....soooo apparently if you want to bid for an engineering project in Texas, you need to fill out a form certifying the firm 'does not boycott Israel and will not boycott Israel during the term of the contract'
Legitimately what the actual fuck. Do y'all hate Palestinians that fucking much that you have to make the people who are building your fucking roads sign this shit?
I cannot emphasize enough this is for bidding on a civil engineering contract.
Now we know how Dr. Stone men are in love, how about when their courting/pursuing and to being a husband? 🤭
masterlist
˗ˏˋ꒰ 💭 ꒱ RAE'S NOTE. it took time but here you've it, my dear. i hope you enjoy the read as i've enjoyed writing it (^^).
˗ˏˋ꒰ 💭 ꒱ pairing. senku × gn! reader, gen × gn! reader, tsukasa × gn! reader, xeno × gn! reader, stanley × gn! reader
˗ˏˋ꒰ 💭 ꒱ summary. how they'd flirt with you, plus a brief example of their confessing.
courting headcanons
—Senku Ishigami is in denial (again). He absolutely denies he’s “courting” anyone, yet he’s inventing things that just happen to make your daily life easier. He calls it “optimization,” but his ears go red when you thank him. Not at all subtle.
—Your life is soon filled with more details about science than before. His explanations of scientific concepts come in an oddly intimate manner, with metaphors tailores too your own interests. Then, he decides to make little experiments for just the two of you, such as stargazing sessions where he quietly watches your reactions more than the sky.
—Senku starts to remember everything, and when I say everuything I mean it, you say. Offhand comments become projects. Do you like a certain scent? He’ll recreate it. Say you miss a food? He’ll reverse‑engineer it. If you ask him? It's for the advancement of civilization, 10 billion percent sure.
—His version of a confession is undeniable his in style, indirect but unmistakable. He'll invite you to join a long‑term project, something that will take months or years.
❝Don't make a big deal about it… I want you in my future when we rescue humanity.❞
—Would you believe me if I told you it started as a joke? Gen Asagiri flirted with you as he had done with many others before, but with you, something's different. He starts sizing up your reactions more closely after every interaction. His jokes become gentler, more intimate. His compliments stop being generic and become specific, almost vulnerable.
—Then, he starts bringing you things that seem casual… But that everyone knows is not. A pretty feather, a perfect leaf, a polished stone, all small tokens which he hands you theatrically. And once you turn around with his gift already in your hands, he stares at your back with a tenderness that he doesn't allow himself to show face-to-face.
—Gen can be a showman in public, in a way. But in private, his act tones down, revealing a softer side of him. He likes to sit with you at sunset, when the world turns golden and still. And when the conversation becomes intimate, he looks at you with an expression he doesn't use with anyone else: a mixture of longing, desire, and fear.
—In case it wasn't clear, he's afraid of what he feels. He's insecure about his own feelings because of their profound nature. However, one day he blurted it out as if it were a joke, despite the slight tremor in his voice.
❝You know… I like you more than is strategically sensible.❞
—As I've said before, Tsukasa Shishio shows affection through protection. He doesn't see you as weak, if you're wondering it, yet he doesn't hesitate to position himself between you and any possible threat without making a show of it.
—Tsukasa is an avid listener at that. When you speak, he gives you his full attention, as if your words are something sacred. He doesn't talk much about himself. Nevertheless, it's your trust in him that makes him lower his walls, sharing personal details that no one else knows.
—Another quiet show of his interest comes in the form of small rituals he has started to form with you: He leaves wildflowers where he knows you'll find them, he prepares the best piece of meat without saying a word, he covers you with his coat while you sleep, he watches you tenderly when you think he can't see you. They're not that grandiose, but they're enough to make you warm on the inside.
—Then, one day, the imminent arrived. It was in the way he looked at you, really at you, and admitted wanting to give you a future, one which he's willing to protect with his own life if it meant you would be happy.
❝I want to build a world where you can live without fear.❞
—I hope you're ready, because Xeno Wingfield finds your mind stimulating enough, which translates to a new attraction to debating with you about anything and everything. If he starts seeking you out to debate, to listen to your ideas, to ask your opinion on complex issues… Oh, he’s already halfway gone.
—Similar to Senku, he finds it intimate the prospect of sharing knowledge, especially the one he holds dear. For such, he'll offer to teach you anything you may ask him about, whether it's the intricate works of space, or why his gloves have those metal claws attached.
—Intense emotions aren't Xeno's strength, which seems pretty clear, so he lets them escape through small cracks during your moments together. Funnily enough, if you make him laugh, really laugh, he stares at you as if he doesn't understand what just happened to him.
—When he finally decides to say something, he does so with precision and a deep vulnerability. Despite the firmness present in his voice, his hands trembled just the slightest. For him, admitting his affection is a leap of faith.
❝You have become… Important to me. More than I anticipated.❞
—We're already aware that Stanley Snyder is a man focused on actions; that is, his affection is shown through various actions that demonstrate his attention to you. He fixes things for you, sharpens your tools, stands guard nearby without being asked…
—Those eyes of his will be set on you, whether you're aware of their constant presence or not. He watches you from a distance at first, almost like a soldier assessing a battlefield. Based on what he learns from his curious and respectful observation, he adjusts his behavior accordingly. His attention is constant, silent, and almost devotional in nature.
—His teasing is… He teases you dryly, to be honest. Yet if someone else does it, he shuts them down with a single look. He's the only one with the right to fluster you, and everyone should know that.
—Stanley isn't the most open about himself at first, taking his due time to open up for you. His life comes to your knowledge in fragments: a story from his past, a scar explained, a rare laugh shared. He doesn't talk about himself. Not out of pride, but because he doesn't know how. But with you… Things just slip out.
—And, when he finally gains the courage, his confession comes bluntly, directly, and devastatingly sincere, just like him.
summary: The aftermath of the Canadian Grand Prix, Lando thinks you surly must be on your brother side, turns out it‘s him you’re seeking out.
a/n: This wad requested but I honestly wanted to write something as well…
word count: 1.2k
The paddock was unusually quiet for a post-race Sunday. Reporters milled around, whispering into microphones and waiting for soundbites—headlines already half-written in their heads.
You’d seen it all from the McLaren hospitality suite. The attempted overtake. The slight misjudgment. The carbon fiber shower as Lando’s front wing made contact with Oscar’s rear tire. Oscar had somehow stayed in the race. Lando hadn’t.
Your stomach was still knotted.
You knew this wasn’t just any DNF. This was a mistake—on the record, and in front of the world. And worse, it was between teammates. One of whom was your brother. The other, your boyfriend.
You slipped past the usual bustle, ducking your McLaren pass into view to avoid the questions and curious glances. Drivers and engineers brushed past you like ghosts. The race was over, but no one was relaxed. Not after that incident.
You stopped outside Lando’s driver room, hesitating for just a second before raising your hand.
A soft knock echoed off the narrow corridor walls.
No answer.
You knocked again.
“Occupied,” came Lando’s voice, clipped, defensive. You could hear the zip of his race suit being peeled down. “If you’re here for Oscar’s damage report, you can save it.”
“I‘m not,” you said gently.
There was a pause. Then the door creaked open.
Lando stood there, shirtless, hair damp and curling around his forehead, cheeks flushed—not from the heat, but from something else. Frustration. Embarrassment. The way his eyes darted away from yours for a moment betrayed it. Like he wasn’t sure which version of you he was about to face—Oscar’s sister or his person.
You stepped in without waiting for an invitation, closing the door behind you.
“I thought you’d be with your brother,” he said quietly, turning his back to you as he pulled on a fresh shirt. He still didn’t look at you.
“I watched it happen,” you muttered, ignoring the question as you stepped closer, taking his arm with quiet insistence.
He gave a small laugh, one with no humor in it and pulled away from you. “Right. You watched me ruin both our races. DNF like a rookie. Get ready for the headlines: ‘Norris Cracks Under Pressure.’ ‘McLaren Civil War.’ ‘Lando vs Piastri: Round One.’”
You reached for his hand where it gripped the edge of the bench, knuckles white with tension. This time, he didn’t pull away, but he didn’t relax either. He just stood there, jaw tight, like he was waiting for a punch that never came.
“Hey,” you said, voice soft. “You didn’t ruin his race but I’m not here to talk about Oscar. I’m here for you.”
That made him look at you—really look at you. And what you saw there broke your heart a little. Hurt. Defensiveness. Self-doubt.
“You’re allowed to mess up, Lando,” you said. “You went for it. You thought you had the move. It happens. No one gets through a season clean—not even the championship contenders.”
“Except I wasn’t just fighting anyone,” he muttered. “I was fighting him. My teammate. Number one rule is not to crash and that’s what I did. What if he’s pissed? What if the team—hell, what if you—are pissed?” He broke off, jaw tightening. “The team’s probably annoyed as hell.”
You shook your head and gently cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing the still-damp edge of his hairline. His skin was cool against your touch, but the heat beneath it—his shame, his anger—was palpable.
“They’ll cool off,” you said. “Oscar’s okay. I talked to him, alright? He’s not mad, I promise. He gets it. He knows the margins are small out there. And I know you—this wasn’t some reckless ego move. You went for it. That’s what racers do.”
That finally earned a faint smirk from him. Barely there, but enough.
“He’s not made of glass, you know,” you added, your tone lightening just a little. “Though I wouldn’t mind if he started acting a bit more breakable sometimes. Would make family dinners more interesting.”
Lando let out a breath, and it sounded a little less heavy this time—like he’d let go of something he didn’t realize he was holding.
“Look,” you said, arms slipping around his waist as you rested your head against his chest. “The media will spin it. The fans will fight about it online. But that’s just noise. You know your intent. And I know you’d never do something like that out of spite.”
He rested his chin on your head, arms slowly circling your back.
“I just hate feeling like I messed everything up,” he mumbled. “Hate giving them something to rip apart.”
“Thanks,” he said against your hair. “For not making me feel like a total idiot.”
You smiled against his chest. “You’re not an idiot.”
“Debatable.”
“Shut up and hug me, Norris.”
Lando let out a quiet breath, the kind that sounded like it carried more than just exhaustion—relief, maybe, or something heavier that he didn’t know how to name. His arms tightened around you, pulling you close, anchoring himself in the only thing right in a day that had gone completely wrong.
He leaned back just slightly, just enough to see your face. His thumb brushed gently along your cheek, his touch featherlight. The look in his eyes was softer now—guard lowered, no cameras, no noise. Just you.
You reached up, fingertips resting at the base of his neck, and tilted your head.
He kissed you—slow, unhurried, like he needed to remember what it felt like to be okay. His lips moved against yours with quiet intention, not trying to prove anything or say too much—just asking for a moment of peace. A pause in the chaos. A second where it didn’t matter what the headlines said or how the race ended.
Just this.
Just you.
When you pulled away, barely an inch, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the space between.
“Do me a favor though? Next time you’re gonna crash into your championship rival, at least make sure he’s the one losing out.”
Lando laughed—really laughed this time. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and the tension finally seemed to bleed from his shoulders.
“You’re terrible,” he murmured. “You‘re talking about your brother here.“
“Exactly which is why I‘m allowed to say it,” you said, reaching up on your toes and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, “and you love me anyway.”
Another chuckle, softer now. He kissed you again, slower this time, and when he pulled you fully into his arms, it felt like the world outside the driver room didn’t exist.
even more vatling headcanons because the saviours of the world deserve to be silly:
-A flag war started between the vatlings, whoever could hide their country's flag the longest won an hour of time off. Ryland was disqualified as he used Eva's office—and since nobody was allowed to snoop there, was found out by her. Dimitri's was found by Olesya, who was very quick to rat out her own countryman. Steve engraved his into a prototype beetle, which Lokken quickly discovered. Lamai won since she hid her's under the monkey enclosure
-The team, though consisting of the smartest minds on Earth, very often forgot basic words and grammar rules. In a meeting, since English has been dubbed the common tongue, one vatling may start a sentence before trailing off as they forget the word they were trying to say
-Lokken is a big victim of this, and since there are little other Norwegians on board, she would glare at the object she's trying to name. It takes several other vatlings, Eva, Dimitri and Steve mainly, following her pointed stare, listing off several items in her line of sight until she gets it
-This sometimes turns into charades or a game of pictionary, unfortunately none of team are artists
-Ryland, having experience with his middle schoolers, is the best at figuring out Lokken's shitty drawings (a fleeting moment of civility between them)
-Eva sometimes brain glitched as she switched between her six different languages, and when its time to speak to Ryland again, may still be in that language mode. He joked once that she was a robot having a system malfunction after she gave him an order in Mandarin, which she did not find funny and made him stay in his lab during their usually scheduled lunch
-He pouted the entire time, since it's a rare chance he got to spend with Eva alone outside of the extremely late nights, barely touching the food brought to him. (Eva felt terrible after and never took away her Ryland time again, the two are way too attached than either had realised)
-On the same train of thoughts, having to stay up all hours of the day and well into the night is inevitably a horrible idea with said smartest people
-One day, Ryland, Annie and Martin were all finishing up on an experiment, choosing to explore the Vat while they waited on some results. That's when they poked their heads into the engineering department to find Steve duct taped to a chair, hands behind his back, one on his mouth—faintly they could hear him humming a Beatles song
-Redell said the man was getting on their nerves as he went through the entire discography. Lokken looked two seconds away from strangling the Canadian
-Olesya was trying to free Steve but was held back by Dimitri—who then duct taped her and Steve's hands together. she joined, badly butchering Here Comes The Sun, which felt more like punishment for the rest of the team than it was for her and Hatch
-Whenever Eva made her rounds across the labs, no matter how little time she spends, she was yelled at by one of her team leads to wear protective gear. As expected, Lokken and Olesya were the ones that made her stop at the entrance before slapping on a hard hat and a high visibility vest
-She hated the bright yellow, but was never allowed in unless she complied, dictator or not, her scientists refused to let her through despite her threats of throwing them overboard. (She would never, but hearing how she could make them laugh was enough to keep the act up, morale boosting and all)
-When Eva visited Ryland, he handed her gloves and a lab coat, and she wasn't sure which was worse. She was greatful that the most Lamai would do is make her wear a mask
-She made a comment that she looked like a nerd to them, Olesya and Ryland faked gasped, demanding that science is cool, which did not help their case
-That then led to a series of images of Eva in different scientific gear, usually frowning, and a whiteboard stating, which dictator are you, that other vatlings would a tally mark too—the happiest she looked was one in only a safety glasses watching Ryland explain astrophage energy conversation. Another one showed her with a deep scowl surrounded by a happy Dimitri and Lokken as she was in the full bright getup
-After LeClerc had to bomb Antarctica, Eva and Ryland found him under a table in the command center, looking more depressed than either expected. She gave the man the day off, and tried getting him to move, but he refused, so they brought him a blanket and a pillow
-Whatever quick briefing they had scheduled was moved so that LeClerc could hear it from where he sat
-Actually, sleeping in random places were not uncommon, and another photo album was dedicated soley for this
-Examples include Carl asleep on Eva's sofa, Ryland in front the couch, Carl's hand bracing his neck from falling. Eva tipped back on her chair, Ryland standing behind her holding her shoulders in place as she power naps. Annie and Martin laying on the side of the astronauts training pool, while Olesya was submerged. Yáo's shoulders being used by Annie and Olesya, him being trapped between the two, wearing a proud dad smile
-Lamai on one of the Hail Mary's coma pods, looking so peaceful, everyone joked she was in a coma herself. Redell being used as a pillow by Steve and Dimitri, Lokken slapping them with a report, trying to wake the men after another all nighter. Even one of Lokken and Ryland asleep in a conference room post meeting, heads near each other—Eva did not bother the two, staying until both awoke, laughing at the sound of them scampering away from each other
summary: months later at chase’s science fair jack finally meets daniel. and the distance between you and him begins to fracture. (4.4k)
pairing: jack abbot x reader
content: emotional infidelity (?), divorce/separation, co parenting dynamics, angst.
authors note: low-key this was my favourite chapter to write but anyways if i had braincells i would just end this whole thing here…
part four. part six.
by june, the air in pittsburgh feels heavier somehow. you would go as far as to say thicker.
heat presses against your skin the second you step out of your car. the late afternoon sun reflects off the school windows hard enough to make you squint, softening the fine crinkles at the corners of your eyes.
beside you, daniel reaches into the backseat for the cardboard tray of iced coffees, balancing them precariously beside chase's poster tube.
he doesn't rush. daniel doesn't really do anything in a rush. he has this deliberate, grounded way of moving through the world that usually makes you feel like the baseline hum of your own anxiety is just background noise.
he's wearing a light grey linen shirt with the cuffs turned back twice, a smudge of dark graphite still staining the side of his thumb from a blueprint he had been sketching at breakfast.
"she said the gymnasium, right?" he asks, shutting the car door with his hip.
you hadn't actually planned on bringing daniel along with you. well not at first.
but chase had appeared in your kitchen four nights ago while you were grading lab reports, leaning against the counter looking suspiciously casual.
"i think you should ask daniel to come on friday."
you looked up at her immediately. "to the science fair?"
"well, yeah." she shrugged, reaching into the fridge.
"he helped me build half the display, so i don't see why not?"
"baby, you don't have to invite him because you think it's polite."
"i know." chase twisted the cap off a water bottle. "i want him to be there."
you narrowed your eyes slightly then because you knew chase was always up to something.
"your father will be there," you said carefully.
chase took a sip of water like the conversation bored her already. "well yeah. obviously."
"and?"
"and nothing." but the corner of her mouth twitched suspiciously. "i just think everyone should meet eventually."
eventually.
like she hadn't engineered the timing of this with terrifying precision. when you didn't answer immediately, chase sighed dramatically.
"mom, look i promise i'm not trying to like parent trap you or whatever."
which, naturally, sounded exactly like something someone would say while actively trying to parent trap you.
