#romace

[mydarkawaits]

I can feel you miles away

[moonlit-mysticgirl]

[yaoiblackmold]

ADAM and EVE

Only Lovers Left Alive (2013)

[melanieblogsblog]

Good enough to be your wifey?😊

[kholswife]

They are canon because I said so.

[toastykaykes]

The Longest Shift - 9 PM

Dr. Jack Abbot x Scribe! F! Reader

As the first wave of trauma patients floods the ER at 9:00 PM, you and Dr. Abbott are thrown deeper into chaos than ever before—and the quiet tension between you only sharpens under pressure.

Word Count: 3.7K

Masterlist

7:00 PM 8:00 PM 9:00 PM 10:00 PM 11:00PM 12:00 AM 1:00 AM 2:00 AM 3:00 AM 4:00 AM 5:00 AM

9:00 PM

The change in the emergency department happens slowly enough that no one notices it right away.

At first, the noise simply softens.

Conversations at the nurses’ station trail off mid-sentence. Someone’s phone rings twice before it’s picked up. Even the steady rhythm of monitor alarms seems to stretch farther apart, the electronic beeping echoing longer than usual against the fluorescent-lit walls.

The department hasn’t gone quiet.

But it has paused.

Like a room full of people suddenly sensing something in the air.

You only realize something is wrong when Dr. Abbot does.

He’s standing beside the trauma board with his arms loosely crossed, scanning the patient tracking screen the way he always does—calm, focused, every line of text absorbed in seconds. When Dana slowly lowers the EMS phone from her ear without saying anything, Abbot’s gaze lifts instantly.

Dana never hesitates.

She talks fast, efficiently, as if silence itself irritates her.

But now she’s quiet.

Abbot studies her for exactly one second before asking, “How bad?” his voice low and steady as he pushes himself off the counter and steps closer to the desk.

Dana exhales slowly through her nose before answering, the sound sharp with contained frustration. “Multi-vehicle collision on the interstate,” she says, placing the phone carefully on the counter like she’s resisting the urge to slam it down. “Dispatch is still sorting out details.”

Abbot folds his arms again, but his posture shifts slightly, the subtle change signaling that his brain is already reorganizing the department in his head.

“How many vehicles?” he asks.

“Four confirmed,” Dana replies. “Possibly more.”

Abbott nods once, absorbing the information. “Injuries?”

Dana gives a humorless shrug. “Unknown.”

Abbot mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like fantastic before straightening and glancing around the department.

“Alright,” he says calmly, clapping his hands together once in quiet decision. “Let’s get ahead of it.”

The tone is casual, almost conversational. But the reaction is immediate.

Nurses begin clearing stretchers from the trauma bays. Respiratory rolls a ventilator down the hallway. Someone drags a cooler of emergency blood products across the floor, the plastic scraping loudly against tile.

The department pivots from routine to readiness in seconds.

You grab your laptop and follow Abbott into Trauma Bay 1, the familiar weight of the computer tucked under your arm as the smell of antiseptic and sterile plastic fills the air.

Abbott moves through the equipment with methodical precision, checking the airway cart first before testing the suction tubing.

“What’s the potassium on the appendicitis patient?” he asks suddenly, his voice carrying across the room while he flicks on the laryngoscope and checks the battery.

You glance down at the chart. “Three point two,” you answer.

“Replace it,” Abbot replies automatically, setting the laryngoscope back into its slot.

“Already ordered,” you say as your fingers move across the keyboard.

Abbot nods slightly without looking up.

Then he glances toward you.

“You ever worked a mass casualty before?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Good,” Abbott says thoughtfully.

You blink.

“That’s supposed to be comforting?”

Abbot hums quietly as he checks the oxygen tubing. “It means you don’t know enough to panic yet.”

You stare at him.

“That might be the worst reassurance anyone has ever given me.”

For the first time since the phone call, the corner of Abbot’s mouth twitches.

He glances at you, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “I’m full of them.”

Despite the tension building in the room, you feel your mouth twitch in response.

Before you can say anything else, the trauma bay doors swing open.

Dr. Shen walks in first. He’s already pulling gloves onto his hands while scanning the room, his eyes flicking rapidly from equipment to stretchers to staff with sharp efficiency.

“What’s the story?” he asks as he steps fully into the bay.

“Highway crash,” Abbot replies.

Shen whistles quietly.

“Well that’s going to ruin everyone’s evening.”

Abbott glances sideways at him.

“My evening was already ruined when you walked in.”

Shen grins widely.

“That’s fair.”

Behind him, Dr. Ellis steps into the trauma hallway, tying her hair back as she surveys the cleared trauma bays and the equipment lining the walls.

“Tell me we’re exaggerating,” she says.

“We’re not.” Dana answers from the desk. 

Ellis nods once.

“Alright.”

She gestures toward the trauma rooms.

