hiii i saw you write for the pitt i was wondering if you could do dennis whittaker angst? maybe about amy? and ending in fluff up to you tho queen love you
Second Chance
A story about almost getting used to being second-and the night he chooses you first.
pairings: dennis whittaker x girlfriend!reader
synopsis: It starts with something small. A late arrival. A missed moment. Another quiet "I'm sorry" that doesn't change anything.
Dennis Whitaker never means to let you down. He just keeps expecting you to understand-and you always do.
Until you don't.
Because being patient is easy at first.
It's easy to tell yourself it isn't a big deal, that there's always a reason, that you'll get your time eventually.
But eventually never comes.
And somewhere between waiting and pretending it doesn't hurt, you realize you're not asking for too much-just something he's never had to think about giving.
Consistency.
Presence.
A choice.
So when you finally ask him to stay—really ask, for the first time—
it isn't dramatic.
It isn't loud.
But it changes everything.
Because Dennis has always shown up.
He's just never had to prove he could stay.
CONTENT WARNING: emotional distress, repeated disappointment, feelings of neglect/being second priority, conflict in relationship, arguments, unresolved tension, themes of abandonment (non-physical), imbalance in emotional availability, anxiety from waiting/uncertainty, difficult conversations, boundary-setting, mentions of other "responsibilities" (Amy), mild angst with resolution, fluff ending, reassurance, emotional intimacy
word count: 2.1k
The bell above the diner door rings, sharp and familiar, and your head lifts before you can stop it. It’s instinct at this point, something your body does before your brain has time to catch up, like hope refuses to learn no matter how many times it’s been proven wrong.
It’s not him.
You still hold the look for a second too long, watching the stranger pause to shake rain from their jacket before stepping further inside. Only then do you look away, lowering your gaze back to the table like it doesn’t matter, like you weren’t just waiting for that exact moment.
Your coffee has gone cold, having been left to sit a while ago. You just haven’t done anything about it, because replacing it for the fourth time doesn’t really fix the actual problem sitting in your chest.
“Still waiting?” the waitress asks as she passes, slowing just enough to glance at you properly. There’s nothing judgmental in her tone, but there’s a kind of familiarity there that makes your stomach twist anyway.
You give her a small smile, the kind that’s more polite than genuine. “Yeah. He texted—said he was on his way, so he should be here soon.”
She hums softly, topping off your cup without asking, like she’s heard that exact line before. “You want me to hold off on the menu, or do you wanna order something while you wait?”
“No, it’s okay,” you reply, shaking your head. “We’ll order together.”
The we sits heavier than it should, settling somewhere uncomfortable under your ribs.
She nods and moves on, leaving you alone with the quiet hum of the diner and the sound of your own thoughts getting louder the longer you sit there. You wrap your hands around the mug again, even though the heat is barely there it at least it gives you something to focus on.
Your phone is face-up on the table beside it, screen dark except for the message that’s been sitting there for the last half hour.
On my way.
Sent thirty-one minutes ago.
You don’t open it again this time. You’ve already read it enough that the words feel burned into your brain, and there’s nothing underneath it waiting to make it better. No update, no follow-up, no “running late” that at least acknowledges the time passing.
The bell rings again, and your head lifts automatically. You don’t even think about it anymore, just react, eyes flicking toward the door with that same small, stubborn hope.
It’s not him.
You look away quicker this time, jaw tightening slightly as you force yourself to focus on anything else. The flickering light in the corner, the low murmur of conversation from the table behind you, the way your reflection looks faintly distorted in the napkin holder.
It doesn’t help.
Because this isn’t really about tonight, and you know that. If it were just tonight, you could laugh it off or roll your eyes and tease him when he finally showed up frantic and apologizing.
But it’s not just tonight.
It’s the pattern that’s been building slowly, quietly, until you couldn’t ignore it anymore. The way plans shift or disappear the second his phone buzzes, the way “I’m sorry” comes quicker every time but doesn’t actually change anything, the way you’ve started expecting to be the one who waits.
The bell rings again.
