novah

21 | pitt-in it | mdni

[pittmebabyonemoretime]

forgive me, father // jack abbot

feeling lost in life had you stumbling into a church on a rainy day. father abbot is here to listen.

genre: priest! jack, fated love, sad as hell yall im so sorry, bittersweet

word count: 1800

(a/n: yeah i'm deep in the luteal phase AND i just finished my yearly rewatch of fleabag so this one was bound to happen. and I apologize deeply for it.)

You are not having a crisis.

That's the thing you want to be clear about, if anyone ever asks. 

There was no inciting incident. No dramatic breaking point. No moment where the ground shifted and you found yourself standing in the doorway of the church on a grey Tuesday afternoon.

You just ended up there.

It's quiet and you sit in a pew near the back and you look at the light coming through the windows and you think, I don't know why I'm here. 

A woman lights a candle near the front and an old man shuffles past. Somewhere behind a door, a phone rings twice and stops.

You stay for twenty minutes. Then you get up, and on your way out you see the confessional booth, and you think why not. Which is not a spiritual impulse, exactly, but it's the most direction you've felt all week, so you go with it.

The booth smells like cedar and it’s a rich brown. You sit down and look at the lattice. "Hi," you say.

"Hello." His voice is low and unhurried. A perfect calm. You cannot see him properly through the screen. Just the outline of a person and a collar.

"I'm not Catholic." you say.

"That's alright." he laughed a bit, but covered it up with a cough. "Do you want to confess something?"

"Honestly?" you say. "I'm not totally sure."

To his credit, he doesn't say anything. He just waits. You get the sense that he has sat in this booth through silences much longer than this one and has never once tried to fill them prematurely.

"I've been feeling like I want to float away," you say. "I want to be clear, that's not a cry for help. Nothing's wrong. That's sort of the problem. Nothing is wrong and I still feel like I'm made of something slightly less solid than I used to be." 

"How long have you felt that way?" he asks.

"A while." You think about it. "I keep waiting to feel more like myself and I can't remember what that felt like, which is.." you laugh, small and a little tired. "Pretty on brand for a crisis, except I'm honestly not having one."

"You don't have to be having a crisis to need somewhere to put your feelings." he says

You look at the lattice. "Is that what this is?" you say. "Somewhere to put it?"

"If you want."

…

You didn’t plan on going back. But when you did, you made sure to do it properly.

You look it up beforehand, which feels both very you and faintly embarrassing. Sitting in your apartment the night before googling how does Catholic confession work at eleven PM. But you figure if you're going to do a thing you should do it right, or at least not make a complete fool of yourself.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," you say. "It's been.." you pause. "Well. It's been my whole life, technically, but specifically about a week since I was last here."

"What's on your mind?"

You think about the truly small and unimpressive catalog of your recent transgressions. "I've been smoking a little weed," you say.

"Well," he says, laughing. "That's alright. Not too bad."

You blink. "That's it?"

"Were you hoping for more?"

"I don't know, I thought there'd be Hail Marys or something."

"We can do Hail Marys if you'd like."

"I don't know any."

"Then we'll skip it," he says, pleasantly.

You sit there for a moment, oddly charmed. Through the lattice, the outline of him shifts slightly.

"I don't know your name," you say. "Is that something we do? Or is this anonymous."

"It can be either," he says. "I'm Father Abbot or you can call me Jack."

"Jack," you repeat. It suits him. "I'm Y/N."

…

You run into him on a Thursday morning at the coffee shop two blocks from the church.

He's out of the collar, dark jeans, a grey shirt, waiting for his order at the end of the counter, and he sees you before you see him.

You end up at a small table by the window because the place is full and it would be weirder not to sit together than to sit together.

He drinks his coffee black, which tracks. You learn that he grew up in Pittsburgh. A city boy, he says, which surprises you somehow, you'd pictured somewhere quieter. He has a younger brother who calls too infrequently and a mother who calls too often, and he describes this imbalance with the affection of someone who has made peace with it. 

You find yourself laughing and he looks at you with something that might be satisfaction, like making you laugh was a small thing he wanted and got.

You tell him about your job, which is fine. It’s boring, but you feel like you’re waiting on your life to start.

"Do you know what you're waiting for?" he asks.

"I used to," you say. "I think I forgot while I was busy with other things."

He nods slowly. "It comes back," he says. "Usually when you stop waiting for it."

"Is that scripture?"

"No, it's just true." he says.

…

The park is ten minutes from the church. And in the far corner, running along the low iron fence, is a wildflower patch. Purples and yellows and an orange that seems to exist only in the last hour of afternoon light.

You find it by accident, on a walk that goes longer than you meant. You stand there for a while in the dying light and you feel, briefly, like something solid.

You mention it to Jack the following Thursday. You're not sure why, it just comes out and he says, I know that patch, like he’s visited it before and alone, and something about that lands softly in your chest.

"Sunset's the best time," he says.

"I know," you say. "That's when I found it."

"I usually walk that way on Friday evenings," he says, carefully, looking at his coffee cup. "Around five."

You look at him. He doesn't look up. "Good to know."

…

So it becomes a thing.

Not an arranged thing. Not a scheduled thing. 

You're just both there, on Fridays, around five, and you sit on the stone bench nearby and you talk until the sky goes dark.

He's funny, which you knew, but the full extent of it reveals itself slowly. He does an impression of a particularly difficult parish council member that is so precise and so uncharitable that you nearly fall off the bench. He tells stories about seminary with the fond exasperation of someone who survived something genuinely absurd and has decided to find it funny.

You tell him about growing up, the things that shaped you, the things you're still working out. He listens like it matters.

The wildflowers are always best on the Fridays when the week has been hard. You don't know if that's real or if you just need it to be.

"Do you ever miss it?" you ask one evening. "The life you didn't choose?"

He thinks about it properly. "Sometimes I miss the idea of it," he says. "A house. Someone to come home to." He looks out at the long stretch of grass in front of you. "But I think I'd miss this more. The being available to people. Showing up for the hard parts of strangers' lives." He glances at you. "I'm not sure I'm built for small."

"That's either very holy or very human," you say.

He smiles. "I've always thought they're closer together than people assume."

…

It happens like the weather, gradually and then all at once.

It's a Friday in early autumn and the light is doing that thick golden thing it does when the year starts turning, and he's laughing at something you've said, head slightly back, and you look at him and think,

Oh, that's what this is.

And the terrible thing is that it doesn't feel like a problem arriving. It feels like something you've known for a while, finally letting itself be named. 

You don't say anything. You just go home and lie on your kitchen floor for a while. Thinking of the inevitable heartbreak you have set yourself up for.

…

You go to confession the following Thursday.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi," he says. And then, after a moment, "You're quiet."

"I know." You look at your hands. "I'm not going to be coming back," you say. "After today. I just wanted to tell you. I didn’t want to just stop."

He doesn't ask why. He just sits with it the way he sits with everything, and you love him for it, and that's exactly the problem.

"Okay," he says, gently.

You sit for one more minute in the dark and then you leave.

…

You don't go to the wildflower patch for three weeks.

You think about it constantly, which is the thing about not going somewhere,  it takes up more space than going did. 

The last time you go, the sun is low. The wildflowers are doing their best and he's there.

Of course he's there.

He's sitting on the stone bench with his hands loose in his lap, looking at the flowers, and he doesn't look surprised to see you. 

You sit down beside him and neither of you says anything for a while. 

"I've been thinking," you say, finally.

You look at the sun, dropping now behind the treeline, the sky going amber and soft.  "I love you," you say. Quiet. Not dramatic, just true.

"I know," he says, and his voice is different now.

"I'm not saying it so you'll do anything," you say. "I know what you are. I know the life you have chosen for yourself. I just needed to say it out loud to you. Once."

He's quiet for a long moment and the sun slips further. 

"You are going to be okay," he says. "More than okay." He says it like he’s so certain. "You're going to wake up one day and there is going to be someone..” he looks at you and then turns away. “..someone who gets to keep you and they are going to be so lucky. And you're going to have a long, beautiful life."

Your eyes are burning. "Yeah?" 

"Without a doubt." he says.

You feel it before you see it. His hand, coming up slowly, giving you every chance to move away. His thumb brushes your cheek, once, gentle and careful and final, and he wipes away what's there.

You close your eyes and when you open them the sun is almost gone. You turn, just slightly, and lay your head on his shoulder and he lets you. And you both watch the sun slowly get swallowed by the night. 

You look at him once and you stand up. “Goodbye, Jack.” 

And all he can do is look at you. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence with his comforting words or wisdom. 

You walk away down the gravel path without turning around, because you know that if you turn around you won’t go.

And you have to go.

[sarcasticnovah]

I was warned and it still made me cry, Its so sweet and so sad simultaneously.

Oh how tumblr depresses me ;-;

[from-the-abbot-to-the-pope]

Saw Someone FINALLY wrote a Priest!Jack Abbot, someone finally matched my freak

[djo]

THE PITT 2.08: 2:00 P.M.

[alexsshittyworld]

I want to see them to play siblings.

I need to see older Alicent take care of younger Alicent.

Please.

[sarcasticnovah]

Yes.

[reiderwriter]

Hi!!! I really love your writing 🥺 Idk how this works so Idk if my request is alright so If it's ok for you to write it, I got this idea about Spencer turning into a player/manwhore after maeve died so he's not into y/n in the beginning but the others always joke about how she's totally in love with him and he doesn't believe until he starts to notice little things she does for him(like getting him coffee every morning, remembering everything he says) so he start to fall for her. Genre: smut with soft!Dom Spencer, dirty talk, degradation(please no daddy kink) (Sorry if it's to long, I read it's best for you if we give as much detail as possible so that's that) I'm going to identify myself with this emoji 🥺 when I read the fic or in my next requests, hope I gave you something to write with.

A/N: Thank you for the request and omg this plot has given me brain rot since you sent it in 💀 I accidentally made this a little angst-heavy for the first half but there's a very "happy ending" if you catch my drift. I hope you love it! ❤️

Summary: Spencer Reid's heart is broken. But in healing himself in the arms of countless woman, he doesn't realise he's breaking yours.

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, angst, oral (F receiving), fingering, P in V penetration, dirty talk, degradation of you squint a little, soft!Dom Spencer is incredibly soft.

My masterlist with all my other works is here, and my requests are open!

It had taken four whole months before someone on the team had confronted Spencer about his grief, his lack of sleep, his overall dreariness, and they were almost shocked that it wasn’t you that did it. When Rossi had walked up to him, offering a story about his Uncle Sal in an attempt to get him to open up, or at least seek help, the others were on the other side of the glass, shooting looks over at you, quietly enquiring with their eyes about why it hadn’’t been you to offer him that out.

But you had, you’d been trying. You’d been following him around, taking him food every couple days to make sure he was eating, sticking around to make sure that he wasn’t lonely. You’d even cleaned up after him on the particularly hard days, where he didn’t want to move from his bed and couldn’t bring himself to go outside if there was no work, no one else to save. But you couldn’t offer him more, because he already had all of you.

You’d first realised that you were in love with Spencer Reid a few months after you’d joined the team. You’d been bought on as a fresh set of eyes on a case that had a lot more to do with you then the rest of the team had been led to believe.

Your high school boyfriend had been the victim of a notorious highway murderer, and you yourself had been kidnapped by the unsub, put in hell for the following three days and escaped with your life only because of an earlier BAU team, including agents Hotchner and Rossi. When bodies had started turning up on the same stretch of highway, you needed to be involved or you’d never prove to yourself that you could do what they did to save you. That you’d be able to put your feelings aside and catch monsters.

You’d found the man responsible of course, and in restraining yourself from putting a bullet in his brain, you’d found yourself a place on the team, and some peace for a time. And then Spencer happened.

You really should have known. You were always fond of the nerdy type, of men who had such deep interests that they forgot to pay attention to social queues, who had too many cute habits (like purposefully mismatching socks) that you couldn’t help but find endearing. You’d grown close quickly, with the man grateful that there was finally someone to listen to him ramble and not judge him, and you grateful that he also held himself back enough, listened closely and well to remember so many details about your conversations. You knew an eidetic memory helped, but it was the care in the small actions, like buying you the beanie baby you lost as a child but still mourned, that you’d mentioned in conversation a grand total of one time, that really solidly made you realise. You were in love with him and had dug yourself a hole that you weren’t going to be able to climb out of anytime soon.

You’d almost told him once. Convinced that if you just explained your feelings, he’d suddenly feel the same or realise that he felt the same way, too. You’d opened your mouth to let the words run freely, but he beat you to it.

“I’ve met someone, and she’s totally brilliant and I think I might love her, and that must be an insane thing to say considering I’ve never even seen her face.” You’d willed the broken pieces of your heart together as you forced a smile on your face, ready to listen to the man who owned your heart smile for another, live for another, breath for another.

When Maeve had ultimately passed away, you knew that you’d never be able to say those words to him. You weren’t going to be the replacement for a dead woman, and you weren’t going to push those feelings on him when he was grieving. But you loved him and he needed you, so you stayed.

On the nights where he was so angry with the world that his words were biting, on the days where he said almost nothing so trapped inside his brain, in the hours between dusk and dawn where there was no rest for him, wiping away the tears that fell silently and just being as near to him as he needed.

You had some experience in broken hearts, anyways. You might as well put it to good use.

–X–

It had taken five whole months since Maeve’s death for the team to realise that Spencer was changing. He was still the same person intrinsically, ready to spring into a conversation about absolutely anything and everything that interested him at the drop of a hat, still debating with Penelope about which of them was smarter, still being teased in that playful way by Morgan. But there was a confidence to him now that was almost dangerous in the fact that it was uncharted territory for him.

You’d noticed it first on one of your regular coffee runs. The two of your were so serious about your coffee tasting like anything but actual coffee that you’d bonded over the need for a sweet treat, and had been going for coffee before all of your office shifts almost since you’d started. You were glad to have him finally back by your side, making stupid jokes about how many philosophers it would take to change a lightbulb, and actually smiling and laughing with you that you almost didn’t notice anything amiss.

But when the barista who took his order carefully slipped him her number - something she’d been doing for the whole six months you’d been frequenting that cafe - for once, he hadn’t thrown it away. He’d taken a lingering look at the digits inked neatly into the napkin and quietly slipped it into his pocket. You were confused to say the least, but since that night of your almost confession, there had been a boundary between you two in that sense.

It was almost as if, if you didn’t ask questions about Spencer’s love life, it was like he wasn’t out there, being in love. With Maeve it had worked fine because he’d never met her, and honestly, until you’d started trying to save her he hadn’t brought her up a lot. But now, you were too afraid to break your own heart again to check up on him, deciding to let it go for your own well-being.

The others had noticed soon enough. Comments about a pep in his step, his flirtacious manner with some of the female witnesses. He’d gained a few claps on the back from Morgan after closed off conversations that you had decided you were thankful not to have heard.

Because if you never saw or heard what Reid was doing, and apparently doing with multiple women, multiple times a week, then it couldn’t hurt you anymore than you were already hurting now.

–X–

It took seven months from Maeve’s death to realise that you were only fooling yourself this entire time.

Despite his new-found release, the therapy he’d found in the beds of women whose names he never learnt, there was one thing that you could still rely on with Reid, and that was your Friday night Star Trek watch-along.

You’d mentioned once a few weeks into your job that you’d never seen it before, and he’d had this absolutely starry-eyed look on his face in bewilderment, that when he’d half-heartedly suggested you watch it together, you’d leapt at the chance. Since there was so much of it, here you were over a year later, still keeping to that Friday night ritual. You’d watched it together in motels in the middle of nowhere, you’d watched it together over the Christmas holidays, you’d watched it together in the days directly after Maeve’s death, and tonight was supposed to be no different.

You pulled up to his apartment and knocked on the door, and when you couldn’t immediately hear him shout to “come in” from his kitchen as he was preparing the popcorn, you knew that something was wrong. His door was always unlocked, and he laughed at your habit of knocking on the door, insisting that you could just walk in anytime you needed.

Now that you needed to, your hand seemed heavier than ever. You gripped the cold metal of the handle, knowing exactly what you would find on the other side of the door, but still wanting to live in the clear denial of it. You prayed it was something else keeping him distracted.

You let yourself in and were welcomed with the sight that shattered your heart for the final time. There were clothes scattered across the floor, male and female. Shoes discarded in the heat of the moment. You didn’t want your eyes to follow, but your feet weren’t listening as they walked you to the bedroom door, thrust wide open, and you saw him there finally.

“Shit, Y/N, what are you doing here?” he scrambled to pull his clothes back on, to cover whatever woman it was underneath him that day, to make sure you didn’t see anymore of the image that would be burned into the back of your brain for the rest of your life.

You couldn’t say anything. You knew that he had been doing this, doing it to cope, doing it to move on, doing it to feel a sense of intimacy after he didn’t get that with Maeve. But here was the irrefutable proof that he’d never even looked at you with an ounce of the feeling you had for him. You held up the bag of snacks you usually bought to your Trek marathons as a response, the tears filling up your eyes rendering you mute as you finally tore yourself out of the room.

“Oh god, it’s Friday. I didn’t realise…. I’m sorry, can we do a raincheck, Y/N?” He guided you further out of the room, placing a hand to the small of your back to help move you along. Something in you snapped then and you recoiled from his touch, whipping your head up to him and just staring at him with all the defiance you could muster. He had broken your heart, you weren’t going to let him dismiss you that quickly.

“Y/N, why are you crying? What’s wrong, what happened? Tell me and I’ll do everything I can to fix it.” He finished his words, and made to wipe the tears from your face, but you slapped his hands away from you before he could make contact.

“Don’t… just don’t touch me, Spencer.” Those were the only words you could offer in explanation before you turned on your heel and ran straight out of his apartment for the last time.

–X–

It took one month from you storming out of his apartment for Spencer to realise that he hadn’t dreamt of Maeve in the same amount of time. Where his dreams had been full of her asking him to dance, they were now full of you recoiling from his touch, refusing to speak to him outside of your professional work, withdrawing into yourself and crying. The worst ones were the ones where you were crying because he tried desperately to hold you, to wipe the kisses away, but everytime he tried you moved further and further from his reach.

It had been a month of you ignoring him, and he still didn’t know what went wrong. Yes, you’d caught him in bed with a girl, but you knew he was doing that. You’d known from the start, and he’d known that you’d known, so surely it wasn't just that.

Morgan wasn’t helping him on that front either. He’d explained the awkward run-in in his apartment, desperate for some answers and received some pretty curt replies.

“Pretty boy, if you don’t realise what you did wrong, then there’s nothing I’m going to do to help you. You’re on your own until then.” He’d refused to talk about it anymore.

He’d thought a few times about talking to the girls on the team, but you’d been partnered with JJ for the last month on cases to avoid him, and there was a bond there between the two of you that he didn’t want to overstep.

It was in this confusion that Rossi found him again, taking pity on the boy wandering around like a lost puppy in the absence of your friendship.

“Kid, what is up with you again recently?”

“Y/N has been avoiding me, and I don’t know why. Derek said it was my fault because she… well she walked in on something that I’d rather she hadn’t, you know, and I don’t know why she still won’t talk to me because it’s been a month.” He rambled out, thankful that someone was finally hearing him out.

“If I’m understanding your insinuation here, I think I know what the problem is.” Rossi sat back, choosing his words carefully, so as not to startle the younger man. But he was so worked up all over you, missing your voice, your touch, your company, and just wanting you back in whatever way he could get you that he jumped at the very suggestion of answers.

“Then please, tell me, I’m begging you. I’ve been tearing my hair out trying to figure out what it is and I just miss her so much that it hurts.”

“Spencer, you know I usually don’t get involved in the personal lives of my coworkers, but just listen to me now, nice and calmly - and dont try to interrupt me or say a word. I know what I’m talking about, okay?” He gave a quick nod of his head, waiting with baited breath for Rossi to continue.

“The girl is in love with you. Head over heels, in fact, and has been for quite some time. And she was holding it together real nice until you decided to become this casanova and now she is heartbroken,” Spencer looked like he was about to interrupt, to spew out that that couldn’t possibly be the case, but Rossi silenced him with a look. “If you don’t believe me, you use that memory of yours and you do what you do best. Think about it.”

–X–

For the next three months, that was all Spencer did. He thought about every interaction you’d ever had. The blush on your cheeks when he’d introduced himself for the first time (and refused to shake your hand). The countless nights spent curled up on opposite sides of his couch, laughing and crying together at silly sci-fi shows. The way you’d thrown yourself into his arms after a particularly gruelling case, buried your head in his chest instead of anyone else's. The day you’d finally confessed your past to him, how he’d felt your heart beating as he held a finger to your pulse, hand gently holding yours waiting for you to finish describing the time you’d stared death in the face.

You’d noticed the change, but you wouldn’t let yourself acknowledge it fully. Noticed how he’d shoot you lingering glances from across the room, how he’d look like he had something to say when you announced you were leaving for the night. How he’d ask everyone together what their friday night plans were just to hear you admit that you were going home alone in the company of the rest of the team.

You’d noticed, and god had it given you a spark of hope that you wished would die quickly. You’d noticed, and so you weren’t as surprised when he turned up on your doorstep four months after you’d last talked to him, on another friday evening.

“What are you doing here?” you greeted him, the words coming out colder than you wanted them to seem, inwardly cursing yourself for letting your emotions get the better of you.

“Don’t make me leave, please, I just have something to ask and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Spencer, it’s been a long day, and I just want to go to bed so-”

“Do you still love me?” His words cut you off and your heart all but stopped. Your tongue grew heavy, and the inside of your mouth tasted acidic, knowing that you weren’t going to be able to fully stomach whatever conversation was coming.

“Excuse me?” you spluttered out eventually.

“Three months ago, Rossi said that you were in love with me, and I need to know that if that was the case, are you still in love with me now?” You expected some cold curious look to be gracing his face, but you looked up to see his eyes perfectly trained on your own, his mouth set in a line, a look of stony determination set on his face.

“If I say yes, what difference does that make?” you tried not to spit out the words, but you had no control over the venom in your heart.

“If you say yes, then I am going to kiss you, and then I am going to spend every last day I have on the planet making up for being an idiot for the last two years.” Your breath caught in your throat, and, not for the first time in front of Spencer Reid, you were stunned into silence.

“So, what is your answer?” He looked down at you again, and you started to see the cracks in his stony facade, started to see through to the man who desperately wanted you to say yes, to scream it at him.

The word hadn’t even fully formed on your tongue before he was crashing down into you, his mouth pleading for forgiveness and wrapping you up in him. He grabbed you and pulled you back into your apartment, whispering into each of your kisses.

“I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.” The two of you stumbled into the space, but he never moved his hands from the sides of your face, cupping your cheeks gently as his lips brushed against yours again and again.

Your legs gave way beneath you by the time you’d reached the open space of your living room, but instead of catching you, he fell to his knees with you, content for the two of you to just sit there together in each other's embrace.

“You’ve loved me this entire time, and I was too stupid to realise that you’re everything I need.” He kissed your mouth, your jaw, your neck, moving his hands from your face to your waist, pulling you in deep again as you desperately pulled away in search of breath. That only toppled you further to the ground, and he came down on top of you again as well, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head so you didn’t hurt yourself.

And you kissed him back just as fervently when your breath returned, listening to every apology and forgiving him with every touch. His kisses said “I’m sorry,” and yours said “I know,” and that was all the communication you needed for now.

He pulled your shirt over your head eventually, and your skin met the cold tile of the floor, a shiver running up your spine causing you to buck your hips up into his. He hissed at the contact and pushed his bodyweight down further into yours, his legs slotting perfectly between your splayed ones now.

