This is my first one-shot for Jack Abbott (The Pitt) — not my first time writing (been doing that for a while now), but definitely my first time diving into this man and this show… and yeah, I’m completely addicted at this point, no shame 🤷♀️
⚠️ Warnings:
Emotional angst
Patient death / overdose
Hospital/medical trauma themes
Age gap
Attending x doctor dynamic
Kissing / tension / questionable decisions 👀
⚠️ Important:
This is my original work. Please do not copy, repost, translate, or claim it as your own anywhere. Respect writers.
This is a raw, emotional one-shot—kinda messy in the best way, a little chaotic, very feelings-heavy… basically me putting my heart on paper and hoping it hits someone the same way it hit me while writing it.
I would love to hear what you think—seriously. Comments, reactions, screaming, crying, all of it. Tell me your favourite part, tell me if it hurt, tell me if you’re mad at me for the ending 😅
And if you want more of this universe… just say the word 👀
Yet another night, yet another 12—maybe 15—hour shift. Verdict’s still out, we’ll see. Coffee in hand, smile on my face as I walk into the Pitt. Night shift is a whole other beast—one that doesn’t like to be tamed, but runs wild into the open, breathing down every doctor’s and nurse’s neck. And don’t even get me started if it’s a full moon—it’s like the crazies are even crazier. But hey, I live for the adrenaline.
Heading to the nurse’s station, I catch a glimpse of him—the man I have the biggest crush on… Okay, fine, maybe it’s more than a crush… but I ain’t acting on it. He’s my attending, and nearly fifteen years older than me. So I keep my distance. Don’t wanna cosy up to the Bossman.
I take another sip of my steaming hot vanilla latte, my tongue darting out to catch a drop sliding down the lid.
He nods curtly. No smile, but no annoyance either—just courtesy. “Doctor.”
I nearly choke. “Dr. Abbott—hi. You doing good? Are you? What are you up to? Having a good shift?”
Can I please just stop rambling?
He squints his light eyes. “How much caffeine have you had already?” Then adds, “Try to breathe between words.”
I can feel my cheeks burning. “Uhm… yeah, too many.” I shake my head. “Excuse me—patients and all that.”
I walk briskly into an emergency room where an older man scolds me. “Can’t a man get some sleep?”
I mumble an apology and step back out, feeling his eyes burn a hole through me. Goodness, I hope he can’t read minds—because if he could… yeah, I’d be in serious trouble for having fantasies and feelings about Jack Abbott.
I sigh as I disappear around the corner, closing my eyes for a second. I’ve always been horrible at this—romantic feelings, all of it. And the worst part? I sabotage myself. Always falling for the emotionally unavailable, stoic, brooding types—the ones still hung up on an ex, carrying baggage bigger than an airport line, or with an age gap wide enough to make people assume I’ve got daddy issues… or that grey is my favourite colour. And don’t even get me started on the fact that age lines (aka wrinkles)? Yeah… kind of a turn-on.
I rub my temples, which does nothing to fix the frayed, messy strands of my hair.
Mumbling under my breath, I mutter, “Falling for him… that’s the easy part.”
I straighten up.
This is gonna be a long shift.
I’ve been running—from the feelings, from myself, from him… from something, nothing, everything. Hell if I know.
The only time I’m okay is when I’m focused on a patient. And we’ve had some crazy calls tonight—drunk college students who thought they were Superman, Spider-Man… heck, whatever superhero is cool. Is “cool” even still a cool word? Hell if I know. Shows you how life passes you by—one second you’re young, the next you’re in your thirties getting excited about an early night in, binge-watching a series with a tub of ice cream.
A sudden shiver runs down my spine as his breath brushes over my ear.
“Doctor… are you just gonna stand there, or finish your chart?”
I glance down. “Jack—I mean, Dr. Abbott.”
A knowing smirk crosses his face. “Yeah, last time I checked, that’s my name.”
My cheeks flare pink. “S-sorry… I’m just a little tired.”
He studies my face. “Yeah? I can tell.”
He lifts his hand toward my arm—not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of his skin all the way up to my shoulder.
I—
Is he going to—
My heartbeat spikes—honestly, probably illegal at this point.
His hand moves past me. He grabs a pen.
“Damn pens nowadays,” he mutters, already scribbling on the chart.
And just like that… gone.
Everything after that is a blur. I think I said something like, “Yeah… darn pens,” before walking away—
Okay, fine.
Nearly running.
From him.
A patient comes in—late teens. Drug overdose.
Damn it.
He starts coding, and I’m on him instantly, chest compressions, counting under my breath like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered. I keep going. Longer than I should. Longer than anyone should.
This one hits harder than most—maybe it’s his age, maybe it’s the parents watching, maybe it’s the way his mom keeps whispering his name like he can still hear her.
I keep going.
Trying.
Begging.
His voice cuts through everything. “Doctor, stop compressions. It’s been too long.”
The mother screams, collapsing to the floor.
I try to stop. I do.
But I can’t.
It’s like my arms don’t belong to me anymore.
His hands—rough, steady—close over mine. Grounding me. Forcing me to stop.
Silence crashes in.
I stare at the clock on the wall. “T-time of death… 02:46.”
The parents are crying. Broken.
I strip off my gloves, toss them in the bin, and walk out before the tears spilling over can catch up with me.
I think I’m moving fast—faster than anyone could follow.
But he still catches up.
His voice is low. Controlled. “What was that?”
I turn, looking up at him. “Sorry, Dr. Abbott. Not all of us can be so… so…” I swallow hard. “Hardass about death like you are.”
He squints, those light eyes sharp. “Clearly you’re emotional, because that’s no way to speak to your attending.”
I let out a humourless laugh. “Excuse me? Emotional—what, because I’m a woman? Or because I actually dare to feel something?”
His throat bobs. “Doctor, you’re out of line. Take a break and come back when you’re a little more stable.”
My chest heaves. “Y-you—”
The wetness on my cheeks stops me cold.
Great.
Crying. In front of him.
I turn on my heel and storm off toward the roof—the one place where I can actually breathe. I try to control my breathing as I stare out over the city lights. After a second, I give up and sit down, knees pulled to my chest, chin resting there. Tears soak into my scrubs while the cool breeze does nothing but make everything worse.
I barely hear the rooftop door open—
but I feel him.
I always do.
His voice is low. Softer than I’ve ever heard it. “It’s not that I don’t care. I just know how to control it. You do this job long enough… you learn. Because if you don’t, it’ll break your heart until there’s nothing left.”
I glance up at him, standing over me. “I really don’t need a lecture… or a pity talk… or whatever. I need to be alone.”
He nods once. “Fine. We don’t have to talk.”
I squint as he lowers himself down beside me, groaning slightly, rubbing his knee—his prosthetic—like it’s acting up again.
I turn my face away. Not looking at him. Not giving him that.
But of course, he doesn’t let it go.
“You know… you did everything you could. Fentanyl’s no joke. The chances of survival are almost none.”
I let out a shaky breath, tears slipping free again. “Just stop, Jack. I really don’t need this right now.”
