Ooooo I love your Dana ideas ! And absolutely love your writing for her ugh I’m so happy whenever she gets new stories ! I really love #17 and #15 !!! So whichever one you’d like to do I love your writing so I’ll be happy with any honestly haha
Hi Anon! Here’s #15 for you
The Favorite Times You've Kissed Dana
Author's Note: I know the prompt said 8 but I had ideas
🔞 Explicit sexual content
💔 Grief and death mention
1. The Parking Garage (The First One)
Sixteen-hour shift. Both of you dead on your feet.
You're walking to your car and she's walking to hers and somewhere in the middle—under those awful fluorescent lights that make everyone look half-dead—she just stops.
You stop because she stops.
She looks at you. For a while. Like she's doing math in her head or something. Checking her work.
It's quick. Practical. So Dana, that it almost hurts. Just her mouth on yours for maybe three seconds in a parking garage that smells like car exhaust and that specific winter cold that gets in your bones.
She pulls back. Looks at your face like she's confirming something.
That's it. Just okay. Like you passed some kind of test you didn't know you were taking.
Then she walks to her car and you just—you stand there. Under the fluorescent lights. For probably thirty seconds. Maybe longer. You literally forget how your legs work.
2. New Year's Eve (The One Neither of You Planned)
Robby's place. Someone's doing the countdown.
You're holding this drink you're not even drinking and Dana's next to you saying something sarcastic about the champagne—it's cheap, someone bought it at the grocery store, she's got opinions—and then it's midnight and everyone's yelling and she turns to you and just—
Like she just remembered she left the stove on or something.
Then she kisses you. Slow. Kind of surprised, like she didn't plan it but here we are. Someone near you makes this noise—you don't even know who—and Dana completely ignores them.
When she pulls back her face does that thing. That neutral thing she does when she's trying really hard not to show you something.
"Happy New Year," she says. Quiet.
"Yeah," you say. Because what else do you say.
You don't talk about it for four days. Then she brings it up over coffee in like twelve words and that's how it starts. That's how you start.
3. The Hospital Hallway (The One That Shouldn't Have Happened)
The really bad kind. The kind where it goes wrong at hour two and just keeps going and by hour ten everyone's running on nothing and Dana's been in charge nurse mode so hard she's basically a different person. You know that person. You don't like that person. That person scares you a little.
You find her in the back hallway. Near the supply room. Just standing there with her eyes closed. Maybe ten seconds. Which for Dana is like—that's her falling apart. That's as close as she gets.
She hears you and opens her eyes.
You don't say anything because what are you going to say.
She doesn't say anything either.
Then she just reaches out and grabs the front of your scrubs—actually grabs them, fists them up—and kisses you. Hard. Once. Like she's trying to remember she's a person and not just a machine that makes medical decisions.
Pulls back. Straightens up.
"Not here," she says. Quiet.
She goes back to the floor.
You stand in the hallway. You don't know for how long.
A week later she brings it up in exactly three words: "That was unprofessional." You tell her you're not reporting her to HR. She tells you to shut up.
It's fine. It was fine. You think about it constantly.
4.Your Kitchen (The One That Made It Real)
Two months of whatever-this-is and she stays over for the first time.
Not because anything happened. She just fell asleep on your couch during some movie neither of you was watching. Her head tilted against the cushion, breathing all slow and even, and you just—you watched her for a second. The way her chest moved. The way her hand went slack against her leg.
Then you covered her with the blanket from the back of the couch and turned off the TV and went to bed.
You left your door open. Just in case.
In the morning you wake up to sounds in your kitchen.
The mug hitting the counter. The tap running. That specific groan your cabinet makes when you open it—the one where the coffee lives. You just lie there listening to her move around your space like she already knows where everything is.
When you finally get up and go out there, the light's coming in sideways through the window. That good morning light. She's standing at the counter in yesterday's clothes—this old t-shirt and those jeans, you know the ones, the ones that fit her just right—and her hair's messy from sleep and she hasn't put her armor on yet. No scrubs. No charge-nurse face. Just Dana. Barefoot in your kitchen. Holding two mugs.
She turns when she hears you. Looks at you for a second. Like she's checking something.
Then she hands you a mug.
You take it. Your fingers touch hers.
You stand there at the counter with the warm ceramic in your hands and you drink your coffee and neither of you talks. The tap drips once. A car goes by outside. It's the most boring morning of your entire life and it feels like—I don't know. It feels like something starting. Something you don't have words for yet.
And there's something different. Like she forgot to put the walls up before she came out of the bedroom. Her eyes stay on yours longer than usual and you see something there—something raw, something she usually keeps locked down so tight you forget it exists.