"i just don't like feeling like parts of my life have to stay separate all the time."
that had settled heavily into your chest so eventually, you had looked back down at the papers spread across the table and said,
"i'll ask him."
chase's smile had been far too victorious for someone supposedly uninterested in the outcome.
but truthfully, you had been avoiding this for months and it wasn't because jack had asked you to.
because he hadn't.
jack had done the exact opposite actually. he had swallowed whatever private devastation your relationship with daniel caused him and forced himself into civility so thoroughly it almost made things worse.
he never made passive aggressive comments anymore. never interrogated you again. never acted territorial when daniel's name came up in conversation through chase.
if anything, jack had become painfully careful about it all, which made you feel slightly guilty.
because despite everything you had said in his kitchen that night—despite the you'll have to deal with it of it all—you still couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling that bringing daniel fully into jack's world would feel like rubbing salt into something that had only barely scarred over.
so you kept the parts separated.
not deliberately enough to call it hiding, but enough that opportunities quietly passed by untouched.
if jack came to pick chase up from your house, daniel conveniently left fifteen minutes earlier.
if daniel stayed over, you made sure he was gone before early morning drop-offs.
careful choreography, timing and distance.
like if the two parts of your life never occupied the same room long enough, then maybe nobody would have to acknowledge what any of it actually meant.
which was ridiculous, honestly.
jack is a fifty year old emergency physician, not a feral dog that needed to be separated from houseguests.
and he was not, despite your occasional anxieties, likely to strangle your boyfriend in private or otherwise.
but still, there had been a small, deeply irrational part of you that imagined introducing them incorrectly could somehow end with a headline:
local doctor strangles architect to death beside school vending machine.
and really, if they had to meet for the first time, a crowded catholic school gymnasium filled with children, parents, and approximately eight nuns felt statistically like the safest possible environment.
"mmhm." you answer now.
you smooth your hands unconsciously down the front of your dress before catching yourself doing it. daniel notices immediately—because he's spent the last few months learning the exact map of your tells.
he doesn't make a big deal out of it. he just shifts the coffee tray to one hand and uses his free one to catch your wrist, his thumb pressing a light, steady circle into the back of your hand.
his skin is warm, dry, and completely devoid of the sharp, chemical scent of hospital sanitizer you had spent years tracking on someone else.
he smells like citrus and the sweet, burnt sugar of the vanilla lattes he always insisted on buying.
"you okay?"
"yeah." you force a small smile, letting him lead you toward the heavy double doors of the school. "just mentally preparing to be verbally assaulted by sixteen-year-old explaining robotics projects."
daniel laughs softly, a low, easy sound that hits your shoulder as he steps closer to shield you from a group of kids sprinting past. "terrifying. look if anyone asks, just look confused and mention structural integrity. it works every time."
you smile despite yourself.
daniel catches the expression immediately, the corner of his mouth lifting like he's quietly pleased with himself for pulling you out of your own head again.
his shoulder bumps yours lightly as you walk. "see? you're already surviving."
that's the thing about daniel. being around him is easy in a way you had forgotten relationships could be. there's no volatility to him.
no guessing games. no constant, exhausting reshuffling of your entire life around someone else's brutal double-shifts or sudden page-outs.
when daniel says he's going to show up at six, his car pulls into your driveway at quarter to.
he remembers things you mention casually—like how you hate the texture of pulp or how your left shoulder aches from holding your handbag all day.
he brings you coffee during grading weeks without asking what your order is because he wrote it down in the notes app on his phone the first week you met.
he listens carefully when you rant about department funding meetings.
daniel actually asks questions about the curriculum instead of just nodding while staring blankly at a television screen out of pure exhaustion.
even the mention of meeting jack didn't seem to phase him. he had only smiled softly and reached for her hand, completely at ease.
he loves you, trusts you, and carries himself with the quiet kind of confidence that never needed to turn your love into some kind of competition.
he's patient. he's steady.
he's really good.
sometimes you still catch yourself reaching for him automatically now—his hand at traffic lights, his wrist while talking, the fabric of his shirt in crowded rooms. just small unconscious things that started becoming habit before you even noticed.
and it really makes your heart ache because he isn't a temporary distraction or a placeholder.
he's real.
real enough that chase let him help her with her algebra homework, real enough that he has a toothbrush and razor in your bathroom drawer, real enough to bring here.
into jack's orbit.
and it isn't like you and jack disappeared from each other's lives perse. that would have been impossible but the distance was still there.
there were school pickups and therapy updates and shared calendar reminders.
last-minute schedule changes sent via text at midnight.
quick, quiet conversations in driveways while chase searched for missing shoes in the backseat.
there were weeks where you saw him about three times and barely looked directly at him a single time.
you became experts at proximity without intimacy.
you were polite, functional and quite careful.
like if neither of you pressed too hard against the edges of things, the shape of your life could remain manageable.
inside the school, the hallways buzz with noise.
parents crowd around folding tables clutching paper programs, while younger siblings weave recklessly between legs with half-deflated balloons tied around their wrists.
somewhere nearby, a toddler starts crying loudly enough to echo off the gym walls while an exhausted mother negotiates with a juice box.
the entire building smells faintly like poster board glue and cafeteria pizza.
teachers hover nearby trying to look enthusiastic despite visible exhaustion. clusters of students stand beside their projects, pretending they don't care whether people stop to look while visibly dying inside every time someone walks past too quickly.
it's chaos. warm, loud, communal chaos.
you spot your daughter immediately.
she's standing beside a sprawling astronomy display wearing flared jeans, sneakers, and the nasa hoodie jack bought her for her 16th birthday.
her short curls are pulled back messily with her glasses sitting amongst the curls like a crown. she's gesturing animatedly at something while her friends nod along beside her.
then she looks up. her face lights instantly.
"mom!"
chase darts toward you at full speed before hugging you tightly around the middle. you laugh, stumbling half a step backward.
daniel steps back smoothly to give you room, his hand coming to the small of your back just long enough to keep you steady.
"hi, baby."
"did you bring everything i asked for?"
"you only texted me like seventeen reminders."
"because you always forget things."
daniel hands her one of the coffee cups, a soft smile on his face. "your faith in your mom is inspiring."
chase grins immediately. "daniel."
there's genuine affection there now.
familiarity.
you still haven't fully adjusted to hearing his name in her voice so naturally, or remembering how he had spent three hours the previous night helping her hot-glue the foam border of her display board without a single complaint.
or the way he had started fitting into the negative spaces of your life without forcing himself there.
quietly stacking dishes beside you after dinner. fixing the flickering kitchen light without being asked. sitting through chase's rambling explanations about her favourite tv show like every single word mattered.
chase makes a grab for the poster tube before he even finishes saying her name and immediately tucks it under her arm with satisfaction.
you engage in a short conversation before you catch her glancing toward the far end of the gymnasium. your stomach tightens before you even follow her gaze.
jack is standing near the bleachers talking to another parent, both his hands tucked into his pockets.
it isn't shock that hits you seeing him. you have seen him dozens of times in the last five months.
outside your house with chase's overnight bag slung over one shoulder.
in the parking lot outside therapy appointments.
leaning against his car during pickup after one of chase's late chess club meetings.
once in march, half-asleep in navy scrubs at seven in the morning while chase argued passionately about snake enclosure lighting from the passenger seat.
small pieces. fragments.
but never this. never standing still long enough to actually look at him. because that became the unspoken rule. you had to keep moving.
still though your body still recognizes him instantly anyway.
he looks different somehow. his hair is a little shorter than it was earlier in the year. the dark circles under his eyes aren't quite as brutal.
he's wearing a dark green button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms instead of the endless rotation of navy scrubs he used to default to.
colour. the realization hits before you can stop it.
then jack looks up and sees you.
you watch recognition move across his face in real time. the quick, sharp focus of a man used to assessing a room in seconds, followed by something much quieter when his eyes drift to daniel standing beside you.
not anger. something far harder to survive.
acceptance.
jack says something quick to the parent beside him before starting toward you. your pulse kicks traitorously against your ribs.
beside you, daniel's fingers brush briefly against the small of your back—absentminded and reasssuring.
the touch steadies you for exactly half a second.
beside you, chase is suddenly very interested in reorganizing the coffee tray lids.
"hey," jack says when he reaches you. his voice still does horrible, involuntary things to your nervous system.
"hi."
for one awful second, neither of you move. then jack's eyes flick briefly over your face, a habit he can't shake, like he's cataloging changes. you realize with a sharp jolt that he looks almost nervous.
chase clears her throat softly beside you. "dad," she says casually "you remember daniel."
not this is daniel.
you remember daniel.
like she's smoothing the interaction into something already established. she's clearly decided ahead of time that everyone here will behave normally.
daniel steps in easily, offering his hand toward jack. "it's nice to finally meet you properly."
jack takes it firmly. "yeah of course. and you too."
the handshake lasts exactly the appropriate amount of time.
too appropriate.
jack's expression is composed enough that most people probably wouldn't notice the rigid effort underneath it.
unfortunately for him, you're not most people.
you know exactly what he looks like when he's holding tension in his jaw to stop himself from saying the wrong thing.
chase looks between the three of you briefly before turning away first, already moving back toward her display. "come look before the judges get here," she says. "i need at least one adult to pretend the satellite suspension system is completely intentional."
the astronomy display is genuinely impressive. large mounted photographs of lunar phases line the backboard alongside handwritten notes and data charts. a model satellite hangs awkwardly from fishing wire overhead.
jack stops beside you automatically, his shoulder brushing yours as he leans in closer to read one of the pages.
your body reacts instantly to the contact.
stupidly.
a familiar, memory-heavy heat curls low in your stomach before you force yourself to step half an inch away.
"she did most of the calculations herself," you say, trying for what you can only hope comes off as casual.
jack's mouth twitches faintly. "most?"
chase points aggressively at a graph. "mom helped me fix the projection modeling because apparently my equations were 'held together by vibes.'"
"they were objectively held together by vibes."
"oh come on mom, they were literally fine."
jack laughs under his breath.
the sound settles warm against your skin before you can protect yourself from it.
daniel steps beside chase, studying the display genuinely. "this is seriously impressive."
chase beams immediately.
jack notices that, too. you watch the slight, heavy shift in his expression as he sees daniel interact with her naturally and comfortably. with no awkwardness or performance.
and maybe that would be easier if daniel were dismissive or performative about it all.
but he isn't.
he listens to chase carefully, asks thoughtful questions, laughs at the right moments without forcing it.
worst of all, he seems to understand instinctively that she isn't fragile and jack can't even resent him properly for that.
"you interested in astronomy too?" he asks daniel. there's no edge to jack's voice when he asks it. no territorial challenge. he is genuinely just curious.
somehow, that makes you feel kind of strange.
"a little," daniel says. "mostly engineering overlap stuff. i work in architectural design, so i pretend i understand physics more than i actually do."
that earns another small laugh from jack.
the conversation continues too smoothly after that. painfully smoothly. you and jack fall into old, deeply ingrained patterns without meaning to.
finishing chase's sentences, talking over each other then stopping at the exact same time, sharing glances without thinking.
and chase notices every single one.
at one point, she thrusts her phone at daniel suddenly. "can you get a picture of us by the display?"
you blink. "us?"
"hurry before people start crowding around."
the word family never appears anywhere in the sentence but it doesn't need to.
you and jack step beside chase automatically. your arm slides around her waist at the same moment jack's hand settles lightly against the back of her shoulder.
then your fingers brush his wrist—right over the thin skin where his pulse beats.
the contact lasts less than a second but still, your breath catches. jack goes completely, utterly still beside you. chase glances upward for the briefest moment—not directly at either of you, just enough to register that it happened.
then she smiles innocently toward the camera.
daniel is completely oblivious and lowers the phone slightly, visibly trying not to laugh. "sorry," he says. "one more."
the second photo is worse somehow because now you're fully aware of jack beside you. aware of the heat radiating from him. aware that his shoulder is close enough to touch if either of you leaned even a fraction of an inch.
when the picture's finally done, chase wanders off to show some parents another display, leaving you, jack, and daniel standing awkwardly near the table.
daniel's phone buzzes. he glances down at it before looking toward you. "i should take this—it's a work thing. i'll be right outside."
you nod. "okay."
he leans down naturally, pressing a brief, familiar kiss to your cheek before stepping away.
but the second it happens, you feel jack go still beside you. not visibly enough for anyone else in the crowded gym to notice but you.
daniel disappears into the hallway outside, weaving between parents and students, and suddenly it's just you and jack again for the first time all evening.
the silence stretches.
around you, the gymnasium hums with voices and movement—applause breaking out somewhere near the robotics section, teachers calling students over, folding chairs screeching loudly against hardwood floors—but it feels strangely muted now.
like you're trapped under glass.
jack keeps his eyes locked on chase across the room. "she seems good these days," he says quietly.
"she is."
he nods once. he pauses for a moment you can almost see his brain trying to form words for his mouth to speak "he's good with her."
you glance at him briefly, knowing who he's referring to. "yeah. he is."
jack swallows once, almost invisibly. "good with you too?"
something in your chest tightens unexpectedly at the question. not because of what he's asking, but because of how gently he asks it.
"really good, jack," you answer honestly, your voice quiet.
jack nods again, his eyes dropping to his shoes for a split second before he looks back up, like he expected that. like maybe he already knew.
your chest tightens painfully again because underneath everything else—the history, the grief, the impossible pull still living quietly between you—you still love him in the way people love someone they built an entire life beside.
you wouldn't say it was romantic or simple and it wasn't in a way that fit neatly anymore.
but it was enough that some small, aching part of you still wants him to find his match.
you want someone to remind him to sleep after double shifts. someone to make his apartment feel less hollow and temporary.
the thought arrives softly and leaves damage behind it anyway because the second your mind tries to imagine jack belonging to someone else, something defensive and ugly twists low in your stomach.
so maybe you aren't nearly as healed as you have been pretending either.
"good evening."
the sudden, crisp voice snaps the tether between you.
you both turn to see sister agnes navigating the space between chase's table and the next.
she has the kind of posture that automatically makes adults feel like they're hiding a cigarette behind their backs, but tonight, her expression is remarkably soft as her eyes slide over the two of you.
"sister agnes," you say, straightening up instinctively.
"hello, sister," jack echoes, slipping his hands into his pockets. his shoulders square up, that defensive instinct flaring up for just a fraction of a second before he checks it.
she looks past you both, watching chase gesture wildly at a chart for some parents across the aisle.
"i was just admiring the satellite," sister agnes says, a small, rare smile gracing her thin lips. "and quite frankly, i'm pleased to see her channeling that formidable energy into orbital mechanics rather than testing the limits of our suspension policy."
a sharp, involuntary breath escapes you, and beside you, jack lets out a low, dry chuckle.
"we've been working on it," jack says, his tone respectful.
"it shows," sister agnes replies, her gaze shifting between the two of you, steady and perceptive.
there's no judgment in her eyes, just a heavy, quiet sort of observation.
"you both should be very proud. i know january was... a trial. but the stability you've provided her, the way you've handled everything together—it's reflected entirely in her progress. she's thriving because she has two parents who refused to let her fall through the cracks."
the word together hangs in the humid gym air like a physical weight.
it cuts right through the truth of the last few months. it feels like a compliment meant for a version of you that died a while ago.
"thank you so much" you say, the words catching slightly in your throat.
"yes. thank you," jack says. his voice is thicker now, rough around the edges.
he doesn't look at you, but you can see the tight, rigid line of his jaw as he holds himself completely still under her gaze.
sister agnes gives a single, decisive nod. "continue the good work. she has a bright future ahead of her."
with a brief, polite inclination of her head, she glides away toward the robotics display, leaving behind a silence that feels five times heavier than the one she broke.
across the gym, chase bursts into laughter at something one of her friends says. jack watches her, a quiet, devastating fondness softening his entire face, though his shoulders are still tight from sister agnes's words.
you look at him then, properly. and suddenly, the last five months rearrange themselves in your head all at once.
this isn't anger anymore.
it's grief.
not the loud, traumatic kind of grief jack handles at work. just the slow, quiet realization that life kept moving while neither of you were brave enough to look it in the eye.
jack finally glances back at you and catches you staring. for a second, neither of you says anything. the air between you feels dangerously familiar.
"you look happy."
your breath falters slightly and its not because the words are cruel. because they aren't.
there's no bitterness in his voice. no accusation. no resentment sharp enough to protect either of you from what this actually is.
he's looking at you the same way he always used to after long days. like he's checking whether you're okay before he lets himself relax.
so you know jack means those words and for some reason that hurts more.
before you can answer, chase reappears beside you both, holding a judging sheet in one hand. "they really liked the satellite thing," she announces. "which is embarrassing for them because structurally it's hanging on by prayer."
jack huffs a quiet laugh.
chase looks between you both once, her sharp eyes lingering just a fraction too long on the strange, heavy stillness between you. "dad, come look at the robot arm before mr. bennett breaks it again."
she grabs his arm.
jack lets her pull him a few steps before pausing. he looks back at you once.
just once. but it lands with the unbearable familiarity of a thousand other moments across almost twenty years.
jack looking back for you in grocery store aisles when chase wandered off toward the cereal section. from hospital entrances before overnight shifts. through crowded school auditoriums and soccer fields and airport terminals.
small instinctive checks to make sure you were still there.
your chest tightens so suddenly it almost feels physical because even now, he still does it without thinking.
like some part of him still moves through the world expecting you beside him.
then chase says something that makes him laugh softly under his breath, and he turns away.
you watch them disappear into the crowd together and grief moves through you so sharply it leaves you breathless for a second.
because for one impossible moment, they look like they still belong to you in the same way they used to. like if you followed them now, jack would automatically reach for your hand without looking.
like tonight would end with all three of you going home together.
and maybe that's part of what still hurts so badly.
because even now, some ugly, aching part of you still resents him for letting it end at all.
not for the missed birthdays or the overnight shifts or the exhaustion that hollowed both of you out slowly over years.
you understood those things. you always did.
but somewhere along the way, the two of you stopped reaching for each other properly and jack—so capable of holding together trauma rooms and impossible situations and other people's lives—had simply let his marriage bleed out quietly between his hands.
he hadn't fought for you.
not really.
and maybe that's unfair because you aren't sure you fought hard enough either by the end.
but sometimes, you still catch yourself angry that he let you walk away so easily. especially when for years you had built your entire life around the certainty that if things really mattered, jack would hold onto them with both hands.
the thought makes guilt crawl hot and immediate up your throat.
because your boyfriend is outside somewhere taking a work call after driving across the city to support your daughter like it was the easiest thing in the world.
and standing here wishing, even for a second, that things still belonged to jack feels horribly unfair to him.
but grief isn't clean and love isn't either.
sometimes they sit beside each other so closely you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.
so instead, you stay where you are while the gym buzzes loudly around you, full of families and laughter and children showing their parents little pieces of themselves.
and still for some reason, watching jack walk away beside your daughter hurts more than any argument with him ever did.
