summary: Every psychic and every tarot deck tells the same story: love isn't meant for you. Every reading ends the same wayâuntil one skeptical customer pulls three cards that were never meant to belong to him. Suddenly, the future you've spent years trying to outrun refuses to leave you alone.
word count: 11.3 k
warnings: sort of enemies to friends to lovers, meet ugly, tarot, soulmates, slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, fluff, happy ending.
a/n: based on The Prophecy by Taylor Swift, been 7 weeks stuck in my drafts, I hope you like the outcome as much as I liked writing it for you! Beta read by @kileyking & @buckysdecaflove â€ïž | dividers by @strangergraphics
read on AO3
Your family doesn't mean to hurt you. They just do.
It's the same every reunion, somebody's hand landing warm on your shoulder. When are you going to bring someone for us to meet? Are you ever gonna get married? That boat's sailed, hon. You missed your shot.
And their newest addition, just now: So, when's your turn? We really thought you'd be the next one walking down the aisle.
You're in your thirties now. Two cats, an apartment that's exactly how you want it, and you learned a long time ago to deflect, to laugh, to change the subject before anyone got too invested in your answer.
But those words stung.
Because god knows you've tried dating. You wanted the thing everyone kept asking you about, but you couldn't seem to hold onto it. Somewhere along the way you accepted that maybe you weren't meant to, just like the cards said once.
When the answer your cards gave you wasn't good enough, you tried something else: the oracle, rune-casting, pendulum, palmistry. You even ran the extra mile and paid someone to read your matrix destiny, but the answer remained the same: Not for you.
Apparently, the person meant for you was born over a hundred years ago, it wasn't meant to be in this life. Or at least, that's what the woman interpreted for you, it wasn't your line of work, but that night you pulled the cards alone and they confirmed it.
Your mom leans over, snapping you out of your thoughts. "They want you to say something."
You already knew this, you prepared days ago sitting in your apartment with your cats. You wrote and rewrote on your phone, trying to keep your words light and genuine.
"I've known Sarah since we were kids," you say. "She was always the one who knew exactly what she wanted. Not confused like the rest of us, not second-guessing. She just knew."
You can see her smiling, David's hand rest on her shoulder. You take a breath, your eyes are swelling with tears, but that's fine. That's normal at weddings.
"Sarah, David⊠you deserve each other, and you deserve the whole beautiful future you're about to have together. I hope you know how lucky you are, how blessed you are." Your voice wavers just slightly on that word. "Not everyone gets this, not everyone finds someone who loves them the way you love each other."
You're looking at Sarah and you mean every single word, even though it's cutting into you.
You raise your glass, trying to keep your hand steady despite the awful feeling sitting on your stomach. "To Sarah and David, and the future you deserve."
Later, when you're home at the outskirts of the city, with your cats curled on either side of you, you let yourself cry. Not angry tears, just the deep kind that come from watching someone else get the thing you've accepted you never will.
You think about the cards, about the woman who read your destiny and the words that have chased you since you were seventeen: The person meant for you was born out of time.
And your cousin's husband was born exactly at the right moment, in the right place, in the right life.
You're happy for her, you really are.
You're just so tired of helping everyone else find the life the cards promised would never belong to you.
The fair comes to the edge of your small town every spring, and you've been here for three years now. Your shop is smallâjust enough room for a folding table, two chairs, and the cards that you've been reading since you've been a teenager and decided to expand the gift you've inherited from your great grandmother.
The bell above the shop door chimes on a slow afternoon, and you look up from the velvet cloth you're arranging to find a couple standing in the doorway. The woman sees your altar in the corner, the crystals and the candles and her face lights up.
"Oh, this is perfect," she says, turning to him. "See? I told you we'd find someone authentic."
The manâdark hair, broad-shouldered, pierced-blue eyes and a very defined jawlineâ gives you a polite, slightly uncomfortable smile.
"Hey," he says. "She's been talking about you for weeks."
"Come in," you say, standing. You wipe your hands on your skirt. "Welcome to The Velvet Oracle, do you have an appointment?"
"I called yesterday," the woman says, stepping forward, hand extended. "I'm Hazel, this is Bucky. I want a couple's reading, we've been dating for four months and I just thought, you know, let's see what the future holds for us."
You gesture to the chairs across from you. "Sit, let's see what the cards have to say."
Hazel settles in, leans forward eagerly. Bucky sits back with his arms crossed. You don't let yourself look at him too long, because every time you do it you feel your stomach dropping, like when you miss a step in the dark.
You shuffle the deck, the familiar worn edges of the cards grounding you against your palms.
"Alright," you start. "For a couple's reading, I usually pull a few cards for each person individually, and then we'll look at the relationship as a whole. Sound good?"
Hazel nods enthusiastically, but Bucky's expression is somewhere between polite discomfort and outright skepticism.
"I gotta be honest," he says, glancing around the tent at the crystals and candles, "this isn't really my thing."
"I know, baby, but it'll be fun." Hazel tugs at his sleeve until he relents, uncrossing his arms. "Just let her do the reading, okay? For me."
He doesn't look convinced, but he nods and his expression softens for her. You don't know why, but that somehow makes you wanna cry.
You focus on Hazel, spreading the deck in a smooth arc across the velvet. "Go ahead and pull three cards when you're ready."
She leans forward, her fingers hovering dramatically before selecting. The first card makes you nod slowlyâthe Ace of Pentacles. A seed planted in rich soil. The second is the Empress, all abundance and growth. The third one is the World.
"Completion, fulfillment, a cycle coming to a close in the best possible way."
Hazel beams. "That's good, right?"
"Very good," you gesture at the Ace of Pentacles. "Pentacles are earth energyâpractical, grounded, built to last. This is a new beginning with a solid foundation. The Empress suggests growth and nurturing, maybe even family, and the World is a major arcana card of fulfillment. Whatever you're building toward, the universe is supporting it."
"I'm a Taurus!" Hazel claps her hand together. "That's an earth sign. This is so accurate, oh my god! Earth energy for an earth sign, that has to mean something."
"It suggests alignment," you say carefully, because you've learned not to over-promise."The path you're on has stability written into it."
Hazel turns to Bucky with bright eyes. "See? I told you she was the real deal."
Bucky shifts in his chair, unmoved. "Great, so what about the rest of it?"
"Your turn," you say, trying to keep your voice light. "Three cards, same as before."
He looks at the deck like it might bite him. "I don't really believe in this stuff."
"It's just cards," you say. "They only have the power you give them."
Something shifts in his expressionânot quite interest, but maybe a grudging willingness. Hazel nudges him with her elbow. "Just do it, Bucky. For me."
He sighs, leans forward and taps three cards with a soldier's precision. One, two, three. No hesitation, like he wants it over with.
You turn the first card: The Lovers.
Your breath catches. You force yourself to keep your expression neutral, but your fingers have gone cold against the velvet.
"The Lovers," you say, and your voice comes out steady, despite the static in your ears. "This card is about significant choices. A crossroad in a relationship or a deep connection that requires a decision."
Hazel practically squeals with excitement. "That's us! A deep connection!"
Bucky doesn't react. His eyes are on the card, but his face gives nothing away.
You turn the second card. The High Priestess.
The card you've pulled for yourself more times than you can count since you were seventeen. Intuition. The veil between worlds. The woman in the card stares at you from the table, and for a disorienting second you swear the woman on the card has your eyes.
"The High Priestess represents hidden knowledge," you manage. "Things beneath the surface, secrets, intuition⊠the parts of ourselves we don't fully understand yet."
"What does that have to do with Bucky?" Hazel asks, frowning slightly.
"I'm not sure yet," you lie, because you're suddenly horribly sure of exactly what's happening, and you want to sweep the cards off the table and pretend you never touched them.
You flip the third card with a trembling hand. The Ace of Cups.
The card of new love, emotional awakening. The beginning of something that fills the heart. It's the same card that you've always pulled up reversed for yourself every single time you ask the universe if there's anyone out there for you.
Now here it is, on his spread⊠along with your arcana.
"A new emotional beginning," you say after a moment of silence. "The Ace of Cups is the start of something in matters of the heart. It's a very powerful, personal card."
Hazel turns to Bucky, her earlier enthusiasm dimming. "Is that about us? Waitâ water and earth complement each other, right? Bucky's a Pisces, that's a water sign, I'm earth. That's good isn't it? They balance."
"Water and earth can be very nurturing together," you say, because it's true, even if the cards aren't saying that. "But these cards feel more like a personal message for Bucky, something individual, not necessarily about the relationship."
You don't remember what you say after that. Something about water signs and intuition, something about the cards reflecting individual journeys within partnerships. You're very good at small talk, at telling people something they might want to hear while the cards tell you something else entirely.
Hazel pays you in cash, and she leaves with her hand tucked into Bucky's elbow, already chattering about dinner reservations. He lingers in the doorway for half a second, looking back at you with an expression you can't read. Then the bell chimes, and they're gone.
You sit in silence for a long time, staring at the three cards, still laid out on the velvet. You gather them up with shaking hands and slip them back into the deck, but you can feel them there, warm against the others, like embers buried in ash.
That night, you pull your own cards for the first time in months. You stopped asking about love a year ago, because the answer never changedâthe reversed Ace of Cups, Ten of Swords, the Tower. But tonight, you need to know if you imagined it, if the shop was too warm, if you simply wanted something so badly your mind bent the cards to fit.
You shuffle the deck until your fingers ache and cut the deck three times before pulling: The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.
Exactly the same spread from earlier.
You throw the deck across your kitchen table and watch the cards scatter like birds. You don't read them, you don't need to.
The dreams start three nights later.
You're in the shop, but once you pay enough attention you realize it's not your shopâit's larger, older, with windows that look out onto a street you've never seen, snow falling in thick, silent curtains. Bucky is there, sitting across from you, but he's different. Younger, somehow, though you can't explain how you know that. He's smiling at you, and he reaches across the table to take your hand.
You wake up gasping, your sheets are twisted around your legs, your heart hammering against your ribs.
The second time you dream of him, you're dancing. You're not able to see if it's anywhere specific. It's a dark room, there is music playing from somewhere distant, his hand on your waist, his cheek pressed against your temple. He smells like cedar and leather. You can feel the calluses on his fingers through the fabric of your dress. When you wake up, you can still feel them.
You start drinking chamomile tea before bed. You burn sage. You place an amethyst under your pillow and a black tourmaline at your door, but nothing works. The dreams continue, threading themselves through your sleep like a second life you're living in parallel, and in every single one, he seems like the answer to a question you've been asking for a very long time.
You don't tell anyone. Who would believe you? What would you even tell them? I had a tarot reading go wrong and now I'm psychically stalking my client's boyfriend in my dreams. You'd sound insane. Worse, you'd sound desperate.
You don't hear from Hazel or him again. You tell yourself it's a good thing. You tell yourself the dreams will fade, that the thread between you dissolves with distance and time⊠except they don't fade, they get worse.
In your dreams you're now in Brooklyn, walking down streets lined with brownstones, and he's beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He's telling you about his day, about his past, and you listen until his words start to fade. When you wake up, you can smell his cologne in the air.
You start taking walks in the afternoon, though you don't know why. You pull your cards again, desperate for somethingâanythingâto change.
The Tower. The Star. The World.
Disaster, then hope, then completion. The cycle you've been trapped in for years, except this time the Tower doesn't feel like another heartbreak waiting to happen. It feels like changeâthe kind you can't stop even if you wanted to.
You don't sleep that night. You sit on your kitchen floor with your cats weaving between your legs, and you rearrange the cards in every configuration you know: Celtic cross, three card spread, relationship spread, past-present-future. Every single time, the same arc emerges: something is ending, something is beginning. And whatever comes next will leave you irrevocably changed.
Your aunt MargaretâMaggie, as you've called her since you were littleâtells the family that she has broken her hip on the cellar stairs, that the surgery went fine, but she doesn't want a nurse or a help aide. She wants someone from the family who can come stay with her or she'll manage alone.
The call gets passed down through the entire family, but nobody offers to go take care of her. Your cousins have husbands, kids, mortgages, school pickups⊠Meanwhile, you have two cats and a tarot shop you can shutter for a season, and nobody says it out loud, but everybody means it: you're the one with nothing to leave behind.
You arrive on a Tuesday with your two cat carriers, three suitcases and the deck wrapped in a scarf at the bottom of your tote. Maggie is waiting in the front room of the brownstone, sat in a wingback chair with a cane across her knees.
"There she is, I knew you would come," she says. "Come kiss me."
You oblige before setting the carriers on the floor and opening them to let your cats wander around and recognize the place you'd be staying for a few weeks.
"I got two rules," Maggie starts, taking off her reading glasses. "The thermostat stays where I put it, and no cards in my house."
"Maggieâ"
"I know what you carry around, I have enough ghosts in this old apartment, so there's no way I'm letting you welcome more throughâŠthat."
"They're just cards."
"Then it won't kill you to leave them in the bag," she settles back into the chair and picks her crossword up off the side table, and that is the end of it. "The kettle's on, you can take the room at the top of the stairs."
You know arguing with her would be useless, so you go and install yourself in that cramped old room and decide you'll read when she's asleep.
It becomes a ritual within the first week: you wait for the apartment to go quiet, wait for her snoring to even out and you sit at the kitchen table with the deck and a single candle as if you were a teenager sneaking cigarettes. Your cats take turns supervising from the counter, but you keep one ear on the ceiling the whole time, just in case.
Every single time, the same cards you pull at your shop with Bucky keep coming.
The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.
The dreams don't fade with the distance from home, they sharpen. Now the businesses have names, because you've walked past it every time you go run errands for your aunt Maggie. The stoop where he sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched, you know it. You've seen the exact iron railing, three blocks east. In one dream he laughs at something, and you wake up missing something you haven't even seen in real life.
You try to build a reasonable conclusion: You've been here previously, you know this neighborhood. You just did one reading to a ridiculous handsome man eight months ago and your lonely, overworked brain latched on, and now it's trying to dress a crush in destiny because it's something you've been trying to change your whole life. That's all this is. A simple crush and a reader's block. It happens sometimes to some people, right?
At least that's what Reddit said last time you checked.
You've almost convinced yourself by the third Saturday in October, which is when you see him at the green market, standing at a fruit stall with a paper bag in one gloved hand. You stop so fast a woman with a stroller clips your heel.
Eight months and four hundred miles, and he's right here, wearing a canvas jacket with his hair shorter than you remember, frowning at the fruit, and your first coherent thought is run, but your feet are refusing to move.
He must've felt your eyes on him, because he looks up.
"You," he says it flat.
"Hi," your voice comes out steadier than you expect, and you silently thank god, the universe and every existent deity. "Bucky, right?"
He crosses the few feet between you, and up close you notice a tension in him that you don't remember from the shop. "What are you doing here?"
"Buying some groceries." You lift the bag as evidence. "I'm here taking care of my aunt andâ"
"Right, so now your aunt happens to live here. Funny."
"You can come with me and check if you don't believe me," the bite gets into your voice before you can stop it. "Is there a problem?"
He laughs once, but there's no humor in it. "Is there a problem, you ask? Why don't you pull your cards and figure it out?"
"Okayâ"
"Hazel broke up with me," he watches your face while he says it. "Three weeks after that reading, you want to know why?"
The market noise keeps going around you, crates and gulls and a vendor calling out prices, but everything is reducing to background noise while you feel the cold coming up from through your boots.
"She couldn't let it go," he continues. "You said something about a new beginning, some big personal message and she turned it over until there was nothing left. Every conversation we had circled back to it, who is she? When did it start? The cards don't lie. Four months, gone, because you laid out three stupid pieces of laminated paper and made it sound like some stupid prophecy."
"That isn't what I saidâ "
"Well, it's what she heard."
"I told her those cards were about you, individually. I was carefulâ"
"You were vague," he says, "which is the whole trick, isn't it? Say something soft enough to fit any shape, take the cash, let people destroy themselves filling in the blanks⊠there's a word for that." He shifts the bag of groceries to his other hand. "You're a fraud. The polite version is intuitive, a fraud with esoteric words."
You should let it go. He's a stranger, he's grieving a relationship, the market is crowded and you have other things to do, but you don't let it go.
"I didn't make those cards come up." You step in instead of back, and something flickers across his faceâsurprise, maybe, that you didn't fold. "I shuffled, you pulled three cards, it was your own hands, no hesitation. I read what was on the table and I softened it more than I should have, for her sake. What she did with it afterward isn't mine to carry, and neither is what you do with it."
A muscle moves in his jaw. For a second neither of you says anything, and you noticeâstupidly, uselesslyâthat his eyes are exactly the color they are in your dreams.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about Hazel."
"Yeah, you sure do." He steps around you. "Enjoy Brooklyn and stay the hell away from me."
You stand there with your own groceries until your hands stop shaking.
That night you don't pull cards. You lie awake instead, replaying it, building better arguments hours too late, and when you finally sleep, he's thereâsitting across a kitchen table that doesn't exist, pushing a cup of coffee toward you, smiling at you the way he has never smiled once in real life.
You wake up furious at your own mind.
The radiator in the front room dies the last week of October, the same week the temperature does.
You find Maggie in her wingback with a blanket over her knees and the phone already against her ear. "It's the front one again," she's saying. "It clanks like the devil and gives nothing⊠No, don't be silly, after lunch is fine. You'll eat here anyway." She hangs up before whoever it is can argue.
"I could've called someone," you say. "There's a service the pharmacy recommendsâ"
"A service?" She huffs a laugh, like you've said something completely irrational. "I have James, he does the whole blockâthe Russo's gutters, Mrs. Ferreira's stairs⊠he won't take a dime, but I tuck it in his jacket when he isn't looking."
"James," you repeat.
"You'll like him," she says, returning to her crossword. "He's a serious boy, it's good with hands, singleâŠ"
The doorbell rings at one. You open the door and there he is, on your aunt's stoop, a tool bag over his shoulder, and you watch the exact moment his face goes through the market all over again.
"You gotta be shitting me," he mutters.
"Yeah, well, I'm not excited either, but I told you I was taking care of my aunt."
From the front room, your aunt's voice: "James! Don't let the heat out, it's the one radiator still working in here!"
You look at each other and there's a long moment where you genuinely cannot tell whether he's going to turn around and walk back down the steps, and then he exhales through his nose and crosses the threshold, being painfully obvious at avoiding brushing your shoulder in the narrow hall.
What follows is the strangest two hours of your autumn. Because the man at the market and the shop doesn't appear. With your aunt, he's somebody else entirelyâpatient, dry, gentle in an odd way for the way he's treated you. He kneels on the floor and bleeds the radiator and lets her direct him with her cane without complaining. Asks about her hip, and actually listens to the answer.
You stay in the kitchen, mostly. You make the coffee she orders you to make and when you bring it in, Novaâthe bolder of your two catsâhas installed herself on the tool bag, paws tucked underneath him, supervising, and for your surprise, Bucky is working around her rather than moving her.
He glances up when you set the cup down near him, just out of his way.
"Thanks," it's dry, but it's not nothing.
"You take your coffee black, right?" you say, and then bite your own tongue off, because you don't know that. You've been dreaming of that.
He pauses with the wrench mid-turn. "Lucky guess."
"Well, you look like a man who likes to keep it simple." You say it lightly and walk away before your face can do anything stupid, and behind you, Maggie says something about you reading people, and then you hear the small clank of metal as something in his hands slips.
He doesn't stay to eat, despite your aunt's best efforts. At the door, shrugging the tool bag back up, he stops with his hand on the frame. He doesn't quite look at you.
"Her hip," he murmurs. "If she needs anything lifted, or any errands to run, whatever⊠Maggie has my number."
"Okay."
"For her," he clarifies.
"I understood you the first time," you say sweetly and shut the door on whatever his face does next.
In the front room, Maggie has watched this entire exchange over her glasses.
"You didn't tell me you know James."
"Barely."
"Mm." She picks up her pen. "It seemed like more than barely to me. But if that's how you treat men no wonder why you're still single."
You gasped audibly and she winked an eye at you before going back to her crossword.
You start running into him in an almost daily basis. The neighborhood is smallâtwenty thousand people and somehow the same six faces every single dayâ and now that you know he's in it, he's everywhere. Outside the hardware store with a length of pipe over his shoulder. At the pharmacy counter, when you go pick up Maggie's medications and he's talking to an Asian man. Across the green market, where you both pretend with great commitment that the other one is invisible.
But there's no real conversation until now.
You've misjudged the sky and the distance, so you're hauling two grocery bags and a sack of cat litter up Pierrepont when the cold drizzle turns serious. You stop under sycamore to redistribute everything you're carrying, water running off the end of your nose, and a shadow falls over you. You lift your gaze and he's there, hood up, his hand already out reaching for you.
"What? Your cards didn't tell you there would be a storm?"
"Ha-ha. Very funny."
"Give me the litter."
"I've got it."
"You're going to put your shoulder out being stubborn. I said give me the damn litter."
You could protest, but you know it's pointless to fight with him, so you give him the litter and walk the last two blocks side by side without speaking, rain hissing on the pavement, his boots and your boots out of step.
He sets the sack on the second stair of your aunt's gate, but he doesn't leave immediately.
"At the market," he murmurs, to the gate rather than to you. "When Iâ when I said those things to you⊠I was out of line."
"You were rude."
"I was out of line," he repeats.
"You called me a fraud, and you said my intuition was exactly that, a fraud with esoteric words."
"Well, if you were so intuitive, wouldn't you have known about the rain?" It takes you a second to hear it, the dry shift under the flat delivery, and you laugh before you decide to. He looks surprised, like he wasn't expecting the sound either.
"Go home, Bucky," you say. "You'll catch a cold."
"Is that a prediction?"
You rolled your eyes. "There's no need for that, it's logical."
"Tell Maggie I left the wrench in the bin by the door⊠for the sink." He's already turning. "Don't let her do the sink herself, she'll try."
"I know my aunt."
"Then you know she'll try." And he's gone into the rain, shoulders up, and you stand at the gate watching him go for longer than you should.
That night you dream of him again, except the dream is just this: the two of you under a sycamore, rain coming down, but this time he's laughingâreally laughing, head tipped, the whole architecture of his face rearranged by itâ at something you can't hear yourself say.
You wake before dawn with your heart going hard and the echo of his laugh still in your ears.
It's a crush, you remind yourself staring at the ceiling.
Then why does your heart feel so heavy?
By November, your aunt has invented a maintenance schedule that no brownstone in history has ever required. The storm windows, the cellar light, a cabinet hinge you're fairly sure she loosened herself, because you watched her test it with her cane the day before she called him.
"You're matchmaking," you accuse, setting her tea down.
"I'm maintaining my property." She doesn't look up from the crossword. "Seven across, six letters. Foreseen by the stars."
"Fated."
"That's five."
"Destined is eight. Fated is five." You count it on your fingers. "What's six?"
Maggie hums thoughtfully and writes something down where you can't see it.
Bucky comes back on Thursday to check the storm windows. It's the fourth time, not that you're counting, and something has shifted in the dynamic between youâthe hostility has burned down to a kind of wariness, and that wariness keep springing leaks.
He lets you hold the frame steady while he drives the screws, close enough that you can smell the cedar on his jacket. He answers your aunt's interrogation about his week in actual sentences. When Nova bolts for the open window, Bucky catches her one-handed without looking, absorbs the betrayed yowl and deposits her on the sofa with a flat "No". You expect retaliation, but Novaâwho has never once obeyed youâstays.
"Traitor," you tell the cat.
"She respects the chain of command."
Maggie goes up for her nap at three with a theatrical yawning that should embarrass her. Bucky's packing up the drill in the kitchen and you're making coffee because it's cold and the radio on the counterâher ancient radio, permanently tuned to an AM station that plays classicsâis murmuring under everything.
And you go still.
It takes you a moment to realize, and another to find why: he's humming. Barely, under his breath, and the song sounds pretty familiar.
The mug slips, you catch it against the counter, there's coffee slopping over your knuckles, and the burn makes you realize that song was playing in the dream where he danced with you in a dark room. You've never heard it awake in your life until right now. You don't know its name either, you only knew the next three notes after he hummed them.
"You okay?" He's looking at you now.
"It's nothing," you run your hand under the tap. "Just⊠wanted to heat my hands a little bit."
It's just an old song, it's an old radio station. Men hum old songs; it's logical. You repeat it in your head twice but your hands don't believe any of it. And god forbid you, you neither.
When you turn around, he's leaning against the counter, watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"I've been meaning to ask you," he starts. "About the cards. Why do you do it? And I don't want the speech, I want the real answer."
You dry your hands slowly, deciding how much truth he's earned.
"My great grandmother read cards," you start, leaning against the counter across from him. "She read for people in her village back in the old country. My mom said she could look at someone and see the shape of their life, like⊠like they were made of glass. She tried to teach my mother, but the gift skipped her and landed on me instead."
You take a pause, watching the radio, the floor, anything but him.
"I was seven the first time I saw something I couldn't explain. I touched my grandmother's deck and I knew things about her neighbor who was sitting at the kitchen table. That she'd lost a baby the year before, that her husband was sleeping with her sister, that she was going to leave him by spring." You swallow. "I said all of it out loud, like an idiot child, because I didn't know you weren't supposed to just say those things."
Bucky's quiet. You can feel him listening, like he's cataloguing every word.
"My mother was horrified. My grandmother on the other hand wasn't. She said the cards chose me, and that I should learn to read them properly so I'd stop blurting out unfiltered truth at dinner parties." A small, humorless laugh leaves you. "So I learned. By the time I was a teenager, I was pulling cards for friends, for strangers, for anyone who asked. And most of the time, it's just⊠pattern recognition and intuition working together. The cards are a tool, not a magic trick, but sometimesâ"
"Sometimes what?"
"Sometimes they show you something that doesn't fit any pattern you know. And you have to decide whether to believe what you're seeing or pretend you didn't see it."
The radio changes songs.
"Is that what happened with my reading?" he asks quietly.
No, you think. It's worse than that.
"I read what was on the table," you say instead, because it's the truth, even if it's not all of it. "I didn't make it up, Bucky. I've never fabricated a reading in my life. The cards that came up for you were clear⊠unusually clear. And I softened them because Hazel was sitting right there and I didn't want to hurt her, but I didn't lie."
He studies you for a long moment, and you can see the war happening behind his eyesâthe part of him that wants to believe you fighting the part that needs to think you're a con artist, because the alternative is harder.
"Okay," he says finally.
"OâOkay?"
"I'm not saying I believe in it. I'm saying I believe you believe it, and that's⊠different."
It's the most generous thing he's said to you since the market, and it lands somewhere under your ribs.
It's a Tuesday in late November, and Maggie has sent him to fix a leak under the kitchen sink that you both suspect she caused by hitting the pipe with her cane. He's on his back under the counter and you're handling him tools, trying not to notice the way his shirt rides up when he reaches for the wrench.
When he slides out, wiping his hands on a rag, he looks at you for a while.
"There's a place two blocks over. They make decent coffee, if you're done pretending you don't need a break."
"That's the worst invitation I've ever heard. You're just observing that I look tired."
"You do look tired."
"Wow, thank you. A true gentleman."
His mouth twitches. "Do you want coffee or not?"
You want to say no, because saying yes feels too much like stepping off a cliff, but the word comes out before you can stop it. "Fine, but only because you're paying."
Maggie, from the front room calls out: "Take your time! I'm perfectly fine!"
The place looks cozyâit's small, warm and smells like cinnamon and cardamom. He orders black coffee and you order a latte and a slice of walnut cake. You sit t a table by the window where the afternoon light comes in, and for a few minutes neither of you says anything.
It should be awkward, being here without Maggie or your cats between you, but it isn't.
"Would you mind if I ask you something?"
"You're going to ask whether I say yes or not."
"Smart man." You turn the cup slowly. "Why do you do this? The handyman thing⊠Maggie says you work for the whole block. But you don't charge, you won't take moneyâ"
"I take money, I just don't like to ask for it, besides, Maggie always invites me to eat."
"She tucks money in your jacket while you're not seeing."
"She's not as subtle as she thinks." He takes a sip of his coffee and ten looks at you. "I like fixing things, always have. When something's broken, there's a right way to fix it, and when it's done, it's done, it's done. You can see the result, it's notâŠ"
"Ambiguous?"
"Yeah, exactly. It's not ambiguous."
You understand suddenly why he hated the reading and everything related to it. You gave him a puzzle with no solution, a fix with no steps⊠you made him sit with something unfixable.
The conversation moves easier after that. He tells you about the neighborhood, about Mrs. Ferreira, about Yoriâthe Asian man you saw the other day who feeds pigeons from his window, about the old man on the fourth who swears at everyone in Italian. You tell him about your shop, about your catsâNova and Salem, about the time you accidentally read cards for a man who turned out to be an undercover cop investigating a psychic scam two towns over, and how you spent forty-five minutes proving your cards weren't marked.
You see him laughing, not the polite sound from always, but a real one. You drink your coffee and eat your cake and try to not think about the dreams.
You learn things about him in pieces. He's from Brooklynâborn and raised, he says, but the tone on his voice tells you it's partly a lie. He has a best friend named Sam who's a pain in the ass. He doesn't talk about his family, but you don't push. He served in the military, a long time ago.
He learns things about you too, like the fact you talk with your hands when you're passionate about something, or that you hum when you're thinking and that hum is always off-key. He learns about your habit of reading strangers on the street and narrating your observations under your breath.
The first week of December arrives with an ugly wind that rattles Maggie's windows and makes your cats burrow under the blankets. Maggie has graduated from the cane to limping short distances without it, which means she's mobile enough to meddle full-time.
Bucky comes by Wednesday to check a draft Maggie swears she can feel coming from the baseboards. You both know there's no draft, but he comes by anyway.
You open the door and he's standing on the stoop with his hands in his jacket pockets, his tool bag over one shoulder, and there's snow in his hairânot much, just dust, but it's there, melting against the dark of itâand your heart does something complicated because of how good he looks.
"Maggie's napping," you say.
His hand comes out of his pocket. He's holding a folded napkin, and he holds it out to you like it's a wrench.
"I made reservations," he murmurs. "At Valentino's, this Friday, seven o'clock."
You stare at the napkin. "Did you just⊠write it on a napkin?"
"I didn't have a paper." He shifts his weight. "Sam says you're supposed to give the person a specific time and place, so⊠there it is."
"You asked your friend how to ask someone on a date?"
"Well, he tells me a lot of things, more of it is useless." He's looking at the doorframe while he speaks, then he glances at you. "This part seemed right."
You unfold the napkin. His handwriting is surprisingly neatâsmall, precise letters. Friday, 7 pm- Valentino's on Henry St. âB
"Is this because Maggie put you up to it?" you ask, because if this is charity or pity or Maggie's matchmaking you'd rather know now and bleed later.
He nods once, and you can see his shoulders drop half an inch. You want to laugh, or cry, or both, so you just fold the napkin carefully and put it in your pocket.
"Are you going to come in and check the nonexistent draft, or�"
"Might as well, just to keep the appearances."
He brushes past you in the doorway, and unlike the first time, he doesn't avoid your shoulder.
When Friday night comes, you don't understand why you're so damn nervous, but here you are, changing your outfit twice before settling with a blue dress and a pair of boots that Maggie claims make your legs look like they go on forever. You're halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rings.
He cleans up well. That's the first thought you have when you open the door. He's wearing a dark jacket over a sweater, and his hair is pulled back in a way that shows the sharp lines of his face, and he smells so good you have to resist the urge to lean closer and breathe him in again.
"You look nice," he says when you open the door.
"You too." You grab your coat from the hook. "Don't wait up, Maggie."
"Go. Don't come back before ten, I have a television program."
"We're going to dinner, Maggie, notâ"
"Door will be locked before ten o'clock," she insists, and shuts the door on your face before you can answer, letting you at the bottom of the stairs.
You turn to face Bucky and the way he looks at you makes you forget every argument you've ever had with yourself about why this is a bad idea.
"Ready?" he asks.
"It depends. Are you going to accuse me of fraud tonight?"
"Not tonight."
"Then I'm ready."
Valentino's is tucked between a laundromat and a bookshop. The hostess greets Bucky by name and leads you to a corner booth where the candlelight flickers against the red-checkered tablecloth.
"Fancy," you tease.
"I said it wasn't fancy."
"Exactly," you unfold your napkin and look aroundâwarm brick walls, fairy lights strung along the ceiling, and and old man at the bar arguing with the bartender about baseball. "I like it."
He orders wine for the table without asking, but it's the good kind, the kind that tastes likes blackberries, and when he catches you watching him over the rim of your glass, he doesn't look away.
You're talking about the shopâwhat you'll do when you go back, whether you'll reopen at allâwhen he leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. "I want to ask you something, but I don't want to fight."
"That's a promising start."
"Why do you believe in it? The cards, destiny, all of it. You're smart. You read people like they're open books. How do you also believe that pieces of cardboard can tell the future?"
It's not hostile. It's genuine curiosity, and that's worse, because you owe him a real answer. You down the rest of your wine for a bit of liquid courage.
"When I was seventeen," you start, and your voice is careful, like you're walking on ice, " my great grandmother died. She'd been sick for a while, and when I went to see her in the hospital she⊠she told me she'd been reading my cards since I was born. That she'd asked about my future every year on my birthday, the way she did for everyone in the family. And every year, the same cards came up."
The restaurant noise fills the silenceâthe clink of glasses, a murmur of conversation from the next tableâbut you're hyper aware of him.
"She said love wasn't meant for me." You trace the rim of your glass with your finger. "I didn't believe her, I was seventeen, I thought she was a dramatic old woman who loved tragedy, or that maybe she was way too high on her meds. So I started reading for myself, I pulled my own cards every week, every month, every time I met someone I thought could be something. And every single time, the same answer. Reversed Ace of Cups. Ten of Swords. The Tower. Not for you, not in this life."
You laugh, but it comes out humorless.
"I even paid a woman to read my destiny matrix, I tried runes, I tried everything because I wanted so badly for the answer to be different; but it never was. I tried dating, I did. I wanted so bad to be loved. Apparently, the person meant for me was born over a hundred years ago, and I was born now, so the timing was wrong, and that's it."
Bucky is very still across the table. He hasn't moved, hasn't reached for his glass, hasn't done anything except listen with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. The silence between you stretches. He's looking at you with an expression you can't decode.
"Bucky?"
He exhales slowly, and his jaw works twice. Then he leans forward, resting both forearms on the table. "You don't have any idea of who I am?"
"Should I?" you ask, confused.
He stares at you for a long moment like he's looking for some sign that you're joking. "You really don't."
"Bucky, you're freaking me out a little. Are you in the mob? A famous musician? Because I have to be honest, I don't really follow the news, and history was never my strong subject. I know the major stuff, butâ"
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, sliding something across the table toward you.
It's his driver's license. You pick it up, squinting at the tiny photoâhe looks exactly the same, of course he does, that hot bastardâand then your eyes drop to the birth date.
March 10, 1917.
You read it three times, but the numbers don't change. You look up at him, and he's watching at you with an expression you can't read.
"I was born in 1917," he says quietly. "Here in Brooklyn. I went to war in '43 and⊠I didn't come back the way I left. They did things to me, changed me. I don't age the way normal people do, and there's a lot of years in between that I'd rather not talk about in a restaurant."
Your hands are shaking. You set the license down on the table between you like it might burn you.
"The matrix destiny," you whisper. "It said a hundred years ago. You were born a hundred years ago."
"Yeah." He leans forward. "And here's the thing. I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in stars writing our stories for us, because if I didâ" His voice breaks, just slightly, and he catches it. "If I did, then I'd have to believe that what happened to me was determined. That the things that I did, the things that were done to me, they were written in stone before I was even born. And that's too cruel, that's a crueler god than I'm willing to worship."
He's breathing harder now, and you realize with a start that he's scared. Bucky Barnes, who caught your cat mid-air and argued with you in the rain, is scared of what you might say next.
"But you," he continues, softer now. "You showed up in my neighborhood reading cards and talking about things you shouldn't know. And I kept seeing you everywhere, and I kept telling myself it was a coincidence, that Brooklyn is small and you were just⊠there. But there's something here. I feel it every time I'm in the same room as you, and I don't know if that's fate or if it's justâ" He stops, running a hand over his face. "I don't know what it is. But I know I haven't wanted to spend time with someone like this in a long time. And if that means the stars finally decided to do something kind for once, then maybe⊠maybe I'm not as angry at them as I thought."
You don't know what to say. The pasta arrives and sits cooling between you, forgotten. You think about every card you've ever pulled, every spread that ended in the same lonely answer, every time you accepted that love wasn't meant for you. And now, he's sitting across from you, born in 1917, a hundred-year-old soul in a young man's body, and the math is so simple it makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.
"You're quiet," he says.
"I'm not quiet," you manage, but your voice sounds like it's coming from very far away. "I'm just⊠I don't know what to say. You don'tâ you don't just drop 'I was born in 1917' into a conversation and expect someone to have a response ready."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Fair."
"You fought in World War II."
"Yeah."
"And you're telling me you don't believe in fate, but you just handed me proof that the answer I've been getting my whole life wasn't wrong."
"I'm telling you that I don't care what the cards said," he reaches across the table, his hand hovering over yours for a moment before he covers your fingers with his palm. His skin is warm, calloused, and you feel it everywhere. "I care that you're here, right now. And I'm here. That's enough for me."
You look down at your hand under his, at the candlelight pooling in the hollow of his palm, and you think about the High Priestess card, the one you've pulled for yourself a hundred times. Hidden knowledge, the veil between worlds, secrets.
Maybe the secret was that you weren't waiting for a ghost after all.
You eat eventually, though you barely taste it. He tells you about Sam, about the boat they worked on together, about the neighborhood changing and staying the same all at once. You tell him about your cats, about the way Maggie pretends to be asleep every time he comes over so you'll have to answer the door alone.
But mostly, you sit in the candlelight and let yourself have this. Whatever this is.
He insists on walking you home. It's not farâfive blocks, maybe sixâand the December air is sharp enough to make you tuck your hands into your coat pockets. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, closest to the street, the way men used to do when he was young, and something about that makes your chest ache.
"You okay?" he asks as you turn onto Maggie's block.
"Yeah." But you're not, not really. You're overwhelmed, full of things you don't know how to say. You want to tell him that you've dreamed about him, that you've known the shape of his laugh before you ever heard it, that you pulled his cards in your kitchen and you threw the deck across the room because it was too much to believe. You want to ask him if he feels it too, this gravity, this sense of falling into something you never expected to find.
But you don't say any of that. You just walk beside him in the dark, and when you reach Maggie's stoop, you turn to face him.
The streetlamp behind him casts a halo around his shoulders. You think about all the years he's lived, all the winters he's seen, and you can't believe any of them led him here. To you. To this moment in your aunt's cracked concrete steps.
"I had a good time," he says.
"Me too."
He steps closer. You can smell the wine on his breath, the cedar of his jacket, the cold night air clinging to his air. He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and his eyes are darker in the shadows.
"I don't think I need to." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "I think I already know how this goes."
"Yeah?" His hand finds your waist, tentative, asking permission. "How's it go?"
And then he kisses you.
It's soft at first, careful, like he's giving you time to pull away. But you don't pull away. You reach up and curl your fingers into the front of his jacket, and he makes a sound against your mouth before deepening the kiss. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you can feel the warmth of him through every layer between you that suddenly feels like too many.
He tastes like red wine, and his jaw is rough under your palm, and when you break apart you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."
"Okay," he repeats, and he sounds almost drunk with it. He kisses you again, lighter this time, on the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your temple. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs, "I don't care about fate. But if you want to tell me what the stars said, I'll listen."
You laugh, a little watery, and push at his chest. "Go home, Bucky. It's cold."
"I know." But he doesn't move. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jaw. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
He finally steps back, down one step, then two. He's smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes and rearranges his whole face into something boyish and new. "Night, then."
"Night."
You watch him walk down the block, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed in a way you haven't seen before. You watch until he turns the corner and disappears, and you stand there for a long moment with your fingers pressed to your mouth, trying to remember how to breathe.
The front door opens behind you.
"You're welcome," Maggie says.
You jump so hard you nearly fall off the stoop. "Jesus, Maggie!"
She's standing in the doorway in her robe and slippers, her crossword in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. She looks entirely too pleased with herself.
"You were watching!" You accuse.
"I was observing, there's a difference." She steps back to let you in. "I told you he was a good boy, serious, good with his hands." She winks. "And now you know for sure."
"Maggie!"
"Don't 'Maggie' me. I didn't raise you to be ungrateful." She shuffles toward the stairs. "You can thank me properly at breakfast. And don't think I didn't notice you sneaking cards at my kitchen table for three months straight. I may be old, but I'm not blind."
You stand in the hallway, coat still on, cheeks burning, and listen to her cackle all the way up the stairs.
Your cats appear from the front room, twining around your ankles, and you bend down to scoop Nova up, burying your face in her fur. She purrs, loud and indignant, and you laugh against her soft orange head.
"Okay," you whisper to him, to the empty hallway, to no one in particular. "Okay."
You don't know what happens next. You don't know how any of this works, a tarot reader and a century-old soldier, two people the universe apparently decided to throw together just to see what would happen.
But as you climb the stairs to your cramped little room, you think about the spread you pulled the night before you left for Brooklyn. The Tower. The Star. The World.
Disaster, then hope, then completion.
Maybe The Tower wasn't heartbreak after all. Maybe it was just the world rearranging itself to make room for something you never dared to ask for.
You fall asleep that night without pulling any cards, without any dreams at all, and when you wake up in the morning, the first thing you hear is Bucky's voice downstairs, asking Maggie if she takes one sugar or two, and the sound it's better than any spread you've ever read.
June.
The summer breeze at Coney Island smells like salt and fried dough, and you were wearing the jacket Bucky lent you because you misjudged the wind off the water. It's still too big, the sleeves past your knuckles, and he keeps reaching over to roll them back up for you, his thumb brushing your wrist every time.
You can't remember whose idea it was to come here. Maybe yours, maybe his. Maybe it doesn't matter, because Bucky's hand is wrapped around yours. You've been official since January, though the line between before and after has blurred into something that feels like it started long before either of you were brave enough to name it.
The boardwalk is crowded with families and couples and teenagers laughing too loud, but Bucky moves through them like he was made for thisâfor cotton candy and carnival lights, for the easy joy of a Brooklyn summer night. He fits here, you realize. He fits now. A hundred-year-old soul learning how to be young again.
"Step right up! Test your luck!" A barker's voice cuts through the noise, and you follow it to a row of old arcade machines tucked beneath a stripped awning. Skee-ball, claw machines, a racing game with a faded steering wheelâand then you see it.
A fortune teller machine.
It sits in the corner like something out of another era, which, you suppose, it is. Madam Zola's Mystical Fortune Cards, the peeling gold paint reads. Insert coin. Receive Your Destiny. The mechanical woman inside has painted glass eyes and a silk scarf draped over her plastic hair, and her hand rests on a deck of cards that probably haven't been mystical a day in their life.
Bucky follows your gaze and laughs. "You're kidding me."
"I'm absolutely not kidding you." You're already digging in your pocket for a quarter. "Madam Zola and I are colleagues, I need to know if she's legitimate."
"She's made of plywood."
"So judgmental." You find two quarters and press one into his palm, your fingers lingering against his. "For you, professional courtesy."
He looks down at the quarter, then back at you, and something softens in his expression. "Alright," he says. "But if this thing tells me I'm gonna die alone, I'm blaming you."
"Fair."
You drop your quarter in first. The machine whirs to life with a dramatic creak. Madam Zola's hand moves across the cards in jerky, mechanical motions, and after a moment, a small white card drops into the brass tray below.
You pick it up. It's not a real tarot cardâjust cardstock, cheap, the edges already soft from humidityâbut the image printed on it makes your breath catch. Two hands clasped, reaching across a starfield. Beneath it, in gold script: The Lovers.
And underneath that, smaller: You've found the one. Don't waste time doubting it.
You stare at it. Bucky leans over your shoulder to read it, and you feel him go still.
"Huh."
"Your turn!"
"I don't need a card to tell meâ"
"Your turn, Barnes."
He huffs, but he drops in the quarter you gave him. The machine grinds and another card falls. He picks it up. You don't see it at first, but you see his faceâthe way his jaw loosens, the way his eyes soften at the corners.
It's the same image, but the text beneath reads: What was written in the stars has come to pass. Trust the path, trust your heart.
The noise of the fair fades to a distant hum. You look up at him, and he's already looking at you.
"Buckyâ"
"I don't care if it's rigged. I don't care if every card in that thing says the same thing. You'reâ" He stops, swallowing thickly. "You're it for me. You know that, right?"
Your heart is doing that complicated thing again, the thing it does every time he looks at you like you're the only person in the world.
"I know," you whisper. "Me too."
He kisses you then, right there in front of Madam Zola and half of Brooklyn, his hand cradling your jaw like you're something precious. When you pull apart, you're both breathless, and someone's wolf-whistled from the skee-ball line, but none of you seem to care at all.
"Come on," he says, lacing his fingers through yours. "I saw a ring toss on the way in, I need to win you something."
It takes him four tries and an embarrassing amount of money, and by the end he's swearing at the rigged bottles while you laugh so hard you have to lean against the counter for support. But on the fifth throw, the last ring catches, and the barker hands over the prize with a grudging nod.
It's a ridiculous bear, oversized and caramel-colored, wearing a tiny red bow tie. Bucky presents it to you as if he was handing you over the Holy Grail.
"For you. I was gonna go for the giant panda, but this one looked like it needed you more."
You crush it against your chest, burying your face in its soft synthetic fur. "I love him. I'm naming him James."
"You're not naming him after me."
"I'm absolutely naming him after you. Look at him, he has your expression."
Bucky stares at the bear's blank button eyes and then at you, and then he laughs, tilting his head back and you want to take a picture of him like thisâcareless, happy.
"Let's go to the photobooth," you demand, grabbing his hand. "Before the light changes."
"Bossy."
"You love when I'm bossy."
He doesn't agree, but he doesn't deny it either.
The photobooth is tucked behind the funhouse, a vintage four-strip model with a faded red curtain and a sign that flashes OUT OF ORDER every third flicker. But when you slide your money in, it whirs to life, and the first bulb flashes before you're ready.
"Waitâ" you laugh, still adjusting the bear on your lap.
Too late. The first picture capture you mid-laugh, Bucky leaning in with his mouth open, probably saying something sarcastic.
"Okay, okay, be serious," you say, turning toward him.
"Serious," he repeats, but his eyes are dancing.
The second flash catches you pressing a kiss to his cheek, his hand coming up to rest on your waist. The third finds him turning his head at the last second so your lips meet his instead, his fingers threading into your hair. The fourth flash finds you both laughing into each other's mouths, your foreheads touching, the bear crushed between you. You don't remember who kissed who, but you don't care.
When the strip slides out of the machine, you hold it up to the light, watching the images develop in slow motion. Four tiny windows into a perfect moment. You look at them, and you think about al the cards you've ever pulled, all the lonely spreads and reversed cups, all the years you believed love wasn't meant for you.
And here you are. Here he is. A love out of time.
"I'm putting these on the fridge," you say. "When we get back to the apartment."
"Our apartment," he corrects and your heart flips.
You're moving in together next month. You found a place in Brooklyn with a windowsill wide enough for two cats and a fire escape that gets morning sun. He's already planning on building a spare room for your appointments, and built a shelf for your cards. You told him he didn't have to, that you'd find another place to do your readings and keep the cards in the closet if he wanted, and he looked at you like you'd suggested drowning a kitten.
"It's your gift," he said. "Why would I want you to hide it?"
Later, when the moon is high and the fair lights are starting to dim, you sit together on the boardwalk with your shoes off, toes buried in cool sand, sharing a funnel cake.
"We should get home," you say, but you don't move. "Salem and Nova are probably destroying something."
"They're fine, Nova's probably sleeping on my tool bag, and Salem's judging her from the windowsill."
"How do you know that?"
"Because that's what they do every time I'm there." He licks powdered sugar off his thumb. "Those cats have a very established routine. Nova loves me, Salem tolerates me⊠it's a good system."
You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Salem tolerates everyone, that's just his personality. Nova loves anyone who gives her attention. They're not a good benchmark."
"Okay." He pauses. "Then you love me. And you're a much better benchmark."
You go still. The word hangs in the air between you, but he doesn't take it back. He just turns his head and looks at you, waiting, his eyes reflecting the last of the carnival lights.
"I do," you whisper. "I love you."
His smile is small and yet so full of hope it makes your chest ache. "I love you too. I think I started loving you the day you shut the door on my face."
"You have terrible taste."
"Must be the century I was born in, we liked 'em feisty."
You laugh, pushing at his chest, and he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. You sit like that for a long time, watching the tide come in, his thumb tracing slow circles in your palm. Eventually, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the fortune card from Madam Zola's machine.
"Do you think it's true?" he asks quietly. "The whole destiny thing. Do you really believe we were supposed to find each other?"
You look at the card, then at himâthe man who was born over a hundred years ago, who fought a war and survived things you can't imagine, that sometimes admit not knowing how to do any of this, but that tries anyway for you.
"I believe," you start, "that the cards pointed me in a direction. They told me to wait, to not settle for something that wasn't right." You turn his hand over, tracing the lines of his palmâhis life line, long and unbroken; the heart line, deep and sure. "But I don't think they made this happen, Bucky. I think we did. I think you showed up at my shop and you were rude and impossible and I couldn't stop thinking about you anyway. I think we let Maggie manipulate us into falling in love. The cards didn't do that, we did."
"Okay," he says. "I like that better anyway."
"Me too."
He folds the car again and tucks it back into his pocket, over his heart. "I'm keeping this, though. As evidence."
"Evidence of what?"
"That sometimes the universe gets it right."
You don't pull cards that night, haven't done it for a while, because you don't need to. You fall asleep with Bucky's heartbeat against your back, Salem purring at your feet, Nova curled on the pillow between you like a furry chaperone, and you dream of nothing at allâjust the deep, peaceful dark of a life that's finally exactly where it's meant to be.