“Hey—shit, I’m sorry.”
You look up, and this time it is him.
Dennis stands there for a second like he’s bracing himself, eyes scanning your face quickly, like he’s trying to read your reaction before he even sits down. Then he slides into the booth across from you, movements a little rushed, like he hasn’t quite caught his breath yet.
“I know I’m late,” he says immediately, hands coming up in a half-gesture like he can explain it fast enough to make it better. “Traffic was backed up and—”
He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply as his shoulders drop. “It doesn’t matter. I should’ve texted. I’m sorry.”
You don’t respond right away. Instead, you just look at him, taking in the details you always notice—the slightly disheveled hair, the tension still sitting in his shoulders, the way his eyes keep flicking to your face like he’s trying to gauge how bad this is.
And something in your expression must give you away, because his posture shifts almost immediately, the urgency fading into something more careful.
“…Hey,” he says, quieter now. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you answer automatically, even though it doesn’t sound convincing even to you.
He exhales through his nose, leaning forward slightly. “Don’t do that. You always say that when something’s wrong, and it’s never true.”
You let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the table as your fingers find the edge of a napkin. You start folding it, more to give your hands something to do than anything else.
“You don’t have to keep saying sorry,” you say after a moment, your voice steady but not soft. “Not if nothing’s actually going to change.”
The words land between you, heavier than you meant them to, but you don’t take them back.
Dennis leans back slightly, like he didn’t expect that response. “I know,” he says, slower this time. “I just—tonight wasn’t—”
“Amy?” you ask, finally looking up at him.
He hesitates for just a second before nodding. “…Yeah.”
Of course.
You nod once in return, because there’s nothing else to do with that answer. “Okay.”
“Something came up,” he adds quickly, like he needs you to understand the context. “She needed—”
“I get it,” you interrupt gently, because you do. That’s what makes this so much harder to untangle. “I do, Dennis. I get it.”
“Then why does it feel like you don’t?” he asks, frustration slipping into his voice. “I’m not doing this on purpose.”
“I didn’t say you were,” you reply, your tone still even but firmer now. “But intent doesn’t really change how it feels on my end.”
That stops him for a second, and you can see it sink in even if he doesn’t respond right away.
You take a breath, slower this time, trying to keep your thoughts from tangling together. “It just… feels like I’m competing with her,” you admit, the words coming out quieter but more honest than anything else you’ve said so far.
He flinches at that, his expression tightening immediately. “I don’t want you to feel like that.”
“I know you don’t,” you say, holding his gaze. “But I still do sometimes, and I don’t really know what to do with that.”
He leans forward, elbows on the table, hands clasping together like he’s trying to anchor himself. “It’s complicated,” he says. “It’s not just her calling and me dropping everything for no reason. It’s responsibility—things I can’t just ignore.”
“I’m not asking you to ignore it,” you reply, shaking your head slightly.
“Then what are you asking?” he presses, not harsh but strained, like he genuinely doesn’t know how to fix this.
You hesitate, because this is the part you’ve been avoiding saying out loud. “I’m asking to not feel like I come second every time something happens,” you say finally. “I’m asking to not sit here wondering if you’re actually going to show up when you say you will.”
That lands harder than anything else, and you can see it in the way his shoulders drop slightly, the tension shifting into something heavier.
“I didn’t realize it was like that,” he admits.
“That’s kind of the problem,” you say, not unkindly, just honest.
His phone buzzes.
The sound cuts through everything, sharp and familiar, and you feel your stomach twist before you even think about it. You both know who it is without checking.
He pulls it out anyway, glancing at the screen, and you watch the shift happen again—the way his attention starts to split, the way his posture tightens like he’s already halfway out the door.
“Is it her?” you ask quietly.
“…Yeah.”
You nod, because of course it is. “Go,” you say, the word slipping out automatically. “It’s fine.”
He doesn’t move.
You frown slightly, confused. “Dennis—”
“Or I don’t,” he says, cutting in.
You blink at him. “What?”