She sets her mug down. The sound is loud—ceramic on granite—and you feel it like she's making a choice.
She steps closer. Closer than she needs to. Close enough that you can smell her—sleep-warm skin and your shampoo because she must have used your shower at some point. Close enough that you can see these tiny gold flecks in her eyes you never noticed before.
Her hand comes up. Palm against the side of your face. Warm. Her thumb brushes your cheekbone once. It's the kind of touch that says a thousand things without saying anything.
Not quick. Not accidental. Not that brief practical thing you've gotten used to. This one's slow. Deliberate. Full of intention. Her mouth is soft and she tilts her head just enough and for a few seconds there's nothing else. Just her palm on your face and coffee taste on her lips and this quiet click of understanding somewhere deep in your chest.
She pulls back but not far. Her hand stays on your face for another second. Like she's letting it settle.
Then she picks up her coffee. Takes a sip. Her face goes neutral but her eyes are softer.
"You're out of creamer," she says.
Next time she comes over she brings creamer. Just leaves it in your fridge. Middle shelf where she can reach it.
You don't say anything about it.
5. Her Car (The Apology Kiss)
You have a fight. A real one. Not serious but enough that she goes quiet and you go quiet and then there's two days of this careful politeness that's somehow worse than the actual fight.
She picks you up for a shift. You get in.
She drives. Doesn't say anything.
Red light. She says, "Yeah, I was wrong."
You say, "I know you didn't mean it."
Light changes. She drives another block.
Then she just pulls over. Puts it in park. Kisses you before either of you can say anything else. Quick. A little rough. Then she puts the car back in drive and doesn't look at you.
"We're gonna be late," she says.
"You pulled over," you say.
6. Your Birthday (The One She Planned)
Dana's not romantic. She'd tell you that herself. She's practical. She shows up through logistics, not gestures.
Except on your birthday she shows up at your door at seven in the morning with coffee and that specific pastry from that specific bakery you mentioned once three months ago. You're standing there in your pajamas just looking at her. She looks annoyed. Probably at herself.
"You said that bakery. Months ago. I remembered," she says, like she's explaining a work thing. "Not a thing."
You pull her inside by the front of her jacket and kiss her right there in your doorway. Slow. And she sighs like this is very inconvenient and kisses you back.
7. The Hotel Room (Somewhere In Between)
Conference. Two single rooms that became unnecessary.
You're laughing about something—some comment you overheard at the panel—and Dana's smiling. The real smile. The room's dark except for city light through the curtains and she kisses you mid-laugh.
She's never done that before.
It surprises both of you.
She pulls back and looks at you and there's something open in her face. Not unguarded exactly. Just less defended. Like she forgot to put the armor back on for a second.
She doesn't say anything about it.
8. The Porch (The Quiet One)
Sunday. Nothing's happening.
You're on her porch with coffee and the Sunday paper she still gets in print for some reason. The neighborhood's quiet, the light's good, and Dana's reading with her reading glasses on—the ones she pretends she doesn't need—and you're doing nothing.
After a while she folds the paper. Sets it down. Turns and kisses you on the temple.
Then goes back to the paper like she didn't.
It's the smallest one on this list.
It's the one you think about most.
9. The Wake-Up Kiss (Shift Start)
Your alarm goes off at five and her arm's heavy across your stomach and neither of you has moved for like thirty seconds since the noise started.
"Turn it off," she says into the pillow.
"You're the one who has to be there at six."
You reach over, fumble with your phone, and it goes quiet. The room goes dark again. She rolls onto her back. You lean over and kiss her—still half-asleep, your mouth catches the corner of hers before she turns into it properly.
It's lazy. A little off-center. She makes this sound between a groan and a hum. Her hand comes up, palm flat on your chest. Not pushing you away.
"That's not getting me up," she says.
She opens one eye. "You're impossible."
She gets up. But she grabs your face first and kisses you hard—quick, efficient—okay fine. Then she's swinging her legs off the bed and heading for the bathroom.
10. The Hallway Passing Kiss (Mid-Shift)
She's coming out of Trauma 2 and you're heading toward the break room and you cross paths in the main corridor for exactly three seconds before she's gone again.
In those three seconds her hand catches your wrist. Pulls you half a step off course. Her mouth meets yours for less than a heartbeat—dry lips, coffee breath, no time for more.
Then she lets go and keeps walking.
"Drink water," she says over her shoulder. "You look like hell."
You stand there in the middle of the corridor. A resident walks around you.
