Crushing - Dennis Whitaker
₊‧⁺˖⋆ Masterlist ⋆˖⁺‧₊
Summary: Dennis is crushing on another med student. Will a girls night in finally give him the courage to tell her how he feels?
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The apartment smells faintly like microwave popcorn and Trinity’s overpriced candles. Shoes kicked off by the door, textbooks stacked in uneven piles, a hoodie draped over the back of the couch that definitely isn’t Trinity’s.
You collapse into that same couch with a groan, your whole body sinking like you might just disappear into the cushions.
“God,” Victoria mutters, dropping beside you, “if one more patient asks me why everything is taking so long I’m going to pass away. Right there. In the hallway.”
You all laugh, the kind that comes out half-delirious after a shift that ran too long and demanded too much. For a moment, everything feels lighter, no monitors beeping, no charts waiting, no constant pressure humming under your skin.
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Dennis Whitaker is pacing.
Actually, pacing is generous. He’s… hovering. Taking three steps toward the door, stopping, running a hand through his hair, turning around, repeating.
You’re here.
He heard your voice the second the front door opened. He’d been sitting on his bed, staring at a textbook he hadn’t read in ten minutes, and then, there it was. Soft, familiar, warm in a way that immediately made his chest tighten.
Y/N.
In his apartment.
On his couch.
Laughing.
He presses his palms to his face, dragging them down slowly.
“Okay,” he mutters to himself. “Be normal. You are capable of being normal.”
He is not, historically, capable of being normal. Dennis stills for a moment, weighing out his options.
Option one: stay in his room. Safe. Dignified. No risk of saying something stupid.
Option two: go out there. Casual. Chill.
He stares at himself in the mirror.
“Chill,” he repeats.
He does not look chill.
He looks like a man about to walk into a firing squad armed with nothing but anxiety and poor decision-making.
Still, he straightens a little, adjusts his shirt, and takes a breath.
“You’re getting a snack. That’s it,” he says quietly.
A perfectly normal reason to walk into a room where the girl you’ve been hopelessly crushing on for months is sitting.
Totally.
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He makes it three steps into the kitchen before Trinity spots him.
“Hey, Huckleberry!” she calls, way too loud.
He freezes.
Abort mission. Abort—
“Can you bring over the chips in the pantry?”
He nods quickly, because speaking feels like a dangerous gamble right now.
And then—
He makes the mistake of looking.
Your eyes meet his instantly.
Bright, warm, a little tired, but still so you that it hits him like a physical thing. His brain just… stalls.
You smile at him. Easy. Familiar.
Like he doesn’t feel like his heart is about to beat out of his chest.
He looks away almost immediately, grabbing the first snacks he sees just to have something to do with his hands.
Don’t trip. Don’t trip. Don’t trip.
By the time he walks into the living room, you, Trinity, and Victoria are already arguing.
“…I’m just saying Twilight is a classic,” Victoria insists.
“It’s a crime,” Trinity shoots back.
You sit between them, grinning. “You’re both wrong.”
Dennis sets the snacks down carefully, trying to become invisible.
He fails immediately.
“Huckleberry!” Trinity turns to him like she’s just found her secret weapon. “Tell Crash that Twilight is a terrible choice for movie night.”
“Trin, anything is better than those horror movies you like,” you cut in, leaning forward.
“Okay then, genius,” Trinity says, turning to face you, “what do you think we should watch?”
You sit up a little straighter, proud already. “Guardians of the Galaxy.”
Dennis doesn’t even think.
“Yeah,” he blurts, voice a little too quick. “That’s a good one.”
Silence.
Then—
“Yes, see Trinity!?!” you beam, like he just personally validated your entire existence.
His face heats instantly.
Trinity groans. Victoria mutters something under her breath.
“Dennis,” Trinity starts, narrowing her eyes, “stop being a suck up just because you’re in lo—OW—what the fuck?!”
His foot connected with Trinitys shin.
“I—what? I didn’t—” he stammers, avoiding eye contact at all costs.
“Wow,” you say, amused, “violence? During movie selection? Bold.”
“Desperate times,” Trinity mutters, grabbing the remote. “Guardians it is.”
You glance up at Dennis, then shift slightly, making space beside you on the already overcrowded couch.
You pat the spot.
“Sit and watch with us, Denny.”
His brain short-circuits. Denny.
“Oh—no, I have to—”
“Please?”