Synopsis: You see Peter at a party years after your messy breakup and some truths come out
Masterlist
âHow long do we have to stay?â
âItâs a party, Peter. Itâs not going to kill you to be away from your apartment for one night.â Ned sighed as he pressed the button for the 13th floor in the elevator.
âIt might.â Peter said out of the corner of his mouth.
âYou need to get out more, dude.â Ned told him. âYouâre starting to become Boo Radley, when really, you should be Jay Gatsby.â
âYou never read either of those books.â Peter pointed out.
âNo.â Ned agreed. âBut I Sparknote-ed the shit out of them enough to know that you are becoming a homebody. And everyone knows that is the first step to becoming a serial killer who wears suits made out of unsuspecting women.â
âYou say that like itâs a bad thing.â Peter answered sarcastically.
âJust try to have fun tonight, okay? I wonât make you stay that long. But I want to see you taking to some people.â Ned requested as they walked into the apartment where the party was being held.
âBut youâre the only person here that IâŠ.â Peter trailed off as the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. He stared ahead and felt the rest of the world fade away as his eyes landed on you for the first time in four years. You were leaning on a counter in the kitchen with a red solo cup in your hand and a lightness to you he hadnât seen since the early days of when you were together. The music that had been playing when he walked in became a dull thump that Peter felt in his chest. You hadnât caught his eye yet, too busy laughing at a story a girl he sort of recognized was telling you.
Your hair was different. Your clothes too. But there was something still distinctly you about you that brought Peter back to a place he didnât know he still knew how to get to.
âPeter, I am so sorry. I didnât think sheâd be here tonight.â Ned said, pulling Peter back into his body. He managed to tear his eyes away from you, only once he processed what Ned had said.
âYou didnâtâŠuh, is sheâŠdo you guys still talk?â Peter asked Ned with an undertone of betrayal.
âNo, dude. I havenât spoken to her since high school.â Ned assured him. âBut I know sheâs friends with Harryâs girlfriend. I just didnât think they were close enough that sheâd be here.â
âOh.â Peter said quietly as his attention returned to you. He wanted to turn around and leave before you saw him, but it was too late. Harry, the host of the party, appeared in the doorway of the kitchen to greet him and Ned.
âHey. Glad you guys made it.â Harry said as he pulled Ned into some handshake-hug hybrid.
âThanks for having us.â Ned replied. âThis is my friend-â
âPeter?â Your voice pierced him like a sword. Harry stepped to the side when he heard your voice, giving you a perfect view of Peter. He stared at you like he was staring down the barrel of a gun, unsure of what his next move should be.
âOh, you guys know each other?â Harry asked as you departed from your kitchen counter and walked into the living room.
âWe all went to high school together.â Ned answered right before you enveloped him in a hug. He shot Peter an apologetic glance before returning the hug.
âNed. Itâs so good to see you.â You said as you squeezed him.
âYou too.â He answered quietly but genuinely. âItâs been too long.â
âI had no idea you all knew each other. What a small world.â Harry laughed as you and Ned pulled out of your hug. Your eyes slowly went back to Peter, taking their time as if you hoped he wouldnât be there anymore by the time you looked his way. He was frozen in time as he stared back at you, taking it all the ways time had changed you since he saw you last.
âUm, is there something else?â Harry chuckled awkwardly when the uncomfortable silence between you and Peter became prolonged uncomfortable silence. Peter stayed quiet and let you decide how much information you wanted to share.
âPeter and I used to date.â You said without taking your eyes off of Peter. Harryâs girlfriend, Sadie, had joined the conversation at some point, but you and Peter werenât sure of when.
âWait, you two dated?â Sadie asked as she leaned on Harryâs arm. âI canât see that.â
âNeither could he. Probably why we didnât work out.â You said out of the corner of your mouth. Peter absentmindedly touched his lips, realizing he may have developed his habit of doing that from you. You laughed at your own joke, but you were alone in that. Your face fell when you saw how uncomfortable everyone else looked, so you looked down into your cup and took a long sip.
âWow. Thanks for fucking up the vibe, guys.â Harry said after a minute. âDrinks, anyone? Or perhaps a blow torch to melt the ice between you?â
âThat would be great, thanks.â You smiled tightly.
âIâll be right back with that.â Harry said before heading towards the kitchen. Sadie squeezed your shoulder before walking off with him.
Peter turned to look at Ned, but no longer saw him standing next to him. He looked around the room and could see Ned absolutely cutting it up at a game of Just Dance through the open door of one of the bedrooms. Peter was fearful to turn back around because he knew that meant it was now just the two of you. Before he could psych himself out, he whipped around to face you. You were sizing him up, noticing the way his hair had grown out and how heâd lost his remainder of his teenage features.
âWell, this is a surprise.â You said to break the silence. You took another sip of your drink without breaking eye contact with Peter.
âItâs really good to see you. I didnât think weâd ever see each other again.â Peter heard the sound of his own voice before realizing he was speaking. He had played out the moment he saw you again in his head a million times, but this version was something he hadnât written in his mental scripts.
âYeah, that was heavily implied by the post-it you left on my computer.â You said with a tight lipped smile. This response surprisingly put Peter at ease. It helped him to know where you stood, since the way he ended things left him completely unaware of how you felt about the breakup. He left a post-it note for you to find when you woke up three years ago and had zero communication with you until this moment.
âIâm so sorry about that. Iâm sorry about a lot of things that happened between us. I was such a dick to you.â Peter continued, feeling like once he started to pour out all these bottled up feelings, he was not going to be able to stop.
âYou said it.â Was all you said before taking another sip of your drink. Peter touched his back pockets and then the pockets of his jackets, looking for something to fidget with. He settled on toying with the zipper of his jacket while he search for the right words to say.
âDo you think we could talk?â He asked in a quiet voice. âSomewhere more private?â
âI donât really think you and I have anything left to say to each other.â You answered. Your tone wasnât harsh, just honest. Peter began to chew his lips and felt his chance to make things right slipping away.
âI think I have a lot of things left to say to you, actually.â Peter said with an awkward chuckle.
âThen maybe you shouldâve sprung for a bigger post-it.â You shrugged.
âPlease.â Peter said softly. âJust one conversation. Maybe we could go outside or something?â
âIâm sorry. I canât. Donât hate me.â
âWhat?â Peter frowned, feeling like he had heard that once before.
âThatâs what your note said.â You reminded him. âOn the same kind of yellow post-it we would use it remind each other to run the dishwasher. Iâm sorry. I canât. Donât hate me.â
âThatâs notâŠ.thats all I wrote?â Peter asked in embarrassed disbelief. He had left in such heightened state of emotions that night that he couldnât remember the exact wording he had chosen.
âYou donât remember?â You asked him, seemingly more amused than upset.
âIâm sorry. I donât.â
âWow.â You said sarcastically. âAnd here I was thinking we both would know it by heart. Guess itâs just me.â
âThatâs awful. Oh my God. You shouldâve found out where I was and dropped an anvil on my head or something.â Peter replied, unexpectedly making you let out a dry laugh.
âHey, I still can.â You reminded him. He felt himself dare to smile the slightest bit.
âYouâre being unreasonably civil with me considering the circumstances.â
âWell, if you had shown up before we played that last drinking game, this conversation would be going a lot differently. But lucky for you, Iâm too drunk to remember just exactly how much I hate your guts.â You replied, making the smile fall right off his face. Hearing that you hated his guts was painful, even though he knew he deserved it.
Before Peter could respond, a guy a full foot taller than him bumped his shoulder and pulled you into a hug. Your demeanor changed and you tensed up, making eye contact with Peter over the manâs shoulder. He felt his heart sink and knew his face was not hiding how he felt.
âHey, beautiful.â The man greeted you as he pulled away. Your blank expression became a fake smile the second he could see your face.
âHi!â You said in a tone Peter recognized as your voice when fake niceties were being exchanged. You made eye contact with Peter again and stared at each other. As angry as you had been with him, you did not want him to be in this situation.
âSorry, did I interrupt?â The man asked when he noticed you staring at Peter.
âKelly, this is Peter. Heâs a friend of a friend.â You explained. Peter made a face for several reasons. Kelly did not seem at all phased by hearing Peterâs name, so you had clearly not told him about your relationship. That, and you had lied about how you knew each other.
âWhatâs up, man?â Kelly said and held out his hand. Peter panicked, not knowing if he was supposed to shake his hand or do the weird handshake hug-hybrid he just saw Ned do. He ended up doing an awkward mix of both and saw you turning your face to the side to laugh.
âNot much.â Peter answered with a similar fake smile to yours. The three of you stood in the most awkward silence of Peterâs life until Kelly cleared his throat.
âCan I get you another drink?â He asked you.
âYes, thank you.â You nodded and handed him your cup. Once he was gone, you and Peter exchanged another look.
âKelly?â He asked you with raised eyebrows.
âDonât start.â
âOf Blue Book fame?â He continued, making you give him a lethal stare.
âItâs a unisex name.â
âAre you sure about that?â He mumbled, but you heard it.
âDonât start.â You repeated, this time with a warning finger.
âIâm not. Iâm not.â Peter said and held up his hands in defense. You shook your head and looked away, but he could tell you were trying not to laugh.
âIâm not seeing anyone, if you were wondering.â He said, making you look at him again.
âOh, I wasnât.â You assured him, but there was a playfulness to your tone. He reminded himself that you were drunk so that he didnât read into things.
âOh. Well, now you know anyway.â
âWhat a relief on behalf of women everywhere.â You replied. You turned away again, but this time, you couldnât hide your laughter.
âWhatâs so funny?â
âKelly Blue Book was a low blow.â You told him. âWe are not rekindled enough for you to say that.â
âDoes that mean weâre rekindled somewhat?â He asked, making you roll your eyes in a playful way.
âNo. Iâm just drunk and I have a soft spot for you.â You said like it wasnât a big deal.
âYou do?â Peter asked with softened eyes. You opened your mouth to speak, but were cut off by the sound of a girl laughing loudly in the kitchen. You both turned to look and saw Kelly leaning very close to a girl to whisper something to her. Whatever he was saying mustâve been the funniest thing she had ever heard because she was slapping his chest as she laughed. You folded your lips in as if this didnât surprise you and didnât meet Peterâs eyes.
âHe seems-â
âI donât want to hear it.â You cut him off and walked away.
Peter was smart enough to give you space, but curious enough to make sure he always knew where you were. He stayed by Ned for most of the night, but made sure you were never out of his peripheral vision.
He saw you laughing and doing shots with your friends in the kitchen. He noticed when you were dancing to a song from a movie he had forced you to watch once upon a time. He was aware when you went to the balcony by yourself to stare at the city skyline and catch your breath. His eyes stayed on you as you got yourself another drink and came back to the living room. Your eyes went to something in the center of the room, so Peterâs followed. There he saw Kelly dancing between two girls and looking like he didnât have a care in the world. Peter looked back at you and saw that you werenât exactly watching Kelly, but not unaware of what was happening either. Peter was glaring daggers at him on your behalf with his disdain building by the minute. One of the girls whispered something in Kellyâs ear and he nodded before going over to you.
âI think Iâm gonna head out soon.â Peter heard Kelly tell you.
âReally? But you just got here.â You said with your fake smile.
âYeah, but, uh, my friends want to meet up. Heâs really upset and needs me.â Kelly told you without bothering to keep his eyes off the girl he had just been dancing with. Peter could see on your face that you didnât believe him. You pulled him by the arm onto the balcony, rendering Peter unable to hear the rest of your conversation. He could, however, see the two of you fighting through the window. He quickly looked away when you came back in, but he could already tell you were crying. You went straight for the bathroom as Kelly went out the front door, one of the girls heâd been dancing with not far behind him.
âIâll be right back.â Peter told Ned. He made his way over to where the bathroom was so that he could catch you on the way out. When you didnât come out for a while, he took it upon himself to knock on the door.
âItâs Peter. Are you okay?â He asked through the door. He heard the sink turn off a few moments before you opened the door.
âIâm fine.â You said without trying very hard to convince him. He opened his mouth to say more, but decided you were probably in no mood for any form of comfort from him. You were staring at him through your tear smudged black mascara, almost daring him to try to cheer you up. Instead, he silently pulled a tissue out of his pocket and handed it to you. You looked down at it and he couldnât sworn he saw the tightest hint of a smile from you. You took it, gave him an appreciative nod, and went on your way.
Peter kept his eyes on you for the next hour. The party was dying out, making it easier for him to keep track of you. When he saw you repeatedly opening and closing the clasp of your left earring, he knew he was running out of time.
âYou heading out?â He made his way over to ask you.
âOh. Uh, yes actually. Howâd you know?â
âI saw you playing with your earrings. That usually means your social battery ran out ten minutes ago.â
âHow could you possibly see that from the other room?â You cracked a smile as you asked him.
âYouâre the only thing I see.â He said simply. Your teasing smile turned into a sad one and you looked away.
âSo, um, I know you said you hate my guts, but I think it would be good for us to talk sometime. Do you still like that coffee shop near the movie theater?â Peter asked timidly.
âI havenât been there since we were together.â You shook your head. Peter was about to ask why not, but he knew why not. You didnât want to go there because you didnât want to risk seeing him.
âCould I take you there? I just want to have one conversation. To clear the air and everything.â
âPeter, you broke up with me on a post-it note.â You reminded him. âI donât care what you want.â
âYouâre right. Iâm sorry. What do you want?â He finally asked.
âTo get past you and go home.â You answered and pointed towards the front door.
âIâll walk you.â
âThatâs okay. I donât need a chaperone.â
âItâs late and weâre not close to the subway. It could be dangerous.â He told you, wanting to add âand youâre wastedâ, but didnât.
âIâll take the risk.â You said as you moved past him to get to the door. Peter made the bold move to stand in front of you to block you, hoping you would understand when you were sober.
âDonât be stubborn. Iâm walking you. Iâll walk a few paces back so you can have your space.â He stated, making you roll your eyes.
âFine. But Iâm gonna fart a bunch so you have to walk through it.â You grumbled and let him walk with you out of the apartment.
âThatâs fine. Whatever you need.â Peter nodded. You stopped walking and looked at him with a smirk.
âJesus.â You laughed. âI was joking.â
âOh. Sorry.â He smiled in embarrassment.
Peter kept his promise and walked a few paces behind you. He sent Ned a quick text about where he had gone, to which Ned replied with several suggestive emojis. Peter rolled his eyes and put his phone away so that he could keep a close eye on you. The cold New York air felt amazing after having been in that apartment with all those people. You were stumbling a little from being intoxicated and looked over your shoulder every so often to make sure he was there. When you were about halfway home, you turned around.
âThis is weird.â You said as you shoved your hands in your pockets and walked up to him.
âWhat is?â
âKnowing youâre behind me. I think itâs putting me more on edge than if I was walking alone. I keep forgetting itâs you and getting freaked out by the footsteps.â
âI can walk lighter.â He offered. You shrugged and kept going, with Peter taking lighter footsteps this time.
âItâs not working.â You sighed. âI still know youâre there.â
âI could go across the street?â He suggested, but you shook your head.
âCome on. Walk next to me. But donât talk to me.â You warned him. He nodded and quickly fell into step beside you. He snuck what he hoped were discreet glances at you every now and then. It was so insane to him to be walking beside you after believing heâd never get the chance to talk to you again. Every time he looked at you, he got a pang in his heart that radiated in his whole body. And everytime he remembered the interactions between you and Kelly that he witnessed, he felt white hot anger coarse through his body.
âJust ask.â You said, breaking the silence.
âWhat? I didnât say anything.â
âYour face did. Just ask me what youâve been dying to ask me.â You permitted him. Peter hesitated, then went for it.
âSo, you and Kelly?â
âOh my God.â You laughed. âOf course.â
âHow long have you been together?â
âWeâre not. Itâs not serious.â
âOh. So you guys just social distance and talk about unsexy things together?â He asked, making you laugh again.
âThat about sums it up.â You nodded in agreement.
âIs he good to you?â Peter asked, making you give him a look.
âYouâre nice to pretend you didnât see us fighting.âYou sighed. âBut to answer your question, when his eyes arenât wandering, yeah, he can be pretty nice.â
âHis eyes wander from you? Not possible.â
âVery possible.â You told him. âAnd constant.â
âWhy do you stay with him then? Why even give him the time of day?â
âItâs complicated. College can be really lonely.â You shrugged. âBut he tells me that Iâm pretty and kisses my head before he leaves. So itâs okay that he doesnât see me as an equal.â
âIs it okay?â Peter asked you, making you give him another look.
âNo.â You admitted. âBut, you know, college can be really lonely.â
âYeah. I get that.â Peter nodded along. âI donât get you with him, though. I saw how he was tonight. Showing up late, leaving early, talking to other girls. That guy is an idiot. Heâs not good enough for you.â
âNo, heâs not.â You agreed. âBut we accept the love we think we deserve or whatever the stupid tumblr quote is.â
âYou donât deserve that.â Peter stated. âFuck Kelly, and his little blue book.â
You stopped walking and laughed at his joke before nodding to the building you were standing next to.
âThanks for walking me. This is me.â
âWait, you still live here?â Peter asked when he recognized the building.
âI do. But a different apartment. Remember that pipe in my bathroom?â
âThat dripped hot water on your head when you least expected it? Sure do.â
âWell, it burst, so I had to move out.â
âYou didnât happen to leave the window open in the winter, did you?â He asked you, always knowing the answer.
âI still think thatâs a myth.â You prefaced. âBut yes, the pipe happened to explode after I happened to forget to close the window last January.â
âTotally not your fault.â He teased. âDo you like the new place?â
âEh. Itâs okay.â
âDid you hang all your sun-catchers back up?â He asked, causing you to look at him in surprise.
âI did.â You told him with a slight smile. âBut one of them broke in the move.â
The fleeting image of Peterâs back being painted with rainbow light from your cardinal shaped sun catcher flashed in your mind. You blinked it away and turned your face, worried that if you looked at him too long, youâd start to cry.
âNot the frog one, right?â He asked, making you chuckle. You had bought that one together on your first trip out of the city.
âNo, not the frog one. That oneâs okay.â You said with a sad smile. You and Peter stared at each other for a while and he had the same longing smile that you did. You had to look away again, fearing that if you didnât, youâd invite him to come inside.
âI should go.â Peter said to break the silence, and you just nodded in agreement. He began to step forwards, but felt like his legs were full of cement.
âI canât move.â He told you, making you frown.
âWhy not?â
âBecause this might be the last time I ever see you.â
âWell, I donât know. I didnât expect to see you tonight. Maybe weâll run into each other at a Best Buy or something in a few years.â You shrugged, making his heart sink.
âThat makes me sad.â He admitted without meeting your eyes.
âWell, what did you expect would happen to us when you broke up with me?â
âI guess I always thought Iâd get my life together and youâdâŠâ He trailed off when he realized how stupid he sounded.
âAnd what? Iâd be waiting for you?â You laughed dryly. âFor my gallant hero to outrun his demons and come back to me? And reward me for patiently waiting and keeping my life at a standstill until he returned?â
âNo. Itâs not like that.â He shook his head. âI knew we were in wildly different places in our lives, and that you were going to be far better off without me dragging you down. I thought it would be some kind of a messed up favor to you to get rid of myself so that your life could go on. But I guess I thought weâd meet again one day when we were different people andâŠ..â
âAnd?â You asked he he trailed off again.
âAnd remember why we fell in love.â He admitted, just in case this really was the last time you ever saw each other.
âIt doesnât really work like that, Peter. Life goes on. You made the decision to leave. We are different people now, but that doesnât erase what happened.â
âI know. I know I can never undo what I did. I justâŠI just hope I see you sooner than a few years in a Best Buy.â
You were quiet for a minute and folded your arms as you looked at him. You stared for such a long time that Peter felt his face heat up.
âI go to the one around the block.â You said finally.
âWhat?â
âThe coffee shop. I stopped going to the one by the movie theater and started going to the one around the block.â
âThe one with the scary guy that yelled at you for taking too long to order?â He asked. âI thought you were never gonna go back there.â
âHeâs pretty nice, actually. He was high strung that year because his husband had just passed. But he gave me a free scone when I came in here a few days after we broke up. He said he could tell I needed it.â
âWow.â Peter smiled sadly. âI drove you to the point of visibly needing a scone.â
âEh, I kinda live at that point. Donât give yourself too much credit.â
âI wonât.â He chuckled. You smiled back at him, the first full smile youâd given him all night. Suddenly, your expression changed and the color drained from your lips. Peter was quick to hold your hair off your face as the last few drinks youâd had that night came back up. Peter blew on the back of your neck while he waited for you to be done.
âThat was hot.â You groaned as you stood back up.
âIt was.â Peter chuckled and timidly rubbed your back.
âYou can go. The Cool Ranch Doritos I ate about to make a reappearance and I donât want you to see that.â
âGive me your key.â Peter said and held it his hand. You dug in your pocket and placed your key in the palm of his hand. He unlocked the front door of your apartment and ushered you inside. The doritos made their reappearance in the trash can of the lobby while Peter explained your situation to the doorman.
He let the two of you up and Peter somehow found himself in your apartment. It looked pretty similar to the last one, with several cabinets open due to your habit of taking things out and walking away. Your roommateâs door was closed, so Peter quietly led you to the bathroom. He couldnât help but look around and try to gather bits and pieces of information about your new life. The candles that you burned the most, the things you hung on your fridge, and the various trinkets you kept on your coffee table. He absorbed it all as he got you a glass of water, wondering if the brightly colored cups in your cabinets were your idea or your roommates.
âThis is not how I imagined tonight would end.â He laughed numbly as he handed you the cup of water. You gave him a gracious smile and then chugged it, hoping youâd be able to keep it down. He helped you get up off the bathroom floor and leaned against the wall while you brushed your teeth.
âHow did you imagine it?â You wondered. âLike, what wouldâve been your ideal outcome when you realized I was at the party tonight?â
âThatâs a good question.â Peter said as he thought. âI think I would just want us to be okay with each other. We had so much love between us at one time. I hate that the way I left tarnished that.â
You rinsed your mouth out and stared at him in the reflection of the mirror for a while. It seemed like you were processing something, or maybe you were just sobering up and remembering how much you hated him.
âThen why did you do it?â You asked finally. âWhy a post-it note? Why didnât you just wake me up? Or end things before I went to sleep?â
âI couldnât face you. I couldnât look you in the eyes and tell you it was over.â
âWhy not?â You demanded. Peter looked visibly surprised at the abrupt display of anger, making you look down at the sink in embarrassment.
âI want to say I didnât want to see you look devastated, but I think I really didnât want to see you look relieved.â Peter admitted without meeting your eyes. You actually appreciated his candor and smiled sadly, but still had a hardened look in your eyes that told Peter he was not yet forgiven.
âCan I ask you something?â He said in a wavering voice.
âDepends on what it is.â
âDid you ever think about me? Like, when you were waiting for an elevator or something? Did I ever cross your mind?â
Peter looked so small and fragile that you almost stepped forward and hugged him. You laughed humorlessly and nodded your head.
âOf course. Of course you did. I saw you in every pair of brown eyes I looked into since we broke up.â You admitted. That was the enough to break the dam and Peter found himself unable to contain his feelings any longer.
âIâm so sorry. Iâm sorry about everything. All the missed dates and calls I didnât return. All the nights I left you waiting until you fell asleep next to the plate you left out for me. And for leaving the way I did. You deserved so much better than what I gave you.â
âWow.â You cracked a smile. âLook whoâs found his words.â
âI know theyâre late. But better late than never, right?â He said with a self deprecating smile.
âNever wouldâve been okay with me.â
âReally? You wouldâve been okay if we never saw each other again? Even just to tell me off about how much of an asshole I was?â
âBut thatâs the thing, Peter. You werenât an asshole. You were a good guy who was dealing with something I couldnât help you with. You went about it in the shittiest way possible, but you were right to end our relationship. You clearly couldnât be in one at the time. And I donât think you realized that until you were writing on that post-it.â
Peter stared at you in stunned silence for a moment. It was just like you to humanize him, even after heâd hurt you in ways that changed you to your core. He looked away in shame, knowing he was nowhere near as evolved as you were.
âYou could always read me like no one else could.â He said quietly.
âI thought I could. But I still donât know what it was that you were going through. I tried to figure it out, but I never did discover the cause of the wedge between us.â You said, causing him to look back at you. You had a look on your face that brought his mind back to a picture of you heâd seen at your momâs house. In the picture, you were just a kid, staring at the ocean with a life jacket twice the size of you. The same curious but fearful look on your face was present now.
âThere was only one reason I left.â Peter said before he could stop himself. You looked at him like you were trying to decide if he was messing with you or not. Peter felt anxiety in his chest, recognizing this as the last moment you would ever see him in this way. Instead of telling you and going through the motions of you not believing him, he shot a web at a hairbrush on your floor and handed it to you. Your eyes went back and forth between the hairbrush and Peter about a hundred times. Finally, you slowly peeled the web off the back of the brush and held it up to give it a good look.
âYouâre joking.â You said finally, no humor in your voice.
âIâm not.â Peter shook his head.
âDo it again.â You demanded and dropped the web into the trash. So Peter did it again, this time at your hand towel. He caught it with ease before handing it to you, which turned out to be a big mistake.
âYouâre Spider-Man? Youâre the fucking Spider-Man?â You asked as you smacked his shoulder with the towel. He let you hit him a few times before snatching the towel away from you.
âI am.â
âAnd you have been the whole time? Even when we were together?â You asked him as you visibly processed what you had just seen.
âSince before we got together.â He told you, making you start your processing all over. Your entire relationship played in your head and suddenly, all the missed dates on the nightâs major crimes happened in the city made sense. You rubbed your face with your hands and sat in silence for a long time before looking at him.
âIs this why you left me? So I wouldnât find out your secret?â You asked him in a quiet voice. Peter looked down in shame and nodded his head.
âThe night I left, you and I got interviewed by the local news about our thoughts on the upcoming hurricane.â
âOh my God. I forgot all about that.â You realized. âWe were running to the bodega for ice cream. I had said I hoped we didnât run into anyone we knew since I didnât have my makeup on, and then we ended up on the news.â
âWe did.â He smiled softly. âAnd in our interview, I said I was happy to have a girlfriend that buys too many blankets in case the power goes out.â
âIâm not following.â
âIn that moment, I realized that if someone ever figured out my identity and wanted to hurt me, they could go after you. I called you my girlfriend on camera without even thinking about it. And all it would take is one person looking me up and seeing that video for you to be in danger. I couldnât live myself knowing that dating you meant putting a target on your back.â
âSo you threw us away because of a possibility?â You asked, sounding unsatisfied with his reasoning.
âItâs not just a possibility. Do you remember my Aunt May?â He asked you. You were about to ask what she had to do with your current conversation until you put two and two together. You did remember his Aunt May. More so, you remembered the way Peter never gave any definitive details on how she died.
âShe knew about my secret and got too involved, and it got her killed. So it wasnât just a possibility to me. It felt like it was only a matter of time before you got hurt or even worse because of me.â
âI didnât know.â You said quietly.
âI didnât want you to ever know. Thatâs why I wrote you the note on the post-it and left in the middle of the night. I thought if you hated me, youâd never come looking for me. And that would keep you safe.â
The change in perspective made the room spin slightly. You gripped the cold counter to ground yourself as your knees threatened to give out. Peter could tell you were struggling and stepped closer to you. He gently rested his hands on your waist to steady you. You looked up at him through your eyelashes and gave him a small appreciative smile.
âBut what about now? Why tell me now?â
âBecause you deserve to know the truth.â He said. âAnd itâs been so many years since we dated that weâre not gonna get back together. So thereâs not really any harm in you knowing now.â
âBut, just out of curiosity, does my knowing mean that now we can never be together?â You asked with a mischievous glint in your eyes. Peterâs eyebrows knit together, feeling apprehensive to read into your question.
âWhy do you ask?â He asked as struggle to keep his gaze from falling to your lips. You reached up and gently ran your fingernails on his cheek, causing him to instantly melt into your touch. Peter hesitantly reached up and wrapped a hand gently around your wrist.
âBecause Iâm starting to forget all the reasons I cried at your hands.â You admitted to him through a sad laugh. Peter mirrored your melancholy smile and tilted your face towards his by taking your chin between his fingers. You stared into his eyes and felt his familiar magnetic force pulling you into him.
âYouâre not gonna kiss me.â You shrugged with a knowing look in your eyes.
âIâm not?â He played coy.
âYouâre not.â You said most assuredly. âPeter Parker is too much of a gentleman to kiss a girl when sheâs drunk.â
âItâs true.â He chucked. âAnd it definitely has nothing to do with the entire bag of Cool Ranch Doritos I saw you house down and then puke up.â
You leaned into him while you laughed and Peter wrapped two arms around you. He held you tightly and placed a kiss on the top of your head, noting that you used to same shampoo you did when you were together.
âThatâs a good call. I donât want to kiss you when I can feel those Doritos seeping out of my pores.â You told him as you pressed your cheek into his shoulder and gently swayed with him.
âYeah.â He chuckled softly. âBut Iâd like to. You have no idea how much Iâd like to.â
âI have some idea.â You told him as you pulled away and unabashedly stared at his lips. Peter leaned in but instead of kissing you, he grabbed the bottle of makeup remover from behind you and held it up.
âHow about I do you even better and take your makeup off for you?â He asked. You threw your arms up in celebration and profusely nodded your head. Peter found your cotton balls and gently removed your makeup for you while you sat with your eyes shut and a content smile. When he finished, he went the extra mile and did your skincare for you. Heâd seen you do it enough times back when you were dating that he was able to follow it the way you did. When he finished, he scooped you up off the counter and carried you out of the bathroom.
âCome on. Iâm putting you to bed so it can be the morning faster.â He told you as he brought you to the room with your name marked on the door. Your laughter rang through your room as he gently placed you in your bed. You mumbled something incoherent once your head hit the pillow, already half asleep. Peter went to leave, but you caught his wrist and tugged him back.
âHey, Spider-Man.â You said in a playfully demanding voice.
âYes?â Peter chuckled. You seemed wide awake all the sudden and looked into his eyes.
âAre you gonna be there when I wake up this time?â You asked him, sounding completely serious.
âIâll be there.â He promised you with no intention to disappoint you again. You smiled at him and rested your head back on your pillow, seeming to accept his answer.
âThereâs a blanket on the couch you can use. Thereâs a lot, actually. I still buy too many. Goodnight Peter.â You said, eyes already shutting.
âGoodnight, honey.â Peter kissed his fingers and touched them to your forehead, not wanting to overstep but unable to just walk away.
When you woke up, Peter was gone. Your head was throbbing as you stared at the empty couch with a pit in your stomach. Before your heart could fully sink, you noticed the yellow post-it Peter had left on a newly folded blanket. Your hands shook as you picked it up, but it proved to be entirely different from the last time he left you a post-it.
âWent to get coffee around the block :)â He had penned in the same handwriting he once used to leave you. You cracked a smile at his risky joke just as Peter was coming back into your apartment with keys he had taken from the bowl by the door. He had two coffees in hand and a sleepy smile on his face.
âGood morning.â He greeted you as you walked over to him. âI took a guess at your order. I hope you still like-â
You cut him off by throwing your arms around him and kissing him, bringing you a feeling neither of you thought you would ever feel again.
âOh, sorry. I thought you were Kelly.â You smiled teasingly when you pulled out of the kiss. Peter rolled his eyes to the ceiling before pulling you into another kiss.
âYou were right about the coffee shop guy. He was very nice and gave me a scone when I said the coffee was for you.â Peter said as you walked to the kitchen together. You gasped in excitement and pulled the scone out of the little bag it was in before taking a big bite.
âHey, youâre splitting that with me.â Peter warned you and pulled you by the waist towards him.
âIâm sorry.â You said with a mouthful of scone. âI canât. Donât hate me.â
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This was loosely based on âIn My Headâ by Nell Mescal and Sex and The City! đ
summary: the ER knows you're married, pregnant, and hopelessly in love with your husband. so when brendon keeps hovering around you, everyone's convinced you're having an affair.
pairing: brendon park + attending!pregnant!reader
word count: 2.4k
warnings/tags: mentions of pregnancy, workplace misunderstanding
notes: based on this ask from anon, tysm for requesting!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
The first rumor started because of a protein bar.
Not because of anything dramatic. Not because someone saw you sneaking around hospital corridors or caught you pressed against a wall with Brendon Park's hand around your waist.
No.
It started because at two in the afternoon, during a brutally understaffed Friday day shift in the ER, you looked up from charting and said with exhausted fondness:
"My husband is going to kill me if he finds out I skipped lunch again."
And Dana, who had worked enough years in emergency medicine to survive on caffeine and spite alone, snorted.
"Husbands," she said. "They worry too much."
You smiled to yourself while typing. "Mine's worse now that I'm pregnant. Yesterday he tried to meal prep for me."
"Oh?" Santos asked from the next computer. "How'd that go?"
"He labeled every container by protein count."
"Sounds intense," Santos muttered.
"He is intense," you agreed easily. "But he means well."
Nobody thought much about it then. Because everybody in the ER about your husband.
Well, sort of. They knew he existed. They knew he packed your lunches sometimes. That he texted reminders for vitamins. That he apparently folded laundry with terrifying precision. That he hated when you worked overtime but still stayed awake until you got home anyway.
They knew he rubbed your swollen feet after shifts. They knew he was "ridiculously overprotective." They knew he called you "doctor" sarcastically whenever you forgot to take care of yourself.
They knew you adored him, but they didn't know his name.
And somehow, over months of working together, nobody ever asked. Or maybe they had once and gotten distracted by a trauma alert halfway through.
That was the thing about the ER. Conversations happened infragments.
So your husbands became this faceless mythical man everyone pieced together from tiny details.
And because you were basically sunshine in human form (You were the warmest, most patient, endlessly kind person), everyone imagined your husband accordingly.
Probably some sweet elementary school teacher. Or a soft-spoken accountant. Or maybe a stay-at-home husband who baked sourdough and wore cardigans.
Definitely not Brendon Park. Absolutely not him.
The first time most of the ER really met Brendon was during a motorcycle trauma.
The ortho pager had gone off twenty minutes earlier and everyone was already stressed. The patient had multiple fractures, a discolated shoulder, and enough road rash to make the interns pale.
Then he walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered. No greeting, no wasted movement, just immediate assessment,
"X-rays," his voice cut through the chaos.
Someone handed them over. Brendon studied them for maybe three seconds.
"We'll prep OR two. I want vascular on standby."
Ogilvie beside him started talking. "So we were thinkingâ"
"No," Brendon interrupted without even looking at him. "You were guessing."
Silence. Ogilvie visibly shrank.
"Comminuted tib-fib fracture with displacement. If you'd waited another hour, he'd lose perfusion."
The room went still. Not because he was wrong, but because he was terrifying.
Then his eyes shifted toward you. And the entire atmosphere changed so subtly that nobody noticed it except maybe Santos.
Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on you for half a second too long.
"You've been here since morning," he said flatly.
"Hello to you too."
"Did you eat?"
The room paused.
You looked midly defensive. "Yes."
"You're lying."
"I had crackers."
"That's not food."
Ogilvie who'd just been verbally executed stared between you both in confusion. The Shark did not do conversation, yet here he was arguing with you about crackers.
You rolled your eyes. "I'm busy."
"You're pregnant."
"And?"
"And you require actual nutrition."
Santos coughed to hide a laugh. Brendon ignored everybody. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and placed a protein bar beside your keyboard without saying anything else.
Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye or no explaination. He just left.
The ER collectively stared at the protein bar. Then at you. Then back at the protein bar.
Santos finally broke the silence. "...What the hell was that?"
You unwrapped the bar casually. "He gets grumpy when I forget to eat."
"You know Park the Shark?" Santos asked slowly.
You looked confused. "Brendon?"
The entire station froze at the first-name basis.
"What do you mean, Brendon?" Santos asked.
"That's his name."
"No one calls him Brendon."
"Oh," you took a bite of the protein bar. "I do."
After that, people started noticing things. Little things.
Like how Brendon only ever lingered in the ER when you were there. How he answered everyone else with clipped professionalism but always gave you full sentences.
How you somehow never seemed intimidated by him. Everyone else treated Brendon like a shark circling bloody water, you treated him like an annoyed housecat.
One afternoon, during a particularly miserable shift, you were sitting at the station rubbing your lower back.
"God," you muttered. "My husband bought six different pregnancy pillows."
Dana laughed. "Six?"
"He said the first five didn't have the right feeling."
"What does that even mean?"
"I don't even want to know."
Then Santos frowned. "Wait. Wasn't Park carrying a giant package into the parking lot yesterday?"
You didn't look up from your charting. "Probably."
"And didn't he get irritated at at someone who bumped into him because it caused him to drop it all?"
"Oh, that was ours."
Silence.
You blinked up. "What?"
Santos stared at you carefully. "You and Park live in the same building?"
"Oh." You smiled absentmindedly. "Yeah."
Another silence. Santos looked deeply concerned now.
"You're... close with him?"
You laughed. "I mean, I would hope so."
Nobody knew what to say to that. Because there was no way. No way.
You were married, pregnant even. Completely in love with your husband, whoever he was.
And Brendon Park looked at most human interaction like it personally offended him.
Yet somehow he kept appearing around you like a shadow, like it was gravity.
The rumors exploded after an incident at the cafeteria. You had been off your shift for exactly eleven minutes when Brendon walked into the cafeteria still in his scrubs.
And everyone noticed that. Because Brendon never went to the cafeteria (He barely seemed to consume food). He scanned the room once and found you immediately. THen walked over carrying a tray.
Without asking, he switched your coffee with a different one.
"You can't have that much caffeine."
You looked offended. "It was half-caf."
"It was basically battery acid."
"You tasted it?"
"You left it on the counter this morning."
Brendon sat across from you naturally, like this happened every day.
You pointed at his tray. "You got fries?"
"You wanted fries."
"I mentioned fries once."
"You cried about it."
"I was emotional that time."
"You threatened divorce."
The tables surrounding you stared. The conversation sounded disgustingly domestic.
Brendon pushed the fries toward you first before touching his own food. You stole half of them and he didn't complain.
Actually, he watched you eat with this faintly distracted expression that nobody had ever seen on his face before. Like he was making sure you were really eating.
Then your phone buzzed. You checked it and groaned.
"The husband says I forgot my appointment tomorrow."
Brendon immediately said, "Ten-thirty."
You looked at him. "I know."
"You forgot."
"I remembered eventually."
"You remembered because I reminded you."
The silence at the table became defeaning, like somehow everyone was staring at you. Brendon glanced around once, clearly unimpressed by the collective lack of intelligence.
Then his pager went off. And before leaving, he reached down and adjusted you chair closer to the table because you'd been sitting awkwardly with your belly.
The movement was instinctive, like he'd done this a million times. And it was weirdly intimate.
The second he disappeared, Langdon sat on the seat that Brendon just occupied.
"Oh my God."
You frowned. "What?"
He leaned forward carefully. "Are you having an affair with Brendon Park?"
You nearly choked on a fry. "What?"
"That man practically tucked you in!"
"He's justâ"
"You literally just talked about threatening him with divorce!"
"My husband!"
"Exactly!"
You stared at him in disbelief before realization dawned.
"Oh my god."
"So, you are!"
"No I'm not, Frank."
"Then why does The Shark know your OB schedule?"
"Because he made it."
Silence. "...Made it?" Langdon repeated weakly."
"He color-coded the whole calendar."
He didn't speak. Then you laughed, actually laughed. Because suddenly the misunderstanding was hysterical. But before you could explain, a trauma alert blared overhead and the conversation died instantly.
Unfortunately for you, the rumor did not.
Within a week, the entire ER thought you were secretly involved with Brendon.
Not openly. Nobody confronted you directly again because you seemed so genuinely confused by the accusation.
But people whispered. The evidence kept piling up. Brendon carrying your bag without asking, appearing whenever you mentioned cravings, glaring at anyone who stressed you out, standing suspiciously close during procedures if you looked tired.
And worst of all? The way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention.
That's what really convinced people. Because Brendon looked at everyone else like they personally wronged him. He looekd at you like you were something precious.
Then one night, the ER was hell. Every bed was full, three ambulanced inbound, a drunk patient screaming in triage.
You were exhausted, hormonal, and dangerously close to crying. Then one of the newer interns snapped at you.
"Can we get another attending to handle this? Dr. L/N clearly isn't keeping up."
The station went silent. Your exhaustion sharpened into humiliation. And before you could answer, a voice cut through the room.
"No."
Everyone turned. Brendon stood near the doors, having apparently arrived seconds earlier. The intern straighted nervously.
"Repeat what you said."
The poor intern paled. "I didn't meanâ"
"You questioned an attending physician with ten years of emergency medicine experience while you can barely place an IV."
The room became deathly still. Brendon's voice never rose which somehow made it scarier.
"You will either assist competently or get out of her department."
Her department. The possessiveness in those words hit everybody like a truck.
The intern muttered an apology. Brendon didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to you.
"You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
Brendon's hand briefly touched the underside of your belly as he adjusted your position from the station edge.
It was gentle. So different from the cold surgeon everyone knew.
And suddenly Santos understood. Not the affair, but something else. Something much bigger.
"Oh my god," she whispered.
Dennis looked at her. "What?"
But she was staring at Brendon. At the wedding band hidden beneath his gloves as he reached for the chart. At the identical band you wore on a chain around your neck because pregnancy swelling made your fingers ache.
At the way you entire body relaxed when he was near. At the way he knew every tiny thing about you.
Not like a lover, like a husband.
"Oh my god," Santos repeated louder.
You looked up. Brendon looked annoyed already, like he sensed where this was going.
Santos pointed between the two of you. "You're married."
You blinked. "Yeah?"
Brendon closed his eyes briefly like this was exhausting.
You looked genuinely baffled. "Who else would we be married to?"
Chaos. Absolute chaos.
"You let us think she was cheating on her husband?!" Santos yelled at Brendon.
Brendon looked unimpressed. "That sounds like a you problem."
"You never saidâ"
"Well, nobody asked."
"You literally acted like you hated each other!"
You burst out laughing. "What? No we don't."
Brendon looked down at you. And for the first time ever, in front of the entire ER, his expression softened completely.
Not subtly or barely there, but fully. Warm eyes. Affection. Something that was gentle.
Park the Shark was apparently somebody's husband. Somebody's incredibly devoted husband. And somehow that was more shocking than if he'd announced he killed people.
And somehow, from that day on, things became infinitely worse. Because now everyone noticed everything.
The quiet touches. The instinctive teamwork. The fact that Brendon always knew where you were in the hospital. The way he softened only for you.
The way you could make the scariest surgeon in the building carry your snacks and hold your coffee and rub circles into your back between traumas.
And worst of all?
Now the ER knew that every horrifyingly domestic story you told about your husband had been all about Brendon Park all along.
Which completely destroyed their ability to fear him properly anymore. Especially after they heard him answer your phone one day with:
"Baby, why are you calling me from upstairs?"
thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)
àšà§ pairing .á.á brendon park x resident!reader
àšà§ summary .á.á dr. brendon park had earned the notorious title âpark the sharkâ for reasons besides his chiseled facial structure and razor sharp eye contact. his bites aimed to make his victims bleed without warning or apology. everyone awaited his retribution to come. the last person he expected to humble him was his do-good third-year resident.
àšà§ tags/warnings .á.á female reader, no use of y/n, no physical descriptions, grumpy x sunshine trope, hurt/comfort, slowburn, work-place tension, park being a bully & ass (but he's hot), park being territorial/possesive (if you squint hard enough), night shift (because I love them!!), competence kink, blood/gore & other reoccurring medical topics in 'the pitt', medical inaccuracies (i've only graduated from google med school),
àšà§ authors note .á.á yâall i genuinely foam at the mouth every time a shark fic on this app. thereâs nothing that brings me more joy than fantasizing about dr. brendon park, so hereâs my interpretation of this sexy man. also this is inspired by the song 'kill me' by hayley williams !! (i love that woman soooo much y'all)
àšà§ word count .á.á 13.6 K
If you were in the comfort of your own apartment and bed, wrapped in the sheets you had personally endeavored yourself to splurge on, you would probably be in a better mood. Even though you had racked up enough student loan debt to achieve the satisfaction of âfollowing your dreamsâ to the point of living scraping by, youâd consider your bed a prized possession.
If they had warned you about the lack of commodities as a resident while working an overnight shift, you may have reconsidered your career choices.
While this wasnât your first night shift, it was definitely the roughest one yet. Lack of energy, constant back pain, and absolute discomfort in the resident on-call room did nothing to satiate your grumpiness.
You no longer could count the times you had tossed and turned on the bed. At the end, you had resorted to sitting on the office chair, with your head thrown back. It did nothing for your back, but it was less annoying than attempting to lay on the sad excuse of a bed. You caught a couple of hours of sleep, with your sweatshirt providing some comfort, but not enough to pass as high functioning.
Right as you had fluttered your eyes close; there was a ping from a phone. You shook awake, flustered and alarmed from the noise.
Shit. You stared down at the watch. 7:23 AM.
You immediately jumped from the chair, tripping over your own feet to your backpack placed by the corner of the bed. Your hands fished for the phone in the side pocket, and when the screen illuminated your face, your blood pressure dropped.
SULLY 1 min ag0
The shark is looking for his next meal.
Where the fuck are you?
There was no hesitation. Your hands moved like lightning. Backpack, water bottle, random protein bar you scavenged from the resident lounge. Slipping out of the on-call room, everyone saw you jogging down the hallways, towards the resident lounge where no doubt, Dr. Park was expecting you to hand-off the night shift.
Your futile attempt to reverse the dark spot under your eyes landed you right in the middle of the ocean. The âJawsâ theme song played in your mind, and you knew he could smell your blood pumping from across the hospital. It was a sixth sense of his, able to detect a puny resident from a mile away.
The thumping of your heart rose to your throat, like a boulder you couldn't swallow down. Your breathing was caught each time you tried to pull it down to your lungs. You were a dead man walking. That much was certain when you saw the wide eye stare from Sully, your senior resident. The two of you had bonded from being your attendingâs personal meals.
âPark the Sharkâ was how you all had met him when onboarding the PTMCâs orthopedic surgery program. It didnât make sense to you how the simple mention of a name could make everyoneâs back shiver, until you tried to introduce yourself, hand out a stretched and wide smile to the hunk of muscle of your attending.
âThis isnât kindergarten. Donât waste your breath on first impressions. To be clear, thereâs nothing you can do to impress me.â Park deadpanned, staring down at you as he brushed past, leaving your hand floating.
The same frown must have crossed your face as you halted, fixing your badge into the waistband of your plum scrub pants. Holding your breath, you tossed your backpack to the nearest available chair, dragging your hands down your face. Time to face the music.
Your senior resident sat at one of the workstations, eyebrows raised as recognized the unease of your shortcomings. Sully leaned forward, arms crossed as he stared at you. âWhere the hell were you?â
âTrying to catch some sleep so I donât snore my way through the rest of my shift.â You gritted back, tucking your stray hairs away. There wasnât time to doll yourself up in a mirror and you were praying that you didn't appear as restless as you were.
This was the second double shift you were pulling, and your third year had just started. If you were being honest, you didnât understand why you were the one doing it.
Park had come up to you during one of your lunch breaks a couple of weeks ago, and dropped a physical copy of the newly printed schedule. In the colored blocks, you found your name under two of the 12-hour blocks. You had stopped chewing the sandwich in your mouth, looking up at your attending with wide eyes.
âThereâs been some changes. Your cooperation is assumed, so memorize the changes.â
You barely uttered a word until he stalked off as if this was scutwork he was dreading to get done. Safe to say, you werenât pleased with the sudden change of schedule for the month.
Right now, you are suffering the repercussions of it.
âYou should be glad Dr. Park got distracted by Walshâs morning jabs.â Sully scoffed, standing up with a smug slump. âHeâs feeling particularly hungry this morning and Walsh is only going to make it worse for the rest of us.â
You shrugged menially, rushing over to the fridge in the room, digging for the collective energy drink collection. The crack of the seal echoed in the room. âItâs about time Park dishes what he eats.â
Earnestly, you got along with Walshâand most of the other surgical attendings and residents. You had worked around enough of them to garner a likable reputation, but working under Dr. Park worked against your favor socially.
It was different in the night shift without Park. There wasnât a certain tension when answering consultations or in the operating rooms. Albeit, everyone was a bit looser during the nights, but it opened a space where you could take charge more freely without worry of consequence or doubt in your decisions.Â
âAnd you think Walsh is the one to do that?â
The bass in the voice was unique to one person only in which everyone in the surgical department recognized from the other end of a call or down the hallways. Unamused in his tone that never changed while his lips remained stiff and straight.
You almost choked on the acidic liquid you had started gulping down. Whipping your head to the point of stabbing into your muscles from the speed, Dr. Park stood at the doorway with his arms crossed. If you were a bigger idiot than you were now, you wouldâve pretended he didnât hear what you said.
To try to spare yourself, you quickly shook your head. âDr. Parkââ
âSave it, pipsqueak.â Park dismissed, barely paying you any mind as he stared down at his watch. With his head bowed the reflection of the gel-cast over his light brown hair shined right in your eye. Perfectly combed back, chiseling his piercing bone structure. âYou missed pass over. I had to hear from a second year resident.â
Glancing at Sully, he shrugged his shoulders, eyebrows down turned. Quickly recovering, your hand gripped onto the can tighter. âJones? Heâs a bit overzealousââ
âWhich in your case, wouldnât hurt.â Park dryly interrupted, staring at you with hooded eyes. The âclean shavenâ look he typically had pronounced every twitch in his mandible and the other parts of his jaw. It was a good way of telling when Dr. Park had lost his patience.Â
You blubbered, your fingers numbing from the cold can as you refused to let it go. âI donât want to see you dragging your feet.â
âOf course notââ
âDonât tell me.â Park dismissed, stalking passed you over to the fridge. He occasionally stole from the resident stock; everyone assumed it was a test to see who would stop him.