“It took me too long to realise, and it has taken me too long to act on the knowledge, but I am not going to let you go again, do you understand?” he pushed his lips into yours again before you could respond, and you clawed into his shoulders as he started grinding down into your body. His hand trailed up your waist to your breasts, pulling them free from the constraints of your bra, as he let his tongue slide down from your neck to your chest.

“I need to hear you say it baby, need you to say you understand, can you do that for me?” Your body burned under his attention, back arching desperately for more contact as his tongue swirled your nipple into his mouth, gasping breaths loud enough to fill the empty air of your apartment. His stiff cock was firmly pressing against your core now, barely clothed in the pajamas you’d pulled on before his arrival.

“Spencer, yes, I need you, I need you right now, please,” grabbed at either side of his face and pulled him back up so he was face to face with you. You initiated the kiss this time, and you could feel your heart soar at the tender kiss he met you with, thankful for the reciprocation.

“Not yet, baby, not yet, okay?” he whispered in your ear, trailing his hands down to your centre and slipping his hand under your clothes. “So fucking wet for me, baby. Just for me, right, baby?” His fingers found your clit, and he started rolling it between his fingers. He worked slowly enough to drive you insane, but giving you just enough relief that you couldn’t complain.

“Yes, Spencer, yes, yes it’s all for you. Only for you,” you managed to gasp out. He shifted his hand after a few minutes, still pressing love bites down your chest, claiming you as his in the most animalistic way possible. He spread the wetness that pooled at your core around, making sure that his fingers were coated in you before pushing a single digit into your aching hole, thumb continuing to draw circles around your bundle of nerves.

“That’s my little slut, so desperate for me, so needy for me.” His words shot through you, and you started thrusting your hips up desperate for more friction with his hand. He roughly pushed you back down, pinning you under him with his free hand.

“No, baby, I’m in charge here. You sit back and relax and let me make you feel good,okay?” His words soothed you, the growing heat in the pit of your stomach fizzing in anticipation. His kisses dropped lower and lower, until he was finally pulling off your remaining clothing and replacing his thumb with his lips.

“Fuck Spencer, if you keep doing that, I’m going to-” another sharp intake as he pumped a second finger in and out of you.

“Going to what, baby? Use your words?”

“I’m going to cum, Spencer please, I’m going to cum, I’m going to cum.,,” you rode out your high with his face stuffed between your legs still, swallowing your loud moans for fear of the entire neighbourhood knowing just how obsessed you were with this man.

“You did so good for me, baby, so good. I love you so much, okay? I’m going to take care of you from now on, okay?” He began pressing kisses to your mouth again, and you could taste yourself against him now.

“I need you so badly, baby, are you going to let me have you?” He started pulling off his own clothing now, removing his shirt and tie, but never once leaving your embrace for too long.

“I love you so much, baby. I’m sorry for not realising before, but I realise now. I was so terrible to you after Maeve, and god, even before she died I was using you as a therapist to talk through my thoughts and fears, but I was too dense to even realise that I was only in love with Maeve because she was safe. I couldn’t meet her, couldn’t touch her, didn’t have the chance to ruin anything I had with her. I couldn't realise that she wasn’t you, that she wasn’t going to feel like you do in my arms. And maybe some part of me loved her, but we were using each other, and I was using her to avoid confronting how I felt about you.”

“And how I feel for you is different. I am obsessed with you, Y/N. I am so madly in love with you that the last four months have felt like hell. I could have emptied myself of all the blood in my body and still my heart would be beating for you. Do you understand?”

You answered in a chaste kiss on his lips, sweet and quick, but as much as you could muster without driving yourself to the brink of insanity getting yourself high on his touch.

“Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want now, okay?” He’d unbuttoned his pants shortly after that and you stared transfixed at the head of his cock poking up and out of them, desperate to see it, touch it, taste it.

“I need you inside of me, Spence, please,” you cried out, tears welling in your eyes at the tender contact, the confession. All the emotions you’d been burying for the last four months bubbling to the surface, dancing around your head as he made you dizzy with desire.

“You’re so perfect, Y/N. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,” with the last of his clothing removed he was finally free, taking his heavy,aching cock in his hand and lining himself up with you. With a single thrust, and another confession of love, he gave you what you wanted so much.

“You wanted me like this, baby? So desperate to have my cock inside you?” he plagued you with questions as you adjusted to his size, watching your face for any discomfort as you mumbled out yes after yes.

“Me too, baby. I wanted you just like this, wanted you so desperate and dripping for me that I could slide right in, wanted you like this for me and only me.” He began thrusting then, slowly pumping his cock into you, heavy with each return, the sound of skin slapping against skin joining the ensemble of your moans.

“I love you,” he said again, and with each thrust of his hips, and you responded in kind, matching his thrusts with your own and pressing a kiss into the skin of his shoulders. You were so desperate and needy, so starved of touch and starved of one another that neither of you lasted long. Your bodies were so in sync that as soon as he’d pushed you over the edge for a second time, you could feel him spill himself inside you, filling you completely.

He rolled off you, but didn’t leave you there, picking you up and carrying you to the bedroom. He cleaned you up as much as possible, then folded you back into his arms, holding you again so tenderly that you let the tears flow down your cheeks for a final time.

It was Friday night, and he was here, and he loved you. You weren’t going to let him go again.

[sarcasticnovah]

did I binge read every single piece of this amazing persons work? yes, yes I did.

do i regret it? definitely not.

Did I add their release dates for the last 2 parts of their series to my calendar so I wouldn't forget?

Yes, of course I did.

now, WHAT ARE U DOING READING THIS??? GO READ THEM.

NSFW MATERIAL!

Spoilers in the tags for this fic

[luxcuriousao3]

Broken Promises (Jake Sully x daughter!Reader)

(On AO3) Summary: You are Jake Sully’s daughter— his first daughter, the one he left behind on Earth when he decided to venture to Pandora. Nearly twenty years later, the two of you are reunited. Where Jake sees a chance to make up for his mistakes, you’re more interested in ruining his life— by any means necessary. Notes: Inspired by @chaethewriter’s fic, “You’re dead to me.” It’s a great read, you should go check it out! As I was reading it, I couldn’t help but think of a similar scenario, but one where Reader, rather than seek to protect the Na’vi, blames them for her dad abandoning her, and decides to join the RDA for a chance at getting revenge. Also, this is an AU in which the sky people didn’t return to Pandora until a few years later than canon. Therefore, Reader is 19, Neteyam is 18, Lo’ak and Kiri are 16, Tuk is 11, etc etc. Word Count: ~1.9k Warnings: swearing, violence, minor character death, animal death, brief mentions of past child abuse, brief mentions of past domestic abuse, Reader is a deeply traumatized and flawed individual and this is evident by her immoral thoughts and actions (which I do not condone)

Keep reading

[sarcasticnovah]

love me a flawed bitch-

nisbsisnjeiwbaodbdjd

[callsignseagull]

hey stupid, i love you ✪ jake 'hangman' seresin

jake ‘hangman’ seresin x fem!reader

Summary: After meeting Jake at the Hard Deck and spending the night with him you never define whatever the relationship between you is. After he returns from a temporary change of station you’re unsure where you stand.

Words: 4.4k

Warnings: a little bit of angst, insecure reader, SMUT 18+ [hints of dom!jake, dirty talk, protected sex]

A/N: finally!!! this is my entry for @roosterforme s love is in the air song challenge!! this is my first time writing smut in a LONG time so hopefully it doesn’t suck lmao

feedback is always appreciated :) 

You can’t go to the Hard Deck and not notice Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin. From the first moment you step foot into the bar it’s like there’s a magnetic pull that keeps drawing your eyes to where he’s standing among the other naval aviators.

In fact, you’re staring at him so much that he catches you a time or two. You’re a little embarrassed but the alcohol that’s already in your system helps. And it’s not like he’s gonna do anything, like come over to where you’re sitting at the bar, right?

Oh.

Keep reading

[sarcasticnovah]

I love these endings My gawddddd

[blueywrites]

trouble

modern au, emt!eddie x fem!reader. the four times you aren't hurt and the one time you are. pure fluff, a little drama, mentions of blood, non-graphic depictions of injuries. (15.8k)

For @newlips' Milestone of Love celebration. Congrats, lovely! 💙

fun fact: the scenario described in Scene 5 is actually pulled directly from real life, minus the pretty metalhead (unfortunately 😔). Also, blame my fatigued brain for not mentioning this last night, but HUGE thanks to my loves @myosotisa @fracturedarkness @abibliophobiaa and @hauntingbastille for all your help and ideas!! Couldn't have done it without you bbys 🫶💙🌻

The sun is beating down on your head, conjuring a halo of sweat that stings your eyes. You’d thrown your hair up into a claw clip some time ago, but it’s coming loose now as you’re jostled by elbows and knees. It’s all claustrophobia, all heat, all overwhelming sensations— the tang of sweat and alcohol on the back of your tongue, the thrum of bass rattling your ribcage, and the roar of guttural screaming ringing in your ears. 

You can’t get enough.

You’re a dot of pastel sweetness in a sea of undulating black, the only person at this concert wearing a straw crossbody bag and a dainty summer dress. Though it’s July and nearly ninety-five degrees out, everyone else is dressed in black and chains and ripped denim, sweating even more heavily than you are, thick black eyeliner running as they sing along to Spiritbox’s ‘Blessed Be.’ Your best friend Josie is the same— dark hair shaved on the sides but matted with sweat as it spikes down her back, though her denim cutoffs and fishnet stockings are marginally more practical than the black jeans many others are wearing. You’re practical, too; despite the tiny flowers on your dress and the sweet diamond studs in your ears, your white Converse are just as scuffed as the heavy boots around you.

The band Spiritbox is one of the only interests you and your best friend have in common. Since elementary school, you’ve been the visual equivalent of a sun to her raincloud. Though your tastes differ, your personalities mesh seamlessly, leaving you still thick as thieves; despite going to different colleges, you’d both returned home and found jobs nearby, picking up exactly where you’d left off four years before. It’s obvious why Josie would like this band— she thrives on everything metal and alternative. You typically gravitate toward indie music, but you really love the contrast of Courtney's delicate vocals and the heavy driving music punctuated by Mike's guttural growls. The screaming unlocks something primal inside you, and you bob your head and shout until your voice breaks, sounding just like everyone else. 

Your attention is drawn from the stage as bodies to your right compress together when a pit starts to form further up. Instantly, you know what that means; you’re still singing along, but you stop when Josie’s slippery hand finds yours, pulling you in that direction. Her olive green eyes flash eagerly as she glances back at you, and you communicate your acceptance through an answering smile. Josie squeezes between bodies to find the edge of the mosh pit, where she deposits you before diving head-first into the fray.

This isn’t your first Spiritbox show, and you know what to do: you brace, resisting the push of the crowd and jutting your elbows to maintain your space as you watch more dark-clad figures join the writhing, thrashing mess. You split your attention between the pit and the stage, content to keep an eye on your friend and let the coiled aggression of flung bodies stir you further, accentuating the music. You have no desire to mosh, and Josie knows that, but you enjoy watching while she shoves and bounces off others, sharp limbs swinging wildly, staggering with sparkling eyes and a broad grin—

The deafening music muffles the sound of a thick elbow connecting sharply with Josie’s face, but the visual is so jarring that you could swear you hear the crack.

“Josie!” Your hoarse cry cuts through to the closest two thrashing bodies, who halt at its urgency. Despite how violent a mosh pit appears to be, as soon as the moshers realize someone is hurt, the aggression dissolves on impact. You reach out your hands as a chain of helping hands deposits your friend before you with haste. 

You guide her immediately through the crowd, which parts almost eagerly at the sight of her blood painting the ground, pressed into the grass by heavy boots. You wince at the hunch of your friend’s shoulders, the visible pain on her face; one of her hands covers her nose but does little to staunch the sticky flow of blood. Josie relies on you to direct her, watery eyes nearly scrunched closed as you emerge from the press of damp bodies at the back of the crowd, dodging around stragglers, eyes scanning for a white canopy and red emblem designating the first aid station. It’s over on the right, peeking over that sea of black, and you head that way.

When you get there, both of the young men there are standing like statues facing the stage, showing you a mop of unruly light brown waves and a long ponytail of dark frizzy curls that might look feminine if it wasn’t for the obvious broadness of his shoulders. 

As you reach the table with Josie, the taller man with the ponytail is the first to notice your approach. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved collared shirt tucked into belted pants, all black on black on black. In fact, he looks more suited to join the crowd than to tend them with the smattering of tattoos on his pale arms and the shaggy bangs that feather his forehead. And he glints with silver— a silver chain around his neck, rings of silver through his ears, even a silver septum piercing with spiked ends that peeks from the bottom of his soft nose. He’d look just like another groupie if not for the paramedic sigil on the breast of his shirt.

Despite his aggressive appearance, his brown eyes are warm as he abandons his view upon spotting you, dark brows flashing up as they scan Josie’s body with a clinical air. “What happened here?” he asks, and his voice is pleasantly smoky, friendly and casual as he pulls on rubber gloves with practiced motions. 

“She got hurt,” you supply, relinquishing your friend to him so he can guide her into a folding chair. Despite the inanity of your observation, the man doesn’t react beyond a little twitch of his full lips as he kneels in front of her. Josie also doesn’t offer more explanation, merely grunting as the paramedic gently but firmly pulls her hand away from her face. 

You cringe as her arm is moved aside to reveal the mess of her nose and the front of her saturated t-shirt, but he doesn’t bat an eye, wiping her face gently with dampened gauze to clean the drying blood away. As he works, eyes trained on the movements of his fingers, he asks, “What was it, doll? Did you catch an elbow to the face?” 

The pet name could have been awkward, but he says it so casually that it doesn’t feel slimy like a come-on would. It just feels like part of his personality to call people names like that. 

“Yeah, in the pit,” she grumbles, and he tips his head sympathetically, curly ponytail swaying. 

“That’ll do it,” he says. Once Josie’s face is clear of blood, he hands her some dry paper towels, motioning toward her shirt and telling her with some humor, “I’ll just let you handle that part.” 

She chuckles wetly, scrunching the fabric in her fist with the towel to press out the blood. As it transfers to the paper, the paramedic clears his used supplies into the biohazard bin before returning to his place, kneeling before her, warning her quietly that he’s going to touch her face before he does it.

You watch, hovering a little awkwardly near them as he palpates her nose gently with the tips of his fingers. He seems to have a way of putting people at ease with the cadence of his voice. It’s casual, almost preternaturally calm, but musical, too, engaging in a way you wouldn’t expect. He remains careful while examining Josie’s nose, even as he grows distracted as a new song starts. He starts glancing over toward the stage, moving through the motions clinically, detached despite the warmth and humor in his voice when he says cheerily, “Well, it’s not broken. That’s a relief, huh?” 

She sighs, olive green eyes melting to confirm that it is, in fact, a relief. “Yeah.”

A smiling flash of white eyeteeth and then he’s standing again, skirting around you without really acknowledging you as he digs around in a box of supplies. He returns with an icepack, cracking it to activate the gel inside before wrapping it in more paper towels. “Hold here,” he instructs, showing Josie where to hold it, replacing his sure fingers with her more ginger ones.

“Thank you,” she says, standing and flanking you as he peels off his gloves, folding them inside each other before leaning back against the table with his hands braced behind him. Your eyes are drawn to the tendons of his forearms, pale and dotted with ink.

He doesn’t reply to her thanks directly, though his deep brown eyes twinkle with mischief. “You just had to go gettin’ hurt during the best song of the show, didn't you?” 

His tone is exaggerated to ensure she knows he’s teasing, and it’s only when she chuckles that his full lips split in a pleased grin, attention turning again toward the stage as a particularly wicked guitar solo begins.

You pipe up then. “It’s only the best song in the show if they don't play 'Holy Roller.'” 

“No way they don’t play 'Holy Roller,'” he retorts instantly, brown eyes flashing in your direction. The loose curls around his jaw lash his chin as his head jerks in a not-so-subtle double-take, and those eyes widen as he realizes it was you and not your friend who spoke. His gaze flicks you up and down quickly, taking in your sweet floral dress and your white converse. When his eyes catch yours, the curl of his lips reveals a level of intrigue. “And here I thought you were just the chaperone,” he says, again with that teasing, musical cadence that seems characteristic. 

There’s the temptation to be offended, but this guy seems harmless beneath the ink and frizzy shag; the wolfishness of his smile doesn’t bely the warmth in his eyes. Guessing that he can probably take as much as he dishes out, you scoff, quirking a brow and pursing your lips in mock offense. “Maybe you shouldn’t make snap judgments about people. I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.”

A barking laugh pierces the air between you, and despite yourself, you can’t suppress a smile. Rather than being put off by your challenge, he seems delighted; the manic widening of those plush lips crinkles the corners of his eyes. His smile instantly brightens his face as he tips his head toward you. “Touché,” he says before straightening up, pushing off the table to jam his hands in his back pockets.

The sudden weight of his stare has your skin prickling despite the heat of the July sun; you turn from it quickly to ask Josie if she’s doing okay now.

She pulls the icepack from her face, scrunching her nose to test out the pain. “Yeah, I’m good. C’mon, I wanna get back out there.” She scowls, craning her head as if she’s looking for something.

“Back to our spot, you mean?”

“No, back to the pit,” she replies incredulously as if it’s obvious. Your brow crinkles with a mixture of dismay and wry fondness, but you know better than to offer resistance. If there’s one thing you’ve learned over the years, it’s that Josie takes your reminders of caution as a personal offense. As you start to walk away from the medic tent, falling into stride together, she shoots you a sour glare, grumbling, “This is what happens when you feed me jello shots.” 

Your outrage is instant; you spin on your heel, stopping short to face her and gripe right back, though she doesn’t slow when you do. “I did not! Actually, you stole my jello shots, Josie.” 

“Ah, I get it now. You look like an angel, but you’re secretly trouble.” You hear that teasing cadence behind you, and you turn to find the paramedic standing beside his companion once again, body angled toward the stage but head tilted to eye you slantingly. He looks amused, and you’re torn between blushing and pouting, protesting and giggling, so you just freeze, doing none of the above. Unbothered, he twists and bends smoothly to root in the cooler behind the folding table. Your eyes are drawn to the cords of his pale neck and the flash of silver in his ears.

“Here,” he says, straightening and offering you two water bottles held together in one broad hand. He drops the joking tease, all professional concern once again. “Take some water with you. Make sure you keep hydrated if you’re drinking.” 

You backtrack quickly to take both bottles from him, smiling as you meet his warm brown eyes. “Thank you,” you say.

“You got it,” he replies, but you don’t hear— you’re too busy hurrying to catch up with Josie, who’s cutting a path right back to the pit, stubborn as always.

The walk from the company parking lot to your office building is two long blocks away and takes a brisk five minutes, eight if you’re not in a rush. And you’re not this morning. The sweltering August heat has decided to grace your town with a brief reprieve; all the typical ills of summer are eased today, leaving behind a pleasant dry heat, a slight breeze, and bright sun in a puffy-cloud sky. You relish your brief stroll in the sunshine and find yourself wishing your cubicle faced the park across the street, if only so you could torture yourself with its tantalizing view, yearning to instead be seated on a bench shaded by the cherry trees.

Your gaze drifts that way as you walk along the sidewalk, and a bright spot of yellow catches your attention. As you draw closer to your building, the shape discerns itself into an old man swaddled in a canary-yellow raincoat, the plasticky hood caught between his hunched shoulders and the back of the wooden bench. Beneath the open raincoat is a checkered shirt, a pair of brown trousers, and a bowtie that looks to be his Sunday best, though it’s currently Thursday. His loafer scuffs the concrete beneath him as he swings one foot absently, gazing up at the puffy-clouded sky.

Another individual relishing this unexpected gift early in the morning. You smile softly to yourself and turn from the old man as you grasp the handle, pulling the heavy glass door open. A blast of cold air unleashes upon you, and you shiver your way to the elevator. As the aluminum doors slide open, the park slips from your mind, evaporating like dew from grass.

Four hours later, the brrringing of phones and the fuzz of light office chatter have fully replaced the sound of early morning birdsong in your ears. Your eyes flick to the bottom right corner of your laptop just in time to see the forty-nine tick to fifty. The sight brings relief and a timely grumble of your stomach, and you close the lid of your laptop decisively. The promise of a cobb salad from your favorite nearby lunch shop hastens your steps to the elevator.

When you push open that heavy glass door once again, the air is warmer, and the street is more active now, but the sun on your skin is just as welcome. The park and its cherry trees call to you as they had this morning, and your eyes find that bench you’d been yearning for once again. It’s empty now, almost beckoning for you. You indulge in the sight for a moment despite your hunger, lush green blooming behind brown wood, visible between the cars that zoom past. 

And then the tiniest sliver of canary yellow peeks from beyond a bush.

You were about to walk on, but you pause then, craning your neck to try to catch more of that color. A small shift and you see it again— the canary yellow of what is undoubtedly the sleeve of a raincoat.

Is that the same old man from this morning? Even as you question it, you know the answer; you know it must be him. You frown, puzzled, wavering as you’re torn between two impulses. Your stomach pangs hollowly, reminding you of cobb salad. What business is it of yours what a stranger does? You imagine how silly you’d feel wandering over there to bother him for no reason. But as you watch him, he hobbles further into your sight, resting one unsteady hand against the trunk of a nearby tree. Your heart stirs, and you find your feet moving of their own accord to the crosswalk.

You approach him slowly at first, with the caution one might use when edging toward a wild animal. His back is turned to you, revealing a head of thin gray hair haloed around a sizeable bald spot like candy floss. Hesitantly, you inch closer, feeling a little ridiculous as he fidgets there in the grass just off the path, one hand still tremulously holding onto the trunk as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. His eyes are darting over the bushes and paths restlessly, as if searching. You’re just deciding what to say— or even whether to say something at all— when he turns his head and catches sight of you with watery eyes.

His brows jump as he registers you, and his pruny mouth opens in a little ‘o’ of surprise. “Oh,” he says, sounding delightedly surprised. “Hello!”

You feel a bit caught out, heat rushing to your cheeks as he pivots slowly to face you, one hand still stuck to the tree. But you’re committed now that he’s seen you; you might as well follow through on your impulse. “Hi, sir,” you try, “are you looking for someone?”

The old man doesn’t answer your question. Instead, very matter-of-factly, he says, “My knees are hurtin’ me.”

It has you reaching for him almost automatically, hooking your hand underneath his elbow. He welcomes your help unhesitantly and without complaint, shifting with your coaxing grip. He feels so frail beneath your fingers, almost weightless; when he lets go of the trunk to rely on your stability, you hardly notice the difference. He barely lifts his feet when he walks, loafers dragging in the grass, and you edge with him toward the path with tiny shuffling steps. Stepping from the grass to the concrete feels laborious as he trembles with the effort. 

As you lead him patiently back toward the bench from this morning, you can’t help but wonder how long he’d been standing by the tree. And then, you can’t help but wonder how he even got here to the park, considering how much effort it’s taking him to walk a dozen feet. This isn’t a residential area, and this man isn’t just old. He’s positively feeble.

He clasps your hand as you help him turn and sinks down onto the wood with a bone-weary sigh of relief. Rather than releasing your hand, he pats the back of it with his other, smiling pleasantly. “Thank you, Ruthie,” he says, continuing to pat your hand as if he’s unaware of it. “I’m ready to go home now.”

You blink with utter bafflement, eyes flitting over the old man’s creased face and his watery blue eyes gazing at you with fondness. It dawns on you fairly quickly that this man isn’t just having trouble finishing his casual stroll in the park. And it explains why he’d looked surprised but happy to see you and hadn’t offered any resistance when you helped him. 

Yet you have no idea who he is or where he lives, and your name is not, in fact, Ruthie.