The job was: I see you. I'm still here. Keep going.
You're halfway through explaining why you're upset—and it's valid, you know it's valid—but you're also spiraling. Talking too fast. Circling the same point three different ways.
Dana watches you for like thirty seconds.
Then she steps forward and cups your face in both hands and kisses you.
Not gentle. Firm. Deliberate. Like hitting pause.
You make this sound of protest against her mouth. She doesn't let go. Just holds you there until your shoulders drop. Until the fight goes out of you.
"Now," she says. "Slower. From the top."
You take a breath. Start again. This time it comes out right.
Hands in her pockets. Jaw tight. That look that means work happened and she's not talking about it yet.
You cross the room and kiss her. Soft. No expectations.
She doesn't deepen it. Just stands there with her eyes closed.
When she opens them something's shifted.
13. The "Come Here" Kiss (Wordless)
She's at the kitchen counter paying a bill. You're across the room on your phone.
She doesn't say anything.
Just makes this small sound—not quite a word—and when you look up she's tilting her head. That look. The one that says come here without needing the words.
You cross the room. She meets you halfway. The kiss is brief and automatic. Like punctuation. Her hand squeezes your hip once before letting go.
She goes back to her bill.
"Love you," you say. Because someone has to.
She doesn't look up. "Yeah. I know."
She never says it back. She doesn't have to.
14. The Pre-Shift Grounding Kiss
She's had three days off and now she's going back and you can feel the tension in her shoulders from across the room. She's been quiet all morning. Moving slow. The kind of quiet that means she's already at work in her head.
You come up behind her while she's lacing her boots. Wrap your arms around her waist. Press your mouth to the back of her neck.
You turn her around. Take her face in your hands and kiss her. Slow. Grounded. The kind of kiss that says you're still here, you're still you, the chaos hasn't swallowed you yet.
She rests her forehead against yours when you're done.
"Okay," she says. Not okay. But closer.
She kisses you once more—quick, sharp—and grabs her keys.
15. The Kitchen Counter (Quick and Necessary)
You're making dinner. She comes up behind you and reaches around you for a spoon and you turn your head at the exact moment she leans in.
Kisses in this position are never good. Wrong angle. Awkward. Your neck cranes, her chin juts, and for a second it's just two faces pressed together wrong.
But she laughs against your mouth—a real laugh, surprised—and you fix the angle and it becomes a real kiss. Quick. Warm. Over before it registers.
She takes the spoon. Goes back to the other side of the counter.
"Dinner smells good," she says.
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not." Pause. "You need more salt."
You add more salt. She's right. She's always right.
16. The Last One Before the Doors
You're dropping her off at the ER entrance. She's already late. The car's idling in the patient loading zone and there's no time for a proper goodbye.
She grabs the back of your head and pulls you in. Hard. Her mouth meets yours in a kiss that's mostly impact—teeth, pressure, heat. No finesse. No slow build.
It's fast and messy and perfect.
She pulls back, already reaching for the door handle.
She snorts. "I'm walking thirty feet."
She's already out of the car. But she's smiling. You see it before the door closes.
17. When You Woke Up in ICU
First thing you register is beeping. Then the tube in your throat. Then her hand in yours.
She's asleep in the chair next to your bed. Head tilted at this angle that's definitely going to hurt her neck. Still in scrubs that look like they're two days old. There's a coffee cup on the floor next to her. Empty. Probably cold.
You can't talk around the tube. Can't move much. Everything hurts in that distant medicated way. Last thing you remember is the impact—the T-bone hitting the driver's side, the spin, the dark. Then nothing for three days.
But you can lift your hand. Just barely.
You bring her hand to your mouth. Press your lips to her knuckles. Once. Slow. Deliberate.
She wakes up instantly. Her eyes go wide then wet and she's leaning forward, her free hand coming up to cup your face.
"You're awake," she says. Her voice breaks on the second word. "You're—Jesus Christ, you're awake."
You kiss her hand again. It's all you can do. But it's enough.
She understands. She always understands.
"I know," she whispers. "I know. You're okay. We're okay."
She doesn't let go of your hand for the next six hours. Not when the doctors come in. Not when they remove the tube. Not when you fall back asleep.
When you wake up again she's still there.
18. The Coffee Run (Stress Relief)
You're not supposed to be here. It's your day off. But Dana texted you forty minutes ago—just three words: Bad day. Drowning.—and that was enough.
You show up with two carriers of coffee and three bags of food from the good sandwich place. The one that's twenty minutes out of your way.
The ER is chaos. You can hear it before you even get through the doors. Dana's at the nurses' station on the phone and she looks exhausted. Pale. Running on fumes.
