ᥫ᭡ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒔
lisa cuddy x sunshine!reader alt. worth the risk
╰ fluff
cw. lowercase intended
wc. 1.7k
.. MASTERLIST .. MORE SUNSHINE!READER
working in a kindergarten wasn’t everyone’s dream job. in fact, most people would probably run screaming at the idea— finger paints under their nails, juice boxes spilled down their trousers, the endless chorus of “miss, miss, miss!”.
but you didn’t. you loved it.
there was something in those tiny, crooked smiles and the warm weight of chubby, paint-stained fingers curling around yours that made everything else— every restless night, every late dinner, every ache in your lower back and legs— feel almost ornamental in a way. a noise, but never a bother.
no day was ever truly boring with them: loud, yes. chaotic, certainly. but boredom had no grip in their world. each and every one of them felt like a thread stitched to your sleeve, a little life entrusted to your hands. you remembered more about them than most of their parents did, which— if you were being brutally honest— was not exactly a glowing review of modern parenting.
you knew timmy’s favourite colour was purple, that linda never drew a picture without at least three flowers, that kevin loved to gossip… though kevin was twenty-two, nominally an adult, but with the temperament of a particularly chatty flamingo. he was your best friend, in his own way.
and then there was rachel. a little girl with a heart far too big for her cardigan, a softness that looked fragile but never quite cracked. the resilience of her mother. you adored her. truthfully— though you’d hardly admitted it to yourself in so many words— you adored her mother too. when rachel first joined your class you remembered the way she hovered in the doorway: oversized cardigan swallowing her wrists, eyes peeking out like a sparrow’s, and behind her, a woman with a bag that looked heavier than anything paper were to weigh.
it didn’t take long for you and lisa to fall into a rhythm— quiet, unspoken, yet so steady it was almost like a pulse.
she was always busy— dean of princeton-plainsboro, living in a perpetual state of phone calls and quick strides— and you didn’t mind staying a little later, watching over rachel until she arrived.
sometimes that meant an extra hour of finger paints and whispered bedtime stories; sometimes it meant you alone, room darkening with the winter dusk, waiting with the smell of crayons and soap still lingering in the air, the quiet interrupted only by the echo of lisa’s heels coming closer.
“wait—” kevin began, his hands lifting off the leather steering wheel, brakes squeaking, but you were already halfway out the door.
“thanks, kev!” you squeaked, bag thumping against your shoulder, hair falling into your face. one of your flats slipped off, your bare toes barely kissing the cold pavement— gasping, you jammed it back on and slammed the door behind you with the help of gravity, leaving only the sound of kevin’s groan and the fading whine of the brakes in your wake.
“in a meeting,” the nurse said, smiling faintly as she pointed down the hall— by now, most of the staff knew you by sight.
“thank you!” you called, voice swallowed by the sterile corridor, bag bouncing against your hip, footsteps echoing off the tiles like a heartbeat trying to catch its own tail.
you barely had time to stop, flats skidding over polished floor, as your neck snapped toward the glass. lisa was there— commanding the room with her arms braced against the table, a pencil skirt, a pale blouse, her loose curls falling with that practiced coolness of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. she looked like she belonged there, always. she did.
one of the things you loved— had always loved— about her.
her greyish eyes found you, widening by a fraction, the corner of her mouth curling upward just enough to feel like a secret. and then, like a switch, she turned back to the room.
she finished the meeting in record time, heads of the hospital filing out with their muttered agreements and papers in hand— everyone but one. you knew house by reputation already, from her stories: the walking chronic migraine in a blazer, the most exhausting man alive.
“hey… sorry about that,” her shoes clicked against the tiles, smile curved soft and deliberate— like the first pull of an invisible thread.
“hi… it’s okay— I was late… lots of…” you gestured vaguely, words trailing into the sterile air. she chuckled— low, warm, the sound of something loosening— and her hand slid lightly to the top of your back, guiding you down the hall.
that was always how it was with lisa. never quite where it should be— always in passing, in offices, in cafes, in hallways— conversations stolen from the wide jaws of her schedule. a woman forever leaning toward the next thing, and yet, when she turned toward you, it was as though you were the only thing worth attention in the room.
