone at once, and Ron flushed beet red.
The bottle made its way around the circle, and eventually it landed in your hands. You hesitated only a moment before lifting it to your lips. The whisky burned hot, sharp, and smoky as it slid down your throat. You exhaled, eyes watering slightly.
“Easy,” Fred said from across the circle. “Don’t want to fall asleep before the game starts.”
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, cheeks flushed, and passed the bottle back, straight to Fred. His hand brushed yours as he took the bottle from your grip. But instead of drinking right away, he rotated it slowly and deliberately in his hand, fingers lingering around the mouth of the bottle. Then he placed his mouth right over the spot your lips had touched and drank without breaking eye contact.
The burn in your throat came back tenfold, but for a completely different reason.
He licked a drop from his bottom lip and grinned. “Tastes better this way.”
Your breath caught. Ginny, completely oblivious, was already giggling at something George said. The cards were floating again, but your world had narrowed to that lazy, firewhisky-laced smirk and the way Fred’s eyes lingered just a beat too long.
Goosebumps erupted down your arms.
The moment passed too quickly. You tried to pretend it hadn’t affected you, that you weren’t wondering what it would feel like to close the distance between you, to feel that heat not through shared glass, but skin.
The shuffled deck split evenly amongst them and a chaotic, barely-rule-following game of Exploding Snap ensued. There were chips of lightning, minor burns, and raucous laughter as the ghoul muttered irritably in its corner. A slightly scorched card flew past Ginny’s head and she ducked with a cackle.
Eventually, the ghoul grew bored. With a loud metallic CLANG, it started knocking on the pipes behind it, clearly unhappy that its stash of goodies had run out.
“Right, time to clear out,” George said, already grabbing the cards and stuffing them into the pocket of his pajama bottoms.
“I’ll bring more sweets tomorrow,” Fred muttered toward the ghoul, who let out a pitiful moan in reply.
George and Ginny were the first down the hatch. You were about to follow when Ron knocked over an old crate, sending it crashing into a pile of dusty cauldrons.
“Shit,” Fred hissed. You all froze.
Footsteps echoed below. Heavy ones. Then the creak of a bedroom door.
“Mum,” George whispered, eyes wide. “And Dad.”
There was no time to think. There was only enough time for Ron to jump down before George scrambled to shut the attic hatch. Ginny looked back at you from below.
“We’ll come get you when it’s safe,” she whispered, and then, click. The hatch was sealed.
You and Fred were completely alone.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the soft flickers of the fairy lights and the distant, irritable tapping of the ghoul’s fingernails on wood.
Fred let out a breath. “Well, I guess we’re trapped.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out more like a nervous exhale. He held up the bottle of firewhisky. “Still got this. Want to play truth or dare while we wait?”
You tilted your head. “Really? That’s what we’re doing?”
“We’ve got time. And no escape.” He patted the floor beside him.
Despite your instincts yelling at you not to agree, you sat. Not too close, but close enough to catch the cinnamon-heat smell of him, firewhisky and warmth.
“Fine. But I go first,” you said. “Truth or dare?”
He leaned in, elbow resting on one knee, still holding the bottle between two fingers. “Dare,” he replied, too fast.
You rolled your eyes. “Predictable.”
Fred raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” you said, drawing your knees up, “you’re always the first to take risks. Always the showman. But when it comes to being genuine? You flinch.”
A beat of silence. Fred’s smile dropped an inch. Not gone, just softened. “You think I can’t be genuine?”
You shrugged, heart hammering. “Prove me wrong, then. Pick truth.”
“Fine,” he said. “Ask me a truth.”
You studied him. The freckles, the messy hair, the too-confident posture covering something far more careful underneath. “Why haven’t you told anyone about the joke shop?”
That made him pause. The flicker in his eyes changed, turning sharper. More focused.
Finally, Fred sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Because Mum thinks it’s a waste of time. Childish. She wants us to join the Ministry. Be ‘respectable’ like dad. But I don’t want that. George doesn’t either. This—” He held up the firewhisky like it was part of the dream. “—this is the only thing I’ve ever felt is really mine.”
Your chest swelled at the honesty. “I think it’s brilliant,” you said quietly.
He looked at you, something unreadable softening his features. Then he smirked again. “My turn. Truth or dare?”
You panicked. “Truth.”
“Do you like anyone?”
Your mouth went dry. “Yes.”
His eyes glittered. “Who?”
“That wasn’t your question,” you shot back quickly, hiding your fluster behind a smirk of your own.
Fred chuckled. “Alright. Touché.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Truth or dare.”
He yawned dramatically. “Truth. And see, I didn’t even flinch.”
“Are the rumors true about you and Angelina Johnson?” you asked, voice just slightly sharper than intended.
Fred let out a bark of laughter. “What? No. That wasn’t me.”
You raised a skeptical brow.
“It was George,” he said, dead serious. “They got caught snogging in the common room, and everyone assumed it was me since I took her to the Yule Ball.”
You blinked in surprise. “Wait, really?”
“Yep. She’s more into sensative gits than charming ones, apparently.” The air between them grew charged. Thicker. He sat up straighter. “Truth or dare?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then answered, “Truth.”
He leaned closer. “Who do you fancy?”
Your stomach twisted, pulse thudding loud in your ears. “I change my mind,” you blurted. “Dare.”
He grinned like he’d won. “Thought you might. In that case…I dare you to kiss me.”
The world stopped.
“I’ll take a drink instead.” You offered, reaching for the bottle.
Fred turned the firewhisky upside down and a single drop ran from the lip of the bottle.“We’re out.” He clicked his tongue in mock sympathy. “What a shame.”
You were frozen in place, mind trying to come up with a fourth option that didn’t seem to exist.
Then, slowly - so slowly - he leaned forward. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it easy for you.”
You couldn’t breathe. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair gently behind your ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the edge of your earring - the ones he had bought you from the market. You watched him realise it, watched his lips twitch upward.
“These suit you,” he murmured.
You swallowed hard. He was so close now. Close enough that you could see the flecks of amber in his eyes, the faint red in his lashes, the faint smell of firewhisky and citrus and boyish heat.
Your cheeks burned. The world felt like it was tilting slightly sideways.
Fred said softly. “All you have to do is give in.”
You wanted to. Oh Merlin, you wanted to. Your lips parted. Your eyes flicked to his. But then the attic hatch creaked open.
“Oi,” George called, voice echoing. “Coast is clear.”
You jumped apart like lightning had struck. Your skin still buzzed where his hand had touched you.
Fred stood slowly, offering you a hand. You took it before you could think better of it.
Nothing had happened. But it had almost happened. And you didn’t think you’d ever stop thinking about that almost.
Neither of you said a word on the way down the ladder. But your ears were still ringing, and yu couldn’t shake the ghost of his voice murmuring, ‘All you have to do is give in.’
———————————————————————
You never usually woke up this early, but sleep had been impossible after last night.
The attic. The firewhisky. His voice, low and teasing, asking if you fancied someone. The way he dared you to kiss him, and the way your body had wanted to obey more than it ever had anyone. You’d never felt anything like that before. That tightrope between longing and fear, between want and wariness. Between what you craved and what you shouldn’t want.
You’d almost done it. Almost leaned in. Almost let yourself fall.
The early morning air was soft against your skin as you walked through the garden behind the Burrow. The grass was cool and damp with dew, the sky still tinted with pale grey and lavender. There was a hush to the world here, like it was holding its breath, just like you were.
You moved slowly between the rows of wildflowers and gnarled trees, trying to clear your head. But all you could think about was him - the fire in his eyes, the way his gaze flicked to your mouth, the smell of firewhisky.
You shook your head, willing the memory away, when a low voice broke through the quiet. “What are you thinking about?”
You nearly leapt out of your skin. “Bloody hell—” you gasped, spinning around. But before you could scream, a hand clamped over your mouth, warm and strong. His hand.
“Shhh! It’s just me,” Fred said, his voice low and urgent as he pulled you further into the field.
You struggled instinctively, swatting at his arm until you were both well out of view of the house. He released you the second you were far enough away, and you whipped around, shoving his chest hard.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” you hissed, your heart thundering in your chest.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, but there was tension under the smirk. “I needed to talk to you. Alone. And you’re a lot harder to pin down these days.”
You crossed your arms. “So you thought sneaking up on me and dragging me into a field was the best option?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
You glared, but the corner of your mouth twitches before you catch yourself. “What do you want, Fred?”
He exhaled, the teasing edge dropping as he takes a step closer. “Last night. Why didn’t you kiss me?”
Your throat went dry. “We’re not playing truth or dare anymore. I don’t have to answer that.”
“I’m not playing either,” he said. His voice was low now, and earnest. And he was closer. You could smell him again - cinnamon and something warm and boyish, still clinging to his skin.
He stepped forward again and gently took your arm, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. It sent a flicker of heat up your spine.
“I wanted you to kiss me,” he confessed. “So why didn’t you?”
You swallowed thickly, knowing this was a dangerous game. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Maybe not. But I think I deserve one.”
You stayed silent, your heart in your throat, body humming like live wire. His fingers tightened ever so slightly on your wrist.
“You want to know what I think?” he asked, and you looked up at him, caught in that impossible gaze. “I think you’re just as interested in me as I am in you. Tell me if I’m wrong.”
You opened your mouth, but your voice barely came out. “You’re wrong.”
It was shaky. Unconvincing. Pathetic.
Fred lifted a brow, unimpressed. He leaned in until you could feel his breath brush your cheek. “No, I’m not.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You couldn’t. Your whole body was screaming to close the distance, to surrender.
“Why won’t you just say it?” he whispered. “I’m standing right here, telling you that I…” His voice faltered for the first time, softens. Vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache.“I care about you. I want you. I have for a while now.”
It hit you like a punch to the ribs. The tenderness, the honesty in his voice. Your chest tightened. “I do too,” you admitted, your voice betraying you. “But I shouldn’t.”
Fred frowned, still not understanding what was holding you back. “Why not?”
“Because of Ginny,” you said, the words ripping from your mouth. “Because she’s my best friend. Because I made a promise. Rule number one. Her brothers are off-limits.”
Fred blinked, then let out a sharp breath and laughed under it, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you kidding? That’s what’s stopping you?”
“It matters.”
“Not to me,” he said, stepping closer, impossibly close now. “And Ginny doesn’t have to know.”
Your breath stilled. “Fred…”
“All you have to do,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face, his fingers grazing the earring he gave you, “is give in.”
You shivered as his thumb traced the shell of your ear. His touch was so soft, so gentle, it was almost unbearable. You should have pulled away. You knew that.
But you didn’t. Instead, you leaned in. Just the smallest tilt of your chin. Just enough. But that’s all he needed.
Fred cupped your face in both hands and kissed you. It was everything you imagined and more. It was hungry and hesitant all at once. Warm and desperate, like you’d both been waiting too long. His lips melded into yours like he’d somehow already memorised the shape, and you melted into him without thinking.
The world fell away. There was only the sun-drenched field, the soft birdsong in the trees, and his hands anchoring you like he never wanted to let go.
And for a single, breathless moment, you didn’t want him to.
———————————————————————
The grass was still wet with dew as you and Fred made your way back to the Burrow, your fingers entwined with his, warm and certain despite the slight chill in the air. The morning was quiet. Hushed and golden in a way that made it feel like the world had agreed to keep your secret, if only for a little while.
You couldn’t stop smiling. Neither could he.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” you murmured, voice still breathless from the high of it - of him.
Fred glanced sideways at you, that lopsided grin tugging at his lips, his eyes still lazy with affection. “I can,” he said simply. “Been a long time coming, don’t you think?”
Your heart fluttered helplessly. “Have you really felt like this for that long?”
Fred nodded, squeezing your hand. “Since you called me insufferable for making that potion explode in the common room. You had ink on your cheek and told me I was going to fail out of Hogwarts.”
You laughed, a quiet sound that felt like summer. “That was third year.”
“Exactly,” he said. “I didn’t stand a chance.”
You bit your lip, glancing down at the way your hands fit together so naturally, like they’d always belonged there. “I wish it didn’t feel so complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said gently.
You didn’t respond right away. You just walked with him, each step soft and heavy all at once, and the closer you got to the crooked silhouette of the Burrow, the heavier your chest became.
As the back door came into view, you felt Fred’s fingers twitch against yours. You both knew what had to happen. You dropped his hand, carefully, reluctantly. Like letting go of a lifeline.
You reached the back door first and stepped inside.
Ginny was at the kitchen table, flipping through the Prophet, but her eyes flicked up the moment she heard the creak of the floorboards. They landed on you. Then on Fred. Then back to you.
She looked suspicious. “Where were you two?” she asked, casual, but not really.
You didn’t miss the way her eyes lingered too long on the space between your hands. Your stomach twisted.
“I, uh…I couldn’t sleep,” you said quickly. “Went for a walk.” You shrugged as if it meant nothing. “Fred must’ve had the same idea.”
There was a beat of silence. The paper in Ginny’s hands crackled as she slowly turned the page. Her gaze didn’t waver.
“Uh huh,” she said, noncommittal. Then she looked back down at the paper.
You forced a laugh and stepped past her into the kitchen, your heart thudding wildly as Fred moved behind you without a word. You felt his eyes on you, heavy with unspoken questions. Ones you didn’t want to answer.
Because now it wasn’t just Rule #1 you’d broken. You’d lied to her face.
Rule #2. Never lie to one another.
You told yourself it was just a little white lie. A protective one. A harmless one. But it didn’t feel harmless. It felt like the beginning of something you couldn’t take back.
———————————————————————
You’d spent the whole day glued to Ginny’s side. It wasn’t like she noticed. She just thought you were in a good mood, maybe a little extra chatty, a little too agreeable. But every time she laughed, or looped her arm through yours, or offered you a bite of the plum she was eating on the porch swing, your stomach twisted tighter and tighter.
Because she didn’t know. She didn’t know what you’d done that morning. That you’d walked into the garden one person and come out another. That Fred had kissed you like he meant it. And worse, that you had kissed him back.
Worse still: you had liked it. You had wanted it.
And now, you couldn’t look Ginny in the eye without feeling like your whole skin was buzzing with guilt.
So you stuck close. You did the dishes with her. Helped her weed the vegetable patch. Laughed too hard when she told you that joke about Seamus Finnigan and the exploding butterbeer. You didn’t so much as glance in Fred’s direction during dinner, even though you could feel him looking.
It was late now. Everyone had gone to bed. You were brushing your teeth with heavy limbs and hollow thoughts, the kind that came from trying too hard to act normal. Your eyes were tired. Your mouth still ached faintly from the press of his.
You reached for the towel when suddenly a strong hand clamped over your mouth. You gasped, but before you could scream, you were pulled backwards, into the tiny shower room, the door snapping shut behind you with a soft click as it locked.
You shoved at the hand, heart racing, until it dropped away. You spun around, your back to the wall, and saw him.
Fred. He was slightly out of breath from the effort, hair mussed, eyes bright.
You glared at him, even as your pulse stuttered. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
He grinned like he’d been waiting all day to see you. “I missed you today,” he said simply.
And then he kissed you. There wasn’t any teasing this time. No playful smirk. Just heat. Sharp and overwhelming. His hands framed your face, and yours found his shirt and fisted there, like maybe you could anchor yourself to him and forget what you’d done.
You kissed him back like you hadn’t been thinking about anything else since sunrise. And for a moment, there was only him.
But then, your hand slid up and brushed against the chain around his neck and your chest cinched tight.
You broke the kiss, breathless. “Fred—”
He looked at you with dazed affection, lips parted. “What?”
“I can’t,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I feel so guilty about Ginny.”
His brows drew together slightly, but he didn’t let go of your waist. “I really don’t think she’d be upset.”
You shook your head. “You don’t know that.”
“I know she loves you,” he said. “And I know if she thought we made each other happy, she’d be glad for it. I think we should tell her.”
You felt the words land inside you like tiny, cruel promises. “No! We can’t tell her,” you said, voice firmer now. “We can’t tell anyone.”
Fred’s hands loosened. “No one?”
You nodded. “Promise me, Fred. Please. You can’t say anything.”
He looked reluctant. “Even George?”
You hesitated, because of course George already knew. He probably knew before either of you did. “Even him,” you said anyway. “If he knows anything already, then you need to make him promise not to say a word.”
Fred exhaled, then nodded. “Alright. I promise.”
You stared at him, heart thudding against your ribs. He reached up, brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, and smiled gently.
You kissed him one more time. Slow and lingering and filled with the quiet ache of knowing this wasn’t going to get any easier.
And so it began. The start of something you couldn’t name yet. A kiss in the garden. A locked door. A promise made in whispers. The beginning of a secret.
———————————————————————
You’d gotten so used to hiding it, you almost started believing you could keep it hidden forever.
It became a rhythm. A dance you and Fred had perfected over the past few weeks. A series of glances and touches and moments stolen between the cracks of your everyday life. You lived for the quiet thrill of it. The way your heart leapt when he leaned in just a little too close in the hallway, or the way your pulse skittered when he brushed your pinky with his under the table at dinner.
Sometimes, he’d manage to sit beside you, his thigh pressed against yours beneath the tablecloth, warm and steady like a secret only you were allowed to keep. His hand would rest casually on his knee until it inched over to yours, fingers tapping, tracing lines across your skin no one else could see.
And when he couldn’t sit beside you, he’d claim the seat directly across, his foot nudging yours under the table until it became a full-on game of footsie that had you biting your lip and looking anywhere but at him. Every time your eyes accidentally met, he’d grin like he was proud of himself. Like he was daring you to keep playing.
You were hopelessly smitten. And for the first time in a long time, really happy.
Fred made you laugh when things felt heavy. He kissed you like he meant it, even in the briefest snatched moments. He told you you were brilliant, and brave, and beautiful in all the ways no one ever had before. And you believed him.
It was dangerous, yes. But it was yours. Until the day it wasn’t.
It was late afternoon, the sky hanging heavy with sun and heat, and most of the Weasleys were outside flying or napping or doing chores. Ginny had been reading on the porch when you told her you needed to grab something you’d forgotten in the backyard.
That was a lie. Fred had told you to meet him in the broom shed.
You slipped away quietly, past the rose bushes and around the back of the house where the old wooden shed waited beneath the trees. The door creaked as you opened it and there he was, leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes lighting up the moment he saw you.