You set the coffee and food down on the counter. Her coworkers descend immediately. Grateful and surprised.
Dana hangs up the phone. Looks at you. Looks at the spread.
You cross to her. Take her face in your hands. Kiss her right there in the middle of the department.
It's not long. Not dramatic. Just steady. Grounding. The kind of kiss that says I'm here. You're not alone in this.
When you pull back she's staring at you. Her eyes are a little glassy.
"Thank you," she says. Quiet.
"Drink the coffee. Eat the sandwich. I'll be home when you get there."
She nods. Doesn't let go of your wrist for a few seconds longer than necessary.
One of the residents whistles. Dana tells them to shut up. But she's smiling when she says it.
19. The House (New Beginning)
The house is empty. Completely empty. Your voices echo when you talk.
You're standing in the living room—your living room—and Dana's next to you with the keys still in her hand, looking around like she's trying to make it real in her head.
She turns to look at you. There's something in her expression you don't see often—something open and unguarded and maybe a little scared.
"This is real," she says. Not a question. A confirmation.
You step closer. Take the keys from her hand and set them on the windowsill. Then you take her face in both hands and kiss her.
Slow. Deliberate. The kind of kiss that says yes, this is real, and I'm not going anywhere.
She makes a small sound against your mouth. Her hands come up to grip your shirt and she kisses you back like she's sealing a promise.
When you pull apart she rests her forehead against yours.
"We're really doing this," she whispers.
She smiles. The real one. The one that makes your chest ache.
"Okay," she says. "Okay. Let's build something."
The Times You Broke Her With Your Kisses
1. The Work Trip (The One That Wasn't Good)
You're leaving for five days. Not long. You've told her this three times. She's told you she knows twice. Neither of you believes it.
She drives you to the airport. You sit in the car in the departures lane with the hazards on and the seconds ticking and neither of you reaches for the door handle.
She's quiet. Not okay. But she says she is anyway.
You lean across. She meets you halfway.
It's a bad kiss. The worst one. Noses bumping, lips catching dry, both of you rusty at this.
You pull back. Look at her.
She laughs. You laugh. Then you try again and this one's better—slower, her hand on your jaw, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. She kisses you like she's trying to memorize it.
When you finally pull apart her eyes are wet. She blinks hard.
"Text me," she says. "Something good. Every day."
You get out of the car. You don't look back because if you look back you won't get on the plane. You hear her drive away before you even reach the doors.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket before you're through security.
Dana: That one was better—the second one.
2. The Living Room (The Mean One)
It starts on the couch. Movie neither of you is watching. You're half-draped over her, lazy and warm, and you start kissing her neck because it's there and because she makes this small sound when you do.
She tilts her head. Gives you more room.
You kiss down her throat. Slow. Feeling her pulse under your lips. She shifts beneath you, legs parting slightly, and you feel her hand slide into your hair.
"That's nice," she murmurs.
You kiss her collarbone. The dip between her breasts. You push her shirt up a little and press your mouth to her stomach and she sighs, settling deeper into the cushions.
Kiss her hip bone. The outside of her thigh. Her knee—which makes her twitch. The inside of her calf.
She's quiet for a second. Then:
"Where do you think you're going?"
You look up from where you're kissing her ankle. "Everywhere."
Her eyes narrow. She knows.
You kiss her other ankle. Her shin. The soft spot behind her knee. She squirms, breath catching.
"You're doing this on purpose."
You don't answer. You kiss up the inside of her thigh—slow, deliberate, mouth dragging over her skin—and stop an inch from where she's warm and wet and waiting.
She makes a sound. Frustrated. Low in her throat.
You kiss her other thigh. Closer this time. Her whole body tenses.
"You love it," you say against her skin.
Her hips tilt up anyway, searching, and you smile and kiss the crease where her thigh meets her hip. Not where she needs it.
She groans. Actually groans. "When you get home from your trip I'm returning the favor. For hours."
You kiss her again, an inch lower, and she's already slick, already trembling, and you take your time because taking your time is the whole point.
Later—much later—she's curled against you on the couch and she says, quiet, "You know I don't actually hate it."
"Doesn't mean it's not mean."
You press your lips to her hair. "I know that too."
She lets you hold her. That's the part that matters.
3. The One She Pulled Away From
She's had a rough shift. You can tell before she even tells you—the way she walks in, the set of her shoulders, the way she drops her bag by the door instead of hanging it up.
You go to her. Take her face in your hands. Kiss her.
For a second she softens into it. Her hand comes up, touches your wrist.