Danny- minding his own business as the ghost king looking to be in his mid twenties, despite being a good enough age to be considered an elderly of elderly civilians, because his status as a half a made him stop ageing physically when he reached his mid 20's. Now out grew his friends and families, and only has Dante(evil reformed Danny) and Ellie(Danielle, the clone) left as family. Also part one of the first hero's to ever exist before the JL even formed and before Batman and what not. And Vlad turned out not to be a half a just a human who was slowly turning more and more liminal till he died eventually too, he did have a longer life though.
Also Danny- reached his limit of being able to keep his sanity and live in Amity, so decidedly going on a world wide tour with Dan(Dante) and Ellie to visit all sorts of places. And also decidedly, staying in some places for a good few years because of their love for the place and finding something new to keep themselves sain.
Also, Also Danny- An extreme polyglot with his two only siblings left, who have the most widest and randonest set of skills from all of the world.
Dante- finding out he has a love for the arts, like painting, photography and fashion and is talented at them, but keeps the tough guy act out of habit and weirdness if he suddenly starts acting friendly.
Danielle- finding out her passion is for sports and sciences. Has the ability to apply for the Olympics in a few of her favourite sports but doesn't to not draw attention and has a masters in civil and mechanical engineering.
All three of them- a good amount of decades have passed after jazz and their friends died of natural causes (old age) and explored more of the world than one person can do in a life time, of course not paying for travel fees and taking advantage of their smarts to make fake identities, work and living visas and so on.
In gotham: Tim and Duke looking into a missing persons report filed for three siblings, for a certain super- superhero, because he is currently off world and bats left it to them.
Duke: uhhh, Tim?
Tim busy looking at his phone doom scrolling waiting for facial recognition to finish loading: hmm?
Duke: what did you say the siblings names were again?
Tim: uhh. Registered as Dante, Daniel and Danielle- Wise, born in California moved to metropolis when they gained emancipation from their parents Jacqueline and Malcom Wise because of neglect who died when the youngest child turned 20, 5 years after their emancipation. Why?
Duke: .... Uhh, well. I don't know what's happening, but the face rec is done. And. Well... There is like a 100 different results. All the same face and first names just different surnames and different origins on nationality?
Tim finally looking up: huh?
Tim and Duke doing more research.
Tim: okay. So what have we got so far?
Duke: we know that their names are most likely Dante, Daniel and Danielle, they each have about 5 different identities each. All following a similar story of either dead parents, emancipation, orphans or something to excuse guardianships. All three are extremely smart AND talented- which might I add is unfair- but all that spans across every identity. The only identity that is inconsistent is the one dated back to being , possibly their original identities as Fentons, the children of The DR's. Fenton. Who died a good long time ago along with their oldest daughter Jazzmin Fenton.
Tim: okay... So... Immortals maybe?
Dake: maybe? We need to tell Bruce. And Clark.
Tim and Duke- reporting their findings to Bruce and Clark respectively. Continuing their search when suddenly getting a ping that there is a new identity under the similar faces.
The 3 siblings in gotham:
Danny: okay. So. New life. What are the plans?
Dan: I'mma work in Fashion. Make some money. And a photography gig on the side.
Ellie: I'mma apply for gotham U. I hear they have a great stem coars and excellent sports facilities. And I saw a cute cat cafe down the street, might apply to work there.
Danny: okay, okay. Solid. I might go for gotham U too. Probably gonna try the Aerospace engineering coarse, I hear gotham has great engineering classes and the sylibus has updated since I last checked. And might apply for work at a enrichment center. Been meaning to get some more exercise lately.
Dan: okay. Ellie, what's the status on money?
Ellie: still got money left over from the inheritance from Vlad and our parents. Like, I mean, they got a lot from their patents. And they had a lot of them too. Besides we keep applying for jobs so we keep earning too.
Danny: okay then. Here's to our new life as Nightingales.
Some times in the future after Tim and Duke got some of the Bat family involved and tracked down the siblings. Who quite obviously could tell they were there, cornering them on a roof.
Red Robin: so. The Nightingales. Mind telling us why you guys have about 6 different identities?
Signal: first your children of doctors. Then your British, then your from the baltics with a english mother. The list goes on.
Ellie: I don't know what your talking about but that ain't us. We're just 3 orphaned kids who are living quite well in life and-
RedHood: orphaned or without a guardian like the other 5 times, and have degrees in God knows how many subjects.
Dan: ... (Whisper shouting) I told you we should've changed the story. And out looks.
Batman: look, we don't want trouble, we just wanna talk. And maybe we can figure out something so that-
Danny devoid of sleep because he developed an addiction to the coffee from the place Ellie now works at: NU-UH!
Stunned silence.
Dan and Ellie holding laughter in.
Nightwing snickering in the back with RedHood turning away trying to calm down and not laugh.
Oracle listening in: The fuck does he Mean 'NU-UH'?!?!
Batman just tired from all this shit:the fuck you mean Nu-uh?!
Danny crossing his arms pulling a face and changing his voice to 'duh' sound: Nu-uh.
Shenanigans ensue with all the bats and birds in either stunned silence or uncontrollable laughter. Dan and Ellie recovering in half laughs dragging Danny away and escaping the scene.
They get chaced down almost every other night by the bats and birds, finding one way or another to get the word 'Nu-uh' in before Batman can even speak.
---
Batman: look, er just want to-
Dan, Danny and Ellie pulling out a sign from seemingly nowhere whith the word 'Nu-uh' written in bold colourful bubble writing on it. Then escaping after handing it to Batman.
---
Nightwing: please. We just want to talk-
The 3 siblings stood Silently listening.
Nightwing: I... Huh?
Dan: go on. We're listening.
Nightwing: but... I... Where is....
Radhood: what this birdbrain is trying to say, is, are you not gonna find a way to say your catchphrase before disappearing?
Ellie: nah. We ran out of unique ideas on how to deliver the message. The glitter bomb was my favorite.
Dan: the paint bomb was mine.
Danny: I'm still embarrassed at the fact that that was what my sleep deprived brain said. But the writing with knocked out criminals was my favorite.
Dan: heh, that was my idea.
Ellie: the glitter and paint was my idea.
RedHood: holy fuck... I guess we should just be glad their not villains.... If they were wed be doomed...
Dan: uhh.... Wellll.....
Signal: what's that meant to mean. Your not villains. Right? Please. Don't tell me you are. Why. God why can things just be simple. FOR ONCE! PLEASE!
Ellie: no. Not villains. Not really. But Dan, is a reformed villain. But that was like. Decades ago. So your fine.
Dan: besides. I only became evil because my mind got infected by a creepy old fruit loop.
Danny, Ellie and Dan all simultaneously shivering in disgust: ugh...
. . .
Red Robin: ... I'm too tired for this. I need a coffee...
. . .
Batman: how would you kids like to live in a mansion? Or maybe become vigilantes?
All the bats and birds other than Batman groan simultaneously with some muttering about adoption obsessions.
~Le Sserafim's Yunjin (x Male Reader), 9.7k words (angst, fluff, non-smut), Part 1 of 2
Read it on Fanprose
HUUUGE thank you to @dotoliwrites and @iuchamjohta for beta reading and the amazing advice! You two are literally the best!
You always hated the airport.
The PA blared again, calling the same passenger for the sixth time. You unzipped the small pocket of your backpack, feeling your passport for the seventh.
It wasn’t so much the building itself you hated. It was just… everyone acted like you felt. Like the airport was a house of perpetual anxiety, its people buzzing with stress. They moved too quick, double-checked too often. Even those sitting down exhibited the signs. The old lady across from you compared her ticket to the screen at the gate three times in a row.
Vacations were ironic. You saved up, willingly going through hours of stress at an airport just to relax for a week. Then you’d have to go through that same stress on the way back to your regular stress, life. Thinking about it gave you a headache.
Maybe the vacation would be good, though. Because your regular stress was hell. Life as a civil engineering student had drained every last remnant of fun from your life for the past three years. And for what? Three men in suits worth more than your tuition walked past, carry-ons in tow, rattling something about ‘quarterly meetings’ and ‘new HR docs’. Would this be your life after school? Would your regular stress compound once you graduated, slowly morphing you into some corporation? You’d rather be a gym bro.
It’s not like you had a choice in the matter anyway. No matter how long you’d been avoiding them, your cousin made it very clear if you missed her wedding in Mexico you’d be dead to her and the rest of the family. Which was why now, in the middle of your final year of school— just before your midterms— you sat at gate 104 waiting for your flight to Cancun.
The flight, though. You could look forward to that. 7 hours cut off from the outside world. The plane like a little capsules, closed off from that stress. 7 hours where you could slip your headphones on and turn your brain off. At least you could look forward to that.
You pulled out your new sketchbook and a finely sharpened pencil the border agent definitely gave you trouble for. You looked in front of you— you’d been staring at the airport seats for an hour and a half, so long they morphed into desks. And you could’ve sworn that old guy didn’t look like your professor half an hour ago. Maybe you needed a change of perspective.
You grabbed your bag (checking your passport was there one more time of course), before switching to a seat facing the opposite direction. You plopped down with your sketchbook.
And suddenly, the airport didn’t seem so bad. A group of girls sitting 3 rows from you huddled together, staring at a phone. The one with the deep red hair guffawed, clapping her hands together as she laughed, followed by the other 3. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, laugh piercing the stale air. You watched as her legs lifted in the air from laughing so hard. Her face lit up, not only her expression, but the room.
One of her friends tapped her shoulder, showing her the phone again, and another outburst came. The four of them seemed so carefree, even joyous. Their fun was a far cry from what you thought airports could be. And yet, even the PA seemed happier, singing its little jingle before it called for a passenger for the seventh time now.
You looked away, conscious of your staring. You looked down at your sketchbook. This seemed like as good a place as any to sketch, especially considering the view. Your eyes occasionally (putting it lightly) flicked to the girl. Even while she sat, idly scrolling on her phone, she looked so comfortable. She was slid so far down her chair her head rested on the back of the seat, her shoeless feet plopped on the carry-on in front of her.
Meanwhile, you sat in your chair perfectly straight, carry-on neatly in front of you. You tried taking up as little space as possible, despite having the entire row of seats for yourself.
You looked down at your sketch. It wasn’t good— you’d totally messed up the glass roof. There were 6 rows of support beams running through, not 8. That wasn’t even mentioning the fact that there were missing details everywhere— a pillar too wide, a clock not round enough. Oddly enough, the chairs were the only thing that looked picture perfect. You ripped the page from the book, crumpling it. A buzz from your pocket vibrated, and taking your phone out, a text from your Aunt read:
“Can’t wait to see you! We just arrived. Have a safe flight!”
You swiped the message away, looking at the time. 8:27. Still another hour before boarding. You picked your sketchbook up again, starting over. You sat up a little straighter, shutting your eyes for a second in concentration. This time would be different— you’d produce a picture perfect sketch of the gate. You silently sketched, eyes flicking to the red-haired girl occasionally. You silently hoped she’d be going to the same resort you were.
It’s even worse than before, you thought an hour later as the first boarding call came in.
--
Of course, back of the plane. Right next to the washrooms. You plopped down in your window seat, tucking your backpack under the seat in front of yours. It seemed the plane had filled up, save for the two seats in your row. Lucky. You plopped your shoes off. It felt wrong, but— vacation mode, you justified. You took your earphones out of your pocket, about to slide them into your ears when-
“Bathroom seats”, a voice sighed. You looked up. The red-haired girl stood at your row, eyes flicking to yours. “At least we don’t have to go through it alone, right?” She said, sliding into the aisle seat. She kicked her shoes off as well, sliding her hoodie off her arms so it hung off her shoulders, hood still covering her head.
You sat there shocked. Wasn’t this everyone’s dream? Wasn’t it a classic trope to see a cute girl at an airport and hope they sat next to you on the flight? And it was happening to you and oh god she was talking to you.
“Ever been to Cancun?” she asked casually, as if you weren’t strangers.
“Oh… first time”, you responded after the initial shock wore off. You quietly slipped your shoes back on. Hopefully she didn’t notice.
She stretched her arms in the air— a moan inducing one by the sounds of it. “Same” she groaned, settling in. “Oh, my group was the last to board by the way. We got lucky, empty middle seat!” She lifted her legs, curling them on the empty seat. “Lets split it? We can each have a half,” she said.
And she wasn’t wearing shoes. Vacation mode it was. “Sure,” you answered, but kept your feet where they were.
You sat in mostly silence as the flight attendants demonstrated the safety measures in case of emergency, but on take off, the girls breath hitched, and she held her armrests a little too tight.
The plane had evened out, and the general buzz of excitement from take off died down into amiable silence— thank God, no kids on the flight.
“How are you so calm right now?” She asked, breaking the silence.
So much for 7 hours of quiet, you thought.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” you said, deciding you might as well talk. What else were you going to do? Ignore this beautiful girl for 7 hours? “Planes are peaceful. I don’t know how you were so happy at the gate, though, that place is hell”
She eyed you curiously. “At the gate? Did I meet you at the gate?”
“You’d be hard to miss when you were laughing like a hyena every 20 minutes” you joked. That was weird. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d told a joke.
A smile lit up the girls face. “Someone’s got jokes” she chuckled. “Guess I’m sitting next to a stalker.”
“I wasn’t stalking you, you’re just hard to miss”
“Thanks”, she said.
“Wasn’t a compliment”
She gave a small chuckle. “You know, you’re different than I expected. Not as quiet as I imagined”
You thought about it for a moment. You guessed it was true, most new people ignored you, let you exist as long as you didn’t bother them. But for some reason, you just felt… comfortable around this girl. “I didn’t always give that impression” you said after a pause. “I used to be… fun. Before three years of civil engineering”
“Oh, STEM”, she winced.
“Yeah” you sighed. “What about you. Not sitting with your group?” The question seemed to dig at her. She gave a short smile, and pulled out half a popsicle stick out of her hoodie pocket.
“Got the short end of the stick” she said feigning cheerfulness. “So I had to sit alone”
“They made you sit alone?” you asked. She gave a short nod. “There’s three of them right? Why wouldn’t you just book it in seats of two and two, that way no one got left out?”
“That’s some great math Mr. Engineer” she joked— then sighed. “Pretty sure it was rigged from the beginning.”
“What do you mean?”
“I… wasn’t really invited on this trip, just a last minute replacement for someone who cancelled. Don’t think any of them would want to spend 7 hours with the outsider alone.”
“Really? You all looked so friendly at the gate” you said.
“So you are a stalker?” She laughed. “And I picked my stick last” she said holding up the popsicle stick. “So I think they must’ve known which stick was the shortest. Probably planned on isolating me from the beginning”
“And now you have to sit next to a stranger.”
She gave you another smile, more genuine this time. “Well you’re not so bad, stranger” she said. “Also, can we go back to what you said before? Airplanes are calm?”
The next hour flew by too fast. You learned the girl’s name was Yunjin, here with a couple of girls from her new job on a ‘bonding trip’. A couple of times you made Yunjin laugh so hard a lady 3 rows in front gave a smug “SHH”.
You also learned she wasn’t from your city— just happened to be at that airport on a layover.
“So, what is it?” She asked. “Why don’t you seem excited for the trip?”
God, this girl. So damn friendly. Wasn’t she scared of overstepping? She looked at you with large, curious eyes. “Cousin’s wedding” you sighed. “You know, family.”
“Yeah. Family,” she repeated.
“I love them but, it’s just- I haven’t seen them in a while. And there’ll be questions. And expectations. How can I face them when they gave up everything to put me in school, to give my life meaning, when my life still doesn’t have meaning? How can I act like I’m living out my dreams when school is kicking my ass every day?” You lifted the armrest, kicking your feet up to your half of the empty seat.
“School’s a bitch, isn’t it” she said. It was all she needed to say.
The conversation died down after another half hour. You wracked your brain for something to say, something to keep the conversation going. Talking to her was refreshing— you already knew you wouldn’t regret the trip, even if just for the flight. No matter how huge the pile of assignments awaited back home.
But it was clear the exhaustion from the flight was getting to you. You both sunk into your chairs. Something light hit your lap. You looked down, one wireless earphone. Yunjin had pulled out her iPad.
“We have a little over 5 hours left. If we start now we can get through the first 2 Harry Potter movies, and a bit of the third one. Or I also have Jumanji downloaded.”
You smiled. “Lets do Harry Potter”
She smiled back. “Knew I’d like you”. Yunjin lowered the makeshift table attached to the back of the middle seat, placing the iPad down. You both settled in, and her legs awkwardly tangled in yours on the empty seat. You didn’t mind. You slid your hoodie off your arms so it hung off your shoulders just like Yunjin’s, iconic melody of Harry Potter ringing in your ears 30 000 feet above the Atlantic ocean.
The rest of the flight flew by, pun intended. You sank into your seat, legs still thrown awkwardly onto the empty seat next to you. You had tried to take up as little space as possible—Yunjin was sharing with you after all. But it was clear Yunjin didn’t mind by the way she plopped her feet on yours. You were acutely aware of the contact— every ounce of you was focused on her legs on yours, the movie be damned. Every inch she moved made you jump, but by first half of the first movie you’d grown comfortable with the contact. You could feel the warmth of her skin through your sweats.
“Ravenclaw?” She asked as the end credits of The Philosopher’s Stone climbed the iPad.
“Huh?”
“Your house. You seem like a Ravenclaw”
“Oh. Gryffindor” you answered.
“Really? Mr. Engineer values courage?”
“I guess, that’s just what the test said”
Yunjin rolled her eyes. “Boring. I’m a slytherin”
“Oh and me being Gryffindor is surprising” you mocked. “You reek of Hufflepuff!”
“Hufflepuff!” She exclaimed. “You think I’m a ditz?!”
“Hufflepuff’s aren’t ditzes. But the way you almost fell off your chair from laughter at the airport just screamed Hufflepuff.”