His hand comes up, fingers brushing under my chin, turning my face toward him before I can stop him.
“Then what do you need, huh?”
I search his eyes, my voice barely there. “I need every patient to be okay… for children to go home to their parents… for parents to live as long as their children…”
My voice falters.
“…for everything to be okay.”
He smiles—sad, quiet. “You chose the wrong job then, sweetheart.”
I sniff, letting out a weak, humourless huff. “Wow. Gee. Thanks. You’re great at this.”
That actually earns a small laugh from him. “I work night shift for a reason. The fewer conversations I have with people, the better.”
I shake my head, turning my face away from him. “Whatever.”
He sighs, rubbing his forehead.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
Then his arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me into a side hug.
I gasp, startled. “W-what?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His voice, when it comes, is softer than before. “I can’t make things okay for you… but I can be there for you.”
A fresh wave of tears hits, and his arm tightens slightly, pulling me closer. My head drops to his shoulder, tears soaking into his scrubs now.
We don’t speak.
Not at first.
Somewhere between the distant city noise and the steady rhythm of our breathing, my tears slow. My heart doesn’t race as hard.
I find something I didn’t expect—comfort.
In his arms.
In this moment.
In him.
He glances down at me. “There we go… see? All better now.”
I nod slowly, looking up at him through damp lashes. “Thank you… I needed that.”
A small smile tugs at his lips. “Could’ve sworn I’m a doctor.”
I let out a soft giggle, lightly slapping his arm. “Ugh, you’re so full of yourself.”
He smiles—really smiles this time—and holds my gaze.
His hand lifts, brushing gently against my cheek, his thumb wiping away the last traces of tears.
My eyes drop to his lips.
Dangerous mistake.
His voice is barely a whisper. “Beautiful.”
He leans in.
I gasp softly as his lips meet mine.
The kiss is slow at first—careful, testing—like he’s giving me time to pull away.
I don’t.
Instead, I melt into him.
And then it shifts.
Deeper. Warmer.
His hands come up, holding my face, pulling me closer as the kiss turns more intense, more certain. My hands press against his chest, grounding myself as everything else starts to blur.
For a second—just one—I let myself get lost in it.
In him.
Then reality crashes back in.
What the hell am I doing?
I pull back suddenly, breath unsteady, lips tingling. “I… I’m sorry. I can’t.”
His expression shifts—surprise, something darker flickering behind those light eyes.
I don’t wait.
I get up and run—straight for the door.
I don’t look back.
I don’t want to see his face.
And I know…
He won’t be right behind me. Not immediately.
In mere seconds, another emergency comes in. And another. And another.
Before I know it, morning creeps in and day shift starts filtering through the doors.
Not once do I look at Jack.
As a matter of fact… I avoid him. Completely.
I head into the locker room, exhaustion finally catching up with me. I just want to go home—no, need my bed.
I close my locker and turn around—
—and there he is.
Leaning against the lockers, irritation written all over his face… along with something else I can’t quite name.
His voice is low. “You’re just gonna leave after what happened?”
I look anywhere but at him. “It was a mistake. A—”
“A mistake?” he cuts in. “Really? Is that how it felt?”
I glance up at him. “I… uhm—”
He steps closer. “You’re gonna lie to my face? Really?”
I shake my head. “J-Jack… you’re my attending.”
He nods once. “Yeah. So?”
I blink, confused. “So? It’s wrong. You’re my boss… you’re older—”
He huffs. “Oh, so it’s my age now?” He steps even closer. “Because I guarantee you—I can make you feel things no guy your age ever could.”
I suck in a breath. “N-no… don’t…”
His hand plants against the locker behind me, trapping me in. “Don’t what?”
I force myself to hold my ground. “Don’t act like you like me.”
He goes still. Then his eyes narrow slightly.
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t like you.”
My stomach drops. “W-what?”
He leans in, his breath brushing my ear.
“I’ve fallen for you… since your first week.”
My breath catches. “I… I’ve been here for two years…”
“You think I don’t know that?” he murmurs. “It’s been torture. Not knowing if you felt the same. Wondering every damn day.”
I shake my head, heart pounding. “W-we can’t do this.”
His hand comes up, thumb brushing my lower lip, tilting my head back so I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
“Tell me right now you don’t feel anything for me,” he says, voice low, rough in a way I’ve never heard before, “and I’ll walk away. I’ll stop.”
My breath stutters.
“Y-you know I do…”
That’s all it takes.
His lips crash against mine—desperate, consuming, like he’s been holding back for far too long. My fingers tangle in his hair as I kiss him back just as fiercely, everything else fading away for a second.
His voice brushes against my lips, breathless. “I could get used to this…”
His mouth trails along my jaw, down my neck, and my head falls back before I can stop it—
Footsteps. Voices.
Reality.
“Stop—” I whisper.
He pulls back instantly, searching my face.
“I… I can’t.”
And this time, I don’t hesitate.
I walk out—fast, before I can change my mind.
Before I can fall any harder.
Tears blur my vision as I push through the doors.
Because falling for him?
That’s the easy part.
Knowing he feels the same…
That’s the part that ruins you.
I can’t let this happen. Real love doesn’t happen to someone like me.
No.
As I step out into the early morning light, the sun just beginning to rise, I make a decision.
Last night… was my last night shift.
Because I can’t keep working with a man I love.
Better to break my own heart now… than give him the power to do it later.
Hi loves 💕 This is a one-shot featuring Mark Meachum (from Countdown). I’ve been itching to write something raw, emotional, and messy with him, and this poured straight out of me. Expect angst, heartbreak, unresolved tension, and a hell of a lot of feelings. This piece is told through my OC’s POV—she’s a profiler-turned-teacher dragged back into the field, and guess who she runs into again? 👀 Yeah… you already know it’s going to hurt. Now we also have Mark's POV 🐞🤭
Warnings: (18+)
Anything else let me know.... If you wanna be tagged let me know...
Remember: this is my work, it's truly based on fiction, so please don't take my work. Thank you. 🤭
He left her standing there, hurting, while he escaped like a coward into the office, searching for evidence that wasn’t even his priority.
But the truth? He hadn’t broken up with her because she was too clingy, or too sensitive. If anything, those were the pieces of her he loved most—the parts that made her human, soft, real. Hell, he still loved them. He still loved her.
But with everything going on, with the darkness breathing down his neck, he couldn’t give her forever. He couldn’t risk it.
He stared down at the papers scattered across the desk—sketches of bombs, maps of high-value targets. His vision blurred, the lines bleeding together as heat pricked his eyes. The pounding in his skull grew louder, heavier, reminding him of his own mortality.
He staggered, one hand bracing against the wall just to stay upright. His chest tightened, heart hammering in his throat, knuckles white as his fists clenched.
“Meachum?”
Oliveras’s voice cut through the haze. She was at his side in seconds, slipping an arm under his to steady him.
“Dammit, just—don’t.” His words came out as a growl, thick with frustration.
Her voice softened, laced with concern. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”
A groan tore from him. “I don’t even know anymore.”
His hand drifted, finding her side, grounding himself against her warmth. Just to keep from collapsing.