You didn’t even make it two steps before he pulled you in.
His kiss was warm, familiar, and tasted like the honey biscuits Molly had made for tea. You melted into it, hands sliding into his hair, your body fitting against his like it belonged there.
“I’ve been waiting to do this all day,” he murmured against your mouth.
You smiled into the kiss. “What if someone finds us?”
“They won’t.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw. “George is on Ginny duty. We’ve got time.”
You were about to respond - about to tell him you’d missed him too - when the shed door flew open.
You jolted back like you’d been burned. Ginny stood in the doorway, eyes blazing, lips parted in silent disbelief. Behind her, George winced and muttered, “Shite.”
“I knew it,” Ginny said, her voice low and trembling. “I bloody knew it.”
You stared at her, frozen. Every part of you was suddenly cold.
“Ginny—” Fred started, stepping forward.
She didn’t even look at him. Her eyes were locked on yours, betrayal carved into every inch of her expression. “How long?” she demanded. “How long has this been going on behind my back?”
You opened your mouth but nothing came out.
George stepped forward. “Sorry mate, I tried to stop her—”
“You knew?!” she rounded on George like a storm, her fists balled at her sides. “You knew and didn’t say a word?!”
“I only found out recently,” he said, holding up his hands. “And it’s not my business—”
“Not your business?!” she shouted. “She’s my best friend, Fred is my brother, and you’re my other brother! How is this not our business?!”
“Ginny, please,” you finally managed to say, your voice soft, cracking. “I wanted to tell you. I swear I did.”
“But you didn’t!” she shouted. “You lied to my face. Every single day. Do you think I’m stupid? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
“No, Gin, I never—” You stepped toward her but she stepped back.
Her face was red with fury, her eyes glassy with tears she refused to let fall. “I trusted you. I trusted you more than anyone.”
Fred reached for her, voice low. “She didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Don’t.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut. “Don’t defend her. Don’t pretend this was nothing.” She looked at you again, and it nearly broke you. “You broke our rules.”
And then she turned on her heel and stormed out of the shed. George gave Fred a grim look, then jogged after her.
And just like that…it was over.
The warmth, the secrecy, the giddy, fluttering joy that had filled you so completely. It all shattered in the space of ten seconds.
Fred turned to you, hands raking through his hair. “Bloody hell.”
You were shaking. “I didn’t know what to say. I froze.”
He pulled you into his arms, held you like it might fix things. “She just needs time.”
You nodded against his chest, but your heart wasn’t so sure. Because you hadn’t just broken the rules. You’d broken Ginny’s heart.
———————————————————————
You tried for days. Tried to talk to her, to explain, to say something, but every time you got close, Ginny slipped away like smoke.
You followed her into the garden the next morning, calling her name as she picked harshly at the overgrown mint leaves along the back fence. She didn’t turn around. When you got close enough to speak, she stood up and walked inside without a word.
Later, you found her in the kitchen, arms folded tight, back resting against the counter as Molly spoke to her in a low voice. You hovered in the doorway, unsure, heart thudding against your ribs. Ginny met your eyes for a second - just one second - and then looked away like it hurt.
You tried again on the stairs, whispering her name as she passed. She didn’t even glance at you.
You hated this. You hated how silent everything felt. How your chest ached with things unsaid.
By the time the sun dipped beneath the hills on the third day and the Burrow settled into its evening hush, you were exhausted from trying. And Ginny still hadn’t said a single word.
You crept up to your shared bedroom slowly, quietly, like maybe she’d be soft again if you just approached the right way. You reached for the doorknob, turned it gently.
Locked.
You knocked. “Ginny?”
Silence.
You knocked again, a little louder this time. “Ginny, please. Can we just…can we talk? Please?”
Nothing. Not even a shuffle from the other side. You pressed your forehead to the wood, eyes stinging.
After a long minute, you sighed and padded back down the stairs. The Burrow was quiet now. Most of the lights were off, save for the soft, golden glow from the living room. You curled up on the couch, wrapping yourself in one of the worn knitted blankets, tucking your knees to your chest. This was where you’d been spending your nights lately, not wanting to bother Molly or Arthur about other sleeping arrangements.
The silence felt louder than Ginny’s anger. It echoed. You must have sat there for almost half an hour before you heard soft steps on the stairs.
Fred. His hair was a mess, like he’d been lying in bed unable to sleep too, and his eyes found yours with immediate concern.
“You okay?” he asked gently, already knowing the answer.
“She locked me out again,” you murmured. “She won’t even look at me.”
Fred’s brow furrowed as he sat beside you, draping his arm over your shoulders and tugging you closer. “I’m sorry.”
You let your head fall onto his shoulder. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never seen her this mad. She’s not even yelling anymore. She just…won’t see me.”
Fred let out a breath, warm against your temple. “She’ll come around. Ginny’s stubborn, but she’s not heartless. She just needs space.”
You nodded, letting the quiet settle between you again. It wasn’t the happy silence from the shed, or the secretive warmth you were used to with him. It was heavier. But his presence still helped. Still steadied you.
He rubbed circles into your arm, resting his chin lightly against your hair. “We’ll figure this out.”
You closed your eyes. “I hope so.”
And then the bottom step squeaked. You both turned.
Ginny stood in at the bottom of the staircase, holding an empty glass. Her eyes landed on you curled beside Fred. You saw the moment it hit her. The twist of disgust, the flick of her lip curling as she scoffed softly.
She didn’t say anything. Just rolled her eyes, and turned on her heel.
You threw the blanket off and jumped up. “Ginny, wait!”
She was already halfway up the stairs, empty glass still in her hand.
“Please, can we talk?” you called, following her up.
She didn’t even pause.
“Ginny—”
She reached the bedroom door, yanked it open, stepped inside. You made it just in time to catch the door slamming in your face. The sound echoed through the Burrow like a curse.
You stood there for a moment, fingers resting on the closed door, throat tight, heart cracking a little more. You didn’t even knock this time. You just turned and walked back downstairs.
Fred was waiting. His expression softened as he saw your face. “She slammed it again?”
You nodded. You didn’t trust your voice not to break.
He opened his arms. You walked straight into them. And for the rest of the night, the two of you stayed curled up on the couch. Not saying much. Just holding on.
———————————————————————
The next morning was unbearable. You sat between Fred and George at the breakfast table, the tension thick enough to slice with a wand. Ginny was across from you, lips pressed into a thin line, her toast untouched. She didn’t look at you. Not once. She didn’t even speak. Not to Fred. Not to George. Not even to Molly when she asked if she wanted more pumpkin juice.
Fred’s knee bumped against yours under the table. You didn’t move. But you didn’t lean into him either. You were ashamed. It hurt, having Ginny’s silence weigh this heavy on your chest.
After breakfast, Ginny stood without a word and disappeared up the stairs, her braid swinging sharply behind her. The door to her room slammed moments later.
You didn’t follow this time. You knew better now.
Fred glanced at you, eyes soft. “Come on,” he said. “Walk with me.”
You let him lead you outside into the warm morning light, the sun stretching long and lazy over the Burrow’s messy backyard. The garden was overgrown in the loveliest way. Wildflowers sprawling into vegetable patches, vines curling along the fenceposts. Fred brushed his fingers against yours as you walked, and when he caught your eye, his smile was crooked and bright like he was trying to make things better without saying it out loud.
You stopped in front of Arthur’s old work shed.
Fred pushed the door open and gestured inside with a dramatic bow. “Milady.”
You rolled your eyes. “What exactly am I meant to be admiring in here? The rusted rake or the giant spider in the corner?”
He grinned. “Neither. Just trust me.”
You stepped inside cautiously, brushing past hanging tools and stacks of flower pots, turning just in time to see him still grinning at the threshold.
“Fred?”
“Sorry,” he said in a singsong voice, and with a swift flick and a slam, the door shut. The lock turned with a click.
“FRED!” You pounded your hand on the wood. “This is not funny!”
But footsteps were already retreating. You waited - furious - for him to open it again. But the minutes passed. The shed was warm and full of the smell of soil and sun-dried wood, and you were trying to decide whether you were more angry or confused when the door creaked again.
You stood quickly, hope flickering. “Finally.”
But it wasn’t Fred. It was Ginny. She stepped in with a suspicious scowl, looking over her shoulder. “What—?”
Before she could finish the thought, slam. Click.
You both lunged for the door.
“FRED!” Ginny shrieked. “GEORGE!”
“LET US OUT!” you yelled right behind her, slamming your fists against the wood.
But their voices were muffled and maddening on the other side.
Fred called, “Not until you talk!”
George chimed in, “Properly! No hexes, no storming off!”
“Absolutely mental,” Ginny muttered, crossing her arms as she turned her back to you and marched to the far end of the shed. She plopped down on an overturned bucket, staring hard at the dirt wall.
You stayed near the door, arms folded just as tightly, silence stretching between you like a curse.
It must’ve been hours.
The heat in the shed grew heavier, sun filtering through the tiny window above. Your legs began to ache from standing, but sitting felt too vulnerable.
And then, finally, Ginny broke it. “If you wanted to snog my brother that badly, you could’ve at least warned me,” she said coolly, not looking at you.
You bristled. “It’s not just snogging.”
“Oh, please.” She barked a laugh. “You’ve been sneaking around like a pair of teenagers and I found you in a bloody broom cupboard. What else is it supposed to be?”
“It’s real, Ginny.” You stepped closer. “We actually care about each other. It’s not some fling, this means something.”
She turned sharply, fire in her eyes. “And that’s supposed to make it better?”
You blinked. “What?”
“It’s worse,” she hissed. “It’s worse because you didn’t just hook up with him. You fell for him. And then you hid it from me. Lied to me. Every single time I asked where you were or what you were doing—”
“Okay, did lie,” you interrupted, chest tightening. “I did…and I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. I just didn’t know how.”
“You knew exactly what you were doing,” Ginny snapped. “You just didn’t want to deal with the fallout.”
“And I was right, wasn’t I?” your voice rose. “Look at how you’re reacting! You won’t even listen—”
“Because you went behind my back!” she shouted. “I told you everything. Every crush, every stupid thought I had about Harry or Michael, or whoever, and you were pining over my brother the whole time!”
You stared at her, stunned by how deep her voice cut.
“I just…I thought…” Her voice cracked. “I thought we were friends.”
That one hurt the most. “We are,” you said, stepping forward. “Ginny, I love you. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lose that. I didn’t want to risk you thinking this was some betrayal. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“But you did.”
“I know,” you said quietly. “I know I did. I just…I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to fall for him. It just happened. And for years I kept it a secret because I refused to act on it so what was the point? And then it just got worse. And I hate that I made you feel like this. I never meant to. You mean too much to me.”
She looked at you for a long time. Then she sighed, sitting down heavily on a crate. “So…how long has it been happening?”
You hung your head low. “Since last week.”
She raised a brow. “Seriously? That’s…actually not as bad as I was expecting.”
You nodded. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, but he was so persistent, and…I gave in. And it’s been…honestly, it’s been amazing.”
Ginny pursed her lips. “And he’s serious?”
“Completely,” you said. “He treats me like I’m the most interesting, maddening person he’s ever met. He actually listens. And he makes me feel—” you paused, blushing a little, “—happy. Really happy.”
She let that hang in the air. Then she exhaled. “Okay.”
You blinked. “Okay?”
“I mean,” she shrugged, “I still think you’re an idiot. But I can live with it.”
You smiled, hesitantly at first, and then fully when Ginny rolled her eyes and opened her arms. You nearly knocked her over hugging her.
“I’m still mad,” she warned into your shoulder.
“I deserve that,” you admitted. “Completely.”
You stayed like that for a long moment. Then Fred’s voice piped up from outside, smug and singsong: “So! All good now?”
Ginny shouted, “If you ever lock me in a shed again, I swear I’ll turn your ears into flobberworms.”
George snorted. “We’ll take that as a yes.”
The door clicked open. You and Ginny stepped out, blinking in the afternoon light, shoulder to shoulder again.
Fred looked at you like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. You gave him a small smile and nodded.
All was not perfect, but it was healing. And that was enough for now.
———————————————————————
Dinner at the Burrow felt normal again.
The clinking of cutlery, the smell of roasted vegetables and gravy, the soft hum of conversation. It was like everything had fallen back into place. You sat beside Ginny again, your shoulders occasionally brushing. She’d even nudged your arm when you reached for the salt before her, and when you made a joke about Ron’s plate being stacked like a tower, she actually laughed.
It was subtle. Soft. But genuine.
From your other side, Fred was watching you with that familiar twinkle in his eye. His foot tapped yours beneath the table like it couldn’t stand not touching you, and when you glanced at him, he gave you a slow, knowing smile.
Molly glanced between you and Ginny, her eyebrows lifting ever so slightly as she set down a fresh loaf of bread. “Well,” she said, voice light, “I must say it’s nice to see you two getting along again.”
Arthur looked up from his stew and nodded. “Things were a bit frosty there for a while.”
Ginny gave a dramatic eye roll and stabbed a potato. “Yeah, well…I got over it,” she muttered, shooting you a sideways smirk.
Ron frowned and pointed his fork between the two of you. “Wait. What were you even fighting about in the first place? You’ve been whispering to each other all evening. Did I miss something?”
Fred, sitting beside you, let out a soft breath - part exasperation, part amusement. Then, without warning, he reached beneath the table and gently laced his fingers through yours. His palm was warm, calloused and familiar. It made your chest tighten, just a little.
And then, just as Ron took another bite of chicken, Fred lifted your joined hands into the air. Like some kind of victory signal.
Everyone froze. Ron choked. Ginny groaned. Molly gasped, then squealed so loudly that even the ghoul in the attic probably heard her.
“Oh! Oh, I knew it! I just knew it!” she cried, practically launching herself out of her seat. Her chair scraped back as she rushed around the table, arms outstretched like she might hug the both of you into oblivion. “You’re together?! You’re really…! Oh I’m just so happy!”
“Mum,” Fred muttered, ducking his head as you laughed and tried to brace yourself for impact. “Breathe, yeah?”
She didn’t listen. Her arms were around your shoulders in a second, pulling you into a tight, motherly hug that somehow managed to be both suffocating and comforting.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said to you, eyes misty as she cupped your cheek. “I always hoped it would be you.”
Your throat tightened. You hadn’t realized how badly you’d wanted her approval until that very moment.
Across the table, Ron raised his eyebrows at Fred and gave him a slow, impressed nod. “Well, you actually pulled it off,” he said, clearly trying not to smirk. “Didn’t think you had it in you, mate.”
“I aim to surprise,” Fred said, squeezing your hand gently under the table again.
You leaned into his side, heart fluttering. Ginny rolled her eyes again, but this time…she smiled.
“To make myself clear, rules two and three are still applicable,” She pointed between the two of you with a warning glare that held to real heat behind it.
“And rule number one?” You clarified.
“To hell with rule number one. It was stupid anyway,” she shrugged, and you beamed.
———————————————————————
Tag list: @vivianette @ellouisa17 @wisp1q @divineani @cattleray @billieeilishkisser @lupinsweater
“Eddie, loving someone doesn’t mean they’re going to leave you. You’ve lived like the next loss is always around the corner, but she wasn’t trying to go anywhere. You pushed her out.” . ݁₊ 🩸⊹ . ݁💉˖ . ݁
Synopsis: You and Eddie have always shared something deeper than friendship — an unspoken connection that lingers in every glance, every laugh, every brush of a hand. But when Eddie realizes just how much power you hold over his heart, fear sets in. He pulls away, leaving you confused and heartbroken. When you confront him, he denies everything, leaving you shattered. As time passes, it becomes clear to everyone around you that you’re both falling apart without each other. Eventually, it takes a push — maybe from Buck — for Eddie to finally confront the truth he’s been running from: he’s always loved you, and he may have already lost his chance.
Warnings: Eddie’s an asshole but he didn’t mean to bc he runs away from his problems (😭)
Note: This was a request from my inbox (in my ask box tag) and I thought the plot was super interesting since it falls right into the genre of fics that I produce. Thank you to the anon who gave me a whole run down on the story! Happy reading and as always, every like + reblog and comment is highly appreciated.
There’s always been something quietly comfortable about being around Eddie.
You’re not sure when it started — the ease, the intimacy, the way your lives naturally bled into each other — but at some point, it became second nature.
His house was your second home. Christopher knew your coffee order and your favorite snacks. You knew which cabinet Eddie kept his aspirin in and which way the bathroom door creaked if you didn’t close it properly.
He never had to ask you to stay longer when you were over; your presence was a given.
You brought takeout on your nights off and folded his laundry when he forgot it in the dryer. He poured you a glass of wine after long shifts and let you steal his hoodie when it was late and you didn’t feel like going home.
There were no declarations. No spoken rules. Just the quiet way he always looked for you in a room, how he made sure to pour your coffee just the way you liked it — two sugars, no cream — or how his shoulder would graze yours when you walked side by side, like it couldn’t help but lean in your direction.
It wasn’t romantic. Not officially.
But God, if it didn’t feel like the most real thing in your life.
Sometimes he’d sit beside you on the couch, a little too close, and your thighs would touch for minutes on end. Neither of you moved.
You’d both pretend not to notice, but the air between you shifted. Grew warm. Familiar. Intimate. He’d chuckle at something on TV, and you’d smile because his laughter was your favorite kind of peace.
And the glances… those glances stayed too long to be casual. Like when you’d say something in passing and he’d stare at you as if he was memorizing your words — as if they mattered more than you knew.
His gaze would dip to your lips sometimes when you weren’t speaking, and you tried to tell yourself you imagined it, but deep down, you knew better.
Everyone else saw it too.
“Okay, seriously,” Buck said one night after a shift, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “Are you two ever going to admit you’re in love or are we all just going to die waiting?”
You rolled your eyes and laughed it off. So did Eddie.
“We’re just friends,” you both said in near-perfect unison, which only made Hen groan.
“Uh-huh. Friends,” Chimney muttered, sipping his coffee like he was watching a slow-burn rom-com unfold in real time.
“Friends who look at each other like they’re planning to die in each other’s arms.”
It was embarrassing — the way the team teased — but it was also validating in a weird, terrifying kind of way. Because you’d started to feel it too.
The shift.
The tiny changes.
It happened quietly. The way he started opening up more. How his voice softened when he talked to you, how his eyes searched yours when he wasn’t sure of himself.