Yunjin lifted a leg, extending it to poke you with her sock covered toes. “You are a stalker” she said with a click of her tongue. “I guess that means we’re enemies then, stranger. Gryffindor and Slytherin“
You slid your hoodie off your head playfully tossing it at her. “It’s not a rivalry— Gryffindor’s are clearly better. Now scooch. I gotta use the washroom”
She scrunched her body, letting you pass. “Don’t stink up the washroom, we sit right next to it” she said.
You shimmied by her. Who knew the flight might’ve been the highlight of your trip. Honestly, you had been dreading this for a while— seeing your family, answering questions about school, plans and the future. You had enough on your plate trying to pass, and seeing your family would exacerbate those expectations tenfold.
But Yunjin was a breath of fresh air. She too was in an uncomfortable situation, stuck with a group of people on a trip she knew they’d rather her not be on. But she faced it, and now she was with you, watching Harry Potter movies while bantering like you’d known each other for years.
But there was only a limited amount of time left. Who knew if you’d ever see her again once the flight ended. You looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Why did your hair look like it was tumbled in the dryer on high? Shit, you shouldn’t have thrown your hoodie away, now there was nothing to hide the haybale on your head.
You leaned in close, brushing and patting, trying anything to fix it. It stood up no matter how hard you tried to quell it. You laughed at yourself. You couldn’t remember the last time ‘your hair’ was the architect of calamity in your life. Usually it was rent, or GPA, or maybe having a heart attack from stress and dying before you could even graduate.
But here you were on a plane to Mexico in the middle of the schoolyear, fixing your hair because you sat next to a pretty girl. You could already feel the stress trickle away.
No, it was definitely there. Even flicking back to the thought of school brought the sinking feeling back to your stomach. But then you saw yourself in the mirror again, thought about Yunjin, and the feeling diluted.
You resorted to wetting your hair with sink water (from an airplane bathroom? Gross) to at least settle the strays before heading back to the seat.
What awaited you was that same otherworldly beauty sitting in your seat.
“My window seat!”
She smiled, not mischievous or playful, but genuine. “Thanks for the seat stranger. Now hurry up,” she said, patting the middle seat and gesturing to her iPad, which now sat on the tray in front of her. “Movie’s starting”.
She wants me to sit next to her, you thought, climbing into place. It was probably for logistics, because watching a movie on a small iPad 2 seats apart didn’t make sense. So why did the feeling in your stomach return? This time not sinking but fluttering, as if the butterflies ate away the stress like leaves. I should’ve brought a hat you thought as you settled in beside her.
--
All too soon the plane rumbled as it touched ground, misplaced applause ringing through the aircraft.
“Who the hell claps for a plane landing?” Yunjin laughed.
“No idea,” you said, dropping your hands back to your lap. Hopefully she didn’t notice.
The plane slowed gradually, yet every moment passed too quick. Every detail— no matter how small or insignificant ran through your head as you tried to soak it all in. The way she threw her head back when she laughed. How she’d stare at you, really look at you when you talked, or rolled her eyes when you said something stupid.
The plane stopped, seatbelt light clicking off as people rose to their feet.
You couldn’t tell why— maybe because you were at the back of the plane, waiting for the rest of the congregation to file out, or maybe because she too was soaking up the time you had left, but neither of you moved for a while.
It wasn’t until the seats had completely emptied, slow line out the plane growing thin did you two move.
“They didn’t even wait for me,” Yunjin sighed under her breath. You pretended not to hear.
She turned to you, carry on in tow, sunhat rimming her head. “Well— it was fun! Call me!” She said, as cheerily as ever. As if it wasn’t only 7 hours, and you’d see each other again. With a wave she was gone.
Wait, call me? Did she give you her number? You took your phone out of your pocket, checking the contacts. You scrolled through your contacts, but you didn’t see any new contacts.
You turned to the front of the plane, hoping to tell her you didn’t have her number; it was too late, the passengers had filed out. Sighing, you slipped your hoodie into your backpack before reaching for your carry on.
You didn’t rush to catch up to her— one because it would’ve been way too embarrassing to confront her in front of her 3 friends, but also because… maybe it was better this way? It was only 7 hours. Were you really going to get attached? No, you had a whole life back home. A life that demanded all of you.
But, later that day, it didn’t matter that the Sun threw its balmy glare on your skin, heating your sunscreened body, or that the piña colada you picked up— spiked with rum of course, vacation mode— cooled you from the inside. As soon as you stepped out of the taxi and into the resort, you knew you’d rather be back on that plane with Yunjin. Especially as your Auntie Jess’s scream rang your name in the resort lobby, and she— and her kids— dashed in your direction.
--
It wasn’t that you didn’t love your family. You did— you would go to the ends of the earth to make your Auntie Jess’s 2 kids happy. You looked at your baby cousins, bundled up in swimsuits— the one’s with little floaties attached to the arms and legs. Your aunt droned on about the flight, the wedding preparations, how the rest of the family would be so excited to see you.
It was precisely because you loved your family that it pained you to be here. Because telling them what you’d been thinking for three years— that you didn’t know if you wanted to be a civil engineer— wasn’t an option. Especially given you had been sent to school on no scholarships or grants. Just the money out of your parents pockets. But lying to them— telling them school was going great, or that you were excited to graduate, to be a real adult was taxing.
“Oh, there’s a casino here”, your aunt pointed. “Bar is open all night. Your older cousins missed you last night,” she smiled, “and I’m sure you’re itching to go, what, studying so hard. We’re all so proud of you— Agnes! Stop poking your brother— anyways, let’s go! Everyone’s been dying to see you” she exclaimed, leading you further on. You sipped the piña colada faster.
The rest of your immediate family had commandeered two large outdoor tables. You lugged your belongings over to them. It was weird, you’d been dreading seeing them for weeks, but as your aunts and uncles pulled you into tight hugs, you were like a kid again. You were surprised how much you missed them.
Then the tears started— lead in charge by your mom of course. Why did moms always go for the cheeks? You swatted away her pinching fingers before she locked you in a tight embrace. Your dad silently nodded to you from his chair, sipping his beer. You nodded back. It was all you would afford each other, but now, after over a year of not seeing him, it was all you needed.
You honestly relished the feeling. “You brought me to the old person table?” You said. It wasn’t a very good joke, but the fact you made one told yourself lots— that you really did miss your family. That was twice today you made a joke. Maybe vacation mode was a real thing.
Your aunt Claire rolled her eyes. “Your other cousins are probably at the beach. Honestly those two— they haven’t been sober since we got here!”
“Looks like I need to catch up”, you replied.
And so you did. You finished your pina colada before your uncle handed you another. And it was great, sitting there, being with the people you knew loved you no matter what. Whom you apparently missed so deeply without even realizing it.
But then the comments came.
“How’s school?”
“You must be so proud of how far you’ve come!”
“What are your plans after you graduate”
Until a voice— all too deep, sort of nasally— cut through the chatter. “Stop hounding the man, let him put his shit away first!”
“Minho! Sakura!” You yelled as your aunt Claire smacked the boy over his language. Your cousins wore the tropical vibe not only in their clothes— a swimsuit with pineapples plastered all over for Minho, and a two piece for Sakura, with a bright sarong wrapped around her waist— but also their demeanor. Laid back and clearly drunk, the sight of them stirred you to your feet.
You ran to hug them. Minho patted you on your back, stumbling a bit, and Sakura’s face was flushed red. She was giggling, the smell of tequila heavy on her breath.
“Let’s show you to our room buddy” Minho said, loud enough for your family to hear. “And hurry up putting your stuff away,” he whispered, “me, you, Sakura. We’re getting sloshed this entire trip”
--
Four drinks in and the weeks itinerary was a mix of letters and numbers.
“Look, all you need to know is this” Sakura said, a little too loud. “Today is Sunday - hiccup - Tuesday is wedding rehearsal, Thursday we have wedding shoots, Friday is the wedding, and Sunday we leave”.
The cool night air sang with the mariachi’s music. The resort was still buzzing with people— it was only 8 pm. And you were already inebriated— vacation mode of course. The last rays of light stretched over the resort.
“Okay sorry— when’s the wedding again?”
Sakura rolled her eyes. “There’s no way you’re still a lightweight. I’d have thought 3 years of university would have upped your tolerance”.
You smacked Sakura’s shoulder. “I’m not a lightweight. I just haven’t eaten since the plane. Plus, remember prom? It wasn’t an hour into the afterparty before you were throwing up. I had to ditch my date for 20 minutes before Minho came to bring you home— where is that guy anyway?”
“Probably off with some girl” Sakura said, smiling. “There’s a buffet here. Let’s go? I’m getting hungry too”, Sakura said, dragging you by the bicep. “I forgot about prom night” Sakura smiled. “You know, you should visit more. Christmas and summers, me and Minho— we really miss you”
You silently let yourself be dragged to the buffet, before the smell of slow braised meats— of cilantro and corn fill the air. Your stomach rumbled.
You and Sakura ate, laughing and reminiscing, and before long your minds began to clear and you’d ordered another margarita.
“How many times do I have to tell you— the wedding is on Friday! Just know, tomorrow you have off. We can go to the beach. But enough about that— your mom says you’re still single. What happened to the cousin I knew from high school?”
“Yeah, well. School has been busy” you said passively.
Sakura laughed. “School? You’re seriously letting school get in the way?” She looked at the soft, embarrassed smile on your face. “Wow, you really have changed. But you’re really not talking to anyone?”
You thought of the girl on the plane of course. Yunjin.
“Cmon, spill it. I see that look on your face.”
“Well— there was this girl. On the plane.”
“On the plane?”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure we snuggled. While watching movies.” The look Sakura gave you was a mix of amusement and skepticism. “And then she told me to call her”
“So call her!” Sakura lit up.
“That’s the thing— I don’t think she gave me her number”
Sakura’s eyes closed, clearly baffled and disappointed.
“My cousin. My own cousin.” She repeated incredulously. “You didn’t even get her number? Well where is she staying? At this resort?”
You paused. “No idea.”
Sakura sighed. “Just wait ‘till Minho hears about this” she said, shaking her head. “We should go find him,” she switched the topic, scarfing down the last bite of her fajita. “Last night we bribed one of the employees to keep the pool open past 9. Just for us.”
The rest of the night, aside from the embarrassment and realization you’d probably never see Yunjin again, was a relief. You had forgotten how much you’d missed Sakura and Minho, and even the rest of your aunts and uncles. You were honestly looking forward to meeting the rest of the family.
Well, for the most part. Your other cousin, Annabelle, was apparently in full bridezilla mode. She’d always been high maintenance, but there was a chill in the air even when Minho spoke about her. Maybe it was best you’d leave her alone tonight.
But it didn’t matter as you, Sakura, and Minho— who had been off at one of the resorts many bars talking to a girl twice his age— swam in the pool backlit with LED’s until the early morning.
You laid in your bed that night— room shared of course with Minho— drunk and dizzy, but oddly peaceful. Like… maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. Yeah, your family had asked you some questions, but Minho saved you in the end. You were sure more would come, and you’d have to answer them eventually, but you could keep up. After all, it was only a week, right?
You opened up Instagram. Maybe, just maybe by some stroke of fate, you’d be able to find her. Yunjin, you typed in the search bar.
Nothing.
--
The next morning at the buffet, you definitely didn’t regret coming. Breakfast definitely was the most important meal of the day, those who claimed it a myth be damned. You and Minho came back to the table with mounds of eggs, of chilaquiles and fresh fruit. God the fruit.
And in his other hand, Minho clutched three mimosas, because vacation mode of course.
“Drinking this early?” Your mother questioned.
“Leave the boy be, he works too hard. He’s a couple months away from his engineering degree! Let him have his fun,” your Aunt Jess defended.
“Sakura, did you tell him?” Your aunt Claire chimed in.
She rolled her eyes. “No, mom.”
“Oh tell him!” The older lady smiled. Sakura simply looked at you, embarrassed. “Okay fine I will. There’s this girl across the street from us— just moved in! I’ve been telling her about you. About to be an engineer, handsome, responsible. Even Sakura thinks you’d look cute together!”
“I did not say that!” She denied. “I didn’t think my cousin would need help finding someone” she said.
“Well— it doesn’t matter anyway. I’m sure our big shot plans to stay in the big city,” your aunt Jess chimed in. “Or move somewhere fancy. How about it, what’s your plan after you graduate?”
Suddenly your huevos rancheros didn’t seem so appetizing. You rattled some response, answers with no real substance but enough to appease the masses (2 aunts, 1 uncle and your parents), before switching the topic.
“But hey— how’s Annabelle?”
It had your desired effect— aunts and uncles always loved gossip. It was a rule of life. They rattled on, predicted when she’d have kids, if the dress would be cream or blush or champagne white, who in the family would get married next.
“I’ll meet you at the beach?” You whispered to Minho and Sakura in the confusion of gossip before quietly slipping away (mimosa still in hand). Walking passed the pools on your way to the beach definitely lightened your mood, and soon the white sands, flowing themselves like water gave way to the vast blue ocean. It was picture perfect. The sky was divine, disappearing into the ocean in the vast horizon as rays of the Sun bounced off the water.
Palm trees stuck out of the ground, young coconuts clinging to their branches. Beach balls idly flew past your head as you made your way down the beach, warm sand tickling your feet. And you swear you heard a seagull— something you thought only happened in movies. You made your way left, pausing every once in a while to assess the view.
The beach was lined with resorts, and although you could walk to the other resorts sections of the beaches, you had told your cousins to meet you. You picked a spot near the left edge of your own resorts beach. The bordering resort seemed nice too, but a little more packed.
You settled on a beach chair, taking your sketchbook out. It was a relatively new hobby you’d found, drawing. But it helped you stay calm. And you were surprisingly good at it. Well, you thought so, it wasn’t like anyone had ever seen your drawings.
You let yourself get lost in the lines you drew. In the fluffy clouds, scattered sparingly across the sky. In the sailboat, too far out you couldn’t see anyone on it. And in the seashell, so large it looked fake. Every stroke careful, precise, exact.
“And here I was sad you didn’t text me. Turns out you’d just followed me to the beach,” a familiar voice called out. You looked up, and it was like the Sun had jumped from it’s spot on the beautiful canvas you called the sky and walked up to you.
Yunjin’s deep red hair flowed freely out of her straw sunhat, sunglasses pushed up to the bridge of her nose. It was a miracle you noticed these two details considering the white two piece she was wearing didn’t leave much to the imagination. Her skin seemed to glow in the sunlight— no, like the sunlight.
She let her glasses fall to the tip of her nose, looking at you inquiringly. “So? Why didn’t you text?”
But you could see the smile she held back, and tossing your sketchbook on the beach chair, you stood. “Yunjin!”
She let her smile show. “Hey stranger”
Funny— you’d been silently hoping to see her since you left the plane, but now that she was in front of you… why was it so awkward? You stood in front of her, unsure what to say, how to react at this miracle. “How was I supposed to text you without your number?”
“Well, seeing as you were too much of a wuss to ask, I slipped it into your hoodie pocket while you were in the washroom. You didn’t find it?”
“When did you expect me to use my hoodie in Mexico?”
“Oh, right” she laughed. “Well, here we are now. On the same beach. It must be fate!”
“Fate?” You laughed.
“What, you don’t believe in fate?” She asked, patting the sand and sitting down into it.
You sat next to her, thinking for a moment. “Well, I definitely used to. But now, I’m not so sure.”
“What do you mean?” She asked
“Is it my fate to disappear into my degree? Is that who I am now? Nothing more or less than an engineer?”
She leaned back into the sand. “So, I take it your family has been asking questions?”
“Just like I predicted” you sighed. “And what about you? Where are your friends?”
She gestured into the shallow waters, to three girls playing with a beach ball. “Off playing monkey in the middle” she said.
“Hmm. Three player game”
She put on her best smile, although her eyes, her eyes didn’t light up the way you’d seen they could.
“It’s not like that. Not all of it. They asked me to play with them but…” she trailed off.
“But?”
“You ever feel like people would be having more fun if you weren’t around? Like they’re not exactly rude, friendly even. But when it comes down to it, you’re kind of just… there?”
“Yeah, I sort of get that”
She smiled. Real this time. “But then I saw a stranger looking lonely over here and thought I’d come bother him.”
You both leaned into the sand. It was so surreal, being here on this beach with her.
“Hey, isn’t this kind of surreal?” She asked.
“Surreal?” You asked, because you didn’t know what else to say.
“To be here on this beach. It’s kind of amazing places like this exist.”
You turned to her. Her perfect skin glowed brighter than the white sand, the little mole on her nose perfectly placed. Like an artist placed it to perfect the composition.
“Yeah, it is.”
“Hey!” She exclaimed, standing up. “Let’s walk along the beach.”
“Where’d all that energy come from?”
“Come on stranger” she said grabbing your arms and pulling you to your feet. “Let’s go explore”
And suddenly the awkwardness was gone. You walked and talked, up until the beach thinned and sand became stone cliffs.
It was beautiful, she kept saying. But you hardly noticed because she was there too.
And suddenly the wind blew her hat off and she chased it. And you waved her off and caught the hat seconds before it blew into the ocean and you slipped it back onto her head, but not before sliding a torn off piece of your sketchbook inside, with your number of course.
And it was over in a blur. You were back to your resort’s portion of the beach.
“Shit!” You yelled. “I was supposed to meet my cousins here.”
Yunjin turned to you with concern. “Go meet them! Why didn’t you tell me?”
You thanked her and turned to leave before— “Wait! You’re going to check your sweater, right?” She called.
You smiled back. “Nah. It’s Mexico, who needs a sweater. Hats though. Those are pretty useful.” You waved, and ran back to the resort.
--
The rest of the day would’ve gone better with Yunjin. It wasn’t bad— just less bright despite the blazing Sun.
By the time you made your way to the buffet for lunch, your family was too many drinks deep to pester you with questions.
You spent the rest of the day lounging by the many pools— cocktail in hand for most of the day, because vacation mode. A pretty chill day aside from meeting your cousin Annabelle. Your haircut wasn’t that bad— not enough to ‘ruin the wedding photos’ like she claimed it would.
But it was already a far cry from what you thought the trip would be; your cousins had shown you you truly missed your family, the comments from your family weren’t oppressive, and of course, Yunjin was there, one resort away.