I step into the office mid-sentence, “what, you’ve found some—” but the words die in my throat.
Mark. Holding her.
Of course. I knew it. Knew it the whole damn time. Good to see he’s moved on—with the total opposite of me, no less.
They pull apart fast, faces painted in shock, embarrassment, guilt, whatever. Doesn’t matter. The silence between them is loud enough to crush my chest.
I clear my throat, force a blink, then walk straight to the table like I didn’t just walk into a knife to the gut. The schematics spread across it blur for a second before I lean in. Sarcasm coats my tongue, sharp enough to burn the whole city down:
“You two look at these, or just each other’s eyes?”
Mark clears his throat, low and defensive. “Shut up.”
Oliveras straightens immediately, stepping back from him, voice tight. “What are all these?” She points to the papers like they haven’t already told their story.
I stare at the pages, sketches of bombs and scribbled targets bleeding ink into terror. “Targets. Some grudge against America. A man with revenge in his veins. Big enough to wipe this city off the damn map.”
Her eyes flick to me. “You know a lot about bombs?” It’s not really a question, more a suspicion.
My face stays blank. “No. Just people. And how they’d feel if someone ripped the heart right out of their chest. They need someone to blame.”
I turn and walk out before my own chest caves in, heartbeat choking me.
But the image of Mark holding her? That’s branded. Burned into me forever.
The car ride back is dead silent. Just the low hum of the engine filling the air while I keep my hands busy rifling through the box of evidence. Safer to look at files than faces. Safer not to think about what I saw.
I don’t even notice we’ve stopped until Mark’s door slams shut. He doesn’t wait. He’s gone.
That’s when she turns to me. Oliveras. Her hazel eyes cutting sharp, like she’s been building up the nerve the whole ride.
“Hey?”
I drag my gaze up, already tired. “Yeah?”
Her stare doesn’t soften. It’s unforgiving. Heavy. “Whatever you think you saw, could we—”
I don’t let her finish. “Keep it under wraps? Yeah, sure. You do you, or him. I don’t give a damn. I’m here to work.”
I shove the files back in the box, push the door open, and step out before she can say another word.
Walking back into the office like nothing happened. Like I’m not some kind of wounded animal bleeding out in plain sight.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: pain’s easier to carry when you pretend it isn’t there.
Hours bled into days, days into weeks. I did my damnedest to ignore Mark. Ignore the pain. Ignore everything. Compartmentalize—that’s the FBI’s favorite word, and hell, I’d mastered it over the years. We finally had a name: Volchek. Belarusian. A ghost with fingerprints.
Nights became my sanctuary. If I worked through them, I didn’t have to face my apartment. Didn’t have to sit in the dark with my thoughts. Since I’d come back into this line of work instead of teaching classes, the flashbacks had gotten worse. Louder. Sharper. His face clawed its way into every corner of my mind. The man who—
A sudden thud cracked through the silence, dragging me out of the memory. I froze. The early sun slanted through the windows, not even five in the morning, and instinct kicked in. My whole body went rigid. On guard. I didn’t reach for my gun—never did if I could help it. Hand-to-hand felt more honest. But then my breath caught.
Mark.
He was sprawled across the floor, unmoving. My knees slammed down beside him before I even registered the motion. He was breathing—shallow, but there. My hands shook as I grabbed him, words tumbling out before I could stop them.
“Babe… baby… Mark! Babe—”
His eyes fluttered open, hazy, unfocused. Relief poured out of me in a rush so fierce it hurt.
“Hey,” he rasped.
And for the first time in weeks, my chest unclenched.
He leaned into her tiny hands cupping his face—he couldn’t stop himself. Her eyes were wide, her voice so small, laced with confusion, care, and fear.
“W-what happened, are you okay…”
He drowned in her gaze, searching for something—anything—to say.
“I…”
Before he could think, his lips crashed onto hers. Soft. Familiar. Vanilla latte sweet, the way she always tasted. She moaned into his mouth and it felt like home. His hands pulled her closer, her fingers tangling into his hair. The kiss was everything—passion, hunger, longing—every single thing he’d been starving for.
When he finally pulled back, breathless, her lips were swollen, her chest rising and falling fast. But it was her eyes that ruined him—bright, shining, holding a dangerous glimmer of hope.
It terrified him.
He stumbled back, ripped himself from her, his chest tight, his heart screaming, Tell her. Dammit, tell her.
But his head—his head was a cage.
The words cut out sharp and cold.
“This doesn’t change a damn thing. You were just here… it meant nothing.”
And then he turned, walking away, leaving her on the floor with nothing but silence and shattered hope.
Hi loves 💕 This is a one-shot featuring Mark Meachum (from Countdown). I’ve been itching to write something raw, emotional, and messy with him, and this poured straight out of me. Expect angst, heartbreak, unresolved tension, and a hell of a lot of feelings. This piece is told through my OC’s POV—she’s a profiler-turned-teacher dragged back into the field, and guess who she runs into again? 👀 Yeah… you already know it’s going to hurt.
Warnings: (18+)
Heavy angst / heartbreak
Toxic ex energy
Mentions of trauma (gun use hesitation, implied past FBI case)
Violence / gunfire
Death mention (teen victim)
Harsh words / emotional cruelty
Profanity
Enemies-to-lovers tension
If any of these are triggering for you, please read with caution. 🖤
Pairing: Mark Meachum x F!Reader (exes, unresolved feelings)
Word Count: 1325 - Tags: @jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @cutedisneygirl @angelbabyyy99 @k-slla if anyone else wants to be tagged let me know in the comments.
He stood there, all 6’1 of him, those emerald-green eyes colder than I’d ever seen.
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
Still calling me sweetheart like he didn’t just rip my chest open and leave me bleeding. We were supposed to be forever—forever—and then out of nowhere, he says it. His voice rough, detached, like he’d rehearsed it in front of the mirror.
“I… I just don’t love you anymore. Sorry.”
Before I could breathe, before I could fight, before I could even beg, he shut the door. And just like that, he walked out of my life the same way he came into it—fast, reckless, and without warning.
Months later, I’m still wearing the damn ring. A promise ring—like we were kids. Except now it hangs from my necklace, dangling against my chest like a constant reminder of what could’ve been.
I shake my head as I walk into the office. Whispers echo down the hall.
“I heard she’s a teacher.”
“Yeah, what’s a woman like that doing on a taskforce like this?”
I keep walking. Straight into Nathan Blythe’s office.
“Mr. Blythe.”
He stands, offering his hand. His smile is professional, almost polite, but those weathered blue eyes? They’ve seen some shit. The wrinkles on his forehead only seal the story. His voice—smooth, charming even—fills the room.
“Glad you could make it.”
I sit, arms crossed. “Why did you call me?”
He smirks. “I think we both know.”
I shake my head. “No. Just… no.”
His smile falters. “Listen. You’re the best profiler there is.”
I shift in my chair. “I quit the FBI for a reason.”
His tone hardens. “I know. I know what happened to you.”