The way you reached for him automatically during calls, always scanning the wreckage for each other before anything else. And maybe the moment that hit you hardest: when you caught yourself thinking about him as home. Not just his house or his presence, but Eddie.
He was home.
And that terrified you.
Because if it was real — if this thing between you was more than friendship — it meant you had everything to lose.
Still, the idea nestled in your chest and refused to leave. You thought about what it would feel like to kiss him. To wake up in his arms. To be loved by him fully and openly.
You thought about Christopher, about Sunday mornings and slow coffee and a life that maybe, just maybe, could be yours too.
But nothing was ever said.
Not out loud.
Because maybe he didn’t feel the same. Or maybe he did, and was just too afraid to say it. Either way, you weren’t sure who’d be brave enough to say it first.
But something was building between you.
You could feel it every time he looked at you like you were the center of his universe. Like he was one breath away from telling you everything.
And honestly? You were starting to wish he would.
It starts small.
A missed call here. A shorter reply there.
You don’t think anything of it at first. People get busy. Shifts get hectic. Life happens. You give him grace — because that’s what you do for people you love.
But then it starts to happen more.
He stops texting back as quickly. Your usual post-shift dinners turn into silence. The calls you used to get at 11PM — just to hear your voice before bed — go unanswered. He still smiles when he sees you at the station, still asks if you’re okay after a tough call, but it’s like he’s flicking a switch now.
Friendly. Polite. Detached.
And it hurts. It hurts like hell.
You try not to show it. You tell yourself maybe he’s going through something, that he’ll talk to you when he’s ready. Because this is Eddie — he doesn’t always know how to open the door when he’s hurting.
You’ve seen him do this before with others. But never with you.
Not like this.
One night, you knock on his door with your usual coffee order, the kind gesture that used to earn you a soft smile and a “You didn’t have to, but I’m glad you did.”
This time, when he opens the door, he looks surprised. Like he wasn’t expecting you. Like he doesn’t know how to be around you anymore.
“Oh,” he says, eyes darting behind him. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you reply, holding out the drink like some kind of peace offering. “Thought you could use this.”
He hesitates, then takes it from you. “Thanks.”
You stand there for a moment. Waiting. Hoping he’ll invite you in like always. But he doesn’t move.
“Is everything okay?” you ask softly. “You’ve been… different.”
“I’ve just been tired,” he says quickly. Too quickly.
“A lot on my mind.”
You nod slowly, trying not to let the sting show. “Okay. Well… I’m here if you want to talk.”
He nods once, almost absently. “I know.”
But he doesn’t invite you in.
And that night, for the first time in months, you don’t fall asleep knowing how his day went. You don’t feel like his person anymore.
At the station, it becomes harder to ignore.
He avoids lingering too long. Doesn’t sit beside you at the kitchen table anymore. Talks to Buck and Chimney and Hen like nothing’s wrong — and maybe to them, there isn’t — but you feel the distance like a cold draft under the door.
It becomes unbearable.
And one day, when you catch him alone in the locker room, you finally say what’s been aching in your chest.
“Why are you pushing me away?”
Eddie freezes, halfway into zipping up his jacket. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” Your voice cracks. “You don’t answer my calls, you barely look at me when I talk to you, and I feel like I lost my best friend without even knowing what I did wrong.”
He swallows hard. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then what is it?” you demand. “Did I cross a line? Did I make you uncomfortable? Because I swear, if it’s something I said or did, I’ll—”
“It’s not you,” he interrupts, voice low, eyes finally meeting yours. “It’s me.”
You let out a shaky breath, because how cliché. “That’s not an answer, Eddie.”
He hesitates. Looks down at the floor like it might help him find the words.
“I care about you too much,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper.
Your heart stutters. “And that’s… a bad thing?”
“It is when I don’t know what to do with it.” His eyes flash with something unspoken — pain, maybe, or guilt.
“You don’t understand what it’s like. To have someone mean so much, to love someone so much, that you start to lose your grip on everything else. That terrifies me.”
Your breath catches.
“Eddie…”
“I’ve already lost too much,” he says. “Shannon. The idea of loving someone again—loving you—and losing it? I don’t know if I could survive that.”
You step closer, heart hammering in your chest.
“You don’t have to be afraid of your feelings. I feel it too. We’re not just friends and you know it.”
His jaw tightens. “It’s all in your head.”
The words hit like a slap. You actually flinch.
“No,” you whisper, eyes burning. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend it wasn’t real.”
“I’m not pretending. I’m telling you the truth.”
You stare at him for a long moment, waiting for him to break. To take it back. To tell you he’s lying.
But he doesn’t.
So you nod, jaw trembling, and back away.
“Okay,” you say softly. “If that’s how you really feel.”
And you walk out of the room, out of the station, out of whatever almost was between you — your heart shattering silently inside your chest.
He doesn’t follow you.
Yet, a part of him wants to.
You don’t slam the door. You don’t raise your voice. You just leave.
Quietly. With the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t need sound to be loud.
And Eddie stands there in the locker room, frozen in the hollow silence you leave behind.
Fuck, he wants to go after you. Every part of him screams to. His legs twitch like they might move on their own. His chest is tight with everything he didn’t say.
But he doesn’t.
Because if he does, he won’t be able to lie anymore.
And the truth?
The truth is you mean too much.
You got under his skin in ways no one else ever has. Not Shannon. Not Ana. Not Marisol. Not anyone.
You’re woven into the little things:
How his day feels lighter when you smile at him across the firehouse kitchen. How he sleeps better after hearing your voice. How he’s memorized the way you take your coffee, and how his hands gravitate toward you even when he’s not thinking.
How you looked at him like he was safe.
And now? Now it’s too much.
Because the last time he let someone that far in, he lost her. And the fallout nearly destroyed him — nearly destroyed Christopher.
He can’t afford that again. Not for himself. Not for his son.
Not even for you.
But God, he wants to.
He wants to tell you that he lied. That it’s not all in your head. That every night he spent distancing himself from you, he stared at his ceiling wishing he had the courage to love you out loud. That he hears your laugh when you’re not even in the room. That it’s you. It’s always been you.
But the fear is louder.
The fear says: What if it all falls apart?
What if you get tired of him? What if he’s not enough?
What if Christopher gets attached and you walk away too?
Eddie Diaz has survived fire, gunfire, and grief.
But loving you — losing you — that’s a battle he doesn’t think he’d survive.
So he lets you go.
At least for now.
At least until the ache of not having you outweighs the terror of loving you.
And as he finally slumps down on the bench, head in his hands, Eddie whispers to himself the truth he couldn’t say to your face:
“I love you.”
You’re still there.
You show up to shifts. You answer your calls. You laugh at Chim’s dumb jokes, take your turn cooking in the firehouse kitchen, and go on like nothing’s shattered.
But it has shattered.
And everyone can feel it.
Especially him.
Eddie doesn’t sit next to you anymore. Not unless the lineup forces it. And when he does, he doesn’t speak much — like your presence stings, like proximity might burn him alive.
Which is ironic, because you’re the one feeling scorched.
There’s a hole in your chest where he used to be. The silence between you is louder than the sirens that wail from the truck. It fills the kitchen, the locker room, the back of the rig, the pause before you slide into your bunk at the end of the night.
He tore the thread between you with trembling hands and didn’t have the courage to stitch it back.
And you’re left holding it, frayed and useless, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to stop loving someone who never really gave you a chance to.
Buck is the first one who notices the real damage.
He knocks on your door a week after the blowout. Shows up with Chinese takeout and a bottle of wine that he absolutely wasn’t supposed to expense, but “Chim won’t know if we drink it fast.”
He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to.
“You can talk,” he says softly, passing you a spring roll. “Or you can just sit here and hate-watch rom-coms with me.”
You try. You really do. You sit beside him with your knees tucked to your chest, and you try to laugh at whatever stupid movie’s playing — but it cracks something open instead.
“I don’t get it,” you say, eyes fixed on the flickering TV screen. “He was right there, Buck. We were right there.”
Buck doesn’t tell you it’s okay. He doesn’t say Eddie didn’t mean it. He just nods and says, “Yeah. I know.”
Because he does know. He’s been in that liminal space between almost and never. He’s lived with a heart that wanted too much.
So he lets you cry. He sits there while your voice breaks and your mascara runs, and you tell him how much it hurts to love someone who’s too afraid to love you back.
At the station, things feel colder.
Hen pulls you into more calls than usual, always with a hand on your shoulder or a glance like, I’m here.
Chim tries to make you laugh too hard, and you let him — for their sake. Not yours. Even Bobby gives you a longer look during lineups, like he’s making sure you’re still steady on your feet.
But Eddie? Eddie’s unraveling.
He’s sharper with his words. Slower to smile. Quicker to volunteer for high-risk entries — the kind that make Buck flinch.
And Buck’s watching him, arms crossed, jaw tight, because he’s done waiting for Eddie to fix this.
“You’re miserable,” Buck snaps one night in the locker room, voice low and cutting. Eddie looks up from where he’s lacing his boots, surprised.
“What?”
“She’s miserable. You’re miserable. And for what? Because you’re scared? Because it’s easier to push her away than admit you love her?”
Eddie says nothing. Just clenches his jaw, like the truth might slip out if he lets his lips part for too long.
“You’re not protecting her,” Buck says. “You’re punishing her for making you feel something real. And you’re punishing yourself too.”
Eddie stands, tense. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is that simple,” Buck says, stepping closer.
“You’re not a scared kid anymore. You’re a man. You’re a father. You know what love looks like. You had it in front of you and you shoved it away.”
Eddie looks away. His shoulders sag. His voice is quieter now.
“I didn’t want to break her heart.”
Buck scoffs. “Well, too late. But you can still fix it. Unless you wait too long and someone else does.”
The words land like a gut punch. Someone else.
That thought had been haunting Eddie for weeks — the way Buck looked at you now with that softness, that fierce protectiveness.
He sees how you smile at Buck even through your heartbreak. And he knows — he knows — that if he doesn’t move soon, he’ll lose you for good.
Eddie doesn’t know when the house stopped feeling like home.
Maybe it was the way the sunlight pours in on Saturday mornings and doesn’t land where you used to sit on his couch, coffee in hand, laughter soft as wind.
Maybe it’s the quiet—too quiet—like something’s been vacuum-sealed from his life, and no matter how loud the world gets around him, he can’t unhear the absence of you.
Chris asked about you the other night.
“Why doesn’t she come around anymore?”
And Eddie, sitting on the edge of his son’s bed, couldn’t find a real answer. He lied, gently, the way people do when they’re trying not to bleed on the people they love.
“She’s been busy, bud. Just life stuff.”
But Chris is too smart for that. He didn’t press—he just nodded and turned to face the wall.
That silence haunted Eddie more than anything.
He finds himself at Hen and Karen’s, one of the few people who’s always seen through his best performances. He tells them he needed someone to talk to. Karen hands him tea before he even asks.
“So.” Karen folds her arms. “How long are you going to pretend you didn’t break your own heart?”
Eddie lets out a humorless laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
“To everyone but you, apparently.”
He sinks into the couch. “I just… I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“But you did,” Hen says. “And you’re hurting, too. It’s written all over you.”
“I thought if I kept some distance, it’d make it easier. Like… if I never said anything, she could walk away if she wanted. And I wouldn’t have to fall apart when she did.”
Karen’s expression softens.
“Eddie, loving someone doesn’t mean they’re going to leave you. You’ve lived like the next loss is always around the corner, but she wasn’t trying to go anywhere. You pushed her out.”
“I know,” he admits, voice raw.
“I was terrified. Of how much I loved her. Of how easy it was. And how… permanent it felt. Like once I let it in, I’d never come back from it.”
“And now?” Hen asks.
He doesn’t speak right away. He just stares at the tea cup in his hands like it holds all the answers he’s too afraid to say aloud. But eventually, the truth peels itself out of him.
“I love her,” he breathes. “God, I’m in love with her.”
Later, he’s on a late shift with Bobby, just the two of them by the rig. Bobby doesn’t pry—not at first—but he looks up after a long stretch of silence and simply says:
“You ready to stop punishing yourself?”
Eddie laughs, low and tired. “I don’t know how.”
“Yes, you do,” Bobby replies. “You just have to stop running. You’ve been in survival mode for so long, you forgot what it’s like to choose joy.”
Eddie leans against the counter, voice barely audible.
“I think she was my joy.”
Bobby nods. “Then go get her back. You still have time.”
That night, Eddie lies in bed staring at the ceiling, and for once, he doesn’t picture all the ways he could lose you. He pictures what it would feel like to hold your hand again. To tell you the truth.
To stop being afraid of a heart that beats a little louder when you’re near.
And he decides—finally—that it’s time.
He’s done running.
It’s raining when he knocks.
Not the kind of gentle drizzle that clings to windows like a whisper, but a downpour—relentless, cold, unforgiving.
It’s been weeks since you last saw Eddie in anything more than passing glances at the firehouse, and longer still since you heard his voice say your name without flinching.
You almost don’t open the door.
But when you check the peephole, and you see him standing there—soaked to the bone, eyes like bruises, shoulders sagging—you can’t bring yourself to walk away.
You crack the door open just enough to lean against it. You don’t invite him in.
“Really?” you say quietly. “Now you show up?”
Eddie’s lips part, but he doesn’t speak right away. You almost think he won’t.
“I know I have no right to be here,” he finally says, voice gravel-thick and wet with regret. “But I couldn’t— I couldn’t keep doing this. Not after everything.”
You cross your arms, biting back the ache in your throat.
“Everything like what, Eddie? Like telling me it was all in my head? Like pretending none of it meant anything?”
He flinches.
“I was trying to protect something,” he says. “I just didn’t realize I was destroying it at the same time.”
You open the door a little wider, just enough for him to see the anger that still flickers in your chest—anger born from heartbreak, not hate.
“Protect what exactly? Yourself? Because I sure as hell wasn’t protected when you said all those things. You made me feel insane for loving you.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he says instantly, stepping forward but stopping himself short.
“I thought if I kept you at arm’s length, maybe I wouldn’t lose you completely. I’ve lost people before—people I loved. And you—”
He swallows thickly, shaking his head.
“You scared me more than anyone ever has.”
That stings.
You let it.
“That’s not an excuse,” you say, voice firm even as your hands start to tremble.
“You don’t get to burn down what we had just because it scared you. You don’t get to come back when I’ve barely figured out how to function without you.”
“I know,” he says, and he means it. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his shoulders curl inward like he’s folding under the weight of it all.
“I lied,” he says softly. “That night. When I said I didn’t love you.”
You glance away, jaw clenched.
“I was scared. I still am. But the truth is… I’m more scared of never getting to tell you how much I do love you.”
The silence that follows is thick and heavy, and for a moment, all you can hear is the rain pounding against the pavement and the thunder rolling overhead.
“Eddie,” you say quietly. “You broke my heart.”
“I know,” he breathes, voice wrecked.
“And I’ll spend as long as it takes trying to make up for that. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t expect you to trust me. But I needed you to know that I see it now. I see you. I love you. And I never stopped.”
You stare at him for a long time, and he doesn’t fill the silence with more words. He just stands there, letting it rain, letting it hurt.
Eventually, you step aside.
“Come inside before you catch a cold.”
He does. Carefully. As though you might change your mind at any second.
He peels off his soaked jacket and stands awkwardly in your living room, dripping water onto the rug he once helped you pick out on a lazy Sunday afternoon—back when things were still unspoken but full of promise.
“You still love me?” he asks, quietly, almost afraid of the answer.
You don’t answer right away.
Instead, you walk toward him, stopping close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his chest.
Your fingers brush over his shirt, soaked and clinging, and you look up at him through lashes heavy with everything you’ve carried.
“Of course I do,” you whisper. “That’s why it hurt so much.”
He exhales shakily, and for the first time in weeks, you see the man you knew—the one who carried your heart like something fragile and precious, even when he didn’t have the words for it.
“I’m still angry,” you warn.
“You have every right to be.”
“I’m not just going to forget it all overnight.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
You stare at each other, storm still howling outside, hearts both threadbare and somehow still beating in tandem.
And when you kiss—finally—it isn’t perfect.
It’s desperate. It’s trembling. It’s soaked in tears and rain and months of unspoken longing.
But it’s real.
And when he presses his forehead to yours, holding you like the world might split open, you realize that maybe love was never supposed to be fearless.
It was just supposed to be brave.
Falling asleep next to Eddie Diaz becomes a ritual you never thought you’d have the right to experience.
Not after the heartbreak, the months of silence, the tear-stained pillowcases, and the long nights spent wondering if you’d imagined it all.
Not after the ache of watching him walk away from something he felt as deeply as you did. But now, with his arm looped around your waist and his breath slow and even against the back of your neck, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
Like it was always supposed to be this way.
Your mornings are slow now ever since you started sleeping at the Diaz household.
The world still spins fast around you—calls come in, emergencies rise like tides, and grief still knocks on your door sometimes. But in the stillness of sunrise, before the rest of the world wakes up, you and Eddie find time to just be.
You’ve gotten into the habit of making coffee while still wearing his hoodie, sleeves falling past your fingertips, the scent of him wrapped around you like armor.
He pretends not to notice, but there’s always a soft little smile tugging at his mouth when he sees you in it.
“You know, you do own clothes your size,” he says one morning, voice still rough from sleep.
You shrug. “But yours are warmer.”
He pulls you into his chest with a soft grunt and presses a kiss to your temple. “Can’t argue with that.”
After rough shifts, you hold his hand on the ride back to the firehouse.
Sometimes, you don’t even realize you’ve reached for it until you feel his thumb rub slow circles into your knuckles.
It’s never for show. It’s never performative. It’s just… comfort. Constant. Quiet. Sure.
You don’t need words to know what he’s thinking when he squeezes your hand just a little tighter after a difficult call. You just lean your head onto his shoulder and let him breathe.
On another note, Christopher loves having you around again.
Not in the polite, oh-she’s-nice way—but in the real, deep-bonded way that tells you you’ve become something sacred in his world.
After school pickups are his favorite, and even when it’s supposed to be Eddie’s turn, he asks if you can come too.
“Dad says you’re better at choosing snacks,” he tells you with a grin, swinging his backpack onto your back like it’s already your job.
You catch Eddie giving you a soft look through the window of the car. One that says, This. This is it. This is everything I almost threw away.