No one dared.
He didnât have to finish the saying for you to get the message. He needs to see it. As of now, you werenât helping your case as you tried coming up with deflections of your mistake. If there was something Park hated more than mere incompetence, it was weaponizing it with the false hope it worked on someone as sharp as him. Acting a fool and being a fool were two different things, and regardless of what angle you chose to play, it was always a lose-lose situation for yourself.
And you still needed to survive another 12 hours around him.
You shouldâve known you werenât going to last the day. If accidentally sleeping through your alarms and missing hand off told you anything, it shouldâve been a sign things were going to go astray.Â
While pushing through a pair of double doors, having scrubbed out of an open tibia-fibula fracture surgery, a yawn escaped you. Shaking your head and rubbing your eyes, you hardly noticed what was coming ahead. Head bowed and senses incoherent, you only lifted your head once you ran into a form of mass, sending you tripping backwards.Â
When you looked up, the heavy stare of Park shadowing over your entire body, you shrank into yourself more than you already had earlier. It was a miracle that Sully roped you into the surgery, long enough to endure half your shift and to avoid Park the Sharks current disfavor of you.
Sully did not intend to stay once his residency was up. He knew he didn't have the courage to battle up against Park over executive decisions, even if Park carried the âChiefâ title. He had other goals to look forward to that didn't include staying at PTMC.
You, on the other hand, were yearning for an attending spot. Upon matching into Orthopedic Surgery, especially at a trauma-1 hospital like PTMC, you knew you would fight vigorously to outperform the others. What you didn't expect was to be soul-crushed by an attending like Dr. Brendon Park.
In the three years you had worked under him, you had seen enough residents fizzle out with time. Half of them moved across the country for fellowships and attending positions, while the other stayed just far enough to refrain from having to mutually work with him again. No one dared curse his name, but he was the type of person you only wanted to meet once in your life.Â
Your plans of moving into a lively city like Pittsburgh and settling into the comfortable life of an orthopedic surgeon no longer felt like an achievable dream, and you were falling into the conveyor-like cycle as the rest of his former residents.Â
When you finally closed your slack mouth, you registered something clattered against the linoleum floor. Your eyes darted to the ground noticing his phone had fallen from his grasp. Immediately, your body bent down, examining the phone with anxious precision before holding it out again.
âI am so sorry, Drââ
âER needs an ortho consult.â
His words clipped your sentence again, the apology ignored. He brushed past you, and the cold brush of his arm brought shivers to your exposed skin. You stood dumbfounded, unsure how to interpret his stoic statement. Spinning in your heels, you watched his taunt, muscular back walk further from you.Â
He pushed the double doors with his back, sticking his phone in his pocket. The subtle sigh he let out didnât go amiss. âWhat did I say about dragging your feet?â
You dashed over in his direction, pushing the door back as Park let it fall toward you.Â
The elevator ride down was nothing short of awkward. Park was never one for small talk. He found it a waste of air, especially when he considered most pleasantries as disingenuous. While standing behind him, your hands fiddled in front of you; grasping and releasing your fingers with easy rhythm, you chewed the inside of your cheek. You werenât a talkative person necessarily, but you were now silently reminding yourself to request for some elevator music for ambiance later.
As soon as the elevator halted, Park wasted no time, briskly exiting the elevator once the sleek doors split open. You followed in his suit to Trauma 1 in the ED, slipping in behind Park.
When you first walked in, you saw the small bustling group of nurses and ED staff surround a gray-haired African-American woman. You could make out that much from the corner of the room as you stood back and watched. Although you had been in this room many times, you didn't always make yourself known while Park was around. Why would anyone trust a thing to slip out your mouth with someone like Dr. Park present?
With the fogginess of the lack of sleep and the last surgery you barely made out of, you hardly noticed the debrief occurring anyways. Words about the patient's vitals and chief complaints were being tossed from a resident off to the side. You were internally imploring Park to not dismiss him as he had you practically the entire morning.Â
Your hands fell in their customary position in front of you, folding into a ball as a form of self-soothing. Briefly closing your eyes, taking in a deep breath, you tried to call upon some energy to hit you like a wave. You still had the second half of your morning shift to go, and you barely got through half the energy drink you cracked open to sustain you. Donât get in his way, and maybe he wonât sink his teeth into youâ
âI see you dragged one of your pups, Park.â A deep voice ribbed from the opposite end of the room.Â
Dr. Robby stood with his arms crossed at the foot of the gurney, staring back at you with no shame. He cocked his head to one side, glazing at you with amusement, hiding in the corner like some meek fish. Some of the other doctors had finally noticed you, sparing you a smile that came off more like a grimace.Â
Your attention drifted to your attending, who glanced over his shoulder, back at you. So much for not being noticed. Your entire body tensed up, and the bored expression from Park secured another stamp of his disapproval.
âWhat does the X-ray show?â Park questioned, his tone even and bass-y while echoing in the sterile room.Â
Eyebrows lifted with a quick hum coming from you was the only sound that came from anyone breathing in the room. His piercing blue eyes didn't move from you, and you weren't sure whether to keep looking or to turn to somebody else he might have referred to.
Someone called your name in the distance. As if on a swivel, your head moved toward the direction of the call. Dr. Langdon scratched the side of his head, subtly nodding his head to the X-ray machine.
Suddenly aware the question was directed to you, a cold chill ran down your spine. Embarrassment and fear of reprimand for acting like an idiot while being a third-year resident clouded your mind as your feet shuffled to the machine. Peering down at the screen, your eyes distinctly measure every inch of the image.
Lifting your head, you looked to the side. A front-view of the patient, an older patient dressed in khaki capri pants and a blue, flowery blouse. She sat uncomfortable, and you noticed her left leg, shortened and externally rotated. Based on the current needles poked in her, she was sedated from feeling most of the pain she should be experiencing.Â
âWhatâs your name maâam?â You asked politely, with a soft smile.
She let out a shaky breath, mustering up a quivering smile. âMrs. Perry.â
âItâs lovely to meet you, Mrs. Perry.â You mused, straightening your posture and walking over to Dr. Parkâs side, leaving enough space to not brush against one another. From up close, you could see Park pressing the hip area on the left side of her body, arms flexing with the movement. Sheâd visibly flinch, but withheld from yelping. âHow did this happen?â
âI tripped over my living room carpet.â She scoffed, annoyed from the incident while shaking her head. Park removed his hands, reaching down to hyper-extend her leg. The reaction then was a hiss. âI shouldâve listened to my daughter when she told me that old things might kill me.â
There was a slight grumble released beside you. When peering from the corner of your eye, Park was stretching his neck uncomfortably after finishing a physical examination heâd typically have his resident perform. His words ringed in your ear. Donât tell me.
Turning your body to face him, you awkwardly avoided his pointed stare. âX-ray shows a displaced femoral neck fracture. Based on the pattern, a Hemiarthroplasty might be necessary.â
You saw the slight twitch in his face. Moving around you, he advanced towards the machine, needing to see the images himself. You filled the void he left as Mrs. Perry bedside. Smiling down at her shaken expression glued onto Dr. Park, you leaned forward to capture her attention. âThe surgery is a very common one. Mostly recommended in cases like this. Youâll have a greater likelihood of being able to stand and move after 48-hours.â
âWhat is the healing process like?â She asked, the slight tremor in her voice resonating too deeply within you.
Carefully reaching over the gurney, you grabbed her cold frigid hand resting on the edge. She sucked in a breath, staring at your eyes as if they held in some precious jewel for her to find. âYouâll probably need physical therapy afterward, possibly at an inpatient rehab facility. Mrs. Perry, many patients before have recovered beautifully from this, with mobility returning to their standard before this injury.â
You noticed the brimming of tears in her eyes, nodding her head vigorously along with your words. Her frail hands found strength to squeeze yours, and you couldn't help but beam wider at her. You could hear Park speak with Robby and the other doctors, but you didnât pay them much mind.Â
âThank you.â She whispered, the air hitting your face. She lifted her other hand to grasp at her chest, as if you lifted a weight from her. âBless your soul, sweet girl.â
âWe will book the OR for the procedure.â Dr. Park spoke louder, stopping at the foot of the bed. When you turned your head in his direction, he nodded to Robby. âWeâll need blood work and an EKG done to plan accordingly.â
âAlready on it.â Robby nodded, he glanced from Park to you. He tried to hide the subtle skeptical look in his eye after listening to you speak with Mrs. Perry with tenderness.
You certainly didnât learn that from Park the Shark.
Park didn't utter anything more as he sauntered behind you. The snapping of his gloves as he pulled them off concluding your business in the ED. You spared Mrs. Perry one last look, before ushering yourself out of the trauma room. When the door sealed shut, Park had already pressed the up arrow for the elevator. You halted a couple of feet behind him, standing to the side like some kid in trouble.Â
Clearing your throat, you rocked on the balls of your feet. âWas I right about the Hemiarthroplasty?â
If you were Sully, or any other resident with much more confidence in their diagnosing skills, youâd assume you made the right observation. But you werenâtâespecially with Park presentâand with a patient's life on the line, you didnât pretend to be either.Â
The elevator dinged, doors opening wide for the two of you. Park who settled himself in the center of the elevator box while you slipped around him. Once the button lit up for the surgical floor, the box rattled to move up, forcing you to grasp onto the railing.
âDo you really have to ask?â He asked, not concerned to see your reaction. His voice seemed almost annoyed by the need to ask.
You fumbled on words, mouth agape as you considered how to redeem yourself without sounding overtly desperate for his approval. He slightly shook his head, squaring his shoulders. âNext time I ask for you to do your job, I assume you wonât dally like you did now.â
You werenât dallying.
If anything, you were trying to comprehend what injury Mrs. Perry had. Apart from the X-ray, there were still elements you could learn talking to the patient. Maybe your teachers in med-school were too âsoftâ for Dr. Park's animalistic taste, but you found the traditional-method worked.
You furrowed your brows. âItâs all for the sake of patient-care.â
âReacting promptly and avoiding delay is patient-care.â Park corrected, you saw the slight maneuver of his chisel jaw, now able to see your figure from over his shoulder. âI shouldnât have to teach my third year residents this.â
If you were paid every time he threw that insult, youâd have your student debt paid two-times over. There weren't enough fingers on your hands to count the amount of times he directed those words to you. It was profoundly glued into every fold of your brain, haunting you even in your sleep. The utter lack of gratification you gave him as his resident didnât need words with the way heâd dismiss you like a prey not worth the hunt.
It wasnât like you didnât try. Youâd be wasting your time and his if you sat around lulling, but sometimes the insults bordered on cruel.
âItâs his teaching methods. Be glad he even addresses you by name.â Sully painfully attempted to remedy the slight heartache you had a couple of months agoâsulking over the fact Park had ripped you a new one.
What doesnât kill you makes you stronger, or whatever Nietzsche said.Â
Except, you werenât sure that philosophy helped anyone who worked under the control of Dr. Park.
That much was assured once Mrs. Perry was moved into an OR after her necessary tests were conducted almost three hours later. You were half hoping you wouldnât have to perform the surgery, finally running to your wits end after the double shift. There wasnât anything to liven the zombie-like shuffle of your feet down the halls through consultations and pages. Your body was running on autopilot, and the connectivity with your brain no longer attached.Â
You hadnât realized you fell asleep while supposedly âresting your eyesâ from documenting patient charts. Without much thought, your brainpower fizzled and shut off at the first taste of silence and peace. You were only thankful there wasn't anyone else trying to cram in charting time.Â
With your body succumbing to the small grace, you hadnât a clue of your surroundings and the last thing you expected to disrupt your REM cycle was the booming sound of a door slam shut. You shook awake, turning your head in either direction to find the source of the noise. When your eyes shot open in the direction of the door to the dictation room, you saw a grouchy Dr. Park standing at the doorway with his hands on his hips.
You tried to act like you hadnât been sleeping, blinking reverently to shake off the drowsiness. Dr. Park wasnât convinced. Humming you braced one hand on the desk, spinning the chair slightly. âWere you looking for me?â
âYouâd know that if youâd answer your pages.â His stolid stare of your face was aware of exactly the position he caught you.Â
Your hands wandered to the pager on your belt. When you saw all the unanswered responses, you groaned, too aware of the fact you had managed to fail your attending, again. Refusing to lift your head, you shut your eyes in defeat. âIâve been trying to catch up onââ
âSleep?â Park interrupted, bracing his arms over his chest.
Blinking at him like a dog with its tail between its legs, you could see something beyond general annoyance over you sleeping on company time. You hadnât exactly expected him to handle it nicely, but a pit was forming in your stomach. It felt like awaiting a death sentence.
Park ticked his head to the side, snarling like a shark tempted by insatiable fury. Too wild and ferocious to wait for his next meal to come. That didnât make him forget his control, staring at you with the starching glare. âMrs. Perry is ready for surgery.â
His hand gripped open the door, stalking out as quickly as he came in. You sat there frozen, unsure what to make out of the reaction. He wasnât the type to yell. His icy demeanor and hooded stare said enough without an elevation in vocal volume. Yet, he didnât elaborate more on the obvious inappropriate state he found you in.Â
Could it be a dream? Maybe your brain hasn't fully booted to life. There was no way Dr. Brendon Park would let your mishap slide, right?
After surgery, you walked around with less eagerness than you did before (if you had any). You downed half a pot of coffee you found in the break room before scrubbing in. It was no shocker Dr. Park had led the entire operation up until the end, where he left you alone to finish up the entire procedure after he removed the hip-ball to replace it with something durable,
When you left the surgical wing, you noticed you put in over an hour of overtime. Sully was more than likely settled at your shared apartment. When you glanced at the lock screen of your phone, you noted the missed message.
SULLY 1 hr ago
Bought thai and dessert. I know youâre going to need it after tonight.
The exhale that left you mightâve sounded like you had received the best news of your life. In hindsight, it was as luxurious as your life got.Â
You were mostly grateful you had managed to avoid Park since finishing the surgery. Some part of you dreaded that heâd be waiting out the double doors to hand you the list of all your faults within the one shift. When you found the halls empty, you thanked whatever higher authority there was that it wasnât the case.
As you stood in the desolate, quiet elevator, your hands hovered over the buttons. You were desperate to run out of the hospital and forget the shift like a bad nightmare. Instead, your finger reached for the post-op floor.Â
Maybe it was in everyoneâs nature to linger instead of pulling away without turning back.Â
You didnât think the hospital could get any colder. You tugged your fleece jacket to wrap over your body as you walked over to where most of the patients were sedated and asleep. The nurse at the desk recognized you, waving her hand at you before turning back to the paperwork she was attending to.
Mrs. Perry's room was diagonal from the desk, even with her face turned away, you knew her from afar. Quietly pulling the door open, you slipped in, gauging her body for any sudden movements of her shifting awake. When you saw the soft fall and rise of her chest continued without lapse, you grabbed the marker on her patient-board.
She was a lovely lady overall, resembling a grandmother from childhood. You scribbled a small note to tell her surgery went well and wishing her a speedy recovery, finalizing with your name. When you slipped out, you made no more delay, hurrying to the directions of the elevators, typing away in response to Sullyâs message.
You didnât lift your head up when the door slid open, side stepping to the panel to click to the floor to the hospital parking garage. Too busy staring at your phone, awaiting a response from your roommate; you didnât acknowledge the presence lingering behind you. Just another hospital staff trying to make it home.
The buzz of the elevator filled the silent atmosphere. You hummed lightly to a song you had stuck in your head, watching the three dots light up the opened message.Â
âHowâs the patient?â
You jumped back, your head turning ninety degrees in an impossible speed that would leave a kink in your neck no doubt. The grip on your phone was ironclad as you stared wide-eyed at Park, leaning against the railing with one arm. Staring at him with a frightened look, no doubt the same look of surprise from earlier, your mouth clamped shut.
He raised his eyebrows at you, and with a careful step, back you nodded. âMrs. Perry is resting in post-op. Iâm sure sheâll make a nice recovery with some therapy.â
Park only gave you a firm nod. He didnât need you to reaffirm that thought. He had looked at all the pre-op tests and results. She was an ideal patient for her age, low-risk of infections and complications. He knew everything about his patients. Therefore, his nonchalant and dispirited expression reminded you of that.
You peeled your eyes away, hoping the elevator would somehow move faster, so you didnât die of shame. As the elevator continued to descend, you grimaced, choosing your next words carefully, âIâm sorry about missing the pages. There is no excusing my ignorance of my responsibilities. I justââ
Your words fell flat. How were you supposed to excuse the fact you fell asleep while charting, especially to an attending like Dr. Park? Anyone would have a better time wrestling an actual shark then to be forgiven by Dr. Park.
âAll residents should be able to adapt to their schedules.â Park reminded you, like you were an intern who had yet to learn to struggle on a shift. You had worked double and overnight shifts before. Today just happened to be one of the tiring ones yet. âDo you think a patient wants you drooling over them while in surgery?â
He shook his head, which was the most you had seen him emote. After the face you had made some mistakes you should've grown out of. âI gave you one task today, and somehow you were incapable of managing that.âÂ
You shrunk within yourself, hands clamming around your phone. The sharp inhale must have caught in your throat from the constricting chords. It was as if the air had thickened with the rising density of Parkâs sudden reprimand. Of course, you couldnât save yourself from drowning into the depths of the ocean, where most of the curious sharks lived. You were bound to be another fallen soldier in Park the Sharkâs list of students who fell too short of the expectation.
âI need competent third-year residents on my staff. Ones who donât need me to hold their hands and coddle them their entire way through this program.â He took one-step closer, and you wondered what was taking the elevator so long. âI wonât risk my patientâs life for your irresponsibility.â
The elevator dinged and the metal doors slid open. You held your breath the entire time Park stared down at you, like scum under his shoe. Without uttering another word, he walked out the doors, placid and unfazed by the confrontation, compared to you. Feet glued to your stationary position and blood running cold over your entire body.
Was that how Park saw you? Some liability he tried to tolerate, even when he preferred you separated from the patient with a ten-foot pole. The shaky breath you finally let out shook your core. Maybe all he saw you was the âpipsqueakâ of the group. Too mousy and self-deprecating unlike the rest.
God, you were a fool thinking you could impress anyone with your confident persona, impersonating a skilled ortho-surgeon instead of training to be one.
You stuck your hand through the sliver between the closing doors, activating the sensor once more. Stepping out into the fresh breeze, you caught the headlights of some luxury car flash in your direction. With one hand hovering over your eyes, you traveled to the side, remaining close to the edge away from the pathway. Right as the car passed by, you caught a glimpse of Park speeding away without turning back.
It sounded naĂŻve to hope you could change his opinion of you. Didnât mean youâd stop trying. He could stir the waters into a whirlpool, but you made your travel home planning to fight against it. If there was something you wanted Dr. Park to recognize most was you werenât going to stand for the tyrannyâeven if he was the living impersonation of an apex predator in your habitat.
Some animals were made to be preyed on, and youâd climb the food-chain if you had too.
The animosity from Dr. Park had stopped in the shifts after. You made an effort to be assertive. Taking charge of consultations while instructing the interns. You werenât doing it just to earn Parkâs respect, but to also prove to yourself what you wanted to be capable of. If he happened to change what objective opinion he had settled on about you, then that was just a plus.
Thankfully, it had worked well enough to have Park only mutter the tame sarcastic remarks, which announced to everyone he wasnât a fan of redundancy. He nodded at you when he âlikedâ what you had to say about a patient and their diagnosis. Never cracking a smile, but whenever he'd examine you up and down once exiting a patients room, you knew he had no critiques.
It was nearing the end of the day shift. You had paid your farewells with most of your closest colleagues. Sifting through the fridge in the break room, you heard the door click open. Lifting and peeking around curiously, you assumed other residents were packing to leave.
Instead, Dr. Emmick, the night shift attending that relieves Park, greeted you with a casual smile. You had worked with her previously, enjoying her calm, playful nature. She had her black hair tied in a braid, framing her face. You always admired her youthful look, tanned color and clear skin.Â
She smiled at you while holding her packed lunch. The sweet ring of your name followed as she approached, âitâs nice seeing you around.â
âLikewise,â You mused, extending a hand out as you politely put the container into the fridge. She gratefully handed it to you, mouthing a small âthank you.â Before closing the fridge, you grabbed the last of your energy drink, tapping the seal. Â
âI hope Dr. âSharkâ is treating you well.â She joked, and you caught the playful chaste in her words. She flashed a grin as she spun around towards the kitchenette.
You scoffed, shaking your head with a nervous smile. âAs well as he treats all of his residents.â
She laughed at that, her cheeks swelling as her smile widened. She moved around, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. She rustled around the sweeteners and sugar for a minute. âI find it hard to believe you havenât charmed your way into his cold heart.â
Squinting your eyes at her, you chuckled awkwardly, gripping the can tighter. âWhat do you mean?â
You froze as she poured the warm liquid in her mug. She moved around casually as if what she said hadnât been news to you. While she shook her head, you continued to stare at her back with a crinkled nose. âI havenât met a single person who didnât have a single good thing to say about you.â
She shortly paused to take a brief sip of the coffee before she rustled with more of the sugar packets. âYou have been monikered the most liked resident of the entire hospital.â
âThatâs a lie.â You countered. When the tone came out more combative than intended, you retracted your head a bit, pressing your lips together.
âDonât believe me?â she mused, glancing over her shoulder as she mixed the coffee with a stirrer. The grin on her face made you feel like you shouldnât have doubted the observation.Â
âMost likedâ must have been an exaggeration. Of the entire hospital? Impossible. Sure, you played nice with the surgical attendings and the doctors down in the Pitt, but they couldnât have all thought that way. Not when Park found a way to rip up your efforts every shift. It is unbelievable that any of the attendings could like you if Park found flaws.
âWhich begs the question as to why you stay on the day shift.âÂ
When you lifted your eyes to level at her face, she was leaning back onto the counter cradling the mug. One foot crossed over the other and she smiled sincerely. âI know many here on the night shift who would appreciate you a little more. I know I would.â
âI could use a resident with your maturity.â She shrugged, pushing off the counter. You continued fiddling with the can, trying to ground yourself as she continued finding new ways to praise you. âWould take a lot off my plate.â
You hadnât realized how silent you were until she raised her eyebrows at you expectantly. Shaking your head, you waved one hand in dismissal. âIâm sure youâre just saying that. I know most of my co-residents are moving once they finish residency and the hospital is in need of some positive turnover.â
She narrowed her eyes at you, like your observation was a point-of-view she hadn't been exposed to. With the slight shake of her head, she blew out a sigh, eyebrows raised. âTruth is itâs a lot harder to stay than it is to get in. Itâs definitely not for lack of trying. But, I think if anyone has a solid chance, it's you.â
Before you could politely disagree, the sound of a phone ringing bounced off the wall. Reaching into her scrub pocket, Dr. Emmick pulled out her on-call phone, skimming the ID. She lifted her head, offering an apologetic smile. âJust consider it, at least.â
She swiftly answered the call, announcing her name. You waved her a small goodbye, which she returned, before you excused yourself out. Dr. Emmick was a good mentor from the times you had worked the night shift. She was swift with an edge of personality people felt Park lacked with all his glaring. She played music roulette while doing surgery, remaining the champion of the ongoing âguess that tuneâ game.
It was hard to deny her forwardly when she charmed everyone with such ease.
You walked down the halls, towards the elevator where Sully stood by waiting, scrolling through his phone. He glanced up when he heard the footsteps, âWhat took you so long?â
âI was talking with Dr. Emmick,â You sighed out, leaning over to press the down arrow button. He stared at you skeptically, noticing the small shrug of your shoulders. âShe tried to convince me to move to the night shift.â
He scoffed, stuffing his phone and hands in his pockets. He bounced on his feet, staring up at the ceiling. âWouldnât be the worst idea.â
Your head spun to stare at him with down turned eyebrows and pursed lips. He stared down at you with a puzzled expression, âWhat? Youâre not a morning person, whatsoever, and you hate working with Park.â
âI donât hate working with Dr. Park.â You neglected, offended by the insinuation. âHateâ was a strong four-letter word you disliked using.Â
âHatingâ Dr. Park insinuated the one thing you didnât want to relent to: that he was under your skin. If he was able to obliterate the part of you that made up the person enduring his personality, then youâd have to resign. There was no way you could objectively work with himâor anyone similarâwithout it affecting patient care. It wasnât a justifiable means to an end; it was a disservice to the patients.
Sully mockingly nodded his head, pretending to believe your words. You noted the small eye roll as he scoffed, âEither way, I wonât be here to cover for you next year, and you could use someone like Dr. Emmick in your corner.â
When the doors opened to the elevators, Sully slipped in first, holding the door open for you to follow. You bowed your head, still fiddling with the tab of your energy drink, no longer needing to satiate the craving. All you felt was the small shake of the elevator as it began its descent. Sully stood diagonally, watching you stare at your feet.
His small huff caught your distracted attention, âIf you're so determined on staying here, you better learn to play offensive with Park. Donât the big sharks always dominate the small ones?â
You refrained from laughing, dropping your gaze to hide the crack in your expression. Once Sully got over the shark-induced fear, he played around a lot more than he shouldâve. The others thought it was like dropping his blood in a tank of sharks. Sully had read up on all the shark facts he could, and during every hand-off while Park was present, heâd share it with him.
He swore that Park patted him in the back once, hiding the small curve on the corner of his lip.Â
âWouldnât turning over to the night shift just confirm what he already thinks of me?â You questioned, rolling your head to the side as the words rang in your head again. All you were was incompetent and juvenile anyways.
âMaybe,â Sully shrugged, readjusting the singular strap of his backpack hanging off his shoulder. âOr maybe he wonât care at all. If he feels that strongly about you, then why should it matter to him?â
Sully was usually right, which was why they titled him chief resident. He had made the last three years with Park more than bearable. If you hadnât gone to introduce yourself to him in the parking lot, he probably wouldnât have chosen you to assist him throughout most of his cases. He always noted that you were smarter than the rest. When theyâd all make performances of them kissing ass, youâd do it in silence, without the need of recognition.Â
You thought he was being nice when he offered his spare bedroom. In reality, you were the only one he could fathom spending time with outside the hospital.
When the elevator halted, Sully gave you a grin. âI hope I wasnât wrong about you, pipsqueak.â
âSeriously?â You groaned, dragging your feet through the lobby as you two wandered out the doors as all the other day-shift staff.
Sully led the way with more energy than when he came in. You didnât know how he wasnât drained from the work, or the bustling of Park pushing him in every direction. He was meant to be the right-hand man, after all. When the two of you made your way out, the sun was close to gone.
There was a chilly breeze and you shivered as it kissed your cheeks. âWhat is that supposed to mean anyway?â
âI just hope that all the hints Iâve been dropping Park isnât for nothing.â He shrugged, trotting up steps to the parking garage elevator.
âWhat do you mean?â You pushed, letting out a sigh once the two of you made it to the elevator. Your hands landed dramatically to your sides, head tilted as you stared expectantly.
He shrugged first. Once he caught wind of your raised eyebrows, he chuckled. âLook, I get weâre friends, roommates, and honestly, we work on more cases together than with Shark combined.â
âGet to the point.â
He raised his hands, as a form of retaliation, while you deadpanned him. âBut, you are more than a decent resident.â
Scoffing with an offended and jarred gaped mouth, you prepared to fire equally backhanded remarks. Sully put his hands on your shoulders, guiding you into the elevator first, leaning into your ear. âIâm messing with you.â
He let go once inside, and clicked the fourth floor. He turned to you with a sincere smile, crooked and charming. You had lost track of the amount of times other residents asked if he was single or in a relationship with you. âBut, I donât think Iâve seen Park so interested in anyone as much as he is with you.â
Throwing your head back gently, it thumped the elevator wall, trembling as it glided upward. âPeople say the same about you.â
âMy point is if I see it, so does Park.â Sully redirected with a casual smile. Professional and honest, in the same manner he talked to patients. âSo give him reasons he needs to be wrong.â
âAnd If it doesnât pan out, Iâll hold you a spot in Chicago.â He winked at you and as if on cue, the elevator dinged and the doors revealed the dark parking garage .Walking backward, he widened his smile, all teeth. âThen heâll regret ever doubting you, shark pup.â
You tried to keep Dr. Emmick and Sully's words in mind. It had started to feel like an omen you meant to keep an eye on. It never occurred to you that some people had formed strong opinions about you. Dr. Emmick had asked subtle questions about your consideration of the last conversation the two of you had. Sully had noticed, and even began to inquire about your next steps.
It had never dawned on you that the invitation was serious.Â
Not until you worked the next night shift block on your schedule. You had walked into the dictation room, zipping on your fleece sweater when you ran into Dr. Emmick. She looked up from her watch, stating your name with a smile. âDidnât realize you were scheduled tonight.â
You nodded politely, offering a closed mouth smile in return. âI switched with another resident. It was a last minute thing.â
âWell, happy to have you here.â She somehow smiled wider. You tried to hide the sudden tightness in your chest. It was weird to be openly invited and welcomed into your shift by an attending. Park would have barely looked in your direction if this were the day shift.Â
She stood with her hands in her pocket, examining you up and down. âHave you done the hand off yet?â
âJust got back from that,â You point your thumb behind you, motioning to the door you came in from seconds ago. âSeems like a manageable workload.â
âFor now,â Dr. Emmick chuckled, readjusting the pager on the waistline of her scrub pants. âGive it a few hours to liven up. The next trauma is yours.â
You shouldâve known by now to take her words seriously.Â
While assisting her in a surgery that was when the call came in from the charge nurse. Trauma via ambulance. Motorcycle accident. Left leg deformity with obvious bone exposure. Dr. Emmick only hummed as she glanced at you from across the surgical table.
Thatâs what landed you in the elevator, gloves and gown doffed while now only sporting your scrub cap. When you landed on the basement floor, walking straight off the elevator and looking into Trauma-2, you saw the chaos within the glass. Pumping hand sanitizer and pushing the door open with your back caught the attention of most in the vicinity.
Walsh lifted her gaze across the room, a small smirk on her face as she announced your name amusingly. âDr. Parkâs shark pup. You finally turned to the dark side?â
You shook your head, grabbing a pair of gloves from the wall. âHello to you too, Dr. Walsh.â
Approaching the gurney, your eyes immediately went to the splint holding his left leg in place. That when you saw the exposed bone from an open wound on the anterolateral shin. An intern was sitting, irrigating the debris into a pan. You then looked up to see the young, male patient, sedated on the bed. He was scattered with other wounds in his face.
âPresent, please.â You proposed, eyes darting to the staff wearing black scrubs.
âA please? Are you sure you're one of Parkâs?â Jack hummed from beside you leaning over the patient as he and Walsh worked on putting a chest tube and alleviating some internal bleeding near the liver. When you looked at him, you scoffed, shaking your head.
âMotorcycle accident. Flew almost ten meters away from the crash per paramedics. No knee fracture or joint surface misalignment.â Nazely spoke up from your other side, continuing to irrigate gently, looking much smaller as she donned her gown.
âJesusâ You mumbled, hands behind you back as you leaned in to examine the open wound with precision. âDid he come in unconscious?â
âMorphine and fentanyl will do that for you.â Walsh mumbled as she began to stand up straight. She tossed the small strands of hair that fell around her face back looking in your direction.Â
She watched as your hand traveled along the bone in his knee, then lowered as you felt the tissue. Nazely had retracted her hands, looking around anxiously as you stared at the leg like some prey on the hunt. âKeep irrigating. Itâs looking like a subtype B and we donât want to risk infection.â
âSubtype B?â Nazely questioned softly, looking up at you with her widen sunken eyes. She glanced around to try to understand the silent understanding everyone else had.
You nodded at her, a soft smile as you made your way around to where she was, stopping close enough to brush against her arms. âGustilo-Anderson Type III.âÂ
âGood old Ramon and John.â Walsh joked, shaking her head with a small huff. Jack glanced at her, an amused smile on his face.
The movement continued as you examined the patient in silence. Nazely kept cautiously peeking at you from the corner of her eye. She was paranoid of whether she was doing it correctly, adjusting her arms rhythmically. Your mind and body acted on your training, sensations alarmed from the previous cases you can recall that imaged the patientâs current situation.
When you turned to Nazely, she tensed up a bit, suddenly alarmed. âWas his upper leg always this swollen?â
Her eyes followed where you were pointing nervously. She furrowed her eyes, a bit panicked while shaking her head. âIt looks worse than when he came in.â
âBefore the medication he was in severe pain, even with passive stretching.â Jack informed, now stoic as he followed what you and his intern were concerned. He moved around the nurses and techs to assist with other continuous care in his upper extremities. âFelt numbness in his toes and pain continued up to the ankle.â
âCan I see imaging?â You called out, retracting yourself to step over to the machine where the radiologist tech stood with the blue vest still on. Peering down, you drowned out the sudden rise of noises.Â
Voices followed with consistent reports of heart rate and pressure, moving into a position that was no longer safe for comfort. Even while focused on your area of expertise, you could recognize the plan of care Walsh and Jack were announcing. Ischemic. Stiffness, swelling, and pain in the left leg. Tibia fracture.
âAcute compartment syndrome.â You called out, turning your head over to Jack and Walsh.
The trauma surgeon tsked as she busied herself with Jack looking over her shoulder. She lightly jerked her shoulder, pushing Jack back to block space between them. Jack lifted his head over Walsh, looking at the small intern sitting on the stool, attempting to shrink impossibly smaller. âWhat are the four compartments, Nazely?â
She blinked rapidly, pausing with her mouth open as her attending addressed her. While shutting her eyes, she took a deep breath out. âAnterior, Lateral, Superficial, and Deep posterior.â
â500 to Dr. Toomarian.â You joked, walking back to her side. She gazed up at you offering a trembling smile as she gathered her bearings again, focusing on her one task. You sighed, shaking your head. âHeâs going to need a fasciotomy and reconstruction if we can salvage all the compartments. Hope he doesnât lose his leg.â
âAny attendingâs available in ortho?â Walsh questioned, finally taking a step back to speak directly at you.Â
You ripped off the gloves you were wearing, tossing them in a bin before sanitizing. While rubbing your hands you sighed, âDr. Emmick will be stuck in a spinal surgery for the next couple of hours. I will proceed as primary ortho after checking in with her.â
âWithout supervision?â Walsh clarified, an eyebrow raised. You could tell she had reservations, not of the work, but the ethicality of the procedure.
You shrugged, before crossing your arms and holding her attention. âYouâd rather the patient lose his leg, Dr. Walsh?â
Jack snickered from across the trauma room. He shook his head, âNow I see it.â
Walsh followed your previous actions, doffing the PPE attire. Once she ripped off the gloves, she clapped her bare hands, an amused smile on her face. âYouâre up, shark pup.â
When you finally scrubbed out of the surgery, it was nearing sunrise. Before walking into the OR, you kept repeating the case in your head, going over the steps you had done previously before. You weren't exactly secure until stepping into the sterile environment. Standing at the surgical table, along with Walsh and the other surgical techs, it was coming to you as easy as breathing.
Taking control of the entire narrative in a different capacity felt strange. There wasnât the lingering presence of Emmick or Park, who typically didnât refrain from giving direction, guiding your hands like molding clay. There was steadiness in your hands you didnât think would be present without either attending.
You could hear Parkâs constant reminders not to get too conceited. Cockiness never suits a wide-eye resident still learning to stand; he huffed out after assisting in your first major reconstruction surgery. He had surprisingly relied mostly on your directive than his own, asking questions and staring at your work.Â
There was still a buzzing sensation throughout all your nerves, like an adrenaline rush you didnât want to come down from. It didnât help that when Dr. Emmick did step into the OR, to check in with how the operation was progressing, she gave no criticism. The nod and approving hum that escaped her while wearing the mask, listening intently to you break down the steps youâve taken, made it hard to not be proud of yourself.
Instead of gloating though, you sat in the break room, nibbling on the lunch Sully had prepared for you two for the week. You leaned back in the plastic chair, scrolling through your phone. You heard the door click open, but made no effort to turn your head to the sound.Â
When you saw a figure move around from where you were sitting, you caught Walsh looking down at you, much cleaner from the last time you saw her. She grinned at you, stopping across the table, âThe patient was moved to the ICU for monitoring. Good job back there.â
âThank you.â You replied, putting your phone down gently. Sitting up straighter, your braced both hands on the seat, smiling coyly. âIs it bad to say I was afraid of messing it up?â
âDonât let Brendon hear you say that.â Walsh snickered, turning her back to scavenge the fridge. She pulled out a gray can, immediately cracking the seal and gulping down the cold liquid. âHeâd have a gall if he knew you did the operation with no attending supervision.â
âYou were there.â Your chin motioned to where she stood, one hand now braced on the kitchenette counter.
âIâm not your attending.â
Her grin widened as you playfully rolled your eyes. There was a beat of silence as you finally sensed the temptation to steal another nibble of your food. Walsh stared at you, taking another swing of her drink. âI heard youâre bored with the day shift. Is Park not living up to the hype?â
With down turned brows and a shaky laugh, you tipped your head to one side. âWhat are you talking about?â
Walsh looked back at you as if she had shared a secret she wasnât supposed to let slip. Readjusting her back, she pursed her lips. âMarla said you were moving to the night shift with the rest of us nocturnal mammals.â
Dr. Emmick. Ardent to assume one good half-shift was enough to have you turning your current schedule upside down. Although, you could say pretty confidently you had never been as validated as you had this shift than any day shift, you still were considering the proposition. It wasn't entirely a decision you could rationally make with this one experience. You had yet to find out what struggling with the night shift entailed.
âIâve yet to decide on such a big change.â You corrected, earning a hooded look from Walsh. âI promised her Iâd consider it.â
Walsh booed, rolling her neck to glare at you with amusement. The playful grimace on her face eased the small worry in your chest. Has it really been that big of a disappointment?Â
There was that word. Along with the âshark pupâ nickname some of the residents had heard a handful of times answering consultations. They were meant to learn from the quiet, calculated Dr. Park, and find some way to honor him with their skill, but Park wasnât the type to look at that. He didn't care much for individuality either, but he preferred neither of you to paint yourself in an image that only suited him.
âWhy do you guys keep saying that?â You questioned genuinely. Walsh stopped in her tracks, raising her eyebrows at your question. âIâm nothing like him, and if anything, he probably has a scroll full of things I could work on.â
For a minute, you thought Walsh might actually pull you into the insider information that every surgical staff knewâexcept you. A part of you wondered whether Park was secretly feeding into the ongoing perception as well. Walsh scoffed, the corner of her lips curling upward, pronouncing her cupid's bow. âIâm not going to spell it out for you. Takes away the fun.â
âBesides, if it keeps you from coming over to nights, I donât think I want to.â She admitted, leaning in closer to come off as mischievous. You only nodded, defeated that you were left out.Â
She sighed, âYouâve got potential. Iâd hate for âPark the Sharkâ to be the reason you donât explore that.â
She rolled her eyes at the title Park had been known for since you joined. Now you understood why Park always seemed to have a scowl after talking with Walsh. If she jabbed at him in his face as much as she was right now, that would explain everything. She straightened herself, sparing you one last smile.
âSee you around, daredevil.â
To say Dr. Park was a tough person to impress was an understatement. You didnât expect him to sing your praises the following shift after Dr. Emmick had prematurely gloated on your behalf. The only reaction you got was a huff of some sort, his head tilting to the side as he saw you checking in on the patient and mutterings of âdoing your job.âÂ
By that point, you knew Park was grateful the patient had survived long enough to offer you his gratitude.
It did get him off your back a bit.
He still picked on you to accompany him on the major trauma surgeries, but he stopped hounding over you. Most consultations in the ER were yours to attend, with the junior residents to teach and guide. The word must have traveled, because even a hunk of a chief like Dr. Robby had respected your professional opinion.Â
They knew to trust your opinion when packed under the pressure of a MVA, including up to five vehicles and six pedestrians. Some of them were as young as 12, just riding their bike on the sidewalk by a park, blindsided by the speeding cars. It was chaos in the ED, and the trauma alarms up in surgery didnât go missed by anyone.
Gowns and gloves flew on with quick ease and stained with the crimson blood of those involved just as quickly. Right as you were working on the hip fracture of a 72-year-old woman, a passenger to one of the affected vehicles, Park had immediately switched you out with Sully to stabilize a 32-year old man's leg.Â
You had done the same procedure alone. When you watched Park walk out to dictate another surgery, a sigh of relief escaped you. It was hours before the hospital found a steady rhythm. Most of your shift had passed by with the blink of an eye, and patients transferred in and out like a manufacturing company. Now, most of the interns and second-years were attending to follow calls about surgery while you sat in the dictation room to finish charting.
Sully sat across from you, speaking quietly as he recounted the steps of his pelvic stabilization of a 45-year-old patient, waiting to follow up with the acetabular reconstruction. You preferred to type your way through the chart, even if you could barely keep your eyes open enough to see the words.Â
What did liven you up was the sound of your pager beeping. You groaned lightly, earning a scowl from Sully who didnât falter with his words. When you glanced down at your pager, you read the room number feeling some sort of dread following.
The last thing Sully heard was the scraping of the chair as you walked out the dictation room.
You wandered up to the post-surgery wing, wandering towards the room number with alerted ears. Right as you were approaching the sliding doors, you halted as nurses were pushing the patient bed out of the room. Pushing yourself aside by a wall, you watch with slight horror as Jones, the small blonde second-year resident, walks out like a wounded puppy, followed by an infuriated Park.Â
Despite being the least expressive person in the entire hospital, there was an eerie distinction between his typical crabbiness and his frenzied authoritative side. This was the latter.
When Parkâs eyes landed on you, he scoffed. The disgust was evident when he brushed past you with little acknowledgment. You tried to ask a question that fell short when Dr. Park finally spoke up with his back turned to you. âNice of you to finally act upon your responsibilities,â
With a huff, you followed closely behind him, eyeing at Jones who departed down a desolate hallway. âWhat happened?â
âYour lack of concern for patient care is what.â He retorted, and from the angle, you caught him in, it was as if he was snarling his teeth with a low grumble. âMr. Stevenson was your patient, and your lack of consideration for him has resulted in compartment syndrome.â
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. From the trauma interventions, the lack of fuel keeping you standing, and the endless work you still had yet to finish in the last two hours of your shift had all blurred together. The patients handed off from the night before had been lost in your memory, and when Park uttered his name with the sharp punctuation, it was like the thought was aimed straight for the center of your brain.
âJones agreed to cover while we attended the incoming MVA patients.â You said breathlessly, now matching his pace. He still didnât bother to look at you, which shouldâve been the least of your concerns, but right now, it made you feel insignificant. Undeserving of a moment of his precious time.
âSo I heard,â he reported sourly, shaking his head. The nurses lead the hospital bed in the direction of the elevator and if your body werenât caught off guard, you wouldâve realized exactly where they were heading in the first place. âIâve already reprimanded him for his dismissal of the nurse's report of his increased pain after the intramedullary nailing and refusing to consult with a senior staff member.â
He paused, turning to stand right in your tracks. You stumbled back with a startled expression, craning your neck back to look at him. The bones in his jaw ticked as he clamped down. The shadow over his eyes made his crystallized stare sharper, like a pair of knives pointed straight at you. You finally had a moment to catch your breath, but hardly anything was traveling to your lungs.
âBut with your seniority, it was your responsibility to supervise his actions and your patients, regardless of everything else going on.â He affirmed a finger point at your chest as he emphasized his point. âYou learn to accept the workload. Do you think they care whether youâre tired or busy with their limb on the line?â
His voice was echoing now through the halls. The last thing the nurses saw was his muscles contracting under his plum scrubs before the elevator doors sealed shut. It left you in shallow waters, helpless under the unrestrained hunger of his wrath. You stood with both hands resting at your side, eyes fluttering with every stab of his words.Â
It was your responsibility, and you stupidly pushed it aside like scutwork.
âNow he might lose his leg.â Park pointed behind him, motioning to the elevator box the patient disappeared too. That reality was dawning on you with the emergency-surgery taking place.Â
Your body deflated; mouth agape as you attempted to reel in some courage to face him with dignity. The last thing you needed was for him to bully you over your lack of thick skin. That didnât stop the wetness accumulating on your waterline. Accept the consequence of your inaction, god dammit.
âI can scrub in.â You pleaded, like a last attempt to beg for some form of life saving intervention. A boogie, life jacket, floating ring, something to pull you out of the depth of your despair.
With a flat palm right in your face, he snarled. âDonât be an idiot. Donât you think youâve done enough?â
âI will fix your mistake for you, since you appear too absorbed by other duties.â His detached and swift examination of your diminished position tossed aside any ounce of consideration he had for you. The match he struck on you overturned all the micro-trivial actions you confused for tokens of his appreciation. Now, he was turning away as you burned and fizzled alone.
âWord of advice? Donât waste my time if you donât plan to take every challenge this program entails seriously.â The lash of his words didnât need to be filled with profanities to make an impact, nor the heighten of volume like some may assume.Â
He was filled with quiet precision. A sniper with a scope and steady aim. âIâm not going to waste my time teaching a resident whose absurdity gets the best of them during dire moments. Itâs not worth my effort and youâre not worth the aggravation.â
You were stunned, stapled into your position in front of him. It was like watching a bad accident unfold. Park was intact, emotionally stunted, but able to move on with his life without having to rerun the event. You were coming from the wreckage with all types of breaks and fractures. Your stability wiped from under you and recovery was a concept you were not sure could happen with due process.
Therefore, when Park turned around without so much of a glance in your direction as he stood alone in the elevator. You swore you saw the interaction slide off him, taking literally the last thing he muttered to you.Â
Youâre not worth the aggravation. A third-year resident who needed to be coddled and instructed step-by-step on how to do their job properly, like you were a med student. Reprimanded and shunned all at once.Â
It was an embarrassment to yourself when you locked the door to the private bathroom, leaning against the door with a shaky hand covering your mouth. Truth was, you were frightened Mr. Stevenson would lose his leg after you incautiously neglected him. Not only would you have ruined an innocent man's life (along with yours), but Dr. Park mightâve used it for grounds of terminating your participation in the well-accredited program.Â
It wouldnât have been unjustified, but you would never recover.Â
When you crawled back to the dictation room, night shift was making its way in. You looked around for Sully. Something familiar and safe to fall on to. As you were walking in, Dr. Emmick was walking out, alongside a night-shift resident. She smiled when she caught your eye. If she noticed the hesitation in your response, she didnât mention it out loud, but she did furrow her brows in question.
Sully lifted his gaze, slight alarm when his eyes peeled from the desktop to the sudden sunken look in your face that was beyond the exhaustion of the shift.
âWhat happened?â He questioned, hands braced on the desk to push himself up.
You made your way over to him, sinking in the chair beside him. He turned to lean his body toward you, ear burning with anticipation. The subtle shake of your head and the wobble of your chin. He knew exactly what look that was.Â
Before he could ask a follow up, you sighed, âYouâre right. I hate Dr. Park."
A week had passed. You let the dust settle for a week. You werenât the idiot Dr. Park assumed you were. It didnât settle because you were overly upset. Refusing to cry in your place of work, you saved the self-pity for your couch, a rom-com too sad to be comedic, and a tub of ice cream in the dark to self-indulge. It worked, because you came in for your next shift, coherent enough for Sully to understand you.
You let it settle to think clearly of the decision you conferred with your roommate about.
It only took you a week to decide with profound confidence because you didnât want to cave into Dr. Parkâs not-so-subtle mark of inferiority for you. Giving in to his brashness meant letting him win. If there was one thing you had decided against was losing the opportunity to prove yourself.
Thatâs what had you walking down the hall with the sheer determination of someone scorned. At least, you were pretending to be. Steadying your breathing and keeping your chin held high, you were confident enough to confront the current source of your uneasiness.
It was the end of your shift, hand-off concluded and Sully was currently waiting for you in his Prius. He had offered to stick around for moral support, but this was one challenge you had to endure alone.
As you rounded the corner, where most of the offices were, you felt the air thin too short to breath. You couldnât turn back nowâcertainly not ten feet away from where Dr. Park was. So mumbling the affirmations, you spoke two feet from the mirror in the morning; you knocked on the door of the office.
âCome in.â
When you pushed open the door, Park sat in a comfortable office chair, desktop resting on a polished, and dark oak wood desk. His finger hovered over the keyboard, and when you met his eye, there was an unmistakable twitch from his nose.
Somehow, his gel combed hair shined brighter under the office light than that of the fluorescence in the OR and the ED. It was a visible recall of discipline and order. Nothing went unnoticed by him and he acted appropriately per his standard.Â
In the past week, he couldnât ignore the fact you acted passive compared to your usual friendly demeanor. The very few consultations the two of you wounded up in, you were curt in your evaluations. You no longer sweet-talked conscious patients, and suddenly your reports were too concise. It was as if you were trying to wrap up any form of conversation with him as rapidly as possible.
He knew better than to assume the monologue he gave you hadnât stung. That was the intention, after all.Â
You closed the door behind you, opting to respect him and your professional relationship to not blow this into departmental news to gossip about. Hands folded in front of you, it was like being in elementary school all over again. Addressing a teacher or principle with the dignity of an adult, that at the age of 12, was a foreign concept.
Clearing your throat, you offered a tight smile. âI wanted to tell you I have made the decision to transition to night-shift until the end of my residency.â
The glare he spared in return was still razor sharp, but once the words left your mouth, you instinctively searched for there to be something to deceive him. He peeled his arms away from the desk, folding them in his lap. âAdmin will want a formal address as to why.â
âDr. Emmick specializes in spinal and musculoskeletal orthopedics. Sheâs agreed to mentor me in those sub-specialties.â You explained with no hesitation. Once it landed, you noticed how rehearsed the statement sounded. You tried to seal it with a shaky smile, despite the stiffness in your posture betraying you.