I flinch. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not recall that time.” Standing now, I smooth my hands over my jeans. “Sorry, but I’m a teacher. I don’t do that anymore.”
He rises with me. “You love your students, don’t you?”
I nod once.
His words cut sharp. “Without your help, there won’t be a future for them. I need your skills. They need you.”
My jaw tightens. “For goodness’ sake, don’t guilt-trip me.”
But hours later, I found myself standing in a room full of misfits—reckless agents, officers, DEA wild cards. Broken pieces shoved into one messy puzzle. And somehow, I was one of them again.
I tucked myself into a corner at the back—old habit, old comfort. Corners let me watch, study, analyze. Some things about me never change.
So far, I’ve met Luke Finau—practically a gentle giant. Smart, solid, graceful. A family man through and through. Agent Bell, the career type, sharp-edged but reliable. Then Evan Shepherd—long brown hair, computer tech, with just enough field training to hold her own. She’s kind, steady. And the DEA agent, Amber Oliveras. She radiates don’t mess with me energy. Taller, older, with the kind of beauty that could’ve carried her onto magazine covers if she wanted. Some women really get all the luck, huh?
Still, they all seemed decent in their own ways. But apparently, there was another wildcard coming.
My pen slipped from my fingers and hit the floor.
“Dammit,” I muttered, ducking under the table to grab it.
That’s when I heard it. The laugh. That familiar laugh. The one I used to live for, the one that rolled through my kitchen when I danced barefoot on the tile just to make him smile.
My chest tightened. The voice followed—low, magnetic, achingly familiar. Just a few syllables and I was trembling.
He was joking about being late when I peeked out from under the table. And there he was.
Mark Meachum.
Older, maybe, but still devastatingly handsome. That navy t-shirt. The brown leather jacket—the one I gave him for his birthday. His hair longer now, his beard neat, sharp.
And then his eyes met mine.
Air. Gone. My lungs forgot how to work.
Those emerald orbs that used to shift hazel under the sun—no trace of them. These eyes were ghostly, haunted, almost dead.
I froze. My body refused to move.
And he walked right past me.
Not a glance, not a flicker. Straight to his desk.
Like three years of us had never happened.
My hands trembled. Profiler or not, I was still just a woman with a shattered heart. Months later, and it hadn’t healed—it had only scarred.
I couldn’t stop watching Mark with Oliveras. There was something there. Tension. Maybe romantic, maybe not—but definitely deeper than casual. The way they spoke, the subtle shifts between them… it was the same way I used to watch psychopaths plan their next move. Calculated. Intimate. Dangerous.
I barely noticed Blythe introducing me to the team. Shepherd’s elbow snapped me back, forcing a stiff nod of hello before I retreated again into silence.
Blythe explained the threat. A bomb. An unknown man targeting the city. He wanted every angle covered, every skill on the table—which apparently meant me. And without knowing a damn thing about my history with Mark, Blythe paired me with him. And Oliveras.
Yippee-ki-yay.
In the car, Oliveras claimed the passenger seat, leaving me in the back. “The new guy,” I thought bitterly. The ride stretched long and heavy, silence pressing down like a weight.
Then Oliveras broke it.
“Why so quiet today, Meachum?”
His response was low, dismissive. “Not now, Oliveras.”
Her attention flicked back to me. “What’s your story?”
I forced a polite smile. My nails dug crescents into my palms because the truth? I kind of wanted to slap her—but she hadn’t done anything wrong. She was just… there. Too close to him.
“Not much of a talker,” I said smoothly.
She nodded, but before the silence reclaimed us, Mark let out a scoff. Low. Sharp. It cut like glass.
“Hell, woman. I know you. All you ever do is talk.”
My throat closed. I turned to the window, eyes burning, swallowing back the tears clawing their way up. He didn’t even look at me. Like I was nothing
We reached the factory. They looked the part—agents in uniform stride, guns ready. And me? Jeans, boots, and a faded rock ’n roll shirt. The odd one out.
Their weapons were drawn instantly, bodies moving in sync. I wanted to puke at how perfect they looked together. My gun stayed in its holster. I walked in slow, like there wasn’t danger breathing down our necks.
The darkness swallowed me as my eyes adjusted. Shapes. Vehicles. Shadows. Then—
A body.
My legs moved before my brain caught up. A boy. Teenager. Wrong place, wrong time.
I dropped to my knees, fingers at his neck. No pulse. Warm blood still sticky under my hands. Minutes too late.
I stood, heart hammering—and that’s when I saw him. A man, tall, maybe six feet, dark eyes sunk deep into a handsome, merciless face. A gun aimed straight at me.
My hands shook. I tried to draw. I couldn’t. My body refused. I hadn’t pulled a trigger since… since…
The shot cracked the air. My knees buckled.
But it wasn’t the bullet. It was him.
Mark slammed me to the ground, his weight crushing, his familiar woody cologne choking my senses. His eyes, furious, pinned me in place.
“What the hell? He could’ve shot you, dammit!”
My lips trembled. “I… uh… thanks.”
He rolled off, yanking me to my feet like I weighed nothing.
“Thanks? He got away. We’re here to catch—”
“I know that!” My voice cracked, anger spilling. I looked up at him, searching. “Who are you even? Because this—this isn’t the man who made me chicken soup when I was sick. Or the man who sat through those cheesy romcoms he swore he hated, just to hold me.”
His glare sliced through me. His words cut deeper than any blade.
“I’m still me. Just not the kind who wastes time on an emotional, clingy woman like you.”
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the office.
Just before dawn, I’m in the office again. We’re finally getting closer to Volchek. From what I’ve gathered, he’s a bitter man—a man with a grudge against America. Then again, doesn’t every other terrorist?
As the team filters in, I greet each one with a polite smile, keeping my head down, keeping the routine. But then he walks in. Mark. Laughing with Oliveras like the past never happened.
I literally want to puke.
The way he kissed me and just left—like we didn’t share history, like he didn’t taste like goodbye. I glance away, pretend to be busy, refuse to look up. He doesn’t exist to me. Not anymore.
Blythe calls us in for an update. I nod along, but if I’m honest? I don’t hear a damn word. My brain’s too busy replaying the look Oliveras gave him—the same look I used to give him. Like he hung the damn stars.
Now, all he’s hung me on is this jagged sense of brokenness I can’t seem to shake. Not that I’d tell anyone. I prefer to keep it all locked inside where it can’t spill out and ruin what’s left of me.
The room empties out one by one until it’s just me and Nathan. His voice breaks through the fog.
“Hey. You with me?”
I look up, meet his sharp blue eyes. “Yeah.” I try to sound neutral.
He studies me, unimpressed. “I need your head in the game.” Then, after a pause that feels heavier than it should, he adds quietly, “You’ve been seeing someone—for what happened?”
My stomach twists. The memories claw at the edges of my mind. My hands start to tremble. The room fades, his voice turning to static as the flashbacks hit—fast and merciless.
Nathan’s voice reaches through the haze, softer now, steadier. “Hey… breathe for me, okay?”
His voice sounds distant, muffled—like I’m underwater again.