“You take Bay 1,” she tells Abbott. “Chen gets Bay 2. I’ll triage overflow.”

Abbot nods easily.

“Works for me.”

You notice he doesn’t ask where you’re going.

He assumes you’re staying with him.

.....

The siren reaches the ambulance bay before the vehicle does.

It rises sharply in pitch as the ambulance pulls closer, echoing through the department like a warning bell.

Every head turns toward the doors.

The moment the ambulance backs into the bay, the paramedics are already moving.

The stretcher bursts through the doors seconds later.

“Male, thirty-two!” one of them calls breathlessly. “Found near the highway crash site—possible debris strike!”

Abbot steps forward immediately. “Trauma One.”

The team moves with practiced coordination, transferring the patient onto the trauma bed.

You slide into position along the counter, laptop already open.

The cursor blinks.

Waiting.

“Patient was outside his vehicle when another car hit the median barrier,” the paramedic continues rapidly. “Debris scattered across the roadway. He took a hit from metal fragments.”

You begin typing.

21:19 — Patient arrival Trauma Bay 1.

The man on the bed groans weakly.

He’s conscious. Barely.

Blood mats his hair along one side of his head where a jagged scalp laceration cuts across the skin. Smaller puncture wounds dot his chest and shoulder where fragments of twisted metal have embedded beneath the surface.

Abbot leans closer.

“Hey,” he says calmly, placing one hand on the bedrail. “Stay with me.”

The patient blinks sluggishly.

Abbot begins the primary survey.

“Airway intact?,” he says.

“Breathing equal.” Respiratory nods.

“Circulation?”

The nurse checks the monitor.

“Heart rate one-thirty. Pressure ninety-eight over sixty.”

Abbott studies the wounds again. “Shrapnel injuries.”

Your fingers move rapidly across the keyboard.

Vitals.

Mechanism.

Exam.

The patient suddenly coughs and then grimaces. “My… chest…”

Abbott presses gently along the ribs. The man winces sharply. The older man’s eyes narrow. “Possible rib fractures.”

He glances toward the nurse. “Portable chest X-ray STAT.”

Across the hallway, Shen is already setting up Trauma Bay 2. Ellis stands near the entrance speaking with EMS, sorting incoming patients. The department is moving faster now, but it still feels manageable.

Controlled.

Then the patient grabs Abbot’s sleeve weakly. “There was… a bang…”

Abbott leans closer. “What kind of bang?”

The man struggles to breathe.

But he manages two words.

“Loud.”

Then—

“Explosion.”

Your typing slows.

Across the room, Shen looks up. “Explosion?”

Abbott studies the patient carefully. “Where?”

The man swallows painfully.

“Bus… station…”

The trauma bay goes silent.

Across the department Dana suddenly calls out.

“Abbot!”

He turns toward the doorway. “What?”

Dana’s voice is tight now.

“Dispatch just confirmed something.”

Abbott waits.

Dana swallows.

“They’re saying it wasn’t a crash.”

Chen straightens.

“What?”

Dana looks toward the ambulance bay.

“Police are reporting an explosion downtown.”

The words settle over the room like a storm cloud.

Abbott’s expression shifts.

Not panic.

Focus.

He pulls on a fresh pair of gloves. Then he looks directly at you.

“Y/N.”

You glance up.

“Yeah?”

“Stay on that chart.”

You nod.

Your fingers begin moving faster.

Outside—

another ambulance siren echoes through the night.

Then another.

Then another.

Chen steps beside Abbott. “How many victims?”

Dana stares toward the doors. “More than we can handle.”

Abbott surveys the department one last time.

The cleared trauma bays.

The waiting stretchers.

The staff already moving faster.

Then he nods once.

“Alright,” he says quietly.

“Nothing we haven’t handled before.”

....

Outside—

three more ambulances pull into the bay.

The first ambulance doors open before Abbot has even finished stabilizing the man in Trauma Bay 1.

The sirens don’t fade this time.

They multiply.

One cuts off just as another rises behind it. Then a third joins in, the sound stacking over itself until the whole ambulance bay seems to vibrate with it. It fills the department with a sharp mechanical urgency that settles under your skin and stays there.

The doors burst inward.

Paramedics pour through in a rush of orange vests, trauma shears, and quick, clipped reports that overlap before the first one has even ended.

“Female, twenty-six, blast exposure, multiple shrapnel wounds—”

“Pediatric male, possible head injury—”

“Another two behind us—”

The controlled readiness of the emergency department doesn’t break.

It transforms.

It becomes motion.

Abbot steps out of Trauma Bay 1 just far enough to see the hallway, his gloved hands already flexing once at his sides as he takes in the first wave of casualties. For half a second, the entire department hangs on that glance of his—Dana at the desk, Ellis at the ambulance entrance, Shen turning toward the nearest incoming stretcher, nurses moving with supply trays already balanced in their hands.

Then Abbot’s voice cuts cleanly through the noise. “Ellis.”