Park examined you. His eyes narrowed and you silently pleaded heâd just accept the lame excuse, tell you to leave, and never have to face him again until the rare chance youâd have to work the dreaded day shift again. The last thing you expected was for him to stand, coming to stop on the other end of the desk. He sat on the edge, bicep muscles curling as he folded his arm over his chest.Â
If he werenât so insufferable, you could see yourself drooling over them like some of the nurses did.
âYou arenât interested in spinal or musculoskeletal orthopedics.â He spoke directly. As if he had the faintest idea what you were interested in. You almost opened your mouth to derail his confident theory, before he shook his head. âYou love pediatrics. You told Sullivan that in the first week.â
It was scarily true. The first pediatric case you worked on was a scared 7-year old girl who was going to need an amputation. She had strangely accepted the fact she would be missing part of her leg from above the knee and lower. That is what sold pediatric orthopedics for you. Except, Park hadnât worked that case. He remembered that.
âIs this about last week?â Park sighed out, slight dismay in his tone.
You pursed your lips, hardening your stare. âIf it was?â
âIâd tell you not to act so immature.â He remarked, like he was astonished by the fact you even asked the question. âYou messed up. It will happen. I will chew you up about it. Grow up and just accept it.â
You dryly laughed at that. Grow up. What a concept?Â
Had you not matured in the three years from working under his supervision? He molded you under his guise, so much, so the other attendings only saw him in your image. Even with the tenderness you held on to. Meanwhile, he was stubbornly trying to beat it out of you, like a bad habit.Â
âWhatâs so funny?â He questioned, although he knew the laugh wasn't amusement. He wasnât sure he had seen this reaction from the furrow in his brows. Somehow, his eyes were more hooded than before with that tick.
The name was a bag of weights resting on your shoulders. Without intending to, they constantly reminded you of who you were meant to be serving, as if patients werenât the top priority. It had you running in circles, finding some way to remain impressive and shine enough to be memorable. Dehumanizing the charity of your work for the sake of appeasement.Â
âLike I want to follow in the footsteps of âPark the Shark.ââ
Park scoffed. He had never approved the name per se, but he didn't discourage the usage. You saw pride in the shimmer of his eyes as people used it to praise him. All it did for you was remind yourself how negligible you were in his shadow.Â
You sighed with resignation, your body tired from the neglect on your own behalf. The backpack hanging on your shoulder weighed heavier. âIâm going to be frank Dr. Park; I want to be nothing like you.â
âIs that so?â He proposed, barely flinching from the implication.
âYes.â Your breathy voice trembled, but you nodded with assurance. âAll I want is to be someone honorable enough to treat the people who come in here during their worst moments.â
âI canât do that with you disparaging me with every mistake or browbeating me around every corner.â Your hands motioned out to the very hospital Park reigned. With his designated office and cushy salary, heâd always terrorize your waters. âEspecially when you donât trust my skill as your resident.â
Maybe this was giving in. You were aspiring to have the same pride in yourself that Park did swimming into the ED or any surgery he led. If you were meant to fail to become great, why did it always feel like Park worked only in perfection?
âI happen to like to connect with my patients as much as I want to treat them and see them recover positively.â Your hand pointed to yourself, emphasizing the obvious difference between his bite and your heart.Â
The tiny sadness in your eye made Park shift uncomfortably. With his attitude, he must have made dozens of female residents cry. He probably went home satisfied if he crashed and burned the dreams of his students with the daunting reality that life could always get tougher.Â
âI donât need you invalidating that method because youâd rather we operate in mechanical-like processes, like we are all just cogs in the machine.â
There was a beat of silence. You wholeheartedly awaited him to laugh in your face. Tell you this was ridiculous, you were too emotional, or even that you just werenât cut out for the medical profession at all. That was everything you had heard in med-school and more. Yet, here you stood barring yourself clean, no life preserver to fish you out.
âBeing emotional costs patientsâ lives.â He stoically retorted, as if it had been obvious.Â
âI donât see it that way.â You shook your head, lips forming a thin line. This was the final act of whatever the two of you had going on. Whether he appreciated you in silence at all or not, it couldnât make up for the moments that ruined the illusion of his knowledge.Â
Too brilliant to apologize.
âWhich is why I cannot have you as my attending,â You concluded, as if the argument was always clear.
He straightened his posture, shoulder falling back like a soldier hearing his command. He must have felt some way. Rejected by a resident must have been first, not that it was some record to feel proud of accomplishing. You had mixed feelings. It was all wrong, yet, there was comfort in knowing you had enough of a spine to say something.
Your hands brushed away the small hair tickling your face, âIâm afraid your judgment may hinder mine, and I need to trust in myself if I want to be good enough to be considered for the next attending position.â
That did it. Youâd never outwardly said that you sought out an attending offer once your residency was up. If you had, maybe Park wouldâve been much harsher than he already was. That certainly wouldâve had you considering withdrawing all together.
Park's hands moved to the edge of the desk, gripping on to it as he pursed his lips slightly. Sourness or disbelief in a future where you were making the executive decision matched what you saw in his eye. âWe will have to work together. Regardless if you leave the day-shift and especially if you apply for any attending position at PTMC.â
âTogether. As colleagues.â You clarified, âEquals. Where I am not just some student youâre expecting to roll over at every word and waiting upon a treat blessed by you.â
There was something snarky in the comment. His nose flared lightly as he bit his tongue. For once, he was speechless, in a way that was aware, you had a score to settle, and he was at a disadvantage. Your hands fell to your side, lightly hitting your thighs. âIâve already spoken with the program and staffing coordinator. This was mostly a courtesy.â
Then, one curt nod. No fondness of a goodbye, no devastation of your tender disappointment, or resentment for finding some unique way of disappointing him once more. It was bittersweet to terminate what you had come to know, even if it was your form of preservation. This would be your test on whether you could survive without the oh-so-wise knowledge only Park somehow had.
Maybe you could be a good surgeon without him yet.
With one hand on the door, you nodded, as if he spoke enough with his silence. Turning your body slightly, you paused with the door ajar. When you turned halfway, you offered him a tight smile, âI hope by then, you will have accepted Iâm not like you, Dr. Park, nor will I ever be.â
When the conversation concluded with a click of the door, a relief shored into your chest. Your muscles released its iron-stiffness that weighed like stones in your pockets. You worried youâd regret the decision, but, how would you know who you are if you werenât acting as you?
When you peeled your hand away from the handle, you finally noticed the small tremble gone. It was the calm after the storm, huddling in shelter as your world rattled around you. There was work needed to be done to find stability and normalcy again, but you started favoring the future more and more.
Sitting under your own tree and basking in the fruits of your own labor. Sighing in the idea of no longer standing under a man impersonating a territorial shark on dry land. And youâd finally outgrow the âpupâ term, once and for all.
Fly Me To The Moon : ÌÌâ Ryland Grace x Reader
Pairing: Teacher!Ryland Grace x Teacher!Reader
Summary: The entire school knew how close you and Ryland Grace had become since you'd joined Grover Cleveland Middle's staff a year prior. That knowledge only fueled the rumor mill, that one that ran between the staff and students alike, on just how close the two of you were. It didn't help that you were definitely head over heels for the slightly awkward and endearing science teacher.
Warnings: pre-Project Hail Mary and should not include spoilers but caution anyways just in case, pre-movie storyline, tooth-rotting fluff, idiots in love, workplace romance, friends to lovers, slightly suggestive-ish comments but no smut, female reader but no characteristics described, definitely some incorrect science information but I am not a scientist so apologies, I am also not a teacher so I am sorry for any inaccuracies there lol, lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes
Word Count: 14,596 words
Requests are open! : ÌÌâ Find my masterlist here
âCan anyone tell me why it was that Penelope asked her suitors to string Odysseusâs bow?â
The silence that followed was deafening. Your eyes shut for half a second, a tiny sigh escaping through your lips. Reopening your eyes, not a single one of your students had dared to raise their hands. No one except for Olivia, your star student, who waved her hand repeatedly in the air from the back of the classroom. A single glance to the clock told you all you needed to know.
11:55. These kids were already in lunch mode, and there was zero way you were getting them to listen to you.
With a sigh and a wave of your hand, you gave Olivia the okay to answer the question. She happily took your permission and ran with it, always the first to answer any questions you posed in class. If only the rest of these damn middle schoolers were as eager as she was.
âPenelope didnât want to marry anyone else, so she gave them an impossible task,â
âWhy does she always know everything?â
Marcus thought his comment was whispered just low enough that you wouldnât hear him in the first row, but he was never quite that lucky. He quickly shut his mouth and looked anywhere but in your direction the second he caught sight of the disapproving look you were casting directly at him.
âYou are exactly right, Olivia. Thank you for answering my question,â there were a few chuckles in the room at the obvious sarcasm laced through your words, as you hopped up onto your desk to relax and get a better look around the room full of kids. âPenelope knew the only person that could string her husbandâs bow, was her husband himself. She needed to buy time, especially when these suitors only really wanted to be the ones to inherit Ithaca-â
There was a loud knocking on the door to your classroom that had been left open for the last 20 minutes of class, interrupting your words. You werenât surprised in the slightest to meet the eyes of none other than Ryland Grace, the science teacher.
âUh- sorry! Didnât mean to interrupt important book talk stuff. Super important, you uh-you never know when Shakespeare will come up at your future desk job,â the cringe that Ryland physically did at his own comment was easy to see, even from across the room. He gave you a sheepish smile, his glasses barely hanging onto his face from their unconventional spot hanging off of one of his ears. The blonde held up the brown bag in his hand, and you could practically smell the food that rested inside. âIâm early, Iâm sorry. Didnât think youâd want to have a cold burger for lunch.â
âI told you!â Marcus still didnât understand the concept of a whisper, leaning over to his best friend Jason at the desk beside him, slapping him on the arm. âTheyâre totally dating!â
âAs if Mr. Grace could pull her,â
There was a chorus of snickers and laughter through the class, any semblance of order you mightâve had descending into chaos as every single one of your loveable, little shits just kept casting looks between you and Ryland, who still stood awkwardly in your classroom doorway with reddened cheeks.
Your face was surely no better, you were sure you could feel the heat that was emanating off of your skin, as you ran a hand down the burning skin of your face and wondered why you chose to teach these little menaces for the rest of your life. The world decided to be kind to the pair of you though, for once, letting the lunch bell save you from any further embarrassment from a group of 13 year olds.
âPlease come to class prepared to actually answer questions tomorrow!â you called out over the hustle and bustle of the class as they grabbed their things, eager to scurry off to their lunch hour and finally eat. âYour unit test is at the end of next week, and I would prefer not to fail all of you.â
They werenât listening, but by this point in the day you were hungry and didnât have the energy to try and argue with them.
Any of that tiredness they brought to your bones? It disappeared the second you watched the way they all interacted with Ryland on their way out the door.
Big smiles, every single one of them excited to see the schoolâs favorite science teacher lingering in the doorway to their English class. You could just barely hear the tail end of one of Rylandâs terrible science puns, something about a hungry planet needing a âlight snackâ that got a groan out of Marcus. All it did was bring a soft smile to your face, though, one that somehow softened even more at the quick, secret handshake Olivia shared with him before she was out the door.
Then, it was just the two of you, smiling like idiots as you locked eyes across the room again. And god, did you want that fluttering group of butterflies in your stomach to calm down for just a moment.
Having a crush on Dr. Ryland Grace, the former molecular biologist turned San Francisco middle school science teacher, was inevitable from the moment you turned up at the school for your first day over a year ago. Incredibly smart, amazing with kids, and so incredibly handsome you thought your heart stopped beating the first time you saw himâhell, Mrs. Doyle, the math teacher for over 5 years, said there were at least 4 other young teachers that absolutely had crushes on this man. You were far from the first.
He broke that perfect vision of himself you were building in your head within 5 minutes of meeting, tripping over his own two feet and knocking the stack of papers a mile high from the Principalâs hands, but you had only found it even more endearing.
âI didnât mean to interrupt,â he apologized again, long legs striding across the room and reaching your desk in a matter of seconds. âI had a free period before this, a-and you mentioned this morning you forgot lunch so I grabbed some for both of us-â
âSalâs?â you questioned, pointing to the bag of foot now sitting on your desk with the familiar logo. âTheyâre, like, 10 blocks away. Whyâd you go that far?â
âBecause I know theyâre your favorite,â
The flare of heat in your cheeks was instant. Ryland Grace, who rode a damn bike to the school every day, used his free period to ride 10 blocks away and pick you up lunch from your favorite spot, all because you mentioned offhandedly at 7 a.m. about forgetting your lunch for the day.
Well, he certainly didnât do that for the four fresh out of college teachers that had crushes on him. Youâd mentally consider that a hefty win in your book.
âHow sweet of you to remember,â Ryland simply waved you off, head turned away as he passed your wrapped burger into your hands, taking up space on your desk chair while you stayed comfortable on top of your desk. âYou even remembered tomatoes this time!â
âI forgot them one time and I never hear the end of it,â laughter was shared between you both for a moment as Grace took a bite of his own burger. âI caught the tail end of that discussion. Olivia answering all your questions like a champ?â
âIsnât she always,â you shot back with another laugh, turning slightly on your desk to better face him. âI swear sheâs the only one that I can ever get to answer any of my questions. She might be the only one that does any of my assigned readings.â
âTo be fair, can you blame her?â Rylandâs words were muffled slightly by the food in his mouth. You couldnât even contain the slight smile that grew as he managed to just barely catch the ketchup dripping off his burger before it could smear itself on the stack of papers that needed graded at your desk. âShakespeare was justâŠso interesting. Couldnât get enough of his stuff. Donât know why your kids donât want to read it.â
There was silence for a moment, your eyebrow quirked in his direction. The blonde stopped mid bite of his burger, looking back at you quizzically, trying to figure out what he had said wrong.
âYou know weâre currently learning The Odyssey, right?â
âYes?â
âIâll let you think about that for a second,â
He did, just slowly blinking in your direction. He glanced at the chalkboard behind you, covering in little notes youâd made throughout the class discussion, before they flickered to the copy of the book that sat on your desk. That was finally when you saw the light bulb flicker on above his head, Rylandâs eyes shutting as he let out a loud sigh.
â...that wasnât written by Shakespeare, was it?â
The laughter that bubbled out of you practically had you throwing your head backward.
âNo, but Iâm sure Homer wonât be too offended,â feet landing on the ground as you hopped off your desk, you gave Rylandâs shoulder a quick squeeze as you moved past him. âThe attempt was cute, though, it was a good try.â
Cute. Why in the world did you let that one slip? You were practically cursing yourself in your head for that one, taking another bite of your burger as you worked to erase the whiteboard to prepare it for your next class. You didnât dare steal a glance over at Ryland, in fear that your little slip-up was going to ruin everything.
There was only quiet for a moment before the single moment of awkwardness was gone.
âI promise you I know Homer wrote that. I swear!â
The desperation to believe him drew another laugh out of you. Sparing a glance in his direction, Ryland was giving you his best, exaggerated puppy dog eyes, begging you to believe him, as a smile just barely squeaked its way onto his lips.
âRight, of course you did. My mistake. Whatever you say, Ryland-â
âI mean it!â It was his turn to laugh this time, a sound that had those butterflies rattling around once more. âI was justâŠdistracted.â
âUh-huh, distracted,â as if you were preparing to scold one of your students, you turned to face him fully with a hand on your hip, eyebrow raised expectantly. âBy what, exactly?â
If a human being could buffer, Ryland Grace always seemed to be constantly buffering. Your eyebrow remained raised, waiting for him to piece together his response. All he could do was open and close his mouth like a fish, before looking away and taking another bite of his food.
âNevermind that, just finish your food before it gets cold. I did bike, like, three miles to get that thing,â
With a roll of your eyes that held zero malice what-so-ever, you made sure the blonde could see your next bite of your food, a satisfied smile on his face.
âBack to the previous topic,â you steered the conversation in another direction, wiping off the last bits of chalk on the board and writing down your next period at the top so that you could start the discussion on the reading over again. âI donât understand why itâs so hard to get some of these kids to just read the content. They all pay attention in your class!â
âI heard Jason make a comment yesterday during class that Marcus has a crush on Olivia. Maybe theyâre too distracted to read,â
You shot him a skeptical look.
âMarcus, crushing on Olivia? He was just making fun of her before you came in the room,â
Ryland averted his eyes, suddenly very interested in his ID badge hanging around his neck from his school issues lanyard.
âW-well, maybe he just doesnâtâŠknow how to express his feelings,â he spared a glance up at you, seeing you were still watching, as he tripped over his words again. âIt can be hard for boysâand menâof all ages, toâŠtell someone how they feel.â
âWell, I donât know where heâs learning from, but making fun of the girl you like isnât the right way to go about things,â you shot back.
âThen teach them!â Ryland sounded absolutely ecstatic, that light bulb over his head going off again as he looked like heâd come up with the worldâs greatest idea. âClassic literature, thereâs plenty of great love stories in there. Get his interest by teaching them about that, so he can learn from them.â
âAlright, give me an example then, Mr. Suddenly an Expert in Classic Literature,â
âRomeo and Juliet,â he said like it was the easiest thing in the world, balling up the remnants of his finished food and tossing it in the bag it came in. âGreatest love story ever told, so great Taylor Swift wrote a song about them.â
âExcept they donât run off and get married and live happily ever after, Ryland. Romeo thinks she is dead and kills himself with poison, and when Juliet realizes heâs dead she stabs herself,â
Rylandâs excitement fell slightly, his mouth forming a little âoâ shape.
â...oh,â
âDonât think thatâs what I want to teach young, impressionable pre-teens about love-â
âDaisy and Gatsby, then! He loved her so much he stood on that dock staring at the-the bright yellow light of a stoplight for her,â
âIt was a green light and it was the dock light, first of all. Iâm not even sure how you could be that off. Secondly, Gatsby is murdered at the end of the book and Daisy doesnât even attend the funeral, she and Tom move away and pretend it never happened,â
Rylandâs eyes are shut at this point, his fingers massaging his temples and those glasses just barely hanging on from their place around his neck.
â...does anyone not die in these old books?â
The sound of your laughter permeates the room and you sweep over, collecting his trash and combining it with yours. You never even spared him a glance, though you could feel his eyes on you, as you swept the trash away with you to the other side of the room, his voice echoing across to you.
âIâm going to get lucky on one of these guesses!â
What Ryland Grace was really lucky about was how adorable you found him, and how head over heels you were for him, because his lack of literary knowledge was astounding.
â€ïž
âIâm sorry, youâre trying to tell me that arenât currently fucking the eye candy that is the science teacher in room 305?â
âEvelyn!â
Evelyn Doyle was in her late thirties, married since she was 18, and already had three kids with her high school sweetheart. Since you had transferred into Grover Cleveland Middle, youâd become fast friends and she had become a great mentor.
She had, sadly, caught onto your pathetic crush on Ryland Grace before you had even fully realized it, and was now âvicariously living through youâ as she always said.
âThereâs not a single child left in this entire school right now,â she shot back, gesturing around her empty classroom, as she finished cleaning up anything her students had left around at the end of the day. You rolled your eyes at her excuse, perched on the edge of her desk. âPlease, Iâm tenured, what are they going to do?â
âIâm more so yelling at you for butting into my love life, once again,â was your reply through laughter. âRyland and I are good friends, thatâs it.â
It was her turn to laugh, finishing up her cleanup around the room before she joined you at her desk, packing her things away into her shoulder bag.
âOh please, you keep denying that little crush of yours-â
âI never said I was denying that,â you cut her off. âLord, you realized I liked him before I even did. But he and I arenât anything besides friends. Iâm not lying.â
Your pleas fell on deaf ears, like they typically did when you were around Evelyn. She simply waved your statement off, tossing her bag over her shoulder as you followed her out of her room and down through the quiet of the school hallway. The quietest the hallway ever was, in the hours right after students were sent home for the day. Youâd rather be anywhere else, preferably at home, but these mandatory once-a-month staff meetings were unavoidable.
âWhether youâre telling me the truth or not, you have to understand why everyone thinks soâteachers AND students. I think even some parents think so!â The only response she got was an eyeroll, her shoulder bumping into yourâs playfully. âHe brings you lunch at least once a week, meaning he rides that dingy bike to get whatever youâre craving that day.â
âItâs usually just something random-â
âConstantly in your classroom, or vice versa,â she cut you off, and you quickly realized you werenât getting a single word into this conversation. âIâm pretty sure Principal Marshall has considered, somehow, moving your classroom closer to his just so heâll stop being late to classes because heâs busy talking to you.â
OkayâŠyeah, you didnât have a retort for that one. Your classroom was on the opposite end of the school building from Rylandâs own, and yet every time he had even a split second he was somehow always leaning in your doorway. Even if it only resulted in a conversation that lasted all of a minute.
Many times those ended with your students having to remind him that the bell rang and he definitely had students in his own class unattended, waiting on their teacher. More than once heâd slipped as he tried to sprint back to his classroom from yours. It didnât matter how short those little conversations were, though, because every second around him was precious to you.
âAwe, look at you blushing about it-â
You slapped Evelynâs hand away, throwing her a look of disdain that didnât really hold any true malice to it.
âLook, all Iâm saying is the ball is in his court,â was the response you finally settled on as Evelyn propped the door of the small auditorium open for you to enter. âRyland is nothing but friendly to me, so if heâs interested then heâs got to show me.â
âYouâre acting as if youâve made your own feelings clear, honey,â
âNo, but I clearly donât do a good enough job of hiding them,â
Speak of the devil: there he was. Rylandâs head shot up the moment the pair of you walked into the auditorium. Those damn glasses hanging down from one side of his face, framing his stubbled jawline perfectly. A smile lighting up his face the second those blue eyes found yours, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.
A packed auditorium, as you and Evelyn were the last ones there. Every seat up practically filled, and yet Ryland Grace sat among a crowd of people, eyes trained on you and a single seat saved for you amidst it all.
All you could feel was the heat in your cheeks, and the touch of Evelyn patting your back as she laughed, voice low but loud enough to hear as she shifted past you to find a seat of her own.
âDoesnât have interest in you my ass,â
Her words swam through your head with every apology you muttered to the other teachers as you snuck past them in the cramped rows, happily taking the empty seat beside Ryland.
âYou didnât have to save me a seat, you know,â your voice held a hint of teasing to it, but it was soft. Filled with an adoration that you knew you were terrible at hiding. Luckily, Ryland was terrible at picking up on it.
âWanted to sit next to you,â he whispered back as Principal Marshall began to drone on about updates neither of you particularly cared about. He leaned in close, a hint of his breath wafting over the shell of your ear as he spoke. âYou make these slightly less boring.â
Close proximity to this man was your worst nightmare, and the cramped auditorium wasnât helping. That single touch of his breath against your skin was enough to send a simultaneous shiver down your spine and another round of heat to your cheeks. His suit jacket covered arm rested on the shared armrest between your seats, the edge of his bicep ghosting against the bare skin of your arm with every little shift he made, tapping incessantly against the armrest.
The slight action made you smile. He never could sit still in these meetings, always hated them.
âDid anything fun happen in class today?â you kept your voice low, eyes trained on the principal, as your head tilted slightly over to Ryland so he could better hear you.
âUh, if you count Madison telling me that she thinks the sun orbits the earth, then sure,â you had to stifle your laugh at that, casting Ryland a side glance as he grinned at you, doing a terrible job of whispering back at you as usual.
âHow could she possibly think that?â
âYouâd be surprised,â Ryland leaned just a tad bit closer, the side of his arm pushed up fully against your own. You could almost hear the smile in his voice without even having to look over at him. âThe National Science Foundation estimates that 26% of Americans still think the sun orbits the earth.â
âJesus, that many?â
âWell, 100% of them are stupid, so,â
Nasty looks from other faculty were shot your way that second you choked on your own breath, slapping a hand over your mouth in an attempt to stop yourself from breaking out into uncontrollable laughter. You gave them the most sympathetic look you possibly could, learning how to breathe normally again before mouthing sorry at them all.
Ryland didnât care in the slightest for the warning look you shot him, a bright smile on his face as his eyes seemed to trail over every inch of your face.
âIf you keep doing this in every faculty meeting, theyâre going to separate us, Ry,â
âI met Madisonâs parents for the first time last month for parent-teacher conferences,â he continued, ignoring your plea. Instead, he leaned in even closer, eyes locked on yours, and god it was impossible to look away. âThey are, 100%, undeniably, part of the Flat Earth Truthers Club.â
You shook your head, a smile creeping back up on your lips. Rylandâs gaze could still be felt on the side of your face as you turned back to face the front, eyes focused back on the principal again in an attempt to pay attention to the meeting.
âFlat earthers are ridiculous. Theyâre just scared of science,â
âWell, you know what they sayâŠthe only thing they have to fear is sphere itself,â
There simply wasnât enough time to clap your hand over your mouth and conceal your laughter, a split second of it breaking through the quiet of the auditorium. And Ryland? His smile was somehow even brighter than it was before, still locked onto your face, never having strayed once.
âDr. Grace, is there something you feel needs to be shared with the rest of your fellow faculty?â
Principal Marshallâs voice was enough to knock Ryland out of whatever trance he seemed to have put himself in. Eyes wide as if heâd just seen a ghost, hands barely able to catch his glasses as they almost fell right off of his ear where they dangled, a burst of red spread through his cheeks instantly as his deer-like eyes locked onto the unamused principal.
âI-I uh, no. No, nothing, Principal Marshall,â he scratched at the back of his head, ruffling up his already messy hair, a nervous tick youâd picked up since the moment youâd met him. You simply buried your head in your head, eyes trained on your shoes and Ryland out of the corner of your gaze, terrified to look up at your fellow faculty that youâd already apologized to once. âJust getting super jazzed about faculty updates. Hard to keep it in here. Iâm like a mushroom, getting allâŠhyphaeâŠâ
A collective groan sounded through the auditorium at the terrible biology pun that rolled off of him with ease. All you could do was smile into the palm of your hand.
âPlease justâŠpay attention to the meeting, Dr. Grace, before I separate you and your other half,â
Other half. Thatâs not how she meant it, but it was impossible not to let your mind wander to the idea.
Early mornings. Coffee, the smell of eggs and toast burning in the kitchen. Ryland and his hair that was surely even more unkempt that early in the day. The guarantee that he definitely had about 120 science puns ready to go at any moment.
Late nights. Curled up on a couch. A movie, a shared blanket, warm in the embrace of his arms. The quiet of just being with someone that made you happy in ways youâd never felt before. The promise of another day with them on the horizon.
It was becoming increasingly harder not to think about Ryland Grace like that every day, of what a life with the awkward, endearing science teacher could be.
And as Principal Marshall continued her meeting, and your eyes met the blue ones that were already looking at you: soft, kind, a hint of something you couldnât understand in them, you could only dream he thought the same thoughts when he looked at you.
â€ïž
âAlright, who can tell me the day of the first human space flight?â
Not a single middle schooler, packed into the buildingâs planetarium, raised their hands at first. Many of them started whispering to each other, confused looks on their faces, but Ryland just waited with a smile on his face. A brave soldier from Mr. Harkinâs class, Damien, finally raised his hand.
âUh, Mr. Grace? Wouldnât thatâŠbe today?â
âExcatly!â Graceâs clap echoed through the room as he pointed toward the young kid sitting in the front row of seats. âInternational Day of Human Space Flight, commemorating the first human space flight by Yuri Gagarin. It was a trick question, and you passed my tiny friend.â
Were you excited about losing a chunk of your day to escorting your class to the planetarium, along with other classes in the building, for a special science presentation? Absolutely not, especially not with how terribly your class did on their last The Odyssey assignment.
When you found out that Ryland was giving the presentation during your allotted time? Suddenly, The Odyssey meant nothing to you. Not when you could watch Ryland teach, something he did so effortlessly.
The way he captured every single childâs attention with ease. That glowing smile on his face every time they answered a question right, and simply the way he seemed to love what he taught. You were captivated every time you got the chance to see him teaching the thing he loved so much.
âYuri Gagarin was a Soviet cosmonaut who became the first person in space in 1961 aboard the Vostok 1,â the planetarium was lit up with the night sky, little stars reflecting down. You could almost see them in the students eyes, in their bright smiles as they looked up into the vastness of space. Your eyes trailed to Ryland, already looking at you with a soft smile of his own, before he cleared his throat and moved throughout the room, focusing back on the kids. âOver the course of 89 minutes, his ship traveled to a maximum altitude of 187 miles, as it orbited the Earth.â
âWait, so we werenât the first people in space?â one of your students, Lydia, called out. Ryland laughed, pointing over at her.
âNo, we kind of sucked,â you rolled your eyes with a grin at Rylandâs statement, though it drew a laugh from all of the kids. âNo, America had actually scheduled its first space flight for May 1961, so this was a huge blow to us. It really heated up the space race.â
âHe really is good with them, isnât he?â
Glancing over, Mr. Harkin had saddled up beside you on the edge of the room, head tilted toward you and voice low so as to not disrupt the lesson the kids were being taught. Your gaze drifted back to Ryland as he continued his lesson, eliciting more laughter from the kids. It only brought another soft smile to rest on your lips.
âHe is, in a way that I just donât understand,â
Those blue eyes youâd become so fond of met yours for a moment across the room, face illuminated by the light projecting onto the planetariumâs dome walls. The little grin he wore seemed to drop just slightly, gaze still locked on you but flickering every moment over to Mr. Harkin as he spoke to the students. Harkinâs elbow dug lightly into your side.
âCareful, youâre giving him major âheart eyesâ across the room right now,â
You did your best to conceal your laughter, shooting Harkin a look, Rylandâs gaze still felt on the side of your face even as you looked away.
âWhy do I feel like Iâm about to find out that every teacher in this school has a secret betting ring going on when it comes to Ryland and I?â
âI mean, itâs not a secret. Principal Marshall runs the damn thing,â
âMr. Grace?â one of the youngest girls in the grade, Aurora, called out, raising her hand up to get Rylandâs attention. âMy mom told me the other day that thereâs 8 planets in our solar system. What happened to Pluto?â
Ryland went to answer when Mr. Harkin beside you laughed, capturing the attention of everyone in the room, as he shook his head at his young student.
âNo, honey, scientists a couple years ago decided that Pluto wasnât a planet anymore,â
Your eyes flickered to Ryland, who was already staring at Harkin from across the room as he tossed his little crochet earth back and forth in his hand. His response was a bit of a forced laugh.
âWell, your teacher isnât wrong. Scientists classified Pluto as a dwarf planet a couple years ago,â he explained to the kids, eyes trained on the little crochet sphere in his hands. âBut thereâs 8 other very important, even closer planets that we should focus on. I mean, who really cares about a tiny, slow planet that takes 248 years to orbit the sunâhonestly, he should just accept that heâs slowly falling into obscurity and stop trying to steal the spotlight.â
The room got quiet. Your eyebrow raised slightly, head tilted, as everyone just seemed to stare at Ryland, who had yet to look up.
âUh, Mr. Grace?â some student in the back called out. âWhy did you call Pluto âheâ? Are the planets boys and girls like us, too?â
Rylandâs head shot up, as if he suddenly remembered he was in a room full of students. His eyes shot to you, his mouth opening, then closing, before he quickly looked away.
âIâwellâŠplanets donât reallyâŠIâm not trying to misgender the planets, you know? Thatâs not for me to decide, thatâs for them toâyou know what, does anyone else have any other questions that arenât related to Pluto?â
You really didnât want to laugh at Ryland, but only he would be able to accidentally turn a lesson about space and planets into almost a lesson on bodily autonomy. He caught your eye, his widening just slightly and you could almost see his cry for help written across his face, but it only made your laughter worse.
It was little Madison that raised her hand next, speaking before sheâd even been called upon.
âAre you sure the Earth isnât the center of the universe?â
Ryland hung his head in shame, the shaking of his head evident from across the room as a few of the kids around laughed at the young girlâs comment. You were quick to shoot them a warning look, not keen to hand out any detentions today.
By the time your gaze turned back to Ryland, he was already looking at you. His gaze flickered to Harkin, then back to you, and it was like a light bulb had just flickered on the way his eyes lit up.
âYes, Madison, Iâm sure the Earth isnât the center of the universe. And I can show you,â his long legs crossed the room in seconds, his body sliding between you and Mr. Harkin as his hands landed on your shoulders with a tiny little squeeze that sent your heart leaping through your chest. âBut to do that, Iâm going to need this volunteer that Iâm not quite giving a choice.â
âItâs not volunteering if you didnât ask, Ry!â
You exasperatedly tried to whisper to Ryland as he steered you across the room to stand before all the kids. He only shook his head as a bunch of your own students started cheering for you around the room, only worsening the red that coated your cheeks the second his hands had landed on your body.
âI need you for this,â he shot back hastily, positioning you in the middle of the room, standing in front of you. His body blocked the students from your vision, blue eyes boring down into yours, hands gently squeezing at your upper arms as you begged the blush in your skin to not be too obvious. âYou trust me?â
A ridiculous question, because the only answer was yes. You gave him a nod, and Rylandâs smile only widened as he turned back to the kids in the room.
âAlright, kids. Your gorgeous teacher here is the Sun,â
Little oohs and awes sounded from the kids around the room at Rylandâs little slip in of the word âgorgeous.â There was a sting in your bottom lip as you bit into it with your teeth, trying to contain your own smile. Marcus spoke up from across the room without raising his hand, as usual.
âThen whatâs Mr. Harkin?â
âOh, heâs Pluto,â Ryland shot back immediately, nodding his head. âSuits him.â
Laughter rang through the room, the young boys as rambunctious as ever. Ryland met your astonished look with a tiny wink of his own, one that forced a small laugh to tumble from your lips. Then, he began to slowly spin, walking around you in a circle.
âAnd I am the Earth,â he called out to the kids, and you could only hope he didnât trip over his own two shoelaces. âThe Sun holds 99.8% of the mass in our solar system, which means itâs packing some massive gravity.â
Ryland stopped spinning himself, still moving around you in a circle. He held his hand out toward you, and you slipped yours into it without hesitation, spinning in that circle slowly with him.
âBecause the Sun holds such intense gravity, itâs actually pulling Earth into it. But, Earth has such high forward velocity that it actually keeps us moving sideways. Put these two together, and it keeps Earth moving in an almost perfect circle around the sun. Can anyone tell me another fun fact about our movement around the sun?â
The words went in one of your ears and straight out the other. There was no paying attention, not when Rylandâs hand held your own. Soft skin, just slightly rough around the edges, and those blue eyes were so soft, locked onto you as if there was nowhere else he wanted to look.
âOur speed changes!â Olivia called out from somewhere in the back, but you didnât even try to look and find her. âWhen weâre closer to the sun in our orbit we move faster, and the further away we are, the slower we move.â
âVery good, Olivia!â Ryland called out, sparing just a quick glance over to the kids in the room as his hand held yours tighter, still spinning slowly together. âMadison, we also know this works because thereâs other sun-like stars out there that are also orbited by planets. Like Tau Ceti, which has four Earth-like planets orbiting it.â
âIs the sun important for other things, besides just being the center?â
Rylandâs eyes flickered to you, and you watched as he paused. The slight hesitation on his face, the bobbing of his Adamâs apple for a moment, before those blue eyes locked onto yours and refused to look away.
âI-It isâŠfor a lot of reasons. The Sun is the Earthâs entire reason for existing. The Sun gives the Earth life. The Sun is the reason the world is beautiful,â
Your breath hitched, eyes still trained on Ryland. There was something in his words, something in that earnest, raw look that he had written across his features as he looked at you that added a weight to his words. A weight that sent a tiny chill across your skin, raising the hair on your arms.
âWithout the SunâŠthe Earth would be nothing,â
There was quiet across the room. Then, a couple snickers, followed by Oliviaâs smug little voice.
âThe Sun sounds beautiful the way you talk about it,â
âShe is,â his voice was lower, softer than it was before. Until, he seemed to realize what he said, the red on both of your faces spreading further than before as his eyes shot wide. âTHE SUN I mean! I-Iâm talking about the sun, obviously, b-because this is a science presentation!â
Laughter rang through the room, little chants of your names mashed together coming from some of the kids as the bell rang and saved either of you from further embarrassment.
Ryland, being Ryland, chose that moment to finally trip over his own two feet. You pulled on his hand as hard as you could, saving him from plummeting to the ground as he instead just landed on his one knee.
âMake good choices,â Ryland commented lowly as some of the kids walked past the two of you, still snickering and giggling to themselves. You let go of his hands finally, simply resting it on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. âDonât uh, I donât know, blow up the world during lunch or anything. Or pop those chip bags and give kids heart attacks, whatever you kids do these days.â
You laughed, stepping around Ryland as your kids lined up outside of the room, waiting for you. He shot you a sheepish smile from the floor, and your skin still burned with heat at the memory of his words as you looked at him.
âEvery time I think youâre doing well with those kids, they manage to knock you down a peg,â
âYeah, well, whatâs new?â
When you met your class outside, you didnât let them get a word in before you warned them not to say anything. You could still hear little comments talking about âshippingâ their English and Science teachers the entire way back to your classroom.
â€ïž
Ryland Grace didnât understand how he had ended up here.
Well, he did. Calling the leading scholar in his field a âstaggering waste of carbonâ at a UNESCO conference in Denmark was an easy way to get blacklisted from the field heâd studied in for many years in college. It was an easy explanation for how he ended up teaching middle school science at Grover Cleveland Middle in San Francisco.
Not that he had a problem with teaching! He actually loved it. Loved his kids, loved talking about science. He loved teaching the future little scientists of the world about why every facet of science was awesome. The pay wasnât great, though.
Especially when it was the reason he rode a bike to school daily.
And there was currently the equivalent of a monsoon raining down from the sky onto the pavement, the reason heâd been standing at the front doors for the last 20 minutes hoping that the rain would simply let up. The heavens didnât take pity on him, though, and it only rained harder and harder. His rain coat and bike were not meant to withstand heavy rain and damaging winds to this extent.Â
Best cast scenario? It takes him a little longer to get home on his usual 20 minute bike ride than normal. Worst case? He crashes and dies, dead in a ditch covered in mud.
âRyland, please tell me you arenât thinking of riding your bike home in this?â
Then there was you. You were probably the single greatest reason why he loved teaching at Grover Cleveland Middle. If he ever had the unfortunate chance to meet that scientist from the conference again, heâd thank him this time for being a staggering waste of carbon, because it led him down a path to you.
âI canât be that bad,â he tried to joke, waving you off as a crack of thunder seemed to shake the entire building, and his fake confidence faltered for a second. He glanced back at you, coat wrapped around your bag instead of yourself in order to keep its contents dry. âJust, you knowâŠthe slight threat of bodily harm.â
He really wished the path that led to you was less bumpy and full of himself looking like an idiot, but at this rate heâd take what he could get from the universe.
âYeah, absolutely not,â was your immediate reply, head shaking as she fished your car keys out of the bag still covered with your coat. âIâm giving you a ride home, canât risk the best science teacherâs life over a dumb storm.â
Ryland immediately shook his head, turning to face you beside him. He was not letting you risk your own life in the storm for him. If it really came down to it, heâd sleep at his desk. There was a change of clothes he kept in the bottom drawer, it wasnât the first time heâd had to do it.
âI canât let you-â
âThis isnât up for discussion,â Ryland snapped his mouth shut as you cut in once again, dangling your car keys up in front of him with a little shake. âIâŠcare about you, okay? I want to know you are home safe.â
There was no stopping the immediate heat that filled Rylandâs cheeks, and he knew it. There was red blooming across your own, but Ryland shook all wishful thinking from his mind. The AC unit in this school was unreliable, you were definitely just flushed from the heat. No other reason.
Ryland decided he wasnât going to put up a fight at this point, but he wasnât going to let you do this without anything in return. He shrugged the yellow raincoat hanging over his own shoulders off as he kicked the glass door in front of him open, the muffle sounds of the torrential downpour now louder as droplets of water splashed into the front door. He held the jacket out, hanging it above your head to protect you from the rain.
âAt least let me save you from getting drenched,â
âYouâre going to look like a dog that just had a bath by the time we reach my car,â Ryland only smiled at your joke, and the little giggle that fell through your lips. The close proximity didnât help as he held the jacket up around you.
âActually, itâs not windy today,â he shot back with a grin, nodding out the propped open door into the rain. âThat means if we run, Iâll be drier than if we walked, because the rain thatâs hitting us from above is proportional to time. Though, the rain hitting us from the front is proportional to distance, and when running-â
âRyland Grace, you are adorable when you get all science-nerd, but if weâre going to runâŠwe should run,â
Ryland was thankful that you couldnât see the renewed heat flooding his cheeks, as you were both too busy sprinting through the torrential downpour to the staff parking lot.
Being a gentleman (who was head over heels in love with you and too terrified to say a damn thing) was thrown out the window with how fast you were booking it to your car, the idea of shielding you from the rain with his jacket abandoned after just a moment booking it across the lot. He could feel the coolness of the water settling against his skin as it soaked through every layer of clothing he had, every few seconds having to furiously wipe at his glasses in hopes of seeing through them.
None of it really mattered in the end, not when he heard your laugh. The little shrieks of laughter as a particularly big drop happened to fall right in your eyes. Or the laughter as Ryland managedâin his signature fashionâto slip on the final step into the parking lot, and you had to double back in laughter to help haul him to his feet.
Heâs spring clumsily through the rain a thousand more times if he got to see you smile like that. And that is why his kids always told him that he was definitely âwhippedâ for you. Whatever that meant.
The second you had both jumped into your respective seats of your vehicle, doors slamming shut, there was only a moment of silence between the both of you. Ryland felt like his chest was going to explode, remembering why he always hated gym class, his heavy breathing mixed with yours as you both caught your breath, before you locked eyes over the center console.
Then the laughter resumed.
He held his hand to his stomach, feeling an ache settling in as he couldnât stop his own laughter. Yourâs grew slightly louder in his ear as you leaned over, trying to help him wipe at his glasses that were still covered.
âI was right, you look like a wet dog,â
Rylandâs only response was to shake his soaking wet hair like one, a simple reaction that earned yet another shriek of laughter from you and a light slap to his shoulder. You muttered something unintelligible under your breath, but Ryland found himself unable to tear his gaze away from your lips as you started the car and began to pull out of the staff lot. How soft they looked, the way the little beads of water running down your cheeks fell over them.
Whipped. He still didnât get it, but he agreed wholeheartedly with his kids at this point.
There was no driving fast in this rain, especially when the windshield wipers were moving at their highest programmed speed and it still wasnât enough. It was quiet in the car for just a moment as you pulled out of the parking lot, but Ryland broke it the second your phone had connected to the carâs bluetooth, music filling the space between him and you.
Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.
âFrank Sinatra,â Ryland couldnât help the growing smile on his lips as the familiar song flooded through the car speakers. He kept his eyes trained on the side of your face, watching the little smile grow on your own lips, eyes focused on the road conditions in front of you. âOld books and old music. Didnât know you had such an old soul.â
âYou calling me old, Ryland?â
âN-no!â Ryland immediately back track, hands flying up and shaking back and forth as his eyes went wide. âI might say some stupid stuff someâokay, most of the timeâbut I know better than to comment on a womanâs age.â
âIâm just teasing you,â he could thankfully hear the sincerity mixed in with the teasing lit to your voice. âBut yes, I do enjoy some old music. Always been a big fan of Sinatra, especially this one.â
âItâs a nice songâŠjust not scientifically accurate,â he caught the side eye that you threw his way for just a moment, another crack of thunder banging across the sky and almost shaking the car. Ryland couldnât help but jump slightly. âJupiter only has a 3.13° tilt to its axis, so it doesnât experience seasons like we do. Marâs would, though, because its axis is tilted at 25°, only 1.5° more than our own tiltâŠâ
Ryland trailed off as the car rolled to a stop at a red light, and he caught you fully facing him this time with a bemused expression written across your face. His smile dropped just slightly as he let out a sheepish laugh, adjusting his glasses as they slid back down the wet bridge of his nose.
â...I went full science-nerd again, didnât I?â
Your laughter drowned out the rain beating against the roof of the car as your attention returned to the road once more.
âYou always do, but I happen to enjoy it very much,â
If only teaching paid more, because the commute to Rylandâs apartment was a lot shorter than his bike ride home every day from work.Â
Parked in an open space across the road from the dimly lit apartment building, Ryland Grace hesitated with his hand on the handle of the door. His eyes swept out over the area around the vehicle, still being hounded with rain. The top of his road looked like the beginning of a river, the way the water was rushing down the small incline to pool at the bottom.
âThanksâŠfor this,â he gestured toward the weather right outside the card.
You moved to respond to him, when the weather alert on your phone propped up on your dashboard sounded out. Ryland could just barely make out the headline: FLASH FLOOD WARNING.
The roads were far too dangerous, and Ryland already knew from various conversations that you lived on the opposite end of town from him.
HeâŠcould ask you to stay for the night. Just for safety reasons, obviously! He was quickly trying to work through the pros and cons list in his head.
Pros: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman heâs been head over heels in love with for the last year would be safe and not driving in this storm.
Cons: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman heâs been head over heels in love with for the last year would be inside his tiny little apartment that looked like it had been hit by a separate hurricane than the one it felt like they were currently suffering through.
âI should probably get home-â
âStay,â Ryland cut in, quickly continuing his words after his vague statement. âI-Itâs just, the roads are bad, and you live on the other side of town. This storm is just going to get worse, and I-Iâd hate to know something happened to you.â
You hesitated, he could tell, shaking your head.
âRyland, I couldnât ask you to let me stay,â
He hesitated himself for a moment, every feeling heâd kept bottled up for a year now threatening to escape past his lips. Instead, he settled on echoing your own words.
âIâŠI care about you. I want to know youâre safe,â
Moments later, he had his rain coat draped over your head as he rushed you inside his apartment to shelter from the storm.
Rylandâs hands shook the entire time as he put his key into his front doorâs lock. The last time he had guests overâŠwas never. His apartment was built and designed for him and his brain, scattered with notes and books and piles of arts and crafts that he worked on in order to decorate his classroom. It was not meant for visitors, especially not ones as pretty as you.
âDonât, uh, mind the mess,â he mumbled, holding the door open and motioning after you, allowing you to take a step inside his apartment as he let out the small breath he didnât realize he was holding.
Chucking off his sneakers, little puddles of water forming below them on the ground, his jacket found its way into a pile with them. Ryland wiped his hands nervously against the thighs of his jeans, the action doing nothing against the soaking went material, as he watched you take in his apartment.
The apartment that looked like it had been ransacked, at least partially. Stacks of books relating to a thousand different topics were stacked on the ground by the tv stand, on top of the coffee table along with the coffee cup heâd abandoned there early in the morning in a haste to get to the school, and and by his desk that had a stack of papers scattered around it after her strewn them about in order to find one specific slip of paper at 11 p.m.
It was a mess, and Ryland regretted everything.
âItâs not messy, itâs homey,â your reply sent a burst of heat through his skin as you turned to him with a bright smile, leaving your own bag and coat by his pile of wet items before gesturing to your own soaking wet clothing. âDo you maybe have something a little lessâŠwet?â
He scurried away into his bedroom, trying to ignore that little section of his brain that took your comment in a MUCH different way.
His bedroom was worse. Ryland wasnât letting you sleep on the couch, but he surely wasnât letting you see his room in a state like this.
Clothing was thrown across the room and Ryland quickly ran about, shoving piles of clothing away into corners where he was certain you wouldnât be able to see any of it. Throwing it into his closet and slamming the door before it could fall out, pushing it down in his laundry basket, kicking it under his bed so it was out of sight and out of mind, whatever he could think of.
âGreat idea, Ryland,â he muttered to himself, pulling on a dry pair of sweatpants and a tshirt for himself, trying to shake the remaining water out of his hair as he rummaged for something you could wear. âAlmost get the woman youâre in love with killed by letting her drive you home in a monsoon. Invite her to stay the night in your apartment that makes you look like an even bigger loser than you are. Amazing idea. A doctorate in molecular biology and this is the best you can do.â
You were waiting by the couch in his living room, just glancing around at everything with a smile, when he reappeared. Sheepishly, he handed the folded clothing over to you, hand running through his soaking wet hair as he pointed down the hall.
âYou can take my bed for the night. Uh, just leave your clothes in the bathroom, I can throw them in the dryer in a bit. I can scrounge up something to eat in the meantime,â
âThanks, Ry,â your hand reached out, squeezing his upper arm lightly, and he felt the heat in his skin instantly bloom under your touch. âFor all of this.â
If it wasnât for the giant crack of thunder that flickered the lights of the building for a moment and made Ryland jump out of his skin, he wouldâve forgotten how to breathe again.
He rummaged through every part of his kitchen, desperately trying to find something that he could make the two of you to eat that also wouldnât make him seem pathetic. All he could come up withâŠwas a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jelly.
Yesterday. Heâd stayed late after the end of the day to help in tutoring. He forgot to go grocery shopping. Ryland let out a sigh at his realization, back to his fridge door and head banging back against the stainless steel, hand running down his face and dragging against his skin as his glasses were knocked off, hanging off of one ear.
âGreat,â he muttered into his palm. âJust absolutely freaking great, Ryland.â
Ryland Grace desperately wished he had the guts, the bravery, to just simply tell you how he felt.
From the moment he met you, when you had arrived for your first day at Grover Cleveland Middle, he was a goner. It had been a long time since heâd had a partner, his last one certain that he was too busy with his head in the clouds to pay attention to her, and she wasnât wrong. But from the moment he looked at you, waving and smiling as you introduced yourself to all of the teachers that had gathered to welcome you, you were suddenly the only thing his brain wanted to focus on.
He had been so focused on you, too busy admiring every inch of you in silence, that in his typical clumsy fashion he tripped over his own two feet and knocked Principal Marshallâs papers out of her hand, spreading them five feet across the floor. But youâd joined him on the ground, laughing lightly to yourself, as you helped him clean up the papers, and Ryland knew he was a goner for you.