Sometimes, Chris falls asleep on your shoulder on the ride home when you’re sitting at the back. And sometimes, Eddie takes a picture of it on his phone, storing it somewhere private. Safe.
The teasing from the team is merciless—but warm.
Hen grins at you during lunch and nudges your foot under the table.
“You know, we had a pool going on. I won thirty bucks.”
Chimney raises a brow. “You all owe me. I called it two years ago.”
You shoot Eddie a look, but he’s barely pretending to be bashful.
“It wasn’t exactly subtle,” Buck adds, leaning back in his chair. “The way you two looked at each other? Come on.”
“I don’t remember you saying anything that night I told her I didn’t love her,” Eddie says dryly, smirking.
Buck raises his hands. “I was giving you time to figure out you’re a dumbass. Took longer than expected.”
There’s laughter. Real, full-bellied laughter. The kind that makes your ribs hurt in the best way.
But what gets you most is this: Eddie laughs too.
Like a man no longer holding his breath.
At night, you lie curled up in bed with him, the lamp casting soft light across his face. He’s reading something quietly, one hand draped over your hip, thumb tracing idle patterns into your skin like a habit he doesn’t want to break.
You study him sometimes. The way he softens now. How his smiles last longer. How his laughter comes easier. How he kisses you with both urgency and reverence, like he’s still making up for lost time.
“I think I stopped breathing for a while,” he murmurs one night. “When we weren’t… us.”
You look up at him. “Me too.”
He touches your cheek. “You bring me back to myself. Every time.”
You lean into him, heart swelling.
“That’s all I ever wanted to do.”
He presses his lips to your forehead, and you breathe together in the dark, the quiet warmth of the home you’ve built finally wrapping around you both.
Eddie Diaz once believed love was something you had to guard yourself against. That loving too much meant losing too hard. But now, with your head on his chest and your voice whispering sleepy dreams against his skin, he knows better.
Loving you didn’t ruin him.
It saved him.
And this—this gentle, messy, beautiful life—is everything he almost gave up.
But not anymore.
Now, he holds it all in his arms and doesn’t let go. Not ever again.
Or: The one where they misunderstand what the positive test is for.
Includes: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Wally West, Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent and John Constantine
Warnings: Reader is implied to be able to get pregnant, however I'm all for them being dumb enough to think they've managed even if it's not possible so you decide lol <3 Beside that, no real warnings, mostly fluffy and humorous.
Morph's thoughts: Hii everyone, this is my first dc comics fic AND first text!au fic ever :) I'm still trying to find everyone's "texting voices" and doing a bit of a trial and error with the formating of the screen shots, so if you have any feedback it's more than welcome!!
disclaimer!!! I do NOT own any of these fics, all credit goes to the lovely original authors
this will be the place for fandoms i don't typically read for or that have very little fics
sincerely - elijah mikaelson from the vampire diaries universe
besties rebekah and hayley ask elijah to flirt with and help boost reader's confidence, she finds out and thinks the connection was fake (she was WRONG), pulls away and he wins her back, 2 parts both fantastic
wait, what? - jake peralta from brooklynn 99
he's an idiot but i love him anyway, slowburnish, fluff
the better sidekick - henry hart from henry danger (don't fucking ask)
classic 'enemies'/rivals to lovers, both sidekicks for captain man trying to outdo each other, she fell first he fell way harder, takes almost dying and extreme stubbornness for him to realize, then even more stubbornness for confession
Summary: John Shen brings you a 48-ounce Dunkin' iced latte; fake marriage paperwork is discussed; and Jack Abbot discovers his girlfriend has a work husband.
Warnings: Established relationship, workplace teasing, jealous-but-not-really jealous Jack, Shen, and Reader being absolute menaces, fake marriage pact, excessive Dunkin, one deeply offensive sweet coffee beverage, no real angst.
Author’s Note: This is pure nonsense, and I love it. Jack is secure in his relationship, but unfortunately, his girlfriend and her work husband have paperwork, annual reviews, and a beverage vessel. Pray for him. Thank you @jennataurus for the idea!
Xoxo, Del
Jack saw Shen before he saw the drink. That was his first mistake. Shen walking into the emergency department was not unusual. Shen walking into the emergency department with that particular expression on his face was.
Too calm. Too neutral. Too deliberately innocent.
Jack narrowed his eyes from the other side of the nurses’ station.
Then he saw what Shen was carrying.
For one brief and terrible second, Jack thought it was medical equipment.
Then he saw the ice. Then he saw the straw.
Then he saw your face light up like Shen had walked in carrying a diamond ring, a rescue puppy, and a winning lottery ticket.
“Oh my god,” you said, already abandoning your chart. “You got it.”
Shen set the container on the counter with the solemn care of a man presenting evidence in court. “Blueberry Cobbler Iced Latte. Forty-eight ounces.”
You pressed both hands to your chest. “John.”
Jack looked at the bucket. Then he looked at Shen. Then he looked at you.
“No,” Jack said.
You turned toward him, smiling. “You don’t even know what this is.”
“I know enough,” Jack replied.
“It’s the bucket,” you said, like that explained anything.
“It is not a bucket,” Shen said.
Jack stared at him. “It absolutely is.”
“It’s a beverage vessel.” Shen corrected.
Jack stared at him. “It has a handle.”
“That doesn’t make it a bucket,” Shen grumbled.
You leaned over the counter and kissed Shen’s cheek. Jack went still. Shen went very still, too, but not because he was nervous.
No.
Because he knew.
Jack watched Shen’s mouth twitch once before he smoothed his expression back into something infuriatingly calm.
“Thank you,” you said sweetly.
Shen nodded. “Of course.”
Jack pointed between you and Shen. “Don’t love that.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
“The cheek kiss,” Jack answered.
Shen looked down at the drink. “It was a gratitude kiss.”
Jack’s eyes shifted to him. “Dunkin.”
Shen’s brows lifted. “Is that me?”
Jack nodded once, “It is now.”
You pressed your lips together. Jack knew that face. He loved that face. He also knew that face meant you were about thirty seconds away from making his life worse on purpose.
“Jack,” you said gently.
“No,” Jack said. “You don’t get to ‘Jack’ me when Dunkin just walked in with forty-eight ounces of sugar and got kissed for it.”
Shen glanced down at the container. “It does have two straws.”
“That makes it worse,” Jack replied.
You picked up one of the straws with reverent fingers. “It’s for sharing.”
“With your boyfriend?” Jack said, jerking his head in John’s direction.
You smiled. “With my work husband.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. There it was. Shen took one small, thoughtful step closer to you, like a man approaching a live wire just to see what would happen.
Jack watched him do it. He watched you notice. He watched both of you decide, silently and instantly, to be problems.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “Your what?”
“My work husband,” you said, very seriously.
Shen nodded once. “It’s an administrative title.”
“Administrative,” Jack repeated.
“Very little romance involved,” Shen said.
Jack stared at him. “Very little?”
You touched Jack’s chest. “Jack, be fair. John and I have survived a lot together.”
Jack looked between the two of you and inhaled slowly through his nose.
He was a grown man. A physician. A professional. He had handled trauma bays, impossible calls, mass casualties, and patients who thought WebMD had more authority than medical school. He was not going to let two adults and a container of dessert coffee dismantle him in the middle of his emergency department.
You slid the bucket toward Shen. “First sip goes to the provider.”
Jack’s head turned. “Provider?”
“He provided the bucket,” you said.
Shen took the straw with grave dignity. “I accept this responsibility.”
Jack watched him take a sip.
You leaned in, eyes bright. “Well?”
Shen considered it for a moment. “Sweet.”
You nodded. “Expected.”
“Artificial blueberry,” Shen said.
“But fun artificial?” You asked.
Shen took another sip. “Aggressively fun.”
You pointed at him. “That’s what I thought.”
Jack stared. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”
You gave Jack a look, “I know John’s palate.”
Jack went still again.
Shen lowered the straw. “You walked into that one.”
“I did not walk into anything,” Jack said.
You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Are you jealous of John’s palate?”
“No,” Jack replied immediately.
Shen tilted his head. “He seems jealous of my palate.”
Jack pointed at him. “You are on thin ice.”
“Appropriate,” Shen said, glancing at the bucket. “Given the beverage.”
You made a sound like you were trying not to choke.
Jack looked down at you. “Do not laugh at that.”
You covered your mouth. “I’m not.”
“You are,” Jack said.
You pointed to Shen and said, “I’m being supportive of my work husband’s humor.”
Not yet, he told himself. It is too early in this shift to ask God for intervention.
When he opened them, you were holding the straw toward him.
“Try it,” you said.
Jack shook his head, “No.”
“One sip.” You implored.
Jack’s brow furrowed. “I already know I’m going to hate it.”
“That’s not very scientific,” Shen said.
Jack didn’t look away from you. “Dunkin, I am not discussing the scientific method with you over a bucket of sugar milk.”
You lifted the straw another inch. “For me?”
Jack looked at your face. That was unfair. Everything about your face was unfair. He sighed like a man accepting his own execution, leaned down, and took the smallest sip possible. His face changed immediately.
You brightened. “Well?”
Jack swallowed with effort. It was worse than he expected. It was sweet in a way that felt personally aggressive. It tasted like someone had taken a blueberry muffin, drowned it in melted ice cream, panicked, and added more sugar.
Jack looked at both of you. “Well, that’s horrific.”
You gasped. “Jack.”
Jack grimaced, “It tastes like someone liquefied a blueberry muffin, panicked, and added more sugar.”
Shen took the bucket back and considered that. “Not inaccurate.”
You pointed at him. “Do not side with my actual boyfriend against me.”
Jack’s head turned. Actual boyfriend. That helped. He hated that it helped.
He was not jealous of John Shen. He was not jealous of the drink. He was not jealous of the cheek kiss, the work husband title, or the fact that Shen apparently had a detailed working knowledge of your coffee preferences. Jack was simply opposed to nonsense.
That was all.
You smiled up at him. “Yes. Actual boyfriend.”
Shen lifted one hand. “Work husband acknowledges the hierarchy.”
Jack looked at him. “Temporary husband.”
Shen blinked. “I don’t remember agreeing to temporary.”
“You don’t need to agree,” Jack replied.
Shen frowned, “I feel like I should.”
“You shouldn’t,” Jack said.
You took the bucket back from Shen. “For legal accuracy, the arrangement is currently suspended.”
Jack looked down at you. “The arrangement.”
You nodded solemnly. “Until further notice.”
“Or forty,” Shen added.
Jack’s gaze moved slowly back to him. “Excuse me?”
Shen took a careful breath, like he was about to present lab results. “If neither of us is married by the time we are forty, we’ve agreed to enter a mutually beneficial domestic partnership.”
You nodded. “For practical reasons.”
Jack stared at you.
“Tax benefits,” you said.
“Shared expenses,” Shen added.
“Emergency contact efficiency,” you said.
“Mutual tolerance,” Shen added.
Jack looked between you. “You rehearsed that.”
You and Shen said, “No,” at the exact same time.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. You smiled. Shen sipped the drink.
Jack looked toward the ceiling.
Dear God, he thought, then stopped himself. Not yet. He could still handle this.
“You’re not single,” Jack said.
You patted his chest. “I know.”
“So the pact is void.” Jack continued.
Shen lifted one finger. “Suspended.”
Jack pointed at him. “Void.”
“Suspend—”
“Void.” Jack cut him off.
You sighed softly. “This is a difficult day for the marriage.”
Shen nodded. “We’ll need time to heal.”
Jack stared at the two of you. “Marriage.”
“Future potential marriage,” you clarified.
Jack frowned, “Not better.”
Ellis, who had been pretending not to listen from two feet away, slowly lowered her chart.
“Do I want to know?” Ellis asked.
“No,” Jack said.
“Yes,” you and Shen said together.
Jack looked down at you. You smiled up at him, bright and delighted and absolutely unrepentant.
Ellis’s eyes landed on the bucket. “Is that coffee?”
“Allegedly,” Jack said.
Shen lifted the container. “Blueberry Cobbler Iced Latte. Forty-eight ounces.”
Ellis blinked. “That sounds disgusting.”
Jack pointed at her. “Thank you.”
You gasped. “Ellis.”
Ellis glanced at Jack’s face, then at Shen, then at you. “Why does this feel like I walked in on something personal?”
“Because you did,” Jack said.
Shen shook his head. “It’s not personal. It’s a product review.”
Jack looked at him. “You announced a suspended marriage pact.”
Ellis looked delighted. “What else is in the paperwork?”
Jack pointed at her. “Do not encourage them.”
Shen cleared his throat. “There is the intimacy clause.”
Jack went completely still. Ellis’s chart lowered another inch.
“The what?” Jack asked.
“The intimacy clause,” you said, very seriously.
Shen nodded. “One night of passionate lovemaking per calendar year to maintain the marriage.”
Jack stared at him.
You nodded along solemnly. “For the health of the union.”
“And morale,” Shen added.
Jack’s head turned toward you. “Morale.”
“It’s important,” you said.
“Vital,” Shen agreed.
Jack pointed at the bucket. “Dunkin.”
Shen blinked. “Yes?”
“Never use the phrase ‘passionate lovemaking’ in a sentence about my girlfriend again.”
Shen considered him. “Would ‘annual intimacy maintenance’ be better?”
Jack looked at him, “No.”
You pressed your lips together. “Less romantic.”
Jack looked down at you. “You are not helping.”
“I’m grieving the clause,” you said.
Jack stared at you.
Ellis made a strangled sound behind her chart.
Shen took a slow sip from the bucket. “This is difficult for all parties.”
Jack closed his eyes. Dear God, grant me patience, Jack thought. Because if you grant me strength, Shen is not making it out of this emergency department.
Then Shen set the bucket down and hooked an arm around your shoulders. You did not miss a beat. You slid your arm around Shen’s waist and leaned into his side with a grave little nod. “Privacy would be appreciated during this difficult transition.”
Jack opened his eyes. Ellis’s mouth opened slightly.
Jack pointed between you and Shen. “Separate.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
“Immediately,” Jack said.
Shen looked down at you. "Our bond threatens him.”
“I am threatened by nothing,” Jack said.
You patted Shen’s stomach. “It’s okay. He’s processing.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “You have three seconds.”
Shen’s arm stayed exactly where it was. “Before what?”
Jack smiled.
It was not a nice smile.
Shen removed his arm.
You removed yours too, biting your lip hard enough that Jack could see the fight not to laugh all over your face.
“Smart,” Jack said.
Shen picked up the bucket again. “For the record, that separation felt hostile.”
Jack looked at him. “Good.”
You let the moment hang for exactly one second. Then you slid right into Jack’s side, your body fitting against his like that was where you had meant to be the whole time.
Jack’s eyes dropped to you.
Your smile went soft and wicked at the same time. “Better?”
Jack held your gaze. He was still annoyed. He was still trying not to look pleased. He was still failing.
“Marginally,” he said.
You hummed and smoothed your hands over his scrub top. “Only marginally?”
His hand settled at your waist before he could pretend he wasn’t going to touch you. “You’re pushing it, sweetheart.”
You grinned. “Don’t worry, Jack. You’re hotter than him.”
Shen’s head lifted. “Rude.”
Jack didn’t look away from you. “Dunkin.”
“Yes?” Shen replied.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Drink your muffin soup.”
You laughed into Jack’s chest. His mouth twitched despite himself, and his hand tightened gently at your waist.
“Better,” he admitted, quieter this time.
Ellis finally gave up pretending she was working. “Can I try the divorce coffee?”
Jack’s eyes shifted to her. For the first time since Shen walked in, Jack looked almost pleased.
“Divorce coffee,” he repeated.
You brightened. “Oh, that’s good.”
Shen nodded. “Accurate, but emotionally painful.”
“It is not emotionally painful,” Jack said. “It’s legally clarifying.”
Ellis held out a hand. “So can I try it?”
“Don’t,” Jack warned.
“Yes,” you and Shen said together.
Jack looked down at you. You smiled up at him, bright and delighted. Jack looked at the bucket. Then at Shen. Then at you. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Okay,” Jack said.
You blinked. “Okay?”
Jack nodded toward the other end of the nurses’ station. “You’re coming with me.”
Your mouth fell open, offended and delighted at the same time. “What?”
“I have been very patient,” Jack said.
“You have,” you said solemnly.
He continued, “I tried the muffin soup.”
“You did.” You agreed.
“I tolerated the cheek kiss,” Jack added.
You nodded, “You did.”
“I tolerated the work husband,” Jack said, almost with a grimace.
“Barely,” Shen said.
Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “Temporary husbands do not get commentary.”
Shen nodded. “Understood.”
Jack looked back at you. “And now I’m taking my girlfriend ten feet that way so I can remember why I love her without Shen making tax comments.”
You glanced back at Shen, then at the bucket in his hand. Your face went dramatically mournful.
“No,” you whispered. “My husband. My coffee.”
Jack went completely still. Ellis made a sound behind her chart.
Shen looked down at you with grave sympathy. “I’ll miss you.”
Jack’s head turned slowly toward him. “Dunkin.”
Shen lifted one hand. “Right. Sorry.”
You pressed your lips together, shoulders shaking.
Jack looked down at you. “You are walking away with me, or I am confiscating the coffee.”
Your eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would,” Jack replied.
You frowned, “You hate it.”
“I hate many things about this situation,” Jack said. “That has not stopped me yet.”
Shen hugged the bucket closer to his chest. “For the record, I object to seizure of communal property.”
“It is not communal property,” Jack said.
“It’s divorce coffee,” Ellis said.
Jack pointed at her. “Helpful.”
Ellis smiled. “Thank you.”
You slid your hand into Jack’s. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Jack’s fingers closed around yours. “Thank you.”
“But under protest.” You added.
Jack nodded once, “Noted.”
“And I want visitation rights.” You said.
Jack looked at you. “To Shen or the coffee?”
You looked genuinely torn. Jack’s eyes narrowed.
“The coffee,” you said quickly.
Shen nodded. “Hurtful, but wise.”
Jack tugged gently on your hand. “Move.”
You let Jack lead you away, still laughing under your breath. Halfway down the nurses’ station, you glanced back over your shoulder.
Shen mouthed, I miss you.
You coughed to hide your laugh.
Jack stopped walking. You froze.
He looked down at you. “What did he do?”
You replied quickly. “Nothing.”
Jack turned. Shen looked immediately busy with a chart, one hand still wrapped around the bucket.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “Dunkin.”