“I’ve got triage,” she answers immediately, already halfway to the doors, one hand lifted toward the incoming paramedics as she starts sorting patients before they’ve even cleared the threshold.

“Shen.”

“Working on it,” Shen says, pulling a face shield down over his eyes as he strides toward Trauma Bay 2.

Abbot points toward the room with two fingers, quick and decisive. “You’re primary on the next trauma.”

Shen grins under the shield, and somehow, even now, there’s still enough of his personality left for him to say, “Finally, something fun.”

Abbot exhales through his nose. “You need better hobbies.”

The woman being wheeled toward Bay 2 starts screaming before the stretcher even stops. It’s a hoarse, animal sound, the kind that rips straight through the center of a room and makes every nerve in your body tighten in response. Her clothes are torn and blackened with soot, and her arms are flecked with cuts where metal fragments have embedded in the skin. Blood runs in thin uneven lines down both wrists.

Shen is at her bedside before the brakes lock.

“Alright,” he says, his voice low and controlled despite the speed he’s moving at. “Eyes on me. Let’s go, people.”

Across the hallway, another stretcher appears. Ellis intercepts it before it can even be assigned.

“Stable?” she asks the paramedic, pacing backward with the moving bed.

“Leg injuries and partial-thickness burns.”

“Bay 3,” she says immediately, and points without hesitation. “Not a trauma room. Move.”

The stretcher veers down the side hall.

Everything is happening at once.

The department fills with overlapping voices.

“Get me vitals.”

“Respiratory to Trauma Two.”

“Where’s the ultrasound?”

“Open blood now.”

“Move that cart.”

You slide back into place along the trauma bay counter, laptop open, the edge of it resting against your forearm as the cursor blinks on the screen, patient note still open and waiting. The bright blue-white glow from the screen catches on Abbott’s glove as he turns back toward the patient already in Bay 1.

But the room hasn’t finished filling.

Another paramedic rushes in hard enough to nearly skid on the floor, steering a second stretcher straight toward the empty side of the bay.

“Male, mid-twenties!” he shouts over the noise. “Blast debris, abdominal injury, deteriorating en route!”

Abbot doesn’t waste a second. “Bring him here.”

The stretcher swings in close, the wheels clipping one of the metal legs of the bedside tray as the team crowds around to transfer. The patient is young—too young, you think automatically, though they all are—and pale beneath the smears of soot and blood on his skin. A makeshift pressure dressing has been strapped low over his abdomen, but dark blood is already blooming through the gauze in a slow, ugly stain.

Abbot steps to the bed as soon as the transfer is complete.

“Alright,” he says, and even now his voice is quiet, not loud. It doesn’t need to be. The room organizes itself around it. “Let’s get to work.”

You begin typing.

21:23 — Second patient arrival, Trauma Bay 1. Male, mid-twenties, blast exposure, suspected abdominal trauma.

The paramedic starts report while still catching his breath.

“Found approximately thirty feet from the blast site. Conscious when we got there, increasingly lethargic during transport. Abdominal pain, hypotension, possible internal hemorrhage.”

“Vitals?” Abbot asks, already cutting away the remainder of the blood-soaked bandage.

The nurse glances at the monitor as leads are snapped on, blood pressure cuff inflating.

“Heart rate one-fifty. Pressure eighty-six over fifty.”

Abbott nods once. “We’re bleeding somewhere.”

Your fingers move faster. Mechanism of injury. Initial vitals. Declining mentation. Suspected internal bleed.

The patient’s eyes flutter open just long enough for him to register the bright lights overhead and the figures surrounding the bed. He groans and tries instinctively to curl around the pain in his abdomen, but Abbott braces one hand gently against his shoulder and keeps him flat.

“Stay with me,” Abbot says, leaning closer, his voice low enough that it somehow still reaches through the noise. “What’s your name?”

The patient swallows hard.

“D—Dylan.”

“Alright, Dylan. I’m Dr. Abbot. You’re in the emergency department. We’re going to help you.”

The man nods weakly and then winces as Abbot palpates lightly along the abdomen. Even the smallest pressure makes him cry out.

Abbott’s eyes narrow.

“Diffuse tenderness. Guarding,” He glances toward the nurse, “Two large-bore IVs. Start fluids. Type and cross. Trauma labs.”

“Already drawing,” she answers.

Across the hallway, Shen’s voice rises. “Pressure dropping— I need another line in here now.”

The sound of Ellis directing triage overlaps with him, efficient and clipped.

“This one can wait. That one cannot. No, not there— put him in hallway one if you have to.”

The room feels tighter now.

Hotter.

Like the air itself is being compressed by the number of moving bodies and urgent decisions being made inside it.

Dylan gasps suddenly, one hand clutching weakly at Abbot’s scrub sleeve.

“My— chest…”

Abbott shifts immediately, his hand sliding from the abdomen up along the ribcage.