It only continued every single day, getting worse, and you somehow became his friend. His only friend, if he was being quite frank. So he tried to hide the way he really felt, too scared to mess anything up. Heâd rather have you in his life in any way he could, then mess this up and lose you forever.
Keeping those feelings in was getting increasingly harder in the last few months. Which explained why heâd traveled cross town just to get lunch from your favorite place, or compare you to the sun and basically called you his entire reasoning for living in front of a bunch of children-
Either Ryland was going to blurt it out at some point, or he was taking these feelings to the grave with him.
âPeanut butter and jelly? Sounds like weâre eating like royalty tonight,â
He shouldnât have looked over at you. He really, really shouldnât have. Leaning against the opposite wall of the kitchen, hair still damp and dripping onto the cheesy âI had potentialâ shirt heâd been gifted by one of his students the following year. Sweatpants that were bunched up around your ankles so that you didnât trip over the length, waist tied in as tightly as possible so they didnât just slide right off your hips.
Ryland Grace had never thought it possible that you could look more gorgeous than you did every day, but he stood corrected. He felt more in love than he ever had just looking at you right in this moment.
âSorry, I donât exactlyâŠlive a life of luxury,â Ryland awkwardly laughed as he spoke, pulling out two sad paper plates from the cabinet next to him and flashing them in your direction, shaking them lightly in the air. âHope this doesnât ruin my perfectly curated image.â
His eyes followed you as you brushed past him, humming to yourself with a little grin. You fumbled through every drawer in the kitchen, looking for something, when Ryland quickly popped open the one right next to him, showcasing his small selection of utensils. You flashed another heart-stopping grin at him before digging out two knives from the drawer.
âThat image cracked a long time ago, Ry. Like that time you let Marcus perform some chemical reaction and got the fire department called to the school,â
The tall blonde groaned to himself, rubbing at his temple as you pushed past him to throw some of the bread down onto the plates and crack open the jars of peanut butter and jelly set out.
âThat was one time!â he tried to defend himself, saddling up beside you as you passed him one of the knives. He almost completely missed the opening of the peanut butter jar, eyes too transfixed on the sight of you in his clothing. It was still up in the air if his heart was actually working correctly yet. âI learned my lesson very quickly not to let him handle any more chemicals.â
âDonât worry. I made the mistake of doing popcorn reading when we were working on The Outsiders. Marcus seemed to end up with every single instance of profanity in the book, which he would yell at the top of his lungs,â
Ryland snapped his fingers, glancing down at you at his side with a teasing smile.
âYou know what? That explains that really loud âHELLâ I heard across the school a couple months ago. I was so sure that it was going to shatter the windows of my classroom,â
âOh, shut up! It wasnât that bad!â
Your laughter permeated the air, elbow digging into his side as you spoke. And when your eyes locked with his, and Ryland got the perfect look at every square inch of your face, he could see it so clearly in his head.
Mornings just like this, where youâd both struggle to get out of the warmth of the blankets. The way he would surely annoy you with his very disorganized morning routine, but heâd make up for it with coffee already set out for you, just as you liked it. The lingering moments by the door, too wrapped up in each other because you didnât want to leave the peace of this space, even though you were going to the same place.
Late nights, curled together on the couch with some movie playing on TV that neither of you were particularly paying attention to. Whispered words, laughter shared. Kisses that lingered, hands that trailed-
Thunder broke Ryland from his spell, thoughts gone in a flash. He was back in his dingy kitchen, with you just inches away, staring up at him as the picture of true beauty.
âT-This is nice,â he cleared his throat, turning back to his sandwich as he spread his toppings along the bread, heat blooming across his cheeks again. It always did around you. âMaking dinner with someoneâŠno matter how sad the dinner is. I havenât done this in awhile.â
âRight,â your voice responded after a momentary pause. âSarah, wasnât it? You were dating her when we first met. What, uhâŠwhat ever happened to her?â
âOh, we broke up a long time ago,â Ryland waved the comment off, shaking his head. âShe just, uh, thought my head was too far in the clouds. Didnât think I wanted to be down here on Earth. She wasnât wrong. It was for the best, though. She hatedâŠall of this. The rundown apartment, the lack of a car, my love of science. She just never understood it. I was justâŠtoo much for her. But sheâs with Mark now, so Iâm sure sheâs happy.â
Ryland chose not to mention that his last relationship had been dead long before it officially ended, the pair not having seen each other in well over a month by that point. If his math was right, which it usually was, Sarah had started dating Mark before sheâd even broken it off with him.
He also failed to mention the relief he felt inside when she had called it off, knowing his heart had belonged to you the moment your eyes had locked with his.
Fingertips just barely ghosted over Rylandâs cheek, and he froze in place. Eyes trained on the plate in front of him, he could feel the way your hand curled around his cheek. The way your thumb glossed over his skin, back and forth, and the way your other fingers barely grazed over the shell of his ear. He couldnât help the way he instantly leaned into the touch, a touch he hadnât felt in so long.
Ryland turned his head, still resting in the palm of your own, to look you in the eyes. You gave him the softest smile, hand trailing across his cheek and ghosting over his jawline. His eyes watched it move, the way your fingers gently curled around the frame of his glasses dangling precariously from his face, and placed them gingerly back where they belonged, resting on the bridge of his nose.
His breath caught, your body so close to his, as your hand trailed back down and rested on his chest for just a moment, your own gaze flickering to its resting spot while his gaze stayed on your face.
âYou are never, and will never be, too much, Ryland. Not for the right person. Theyâll love every part of you. The clumsy parts, the nerdy parts, every part that makes youâŠyou,â
The Sun. Thatâs what you were to Ryland Grace. He meant every word he had said in that planetarium that day, driven by the rare jealousy of seeing Harkin that close to you.Â
The Sun was the reason Earth had life. Without the SunâŠthe Earth would be nothing.
Without youâŠwell, Ryland Grace had accepted long ago that he didnât understand what it was like to truly live until heâd met you.
Your eyes flickered for just a second, and Ryland took in an audible breath, swearing they settled on his lips for just a second. The apartment was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the pattering of the rain against the living room windows.
The moment shattered with yet another terribly timed clap of thunder, your body jolting away from his, focus turned back to the counter in front of you, face hidden from his wide eyes.
âY-you knowâŠI canât tell you the last time I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,â
Ryland shook his head, smiling slightly to himself at the little stutter in your own words, turning back to finishing his own food as well. But the moment still lingered in his head, the heat that bloomed from where your skin touched him still lingering.
âSince peanut butter is banned in school for allergies, probably awhile,â
âI almost forgot that rule a couple weeks ago and almost packed peanut butter crackers,â you joked back, before Ryland heard you snap your fingers. âOh! Speaking of work, did you put yourself down to volunteer for the school dance next week?â
Sandwiches finished off, Ryland packed the ingredients away and stashed them back in their appropriate spots, laughing awkwardly to himself.
âHah, uh, no I didnât. I chaperoned last year and kind of left covered in punch, became the kidsâ favorite âmemeâ for a week afterward since one of them got a picture of it,â
He turned back to you. Leaning against the island counter, holding your sad little sandwich in your hands, face still lit up red as you smiled toward him.
âI think so far it's me, Doyle, and Harki, plus Principal Marshal and I think Katie and Dawson from the front office. We could really use another teacher,â he swore the fluttering of your lashes was on purpose just to kill him and his resolve. âSign-up? For me?â
Well, there was no universe in existence where Ryland said no to a request like that.
Rejoining you at the counter, he held his own sandwich in his hand, reaching out and tapping it against yours as if you were sharing a toast.
âFor you? Totally,â
Even as you both took a bite of your sandwiches, eyes still locked together, Ryland felt as if something had shifted in the air. Your eyes were still as kind, your smile still bright, but it felt like there was a new weight to your gaze as you looked at him.
And he sworeâand hopedâfor just a split second, that your eyes had just flickered down to his lips again.
â€ïž
The student council had outdone themselves with this end of the year dance.
As you stepped through the main doors of Grover Cleveland Middleâs building, the smile on your face grew immediately at the sight before you. The walls were lined with little fairy lights, little styrofoam planets hanging down from the ceiling at various lengths, glow in the dark stars right around them and glowing. Silver streamers hung around the fairy lights, with the check in desk decorated with tons and foam and lights behind them to look like twinkling lights in the clouds.
âA space theme?â you called out as the two kids in front of you ducked away from the registration desk. Evelyn Doyle finally looked up from the sign-in sheet, grin growing as she took in the sight of you and rounded the desk. âI hadnât heard anything from the student council on the theme, but they did well.â
âNevermind the theme, youâre finally here!â you laughed as you threw her arms around you, reciprocating the hug, before her hands landed on your shoulders in order to get a good look at you, eyes trailing you up and down. âAnd look at this dress, oh my god!â
The deep yellow dress fell right around your knees, the fabric light and airy as it swooshed through the air with every move you made. Buttons lined the front down to the tie around your waist, leaving just enough room for the little gold necklace resting against your collarbone. You thanked yourself for choosing a short sleeve option, already feeling the heat in the building from how many kids were all packed in and dancing together.
âThank you,â was the sheepish reply you gave your friend as she let you go. âIâm sorry Iâm late, I caught one of my studentâs parents in the parking lot and they turned it into a mini parent-teacher conference, sadly.â
âNot a problem,â she waved the comment off, gesturing toward the doors of the gym just off to the left of you both. âJust get on in there, have some fun, and keep those slow dancers at least 12 inches apart at all times.â
If the hallways were gorgeous, the inside of the gym shone even brighter. Bathed in blue and purple, even more little lights twinkled around the room, hung off the walls, the ceilings, and on every surface they could possibly find. Moon and star decals, made by the art students, hung off the walls and from the ceiling, almost glowing under the lights.
Your eyes trailed over all of your children, scattered throughout the room, already having been dancing for at least thirty minutes. The smile on your face grew as you watched each one of them, gathered with their friends as they danced together in groups, or even stood off to the sides and just observed from beyond the dimly lit dance floor.
Mr. Harkin had been stationed at the punch table, and you could hear him from across the room warning these middle schoolers not to try and spike the punch. You could only giggle to yourself, shaking your head at his antics, before your eyes swept over the crowd once more-
The music seemed to stop in your ears, breath hitching, the second you laid eyes on him across the room. Ryland Grace.
He wasnât in anything fancy. A nice pair of jeans, the worn pair of black dress shoes youâd seen by his apartment door that night. A dark green shirt was tucked into his jeans, adorned with a worn, navy blue suit jacket overtop, and those same glasses almost falling off the bridge of his nose as he spoke animatedly to Olivia.
Ryland looked good. Too good, in your eyes.
For just a second, he looked up, and his eyes happened to meet yours across the room. You thought for sure youâd forgotten how to breathe.
Whatever had happened that night, in the silence of his apartment with only the beating of the rain against the windows and the roof as a witness, had shifted something. From the moment your fingertips had ghosted along his skin, your hand had rested against his chest, and youâd been close enough to see the specs that danced in those ocean blue eyes of his up close, nothing had been the same.
Like the little bubble you had been existing in with your harbored crushed had finally popped. Like a toe had dipped just slightly over a line, and there was no going back from then on.
You always blushed around your friend, every time heâd manage to fumble his way through a comment that borderlined on a kind-of-not-just-friendly compliment. But since that day just a week or so ago, every time he has been within a few feet of you, your face lit up like a hot summerâs day.
Moments where heâd find a second to linger in your classroom door, held a new weight to them. Sharing lunch together, fingers just barely brushing for a second as you both reached for your food, to moments when youâd simply be walking together down hallways, back of hands brushing along each otherâs but no one making any moves to stop it from happening.
Something was different, and you werenât sure you wanted to go back to how things were before. Not after touching his skin, or existing in his orbit like that. Not when youâd seen the side of him beyond these school walls.
You were in love with Ryland Grace. You had been for a long time. And, finally, you were done trying to pretend that there wasnât at least a small chance that he felt the same.
âI need your help,â
The heated staring contest between you two was broken by the sound to your right. You turned, just to see Marcus standing directly beside you and reaching up to pull on the sleeve of your dress. His hands wrung together, foot tapping incessantly on the ground, and you immediately knelt down in front of him to get a better look at his face that he was trying to hide from you.
âMarcus? Honey, whatâs wrong?â you asked gently, hands coming to rest on his arms as you tried to get him to look at you.
âIâŠI like Olivia,â
Oh. It was one of those problems. The anxiety you felt in that moment finally washed away, an easy smile falling to your lips as you took a quick glance over in Ryland and Oliviaâs direction, the formerâs eyes still locked onto you from across the room.
âI did hear a rumor about that. Olivia is a great girl,â
âShe is,â he said quickly, finally looking at you. His nerves were basically written across his face. âI-Iâve been really mean to her. I didnât mean to be.â
âI know, honey. Sometimes feelings can be confusing,â you stood up, hands on your hips as you looked down at him with a smile. âDo you want to dance with her?â
âI do,â
You held your hand out toward him with a smile.
âThen why donât we start by going and apologizing to her?â
With Marcusâs hand in yours, you confidently led him across the room, eyes locked back onto Rylandâs as you approached. He stood with Olivia at his side, who was talking his ear off, a dopey looking grin on his face as he nodded to whatever she said as he continued to watch as you approached him.
âDr. Grace, Iâm sorry to interrupt you and Olivia,â you announced yourself to the pair with a grin of your own, hands on Marcusâs shoulders and you lightly pushed him forward. âBut Olivia, thereâs something that Marcus here wants to say to you.â
The young boy shuffled awkwardly forward, hands wringing together again as he stood in front of his crush.
âI, uh, I wanted to say I was sorry. For being really mean to you. I didnât mean it,â
Oliviaâs eyes went wide, as she too shuffled uncomfortably for a second. Ryland saddled up to your side, the pair of you sharing a glance as you watched the interaction happen right before your eyes. His hand graced over yours lightly, and it took everything in you not to reach out and lock your fingers with his.
âOh! Itâs, um, itâs okay. Thank you,â
âSay, Marcus?â Ryland called out to them both, catching the boyâs eye and gesturing toward Olivia with a wink. âWhat do you think of Oliviaâs dress?â
âIâŠI think she looks really beautiful,â
That comment finally seemed to catch Olivia off guard, her eyes wide in shock as she giggled nervously.
âOh! IâŠthank you, Marcus. You look really nice too,â
âThank you,â his posture seemed to straighten out at Oliviaâs reaction, like seeing her accept his compliment gave him the confidence he needed. âDo you want to dance with me?â
Olivia shot you and Ryland a look, and you both immediately gave her a thumbs up. Then, your happy eyes could only watch the two pre-teens awkwardly shuffle away together to the dance floor, not daring to meet the eyes of the other.
âLook at us, playing matchmaker for middle schoolers,â
âI think they did that for themselves, we just helped,â you laughed, turning your head. The laughter died on your lips the second your eyes met with Rylandâs, voice low and breathy as you whispered to him through your smile. âHi.â
âHi,â he whispered back just as breathily. His hand came up to the back of his head, running through his hair for a moment, and you could see the red and pink hues that lit up his cheeks. âI got worried when I didnât see you. I was ready to call you.â
âYou couldâve,â
âIâll remember for next time,â he shot back, hands finding their way to rest in the front pockets of his jeans. His eyes moved back over the crowd, finding your two young students once more. âIâm proud of him for that. ThatâŠmust have taken a lot of guts to do.â
You followed his gaze, landing on the pair as they danced together, laughing and talking like old friends.
âLike you said before, it can be hard for boys to express their feelings. All he needed was to pull up his big boy pants and ask her,â
Ryland laughed beside you.
âYeahâŠI should probably follow in his footsteps,â
You glanced back to him, seeing him already watching you. A single eyebrow raised toward him quizzically, even though your heart felt like it was ready to beat directly out of your chest.
Rylandâs mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were trying to force out words that he couldnât quite seem to get right. You didnât even realize you were holding your breath, hoping inside that whatever he wanted to say would address the weight that seemed to be hanging between your gazes.
âStay here,â
There wasnât even time for you to respond before the tall blonde rushed away, almost tripping as he dashed over to the DJ booth across the way from the makeshift dance floor. He whispered something to the DJ, and you could see the thumbs up he got in return, before he rushed back over to you, panting slightly.
âRyland?â you questioned softly, the man who held your entire heart without knowing it standing just a foot in front of you with a nervous grin on his face. âWhat did you just do?â
As if on cue, the song changed, and familiar lyrics floated through the room, bouncing off the walls.
Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars
âIâm pulling up my big boy pants,â he responded with a nervous laugh, his hand outstretched toward you. âAnd asking you to dance with me.â
Nothing else existed the second that you slid your hand into Ryland Graceâs without hesitation, letting him pull you in. You werenât in the school, not in a room decorated for a middle school dance, and certainly not surrounded by middle schoolers and a bunch of faculty that had placed bets on you both.
It was just you and Ryland Grace. Thatâs all you wanted it to be.
Your arms found a place to rest around his shoulders, fingertips just barely brushing past the strands of hair that tickled the back of his neck. There was a fluttering in your chest the second that his hands made their way to your waist, curling around the divet just above your hip bone, pulling you into him just by another inch.
In other words, hold my hand. In other words, darling, kiss me. Fill my life with song, and let me sing for ever more.
"I didn't tell you yetâŠ,â his voice was soft, words whispered just between the two of you in a crowded room. âBut you look beautiful,"
"You don't have to flatter me, Ryland,"
"No, really, you look-"
"Like a banana in this yellow dress?"
He paused. His tongue poked out, running along his bottom lip, and you could see the nervous bob of his Adamâs apple before he spoke again.
"...like the sun,"
You are all I long for, all I worship and adore.
Oh. That fluttering in your chest was back, and suddenly, you werenât at a middle school dance anymore. You were back in that planetarium, spinning in circles. And this time, there were no doubts in your mind. You were the Sun, and he was the Earth. And what was the Earth, without its Sun?
"Ryland-"
"I wasn't lying,"
You cocked your head.
"...about what?"
"That I knew Homer wrote The Odyssey,"
That drew a short laugh from you, but you could still see the nerves that were laced through Rylandâs smile.
"Right, you were just distracted,"
"I was. By you. I'm always distracted by you,"
In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.
You took a deep breath. Heâd crossed the line for you, thrown himself onto the other side, and was waiting for you with open arms. It was just a leap of faith.
âIâm always distracted by you, too. Since the day we met,â
The song faded away, melting into the next. There couldâve been eyes on you both, either from students or from faculty, but nothing would break either of your gazes away from the other.
Ryland took a quick look around the room, before his hands took hold of your own, bringing them down between you both. He gave you a grin, one filled with more happiness than you had ever seenâand you knew your own matched his perfectlyâbefore he tugged you toward the doors of the gym.
âCome with me,â
âRy, weâre supposed to be chaperoning!â
âI donât see Principal Marshall anywhere. Whatâs the worst she could do, fire us?â
âQuite literally, yes!â you shot back with a laugh.
Ryland only shrugged his shoulders, tugging you again, and you didnât even try to fight back. Your feet simply moved with him.
âWorth it,â
Hands clasped together, fingers intertwined, your laughter echoed off the walls of the empty hallways as Ryland Grace ran you down them, a destination clear in his mind. Every few seconds heâd look back, just smiling at you as his eyes trailed over every single inch of you, before youâd yell at him to look at his own feet before youâd both be sprawled across the linoleum floors.
The door to his classroom was open as you flew inside, hand slipping from his as you caught yourself on the projector cart sitting in the middle of the room. Spinning on your heel, you caught his eye just as he shut the classroom door behind him, and the silence enveloped you both once more. Finally alone, no prying eyes to watch.
The momentarily confidence that seemed to seize hold of Ryland dissipated in that moment. He wiped his hands against the front of his jeans, chuckling awkwardly as he took a few steps toward you.
âWhat was your plan here, Dr. Grace?â you teased, taking a couple steps toward him as well, too high on the feeling of everything youâd just finally realized. High on the feeling of finally not denying what your heart knew long ago: you and Ryland Grace were never just friends.
âIâm not going to lie,â he shot back, coming to a stop just in front of you, barely an inch or two separating you. âI hadnât thought this far ahead.â
âThen stop thinking,â
No one had leaned in first. It had been both of you, as if drawn together like two magnets, as your lips finally found one another's.
Goosebumps rose across your skin as Ryland Graceâs mouth moved against yours with an ease that shouldnât exist between two people that have never kissed before. It was like a perfect dance between two partners that knew each other better than anything.
Your lips never left his, moving against his as if you couldnât believe you had deprived yourself of this for so long, as your hands wound around his shoulders. Fingers curled into his hair, finally carding themselves through the blonde strands that felt so soft between your fingers.
The slightest little moan, enough to send heat coursing through your body the second you heard it, slipping from Rylandâs mouth into your own. His hands grasped at your hips, winding around your back to press into your lower back and tug you as close as humanly possible, as if he was a starved man that craved to touch you in any way that he could.
His lips were soft, a feeling that you knew you were going to crave for the rest of your life now that youâd had a single taste of them. You pressed further into him, a small mewl tumbling from your own lips and swallowed by his mouth as you pressed every inch of yourself into him, desperate to hang onto the moment in case the world would be cruel and wake you from this dream moments later.
The need to breathe was what finally separated you, but not far. Rylandâs forehead pressed to yours, his breath fanning out across your skin. His hands still gripped at your hips, holding him to you, as yours stayed carded through his hair, nails gently scraping at his scalp as you chest heaved as it tried to level your breathing back to normal.
âIf I havenât made it clear already, youâre my best friend,â his words were breathy, accented by the way he was still trying to catch his breath. But his smile was bright, his eyes almost shining, as he looked down at you. âAnd Iâm completely in love with you. Literally, since the moment we met.â
You laughed, trapped in this little bubble with him, as your hands slid from his hair to instead cup his cheeks. The tip of your nose just barely brushed against his, and he bumped his right back against yours without hesitation.
âIâm completely in love with you too, Ryland Grace. Since the moment you tripped over your own two feet,â
The sound of your laughter filled the empty, dark science classroom again as Rylandâs hands came to scoop you up around your thighs, spinning you in relentless circles. All you could do was hang onto his broad shoulders and smile, his lips peppering a thousand kisses to every inch of skin he could possibly reach.
The Earth needed the Sun, like how Ryland said he needed you. The person that makes it all worth it, that makes the days brighter, that makes this short little life worth it.
i saw you're looking for rqs, so how about clark kent with reader who's prone to fainting in the heat? i am SUFFERING with the heatwave where i live rn, i dont request often but this is a need đ
Sunshine
Warnings: fainting, mentions of blood, blood pressure, slight angst, fluff, let me know if thereâs anything else <33
a/n: i feel this so much. the uk is so so so hot at the moment i've just been sat in front of my fan all day. I hope you like it! <33
Word count: 1.4k
For the last three days, thereâs been a heatwave in Metropolis. Temperatures have risen, air conditioning splutters, and thereâs nothing work appropriate you can wear to stay comfortable. So youâve been silently suffering.
No one likes the heat when itâs like this, but you especially struggle in the summer warmth. Youâve struggled in heatwaves in the past, the heat causing your blood pressure to drop, as well as being dehydrated, has made you collapse more than once. Luckily, youâd been at home with your parents or hanging out with a close friend. Not in a professional setting around coworkers.
Today had been the hottest so far, some parts of the country even beating world records, and as soon as you woke up, dripping in sweat, you knew it was going to be a bad day.
Unfortunately, today the planet was extremely busy, and while you usually keep on top of your water intake to decrease the chance of fainting, you got very distracted and only had a sip from your water bottle as soon as you got in.
It wasnât until lunch time when you started feelingâŠoff.
Clark was the first to notice the pale and clammy state of your face. Heâs well aware of your fainting spells, and ever since you visited his parents last year and collapsed in front of the cows, heâs been very conscious of your blood pressure.
 Heâs watching from your desk, and he can feel your headache pounding from here. He watches you rub your forehead, let out a shaky breath, and chug the rest of your water.Â
Itâs warm now, and does nothing to help you feel better, so you push your chair out from your desk, and stand up on two wobbly knees. Youâre a little woozy, and very confused, turning your head around to try and find the water cooler. You canât exactly remember where it was.
Your legs shake, and you catch yourself on the side of your desk. You take a moment to close your eyes, the roomâs started swaying, and youâre not sure if you can make it to excuse yourself to somewhere less busy.
You take a tentative step away from your desk, and your legs immediately buckle. Clark moves before anyone else even realises somethingâs wrong.Â
One moment, he was sitting at his desk typing up an interview, the next heâs got his hands on his waist just as you begin to lose consciousness.
âWoah-hey. I got you.â He frowns. His hands move and one settles carefully on the back of your head as he brings you against his chest, the other steadying your back before you could hit the floor.Â
Your body goes limp against him, and he shakes you slightly. â[Y/n]?â He asks.
You let out a hum. Youâre still slack against him, but not completely. You make a weak, wobbly attempt to stand but your knees refuse to cooperate. Clark tightens his hold enough to keep you upright.
âEasyâŠâ He murmurs, lowering his voice. âIâve got you.â
Your eyelashes flutter. âClark?â
âYeah, Iâm here. Youâre okay.â He coos, brushing the hair out of your face.
The surrounding office has barely noticed the commotion, but Lois has, already abandoning her desk while Jimmy jumps out of his chair.
âIs she okay?â Lois asks.Â
Jimmy panics. âWhat happened?â
Clark nods, barely taking notice of them. All of his attention is on you, the way your heartâs beating, the slow pressure of your blood. Your skin is still clammy, and your breathing has become shallow.
âCan you hear me?â He says softly, arms still around your waist and on the back of your head.
Your browns pinch and your eyes stay closed. ââŠIâŠâ
Your words come out slow and slurred, like your slipping through quicksand or dragging through mud.
ââŠI donâtâŠfeel..â You take in a breath. âWellâŠâ
âI know, I know. Weâre gonna get you sorted.â He nods, slowly guiding you back towards your chair.Â
He turns to Lois. âCan you get some cold water, please.
She nods. âOn it. Jimmy, get some ice packs.â
âGot it!â He says, and bounces off towards the break room.
They both leave, and Clark lowers you into the chair, and youâd almost flop forward if it werenât for his hand on your shoulder.
You try to blink, but your eyes donât quite focus on him. Everything is too bright, and the office sounds like itâs all underwater.Â
âMâsorry.â You breathe.
He frowns. âWhat are you sorry for?â
âIâŠâ Your voice is barely audible now, quieter than a whisper, so quiet that he wouldnât have heard you if he didnât have super hearing. âI think I'm gonnaâŠâ
Suddenly, your eyes roll shut, and your weight fully slumps into Clarkâs chest.Â
âOh, okay.â He mutters. He catches you before you slide off the chair, and he slides one arm beneath your knees, the other supporting your back as he moves you off the chair.Â
âWeâre gonna move to the conference room, okay?â He says, even if you're unconscious. âItâs cooler in there.â
As he moves to the other room, Jimmy and Lois catch him up, supplies in hand.Â
âShe out cold?â Lois asks.
Clark hums. âShe gets like this when itâs hot. Sheâll be alright once we cool her down.â
Jimmy opens the door, and Clark settles you carefully onto the couch beside the conference table. He thought the couch was much more comfortable than the floor, and you donât deserve that.Â
He takes one of the pillows and uses it to prop your legs up, hoping to get the blood flowing. He then grabs the ice pack from Jimmy, and places it against your neck, wrapped in paper towels so it doesnât burn your skin.Â
He then turns around to Jimmy and Lois who look at you with concern. âYou guys can head back to work. Sheâll be okay in a minute.â He says. âThanks for your help, guys.â
He watches them leave, and turns his attention back to you. After a few moments, you stir with a tiny groan.
He smiles, watching your lips form a tiny pout as your eyelashes flutter.
âHi, honey.â He whispers.
You frown. âDid I pass out?â
He hums, rubbing a finger against the crease of your brow. âTechnically twice. You feeling okay?â
âTired.â
He huffs. âYeah, I bet.â
He brushes damp hair away from your forehead, and his expression softens the moment his hand meets your skin.
âYouâre very warm.â
You let out a sleepy little hum, eyes fluttering shut for a second.
He sighs. âYou worried me out there.âÂ
You let your head loll towards him, eyes glossy, lips parted slightly. âIâm sorry.â You whisper. âI shouldâve told you I didnât feel well.â
He nods, and reaches for the cold bottle of water Lois left on the table.Â
âThink you can sit up for me?â He asks.
You pause. âMaybe.â
âThatâs okay.â He says. One arm moves gently around your shoulders, lifting you gently and allowing your blood pressure to adjust. âThere we go.â He mutters.
He moves to sit next to you, and your head immediately lands on his shoulder. Youâre too exhausted to keep it up, and Clarkâs heart melts.
âComfortable?â He asks. You hum, and he leans down and smiles into your hair before pressing a quick kiss there. âGood.â
He cracks open the bottle, and lifts it to your mouth. âLittle sips.â He says.Â
After a few sips, you pull away, and close your eyes for a while. Your heart has slowed significantly, and your breathing has deepened. He takes your hand, and rubs his thumb over your knuckles.
âI love you, you know that?â He mutters against your temple, then pressing a soft kiss to your hairline.
You pause, and turn your head slowly to look up at him. A shy smile forms on your lips, and you nod softly.
âOf course I do.â You chuckle. âYou tell me all the time.â
He grins. ââCause I mean it.â He says.
Your tired smile grows, and you lean over to kiss his cheek. âI love you too, you know.â
âI know.â He teases. âYou tell me all the time.â
You both smile so hard that just for a second, you forget about the pounding headache, the dizziness, and the fainting spell all together. All you can think about now is how safe you feel tucked into his side.Â
Clark will have a proper go at you later about keeping on top of the heat, but for now, heâs just grateful youâre okay.
Requested: a quiet reader who's a doctor and theyâre married to Brendon Park. The staff tries to figure out who she's with, or set her up, or any situation you come up with. By @jmw87
The first clue should have been the lunches and not because they were extravagant, you didnât seem like the type for extravagant anything, but because they were consistent. The same way a childâs school lunch is.
Every day around noon, a neatly packed lunch appeared in the break room refrigerator with a small sticky note attached. Everyone saw it, everyone talked about it, yet very few actually knew who placed the lunch you were eating in the fridge.
Don't forget to eat today. -B
Protein. You've skipped breakfast three days in a row. -B
Or everyone's personal favorite: If you trade these vegetables for coffee again, I will find out. -B
"Who writes threatening vegetable notes?" Santos asked one afternoon, holding up the latest message while the rest of the residents crowded around.
"A spouse," Whitaker said confidently.
"An overbearing spouse," Santos corrected, pointing at him.
"An attentive spouse," Javadi argued with a shrug. "Honestly, it's kind of sweet."
Santos narrowed her eyes, âyou're only saying that because you've never dated anyone who monitored your diet.â
âCorrection Trinity, I have never dated anyone⊠ever,â Javadi said back, stating the last word quietly as she realized that was not the comeback she initially thought it was.
Santos simply rolled her eyes in response.
Just outside at the nurses station you sat quietly charting, seemingly oblivious to the debate raging on the other side of the break room door. The thing the residents didnât know is that you were far from oblivious to the situation, you simply chose not to acknowledge it.
Which, according to the well seasoned nurses of the Pitt, only made things more fun.
"It has officially been seven months," Princess announced during a lull in the ER. "Seven months since the new crop of residents arrived, and none of them know who our favorite sweetheart's mystery husband is."
Perlah looked up from stocking supplies and shook her head, âpathetic.â
Dana, sitting at the charge desk, didn't even bother hiding her amusement, she had a smirk that said everything she didnât.
âIt's not pathetic,â Whitaker protested, his tone laced with offense, âshe literally never talks about him.â
âOr her,â Santos added, âcould be a wife.â
"True," Javadi agreed.
Dana laughed without looking up from the work she was focused on.
âOh, you think that's funny?" Santos said immediately, âyou all know, don't you?"
Dana carefully sipped her coffee, "I know lots of things,â she shrugged, âIâve been working at this nursing station longer than youâve been alive.â
"That means yes," Whitaker whispered.
Princess grinned, "Dana's known for years."
"You know?" Santos demanded.
"I might,â Princess shrugged casually.
"Who is it?" Javadi deadpanned.
"Nope,â Perlah and Princess said at the same time.
"Come on!" Santos said with a huff.
"No,â Dana said.
"Please?" Javadi begged with a fake pout.
"Absolutely not,â Dana said.
Whitaker looked betrayed, "I thought we had a mentor-mentee relationship.â
"We do,â she said casually.
"Mentors share information,â he said, narrowing his eyes.
Dana smiled pleasantly, ânot other peopleâs personal information.â
By the end of the week, the betting pool had begun, as it did with every class of residents.
Technically, the experienced nurses had been running it for years. Every new class of residents eventually became obsessed with discovering the identity of your mysterious spouse.
The rules were simple. One guess per resident. No cheating. They had one more week to put in their final guesses, and if there is any cheating, the residents have to buy the nurses dinner.
The winner gets free dinners for a week, courtesy of Dana, Princess, and Perlah.
The catch? Nobody has ever guessed correctly.
"Firefighter," Santos declared confidently with her arms crossed thoughtfully.
"Why?" Javadi asked, pursing her lips.
"Because she's calm in a crisis, organized, and way too good at lifting patients. Firefighter spouses rub off on people,â Santos said matter of factly.
Whitaker frowned, âthat's not science. Those are also all qualities of a good trauma doctor."
Santos shrugged again, "it's vibes."
"My guess is professor," Javadi said. "Maybe literature."
Everyone stared at her.
"What?" she asked defensively.
"Why literature?"
"She says things like 'that's an interesting perspective' when she's angry. That's someone married to an academic. Plus sheâs super calm and probably likes to read books," Victoria said, defending her thesis.
"Okay," Whitaker said. "I think it's another doctor."
The nurses exchanged looks and Dennis noticed immediately.
"Oh my God,â Dennis said as his eyes widened.
"No," Dana said instantly, shaking her head in indifference.
"Your face did something,â he said pointing towards her.
"My face did not do something,â she deadpanned.
The investigation intensified after that.
Santos began casually asking questions while the two of you sutured a laceration together or when you let her perform certain tests and procedures under your supervision.
"So," she said casually, "what does your husband do?"
You glanced up, "he's actually a surgeon."
Santos nearly dropped the forceps, she mumbled an apology to the patient who was now concerned. "WHAT KIND?" She whisper-yelled over the limb.
You smiled innocently, âsurgical."
"That's not an answer,â she said, rolling her eyes.
You shrugged your shoulders, not looking up from the incision in front of you but biting back a smile.
Santos groaned in frustration.
Javadi tried next.
"How long have you been married?" She asked innocently as you held up the X-ray images in front of her.
"Eight years,â you said, keeping your eyes on the broken femur in front of you.
"Children?" She asked innocently.
You nodded, âa dog."
"Name?" She continued, seemingly catching you in one of your chattier moods.
"Lily,â you said sweetly, finally peeling your eyes away from the tablet and looking at her.
"Awww I love dogs, do you have any pictures?â She asked, testing her luck.
You immediately brightened and pulled out your phone, proudly showing off approximately three hundred photos.
To her disappointment, not one included your husband. And she had to sit there and watch you scroll through photos for eight whole minutes and left with no information.
Whitaker resorted to espionage and failed spectacularly.
He happened to be standing beside you at the front desk when your phone rang.
The screen lit up: Husband â€ïž
Whitaker practically launched himself sideways trying to see more.
You bit back your laugh and answered anyway.
"Hi, honey."
Pause.
"No, I remembered lunch."
Pause.
"Yes, I actually ate it."
Another pause.
You sighed, "I ate it all."
Whitaker mouthed husband Santos across the department while slyly pointing to where you sat on your phone.
You looked over slowly, moving the phone away from your ear, "Dr. Whitaker."
He froze, "yes?" Trying to cover up his nosiness with a polite smile.
"You know eavesdropping is generally considered rude,â you said simply.
"I wasn't eavesdropping,â he said, still smiling.
"You are basically hanging upside down over the desk,â you pointed out.
He removed himself from the uncomfortable position he hadnât even realized he had folded himself into while trying to listen. He mumbled an apology, took his chart, and sulked away. Once he was gone, you put the phone back to your ear.
When he approached Trinity she was already bent over laughing, âreal smooth.â
Months later, no one was any closer and that made the nurses even more insufferable.
"At this point," Santos complained, "I'm starting to think you all made him up."
You looked genuinely offended, "I assure you my husband exists."
"Prove it,â she quipped back.
You considered it for a moment, even pursing your lips in thought, âno.â
The reveal happened completely by accident. The Pitt was beyond its natural state of chaos. Every room was full, EMS kept rolling in, and you hadn't stopped moving for six straight hours.
The bets were currently in: Whitaker - Doctor names Ben, Santos- undecided named Brian, Javadi - vet named Bobby.
Dana had all her money on Whitaker getting it right, while Princess and Perlah stood firmly on the side of no one getting it.
Dana finally cornered you, âtake ten minutes.â
"I'm fine,â you huffed.
"That wasn't a suggestion,â she said.
You sighed, âyes, Mom. If I take ten, you take ten.â
Dana pointed toward the lounge, âgo. Iâll meet you in there.â
Five minutes later, a tall orthopedic surgeon walked into the emergency department carrying a takeout bag.
Several heads turned.
Mostly because Dr. Brendon Park from Ortho rarely ventured into the ER unless someone had broken something particularly impressively, and even then he usually sent a resident down to consider whether it was worth his time.
"Hey, Dana," Brendon said, âshe around?"
Dana looked up from the desk and a slow smile spread across her face.
"Oh, this should be fun,â she said slyly.
Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi all looked over, but unable to hear Dana amidst all the commotion.
Brendon frowned, but ignored the stares, âheard itâs been rough down here today.â
Dana nodded towards the break room door, âshe's in the lounge.â
"Thanks,â he tapped the counter in acknowledgment before heading in your direction.
The residents all followed him with their eyes as he disappeared into the break room.
Whitaker frowned.
Two minutes later, you emerged from the lounge carrying coffee, smiling in a way no one in the department had ever seen before.
Brendon followed behind you, but the catch was⊠he was almost smiling. The tips of his ears were slightly pink, and he almost looked happy.
You both stopped outside the door and faced one another. Without hesitation, he reached over, tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"Try to sit down for at least ten minutes," he said.
"I will,â you said.
"You said that yesterday,â he said back with a sigh.
"I mean it this time,â you said quickly.
"You also said that yesterday,â he murmured.
You smiled sheepishly, "I love you."
"Love you too,â he said quietly.
Brendon finally noticed everyone staring. "...Why is everyone looking at us?"
You looked around then, meeting Danaâs eyes and immediately giving her a knowing smirk.
"Dinner's on you three for the next week,â Dana said pointing at all the residents.
Santos looked like she'd been struck by lightning, âhow is this cheating? He cam down here.â
Whitaker's mouth had actually fallen open, âI was at least somewhat close. In my defense, I thought his name was Shark.â
Javadi simply whispered, "orthopedic surgery. Of course."
You blinked, "oh."
You looked between everyone, âwere you all still trying to figure out who my husband was?"
"STILL?" Santos shrieked.
You looked genuinely confused, "I thought it was obvious."
The nurses dissolved into laughter. Dana wiped tears from her eyes, âtonight I would really like that Chinese place with the eggrolls.â
Then she turned to you. âSweetheart, you've been married eight years and half this department wasn't convinced he was real. The other half still doesnât know.â
You considered that, âhuh.â
Beside you, Brendon smile, âto be fair, she's very private and quiet.â
"You're one to talk," Dana shot back.
Brendon looked offended, "I talk."
Princess snorted without looking away from the triage board, "you speak exclusively about bones and your wife."
You quietly slipped your hand into his and Brendon immediately relaxed.
"Oh my god," Trinity whispered. "They're adorable."
"Disgustingly so," Dana agreed with a smile.
And somewhere in the distance, Perlah was already planning the next betting pool.
Summary : A stray cat starts showing up at your workplace. You begin feeding him. So does Steve. It doesn't take long for the two of you to realize you're somehow co-parenting an animal that refuses to belong to anyone.
Warnings : idk
Writers notes : English is not my native language; please excuse me if there are any mistakes or poor translations.Â
Steve Harrington x fem!reader
When Robin had to take time off from Family Video to visit her sick aunt, Steve hadn't expected it to be such a nightmare.
It was obvious he would never have the same chemistry with the new employee, nor the same easy friendship he had with Robin, but he hadn't expected this.
Nothing.
He could still smell the lingering scent of your perfume hanging around the register, see the obsessively organized shelves, and hear that damn chewing gum.
He shoots you a dark look that you completely ignore as you pop another bubble with a loud snap.
Steve doesn't know how, but he's convinced you do it on purpose just to annoy him.
Then again, there's nothing about you that he likes. Not the way you dress, which he considers way too rebellious, nor the overly familiar way you talk to customers.
It wasn't really about you.
Well, maybe a little.
But mostly because every time he looked up, he expected to see Robin sitting behind the counter with her ridiculous uniform and sarcastic comments.
Instead, he found you.
"See you tomorrow, Harrington!"
He doesn't even acknowledge you as you walk through the store's doors, your oversized jacket swallowing your entire frame and your Doc Martens pounding against the floor. As if he needed that to know you were leaving.
The silence that settled over Family Video afterward was enough to tell him that the disruptive element had finally left the building.
Outside, you spot a black cat perched on the hood of your car, just like every evening since you started working here.
It waits patiently, its tail curled around its paws, until you pull a treat from your pocket.
While it crunches away on it, you absentmindedly scratch its head, and that small ritual is enough to soften the end of your day.
The evening drags on so much that you do your best not to yawn too loudly. Then again... you could do it just for the pleasure of seeing Steve's grumpy expression because you're making too much noise.
You cast a quick glance at your coworker, who is busy helping a father and his kids, then let out a sigh.
You thought Steve Harrington would be a little nicer than this. A little more fun, at least. But that definitely wasn't the case.
Robin had described him as a guy who laughed easily and never hesitated to strike up conversations just to get to know people.
You'd been a little skeptical, remembering the Steve from high school, but people could change, so you'd given him the benefit of the doubt.
On your first day, he'd barely looked at you, quickly explaining what was expected of you before returning to the register.
Maybe if you'd known in advance what an asshole he could be, you would've turned down Robin's offer.
But you needed this little summer job, and when your marching band friend had offered it to you, you'd accepted.
"Have an excellent evening!"
Pulling a face, you imitate Steve's overly polite tone and immediately bump into him when you turn around. The name tag clipped to his vest leaves a faint mark on your forehead, which you rub right away.
"Having fun?"
You stare at him questioningly, and he gives you a humorless smile.
"I can see everything in the reflection."
He jerks his chin toward the large front windows. Night has fallen, and the parking lot lights are bright enough to reflect everything happening inside the store.
Satisfied by the annoyed look on your face, Steve turns his back on you.
As a result, he completely misses the middle finger you raise in his direction.
And this time, he's the one who leaves before you.
His fingers toy with his keys as he steps into the parking lot, and he spots the black cat he's been feeding ever since he started working here.
More than once, he's been tempted to take it home with him, but the animal always disappears the moment it finishes the treat he gives it.
The rain keeps pouring down, and instead of making a run for your car, you wait.
The cat didn't show up tonight. The rain probably convinced him to stay hidden somewhere, but it still bothers you. You'd gotten used to seeing the elegant feline at the end of every shift, a small comforting ritual after putting up with Grumpy Steve all day.
"You're still here?"
Steve frowns, frozen beneath the awning as he prepares to lock up the store behind him.
Your eyes meet for a few seconds before you're the first to look away.
"I was waiting for... never mind. Bye."
He watches you jog toward your car as if the rain doesn't bother you in the slightest and then, suddenly, you drop to all fours to look underneath the vehicle.
He locks the store without taking his eyes off you, just in time to see half your body disappear beneath the car.
"What the hell is she doing?"
Despite the rain and the irritation you constantly provoke in him, he walks over and stretches his jacket above your heads to shield you from the downpour. His sudden presence startles you and a yelp escapes your lips.
"Shit!"
A sharp meow rings out immediately and a black shape darts into the bushes.
Annoyed, you straighten up, scraping your hands in the process, and shoot Steve a glare.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
"Me? Hold on, you're the one crawling under your car!"
"I was trying to get the cat! And you scared him away!"
The rain is no longer being held back as you face a completely confused Steve, his jacket hanging limply from his hands.
"A cat?"
"Yes, a cat!" you repeat as if he's stupid. "He waits for me every night and..."
"A black cat? Yellow eyes?"
Suspicious, you cross your arms.
"Yeah. And the tip of his tail is damaged."
Steve bursts out laughing.
"He's not waiting for you. He's waiting for me. I've been feeding him since I started working here."
The rain has soaked both of you completely, but it does nothing to calm the irritation that's slowly turning into anger.
He could ruin your days with his bad mood. He could be a disappointment after everything Robin had told you about him.
But he could not steal your cat.
"We're going to have a problem, Harrington."
You step forward, hands on your hips, lifting your chin defiantly toward him.
"His name is Salem and..."
"Oh, very original," he mocks, looking down at you. "A witch fanatic? That's surprising."
What an idiot.
"Oh, please. I'd love to hear what ridiculous nickname you've given him, Grumpy."
"I... he doesn't need a nickname to know who he is. We recognize each other. We know each other."
He crosses his arms.
"And stop calling me Grumpy!"
"You know what? Robin told me you were nice, but I guess that's buried underneath all that constant bad mood! Honestly, I wasn't expecting much, but I'm still disappointed!"
The sudden outburst catches him off guard. The number of words exchanged in a single evening already exceeds everything you'd said to each other over the past month.
"I'm starting to miss high school Steve. At least he was an asshole who owned it!"
And with that final jab, you storm off across the parking lot, leaving Steve completely stunned by what had just happened.
You avoid him as much as possible, even though you're both stuck in a small space where crossing paths is inevitable.
After all, you'd spent most of your time doing exactly that before the other night.
It's not like he's trying to talk to you either, although he does look at you a little more often since you yelled at him in the rain.
He's bothered that you compared high school Steve to the person he is today, the version of himself he's proud of because he's no longer that arrogant little jerk.
And yet, you'd sent him right back to that time, and he understands now that he didn't exactly give you the best impression of who he is.
He mixed everything up when Robin left.
Robin, who represents the first step in his change. The person who helped him become someone better.
To him, you were mostly the girl taking her place, forgetting that it was only temporary. That if Robin liked you, then you couldn't be just anyone. And that you certainly hadn't asked to be compared to her.
He'd really screwed up.
And every time he tries to apologize, a single look from you is enough to make him say something else instead, as if apologizing were somehow more difficult than facing a Demogorgon.
He could count the number of times you rolled your eyes, the number of bubbles you popped with your chewing gum, the songs you hummed when you thought nobody was listening...
And even the days you changed your perfume.
When you finish your shift before him, he watches you take your time with Salemâhe still insists that name is ridiculousâand pet him the same way he does, especially beneath the chin where the cat's purrs grow louder.
He's a little jealous of the attention the cat gives you and is forced to admit that there are now two people taking care of him.
A sort of co-parenting arrangement.
One where he'd somehow managed to annoy the cat's substitute mother before he'd even really gotten to know her.
"Thanks again for covering for me. You really saved me."
"It's okay."
The detached way you answer Robin on her first day back is completely genuine because you're relieved to finally be leaving this place.
Your chewing gum pops loudly, and Steve watches the bubble stick briefly to your lip before you absentmindedly pull it back into your mouth with a flick of your tongue.
"So, did everything go well? Steve told me you know a lot about movies!"
You shoot Steve a vague look at that statement, considering there's no way he could know that when he'd never actually made an effort to get to know you, but you simply shrug.
"It was nice. You were right, Harrington is such a great guy."
Robin's eyes narrow as she immediately realizes something happened, but you don't give her the chance to ask any questions.
"I start my new job this afternoon. I don't want to be late!"
"Wait! Every Friday night after work, we all get together at the Wheelers' for a movie night. You should come! You can recommend something other than Back to the Future!"
"That's where I draw the line!" Steve cuts in, raising a finger. "Nobody talks badly about that movie, got it?"
"How many times have you seen it?" Robin sighs, crossing her arms.
"Who keeps track of that?"
"More than ten, I'm sure of it, because I was there every single time!"
"It's a really good movie!"
Watching them bicker, you almost find yourself smiling because, for the first time, you finally see the Steve Robin had told you about.
Too bad he never showed that side of himself to you.
"We'll see."
Robin waves goodbye as you walk through the store's doors, and Steve pretends to keep arguing with her while watching you stop in the parking lot, most likely looking for Salem.
August is quiet.
It makes sense. It's summer. People have better things to do than come pick out a movie for the weekend when there are so many parties and gatherings happening elsewhere.
But this kind of quiet is different from the one in July, when Steve spent most of his time being annoyed by all the noise you seemed to bring with you.
Of course, Robin was back. Their friendship and easy banter were still intact, making the days feel shorter.
But it wasn't the same.
Even Salemâbecause after a month of hearing the name, Steve had eventually given up fighting itâseemed to be waiting for you.
He would show up outside the store around the time your shift was supposed to end, only to find Robin there instead, who didn't interest him much despite all the attention she gave him.
You hadn't shown up for Robin's movie night invitation, nor for the trip to the mall she'd tried to organize with everyone.
"She's not coming back, buddy."
He slowly pets Salem, leaning against his car and chewing a piece of gum while the cat happily munches on his treat.
Itâs the store door bursting open with a loud crash that makes him jump just as heâs about to put on his jacket and close up for the night.
« We're clo... »
« Steve! »
The panic in your voice brings him rushing out of the back room, and heâs left speechless at the sight of you standing there, tears streaming down your cheeks and your nose running.
« What the hell... »
« I didn't see him last night, so I got worried, » you sniff, clutching your jacket tightly against yourself. « And I found him on the sidewalk behind the store and... and... »
Itâs only when he sees you looking down at your jacket that he understands.