Shen did not look up. “Yes?”
“Do not make me come back there.”
Shen nodded, still not looking up. “Of course.”
Jack stared for another second, then turned back to you. You smiled up at him, innocent and hopelessly pleased. Jack shook his head, but his hand squeezed yours.
“You’re trouble,” he said.
Your smile brightened. “You love me.”
“I do,” Jack said.
You stepped closer, sliding your free hand up his chest again. “And I love you.”
Jack’s irritation loosened instantly. He hated how fast it happened.
No, he didn’t.
He loved it. Loved the way you could tug him out of himself with three words and one hand on his chest. Loved the way you smiled at him like he was exactly where you wanted to be, like Shen and the coffee and every ridiculous thing you had said were only funny because Jack was there to react to them.
“Even if John brings me forty-eight ounces of coffee,” you said.
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“Even if he’s my work husband.” You continued.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Former work husband,” you corrected.
Jack nodded once, “Better.”
You smiled and rose onto your toes, brushing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re my actual everything.”
Jack went very still.
Behind you, Shen called, “Rude.”
Jack didn’t look away from you. For once, he didn’t even answer Shen. His hand slid more firmly around your waist, and his voice dropped low enough that only you could hear it.
“Yeah?”
You nodded, still smiling. “Yeah.”
Jack’s expression softened completely. Then he dipped his head and kissed you, quick but warm, like he couldn’t help it. When he pulled back, he looked almost annoyed with himself for melting so fast.
You grinned. “Better?”
Jack exhaled, thumb brushing once at your waist. “Much better,” he said.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: spencer gets drunk and confesses his feelings to you. in detail. a lot of detail.
content warnings: spencer is very drunk, mention of nausea and headaches, talks of petnames, spencer is so so in love with reader, one very tiny mention of spencer's mom and dad,
a/n: sacrified my studying to post this on time. if i fail, i'm blaming spencer. anyways!! happy birthday to spencer reid !!! ily !!!
One moment, Spencer had been beside you, and the next, he had simply vanished into the crowded bar.
“Looking after Spencer when he’s drunk is like being responsible for a five-year-old,” you muttered to yourself, weaving through the groups of people. You’d checked the restrooms, the hallway near the jukebox, and even the fire escape. Nothing.
Your frantic search brought you past the main bar, where Hotch was settling the tab. His eyes met yours, and with a subtle tilt of his head, he nodded toward a corner booth. You mouthed a relieved 'thank you' as you made your way towards said booth.
There he was. Spencer was seated at a table with a group of people you were certain he’d never met before tonight, a deck of cards in his hand. The last time you’d seen him, he’d been passionately explaining the material behind the rhinestones on Garcia’s favorite hair clip.
You stepped behind him, placing a gentle hand on the center of his back, between his shoulder blades. “Hi, Spencer,” you said, your voice soft.
He turned to look up at you, and the transformation was instant. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy from the alcohol, but they crinkled at the corners as a genuine smile spread across his face. “Hi,” he breathed, his gaze fixed on you for a precious second before darting back to his cards.
You offered a small, apologetic smile to his new friends. They didn’t look annoyed, per se, but there was a distinct air of resignation about them.
Your eyes flicked down to Spencer’s hand. Ah. Of course. He was holding a straight flush. You’d lost him about thirty minutes ago, which likely meant he’d been unknowingly bankrupting these strangers for the better part of that time.
A young woman across the table caught your eye. Her expression was one of pure desperation. “Please help,” she mouthed, her gaze flicking meaningfully between you and Spencer’s cards, clearly hoping for an insider’s tip.
You gave her a sympathetic little smile and leaned down closer to Spencer, your voice dropping to a murmur meant only for him. “Spencer.”
He looked up again, and his eyes softened, the focus shifting entirely from the game to you. You brushed a stray curl from his forehead, your fingers lingering for a moment. His skin was warm.
“You’re a bit warm. That’s not good,” you chided gently. “How about we get some fresh air?”
Spencer was utterly dazed. What you couldn't possibly know was that his dazed state wasn't solely the product of the alcohol. It was the intoxicating combination of your proximity, your touch carding through his hair and your hand on his back. His long-standing crush was currently fussing over him, and his brain was short-circuiting beautifully.
“Okay,” he mumbled, his agreement pliant. He turned back to the table. “Sorry for not finishing the game.”
A chorus of relieved voices answered in unison. “Oh, no, it’s fine!”
You couldn’t help a small grin as the woman who’d pleaded for help mouthed a grateful, “Thank you.”
One of the men, who looked as though he’d lost a significant bet, shook his head and mumbled under his breath, “How could you ever play cards with him?”
You chuckled, slipping your arm around Spencer’s waist to help steady him as he stood. “Oh, trust me,” you said, “I’ve gotten used to it.”
As you began to guide him away, you heard the woman whisper conspiratorially to her friend, “Well, yeah, he’s cute. I’d also be fine with it if I was dating him.”
You paused, glancing back at her in confusion, but in that moment, Spencer stumbled, his full weight leaning into you. You caught him easily, your attention immediately returning to the task at hand. “Okay, easy there, genius,” you said, steering him toward the door and making sure he waved a clumsy goodbye to the team.
You managed to guide a wobbly Spencer out the heavy door of the bar. But the moment you cleared the threshold, his legs seemed to give out entirely. He simply folded, settling directly onto the sidewalk.
“Spencer!” you called out.
He looked up at you, completely unbothered, propping his chin in his hand with his elbow resting on his knee. “Hm?”
“Don’t sit on the ground. It’s dirty,” you chided, reaching for his arm.
“I don’t care,” he mumbled, his head already beginning to loll precariously in his palm. “The entire bar was dirty. It doesn’t matter now.”
You sighed, a fond exasperation washing over you. Arguing with a drunk genius was a losing battle. So, you gave in. You carefully lowered yourself to sit beside him on the concrete, ignoring the chill that seeped through your clothes. Gently, you took his arm from his knee and guided his head to rest on your shoulder instead. He leaned into the contact immediately, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he nestled against the curve of your neck.
“I’m cold and warm,” he complained, his voice a mumble against your skin.
You chuckled softly. “You drank a lot, and it’s cold outside,” you explained, carefully shifting to wrap an arm around his back to steady him. You pressed your free hand to his forehead again. He was still too warm. “We should get you home,” you murmured, your voice filled with concern.
“Okay,” he agreed easily, nuzzling even closer.
The smile that touched your lips was involuntary and full of affection. Getting him home, however, was where the real challenge began.
The short walk to your car was exhausting to say the least. You half-carried, half-dragged him, his tall frame leaning heavily on you as he offered slurred commentary on the urban planning of the sidewalk cracks. Getting him into the passenger seat felt like buckling a very large and completely uncoordinated child into a car seat.
The drive was quiet. But the grand finale was the stumble up the stairs to his apartment building. It was… an experience. Each step was a negotiation.
“Just one more, Spencer, come on.”
“These stairs are surprisingly loud,” he slurred, clinging to the banister with one hand and your shoulder with the other.
“That’s because they’re old,” you grunted, heaving him up another step. “And you’re drunk.”
“Correlation is not causation,” he retorted, though the argument lost all its impact when he immediately tripped on the next step.
By some miracle, you finally reached his door. Fishing the keys from his pocket, you unlocked it and guided him inside.
Somehow, with a great deal of coaxing and maneuvering, you managed to guide him into the bathroom. You positioned him to lean against the counter, his hands gripping the edge for support. You stepped into the space between him and the sink, gently nudging his knees apart so you could stand closer. He complied without protest, his dazed eyes fixed on you.
The air was thick with a new kind of tension. To break it, you focused on a simple task. Your fingers went to the knot of his tie, loosening it.
"Why did you wear a tie to the bar?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you slid the fabric from his collar.
Spencer hummed. "I don't know what else to wear."
"You can just wear a cardigan," you suggested, a soft smile playing on your lips as you folded the tie and set it aside on the counter. "You have nice ones."
"Would you like that?" he asked quietly, his head tilting.
"Would I like what?"
"You said that you love my ties," he stated.
"I do," you affirmed, slightly confused but sensing you were treading on delicate ground.
His next words came out in a rush. "I wanna look good for you, so I try to wear ties as much as I can." There was no shame, no blushing self-awareness. It was a devastatingly honest confession poured straight from his heart, facilitated by the alcohol flooding his veins.
"Spencer!" you breathed, your hands stilling as you stared at him in shock.
His face fell instantly, confusion clouding his features. "What? Do you not like them anymore?" he asked, his voice tinged with sadness. "I can wear something else."
"You can wear whatever you want," you managed to say, your mind reeling. A part of you felt a pang of hurt at the thought that his clothing choices weren't entirely his own. "Why would you wear something just because I complimented it?"
"Because I like it when you compliment my ties," he mumbled, his body swaying slightly. You instinctively steadied him by placing your hands on his waist, the contact sending a jolt through you. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a second before finding yours again. "Or when you touch them to look at the pattern. It makes me feel really warm on the inside when you do."
The air left your lungs. You stared, utterly speechless. In his inebriated state, Spencer Reid had just confessed his crush on you to you. He had no idea of the magnitude of what he'd just revealed.
Needing a moment to process, you quickly grabbed the cup of water you'd set aside earlier. "Here, drink this," you instructed softly, holding the cup to his lips. As he drank, you used your free hand to gently brush the soft curls back from his fever-warm forehead.
You gently wiped the stray water droplets from his chin with your thumb, your touch lingering for a heartbeat. Needing to do something, anything, with your hands, you began to unbutton the top button of his shirt, just to give him a little more air. He sighed in relief.
In the quiet of the bathroom, his voice was small. "Are you mad at me?"
Your eyes snapped back to his. "No," you said softly. "Not at all, Spencer. I could never be mad at you for that." You cupped his cheek, your thumb stroking his warm skin. "I'm just… worried that you take my words too much to heart."
His response was soft. "I do."
A flicker of that earlier disappointment must have shown in your eyes, because he quickly continued.
"I remember that one time you told me you liked my eyes," he mumbled, his gaze drifting to a spot on the bathroom wall. "And ever since then, I like them more. You were right… they do look nice when the sun hits them."
"Yeah?" you asked, your voice colored with hope.
"Mhm," Spencer nodded, his head lolling slightly before he found your eyes again. "I also like my outfits more. I always hated them." He confessed this with resignation that broke your heart a little. "I didn't know what else to wear. People… people weren't always nice about my clothes. You were the only one who was ever nice to me about them. And you actually meant it." He gave you a tentative smile, one that grew just a fraction when he saw the genuine smile blooming on your own face.
"Well, I do love your outfits," you whispered, your hand moving from his cheek to smooth the collar of his shirt. "They're so uniquely you. It makes you look so handsome."
Spencer blushed, the red somehow deepening beneath the alcohol-induced flush. He ducked his head. "I can't get used to that," he mumbled into his chest.
"Used to what?" you prompted softly, tilting your head to try and catch his downcast eyes.
He finally looked up, his whiskey-colored eyes meeting yours. "Your compliments," he whispered, a confession as potent as any other he'd made tonight.
“Well, get used to them, handsome,” you smiled as you guided the cup back to his lips. He drank obediently, but his eyes never left you, watching you intently over the rim. You held the gaze and it felt strangely intimate.
Once he’d finished, you set the cup aside and turned to grab his toothbrush. The small bathroom cabinet offered two different tubes of toothpaste. You weren't sure which one he liked more.
“Who were you talking to in the bar?” Spencer’s voice was quiet.
“When?” you asked, your hand hesitating between the two options before settling on the mint.
“In the booth. There was a guy… you were laughing with him.” His tone was carefully neutral, but the specificity gave him away.
You looked up from the toothbrush, the paste forgotten in your hand. You gave him your full undivided attention. “I don’t even know who that was, Spencer.”
“You seemed comfortable with him,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the countertop.
You watched him for a long moment, studying the slight downturn of his mouth, the way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes. Understanding began to warm your chest. “Spencer,” you began softly, leaning a hip against the counter to face him fully. “Were you jealous?”
His head lifted, his eyes searching yours. “Maybe,” he finally mumbled. “You touched his arm… like, five times,” he whispered, as if confessing a grave misdeed.
Your heart squeezed. You tilted your head, your voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “Do you want me to touch your arm?”
“No. Yes,” he stammered, frustration creasing his brow. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to touch me. And I know you touch me a lot.” His eyes flickered down to where your hand was resting on his waist, your thumb unconsciously making soothing circles against the fabric of his vest. “You’re doing it right now.”
You followed his gaze, a soft smile gracing your lips. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I am.”
He opened his mouth, trying to articulate the tangled mess of feelings, but his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. The alcohol was a thick fog, making it impossible to find the right words.
You understood. “But you want it to mean something,” you supplied gently, your thumb stilling its motion. “When I touch you, you want it to feel special. You don’t want it to be something I do with just anyone.”
Spencer stared at you, his expression a mixture of relief and wonder that you had somehow untangled the knot he couldn't. “I guess so,” he mumbled.
You understood completely. Your casual friendly touch with that stranger had, in his eyes, devalued the currency of your affection. It made the way you cared for him seem ordinary, when to him, it was everything.
He fell silent for a long moment, processing his own words. Then, he shifted uncomfortably against the counter. "That sounded… oddly possessive," he mumbled, a flicker of clarity breaking through the alcoholic haze. "I didn't mean it like that," he corrected himself worried.
Honestly, you hadn't taken it that way at all, but you stayed quiet.
"I just… like you. A lot."
You took a sharp breath at the directness of the words, your heart stuttering in your chest. But you remained outwardly calm.
"And sometimes," he continued, "I think you like me back. Because of your gentle touches and your really nice compliments." He explained it so sweetly, that a smile inevitably formed on your face. "And Morgan tells me you like me," he added, offering a sheepish smile.
"And then I get hopeful," he whispered, the smile fading, "but then I see you compliment Morgan's shoes, or I see you touch that guy's arm in the bar, and then I just think… how could you like me? That you're just kind like that. That you're just nice to people, and that I'm just… imagining it all." He finished with a tired sigh, rubbing his eye.
You had stayed quiet throughout his entire confession, letting him pour out the insecurities he usually kept locked behind a wall of facts and statistics. Now, you slowly placed the forgotten toothbrush on the counter, bristles up to keep it clean. Your hands came up to cradle his face, your thumbs stroking his warm cheeks.
"I do like you," you whispered, the words finally breaking free. "Very much so. And the compliments I give you are genuine, and they are special. They're just for you, Spencer."
Spencer blinked at you, his eyes widening. "You like me?" he asked, his voice full of awe.
"Very much so," you affirmed, your smile softening.
"Oh," he breathed, a dazed smile spreading across his face. "That's good." He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a second, utterly content with the feeling of your hands on his skin.
You smiled, but the expression became more careful, when Spencer's gaze drifted downward from your eyes. He was staring at your lips, his head tilting as he leaned in slowly.
Gently, you pulled back, just an inch.
He froze, his eyes snapping back to yours, now wide with fear and confusion at the rejection.
"You're drunk," you said softly. You kept your hands on his face, brushing over his cheekbones. "I'm not kissing you when you're drunk."
He processed this, then nodded slowly. "That makes sense," he conceded. But his eyes, full of longing, lingered on your lips a moment longer.
You offered a soft reassuring smile, quickly grabbing the toothbrush to give him a task. Applying a stripe of toothpaste, you held it up for him. To your relief, his motor functions seemed to return for this familiar routine. He took it and began brushing, his eyes never leaving you the entire time.
Under his unwavering gaze, you began to feel warm yourself. You weren't sure if it was the intensity of your conversation or the bright bathroom lighting, but you found yourself fixing your hair behind your ear before shrugging off your thin autumn jacket, letting it rest on the counter beside his tie.
Once he was finished, he slumped against the counter. He looked utterly exhausted.
"Okay," you said softly, reaching out your hand. He took it without hesitation, his fingers lacing with yours. "I know you're going to say you're not hungry, but I just want you to eat one thing before bed. I barely saw you eat anything at the bar." You had a feeling you knew why, the mysterious man had introduced himself just as the food arrived, and Spencer had promptly vanished. That's when you had lost him.
"Okay?" you prompted gently.
Spencer nodded, a sleepy smile touching his lips. "Okay," he agreed happily, letting you lead him by the hand to his small kitchen.
There, he simply leaned back against the counter, his hands coming up to rub at his tired eyes again.
"Stop that," you whispered, gently pulling his hands away. "You'll make them redder."
"Sorry," he mumbled as he let his hands drop.
You started rummaging through his cabinets, finally finding a sealed package of cookies. Ripping it open, you handed him one. He took it obediently and began to nibble. Yet, even in his drowsy state, his gaze was a magnet, drifting from your eyes down to your lips once more.
"I can't wait to kiss you," he mumbled around a mouthful of cookie.
The blunt confession made a fond smile form on your face. "Oh, really?" you asked amused.
He sounded oddly flirty, a side of him so rarely seen, and it sent a wave of warmth through you.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. He reached for another cookie, his movements slow. “The first time I thought of kissing you was when you wore that peach lipgloss.”
You thought for a second, a smile playing on your lips. “Lip oil,” you gently corrected.
“Lip oil. Right,” he repeated, filing the information away with a serious nod. “It smelled really nice. And you looked… really pretty.” The simplicity of the compliment, delivered with such honesty, struck you deeply.
You had been honestly at a loss for words throughout this entire conversation. Giddy joy was bubbling up inside you, making you want to jump on the bed, scream into a pillow in sheer delight, and kick your feet in the air like a thirteen-year-old girl with her first crush.
“Well,” you said, your voice soft and slightly flustered, “I’ll make sure to wear that lip oil when we kiss.”
His eyes, which had been half-lidded with exhaustion, widened with happiness. “Yeah?” he asked, his entire face lighting up.
“Mhm,” you nodded, your heart swelling as you watched him. The mere idea of genuinely planning your first kiss was exciting him so visibly, that it was almost too much to bear.
He took another happy bite of his cookie, then paused, his brow furrowing in a look of deep concentration. “Am I still drunk?” he asked. “I ate and drank.” Apparently, alcohol also had the temporary side effect of lowering his iq.
You couldn't help the soft giggle that escaped you. “Yes, Spencer. You’re still very drunk,” you said, your voice fond as you handed him another cookie to keep him occupied.