A couple things kept you up that night. Minho’s snores pierced the night air. A shame— your patio stayed open so the soft sound of waves could flood the room. The other was the text you’d been staring at for the past 5 minutes.
Hiya stranger :)
“Minho. Minho!” You whispered, only to be met with snores. Actually, maybe it was better to approach this yourself.
You had no idea what to say, how to respond without embarrassing yourself. But then you thought of her smile.
You weren’t sure if it made it worse or better, but, thinking of her smile, there was no way you wouldn’t respond.
Hi
The reply came quick, the little ding more soothing than the waves you could hear through Minho’s snoring.
Meet tomorrow?
Mmm. Wedding rehearsal. Should be done just after lunch. Maybe after?
I can do that :)
--
The wedding rehearsal was just as you suspected; your cousin Annabelle in full on panic mode. For one, the band’s clothes were too white— she was the bride, she needed to stand out— and for another, apparently it was supposed to rain Friday, the day of the wedding.
So now she was compensating by having you, Minho and Sakura— as well as the whole family— on your best behaviours during the rehearsal.
“We we’re supposed to end this before lunch,” Minho complained. “It’s— 2 o’clock,” Minho checked his phone, “I haven’t eaten— haven’t drank in 6 hours!”
“Stop it! Annabelle is your cousin. She used to watch all 3 of us on the weekends. She’d let us have sweets even though our mom’s told her not to,” Sakura scolded as she flipped through table cards labeled with perfect calligraphy .
“A tyrant then and a tyrant now” Minho gestured to Annabelle and the bridegroom. The ladder following the former like a lost puppy as she barked orders at her soon to be wedding guests.
“She wasn’t a tyrant! Plus, it’s her wedding. Of course she wants it to be perfect! Every girl does!” Sakura fought back.
“She does realize it’s only supposed to rain at like 7. We’ll be deep into the reception at that time. Plus, since when did you care about weddings?” Minho asked innocently.
“Since I was a little girl!” Sakura yelled, cheeks growing flushed, hands scattering table cards on the white tablecloth.
Minho had a truly confused look on his face. “What?”. An ignorant and protective brother, you guessed. You didn’t understand, not that you were paying much attention anyway.
“What?” Sakura mocked, throwing him a pile of table cards. “I’m a woman too.”
“Woman?” Minho laughed. “You snore like a dude. The whole house can hear it!”
“Shut up! Organize those cards. And stop teasing Annabelle, she has a lot on her plate. Back me up here cousin.”
“Hmm?” You replied, barely paying attention.
“He’s not even helping us! He’s been on his phone this whole time!” Minho yelled.
“Stop deflecting. So you don’t think your sweet sister is capable of getting married?” You replied simply.
“So you are listening! Sakura! Get him!” He pointed at you.
Sakura’s gaze pierced Minho to silence, before turning heel towards you and saying “Who are you texting anyway?” Before snatching your phone from your hand.
“Hey give that back!”
But it was already too late. Sakura had already seen who you were texting— with horror you watched her light up.
“Yunjin?! Is this the girl from the plane! You got her number!?” Sakura exclaimed.
“Girl from the plane? Who’s Yunjin?” Minho asked.
Welp. Now you had no choice to tell your cousins what happened— as well as get back to organizing cards, Annabelle’s glare at the three of you ensured that.
Sakura’s eyes went wide as she peered at your texts. “Look at this— Sorry, rehearsal running late,” she read, “meet me on the beach in an hour?”
“Dude, you’re gonna ditch us? I thought we were gonna get drinks after. Is that where you were yesterday too? We were looking for you for an hour on the beach.” Minho lamented.
“Like you didn’t ditch us last night,” you defended.
“Tell us what happened!” Sakura pleaded.
And so you did— starting from the plane to fill Minho in.
“And then you slipped it in her hat?” Minho asked incredulously. “Dude, you’re in!”
“I don’t know, it might not be like that.”
“You’ve been texting her all day!” Sakura said as she scrolled through your phone.
“That doesn’t mean anything. Now can we please finish these damn table cards.”
“Says the one on his phone the whole morning. Plus, you just want to finish fast so you can meet your girlfriend” Sakura teased.
“She’s not my girlfriend!”
With a ding from your phone you reached to grab it, but Sakura swatted your hand away. Her smile went from mischievous to one of feigned disappointment. “Oh, sorry cousin. Looks like you’re stuck with us this evening,” she said, tossing you the phone.
Sorry! Me and my friends booked a catamaran. We’re going snorkeling!
Your stomach did a weird thing— and it wasn’t all the alcohol you’d been drinking since you landed. Funny, your mind was totally fine. You had said it to her yourself, this trip would be the perfect opportunity to become closer with her friends. You were happy for her.
But your stomach panged knowing you wouldn’t see her today. You were suddenly very aware that running into her on the beach was an impossibility that happened, that even sitting next to her on the plane was lucky chance. But Sunday— the day the trip ended— no amount of luck could change that. You only had this week. Your time with Yunjin was limited.
You plopped the cards you had been organizing down on the table. “To be honest Sakura, Annabelle is acting a little crazy. If you act like this at your wedding, I’m leaving. Also since when are you not allowed to drink at a wedding rehearsal!”
No worries. See you tomorrow then?
You texted before finishing up (admittedly slowly) organizing the table cards with an increasingly moody Sakura.
It was nearly dinner by the time Annabelle was satisfied— she dismissed the three of you last.
Minho disappeared right away, but rejoined as you and Sakura made your way to the buffet— 3 pina coladas in hand of course.
A deep voice called the three of you over— your uncle eating with your aunt Jess. “Nephew! Come here!” He smiled. You sauntered over, pina colada hitting like a truck on an empty stomach. Must’ve been a Minho special— triple shot of spiced rum.
An expectant smile was on your Aunt Claire’s face. “So!” You’re uncle said.
“So?”
“I talked to a friend from work— their husband… he’s an engineer! Owns a firm and all!”
“Oh— that’s great…”
“And they have an internship program! I talked to him— he told me to ask for your transcript! But that it shouldn’t matter anyway— you’re basically a lock if you want in!”
Shit. Back to thinking of life. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the offer for the internship; you just didn’t know if you even wanted an internship. Didn’t even know if you wanted to pursue engineering anymore. But it wasn’t like you could tell him that— not when he was so excited.
“Oh— that’s great!” You lied.
“Isn’t it!” Your aunt Jess lit up. “A nice internship lined up, back home too!”
“Yeah, it is”
“Why don’t you call Sakura and Minho over, we’ve been dying to hear more about how school’s been for you. Come eat with us.”
And so you sat with them for dinner, bombarded with questions about school and plans. It didn’t help they were so enthusiastic— so excited for you. And all you could do was sit there, lying about how good your grades were, about how excited and thankful you were for the opportunity.
“Mom, he’s on vacation. Let him be,” Sakura finally said.
It didn’t help that later that night, caused probably by the stress induced from your meal with your uncle, you checked your school email. You laid there in your bed, sounds of the shower Minho was taking ringing in the air.
Sitting there like a little gift was an email from one professor Hark; your least favourite professor:
Class,
Mistake on the syllabus. Your mid-term will be next week Monday. Not the week after.
Professor Hark
It read. Shit. You were supposed to have time. God knows you wouldn’t have been able to take this trip— or at least could have booked an early flight out had you known.
And now what? You’d have to study on your vacation? You were indeed free from wedding activities tomorrow. Just, you thought you’d get to spend it with—
Ding. A text from Yunjin, because of course it was.
Sorry! Snorkeling went late! Let’s hang out tomorrow.
What did you say now? Could you fit in a hangout with Yunjin and study sufficiently? Anger welled up inside you. It wasn’t the usual stress in the pit of your stomach, but something deeper, something that welled up in your chest, and you knew you were going to make a mistake. But were you really going to blow off this huge mid term to spend time with a girl you’d only know for a week? Fuck it, you thought. Fuck it all to damn hell.
What are you doing right now?
Actually, nothing. I could slip away.
--
When you texted Yunjin, you didn’t expect to be climbing those rock cliffs you saw at the end of the beach. But here you were, soft moonlight barely illuminating the climb.
“It didn’t look so tall from the beach!” Yunjin yelled beside you.
“You want to go back down?” You called back.
“No- we’re almost at the top. Plus, it looked cozy up there.”
You passed the lip, heaving yourself over. Atop the cliff sat the perfect little glade, a grassy clearing overlooking the vast ocean. You turned, reaching over to help Yunjin. She grabbed your hand—
How was it so soft? Even after climbing 30 meters of rocky cliffs? This was not the time to be nervous, grabbing onto a girl dangling over the edge of the cliff. What did it matter anyway though? As soon as you’d pull her up she’d probably laugh at you, tell you how sweaty your hands were, how your heart had beat so fast she could feel it through your palms.
Your breathing still heavy, you heaved her up, pushing the thoughts away. She collapsed over the edge to safety with a look of satisfied adventure on her face. Seems she didn’t notice how sweaty your palms were, that was good. “You’re fine climbing cliffs but draw the line at planes?” You asked.
Yunjin sat up and walked to the clearing, taking a look around. The glade gave way to the cliff’s waterside edge. “It’s beautiful up here,” she said.
It really was. The moon’s light bounced off the water in shards, soft white peaks of the waves dotting the ocean. Yunjin took a seat, legs dangling off the side of the cliff.
“Look at the stars” she said, amazed.
You sat next to her. “It’s like a whole different world out here. I can’t even see the stars most nights back home.”
You both sat there— not exactly touching but close enough you could feel her every movement. A while passed in silence. It was comfortable; a perfect night.
“Can I tell you something weird? I mean only having known you for like, 4 days.”
“3 days. But go on.”
She sighed, full of relief, not whatever else a sigh could come with. “I think— I think I’m really glad I met you.”
Your heart did that thing again— skipped a beat didn’t quite encapsulate it. It shriveled and expanded at the same time. It bloomed in your chest like it was trying to escape it, trying to go be amongst the moon and the stars you were under.
But Yunjin gazed at you so deeply your heart was forced to stay with you, stay inside you so she could take it.
“I know, it’s weird.”
And suddenly you had to speak, had to tell her it wasn’t weird despite the knot still in your chest. “It’s not weird.”
“You’re just saying that,” she laughed and it was genuine and pretty and real. But it was also raw and scared.
You gave a short chuckle, one without much humour in it. “You think I’d be here on this cliff if I didn’t want to see you?”
She gave you a smile that could’ve swept you off the cliff and into the ocean, and god would you let it happen. She laid down, and you followed. The grass felt nice— you didn’t get to feel it much, consequences of pursuing an engineering degree.
“How’s the family?” She asked, and not just to break the silence.
“My aunt called me to her room today because her water wasn’t working. She thinks engineers are plumbers.” It earned a snort from Yunjin. “And my uncle lined me up an internship.”
“So, sounds like it’s going great.”
“Mhm. And what about you. How was snorkeling?”
“You know,” she paused as if weighing out her words. “It was really fun. And I think it was fun for them too.”
“Can I say something?” Yunjin gave an audible go ahead. “You- you don’t seem like the kind of girl that would have these kinds of problems— problems with, err, making friends. You’re so friendly.”
“It’s weird,” she started, “I never really had trouble making friends. I think, even if you asked them, they’d… consider me a friend?”
“But it seems like they’re excluding you.”
“Maybe, but— I don’t know, I thought about it. I’ve been so… scared on this trip, so self conscious about how they see me. But today on the catamaran, it was different. I was different. I just, put all of that away, everything I was scared of. It’s like I wasn’t trying to have fun, I just let myself have fun. And then they started… treating me different, treating me like I was one of them. I guess I just had to meet them halfway. Does that make sense?”
You sat up, hands leaning on the soft grass. “I think so,” you said. “What changed?”
“That’s the thing, I have no idea. Maybe it’s just— I’ve always had lots of friends, but I’ve never had a family, you know?”
“A family?”
“I mean of course I have a family, but a group of friends that could be your family, I don’t know if I’ve ever had that. Have you?”
You thought first of your high school friends, the ones you’d been neglecting along with Minho and Sakura for the past years. You then thought of your university friends, the one’s who’d gone through hell- we’re still in hell with. You thought of late nights studying and even later nights eating out after studying. Of the little breaks you could take between term tests, not catching up on sleep but losing more of it to just… chill.
Suddenly, you felt a great appreciation for them, because not having them would make your already miserable life a thousand times more miserable. Was that what Yunjin was missing? But she was so… bright, even in the darkness of the night sky.
“I think I do.”
“And then I got this job— a really good one. And I didn’t want it to be like before, to have all these friends but no family.”
“And that’s what you’re trying to have now?”
“Yeah.”
“And that’s why you’ve been so scared?”
“Maybe.”
“When did you start at this job?” You asked.
“Two weeks ago”
You sat up straighter. “Two weeks ago?” You repeated.
“Yeah? Why?”
She really was clueless. “Yunjin. You’ve known them for two weeks and they’ve already invited you to a trip to Mexico! Even if it was as a replacement, they clearly want to be your friend too! How did you even get the time off anyway?”
Yunjin laid there in thought.
“It is so like you to stress over not being able to fit in after only knowing someone for two weeks,” you laughed.
“Hey, this is a real problem to me! And what do you mean ‘this is so like you?’ I’ve only known you for two days”
“Three days.” You said, lying back down. “And if it’s real to you, then it’s real to me,” you said with a plop, “if the snorkeling went well, I think you’re making progress,” you said, and you meant it. “But, yeah. It’s nice to have a family. But family has to meet half way. They’re already trying to be your friend— it’s clear because you’re on this trip. You just have to let them. Even if it’s a little awkward at first”.
Yunjin gave a small laugh. “No, maybe you’re right. It’s just. I plan on being at this job for a while. And it would be nice to have people I could count on. Well, other than you.”
She said it so casually, like you’d always be there to listen to her problems, like you wouldn’t be gone in less than a week.
“Thanks for listening. Really,” she said.
“Anytime,” you said, knowing it was a lie, knowing there was only a small window in which she could ask you anything before you’d fly back and she too would just be someone you’d forget about in the mess that was your life.
“You ever wonder how it would be if we met at a cafe?” She asked after a while.
“Hmm?”
“Or a thrift store. Or a park.”
So, not here. “That would be nice.” You meant it.
“Yeah,” she said.
You both laid there under the stars, glittering like they were just for the two of you. Sometimes in silence, sometimes talking about nothing of substance. You didn’t need there to be substance, the fact that you were both here on this hill was enough. No, maybe it wasn’t enough. You had four more days left, two of which you were busy with wedding stuff, and the others you’d have to study for your damn mid-term.
The wedding, the mid-term, and Yunjin. If only you could focus on all three at once.
“Hey Yunjin, do you want to come to my cousins we-,” you started, but as you sat up, you noticed Yunjin softly sleeping under the vast night sky. You stared at her for a second before laying back down.
And suddenly you were like the night waves, calm and soothed and drifting off to sleep. Maybe this wasn’t enough. Maybe a week wasn’t a long time. But a night— a night could be perfect. You wished you had your sketchbook. You’d be able to draw the night, capture every minute detail, every perfect part of the night could be saved. But your drawing wouldn’t be good enough to capture this moment. You wanted to soak up every detail, every second of the encounter, and you just weren’t good enough.
You peered around you, taking it all in, trying to remember every detail. It was only a night, but you wanted it to last forever. If only you’d had forever, you thought, as the glittering stars and ocean waves carried you off to sleep.
---------------------
A/N:
Hi everyone!
So I know this isn't perfect by any means. The tags are fluff and angst, and it isn't particularly angsty or fluffy. I apologize for that. I just ask you all to trust my vision! This will be two parts, and I'm really excited for the next chapter, which I assure you will have more fluff and more angst.
Also this is my first non-smut fic, which I would like to assure everyone is not going to become standard. This series will not have smut (I thought about adding it but decided against it), but I do not have plans to stop writing smut!
I know a lot of you have been eager for the next chapter of Cafe Cuties, and it is in the works! I expect it will be out within the next 2 weeks.
Other than that, it always warms my heart to see people interact with my stories. My messages and asks are always open to you all!
You see him every morning at the coffee shop: the motorcycle, the black coffee, the permanent look of someone bracing for impact.
You talk. You laugh. You don’t date him. You don’t rescue him either.
Instead, you offer something smaller and more honest: a therapist’s number, written on his hand in ink that takes him days to wash off.
Word count: 11,5K
Rating: Teen and up
Tags/Content warnings: unhealthy coping mechanisms, alcohol consumption mentioned, minor mention of blood/injury, reader is a microbiologist, angst with a hopeful ending, hurt/comfort, second person POV, no use of Y/N
Comment or DM to join the taglist
You don’t mean to notice him. You just… do.
The coffee shop is a controlled variable in your day, and you are very good at controlled variables. Same order—black coffee, no lid, no sugar, nothing that could leave residue on your hands. Same barista—Marta, third-year undergrad, chronic eyeliner, mercifully consistent. Same corner by the window, where the light is predictable and the table surface has been wiped down enough times that you can rest your forearms on it without imagining entire civilizations of bacteria staging a coup.
You come here because it requires no thinking. Thinking is a finite resource. You hoard it for cultures and charts and the low-grade, constant hum of responsibility that follows you even when you’re technically off the clock.
Then there’s him.
He’s leaning against the counter, one boot hooked lazily over the other, Carhartt jacket creased in a way that suggests age rather than style. The jacket smells faintly of engine oil and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or burnt rubber. Bad decisions, your brain supplies helpfully. You hate that your brain does this. You hate even more that it’s usually right.
You clock everything automatically, because you always do.
The motorcycle parked crooked outside, taking up more space than necessary, like he expects the world to adjust around it. The lack of a helmet, which earns him an immediate mental note under reckless with a sub-bullet of idiot. The dark crescents under his eyes—deep enough to suggest sleep deprivation rather than genetics. Chronic, not acute. The faint mark on his neck one morning that looks suspiciously like a hickey.
You don’t look at it twice. You don’t need to.
Poor coping strategies, you think clinically, like you’re drafting a research paper no one will ever read.
He orders black coffee like it’s medication.
“Nothing fancy,” he tells Marta, voice rough, like he’s already been awake too long. “Just… coffee.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Rough night?”
He huffs a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You could say that.”