You chew your lip as you look into his placid face. He seems calm right now, but if he’s confused— if something medical is going on— that could be easily disturbed. Gently, you chance a question. “Where is home? Do you know your address?”

His face scrunches up, wrinkles folding on themselves as he squints at you quizzically. His voice gains more strength with its incredulity. “What d’ya mean, Ruth? Born and raised in the same house and you don’t remember our address?” He shakes his head, glancing away as he pulls back his hands and folds them in his lap. 

Well, that clarifies it— he clearly thinks you’re his daughter, though you’re probably about twenty years too young for that. Your thoughts whir as you consider how to respond and keep him from becoming truly agitated. “Aw, you got me!” you say, pretending you were pulling his leg. He seems to buy it as his frown eases and he looks back at you with begrudging amusement. Gently, you say, “I just gotta make a phone call, and then we can go, okay?”

The old man’s reply is perfectly jovial, and it fills you with relief. “Tha’s okay, dear. I got my crossword.” He reaches inside the raincoat and pulls out a tightly-folded rectangle from the breast of his checkered shirt, working it open to reveal a creased page from the newspaper. He digs in his pants pocket, and a pencil emerges along with some crumpled tissues and plastic-wrapped suckers that scatter near his feet. You frown, eyes darting between his spilled belongings— or trash— and his face. He doesn’t notice as he settles into the seat, seeming content to wait and work on his crossword.

You have half a mind to pick the candies up so he won’t trip on them, but the phone call you have planned seems more urgently needed. You trail a few steps away to call the non-emergency police number, eyes darting to and from the old man as you provide your location and explain the situation quietly to the operator. “He seems… confused,” you say. “Like, not all there.”

“Is he agitated?”

“No,” you say. “But he thinks he knows me, and I don’t know him. He keeps calling me Ruth when that’s not my name.” Nervousness bubbles at the base of your throat, concern rising for the older man whom you now view as your responsibility. “Do you think he’s okay?”

There’s a pause, and then the operator says neutrally, “It could be a number of things. I’m sending someone out right now to check on him. Are you okay to wait with him until the paramedics arrive?” 

You’re already nodding before the question is finished. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“All right. They’re on their way.”

You hang up and glance at the man again, feeling a tug at your heart when you see him holding the crossword so close to his nose, how the paper wobbles in his grasp. He seems caught up in it, which honestly is a relief. You don’t know how much longer you’d be able to keep up the pretense of knowing him if he wanted to talk to you more. Your cobb salad is all but forgotten now as worry prickles in your chest; you stand sentry over this stranger from a distance, keeping an attentive eye on him as you wait for help to come.

It doesn’t take too long for the ambulance to arrive, and your heart leaps as it pulls along the curb in front of the park. You jolt forward a couple of steps, fluttering your fingers in a little awkward wave at the blurry figures behind the glass as if they need your help finding the old man in the bright yellow coat, as if they need your assistance at all, really. You feel silly again, cheeks burning as you impulsively change your mind. Rather than meeting the paramedics at the ambulance, you march over and plop down next to the old man on the bench.

He startles slightly when you join him, and you almost feel bad to have scared him, but then he’s smiling at you again. “Ruthie!” He exclaims. “Is it time to go to the cleaners?”

You’re saved from having to answer as you hear the ambulance door pop open, and you follow the old man’s gaze to the figure swinging himself jauntily down from the rig with one pale hand braced atop the door.

Well, I’ll be damned.

Even at this distance, that frizzy shag of curls is unmistakable, though it’s loose around his shoulders now. You remember what you’d said at the concert almost a month ago: ‘I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.’ Your heart skips and thumps hard as he comes closer, and you clasp your hands tight in your lap. The tatted-up paramedic with the warm honey-brown eyes and the wolfish flashing grin may be memorable, but a squirm of self-consciousness races through you as you consider how unmemorable you are in comparison. Not that you can blame him, considering how many people he likely interacts with every day.

His eyes remain fixed on the man at your side as he lopes your way, and you lick at your bottom lip as he comes close enough to see the glint of silver in his ears and beneath his nose. “Hey, Mr. J,” he says casually, and you glance at the man sitting beside you, who’s still watching him approach blankly without acknowledgment. When your eyes meet honey brown again, a corner of his lips crooks up in a fond grin. “Well, hello there.” He draws the words out with a hint of teasing, and a smile blooms automatically on your face. “Been out moshing in any more flower dresses lately?” He adds as he closes the distance quickly, and you feel your self-consciousness melt into effusive warmth knowing he remembers you.

 “I only mosh for Holy Roller,” you say, and his grin widens before his attention turns back to the man at your side. The paramedic drops to one knee before him, a forearm braced against his other thigh. With his face now close enough, the old man’s watery eyes light in recognition. 

“Ed!” he exclaims in a delighted rasp, even more enthusiastic than when he’d greeted you. You turn curious eyes to the curly-haired man in front of you, wondering if that’s actually his real name or if it’s just one bestowed upon him like ‘Ruth’ had been to you.

Unphased, ‘Ed’ repeats his earlier greeting. “Hey, Mr. Jenkins.” He maintains that same warm friendly tone, though it seems more careful than the one he used with you and Josie. “How you doin’ lately? Haven’t seen you in a while.” 

Mr. Jenkins sighs dramatically, the deep, weary sigh of the elderly. “Ah, Ed. Ya know, it’s my hips,” he says, shaking his head as if it’s a shame. “Dang things are always givin’ me issues. Don’t get old if you can avoid it.” 

The paramedic’s lips quirk sympathetically. “I’ll try not to, Mr. J,” he says obligingly. “You still doin’ bingo at the VA on Thursday nights?” 

As Mr. Jenkins leans eagerly forward to tell him all about it, you watch the paramedic slip his pale fingers around the paper-thin skin of the man’s wrist, nodding absently as he looks up at the sky. When he checks his watch, you realize he’s taking the man’s pulse.

Subtly, as Mr. Jenkins happily prattles on, the paramedic flashes a tiny flashlight to assess his pupillary response before checking the rest of his vitals, the musical cadence of his answers acting as a distraction while he evaluates him. Your eyes skate over the paramedic’s face— his soft nose, his wide brown eyes, his pink lips, and his strong jaw framed by frizzy curls that hang past his collar. As you do, you feel a surge of admiration for his manner, but you’re not quite sure what about it has you impressed.

As he replaces the flashlight pen in his pouch, the old man looks between you. “Have you met my Ruthie?” When honey brown flashes to you quickly, you shake your head minutely, staring at him and hoping he gets the hint. 

After a brief pause, the paramedic finally replies, “Can’t say I have.” Your shoulders drop in relief that he’d caught on.

Mr. Jenkins pats your bare knee with his shaky hand right below the hem of your pencil skirt. Your mouth tightens in a bashful smile as he gushes, “Oh, she’s a good girl. A real good girl. You’d be lucky to find a girl like this, Ed.” 

It’s both charming and uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of this old man’s unwarranted affection, and you feel your cheeks heat with a fierce flush. Beyond your control, your eyes dart to the man across from you to find him smiling— closed-lipped and crooked, so a dimple pops on one cheek. “She sure seems like it, Mr. Jenkins,” the paramedic answers, and your cheeks positively burn. 

Mr. Jenkins continues on as if he hadn’t been interrupted, and you avert your eyes to the safety of your lap. It doesn’t offer much of a reprieve, however, as you can’t escape how the sweet, confused old man still has your knee in a vice grip and the guy in front of you is staring right through you with those honey-brown eyes. With an air of authority, Mr. Jenkins announces, “You outta take my Ruthie to the drive-in. They show the double features on Wednesdays, more bang for your buck. And treat ‘er to a milkshake; she loves a good black and white.” He jabs a shaky finger toward the paramedic to punctuate how serious he is. “Ya hear me, Ed?” 

Oh, my gosh. It was one thing to compliment you, but setting you up with a stranger has edged this conversation past uncomfortable and into nearly mortifying. Your stomach flutters with discomfort and nerves at the idea. 

“I hear you, Mr. J,” you hear him answer, and when you look up, he seems to be holding back laughter; his eyes are crinkled, lips fighting to stay pursed when they want to smile, and his voice is dripping warmth. As he stands, stretching his back, his piercing eyes return to you. “Hey, Ruth,” he says neutrally, “would you help me with this?” He tips his head toward the ambulance and you nod quickly, hastening to follow.

As you fall into step beside him, you become acutely aware of your closeness— the sway of his narrow hips, the jangle of his belt and med-pack, the thump of his heavy boots against the concrete, the faint scent of tobacco and spice that clings to his black collared shirt. Your eyes dart quickly to the curtain of hair hanging by his collar, how soft the curls look from this distance. You turn your chin toward him but keep your eyes on the ambulance. “He’s been there since before eight this morning,” you say quietly, “in the park. I saw him on my way to work. When I came out for my lunch break, he was just standing under a tree.”

You feel the heat of the paramedic’s bare forearm radiate against your elbow as he ducks closer, his voice still musical even in a murmur. “So, what, you thought you’d check on him?”

“Well, yeah,” you say, crossing your arms as you prickle with self-consciousness. The motion has your elbow bumping against his skin, and the heat of it flashes like a burn. “It just didn’t seem right to leave without checking if he was okay. He was confused; he asked me if we were going to the cleaners.” You glance at him, and he’s still ducked to hear you as you speak softly; his brown eyes are so close that you can see the varied shades of brown in them, like the rings of a cedar tree. You swallow thickly. “I think he thinks I’m his daughter.”

“You did the right thing,” he replies, his voice gentle and tinged with fondness. “Mr. J is well-known around here. Sweet guy, harmless. He’s got dementia.” 

Your eyes soften as you blink at him, compassion welling up as he speaks about the old man with such kindness. He straightens suddenly, and you realize that you’ve reached the side of the ambulance. 

He tugs open the door and calls to his partner, who peers over from the driver’s seat. “Hey, can you call Jimmy, tell him his dad’s in Washington Square Park?” 

“Sure thing,” comes the answer, though you can’t really see him. 

The paramedic closes the door again, and when he leans back against it, crossing his arms casually and propping a boot against the metal frame, you realize asking you to help him with something was just pretense. For some reason, that makes you glow with that same effusive warmth you’d felt when you first heard him address you again, brown eyes alight with his tease about mosh pits.

“So,” he says, lips quirking in a slanted grin, “I take it your name’s not Ruth.” 

You chuckle through your answer. “No, not Ruth.” You scrape your two front teeth against your lip before adding, “It’s y/n.” 

He nods, and his curls sway with it. The grin grows fractionally. “I’m Eddie.” 

“Nice to meet you. Officially, I mean,” you add quickly, and your hand wants to stick out to shake his, but a bigger part of you cringes at the impulse. You keep it stubbornly stuck to your side.

“Yeah, you too. Officially,” he says warmly. 

A door slams again as his partner gets out of the truck, crossing by the front bumper. He’s tall and a little broader than Eddie— knowing his name has your stomach fluttering with warmth— and his hair is shorter but no less impressive, with brown waves that bob against his forehead as he heads over to Mr. Jenkins. “Steve!” You hear the old man exclaim behind you, and your eyes find honey brown as if by instinct. You exchange a fond grin with Eddie at Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting, marveling at how affection curls behind your sternum for this man who was such a short time ago a total stranger. Mr. Jenkins, that is.

Of course.

And soon, a stranger again he will become, you realize as Eddie pushes off from the door, jamming his hands in the pockets of his black pants. “Thanks for staying with him. And calling it in. Most people wouldn’t have done that,” he tells you, and you blush with pleasure at the genuineness you hear.

“It was no problem,” you say. For a moment you just stand there, feeling awkwardness creep up. You shift your weight to one hip and twist your heel; when the gravel grinds loudly underfoot, you stop, suppressing a wince. You’re desperate to move on, so you blurt, “I’d better get back to work.” You pause, adding, “Will he be okay?” 

“He’ll be fine.” Eddie sounds so entirely assured of the fact that you believe him immediately, nodding with relief. He squints at you, jerking his chin to look at you sideways, and his dark hair sways as he does. “Hey. You didn’t have lunch, did you?” 

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He pulls one hand from his pocket to wave absently in the air. “You said you left to go get lunch but checked on Mr. J instead, right? So you didn’t get to eat.” 

You fumble to reply, but he’s already spinning, pulling open the door to the ambulance and hauling himself up. He bends over the seat, black pants pulling taught over his thighs and butt, and you quickly look away.

His voice comes muffled at first. “Here—” There’s the heavy sound of his boots hitting asphalt and then a crinkly rectangle is being waved at you. “ —have a protein bar,” he finishes, brandishing it toward you.

Your brows crinkle. “Oh, I’m really okay—” 

He cuts you off, kindly but firmly. “I insist.”

You take it from him gingerly. It’s a Cliff bar— peanut butter and chocolate. You meet wide honey-brown with a thankful smile. “This isn’t your lunch, is it?” you tease.

Eddie scoffs, waving you off. “Of course not,” he says, rotating around you and hopping up onto the curb, but the twinkle in his eyes and the dimple of his cheek leave you without confidence. 

There’s the impulse to question him further, but he doesn’t give you the chance; he starts walking backwards toward the bench with meandering, though purposeful, steps. “See you around,” he says, saluting you with two fingers tipped against his temple. You wave mutely, and he flashes one last parting grin before turning away. 

You stand motionless for a moment, staring at his back until you catch sight of his partner throwing you a curious glance. That snaps you out of it, and you hurry to the crosswalk.

Yet before you tug open that heavy glass door, you can’t help but glance back one more time. Between the flashes of passing cars, you see Eddie: he’s sitting next to Mr. Jenkins on the bench, legs spread wide and elbows resting on his knees, bobbing his head with big swings of his dark curls as the man shows him his crossword. 

This time, when the cold air blasts you in the face, you stay warm.

“You really do like black and white, huh?”

Your eyes dart up to catch brown. “Hm?”

Your date folds his hands against the tablecloth, twining his fingers together. His lips twitch up into a crooked grin as he motions with his chin. “You’re wearing a black blouse and a white skirt. Last time we went out, you were wearing a black dress and a white cardigan.” 

You blink, brows darting up. “Oh!” you say, glancing down at yourself. He is indeed correct— you’re wearing the same colors you had on your first date with him, entirely by coincidence. He leans back as if expecting you to be impressed that he’d noticed, and you smile, brightening your voice even further. “That’s right!” you say, tipping your head and lightly teasing him. “Well, aren’t you observant?”

He preens under your attention. “I try to be,” he says smoothly. “It pays to be observant in my line of work.”

You lean forward, resting your chin in your palm. “Speaking of, how go things on the fifth floor? I rarely venture down there.”

“Oh, you know…” He keeps up the flirtatious banter, mirroring your position: broad hand cradling his strong chin, elbow planted on the table. “Just convinced Synegen to sign over all their marketing needs. No biggie. All in a day’s work for us fifth-floorers.” His brown eyes twinkle. “Maybe you’ll have reason to come down more often now.”

Daintily, you sip your wine, which burns pleasantly warm down your throat as your eyes rake over his features: long, alkaline nose, square jaw, dreamy brown eyes, and a neat, high fade. “Maybe I shall, Matt,” you smolder, and his grin widens.

This is your second date with fifth-floor Matt— as Josie refers to him since you’d met him in the elevator of your office building— and it’s going quite well if you do say so yourself. Typically, you wouldn’t agree to a date with a guy you’d just met, but Matt’s boldness had a certain charm about it when he’d caught the elevator door to keep it from closing and hit you with that white smile and a proposition of dinner. And it certainly didn’t hurt that he was handsome and clearly built even under the slacks and dress shirt.

As he’d pointed out, you’d worn black and white on your first date but had felt slightly underdressed at the swanky place he’d whisked you away to. You hadn’t been expecting all the bells and whistles, though to your relief, he’d seemed pleased to have impressed you rather than disappointed. The conversation had flowed well between you, and he hadn’t been too forward at the end of the night, leaving you with a pleasant impression. When he’d called to ask you out again— of course within the permissible four to seven days post-date, and no sooner— you hadn’t had any reason to say no, which is why you find yourself at yet another swanky restaurant, Italian on this occasion. And you’re dressed a little more formally this time: black silk blouse, tight white skirt, and Josie’s tall black strappy things that she affectionately calls her ‘stripper heels.’ 

They look great, but your ankles are aching like a bitch, and you haven’t even gotten your food yet.

“And how are things going for my favorite copyeditor?” Matt asks, taking a sip of his drink, and you blush lightly under his attention. 

“Well…” you draw out the word, letting the music and the clinking of glasses around you fill the silence. “Did I tell you about Doris?” He shakes his head, and you’re just about to launch into the story of your accident-prone coworker’s latest kerfuffle when the waiter materializes at your elbow, holding two gleaming white plates.

“Tortellini?” he cuts in smoothly, and you smile up at him as he places it down in front of you. “Scallops?” he confirms with Matt, who immediately picks up his utensils to dig in as you continue your story.

You poke around at your food as you talk about Doris’ misfortune, and Matt nods and emotes appropriately throughout your recollections. “—I don’t know how she manages to get herself into all of these situations, the poor woman.” You shake your head sympathetically, taking a bite of tortellini. It’s wonderfully cheesy with a delicate sauce, and your brows jerk in pleasant surprise as the flavor bursts on your tongue. You chew and swallow quickly to exclaim, “Wow! This is really good.”

Matt is nodding eagerly, threading his finger between the collar of his shirt and his throat, pulling at it absently. “Yeah,” he agrees, “it’s delicious. This place is amazing. You know, I actually—”

He breaks off in a cough, covering his mouth with his fist. “Sorry,” he says, and you smile reassuringly. “I was saying that—” His voice weakens suddenly, and as he clears his throat roughly, your brow tightens in concern.

“Are you okay?” you ask, putting down your fork upon seeing how he tugs again at his collar. 

“I’m totally fine,” he assures you, “just have a tickle in my throat.”

Despite his quick hand-waving to dismiss your concern, it doesn’t alleviate that prickle of foreboding you feel building as your eyes scan his face, which looks suddenly more flushed than it did a moment ago. “Are you allergic to anything?”

Matt tips his head, gesturing with his fork and knife. “Well, yeah,” he admits, “but not to this.” He sounds perfectly confident in his assertion, but it doesn’t mollify you. Above his thick fingers, which are still plucking at his collar, pink splotches crawl up his neck. 

The foreboding builds insistently, and you know he can detect the new edge of urgency in your voice. “Do you have an EpiPen?”

Somehow, almost inexplicably, Matt still doesn’t look worried. He scoffs, shaking his head even as he concedes, “Yeah, I have one, but I never carry it around with me. Look, I know what not to eat, y/n. I’m not a child—”

You’re not listening because you’re already on the phone with 911.

“I think my date is having an allergic reaction. His throat is itchy, he’s coughing and clearing his throat, and he’s getting flushed.” You glance at him to see his eyes narrowed at you and his mouth open in indignance. “And his lips are swelling,” you add.

Matt pokes at his lips, and you look away as the operator assures you EMS is on their way to the restaurant. “Should I stay on the line?” you ask, gaze darting as you listen to his instruction, even while Matt groans and rolls his eyes.

“You’re being dramatic,” he’s saying, but you ignore him, lowering the phone without hanging up.

“He suggested some fresh air would help. Come on.”

Despite his lunking frame, you’re hauling him out to the sidewalk in your strappy heels with a determination he seems reluctant to truly resist. He could easily break out of your hold, but he lets you manhandle him out into the slight chill of this early September night. You undo the top three buttons of his shirt to loosen the pressure on his neck, working around your phone, which is still clutched in one hand. You suppress a huff at his salacious smile. “I mean,” he chuckles, “if you just wanted to get me out of my clothes, honey, you didn’t have to do all this.”

You shake your head, holding the phone up to your ear. “Yeah, I’m still here,” you say to the operator, “we’re outside now. He doesn’t seem to be any worse.”

Matt’s shoulders sag as he rolls his head, coughing lightly through his words. “I’m not gonna get worse because there’s nothing wrong with me.” He lifts his arms and lets them slap against his thighs, exasperated. “This is such a waste of time—”

The white and red ambulance turns the corner, and you step around your date to flag them down. “They’re here,” you say breathlessly to the operator. “Okay, I’m gonna hang up.”

The vehicle slows to a stop in front of you, and you step back from the curb as both doors open. They close one after another, like the strike of lightning and the boom of thunder following it. The boom of thunder crosses around the front of the bumper, eyes locked on you. And he’s got a beautiful head of hair— thick, luscious brown locks, expertly messy.

Your heart leaps as you recognize him, hearing Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting echoing in your ear. Because if he’s the boom of thunder, then maybe the lightning strike is—

“I shoulda known you’d be here, Trouble.”

You turn toward the voice, heart pounding despite the quizzical scrunching of your nose. Eddie interprets it correctly, his grin brightening his honey-brown eyes as he clarifies, “As I said, you look like an angel, but since we keep runnin’ into each other like this, it’s official. You must be nothing but trouble.”

You flush at the teasing tone of his musical voice, cheeks pinking, and as his grin turns wolfish with delight, you know he’s noticed. Abruptly, he looks away, and you follow his gaze to Matt, whose brows are furrowed lightly. Eddie’s tone loses the teasing quality, though it remains pleasant. “So, what’s goin’ on here, big guy? You think you’re having an allergic reaction?” he asks, pulling out the flashlight from his pack.

“No,” Matt says firmly, though his voice sounds more hoarse now. “She thinks I’m having an allergic reaction. I’ve just got an itchy throat.”

Undeterred, Eddie steps up to him. “Open your mouth,” he instructs calmly, and begrudgingly, Matt complies. His tongue lolls as Eddie peers inside. “What did you eat?”

“It was a pasta dish,” you offer, watching as Steve hovers nearby while Eddie feels along Matt’s throat with gloved hands. “Scallops, prosciutto, peas, um… white wine sauce. I don’t know the rest of the ingredients.”

“Any known allergies?” Steve asks, and everyone looks to Matt for the answer.

“I already told her,” he says with an air of long-suffering, “I do have a food allergy, but not to this—”

Eddie interjects calmly but firmly. “What are you allergic to?”

Matt sighs. “I’m only allergic to shellfish.”

There’s the briefest moment of stunned silence, and then Eddie tips his chin, pinning your date with his dark eyes— still calm, still pleasant, but with an air of unattestable authority. “Sir, you are having an allergic reaction. Hey, Harrington?”

“On it,” comes the immediate reply, and Steve is digging in the med-pack at his hip, guiding Matt to the back of the ambulance. You watch Matt’s eyes dart wildly, though he allows himself to be pushed along in his bafflement, stuttering questions and weak protests as he goes. You recognize the bright orange cap of the EpiPen as Steve pulls open one of the ambulance’s back doors; distantly, you hear him prompting your date, “Hop up here for me, would you?”

You hear a jangle close by, and the sound pulls your eyes from the ambulance to the man still standing at your side. His arms are folded behind his back now, his full lips dimpled in a secret smile. In Josie’s tall heels, your face is closer to his, and you nearly feel the brush of his wild hair against your blouse as he sways closer with his upper body so he can mutter at you with glittering eyes. 

“Really?” Eddie says, and the ghost of his breath stirs the hair beside your ear. Your body prickles with heat, stomach fluttering as he straightens again, quirking a brow and looking highly amused. For some reason, you feel called out, raw and exposed, and you cross your arms and narrow your eyes despite the deepening heat in your cheeks. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you retort. “I don’t give my dates quizzes on animal classifications during the vetting process.”

“Well,” Eddie lowers his voice, and the timbre makes you shiver, goosebumps prickling your arms. “Maybe you should.”

You scoff. “He’s a marketing genius. I think that makes up for it.”