Salem is curled up inside the fabric you're pressing against your chest, his eyes closed and his breathing visibly strained.
« I don't have my car and... I... I thought of you because... and you understand, right?! »
He doesn't answer, his heart in complete disarray at the sight of the cat in that condition, at the sight of your face ravaged by tears and, stupidly enough, because you'd thought of him first after all this time.
« Steve! »
« Fuck, yes! »
He shakes himself out of it and ushers both of you toward the exit.
« Go to my car! »
He hurriedly locks up the storeâdid he even turn the key properly?âand jumps into his car, peeling out of the parking lot the moment you're both inside.
The veterinarian isn't far away, but he still drives faster than he should, unwilling to waste any time.
The silence inside the car is heavy, battered by your sobs and the cat's pitiful cries.
When you arrive at the clinic, Steve rushes to the front desk to announce an emergency, and you hurry after him, careful not to jostle Salem any more than necessary.
The receptionist calls one of the available veterinarians, who takes the injured animal into his care before asking you both to wait in the lobby.
« It's going to be okay. »
Steve tries to reassure you as he sits down beside you.
« I mean... his name is Salem. He can survive this. »
A faint smile appears on your lips, though you still look lost, curled into yourself. Steve sees another side of you, a more fragile one.
You wipe away a tear with the sleeve of your jacket.
Without really thinking about it, Steve slides his hand across the chair separating you and takes yours.
It calms you a little, at least until the receptionist calls for the owners of the injured cat.
In a single motion, the two of you stand, your hands still intertwined as you walk toward the desk.
« The veterinarian says he has a broken leg, but he's going to be fine. »
Relief washes over both of you.
« May I have his name? »
« Salem. »
You glance at Steve, surprised that he's calling him that after making fun of the name for so long, but the expression on his face remains serious.
« That's very pretty. »
« Weird, but pretty, » he adds with a small smile.
« Very well. So you're both his owners? »
« Yeah... his adoptive parents. »
And you let him.
You let him say it.
Neither of you lets go of the other's hand, except to fill out the paperwork the receptionist hands you before sending you back to the waiting area.
Without thinking, his hand finds yours againâfor your reassurance, he claims.
And then, finally, you see what Robin sees in him.
Steve Harrington.
Steve Harrington masterlist JJ Maybank masterlist Rafe Cameron masterlist
Comments, likes and reblogs greatly appreciatedâš
hi! i love your writing! could you possibly do a request for when reader and joe fall in love on set during stranger things? reader meets joe during season 4 and plays steveâs love interest throughout the end of the series but joe falls in love with reader (&vice versa) in real life as well?
love on set
pairing: joe keery x actress! reader
word count: 3.5k
hanâs notes: loved this! i do have this fic that could technically serve as a part two to this so check it out once u finish this! -also this isnât proofread and i started writing this in past tense for some reason then subconsciously kept switching to present tense. i tried to catch most of the tense switches but if thereâs any i miss as i wrote ignore it asdfjkglf
when you got the call that you landed the role in your favorite show, you knew your life was about to change. you just didnât know exactly how much it would.
while your agent rambled on about the role and the schedule for filming and meetings, your mind went into overdrive.
you told yourself this was like any other acting gig. sure, you hadnât had many, you were still starting out. but your were going to be joining a show you had watched since the beginning in its fourth season as a new character. the stakes felt high.
your character, katherine miller, was the new girl in hawkins. already, you related to her. you just hoped that, like catherine, you weaved your way into the group seamlessly.
when you showed up to the table read, you thought you were going to puke from nerves. but, to your surprise, that feel disappeared the second you walked intro the room.
never had you met such a kind and welcoming group of people. they instantly made you feel like you had been there the entire run of the show.
you thankfully got along instantly with maya and joe, who youâd share most of your scenes with, turning their on screen duo into a trio.
what surprised you the most was joe. he was the first one to approach you, the first to invite you to dinner with the core group, the first to fill you in on any inside joke thrown around.
joe was just a good guy. the kind of good no one believed existed anymore. the kind that seems unattainable, that lived only in female written romance novels.
it was overwhelming, really. you sometimes had to discreetly pinch yourself when spending time with him.
which you did a lot of.
you sort of had to. your character, katherine (or as steve so lovingly called her, kat), was not only the newest addition to the monster hunting group in season four. but she was also the new love interest of steve harrington. one meant to put an end to the tired love triangle between him, nancy, and jonathan.
though, hanging out with joe never felt forced or strictly professional. the two of you had a lot in common, but at the same time perfectly balanced each other out. maya often joked that you two were like yin and yang.
your relationship with joe shifted like the seasons.
when you met, there was a period of time you spent learning each other. learning not only how the other person worked and ticked on set, but learning each other.
joe learned your coffee order, you learned which toppings he preferred on his pizza but would settle for anything to please everyone else. you learned his favorite niche bands and albums and he learned your favorite authors and foreign films.
you danced around each other in a warming newness, equal parts shy and welcoming. all the while, something more was blooming. something beautiful beneath the surface, like spring flowers.
by the summer months, you had fallen into a routine.
summer in georgia was hot and sticky, making set somewhat hellish. but the june sun couldnât compare to the warmth you felt standing next to joe.
in a way, joe radiated warm energy. he was like the sun and you were some planet drawn to him, orbiting him in awe.
joe also filled you with a different sort of warmth. the kind that settled in deep, causing butterflies to erupt in your belly and your heart to skip a beat.
it was just your characters, youâd tell yourself at the end of the day, when you were melting with exhaustion into the chair in the makeup trailer.
when you caught joeâs soft gaze lingering a little too long, when he smiled brightly at you, when he would playfully nudge you between takes. it was just method acting. right?
as your characters fell in love in small moments between the bigger plot, it all felt a little too real. when the cameras cut, the feelings didnât fade.
you almost wanted to chase that feeling. you wanted the scenes to keep rolling, if that meant you could stay in joeâs embrace. you could keep hearing his soft professions of love.
even if it wasnât joe talking. even if, in reality, it was steve saying those things to kat.
meanwhile, joe was going through it.
he liked to think of himself as a professional. he never caught feelings for a coworker, in acting or otherwise.
but now, as he stood on set with you without the cameras even rolling, his heart raced. he felt lighter around you, happier in a quiet, content way.
âyouâre in looooove.â maya had told him jokingly one morning before you had gotten to set.
âyouâre ridiculous. weâre just best friends. who, you know, happen to play two characters falling in love. if itâs convincing, it just means iâm doing my job right.â joe insisted.
but maya shook her head. âyou donât need to do your job when the camera isnât rolling. not to mention when youâre not even on set. face it, joseph.â
joe sat quietly, letting mayaâs words settle in while the girl proceeded while a dramatic wailing of âso this is loveâ from cinderella.
joe was conflicted. he had never had the lines blur for him while acting. he thought back to previous on screen love interests. did he feel this way when he and natalia shared romantic scenes? or when his characters in other projects had to flirt or kiss someone?
but he kept getting the same answer. no. joe had never felt this way while acting in romantically driven scenes.
then it hit him like a ton of bricks.
fuck. he was falling in love with you.
joe decided, at least for the time being, he would keep his discovery to himself. the last thing he wanted was to cross boundaries, ruining your friendship and making you uncomfortable at your place of work all in one fell swoop.
but there were moments when joe wanted to risk it all. moments that came all too often.
like during downtime on set on long days, when you and joe sat cross-legged on the ground in the corner of set, knees knocking together as you played cards to pass the time. and you won go fish again, smiling widely as you laid down your last match and wiggled your shoulders excitedly. it took everything in joe not to lean in and close the small gap between you, kissing the grin off your face.
instead, joe settled for smiling at you fondly, letting the feelings simmer inside unbearably.
or when you were at joeâs apartment in a small town outside of atlanta on a night off. the two of you a bottle of wine in, music playing softly from a speaker and joeâs guitar laying across your lap.
your fingers strum, playing a chord you completely made up yourself. truthfully, it sounds awful, and you know it. youâre just goofing off. but it was music to joeâs ears.
you play something wonky that bounces off the walls and laugh, making something twist pleasantly in joeâs chest. he echoes your laugh and, against his better judgement, reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ears.
you meet his gaze and blush.
âhow do i sound, mr. music man?â
joe snorts softly. âhorrendous.â
you gasp playfully. ârude!â
the two of you giggle before you knock your shoulder into his.
âif iâm so horrendous, teach me.â
joeâs heart leapt in his chest. he moves to make room in front of him, pats the cushion. you bite the inside of your cheek and roll your eyes, but slot yourself in front of him nonetheless.
as joe wraps his arms around you and the guitar, he guides your hands along the strings. your faces are inches from each other, enough for his breath to fan across your cheek.
both of you are trying to keep your cool, completely oblivious to the fact that youâre both going through it.
at one point, after a little while of trying and failing to play something, you sighed defeatedly. you throw your head back against joeâs shoulder with a groan.
âi have zero musical bones in my body.â
joe chuckles turning his head to look down on you. he prayed you couldnât feel his heart pounding against your back.
âyou just gotta keep practicing, sweetheart. weâll get you there.â
you roll your head to the side, looking up at joe. but your faces end up closer than anticipated. your noses almost brush and your breath catches in your throat.
you donât know how long you hold each otherâs gazes, but joeâs eyes flicker down to your lips and something snaps in him. he pulls away quick, leaving your cheeks burning.
you clear your throat, moving to the opposite end of the couch after setting his guitar down. joe put on a movie and the tension dissipated as soon as it appeared.
but the elephant in the room remained.
it all finally came to a head a few months later.
it was technically fall. but early fall in georgia was still warm. the nights faded into a slightly cooler breeze that felt a little more like autumn.
youâd had a rough week. you had gotten to the more intense scenes as you neared the end of the season. there was more drama, more action, and, of course, the scene where steve finally confessed to katherine.
you supposed the stress was finally getting to you. it didnât help that you were tired, thanks to months of long days, late nights, and chaotic sleep schedules.
and you felt like you just couldnât nail this scene.
your character was overwhelmed. between the âmurdersâ, learning about the dark truths beneath hawkins, looking after max (whom she quickly grew a soft spot for), fighting a dark wizard named vecna, and your feelings for steve. it was all a lot.
and it was something you wanted to perfect.
the pain for steve throwing himself into danger. the desperation of wanting him to see her instead of nancy. all the feelings that bubble over and reach a breaking point before the final battle plans.
you were trying to run your lines in your head while final adjustments were made to the lighting, but your gaze was locked onto joe across the field as he had his hair touched up.
it was take three of your confession scene. one of the duffers called for places, you were sure which. it wasnât important to you right now.
you took your spot sitting on a crate and joe flashed you a smile and thumbs up, which you halfheartedly reciprocated before locking in.
the scene started with catherine sharpening knives, having a moment alone. steve enters, trying to make a lighthearted joke that doesnât land. reality was too real at the moment.
âhey, you okay?â joe recited his line effortlessly, falling perfectly into steveâs character.
âhow can you joke right now?â you scoff, sharpening the blade harder.
joe, steve, frowned, taking a seat next to you. âtalk to me.â
you sighed, pausing your movements.
âyou almost died, steve. you could still die. all of us can.â
steve couldnât help himself. âif you knew many times iâve almost died in the past few years, you wouldnât be so upset right now.â
you drop the blade and the sharpener to the ground, both clattering to the ground. the camera moved in closer but you tried to ignore it.
âyou donât get it, do you? you almost died steve. hell, i thought i lost you! and here you are making jokes like we arenât risking our fucking lives! god, you know, sometimes i really just wish youâd get your head out of your ass. youâre a real idiot sometimes. but i guess we have that in common.âyou laughed bitterly, your voice cracking as you dug deeper into the scene.
joe reacted perfectly, just like heâd done when rehearsing and during the previous takes. he wore that confused, hurt puppy dog look of steveâs so well.
âkat-â
âno, steve! this is insanity. i feel like im going crazy. last week, i was passing notes about mr. lewinskyâs bald spot with robin during calculus and eating all the popcorn at family video while you sorted the tapes that keith specifically asked me to do because he said i have been slacking off. and now iâm fighting a monster from another dimension thatâs been terrorizing and killing my classmates. all the while, i have to sit here and watch you make heart eyes at snooty nancy wheeler, who totally hates me, by the way!â you had run out of breath by the time you finished your rant, avoiding joe, or well, steveâs gaze.
the tension that settled over you felt all too personal. those lines between real and acting were beginning to bleed together.
âi think i love you, katherine.â steve replied, but all you could hear is joe. blame it on your exhaustion, but this was were you began to fall apart in the scene. every take, without fail.
because you were desperate to hear joe say those words to you, but you knew you would have to settle for his character confessing to yours. youâd have to live vicariously through her.
and that did something to your psyche.
when you lifted your gaze to find joeâs eyes burning into you, so fully in character, it made your heart leap and your mind blank. your mouth opened but your lines didnât come out.
âCUT!â
it was ross and matt had thrown cold water over you with that one word. they might as well have.
âletâs break for lunch. i think we need a breather to regroup.â one of the called out.
you bolted from set faster than anyone could register. you didnât even stop for joe as he called out for you.
you found a quiet spot behind one of the farthest trailers parker in the lot and sat there for a while. you talked yourself down, telling yourself it was just nerves and exhaustion taking their toll.
your thoughts are interrupted by a small tray containing a sandwich and some chips being held out in front of your face.
you followed the hand, which you recognized instantly, up the arm and to the face of joe smiling down at you, holding his own plate in his other hand.
âbrought you lunch.â
âhowâd you find me?â you asked with a slight pout, but still mumbling a thanks as you take the food. joe sat down next to you, placing his plate on his lap.
âi think i would be able to find you anywhere.â
you didnât let yourself read into that answer, no matter how much if made your stomach flip.
you pick around at the sandwich, peeling the crust off in little bits to eat slowly. joe watched intently for a moment before he knocked his shoulder against yours.
âtalk to me. whatâs going on?â his voice was so soft it instantly soothed you. it always had that effect on you.
âiâm just tired and overwhelmed. things are getting more intense.â you shrugged.
âwhat about this scene are you finding so difficult? we can work it out.â you wanted to hate joe. everytime he opened his mouth or heâll, even existed, he made it more and more difficult not to love him.
and that was something you couldnât do. and you certainly couldnât tell him you did. so you shook your head.
âlike i said, itâs just a lot. iâll be fine after lunch and a break.â
joe frowned, unconvinced. see, what you failed to consider was that over the past however many months, joe had come to know you like the back of his hand.
joe knew you in ways your oldest friends or your family didnât know. he knew that when you lied, your left eyebrow twitched upwards ever so slightly. he knew that when something was weighing on you, you got that far off look in your eyes and you chewed on the inside corner of your mouth.
all three of which were happening as he looked at you.
âsweetheart, you can tell me anything. you know iâm here for you. always am. i just want you to not bottle anything up thatâs bothering you.â joeâs words made your eyes prickle with tears. the softness of them. the sincerity. the stupid pet name guys definitely donât casually call their best friend slash coworker, and yet, joe had called you that from the beginning.
âfucking hell.â you mumbled as you rubbed your hands harshly down your face. âi donât know how much longer i can keep doing this.â
joe furrowed his brows. âwhat? the show? acting?â
âno, joe. this. i donât know how much longer i can be around you.â
joeâs face fell.
âwhat? did i do something?â
âeverything, joe! thatâs the problem! everything you do drives me crazy. at first i thought, surely, i only feel this way because my character is in love with yours. but thatâs not true at all. and maybe iâm a horrible actress for letting the lines become blurred in my head but youâre you and youâre perfect and i just couldnât help it!â
joe stared. mouth agape. his brows were knitted together in the way they do when heâs processing something. you knew that look, of course you did. joe wasnât the only one who knew someone like the back of his hand.
âwhat exactly are you saying?â joeâs voice softened into a tone you only heard in quiet moments together. when everything was warm and soft around the edges.
âyou know what iâm saying joe. and iâm sorry this happened now instead of after filming. i donât want to make things uncomfortable or ruin our friendship but iâll just have to deal with the consequences.â
then joe laughed. a bubble of laughter escaped him before he could stop it. he pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered idiot to himself under his breath.
you wanted to shrink away. close in on yourself and shrink away into nothingness. you rolled your eyes, mostly in effort to subtly rid the tears forming in them, then go to stand up.
but joe caught your wrist, keeping you sat next to him.
âsorry, iâm the idiot. not you. i mean, hell, do you know how many times iâve wanted to kiss you these past few months? way too many for me not to grow some balls and do it. but i was scared.â
you could barely hear joe over the sound of your heart pounding in your ears. surely, this was some kind of joke. some sick hazing prank on the newbie, month later. but the look in joeâs eyes made any doubt fade.
because you knew joe. you knew that there wasnât a malicious bone in his body. you knew he loved and cared deeply about anyone that crossed his path. you knew the way he looked at you, that look reserved for only you. this was your joe.
so instead, you scoffed lightly, shaking your head. âyeah, you are an idiot.â
âhey! letâs not forget this is a two way street miss iâve been in love with you for months!â joe defended with a chuckle.
âi never said that i was in love with you.â
âyou kinda did.â
ânot specifically.â
you watched as joe stared at you, unable to stop the corners of his mouth from lifting fondly. you couldnât help it, that look he gave you triggered something in you and made you lower all defenses.
âiâm in love with you, joe. a ridiculous amount. so much it hurts.â your voice now came out as a whisper, almost like you were still scared to admit it. because you werenât scared of loving joe. in fact, itâs the easiest thing youâve ever done. you were scared of the repercussions had he not felt the same, even now.
joeâs face crumpled into the softest look youâd ever seen. his hand found your cheek and cradled it gently.
âiâm in love with you too. and iâm a fool for not saying anything sooner. but youâre such an amazing woman and i didnât want to jeopardize anything we already had. iâd rather pine after you for the rest of my life than tell you how i feel and lose you because you didnât feel the same.â
âyou could never lose me, joe.â
âi know. but the thought of it alone terrified me.â joe brushed his thumb across your cheek and you leaned into his touch.
âfrom now on, we donât keep anything from each other. iâm not gonna run away from you or us.â
joe nodded his head. âdeal.â
âdeal.â you echoed then looked at him expectantly. âokay, you can kiss me now.â
joe laughed, the kind that made your heart feel light, then leaned in.
âi love you.â he said gently before pressing his lips to your in a long awaited kiss. but it was well worth the wait. because really, youâd wait several lifetimes just to kiss joe. you smiled into the kiss at the thought.
summary: hotch sends you, the newest member of the team, to try and talk to spencer during the loss of maeve. it's unfair, but you understand why. what's a better way to bond with your coworker than dead lovers?
wc: 4k
tw: maeve death fic, reader also lost a romantic partner, i think thats basically it? this is mostly angst i think. NOT BETA READ!!!!
author's note: this is bad. i just needed it out of my fucking wips so i could move onto something way better, also i watch a lot of stupid cable crime shows....the dead fiance is sonny carisi from law and order svu to me..idgaf about the timeline differences.
âIs that a direct command?â You raise your eyebrow a little at Hotch.Â
He had called you into his office just minutes before. It's something that hadn't happened before, despite knowing Hotch before joining the team, you had flown under the radar. When you had first started at the BAU it was easy to just slip into the team. You had been a sort of useless addition to the team, already completely staffed, still when you reached out to transfer away from your last office, they gave you free rein given the situation and nothing felt better than working under your friend Aaron Hotchner, especially after the loss youâd experience in the last few years. Now here he was, telling you to go visit a man in mourning, a coworker you couldnât find any common ground with.Â
âJust a request from a friend,â Hotch kept his gaze on you. He paused and finally leaned back a little in his office chair, âI know you guys havenât had the chance to get close, but maybe thatâs what will make him let you in.â Hotch looked obviously defeated.Â
âEspecially if he knows about why I transferred?â You couldnât help but feel a little defensive about being sent out to help Dr. Spencer Reid. Hotch gave you a small shrug, a motion you werenât use to coming from him. It was obvious it was at the end of his rope. âYou and I both know how hard it is to lose the person you want to spend the rest of your life with,â He said in the softest voice he could muster. âI have no right to ask you to do this, but I have to ask.âÂ
 You glanced out to the office desks, everyone pretending to be completely focused on whatever they had in front of them until they each took a glance to the empty geniusâ desk.Â
A small defeated sigh lets you drop your cross arms as you nod in agreement.Â
***
âThis is so stupid, if his best friends canât do anything, what chance do I have to get him to open the door?â You thought to yourself as you climbed the stairs to Reidâs apartment.Â
Itâs not like you hate each other, you simply havenât had the connection you did with the rest of the team. It was fairly easy with the rest of the team, they all welcomed you with open arms despite the obvious despair that seeped off of you. They never asked tough questions about your past, never flinched when you avoided the questions they did ask. Spencer, on the other hand, was quick to notice the shadow over your past, and he so often made you think of him, the man you were meant to marry before your world was destroyed. You both simply were caught up in your own life, and now, his girlfriend is dead and you were sent to bring him comfort, how ridiculous it all felt.Â
You press your hand against your chest, pressing the necklace pendant under your shirt into your skin before you press the doorbell in the middle of his door.Â
âReid, hey itâs agent (L/N)â You speak up a little to project your voice.Â
The silence is jarring, you glance down to the silly fruit baskets and other treats the team left outside the door. You reach down to the small wrapped pastry, a cheap store bought cannoli that caught your attention and you feel yourself slump a little. You remember all the treats you were sent when you were in the same position, the amount of Italian bakeries that sent you pastries to mourn the loss of their favorite customer at the time felt like a slap in the face. You keep your eyes on the snack as you speak.Â
âListen, Spencer,â You take a small sigh âHotch sent me, and heâs kind of our boss and I hate the idea of leaving and having to tell him I failed, so just let me see you so I can report youâre still breathing and maybe youâll be left alone for a little and I donât have to disappoint the man that got me a job,âÂ
You reached down and grabbed the cannoli after a moment of silence, you debate taking it with you. Itâs not like Spencer would want it and maybe it would be nice to be able to taste it, judge it by yourself, maybe remember something you use to love without the pain, the tiniest reward (and maybe punishment) for this whole situation. Before you really made your decision the door knob started to turn.Â
Spencer opened the door and stood there, he looked at your face for two seconds before his eyes narrowed in on the cannoli in your hand. âYou can have that,â Reid mumbled a little and went to shut the door again.Â
You take the second to glance him over. You werenât completely sure that Spencer could even grow facial hair but the shadow across his jaw was proof that he could. A small bout of pity took over your heart as you noticed the disheveled look he made up. His robe slightly open exposing some pajamas underneath crumbled from what you assume is laying in the same position.Â
âWho knows how long this has been sitting in your hallway, probably not great to eat it,â You shrug a little and hold the cannoli out before he can shut the door. Spencer stops closing the door and reaches out without thinking grabbing the cannoli. You donât drop your own grasp on it and neither does he, instead just both standing there a little unsure about what to do.Â
âDid Hotch really send you?â Spencer said in a small voice.Â
You nod a little before realizing that this is the moment you needed, âYeah, kind of a dick move but,â You shrug a little and finally drop your grasp on the cannoli. Instead you reach down and grab onto the handles of the boxes and baskets sitting on the ground.Â
âWe could sort through these, Iâll go donate the stuff you donât want,â You move forward a little and watch as Spencer debates the idea of letting you in. Youâre not sure what finally makes him concede, but he moves just slightly and pulls the door open enough for you to slip in.Â
Youâd never been inside Spencerâs apartment but youâre sure it didnât typically look like this. The books taking over every surface made sense, but the way they were obviously carelessly tossed around, his typical satchel is pulled apart and the couch was slumped in a way that you could tell Spencer was practically living in the spot since he was dropped off. You couldnât cast judgment on the space, you remember what it was like those first few weeks after you lost him. You couldnât get yourself to move a single item he had touched and couldnât move anything in hopes heâd be back to move it to its rightful place.Â
âIâm sorry Hotch sent you, you can tell him Iâm fine and that I let you in, that should keep him content.â Spencerâs voice stayed low as he moved to sit himself down in some kitchen chair that was pulled away from the small dining table.Â
As he sits there you donât seem to find the words, itâs all too much. You had faced multiple unsubs, had a gun pointed at you more times than you could remember and heard the worst parts of humans, still this situation was too much. Spencer had put the stupid cannoli on the dining room table, you clenched your jaw a little when you see the inside of the pastry slightly melted against the clear box.Â
âYouâre not fine, and Iâm not lying to a profiler, bad ideaâ You step forward and set the baskets near his feet before glancing around for a chair. When none seems to be immediately empty you donât think as you kneel down and end up sitting on the apartment floor next to the baskets. Something about the action seems to have pulled Spencerâs attention and he sits up in the chair a little.Â
âHere you can have my seat or,â He trails off a little and glances around the apartment as if noticing for the first time the disaster that it was.Â
You pulled a bag of nuts out of a basket and furrow your eyebrows a little confused at the snacks that were sticking out of the basket. You shake your head a little at Spencerâs realization that he should be playing host right now. You tear the small bag of nuts open on the corner and pour a few into your cupped hand, before holding the bag towards Spencer. He took the bag without thinking and watched as you picked out an almond from your hand and tossed it into your mouth.Â
You hope Spencer wouldnât see what you were doing in the action. The first week after his funeral you had lived off whatever handful of food you would see. Shredded cheese straight from the bag, bruised apples, soft bananas and beef jerky from the back of the cabinet were the reason you didnât starve. One of his sister had showed up after so many missed calls and pressed the hot pasta pan into your hand as she shoved herself into your apartment. You remember staring at the pasta and somehow it ended up on a plate in front of you and suddenly it was like food had taste again. A soothing hand against your back, salty tears mixing with the tomato sauce and the small hum of his sister were the moments you held onto.Â
You couldnât show up with pasta, couldnât bring Spencer the comfort of having known Maeve, but you could make sure he at least ate something. You let yourself stop dreading up your own grief and keep your eyes on Spencer as you glance at the bag of nuts he was still holding.Â
âMost nuts are good for your heart, they did some research and people with nuts in their diet end up with better artery function,â You say, knowing that he probably already knows.Â
Spencer couldnât help but let out a huff of a laugh, he knows the research he knows youâre talking about, knows how they came up with the conclusion and he could explain all the caveats but he canât find the energy to create the words so instead he just pulls a cashew out of the bag, âAre you trying to imply if I eat enough nuts I wonât feel like this anymore?â He says bitterly.Â
Almost without thought you shake your head, âNo.â You let your eyes drift back to the nuts in your own hand when you notice Spencer ate his.Â
âNothing fixes that, ever. Youâll always know where the hurt is, itâs like..âÂ
You look up and make eye contact with Spencer. For the first time since you got into the building you felt a small bit of confidence, started to maybe understand why Hotch sent you. You hadn't given yourself a chance to feel the pain or the ache of growing since you moved to Virginia, had used the new job, the new state as a way to bury the loss of your own lover. Now, you take the moment to truly feel it again.Â
âYou know when you break a bone? Itâll never be the same, not the way it was before the break, but eventually you get use to it being different,â You notice the way Spencer seems to be furrowing his brow a little at the metaphor.Â
âAt least thatâs what I imagine happens with a broken bone, Iâve never actually broken one but my brother has so,â You pull your eye contact from him and instead focus on the snack in your hand.Â
Despite the lack of rest and obvious state of despair, Spencer canât help but think the implication of what you were saying, âAt what point does the different feel normal?â He asked.Â
"I'll let you know when I know," You let out another sigh and then look down at the bag of nuts he took from you. He notices the stare and grabs a few extra nuts from the bag and holds them out to you. You shake your head and instead point at the cannoli.Â
"My..." You lick your lips as you find the word, "He loved cannolis, really all sweets, he'd bring me home donuts or bearclaws or anything," Spencer is holding the cannoli out towards you. You don't unwrap it, instead just try to pull the plastic off the section in which the cream inside the cannoli had pressed against it.Â
"After," You make it a point to pull your eyes and look at Spencer as you speak, "I lost 20 pounds and I was so angry when I realized," You confess, "I depended on him, and he left even if he didn't want to, he still left."Â
"I'm not angry with her" Spencer's voice was quivering a little and you ignore it, know he doesn't need it pointed out.Â
"But you are angry aren't you?" You whisper and feel your grip tighten on the pastry in your hand, "Angry that you had something, someone, taken from you?"Â
Spencer nods.Â
"Angry that you had given so much, and the world couldn't let you have this one?" You feel the heat behind your own eyes but hold it back.Â
"Angry at myself for believing it," Spencer mumbles a little and looks down at the grip you have. The pastry is mangled inside the plastic at this point. Spencer lets his eyes watch the cream spread against the clear film as it slightly oozes. When you look at him, you can tell he's reliving the last moments he had with Maeve.Â
The room is silent for a moment as the words sit. You can understand, god can you understand the feeling of your life being pulled out from under you. For a moment, you're back, remembering kissing him once more before he left, for the last time. The curtain rustles a little at some wind and it makes you let out a small sigh. You drop the cannoli onto the floor next to you and reach for the necklace under your shirt. You pull it out and fiddle with the clasp and before sliding the ring off the chain.Â
"Two months before we were suppose to get married, he was shot in the line of duty," Without thinking you slip the ring onto your thumb and stare at it as you ignore Spencer's gaze and the coming tears, "He wasn't even suppose to be out in the field. He had just finished passing along all his cases, because he didn't want to be thinking about an open case while on our honeymoon," You stop yourself, afraid of how you'll spiral.Â
Spencer is quiet but you see him shuffle a little on his spot out of the corner of your eye. He seems to be focused completely on your hands, on the ring you're fiddling with.Â
"After he was," You pause, realizing you can't say it again while looking directly at the ring. Instead your eyes dart back up to Spencer. He feels the gaze and does his best to lock his own eyes on yours, "After he was shot," You watch Spencer just lightly flinch, the reminder of his own situation too jarring.Â
"I had to return everything, ask for refunds on venues and caters and-" Your voice cracks, a tear finally slipping through, "It was the worst experience of my life, it doesn't get better, sometimes I think it's easier to pretend it never happened, to pretend this is the bad dream" You say honestly, "But you get better because that's what they would want and even when they aren't around, you want to give them what they want."Â
Spencer's jaw is clenched, his eyes glossy as he feels himself crack a little more. It's not shocking when a sob breaks in his chest. You nod a little and let him cry, your own tears falling silently.Â
It's only a few moments, his cry makes your heart ache, and you finally make the effort to drop the cannoli, shuffling over to where he's bent over on his seat crying. You let your hand hover over his back, not touching, but still offering the comfort.Â
"Let's pretend it's not real, just for a moment let's pretend we finally get what we want," You whisper once his breath stops heaving and instead it's just sniffles of cry. You slip on the ring, it doesn't slide on completely since the chain effects the size, but it's secure enough to make your heart skip a beat. It always belonged on your ring finger, you'll never let it make a home there not without the man who gave it to you. Spencer peers up from his place and notices your movements.Your sigh at the sight of the ring on your hand. It's easier for him to see this as something for you, he doesn't know how to get help, he knows how to be the help.Â
It's that rationalization that makes him move out of his seat, slow but steady. He stands up and you get to take in his now bloodshot eyes and red nose. It's a moment of tense silence before he sniffles and holds out his right hand towards you, your left hand settles in it. You're not sure what he wants, but it makes the most sense. Spencer moves slowly as he shuffles himself closer and ends up holding you by the waist.Â
"I keep having this dream," He stutters over the words, the wetness from his tears is sticky in his throat . His grip tightens around your hand a little, you feel the ring and the chain press against your skin, "I'm holding her like this," He shuffles a little and you're face to face with his chest, his hand shaking a little as his head rest against the top of yours. Despite rarely being this close to Spencer, you find yourself sinking into the hold a little, as if you had forgotten how it felt to be held.Â
Spencer doesn't say anything else for a moment, it makes your heart beat a little harder inside your chest. Spencer is warm against you, even through the layer of clothing he's wearing, and you can feel the small sigh he lets out, the breath against your hair, the feeling of his moving chest. He starts to sway just enough to shake any nervousness from you. It's a soft movement, barely a shuffle, but it's enough to know that he's lost in his own dream again. It's easy to let the tension seep out of you, ignore the time that passes.Â
***
Spencer gripped his bag as he stepped off the elevator. A paper bag being held by his other hand keeps him from wringing his hands against each other. He wasn't sure about any of his actions. It all felt different. He thinks of the broken bone metaphor you had used all those weeks away in his messy apartment. Maybe it's too soon, he thinks for a moment. But he notices what looks like a civilian being led into some office and it makes him move forward. He lets himself remember the way your hair tickled his chin a little in that dim room.
When he steps into the office space he notices nearly no one is at their desk. JJ and Derek seem to be chitchatting in the small kitchenette. Blake is focused on the paper in front of her inside the bullpen, and you're nowhere to be found. Spencer glances over at Hotch's closed office door and tries not to assume you're in there. He takes the chance to step deeper into the room and makes his way towards your desk. He tries not to overthink as he drops the paper bag onto your desk. It's not stapled shut, easy to be able to glance into, so he does, makes sure the cannoli is still intact.
"Oh my gosh!!!" Spencer feels himself tense a little at Garcia's voice coming throughout the room. "You're back" She sings a little as she makes her way over to where Spencer is standing. He doesn't get a chance to open his mouth before Derek comes in to save him.Â
"Ah ah ah, what did we talk about?" Morgan is wrapping his arm around Garcia's shoulder and pulling her away a little. She looks over her shoulder and sends Spencer what he thinks is an apologize. Spencer watches Derek raise his hand a little, as if to wave a small hello to Spencer before they're both disappearing around the corner, towards Garcia's office.Â
Spencer feels his shoulder drop in tension and he lets out a small sigh of relief when JJ sends him a small smile as she walks towards her office. It's unnerving but he can pretend it's not real. Spencer goes to step away from your desk when Hotch's door opens, you slip out before Hotch is following. Hotch gives you a small smile before taking off towards the bullpen. You watch just for a moment before your eyes dart towards your desk, where Spencer still stands a few feet away.Â
"Welcome back Doctor," You hum a little once you make it towards him, "Ready to party?" You move around him and settle into your office chair, fiddle with the arm a little before your eyes notice the paper bag on your desk.Â
"It's not the same one," He stops just enough to wince, "I mean there's a place, down the street from my apartment and you made it seem like you haven't had one since, well" He starts to ramble while you shuffle up a little and glance into the paper bag.Â
For a moment, your heart aches enough to make you stutter, words lost at the stupid slightly greasy cannoli in the bag. There's a smear of cream on the side, you squeeze your eyes shut to hold back the tears. You fold the top of the bag a little, before leaning back in your seat and biting the inside of your cheek.Â
"You didn't have to," You finally speak.Â
"I know," Spencer's hair falls a little into his eyes when he glances down at where you're sitting.Â
The ring hanging on it's chain under your shirt presses into your sternum a little. In this space you can't pretend that nothing bad has happened to either of you, that you're not both a little broken in the same way. But Spencer hasn't taken his gaze from you, he shuffles enough to move the hair out of his face and when you smile at him, it's almost instant the way he grins back.Â
"Case in Florida, lets get a move on," Hotch speaks from the doorway of the bullpen.Â
You grab the paper bag from your desk and start towards the bullpen, Spencer a few steps behind you. Maybe it's worth being real with Spencer.
desc - dates never went well for steve. well, they technically did, everything went smoothly and he felt as though it was pleasant, they just never lead to anything. and he had no idea what he was doing wrong. so, when he lands a date with you, he sets out to stick to his checklist. dress smart, be polite, listen well, dont talk too much about yourself, book a fancy restaurant and so on. but when everything that could go wrong does go wrong and you still end up staying, steve realises it was never about the dates themselves it was about who he went on them with. and god did he hit the jackpot with you.
val speaks - the title n story is me bc i have a date tmr and also a lyric from one of livs new songs see how we twin anyways. and also its kinda modern steve in a way not rlly i just like mention the fact he can text so yes
word count: 4.1k
the problem with steve, at least in his own extremely fair and very rational opinion, wasn't that he was bad at dating.
he had rules, a system. a whole carefully built little routine that he had been refining for months, maybe longer if he was being honest.
he showed up on time. he dressed well. never overdressed, never underdressed. just enough effort to look like he had put thought into it without looking like he had spent three hours in front of a mirror. he held doors open, remembered names, asked questions that made people feel interesting, and listened with the kind of attention that usually made people lean in a little closer and smile a little softer.
he was charming, too, when he wanted to be. not in a loud, showy way. not the way he used to be, back when charm was something he wore like a jacket that never quite fit right. now it was quieter, steadier, something he had grown into, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
and still, every single time, it went nowhere.
the dates always started well. sometimes they even ended well. there would be laughter, easy conversation, a shared dessert, an accidental brush of hands over the table that made steveâs brain do something deeply embarrassing. sometimes there was a kiss goodnight. sometimes there wasnât.
either way, by the next week, something would shift. a text would come in that was polite and distant. a cancelation would happen twice, then not at all because the other person had simply stopped trying. once, someone told him he was âreally greatâ which somehow felt worse than being told he was awful, because it meant there was no obvious answer to fix.
so he was left with this baffling, humiliating mystery of his own life. he was doing everything right. that had to mean something. it had to.
maybe love was just mean now. maybe it handed out false hope for sport. maybe there was some invisible test no one had thought to tell him about, and he kept failing it with the smiling stupidity of a man who had never been informed about it in the first place.
he was leaning against the chain link fence of the baseball field after practice, baseball cap pushed back on his head and whistle hanging uselessly around his neck, when he saw you.
you were standing near the parking lot with a little boy tugging at your sleeve, both of you half lit by the dying gold of late afternoon. the kid was holding a glove too big for his hand and talking at you with the urgency only little brothers and little brother adjacent people could possess.
you were listening with your whole face, smiling down at him like whatever he was saying mattered more than anything else in the world.
steve looked away first.
then looked back.
because apparently his life had also become that kind of humiliating. the kind where a person he'd never met before managed to make him forget how to breathe for a second.
you caught him looking and gave him a polite, curious smile.
he did what he always did when he was caught off guard by something beautiful. he made it worse by trying to be smooth.
âyou here for the game?â he asked, walking over before his brain could file a complaint.
you glanced at the field, then back at him. âmy brother. heâs obsessed with baseball for reasons that aren't entirely clear to me.â
the kid beside you brightened. âbecause itâs awesome.â
âsee?â you said, with exaggerated patience.
steve laughed before he could stop himself.
you smiled at that, and something in his chest did a slow, inconvenient turn.
âsteve,â he said, lifting a hand a little awkwardly.
âi knowâ you said.
he blinked. âyou do?â
âyou coach, right? my brother talks about you like youâre some kind of baseball legend.â
âi donât know about legend.â
âno, i think he said, and i quote, âcoach steve is the coolest adult alive.ââ
steve pressed a hand to his chest. âwow. thatâs actually very accurate.â
that made you laugh, really laugh this time, and he felt stupidly victorious for about half a second.
your brother had wandered off to chase one of his friends by then, leaving the two of you standing a few feet apart near the fence, the noise of the field and the last calls of the other kids and parents thinning out around you.
steve asked your name. you gave it. he repeated it like it mattered, like he was trying it on for size. maybe he was. then, because he had apparently decided subtlety was for people with less at stake, he asked if you would maybe want to get dinner sometime.
it was not smooth, it was not his best work, it was, however, sincere.
you studied him for a second that made his pulse kick against his ribs. then you tilted your head and smiled in a way that made him suspiciously hopeful.
âyeah,â you said. âi think iâd like that.â
and just like that, steve was back in the game.
he spent the next week in a state of organized panic.
he picked the restaurant carefully, something nice but not intimidating, the kind of place where the lighting was flattering and the music was low enough to let conversation breathe. he ironed his shirt. changed his mind about three different shirts. called robin and then immediately regretted it because robin had lots of opinions.
âso,â sheâd said, âyou finally found someone who wonât treat you like a mildly annoying decorative object?â
âi never said my dates treat me like that.â
âyou didnât have to, i know your tragic little heart.â
âdo you want to help or not?â
she had. sort of. in the way robin helped, which meant she insulted him affectionately then offered one genuine piece of advice at the end like a magician producing a dove from a hat.
âstop performing,â sheâd said. âyou do this thing where you decide ahead of time exactly who you need to be, and then you get weird when the other person is a person and not a checklist. just⊠be there. actually be there.â
he had stared at her, she had stared back.
âthatâs it?â he asked.
âyou asked for dating wisdom, not the meaning of life.â
still, her words had stuck with him.
so when friday evening came, steve didnât show up as a polished version of himself built to impress. he still looked good, because that was unavoidable and frankly not his fault, but he was less rigid about it. more human.
he brought flowers because he thought it was sweet, and because sweet was safer than clever. he rehearsed a joke in the mirror, hated it, then left the house without it.
when he knocked on your door, he had that nervous, hopeful energy he always tried to hide. he was holding the flowers in both hands like they might explode.
you opened the door looking so unfairly beautiful that for a second he forgot the name of the road heâd driven down to get there.
then you saw the flowers.
your face changed in a way he couldnât quite read immediately, and his confidence took one long, stumbling step backward.
âthese are for you,â he said quickly. âobviously.â
you covered your mouth, and he watched with growing horror as you started to laugh.
not cruelly. thankfully not cruelly.
just helplessly.
you made a face that was somewhere between apology and amusement. âiâm actually allergic.â
there was a beat of silence.
then steve blinked. âyouâre joking.â
âi wish i was.â
you laughed again, and this time he joined in, because what else was there to do? he set the flowers carefully on the porch railing then he rubbed the back of his neck, smiling despite himself.
âcool,â he said. âgreat start. really strong opening for me.â
âi do appreciate the effort,â you said, still smiling. âand the gesture. iâm serious, it was very sweet.â
âsweet is what i was going for. though, apparently, also poisonous.â
âonly to me.â
ânoted.â
he expected the moment to turn awkward. instead it became one of those strange, easy things he never knew how to plan for. the kind he could never have designed with all his perfect little dating rules.
you stepped outside, closing the door behind you, and there was the briefest pause while the two of you figured out where to put your hands, where to look, how much to smile without it feeling like too much.
he asked if you were ready. you said yes. he opened the passenger door for you, and you made an exaggerated face that said he was absurdly committed to the bit.
âwhat?â he asked as you got in.
ânothing,â you said, settling into the seat. âjust trying to decide whether iâm being courted or recruited into a very polite organised crime ring.â
âthose aren't mutually exclusive.â
that got another laugh out of you, and for the first time all week, steve felt his shoulders loosen.
-
the drive there actually started surprisingly well.
which, considering steve's recent luck, should've probably been his first warning sign.
usually first dates came with awkward silences. not terrible silences, but the kind where both people were carefully trying to figure each other out. deciding what stories to tell. deciding which parts of themselves were acceptable to put on display first.
but somehow that never happened with you.
the conversation just flowed.
one minute he was pulling away from your house and the next he was halfway across town listening to you complain about a customer you'd dealt with earlier that week.
"and then," you said dramatically, "he asked to speak to someone who actually knew what they were talking about."
steve winced.
"ouch."
"right?"
"what'd you do?"
you grinned. "pointed him toward my manager. obviously"
he laughed loudly enough that he almost missed a turn.
after that the conversation seemed to move naturally from one thing to another. your jobs. your week. your little brother's latest baseball obsession.
it was easy, dangerously easy. steve couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten through a first date without mentally checking off boxes.
ask about family. ask about hobbies. don't talk too much. don't be weird.
with you, he kept forgetting the rules entirely.
and honestly?
it was nice.
by the time they reached the restaurant, steve was feeling good. really good. the flowers had been a minor setback, nothing more.
the date was back on track.
everything was fine, everything was absolutely-
"i'm sorry, can you repeat the name on the reservation?"
steve blinked.
"steve harrington."
the hostess frowned at the screen.
"one second."
that wasn't ideal.
a minute later another employee appeared, then another. steve immediately felt his stomach drop.
beside him, you shifted slightly.
"that's usually not a good sign."
"no" he admitted.
the hostess offered an apologetic smile. "we can't seem to find your booking."
steve stared. "what?"
he had booked it, he knew he had. he'd called days ago. hell, he'd written it down afterward.
"could it be under another name?" she asked.
"no."
a few more minutes passed until eventually the hostess returned looking genuinely sympathetic.
which somehow made it worse.
"i'm really sorry," she said. "we're completely booked tonight."
silence.
steve nodded once, slowly.
"right."
"i apologize."
"no worries."
there were, in fact, many worries.
because seriously? seriously?
first the flowers.
now this.
the two of you walked back outside.
the restaurant door shut behind you.
for a few seconds neither of you said anything. steve was already preparing his apology, he was working on a speech. something mature, something responsible, something that didn't sound like he wanted to throw himself into traffic.
"okay" he started.
you suddenly snorted.
steve looked over.
you had your lips pressed together failing miserably at holding back laughter.
and then you completely lost the battle.
a laugh burst out of you, loud and genuine, you doubled over slightly.
"i'm sorry," you managed. "i'm sorry-"
another laugh escaped.
"this is ridiculous."
steve stared.
then the absurdity finally hit him too, and suddenly he was laughing along with you.
right there in the parking lot like two complete idiots.
"i swear i booked it."
"I believe you."
"thank you."
"this is still hilarious."
he rubbed a hand over his face.
"i've never had a date go this badly."
you looked at him.
"really?"
"absolutely."
you smiled. "that's kind of impressive."
and somehow hearing that made him feel better. a lot better.
so you abandoned the plan completely.
twenty minutes later steve found himself pulling into a drive-thru.
something that had never once appeared in the grand steve harrington first date handbook.
you ordered burgers, fries, drinks. nothing fancy, nothing romantic, nothing remotely close to what he'd planned.
then the two of you parked in the corner of the lot and ate the greasy burgers in the car.
and somehow it was perfect.
you talked about everything, absolutely everything. childhood stories. favourite songs. movies you loved. movies you hated. terrible haircuts. embarrassing family members.
at one point you nearly choked laughing after hearing about steve's middle school attempt at impressing a girl by pretending he knew how to skateboard.
"what happened?" you asked.
"i hit a mailbox."
you stared.
"immediately."
you laughed so hard you had tears in your eyes and steve couldn't stop smiling.
the weirdest part was that eventually he forgot he was on a date.
not because he wasn't interested. quite the opposite. he forgot because talking to you felt less like performing and more like existing.
at some point he started rambling, actually rambling. about baseball, about coaching, about the kids, about some completely pointless story involving a game from three weeks ago.
halfway through he realized he'd been talking for way too long.
normally that would've sent him into panic mode.
instead he glanced over.
you were listening. really listening. eyes fixed on him, smiling softly whenever he got animated, and for some reason that made his chest feel strange.
like maybe he wanted to keep talking forever if it meant you'd keep looking at him like that.
eventually the burgers disappeared, the fries too, and neither of you seemed particularly interested in ending the night.
"we could walk?" you suggested.
steve shrugged.
"a walk's pretty romantic."
"look at you."
"i'm a professional."
you rolled your eyes but smiled.
and so you walked.
for all of six minutes.
because apparently the universe had not yet finished with you.
the rain started without warning.
one second there were clouds, the next it was absolutely pouring.
"oh my god!"
you shrieked.
steve immediately burst out laughing.
"run!"
you were both soaked within seconds.
completely drenched.
your hair sticking to your face, your clothes ruined, the two of you sprinting toward the car while laughing so hard neither of you could breathe properly.
at some point your hand found his. or maybe his found yours.
neither of you really knew.
but suddenly you were running together through the rain.
for a brief second steve thought that maybe this date was cursed.
but if it was?
he honestly didn't care anymore because he was having the best time he'd had in years. maybe ever.
eventually he drove you home.
the heater blasted warm air. both of you still damp, still smiling, still occasionally laughing over something one of you remembered from earlier.
when he pulled up outside your house neither of you moved immediately.
then you looked over at him, a smile pulling at your mouth.
"thanks for the worst date ever."
steve immediately barked out a laugh, dropping his head forward.
"yeah." he rubbed a hand over his face, still grinning, "i'm pretty good at those."
you laughed softly.
and then there was one of those moments. the kind that wasn't awkward, just quiet. the kind where neither person really wanted to leave.
you looked at him, he looked at you, and then you tilted your head.
"so."
"so?"
"next date are we getting food poisoning or something?"
steve laughed, he really did, but honestly? he barely heard the joke. because his brain had immediately latched onto two words.
next date.
next.
date.
there was going to be another one.
you wanted another one.
you.
wanted.
another.
one.
he felt like he was floating.
"hopefully not" he managed.
"hopefully?"
"with my luck i don't want to make promises."
you smiled and god. that smile.
"maybe we should avoid public places altogether."
"smart."
"less opportunities for disaster."
steve thought for a second. "we could do something at my apartment."
you raised an eyebrow.
"brave suggestion, harrington."
he pointed immediately."movies."
"uh-huh."
"food."
"right."
"possibly board games."
you laughed, "okay."
and there it was.
a plan.
a second date.
something to look forward to.
you said goodnight a few minutes later.
steve watched you walk to your door, waited until you got inside safely, then finally pulled away from the curb.
the entire drive home he couldn't stop smiling. he tried, seriously, he tried, but every time he thought about the night another grin appeared.
because somehow everything that could've gone wrong had gone wrong and somehow it had still ended up being the best date of his life.
maybe robin was right, maybe the problem had never been finding the perfect date, maybe it had been finding the right person to have an imperfect one with.
and as steve pulled into his driveway with rain still tapping softly against the roof of his car, all he could think about was next weekend.
and you.
-
the next date went wrong too. obviously.
it started at his apartment. which, according to the plan the two of you had made, was supposed to eliminate any possibility of disaster.
no restaurants, no reservations, no weather, just movies, snacks, and the two of you. simple.
or so steve had thought.
because somehow he managed to burn the popcorn.
not slightly burn it, not accidentally leave it in for ten extra seconds, he completely annihilated it.
you found him standing in front of the microwave looking so very offended.