You pretend very hard to be invested in the condensation ring forming beneath your mug. You are not invested. You are, unfortunately, listening.
He looks haunted in the way people who don’t sleep ever do—not the dramatic, romantic kind of haunted, but the practical kind. The kind that suggests intrusive thoughts and unfinished business and an internal monologue that doesn’t shut up even when it really should.
You decide, vaguely, that he’s probably a doctor. The scrubs are a giveaway—black, hospital-issued, wrinkled like he slept in them. Probably something high-stakes. Surgery, maybe. ER more likely. Surgeons have a different kind of exhaustion. This one looks like adrenaline followed by nothing. A crash without a safety net.
You don’t know why this matters. It doesn’t. You tell yourself it doesn’t.
“Card’s declined,” Marta says apologetically.
He blinks, like the words take a second to register. Digs into his pocket, frowns. Tries again.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Sorry. I—uh—hang on.”
You sigh internally. Of course. Of course this is happening now, when you have exactly six minutes before you need to leave if you want to make it to the lab on time without touching any unnecessary door handles.
“Put it on mine,” you hear yourself say.
You freeze, immediately furious with yourself.
He turns, startled, like he didn’t realize other people existed in the room. His eyes are dark—brown, you think, though the lighting is bad—and sharp despite the exhaustion.
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine,” you cut in, already pulling out your card. “I’m paying anyway.”
This is not strictly true, but it’s close enough. Marta shoots you a grateful look and rings it up before he can protest further.
“Thanks,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll get you back.”
“You won’t,” you say flatly. “It’s just coffee. We’ll survive.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
“Fair point.”
Marta slides his cup across the counter. He takes it like it might disappear if he doesn’t keep a firm grip on it.
“You’re a lifesaver,” he tells you, and there’s something in his tone—sincere, but tired, like gratitude is a language he’s forgotten how to speak fluently.
You shrug. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I won’t,” he says, and for a second, you get the impression he’s very good at not getting used to good things.
He hesitates, then nods toward your table. “Mind if I sit? Just until this… kicks in.”
You glance at the empty chair, then at the window, then at your watch. This is a terrible idea. This is a disruption. This is a variable you did not account for.
You nod anyway.
“Five minutes,” you say. “Then I have to go.”
“Five minutes,” he agrees, like he understands the importance of arbitrary limits.
He sits across from you, stretching his legs out under the table. You note the scuffed boots, the faint tremor in his hand as he lifts the cup. Caffeine dependency, probably. You relate more than you’d like.
He takes a long swallow, eyes closing briefly, like he’s praying.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “That’s better.”
You arch an eyebrow. “Dramatic.”
“Medically accurate,” he counters.
So ER, then. You’d bet on it.
“Long shift?” you ask, because apparently you’ve decided to make conversation like a normal person, which is new and deeply suspicious.
“Long life,” he says. Then, after a beat, “Yeah. Long shift.”
You hum noncommittally, because that’s what you do when people offer you fragments instead of answers.
He studies you openly, not rudely, but with the same clinical curiosity you know you’re guilty of. His gaze flicks to your hands, your posture, the way your bag is placed carefully at your feet, not touching the floor.
“You work nearby?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say. “Lab.”
“Ah,” he nods. “Explains the look.”
“What look?”
“Like you’re mentally cataloguing every surface in here.”
You bristle, just a little. “Some of us like to know what we’re dealing with.”
He smiles then, properly this time, and it’s… inconvenient.
“Fair,” he says. “I do the same thing with people.”
That earns him a look. “I hope you’re better at it than most.”
He laughs softly. “Depends on the day.”
Your phone buzzes. You glance at it, relief washing through you.
“That’s my five minutes,” you say, standing and shouldering your bag. You hesitate, then add, “Take care of yourself.”
It comes out sharper than you intend. Almost like an order.
He looks up at you, something unreadable passing through his eyes.
“I’ll try,” he says. “You too.”
You leave before either of you can say anything else. Outside, the motorcycle gleams dully in the morning light, engine ticking as it cools.
As you walk away, you tell yourself—firmly—that this means nothing.
Just another variable.
Just another observation.
Still, hours later, as you scrub your hands for the third time and try very hard not to think about oil-stained jackets and haunted eyes, you find yourself wondering—against your better judgment—if he made it back to work on time.
Poor coping strategies, you think again.
And, unhelpfully, you wonder which of you that applies to more.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
The next time he talks to you, it’s accidental.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself.
You’re back in your corner by the window, spine straight, shoulders relaxed in the way you’ve trained yourself to hold them when you want to look approachable without actually inviting interaction. The book is open in front of you, spine creased just enough to prove you’re not treating it like a museum artifact. Highlighter tucked into the fold of the pages. Coffee cooling at a predictable rate to your right.
Everything is exactly where it should be.
You’re halfway through a paragraph about horizontal gene transfer—because of course you are—when a shadow falls across the table. Not looming. Just… present.
“Is that book any good?”
The voice is familiar enough that your stomach tightens before your brain catches up.
You blink once. Then again. Look up.
It’s him.
Same jacket, though it looks marginally more abused today. Same scrubs. Same dark circles under his eyes, though today they’re paired with a faint crease between his brows, like he’s spent the morning frowning at the universe and the universe has failed to improve.
He nods toward your book, expression open, curious in a way that feels unpracticed. Like he didn’t plan to speak and now that he has, he’s just as surprised as you are.
You realize, belatedly, that you’ve been staring.
You blink again. Smile politely. The default. The one you use for grant reviewers and distant colleagues and people who mean well but are standing too close.
“It’s about bacteria evolving resistance faster than we can kill them,” you say. You glance down at the page, then back up at him. “So—depends on your definition of good.”
You expect the polite nod. The awkward oh followed by retreat. This is usually where people disengage, vaguely unsettled by the reminder that the microscopic world is winning.
Instead, he snorts.
Not delicately. Not quietly. A sharp, unfiltered sound that escapes him before he can stop it. He clamps his mouth shut immediately after, eyes widening a fraction, like he’s worried he’s just laughed at a funeral.
You feel something in your chest shift.
“That’s… bleak,” he says, trying—and failing—to sound serious.
“Accurate,” you correct mildly.
He exhales through his nose, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I guess that explains why you look so cheerful.”
You glance down at yourself, then back at him. “This is my cheerful.”
“Huh,” he says. “Good to know.”
You should go back to your book. You should take a sip of your coffee. You should do anything other than sit here cataloguing the way he leans slightly forward when he talks, like he’s bracing himself against gravity or expectation or both.
Instead, you ask, “Rough shift?”
It slips out before you can stop it, which is irritating. You don’t do small talk. You observe. You analyze. You do not invite strangers into conversational intimacy.
He scrubs a hand over his face. “Is it ever not?”
You consider that. “Statistically? Probably.”
He laughs again, quieter this time. More controlled. “You’re fun.”
You arch an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s an accusation.”
“Maybe it is,” he says, eyes glinting. “I don’t trust people who read books about antibiotic resistance for pleasure.”
“Bold of you to assume it’s pleasure,” you reply. “It’s more… professional anxiety.”
“Ah,” he nods. “That I understand.”
Of course he does. That makes something in your chest tighten again, sharp and unexpected.
He shifts his weight, glancing toward the counter like he’s suddenly remembered why he’s here. “I should—uh—order before they think I’m loitering.”
“You are loitering,” you say. “You’ve been standing there for at least thirty seconds.”
He winces. “Damn. You caught me.”
He hesitates, then gestures toward the empty chair across from you. “Mind if I sit again? Just while I wait.”
You glance at the chair. At the clock. At your book, open to a sentence you’ve now read three times without absorbing.
“This is becoming a habit,” you say.
“Is it?” he asks lightly. “I thought habits required intention.”
You snort despite yourself. Immediately regret it. Immediately don’t.
“Fine,” you say. “But if you start asking about plasmids, I’m leaving.”
“Deal,” he says, already sitting. “I draw the line at plasmids.”
He orders his coffee over his shoulder without standing up—black, again, no hesitation—and then his attention is back on you, undivided.
“So,” he says. “What do you do when you’re not terrifying people with microbial inevitability?”
You tilt your head. “What makes you think I ever stop?”
He grins, and there it is again—that inconvenient warmth, the sense that something unplanned is unfolding right in front of you.
That’s how it starts, you think distantly. Not with grand gestures or dramatic declarations. Just a question. A laugh you didn’t mean to share. A conversation that slips past your defenses while you’re busy pretending you don’t have any.
You take a sip of your coffee, eyes dropping back to the page, but you don’t read.
Not really.
Because he’s still there. Because you’re still talking. Because somewhere between resistant bacteria and bad coping strategies, you’ve both accidentally decided to linger.
And you have the uncomfortable, familiar sensation of a variable you didn’t control beginning to matter.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
Conversation becomes routine the way contamination does—slow, incremental, impossible to fully prevent.
At first, it’s incidental. A comment about the weather that turns into an observation about how the rain makes the street outside smell like ozone and wet metal. A shared eye-roll when the espresso machine screams like it’s dying. A mutual understanding that the corner table by the window is now—somehow—yours, plural, a development you pretend not to notice even as you angle your chair a few centimeters closer to his without thinking about it.
You tell yourself it’s nothing. You tell yourself this is how familiarity works. Repetition. Exposure. Habituation.
Which, frankly, should make you more cautious than it does.
You learn he’s an emergency medicine attending on a Tuesday when he looks particularly wrecked—scrubs wrinkled beyond redemption, hair doing something that suggests he ran his hands through it too many times and slept for maybe an hour afterward.
“Rough day?” you ask, because this is apparently who you are now. Someone who asks.
He huffs, sliding into the chair across from you. “We had a bus versus guardrail. Then a stabbing. Then a guy who tried to detox himself with YouTube advice.”
You grimace. “That’s… ambitious.”
“That’s one word for it.” He takes a long swallow of coffee like it might resurrect him. “I’m Robby, by the way. I just realized I’ve been freeloading caffeine and conversation without properly introducing myself.”
You consider the name. It fits in a way that annoys you—unpretentious, slightly worn at the edges.
You give him yours. He repeats it once, quietly, like he’s testing how it sounds.
“Emergency medicine,” you say. “That explains the thousand-yard stare.”
“Occupational hazard,” Robby replies. “What about you? You always look like you’re about to either discover something or commit a minor crime.”
“Postdoc,” you say.
“In…?” he prompts, not glazing over, not making the mistake of pretending he understands when he doesn’t.
You pause, just a fraction too long. You’ve learned this reflexively—wait, assess, decide how much of yourself to hand over.
“Research,” you say first.
His eyebrow lifts. “That’s evasive.”
You sigh. “Microbiology.”
Still nothing. No polite blankness. No barely concealed panic.
He leans back, considering. “Like… bacteria?”
You snort. “Among other horrors.”
“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’m listening.”
That’s when you know you’re in trouble.
You tell him about MRSA on a Thursday, when the shop is quieter and the sun is slanting in through the window just right. You’re halfway through explaining selective pressure before you realize you’ve been talking uninterrupted for several minutes.
“MRSA?” he repeats, brow furrowing. “That’s… bad.”
“That’s an understatement,” you say. “It’s like bacteria looked at antibiotics and said, actually, no.”
He grimaces. “We see it all the time. Feels like we’re always one step behind.”
You nod. “You are.”
He blinks.
You wince, just a little. “Not because you’re incompetent,” you add. “Because evolution doesn’t care about our feelings.”
He laughs softly. “Fair.”
And then he asks questions. Real ones. Thoughtful ones. Not to show off, not to steer the conversation back to himself, but because he’s genuinely curious. Because this matters to him—not academically, maybe, but viscerally, in the way things matter when you’ve held pressure on a bleeding wound and wondered if it would ever be enough.
You start bringing different books. Articles, sometimes, printed and annotated in the margins. He never makes a joke about it. Never teases you for caring too much.
Sometimes he flirts.
Not smoothly. Not with the lazy confidence of someone used to attention. Earnestly, like he’s not entirely sure he’s allowed to, but wants to try anyway.
“You always look like you’re about to solve something,” he says once, watching you frown at a paragraph. “It’s intimidating.”
You glance up at him, arching a brow. “I am intimidating. It’s part of the job description.”
He smiles, a little crooked. “Figures.”
You keep your smile neutral. Deliberately so. You’ve learned how to do that too—soft enough to be polite, firm enough to discourage follow-up.
You notice the shift immediately. The way his shoulders ease back. The way he gives you space without being asked. The way he doesn’t try to turn the comment into a joke or a challenge.
He pulls back.
He never pushes.
That alone makes him more dangerous than anyone who ever has.
Because you’re used to people pressing. To curiosity that turns invasive. To interest that demands reciprocation as if it’s owed. Robby does none of that. He adapts instead.
And the worst part—the part you don’t admit even to yourself—is that you find yourself tracking it. The distance. The care. The restraint.
You tell yourself it’s nothing. That routine is not intimacy. That conversation is not contamination.
But still—some mornings, when he doesn’t show, you catch yourself glancing at the door. And when he does, tired and rumpled and real, something in your chest loosens in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine.
Incremental, you think.
Impossible to fully prevent.
And for the first time in a long while, you don’t know whether you want to.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
When he finally asks you out, it’s quiet. No theatrics. No false bravado. No performative confidence meant to soften the possibility of rejection.
It happens on a Wednesday morning that feels indistinguishable from every other—same light slanting through the window, same low hum of conversation, same faint smell of espresso clinging to the air. You’re annotating a paragraph with ruthless efficiency, pen moving in the tight, controlled strokes that make your handwriting look almost aggressive.
He sits across from you, coffee untouched for once.
You notice that before you notice anything else.
He’s been staring into the cup for a while, like it might contain answers instead of caffeine. His hands are wrapped around it, knuckles pale, and there’s a tremor there that’s new. Or maybe it isn’t, and you’ve just started paying closer attention.
You shouldn’t be paying this much attention.
“Would you want to get dinner sometime?” he asks.
His voice is even, but his eyes don’t lift. He’s addressing the coffee, not you, like it’s a safer audience. Like it won’t look back at him with expectations.
You feel the question land. Settle. Wait.
You don’t stall. You don’t soften it. You don’t pad the edges the way you know how to when you want to spare someone’s feelings at the expense of clarity.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
The words are calm. Measured. Exactly as sharp as they need to be and not a micron more.
He looks up then, genuinely surprised—but not angry. No defensiveness. No flash of wounded pride.
“Can I ask why?” he says.
You inhale. Exhale. You could lie. You could say you’re busy. You could say you don’t date colleagues-adjacent or strangers or men with motorcycles and haunted eyes.
But you don’t.
“You seem like someone who’s struggling,” you say gently. “And I don’t date people who aren’t in a place to take care of themselves.”
There it is.
Clean. Precise. Almost surgical.
You don’t mention the way his sleep deprivation has worsened. The way his hands shake more often now. The faint scent of stale alcohol that’s started to linger beneath the coffee and leather, subtle but unmistakable if you know what to look for.
You don’t mention that you recognize the pattern because you’ve catalogued it before. Because you know exactly where it tends to end.
He absorbs it in silence.
Then he nods. Once.
“That’s fair,” he says.
No argument. No attempt to negotiate. No promise to change offered in exchange for reconsideration.
It hits you harder than it should.
After that, things change in small, almost imperceptible ways—until they don’t feel small at all.
He still comes in.
You notice immediately when he walks through the door, though you pretend not to. The motorcycle still parks crooked outside, but he doesn’t linger to take off his jacket. He orders his coffee, nods to Marta, and leaves before the cup has cooled enough to be drinkable.
No books tucked under his arm. No comments about what you’re reading. No chair pulled out across from you.
Just coffee and a hasty exit.
And every day, he looks worse.
The circles under his eyes deepen, dark enough to look bruised. His scrubs hang looser on his frame. The crease between his brows never quite smooths out anymore, even when he’s not frowning.
Once, you catch sight of him through the window as he straddles his motorcycle, shoulders slumped, head bowed like he’s bracing himself for impact.
You tell yourself—sternly—that this is not your responsibility. That you drew a boundary, and boundaries are good, ethical, necessary things. That you are not obligated to stay and watch someone unravel just because you identified the early signs.
Still.
You find yourself cataloguing the changes the way you’d track a slow-growing culture. Incremental. Alarming. Hard to ignore once you know what you’re looking at.
You sip your coffee and stare at your book without reading, a familiar tightness settling in your chest.
You chose clarity over comfort. Precision over hope. This was the correct call.
You repeat that to yourself like a mantra.
It doesn’t stop you from watching the door.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
Robby tells himself he’s fine.
He tells himself this while rinsing a coffee mug that still smells faintly of bourbon because he didn’t bother washing it last night. He tells himself this while standing in front of his bathroom mirror, eyes bloodshot, a faint crease between his brows that wasn’t there a few years ago—or maybe it was, and he just hadn’t been paying attention yet.
He’s fine.
He’s been rejected before. Christ, he’s rejected people before. This is not new terrain. This is not a trauma. This is a thing that happens between adults who misjudge timing, tone, or the shape of someone else’s heart.
So why does it feel like something has been quietly knocked out of alignment?
The apartment is too quiet. That’s the first thing he notices when he comes home after another late shift, shoes kicked off by the door, jacket slung over the back of a chair. No ambient noise except the low hum of the refrigerator and the city leaking in through the windows—sirens, traffic, a couple arguing somewhere below him.
He doesn’t turn on a light right away. Just stands there, keys still in his hand, like if he waits long enough something will resolve on its own.
It doesn’t.
He sleeps less after that.
Not in any dramatic, insomniac way—he still collapses into bed, still shuts his eyes—but sleep doesn’t stick. He wakes at 3:47 a.m. one night, 4:12 the next, heart thudding like he’s been running. No nightmare he can remember. Just a vague, sour sense of being watched by his own thoughts.
He stares at the ceiling, counting the hairline cracks he’s never bothered to fix.
And that’s when your voice shows up.
Not loud. Not accusatory. Just… present.
You’re struggling.
You hadn’t said it dramatically. No ultimatums. No raised voice. You’d said it like a fact—carefully, gently, the way doctors do when they’re trying not to scare a patient while still telling the truth.
Robby scoffs quietly into the dark.