Eddie’s mouth twitches before his dark eyes widen. Your gaze is drawn to his eyelashes, which are enviably long. “So,” he asks casually, “did you enjoy that protein bar?”

You’re left reeling from the abrupt change of subject, but you place the reference quickly. “Sure,” you say, tipping your head, a little bemused as to why he’s asking. “It was fine.”

Eddie’s brows jerk in exaggerated offense as he claps a hand over his heart. “Just fine? First, you eat my lunch, and now you tell me it was just fine?”

 Your mouth falls open in incredulity, face utterly indignant as Eddie grins broadly, his eyes crinkling in the corners at your reaction. In the vehemence of your feeling, you step closer, smacking his arm with a familiarity you aren’t entitled to, though you don’t notice as you protest, “You told me it wasn’t your lunch! What the hell, Eddie?!”

He cowers away from you playfully, dissolving into husky chuckles that are both goofy and undeniably endearing. They settle in your stomach, and you feel your lips curving of their own accord. You can’t deny how good it feels to hear him laugh, and you suddenly want more. “Honestly!” You lean into it, advancing on him as threateningly as you can in a blouse and miniskirt, though you know he sees the mirth dancing in your eyes. He backs up a step, playing into your game as you huff, “You’re so—!”

“I can drive myself to the hospital. I don’t need you!” 

The shout cuts you off, and your smile dies abruptly as you and Eddie look toward the source of the disturbance. It’s Matt, your date, scowling as he hops down to the asphalt. He’s arguing with Steve, who pops from behind the ambulance to follow him to the sidewalk.

“Sir—” Matt’s ignoring him, stalking toward you with intent. “I can’t force you, but I really must advise you not to drive yourself.” 

Matt whirls on him, pointing a finger in his chest. “I know what you’re trying to do. You just want me to take the ambulance because you’ll get paid more. It’s all a big scam.”

Steve’s brow scrunches in an incredulous wince, and embarrassment curdles in your stomach as you watch Matt’s face transform into smugness. “See?” The triumph in the curl of his smile is entirely undeserved. “Can’t argue with the facts. I’m onto you, buddy.” 

Exasperation, embarrassment, and self-consciousness mix potently as you feel the weight of Eddie’s eyes on the back of your head like a physical presence. Impulsively, you blurt, “I’ll just drive you in your car, Matt. Come on.” 

Matt shoots Steve one last dirty look as you bustle over to him, crossing your arms as he levels Eddie with the same. “They’re just doing their jobs, Matt,” you say, tone bitten a little short as you lead him to the entrance of the restaurant.

“What’re we going back in there for?” he asks, and you blink at him.

“...We have to pay for our food and get our coats,” you say patiently, trying very hard to remain composed. Matt grumbles but pulls open the door for you, and as you pass through the threshold, you hear one last raspy, musical call follow you.

“See ya, Trouble!”

You hasten toward your table as Matt scowls, questioning you suspiciously. “Hey. Why does he keep calling you that? D’you know that guy?” 

You just sigh heavily, plastering on a smile as you flag down your waiter to explain the situation. And as you drive your date to the hospital, only one thought follows you. 

Leave it to a crisis to reveal peoples’ true natures.

Truthfully, the unfortunate shellfish incident was a blessing in disguise. After taking Matt to the hospital for further treatment and listening to him gripe on the ride home, you’d waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling he may have stirred within you without a shred of resistance. In recounting the tale to Josie, crowded together on the settee in her one-bedroom walkup with half-drunk Trulys in hand, you’d both reached a consensus on the following conclusion:

That bullet was well and truly dodged.

“Enough about fifth-floor fools,” Josie quips, scootching closer as you sip your bubbly and hissing with eagerness, “I can’t believe it was that same guy again! How many times have you run into him now?”

You hide your smile behind the can. “Three,” you say, keeping your voice carefully neutral. But you can’t fool Josie; she’s known you longer than anyone else, aside from your parents. She’s nearly your sister— you spend half your time sleeping at her apartment on the weekends since it’s closer to downtown, and many of the belongings littering the tiny square of her place are yours. Sometimes you feel silly for still living with your parents, but you remind yourself it’s a perfectly reasonable way to save money until you can afford your own place. And you’d move in with Josie, but her apartment is really only meant for one; you end up squeezed into her twin bed or cramped up on the settee whenever you spend a drunken night there, and that's not a permanent solution.

Josie swoons against you. “It’s so romantic,” she gushes, and you squirm at the unexpected sentimentality coming from your raincloud friend. “It’s like fate’s bringing you together.” When she eyes you suddenly, the glint of craziness has you shaking your head before she’s even gotten the words out. “You know, I’m feeling some mashed potatoes. Don’t you want mashed potatoes?” You don’t respond, and she barrels on. “Yeah, I really think you should go, like, chop some potatoes. And then, you know, just accidentally let the knife slip—”

“Josie!”

“What?! Like, don’t cut deep,” she defends, drawing her index in a slanted line across her palm before grinning suggestively. “Just deep enough to need stitches so you can ride him—” she feigns innocence— “sorry, Freudian slip— I meant riiiiiiiiide him in the back of his ambulance—” She bursts into laughter at the horror on your face when she salaciously repeats the same phrase, delighted to have tricked you into thinking it was a mistake the first time.

“Josie!” You snap again, face flooding with heat as she cackles, deriving great pleasure from your embarrassment. “I’m not going to cut my hand open just to hope Eddie shows up. That’s so stupid.”

“Aw,” she pretends to pout, “well, how else are you gonna see him again?”

You scoff, shaking your head, cheeks still tingling with your blush. “Who says I even wanna see him again?” you grumble, turning away from your best friend and chugging your Truly to ward off her response.

But you can’t deny that meeting Eddie three times did, in some way, feel… maybe not like fate, but like more than a coincidence. And in the days following your failed date with Matt, you find your thoughts drifting to that musical voice, those honey-brown eyes, the brush of your elbow against his hot skin, and the way his plush lips formed the letters of the nickname he’d given you:

‘Trouble.’

You’d eagerly waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling you’d had for Matt, but suddenly, there's a paramedic-shaped absence in your life that you feel every time you walk from the parking lot to your office building and glance across the street, eyes lingering on that bench beneath the cherry trees.

After a week, you acknowledge it, accept it, and allow yourself to secretly indulge in the crush you’d formed on the heavy-metal knockoff with the septum piercing and the most endearing laugh you’d ever heard. It lingers in the back of your mind, prompting you to slow the roll of your shopping cart in the bakery aisle of Trader Joe’s and pause beside the package of adorably-named Peanut Butter Brookies. As you pick it up, examining the half-peanut butter cookie half-brownies, you can't help but think of the protein bar with the same flavor.

It's silly. It's inane. It's entirely over the top, and you’d absolutely die of embarrassment if Josie found out. But before you can let yourself buckle with self-consciousness, you quickly add the package of baked goods to your cart and roll on. And on Monday morning, you slip it into your laptop bag. 

A thank-you gift for a lunch sacrificed, carried around just in case.

Monday bleeds into Friday, and still, the brownies remain ungifted, perfectly intact inside their hard plastic casing. You check the expiration date, which wasn’t for another two weeks, and they taunt you on your parents’ counter, mocking your whimsy. Still, when your dad comes sniffing curiously around, you feel a spike of instant dismay and snatch them before he can break the seal. He looks entirely baffled as you carry them protectively up to your room.

“Wha—” You ignore his confusion as you tramp up the steps, depositing the brookies back in your bag. You sigh, a sound of long-suffering exasperation with yourself and your own inanity. One more week, you resolve. If I don’t see him this week, I’m forgetting all about this.

And it appears, as Friday rolls around again, that you would need to abandon your silly crush on the paramedic you’d bumped into thrice in three months. Your laptop bag thumps against your thigh as you push open the heavy glass doors of your office building, emerging into the brisk chill of late September, tempered by the golden light of the deepening sun. You allow yourself to sulk, indulging in your disappointment until you reach the glittering blue paint of your Honda Civic. Fate is a fickle mistress. You sigh as you unlock the door and flump into the driver’s seat, depositing your laptop bag onto the floor on the other side of the console. You allow yourself an ironic smile, shaking your head at the notion of fate as you start the car and idle as you tap the phone icon on the screen, intending to call Josie to discuss your plans for the weekend.

Yet when you hit it, it doesn’t pull up your contacts as expected. Instead, it pulls up the list of Bluetooth devices it remembers, and you scrunch your nose at the words ‘y/n’s iPhone’ on the screen, wondering why it wouldn't just connect automatically. But when you tap it, waiting impatiently until the request times out, you realize what the problem is.

You must have left your phone in your cubicle.

Another sigh, this one longer and far more exasperated at the thought of trekking all the way back to the office after a long work day. You briefly consider just going home without your phone, but it’s Friday, and that would mean languishing without it for the entire weekend. A momentary inconvenience now is not worth the giant inconvenience that would be.

You groan as you pull your laptop bag back into your lap, petulantly pulling the strap over your head as you lock your car and begin the walk back to the office.

All looks the same as it had ten minutes before— the golden sun is still glinting off the windows you wish your cubicle faced, and the cherry trees are still swaying gently across the street. 

The only thing not the same is the ambulance sitting stationary against the curb across from those heavy glass doors.

Your footsteps falter in surprise for only a moment before incredulous giddiness has your heart racing. There’s no fucking way, you think, stamping down on your excitement as you maintain outward composure, walking calmly up to your office building despite the fluttering you feel inside. You even whisper temperance as you pull open the door, wincing as that typical blast of cold air hits you. “Don’t be ridiculous,” you tell yourself as the clacking of your heels echoes hollowly in the lobby. “There’s no such thing as fate—”

The elevator dings cheerily, and the stretcher emerges first, revealing a pair of familiar leopard-printed flats and the rich darkness of your coworker Doris’ pudgy legs. You stop, eyes going wide as her torso, chest, neck, and head are slowly revealed. Her half-moon glasses are slightly askew, the crystal chain clinking against the heavy earrings dragging down her drooping earlobes as she’s maneuvered gently into the lobby.

Your mutterings about fate are abandoned immediately as you rush with concern. “Doris!” you exclaim in dismay. “Oh my gosh, are you okay? What happened?” 

She draws steadily closer as you stand in the middle of the lobby, her stretcher wheeled by medical personnel. You don’t look at them, eyes locked on your coworker as she grimaces at you. You know Doris is accident-prone, but this is beyond a little coffee pot mishap. Your chest tightens with nervousness at the pain on her face. She grunts, humphing, “Tripped and broke my damn ankle.” She shakes her head as if with disgust. “I told Doug I could’ve made it down myself, but he insisted on calling the ambulance.” She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is humiliating.”

Your brow crinkles with sympathy, voice going gentle with reassurance. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, Doris,” you say, looking at her encouragingly as she slants a glance in your direction.

She enunciates each word very deliberately, snapping, “I broke my ankle tripping on a damn pencil, y/n.”

You purse your lips to keep from smiling, though the laugh builds up in your chest, wanting to burst out. In your defense, because of the potent combination of Doris’ accident-prone nature, her delivery of that line, and, truthfully, the fact that you can’t help but imagine what it looked like when she tripped over a pencil. Who trips over a pencil?!

It’s not funny. It’s NOT funny.

With the barest shred of merciful dignity, you manage to maintain your composure. “I’m sorry, Doris,” is all you can manage, and you rotate as she’s rolled even with you to keep facing her. The older woman humphs as she passes, and your eyes dart to the back of the large paramedic’s head, running over the bristles of his short hair as he diverts to the wall to hit the switch that automatically opens the door for wheelchairs.

You relax your mouth and let the smile grow as you turn away from Doris, but your heart leaps into your throat as you stop short just an inch from colliding with the second paramedic, who is standing far too close for comfort. Your heart leaps into your throat but drops into your ass as you register the honey-brown of his eyes, the wild curls that frame his pale face, and the scent of smoke and spice as Eddie towers over you.

You freeze, and your belly flutters wildly as his full lips split with a grin. “Hey there, Trouble,” he says, and for a moment, all you can do is blink at him mutely until your brain connects with your mouth.

“Eddie!” you exclaim, and in your surprise, you don’t temper your reaction to seeing him. You beam brightly, eyes wide with delight as he falls back on his heels, jamming his hands in his pockets. His expression melts into pleasure at the sound of his name so keen in your mouth.

“You know,” he teases, voice pitched a little lower than usual, “you didn’t have to plant that pencil if you wanted to see me again.”

But the implication of his teasing words and his tone skates right over your head because you’re already digging in your laptop bag, singularly focused on the unexpected rush of being able to deliver your gift. “I wanted to give you this—” you pull out the package with an air of triumph, “to thank you for, well… everything with Matt, I guess, but also for the protein bar. I figured you like peanut butter and chocolate.” 

You thrust the brookies toward him, and Eddie takes the package gingerly, staring down at it. You watch a couple of microexpressions dart across his face, too quick to decipher, and then he’s crooking a smile at you. “Thanks,” he says, “that’s really cool of you.” 

You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth, and as Eddie stares at you for a moment, you suddenly become aware that he might think it’s weird you’ve been carting around a container of food, hoping to run into him. Before you can stumble too far down that rabbit hole, Eddie redirects you, asking casually, “So, how’s Shellfish doin’? Holding up okay now?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Your honest answer comes quick and unabashed. “There was no third date.”

There’s a flicker of something behind Eddie’s eyes, and then it’s gone. He leans in, cupping one hand to the side of his mouth as if speaking in confidence. “Y’ask me, I think you dodged a bullet. A man who doesn’t know his mollusks is not a good catch.” 

You chuckle at the play on words, and Eddie seems tickled that you’d caught on quickly. A dimple emerges on his cheek, and you feel that low fluttering again. “He was a little too macho for me anyway,” you say dismissively, shrugging and hoping he gets the message that you couldn’t care less about Matt. “He had a big ego, and I didn’t like the way he talked to Steve. It’s like he had to be the big man on campus.” 

Eddie snorts, a little sardonic as he replies, “Well, maybe he should date my ex. She loves that tough guy shi—” he glances at you quickly, seeming a little embarrassed of his almost slip-up. “—stuff. She called me a glorified nurse as if that’s an insult.” 

You come alive with warmth, choosing to take that to mean Eddie is single. And not only to mean that he’s single, but that he wants you to know he is, now that you said you’re single. That giddiness is returning, filling you up until you might burst; impulsively, riding that high, you say, “Can’t say I agree. Personally, I like a man who has a nurturing side.”

You don’t know where the hell that sudden boldness came from, and you rush with shyness almost immediately afterward as you see Eddie’s brows jerk. For the briefest moment, he looks taken aback, and then he’s beaming that eye-crinkling smile. It’s almost manic, brighter than any you’ve seen on him yet, and it’s utterly beautiful.  

“Munson!”

Eddie startles at the sharp, impatient shout from outside, and you realize that it must be his partner calling him. Eddie stutters into action, fumbling through an apology as he jerks toward the doors with your gift rattling in his hand. “No, it’s fine,” you assure him, and when he glances back at you one more time before tugging open the heavy glass, you bite your lip, fluttering when you see the pink on his cheeks.

You watch him through the glass as he jogs over to the ambulance, his long curls bouncing as he disappears from your view. Part of you— a big part of you— is resisting the sibilant whisper that it would be awkward to follow him, and you’re just about to do it when the elevator dings again. You turn toward it automatically, meeting the panicked eyes of your office’s youngest intern, Carrie. 

She seems surprised to see you, and her mousy nose quivers as her eyes widen. “You’re back?” she squeaks, rushing toward you immediately.

“Yeah,” you say cautiously, “I forgot my phone—”

She clutches your arms, quivering with desperation. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I was hoping to catch you in the parking lot—” You’re alarmed to see the sheen in her eyes, the wobble of her lip. “I really need your help.”

Immediately, your hand finds her shoulder, concern welling up to replace all else. “Look, Carrie, it’s okay,” you say, guiding her back to the elevator. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

By the time she’d wavered through her explanation, and you’d helped her fix the “crisis”— a simple jam in the new Xerox made unreasonably urgent by your boss’ exaggerated threat that if anyone broke the expensive copier, they’d be paying for it out of their earnings— you return to the lobby to find the street conspicuously lacking in one unmistakeable red and white vehicle.

The walk back to the parking lot— plus one phone and minus a package of baked goods— is dull and lackluster. Disappointment swoops in your gut as your foolish hope that maybe you’d catch the ambulance down the block is dashed when you reach your car with no such sightings. And you can’t even curse fate because you’ve gotten your wish. 

Fickle as ever, she’d delivered Eddie to you so you could return his kindness as you’d hoped. But she’d ignored the secret yearning of your heart, leaving you at the mercy of her whims.

And she wouldn’t oblige you again without a cost.

 It’s the burst of an impact you couldn’t possibly brace for. There’s the squeal of brakes and then the sickening crunch of metal. Powder in your mouth as you gasp. A rain of shattered glass. And then ringing, deafening silence.

In the stillness, the moments replay over and over, winding through your mind like a snake chasing its tail, each bone of its spine a single, disjointed thought. 

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

Your mother forgot the cranberries.

You were driving home from the store.

You stopped at the corner of Macopin and Hamberg Turnpike.

Two roads feed into one; the leftmost has the right of way.

There’s a cop car waiting at the left fork.

He waved you on.

You didn’t see the box truck coming around the corner.

He waved you on.

So you went.

The ringing, deafening silence dissolves slowly into sounds— the blare of a police siren, the hissing of a radiator. You turn your head slowly and glance at the passenger seat for your phone, and your stomach lurches at what’s past it: the crumpled remains of the passenger-side door where your vehicle is pinned against the guardrail, and beyond, the sea of trees it’s protecting you from.

There are tiny clatters of glass as you shift restlessly, heart pumping frantically as the shock begins to wear off and the adrenaline kicks in. Right outside your window, the hood of the box truck is bent and warped, and if you were to reach out your shattered window, you could run your palm along the warm metal. The reality then sets in: you’d been hit by a box truck and pinned against the guardrail.

You’re lucky to be alive.

A voice swims, echoing in your ears. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

You try to blink the daze away, to break free of the two thoughts the fractured bones of the snake have transformed into. Thank God I was driving dad’s Suburban. If I’d been in my car…. You desperately do not want to finish that sentence. 

You whimper with effort, and the voice returns more urgently. “Ma’am. Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” you call weakly. 

The voice comes again. “Are you hurt?” 

“I—” You move slowly, shifting your body minutely. A bend of your elbow. A shrug of your shoulder. Something along your collarbone aches like a burn. “I don’t know,” you reply honestly, and your voice wavers with the realization. Slowly, other sensations emerge: you discern sharp soreness in your arm. You wince, and that tightening of your forehead stings. You can’t see your legs; they’re concealed beneath the airbag, and your heart pumps harder. 

Suddenly, you’re holding your breath. You’re afraid to shift your legs, afraid to feel a rush of pain, or worse, to try to move them and feel nothing at all. 

You turn your head fractionally, eyes straining to see out the shattered window, but the box truck is in the way. “EMS is on their way, ma’am. We’re gonna get you out of here.” You realize then that the voice must belong to the cop.

“Thank you.” You feel your eyes rush with tears. “Is… is the other guy…?”

“He’s okay,” the cop answers, and you breathe a shaky sigh of relief, letting it puff out your cheeks.

“Okay,” you answer in a small voice, and there is no reply.

As you wait for EMS to arrive, you concentrate on doing everything you can to reduce your panic, knowing that the worst thing you can do is allow yourself to freak out. You take slow, deep breaths, resisting the urge to suck in air greedily even as your lungs protest. By degrees, very gradually, the frantic pumping of your heart begins to slow, and the airbag at your steering wheel starts to deflate. And by the time it’s sagging flat against the wheel, you hear the crunch of nearby tires over grass and gravel and see a long flash of red beyond the vehicle wedged against your own. That must be the firetruck. As your body calms, experimentally, you begin to test out some movements, starting with the low-risk ones. Slowly, you bend your elbows until your hands are in front of your face and examine your fingers and arms. There’s a quickly-forming contusion swelling on your left forearm, and anxiety spikes once again until you run your fingers over it. It hurts, but not that badly, and you breathe a sigh of relief that it doesn’t seem to be broken. You feel along your face blindly, and there’s some stinging on your forehead and left cheek, but otherwise, there is no pain. Without moving your head, you unbuckle yourself and pull down the neckline of your sweater. As you feel around, you discover that the pain travels diagonally across your collarbone, and your fingers don’t come away with blood. Logically, the sting on your chest is likely just a burn from the seatbelt.

Higher-risk movements come next. You shift so, so slowly, resolving to stop as soon as you encounter any pain. But you turn your head, and there is none; you wiggle your toes, and they move. You sway your hips, and they obey, and when you lean forward toward the steering wheel, you meet no resistance.

Somehow, you think you’re okay. You don’t anticipate the rush of emotion the realization conjures, and a tear slips to cut through the airbag powder on your cheek.

You hear footsteps and voices approaching then, but still, all you can really see is the bent-up hood of the box truck. Slowly, the sounds discern themselves into words. And it’s a revelation that pulls another tear from your eyes when you realize one voice is familiar. 

He’s saying, “The cop said it’s a woman. She’s lucid—”

Your voice comes out small but sweet with melty hope. “Eddie?” 

The voice ceases immediately, and the silence is like a chasm. And then you hear your name rasped in that musical timbre. “...y/n?” 

You breathe a laugh, shaky with relief. “Yeah,” you croak. “It’s me.” Instantly, the lingering stormclouds— the apprehension, the shame, the acrid, biting fear— all disperse as you picture a bright smile and honey-brown eyes, leaving behind only the tracks of dew on your cheek and the singular belief that now, everything will be okay.

“Harrington,” Eddie barks, “tell those fuckers to hurry up and get this truck out of the goddamn way.”

Every ounce of tension you’d been relieved of is tightening that musical voice now as it goes impossibly harsh. “Hey!” The sudden bite of his shout is shocking. “Let’s go! What the fuck is taking so long?”

A sliver of Eddie peeks at the edge of the window, and his voice gentles again. “Are you hurt, sweetheart?” 

“No, I think I’m okay,” you say, shaking your head. 

Some grit, some tight urgency returns as he says, “No, don’t do that. Don’t move your head. Just stay still. Stay right there, okay? We’re gonna get you out.”

As bodies flit around in the background, you stare at the sliver of Eddie’s face— the paleness of his skin, the dark curtain of his hair, the glint of silver in his earlobe— waiting for the moment you can see his eyes again. You stare as uniformed men crowd around the truck, and you stare until it begins to roll away, pushed by their combined effort. And as soon as there’s enough room, Eddie is shuffling sideways until his face fills the window, honey-brown eyes wide and just as breathtaking as you remembered.

Before either of you can speak, Eddie is urged bodily out of the way to make room for the firefighters, who try to open the door only to find it stuck. One of them brings over a corded device held two-handed while the other passes you a scratchy orange blanket through the opening of your window. “We need to remove the door,” he tells you. “Hold this up to protect yourself.”

From behind the curtain of orange, you listen to them slowly and meticulously peel away the door of your father’s destroyed car. Eventually, after some long minutes, the shadow beyond the blanket falls away, and you hear the thump of heavy metal hitting the grass. And when hands pull the blanket away, the reveal of dark curls, lanky limbs, and a familiar handsome face fills you with a sense of awe that any magician would envy.

Ta-da.

“Hey, Trouble.” Eddie’s voice is gentle but hoarse, and he’s smiling, but it’s a little tight. You think his face looks pale as he looks up at you; you’re a few inches taller than him where he’s standing on the ground. His eyes rove over you restlessly. “How're you feelin’?” 

“I’m okay, I think,” you say again as Steve comes to stand beside Eddie, holding a neck brace. “I don’t think I need that,” you add. “I feel fine.” You turn your head to demonstrate, and Eddie instantly scowls.