He presses gently, making Dylan jerk, pain flashing over his face.

“Possible rib fractures,” Abbot says aloud, both for the team and for you, and your fingers record it immediately. “Ultrasound now.”

The ultrasound machine is wheeled closer. Abbot takes the probe without looking, because the nurse has already put it into his hand before he asks. That’s what the room has become now—everyone moving ahead of each other, not behind.

You are typing, listening, watching, documenting everything.

And then someone slams into you. Hard.

A respiratory therapist trying to cut between the trauma bay counter and the portable monitor catches your shoulder with enough force to knock you sideways into the edge of the counter. Your hip clips the metal corner, pain flashing hot and sharp, and your laptop nearly slips from your hands.

“Sorry—” the therapist starts, already moving.

Abbot looks up instantly.

“Watch it,” he snaps, the words sharp enough to crack through the room. “She’s charting.”

The therapist turns red beneath his mask, mutters another apology, and changes course.

Your heart kicks once hard against your ribs.

Abbot’s attention lands on you for one brief second, eyes flicking over your face, your shoulder, the laptop still secure in your grip.

“You good?” he asks. 

It’s quick. Quiet. But there’s something in it that lands hotter than it should.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

Abbot studies you just long enough to decide whether he believes it.

Then he turns back to the bed. “Time?”

Your gaze drops to the corner of the screen instantly. “21:24.”

The nurse repeats it aloud.

The FAST exam begins. Abbot slides the probe over the patient’s upper abdomen, his face illuminated by the shifting grayscale flicker on the small screen. For a second the room narrows to the image, to the angle of his wrist, to Dylan’s rough, uneven breathing.

Abbott pauses, then his voice drops. “Free fluid.”

The room changes around those two words. No one panics, but everyone gets faster.

The nurse already holding saline drops it onto the tray and reaches for blood paperwork. Someone calls for the trauma surgeon. The second IV line goes in. Respiratory hovers closer in case the patient’s mental status dips further.

You type it all. Positive FAST. Free fluid. Ongoing hypotension. Concern for intra-abdominal hemorrhage.

Dylan coughs, then coughs again harder, blood flecking his lips this time.

Abbot’s eyes lift immediately. “Lung involvement too.”

He steps around the bed and listens to the chest with his stethoscope, head tilted, face unreadable.

“Breath sounds?”

“Present bilaterally but diminished at the bases.” Respiratory answers from the far side. 

Abbott nods, then sets the stethoscope aside.

“Prep for intubation.”

Your chest tightens. The room surges into the next phase before anyone can pause on the decision. Medications are pulled. The airway cart swings open. Respiratory moves to the head of the bed. Across the hall, Shen is dealing with a trauma of his own, and you can hear it in the clipped pace of his voice.

“No, I need that pressure held lower. Lower. There.”

Ellis appears in the doorway of Bay 1 for exactly one second, one hand braced against the frame as she looks between Abbot and the patient.

“Two more red tags incoming,” she says.

Abbot doesn’t look away from Dylan. “Use Bay 3 and the resus room. If they can breathe and answer questions, they wait. If they can’t, they come here.”

Ellis nods once and disappears again.

The emergency department is no longer trying to look like anything but a mass casualty response.

Stretchers line the hall. The usual neat traffic flow is gone. A monitor alarm from triage competes with the hiss of oxygen in Bay 2 and the sharp rip of someone tearing open sterile packaging behind you. Still, Abbot remains exactly what he has been from the second Dana lowered that phone.

Steady.

The nurse holds up two syringes.

“Etomidate ready. Succinylcholine ready.”

Abbot nods. “Push.”

You record the time the instant she says it.

21:26 — Etomidate administered. 21:26 — Succinylcholine administered.

Dylan’s body slackens.

Respiratory steps in.

The laryngoscope passes to Abbot’s hand. He doesn’t rush. He never does. Even now, while the hallway outside is filling with blast victims and someone in Bay 2 is actively screaming, his movements remain economical and exact.

“Tube.”

Respiratory places it into his hand and Abbot advances. The whole room seems to hold still for one impossible second.

Then—

“Cord view.”

Another second.

“Tube’s in.”

Respiratory confirms immediately. “Color change. Bilateral rise.”

You type.

Abbot secures the tube while the nurse tapes it and another starts adjusting the vent settings. For one brief moment, the bay settles around the rhythm of the machine breathing for the patient. Then Dylan’s right hand twitches weakly against the sheet. He isn’t fully under enough to be still.

Abbot looks down. “Give him more sedation.”

The nurse nods and pushes the medication.

Dylan stills again.

You keep typing.

Because if you stop, even for a second, the pace of it all threatens to overwhelm you.

This is what mass casualty charting feels like, you realize—not dramatic in the way television makes it seem, but relentless. A thousand details trying to outrun your hands. Every medication, every procedure, every timestamp demanding to be caught before it disappears into the noise.