“I don’t go,” he repeats, more firmly this time, even as the phone buzzes again in his hand. He looks at the screen, jaw tightening, then back at you.
“You always go,” you point out, because that’s the pattern, the one you’ve both been following without really questioning it.
“Yeah,” he admits, exhaling slowly. “I do.”
Another buzz.
He stares at the phone for a second longer, like he’s weighing something, then presses the button and silences it. The screen goes dark in his hand, and the diner noise fills the space where the buzzing was.
“I can call her later,” he says, more measured now. “Or text. Or figure it out without leaving right now.”
“You don’t have to do that,” you say, because it feels wrong to ask him to stay when you know what he’s used to doing.
“I know I don’t,” he replies.
He flips the phone face down on the table, like he’s removing the option entirely.
“I’m choosing to.”
You don’t have an immediate response to that. It throws you off in a way you weren’t expecting, because this isn’t how this usually goes.
“…Why?” you ask, your voice quieter now.
He looks at you, and this time there’s no hesitation. “Because you’re sitting here asking me not to leave without actually saying it,” he says. “And I’m done acting like i don’t see it.”
Your throat tightens at that, because he’s not wrong.
You look down at your hands, fingers twisting together, and for a second you consider letting it go again, brushing it off the way you usually do.
But you don’t.
“…Can you just stay?” you ask finally, the words coming out softer but steadier. “Just this once.”
He nods immediately. “Yeah. I can do that.”
And he does.
He stays, and it’s not halfway or distracted or temporary. He doesn’t reach for his phone again, doesn’t check it under the table or glance at it every few minutes. He just… stays, and it feels unfamiliar in a way that almost makes you uneasy at first.
The conversation doesn’t fix itself right away. There are pauses, moments where neither of you quite knows what to say, but it isn’t as heavy as before. It’s quieter, more grounded.
“You should’ve told me sooner,” he says after a while, his tone more thoughtful now. “About how it’s been feeling.”
You shrug slightly. “I didn’t want to make it a whole thing.”
“It already was a whole thing,” he replies. “You were just dealing with it by yourself.”
You don’t argue with that, because there’s nothing to argue.
“I’m not trying to make you feel like you’re doing something wrong every time your phone goes off,” you say instead.
“I know,” he says. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
He exhales slowly. “It’s me getting used to reacting to her first and not realizing what that looks like from your side,” he admits. “And not realizing how often I’ve been leaving you to deal with that on your own.”
That lands differently than the explanations from before. It feels less like justification and more like awareness.
You nod slowly, letting that settle.
“Okay.”
The next time you come to the diner, you’re early, and there’s a quiet nervousness sitting in your chest that you don’t quite know what to do with.
You push the door open, the bell ringing overhead, and glance toward your usual booth out of habit.
“Hey.”
You look up, and Dennis is already there, sitting in your booth with two mugs of coffee in front of him. He looks a little unsure, like he’s been there long enough to start second-guessing himself.
“I didn’t know what you wanted,” he says, gesturing to the mugs. “So I just got both.”
You step closer, glancing at the clock on the wall before looking back at him. “How long have you been here?”
He shrugs, trying to play it off. “Not long.”
He’s been there at least fifteen minutes.
Waiting.
For you.
You slide into the booth, wrapping your hands around the mug he nudges toward you, and this time the warmth feels different. It doesn’t feel like something to distract yourself with. It just feels… steady.
“You’re early,” you say, softer now.
He huffs out a quiet breath. “Yeah. I figured I should start showing up like I say I will.”
You look at him for a moment, really look at him, and it’s not a grand gesture or some dramatic fix.
It’s just effort.
Consistent. Intentional.
Real.
“Okay,” you say, and this time when you settle into the booth, it doesn’t feel like waiting.
It just feels like being there.
With him.
a/n: it ended up being more of a slow, quiet kind of angst with amy in the background but still very much there 😭 and i gave it a soft ending because i couldn’t NOT
i really hope you enjoyed it and it was up to your expectations <3
reblogs and comments are extremely appreciated, don’t be afraid to share your thoughts because I love hearing them!! sorry for any typos <3