“Look—”

Steve cuts in smoothly. “Does anything hurt? Anything feel numb?” 

You shake your head, stilling your movement when Eddie jerks forward, jaw clenched tight. “Just my arm hurts, but I don’t feel numb.” You show them the contusion on your left arm, which looks no worse than it did earlier. 

You can see that Eddie is still doubtful, but Steve walks you through basic checks. “Wiggle your toes for me.” “Try to move your foot up.” “Now the other one.” “Bend forward.” You follow his instructions easily, and in the end, he shifts back, conceding that you are, indeed, likely unharmed— at least in any crucial way. 

Eddie abruptly hoists himself onto the kickplate, planting his feet and filling the space where the door used to be. His closeness is sudden, and your eyes dart over everything— the metal of his belt buckle that’s now even with your bent elbow, the black on black on black of his paramedic uniform, the neck of his collared shirt that pulls further open to reveal more pale skin as he reaches for you. And then he’s everywhere, bending forward until his curls are brushing your cheek and his smoke and spice is in your nose and your stomach is fluttering so wildly you feel you might fly away.

“Hold onto me,” he mutters, and his voice is so close— low and musical and hoarsened by something that sticks in his throat— that your breath catches. His hand wedges between your legs and the seat, and gingerly, you wrap your arms around his neck and lift your knees so he can slide his arm underneath them. When his other arm comes across your back, muscles flexing to test your weight, you realize that he means to pick you up.

“I can just jump down, you know,” you say, and the wheezy chuckle he huffs into your hair is half-amused and half-incredulous.

“See,” Eddie says, and you feel him shift, testing his balance as his arms tighten around you, “this is why I call you Trouble.” The teasing warmth of his voice brings a flush to your cheeks, and instinctively, you duck your head against his shoulder. When you do, and your lips skim the column of Eddie’s throat, you feel the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. “Hold tight, okay?”

You tighten your arms obligingly and nod, and as the plump of your lips brushes the warmth of Eddie’s skin, he lifts you out of the broken skeleton of your crushed vehicle.

There is no time to worry about whether you’re too heavy or if Eddie will drop you because, before you know it, he’s laying you on the nearby stretcher. His hand finds your shoulder and presses you gently, though firmly, flat to the tilted back. Your eyes dart among the personnel that still litter the grass until they catch on the cars driving slowly past, and beyond them, the fated intersection— the nexus of this entire mess.

Suddenly, Steve is at your elbow. “Do you want to go to the hospital?” 

“Yes,” Eddie interrupts before you can reply, and your eyes dart between them as Steve shoots him a weird look. But Eddie doesn’t waver. “She’s going.” 

“Only if she wants to—” 

“She’s going whether she wants to or not,” Eddie interrupts him, nostrils flared and voice a little sharp. “She needs to be evaluated.” 

“I wanna go, Steve.” You head off the storm you can sense brewing between them. “I wanna go to the hospital. Can someone just get my phone and my bag?”

“We’ll make sure all your personal belongings are with you, ma’am.” It’s the cop from before, speaking from a short distance away. You nod, glancing at each of the men as Steve and Eddie continue to stare at one another for a tense moment before Steve mutely takes hold of the stretcher’s metal frame. Eddie does the same on your other side, and together, they load you into the ambulance.

It isn’t exactly a shock when Eddie hoists himself up beside you, shutting the back doors with a definitive thunk. His heavy boots clunk along the metal flooring as he flanks you, sitting down on a stool near your elbow, nearly hovering over you like a stone-faced sentinel. It’s odd to see him like this— tense and wound tight, his mouth pressed into a hard line as his eyes dart over your body restlessly, never settling in one place. He’s always been so calm and casual in every encounter you’ve had with him, and you’d figured that's just what he was always like. You think of how he’d felt carefully along Josie’s nose, occasionally glancing toward the stage as Spiritbox played one of their best songs. How he’d seemed friendly and warm though also detached.

You think, as his lips twist and he rips open the zipper of his med pack, that Eddie is not detached right now. And that thought makes you go warm with its implications.

As the ambulance rumbles to life, Eddie pulls out a small cylindrical object and sets it down on a tray. He pulls on rubber gloves, roughly tugging them down his hands before firmly taking your wrist, fingertips on your pulse point. You watch him wide-eyed as he stares at his watch to count the beats before letting you go. 

When his hands find your abdomen, you jolt in surprise, and he pauses for only a moment before pressing down on your belly. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he says, and the part of you that was flattered thinking about what the loss of his composure might mean flares in exasperation instead.

“I feel fine,” you tell him.

Eddie doesn’t look up or stop his palpations. “Could have internal bleeding,” he mutters, almost as if to himself.

“I am not bleeding internally, Eddie,” you say, trying to remain patient. 

“Who’s the medical professional here?” You think he’s trying to joke, but it falls flat between you since his voice is too tense to hold the same musical charm as his normal teasing. 

You sigh heavily, enduring until he’s satisfied. “There, see—?” A sudden light blinds your left eye, and you wince, unable to maintain your composure any longer. “Eddie, what the hell?!”

Undeterred, he checks the other eye in the same way, ignoring your squirming. “I’m checking your pupillary response,” he says. “You could have a concussion.” 

And with that, he starts talking. And once Eddie starts, he does not stop. 

Your arm is throbbing, the skin on your chest stings, and now your head is spinning with each word that comes out of his mouth. “Head trauma,” “loss of coordination,” “muscle laxity,” “cerebral hemorrhage,” “disorientation,” “amnesia,” “vision disturbance,” “hematoma.” Eddie’s rambling goes on until you finally snap his name. “Irritability,” he says, nodding to himself.

You huff. “No, Eddie, I’m not irritable. You’re just giving me a headache.”

That doesn’t make him stop; that makes it worse. In an instant, he’s standing, not realizing that you were exaggerating for effect. His face is hovering over you as he braces his hands on the metal bars caging you into the stretcher, eyes darting as he questions you intently. “Where is the pain? Is it sharp and shooting? Dull and aching? How bad is it, scale of one to ten?” 

You suppress a whine because despite your attempt to dissuade him, now he’s blathering on even more, and his gloved thumb is running over your forehead, and you can’t even enjoy it because his touch is stinging the tiny cuts on your skin. And all you want is for him to stop talking, and he won’t. Eddie just won’t shut up—

Impulsively, you fist your hands in the fabric of his shirt, surging up as you yank him down, swallowing his words as you kiss him firmly.

The words stop instantly, but Eddie also stiffens, going completely rigid as you kiss him. And the fact that you can taste him— smoke and spice like Big Red chewing gum— drives home exactly what you’ve done and how unbelievably inappropriate it is. 

You release him, flopping back onto the stretcher with your hands curled against your chest as the heat floods your face with such intensity that you fear your flesh might melt from your bones. Hot mortification rushes through you, nearly nauseating as Eddie stares at you, expression unreadable, eyes dark in the dim light of the ambulance and lips downturned just slightly at the corners. Embarrassed isn’t the word for it. The seconds that tick by are nearly unbearable, and if you could, you would sink into the floor, descend to the asphalt and below to the dirt, and then down, down, down through the surface of the earth to melt in its molten core just to escape this moment. 

Finally, once you’ve begun to break out into a cold sweat, Eddie says hoarsely, “You sure you aren’t concussed?” 

Your brow crumples with dismay, but then he’s cupping your face, his broad palm cradling your cheek, and his hand is warm beneath the latex. And you barely have time to appreciate how those honey-brown eyes soften before Eddie’s ducking to kiss you. 

It’s the second time you’ve felt his lips, and now, you don’t panic. You just bloom. 

Eddie’s lips are warm and soft and just slightly chapped, enough to make them rasp against yours pleasantly when he shifts his head slightly. You make a little noise against his mouth when he lingers, and your heart melts when you feel him smile. He parts from you just briefly to make it sweeter when he kisses you softly again, and then once more before finally pulling far enough away to gaze at you. He murmurs, and the teasing cadence is back in his musical voice. “Y’didn’t have to get yourself hit by a box truck to see me, you know.” 

You feel dazed in the best way. “Yeah?” you say, voice small and delicate and questioning. Eddie smiles, and you lean into his touch as he strokes your cheek with his thumb. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. 

Your eyes widen hopefully. “So does this mean you’re gonna take me to the drive-in?”

Eddie throws back his head and laughs— not a barking, surprised laugh, or a goofy, husky chuckle, but a rasp of pure relief and delight that has you blooming with pride. You don’t even mind that his hand falls from your cheek to clutch at the railing for support. When he straightens, his curls are wild and beautiful as they frame his face, his honey-brown eyes are twinkling, and that dimple you’re becoming partial to is out for you again.

“Slow your roll, Trouble,” he says fondly. “Let’s get you checked out first, and then we can talk about shakes and a movie.” 

The only drive-in movie theatre in the state is half an hour away, and the final showing before they close for the season is next Wednesday, and if that’s not fate, you don’t know what is.

It doesn’t matter that it’s rather a lot colder than it typically is at the very end of November. The inside of Eddie’s refurbished 1979 Chevelle is toasty, and you’re cuddled up under numerous knitted throws you’d gathered from your parents’ house, so the chill of the milkshake on your fingers doesn’t bother you. You set yours in the cupholder beside Eddie’s, strawberry next to chocolate. You nearly double-take when you pick his up and shake it, eyes darting to mischievous honey-brown when you realize it’s already more than half gone. You take a pouty sip, letting the taste of rich chocolate melt and mingle with fruity strawberry in a perfect melding of flavors. Eddie snatches your cup, pursing his lips around your straw and sucking cheekily. The chunky rings that glint on his fingers are unfamiliar but entirely welcome, and so are the battle vest, the green flannel, and the tight jeans ripped at the knees that replace his typical paramedic uniform. Finally being able to see Eddie in his street clothes still hasn’t worn off, and you tingle even as you pretend to glare at him.

“You better not drink all of mine just because you nearly finished yours before the movie’s even started,” you tell him, trying to maintain your glare even though it’s already melting at the charming grin Eddie hits you with.

“Oh, Trouble,” he sighs, eyebrows crinkling in pretend earnestness, and you fight stubbornly against your lips. “I would never drink all of your milkshake. Mr. J would never let me live it down if I did.”

You lose the battle then, plunking his cup back in the cupholder as you grumble through your smile. He replaces your cup smoothly, smacking his lips in an exaggeration of enjoyment, eyes glittering. “Man, your shake really is good, though. If I didn’t like you so much, I might be tempted to finish it.”

His grin turns wolfish as you blush and look away. You’ve only gone out twice, but it's clear by now that Eddie enjoys nothing more than seeing the effect he has on you— the way his words and touches can conjure goosebumps, shivers, and blushes from thin air. Sourly you sit there, wracking your brain for how to get him back.

It comes to you, and your lips curve with a smirk. Suddenly, you know just the thing. 

You begin to deepen your breaths, exaggerating the rise of your chest and frowning in confusion. “Eddie? I feel faint,” you say weakly, glancing at him to see the enjoyment fall from his face as he transitions instantly into medical mode.

“What’s wrong?” he says, his typical calm paramedic cadence edged with concern. Your lips twitch as you hear it, but you suppress the impulse, wanting to continue your game. “Sweetheart, is it your head? Do you feel dizzy? What does it feel like?”

“I think…” you pause dramatically, eyes darting to take in his reaction, “...you’ve taken my breath away.” 

Eddie’s concern flattens as he stares at you, entirely unimpressed. You just beam, pleased with yourself, and in the light of your smile, the mask of disapproval cracks; the dimple emerges as he loses the battle with his own grin. With faint amusement and plenty of fondness, Eddie says, “You really are trouble, aren’t you?” 

The giant screen blazes to life in front of you, casting Eddie’s wild curls in a faint glow. The planes of his face soften in the light as the film begins, but neither of you move to switch on the radio yet. You simply gaze at him for a moment— this heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing and a not-so-secret heart of gold. When your sentiment floods your eyes, you watch Eddie’s honey-brown melt in kind. You hum your agreement, leaning over the armrest, and when Eddie meets you halfway, you reward him with a tender kiss. “I really am,” you murmur against his lips, and they brush yours as he smiles. 

“Well, Trouble, it’s a good thing I know CPR,” he murmurs. And as the Wednesday double-feature begins, the movie’s soundtrack becomes the delight of your giggles, the warmth of Eddie’s chuckles, and the sweet press of your lips meeting again and again.

[sarcasticnovah]

that was adorable- holy shit

[blueywrites]

trouble

modern au, emt!eddie x fem!reader. the four times you aren't hurt and the one time you are. pure fluff, a little drama, mentions of blood, non-graphic depictions of injuries. (15.8k)

For @newlips' Milestone of Love celebration. Congrats, lovely! 💙

fun fact: the scenario described in Scene 5 is actually pulled directly from real life, minus the pretty metalhead (unfortunately 😔). Also, blame my fatigued brain for not mentioning this last night, but HUGE thanks to my loves @myosotisa @fracturedarkness @abibliophobiaa and @hauntingbastille for all your help and ideas!! Couldn't have done it without you bbys 🫶💙🌻

The sun is beating down on your head, conjuring a halo of sweat that stings your eyes. You’d thrown your hair up into a claw clip some time ago, but it’s coming loose now as you’re jostled by elbows and knees. It’s all claustrophobia, all heat, all overwhelming sensations— the tang of sweat and alcohol on the back of your tongue, the thrum of bass rattling your ribcage, and the roar of guttural screaming ringing in your ears. 

You can’t get enough.

You’re a dot of pastel sweetness in a sea of undulating black, the only person at this concert wearing a straw crossbody bag and a dainty summer dress. Though it’s July and nearly ninety-five degrees out, everyone else is dressed in black and chains and ripped denim, sweating even more heavily than you are, thick black eyeliner running as they sing along to Spiritbox’s ‘Blessed Be.’ Your best friend Josie is the same— dark hair shaved on the sides but matted with sweat as it spikes down her back, though her denim cutoffs and fishnet stockings are marginally more practical than the black jeans many others are wearing. You’re practical, too; despite the tiny flowers on your dress and the sweet diamond studs in your ears, your white Converse are just as scuffed as the heavy boots around you.

The band Spiritbox is one of the only interests you and your best friend have in common. Since elementary school, you’ve been the visual equivalent of a sun to her raincloud. Though your tastes differ, your personalities mesh seamlessly, leaving you still thick as thieves; despite going to different colleges, you’d both returned home and found jobs nearby, picking up exactly where you’d left off four years before. It’s obvious why Josie would like this band— she thrives on everything metal and alternative. You typically gravitate toward indie music, but you really love the contrast of Courtney's delicate vocals and the heavy driving music punctuated by Mike's guttural growls. The screaming unlocks something primal inside you, and you bob your head and shout until your voice breaks, sounding just like everyone else. 

Your attention is drawn from the stage as bodies to your right compress together when a pit starts to form further up. Instantly, you know what that means; you’re still singing along, but you stop when Josie’s slippery hand finds yours, pulling you in that direction. Her olive green eyes flash eagerly as she glances back at you, and you communicate your acceptance through an answering smile. Josie squeezes between bodies to find the edge of the mosh pit, where she deposits you before diving head-first into the fray.

This isn’t your first Spiritbox show, and you know what to do: you brace, resisting the push of the crowd and jutting your elbows to maintain your space as you watch more dark-clad figures join the writhing, thrashing mess. You split your attention between the pit and the stage, content to keep an eye on your friend and let the coiled aggression of flung bodies stir you further, accentuating the music. You have no desire to mosh, and Josie knows that, but you enjoy watching while she shoves and bounces off others, sharp limbs swinging wildly, staggering with sparkling eyes and a broad grin—

The deafening music muffles the sound of a thick elbow connecting sharply with Josie’s face, but the visual is so jarring that you could swear you hear the crack.

“Josie!” Your hoarse cry cuts through to the closest two thrashing bodies, who halt at its urgency. Despite how violent a mosh pit appears to be, as soon as the moshers realize someone is hurt, the aggression dissolves on impact. You reach out your hands as a chain of helping hands deposits your friend before you with haste. 

You guide her immediately through the crowd, which parts almost eagerly at the sight of her blood painting the ground, pressed into the grass by heavy boots. You wince at the hunch of your friend’s shoulders, the visible pain on her face; one of her hands covers her nose but does little to staunch the sticky flow of blood. Josie relies on you to direct her, watery eyes nearly scrunched closed as you emerge from the press of damp bodies at the back of the crowd, dodging around stragglers, eyes scanning for a white canopy and red emblem designating the first aid station. It’s over on the right, peeking over that sea of black, and you head that way.

When you get there, both of the young men there are standing like statues facing the stage, showing you a mop of unruly light brown waves and a long ponytail of dark frizzy curls that might look feminine if it wasn’t for the obvious broadness of his shoulders. 

As you reach the table with Josie, the taller man with the ponytail is the first to notice your approach. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved collared shirt tucked into belted pants, all black on black on black. In fact, he looks more suited to join the crowd than to tend them with the smattering of tattoos on his pale arms and the shaggy bangs that feather his forehead. And he glints with silver— a silver chain around his neck, rings of silver through his ears, even a silver septum piercing with spiked ends that peeks from the bottom of his soft nose. He’d look just like another groupie if not for the paramedic sigil on the breast of his shirt.

Despite his aggressive appearance, his brown eyes are warm as he abandons his view upon spotting you, dark brows flashing up as they scan Josie’s body with a clinical air. “What happened here?” he asks, and his voice is pleasantly smoky, friendly and casual as he pulls on rubber gloves with practiced motions. 

“She got hurt,” you supply, relinquishing your friend to him so he can guide her into a folding chair. Despite the inanity of your observation, the man doesn’t react beyond a little twitch of his full lips as he kneels in front of her. Josie also doesn’t offer more explanation, merely grunting as the paramedic gently but firmly pulls her hand away from her face. 

You cringe as her arm is moved aside to reveal the mess of her nose and the front of her saturated t-shirt, but he doesn’t bat an eye, wiping her face gently with dampened gauze to clean the drying blood away. As he works, eyes trained on the movements of his fingers, he asks, “What was it, doll? Did you catch an elbow to the face?” 

The pet name could have been awkward, but he says it so casually that it doesn’t feel slimy like a come-on would. It just feels like part of his personality to call people names like that. 

“Yeah, in the pit,” she grumbles, and he tips his head sympathetically, curly ponytail swaying. 

“That’ll do it,” he says. Once Josie’s face is clear of blood, he hands her some dry paper towels, motioning toward her shirt and telling her with some humor, “I’ll just let you handle that part.” 

She chuckles wetly, scrunching the fabric in her fist with the towel to press out the blood. As it transfers to the paper, the paramedic clears his used supplies into the biohazard bin before returning to his place, kneeling before her, warning her quietly that he’s going to touch her face before he does it.

You watch, hovering a little awkwardly near them as he palpates her nose gently with the tips of his fingers. He seems to have a way of putting people at ease with the cadence of his voice. It’s casual, almost preternaturally calm, but musical, too, engaging in a way you wouldn’t expect. He remains careful while examining Josie’s nose, even as he grows distracted as a new song starts. He starts glancing over toward the stage, moving through the motions clinically, detached despite the warmth and humor in his voice when he says cheerily, “Well, it’s not broken. That’s a relief, huh?” 

She sighs, olive green eyes melting to confirm that it is, in fact, a relief. “Yeah.”

A smiling flash of white eyeteeth and then he’s standing again, skirting around you without really acknowledging you as he digs around in a box of supplies. He returns with an icepack, cracking it to activate the gel inside before wrapping it in more paper towels. “Hold here,” he instructs, showing Josie where to hold it, replacing his sure fingers with her more ginger ones.

“Thank you,” she says, standing and flanking you as he peels off his gloves, folding them inside each other before leaning back against the table with his hands braced behind him. Your eyes are drawn to the tendons of his forearms, pale and dotted with ink.

He doesn’t reply to her thanks directly, though his deep brown eyes twinkle with mischief. “You just had to go gettin’ hurt during the best song of the show, didn't you?” 

His tone is exaggerated to ensure she knows he’s teasing, and it’s only when she chuckles that his full lips split in a pleased grin, attention turning again toward the stage as a particularly wicked guitar solo begins.

You pipe up then. “It’s only the best song in the show if they don't play 'Holy Roller.'” 

“No way they don’t play 'Holy Roller,'” he retorts instantly, brown eyes flashing in your direction. The loose curls around his jaw lash his chin as his head jerks in a not-so-subtle double-take, and those eyes widen as he realizes it was you and not your friend who spoke. His gaze flicks you up and down quickly, taking in your sweet floral dress and your white converse. When his eyes catch yours, the curl of his lips reveals a level of intrigue. “And here I thought you were just the chaperone,” he says, again with that teasing, musical cadence that seems characteristic. 

There’s the temptation to be offended, but this guy seems harmless beneath the ink and frizzy shag; the wolfishness of his smile doesn’t bely the warmth in his eyes. Guessing that he can probably take as much as he dishes out, you scoff, quirking a brow and pursing your lips in mock offense. “Maybe you shouldn’t make snap judgments about people. I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.”

A barking laugh pierces the air between you, and despite yourself, you can’t suppress a smile. Rather than being put off by your challenge, he seems delighted; the manic widening of those plush lips crinkles the corners of his eyes. His smile instantly brightens his face as he tips his head toward you. “Touché,” he says before straightening up, pushing off the table to jam his hands in his back pockets.

The sudden weight of his stare has your skin prickling despite the heat of the July sun; you turn from it quickly to ask Josie if she’s doing okay now.

She pulls the icepack from her face, scrunching her nose to test out the pain. “Yeah, I’m good. C’mon, I wanna get back out there.” She scowls, craning her head as if she’s looking for something.

“Back to our spot, you mean?”

“No, back to the pit,” she replies incredulously as if it’s obvious. Your brow crinkles with a mixture of dismay and wry fondness, but you know better than to offer resistance. If there’s one thing you’ve learned over the years, it’s that Josie takes your reminders of caution as a personal offense. As you start to walk away from the medic tent, falling into stride together, she shoots you a sour glare, grumbling, “This is what happens when you feed me jello shots.” 

Your outrage is instant; you spin on your heel, stopping short to face her and gripe right back, though she doesn’t slow when you do. “I did not! Actually, you stole my jello shots, Josie.” 

“Ah, I get it now. You look like an angel, but you’re secretly trouble.” You hear that teasing cadence behind you, and you turn to find the paramedic standing beside his companion once again, body angled toward the stage but head tilted to eye you slantingly. He looks amused, and you’re torn between blushing and pouting, protesting and giggling, so you just freeze, doing none of the above. Unbothered, he twists and bends smoothly to root in the cooler behind the folding table. Your eyes are drawn to the cords of his pale neck and the flash of silver in his ears.

“Here,” he says, straightening and offering you two water bottles held together in one broad hand. He drops the joking tease, all professional concern once again. “Take some water with you. Make sure you keep hydrated if you’re drinking.” 

You backtrack quickly to take both bottles from him, smiling as you meet his warm brown eyes. “Thank you,” you say.

“You got it,” he replies, but you don’t hear— you’re too busy hurrying to catch up with Josie, who’s cutting a path right back to the pit, stubborn as always.

The walk from the company parking lot to your office building is two long blocks away and takes a brisk five minutes, eight if you’re not in a rush. And you’re not this morning. The sweltering August heat has decided to grace your town with a brief reprieve; all the typical ills of summer are eased today, leaving behind a pleasant dry heat, a slight breeze, and bright sun in a puffy-cloud sky. You relish your brief stroll in the sunshine and find yourself wishing your cubicle faced the park across the street, if only so you could torture yourself with its tantalizing view, yearning to instead be seated on a bench shaded by the cherry trees.