Then she pulls back. Steps away.
"I can't," she says. "Not right now. I just—I can't."
Her voice is flat. Not angry. Just empty.
"Okay," you say. "You want food? Tea? Nothing?"
She shakes her head. Just stands there in the middle of the living room, still in her scrubs, looking like she's about to come apart.
You don't kiss her again. You make her tea anyway. Leave it on the counter.
She drinks it. Doesn't say thank you. Doesn't need to.
4. The "I'm Sorry" Kiss That Didn't Land
The argument was stupid. You know it was stupid. Something about whose turn it was to pick up the laundry which escalated into something about how she never says what she means which escalated into her leaving the room.
You follow her. Find her in the bedroom. Sit on the edge of the bed next to her.
"I'm sorry," you whisper softly.
You lean in and kiss her.
She lets you. But she doesn't kiss back. Her mouth stays still under yours. Not rejecting—just not participating.
"Yeah. But you're not hearing me."
You sit there on the edge of the bed for a long time. The ghost of your unsupported kiss still on your lips.
5. The Goodbye in the Driveway
She's supposed to be at work in twenty minutes but she's still standing in the driveway. Car door open. Not getting in yet, just standing there staring into space.
Something's wrong. You can feel it.
You walk down the steps. Touch her elbow.
You don't believe her. So you pull her in and kiss her. Gentle. Reassuring. The kind that usually makes her relax into it.
But she doesn't relax. She kisses you back too hard—desperate, almost, like she's trying to tell you something she doesn't have words for. Her fingers grip the front of your shirt.
When she pulls away her jaw is trembling.
"I just—" She stops. Shakes her head. "Forget it. I'll text you."
She gets in the car. Closes the door.
You watch her drive away.
The text comes twelve minutes later.
Dana:I don't know how to tell you that I'm scared. So I'm telling you like this.
You stare at the message for a long time.
Dana: Of this being too good. Of it ending. I don't know.
Dana: Keep kissing me. Even when I'm bad at it.
6. The One After the Phone Call
Her phone rings at 2 AM. She answers it in the dark—professional voice, the one she uses for hospital calls—and then goes quiet for a long time.
When she hangs up she doesn't move for a second. Just stares at the ceiling.
You roll toward her. "Who was it?"
"We lost one from last week. The mom from the MVC."
She'd talked about that one. Young mother. Multiple surgeries. They thought she was going to make it.
You reach for her. She lets you pull her close. You kiss her—soft, on the mouth, tasting the salt before you realize she's been crying.
She cries without sound. That's how you know it's bad.
"I thought she was gonna pull through," Dana says. Her voice breaks on the last word.
You don't say anything. You keep kissing her—her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, the wet tracks down her face.
She doesn't say thank you.
7. The One You Both Knew Was a Mistake
She's still married. Legally separated, not yet divorced. And she's been clear about the boundaries from the start—I need to do this right. I need to close that door before I open this one.
But one night after too much wine, after a shift where she watched someone die and couldn't do anything about it, she shows up at your door.
She kisses you like she's drowning. Hard and desperate, her hands in your hair, her body pressed against yours like she's trying to crawl inside your skin.
And you kiss her back. You know you shouldn't. She knows she shouldn't.
In the morning she's gone before you wake up. There's a text.
Dana:That can't happen again.
It takes her six more months to finalize the divorce. You don't kiss her again until the day the papers go through. And when you do it's slow, careful, and deliberate.
But this one—this drunk, desperate, wrong one—lives in your chest like a bruise.
8. The One She Won't Let You Give Her
She's sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Hands clasped between her knees. You've been together for almost a year now. You know the signs—the quiet before she says something hard.
You kneel in front of her. Take her hands.
You lean in to kiss her. She turns her face away. Your mouth catches her cheek instead.
"Don't." Her voice is rough. "Don't be nice to me right now."
"Because I don't deserve it."
You don't argue with her. You've learned that arguing makes it worse. Instead you stay there. Kneeling on the bathroom floor. Holding her hands.
"I failed someone today," she says. "A kid. Eleven years old. I made the wrong call and he coded and I couldn't—" Her voice breaks.
"You're gonna tell me it's not my fault," she says. "That this happens. That I can't save everyone."
"Would you believe me if I said it?"
She looks at you then. Really looks. Like she's searching for something.
"Can I kiss you?" you ask, the hope clear in your voice.
So you don't. You stay there. Holding her hands on the bathroom floor. Until she's ready to stand up.
Later she finds you in bed. Crawls in next to you and presses her mouth to your shoulder.