Nathan studied her. She looked so damn fragile, like one wrong breath could shatter her. Against his better judgment—against every rule he lived by—he reached for her.
Her body trembled as he pulled her in. The movement was instinct, not logic. He shouldn’t have done it. He knew that. But the feel of her shaking against him gnawed at something deep inside.
He’d read the report. The one that wrecked her whole life.
A sadistic killer.
A chase gone wrong.
An eleven-year-old boy.
And a choice no one should ever have to make.
She’d tried to save the kid—Damn, she had. But the bastard cornered them both, his gun pressed to the boy’s head. Then he handed her the weapon, laughing, whispering that one of them had to die.
And when she refused?
He wrapped his hand over hers, finger over finger, and pulled the trigger for her.
Her body fired the shot.
His mind committed the murder.
The rescue team had burst in seconds later, too late to stop any of it.
After that… she didn’t speak again.
Her fingers clenched in his shirt now, knuckles white, silent tears soaking into the fabric. He should’ve pulled away—kept his distance. But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
He didn’t care about the wet stain spreading across his chest. Didn’t care about protocol, boundaries, or the voice in his head warning him this was a bad idea.
He just wanted her to be okay.
He needed her to be okay.
I looked up through wet lashes. It was the first time since that day that I’d actually broken down. His blue eyes caught mine—striking, intense, but soft in a way that stole the breath right out of me. The air between us felt heavier somehow, like the room itself was holding its breath.
This is wrong, I told myself. He’s my boss. The team leader.
And I’m not over Mark.
He’s different—steady, older, grounded—but I can’t. I shouldn’t.
My mind’s a bloody tumble of thoughts when he finally leans closer. I inhale sharply, heart climbing into my throat—then he steps back, clearing his throat like he hadn’t just tilted the whole axis of my world.
“Uh—yeah,” he mutters, tugging at his tie, the motion all nerves and authority at once. “Just wanted to make sure your head’s in the right place.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle—twenty-two years in the Bureau etched into his face. He’s got a few years on me. A good couple. Enough to make this whole thing even more impossible.
I wipe my tears fast. “Thanks. I’m good.”
He nods once, stepping behind his desk again. “Good. You’re dismissed.”
Walking out of that glass office, I can feel the stares, even if everyone pretends they weren’t just watching me fall apart.
The bathroom mirror doesn’t lie. The woman staring back at me isn’t me—not really. She looks tired. Hurt. Hollowed out.
Those events—that day—I never spoke about them. Never could.
It’s my fault that little boy will never graduate, never get married, never be a dad.
I splash cold water on my face, like that’ll erase the memories. But I should know better. Some ghosts don’t wash off.
Mark’s emerald eyes darken, almost storm-colored now. What the hell just happened in there? Blythe—of all people—holding her.
She’s his.
No. Was.
He lost that right the day he broke her heart and walked away.
His fists clench anyway, a muscle in his jaw ticking hard. The guilt burns, the kind that crawls under your skin and won’t stop. Especially after what he did weeks ago—kissing her like it meant something, like he still had a claim. Then walking out. Again.
And now Oliveras.
He’d fallen into her bed because it was easy. Because she knew about his condition and didn’t look at him like he was dying. There was no emotional baggage, no history. Just noise and distraction. But she wasn’t her.
She never would be.
All day, he’s in a foul mood. The headaches pound, the tumor behind his eye reminding him he’s on borrowed time. But worse than the pain is the thought of someone else touching his woman.
By the time night drags itself over the city, he’s back in Oliveras’s bed, tangled sheets and skin that should’ve meant escape—but didn’t. The image of her in Blythe’s arms won’t stop replaying. Over and over.
What the hell is wrong with him?
He glances over his shoulder. Amber’s asleep, her breathing steady, peaceful. It makes him feel even worse.
Mark swings his legs out of bed, grabs his shirt off the floor, and steps outside. The night air hits cold and sharp. He takes a breath, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.
I couldn’t sleep. Hell no.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Tom — that sadistic bastard — and the way he made me pull the trigger. So I walked, no plan, just the night stretching out in front of me. Ended up at that little diner on the corner, the one that always smells like burnt coffee and loneliness. Slid into a torn leather booth, ordered a cup and a slice of chocolate cake. Asked for a pen, started sketching on a napkin — the old man in the corner, sitting there like he’s waiting on someone who’ll never come.
I watched cars drift up and down the street, trying to fill my mind with anything but the heartache, the PTSD, the everything that feels so raw… so broken. I popped in my earbuds, listening to the police scanner — it calms me, somehow. The chaos steadies me. Then his voice cuts through the static — Nathan Blythe.
“10-13. Officer down.”
My heart just… stops.
What happened to Nathan Blythe?
Before I even know what I’m doing, I’m on my feet, sprinting. Sirens screaming somewhere up ahead. The scene’s chaos — red lights, shouting, blood. They’re loading him into the ambulance.
“Nathan!”
I don’t even think. I climb in. The medic doesn’t argue, just nods. Nathan’s pale, clammy, groaning. I grab his hand — cold, shaking — and whisper, “Please… please, you’ve got to hold on.”
The words barely leave my mouth before the monitor starts to scream.
This one-shot was born the moment I heard “Cry” by Lee Brice—yeah, that song ripped me open, and out came Beau Arlen, bruised knuckles and broken heart. The prompt that lit the fire? "Do I have to take it off again?" from @jacklesversebingo Beau just wouldn't shut up after that. This is my love letter to regret, to stubborn men who break late, and to the kind of love that lingers in the quiet. As always, reblogs and comments keep the muse fed 💌
—Nesca / LadybugBooklover 🐞
⚠️ Content Warnings:
Mature emotional themes (regret, heartbreak, male vulnerability)
Alcohol use (mentions of beer as a coping mechanism)
Adult language (soft cussing & emotionally charged dialogue)
Suggested sexual imagery (not explicit, but references intimacy)
Mentions of past relationship conflict/divorce Not suitable for readers who dislike angst or emotional vulnerability in male characters.
📜 Copyright Notice:
This work is 100% original fan fiction based on the character Beau Arlen (no copyright infringement intended). Do not repost, translate, or copy this work without permission. Tumblr reblogs = LOVE. Copy/paste or reposting = don’t be that gremlin.
The curtains were drawn tight, but the shadows didn’t care. They slipped through anyway, dancing across the jagged lines of his face—the face of a man who once wore charm like a second skin. Beau Arlen. Sheriff. Symbol of strength in a town that clung to tradition like gospel.
But that strength? It cracked the moment he saw you again.
He sat there, fists clenched, jaw tight with the kind of grief that don’t come from bullets or bloodshed, but from love gone wrong—twice. You’d think a second divorce would sting less. Hell, you'd think he'd be numb by now. But no. This one gutted him.
And deep down, beneath all that badge-and-gun bravado, he knew it—he knew it was his fault. But damn it, he’s always been a stubborn mule. The kind of man who'd rather break than bend.
He stared down at his phone, thumb hovering, twitching—like so many damn times before. Just one call. One more chance to say what he never could.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding with regret. He could still see her—the way she looked today, standing there like a memory he didn’t deserve. Hair dancing in the breeze, that familiar smile teasing her lips like the past hadn’t burned everything down.