Your gaze drifts that way as you walk along the sidewalk, and a bright spot of yellow catches your attention. As you draw closer to your building, the shape discerns itself into an old man swaddled in a canary-yellow raincoat, the plasticky hood caught between his hunched shoulders and the back of the wooden bench. Beneath the open raincoat is a checkered shirt, a pair of brown trousers, and a bowtie that looks to be his Sunday best, though it’s currently Thursday. His loafer scuffs the concrete beneath him as he swings one foot absently, gazing up at the puffy-clouded sky.

Another individual relishing this unexpected gift early in the morning. You smile softly to yourself and turn from the old man as you grasp the handle, pulling the heavy glass door open. A blast of cold air unleashes upon you, and you shiver your way to the elevator. As the aluminum doors slide open, the park slips from your mind, evaporating like dew from grass.

Four hours later, the brrringing of phones and the fuzz of light office chatter have fully replaced the sound of early morning birdsong in your ears. Your eyes flick to the bottom right corner of your laptop just in time to see the forty-nine tick to fifty. The sight brings relief and a timely grumble of your stomach, and you close the lid of your laptop decisively. The promise of a cobb salad from your favorite nearby lunch shop hastens your steps to the elevator.

When you push open that heavy glass door once again, the air is warmer, and the street is more active now, but the sun on your skin is just as welcome. The park and its cherry trees call to you as they had this morning, and your eyes find that bench you’d been yearning for once again. It’s empty now, almost beckoning for you. You indulge in the sight for a moment despite your hunger, lush green blooming behind brown wood, visible between the cars that zoom past. 

And then the tiniest sliver of canary yellow peeks from beyond a bush.

You were about to walk on, but you pause then, craning your neck to try to catch more of that color. A small shift and you see it again— the canary yellow of what is undoubtedly the sleeve of a raincoat.

Is that the same old man from this morning? Even as you question it, you know the answer; you know it must be him. You frown, puzzled, wavering as you’re torn between two impulses. Your stomach pangs hollowly, reminding you of cobb salad. What business is it of yours what a stranger does? You imagine how silly you’d feel wandering over there to bother him for no reason. But as you watch him, he hobbles further into your sight, resting one unsteady hand against the trunk of a nearby tree. Your heart stirs, and you find your feet moving of their own accord to the crosswalk.

You approach him slowly at first, with the caution one might use when edging toward a wild animal. His back is turned to you, revealing a head of thin gray hair haloed around a sizeable bald spot like candy floss. Hesitantly, you inch closer, feeling a little ridiculous as he fidgets there in the grass just off the path, one hand still tremulously holding onto the trunk as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. His eyes are darting over the bushes and paths restlessly, as if searching. You’re just deciding what to say— or even whether to say something at all— when he turns his head and catches sight of you with watery eyes.

His brows jump as he registers you, and his pruny mouth opens in a little ‘o’ of surprise. “Oh,” he says, sounding delightedly surprised. “Hello!”

You feel a bit caught out, heat rushing to your cheeks as he pivots slowly to face you, one hand still stuck to the tree. But you’re committed now that he’s seen you; you might as well follow through on your impulse. “Hi, sir,” you try, “are you looking for someone?”

The old man doesn’t answer your question. Instead, very matter-of-factly, he says, “My knees are hurtin’ me.”

It has you reaching for him almost automatically, hooking your hand underneath his elbow. He welcomes your help unhesitantly and without complaint, shifting with your coaxing grip. He feels so frail beneath your fingers, almost weightless; when he lets go of the trunk to rely on your stability, you hardly notice the difference. He barely lifts his feet when he walks, loafers dragging in the grass, and you edge with him toward the path with tiny shuffling steps. Stepping from the grass to the concrete feels laborious as he trembles with the effort. 

As you lead him patiently back toward the bench from this morning, you can’t help but wonder how long he’d been standing by the tree. And then, you can’t help but wonder how he even got here to the park, considering how much effort it’s taking him to walk a dozen feet. This isn’t a residential area, and this man isn’t just old. He’s positively feeble.

He clasps your hand as you help him turn and sinks down onto the wood with a bone-weary sigh of relief. Rather than releasing your hand, he pats the back of it with his other, smiling pleasantly. “Thank you, Ruthie,” he says, continuing to pat your hand as if he’s unaware of it. “I’m ready to go home now.”

You blink with utter bafflement, eyes flitting over the old man’s creased face and his watery blue eyes gazing at you with fondness. It dawns on you fairly quickly that this man isn’t just having trouble finishing his casual stroll in the park. And it explains why he’d looked surprised but happy to see you and hadn’t offered any resistance when you helped him. 

Yet you have no idea who he is or where he lives, and your name is not, in fact, Ruthie.

You chew your lip as you look into his placid face. He seems calm right now, but if he’s confused— if something medical is going on— that could be easily disturbed. Gently, you chance a question. “Where is home? Do you know your address?”

His face scrunches up, wrinkles folding on themselves as he squints at you quizzically. His voice gains more strength with its incredulity. “What d’ya mean, Ruth? Born and raised in the same house and you don’t remember our address?” He shakes his head, glancing away as he pulls back his hands and folds them in his lap. 

Well, that clarifies it— he clearly thinks you’re his daughter, though you’re probably about twenty years too young for that. Your thoughts whir as you consider how to respond and keep him from becoming truly agitated. “Aw, you got me!” you say, pretending you were pulling his leg. He seems to buy it as his frown eases and he looks back at you with begrudging amusement. Gently, you say, “I just gotta make a phone call, and then we can go, okay?”

The old man’s reply is perfectly jovial, and it fills you with relief. “Tha’s okay, dear. I got my crossword.” He reaches inside the raincoat and pulls out a tightly-folded rectangle from the breast of his checkered shirt, working it open to reveal a creased page from the newspaper. He digs in his pants pocket, and a pencil emerges along with some crumpled tissues and plastic-wrapped suckers that scatter near his feet. You frown, eyes darting between his spilled belongings— or trash— and his face. He doesn’t notice as he settles into the seat, seeming content to wait and work on his crossword.

You have half a mind to pick the candies up so he won’t trip on them, but the phone call you have planned seems more urgently needed. You trail a few steps away to call the non-emergency police number, eyes darting to and from the old man as you provide your location and explain the situation quietly to the operator. “He seems… confused,” you say. “Like, not all there.”

“Is he agitated?”

“No,” you say. “But he thinks he knows me, and I don’t know him. He keeps calling me Ruth when that’s not my name.” Nervousness bubbles at the base of your throat, concern rising for the older man whom you now view as your responsibility. “Do you think he’s okay?”

There’s a pause, and then the operator says neutrally, “It could be a number of things. I’m sending someone out right now to check on him. Are you okay to wait with him until the paramedics arrive?” 

You’re already nodding before the question is finished. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“All right. They’re on their way.”

You hang up and glance at the man again, feeling a tug at your heart when you see him holding the crossword so close to his nose, how the paper wobbles in his grasp. He seems caught up in it, which honestly is a relief. You don’t know how much longer you’d be able to keep up the pretense of knowing him if he wanted to talk to you more. Your cobb salad is all but forgotten now as worry prickles in your chest; you stand sentry over this stranger from a distance, keeping an attentive eye on him as you wait for help to come.

It doesn’t take too long for the ambulance to arrive, and your heart leaps as it pulls along the curb in front of the park. You jolt forward a couple of steps, fluttering your fingers in a little awkward wave at the blurry figures behind the glass as if they need your help finding the old man in the bright yellow coat, as if they need your assistance at all, really. You feel silly again, cheeks burning as you impulsively change your mind. Rather than meeting the paramedics at the ambulance, you march over and plop down next to the old man on the bench.

He startles slightly when you join him, and you almost feel bad to have scared him, but then he’s smiling at you again. “Ruthie!” He exclaims. “Is it time to go to the cleaners?”

You’re saved from having to answer as you hear the ambulance door pop open, and you follow the old man’s gaze to the figure swinging himself jauntily down from the rig with one pale hand braced atop the door.

Well, I’ll be damned.

Even at this distance, that frizzy shag of curls is unmistakable, though it’s loose around his shoulders now. You remember what you’d said at the concert almost a month ago: ‘I’m sure most people don’t call 911 and expect their first responder to look like a heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing.’ Your heart skips and thumps hard as he comes closer, and you clasp your hands tight in your lap. The tatted-up paramedic with the warm honey-brown eyes and the wolfish flashing grin may be memorable, but a squirm of self-consciousness races through you as you consider how unmemorable you are in comparison. Not that you can blame him, considering how many people he likely interacts with every day.

His eyes remain fixed on the man at your side as he lopes your way, and you lick at your bottom lip as he comes close enough to see the glint of silver in his ears and beneath his nose. “Hey, Mr. J,” he says casually, and you glance at the man sitting beside you, who’s still watching him approach blankly without acknowledgment. When your eyes meet honey brown again, a corner of his lips crooks up in a fond grin. “Well, hello there.” He draws the words out with a hint of teasing, and a smile blooms automatically on your face. “Been out moshing in any more flower dresses lately?” He adds as he closes the distance quickly, and you feel your self-consciousness melt into effusive warmth knowing he remembers you.

 “I only mosh for Holy Roller,” you say, and his grin widens before his attention turns back to the man at your side. The paramedic drops to one knee before him, a forearm braced against his other thigh. With his face now close enough, the old man’s watery eyes light in recognition. 

“Ed!” he exclaims in a delighted rasp, even more enthusiastic than when he’d greeted you. You turn curious eyes to the curly-haired man in front of you, wondering if that’s actually his real name or if it’s just one bestowed upon him like ‘Ruth’ had been to you.

Unphased, ‘Ed’ repeats his earlier greeting. “Hey, Mr. Jenkins.” He maintains that same warm friendly tone, though it seems more careful than the one he used with you and Josie. “How you doin’ lately? Haven’t seen you in a while.” 

Mr. Jenkins sighs dramatically, the deep, weary sigh of the elderly. “Ah, Ed. Ya know, it’s my hips,” he says, shaking his head as if it’s a shame. “Dang things are always givin’ me issues. Don’t get old if you can avoid it.” 

The paramedic’s lips quirk sympathetically. “I’ll try not to, Mr. J,” he says obligingly. “You still doin’ bingo at the VA on Thursday nights?” 

As Mr. Jenkins leans eagerly forward to tell him all about it, you watch the paramedic slip his pale fingers around the paper-thin skin of the man’s wrist, nodding absently as he looks up at the sky. When he checks his watch, you realize he’s taking the man’s pulse.

Subtly, as Mr. Jenkins happily prattles on, the paramedic flashes a tiny flashlight to assess his pupillary response before checking the rest of his vitals, the musical cadence of his answers acting as a distraction while he evaluates him. Your eyes skate over the paramedic’s face— his soft nose, his wide brown eyes, his pink lips, and his strong jaw framed by frizzy curls that hang past his collar. As you do, you feel a surge of admiration for his manner, but you’re not quite sure what about it has you impressed.

As he replaces the flashlight pen in his pouch, the old man looks between you. “Have you met my Ruthie?” When honey brown flashes to you quickly, you shake your head minutely, staring at him and hoping he gets the hint. 

After a brief pause, the paramedic finally replies, “Can’t say I have.” Your shoulders drop in relief that he’d caught on.

Mr. Jenkins pats your bare knee with his shaky hand right below the hem of your pencil skirt. Your mouth tightens in a bashful smile as he gushes, “Oh, she’s a good girl. A real good girl. You’d be lucky to find a girl like this, Ed.” 

It’s both charming and uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of this old man’s unwarranted affection, and you feel your cheeks heat with a fierce flush. Beyond your control, your eyes dart to the man across from you to find him smiling— closed-lipped and crooked, so a dimple pops on one cheek. “She sure seems like it, Mr. Jenkins,” the paramedic answers, and your cheeks positively burn. 

Mr. Jenkins continues on as if he hadn’t been interrupted, and you avert your eyes to the safety of your lap. It doesn’t offer much of a reprieve, however, as you can’t escape how the sweet, confused old man still has your knee in a vice grip and the guy in front of you is staring right through you with those honey-brown eyes. With an air of authority, Mr. Jenkins announces, “You outta take my Ruthie to the drive-in. They show the double features on Wednesdays, more bang for your buck. And treat ‘er to a milkshake; she loves a good black and white.” He jabs a shaky finger toward the paramedic to punctuate how serious he is. “Ya hear me, Ed?” 

Oh, my gosh. It was one thing to compliment you, but setting you up with a stranger has edged this conversation past uncomfortable and into nearly mortifying. Your stomach flutters with discomfort and nerves at the idea. 

“I hear you, Mr. J,” you hear him answer, and when you look up, he seems to be holding back laughter; his eyes are crinkled, lips fighting to stay pursed when they want to smile, and his voice is dripping warmth. As he stands, stretching his back, his piercing eyes return to you. “Hey, Ruth,” he says neutrally, “would you help me with this?” He tips his head toward the ambulance and you nod quickly, hastening to follow.

As you fall into step beside him, you become acutely aware of your closeness— the sway of his narrow hips, the jangle of his belt and med-pack, the thump of his heavy boots against the concrete, the faint scent of tobacco and spice that clings to his black collared shirt. Your eyes dart quickly to the curtain of hair hanging by his collar, how soft the curls look from this distance. You turn your chin toward him but keep your eyes on the ambulance. “He’s been there since before eight this morning,” you say quietly, “in the park. I saw him on my way to work. When I came out for my lunch break, he was just standing under a tree.”

You feel the heat of the paramedic’s bare forearm radiate against your elbow as he ducks closer, his voice still musical even in a murmur. “So, what, you thought you’d check on him?”

“Well, yeah,” you say, crossing your arms as you prickle with self-consciousness. The motion has your elbow bumping against his skin, and the heat of it flashes like a burn. “It just didn’t seem right to leave without checking if he was okay. He was confused; he asked me if we were going to the cleaners.” You glance at him, and he’s still ducked to hear you as you speak softly; his brown eyes are so close that you can see the varied shades of brown in them, like the rings of a cedar tree. You swallow thickly. “I think he thinks I’m his daughter.”

“You did the right thing,” he replies, his voice gentle and tinged with fondness. “Mr. J is well-known around here. Sweet guy, harmless. He’s got dementia.” 

Your eyes soften as you blink at him, compassion welling up as he speaks about the old man with such kindness. He straightens suddenly, and you realize that you’ve reached the side of the ambulance. 

He tugs open the door and calls to his partner, who peers over from the driver’s seat. “Hey, can you call Jimmy, tell him his dad’s in Washington Square Park?” 

“Sure thing,” comes the answer, though you can’t really see him. 

The paramedic closes the door again, and when he leans back against it, crossing his arms casually and propping a boot against the metal frame, you realize asking you to help him with something was just pretense. For some reason, that makes you glow with that same effusive warmth you’d felt when you first heard him address you again, brown eyes alight with his tease about mosh pits.

“So,” he says, lips quirking in a slanted grin, “I take it your name’s not Ruth.” 

You chuckle through your answer. “No, not Ruth.” You scrape your two front teeth against your lip before adding, “It’s y/n.” 

He nods, and his curls sway with it. The grin grows fractionally. “I’m Eddie.” 

“Nice to meet you. Officially, I mean,” you add quickly, and your hand wants to stick out to shake his, but a bigger part of you cringes at the impulse. You keep it stubbornly stuck to your side.

“Yeah, you too. Officially,” he says warmly. 

A door slams again as his partner gets out of the truck, crossing by the front bumper. He’s tall and a little broader than Eddie— knowing his name has your stomach fluttering with warmth— and his hair is shorter but no less impressive, with brown waves that bob against his forehead as he heads over to Mr. Jenkins. “Steve!” You hear the old man exclaim behind you, and your eyes find honey brown as if by instinct. You exchange a fond grin with Eddie at Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting, marveling at how affection curls behind your sternum for this man who was such a short time ago a total stranger. Mr. Jenkins, that is.

Of course.

And soon, a stranger again he will become, you realize as Eddie pushes off from the door, jamming his hands in the pockets of his black pants. “Thanks for staying with him. And calling it in. Most people wouldn’t have done that,” he tells you, and you blush with pleasure at the genuineness you hear.

“It was no problem,” you say. For a moment you just stand there, feeling awkwardness creep up. You shift your weight to one hip and twist your heel; when the gravel grinds loudly underfoot, you stop, suppressing a wince. You’re desperate to move on, so you blurt, “I’d better get back to work.” You pause, adding, “Will he be okay?” 

“He’ll be fine.” Eddie sounds so entirely assured of the fact that you believe him immediately, nodding with relief. He squints at you, jerking his chin to look at you sideways, and his dark hair sways as he does. “Hey. You didn’t have lunch, did you?” 

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He pulls one hand from his pocket to wave absently in the air. “You said you left to go get lunch but checked on Mr. J instead, right? So you didn’t get to eat.” 

You fumble to reply, but he’s already spinning, pulling open the door to the ambulance and hauling himself up. He bends over the seat, black pants pulling taught over his thighs and butt, and you quickly look away.

His voice comes muffled at first. “Here—” There’s the heavy sound of his boots hitting asphalt and then a crinkly rectangle is being waved at you. “ —have a protein bar,” he finishes, brandishing it toward you.

Your brows crinkle. “Oh, I’m really okay—” 

He cuts you off, kindly but firmly. “I insist.”

You take it from him gingerly. It’s a Cliff bar— peanut butter and chocolate. You meet wide honey-brown with a thankful smile. “This isn’t your lunch, is it?” you tease.

Eddie scoffs, waving you off. “Of course not,” he says, rotating around you and hopping up onto the curb, but the twinkle in his eyes and the dimple of his cheek leave you without confidence. 

There’s the impulse to question him further, but he doesn’t give you the chance; he starts walking backwards toward the bench with meandering, though purposeful, steps. “See you around,” he says, saluting you with two fingers tipped against his temple. You wave mutely, and he flashes one last parting grin before turning away. 

You stand motionless for a moment, staring at his back until you catch sight of his partner throwing you a curious glance. That snaps you out of it, and you hurry to the crosswalk.

Yet before you tug open that heavy glass door, you can’t help but glance back one more time. Between the flashes of passing cars, you see Eddie: he’s sitting next to Mr. Jenkins on the bench, legs spread wide and elbows resting on his knees, bobbing his head with big swings of his dark curls as the man shows him his crossword. 

This time, when the cold air blasts you in the face, you stay warm.

“You really do like black and white, huh?”

Your eyes dart up to catch brown. “Hm?”

Your date folds his hands against the tablecloth, twining his fingers together. His lips twitch up into a crooked grin as he motions with his chin. “You’re wearing a black blouse and a white skirt. Last time we went out, you were wearing a black dress and a white cardigan.” 

You blink, brows darting up. “Oh!” you say, glancing down at yourself. He is indeed correct— you’re wearing the same colors you had on your first date with him, entirely by coincidence. He leans back as if expecting you to be impressed that he’d noticed, and you smile, brightening your voice even further. “That’s right!” you say, tipping your head and lightly teasing him. “Well, aren’t you observant?”

He preens under your attention. “I try to be,” he says smoothly. “It pays to be observant in my line of work.”

You lean forward, resting your chin in your palm. “Speaking of, how go things on the fifth floor? I rarely venture down there.”

“Oh, you know…” He keeps up the flirtatious banter, mirroring your position: broad hand cradling his strong chin, elbow planted on the table. “Just convinced Synegen to sign over all their marketing needs. No biggie. All in a day’s work for us fifth-floorers.” His brown eyes twinkle. “Maybe you’ll have reason to come down more often now.”

Daintily, you sip your wine, which burns pleasantly warm down your throat as your eyes rake over his features: long, alkaline nose, square jaw, dreamy brown eyes, and a neat, high fade. “Maybe I shall, Matt,” you smolder, and his grin widens.

This is your second date with fifth-floor Matt— as Josie refers to him since you’d met him in the elevator of your office building— and it’s going quite well if you do say so yourself. Typically, you wouldn’t agree to a date with a guy you’d just met, but Matt’s boldness had a certain charm about it when he’d caught the elevator door to keep it from closing and hit you with that white smile and a proposition of dinner. And it certainly didn’t hurt that he was handsome and clearly built even under the slacks and dress shirt.

As he’d pointed out, you’d worn black and white on your first date but had felt slightly underdressed at the swanky place he’d whisked you away to. You hadn’t been expecting all the bells and whistles, though to your relief, he’d seemed pleased to have impressed you rather than disappointed. The conversation had flowed well between you, and he hadn’t been too forward at the end of the night, leaving you with a pleasant impression. When he’d called to ask you out again— of course within the permissible four to seven days post-date, and no sooner— you hadn’t had any reason to say no, which is why you find yourself at yet another swanky restaurant, Italian on this occasion. And you’re dressed a little more formally this time: black silk blouse, tight white skirt, and Josie’s tall black strappy things that she affectionately calls her ‘stripper heels.’ 

They look great, but your ankles are aching like a bitch, and you haven’t even gotten your food yet.

“And how are things going for my favorite copyeditor?” Matt asks, taking a sip of his drink, and you blush lightly under his attention. 

“Well…” you draw out the word, letting the music and the clinking of glasses around you fill the silence. “Did I tell you about Doris?” He shakes his head, and you’re just about to launch into the story of your accident-prone coworker’s latest kerfuffle when the waiter materializes at your elbow, holding two gleaming white plates.

“Tortellini?” he cuts in smoothly, and you smile up at him as he places it down in front of you. “Scallops?” he confirms with Matt, who immediately picks up his utensils to dig in as you continue your story.

You poke around at your food as you talk about Doris’ misfortune, and Matt nods and emotes appropriately throughout your recollections. “—I don’t know how she manages to get herself into all of these situations, the poor woman.” You shake your head sympathetically, taking a bite of tortellini. It’s wonderfully cheesy with a delicate sauce, and your brows jerk in pleasant surprise as the flavor bursts on your tongue. You chew and swallow quickly to exclaim, “Wow! This is really good.”

Matt is nodding eagerly, threading his finger between the collar of his shirt and his throat, pulling at it absently. “Yeah,” he agrees, “it’s delicious. This place is amazing. You know, I actually—”

He breaks off in a cough, covering his mouth with his fist. “Sorry,” he says, and you smile reassuringly. “I was saying that—” His voice weakens suddenly, and as he clears his throat roughly, your brow tightens in concern.

“Are you okay?” you ask, putting down your fork upon seeing how he tugs again at his collar. 

“I’m totally fine,” he assures you, “just have a tickle in my throat.”

Despite his quick hand-waving to dismiss your concern, it doesn’t alleviate that prickle of foreboding you feel building as your eyes scan his face, which looks suddenly more flushed than it did a moment ago. “Are you allergic to anything?”

Matt tips his head, gesturing with his fork and knife. “Well, yeah,” he admits, “but not to this.” He sounds perfectly confident in his assertion, but it doesn’t mollify you. Above his thick fingers, which are still plucking at his collar, pink splotches crawl up his neck. 

The foreboding builds insistently, and you know he can detect the new edge of urgency in your voice. “Do you have an EpiPen?”

Somehow, almost inexplicably, Matt still doesn’t look worried. He scoffs, shaking his head even as he concedes, “Yeah, I have one, but I never carry it around with me. Look, I know what not to eat, y/n. I’m not a child—”

You’re not listening because you’re already on the phone with 911.

“I think my date is having an allergic reaction. His throat is itchy, he’s coughing and clearing his throat, and he’s getting flushed.” You glance at him to see his eyes narrowed at you and his mouth open in indignance. “And his lips are swelling,” you add.