The patient from Bay 1—the first one, the man with the scalp laceration and chest shrapnel—has not stopped being your patient just because another one arrived. A nurse is dressing his head wound now while another physician assistant reviews his chest X-ray. Shen is still yelling in Bay 2. Ellis is still deciding which injuries matter most and in what order. Dana is somehow on two phones at once.

And through all of it, Abbot glances toward you again.

You’re still typing.

Still there.

Still keeping up.

The smallest flicker of approval touches his expression.

He doesn’t smile, not really.

That would be too much, too obvious, too soft for a man like him in the center of something like this. Instead he reaches for the next instrument the nurse offers, looks at the chart screen in your hands for one brief beat, and says under his breath, low enough that no one else would catch it unless they were listening for him specifically—

“That’s my girl.”

The words strike through you like a live wire. Your fingers don’t stop moving. They can’t.

But heat floods your face anyway, sharp and immediate, and for one terrible second you are deeply, acutely aware of every inch of yourself in the room.

The laptop in your hands.

The sting in your shoulder from being knocked into the counter.

The bright overhead lights.

The sound of the ventilator.

The fact that Shen absolutely hears everything, even if he pretends not to.

You don’t dare look up right away.

Because if you do, you’re afraid your entire face will give you away. So you do what you know, you just keep typing. Vitals. Intubation. Positive FAST. Suspected internal bleeding. Critical care time ongoing.

Across the hall, someone starts crying in Bay 3.

Not screaming, crying. The kind of sound that carries differently because it comes from a place that has already understood what’s happened.

Ellis’s voice answers it—calm, warm, practical. “I know. I know. Stay with me.”

Dana appears in the doorway of Bay 1 with another update sheet in her hand.

“Police just confirmed a second device,” she says.

The room stills for half a beat. Not because anyone is surprised anymore, but because the number changes things. 

“You’re kidding.” Shen looks up over his patient from the opposite bay.

Dana shakes her head. “No.”

Abbot strips one pair of gloves off and reaches immediately for another. “How many total victims on route?”

Dana glances down at the paper.

“Still unknown. They’re saying multiple self-transports too. Anyone ambulatory is finding their own way in.”

Abbot nods once. “Then we split triage. Ellis keeps sorting the walking wounded. Shen keeps Bay 2. I’ll keep one and call surgery for this one.”

Dana’s eyes flick toward you briefly. “You keeping up?”

You don’t stop typing. “Barely.”

Dana snorts.

“Good. Means you’re awake.”

Abbot’s mouth twitches, just slightly.

He turns back to Dylan’s bed. “Let’s get him upstairs before he bleeds out in my department.”

The room moves again. And so do you.

Because there is still another siren outside.

And another.

And another.

The first wave isn’t ending. It’s only just beginning.

[freddyxdo]

Trying to remember…

Summary: The need to feel normal again clashes with a moment Simon tried too hard to avoid.

Chapter one.

Warning: Low self-esteem, and mention of burns and cuts.

Note: Hello! Sorry for the delay in updating; university has been keeping me very busy. I hope you like it, and remember that I don't speak English and this is a translation, so I apologize if there are any typos.

Simon was lost, he didn’t know what he felt and he didn’t understand who up there was playing such a damn heavy joke on him. It was Friday, exactly three days had passed since he had helped you and he still couldn’t figure out why he had done it.

Yeah, you were about to faint and yeah, his morals as a person wouldn’t let him leave you there to your fate. But who was he to talk about morals when he was the one who had broken your legs?

It was night. It wasn’t a special day for him, but he needed to do something, go out and stop thinking about the fact that he had told you his name. Every time he got closer to you, you discovered things about him and that tormented him.

You know he smokes.

You know it’s a routine.

You know he avoids you.

And now you know his damn name.

He turned off the TV and checked his phone looking for nothing, just to focus his gaze on a smaller screen to rest his eyes, exhausted from so much light.

And he noticed a message notification he’d had for five minutes.

Soap.

L.T. I’m around the area, beers? You pay :]

He sighed. And reconsidered his options. He could either rot on a Friday night doing nothing and let his thoughts about the girl next door eat away at his mind, or put up with some of Soap’s bad jokes.

He picked up his phone.

In 10. Same bar.

....

It was pretty cold that night. So he went out wearing a black leather jacket, put on his helmet, and rode his motorcycle to a small bar a few blocks from his building.

It wasn’t a fancy bar nor very crowded. It was quite calm and most people knew each other for being regulars. Many knew him, and he had struck up several conversations with the older men who sat at the bar to watch American football games. He felt comfortable and not anxious around people; every time Soap suggested going out for a drink, he chose that place and the blue-eyed man didn’t argue.

They met at the bar’s entrance and shook hands.

-You look better than a few months ago. - John said.

-Anyone looks better outside the war.

They both went in and sat at the same table as always, in the back and to the right, against the wall.

