CHAPTER EIGHT : DISTANT AND DISTRACTED
pairing: au paramedic!vi x er nurse!reader
cw: you realize who's cookie you want so effing bad
“Thought I’d find you here.”
The voice comes from behind you: low, steady, and unmistakably familiar.
You nearly drop the stack of papers you were holding..
When you turn, Sevika is leaning against the doorframe of the break room like she owns it, one hand shoved casually into her jacket pocket, the other draped loose at her side. The gray Henley she’s wearing looks lived-in but fits her perfectly, and the faint curl of a smirk plays across her lips like she knows exactly what kind of reaction she’s pulling from you.
“Sevika?” you blurt, your brain short-circuiting at the sight of her standing here of all places.
“What the hell? How do you even-?”
“I’ve got my ways.” She pushes off the frame, steps into the room.
The fluorescent lights catch on her hair, her sharp jawline.
“Guess you could say fate’s giving us a second shot.”
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
Because you haven’t seen her since that night at the bar, when she slid her number across the napkin with a line smooth enough to replay in your head on loop, even if you told yourself you wouldn’t.
You told yourself it was stupid to even consider it.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she adds, grin widening. “Hospitals aren’t exactly fortresses. People come and go all the time.”
You blink, still trying to catch up. “You… don’t just wander into ER staff lounges, Sevika. That’s not—”
“Relax.” She shrugs, utterly unbothered. “I’m not here to cause trouble. Just visiting a friend upstairs. Thought I’d stop by, see if you were around.”
Her eyes flick over you, steady and unashamed, like she’s drinking in every detail of your scrubs, the tired slump of your shoulders, the stray wisps of hair clinging to your forehead.
Before you can answer, another voice pipes up—smug, delighted, absolutely eating this whole scene alive.
You whip around to see Maddie perched on the counter like she’s been waiting for this all morning, a bag of pretzels in hand, eyes sparkling with mischief. “If it isn’t our firefighter mystery woman.”
Sevika raises a brow, amused. “Maddie, right?”
“Wow. She remembers me.” Maddie pops a pretzel into her mouth, swinging her legs. “So what brings you down to our humble little ER? Other than stalking my girl here, obviously.”
“What? I’m just asking the questions everyone’s thinking.” She waves you off like you’re background noise, her grin only widening.
“Honestly, I’m impressed. I didn’t think you’d actually show up, Sevika.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “Maddie!”
Sevika chuckles under her breath, low and warm, and you hate the way it makes your stomach flip. “Persistent friends you’ve got,” she says, eyes never leaving yours.
You’re going to murder Maddie later. Slowly. Painfully.
“Anyway,” Maddie continues, clearly ignoring your glare, “you’ve got her cornered now, so go ahead. Shoot your shot! I’ll just–” She waves a hand vaguely. “--observe.”
You put your face in your hands.
She leans her weight on one side, crossing her arms, casual in a way that makes it obvious she’s anything but. “Alright then,” she says smoothly, “I’ll get to the point. What time are you off?”
The question lands like a weight in your chest.
You look up sharply. “What?”
Her grin widens just a fraction. “Your shift. When’s it done?”
Maddie nearly chokes on a pretzel.
“Oh my god,” she wheezes, hand clapping over her mouth. “She’s not even pretending to be subtle!”
“Maddie, out.” You point at the door with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
“No way; I am not missing this.” She hops off the counter, but instead of leaving, she circles closer, like a cat waiting for something juicy. “Do you hear this? She just waltzes in here, looking like she walked off a damn recruitment poster, and asks you out right in the middle of your shift!”
“Not asking her out.” Sevika’s tone is smooth and controlled, but there’s a spark of amusement in her eyes that says she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Just asking when she’s free. If that happens to lead somewhere... well.” She shrugs, slow and deliberate. “We’ll see.”
You can’t breathe. Your pulse hammers in your throat.
Because it’s too much, too bold, too sudden—and yet, Maddie’s voice is whispering at the back of your mind, words from the other week still fresh:
And maybe she's not your forever person, but at least she sees you
Your hands tighten around the papers from before – long neglected now.
“I…” The word sticks in your throat.
Sevika tilts her head, watching you closely.
Patient, but confident, like she already knows you’ll say yes.
Maddie nudges your elbow like the world’s most obnoxious wingwoman.
You shoot her a look that promises violence.
You drag in a breath, ready to answer—or at least stall—but before the words can form, the doors to the ER burst open with a crash of wheels and shouting.
“Coming through! GSW to the abdomen, mid-twenties male, vitals unstable—”
The break room shudders with the sudden flood of noise. Nurses, techs, and a doctor surge past, following the stretcher as it barrels down the hall, as if they weren't just listening in on Sevika's grand gesture.
And right behind them—hands firm on the gurney rail, hair mussed from movement, voice raised to call vitals—is Vi.
Her presence fills the hallway instantly, commanding, steady, and sharp.
She doesn’t even glance your way at first, too focused on barking out numbers and updates.