But her eyes… Hell, those eyes. They gave her away. They always did. Beneath the soft glow, they held the weight of a wrecked marriage her first, his second, shattered by his hands. His silence. His pride.
It felt like it all shattered just yesterday—the yelling, the tears, the final blow. But it’d been six months. Six freaking months, and still, the memory burned bright, fresh as blood on snow.
He could still see her face—twisted in pain, lips trembling as she begged him to fight for them, to choose them. Her voice, cracked and desperate, haunted him worse than any ghost. He remembered every damn tear, every choked word.
And worst of all? He remembered how he didn’t say a single thing.
He’d always been a proud man—too proud, if you asked her. But now? Sitting in the dark, in the house they once called home, there was nothing left of that pride. Just misery. Just a broken man with shaking hands, twisting the golden band on his finger like it could somehow rewind time.
“Do I have to take it off again?” he muttered, same as he had six months ago when she walked out the door. Still couldn’t do it. Not then. Not now.
His emerald eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and in the silence, his father’s voice cut through like a blade. “Man up, boy.”
He clicked his tongue, scoffing. “Yeah? Who says men don’t cry?” he whispered to the empty room. “They do… when they lose the only good thing they ever had.”
A dry, bitter chuckle scraped from his throat as he stared down at the bottle in his hand. Cryin’ into his beer again. Or was it the pillow on her side of the bed last night? Shit. Didn’t matter.
Either way, he was drowning. And damn if he didn’t feel pathetic.
He still couldn’t look at taillights the same. Not since she drove away, tears cutting down her soft porcelain cheeks, headlights fading into heartbreak.
There was no denying it—he was a man undone. A man hurting.
Before he knew it, his thumb hovered over her name. Then, dialed. Just like that. And when she answered, it felt like the world stopped.
“Sweetheart?” Her voice—soft, brittle, angelic.
“You don’t get to call me that no more, Beau.”
“Well, shit,” he murmured, “at least I know I’m functioning then.”
He sighed, already wounded.
“S… Sorry. I know. How’re you doing?”
She cleared her throat, but he heard the tears anyway.
“Good, I guess. If you count out the heartbreak, the lonely nights, and the empty mornings.”
He let out a shaky breath.
“Oh? That’s what good is nowadays?”
She giggled, a sound that twisted the knife in his chest.
“For the last six months, it has been.”
Her sarcasm was raw, sharp-edged.
A pause.
Silence.
Then her voice cracked.
“Why can’t you just say what you really feel? Dammit, Beau—I wish you would.”
Then he breathed out the truth like a confession:
“You wanna know how I feel? Fine.”
The only response was the quiet sound of sniffles.
“I miss you. I love you. And I hate myself.”
“I hate my pride. I hate that I let you go. I hate waking up in that cold-ass bed without you beside me.”
“I miss your sleepy smile, your dancing in the kitchen with my damn t-shirt barely covering your thighs—Dammit, I miss everything about you.”
His voice broke.
“I love you… but mostly, I’m sorry.”
Then—the line went dead.
He stared at his phone like it had betrayed him. She hung up. After all that. After finally bleeding the truth, she ended the call.
“Damn,” he whispered.
He left the half-drunk beer sweating on the table, dragged himself toward the bedroom like a man twice his age. Crawled into bed, sinking into another sleepless night—
Ding-dong.
“What the hell,” he muttered, pulling himself up, bare-chested, worn grey joggers hanging low on his hips. No shirt. No energy to fake it.
He yanked the door open—then froze.
There she stood.
Beautiful. Real. There.
He barked out a surprised laugh. And without a word, he swept her into his arms, spun her around, and kissed her like a dying man clinging to oxygen.
She smiled, eyes shining.
“Hello there, Sheriff.”
He knew they had shit to work through. Wounds that hadn’t healed. Words that still needed saying. But one thing was certain—
"Before you do that, think what I’ll do without you."
—Prompt fill for @jackalsversebingo (square: ANGST)
Hey babes,🐞❤️
This one's soaked in longing, dipped in regret, and served raw. It's for the ones who choke on the words they never got to say. My heart was in my throat writing it—and I hope it hits yours the same. Feel free to scream in the tags, cry in the replies, or hit reblog if it broke you a little.
Word Count: 2,255😅
Warnings: Emotional heartbreak, canon x reader, no resolution, alcohol mention, soft breakdowns.
Copyright: Written with soul by Denesca van Eck / @nescavexkwritwr @ladybugbooklover. Do not repost, rewrite, or steal. You may reblog with credit like the respectful little angels I know you are.
The veil floated like butterflies. Her smile soft- glowing. Ivory lace clung to her curves, hand stitched with dreams , a future, a promise, the start of their lives forever.
Dean stood at the altar, hands shaking, he could hunt monsters without flinching, but this?
This was different.
This was you. Today "I do" meant forever with the only woman he's ever truly wanted.
The room held its breath. Church bells rang somewhere in the distance, but time stood still.
"You ready boy?" The old man asked low and gruff, but he couldn't answer Bobby, hell he couldn't even move. He only looked at you.
His girl.
The love of his life.
The woman he fought for. Bled for.
The one he lost...
The image cracked, the chapel with its wedding bells melted away into the dull, flickering light of a motel room. The only thing that stayed was silence, and the ache.
The motel room smells like cheap whiskey and cold lonely nights. He sat there, his emerald green eyes locked on the flickering TV, muted, forgotten as his calloused thumb brushes over a picture burned into his brain - the one where you smiled like you were his. Like you'd always be his.
He took another sip of whiskey, the lingering thoughts of the wedding - just a cruel fantasy, a beautiful lie.
Letting out a scoff, the aisle never came, the vows never said, the happy tears never spilled, the ring never left his pocket.
"I would've said it", whispering to no one. "If things were different... I would've said I do".
He closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. But even in the dark behind his eyelids, he saw you.
The tears.
The heartache.
The goodbye.
Folding the laundry like it matters, - like it means something, but it doesn't, everything lately is just noise, a blur... Ever since he left, you do stuff, but nothing, not a damn thing gets Dean out of your mind.
Seeing him in strangers, hearing him in your own heartbeat, like he's still there, his lips against yours, his fingers curling around your waist.
Folding the same shirt twice, then again and again. - hands moving but your mind, it's somewhere else ...
Back at the chapel that never existed, wearing the dress you never got to wear. Walking down the aisle you never stepped foot on.
Eyes locked on his. Damn those eyes, green like forest after rain, green like the only place you ever felt safe.
Today would have been your wedding, well not officially - more like this would've been the date if he ever asked. If the world just tilted just slightly different. If hearts weren't so stubborn and if love were enough, today would've been the day, you'd look at him and say "I do".
Tears threaten, but you've cried too many times over him. There's nothing left but the salt burned into your ribs.
The phone vibrates on the table. You ignore it, - because unless it's Dean calling to say "I'm sorry sweetheart, I'm coming home" you don't want to hear it.