You pout.
It’s subtle. It’s not dramatic.
It’s, unfortunately for him, devastating.
“…okay,” he says immediately.
Of course he does.
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The couch is small.
That becomes apparent the second he sits down.
Your thigh presses against his. Your arm brushes his.
Every nerve in his body lights up like he’s been electrocuted.
He sits up straight, hands awkwardly clasped, staring very intently at the TV like it holds the secrets of the universe.
Do not look at her.
Do not look at her.
Do not—
He looks.
Your face is closer than he expected. Way closer.
You’re already looking at him.
Your smile is softer now. Quieter.
And for a second, everything else fades.
“Hey,” you whisper, leaning in just enough that your voice doesn’t carry, “are you okay? You seem tense.”
He nearly chokes on nothing.
“I—uh—yeah. Just—long shift,” he manages.
You nod, understanding immediately.
Of course you do.
Your hand comes up, resting lightly on his forearm. Your thumb moves back and forth in a slow, absent motion.
Grounding.
Gentle.
Real.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “I get that. Try to relax a little, okay? You look like you’re about to snap in half.”
He lets out a quiet, nervous laugh, shoulders finally dropping just a fraction.
“Yeah. Okay.”
“There we go,” you say softly.
“Shh!” Trinity hisses from the other side of you.
You both laugh quietly, turning back to the movie.
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Dennis does not absorb a single second of the plot.
Not one.
He is acutely aware of everything else, though.
The warmth of you pressed against him.
The faint scent of your shampoo.
The way your hand eventually slips away, but the ghost of it lingers.
And then gradually, you go quiet. Your movements slow. Your head tilts. And before he can even process it—
You’re resting against his shoulder.
He inhales sharply, freezing all over again.
Do not move.
He turns his head just slightly, careful, so careful, not to wake you.
Your face is relaxed, lashes resting against your cheeks, lips parted just enough to let out soft, steady breaths.
You look…
He swallows.
You look unfair.
Like something he’s not supposed to have.
Something he doesn’t even know how to reach for.
“God,” Trinity mutters from across the couch, breaking the moment, “Huckleberry, you are so pathetic.”
He startles. “What? I—what are you talking about?”
Victoria leans forward, smirking. “When are you going to ask her out?”
His stomach drops.
“I’m not,” he says quickly, too quickly. “She doesn’t—she doesn’t like me like that.”
Victoria raises an eyebrow, gesturing vaguely to the situation currently unfolding on his shoulder.
“…right.”
He exhales slowly, looking down at you again.
“Just… forget it.”
Trinity snorts. “Whatever you say. But if you don’t ask her out soon, someone else definitely will.”
That lands.
Hard.
Because he knows she’s right.
He’s seen the way people look at you. The way you light up rooms without trying. The way you care, deeply and genuinely, about everyone around you.
You won’t be waiting forever.
His chest tightens.
“…I know,” he admits quietly.
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The movie ends.
At some point, Victoria had fallen asleep on Trinity’s side, and Trinity gave up on pretending she’s not invested in the plot.
But Dennis doesn’t move.
He can’t.
Not with you still tucked against him, breathing slow and even.
He doesn’t know how long he sits like that.
Eventually, you stir. A small shift. A quiet inhale.
He goes still again, like that’ll somehow stop time.
Your eyes blink open slowly.
For a second, you look disoriented. Then you realize where you are, and who you’re leaning on.
You don’t pull away immediately. Instead, you tilt your head just slightly to look up at him.
“…hi,” you whisper, voice rough with sleep.
“Hi,” he replies, just as quiet.
“You didn’t wake me,” you say.
“Figured you needed the sleep.”
Something flickers in your expression at that. Soft.
“You could’ve,” you murmur.
“Yeah,” he says. “But… I didn’t want to.”
You study him for a second longer.
Then, unexpectedly, you smile.
Not the teasing one. Not the bright, easy one.
Something quieter. Warmer.
“…good,” you say.
And instead of pulling away completely, you stay, just for a second, savoring the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. The warmth of him grounding you, familiar now, expected, like something you knew he was too shy to ever realize you noticed, or wanted. A small, secret smile tugging at your lips as you let yourself enjoy it.
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A/N ~ Haven't written a fic in a while! hoping to start writing more consistently now :) (please talk to me if you have opinions on The Pitt, no one I know irl watches it :/)