Matt pokes at his lips, and you look away as the operator assures you EMS is on their way to the restaurant. “Should I stay on the line?” you ask, gaze darting as you listen to his instruction, even while Matt groans and rolls his eyes.

“You’re being dramatic,” he’s saying, but you ignore him, lowering the phone without hanging up.

“He suggested some fresh air would help. Come on.”

Despite his lunking frame, you’re hauling him out to the sidewalk in your strappy heels with a determination he seems reluctant to truly resist. He could easily break out of your hold, but he lets you manhandle him out into the slight chill of this early September night. You undo the top three buttons of his shirt to loosen the pressure on his neck, working around your phone, which is still clutched in one hand. You suppress a huff at his salacious smile. “I mean,” he chuckles, “if you just wanted to get me out of my clothes, honey, you didn’t have to do all this.”

You shake your head, holding the phone up to your ear. “Yeah, I’m still here,” you say to the operator, “we’re outside now. He doesn’t seem to be any worse.”

Matt’s shoulders sag as he rolls his head, coughing lightly through his words. “I’m not gonna get worse because there’s nothing wrong with me.” He lifts his arms and lets them slap against his thighs, exasperated. “This is such a waste of time—”

The white and red ambulance turns the corner, and you step around your date to flag them down. “They’re here,” you say breathlessly to the operator. “Okay, I’m gonna hang up.”

The vehicle slows to a stop in front of you, and you step back from the curb as both doors open. They close one after another, like the strike of lightning and the boom of thunder following it. The boom of thunder crosses around the front of the bumper, eyes locked on you. And he’s got a beautiful head of hair— thick, luscious brown locks, expertly messy.

Your heart leaps as you recognize him, hearing Mr. Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting echoing in your ear. Because if he’s the boom of thunder, then maybe the lightning strike is—

“I shoulda known you’d be here, Trouble.”

You turn toward the voice, heart pounding despite the quizzical scrunching of your nose. Eddie interprets it correctly, his grin brightening his honey-brown eyes as he clarifies, “As I said, you look like an angel, but since we keep runnin’ into each other like this, it’s official. You must be nothing but trouble.”

You flush at the teasing tone of his musical voice, cheeks pinking, and as his grin turns wolfish with delight, you know he’s noticed. Abruptly, he looks away, and you follow his gaze to Matt, whose brows are furrowed lightly. Eddie’s tone loses the teasing quality, though it remains pleasant. “So, what’s goin’ on here, big guy? You think you’re having an allergic reaction?” he asks, pulling out the flashlight from his pack.

“No,” Matt says firmly, though his voice sounds more hoarse now. “She thinks I’m having an allergic reaction. I’ve just got an itchy throat.”

Undeterred, Eddie steps up to him. “Open your mouth,” he instructs calmly, and begrudgingly, Matt complies. His tongue lolls as Eddie peers inside. “What did you eat?”

“It was a pasta dish,” you offer, watching as Steve hovers nearby while Eddie feels along Matt’s throat with gloved hands. “Scallops, prosciutto, peas, um… white wine sauce. I don’t know the rest of the ingredients.”

“Any known allergies?” Steve asks, and everyone looks to Matt for the answer.

“I already told her,” he says with an air of long-suffering, “I do have a food allergy, but not to this—”

Eddie interjects calmly but firmly. “What are you allergic to?”

Matt sighs. “I’m only allergic to shellfish.”

There’s the briefest moment of stunned silence, and then Eddie tips his chin, pinning your date with his dark eyes— still calm, still pleasant, but with an air of unattestable authority. “Sir, you are having an allergic reaction. Hey, Harrington?”

“On it,” comes the immediate reply, and Steve is digging in the med-pack at his hip, guiding Matt to the back of the ambulance. You watch Matt’s eyes dart wildly, though he allows himself to be pushed along in his bafflement, stuttering questions and weak protests as he goes. You recognize the bright orange cap of the EpiPen as Steve pulls open one of the ambulance’s back doors; distantly, you hear him prompting your date, “Hop up here for me, would you?”

You hear a jangle close by, and the sound pulls your eyes from the ambulance to the man still standing at your side. His arms are folded behind his back now, his full lips dimpled in a secret smile. In Josie’s tall heels, your face is closer to his, and you nearly feel the brush of his wild hair against your blouse as he sways closer with his upper body so he can mutter at you with glittering eyes. 

“Really?” Eddie says, and the ghost of his breath stirs the hair beside your ear. Your body prickles with heat, stomach fluttering as he straightens again, quirking a brow and looking highly amused. For some reason, you feel called out, raw and exposed, and you cross your arms and narrow your eyes despite the deepening heat in your cheeks. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you retort. “I don’t give my dates quizzes on animal classifications during the vetting process.”

“Well,” Eddie lowers his voice, and the timbre makes you shiver, goosebumps prickling your arms. “Maybe you should.”

You scoff. “He’s a marketing genius. I think that makes up for it.”

Eddie’s mouth twitches before his dark eyes widen. Your gaze is drawn to his eyelashes, which are enviably long. “So,” he asks casually, “did you enjoy that protein bar?”

You’re left reeling from the abrupt change of subject, but you place the reference quickly. “Sure,” you say, tipping your head, a little bemused as to why he’s asking. “It was fine.”

Eddie’s brows jerk in exaggerated offense as he claps a hand over his heart. “Just fine? First, you eat my lunch, and now you tell me it was just fine?”

 Your mouth falls open in incredulity, face utterly indignant as Eddie grins broadly, his eyes crinkling in the corners at your reaction. In the vehemence of your feeling, you step closer, smacking his arm with a familiarity you aren’t entitled to, though you don’t notice as you protest, “You told me it wasn’t your lunch! What the hell, Eddie?!”

He cowers away from you playfully, dissolving into husky chuckles that are both goofy and undeniably endearing. They settle in your stomach, and you feel your lips curving of their own accord. You can’t deny how good it feels to hear him laugh, and you suddenly want more. “Honestly!” You lean into it, advancing on him as threateningly as you can in a blouse and miniskirt, though you know he sees the mirth dancing in your eyes. He backs up a step, playing into your game as you huff, “You’re so—!”

“I can drive myself to the hospital. I don’t need you!” 

The shout cuts you off, and your smile dies abruptly as you and Eddie look toward the source of the disturbance. It’s Matt, your date, scowling as he hops down to the asphalt. He’s arguing with Steve, who pops from behind the ambulance to follow him to the sidewalk.

“Sir—” Matt’s ignoring him, stalking toward you with intent. “I can’t force you, but I really must advise you not to drive yourself.” 

Matt whirls on him, pointing a finger in his chest. “I know what you’re trying to do. You just want me to take the ambulance because you’ll get paid more. It’s all a big scam.”

Steve’s brow scrunches in an incredulous wince, and embarrassment curdles in your stomach as you watch Matt’s face transform into smugness. “See?” The triumph in the curl of his smile is entirely undeserved. “Can’t argue with the facts. I’m onto you, buddy.” 

Exasperation, embarrassment, and self-consciousness mix potently as you feel the weight of Eddie’s eyes on the back of your head like a physical presence. Impulsively, you blurt, “I’ll just drive you in your car, Matt. Come on.” 

Matt shoots Steve one last dirty look as you bustle over to him, crossing your arms as he levels Eddie with the same. “They’re just doing their jobs, Matt,” you say, tone bitten a little short as you lead him to the entrance of the restaurant.

“What’re we going back in there for?” he asks, and you blink at him.

“...We have to pay for our food and get our coats,” you say patiently, trying very hard to remain composed. Matt grumbles but pulls open the door for you, and as you pass through the threshold, you hear one last raspy, musical call follow you.

“See ya, Trouble!”

You hasten toward your table as Matt scowls, questioning you suspiciously. “Hey. Why does he keep calling you that? D’you know that guy?” 

You just sigh heavily, plastering on a smile as you flag down your waiter to explain the situation. And as you drive your date to the hospital, only one thought follows you. 

Leave it to a crisis to reveal peoples’ true natures.

Truthfully, the unfortunate shellfish incident was a blessing in disguise. After taking Matt to the hospital for further treatment and listening to him gripe on the ride home, you’d waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling he may have stirred within you without a shred of resistance. In recounting the tale to Josie, crowded together on the settee in her one-bedroom walkup with half-drunk Trulys in hand, you’d both reached a consensus on the following conclusion:

That bullet was well and truly dodged.

“Enough about fifth-floor fools,” Josie quips, scootching closer as you sip your bubbly and hissing with eagerness, “I can’t believe it was that same guy again! How many times have you run into him now?”

You hide your smile behind the can. “Three,” you say, keeping your voice carefully neutral. But you can’t fool Josie; she’s known you longer than anyone else, aside from your parents. She’s nearly your sister— you spend half your time sleeping at her apartment on the weekends since it’s closer to downtown, and many of the belongings littering the tiny square of her place are yours. Sometimes you feel silly for still living with your parents, but you remind yourself it’s a perfectly reasonable way to save money until you can afford your own place. And you’d move in with Josie, but her apartment is really only meant for one; you end up squeezed into her twin bed or cramped up on the settee whenever you spend a drunken night there, and that's not a permanent solution.

Josie swoons against you. “It’s so romantic,” she gushes, and you squirm at the unexpected sentimentality coming from your raincloud friend. “It’s like fate’s bringing you together.” When she eyes you suddenly, the glint of craziness has you shaking your head before she’s even gotten the words out. “You know, I’m feeling some mashed potatoes. Don’t you want mashed potatoes?” You don’t respond, and she barrels on. “Yeah, I really think you should go, like, chop some potatoes. And then, you know, just accidentally let the knife slip—”

“Josie!”

“What?! Like, don’t cut deep,” she defends, drawing her index in a slanted line across her palm before grinning suggestively. “Just deep enough to need stitches so you can ride him—” she feigns innocence— “sorry, Freudian slip— I meant riiiiiiiiide him in the back of his ambulance—” She bursts into laughter at the horror on your face when she salaciously repeats the same phrase, delighted to have tricked you into thinking it was a mistake the first time.

“Josie!” You snap again, face flooding with heat as she cackles, deriving great pleasure from your embarrassment. “I’m not going to cut my hand open just to hope Eddie shows up. That’s so stupid.”

“Aw,” she pretends to pout, “well, how else are you gonna see him again?”

You scoff, shaking your head, cheeks still tingling with your blush. “Who says I even wanna see him again?” you grumble, turning away from your best friend and chugging your Truly to ward off her response.

But you can’t deny that meeting Eddie three times did, in some way, feel… maybe not like fate, but like more than a coincidence. And in the days following your failed date with Matt, you find your thoughts drifting to that musical voice, those honey-brown eyes, the brush of your elbow against his hot skin, and the way his plush lips formed the letters of the nickname he’d given you:

‘Trouble.’

You’d eagerly waved goodbye to any semblance of feeling you’d had for Matt, but suddenly, there's a paramedic-shaped absence in your life that you feel every time you walk from the parking lot to your office building and glance across the street, eyes lingering on that bench beneath the cherry trees.

After a week, you acknowledge it, accept it, and allow yourself to secretly indulge in the crush you’d formed on the heavy-metal knockoff with the septum piercing and the most endearing laugh you’d ever heard. It lingers in the back of your mind, prompting you to slow the roll of your shopping cart in the bakery aisle of Trader Joe’s and pause beside the package of adorably-named Peanut Butter Brookies. As you pick it up, examining the half-peanut butter cookie half-brownies, you can't help but think of the protein bar with the same flavor.

It's silly. It's inane. It's entirely over the top, and you’d absolutely die of embarrassment if Josie found out. But before you can let yourself buckle with self-consciousness, you quickly add the package of baked goods to your cart and roll on. And on Monday morning, you slip it into your laptop bag. 

A thank-you gift for a lunch sacrificed, carried around just in case.

Monday bleeds into Friday, and still, the brownies remain ungifted, perfectly intact inside their hard plastic casing. You check the expiration date, which wasn’t for another two weeks, and they taunt you on your parents’ counter, mocking your whimsy. Still, when your dad comes sniffing curiously around, you feel a spike of instant dismay and snatch them before he can break the seal. He looks entirely baffled as you carry them protectively up to your room.

“Wha—” You ignore his confusion as you tramp up the steps, depositing the brookies back in your bag. You sigh, a sound of long-suffering exasperation with yourself and your own inanity. One more week, you resolve. If I don’t see him this week, I’m forgetting all about this.

And it appears, as Friday rolls around again, that you would need to abandon your silly crush on the paramedic you’d bumped into thrice in three months. Your laptop bag thumps against your thigh as you push open the heavy glass doors of your office building, emerging into the brisk chill of late September, tempered by the golden light of the deepening sun. You allow yourself to sulk, indulging in your disappointment until you reach the glittering blue paint of your Honda Civic. Fate is a fickle mistress. You sigh as you unlock the door and flump into the driver’s seat, depositing your laptop bag onto the floor on the other side of the console. You allow yourself an ironic smile, shaking your head at the notion of fate as you start the car and idle as you tap the phone icon on the screen, intending to call Josie to discuss your plans for the weekend.

Yet when you hit it, it doesn’t pull up your contacts as expected. Instead, it pulls up the list of Bluetooth devices it remembers, and you scrunch your nose at the words ‘y/n’s iPhone’ on the screen, wondering why it wouldn't just connect automatically. But when you tap it, waiting impatiently until the request times out, you realize what the problem is.

You must have left your phone in your cubicle.

Another sigh, this one longer and far more exasperated at the thought of trekking all the way back to the office after a long work day. You briefly consider just going home without your phone, but it’s Friday, and that would mean languishing without it for the entire weekend. A momentary inconvenience now is not worth the giant inconvenience that would be.

You groan as you pull your laptop bag back into your lap, petulantly pulling the strap over your head as you lock your car and begin the walk back to the office.

All looks the same as it had ten minutes before— the golden sun is still glinting off the windows you wish your cubicle faced, and the cherry trees are still swaying gently across the street. 

The only thing not the same is the ambulance sitting stationary against the curb across from those heavy glass doors.

Your footsteps falter in surprise for only a moment before incredulous giddiness has your heart racing. There’s no fucking way, you think, stamping down on your excitement as you maintain outward composure, walking calmly up to your office building despite the fluttering you feel inside. You even whisper temperance as you pull open the door, wincing as that typical blast of cold air hits you. “Don’t be ridiculous,” you tell yourself as the clacking of your heels echoes hollowly in the lobby. “There’s no such thing as fate—”

The elevator dings cheerily, and the stretcher emerges first, revealing a pair of familiar leopard-printed flats and the rich darkness of your coworker Doris’ pudgy legs. You stop, eyes going wide as her torso, chest, neck, and head are slowly revealed. Her half-moon glasses are slightly askew, the crystal chain clinking against the heavy earrings dragging down her drooping earlobes as she’s maneuvered gently into the lobby.

Your mutterings about fate are abandoned immediately as you rush with concern. “Doris!” you exclaim in dismay. “Oh my gosh, are you okay? What happened?” 

She draws steadily closer as you stand in the middle of the lobby, her stretcher wheeled by medical personnel. You don’t look at them, eyes locked on your coworker as she grimaces at you. You know Doris is accident-prone, but this is beyond a little coffee pot mishap. Your chest tightens with nervousness at the pain on her face. She grunts, humphing, “Tripped and broke my damn ankle.” She shakes her head as if with disgust. “I told Doug I could’ve made it down myself, but he insisted on calling the ambulance.” She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is humiliating.”

Your brow crinkles with sympathy, voice going gentle with reassurance. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, Doris,” you say, looking at her encouragingly as she slants a glance in your direction.

She enunciates each word very deliberately, snapping, “I broke my ankle tripping on a damn pencil, y/n.”

You purse your lips to keep from smiling, though the laugh builds up in your chest, wanting to burst out. In your defense, because of the potent combination of Doris’ accident-prone nature, her delivery of that line, and, truthfully, the fact that you can’t help but imagine what it looked like when she tripped over a pencil. Who trips over a pencil?!

It’s not funny. It’s NOT funny.

With the barest shred of merciful dignity, you manage to maintain your composure. “I’m sorry, Doris,” is all you can manage, and you rotate as she’s rolled even with you to keep facing her. The older woman humphs as she passes, and your eyes dart to the back of the large paramedic’s head, running over the bristles of his short hair as he diverts to the wall to hit the switch that automatically opens the door for wheelchairs.

You relax your mouth and let the smile grow as you turn away from Doris, but your heart leaps into your throat as you stop short just an inch from colliding with the second paramedic, who is standing far too close for comfort. Your heart leaps into your throat but drops into your ass as you register the honey-brown of his eyes, the wild curls that frame his pale face, and the scent of smoke and spice as Eddie towers over you.

You freeze, and your belly flutters wildly as his full lips split with a grin. “Hey there, Trouble,” he says, and for a moment, all you can do is blink at him mutely until your brain connects with your mouth.

“Eddie!” you exclaim, and in your surprise, you don’t temper your reaction to seeing him. You beam brightly, eyes wide with delight as he falls back on his heels, jamming his hands in his pockets. His expression melts into pleasure at the sound of his name so keen in your mouth.

“You know,” he teases, voice pitched a little lower than usual, “you didn’t have to plant that pencil if you wanted to see me again.”

But the implication of his teasing words and his tone skates right over your head because you’re already digging in your laptop bag, singularly focused on the unexpected rush of being able to deliver your gift. “I wanted to give you this—” you pull out the package with an air of triumph, “to thank you for, well… everything with Matt, I guess, but also for the protein bar. I figured you like peanut butter and chocolate.” 

You thrust the brookies toward him, and Eddie takes the package gingerly, staring down at it. You watch a couple of microexpressions dart across his face, too quick to decipher, and then he’s crooking a smile at you. “Thanks,” he says, “that’s really cool of you.” 

You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth, and as Eddie stares at you for a moment, you suddenly become aware that he might think it’s weird you’ve been carting around a container of food, hoping to run into him. Before you can stumble too far down that rabbit hole, Eddie redirects you, asking casually, “So, how’s Shellfish doin’? Holding up okay now?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Your honest answer comes quick and unabashed. “There was no third date.”

There’s a flicker of something behind Eddie’s eyes, and then it’s gone. He leans in, cupping one hand to the side of his mouth as if speaking in confidence. “Y’ask me, I think you dodged a bullet. A man who doesn’t know his mollusks is not a good catch.” 

You chuckle at the play on words, and Eddie seems tickled that you’d caught on quickly. A dimple emerges on his cheek, and you feel that low fluttering again. “He was a little too macho for me anyway,” you say dismissively, shrugging and hoping he gets the message that you couldn’t care less about Matt. “He had a big ego, and I didn’t like the way he talked to Steve. It’s like he had to be the big man on campus.” 

Eddie snorts, a little sardonic as he replies, “Well, maybe he should date my ex. She loves that tough guy shi—” he glances at you quickly, seeming a little embarrassed of his almost slip-up. “—stuff. She called me a glorified nurse as if that’s an insult.” 

You come alive with warmth, choosing to take that to mean Eddie is single. And not only to mean that he’s single, but that he wants you to know he is, now that you said you’re single. That giddiness is returning, filling you up until you might burst; impulsively, riding that high, you say, “Can’t say I agree. Personally, I like a man who has a nurturing side.”

You don’t know where the hell that sudden boldness came from, and you rush with shyness almost immediately afterward as you see Eddie’s brows jerk. For the briefest moment, he looks taken aback, and then he’s beaming that eye-crinkling smile. It’s almost manic, brighter than any you’ve seen on him yet, and it’s utterly beautiful.  

“Munson!”

Eddie startles at the sharp, impatient shout from outside, and you realize that it must be his partner calling him. Eddie stutters into action, fumbling through an apology as he jerks toward the doors with your gift rattling in his hand. “No, it’s fine,” you assure him, and when he glances back at you one more time before tugging open the heavy glass, you bite your lip, fluttering when you see the pink on his cheeks.

You watch him through the glass as he jogs over to the ambulance, his long curls bouncing as he disappears from your view. Part of you— a big part of you— is resisting the sibilant whisper that it would be awkward to follow him, and you’re just about to do it when the elevator dings again. You turn toward it automatically, meeting the panicked eyes of your office’s youngest intern, Carrie. 

She seems surprised to see you, and her mousy nose quivers as her eyes widen. “You’re back?” she squeaks, rushing toward you immediately.

“Yeah,” you say cautiously, “I forgot my phone—”

She clutches your arms, quivering with desperation. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I was hoping to catch you in the parking lot—” You’re alarmed to see the sheen in her eyes, the wobble of her lip. “I really need your help.”

Immediately, your hand finds her shoulder, concern welling up to replace all else. “Look, Carrie, it’s okay,” you say, guiding her back to the elevator. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

By the time she’d wavered through her explanation, and you’d helped her fix the “crisis”— a simple jam in the new Xerox made unreasonably urgent by your boss’ exaggerated threat that if anyone broke the expensive copier, they’d be paying for it out of their earnings— you return to the lobby to find the street conspicuously lacking in one unmistakeable red and white vehicle.

The walk back to the parking lot— plus one phone and minus a package of baked goods— is dull and lackluster. Disappointment swoops in your gut as your foolish hope that maybe you’d catch the ambulance down the block is dashed when you reach your car with no such sightings. And you can’t even curse fate because you’ve gotten your wish. 

Fickle as ever, she’d delivered Eddie to you so you could return his kindness as you’d hoped. But she’d ignored the secret yearning of your heart, leaving you at the mercy of her whims.

And she wouldn’t oblige you again without a cost.

 It’s the burst of an impact you couldn’t possibly brace for. There’s the squeal of brakes and then the sickening crunch of metal. Powder in your mouth as you gasp. A rain of shattered glass. And then ringing, deafening silence.

In the stillness, the moments replay over and over, winding through your mind like a snake chasing its tail, each bone of its spine a single, disjointed thought. 

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

Your mother forgot the cranberries.

You were driving home from the store.

You stopped at the corner of Macopin and Hamberg Turnpike.

Two roads feed into one; the leftmost has the right of way.

There’s a cop car waiting at the left fork.

He waved you on.

You didn’t see the box truck coming around the corner.

He waved you on.

So you went.

The ringing, deafening silence dissolves slowly into sounds— the blare of a police siren, the hissing of a radiator. You turn your head slowly and glance at the passenger seat for your phone, and your stomach lurches at what’s past it: the crumpled remains of the passenger-side door where your vehicle is pinned against the guardrail, and beyond, the sea of trees it’s protecting you from.

There are tiny clatters of glass as you shift restlessly, heart pumping frantically as the shock begins to wear off and the adrenaline kicks in. Right outside your window, the hood of the box truck is bent and warped, and if you were to reach out your shattered window, you could run your palm along the warm metal. The reality then sets in: you’d been hit by a box truck and pinned against the guardrail.

You’re lucky to be alive.

A voice swims, echoing in your ears. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

You try to blink the daze away, to break free of the two thoughts the fractured bones of the snake have transformed into. Thank God I was driving dad’s Suburban. If I’d been in my car…. You desperately do not want to finish that sentence. 

You whimper with effort, and the voice returns more urgently. “Ma’am. Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” you call weakly. 

The voice comes again. “Are you hurt?” 

“I—” You move slowly, shifting your body minutely. A bend of your elbow. A shrug of your shoulder. Something along your collarbone aches like a burn. “I don’t know,” you reply honestly, and your voice wavers with the realization. Slowly, other sensations emerge: you discern sharp soreness in your arm. You wince, and that tightening of your forehead stings. You can’t see your legs; they’re concealed beneath the airbag, and your heart pumps harder. 

Suddenly, you’re holding your breath. You’re afraid to shift your legs, afraid to feel a rush of pain, or worse, to try to move them and feel nothing at all. 