Pouring yourself a glass of wine, the red liquid spilling into the glass, like it's your heart bleeding. Curling up on the couch, by the window looking out, the sky's doing that soft, grey thing - like it's mourning too. Wondering... Is he thinking of you? Is he sitting in some broken, lonely motel room, with that same haunted look in his eyes, remembering the dress you never wore?
Because you haven't moved on. Not really. Oh but you tried, dates, distractions, smiles that never reached your eyes.
But no one feels like Dean, an exhausted sigh leaving your body, no one ever will.
Your fingers finding their way to the necklace still hanging on your collarbone - the one he gave you that night underneath the stars, right after the hunt in Arizona, "Something to remember me by", he with a half-smile as if you could ever forget him.
Closing your eyes, and there it is again, that damn image. White lace, Church bells and I do's. A life never lived, a future that never began. But the love? It's still there, loud and aching. Maybe, just maybe, somewhere out there, he's whispering your name through the quiet, just like you're whispering his now.
He doesn't remember what started it, some hunt, some stupid mistake, a bottle too many, his mouth running before his brain could catch it. All he remembers is the look on your face. The way your voice cracked when you said it. "Before you do that... Think about what I'll do without you."
That stopped him cold, not because it was too dramatic, not because you were begging, - but because you meant it.
You stood there, trembling, breathing hard, tears hot on your eyes, but they weren't rolling down your cheeks. No you were done fighting, done pleading, but still holding onto hope like it was the only thing keeping you standing, keeping your heart beating, keeping you from crumbling to the floor.
And what did he do? He walked like a damn coward. Not because he didn't love, - no because he loved you too much to keep pulling you into the chaos that followed him everywhere. He really thought he was protecting you, like letting you go was mercy. But it was slaughter - for both of you.
He slams the half drank bottle whiskey down, pacing the motel floor like it'll change something.
It's been months now, time means shit now, it's just "before you left" and "after you were gone".
Picking up the phone again, thumb hovering over your name. You still haven't blocked him, which somehow feels worse. But he can't call, not when he's like this, not when he still doesn't know how to fix what's broke.
His voice catches in his throat as he mutters your words again "Think about what I'll do without you".
He does, every damn day, and the answer? This. A lonely motel room, a bottle, a ghost he still calls "mine".
Wiping at his eyes, angry at the wetness there. He's Dean Winchester. He fought monsters, the worst kind, got hurt, nearly died, lost everything, but you? You're the only thing he chose but couldn't keep.
Your fingers, curled around the stem of that wine glass, remembering the night he left, it started like every other fight. Raised voices. Empty beer bottles, the motel door half open, like he already had one foot out.
But this time? It's like you knew he wasn't coming back. You were done pretending, it was just stress, the job or his damn trauma he never let you carry with him.
He always said he was protecting you, like you were a little damsel that needs saving, - but you weren't, you were his partner, his home. - but still he ran.
You stood there in front of him, heart thundering, the air thick with words neither of you could say, that's when you said it "Before you do that... Think about what I'll do without you." Your voice wasn't loud, it wasn't a scream or a threat, it was desperate, small - like a child whispering in the dark. He froze, you saw it, the war behind his eyes, for a single split second you thought he'd turn around, he'd stay, that love would win.
But all he said was "I'm sorry" and he walked into the darkness like some kind of shadow. When that door shut, at first you didn't cry, you couldn't, there was a strange calm. Like your body couldn't handle the grief, all at once, so it made you numb.
Making your way towards the bathroom, unsure why but it felt like the right place to break down - lonely, cold, hollow - like your heart.
You collapsed against the tub, your fingers curling around the tile, gripping it like it could stop you from falling apart. But oh it didn't.
The tears came and they didn't stop. You didn't cry like in the movies - soft, pretty, poetic.
You sobbed, ugly, shaking gasping sobs that made your ribs scream. Screaming his name into a towel, cursing the universe, begging for him to come back
But he didn't, the worst part? You still loved him, even after everything, the silence, the wreckage, even after he took a piece of you, with him, leaving you with a barely beating heart. And even though he didn't stay, the love did.
Dean hasn't slept. Not really, he passes out sometimes - liquor heavy, face down on some shit motel pillow - but he never truly sleeps, not like he used to... Not since that night. Your voice over and over in his head.
Thinking he was saving you, but instead he abandoned you. And now... Now he drinks more than he hunts. His hands shake when he holds his gun, no, not from fear-but from withdrawal, exhaustion and regret.
He tried sleeping with someone else once. Didn't even get her shirt off before he saw your eyes. He bolted, leaving that bar like the damn place was on fire, because no matter where he goes, no matter who he talks to... It's you, it's always you.
He pulls out that picture of you, the one of you, where you laid on that picnic blanket, hair messy, from the wind that day, a smile on your face, a book in your hand, the sunlight casting a golden hue around, you looked like an angel. To be honest you were - his angel, the only one who could make him feel that life was worth living.
He sighs as he puts down that photo, picking up the bottle, hell he doesn't even bother with a glass anymore, what's the point?
He stares and mutters like a damn lunatic, voice wrecked and low; "I should've stayed, Dammit baby... I should have stayed..." His throat tightness, "I didn't want to hurt you... I wanted to protect you..." He stops mid sentence, every breath hurts, everything feels dark, lost, cold.
Grabbing the Impala's keys, he knows what he should do, so he gets in that car, whiskey on his breath, broken heart and determination in his forest green eyes, he puts the car in drive.
He's been driving for hours, he sobered up by now, the shitty gas station coffee helps a little to fight the withdrawal from the whiskey.
Now, he's outside her door, hands trembling, heart screaming.
It's raining - of course it's raining, even the sky is crying about you. He deserves it, the cold, the wet, the weight of everything soaking into his bones, - maybe if it seeps deep enough, it'll drown the pain he's been choking on since he left. He stares at the door, he drops right there, on that cold, wet concrete steps, to his knees - because standing feels like pretending he's strong, and he ain't, he hasn't been strong for awhile now.
His breath shaky, he chokes out "I messed up everything sweetheart," the rain mixing with the salt water on his freckled cheeks, "I see you everywhere" he whispers "in my head, I see you laughing, crying, wearing that stupid oversized hoodie you stole from me like it's yours now..."
A bitter laugh slips out, it breaks halfway through, shattered. Like him. Knocking softly, one.... Two, "I can't even breathe without you" it was a whisper, a confession, a plea.
He stays there on his knees in the rain, hoping if she opens that door, that she'll take him back. That maybe they can carry on, that he can take that ring out his pocket, that he can ask her to be his wife.
The door doesn't open, the rain stops, the wind dies down, he stands, fist clenched, his cold hand tries the doorknob.
It's unlocked, as if she's waiting for him, his breath catches, he pushes it open, maybe she's in the kitchen making tea, or curled up on the couch in that blanket he never liked, reading that book he never understood.
But the house is silent, he steps inside, no smell, no warmth, nothing. - Just emptiness.
The echo of his boots on the floorboards is loud, overwhelming, there's boxes, packed and labelled.