“Yeah,” he mutters to no one. “Aren’t we all.”
But the problem is that his brain doesn’t let it go. It plays the moment back with clinical precision: the set of your mouth, the way your eyes held his like you were bracing for impact. Not judgment. Concern. Which, somehow, is worse.
The worst part isn’t that you said no.
The worst part is that you weren’t wrong.
He drinks more, after that. Not enough to alarm anyone—no one at work notices, and if they did, they wouldn’t say anything. Emergency medicine runs on caffeine and bad coping mechanisms. He has plenty of company.
One beer turns into two. Two turn into whiskey because it’s quicker, cleaner, more efficient. He tells himself it helps him sleep, which is a lie he’s been telling since Adamson died and the nights got longer.
Sometimes, when the silence gets too heavy, he brings someone home.
It’s easy. That’s the point. A look across a bar. A shared joke. The mutual understanding that neither of them is here to ask difficult questions.
Strangers don’t ask how he’s doing.
They don’t know about Adamson. They don’t know the exact tone the trauma bay takes on when things are about to go sideways. They don’t know the way his chest tightens sometimes when a patient codes and for half a second he’s not in Pittsbugh.
They also don’t know you.
Which is the only reason it works at all.
He’s careful. Almost tender, even. He makes sure they leave with a glass of water, a polite smile, a vague promise that both of them know won’t be kept. He watches the door close behind them and feels—nothing. Or maybe he feels relief. Or maybe he feels the absence of something he’s not ready to name.
One morning, he wakes up alone again, sunlight too bright, head pounding just enough to be irritating rather than incapacitating. He squints at his phone. No new messages. Of course not.
He laughs once, dry and humorless.
“Good job,” he tells the ceiling. “Really nailed that.”
At work, he’s sharp as ever. That’s the dangerous part. No one worries about Robby when he’s performing well. He runs traumas with brutal efficiency, voice steady, hands sure. He cracks a joke at the nurses’ station that lands just right. He snaps at an intern and then circles back five minutes later to explain, because he’s not an asshole, he just sounds like one when he’s tired.
Dana watches him a little longer than usual.
“You okay?” she asks one day, casual but not fooled.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Thriving. Living the dream.”
She snorts. “That bad, huh?”
He shrugs, already turning back to the board. “I' rest when I’m dead.”
“Let’s aim for later rather than sooner,” she says.
He gives her a nod without looking.
But sometimes, between patients, his mind betrays him.
A lull in the department. The monitor beeping in a steady, almost soothing rhythm. He leans against the counter, rubbing at his sternum like he can physically dislodge the pressure there.
You’re struggling.
He exhales sharply through his nose.
The thing is—he’s spent years being the functional one. The reliable one. The guy who holds it together when everything else is on fire. He teaches residents how to compartmentalize, how to keep moving, how to survive this job without letting it hollow them out completely.
He’s very good at it.
Or he was.
Because now, lying awake at 4 a.m., Adamson’s face intrudes without warning. Not the way he looked at the end—Robby’s brain mercifully spares him that—but the way he looked mid-lecture, animated and impatient, waving a marker like it was a scalpel.
Get your head out of your ass, Robinavitch.
Robby squeezes his eyes shut.
“Working on it,” he mutters.
His heart is racing again. No clear trigger. Just the familiar, unwelcome surge of adrenaline, like his body has decided there’s an emergency and forgotten to tell him what it is.
He sits up, elbows on his knees, breath measured and controlled the way he teaches patients to do.
In. Out. Again.
You’d noticed. Somehow, you’d seen through the armor he’s been wearing so long it feels like skin.
That’s the part that needles at him.
Not that you said no—but that you’d looked at him and seen someone fraying at the edges, someone one bad night away from unraveling.
And instead of stepping closer, you’d stepped back.
Not to punish him.
To protect yourself.
He runs a hand through his hair, exhales slowly.
“Son of a bitch,” he murmurs, because there’s no one here to hear it, and because sometimes naming the feeling is the closest he gets to doing something about it.
He doesn’t know when he starts believing you. There’s no single moment, no dramatic realization. Just a gradual, unwelcome shift—like waking up one day and realizing the limp you’ve been ignoring isn’t going away.
You’re struggling.
The words settle in his chest and refuse to move.
And for the first time in a long while, Robby wonders—not with panic, but with a quiet, unsettling clarity—what happens if he can’t outrun that truth this time.
The coffee shop becomes unbearable.
Which is ridiculous, really. It’s just a room with bad music, espresso, and furniture that’s never quite clean no matter how often they wipe it down. It hasn’t changed. The chalkboard menu is still written in the same aggressively cheerful handwriting. The barista still spells his name wrong in new and inventive ways.
The problem is you.
Or rather—the problem is that you exist in the same space as him, and he no longer knows how to do that without feeling like something in his ribcage has been pried loose.
He still goes.
Habit is a hard thing to kill, especially when caffeine feels less like a preference and more like a medical necessity. He needs it to function. He needs it to keep the tremor out of his hands during the first trauma of the day. He tells himself this as he pushes the door open, the bell chiming overhead like it’s mocking him.
He doesn’t look at you.
That’s the rule he makes for himself, silently, immediately. Eyes forward. Counter. Menu. Phone. Anything but the corner table by the window. Anything but the familiar line of your shoulders, the way you always tuck one leg under the other when you sit.
You don’t look at him either. Or maybe you do, briefly—but if you do, he doesn’t let himself notice. That would defeat the purpose.
“Large coffee,” he says, voice flat. “Black.”
“Coming right up,” the barista chirps.
You don’t say hello.
Good. That makes it easier. Or harder. He’s not sure which, and he’s too tired to litigate it internally before his caffeine hits.
He grabs the cup like it’s a life-saving intervention, tosses a couple bills into the jar without waiting for change, and leaves before his brain can do anything stupid—like remember how you used to argue about whether cold brew counts as real coffee.
Outside, the air is sharp and cold. He takes a gulp too fast and burns his tongue. Welcomes it. It’s something concrete. Something that makes sense.
At work, things get worse.
Not subtly. Not in a poetic, slow-burn way. They get worse in the blunt, ugly way that emergency medicine specializes in.
A pediatric code comes in at the end of a twelve-hour shift. Three years old. Drowned. The room fills with noise—orders snapping back and forth, the whine of the monitor, the sound of someone crying just outside the door.
Robby runs it clean. He always does.
“Epi in.”
“Time?”
“Two minutes.”
“Again.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t falter. His hands move automatically, muscle memory honed by too many nights like this. Someone squeezes the bag too hard; he corrects them without looking up.
When they call it, the silence afterward is brutal.
He strips his gloves off and drops them in the bin, chest tight but face neutral. He tells the parents the truth in a quiet room with a box of tissues that will not be enough. He watches a mother fold in on herself.
Afterward, in the hallway, one of the residents stares at the floor.
“Does it ever—” they start, then stop.
Robby waits.
“…get easier?”
He thinks of you. Of the way you’d looked at him like you already knew the answer.
“No,” he says finally. “But you get better at carrying it.”
He isn’t sure that’s true anymore.
The next shift, it’s a drunk driver. Mid-thirties. Walked away from the wreck with a broken nose and a cracked rib. The family in the other car doesn’t make it.
Robby stitches the man up while he slurs apologies he doesn’t remember making.
“I didn’t mean to,” the guy says, tears streaking down his face. “I didn’t mean—”
Robby keeps his tone clinical. Detached.
“I know,” he says, because this isn’t the moment for moral judgment. This is the moment for sutures and vitals and documentation.
Later, the man who does die apologizes too.
That one sticks with him.
Septic shock. Late presentation. Nothing dramatic—just a body that’s quietly given up after weeks of ignoring symptoms. The man grips Robby’s wrist weakly as the blood pressure drops.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Didn’t want to bother anyone.”
Robby swallows.
“You didn’t,” he lies, gently.
The man dies ten minutes later.
By the time Robby gets home, the day is layered onto his bones like sediment. He doesn’t bother cooking. He doesn’t bother with water before whiskey. He pours heavy and drinks fast, like he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts.
Sometimes he goes out instead.
Bars. Noise. Low lighting and lower expectations. Someone laughs at his dry humor and leans into his space like they’re allowed to be there. She asks what he does, and when he says “doctor,” her eyes light up in a way that feels uncomplicated.
She wants him.
Not Robby-with-the-baggage. Not Robby-who-wakes-up-at-4-a.m.-with-his-heart-in-his-throat. Just the version that fits neatly into a night and nothing more.
He wakes up the next morning with regret.
Sometimes with bruises he doesn’t remember earning. Sometimes with someone else’s perfume clinging to the sheets, floral and foreign and wrong. He lies there staring at the ceiling, sheets twisted around his legs, the room faintly spinning.
He checks his phone.
Nothing.
Good. Bad. He can’t tell anymore.
He showers longer than necessary, scrubbing at his skin like he can wash off the sense of having borrowed someone else’s closeness. His reflection looks… fine. A little tired. A little harder around the edges.
Functional.
Being wanted is easier than being known.
That’s the thought that settles in his chest as he dries off, as he pulls on clean clothes, as he reaches automatically for his keys.
Wanted doesn’t require honesty.
Wanted doesn’t notice the cracks.
Wanted doesn’t say things like you’re struggling and mean it.
Known does.
And Robby, despite everything, isn’t sure he knows how to survive that yet.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
Your lab day detonates spectacularly.
This is a full-scale external blast radius situation. Plates contaminated. Controls useless. A pipette that has clearly developed sentience and chosen violence. The incubator alarm goes off twice for no discernible reason, like it’s mocking you. The bacteria, you are convinced, are doing this on purpose. They’ve unionized. They’re laughing. One colony looks suspiciously like it’s spelling fuck you.
By three in the afternoon, you’ve had exactly one successful result, and it’s from a grad student who clearly does not deserve it.
You peel off your gloves with unnecessary aggression, dump them in biohazard, and resist the urge to scream directly into the autoclave. Instead, you do the adult thing.
You leave.
The coffee shop feels like a refuge in the way triage does—temporary, overstimulated, and full of people who look like they’re also one minor inconvenience away from snapping. The air smells like espresso and something sweet enough to make your teeth itch. You slide into your usual seat across from your friend, dump your bag on the floor, and immediately launch.
“I swear to God,” you say, wrapping both hands around your cup like it’s a grounding exercise, “if my lab director says ‘let’s circle back’ one more time, I’m going to circle him back into traffic.”
Your friend snorts. “Rough day?”
“The PhD students don’t label anything,” you continue, steamrolling. “The grad students label everything but incorrectly. And the postdoc—who is allegedly a grown adult—used my media and didn’t replace it. I hope his PCR fails forever.”
“Harsh.”
“Appropriate,” you correct. “And I’m ninety percent sure the bacteria are evolving spite.”
You rant. You pace verbally. You describe the way the centrifuge made a noise that suggested it was considering violence. You complain about academia, funding, the myth of meritocracy, and the absolute audacity of a man who said, ‘Have you tried troubleshooting?’ as if you haven’t been troubleshooting since the dawn of time.
You’re mid-sentence—something about how your hands smell like ethanol and bacteria—when your eyes flick up.
And there he is.
Across the shop. By the counter. Standing like someone who has forgotten how to occupy space.
He looks wrecked.
Not the charmingly disheveled kind. Not tired-but-functional. This is something else. Red-rimmed eyes. Shoulders slumped like gravity got personal. He looks… hollowed out. Like someone scraped him empty and didn’t bother to fill him back in.
Your brain stalls for exactly half a second.
Then you wave.
Not a small wave. Not a polite acknowledgment. A full, impulsive hey-you wave, because apparently your impulse control has been chemically dissolved by caffeine and rage.
“Hey—” you call, already scooting over. “Come sit.”
You don’t give him time to talk himself out of it. You’re already shoving your bag aside, clearing space like this is the most natural thing in the world.
He freezes.
You can see it happen—the hesitation, the internal calculus. He looks like he’s deciding whether sitting down will somehow make everything worse. His eyes flick to you, then to the empty chair, then back again.
You soften your voice without meaning to. “You don’t have to—”
He exhales. A slow, tired breath.
And then he comes over.
Up close, it’s worse. He smells like stale coffee and hospital antiseptic and something sharp underneath—fatigue, maybe. There’s a faint tremor in his hands when he wraps them around his cup.
“This is—” you gesture. “My friend.”
Your friend smiles, easy and warm, the traitor. “Hi. I’ve heard about you.”
He blinks. “You have?”
“Only the flattering parts,” you say quickly. “Which are mostly lies.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like muscle memory.
He sits. Doesn’t sprawl. Doesn’t relax. Just… occupies the chair, like he’s bracing for something.
You talk.
Not about work. Not about death. Not about the things hanging off him like weights. You talk about anything else—movies, bad music, the absurd price of oat milk. Your friend tells a story about their cat committing tax fraud (allegedly). You complain about lab politics again, but lighter now, sharper, like you’re performing rather than venting.
He listens.
Really listens. Nods at the right moments. Adds dry comments that land perfectly. When he laughs—quiet, surprised—it feels like a small victory.
At one point, he glances at you. Really looks.
“Rough day?” he asks.
You snort. “The bacteria hate me personally.”
“That tracks,” he says. “You do seem antagonistic.”
“Excuse you.”
Your knee brushes his under the table. You don’t move it away. Neither does he.
For a while, it works. The noise fades. The heaviness around him loosens just enough that he looks… present. Still tired. Still bruised. But here.
You catch him watching you once, expression unreadable. When you meet his eyes, he looks away, embarrassed, like he’s been caught doing something indulgent.
Eventually, your friend checks their watch. “I should go. I have a thing.”
You know better than to ask what kind of thing. You shoot them a grateful look anyway.
“Text me later,” they say pointedly. Then, to him: “Nice meeting you.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “You too.”
The chair across from you is empty now. The space feels louder for it.
He exhales again, heavier this time. “Thanks,” he says. “For… that.”
You shrug, aiming for casual. “You looked like you could use a break from your own head.”
A beat.
“That obvious, huh?”
You consider him. The red eyes. The way he’s holding himself together with habits and caffeine and sheer force of will.
“Only if you know what you’re looking at,” you say.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Dangerous skill.”
“Necessary for my job.”
Silence settles—not awkward. Just… there. Comfortable. The city hums outside. Inside, for once, nothing is actively on fire.
You sip your coffee. He does the same.
For a moment—just a moment—it feels like enough.
He thanks you.
Not the polite kind. Not the reflexive thanks people toss out like spare change. This one catches in his throat, rough and quiet and strangled, like he didn’t expect it to come out at all.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Really. Thank you.”
It lands heavier than it should. You feel it in your chest, that uncomfortable thud of being seen when you didn’t ask for it. You shrug, because that’s what you do when sincerity gets too close to something tender.
“Don’t get weird,” you say lightly. “I was already here. Complaining. Multitasking.”
He huffs a laugh that doesn’t quite make it all the way through. His gaze drops to the table, to his hands, wrapped around the cup like it’s the only thing tethering him to the present moment.
You hesitate.
This is the part where you usually stop. Where you let people collect themselves and pretend it was enough. You’re good at that—excellent, actually. World-class at not crossing lines. At maintaining professional distance. Emotional sterility. Clean margins.
But he looks… fragile. Not in a way that invites fixing—God, you hate that—but in a way that feels like standing too close to the edge of something invisible.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you reach across the table.
Your fingers close gently around his hand.
It’s warmer than you expect. Slightly rough. The tendons tense instinctively, like he’s startled by the contact, then relax when he realizes it’s you. He looks up, eyes flicking from your face to where you’re holding him, like he’s checking whether this is really happening.
“Sorry,” you say automatically, already halfway to pulling back.
“No,” he says quickly. “It’s— it’s fine.”
You pull a pen from your bag, uncapping it with your teeth. You flip his hand palm-up, ignoring the way your pulse jumps at the intimacy of it.
He watches you, confused.
You write carefully, pressing just hard enough that the ink won’t smudge. Numbers curve across his skin—steady, deliberate. You don’t rush it.
When you’re done, you cap the pen and let go.
“Not my number,” you say, before he can misinterpret it. “Therapist.”
He blinks.
Looks down at his hand.
Stares at the ink like it might evaporate if he doesn’t keep his eyes on it. Like it’s some kind of fragile promise written in ballpoint.
“Call her,” you add, quieter now. “Please.”
You don’t soften it with jokes. You don’t dress it up. You let the seriousness sit there, because it deserves the space.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything.
His thumb traces the numbers absentmindedly, smearing them just a little. You resist the urge to rewrite them. To insist. To explain why you care enough to do this but not enough to overstep. The mental gymnastics are exhausting.
“I will,” he says finally.
He says it simply. No theatrics. No grand vow. Just… intent.
You study his face, looking for cracks. For deflection. For the familiar flinch of someone saying what they think you want to hear.
“I will,” he repeats, quieter. More to himself this time.
You nod once, like you’re accepting a lab result you don’t fully trust but will provisionally believe.
“Good,” you say. “She’s competent. Which, as we’ve established, is rare.”
That earns you a real smile—small, crooked, but genuine. It looks like something he hasn’t used in a while.
Silence stretches between you again, but it’s different now. Charged. Tender in a way that makes you uncomfortable and oddly protective at the same time.
You glance at your coffee. It’s gone cold. Of course it has.
“Well,” you say, pushing back slightly. “I should probably go before my lab director sends a search party or sacrifices another grad student.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Thanks. For… everything.”
You stand, sling your bag over your shoulder, and hesitate just long enough to meet his eyes again.
“You don’t owe me anything,” you say. “Just— make the call.”
He nods. Closes his fingers over the numbers like he’s afraid of losing them.
You walk away before either of you can make it heavier. Before it turns into something you can’t neatly compartmentalize.
Outside, the air is sharp and cold, biting at your cheeks. You inhale deeply, grounding yourself in it.
You hope he means it.
You hope the ink lasts long enough.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
Robby tells himself he didn’t mean to linger.
He’d only stopped at the coffee shop because it was on the way and because the alternative—going straight home to an apartment that smelled faintly of old takeout and stale beer—felt worse. He’d stood in line, stared at the menu like it might surprise him with a new option, and waited for the barista to call his name.
That’s when he saw you.