"how?"
he pointed at the blackened bag, "i don't know."
"it's microwave popcorn."
"i know that."
"there are instructions."
"i followed them."
you stared, he stared back, you both looked at the popcorn, then immediately started laughing.
again.
because of course.
somehow the evening still ended with the two of you sharing snacks from his cupboards while sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch.
the movie barely held either of your attention.
every ten minutes one of you would make a comment, or tell a story, or laugh at something completely unrelated, and by the end of the night steve found himself thinking the same thing he'd thought after your first date.
that somehow it had been perfect despite absolutely not being perfect.
the date after that somehow went even better and also somehow worse, because steve's car broke down halfway to the drive in movie.
completely.
he sat behind the wheel for a moment, staring ahead, accepting his fate.
you sat beside him, equally silent.
then,
"so."
steve groaned, "don't."
"this is getting ridiculous."
he dropped his forehead against the steering wheel. "i know."
"are you cursed?"
"i might be."
you laughed.
you never made it to the movie, instead you ended up walking to a diner a few streets away.
sharing fries, stealing food off each other's plates, talking until you both forgot there had even been a movie to begin with.
it became a pattern after that.
something always happened.
plans changed, things broke, weather ruined things, food got burned, and yet somehow every single date still ended with steve driving home smiling like an idiot.
because at some point he stopped caring about the plan. he stopped trying to create perfect evenings, he stopped worrying about whether everything was going right.
because every time something went wrong, you just laughed, shrugged, worked around it together, and he night always ended up better than whatever he'd originally planned.
he thought that probably said something.
about you, about him, about whatever this thing between the two of you was becoming. because it was becoming something.
neither of you had said it yet, but steve could feel it.
every time he saw you, every time your name appeared on his phone, every time he found himself smiling at a text like some hopeless teenager.
and then there was the kissing.
god, the kissing.
that had gone very, very right.
for once.
your first kiss happened after another date that had gone completely off the rails.
steve couldn't even remember exactly what had gone wrong that night anymore, only that he was standing outside your house. that you were smiling at him and that there had been this moment.
one of those moments.
the kind where the world seemed to pause for a second. where neither person looked away, where neither person moved.
until eventually steve had quietly asked,
"can i kiss you?"
and you'd smiled. that soft smile he was becoming alarmingly addicted to.
then nodded.
and steve swore every thought in his head immediately vanished.
after that?
well.
it happened a lot. a lot.
he kissed you when he picked you up, kissed you when he dropped you off, kissed you halfway through conversations because he genuinely couldn't help himself. when you picked up your brother from games, he'd walk over and kiss you before even saying hello.
which always earned him dramatic gagging noises from the kids.
especially your brother.
"gross."
"thank you" steve would reply.
"i'm serious."
"i know."
and then he'd kiss you again just to annoy him.
which worked every single time.
sometimes you would show up at practice, sometimes he'd stop by your place after work, sometimes neither of you even had plans you just wanted to see each other.
weekends turned into weekdays, dates turned into casual evenings, phone calls turned into falling asleep with the phone still pressed against his ear.
and before steve really realized it, you had become part of his life.
something woven into the everyday. something that felt so natural it was hard to remember what things had looked like before.
which was probably why he got nervous.
because for all his confidence, all his charm, all his history with dating, this mattered. more than any of the others ever had.
which was why he spent nearly an hour talking himself into asking you out.
but he managed it eventually.
sitting beside you on his couch one evening. your legs stretched across his lap, a movie playing that neither of you were actually watching.
he looked at you, you looked at him, and suddenly every prepared sentence disappeared.
"hey."
"hey."
he swallowed. "this is gonna sound stupid."
you smiled. "okay."
"but i kinda wanted to ask something."
your expression softened.
"what?"
steve rubbed the back of his neck. already embarrassed, already nervous, already wishing he could somehow skip the part where he had to actually say the words.
but he did it anyway because you were worth being nervous for.
"would you maybe wanna be my girlfriend?"
there was a brief silence, just long enough for him to panic, then you smiled.
"yeah."
another pause, then you laughed softly. "i'd like that."
steve stared.
"really?"
you laughed harder.
"yes, really."
"seriously?"
"steve."
"right."
you shook your head, still smiling. "you're ridiculous."
he couldn't stop grinning. didn't even try. because somehow you had said yes. somehow this beautiful, funny, impossible person had looked at him and decided she wanted him too.
later that night, after you'd fallen asleep against his shoulder and he was sitting there trying not to move because he didn't want to wake you, steve found himself thinking about all the dates before you.
all the awkward conversations. all the dead ends. all the nights he'd driven home wondering what he was doing wrong.
wondering why nothing ever seemed to stick. wondering if maybe love just wasn't meant for him.
and maybe modern love was a cruel endeavour.
maybe dating sucked, maybe people hurt each other, maybe timing was terrible, maybe nothing ever worked the way it was supposed to.
but steve looked down at you sleeping against him, felt your hand loosely tangled with his, remembered every disaster date that somehow became a great night anyway.
and for the first time in a very long time, none of that seemed to matter.
because eventually he'd gotten tired of failing. eventually he'd said fuck it, whatever.
and that had led him straight to you. which, as far as steve was concerned, was the best thing that had ever gone wrong.
You think itâs going to be the same annual check up for your daughter, Piper. The same blunt doctor that scares her every time. Luckily, the new paediatrician Doctor Harrington has taken his place.
âBaby, please, work with mommy here,â you plead, as you attempt to take off Piperâs seatbelt. Sheâs an expert at making a fuss, maybe she got that from you now you think about it. Piper has managed to mess up her plaits already, making angry noises as she shakes her head and kicks her little legs. âThe nurses always give you stickers. You like stickers,â
Your bartering doesnât change the fixed frown on the three year oldâs face.
âScary,â Piper lets out, cheeks red as she stays put. This was the same tantrum every annual check up. Screaming bloody murder even before entering the hospital, and maximising the volume as you approached Doctor Yatesâ office. Yates was, a scary man, to her credit. His office was dark, bleak, matching his demeanour. You get it, being a paediatrician just be difficult, but to warrant being generally nasty to his patients you didnât understand.
âI know heâs scary,â you placate, âMommy finds him real scary too,â as you speak, you rub her arms through her cardigan. âIf you come with mommy, Iâll get you some Reeceâs okay?â
Reeceâs Peanut Butter cups were her favourite, again something she got from you having ate a lot during your pregnancy. Piper seems to quieten hearing âReeceâsâ and blinks up at you.
âPromise,â you nod, pushing the hazel hair that had trapped over her nose to behind her ear. Piper mulls it over, before holding her arms around expectantly. You sigh out smiling, unplugging her seatbelt she had finally let go of and picking her up. She was getting older, and the feeling of you not being able to pick up your baby anymore made your stomach curl. Hazel nuzzles into your shoulder as you lock the car, and make your way into the hospital.
The paediatric ward knew you at this point, the nurses at reception checking you in immediately and nodding to the waiting area. Piper was already getting restless, her small Mary Janes digging into your thigh as you sit. Piper knew what was coming. Face to face with Doctor Yates, her nightmare. You focus her attention on your nail varnish, a colourful green you opted for. She was entertained enough, playing with your fingers. You loved her so much.
You barely hear the nurse before looking up, seeing her coo down at Piper. You smile like you always do, happy to see Piper interacting with the kind nurse you always saw here.
âFollow me,â the nurse, Linda nods smiling and you stand, adjusting Piper and following her down the hall. Linda pauses before stopping outside a door, notably not Doctor Yatesâ. âUnfortunately, Doctor Yates retired after his many years,â Linda throws you a small smile, âHead paediatrician has been handed over to Doctor Harrington, heâs just inside,â
Linda nods to the door labelled âDr. Harringtonâ adorned with stickers. It makes you smile as you adjust Piper again, walking in as the door is opened for you by Linda. Linda pokes Piperâs nose before she leaves, and you turn to face the desk seeing Piperâs new doctor.
Much younger than Yates, close to your age by the looks of it. Golden skin paired with deep brown eyes under his glasses, and gloriously placed hair that hit the sun perfectly. He looks up from his notes, and smiles widely.
âHi!â He speaks warmly, standing up and gesturing to the exam chair next to his desk. âItâs lovely to meet you, I just started here, so forgive me if Iâm a bit all over the place.â
You can really form a sentence, wordlessly nodding and sitting on the chair with Piper in your lap. Sheâs positively beaming up at him, blinking.
âHello little miss⊠Piper,â itâs clearly memorised from her notes he took care to read before. âI donât like Doctor Harrington, so call me Steve.â
Piper giggles, loud and repeats it.
âSteeb,â Piper claps, and Steve gives her a smile like sheâs just hung the moon. Steve sits on his wheely chair and slides over, abandoning the desk. He smells great, your brain thinks before you curse it.
âClose enough,â Steve shrugs and puts on his blue examination gloves, tying them together on his lap. âThis is mom, yeah?â
âYeah, yes,â you splutter, nodding and he looks over Piper once before speaking again.
âBefore I start, any concerns you have? Anything different about her youâve seen?â Steve asks as he reaches for his stethoscope around his neck.
âNothingâ, you shrug, watching him put the buds in his ears and prepare. He nods, and gives Piper a smile.
âIâm gonna put this on now, itâs pretty cold but Iâve heard itâs ticklish,â Steve is talking to Piper almost diplomatically, âCopy me,â
Steve somehow has her under a trance, because she doesnât push into you like she did with Yates, rejecting the stethoscope, she leans into it. As Steve places it on the top of her back, he animatedly breathes in and out along with her.
âSounds all good to me,â Steve nods as he releases the stethoscope, putting it back around his neck. As he gets out the temperature reader, he shakes out. âOkay Piper, big task for me, stick your tongue outâ all sillyâ perfect,â
You fondly smile down at your daughter, who was making a cute noise while she stuck her tongue out. Steve uses it to his advantage, holding the reader under her tongue for a few seconds before reading it.
âYou said you just started here?â You attempt to start a conversation, and he nods, writing her temperature on her notes.
âI did,â he smiles, âI used to live here in Hawkins as a kid, so I jumped at the opportunity to come back and work here.â
Huh. You hadnât seen him around before, but then again you moved here when Piper was born.
âYou wanted to come back?â
Steve shrugs, âYeah, I went to Seattle for med school, loved it, but I did miss the small town of it all,â Steve speaks while he gets out a device to check Piperâs ears, and concentrates on making faces at her while he does. He does the other ear, writes the note down and gestures to the wall. âOkay, time to measure how tall youâve gotten.â
You help Piper down, and she insists on grabbing his hand instead of yours, following him to the height and weight stand. Steve entertains it all, being terrifically gentle with her as he measures her height. Not only was her new doctor blindingly handsome, he was also disgustingly charming.
You donât even notice youâre staring as Piper tugs your leg. You distract yourself by picking her up again, and Steve smiles before writing down the measurements. He sits back down on the stool on wheels, crossing his arms.
âSheâs growing healthily, no concerns as far as I can tell, how is she with talking?â Steve asks and detaches the small toy on his stethoscope to give to Piper.
âDoctor Yates always said she was behind on communication,â you speak sheepish, stroking over her mousy hair, âBut she can say a whole lot. Repeats things I say too,â you find yourself defending your baby, who was a little behind from the other moms at the single mom group you had joined at the church. Steveâs expression doesnât change, maybe only grows sweeter. His eyes are a deep hazel you notice, the morning sun doing wonders for them.
âSheâs a lovely girl, donât worry about how âbehindâ she is,â Steve advises, sitting back, âItâs not a linear process.â
Heâs so, so kind, and you remind yourself to get a reality check. No way heâd go for someone like you, heâs just doing his job.
âAnd dressed so well, by the way,â Steve comments, tapping one of her little Mary janes. âMommy has good taste, doesnât she?â
You flush as Piper seems to agree, hugging into you and giggling at Steveâs tap on her shoe. That wasnât flirting, was it? Steveâs eyes linger on you before he moves to his desk and writes down a few more things. You take the time to look around. His exam office is bright, paintings of animals on the walls with a stuffed animal pile on a couch, even some story books in the corner.
âOkay,â Steve claps, âPiperâs vitals all look great, no signs of any infections,â you visibly relax, holding Piper a bit closer as she reaches out for Steve again. He smiles and picks up a box on his desk. âFor you, brave girl, whatever sticker your heart desires,â
Piper is considering this with great intent, her eyebrows concentrating like yours do when youâre budgeting for the week. She grabs a turtle sticker.
âExcellent choice,â Steve comments and holds the box out to you then, blinking you out of your trance, âDoes mom want a sticker?â
Something as simple as your kidâs hot doctor offering you a sticker is making you flush, and you curse the gods for giving you sensitive cheeks. Piper is looking up at you, expectantly and it makes you melt.
âThanks,â you manage and pull out a puppy sticker, why not? Steveâs smile softens as he puts the box back and takes off his gloves, binning them quickly. âCâmon Piper, letâs go,â you coo and she shakes her head, persisting and putting a heartbreaking frown on her face. âI thought you hated hospitals lovely,â you ask her, and she lets out an unhappy sound.
Steve was watching the whole thing, unable not to.
âIâm sorry, weâll get out of your hair,â you wave off, but Steve stops you to say, âItâs alright, last appointment of the day.â
You manage to get Piper on your hip, but she wriggles with her hands out to him.
âSteeby,â Piper speaks, and thankfully Steve isnât bothered, stepping closer and crouching.
âOh, steeby? Thatâs my name now?â He muses, taking the sticker and pulling the end off, looking up at you as if to ask, is this okay? You nod, and he smiles gently sticking the turtle onto her cardigan. Piper preens and smiles, her little teeth showing and all.
âSay bye bye,â you kiss her hair, and look up at Steve, who looks conflicted for a moment before taking a deep breath.
âUhâ are you free Friday night?â His question makes you flush, and he carries on, âThe ward is hosting a party, if you can call it that. Run by the charity that funds it. Iâd be great for you both to come, I mean, if you want to.â Steve is rambling now, pushing his glasses up, a difference to his confident Doctor mode he had minutes ago.
âIâm free,â you breathe out, smiling small and adjusting Piper on your hip, god she was getting big now. âYeah, thatâd be nice,â
Steve looks like heâs just recovered from destabilising a bomb, and sighs out smiling.
âOkay, cool, cool,â he nods, a hand through his golden brown hair, that flops over anyway, âStarts at 5, but feel free to pop in wheneverâ whichever time you wish.â
â5,â you confirm, before watching Piper snuggle into your shoulder. âSee you Friday,â
The ride home, you canât stop thinking about the doctor. His charming smile, the moles that sit close on his cheek, his gentleness towards Piper. Safe to say it had been a while, Piperâs father was the last, and that had been even before she was born. He abandoned you pretty quick, swapping his life for a big house and tech company in LA. Shiny new girlfriend at that. Was Steve flirting? You couldnât tell anymore, or really believe any guy would choose to flirt with you. You squeeze the steering wheel, letting the voice of Stevie Nicks calm you down, now thinking. You have nothing to wear to this party.
You feel stupid. Going to goodwill just to buy a new floral dress for the occasion, with buttons shaping your chest and the hem stopping mid thigh. You havenât worn something like this since before you were pregnant, and you keep pushing the hem down as you walk up to the hospital following the signs for the fundraiser, Piper adorn in a new dress for herself (she was clinging onto one at the thrift store you couldnât resist). As you turn the corner into the reception, you see itâs been decked out with tables set with party food, balloons, kids and parents dotted around talking. You stand awkward for a bit, attempting to push down your hair the wind made quick work of. Before you can push your dress down again, thereâs a warm hand on your arm. Looking up, youâre happy to see Steve dressed in a casual Boston t shirt and jeans, and was his cologne more noticeable?
âHey!â He greets, smile reaching his cheeks. Piper brightens up at him, holding her little arms out. âHey to you, too,â Steve pokes her belly and she giggles, âHow are you both?â
âGood,â you supply, adjusting her again, and Piper is dead set on wanting to be in Steveâs arms instead. âIâm sorry,â
âNo, no, itâs okay,â Steve waves off, and steps closer, wriggling his fingers in front of her, âIf itâs okay with you?â
Albeit flustered, you nod, and hand her over gently. Steve handles her with upmost care, swaying her. He looks like itâs light work, like Piper weighs nothing.
âAre you guys hungry? We have a few bits over hereâ,â Steve gestures to the table as he guides you to it, âDoes Piper like brownies?â
âOh, she likes anything sweet,â you shrug and watches as he picks up a small brownie, putting it in her hand. âA doctor giving a brownie to a kid?â
Steve laughs, and wipes her cheek as Piper devours the brownie. She got her appetite from you as well.
âAs a doctor, I like to prescribe a treat every so often, what lifeâs all about.â Steve explains as he watches Piper chew happily, before patting her back. âAre you hungry?â
The food looked good. Obviously home baked by the staff.
âNoâ no Iâm okay. Best save it for the kids,â I wave off, and Steve seems suspicious but doesnât question it. He then looks up to the door, seeing people he recognises. âIf you need to go, thatâs fineâ,â
âCome on Piper, letâs go meet my friends huh?â Steve coos and sends you a cock of his head to his friends, making you blink but follow him regardless. Steve waits for you to catch up, a hand drifting to meet your waist for a moment.
It was friendly, totally you repeat to yourself as you follow face probably as red as a tomato.
Steveâs work friends are an interesting bunch.
Steve greets them all animatedly, and Piper brightens up at the new faces.
âSteve wonât shut up about you!â The excited sandy blonde blurts as you approach, and you blink, taking in her buzzy attitude. Sheâs got an infectious smile, freckles lighting up her cheek. Steve sends her a sheepish glare, swaying Piper.
Next to her, the doe eyed metal head wipes his mouth from devouring a slice of pizza and smiles easily over at you.
âI can vouch for that,â he supplies, finding Steveâs expression absolutely hilarious. Steve huffs and sends you an apologetic smile. âHi little lady,â the man hums as he waves to Piper, âSteve wonât shut up about you either,â
Piper is always a delight around people, and it always makes your heart warm up. She giggles and holds her hand out to touch his dark curls, Steve all the while holding her out securely. Itâs all very domestic, and watching Steve handle her with so much care sends your stomach flying.
âThis is Robin and Eddie,â Steve fills in your confusion, as he detaches her from making a knot into Eddieâs hair.
âHi,â you manage, smiling politely.
Eddie make a knowing face at Steve, and he just sends him a small smile back. You hope itâs a good knowing look.
âYâknowâ I think me and Robin wanna show the little lady the playing blocks,â Eddie announces, and Robin looks confused for a moment. Eddie widens his eyes at her, not discreet at all. You slip out a giggle as Robin gasps.
âOh! Yes, we do,â Robin nods vigorously, âWe are so excited to show Piper the blocks, and we must go nowâ,â
ââ oh, guys,â Steve sighs out, rubbing his forehead, and Piper holds her hands out to climb onto Eddieâs hip. Eddie bounces her and she lets out one of her loud giggles, which assures you sheâs in safe hands.
âSteve should show you the hospital garden,â Robin says loudly, managing a wink at Steve that isnât conspicuous in any way, and you flush, smiling up at Steve, who is looking at Robin exasperated. âGoodbye,â
They both hurriedly rush off, leaving you and Steve standing together. Steve visibly swallows and nods.
âUhâ would you come? To the gardens with me, I mean,â he clears his throat, cheeks a lovely shade of pink you havenât seen on him yet.
âIâd love to,â you reply and he nods, sighing out with relief before directing you to the door, out to the hospital reception.
The hospital garden is freshly green from the rainy winter, and now shining in the sunlight. Steve gestures to a bench, right near a rose bush covered in an awning. Steveâs knee bounces for a moment before opening his mouth, then closing it again. Having a child, you can ready nerve pretty well, so you start.
âPiper is quite fond of you,â you begin, smiling up at him, catching the two moles that dot his cheek. âKept babbling about Steeby this, Steeby that on the way home,â
A soft, sweet smile spreads over his face, and he tilts his head.
âAnd her mom?â
âHer mom?â You blink, playing with your rings before looking up at his unwavering, honeyed expression.
âIs her mom fond of me too?â
You take a second, before letting yourself smile, blush wholly.
âHer mom⊠do you want her to be?â You ask, bravery making its way through your anxieties that heâll just reject you, let you off easily and kindly. Steveâs smile somehow gets warmer.
âI may be a doctor, but Iâm not incredibly smooth,â Steve explains slowly, âI would love for Piperâs mom to be fond of me,â he carries on, eyes tracing over your face, âand come to dinner with me Friday?â
Your heart flutters in your chest, cheeks pink, looking down and lifting your finger to run over his hand. Itâs quiet in the garden, only the sound of birds filter over as Steve connects your hands together over his knee.
You breathe out, looking up and smiling.
âI think sheâd say yes,â you speak, and he sighs out.
âThank god,â Steve mumbles, sitting closer and reaching in his pocket to pick out a small brownie wrapped in tissue. âDunno what I would have done with this brownie in my pocketâ,â
He got you a brownie. Knowing youâd wanted one, seeing your eyes glaze over the snacks but saying no. Youâve not been that daring in your 24 years of life, but you decide to lean up and kiss him, hand on his cheek. Steveâs eyes widen before reciprocating, his arm wrapping around your shoulders near the bench, pushing you into him. Your legs knock together, itâs all a bit awkward and crowded, but the way his lips weave against yours, you canât bring yourself to care. Steve presses some kisses against the side of your mouth, before pulling away, eyes all goey and relaxed.
âGonna need a minute,â Steve weakly speaks, and you laugh, forehead resting on his shoulder.
âWas it true?â
âHm?â Steve mumbles as he rubs your other arm, your head comfortably on his shoulder.
âWhat Robin said,â you speak soft, unable to hide your smile.
âUnfortunately it is,â Steve confesses, âDonât mention thatâ,â Steve squeezes you, âTrynaâ impress Piperâs mom here.â
You laugh, and you look up, meeting his gaze.
âPiperâs mom isnât that cool,â you shake your head, voice hoarse. True. Steve tuts, a hand stroking your cheek.
Youâd been bracing for this the second you stepped through the door.
The victimâs mother had the same wild, searching look youâd seen a hundred times beforeâthe desperate need to blame anyone, anyone, other than the abstract monster who took her daughter. Grief curdling into rage at the nearest warm body. Youâd taken point instinctively, not because you were the senior agent, but because Hotchâs gaze had already flicked to you in silent question. Can you handle this? You gave a single nod. Iâve got it.
âMrs. Hartwell, I know this is unbearable. But every piece of information you can give usâher schedule, anyone new she mentionedââ
âYou donât know anything.â
Her composure shatters on the word. Her hands claw at the air between you, fingernails catching the kitchenâs fluorescent light like small, dull blades. âYou stand there with your fancy credentials and your clinical words. My Maggie is gone.â
You hold your ground, even as your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. Donât flinch. Donât feed the spiral. Youâve seen grief turn feral beforeâwatched it coil and strike like a cornered animal. Youâve also seen what happens when you back away: it tells them their rage is justified, that youâre afraid of the very pain youâre asking them to relive. So you stay. Soften your voice, but not your stance. âI understand. And Iâm so sorry. But the small detailsâher routine, anyone new in her lifeâthose could be the thing that brings her home.â
Thatâs when the father snaps.
Heâd been vibrating in the corner, a burly man with red-rimmed eyes and fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone bloodless. You register the shift in his weight a half-second too lateâthe draw of his arm back, the pivot of his hips, the ugly twist of his mouth.Â
Thereâs no room to dodge.
His palm catches you high on the shoulderâa glancing blow meant to shove, not strike. A warning, maybe. Or the last thread of restraint from a man who hasnât slept in days. But the momentum is brutal. You slam backward into the kitchen counter. The granite edge bites into your lower back, a hot wire of pain that lances straight up your spine. Then your head whips forward and then backâthe crack of your skull against the upper cabinet is a sound you feel more than hear. A wet, hollow knock that echoes inside your own skull.
White-hot splinters through your vision, stars collapsing and reforming behind your eyes. Your teeth click together so hard you taste enamel. Then copper, hot and sharp, blooming across your tongue.
The room tilts.
Your knees buckle.
You catch yourself on the counter, one hand slipping on a forgotten dish towel as the world lists sideways. Warmth trickles from your scalp down the nape of your neck, a slow, alarming heat that doesnât match the sudden cold in your fingers. You blink, and for one long second, you canât remember where you are. The faces in front of you are smears of colour and grief.
Before you can even draw another breath, a blur of motion cuts through your peripheral vision.
Spencer.
Not the lanky, cardigan-clad genius who stammers through small talk and apologizes for existing in someone's personal space. Not the man who once spent ten minutes explaining the migratory patterns of monarch butterflies because he couldn't read your social cues, who carries paperback novels in his satchel like other men carry wallets, who still flushes when you hold his hand in the dark of your apartment where no one can see.
This Spencer moves like a spring uncoiling. Like something kept on a very short leash just got looseâall that coiled tension, all those suppressed instincts, snapping into terrible, beautiful focus.
He crosses the kitchen in three strides you don't consciously track. One moment he's across the room, and the next he's there, inserting himself between you and the father with a speed that makes Hotch's head whip up from across the room.Â
His right hand shoots out, palm flat against the man's chest, and shoves. Hard enough that the father's back hits the wall with a dry, echoing thudâthe kind that rattles the framed school photos hanging nearby. A child's smile. Maggie's smile. The irony doesn't escape you. Neither does the way Spencer's arm doesn't tremble. He's not straining. He's plantedâweight distributed, centre of gravity low, the stance of someone who's been trained to hold his ground and forgotten to mention it.
"Keep your hands off her."
Spencer's voice is low. Stripped of its usual breathy pitch, stripped of the tentative upward lilt that turns every statement into a question. The stammer is gone. The apologetic half-smile is gone. In its place is something you've only ever seen in glimpsesâwhen he reads a case file a little too closely, when he stares down an unsub who's made the mistake of threatening a teammate.
It isn't a plea or a warning.
It's a fact. Delivered with the cold certainty of a ballistic report. The kind of voice that makes seasoned interrogators lean back in their chairs.
"Reid." Hotch's voice cuts across the kitchen, not unkind but pointed. A reminder. We're still here. We're still watching.
Spencer's spine straightens almost imperceptibly. His chin lifts. When he turns toward the unit chief, his expression is perfectly neutralâopen, cooperative, the eager young agent who quotes statistics and fumbles with his words and never, ever pushes back against authority.
Hotch studies him for a long moment. That gazeâthe one that sees everything, the one that's made unsubs confess just by existingâsweeps over Spencer from head to toe, cataloguing, assessing. Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because he gives a single nod.
"That was an assault on a federal agent."
His words come precise and clipped, each one landing like a hammer strike. No rambling. No tangential footnotes about statistical probabilities or legal precedents. Just steel. The kind of voice you've heard Spencer use exactly once beforeâon a hostage negotiator's training tape Hotch made the whole team watch three years ago. The one where a twenty-something Reid talked a man off a ledge in under four minutes, then vomited behind the squad car afterward.
"You raise a hand again, and I will personally ensure you spend the next forty-eight hours in a holding cell while we decide how many additional charges to file."
His jaw is set. A muscle ticks beneath his eyeâthe only sign that he's even breathing. The father is twice Spencer's width, built like a man who's swung a hammer for a living, shoulders rounded with years of manual labour and grief gone toxic. And yet he shrinks. His mouth opens, some bluster forming on his tongueâa denial, maybe, or a defenceâsomething about not meaning it, about his daughter, about grief making him crazy.
Spencer cuts him off.
"Don't."
The word snaps through the air like a rubber band breaking. Sharp. Final. It lands in the small kitchen and seems to suck the oxygen out of the room.Â
"Not a word." Spencer's voice hasn't lost its edge. If anything, it's sharper nowâhoned to a fine point. "You're going to sit down, and you're going to calm down. If you so much as look in her direction again, we're done here. And your daughter's best chance walks out that door with us."
The man sits.
It's not graceful. His knees buckle more than they bendâa controlled collapse masquerading as obedience. His back slides down the wall until he's a heap on the linoleum, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. The fight drained out of him in less than ten seconds.
The mother makes a soundâsomething caught between a sob and a gaspâand Hotch is already there, guiding her to a chair, murmuring something about cooperation and finding Maggie. His voice is low, practiced. The same voice he uses for panicked witnesses and grieving families a hundred times a year.
But you're not watching any of that.
You're watching Spencer's hand drop from the man's chest. You're watching his shoulders rise and fall once, twiceâa deliberate breath, the kind he uses to ground himself during panic attacks, the kind he taught you to use after nightmares. You're watching the way his spine stays rigid even as his fingers curl into a loose fist at his side, knuckles still pale.
He's shaking.
Not much. Not enough that anyone across the room would notice. But you're close enough to see the fine tremor running through his forearm, the way his throat works on a swallow he's trying to hide. He just threatened a man twice his size into silence with nothing but his voice and his presenceâand now he's trembling like a leaf in a windstorm.
Only then does Spencer turn.
His eyes find yoursâand for a split second, the mask cracks. Beneath the steel is something raw, almost frightened. You did that to him. You realize it with a small, stunned joltâthe way your pain becomes his panic, the way he'd burn this whole house down if it meant you walked out unscathed. It's not a protective instinct. It's something deeper. Something that lives in his bones now, whether he's named it or not.
His fingers are cool against your heated skin as he tilts your chin toward the lightâthe overhead fluorescents, merciless and buzzing, the kind that make everyone look washed out and exhausted. He doesn't seem to notice. He's examining your head with the same hyper focused intensity he brings to cold cases and obscure scientific journals. But his touch is different. Softer. The pads of his thumbs brush the skin just below your hairline, following the ache you hadn't realized was radiating outward from your skull.
Feather-light. Almost reverent. Like you're something precious he's been trusted to handle.
His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, coming away with a thin smear of copper. You watch him look at itâthat single red line across his skinâand something in his expression fractures. Just for a second. Just enough for you to see. The mask doesn't just crack; it shatters, and underneath is something raw and unguarded: a man who has spent his whole life being too much or not enough, who has finally found something he can't bear to lose.
"You're okay," he murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear.
It isn't a question. It's the same declarative certainty he used on the fatherâthat same steel-and-ballistic-report finality. But this time, it's wrapped in something tender. Something that sounds like I need you to be okay dressed up as a fact. Like if he says it enough times, with enough conviction, the universe will have no choice but to comply.
You nod. Just once. Small.
His throat works as he swallowsâa visible, effortful thing, like he's pushing down something that wants to claw its way out. Rage, maybe. Or relief. Or something else entirely, something that doesn't have a name yet, something that's been living in the space between you for months.
Then he blinks.
And the Spencer the team knows clicks back into place. The tension in his shoulders doesn't fully releaseâit's still there, a wire pulled taut somewhere deepâbut he smooths it down, tucks it away into whatever internal compartment he's built for exactly this purpose. His expression cycles through three micro-corrections: softening the jaw, relaxing the brow, lowering the shoulders. A man putting on his own face again, like adjusting a mask before stepping through a door.
You've seen him do this before. In interrogation rooms, when a suspect hits too close to home. At crime scenes, when the victim looks like someone he loves. In the quiet hours of the night, when nightmares leave him gasping and he has to remember how to be a person before the sun comes up.
But you've never seen him do it this fast.
His hand finds your lower back. Warm. Steady. A pressure that says I'm here without a single word as he guides you a step away from where the father sits slumped against the wall, weeping quietly into his hands. The shift is subtleâjust a few inchesâbut you notice. Of course you notice. He's positioned himself between you and the room.
Behind you, Derek Morgan stands frozen mid-step, one foot forward, having lunged a second too late. His eyes are wideânot afraid, exactly, but stunned. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He looks like a man who just watched his nerdy little brother body-slam a bully twice his size and isn't sure whether to be proud or deeply concerned.
"Did⊠did Reid just physically intimidate someone?"
The question hangs in the air. Not accusatory. Just genuinely bewildered. Like he's asking the universe to confirm that his eyes aren't deceiving him, that the laws of physics haven't somehow inverted, that Spencer Reidâwho once apologized to a door he walked intoâjust made a grown man shrink.
A slow, incredulous smile spreads across Emilyâs face. The kind she gets when she's witnessed something she'll be holding over someone's head for years. Her eyebrows have climbed so high they're threatening to disappear into her hairline.
"I think he just threatened a civilian with federal prison and gave him a time-out." She tilts her head, watching Spencer angle his body between you and the roomâa human shield disguised as casual concern. "That's⊠actually impressive. In a terrifying sort of way."
She says it lightly. But there's something underneath. A question she's not asking yet. Her eyes linger on the space between you and Spencerâon the absence of distance, on the way he hasn't looked at anyone else since he turned around. Emily has spent too many years in deep cover, has read too many micro-expressions, to miss the way Spencer's hand is still hovering near your back, even though the threat is neutralized.
Curious, her expression says. Very curious.
JJ's gaze flicks between you and Spencer, her reporter's brain cataloguing every detail. The hand on your back. The way your weight has shifted slightly toward him. The blood on your lip that he hasn't let you touch again. She doesn't say anything. But her eyes narrowâjust a fractionâand something shifts behind them. Noticing. Filing it away.
She's going to ask you later. You can already tell. Not at the scene. Not where anyone else can hear. But later. In the bathroom of the jet, maybe, or while you're both pretending to sleep on the flight home. JJ has a way of making questions feel like kindness, like she's not prying, just checking in.Â
Spencerâs thumb has started moving. An unconscious back-and-forth, a tiny circle, a soothing pattern he probably doesn't even realize he's making. The heat of his palm seeps through your shirt, grounding you in a way that has nothing to do with the pain still pulsing behind your eyes.
"You need ice," he says finally, practical now, his voice climbing back toward its usual register. But his eyes haven't left yours. They're scanningâforehead, temple, cheekbone, lipâwith the same intensity he'd bring to a crime scene, cataloguing every shade of bruise, every smear of blood. "And probably stitches. One suture, maybe two. The temporal region bleeds disproportionately to the severity of the injury because of the superficial temporal artery, so the amount of blood isn't necessarilyâ"
But Morgan isn't done.
"Reid," he says slowly, drawing out the name like he's testing the weight of it against his tongue. "You just put a man against a wall."
Spencer stiffens almost imperceptibly beneath the attention. His hand flexes against your lower backâa nervous twitch, fingers curling like they're searching for something to hold ontoâbefore he remembers himself and lets it drop to his side. The absence of his palm is immediate. You feel it like a missing step on a staircase, like a word left hanging at the end of a sentence, like the hollow ache where a tooth used to be.
He clears his throat.
"He was a threat to a federal agent." His voice is carefully neutral. Clinical. The kind of tone he uses when citing case law or explaining blood spatter patterns to a room of sceptical local PD. But there's a faint flush creeping up the back of his neckâthe one he gets when he's been caught doing something embarrassing. Or something revealing. "Protocol permits reasonable use of physical intervention to prevent further harm."
Morgan crosses his arms. His head tiltsâthat slow, assessing angle he uses when he's already figured something out and is just enjoying the process of watching someone squirm. The ghost of a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not mean. Just knowing.
"Uh-huh." He draws out the syllable, lets it hang in the air like smoke. "And the part where you haven't let go of her for three minutes straight? What protocol is that?"
Spencer opens his mouth. Closes it. His ears are turning pink now, visible even under the horrible kitchen lightingâthat particular shade of red that creeps up from his collar and stains everything in its path.Â
His hands are now shoved deep in his pockets, like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for you again.
You watch him cycle through approximately four different responses in the span of two seconds.
It was three minutes and seventeen secondsâtoo defensive, too precise.
She was injuredâtoo obvious, too flimsy, too easy to poke holes in.Â
âThat's not protocol, that'sââ He stops himself before he can finish that sentence, but the word hangs in the air anyway, unfinished and damning.
That's personal.
Morgan lets the silence stretch, patient as a cat at a mouse hole. His eyes flick to youâjust for a secondâand there's something softer there now. Not pity. Understanding, maybe. The kind of look that says I see you, I see both of you, and I'm not going to make this harder than it needs to be.
But he's not going to make it easy, either.
"You know," Morgan says, feigning casual, "I've known you for years, Reid. Watched you freeze up around witnesses. Watched you stammer through interviews. Watched you apologize to furniture." He pauses, letting the contrast sink in. "I've never seen you move like that. Not unless someone on this team was about to get shot."
Spencer's throat works. His hands are still buried in his pockets, knuckles pressing outward against the fabricâa white-knuckled grip on nothing. "Situations evolve. People adapt. It's notâ" He stops. Swallows. "It's not indicative of anything beyond the immediate circumstances."
"The immediate circumstances," Morgan repeats slowly, tasting the words. "Right. So if it had been me who got shoved, you'd have done the same thing?"
The question lands like a grenade with the pin pulled.
Spencer's eyes dart to Morgan's faceâsearching, analysing, trying to figure out the trap. Because it is a trap. You can see it. Spencer can see it. The only correct answer is the one that incriminates him.
Yes, he could say. It would be a lie, and Morgan would know it's a lie, and the lie itself would be a confession.
Noâwell. No would be even worse.
Spencer says nothing. His silence is louder than any answer he could have given.
Morgan's grin softens into something gentler. Something almost fond. "That's what I thought."
"I don't know what you think you're implyingâ" Spencer starts, but Morgan holds up a hand, cutting him off.
"I'm not implying anything, kid. I'm observing." He takes a step closer, dropping his voice so only the three of you can hear. The kitchen feels suddenly smaller, more intimate, like the walls have leaned in to listen. "I'm observing that you just went full tactical on a civilian. I'm observing that you haven't looked at anyone else in this room for more than two seconds at a time." He ticks each point off on his fingers, slow and deliberate. "And I'm observing that you're standing so close to her right now that if I took a picture, it'd be Exhibit A in a 'why the hell didn't we notice this sooner' slideshow."
Spencer's jaw is clenched so tight you can see the tendon in his neck straining. His hands have come out of his pocketsâwhen did that happen?âand they're hanging at his sides, fingers twitching like he's fighting every instinct to reach for you again.
"Iâ" He stops. Starts again. "It's notâ"
He can't finish the sentence.
He can't say it's not what you think because it is what Morgan thinks. It's exactly what Morgan thinks, and maybe more, and maybe worse, and maybe the most terrifying thing Spencer has ever had to name out loud.
Summary: You and Steve accidentally spend an entire party hiding in the kitchen together, making fun of strangers, stealing food from the fridge, and slowly realising neither of you wants to be anywhere else.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, fluff, mild yearning, friends to lovers vibes, making out (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 1.7k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
Right now, you couldn't recall why you decided to come to this party in the first place, even if your life depended on it.
By ten-thirty, somebody has already thrown up in the upstairs bathroom.
Not discreetly, either.
Thereâs a line outside the door, somebody arguing over whose turn it is to hold a girlâs hair back, and music rattling hard enough through the walls that the cabinets hum faintly every time the bass kicks in.
You abandon the living room right after witnessing a guy attempt to open a beer bottle with his teeth.
The kitchen is quieter.
Not quiet exactly. Just survivable.
And Steve Harrington is standing in front of the open fridge eating slices of ham directly out of the packet.
He looks up as you walk in.
Thereâs a beat of silence.
Then, âOh thank god,â he says immediately. âA normal person.â
You burst out laughing.
Steve points the slice of ham at you accusingly. âDonât laugh. Youâre the only person here not currently trying to impress somebody.â
âThatâs because I gave up fifteen minutes ago.â
âSmart.â
He shuts the fridge with his hip before wandering toward the counter, still chewing lazily. His sleeves are pushed messily to his elbows already, hair slightly damp from summer heat and too many people packed into one house.
âYou hiding in here?â you ask.
Steve glances vaguely around the kitchen. âYeah, pretty much.â
âSame.â
âCool.â
Neither of you leaves.
The kitchen becomes your spot after that. At first, itâs just somewhere quieter to stand while you both recover socially. People drift in and out constantly around you, grabbing drinks or ice or more alcohol before disappearing back toward the noise again, but neither of you really moves from where you started.
Steve ends up sitting on the counter at some point while you lean against the opposite side nursing the same drink for nearly half an hour.
âOkay,â he says eventually, nodding toward the living room doorway. âRed shirt guy.â
You glance over. âWhat about him?â
âHeâs told that story three separate times.â
You snort immediately. âNo he hasnât.â
âHe absolutely has.â Steve points vaguely with his beer bottle. âWatch. Heâs about to mention the fishing trip.â
Right on cue, â-and then the fish snapped the whole line-â
You stare at Steve in disbelief while he looks unbearably smug about the whole thing.
âOh my god.â
âThank you.â
âYouâve been monitoring him?â
âThereâs nothing else to do here.â
You laugh again, softer this time, and Steve grins automatically at the sound.
God.
Heâs unfairly charming when heâs relaxed like this. Not performing or trying too hard. Just warm and funny and slightly bitchy in a way youâre beginning to enjoy far too much.
Another group pushes noisily into the kitchen a few minutes later. One girl opens the freezer and immediately shrieks.
âThereâs literally no vodka left!â
Steve mutters under his breath, âTragic.â
Your shoulders shake violently trying not to laugh while the girl slams the freezer shut dramatically before storming back out.
The second she disappears, both of you completely lose it.
âYouâre awful,â you laugh.
âShe was acting like somebody died.â
âShe looked genuinely devastated.â
Steve wipes at his eyes dramatically. âThoughts and prayers.â
An hour later, both of you are sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor eating tortilla chips from the bag. Neither of you remembers how this happened exactly.
The partyâs louder now. Hotter too. Music vibrates faintly through the cabinet doors behind you while somebody somewhere nearby yells along badly to the chorus currently playing.
Steve nudges your knee with his. âThat guyâs been trying to flirt with Robin for like forty minutes.â
You glance toward the hallway. âOh my god. The guy in the leather jacket?â
âYeah.â
âHe keeps leaning against walls weirdly.â
Steve demonstrates immediately, slouching sideways against the cabinet beside him with an expression so aggressively serious you nearly choke laughing.
âThat is EXACTLY what he looks like.â
âI know.â
âHe thinks heâs being smooth.â
âHe looks like heâs trying to sell her cologne in a department store.â
You laugh hard enough that your shoulder knocks against Steveâs accidentally, but neither of you moves away afterwards. In fact, Steve sort of⊠stays there. Your shoulders still touch lightly while he steals another chip from the bag in your lap.
Interesting.
You become increasingly aware throughout the evening that Steve Harrington is a very tactile person. Just casually. His knee bumps yours when he laughs, his hand lands absentmindedly on your ankle while reaching past you for his drink, and at one point, he brushes crumbs off your shirt without even thinking about it.
Like touching you has already become instinctive somehow.
The thing is that you donât think he even notices heâs doing it.
You definitely notice, though.
Especially when he laughs at something you say and grabs your knee automatically. Especially because his hand stays there a second too long afterwards.
âOkay,â Steve says seriously two beers later. âWorst song ever written.â
You gasp. âThatâs impossible.â
âItâs not.â
âIt absolutely is.â
Steve points at you dramatically. âEverybody says that until they hear the right answer.â
âGo on then.â
Steve thinks hard for a second before answering, âWe built this city.â
You stare at him. âYouâre insane.â
âThat song sucks!â
âItâs fun!â
âIt's so... much.â
You blink. ââŠwhat does that even mean?â
âIt sounds like a cigarette commercial.â
You laugh so suddenly you nearly spill your drink, and Steve immediately starts laughing too despite himself, head tipping briefly back against the cabinets.
Warm kitchen light catches against his throat when he laughs like that.
You suddenly become very aware that Steve Harrington is pretty.
Annoyingly pretty.
Youâre still looking at him when his eyes flick back toward yours again. Something shifts slightly.
Steveâs smile softens around the edges. âWhat?â
You blink once. âNothing.â
âYouâre staring at me.â
âYou were making a weird face.â
âThatâs so mean.â
You grin slightly into your drink while Steve keeps looking at you for another second anyway.
Then Robin walks into the kitchen.
She stops dead instantly, eyes flicking between both of you sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor before narrowing suspiciously.
âOh my god.â
Steve frowns. âWhat?â
âYouâre gazing at each other.â
Both of you answer at the exact same time.
âWeâre not.â
Robin looks deeply unconvinced. âYouâre literally sitting on the kitchen floor alone together at a party.â
Steve gestures vaguely around. âWeâre people-watching.â
âYouâre flirting.â
âWe are not.â
Robin stares at him flatly for a second before saying, âSteve, your hand is on her thigh.â
Silence.
Steve looks down immediately.
His hand is, in fact, resting warm and casual against your thigh. Neither of you has any idea how long itâs been there.
âOh.â
Robin makes a deeply satisfied noise.
âOh my god,â Steve mutters weakly while you try very hard not to laugh.
Robin points between both of you accusingly. âIâm leaving. But when you inevitably make out in here later, I want credit for being right.â
Then she disappears back into the party before either of you can answer.
Silence settles briefly afterwards.
Steve still hasnât moved his hand.
âThatâs embarrassing,â he mutters eventually.
âA little.â
âI genuinely didnât notice.â
âI know.â
Steve glances toward you carefully then. ââŠshould I move it?â
Your stomach flips unexpectedly.
You look down at his hand against your thigh before shrugging lightly. âI mean⊠you donât have to.â
Steve goes quiet for a second.
Then, very slowly, âOh.â
And suddenly the kitchen feels warmer than it did before.
The party starts thinning out sometime after 1 a.m. People leave in noisy groups while others pass out upstairs or drape themselves dramatically across living room furniture.
You and Steve stay exactly where you are.
At some point he ends up leaning back fully against the cabinets beside you, one knee bent lazily while your shoulder stays pressed against his.
âYou know,â he says eventually, voice quieter now, âthis is the longest Iâve willingly stayed at a party in like⊠years.â
âYeah?â
Steve hums softly. âYouâre distracting.â
The words land gently between you. Not jokey. Not entirely serious either. Just honest enough to make your chest tighten slightly.
Outside, crickets hum loudly through the open kitchen window while warm summer air drifts through the screen. The kitchen feels strangely separate from the rest of the party now. Smaller somehow. Quieter. Like the night narrowed slowly down to just this.
Steve looks tired suddenly. Not in a bad way. Just softened around the edges by the late hour and warm air and beer and laughing too much.
You realise, with startling clarity, that you could stay here talking to him until sunrise and not get bored once.
Steveâs gaze drops briefly toward your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again, careful, like heâs checking whether he imagined that thought passing across your face too.
âYou know,â he says quietly, âI think this is the first actual conversation weâve ever had.â
âThatâs probably concerning.â
âA little.â
âAnd yet here you are.â
Steve smiles faintly. âYeah.â
Neither of you moves.
The silence stretches.
Then, softly, âCan I kiss you?â
You nod before you can think too hard about it.
Steve kisses you carefully at first, like heâs still figuring you out. Warm mouth, slow hands, the faint taste of beer and salt from stolen tortilla chips lingering between you. One of his hands slides lightly against your jaw while the other braces against the floor beside your knee.
You kiss him back and feel the exact moment he relaxes into it.
The second kiss is different. Still soft. Just less careful now.
Steve exhales quietly against your mouth like something inside him has unclenched.
When you finally pull apart, neither of you moves very far. His forehead brushes yours briefly before he lets out a quiet laugh under his breath.
âYou know whatâs really embarrassing?â
âWhat?â
âI think this might actually be the best party I've ever been to.â
Your chest tightens unexpectedly.
You smile slightly anyway. âThat is embarrassing.â
âI know.â
But heâs smiling too when he says it.
Outside the kitchen, the party keeps going without you.
Neither of you seems particularly interested in rejoining it.
Soooooo I'm in my slasher summer era after watching stranger things season three and fear streetđ«
How do we feel about a Steve Harrington and reader camp counselor little meet cute kinda like flirtyyy, maybe like a little bit of lifeguard Steve in theređ
camp nowhere
steve harrington x reader
desc - you were forced by your parents to sign up to be a counsellor at camp nowhere over the summer because they claim its great life experience. amazing. but.. it actually did turn out to be kinda amazing. thanks to the great kids, the lake with the perfect view, the surprisingly comfy bed and, of course, your brand new acquaintance steve harrington
val speaks - ughhhh obsessed w this!!!! camp counsellor steve is a big part of who i am i fear - anways i took it as you didnt want me to actually make this with a murderer involved.. but i could be oh so wrong n if so just be like hey i said slasher summer wheres the slash n i will cook up smth else queenie
this is also just my corny truth like i did try to keep it down but i cant
i also wrote this in like 4 straight hours w no breaks so.. yea apologies if its like wut and wow this many words in that time is lowk impressive for me
word count: 9.3k
your parents called it a 'family meeting' which already put you on edge before you even reached the dining room.
family meetings were never about family in the soft, warm sense of the word. they were about decisions that had somehow already been made without you.
you stood in the doorway with your arms crossed and your eyebrows raised, taking in the scene. your mother had that hopeful too bright look she got whenever she thought she was being especially reasonable, your father was leaning against the table with a cup of coffee in his hand, and a leaflet sat between them.
âsit downâ your mom said gently, which was never a promising sign.
âiâm standing.â
âplease.â
you exhaled through your nose and pulled out the chair, letting yourself drop into it with as much dramatic resignation as you could manage. if they wanted a performance, they were going to get one.
your father glanced at your mother, then at you, like he was already tired of whatever this was going to become.
âwe think,â your mother began, and you immediately hated the phrase, âthat it would be really good for you to do something meaningful this summer.â
âi have plans.â
âyou don'tâ your father said.
your mother slid the leaflet across the table.
it stopped in front of you with a little scrape of paper against wood. camp nowhere, it said in big cheerful letters across the top with a little painted sun rising behind a line of trees. beneath that was the slogan, printed in a font so corny it was almost offensive.
where memories are made and trails are conquered.
you stared at it for a second, then barked out a laugh despite yourself. âthat's awful.â
your mother did not appreciate the reaction.