The living room - bare, walls stripped of all the memories, the photos, everything - like she took the color with her.
His breath hitches, the lump in his throat swells, he moves through the space like a ghost. Bedroom? Empty!
Closet? Just the oversized hoodie of his-hers.
He stumbles back, like the air got punched out of him, then he finds it, the note folded. Neat ... Tucked under the bottle of that perfume he once said smelled like heaven and bad decisions.
Hands shaking as he opens it.
"Dean"
"I couldn't stay. I tried. Dammit, I tried. But this house, this town... Every corner has you in it. And it hurts too much. I waited. For a call. A knock. Anything. But you didn't come. So I had to save myself before I drowned in the ghost of us. I'll always love you, but I have to learn to live without you. Please don't come looking. Not yet."
"-Yours, even when I shouldn't be"
The paper crumples in his hand as he falls back against the wall, sliding to the floor.
He lets out a sound - not human, raw animalistic. Like his souls just split in two.
She's gone - and the worst of all, he let her leave, because he was too late, he should have stayed, should have asked her... Should have said "I do".
Warnings: This might be triggering for someone who've lost someone due to depression, or has been feeling in the dark lately - please know, there's always help out there, there's someone who cares. and if you can't seem to think of anyone, feel free to message me. I love ya okay! With that being said, enjoy this chapter, and thanks for reading, if it made you feel something, feel free to comment and like. But please don't copy my work. love y'all so much. xxx <3
Since that moment in the hospital with Nathan, I haven’t stopped running.
Not physically—no, I mean the kind of running you do from yourself.
I threw myself into work, let the chaos fill the cracks, anything to stop the noise in my head. I haven’t seen him since that night. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still feel the press of his lips… the weight of what I shouldn’t have wanted.
When I can’t sleep—and lately, that’s most nights—I run. Or I hit the gym until my body’s too sore to think. Because everything feels too loud, too close, too damn much. And I feel nothing.
It’s all of it—Tom, Mark, Nathan, this cursed case, the nightmares that claw through my sleep.
But if you looked at me, you’d never know. I still smile in all the right places. Still laugh like the woman I was before life got ugly. Before the fear became a part of me.
No one knows how many times I’ve—
“Hey, you with us?” Mark’s voice cut through the fog. Of course it was him.
I blinked, focusing on his face, on Oliveras next to him. “Yeah,” I lied softly. “Just tired.”
He tilted his head. “We’re checking out that lead, remember?”
“Right. Sure,” I said, forcing a smile and trailing after them like some damn lost puppy.
The car ride was full of their usual bickering—Mark teasing, Oliveras snapping back—but it all faded into white noise. My mind was somewhere else, my fingertips tracing the faint scar along my neck.
The one Tom left.
Sometimes I still feel the cold blade against my skin, the weight of his breath in my ear.
Sometimes I wish I hadn’t fought back. Wish I’d just… let it happen.
At least then, maybe I’d finally be done running.
We came to a stop, and my body moved like it wasn’t even mine anymore. On autopilot.
Strangely, I was grateful for it—because as long as I kept moving, it looked like I was fine.
Damn, I hate that word. Fine.
After about an hour, the so-called lead turned into a dead end. Figures. While Mark and Oliveras argued over next steps, I wandered off, letting my feet choose for me. The warehouse was hollow and cold, just like I felt inside. Somehow, I ended up on the roof, looking down.
Gravity had this way of calling to me—softly, almost kindly. And for a split second, the thought crept in. The dark one.
No one ever tells you this part about surviving trauma. They patch you up, clear you to leave, and tell you you’re lucky. But they don’t tell you that when you check out of the hospital… sometimes, you’ve already checked out on living.
My phone buzzed, cutting through the fog. I took a step back, feet finding solid ground again.
“Yeah?” I answered, voice flat.
“Where the hell are you?” Mark’s tone was gruff.
“Coming. Thought I saw something—sorry.”
“Move your ass.”
I rolled my eyes. “Keep your whiskers in check, damn it,” I muttered under my breath, hanging up.
And just like that, I went back down—back to pretending. Slipped into the SUV without a word, like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t almost leaned too far over the edge.
We walked into the office, and there he was — Nathan.
Back already. Too soon, if you ask me.
Funny, huh? I care about everyone else but can’t seem to give a damn about myself.
The team swarmed him, clapping his back, cracking jokes like he hadn’t almost died a few days ago. When it was my turn, I held out my hand, all business.
“Welcome back, sir.”
My voice came out too professional, too polished — like I’d rehearsed it.
He took my hand, mumbled a thank you. The smile on his lips didn’t match his eyes.
Those eyes looked… hurt.
And of course they did.
Because of me.
But I can’t. I can’t let him in. I can’t let him see the mess I am underneath the badge and the brave face. How could I let him feel something for me — me — when I don’t even know what I am anymore?
I sank into my chair, eyes fixed on the evidence board, though I didn’t see a damn thing. Just a blur of photos and red string and exhaustion.
I know it’s getting worse.
Damn, I’m a trained clinical psychologist — I know.
But how do you treat yourself, huh? Someone tell me.
Because I don’t know.
Hours bled together. Everyone around me moved like ghosts, talking, laughing, pretending.
I interacted when I had to.
Smiled when expected.
Hell, I should get an Oscar.
Nathan wrapped up the day with, “Tomorrow’s another day. Get some rest.”
And just like that, I was gone.
First one out the door — because facing him? Yeah, not happening. Call it cowardice if you want. I call it survival.
I grabbed my gym bag and disappeared.
The punching bag didn’t stand a chance.
Every swing landed harder, faster — like I could beat back the noise in my head if I just hit hard enough. But the truth? The damn thing wasn’t my enemy. My problems were — and they were winning.
Sweat stung my eyes. My knuckles were raw, split, bleeding. I kept going anyway, until suddenly a pair of strong arms wrapped around me from behind.
I screamed, fought, kicked.
Then—
“Would you stop fighting?”
Nathan.
Damn, that was loaded in all the wrong ways.
“Leave me the hell alone,” I spat, still thrashing. But he didn’t let go. His voice dropped low, gentle.
“Please… please listen to me. You’re destroying yourself.”
That stopped me cold.
“What?”
He turned me around in one swift movement, his blue eyes burning straight through me.
“You think I don’t see what’s happening to you?”
I looked away, staring at the gym floor, because anywhere was better than his eyes. But he lifted my chin with one finger, brushed the sweaty hair from my face with the other.
“It literally hurts to see you like this,” he said, voice rough. “If you’d just talk to me — to someone.”
My lip trembled. Damn it.
“I… I don’t know where to start. How to start.”
He exhaled slowly, eyes softening. “Take my hand. We’ll take baby steps, okay? Please.”
Tears blurred my vision.
“Nathan… please. We—we can’t.”
He shook his head. “This isn’t about us. Or what happened in the hospital. This is about you.”
Barely a whisper: “I don’t know what to do next.”
He extended his hand.
I stared at it.
Then placed mine in his.
I was too tired to resist.The ride to his place was quiet. He didn’t say much — just that I could shower, crash in the spare room.