-Tell me… what were you doing around here?

Soap answered while taking his coat off his shoulders.

-Honestly, I wasn’t around here, I was pretty alone on a Friday and I wasn’t going to waste it. What’s your excuse?

-The same.

He hesitated quite a bit about whether to tell him the wonderful surprise that you were his neighbor. You, daughter of a terrorist, wanted in too many countries for your last name to go unnoticed. But something stopped him; he didn’t know how Johnny would react. Even though Soap was a remarkable soldier with a personality that stayed fairly level in extreme situations, he didn’t want to risk him telling Price that one of his former targets lived next door to Simon.

Because yeah, it looked suspicious. It seemed like a twisted revenge plan for what he had done to you, or to keep an eye on a member of the 141. But you had made it clear too many times that you weren’t involved in any of that, and deep down Ghost knew it. Just like he knew it was just a damn joke from whoever was up there that you both ended up in the same building.

-I’ll order the beers, peanuts? - Simon asked as he stood up from his seat.

Soap widened his eyes at that.

-Will you buy me peanuts too? Come on, who are you trying to impress, Lieutenant?

He rolled his eyes, completely ignoring him, and walked toward the bar to order the two drinks, now doubting whether to get the peanuts too.

Había algunas personas, pero no demasiadas, en la barra de madera lisa. Algunos estaban sentados viendo un partido de fútbol y otros simplemente esperaban su bebida. Se dirigió hacia la zona más vacía, se remangó, dejando al descubierto su gran tatuaje, y apoyó los antebrazos sobre la rígida madera de dudosa higiene.

He loved that bar.

While he waited for a waiter to free up, a voice was heard beside him.

-A Martini and a bottle of white wine, please.

A voice, far too familiar for his liking, sounded next to him and instinctively he turned his head.

Damn.

Shit.

It was you. With your straightened hair, a short wine-red long-sleeve dress that reached your neck, and black tights. He would be lying if he said you didn’t look good. And he watched you for too long just to confirm that thought.

-Hello, Simon.

He cleared his throat, pulling his gaze away from you.

-Hello, neighbor.

-I didn’t know you left the building, I thought you were a hallway ghost.

Ghost.

What a coincidence.

-Depends on the day. During the week, I am that.

You let out a laugh and he wanted to grab the gun at his hip, take the safety off, and shoot himself right there at the bar.

-Going out makes you talkative.

He looked at you, more than he should have, and thought. You were right, going out made him different. More normal, more civil. Not a weapon of war, not Ghost who tortures. A person going for a beer on a Friday, and you a pretty girl smiling at him.

The sound of a glass clinking made that thought vanish from his head. He pulled his gaze away from you and saw them hand you what you had ordered moments ago.

-The bottle just for you?

He asked while you held the martini in one hand and the wine in the other.

-Maybe I’ll share it with someone tonight.

You said as you walked off, passing by him, and your scent filled his nose. He ran his tongue over his teeth and raised his hand toward the waiter.

-Dos cervezas y cacahuetes, por favor.

...

-And I know why you bought the peanuts.

Soap said as soon as he felt Simon’s presence at the table. He set down the two beers and the peanuts so he could sit in the worn wooden chair and stare at him with his blue eyes.

-Don’t start.

-A girl… I couldn’t see her face, but I saw yours, and I’ve never seen you like that. You’re quite the charmer.

Simon took his beer and, shaking his head, brought the cap to his mouth and popped it open with his teeth. He pulled the cap away and spoke.

-She’s no one, just acquaintances.

-From some dating app?

-De ​​ninguna manera

He took a long drink of his cold beer and unfocused from his friend’s face to look right behind him. And fix his pupils on a girl in the distance, legs crossed on a high stool, with her glass of white wine in her right hand, laughing at something a woman in front of you was saying.

Johnny noticed the look and turned his head to see you.

-Let’s see who caught the big fish…

Silence.

And Ghost swore on his mother that it was so long it could take the entire beer to finish while Johnny’s brain processed what he was seeing.

Were there better ways to tell him? Probably. Maybe being more direct and saying you were his neighbor, but it would have taken away this wonderful suspense running through his veins as he watched Soap slowly turn his head to look at him.

-No.

-I told you, she’s no one.

-Did you get in touch with her? -Simon sighed, knowing what was coming.

-No, definitely not. She had the bad luck of ending up next to my apartment.

-¿Mala suerte? ¿La estás excusando por no planear vivir al lado de ti?

-Yes, I excuse her. And I firmly believe that girl over there has nothing to do with us, much less with her father.

En ese momento, ambos estaban demasiado inclinados sobre la mesa, hablando en susurros bastante fuertes para no llamar la atención.

-¿Sabe ella quién eres?

-¿Crees que me habría hablado o incluso se me habría acercado como lo hizo si me hubiera reconocido?