“Right,” he mumbled, his shoulders slumping in disappointment. The logical part of his brain had confirmed the truth, but the hopeful, lovesick part was clearly impatient for the sober morning to arrive.
You smiled softly, watching the flicker of insecurity cross his face as the initial euphoria faded, replaced by a more sobering self-awareness.
"You do want to kiss me too, right?" he asked quietly. "You're not just going to kiss me because I'm being weird right now. And drunk. And saying lots of things I shouldn't be saying?" Spencer spoke slowly. "I really, really don't want you to feel like you have to kiss me or force yourself to do something you don't want to. I get it if you just wanna stick with us confessing to each other." He stared at you intently, his hazel eyes searching yours for the absolute truth.
"Spencer," you said, your voice full of certainty, "I'd love to kiss you, and I'm not doing you a favor. I really want to kiss you."
"Okay," he quieted down, a relieved smile finally gracing his lips again, the worry melting away.
"Can I hug you?" he asked softly after a moment. "I don't think I'm too drunk to not hug you." His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to gauge his own sobriety for such an important task.
You smiled, your heart feeling impossibly full. "Yeah, come here." You held up your arms, and he fell into them. He tried his best to hold his own weight, but his coordination was still lacking, causing him to lean into you more than he probably intended. You didn't mind in the slightest.
"You feeling better?" you asked softly, your fingers gently brushing through his curls. You were talking about the alcohol, the dizziness and the overwhelming nature of the night.
"Yeah," he mumbled into your shoulder, his voice muffled and content. "Cookies helped."
"That's good, honey," you said, the endearment slipping out naturally as you brushed a hand over his back.
He stood there for a long moment, before he pulled back just enough to look at you. "Are you going to call me that when we're boyfriend girlfriend?" he asked, his tone utterly serious.
You bit your lip, hard, to stop the laugh that was about to come out. You stood there, trying to compose yourself at his adorably formal phrasing. "You mean 'honey'?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly with suppressed amusement.
He nodded, his expression earnest.
"Do you like it?" you asked softly.
"Yes," Spencer mumbled, a faint blush returning to his cheeks.
"Okay," you said, your smile so wide it almost hurt. "Yeah, I can call you that when we're boyfriend girlfriend." You couldn't stop yourself from the fond tease of repeating his chosen label.
Spencer squinted his eyes. "You're making fun of me," he mumbled, though there was no real hurt in his tone.
You giggled out loud as you held onto his waist for balance, both of you swaying slightly. "I'm sorry," you managed between soft laughs. "I just—why did you say 'boyfriend girlfriend'? It's so formal."
Spencer was smiling a bit at the sound of your laughter, but his eyebrows furrowed in genuine confusion. "Isn't that the term?"
"It just sounds a little funny, that's all," you explained, your giggles subsiding into a warm smile.
Spencer chuckled along. "Okay. Yeah, maybe it does sound a bit odd," he conceded. "Is 'couple' a better term?"
"Yeah, honey, it is," you affirmed, your voice fond.
He felt a new kind of warmth spread through his chest, one that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the way you said that word.
"Should I call you an endearment, too?" he asked carefully.
You tilted your head, your smile softening. "I don't know. Do you want to?"
Spencer shrugged, a small shy gesture. "It would be nice," he admitted, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. "It'd be my special word for you."
Your heart melted. It was clearly very important to him and you found it incredibly endearing. "Well, do you have any in mind?" you asked softly, finally taking the cookie box from his loose grip and putting it away, noticing he hadn't taken any new pieces.
Spencer stayed quiet, staring into the distance as he thought. After a long moment, he looked back at you, his expression nervous. "Would you like… 'sweetheart'?" he said, the word sounding gentle and sweet on his tongue.
You smiled, touched by the old-fashioned sweetness of it. "Would you like to call me 'sweetheart'?" you asked, wanting to hear his reasoning.
He nodded, a little more sure now. "Yeah. I think so. My aunt's husband used to call her that. And she loved it. She would fluster every time." He didn't mention how his aunt and her husband were the only couple he'd ever seen growing up who genuinely seemed to love each other, a beacon of what a relationship could be amidst the chaos of his own parents. He didn't have the words for that yet, but the memory was a good one.
You smiled fondly. "I would love that," you said, your voice sincere.
"Okay," he whispered.
Spencer seemed happy, and utterly exhausted. "Come on, let's get you to bed," you said quietly, leading him by the hand toward his bedroom. He followed willingly, his fingers laced tightly with yours.
In his room, you grabbed a set of pajamas from a drawer and handed them to him, turning your back to give him privacy to change. Once he mumbled a quiet "done," you turned back to find him swaying slightly on his feet. You guided him into bed, gently maneuvering him onto his side, a precaution against the alcohol still in his system. He complied without protest.
Soon enough, you were standing above him, looking down at his sleepy form with a fond smile. His eyes were closed, his breathing beginning to even out. "I'll come by tomorrow, okay?" you whispered, not wanting to startle him.
His eyes flew open immediately. "What?"
"I'll come by in the morning. I'll bring you some food for your hangover," you explained, softly brushing a stray curl from his forehead.
"You're not staying?" he asked, his voice filled with disappointment and surprise.
You looked at him, a little taken aback. "You want me to?"
"Yeah," he nodded. Now that he had you here, he never wanted you to leave.
You watched him, sensing the unspoken thought. Your smile was soft and understanding. "Okay," you whispered. "Well, move aside, sleepyhead."
To your luck, you were wearing clothes comfortable enough to sleep in. You slipped into the bed beside him, turning onto your side to face him. He watched your every movement. Now you were face to face, sharing the same pillow.
"Thank you for taking care of me," Spencer whispered. This time, he was the one to reach forward, his fingers gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. It was a careful touch, one he had been too nervous to initiate all night, the hug being the only bravery he'd allowed himself. His palm cupped your cheek, his hand big and warm, almost engulfing the entire side of your face.
"Any time," you mumbled, leaning into his touch. "I had fun, you know."
He raised a questioning eyebrow.
"I mean," you grinned, "it got my long-time crush to confess his feelings to me."
Spencer blushed but still scooted closer. You let him. The two of you watched each other for a long time. But sleep was clearly trying to claim him. His blinks were becoming longer, his breathing deeper. He tried to fight it, wanting to cherish this new reality of being able to simply look at you, but the exhaustion was winning.
As if reading his thoughts, you whispered softly, "Sleep, Spencer. I'll be here in the morning."
Reassured by the promise of a lifetime of mornings to come, he finally let his eyes drift shut, a smile on his lips as he surrendered to sleep, your hand still resting gently in his.
When morning came, it arrived with a pounding against the inside of Spencer’s skull. He stayed perfectly still, staring at the ceiling of his apartment. Any movement, even the subtle shift of his eyes, sent a fresh wave of nausea through him.
He laid there for long minutes, when the memories of the previous night came rushing back. Your hand on his back in the bar. Your hands cradling his face in the bathroom.
The confession about his ties, his eyes, his…feelings.
His mouth fell open in a silent gasp of horror. He sat up abruptly, a move he instantly regretted as the room tilted violently. He looked to the side of the bed.
It was empty.
A cold dread washed over him. He had done it. He had shattered your perfect friendship. But then his eyes landed on the nightstand. Your hair clips were there, placed neatly beside the lamp. You must have taken them out before bed. A spark of hope flickered in his chest.
He carefully swung his legs out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. There, draped over the counter next to his tie, was your thin autumn jacket. You were still here.
And then the terror returned, tenfold. He wanted to run. To flee his own apartment and hide from the vulnerability he had so carelessly displayed. But as he stood there, paralyzed by shame, another memory surfaced.
He had been fumbling with his pajama pants, the fabric seeming to conspire against his alcohol-slowed fingers. You had had your back turned to him, giving him privacy, and your voice had been soft.
"Spencer?"
"Hm?"
"Promise me something. Please don't regret a single thing tomorrow."
He’d been too focused on the monumental task of getting dressed to fully process it, mumbling a quick, "Yes, i promise," just to satisfy you.
He took a shaky breath and splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it bringing more snippets of the night back. "I can't wait to kiss you." "It'd be my special word for you." "Sweetheart." Shame heated his skin, but he fought it, clinging to the memory of your promise and his own.
He grabbed his toothbrush, squeezing a generous amount of toothpaste onto the bristles. The minty taste was a welcome assault. He could hear sounds coming from his kitchen. You were in his kitchen.
He brushed his teeth for ten full minutes. He scrubbed harshly, wanting to erase every last trace of the night's indiscretions, wanting his breath to be perfect.
Because he remembered, with agonizing specificity, the conversation about kissing. And he was determined to be ready.
Spencer slowly tiptoed towards the kitchen once he was done, hovering in the doorway as he silently watched you. You were at his stove, humming softly as you flipped a golden-brown pancake.
Soon enough, you felt his presence and turned, a warm smile immediately gracing your features. Spencer’s eyes darted instinctively to your lips, then away, a flush creeping up his neck.
“Good morning,” you said, turning off the stove.
“Morning,” he whispered, his voice rough with sleep and regret. He stood there, awkward and embarrassed, but trying his best to hold his ground.
“How’s the headache?” you asked, your tone sympathetic.
“Bad,” he admitted, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. “Like, really bad.”
You nodded and moved to the counter, grabbing a glass of water and some vitamins. “Here, take this.”
As you handed them to him, your fingers brushed against his. Spencer froze slightly at the contact, a difference from the way he’d leaned into your touch just hours before. He took the vitamins and swallowed them quickly, his eyes darting everywhere around the kitchen, anywhere but at you. Unlike yesterday
“I made you pancakes!” you announced, trying to cut through the tension.
Spencer glanced at the small stack on the plate. “Thank you,” he said with a weak, strained smile. “You really didn’t have to do that. I’m so sorry for… for last night.” He stuttered over the apology, the words heavy with shame.
You gently took the empty glass from his hands and then, before he could retreat, you took his hands in yours. They were trembling slightly.
“Spencer,” you said, his name sounding so sweet coming from you.
“Hm?” he mumbled in response, still looking determinedly at a point over your shoulder.
“What did I tell you yesterday?” you prompted, your voice patient.
He looked away, his jaw tightening. He remained silent, the weight of his embarrassment seeming to press him into the floor.
“Spencer,” you said again.
He finally relented, the words a defeated mumble. “Not to regret what I said.”
“Exactly!” you said, your voice brimming with warmth. You released his hands, only to bring your own up to gently frame his face, guiding his gaze until he had no choice but to meet your eyes.
His worried hazel eyes finally locked with yours. And what he saw there wasn’t pity or regret. He saw your happy eyes, shining with affection. The tension in his shoulders began to dissolve.
“So, will you please listen to me?” you asked, your voice soft.
Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, the ghost of his embarrassment still lingering, but then he nodded. “Okay,” he sighed, the sound full of relief. “I’ll try my best.”
He saw you open your arms slightly and he let himself fall into the hug, his own arms wrapping around you tightly. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, closing his eyes. “God,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin. “I can’t believe I said all of that.”
You held him close, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. “It’s fine,” you whispered. “Honestly, it progressed our relationship in ways it hadn't in the past few years.”
Spencer let out a genuine chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours. “Guess so,” he conceded, finally pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes immediately darted down to your lips, and a knowing grin spread across your face.
“Peach lip oil,” he whispered as he noticed you were waiting for him to acknowledge it.
“Yup,” you confirmed, your grin widening. “Had it in my bag. Thought I could put it to good use.”
A deep blush colored his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. “Right. Yeah,” he breathed, his gaze locked on yours.
Your hands slid down his chest, smoothing the soft wool of his cardigan. “So,” you began, your own voice dropping to a slightly flustered whisper. “You’re sober.”
Spencer nodded, watching you. “Completely.”
“If you’d like,” you said, your heart hammering against your ribs, “you can kiss me now.”
A slow, wondrous smile spread across Spencer’s face. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I’d like that very much.”
His hands came up to frame your face, his touch infinitely more sure than it had been last night. His thumbs stroked your cheeks as his eyes flickered down to your glistening lips and back up. He smiled fondly, and then, gathering his courage, he finally pressed his lips to yours.
It was nice. More than nice. It was soft, and warm. A happy hum vibrated in his throat, and you echoed it with one of your own. The kiss broke several times, because neither of you could stop smiling. When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his, both of you simply smiling.
"I've wanted to do that for two years," Spencer breathed.
You felt your heart swell, your smile widening. "Yeah," you whispered back. "Me too."
A look of pure wonder crossed his face, and he leaned in to capture your lips once more in a sweet affirming kiss. When he pulled back again, his expression was slightly dazed. "I'm not dreaming, am I?" he asked softly, his eyes searching yours.
You shook your head slowly, your hands coming up to cradle his jaw. "No, honey," you whispered. "You're not."
The term of affection had an immediate and delightful effect. A charming blush spread from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. You couldn't help the wide grin that spread across your face.
"Yeah," he mumbled, a blissful smile finally breaking through his flustered state. "Definitely not dreaming."
Overwhelmed by happiness, he pulled you tightly into his arms, burying his face in your hair. You held him just as close, feeling the last of his tension melt away.
parker hears the curtain drawing back. she groans as she lifts up her eye mask, squinting at the intruder, though she already knows the only person it could be. she makes a point to stare at you for a second too long, as if to say really?, but moves to the end side of the bed regardless.
you hop onto the bed next to her with a heavy sigh, closing your eyes. parker looks over you – you're out of scrubs, wearing the same jumper and jeans you wore when you both clocked in yesterday evening, but still pulling on your stethoscope around your neck, badge attached to your waist.
"i was supposed to take a nap, you know," she says, trying her best to sound stern. definitely not slightly relieved at sight of you.
"don't you have your depo, like... now?" you reply, still not opening your eyes.
"i had solid 20 minutes before you barged in."
"who naps for 20 minutes?" you turn to look at her incredulously. "in any case, dana's hunting for beds. she was about to get you any minute now."
you lay back and close your eyes again. she's looking at you for a moment longer, taking note of your appearance, before laying back herself.
"what happened to your scrubs?"
you take a deep breath and exhale. you know she wants to tease, but you try to keep your dignity.
"ran out... been a long shift."
parker fights a smile, even though she knows you can't see her. when parker clocked out this morning, you had already changed twice – a friday night out alcohol poisoning, a poor kid with gastroenteritis. you had taken it like a champ both times. she knew you weren't really as nonchalant about getting vomit on you as you wanted everyone to think, especially the patients. happens all the time, really, you always say, with the kindest smile on your face as you wipe off as much as you can. it doesn't, but the patients don't have to know that, do they? it's silly how it makes parker's chest tighten a little – that you care so much about not making others feel small, that parker notices what you don't say out loud.
it doesn't change the fact that she would have loved seeing your face as you scurry around the department for new scrubs, again.
"you want me to get you some?"
"fuck, no," you scoff. "i'm getting the fuck out of here. just waiting for my younglings to finish their charts," you say, almost sounding fond. she assumes it's the effect of leaving your place of work after a shift and a half that makes you sound so serene, and that some hours ago you were looking at your younglings like a drill sergeant.
you're both quiet for some time. you turn to look at her, but she looks composed as always.
"you nervous?"
parker sighs. the truth of the matter is, she's really not. the word deposition would imply it, but she knows neither her, nor mel did anything wrong. you know it, too. in fact, sometimes you seemed more upset than parker herself. upset at the antivaxxer parents, upset at the system. upset that innocent doctors who save lives have to be berated in such a way so that the rich get richer, the poor, poorer. it doesn't help, of course, getting upset. but you do anyway. it's how you care, parker figured a long time ago.
"we didn't do anything wrong. and anyway, that's what it's about the least."
you let it sit for a moment. you want to hold her hand, but think maybe you're not there yet. sometimes, it feels like you two share a specific wavelength on which you understand each other so effortlessly. other times, you feel like maybe you're making it up in your head.
"text me when it's over."
parker knows you're looking at her, but doesn't feel like she can look back at you. it's a line you two dance around a lot – when you grab breakfast after shift, when one catches the other getting some air, or when you stay over. giving intimacy and letting it sit there, because neither is confident enough to take it further. still, appreciating it for what it is. there's comfort and care in that, too.
she looks at you instead of answering. you avert your eyes to somewhere vaguely in her direction, and she does the same. you sigh again and lean your head against her shoulder. you wish you could stay here like this forever – away from the noise, bunking in a bed too small for the both of you. not that you would ever say it out loud. she would make fun of you for the rest of your life.
she wouldn't, but you don't know that. parker's much softer on the inside than you give her credit for, she thinks. then again, god forbid you ever know the extent of her feelings. it scares her sometimes, how much she wants to say yes to your invite for some coffee when she drops you off after work, despite it being 9 am and your bedtime. how much she wants to come up to your tiny apartment full of life, pet your silly cat, drink the coffee you make her, sleep cuddled up with you in your bed. wake up when it's already dark outside and cook lunch, swaying to some music in your kitchen. smooth out the grumpy creases on your forehead. kiss you when you go for a smoke on a rare night out with your coworkers. hold you when work gets too much. being held by you when work gets too much. be with you.
but for now, you both linger in the space between. there's something thrilling in that, too. the will we, won't we of it all.
he knows it's petty. yet, that does nothing to abate the furrow of his brows and the pout on his lips.
your mii is refusing to date his mii. the stubby big-headed character he poured way too much effort into making it look like you using the face paint and tinkering with the facial placement— though it is but a pittance compared to the real deal. not to mention the fact that he had to make you based off memory since he had been too shy to confess that he made both of you as miis on his island and wanted a reference.
the only two residents on his island, in fact.
and he's still getting rejected.
if he was lucky you'd let him talk to you whilst sitting together on the fountain. only for his mii to vaguely ask to hang out and make things awkward.
he had even made place holder miis, before unceremoniously removing them, until he got the island expansions! the restaurant. photo booth. pawn shop. hell, even the ferris wheel! yet, no juice could be made from the fruit of his labor.
your mii had been adamant in constantly rejecting his advances, even having the gall to fall in love with one of the placeholder miis.
and after every rejection, his own mii kept falling back in love after a trip to europe to subside his despair. after the first few times the love bubble inevitably popped up, jason had told his mii-self that it was too soon to ask your mii out only for that equally big-headed bunch of pixels refuse his advice and ask you out anyway. rinse and repeat.
perhaps it was a cruel joke on him for even trying. was it because your mii wasn't accurate enough? jason swears to himself that he'll keep a small photo of you in his wallet from this day forth.
perhaps it was poetic. that, no matter what happens to him, he'll always come to love you.