You turn your head fractionally, eyes straining to see out the shattered window, but the box truck is in the way. “EMS is on their way, ma’am. We’re gonna get you out of here.” You realize then that the voice must belong to the cop.

“Thank you.” You feel your eyes rush with tears. “Is… is the other guy…?”

“He’s okay,” the cop answers, and you breathe a shaky sigh of relief, letting it puff out your cheeks.

“Okay,” you answer in a small voice, and there is no reply.

As you wait for EMS to arrive, you concentrate on doing everything you can to reduce your panic, knowing that the worst thing you can do is allow yourself to freak out. You take slow, deep breaths, resisting the urge to suck in air greedily even as your lungs protest. By degrees, very gradually, the frantic pumping of your heart begins to slow, and the airbag at your steering wheel starts to deflate. And by the time it’s sagging flat against the wheel, you hear the crunch of nearby tires over grass and gravel and see a long flash of red beyond the vehicle wedged against your own. That must be the firetruck. As your body calms, experimentally, you begin to test out some movements, starting with the low-risk ones. Slowly, you bend your elbows until your hands are in front of your face and examine your fingers and arms. There’s a quickly-forming contusion swelling on your left forearm, and anxiety spikes once again until you run your fingers over it. It hurts, but not that badly, and you breathe a sigh of relief that it doesn’t seem to be broken. You feel along your face blindly, and there’s some stinging on your forehead and left cheek, but otherwise, there is no pain. Without moving your head, you unbuckle yourself and pull down the neckline of your sweater. As you feel around, you discover that the pain travels diagonally across your collarbone, and your fingers don’t come away with blood. Logically, the sting on your chest is likely just a burn from the seatbelt.

Higher-risk movements come next. You shift so, so slowly, resolving to stop as soon as you encounter any pain. But you turn your head, and there is none; you wiggle your toes, and they move. You sway your hips, and they obey, and when you lean forward toward the steering wheel, you meet no resistance.

Somehow, you think you’re okay. You don’t anticipate the rush of emotion the realization conjures, and a tear slips to cut through the airbag powder on your cheek.

You hear footsteps and voices approaching then, but still, all you can really see is the bent-up hood of the box truck. Slowly, the sounds discern themselves into words. And it’s a revelation that pulls another tear from your eyes when you realize one voice is familiar. 

He’s saying, “The cop said it’s a woman. She’s lucid—”

Your voice comes out small but sweet with melty hope. “Eddie?” 

The voice ceases immediately, and the silence is like a chasm. And then you hear your name rasped in that musical timbre. “...y/n?” 

You breathe a laugh, shaky with relief. “Yeah,” you croak. “It’s me.” Instantly, the lingering stormclouds— the apprehension, the shame, the acrid, biting fear— all disperse as you picture a bright smile and honey-brown eyes, leaving behind only the tracks of dew on your cheek and the singular belief that now, everything will be okay.

“Harrington,” Eddie barks, “tell those fuckers to hurry up and get this truck out of the goddamn way.”

Every ounce of tension you’d been relieved of is tightening that musical voice now as it goes impossibly harsh. “Hey!” The sudden bite of his shout is shocking. “Let’s go! What the fuck is taking so long?”

A sliver of Eddie peeks at the edge of the window, and his voice gentles again. “Are you hurt, sweetheart?” 

“No, I think I’m okay,” you say, shaking your head. 

Some grit, some tight urgency returns as he says, “No, don’t do that. Don’t move your head. Just stay still. Stay right there, okay? We’re gonna get you out.”

As bodies flit around in the background, you stare at the sliver of Eddie’s face— the paleness of his skin, the dark curtain of his hair, the glint of silver in his earlobe— waiting for the moment you can see his eyes again. You stare as uniformed men crowd around the truck, and you stare until it begins to roll away, pushed by their combined effort. And as soon as there’s enough room, Eddie is shuffling sideways until his face fills the window, honey-brown eyes wide and just as breathtaking as you remembered.

Before either of you can speak, Eddie is urged bodily out of the way to make room for the firefighters, who try to open the door only to find it stuck. One of them brings over a corded device held two-handed while the other passes you a scratchy orange blanket through the opening of your window. “We need to remove the door,” he tells you. “Hold this up to protect yourself.”

From behind the curtain of orange, you listen to them slowly and meticulously peel away the door of your father’s destroyed car. Eventually, after some long minutes, the shadow beyond the blanket falls away, and you hear the thump of heavy metal hitting the grass. And when hands pull the blanket away, the reveal of dark curls, lanky limbs, and a familiar handsome face fills you with a sense of awe that any magician would envy.

Ta-da.

“Hey, Trouble.” Eddie’s voice is gentle but hoarse, and he’s smiling, but it’s a little tight. You think his face looks pale as he looks up at you; you’re a few inches taller than him where he’s standing on the ground. His eyes rove over you restlessly. “How're you feelin’?” 

“I’m okay, I think,” you say again as Steve comes to stand beside Eddie, holding a neck brace. “I don’t think I need that,” you add. “I feel fine.” You turn your head to demonstrate, and Eddie instantly scowls.

“Look—”

Steve cuts in smoothly. “Does anything hurt? Anything feel numb?” 

You shake your head, stilling your movement when Eddie jerks forward, jaw clenched tight. “Just my arm hurts, but I don’t feel numb.” You show them the contusion on your left arm, which looks no worse than it did earlier. 

You can see that Eddie is still doubtful, but Steve walks you through basic checks. “Wiggle your toes for me.” “Try to move your foot up.” “Now the other one.” “Bend forward.” You follow his instructions easily, and in the end, he shifts back, conceding that you are, indeed, likely unharmed— at least in any crucial way. 

Eddie abruptly hoists himself onto the kickplate, planting his feet and filling the space where the door used to be. His closeness is sudden, and your eyes dart over everything— the metal of his belt buckle that’s now even with your bent elbow, the black on black on black of his paramedic uniform, the neck of his collared shirt that pulls further open to reveal more pale skin as he reaches for you. And then he’s everywhere, bending forward until his curls are brushing your cheek and his smoke and spice is in your nose and your stomach is fluttering so wildly you feel you might fly away.

“Hold onto me,” he mutters, and his voice is so close— low and musical and hoarsened by something that sticks in his throat— that your breath catches. His hand wedges between your legs and the seat, and gingerly, you wrap your arms around his neck and lift your knees so he can slide his arm underneath them. When his other arm comes across your back, muscles flexing to test your weight, you realize that he means to pick you up.

“I can just jump down, you know,” you say, and the wheezy chuckle he huffs into your hair is half-amused and half-incredulous.

“See,” Eddie says, and you feel him shift, testing his balance as his arms tighten around you, “this is why I call you Trouble.” The teasing warmth of his voice brings a flush to your cheeks, and instinctively, you duck your head against his shoulder. When you do, and your lips skim the column of Eddie’s throat, you feel the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. “Hold tight, okay?”

You tighten your arms obligingly and nod, and as the plump of your lips brushes the warmth of Eddie’s skin, he lifts you out of the broken skeleton of your crushed vehicle.

There is no time to worry about whether you’re too heavy or if Eddie will drop you because, before you know it, he’s laying you on the nearby stretcher. His hand finds your shoulder and presses you gently, though firmly, flat to the tilted back. Your eyes dart among the personnel that still litter the grass until they catch on the cars driving slowly past, and beyond them, the fated intersection— the nexus of this entire mess.

Suddenly, Steve is at your elbow. “Do you want to go to the hospital?” 

“Yes,” Eddie interrupts before you can reply, and your eyes dart between them as Steve shoots him a weird look. But Eddie doesn’t waver. “She’s going.” 

“Only if she wants to—” 

“She’s going whether she wants to or not,” Eddie interrupts him, nostrils flared and voice a little sharp. “She needs to be evaluated.” 

“I wanna go, Steve.” You head off the storm you can sense brewing between them. “I wanna go to the hospital. Can someone just get my phone and my bag?”

“We’ll make sure all your personal belongings are with you, ma’am.” It’s the cop from before, speaking from a short distance away. You nod, glancing at each of the men as Steve and Eddie continue to stare at one another for a tense moment before Steve mutely takes hold of the stretcher’s metal frame. Eddie does the same on your other side, and together, they load you into the ambulance.

It isn’t exactly a shock when Eddie hoists himself up beside you, shutting the back doors with a definitive thunk. His heavy boots clunk along the metal flooring as he flanks you, sitting down on a stool near your elbow, nearly hovering over you like a stone-faced sentinel. It’s odd to see him like this— tense and wound tight, his mouth pressed into a hard line as his eyes dart over your body restlessly, never settling in one place. He’s always been so calm and casual in every encounter you’ve had with him, and you’d figured that's just what he was always like. You think of how he’d felt carefully along Josie’s nose, occasionally glancing toward the stage as Spiritbox played one of their best songs. How he’d seemed friendly and warm though also detached.

You think, as his lips twist and he rips open the zipper of his med pack, that Eddie is not detached right now. And that thought makes you go warm with its implications.

As the ambulance rumbles to life, Eddie pulls out a small cylindrical object and sets it down on a tray. He pulls on rubber gloves, roughly tugging them down his hands before firmly taking your wrist, fingertips on your pulse point. You watch him wide-eyed as he stares at his watch to count the beats before letting you go. 

When his hands find your abdomen, you jolt in surprise, and he pauses for only a moment before pressing down on your belly. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he says, and the part of you that was flattered thinking about what the loss of his composure might mean flares in exasperation instead.

“I feel fine,” you tell him.

Eddie doesn’t look up or stop his palpations. “Could have internal bleeding,” he mutters, almost as if to himself.

“I am not bleeding internally, Eddie,” you say, trying to remain patient. 

“Who’s the medical professional here?” You think he’s trying to joke, but it falls flat between you since his voice is too tense to hold the same musical charm as his normal teasing. 

You sigh heavily, enduring until he’s satisfied. “There, see—?” A sudden light blinds your left eye, and you wince, unable to maintain your composure any longer. “Eddie, what the hell?!”

Undeterred, he checks the other eye in the same way, ignoring your squirming. “I’m checking your pupillary response,” he says. “You could have a concussion.” 

And with that, he starts talking. And once Eddie starts, he does not stop. 

Your arm is throbbing, the skin on your chest stings, and now your head is spinning with each word that comes out of his mouth. “Head trauma,” “loss of coordination,” “muscle laxity,” “cerebral hemorrhage,” “disorientation,” “amnesia,” “vision disturbance,” “hematoma.” Eddie’s rambling goes on until you finally snap his name. “Irritability,” he says, nodding to himself.

You huff. “No, Eddie, I’m not irritable. You’re just giving me a headache.”

That doesn’t make him stop; that makes it worse. In an instant, he’s standing, not realizing that you were exaggerating for effect. His face is hovering over you as he braces his hands on the metal bars caging you into the stretcher, eyes darting as he questions you intently. “Where is the pain? Is it sharp and shooting? Dull and aching? How bad is it, scale of one to ten?” 

You suppress a whine because despite your attempt to dissuade him, now he’s blathering on even more, and his gloved thumb is running over your forehead, and you can’t even enjoy it because his touch is stinging the tiny cuts on your skin. And all you want is for him to stop talking, and he won’t. Eddie just won’t shut up—

Impulsively, you fist your hands in the fabric of his shirt, surging up as you yank him down, swallowing his words as you kiss him firmly.

The words stop instantly, but Eddie also stiffens, going completely rigid as you kiss him. And the fact that you can taste him— smoke and spice like Big Red chewing gum— drives home exactly what you’ve done and how unbelievably inappropriate it is. 

You release him, flopping back onto the stretcher with your hands curled against your chest as the heat floods your face with such intensity that you fear your flesh might melt from your bones. Hot mortification rushes through you, nearly nauseating as Eddie stares at you, expression unreadable, eyes dark in the dim light of the ambulance and lips downturned just slightly at the corners. Embarrassed isn’t the word for it. The seconds that tick by are nearly unbearable, and if you could, you would sink into the floor, descend to the asphalt and below to the dirt, and then down, down, down through the surface of the earth to melt in its molten core just to escape this moment. 

Finally, once you’ve begun to break out into a cold sweat, Eddie says hoarsely, “You sure you aren’t concussed?” 

Your brow crumples with dismay, but then he’s cupping your face, his broad palm cradling your cheek, and his hand is warm beneath the latex. And you barely have time to appreciate how those honey-brown eyes soften before Eddie’s ducking to kiss you. 

It’s the second time you’ve felt his lips, and now, you don’t panic. You just bloom. 

Eddie’s lips are warm and soft and just slightly chapped, enough to make them rasp against yours pleasantly when he shifts his head slightly. You make a little noise against his mouth when he lingers, and your heart melts when you feel him smile. He parts from you just briefly to make it sweeter when he kisses you softly again, and then once more before finally pulling far enough away to gaze at you. He murmurs, and the teasing cadence is back in his musical voice. “Y’didn’t have to get yourself hit by a box truck to see me, you know.” 

You feel dazed in the best way. “Yeah?” you say, voice small and delicate and questioning. Eddie smiles, and you lean into his touch as he strokes your cheek with his thumb. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. 

Your eyes widen hopefully. “So does this mean you’re gonna take me to the drive-in?”

Eddie throws back his head and laughs— not a barking, surprised laugh, or a goofy, husky chuckle, but a rasp of pure relief and delight that has you blooming with pride. You don’t even mind that his hand falls from your cheek to clutch at the railing for support. When he straightens, his curls are wild and beautiful as they frame his face, his honey-brown eyes are twinkling, and that dimple you’re becoming partial to is out for you again.

“Slow your roll, Trouble,” he says fondly. “Let’s get you checked out first, and then we can talk about shakes and a movie.” 

The only drive-in movie theatre in the state is half an hour away, and the final showing before they close for the season is next Wednesday, and if that’s not fate, you don’t know what is.

It doesn’t matter that it’s rather a lot colder than it typically is at the very end of November. The inside of Eddie’s refurbished 1979 Chevelle is toasty, and you’re cuddled up under numerous knitted throws you’d gathered from your parents’ house, so the chill of the milkshake on your fingers doesn’t bother you. You set yours in the cupholder beside Eddie’s, strawberry next to chocolate. You nearly double-take when you pick his up and shake it, eyes darting to mischievous honey-brown when you realize it’s already more than half gone. You take a pouty sip, letting the taste of rich chocolate melt and mingle with fruity strawberry in a perfect melding of flavors. Eddie snatches your cup, pursing his lips around your straw and sucking cheekily. The chunky rings that glint on his fingers are unfamiliar but entirely welcome, and so are the battle vest, the green flannel, and the tight jeans ripped at the knees that replace his typical paramedic uniform. Finally being able to see Eddie in his street clothes still hasn’t worn off, and you tingle even as you pretend to glare at him.

“You better not drink all of mine just because you nearly finished yours before the movie’s even started,” you tell him, trying to maintain your glare even though it’s already melting at the charming grin Eddie hits you with.

“Oh, Trouble,” he sighs, eyebrows crinkling in pretend earnestness, and you fight stubbornly against your lips. “I would never drink all of your milkshake. Mr. J would never let me live it down if I did.”

You lose the battle then, plunking his cup back in the cupholder as you grumble through your smile. He replaces your cup smoothly, smacking his lips in an exaggeration of enjoyment, eyes glittering. “Man, your shake really is good, though. If I didn’t like you so much, I might be tempted to finish it.”

His grin turns wolfish as you blush and look away. You’ve only gone out twice, but it's clear by now that Eddie enjoys nothing more than seeing the effect he has on you— the way his words and touches can conjure goosebumps, shivers, and blushes from thin air. Sourly you sit there, wracking your brain for how to get him back.

It comes to you, and your lips curve with a smirk. Suddenly, you know just the thing. 

You begin to deepen your breaths, exaggerating the rise of your chest and frowning in confusion. “Eddie? I feel faint,” you say weakly, glancing at him to see the enjoyment fall from his face as he transitions instantly into medical mode.

“What’s wrong?” he says, his typical calm paramedic cadence edged with concern. Your lips twitch as you hear it, but you suppress the impulse, wanting to continue your game. “Sweetheart, is it your head? Do you feel dizzy? What does it feel like?”

“I think…” you pause dramatically, eyes darting to take in his reaction, “...you’ve taken my breath away.” 

Eddie’s concern flattens as he stares at you, entirely unimpressed. You just beam, pleased with yourself, and in the light of your smile, the mask of disapproval cracks; the dimple emerges as he loses the battle with his own grin. With faint amusement and plenty of fondness, Eddie says, “You really are trouble, aren’t you?” 

The giant screen blazes to life in front of you, casting Eddie’s wild curls in a faint glow. The planes of his face soften in the light as the film begins, but neither of you move to switch on the radio yet. You simply gaze at him for a moment— this heavy-metal knockoff with a septum piercing and a not-so-secret heart of gold. When your sentiment floods your eyes, you watch Eddie’s honey-brown melt in kind. You hum your agreement, leaning over the armrest, and when Eddie meets you halfway, you reward him with a tender kiss. “I really am,” you murmur against his lips, and they brush yours as he smiles. 

“Well, Trouble, it’s a good thing I know CPR,” he murmurs. And as the Wednesday double-feature begins, the movie’s soundtrack becomes the delight of your giggles, the warmth of Eddie’s chuckles, and the sweet press of your lips meeting again and again.

[sarcasticnovah]

that was adorable- holy shit

[minaethrym]

CHAPTER 2 -  The Kiss

The Cowboy & I - Jack Daniels x Reader Multi-Chapter Fic (Bridgerton!AU)

Summary: Neither the eldest nor youngest of your family - and a twin to top it all off - you had the luxury of avoiding the trivialities of marriage, that is, until a mysterious older gentleman shakes up your inner circle and your thoughts on love in the process.

Rating: Mature/Explicit (18+)

Themes: Smut, Age Gap, Secret Relationship, Pining, Family Interference, PTSD, Forbidden Romance, Regency!AU, Bridgerton!AU, Period-typical attitudes

The next morning arrived as a grim reminder you had barely managed to sleep at all. 

You found yourself awake before your chamber maid had even had the chance to let the morning sun spill through your window and undoubtedly bring light to your dreary eyes and dull skin.

Oh no.

Why did those things even matter?

You never cared about those things - your mother certainly did, and Daphne no doubt, but…was that really all it took?

That quick, too?

Maybe you had to swallow your pride and understand the venom you had spat at Anthony last night was perhaps…quite misplaced. 

Maybe all it did take to win a woman was a charming smile and accent and…

No.

This was different.

He was not a suitor.

He did not view you as an object, as a prize to be won, he was kind to you for that reason only - because he was- is kind. He wasn’t a boyish fool with pleasure on his mind nor a creepy widower old enough to be your father.

Okay maybe he was a bit too old for you…older than Anthony at least, but what did that matter anyway he was only here as a guest- Colin’s guest. Sure you could learn a thing or two from him about horses…and America, like a tutor or teacher of sorts, but certainly not-

‘Oh, awake already miss?’

Keep reading

[sarcasticnovah]

screaming, crying, all the -ing's.

I have no words- jack daniels? and bridgerton?

didn't know i needed something so bad my goddddddddddddddd

fuckkkk Anthony bro- hes back to Daphne era bullshit- where's kate? she needs to come fix her mans-

[roosterforme]

Is It Working For You? masterlist

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Part 17

Part 18

[sarcasticnovah]

hdjsbsisbsisbsisjs, no words. so good oml

[mydearzero]

let me just put this in perspective for y'all

[sarcasticnovah]

broooooooo ;-;

[forever--darling]

ONE OF US| neteyam x avatar!reader

summary: neteyam sully was the next olo'eyktan and for years had been focused on his training and his responsibilities only. he had never accounted for you to become one of them. when you got your avatar body and ended up in the forest alone, being brought to the village and offered to be taught the ways of the people wasn't what you expected. let alone it being neteyam, future olo'eyktan becoming your teacher.

pairings: neteyam x avatar!reader (aged up)

word count: in progress

warnings/notes: enemies to lovers trope, slow burn, angst, swearing, mention of child abandonment, mention of sky people, mention of death, lo'ak x avatar!reader (if you squint), asshole!neteyam/protective!neteyam, smut in later chapters

masterlist | requests are currently open for now

please keep in mind that all characters in my stories are always 18+, and although I can't monitor who reads my work, if you are not 18+ I advise that you do not engage in my page or stories.

I. snga’itseng — just the beginning

II. the ways of the na'vi

III. the outsider

IV. iknimaya

V. na’viyä hapxì — one of the people

VI. as the world caves in

VII. one of us

VIII. the deepest sighs, the frankest shadows

one of us spotify playlist - any songs you might think fit for the series? lmk so I can add them.

poem inspos: let him be soft the sun and the moon

[sarcasticnovah]

AHHHHHHHH- ahem, yes.

[loveronlineee]

Not All Bad Part 2 (Spider x Reader)

Masterlist

Spencer “Spider” White x Reader (She/Her)

Warnings: naming sexual terms (y’know the map stuff)

Synopsis: The students of Hartley High discover a sex map in the old stairwell which causes public outrage and puts all kinds of relationships on the line. Y/N is surprised to find herself on the map connected to a certain blondie

Not proofread sorry hehe

Wanna request something? Look here!

Keep reading

[sarcasticnovah]

ok spider is a fucking cunty asshole but like <3 i love a good toxic man

[skaylanphear]

SERENDIPITOUS FATE IS MY FAVE MLB FAN FIC EVER AMD I CANT BELIEVE YOURE WRITING again ahhh I’m so excited you’re amazingggggg time to reread it all,ll

Ahhhhh, thank you! I hope the rest of the story lives up to the hype of everything that came before!

[longlivesteddie]

It was by accident, Steve swears. Driving a car, Eddie sitting next to him. Gremlins on the backseats chirping about some campaign.

It was by accident, when he puts his fucking hand on Eddie's knee. No thoughts in his brain. He's been so comfortable that he didn't even realise his own stupidity.

It's when the talking stops his brain comes back online. But before he manages to snatch his hand away, Eddie grabs it and just says: "nah ah ah." And puts it back on his knee with his own hand covering Steve's.

And then the talking resumes like it was the most natural thing for them to be holding hands.

Something in Steve's chest falls into place. He interlaces his fingers with Eddie's and squeezes.

There's a firm squeeze back and Steve smiles. They'll have some talking to do.

[theprinceofflies]

Some type of au idk.

About two months after the events of season two Steve is obviously not doing so hot and after some events his father disowns him. Unknownst to his father, Claudia Henderson, has been waiting with adoption paper since she met him. The process goes until june and about three days after Steve graduates he’s officially Steve Henderson. 

Robin meets Steve at Scoops Ahoy and he pales every time she calls him Harrington. It’s not until she sees some paperwork he signs does she figure out that he’s not longer a Harrington. It’s about a week before july fourth that she starting calling him Henderson. When Dustin shows up Steve introduces him as his brother. 

Obviously this makes the events of season three have a lot more emotions. Dustin’s shouting he can’t leave Steve because he just got a brother and Steve shouting back that it’s his job as Dustins brother to keep him safe. Robin asks for the story after they defeat the mind flayer and are waiting in the parking lot. 

Eddie get invited over to the Hendersons when Dustin, Lucas and Mike want to do a oneshot campaign and the upperclassman are busy. It’s nearly christmas and the Henderson place is decorated head to toe. Eddie makes a joke about it and Dustin replies that his mom and brother are so embarrassing. A voice from the kitchen shouts that “if you’re so emmaressed about me none of you have to eat any of the cookies that I just made”. All of the boys start shouting and Eddie follows them to the kitchen. There baking cookies is Steve wearing an apron and holding a spoon. 

Eddie freezes and turns to Dustin. “You’re brother is Steve fucking Harrington?”

Steve just sighs. “Henderson actually. Do you want cookies to Munson?”