You were mid-rant, hands wrapped around your cup like it was the only thing tethering you to sanity, leaning forward across the small table toward your friend. Your face was animated in that sharp, precise way it always was when you were annoyed—eyebrows drawn, mouth curved into something just short of a smile, like you were enjoying your own fury on principle.
He didn’t think. That was the problem.
You looked up. Your eyes found him. And then you waved.
Just—lifted your hand and waved, like he wasn’t a mess stitched together with caffeine and bad coping mechanisms. Like you hadn’t already seen him at his worst and filed it away without flinching.
He remembers how his chest had tightened, fast and sharp, like a muscle spasm. He remembers thinking, dimly, that he probably looked like hell. Red-eyed. Hollowed out. The kind of man people quietly decide not to ask follow-up questions of.
“Hey,” he’d managed back, and hated how small it sounded.
You hesitated. He remembers that too. A fraction of a second where you looked like you were deciding something.
Then you reached out, took his hand.
His brain had frozen entirely at that point. Your fingers were warm, sure. You held him like it was nothing. Like people did that sort of thing all the time.
You uncapped a pen with your teeth and wrote on his skin, slow and deliberate. He’d watched the ink bloom into numbers, dark and undeniable.
“Not my number,” you said, already anticipating the look on his face. “Therapist. Call her. Please.”
He’d stared at his hand like it might evaporate if he blinked.
“I will,” he said.
He wasn’t sure if you believed him. He wasn’t sure if he believed him.
You squeezed his fingers once, gentle but firm. “Okay.”
And then you’d gone back to your lan, back to your life, leaving him sitting there with caffeine cooling in his cup and something sharp and fragile lodged under his ribs.
Now, hours later, he sits on the edge of his bed, fully dressed, shoes still on, jacket slung over the chair like he might leave again at any second.
The apartment is quiet in that oppressive way that makes every sound feel amplified. The hum of the fridge. A siren somewhere far off. The tick of the cheap clock on his nightstand.
He turns his left hand palm-up.
The ink is still there.
Smudged a little at the edges, but legible. A number. Proof that the interaction wasn’t a hallucination cooked up by exhaustion and caffeine.
He hasn’t washed it off.
He told himself he would. That it was unhygienic, unprofessional, a ridiculous thing to keep. But every time he’d stepped toward the sink, he’d hesitated. Like erasing it would be an act of bad faith. Like it would mean admitting he’d already decided not to call.
He drags his thumb over the numbers. The skin there feels normal. Too normal, for how heavy his chest feels.
Call. Don’t call.
He’s had this argument with himself before, different numbers, different names. The outcome has always been the same: put it off, white-knuckle through another month, convince himself he’s fine because he’s still functioning.
Functioning. He almost laughs.
He thinks about how tired he is. Not the kind of tired sleep fixes. The deeper kind. The bone-deep exhaustion of surviving when you’re not sure what you’re surviving for anymore.
His phone is on the bed beside him.
He picks it up. Opens the dialer. Punches in the numbers from his hand.
His thumb hovers.
He hangs up before it rings.
“Of course,” he mutters to the empty room. “Classic.”
He drops the phone onto the mattress, runs a hand over his face. Stares at the wall. Thinks about the ER lights, too bright. The codes that blur together. The patients who apologize as they die. The ones who don’t get the chance.
He thinks about you, writing the number on his hand like you expected him to matter enough to use it.
He picks the phone up again.
Dials.
It rings once. Twice.
He panics and almost hangs up again, but then the call goes to voicemail.
He exhales, long and shaky. “Okay. Okay.”
When he speaks, his voice is rough but steady enough.
“Hi. Uh. My name is Michael Robinavitch. Robby.” A pause. “I was given your number today. By a friend. She said I should call.”
Another pause. He stares at the ink like it might tell him what to say next.
“I’m… not great at this,” he admits, dry despite himself. “But I’m tired. And I think I need help. So. If you’re taking new patients. Please call me back.”
He rattles off his number, careful, deliberate.
“Thank you,” he adds, quietly, and ends the call.
He sits there for a long moment afterward, phone still in his hand.
He doesn’t cry. There’s no dramatic release, no sobbing collapse. But something inside him shifts, just a little. A knot loosening. A fraction of pressure easing off his lungs.
He sets the phone down. Kicks off his shoes. Lies back on the bed without bothering to change.
His eyes drift to his hand one last time.
The ink is still there.
For once, he lets himself close his eyes.
And for the first time in a long while, sleep takes him without a fight.
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩
Weeks pass in the quiet, attritional way they always do when something important has gone unsaid.
You don’t not see him. That would be easier. Cleaner. A controlled experiment with a clear variable removed.
Instead, you get fragments.
A glimpse of his shoulder through the coffee shop window while you’re waiting for your order, the familiar slope of it registering before your brain can intervene. A nod across the counter—polite, careful, like he’s greeting a colleague. Once, a smile, brief and reflexive, like his face betrayed him before he could stop it.
You don’t linger. Neither does he.
It becomes a choreography of avoidance so practiced it almost looks intentional. You tell yourself you’re fine with it. You tell yourself a lot of things.
The lab is supposed to be safe.
That’s the first betrayal.
You’ve done this a thousand times—gloves on, movements economical, muscle memory carrying you through steps your conscious brain barely bothers to supervise anymore. It’s rote. Controlled. Predictable. Which is the point.
Until it isn’t.
The slip is stupid. Embarrassingly so. A moment of distraction, your mind half on a culture result that doesn’t make sense and half on absolutely nothing you should admit to thinking about. The edge of the broken glass bites deeper than it has any right to.
There’s a flash of pain—sharp, immediate, bright enough to cut through everything else—and then the red. Too much red.
“Oh, shit,” you say distantly, because apparently that’s your response to disaster now.
You yank your hand back, instinct overriding protocol, and that’s when you see it properly. The cut is deep. Not a superficial nick you can laugh off with a Band-Aid and some antiseptic bravado. This is open. Gaping. Already slick with blood.
And worse—because of course there’s worse—you know exactly what you were handling.
Your stomach drops with professional precision.
“I'm fucked,” you mutter under your breath, already replaying the last ten minutes in forensic detail. MRSA. Confirmed. The label is right there, smug and fluorescent. You stare at it like it personally betrayed you.
You clamp pressure on the wound, gloved hand turning red almost instantly. Your heart kicks into a faster rhythm, the kind you usually reserve for other people’s emergencies.
Great. Fantastic. You’ve become the patient.
Your lab assistant—sweet, well-meaning, catastrophically unhelpful—appears at your elbow like an anxious ghost.
“Oh my god, are you okay? Should I—do you want me to—should we wash it? I think we should wash it, right? Or maybe—”
“Stop,” you say, sharper than you mean to. You inhale, force yourself to recalibrate. “I’m fine. I mean. I’m not fine. But I’m handling it.”
You are, in fact, not handling it. Your brain has already launched into a worst-case scenario spiral that would make an insurance adjuster proud.
Deep cut. Exposure. Resistant organism. Surgical debridement. IV antibiotics. Complications you lecture other people about like they’re abstract concepts instead of suddenly very personal possibilities.
You walk yourself through it like a prayer. Or a threat.
Early intervention. Proper cleaning. Prophylaxis. Odds are in your favor.
Odds are in your favor.
Odds are in your—
“Hey,” the assistant says, hovering, hands flapping uselessly in the air. “Do you want me to call someone? Or—”
“Yes,” you say immediately. “Call someone. Call—actually, no. I’m going to the ER. You’re going to drive me.”
His eyes widen. “The ER? Is it that bad?”
You look at your hand. Blood is still seeping, slow and insistent. You think of cultures and colonies and the microscopic arrogance of bacteria.
“Yes,” you say flatly. “It’s that bad.”
The car ride is a special kind of hell.
You sit in the passenger seat, arm wrapped in gauze you applied with shaking hands, staring out the window while your brain continues its aggressive tour of everything that could go wrong. Your assistant keeps glancing over like you might spontaneously combust.
“Do you need me to—like—talk to you?” he offers.
“No,” you say. “Please don’t.”
You immediately feel guilty. Then immediately don’t care. Panic is selfish like that.
By the time you get to the ER, the adrenaline has burned down into something colder. Focused. Brittle. You’re very aware of how exposed you feel walking through those doors from the wrong side of the equation.
Check-in is mercifully quick. Someone recognizes the look on your face—the I know exactly how bad this could be look—and fast-tracks you without commentary.
You’re placed in a curtained bay that smells like antiseptic and overworked HVAC. The assistant hovers again, wringing his hands.
“I can stay,” he says. “In case you need—”
“Thank you,” you say, and mean it. Then, more gently than you feel, “But you should go. I’ll be okay.”
He hesitates, clearly torn between concern and the visible relief of being dismissed.
“Text me,” he says finally. “Please.”
“I will,” you lie, because that’s easier.
When the curtain finally pulls back—
It’s him.
For a split second, your brain refuses to process the information. It feels like a trick. A stress hallucination. Your subconscious picking the most inconvenient possible face to project.
Then he speaks.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Hi.”
Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with infection risk.
He looks… different.
Not drastically. Not in a way you could easily articulate if someone asked. Just—grounded. Like his weight is distributed more evenly in his own body. His hands are steady where they rest on the tablet, not vibrating with barely restrained energy. His eyes are calmer, clearer, like he’s finally sleeping more than three hours at a time.
You hate that you notice. You hate that you’re relieved.
“Hi,” you manage, because apparently that’s still your entire vocabulary around him.
There’s a pause. Not awkward, exactly. Careful.
“What happened?” he asks, already stepping closer, professional instinct kicking in like muscle memory.
You lift your hand slightly. “Lab accident. Deep cut. MRSA exposure,” you say, brisk, preemptive. “I’m aware it’s deeply ironic.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not a full smile. But close.
“Of course it was MRSA,” he murmurs. “Anything else would’ve been too easy.”
He pulls on gloves with a smooth, practiced motion, eyes never leaving your hand. You watch him work because you don’t know where else to look.
The door curtain swishes shut behind him, and that’s when it happens.
The second you’re alone with him—no lab assistant hovering, no triage nurse pretending not to listen, no one to perform competence for—your composure collapses like a badly stacked slide deck.
You stare at your hand. The cut looks worse under proper lighting. Deeper. Angrier. Your brain obligingly supplies a slideshow of microscopic horrors.
MRSA in the bloodstream.
Endocarditis.
Months of IV antibiotics.
Permanent damage because you were careless.
You laugh. It comes out wrong—too sharp, too loud.
“This is bad,” you say. “This is actually really fucking bad. I mean, statistically it’s probably fine, but statistically people also get hit by buses, and I don’t like how often I’ve been thinking about probability lately.”
Your chest tightens. Your breath goes shallow and fast, like your lungs are skimming instead of landing.
He looks up immediately.
Not alarmed. Not annoyed. Just… attentive.
“Okay,” he says calmly, setting the irrigation syringe down. “That’s fixable.”
You bark out another laugh. “Is it? Because my brain is currently drafting a very detailed worst-case scenario with appendices.”
He steps closer, lowering himself onto the rolling stool so he’s at eye level with you instead of looming. It’s a small thing. It helps more than you want to admit.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Look at me.”
You don’t want to. You do anyway.
His eyes are steady. Focused.
“You’re exposed,” he says evenly. “Yes. You caught it early. You came in immediately. We’re cleaning it properly, we’re closing it, and I’m putting you on antibiotics that are frankly overkill.”
“Overkill is my favorite genre,” you mutter.
“There it is,” he says, faintly amused. “Still sarcastic. Good sign.”
Your breathing is still off. You’re aware of it in an abstract, professional way—hyperventilation, mild panic response—while being completely unable to stop it.
“What if it doesn’t work?” you blurt. “What if it seeds? What if I end up admitted? What if this screws my research? What if—”
He reaches out without thinking and presses two fingers gently against your wrist, right over your pulse.
The contact is grounding in a way that borders on unfair.
“Okay,” he says again, slower this time. “Pause. You’re doing the thing where you catastrophize faster than your body can keep up.”
You swallow. “I’m aware. Awareness has not been curative.”
He snorts softly. “Fair.”
He keeps his fingers there for a moment longer than strictly necessary.
“Breathe with me,” he says. “In through your nose. Count of four.”
You glare at him. “I hate that this works.”
“Trust me,” he says. “I hate that I have to use it.”
You inhale. Slowly. Against your will.
“Out,” he continues. “Six.”
You do it again. Then again.
Your heart rate starts to ease, reluctantly, like a stubborn machine returning to baseline.
“There,” he says quietly. “You’re still scared, but you’re not spinning.”
You huff. “I feel like a badly calibrated centrifuge.”
“I’ve seen worse,” he replies. “I once had a guy try to self-soothe by reciting the periodic table. He got stuck at cobalt.”
That gets an actual laugh out of you. It’s shaky, but it’s real.
“Loser,” you say jokingly.
He grins briefly, then refocuses, slipping fully back into physician mode.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s take care of this.”
You snort. “I’ll try to be brave.”
“I’ve seen you,” he replies mildly. “You’ll complain, but you’ll survive.”
There it is. Familiarity, slipping through the cracks despite both of your best efforts.
The cleaning is unpleasant in the way only necessary things are. The antiseptic burns, sharp and insistent, and you flinch despite yourself.
“Sorry,” he says automatically.
“It’s fine,” you say through clenched teeth. “I deserve this for hubris.”
“For what?”
“For believing I was immune to lab accidents because I’m smarter than glass.”
“Glass remains undefeated,” he says solemnly.
You snort again, shoulders loosening incrementally as he works. He narrates lightly—not in a condescending way, just enough to keep your brain occupied.
“Looks clean, at least,” he continues. “We’ll be aggressive about treatment. You did the right thing coming in.”
“Good,” you say. “I’d hate to disappoint you.”
He glances up then, looks closely at you, and something unreadable passes through his expression.
“I don’t think you could,” he says quietly.
The words settle between you, heavy and unresolved, as his hands continue their careful work. Outside the curtain, the ER hums on—controlled chaos, endless and indifferent.
When he numbs the area, the sting fades into pressure, then nothing at all. The stitches tug faintly as he places them, precise and practiced.
“Do you want to watch?” he asks.
“Absolutely not,” you say. “I know exactly what’s happening and that’s plenty.”
“Smart.”
He keeps talking as he works—about nothing and everything. A terrible coffee someone brought in earlier. A patient who tried to diagnose himself via social media. A nurse who keeps stealing pens and denying it with oscar worthy sincerity.
You find yourself responding automatically, the panic receding into something manageable. Contained.
By the time he finishes tying the last stitch, you realize you’re no longer shaking.
“There,” he says, sitting back. “All closed.”
You look at your hand. Neat. Controlled. Taken care of.
He prints the prescription, scribbling quickly, then hands it to you.
“Antibiotics,” he says. “Take them exactly as prescribed. No heroics. If anything looks off—redness, fever, dramatic swelling—you come back. Immediately.”
“Yes, Dad.”
He arches an eyebrow. “I will confiscate your lab privileges.”
You smile despite yourself.
As he steps back, the room feels a little bigger. A little emptier.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. Not just for the stitches.
He meets your eyes again, something warm and steady there.
“Anytime,” he says. And for once, you believe it.
He finishes typing up the discharge instructions, fingers moving with easy familiarity over the keyboard. The room has settled into that post-crisis quiet—monitors humming softly, the air cool and antiseptic, everything returned to baseline now that you’re stitched, medicated, and no longer actively unraveling.
You swing your legs off the bed carefully, acutely aware of your newly sutured hand, of the faint pull beneath the dressing. You feel ridiculous for how exposed you still are. Emotionally, if not anatomically.
“Alright,” he says, handing you the papers. “You’re good to go. Try not to do anything stupid.”
You accept them. “That feels like an impossible standard.”
“I have faith,” he says dryly. “Limited, but present.”
You stand, shrug into your jacket, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is again. The moment stretches. This should be the end. Clean. Professional. You thank him, you leave, you don’t complicate things.
Instead—
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You pause, one hand already on the curtain. You turn back.
He’s not looking at the chart anymore. He’s looking at you.
“I, uh…” He exhales through his nose, just a little, like he’s bracing himself. “I wanted to say thank you. For that night. At the coffee shop.”
Your stomach dips. You know immediately what he means. The inked number. The way his voice sounded when he thanked you then—fractured, barely holding together.
“For… the number,” he continues. “I did call.”
Your mouth goes dry.
“Oh,” you say intelligently.
He nods once. “Yeah. I probably wouldn’t have, otherwise.”
There’s no drama in his voice. No grand confession. Just honesty, laid out carefully between you.
“That mattered,” he adds. “More than you probably realized.”
You shrug reflexively, the gesture coming out sharper than you intend. “It was just a number.”
He gives you a look. Steady. Knowing.
“No,” he says. “It wasn’t.”
That lands somewhere uncomfortable in your chest. You deflect, because of course you do.
“Well,” you say lightly, “I’m glad it didn’t go to waste.”
He smiles faintly at that. It’s small, restrained—but real.
You turn back toward the curtain, fully intending to escape before your brain can do anything reckless.
It fails you.
You hesitate, fingers tightening on the fabric.
Say it, a traitorous part of you urges. If you don’t, you’ll think about it for weeks like an idiot.
You sigh internally. Fine. One small act of self-sabotage, as a treat.
“Hey,” you say, pivoting back again. “Uh—coffee’s on me next time.”
The words hang there, fragile and terrifying.
His reaction is immediate.
He freezes.
Not dramatically. Just… still. Like his brain has briefly frozen. You can almost see the calculation happening behind his eyes—professional boundaries, emotional landmines, history, risk.
You brace yourself for the polite deflection. The easy out.
Instead, after a beat, he nods.
“Yeah,” he says. Then, quieter, “Okay.”
There’s a small smile on his face when he says it. Careful. Hopeful. Like he’s afraid to test it too hard in case it disappears.
Your heart does something profoundly inconvenient.
“Okay,” you echo, because apparently you’re both committed to this minimalist dialogue now.
You pull the curtain aside and step out, pulse loud in your ears. As you walk down the hallway, you’re acutely aware of the absurdity of it all—how a cut hand and a prescription somehow led you here, to this strange, tentative truce with something unresolved.
Behind you, you swear you feel his eyes linger a moment longer than necessary.