Preguntó retóricamente, dando otro sorbo a su cerveza, tratando de mirar a Soap y no a ti, que parecías más hipnótica a sus ojos con cada momento que pasaba.

—De ninguna manera —Soap tomó un trago de su cerveza y no volvió a mirar atrás. Como si fueras una entidad maligna. —¿Le informaste a Price?

-I wasn’t even going to tell you.

-What? Why?

-I saw it as irrelevant.

-Having Haddad’s daughter living next to your place? Damn irrelevant.

-She doesn’t know anything and she’s not involved. He received videos of his daughter being tortured and even then he wasn’t capable of releasing the hostages. -He took another drink of his beer. - The father doesn’t even acknowledge her.

Soap stayed thoughtful and Ghost spoke again.

-Don’t think like you have to decide about the situation. It’s not your call.

-Is it yours?

-Yes.

-What did you decide?

-To do nothing.

Soap grabbed a handful of peanuts with his hand.

-That really reassures me, L.T.

And that’s how the whole night went. Johnny, far too worried about Simon having a nuclear bomb next to his apartment—that is, you. And in a way, that made Ghost laugh, so she slowed down on her motorcycle when she saw it veering to the side without even saying a word. Or maybe it was because her mind was on how you kept glancing at her while she chatted with your friend.

At first, he decided it was coincidence. Two gazes colliding in a bar full of people. You could have looked at anyone. The second time, he blamed Soap, who let out a laugh that caught your attention. And the other times—yeah, there were more than four—he blamed his drunk eyes, filled with too much beer and whiskey to keep focused on Soap. They drifted toward you.

And he blamed himself for that.

He climbed the building stairs far too slowly, calm, passive, waiting. But he didn’t know what he was waiting for, and that twisted his stomach, so ignoring all his senses, he walked faster toward his apartment.

He took a breath when he reached his floor and let it out slowly when he saw you.

He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes, accepting the damn joke.

-If you’re going to faint, keep in mind I’ll have to drag you, you won’t get to be a damsel in distress.

He heard you say while you were sitting next to your door with the key in your hand.

-Again?

-The lock hates me.

Simon smiled.

-Or maybe you’re too drunk to open it.

You let out a laugh and showed the bottle of wine next to you, half empty.

-Not yet.

-I doubt it.

He held out his hand and, without expecting it, you took it. He expected your key, but instead received your warm, soft hand against his rough, large one. You used him for support to stand up and thanked him.

-The key...

You looked at him, frowning slightly, and smiled. And Ghost swore he was too drunk.

-And your knife?

I swapped it for the gun, he was about to say, but at the last moment he held back so he wouldn’t scare you.

-I left it inside my apartment.

-That's your way of getting me to your apartment?

Simon te miró mientras se mordía el labio inferior hasta sentir el sabor metálico de la sangre en la boca. Se giró sin decir palabra, intentando recordar quién eras, qué había hecho tu padre y algo mucho más importante: qué te había hecho a ti, para resistir la tentación. Caminó unos pasos hasta la puerta, introdujo la llave y abrió la pesada madera, buscando su cuchillo.

He went in and turned on the lights, ignoring whether you followed him or not.

-Wow, what a sad apartment.

You damn well followed him.

He heard you say behind him as he went to his kitchen to open the utensil drawer.

-I don’t spend much time here.

He checked the entire drawer but found nothing. He closed it and stood there for a few minutes, thinking about where he had left the knife. He had so many, and now none of them showed up.

The fact that you were leaning against the doorframe didn’t help the situation. You were on that thin line between breaking into his personal space and messing with him or just standing there, looking at him with those big eyes of yours while biting your plump lip to keep from laughing at his frustration at not finding the knife.

He was screwed.

-We’ll try to open the door with your key. -He finally said, and you smiled as you saw yourself finally stepping into his space.

He wanted to throw you out, tell you to keep your distance and never speak to him again. But his treacherous mouth didn’t say a word of his thoughts; instead, he let you walk freely toward him. He watched as you moved closer to the counter, passing by his side and filling his nostrils with your exquisite perfume.

-I think the drunk one is someone else.

He turned around to look at you. You were smiling, showing your teeth, leaning very casually against his kitchen while holding, just high enough for him to see, the damn knife.

-I’m not drunk.

-Doesn’t seem like it, you walked right past it and didn’t see it.

-It happens to me a lot.

You looked up and Simon’s gaze dropped to see how you ran your tongue over your dry, red-painted lips.

-Like you did with me.

They both looked at each other for a long moment, in a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable but quite the opposite—and that scared Simon. And he blamed the alcohol for it.

He blamed it for everything.

For staring at you shamelessly.

For having you in his kitchen.

For talking too much with you.

For stepping closer to you now to try to take the knife from you.

He blamed it for cornering you against the kitchen counter.

♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡♡•♡•♡•

You looked at him with amusement. The whole situation amused you.

You.

In his kitchen.