Summary: Eddie may or may not have a thing for Chris's babysitter. Coincidently, she likes him too, and proves as much when she turns up on Eddie's doorstep after a bad night, needing somewhere to feel safe.
Enjoy.
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The warmth hit Eddie the moment he stepped through the door. And not just the kind of warmth that came from a heated home or a roaring fire or a heatwave from the mid-morning sun.
It was the kind of warmth that basked the atmosphere in a beautiful glow, that made a house feel like a home. It was a feeling more than a sensation of heat, a feeling of comfort and safety and ease, and it wrapped around Eddie when he walked inside.
The ache in his shoulders and the migraine raging behind his eyes suddenly faded out and became almost non-existent when he shut the door behind him and dropped his work bag by his feet. He couldn't help but close his eyes for a moment like he needed to figure out where he was and what he was doing.
Suddenly, he didn't feel like he was coming home from a twelve hour shift that had taken a lifetime to come to an end. He felt better, calmer, more at ease.
And as he stood there in the doorway like he had turned into a statue, Eddie took a deep breath and realised there wasn't just a warmth in the air, but a homely smell too. Something was cooking; it had been a while since he'd come home and had food already prepared.
He was more used to re-heating food his Abuela had sent over than he was having it pre-prepared when he came home. Eddie knew he wasn't the best cook in the world, growing up caring for his younger sisters hadn't done anything to improve his cooking skills. Nor had being a single parent to Chris helped him in the kitchen department.
"Dad!"
A smile was already worming its way onto Eddie's lips and he opened his eyes just in time to see Chris aiming for him.
He held his breath deep in his lungs, biting back a groan when his boy barrelled into him full force, binding his arms around Eddie's waist and pushing him back until he was pinned against the door.
"Hey bud, what have you been up to?" Tilting down, Eddie smothered his lips into Chris's curls and ran a hand up and down his back. Relishing in the embrace for a few seconds, maybe a minute or longer before he leaned back and Chris stared up at him with those big brown eyes and a wide smile.
"We made lasagne."
"Oh, that's what it is, smells good." He patted Chris's shoulder and gave a small nudge as an indicator for them both to move away from the door.
When Chris turned and made a beeline back towards the kitchen, Eddie followed, both hands on Chris's shoulders as they followed the smell that was making Eddie's stomach growl like he had been on a pilgrimage and hadn't eaten for days.
The smell was intoxicating and by the time Eddie reached the kitchen, he felt like his throat had been cut and he couldn't remember the last time he ate or if he'd managed anything for lunch with how busy the shift had been today.
But all thought of food was set aside when he looked around the kitchen and set his sights on her.
(Y/n).
She was stood with her back to the kitchen doorway, gliding from one side to the next like her feet weren't touching the floor. There was an elegance about her that made Eddie rooted to the spot, unable to do anything except watch her.
There was a teatowel tossed over her shoulder and she was humming to whatever tune was playing on the radio that sat on the window ledge in front of her.
Eddie couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a sight like this in his kitchen, or indeed his home altogether.
"You cooked," Eddie wasn't sure whether it was a statement or a question that left his lips, and his hands remained on Chris's shoulders while his gaze never tore away from (Y/n). His tone was light, no accusation or annoyance- how could he be annoyed at such a lovely gesture?
He watched, entranced, as she turned so quickly on her heels that a strand of hair whipped back over her shoulder like it had a life of its own and a nervous smile fluttered across her lips. Both hands reached behind her to hold onto the counter, steadying herself and giving her something to grip and focus on while her eyes found Eddie's intriguing stare.
"Yeah, someone was hungry and I thought it would be one less thing for you to do. I- I hope that's okay," The way (Y/n) smiled and that gentle tone in her voice made Eddie grin and he nodded quickly as if to ensure that she knew he wasn't annoyed by the gesture.
"Thank you. You didn't have to."
Their gaze finally broke when Chris tilted his head back into Eddie's chest to stare up at him. "(Y/n)'s staying for dinner, right?"
Eddie's eyes danced back towards (Y/n) as he nodded. "Course she is… you can't cook and leave without eating."
"I'll set the table." Enthusiasm flooded Chris's voice and he tore away from Eddie's hold for one second before something seemed to click in his mind and he turned back towards his dad with wide eyes. "(Y/n) hurt her hand, you can fix it, right?"
Eddie's gaze darted between Chris and (Y/n) who quickly bowed her head as if to hide the embarrassment blossoming within her gaze. He nodded his head which seemed to settle Chris and let him saunter out of the room towards the dining room so he could begin setting the table for three instead of two.
Once he was safely out of sight and earshot, Eddie took a deep breath and stepped into the kitchen. Trepedition flooded his system as if this wasn't his own home that he could walk around as he pleased. His fingers flexed at his sides until he lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck like it would somehow rub away the tension beginning to build within him.
He never knew how to act around (Y/n). She made him so nervous he was like a school boy all over again, and she didn't seem to realise the kind of effect she had.
He cleared his throat, teeth catching on his lower lip when he was stood in front of her and his head tipped to the left, waiting silently yet patiently for (Y/n) to tell him what the problem was.
A nervous smile was already flooding (Y/n)'s face, a feeble attempt to cover up the embarrassment she felt and hide the nerves that were bursting to life in her stomach and aiming straight for her heart. Whenever she was close to Eddie, this close that their chests were an inch apart and she could feel each deep breath he took, she suddenly went blank.
Talking became a hard task, her mind didn't seem to work properly and she never knew what to do with herself. And looking into his eyes was near impossible; those eyes could see right through her, (Y/n) was sure of that.
"What happened?"
"It's nothing, just a cut-"
"You know I'm a medic? Besides, I can't exactly let you go home after taking care of Chris for me if you've hurt yourself and I didn't at least check."
Eddie would feel extremely bad if he let (Y/n) leave with some sort of injury and he didn't take the time to at least look at it or clean or bandage whatever injury she had, whether it was a minor cut or just a bruise. Especially when she had made dinner for him and Chris, a lovely gesture in itself. Eddie had to return the favour.
He didn't have much interaction with Maddie, but God was Eddie thankful she had introduced him to (Y/n) and recommended her as a babysitter. Eddie wasn't sure he had ever been as happy to get to know someone as he was around (Y/n).
Every time she came over to babysit Chris, Eddie wished he didn't have to go. Sometimes she stayed late just to talk after Chris had gone to bed and they talked on the phone and messaged more than just a quick hello or to arrange for her to care for Chris when Eddie was working late.
She was intoxicating and Eddie wanted to be around her and within one inch of her at all times.
He watched the sheepish look that flooded (Y/n)'s face before she meekly held out her left hand for Eddie to inspect while her other hand stayed clamped around the kitchen counter behind her.
He didn't need to, but he stepped closer until their feet were touching and he was looming over her, caging her between him and the counter.
One hand carefully curled around her wrist, trying hard not to squeeze too tightly while he unravelled the make-shift bandage she'd created around her hand, which happened to be made out of kitchen roll.
Eddie's brows narrowed as he turned (Y/n)'s hand this way and that, lifting it closer both for inspection and to get the light shining on it better. There was a cut right in the crease of her hand between her thumb and index finger. It didn't look deep enough for stitches or glue, but it was enough for quite a bit of blood which was dried into her palm and caused a bit of kitchen roll to stick to her skin.
"A knife?" He guessed quietly, trying not to poke the cut while he pressed on her skin to check whether it was still bleeding or not.
"Hm, I'm not usually this clumsy."
"Luckily you don't need stitches, but I'd like to clean it up and bandage it." His words weren't quite a question but they still required permission, and (Y/n) nodded.
Her skin felt cold and lonesome when Eddie's touch retreated and she watched the creases appear in his shirt and the way his shoulders hunched and tensed as he turned his back to her to search the cupboards. His hands scoured the top left cupboard until he found a dark leaf green box with a white plus sign on the front. A medical kit.
When Eddie was back in front of her again, there was almost no distance between them.
(Y/n) could feel each breath Eddie took, her eyes became focused on the rise and fall of his chest until she felt his touch on her hand again. The feeling of his fingers curling around her wrist, pulling her hand higher until it was level with his throat, just a few inches away from his face.
The way his features scrunched up in scrutiny and furrowed in concentration was intriguing and while his eyes were locked on her small wound, (Y/n) could look at his eyes. When he wasn't watching her, she could study him better.
He was gentle when he dabbed antiseptic along the wound, he paused when she hissed and he was careful when he cleaned the dried flecks of blood from each crease in her palm. When it started to bleed just a little, Eddie held some cotton against the cut, laying his fingers into her palm almost like they were about to hold hands.
His eyes lifted then, checking whether she was alright or if the antiseptic was burning or stinging at all. And the smile that flickered across his face made (Y/n)'s stomach jolt.
She watched the debate in his eyes about whether to put a plaster over the cut, but he decided against it. A plaster wouldn't stay in the crease of her hand especially when she bent her fingers or thumb or tried to grab something, it would come loose easily.
Instead, he lathered some cream along the cut and placed a small cotton patch into the crease before finding a roll of bandage. He wound the soft white material around her thumb and the side of her hand and then a few lines around the middle of her palm and the back of her hand to make sure it stayed in place.
He let go of her wrist to tear the bandage and tuck the end in so neatly it was like he was creating a masterpiece instead of patching her back together.
When Eddie's thumb stroked across the bandage along the back of her hand, (Y/n) moved before she could scold herself and think better of it. Her hand curled over his as if she were pinning him in place, not wanting his touch to disappear.
The action had Eddie's eyes widening and lifting to meet her gaze, but his expression was blank. Every emotion was held within his dark eyes and those expanding pupils that seemed to hold another world within them entirely.
"Thank you," (Y/n) could barely hear her own voice, she seemed to be whispering and she couldn't speak any louder in fear it might shatter the fragile atmosphere that was building around them.
"No problem, no other injuries I need to check, right?" It was as if they were held within their own little bubble, (Y/n) could barely hear Eddie's voice over the pounding of her heart like it was beating right in her ears. But she managed to shake her head even though she didn't want to, she didn't want to say no in case the moment fractured and Eddie's touch disappeared completely.
Eddie's left hand stayed laid on top of hers, thumb still smoothing over the creases in the bandage. But his other hand carefully peeled apart from her wrist, letting go from where he had been holding her hand up for assessing.
He seemed to be moving on autopilot, eyes completely locked on (Y/n)'s while his hand reached out for a loose tendril of hair that he carefully glided back into place behind her ear. The feeling of his finger against her temple and the path it traced down the back of her neck had (Y/n) shivering and almost turning to jelly.
But when his touch boldened and his hand curved beneath her hair to cradle the back of her neck, (Y/n) found herself moving too.
Her hands shifted, one clutching Eddie's wrist, pinning their hands in the air between them while her freshly bandaged palm pressed down into Eddie's chest, but not to push him away. Never to push him away. Her fingers scrunched up the starched fabric of his work shirt, keeping him exactly where he was in case he dared think about stepping back from her and this moment they shared.
When Eddie's head inclined towards hers, (Y/n) closed her eyes. She couldn't help it and she didn't care if it made her presumptuous.
Almost every time she was round here to look after Chris or the few times Eddie dropped him off at her place, all (Y/n) could think about was having a moment with Eddie. Having an intimate moment, a connection, anything more than a funny or serious conversation and heated glances from afar. And now it was so close to becoming a reality.
His lips ghosted over hers, and the touch was electric. So much so that (Y/n) was sure if she opened her eyes she would see sparks of light bursting between them.
The feeling was so light and gentle compared to the way Eddie was cradling her neck, like he was holding her in place and ensuring she wasn't about to pull back or let the magic fade. She could feel his thumb tracing her skin like he was soothing one of the thousands of nerves that were going haywire within her skin.
His lips were soft yet firm when they pressed down on hers and (Y/n) tilted her head up, chasing his touch as if it was about to disappear. Her breath was held deep within her lungs and her fingers tightened in his shirt, clinging to him as he sighed into her mouth.
"Is it ready now?"
The moment shattered like a crystal glass against the floor. Chris's voice broke through the serenity of the moment and out of instinct, (Y/n)'s hands pulled back and retreated from Eddie's skin. And his touch left her, his hand shifting from her neck and moving to grasp his own neck like he was trying to tell himself what was real and what had been his imagination.
Eddie was the one who stepped back, adding two or maybe three feet of space between them just as Chris trotted into the kitchen with a bright smile, unaware of the moment that was now a fading dream.
"I think so," (Y/n) breathed, forcing herself to smile as she turned towards the oven and quickly switched it off. But when she glanced over her right shoulder, her gaze locked on Eddie.
There was a dark rouge blush tainting his cheeks and the beginning of a smile etched onto his nervous features.
Were things going to stay the same, or had they inevitably changed forever?
***
Half past ten.
It was half past ten at night; not exactly the time when Eddie would invite people over, especially with Chris being asleep in bed now.
It wouldn't be like his Abuela to come round at night, she didn't leave the house after seven o'clock. He didn't have any other close family or relatives around who could be at the door, and he knew the team wouldn't just turn up out of the blue either. Buck would always ring or text if he wanted to come over for a drink or needed to vent, he didn't turn up unannounced. Eddie hadn't invited anyone round.
So who the Hell was rapping on the front door in such a frantic rhythm?
Eddie set his glass down on the coffee table, pushing to his feet with knees creaking in protest and tiredness fading from his body, replaced by uncertainty and worry.
"Alright." He uttered, practically spitting the word as he jogged into the hall, flicking the light on as he passed and headed to the door.
He didn't know what to expect on the other side. He had no conscious thought of who would be there or what they would want, and his eyes continuously flickered towards the baseball bat propped up against the cabinet. A weapon in case it was some doped up person on the other side of the door wanting to cause a scene or bust their way in.
And that didn't seem like such a far-fetched idea, considering the time of night and how very few people it could actually be pounding on his door.
Eddie got it wrong; whatever he had been anticipating wasn't standing there on the threshold.
Out of all the people Eddie could think it would be, (Y/n) hadn't even crossed his mind.
She had never turned up on his doorstep unannounced before, and out of all the times Eddie had been around her, he had never seen her cry. The sight was something that cut through flesh and bone and hit him right at his core, stealing the breath from his lungs like he had been punched in the gut.
"(Y/n)- fuck!"
Eddie barely had any time to drag his eyes up and down her frame before (Y/n) threw herself at him. He wasn't sure whether she was trying to get inside the house for some sense of security or whether she wanted comfort and reassurance. Either way, it didn't matter.
His arms froze at his sides like they were playing some kind of party game and his eyes widened like saucers. All he could do was stand perfectly still for about ten seconds as (Y/n) pushed herself so forcefully into his chest that his sternum shuddered and ached.
He could feel her nose squashing against his chest and the tears he had seen streaming down her features were now soaking into his shirt. Which also happened to be fisted up in her hands, causing Eddie to shake almost as badly as (Y/n) was. The way she gripped his shirt felt like she was clawing at the material enough to tear holes into the fabric, not that Eddie minded, but it made his panic over (Y/n) rise sky high nonetheless.
"Okay, okay inside. Come on honey." His voice was oddly quiet yet with a rough edge like the words were layered in grit.
Eddie found the power to move again and he bound his right arm around (Y/n)'s waist, keeping her secured against his chest while his feet shifted and he stumbled backwards until they were both safely inside the house. He flung his free hand out to shut the door, barely managing to twist the lock before he cupped his hand against the back of (Y/n)'s head.
He could feel each shallow breath she let out, she was barely taking in any air, too focused on letting out harsh gasps and muffled sobs into his shirt.
For a while maybe even a few minutes, they stayed like that, clinging to one another like the world was about to end and this was their last moments together.
With his hand cupping the back of her head, Eddie slowly curled his fingers into (Y/n)'s hair while his other hand slowly curled over her hip, testing the waters just in case she didn't want his touch. But with the way she was clinging to him, it seemed reasonable that she wanted and needed some sense of security.
Tilting his head down, Eddie buried his nose and mouth into the top of (Y/n)'s head, trying to slow down his breaths to something more natural and calm so that (Y/n) would try and do the same.
He kept her cocooned to his chest until all the raging thoughts in his mind started to get too overwhelming to think about. All the possibilities, all the crude thoughts and wonders of what had happened tonight, why (Y/n) was in such a tearful, panicked state. What had she gone through, and why had she come here to Eddie, of all people? All of those thoughts ravaged his mind until he couldn't think and couldn't see straight anymore.
He couldn't stand like this any longer. As much as Eddie had been craving to know what it felt like to have (Y/n) this close, to have her in his arms, this wasn't the way he wanted it. He didn't want her clinging to him like she was afraid someone was going to come and snatch her away from him. He didn't want her sobbing into his chest or trembling and gasping like this. And he didn't want to stay in the darkness any longer without knowing what the problem was.
With a deep breath that ached his chest, Eddie carefully peeled back his arms from (Y/n)'s frame so his hands could cup her face instead.
His touch was gentle, careful as he cradled her features in his hands, dragging his thumbs across her cheekbones while he pulled her face away from his chest so he could look down at her. He had to bend his knees and crouch until they were level and he could see into those frantic, watering eyes.
It took a lot of effort for Eddie to tear his gaze from (Y/n)'s eyes and sweep his eyes up and down her frame.
"Christ- Dios, (Y/n) what happened?"
The longer he stood there in silence, desperate for an answer that wasn't coming, the more frantic Eddie began to feel.
The pressure his thumbs applied to her features increased and he was almost shaking her head back and forth as he took in every little change he could see. The blood streaking down from her nose was making Eddie's stomach do summersaults in panic. It was creating wavy lines across her lips and down towards her chin but it looked like the bleeding had stopped by now, the lines were dried like acrylic paint setting on canvas.
There was a cut over her left brow where the skin had split and was starting to swell up already. But Eddie could barely take in anything when (Y/n) was trembling like invisible hands were rickoting her back and forth.
"Did someone do this to you?"
The meek nod of her head set Eddie's top lip curling into a snarl and his jaw started to grind from left to right in a vain attempt to stop himself from saying something or shouting out at the rage building up deep within his chest.