“i have… some of rachel’s…” you started, but her mouth already shaped a knowing smile. it was the smile she only wore when it was just you— never the board, never the faculty. you fumbled with your bag, pulling out the plastic file, rachel’s name scribbled on the front in bubble letters.
lisa laughed, a real one, head shaking as though you’d handed her something unbearably charming.
“y/n… sit down.” she interrupted, the kind of interruption that doesn’t ask but folds you neatly into its space.
“oh… oh! oh… right—” you said, almost tripping into the chair opposite her desk, bag still lurching like a restless thing on your shoulder. your stomach gave a traitorous little flip— you cursed it, cursed yourself for noticing how good she smelled, how still she sat, how utterly lisa she was.
“you’ve got paint on your face,” she said, raising one eyebrow— delicate, amused— as her forearm rested on the desk, leaning closer, the distance between you narrowing until the air itself felt compromised.
“huh?.. oh… we were painting—” you stammered, hands flying up to scrub at your cheeks, surely smearing the mess worse. she laughed— not cruelly, never cruelly— just the sound of someone watching you unravel.
and then her finger— long, red-nailed— found the soft bow of your lip.
your breath snagged. a loose curl slipped forward, brushed your arm. your eyes met hers and something happened: a sudden noise in your chest, a dilation of pupils like a cat’s when the raven outside brings himself to attention.
“paint… on my… face,” you murmured, the words coming out more breathy than speech, lips parted.
“paint on your face,” she repeated, voice slow enough to feel like it was sliding under your skin.
you shifted closer, the movement so small it could be denied later, but everything in you felt unbearably loud: the throb in your fingertips, the shallow twitch in your lower back— one single move and it could be over.
don’t move, don’t ruin it, don’t blink, don’t—
and she didn’t move away.
the corner of her mouth lifted, a small, dangerous curve. lisa cuddy was not a coward. she had been many things in her life— ambitious, unrelenting, exacting— but never cowardly. and yet here she was, heart racing like something adolescent, like a girl about to get caught with her crush.
you wouldn’t make the first move. she knew that. she knew you— the way you hovered at thresholds, polite, shy, terrified of being too much. and god, after the day she’d had— house clawing at her patience, the board chewing at her heels— what was the risk, really?
she could lose a friend. she could lose a teacher her daughter adored.
she could lose you.
but she leaned anyway.
your lips met in a hush. soft. cautious. two heartbeats briefly, violently occupying the same tempo.
her mouth was dry from the meeting, tasting faintly of lipstick— expensive, deliberate, something that had its own gravity. your breath came thin and clumsy, but there was no room left for shame, only the dizzying fact of it.
this is happening. her mouth. mine. this is real.
and you thought— foolishly, helplessly— that if it went wrong, you might never recover.
you parted first, dragging air into your lungs as though surfacing. cheeks flushed, eyes wide, her lipstick faintly blurred at the edges— probably now echoing on your own. your thoughts came like hail on a stormy day.
“i’m sorry—”
“i liked that—”
you both froze, the absurd simultaneity of it making the air tilt, then lighten. and there it was— that identical, crooked smile on both your faces. something had broken loose and neither of you wanted to pick it up.
“rachel’s… um… wilson’s looking after her tonight…” lisa said finally, clearing her throat, easing back into her chair with the practiced grace of someone hiding the ache in her spine. an ache that was very much worth it.
“yeah…?” your voice cracked slightly as you fussed with your shirt, a useless attempt at any kind of composure.
“mhm… come over?” she asked, a smile not quite sheepish, not quite steady.
“of course,” you said, and this time the grin wouldn’t stay down— it climbed your face like light breaking over glass.
it was, in a way, the most dangerous thing about you: you never pretended. even now, heart sprinting, hands clammy, the grin was real. unshielded. that was what undid her. that was what she loved.
and as you left— still a little dazed, bag swinging, mouth warm from her kiss— lisa was already thinking of how to convince james to take rachel for the night. because there was a new kind of urgency in her chest, something old as hunger, and it had your name stitched all through it.
and she loved her daughter, so much— but today? she needed you.
hmd taglist ෆ
@cuddsheebi @sighingforalongtime @emotionallybruisedxx @peachcaf3 @lacasadedecepciones @sincerelylishaxo
..
xoxo, yours truly
mwah!