âitâs not awful,â she said. âitâs charming.â
âitâs embarrassing.â
âyouâre being dramatic.â
âi learned from the bestâ you muttered.
that earned you a look from both of them.
your mother reached for the leaflet, tapped it twice, and said, as though she were explaining something obvious to a toddler, âwe filled out the application for you.â
for a moment, the room went silent.
you looked from her to your father. âyou what?â
âwell,â your father said, with the deeply irritating calm of a man who had decided he was already in the right, âyou have the summer free.â
âthat does not mean you get to sign me up for camp.â
âit is not camp,â your mother said. âit is a leadership experience.â
âit is literally camp.â
âand a leadership experience.â
you leaned back in the chair slowly, staring at the ceiling as though it might offer divine intervention. it did not.
âyouâre joking.â
âweâre not,â your mother said. âwe think it will be good for you. youâll meet people. get some fresh air. have some responsibility.â
âi have responsibility.â
your father raised an eyebrow. âyou left a plate in your room for three days.â
âthat is not the kind of responsibility i meant.â
âyouâll be a counsellor,â your mother went on, undeterred. âfor the younger group. youâre good with kids.â
âi'm not good with kids.â
âyou babysat mrs. leonâs twin boys for a whole afternoon and they said they liked you.â
âthey also ate crayons.â
âand they still liked youâyour mother smiled, entirely too pleased with herself. âitâll be good for you.â
âyou said that already.â
âbecause itâs true.â
âyou are both insane.â
âweâre trying to give you an experience,â your father said, âyouâve had a long school year, and this will be good for you. your mom and i loved camps.â
âof course you did,â you said flatly. âyou two were probably the kind of kids who volunteered to hold hands during songs.â
your motherâs mouth twitched. âthere is nothing wrong with holding hands during songs.â
âthere is when youâre making me sign up for weeks in the woods because of it.â
they had that look on their faces now, the one that meant they thought they were being kind. it was the most infuriating version of cruel because you could tell they genuinely believed it. they genuinely thought this was a gift, they genuinely thought one day you would thank them for the privilege of spending your summer in the middle of nowhere supervising children while wearing some horrendous camp shirt.
you looked back down at the leaflet. camp nowhere. even the name sounded like a joke somebody had made too late at night and then somehow gotten approved by a committee.
the pictures were almost annoyingly nice, though. a lake at sunset. a row of cabins with lights glowing in the windows. kids canoeing in bright life vests, smiling wide enough to make you suspicious. a campfire ring with marshmallows skewered on sticks. it all looked like the kind of life that happened in movies, in those glossy summer scenes that always seemed to end with someone falling in love under the stars.
you hated that your first instinct was to think, well. maybe it wonât be completely miserable.
âweâll let you pack what you want,â your mother said, as if this softened the blow. âsummer clothes, comfortable shoes, things like that. and maybe something a little nicer for the closing ceremony.â
âclosing ceremony?â
âthereâs a big games day at the end.â
âof course there is.â
âitâs very excitingâ she said.
you let your head fall back for a second, eyes closed. âso i'm being banished.â
âyouâre not being banished.â
your father laughed into his mug. your mother smiled that annoying, fond smile she got when she thought your misery was amusing.
âyouâll be fineâ she said.
you opened one eye and looked at her. âthatâs an optimistic thing to say for someone who just ruined my summerâ
âyouâll thank us later.â
âi doubt that.â
âyouâll see.â
you didnât say anything after that. there was no point. they had already won, and you all knew it. that was the worst part. not the camp, not even the prospect of months of forced social interaction and bug spray and whatever else people did at forests disguised as leisure. it was the certainty that your parents had made up their minds and expected you to eventually become grateful for it.
so you took the leaflet, stood up, and left the room without another word.
you could hear your mother call after you that dinner would be ready in twenty minutes, but you ignored her and kept walking until you reached your room and shut the door behind you.
for a long time, you just stood there.
then you threw the leaflet onto your bed as if that might help and sank onto the edge of the mattress, staring at the wall with deep, bitter offense.
you picked up your phone, dialled your friends, and when they answered you gave them the full story in the kind of voice that suggested you might actually be on the verge of murder.
by the end of the call, they were laughing at your fate and claiming they miss you already.
when the room went quiet again, the anger settled into something heavier, quieter. not quite defeat, but not far off. you flopped backward onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of your parents downstairs. plates clinking. drawers opening and shutting. normal life continuing as if your entire summer hadn't just been stolen.
you rolled onto your side and dragged the leaflet back toward you.
camp nowhere.
you read through it properly this time, they had activities. a lake. nature walks. canoeing. arts and crafts. team events. singing around a fire. a âpositive, inclusive atmosphere for campers and counsellors alike.â
you snorted at that.
but then, grudgingly, your eyes landed on the photos again. kids with painted faces and crooked grins. counsellors laughing beside them. sunlight filtering through tall trees. a rope bridge over water. docks. firelight. someone holding a guitar. no, it did not look as miserable as it had any right to. in fact, it did look pleasant.
you turned the leaflet over and over in your hands, slowly letting your irritation drain into a tired kind of curiosity.
kids were fun, sometimes. and maybe camp would be okay.
maybe you would learn something useful, maybe youâd get to row a canoe or climb a wall or become one of those annoyingly competent people who could tie knots and start fires without suffering. maybe youâd spend a few weeks away from home and come back with a good story, maybe it would be one of those summers you remembered later and treasured.
maybe.
you were almost annoyed at yourself for thinking it, but the thought had already taken root.
by the time evening came around, you had made yourself a little less miserable. you still gave your parents a dramatic, dignified silence, which they both endured with remarkable patience, and you still muttered something rude when your father asked whether you were excited. but underneath all of that, under the sulking and the resentment and the very real desire to fake your own disappearance, there was a tiny flicker of something else.
not hope, exactly.
something softer than that.
-
the next few days passed in the strange blur that always came before going somewhere you did not want to go.
suddenly every drawer needed sorting, every shirt had to be judged, every pair of shoes you owned was either too dirty, too nice, or too wrong for camp. you packed summer clothes with the stubborn optimism of someone who had no clue what the weather would be but determined to trust the glossy pictures in the leaflet anyway. shorts. t-shirts. worn-in trainers. one slightly nicer jumper for evenings.
you also packed your walkman, because there was no universe in which you were surviving a long car journey with your parentsâ conversation and your fatherâs taste in music without some kind of escape.
the morning of departure arrived in bright, cheerful sunlight that felt personal. of course the day you were being shipped off to the wilderness would be beautiful, of course the sky would be blue and the world would smell like grass and warm pavement.
your parents were infuriatingly upbeat.
your father loaded the car with the kind of practical efficiency that suggested he had been waiting for this day and your mother hovered around the porch making sure you had everything, every now and then pressing some last-minute item into your hands like a send off blessing. bug spray. a towel. an extra water bottle. snacks for the road. a notebook. sunscreen.
you climbed into the back seat, shut the door and immediately looked out the window so you wouldn't have to see their faces until the very last second.
the drive was long enough that the scenery gradually changed from town streets to long stretches of road to dense green blur. the farther you went, the more the world seemed to empty out around you.
houses disappeared. shops disappeared. familiar landmarks became occasional gas stations and fields and then nothing but trees. your fatherâs music played low through the car speakers, something from the sort of band he always claimed was âgood for the soulâ which you were increasingly convinced meant it was good for him and terrible for everyone else.
your mother kept glancing back at you with a smile that was far too hopeful for such a stupid situation.
you pulled your walkman from your bag and slid on the headphones.
peace. maybe not full peace, but at least now it was happening with a soundtrack you chose yourself. you leaned your head against the window, let the music fill the space where your irritation had been and watched the world flick past in green and gold streaks.
somewhere in the middle of a song, you drifted into that strange half-sleep that happens when you are too tired to be properly awake but too uncomfortable to fully rest. the road became a hum. the trees became shadows. your parents became blurred voices under the music. every now and then the car would dip or sway and youâd surface just long enough to see a sign that meant absolutely nothing to you before sinking back again.
when you finally startled awake, it was because the car had slowed.
you blinked, sitting up straight, and pulled the headphones off one ear. ahead, through the windshield, was a huge wooden sign standing at the edge of a long gravel driveway. camp nowhere. the same slogan from the leaflet was painted underneath in cheerful, obnoxious letters. somewhere beyond it, you could see the roofs of cabins tucked between trees and the shimmer of water through the trunks.
it really did look like the kind of place a movie would use for a summer setting.
as you got closer, the scene came into focus in frustrating detail. a big bus parked off to one side. coloured banners strung between trees. kids running in clusters dragging bags or waving at each other, looking wildly excited in a way you couldn't quite understand.
adults in bright team shirts moved around with clipboards and wide smiles, shepherding everyone toward some unseen centre of camp.
once you stepped out, there was no pretending this was temporary anymore. this was it. this was your summer.
your mother turned around in her seat. âready?â
no, you thought.
instead you said, âi hate that youâre enjoying this.â
she smiled. âweâll miss you.â
âthat is the least convincing thing youâve ever said.â
your father leaned back from the driverâs seat and gave you a look in the rearview mirror that was almost soft. almost. âyouâll be fine.â
your mom kissed your forehead before you could dodge it, and then you were climbing out of the car.
the air smelled like pine and lake water. you shut the car door behind you and stood for a second with the sun on your face, blinking against the brightness.
then a man in a green camp shirt came striding toward you and he was beaming.
âwelcome to camp nowhere!â he said, âyou must be our new counsellor.â
he held out a dark green shirt toward you.
you stared at it. âleafy team?â
his grin widened as if your reaction delighted him. âthatâs right. youâll be with the leafies this summer.â
âleafiesâ you repeated slowly, because there was no way that was a real sentence.
âwe keep it fun around here.â
âright.â
he laughed and told you to head inside the main hut for orientation. you took the shirt mostly so he would stop talking then followed the path toward the building with the rest of the new staff.
inside, there were rows of folding chairs, a long table at the front and a whole mess of counsellors already gathering in clusters and laughing too loudly. everyone seemed weirdly polished as if theyâd been born knowing how to wear a whistle around their neck without looking stupid.
you found yourself gravitating toward the back because it was easier to glare from there.
the man from outside, apparently in charge, stood at the front and called for everyoneâs attention. he introduced himself, introduced the rest of the staff, and then started going through the teams. the names got progressively more dramatic in a way that made you increasingly suspicious. the hawks. the wolves. the foxes. the bears. the eagles.
and then, finally, with the kind of smile that suggested he found this hilariously unfortunate, he said, âand weâve got the leafies too.â
there was a ripple of laughter through the room, a couple of counsellors even made sympathetic noises.
you turned and realised that the other teams had somehow all landed on names that sounded bold or fierce or at least vaguely respectable.
why the hell were you a leaf?
âeach team gets two counsellors,â he said. âthey will together run their group of kids over the summer-â
the door to the hut opened.
a guy stepped in, one hand already raised in apology, hair slightly mussed like heâd ran here. he looked a little flushed, a little out of breath and immediately too handsome for the situation.
âsorry,â he said, voice easy and warm even while he looked mildly embarrassed. âgot held up.â
the man at the front waved him in with the patience of someone who had seen this before. âah, there he is. steve, youâre with the leafies.â
steve.
the name suited him in a way that was irritating.
he crossed the room with easy confidence, though there was still a lingering edge of breathlessness around him. he looked around the room, took in the crowd, and then his eyes landed on you.
for a second, something in his face shifted. just a small flicker of curiosity, maybe confusion.
when the leafies were finally announced as the team that apparently always lost the trial at the end of camp, steve let out a low sound of disbelief.
âyouâre kiddingâ he said.
âtheyâre a spirited group.â
âspirited?â steve repeated.
âwell,â the man said, âtheyâve got heart.â
the meeting dragged on after that, full of instructions and schedules and rules and warnings about the lake, the trails, the snack shed, the canoes and the importance of not leaving children unattended near anything remotely fun. you half listened, half watched steve across the room when you could get away with it.
he wasn't paying attention in the way the others were. he looked like he was trying, which somehow made him more interesting than the ones who were pretending to know exactly what they were doing. every so often he would lean down and scribble something on the paper in front of him, then glance up again with that same observant look. when he noticed you looking, he lifted his brows slightly, like heâd caught you stealing a glance.
you looked away so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.
by the time the meeting ended, the room had broken into that noisy, confused shuffle of people collecting notebooks and standing up too quickly.
you gathered your things and headed toward the door, already preparing yourself for whatever disaster would be your cabin assignment.
âhey.â
the voice came from close behind you, easy and casual and just loud enough to stop you.
you turned.
steve had caught up with you in the doorway, his bag slung over one shoulder, one hand shoved into his pocket. up close, he looked even more annoyingly put together in the not-quite-put-together way that seemed effortless. there was a little flush still in his cheeks and his expression had shifted from mildly annoyed to something like curiosity.
âyeah?â you asked.
âyouâre on leafies too, right?â
you lifted your chin. âtragically.â
that got a real smile out of him.
âcool,â he said. âso weâre both doomed.â
âseems that way.â
he held out his hand. âsteve.â
you looked at it for a second before taking it. his hand was warm, his grip firm, and there was something disarmingly normal about it, like he wasnât trying too hard to be impressive or charming or anything at all. he just was.
you told him your name.
he repeated it, like he was trying it out. âokay, cool. nice to meet you, officially.â
ânice to meet you too.â
he glanced toward the rest of the staff dispersing, then back at you. âso, iâm guessing you heard the part where our team is the camp equivalent of a bad omen?â
âi did.â
âexcellent.â
âexcellent?â
âi like being warned in advance,â he said. âmeans i know what iâm working with.â
you snorted. âwhat exactly are you working with?â
he looked at you for a beat, and the corner of his mouth twitched. âa team called the leafies.â
that got another laugh out of you, softer this time, and the sound seemed to settle something in the air between you. the weirdness of the day didnât disappear, not by any stretch, but it shifted.
you walked out of the hut together, shoulder to shoulder in the warm late afternoon light and the camp spread out around you in all directions.
kids ran past with water bottles and whistles and little canvas bags. somebody called for a canoe to be brought down to the lake. somewhere a hammer was hitting wood, and somewhere else music drifted faintly from an open cabin window.
steve shoved his hands in his pockets and looked over at you. âso, what do you think?â
âabout what?â
âabout this whole place.â
you looked around before answering. âitâs aggressively wholesome.â
âright?â
âone inspirational speech away from becoming a cult.â
he laughed, proper this time and the sound made you glance at him again before you could help it.
âi mean,â he said, âi was gonna say rustic.â
ârustic is a nicer word for it.â
âleafiesâ he said again, shaking his head. âwhat kind of name is that?â
âthe kind that loses.â
âyeah, well,â he said, with mock solemnity, âweâre gonna change that.â
you tilted your head. âare we?â
âabsolutely.â
you studied him for a second, taking in the way he talked like he'd already decided the summer wasnât going to beat him. he looked like the sort of person who could walk into a room and make it feel a little less hostile simply by existing in it.
âyouâre very optimistic for someone who arrived late and is assigned to a cursed teamâ you said.
he shrugged. âwhat can i say? i like a challenge.â
âsounds suspicious.â
he laughed again, and this time there was a tiny pause afterward, just enough for the two of you to register that you were both standing there smiling at each other like idiots in the middle of camp.
then he cleared his throat, very slightly embarrassed, and said, âour cabins are opposite each other.â
you blinked. âhow do you know that?â
he pointed vaguely over his shoulder. âi saw the assignment board.â
you stared in the direction he had indicated, and sure enough, after a moment of squinting through the crowd and the bright afternoon glare, you could make out the line of cabins stretching along the path. your own cabin stood at one side of the clearing, and opposite it, was steveâs.
âof course they areâ you murmured.
âwell,â he said, with a grin, âguess weâre neighbours.â
the sound of dinner being called from somewhere near the hall pulled the camp into motion around you. staff began herding children toward lines, counsellors started shouting names, the whole place buzzed with movement charged energy of summer.
steve stepped back just enough to gesture toward your cabin path. âguess this is where we split up.â
you nodded.
neither of you moved for a second then he said, âsee you around, leafy.â
âdonât call me that.â
âtoo late.â
you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling when you turned around, and you knew he had seen it.
the trees overhead were still too green, the air still too warm, and the camp was still camp nowhere, but now there was something else in the mix too.
a boy with a crooked smile and the unnerving habit of making your irritation disappear.
you stepped into your cabin, dropped your bag onto one of the bunks, and stood there in the dim wooden quiet for a moment, listening to the sounds of the camp outside.
then, slowly, you smiled to yourself.
because maybe your parents had been wrong about a lot of things. maybe they had no idea how much you would hate being here at first, maybe they had been annoying, and unforgivably smug.
but maybe, just maybe, they had accidentally done one thing right.
because if fate and the stars and whatever stupid summer magic camp nowhere had tucked between the trees were feeling generous, then this could be the kind of summer that changed things.
and if steve harrington was as charming as he seemed, and not some secret asshole hidden under that easy grin, then maybe this whole disaster might turn out to be something else entirely.
-
when you finally got into bed that night, changed and exhausted, listening to the low murmur of the camp settling around you, you turned onto your side and stared out through the cabin window at the darkening trees.
somewhere across the path, steve was in his own cabin, probably doing the exact same thing. though you had no way of knowing that yet, the thought was enough to make the edge of your mouth lift again.
you fell asleep with that thought still warm in your chest, and for the first time since your parents had sat you down at the table, you did not feel entirely trapped.
only curious, only a little hopeful.
-
the first morning started way too early.
you woke up to sunlight cutting through the thin cabin curtains directly onto your face and the sound of somebody outside blowing a whistle. for a few seconds you forgot where you were completely, still half asleep enough to think you were at home.
then you looked up at the wooden ceiling. camp, right.
you groaned quietly and pulled the blanket over your face for another minute before finally forcing yourself up. outside your cabin window the camp was already alive. kids running around in oversized shirts, counsellors carrying boxes and clipboards, somebody laughing loud enough to echo through the trees.
you changed into your leafy team shirt with deep reluctance.
the dark green honestly was not terrible, the name still was though.
when you stepped outside with your shoelaces half tied, the morning air hit you all at once. warm already, but still carrying that coolness from the night before. the lake nearby reflected sunlight through the trees and somewhere off in the distance music was playing quietly from a radio.
and then there was steve, sitting on the steps outside his cabin with a coffee.
he looked up when he heard your door shut.
âwow,â he said immediately. âyou look thrilled to be alive.â
you squinted at him. âi was until i heard that whistle.â
he stood up, stretching slightly before walking over toward you. his hair was still messy from sleep, and somehow that combined with the stupid green shirt made him look unfairly good this early in the morning.
âready for bonding day?â he asked.
âsounds threatening.â
âapparently weâre building something in the woods.â
âsounds more threatening.â
âi heard one of the counsellors say teamwork exercise,â he added, lowering his voice dramatically. âso i think we should prepare for the worst.â
âknew this place was a cult.â
he grinned at that, and before you could say anything else a group of kids came barreling across the clearing toward you both.
your group.
the leafies.
all six of them looked half awake and overly excited at the same time, talking over each other before theyâd even reached you.
âare we really going in the woods?â
âdo we get tools?â
âsam said weâre building houses-â
âcan i climb stuff?â
âi saw a frog earlier.â
âwhat if thereâs bears?â
steve blinked slowly at the chaos before glancing sideways at you. âmaybe we shouldâve prepared more.â
you snorted.
but honestly?
the kids were kind of great.
there was maya, who talked so fast she practically tripped over her own words. adam, who seemed determined to touch every single thing he passed. twins called rosie and molly who argued every thirty seconds but got defensive if anyone else did. liam, who had decided steve was the coolest person alive within five minutes. and noah, quieter than the others but weirdly hilarious whenever he actually spoke.
by the time breakfast ended and all the groups were led out toward the forest trails, you already liked them more than you expected to.
the challenge itself sounded simple enough. each team had to build a shelter using only things they found in the woods. sticks, leaves, branches, whatever.
strongest structure won.
âthis,â steve announced once your group reached your section of forest, âis where the leafies begin their comeback story.â
âokay,â you said, clapping your hands together once. ânew rule. weâre not losing.â
âexactly,â steve said, pointing at you, âthatâs the energy we need.â
âwhat's our team called again?â maya asked.
âleafy team!â adam yelled proudly. steve failed to hide his bitter look.
somehow, though, once everybody started actually working, it became fun quicker than either of you expected.
the kids took the assignment incredibly seriously.
within minutes they were running around the forest searching for sticks like their lives depended on it. rosie and molly dragged over branches twice their size while arguing about direction. liam kept bringing steve the most useless tiny twigs imaginable. maya was determined to decorate the shelter instead of structurally support it.
âwe need cutenessâ she insisted.
âwe need wallsâ you told her.
âsame thing.â
at one point noah quietly pointed up toward a thick branch stuck high in a tree and said, âthat one would be good.â
steve looked up at it, then at all the kids staring expectantly at him.
âabsolutely not.â
âcome onâ you said immediately.
âno.â
âsteveâ maya whined, already dragging him toward it.
five minutes later he was halfway up the tree muttering complaints under his breath while all of you stood below giving wildly unhelpful advice.
âa little left!â
âyour other left!â
âdonât fall!â
âi hate all of youâ he called down.
âyou love usâ you shouted back.
he looked down at you then, sunlight catching through the leaves around him, and there was this quick crooked grin on his face before he snapped the branch free.
âyeah,â he said. âyou wishâ
by the middle of the afternoon all of you were sweaty, covered in dirt, and weirdly invested in a stick house.
it looked good. really good, actually.
somehow, between all eight of you, the thing had become a proper little den tucked between trees.
âthis is sickâ liam breathed.
the camp leaders came around checking everyoneâs shelters near the end, and when they reached yours, both of them looked genuinely impressed.
âleafiesâ one of them said, sounding surprised.
steve put a hand over his chest. âyour faith in us is inspiring.â
you elbowed him lightly while the kids giggled.
before leaving that morning, each group had been handed a disposable camera. apparently every team got one for the summer, with enough film to document basically everything.
âfirst photoâ maya declared suddenly.
all six kids immediately started yelling over each other about where to stand.
eventually all of you squeezed into the shelter together, knees shoved awkwardly against branches and shoulders pressed together because there really was not enough room for eight people.
âeveryone fit?â steve asked, holding the camera out awkwardly.
âno,â you laughed. âyour arm is in my face.â
âtragedy.â
âmove.â
the kids were already laughing before the photo was even taken.
steve finally clicked the button while half leaning backward out of the den, and the flash went off at completely the wrong angle.
âthat is definitely blurryâ you said.
âadds characterâ he argued.
âsure.â
still, when the photo developed eventually, you knew it would probably end up being one of your favourites.
all of you crammed together under that badly made roof. smiling too wide. steve barely in frame because heâd taken it himself.
it felt like the start of something.
the walk back to camp afterward was loud and chaotic in the best way. the kids were all talking over each other again, replaying every part of the day.
âweâre definitely winningâ adam announced confidently.
âobviouslyâ steve agreed.
you looked over at him. âwe should probably stop promising things.â
âwhy?â
âbecause what if we lose?â
he looked offended by the suggestion. âhave some faith in the leafies.â
you laughed.
and weirdly enough, you did.
over the next few days, things settled into a rhythm.
you woke up early. complained about it with steve. spent the day chasing kids around activities while somehow getting way too competitive yourselves.
the leafies became known very quickly for trying way too hard at absolutely everything.
rock climbing day turned into a full team mission to reach the highest point possible. even the kids who were scared ended up cheering everybody else on from below while you and steve yelled encouragement from the ground.
fire building day became weirdly intense.
âours has to be the best oneâ steve said seriously.
âyou say that like thereâs prize money.â
âthere should be.â
you spent nearly an hour trying to keep your fire alive while smoke got in everybodyâs eyes and the kids kept dramatically coughing like they were dying.
âi canât seeâ rosie complained.
âthatâs cause youâre standing in the smokeâ you told her.
âwhose fault is that?â
âprobably steveâs.â
âhey.â
somehow, despite all of it, your fire ended up being the strongest one there.
archery day nearly destroyed all of your confidence.
none of the kids could hit the bullseye.
you couldnât either.
neither could steve, despite loudly claiming at the start that it was âprobably easy.â
âthis thing is riggedâ he muttered after missing again.
the kids had started making fun of you both by the end of the session.
âi thought counsellors were meant to be good at stuffâ noah said.
âthatâs actually a really hurtful stereotypeâ steve replied.
you were crying laughing by the time your final turns came around.
âokay,â steve said, pointing at the target. âbullseye before we leave. thatâs the mission.â
âthat was not the mission.â
âit is now.â
everyone went quiet when you pulled the arrow back.
you honestly did not expect it to happen. but then the arrow flew and hit dead centre.
for a second nobody reacted then suddenly all seven of them were screaming.
the kids launched themselves at you immediately while you stood there laughing in complete shock, and somehow steve ended up grabbing your shoulders at the same time while yelling, âno way! no way!â
âi did that!â you shouted.
âyou actually did!â
âholy shit-â
âlanguageâ he said automatically.
âoh, now you care?â
everyone was practically jumping on top of each other and the camp instructor looked deeply exhausted by all of you.
you did not stop smiling for the next hour.
-
lake days became your favourite, mostly because everybody relaxed more there.
the kids loved swimming, even if half of them were terrible at it, and steve apparently had taken some lifeguarding class back in high school which transformed him into the bossiest person alive near water.
âno running!â
âyou literally just ranâ you pointed out.
âthat was different.â
âhow?â
âiâm trained.â
canoeing somehow became even worse. or better, depending on perspective.
you and steve got paired together every time because the kids insisted it was funniest that way.
they were right.
you flipped the canoe over so many times it became embarrassing.
âlean left!â steve shouted.
âi am leaning left!â
âyour other left!â
âdonât start this again-â
seconds later both of you were underwater.
the kids were screaming laughing from nearby canoes while you surfaced spluttering.
âweâre actually worse than themâ you gasped.
steve pushed wet hair out of his face, laughing hard enough to barely breathe. âyeah, this is humiliating.â
afterward, though, while helping teach the younger kids how to tread water properly or swim stronger laps across the shallow end, things always slowed down a little.
you learned things from steve during those quieter moments.
how to float properly without panicking, how to spot when one of the kids was getting overwhelmed before they actually said anything.
and outside of activities, usually late at night sitting on cabin steps after everybody else had settled down, you learned other things too.
about his parents never really being home. about his dad sending him here after a terrible report card and acting like camp would somehow âfixâ him. about the way he shrugged things off when they probably bothered him more than he let people see.
and he learned about you too.
about your parents springing camp on you out of nowhere. about your music. your favourite songs. the stupid things you wanted to do after school even if you had no idea how to get there yet.
somehow conversations with steve became easy before you even noticed it happening.
you stopped thinking before speaking around him.
he started showing up beside you automatically during meals or activities like it was instinct.
the kids noticed too.
especially maya, maya noticed everything.
âyou guys act marriedâ she informed you both one afternoon.
you nearly choked on your drink.
steve looked horrified. âwe absolutely do not.â
âyou bicker like my parents.â
ânot helping.â
the kids all started agreeing loudly while you covered your face in embarrassment. but secretly? you didnât mind it. because somewhere along the way, between the lake and the woods and the late night conversations and the terrible team name, you had stopped caring so much about proving people wrong.
the whole plan to turn the leafies into camp champions slowly faded into the background.
not because you stopped trying but because suddenly the important part was this. the kids. the laughter. steve sitting too close beside you at campfires.
all eight of you ending every day exhausted and smiling anyway.
you didnât notice the camp leaders watching your group more carefully than the others, didnât notice the little smiles they exchanged whenever your team passed by.
because while some counsellors treated the camp like a competition or free babysitting or something to survive until summer ended, you and steve cared.
genuinely.
about the kids, about the team, about making every day fun for them and maybe, without fully realising it yet, about each other too.
-
the weeks kept going after that, somehow getting better instead of repetitive.
which honestly felt unfair.
you had expected camp to become one long blur eventually. same cabins, same trails, same activities over and over until you were desperate to go home. but instead every day somehow ended up feeling different. mostly because of the kids. and because of steve.
you learned very quickly that while your team was weirdly good at physical activities, teamwork and making disasters fun, there were two things all eight of you absolutely sucked at.
hiking and orienteering.
the second the camp leaders handed steve a map and compass, you knew it was over.
âokay,â he said, staring at the paper like it had personally insulted him. âwhy does this look like ancient scripture?â
âthatâs a normal map.â
âthere are too many lines.â
you laughed while the kids immediately crowded around him trying to help in the least helpful ways possible.
âi think we go left.â
âwhatâs north?â
within twenty minutes all of you were lost.
not deeply lost but definitely not where you were meant to be. the trail kept splitting off into smaller paths, the compass never seemed to agree with the map, and steve was getting increasingly dramatic about the whole thing.
âthis thing is brokenâ he said for the fourth time, aggressively shaking the compass.
âi donât think that helps.â
you were crying laughing by that point while the kids ran ahead collecting leaves and shouting every time they found anything remotely interesting.
part of the hike involved an animal checklist booklet each team had been given. the goal was to tick off every creature you spotted during the walk.
birds, squirrels, frogs, deer. stuff like that.
rosie had claimed responsibility for carrying the booklet almost immediately, holding onto it like it was state property.
at first the kids took it seriously.
âred squirrel!â maya yelled at one point.
âthatâs a branch.â
âoh.â
but somewhere around hour two, after getting lost for what felt like the fifth time and finding absolutely none of the animals they needed, the whole thing slowly dissolved into nonsense.
it started with noah pointing at a weird shaped tree root and saying it looked like a âmud goblin.â
rosie immediately wrote it down in the back pages of the booklet.
after that, it became a game.
one of the kids would point at something random or badly imitate an animal and everybody else would invent names for it.
twig rat, swamp horse, wet pigeon beast. none of them made sense, the spellings somehow made even less sense.
rosie wrote every single one down in messy handwriting while laughing so hard she could barely hold the pencil straight.
you and steve tried very hard to stay out of it.
-
arts and crafts days became another unexpected favourite.
technically those days were mostly for the kids, but steve always somehow managed to get extra supplies for the two of you.
he shoved a marker toward you. âdraw meâ
âabsolutely not.â
âcoward.â
eventually you did. badly, very badly. you drew his hair too big on purpose and his jaw weirdly square and somehow made one eye slightly higher than the other.
when you slid the paper toward him, steve stared at it for a full five seconds.
âwow,â he said quietly. âyou really captured how exhausted i look.â
you laughed so hard you had to put your head down on the table.
âhold on,â he said. âmy turn.â
his drawing of you somehow looked both nothing like you and exactly like you at the same time. the proportions were terrible. the nose was questionable at best. but the smile looked real enough that your stomach weirdly flipped when you looked at it.
you looked up at him then, he was already looking at you, and for a second neither of you laughed.
the kids yelling nearby snapped the moment apart before it could become anything else, but after that things between you shifted again.
subtly at first, small things. his hand brushing yours more often, the way heâd lean closer when talking to you, the way he always looked for you first in a crowd. the teasing changed too, less just joking more.. something else.
âyou missed me?â he asked one evening after youâd spent half the day separated during activities.
âdesperatelyâ you said flatly.
he grinned. âgood.â
and the annoying thing was, he probably knew you meant it a little.
you tried not to think about it too hard because you really liked him now.
you liked hearing about his day even if youâd been there for most of it. liked the way he made the kids laugh. liked how patient he was when one of them got upset. liked the way heâd quietly check if you were okay whenever camp got overwhelming.
and sometimes youâd catch him already looking at you before you even said anything, like he was thinking too much too.
you just didnât know if it meant the same thing.
until the shed.
every friday night, two counsellors got assigned clean-up duty for the activity shed, which sounded simple enough until you actually saw the shed. it was chaos. boxes half open, board games missing pieces, paint supplies everywhere, footballs shoved into corners, friendship bracelet string tangled around literally everything.
the sun had mostly gone down outside by then, leaving the shed lit in soft yellow light from the flickering bulb overhead. the door barely shut properly, warm night air drifting through the gap every few minutes along with distant campfire sounds from deeper in camp.
the two of you sat on the floor sorting through boxes while talking about absolutely nothing important.
you were halfway through telling him about some weird noise youâd heard outside your cabin the night before.
âi swear it sounded human at first,â you said, sitting cross legged while untangling skipping ropes. âlike genuinely terrifying, then i looked outside and it was just two raccoons fighting near the bins.â
steve snorted from beside you, you shook your head, still smiling slightly while reaching for another box.
âand then this morning maya tried convincing everyone raccoons are technically burglars-â
you stopped mid sentence. because steve was looking at you. not casually, not distractedly, really looking at you.
his arms rested loosely over his knees, expression softer than usual somehow. quieter. like heâd drifted away from the conversation completely and was just focused on you instead.
your stomach flipped.
âwhat?â you asked softly.
for a second he didnât answer then he moved before you could think too hard about it.
the kiss caught you completely off guard. warm and quick and careful all at once. your brain stopped working for a second because steve was kissing you. steve.
and maybe because you froze in shock, or maybe because he thought heâd completely misread everything, he pulled back almost immediately.
âshitâ he said quietly.
you blinked at him.
âsorry. iâm sorry, i donât know why i just-â
he was already shaking his head at himself, embarrassed flushing across his face.
âforget it. that was stupid, i just thought maybe-â
you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him back toward you before he could finish.
his surprise lasted about half a second before he kissed you again. properly this time, slower. his hand came instinctively to your waist while yours stayed twisted lightly in his shirt, and suddenly every stupid little moment from the past few weeks made sense all at once.
you could feel him smiling slightly into the kiss after a second, like he still couldnât fully believe this was happening either.
âokayâ he mumbled quietly against your mouth.
you laughed softly. âokay?â
âjust checking i didnât imagine that.â
âyou definitely didnât.â
he kissed you again after that. still careful, still smiling. it never got too heated, mostly because you were sitting in a poorly built shed with a door that barely worked and children definitely still awake somewhere nearby, but honestly that almost made it better.
when you finally pulled apart properly, both of you were still grinning like idiots.
steve leaned back against one of the shelves, rubbing a hand over his face. âwow.â
âwow?â you repeated.
âshut up.â
you laughed again, unable to stop smiling yourself.
âyou have no idea,â he said, looking at you again, âhow long iâve wanted to do that.â
your heart did something deeply embarrassing.
âreally?â
âreally.â
you ducked your head slightly, smiling to yourself.
âgood,â you admitted quietly. âbecause i wanted you to.â
after that, things changed.
stolen kisses when nobody was looking. quick ones behind cabins, soft ones during late-night clean ups, sometimes just his hand brushing yours secretly under tables during staff meetings.
you kept it quiet mostly because neither of you knew if counsellors dating was technically allowed and honestly it felt smarter not to ask questions you probably didnât want answers to.
especially at a childrenâs summer camp.
but keeping it secret almost made it sweeter somehow.
because it wasnât just kissing, it was everything else too. the talking, the late nights, letting each other in properly. you and steve started sitting outside each otherâs cabins after the kids went to sleep, talking quietly until ridiculous hours of the night.
about what happened after camp. about real life about how weird it was that you actually didnât live that far apart.
âyou should come visitâ steve said one night without hesitation.
you looked over at him. âyeah?â
âobviously.â
âwhat if i hate you outside camp?â
he grinned. ânot possible.â
you nudged his shoulder lightly with yours.
âyou should visit me tooâ you said after a second.
âi will.â
and the thing was, you believed him immediately.
the leafies stayed close through all of it.
your team never really lost that feeling from the first week. the easy closeness, the way everybody genuinely wanted to be there together.
even when you did badly at activities, it never actually felt bad because every disaster somehow became funny instead. every failure turned into another story, another joke, another thing all eight of you would laugh about later.
and through all of it, unnoticed by you and steve completely, the camp leaders kept watching your group with quiet smiles.
because the leafies had stopped being the losing team. not because they were suddenly the best at every activity but because theyâd become the team everybody else wanted to be around.
the kids were happier, more confident, and every time the leaders looked over at your group, they saw the same thing:
you and steve right in the middle of it all.
completely unaware of how obvious it was that you cared about every second of this summer.
-
it was that same kind of quiet bliss all the way through to the end of summer.
camp started feeling like a place you just existed in, like it had always been part of your life in some weird way you couldnât explain.
the days stopped dragging and started disappearing instead. one moment you were laughing around a campfire, the next you were waking up again with dirt on your shoes and the smell of lake water still in your hair.
the leafies never really got better at canoeing.
you and steve especially were still, objectively, a disaster on water.
âiâm telling you, it hates usâ steve said for what felt like the hundredth time as the canoe tipped slightly to one side.
âitâs a canoe,â you said, gripping the edge. âit doesnât have opinions.â
âthis one does.â
you flipped over again about thirty seconds later.
none of you ever trusted the compass either.
it became more of a symbolic object than a useful one, passed around occasionally and immediately ignored.
but everything else worked.
slowly, without anyone really planning it, the leafies got good at things.
rock climbing became something you all actually looked forward to. fire building turned into a competition you somehow always won. hiking stopped being 'getting lost' and became manageable. and even the quieter kids started speaking up more, like they finally believed someone would actually listen.
it flew by in that strange way good summers do, where every day feels long while youâre in it but impossible to separate afterwards.
until suddenly it was the last week.
and that hit harder than you expected.
you didnât really say it out loud, not properly, but steve knew. you could tell he felt it too in the way he lingered a little longer after activities, in the way he watched the kids more when they werenât looking.
so you both did what you always did.
you didnât talk about it too much you just made the week count.
meals turned into louder, messier versions of what theyâd been before. long tables full of shouting and laughter and people stealing food off each otherâs plates. activities stopped being about winning anything and became about how ridiculous you could make them before the instructors gave up correcting you.
and at night, it was just you and steve again.
running around camp like you owned it.
once, late enough that most of the cabins were already dark, you both snuck down to the lake.
it was absolutely not allowed.
âif we get caught,â steve whispered, pulling off his shoes, âiâm blaming you.â
âyouâre the one who suggested it.â
âyeah, but you agreed.â
the water was cold when you got in, colder than you expected, but neither of you got out. just floated there for a while, half laughing, half shivering, staring up at the sky like there was nowhere else you needed to be.
âthis is definitely how we die in a horror movieâ you said.
âweâre too good to die in a horror movieâ steve replied.
when the final games day arrived, there wasnât really nervousness anymore just excitement and this strange, steady feeling that whatever happened, it wasnât going to matter in the way you used to think it would.
but still, you all wanted to win. not because of the score because it felt right to end it that way.
from the moment it started, the leafies were loud.
every time one of your kids stepped up for a challenge, all of you cheered like theyâd just done something impossible. even when they were struggling, especially when they were struggling, you and steve were there at the edge of every activity shouting encouragement like it was the most important thing in the world.
âyouâve got this, adam!â
ârosie, that was amazing!â
ânoah, that was strategic and i respect it!â
steve was worse than you in the best way.
he treated every small win like it deserved a celebration and the kids absolutely fed off it.
by the time the counsellor vs counsellor game rolled around, the energy was unhinged.
it was something simple. competitive relay-style nonsense that nobody was taking seriously except everyone was taking seriously.
you and steve won by a narrow margin. barely. but it didnât matter at all because the second it ended, you were already laughing, breathless, turning straight into him without thinking.
âwe did itâ steve said, grinning like an idiot.
âwe barely did itâ you corrected.
âstill counts.â
and then the kids were running down toward you both, shouting, piling into the moment like it belonged entirely to them. you didnât even get to finish talking before you were all in a messy group hug that nearly knocked you over.
steveâs arm ended up around your shoulders without hesitation, yours stayed around his waist. neither of you really clocked it, it just felt normal.
by the end of the day, after everything had been played and cheered and exhausted into the ground, everyone sat together for the final announcement.
the main camp leader, mark, stood at the front with a clipboard and that tired but fond expression he always had at the end of busy days.
âthis has been,â he said, looking around, âa genuinely brilliant summer. every team has brought something special to camp nowhere this year.â
there were cheers and tired laughter across the room.
you sat with steve and the kids squeezed in around you, all of you leaning into each other in different ways, listening without really thinking about it.
your fingers were loosely linked with his without either of you noticing.
mark kept talking.
âbut thereâs one team that really stood out.â
the room quieted slightly.
âtheir teamwork, their attitude, and the way they looked after each other⊠itâs exactly what this camp is supposed to be about.â
you felt steve glance at you, you glanced back.
neither of you said anything.
âtheir counsellors,â mark continued, âstarted off the least enthusiastic pair we had in the first meeting.â
a ripple of laughter went through the room.
you snorted softly.
âbut they ended up being some of the most involved, most caring, and most consistent leaders weâve had in years.â
steveâs thumb brushed lightly against your hand.
you didnât look down.
âand,â mark said, smiling now, âtheyâve won camp nowhere. well done leafies.â
for a second, there was silence then the room exploded.
the leafies all jumped up at once. you and steve followed a second later, completely swept into the chaos, laughing as the kids basically tackled you both in celebration.
âwe won!â maya screamed.
âwe actually won!â liam shouted.
steve grabbed your hand properly this time without thinking and pulled you into him as everyone shouted around you.
you were both laughing too hard to breathe properly.
later, after the chaos had settled and medals had been handed out and mark had made some speech about pride and effort and whatever else leaders say at the end of things like this, he pulled you and steve aside.
âjust so you know,â he said, lowering his voice slightly, âif you two ever want to come back next summer⊠weâd happily have you back as a team for the leafiesâ
steve blinked. âseriously?â
mark smiled. âseriously.â
you looked at steve, then back at mark and somehow that felt like a bigger moment than the medals.
after that came ice cream, because of course it did, and more celebrating, and the strange slow realisation that it was actually ending.
the final night hit differently. not loud like the rest just soft, like camp holding its breath.
steve ended up in your cabin that night without either of you really discussing it. there was no big moment, it just happened the way everything important between you had started happening lately.
you didnât do anything dramatic, you just lay there together, tangled up under the blankets, talking quietly until you both drifted off.
his hand stayed in yours until you fell asleep.
the next morning came too fast.
you helped each other pack in between moments of pretending it wasnât real. folding clothes. checking under beds. finding random lost things that belonged to the kids and setting them aside.
then came the goodbyes.
the kids were loud about it, as expected. too many hugs. too many âdonât forget usâs that felt completely unnecessary because there was no chance you were going to.
parents arrived one by one, and every time one of them saw you and steve with their kid, they had that same expression. the one that said theyâd clearly noticed something had happened over the summer, even if they didnât know exactly what.
stories were already being told before youâd even finished saying goodbye properly.
âthey made the best fire!â
âwe won games day!â
âthey were the coolest counsellors!â
steve looked at you once like he didnât know what to do with that, you just smiled.
at the end, when most of the camp had already started to empty out, steve pulled out the disposable camera.
still not developed.
âkeep it?â he asked.
you nodded. âyeah.â
he hesitated, then shook his head. âactually⊠no. i want you to get it developed. and send me the pictures.â
âor,â you said, âyou could just come get them.â
that made him smile immediately.
âyeah?â he asked.
âyeah.â
he stepped closer then, just for a second, and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. then your cabin door opened behind you both and reality caught up again.
you said goodbye properly a few minutes later. too many pauses, too many half sentences. steve handed you a folded piece of paper with his number on it, you put it in your bag carefully like it mattered more than it should.
âcall me tonightâ he said.
âi will.â
âyou better.â
âor what?â
he smiled. âiâll come find you.â
âdramatic.â
he started to look like he might overthink it, so you grabbed the pen from his hand, pulled up his sleeve, and wrote your number on his arm instead.
âjust in caseâ you said.
he looked down at it like it was something important then back at you. and for a second neither of you moved.
then he kissed you once more before you had to leave, like a promise that didnât need words.
when you finally got into the car, your parents already knew, they didnât even have to ask. your mom just smiled a little as you looked out the window.
âgood summer?â she asked.
you didnât answer immediately, then you glanced back at camp disappearing behind the trees.
I need hotch with angry bau reader đđ Iâm genuinely so pissed off recently and him calming me down would actually heal me
over the line
you and me both đŁ cw; bau fem!reader, established relationship, typical cm case descriptions, a misogynistic rude officer, hurt to comfort <3 wc; 1.2k
Youâd just finished another debrief on a case you already knew would be especially difficult. After all, it wasnât every day you were called out after only one victim; this one had been so brutal that nobody wanted to give the guy a chance to do much as think about making it serial.
Now, you were all gathered around the table, deep in discussion of victimology. But despite the focus, you still caught the murmur of a side discussion to the left of you.Â
"Donât know why weâre even trying to find this guy. Way she was flirting, sounds like she had it coming." One of the officers snickered under his breath, muttering to his colleague. He got a laugh in response. A laugh. Un-fucking-believable.Â
You were already in a bad mood hearing about the case on the jet, but rehashing it brought an even sicker feeling to your stomach. It didnât help that your features left you a practical mirror image to the victim. It may have well been you plastered up on that board.Â
You turned towards the officer, your expression full of shock and disdain. "What did you just say?"
Sharing a glance with his friend, he realized he had two options: retreat and shut up, or continue to be an asshole. Clearly he chose the latter, the option that fed his ego. âI said she had it coming. Look at her,â he added, gesturing towards the table with open disgust.
The crime scene photos. The victim bound and mutilated. The defense marks were clear as day, painting the image of her struggle in your mind as if youâd watched it happen right in front of you.
"She had it coming." You repeated, taking an authoritative, threatening step towards him. The rest of the group fell silent, their attention snapping to you. "You think she asked for this to happen? Is that what you think?"
He shrugged, a smirk forming on his face. He challenged you right back: Yes.Â
A sharp, disbelieving laugh tore out of you. Your fists clenched as you stepped in again, deliberately invading his space. âMaybe we should hand you over to him next,â you snapped, your voice rising with fury. âThen weâll see how fast you realize nobody asks for this.â
âFrom the looks of it, Iâd think heâd prefer you.â
âOh-â
Before you could finish, Aaron intervened, gently yet resolutely grabbing your elbow. He held back the Sweetheart that threatened to pass his lips. "Agent. A word, please."
"Get your men in order. It's disgusting." You snapped at the chief as he joined the rest of you, arriving too late to stop what had already been said.
Your glare didnât waver as Aaron began to guide you away. You allowed him to do so, even as anger burned hot in your chest, your hands still trembling at your sides. His grip was grounding, even as your pulse still pounded, rage coursing through your veins.
"I don't care if I was out of line." You started rambling as soon as the conference room door shut behind the two of you. "I wasn't going to stand there and let him belittle that poor girl."
Now, finally able to use the endearments heâd grown accustomed to, Aaron tried, âSweetheart-â
"The fucking audacity.â You let out an exasperated sigh, beginning to pace. âAgain, I donât care if I overstepped, I donât care how âunprofessionalâ it was. He had no right - none - to speak about her like that, to twist what happened into some sick joke.â
"That's not why I pulled you away. I was afraid you'd start swinging at the guy."
You scoffed, averting your eyes, though the tension in your expression didnât ease. Crossing your arms tightly over your chest, you shook your head, your jaw set. "He deserved it."
"He did. He was out of line, and thought he could get away with it without consequence. You made sure he didnât.â Aaron's lips tugged into a smile, referring to you barking at the person in charge. "And you did my job for me. Maybe you should do it more often."
You laughed gently, but it faded as quickly as it came. You felt yourself coming back down, the anger no longer flaring but settling into something quieter, heavier.Â
âHey.â His hands rested gently on your forearms, holding you still and steadying you once more. While appropriate, an outburst from you was rare. "Do you want to talk about it?"
As Aaron studied you, his brown were soft and full of concern. He could see the exhaustion etched into your features, the way your shoulders carried the weight of the past few days. The empathy you felt for the victim.Â
He was infuriated by the way the officer had spoken to you, and in moments like this, he almost wished he didnât have a badge - or the restraint that came with it; sometimes it would be nice - and warranted - to be able to use his fists to make a point. He ached at the thought of how it must have made you feel, even as a quiet sense of pride settled in at how youâd handled yourself.Â
You shrugged, biting on the inside of your cheek. To hold back tears? Buying time to answer? You werenât quite sure.
Quickly glancing around to make sure no one was coming, he pulled you into his arms and held you close. There were no words that felt right - sometimes, that was just how it was. So he held you tighter, hoping it might be enough to say what he couldnât.
You sank deeper into his touch, letting out a sigh as he pulled you close. For the first time in days, the tension in your shoulders began to ease. His embrace was familiar and loving, a quiet refuge from everything that had come before. If only you could stay here forever, wrapped in this quiet safety, shielded from all that was cruel and ugly.
"It's getting to me too." He offered softly. You weren't the only one visualizing yourself as one of the victims, and the thought unsettled him deeply.Â
You hummed sadly into his chest, burying your face deeper into it. For a moment, you were overtaken by the juvenile notion that you could hide here forever.Â
Much too soon, a knock on the door signaled that the two of you were needed. Aaron sighed and pulled back reluctantly, maintaining his hold on you. âDo you need another minute? Can I get you anything?â
Did you? Maybe you could manage, but the thought made your stomach twist into knots. Back into the suffocating atmosphere of the bullpen where horror awaited. Back to the misogynist asshole who thought he could belittle and poke fun without consequence. It would be much easier to stay here and hide - concealed and safe. But you couldnât. You owed it to the victim. You had to see it through.
At your prolonged silence, and from the expression of unease that grew quietly on your face, Aaron decided for you. âTake all the time you need, sweetheart.â
âNo, no, Iâm okay,â you started to protest, rather unconvincingly - the shakiness in your voice giving you away. âI just want to catch this son of a bitch unsub.âÂ
âTake two more minutes.â Aaron pressed a kiss to your forehead, reaching for the doorknob.Â
âIs that an order?â
With the door open halfway, he turned back, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. âIf thatâs what it takes.â
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