Someone had hurt her. Someone had used her as a punching bag, she'd been hit over her eye and either punched or whacked in the face to cause that nosebleed. And the way that (Y/n) was hunching over and coiling in on herself, unable or unwilling to stand up straight told Eddie that it wasn't just her adoring face that had been hurt; she was in pain.
"Fuck. Fuck- okay I'm gonna need you to tell me what happened, can you do that for me?"
(Y/n) closed her eyes when she felt Eddie's temple resting against hers. He was being cautious, clearly not wanting to inflict any further pain on her or irritate the cut above her eye, but the feeling of their temples touching and their breaths intermingling was both stimulating and overwhelming all at once.
She could feel each ragged breath Eddie took fan against her wet, parted lips just like last week when he'd kissed her.
She couldn't be sure which one of them was shaking worse when Eddie's hands were practically writhing her head back and forth with the anger that was coursing through his veins, but she was shaking just as vigorously.
Her hands remained clutching at his shirt, her nails one thread away from tearing through the material and scratching into his chest, although he probably wouldn't notice either way. Her knuckles felt fit to burst with the tight grip she had on him, but she didn't want to take one step away from Eddie. (Y/n) wanted to remain this close forever because at least being like this, she knew she was safe.
She was protected.
The blood caked over her top lip made it hard to speak when she felt like she was breaking out of a mould she had been cast in. But she parted her lips and finally managed to utter a few words rather than just a sob or a croaky flicker of breath.
"I was g- going home, he- he grabbed me. Wouldn't le- let me go,"
It almost felt wrong to pull her forehead away from Eddie's, but when she slumped down and meshed her face back into his chest, the feeling was so overwhelming that (Y/n) was sure she passed out for a few seconds. Her breaths were turning heavier, no longer shallow puffs of air but deep, ragged gasps that made her chest ache and felt like her lungs were overfilling themselves.
It was supposed to be a night out. Nothing bad was supposed to happen or go wrong.
Everything had been fine until it was time to leave. (Y/n) said goodbye to her friends who were most likely still at the bar they had all gone out to, she had her bag and her senses and she wasn't blackout drunk like some of the other people leaving around the same time as her.
Then he grabbed her. Rough fingers melting through her skin, her heels scraping against the floor as he dragged her round the corner whilst no one seemed to see or think that anything was amiss. It had been the same guy that had offered to buy her a drink at the bar, the guy (Y/n) politely brushed off and didn't spare one more thought to.
"Did you know him?"
Her head shook against his chest. "No, he wanted t-to get me a drink, said no. I punched, kicked, managed to get him o-off… e- everything hurts, Eddie."
A feeble cry left her lips as her elbows coiled into her waist and she hunched forward again until she was curled over, pushing her face into Eddie's chest. Each pulse of her heart was sending her nerves into a frenzy. Pain was circulating through her blood and it hurt, everything ached and felt like it was tearing apart and it was agony.
"Okay, can I take a look?" His voice was so tender that it didn't seem to match the taut, tightening muscles (Y/n) could feel or the brisk way he was stood like he was trying to stop himself from morphing into a different being entirely.
He felt her nod into his chest but his hands didn't move away from her face for a few seconds.
Standing here in the hallway didn't seem like the best place to try and calm (Y/n) down and find out how badly she was injured and what to do next for the best course of action.
Eddie took a sweeping look around before he carefully shifted his hands down to hold onto (Y/n)'s hips. At first, he wasn't sure whether it was the right place to touch her but she didn't pull away, her hands stayed fisted in his shirt and she didn't bother to lift her head from where it was buried into his chest.
He started to walk backwards, gently tugging (Y/n) with him until they were doing a strange dance, walking in tandem towards the kitchen. The bathroom would be too close to Chris's room and he didn't want to wake Chris and have him see (Y/n) like this, that wouldn't be fair on her and it would panic him too.
As they passed over the threshold, Eddie flicked on the lights and steered (Y/n) towards the sink.
He could see just how badly (Y/n) was shaking when he finally let go of her, pulling back so he could scout through one of the cupboards for the medical kit. He tossed the green plastic kit onto the counter before he ran his hands under the tap, flexing his fingers against the water to try and get the feeling back and stop his muscles that felt like they were tightening up.
Once his hands were dried and he was stood in front of her, Eddie dragged his eyes up and down her trembling form once again.
Her arms were bound around her chest and her head was ducked forward. She was shaking back and forth, leaning her hips back against the counter to prop herself up.
Eddie's teeth punctured down into his lower lip, despair fuelling his eyes as a sigh flared through his nostrils.
A quiet "Alright, come're," muttered past his lips as he leant forward and curled his hands around (Y/n)'s hips in a firm grasp, waiting for her to look up at him before he lifted her from her feet. Her hands quickly held onto his shoulders as Eddie carefully lifted her up onto the kitchen counter.
This would be easier for (Y/n) than trying to stand up, she could try and relax and regain some sense of calm while Eddie checked her over and tended to any injuries she had. And this way he could see her better and didn't have to crouch down or ache his neck to assess her.
(Y/n) found herself barely able to breathe once again when Eddie's hands carefully pushed her knees to the sides so he could stand between her thighs. Even when they'd shared a kiss last week, (Y/n) wasn't sure they'd been this close.
His pelvis was practically touching hers and her knees were pressing into his hips, caging him in just in case he changed his mind and tried to move away.
She watched the way Eddie's gaze dragged up and down her frame ever so slowly, taking into account anything that seemed odd and scouring for any injuries he needed to tend to. He looked so focused that (Y/n) found herself wondering if this was how he looked when he was at work caring for people and tending to injuries when he wasn't putting out fires. That train of thought calmed down the nerves raging within her.
"Where'd that asshole hurt you?"
His tone made her shiver and she dropped her eyes down to her lap while she gingerly held out her right hand for him to see.
When the guy wouldn't let her go and tried to pin her to the wall, the first thing (Y/n) thought to do was to punch him. She wasn't the best fighter, not by any means and she certainly didn't meet Eddie's standard- she knew he had a thing for boxing. But she tried her best.
Her punch managed to phase her attacker for a few seconds, enough to get her off the wall he pinned her to but in return, he'd grabbed her hand and bent her fingers.
A tut escaped Eddie's lips and he shook his head when he held her hand so delicately in his palm like he'd done last week, tending to her cut. This time, he was tracing the pad of his fingers over the top of hers, nodding to himself that her middle finger wasn't broken but it was certainly dislocated.
"Can I pop it back into place?" If Eddie didn't do it then she would need to see a doctor, her finger couldn't be left like this and Eddie knew him tending to (Y/n)'s wounds would be a lot calmer, easier and quicker than waiting in the emergency room.
He waited for (Y/n) to nod before he spread her hand out on her thigh, one hand holding the very base of her middle finger while his other hand grasped the end of her fingertip.
"Alright, one, two… three."
As soon as the last number left his lips, Eddie gave a sharp tug until her finger pulled out of place. He didn't give (Y/n) chance to breathe before he pushed the joint right back into its socket and bent her finger towards her palm to check that it was properly righted.
A sharp cry left (Y/n)'s lips and her eyes snapped closed as she started to shake. Her left hand gripped the edge of the counter she was perched on, feeling the sharp marble edge cutting into her palm which dulled a pinch of the agony flowing through her finger.
She'd never dislocated or broken any fingers before, and that crunching sound was ringing in her ears. God, she hoped she would never have to feel that again.
Tears began to streak down her face and it took (Y/n) a few moments before she felt able to open her watering eyes. When she did, she looked down to see that Eddie had a roll of tape clasped between his teeth and he was carefully sliding a rectangle patch of gauze between her index and middle fingers.
Curiosity flooded her eyes as she watched Eddie work, seeing him roll a small wad of bandage around both fingers before a length of tape was secured around the top. Her finger needed a few days to heal and settle and Eddie didn't want it popping out of place again, binding them was the only thing that he could do for her.
He stroked his thumb over the back of her hand for a few seconds, gaze locked on her hand like he was too nervous to lift his gaze and look anywhere else in fear of meeting her eyes.
Tears continued to trace down (Y/n)'s face that was angled downwards, but Eddie took her by surprise when his fingers pressed beneath her chin and he tilted her head up. Still, he wouldn't meet her gaze but he lifted her head higher so he could check her nose.
Not broken, thankfully. Eddie grabbed some cotton, ran it under the tap and began to dab and wipe the caked blood from her nose. When it came to cleaning the blood from her lips, his movements were slower, more tender as the wet cotton graced along her lips which Eddie wanted to replace with his own. But he held back the urge; he needed to take care of her first.
A shuddering breath left Eddie's lips when his eyes finally locked with (Y/n)'s and it was like he could see everything within them. He could see the attack, he could see the terror and anger and agony she'd felt when it happened. But he could also see those emotions starting to wash away the longer he stood there, tending to her cuts and bruises.
He couldn't help the way his tongue darted across his lips and he sucked in a deep breath, blinking away the emotions threatening to overcome him as he moved onto the next task at hand.
His left hand still cupped (Y/n)'s chin, thumb stroking delicately up and down, dangerously close to her lip while his right hand pressed and prodded at the skin around the cut to her brow.
"You don't need stitches, just some suture strips."
(Y/n) couldn't nod when Eddie was holding her chin, but she knew the look in her eyes told him she understood.
She waited patiently, one taped up hand resting on her thigh while the other started to tap against the counter. Her wet lips rolled together and her breaths started to become shallow again as she looked up at Eddie.
The furrow of concentration in his brow, the way his lips parted and small huffs escaped them as he became focused on the task at hand. How careful he was and how his eyes narrowed as he started to clean the cut to the left side of her temple right over her brow. How he winced and hissed himself when he cleaned it with antiseptic like he was the one feeling the flickering heat of pain licking at the wound instead of (Y/n).
Only two small white suture strips were needed over the cut to keep the skin closed together so it would heal properly and Eddie found himself stroking his thumb up and down (Y/n)'s chin while he scrutinised the wound to make sure his handy work would suffice.
The silent look no Eddie's face conveyed the question in his head; any more injuries he should tend to?
(Y/n) sank her teeth down into her lip that had already been chewed to shreds from panic, fury and pain, and gingerly hooked her fingers into the hem of her shirt which she rolled up. She didn't care that she was lifting it as high as her bra and giving Eddie a view of her chest that he clearly hadn't been expecting.
After a second thought, (Y/n) huffed and grunted as she struggled to yank the shirt over her head altogether, tossing it to the floor. It would be much easier so she herself could see if she had gained any cuts or bruises. She had been shoved against the wall more than once and it felt like teeth had scraped up and down her back and her attacker had hit and whacked against her chest and abdomen in their struggles. She didn't know what kind of marks she might have.
She noticed the way Eddie gulped and how his chest puffed out as he held his breath deep in his lungs, trying to clear the fog that was threatening to roll in across his mind.
His fingertips tickled as they traced along the centre of her chest, her sternum and when he touched her sides (Y/n) wasn't sure whether she flinched or whether he tickled her. He peered over her shoulder to check her back, but there were only graze marks there, not deep enough to draw any blood. And she would have some deep bruises on her left side in the morning, but nothing to worry about.
Still, Eddie pressed his fingertips against (Y/n)'s chest and felt over each rib just to check that none of them were broken. (Y/n) had been stooped forward and cowering when she arrived, but it was sore muscles and impending bruises that caused that, no broken bones. She had been as lucky tonight as she was unlucky.
"Honey what happened to your shoes?" Eddie's brows furrowed as he glanced down when (Y/n)'s feet started to tap against his thighs, an anxious habit that clearly wasn't supposed to attract his attention. But when he looked, he realised she was barefoot.
"Broke a heel when I kicked him," It was clear in her tone and how slow and certain she spoke now that she was calming down. "Ran better without them."
Kicking had been the only defence mechanism (Y/n) could do in a hurry once he'd dislocated her finger and shoved her back. But her flimsy heel broke when it rammed into his chest and the shoe came off when she started to run away. Running with one heel wasn't a good idea and it slowed her down so (Y/n) kicked it off and pelted down the street, bare foot.
Her feet didn't even hurt, but that could be the adrenaline still coursing through her veins, taking time to taper off.
She almost wobbled back against the window when Eddie's hand suddenly curled around her ankle and he gently lifted her leg so he could see the soles of her feet. He checked both, breathing easier when he saw that she hadn't cut either foot and there was no glass or broken shards imbedded in her soles.
His hands shifted up until both were curled around (Y/n)'s thighs causing his pointed shoulders to stick out and he arched forward like he was trying to merge their chests together. But there was a curious look in his wide eyes that made (Y/n) go still.
"Why'd you come here? You didn't call for the police, or run home, or go to the emergency room. Why come to me?"
His tone was softer than it had been earlier, no hatred directed towards the person who had put her through this dilemma. No sorrow or panic woven into his tone, just a gentleness that made his voice quiet like a whisper on the wind which whirled around (Y/n)'s heart.
"I… I just, when I started running, I ended up here. Wanted to feel safe; you make me feel safe."
Eddie was safe, his house was like a second home to (Y/n) with the amount of times she was here to babysit Chris or help out in some way. And she didn't have to think about it, her mind just propelled her body in this direction until she was stood on Eddie's doorstep.
She knew she would be safe if she came here, she knew Eddie would look after her and he could patch up her wounds quicker and more tenderly than any nurse. (Y/n) didn't want to talk to the police, she hadn't been in any state to stand around and wait for them to arrive. She didn't want to go home and be alone after what she'd gone through and she certainly didn't want to sit and wait for hours to be seen by a stranger at the hospital.
Eddie had been at the forefront of her mind.
"You'll always be safe with me."
As soon as he said those words, it was like a switch had been flipped in (Y/n)'s mind. She couldn't stop herself like she had become possessed and her hands were suddenly cupping Eddie's face, pulling him that much closer until he was within reach for her lips to crash down onto his. And she wasn't letting this moment go for anything in the world.
His chest moulded against hers, leaning into her like he had lost his footing and was trying to regain his balance and (Y/n) felt the cold edge of the windowsill against her back. His hands reached out to grasp onto her hips, his touch not harsh enough to bruise but firm enough to show that he wasn't going to let her go.
(Y/n)'s lips parted against his, emitting a gasp when Eddie pulled her by the hips until she was sat on the very edge of the counter, her thighs now encasing around his hips instead of her knees.
One hand shifted up to cup the back of her neck again beneath her hair and (Y/n) felt his other hand curving around from her hip so his arm was safely bound around her waist. Pinning their chests flushed together while (Y/n) bound her arms around his neck, fingers on her good hand knotting into the longer strands at the back of Eddie's head. And the sharp tug she gave earned a moan vibrating past his lips and into her mouth.
"Glad you came to me, honey." Eddie murmured against her lips, barely able to suck in a proper breath before their lips were locked again.
She was safe here; Eddie wouldn't let anything happen to her again.
summary: the everyday conversations between pittsburgh's most beloved trauma doctors (mostly.) and you! small snippets of how i think the pitt characters would interact when not over a patient.
warnings: MDNI 18+ . swearing, inappropriate usage of a work gc, bullying of characters (no one is safe), slight nsfw, crack fic. reader is referred to as 'burn', roommates with santos and whitaker trope, hucklerobby mentioned, afab reader.
the first in a series of ficlets of Jack Abbot being an absolute menace to society. Henceforth known as the widow!Jack series.
wc: 630
Victoria Javadi made the worst mistake of her life at 03:00 on the third day of her night shift rotation.
At least that’s what it felt like. It had been a simple question. Not even that really, more an observation.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were married, Dr. Abbot.”
He went very still and looked at her over his shoulder. “What was that?” His voice was rough, sharp.
“Um, your ring? I didn’t know you were married.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dr. Shen wince before backing out of the room. “I’m just gonna…yeah.”
Abbot turned to face her fully, looking her over with narrowed eyes. “I don’t really like to talk about it. Thanks for bringing it up.”
Victoria’s eyes went wide. “I’m…I’m sorry?”
“My wife is gone, Javadi. She is no longer among us. I wear the ring as a reminder.”
“Oh my god,” her voice was little more than a whisper. Then a little louder, “I am so sorry, Dr. Abbot. How long has she been gone if you don’t mind my asking?”
He sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “It seems like just this morning we were having breakfast together.”
With that he left the room, leaving Victoria gaping behind him.
Abbot didn’t treat her any differently the rest of the night, but Victoria couldn’t keep from feeling she’d screwed up. As soon as Dr. Robby appeared for his shift the next morning, Victoria intercepted him.
“Dr. Robby,” she said, fingers twisting together in front of her. “I think I really messed up.”
Robby looked down at her, slipping his sunglasses into his pocket. “What happened?”
“Well, I asked Dr. Abbot about his wife.”
His response was not what Victoria expected. Robby tilted his head back and groaned, the sound deep and drawn out. Finally, he looked at her again with a huff. “And what precisely did Dr. Abbot say about the Mrs.?”
“Um, that she was gone and he didn’t like talking about it. It seemed really recent too.”
Robby looked more amused than anything now as he hummed in agreement. “Oh, it’s been years now.” He placed one large hand on her shoulder and squeezed slightly. “Don’t worry, Javadi. He won’t take it personally. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Relief flooded through her. “Thank you, Dr. Robby,” she said in a rush and hurried off down the hall.
Robby watched her go with a shake of his head before heading to the hub where you were standing beside Jack as you both sipped a coffee and shared a breakfast sandwich. He pursed his lips and dropped his voice before saying, “I hear you’re a widower, Jack. My condolences.”
You swallowed the bite you’d been chewing and turned to glare at Jack. “Who?”
He chuckled, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. “Javadi.”
You sighed. “Will you please quit telling people that I am dead?”
“I didn’t,” he protested.
When you lifted a brow, he held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I didn’t. I simply said you were gone. She assumed.”
You rolled your eyes. “I’m on days for a week, not dead. You’re an idiot.”
“Hey,” he protested.
“No, she’s right. You are,” Robby said, clapping his friend on the back.
“You hush,” Jack snapped. “You don’t get to contribute to the conversation. I haven’t forgotten you tried to steal her from me.”
“For fuck’s sake, Jack,” you and Robby muttered almost in unison.
You leaned in so only they would hear you. “If you don’t quit tormenting people, I’m going to start going by Abbot so you can’t get away with it anymore.”
As you walked away, Jack called after you. “That is not nearly the threat you think it is!”