In your neighbor’s kitchen.

The one who opens doors with knives.

You smiled more when he got too close to you. You didn’t like it—you didn’t like people’s closeness—but you wanted it, you wanted to go back to who you were. The woman who was confident, who didn’t wear dresses with black tights, that woman who showed more skin when she went out, who wasn’t ashamed of some stretch marks.

No. You were ashamed of something horrible, and sometimes you missed worrying about those silly natural lines, because the ones you had now weren’t, they weren’t normal, they weren’t accidental. No, they had been made with hatred—too much hatred. Deep scars covered parts of your hips, your backside, and deep burns marked your forearms long after they had healed.

You missed yourself, and you wanted to be normal again. You didn’t like people’s closeness—after all that, you hated it. You hated any physical contact, but you wanted this too much.

You wanted to be normal, to pretend nothing had happened. To go back to those months before, when you would have grabbed Simon by the shoulders and dragged him to the bed.

-The knife… now. -He demanded while cornering you against the kitchen counter.

-You can take it whenever you want.

You saw how he resisted, how he refused to make a move, and the regret when he did anything regarding you. You frowned. You didn’t understand him at all, and that frustrated you more than you wanted.

You needed to find a hobby, you thought. Because thinking about your neighbor more often than you’d like wasn’t very entertaining—it was exhausting. Because you missed every reaction you got from him.

From how he resisted telling you his name until he finally did, to how he resisted now, having you too close and both of you too messed up for him not to do something about it.

You felt his breath on your face, and your gaze dropped to those full lips with a scar on them. He sighed, and resigned, took your lips in an extremely rough kiss.

There was no love, no affection, not even care. Just Simon’s lips on yours—and you loved that more than you expected.

His hands moved to your waist, and a wave of heat hit your whole body. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, feeling how he deepened the kiss.

He squeezed your waist tightly and your back hit hard against the counter. And, without warning, he easily lifted you onto the marble of his kitchen, and as if it were a signal, you wrapped your legs around his waist, where his right hand traveled to the top of your thigh.

You shivered at the contact but ignored it. You needed this—it was your test to see if you had overcome everything and were no longer insecure about the scars. You felt his hand move up to your backside, and unexpectedly he lifted you while you were still lost in that rough kiss you loved.

You tightened your arms around his neck and he adjusted you better on his waist, giving you a small bounce as he walked toward somewhere you didn’t know. You broke the kiss with a soft, wet sound and looked at him with amusement.

-The knife thing was an excuse, right?

Simon laughed and opened a door.

-Did it work? -he said as he set you down on a bed with an exquisite scent—you doubted whether it was his bed or not.

He captured your lips again in that full kiss and you eagerly followed as he positioned himself between your legs. You felt that shiver again but tried to ignore it by gripping his hair tighter.

He was good at kissing—that much you were sure of, because he didn’t let you go. And he earned more points when his mouth started to move slowly down your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses as his hand slid up the hem of your dress.

And that was too much.

Your hands quickly moved to his shoulders. You didn’t push hard, but Simon understood the message and slowly stopped, lifting his head to look at you with his tired eyes. And you feared he might be angry.

And that made the hairs on your arms stand on end, because you knew the man’s anger too well.

-I’m so sorry. -you said, regretful. -It’s not that I don’t want to… but— You thought of a quick excuse for cutting the moment short.

-Don’t apologize. Was I too rough?

-No, nothing like that. It’s me—I think it’s too soon to do this.

You felt the heat rise to your face and regretted saying that stupid excuse. He was going to think you were some teenager who had imagined a life with him, and that you were stupid enough to think he would wait for you to be ready.

His hand left your thigh and you felt cold as his body moved away from yours. You were about to get up when you saw Simon lie down on his back beside you. You looked at him, frowning, but didn’t move.

-Do you want a cigarette? -he asked.

-¿Do you smoke inside your house?

-On special occasions.

-Is this one? -you asked, and your chest filled with something you couldn’t explain.

He turned his head to look at you and nodded.

-Fucking yes.

He touched the front pocket of his pants and took out a pack of regular cigarettes, opening it and pulling out a single one. You, for your part, pulled your green lighter from your chest—your secret place to keep things—and brought it close to his face to light the cigarette. Once you saw the smoke leave his mouth, you put it out and tucked it away again.

-You smoke regular ones? -you asked, noticing the single-color filter.

-That’s right.

-I like watermelon ones better. -you said, turning your face toward him as he exhaled smoke through his nose along with a laugh.

-That’s childish.

-Well, look at me.

He looked you up and down and handed you the lit cigarette.

-You never told me your name.

You took it between your fingers and took a long drag before answering with your name.

-Y/N.

Taglist:

@xncasi @angelryex @missj609 @marquiserose @flyingtiger2002

Tag the people who commented on my posts before (I'm not sure if I tagged them correctly, I'm still learning haha)

Third part?