But once the patient’s through the trauma bay doors and the chaos begins to swallow itself, she slows.
Her eyes flick up, sweeping the hall—and land right on you through the windows looking into the break room.
And on Sevika, now standing close enough that her shoulder almost brushes yours.
The weight of her stare nearly knocks the breath out of you.
You can see it in the slight curl of her mouth, the way her body shifts subtly closer, as if to stake a silent claim.
She doesn’t look at Vi when she speaks again.
“So?” she asks, voice smooth, steady. “When do you get a break?”
Your throat is dry. You’re still scrambling for something—anything—to say when Vi steps back into view.
She doesn’t have the gurney anymore; the trauma bay swallowed it whole, leaving the other team to handle the incoming chaos.
Normally, she’d peel off, grab a chart, reset before the next call.
She sees Sevika, too, and her eyes narrow just slightly, like the lines between them don’t make sense but she knows enough to hate it.
You’ve worked with Vi long enough to read her tells: the twitch of her jaw when she’s biting back words, the flex of her hands when she wants to act but doesn’t.
Right now, both are on full display.
“Vi,” you manage once she enters the tension-filled room, your voice softer than you intend.
She doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, she wipes a streak of blood from her forearm with a disposable towel, tossing it into the nearest bin with a little more force than necessary.
“You should be prepping for another call,” she says finally, her tone flat, too even. “Dispatch is sending in a motor vehicle rollover.”
“I know,” you say quickly. You straighten, guilty for reasons you can’t even name. “I was just—”
“Sorry there, Vanessa, right?” Sevika cuts in smoothly, leaning one elbow against the counter like she’s staking claim to the ground beneath her. “Didn’t mean to keep her from the job, though. Just catching up.”
Vi’s gaze slices to her, sharp as broken glass. “Didn’t know you were in the habit of hanging around hospitals you don’t work at.”
The jab is subtle, but pointed.
Sevika takes it in stride.
Her smirk doesn’t falter, if anything it deepens, like she’s amused Vi bothered to acknowledge her at all. “Didn’t know you were in the habit of policing who your coworkers talk to on their own time?”
Maddie, of course, is living for this.
She’s practically perched on the edge of the counter like she’s front row at a play, eyes darting between the two women like she’s waiting for sparks to fly.
You shoot her a warning glare.
She raises her brows innocently, but her grin gives her away.
Vi crosses her arms, the muscles in her forearms tense under the roll of her sleeves.
“We’ve got work to do,” she says, though her eyes don’t leave Sevika.
“Then don’t let me keep you,” Sevika replies, her voice silk over steel.
The air between them crackles.
You feel like you’re standing in the middle of a storm, lightning about to strike no matter which direction you move.
“I should–” you start, but your words catch when Sevika shifts her attention back to you, deliberate, slow, like Vi isn’t even worth acknowledging anymore.
Her voice softens just slightly when she speaks. “Seriously. When’s your break? Thirty minutes? An hour? I’ll buy you a coffee. Hell, a whole dinner if you’re off shift soon.”
But the confidence in her tone makes it feel natural, like saying no would take more effort than saying yes.
Maddie claps a hand over her mouth to muffle what sounds suspiciously like a squeal.
You glance at her, panicked, only to find her eyes practically screaming: Say yes. For god’s sake, SAY YES.
Your heart hammers in your chest.
Because the last few days, no, weeks with Vi have been nothing but silence, walls, and distance—and now Sevika is standing here, open, unashamed, offering attention without hesitation.
You risk a glance at her. She’s still standing there, stiff as stone, her jaw tight, her eyes trained on you like she’s trying to solve a puzzle she doesn’t want to admit is unsolvable.
But she doesn’t say anything.
Something inside you twists.
You remember Maddie’s words: You deserve someone who’s not going to treat you like you can be more one second and a ghost the next.
And maybe Maddie’s right.
Maybe chasing after someone who keeps pulling away is stupid.
Maybe you deserve someone who doesn’t make you guess, who doesn’t make you wonder if the warmth you felt was all in your head.
But still, some traitorous part of you aches for Vi to say something—anything—to stop you.
“Break in fifteen,” You finally say, answering her question.
Her grin curves, slow and certain. “I’ll wait.”
The words lodge in your chest like a hook.
Maddie exhales a victorious little hum.
Vi turns away, mutters something under her breath you don’t catch, and stalks off toward the ER drop-off, her boots loud against the linoleum.
The silence she leaves behind is suffocating.
Sevika doesn’t seem to notice.
Or maybe she does and doesn’t care.
She gives you one last look. “See you in fifteen,” she says, and then she’s gone, leaving you with Maddie practically vibrating beside you.
That’s what Sevika said, like it was already written in stone.
The words chase you through the next round of charting, every beep of the monitors, every overhead call for staff.
They settle under your skin, prickling with heat until you can’t tell if you’re restless or just guilty.
“You realize,” Maddie starts as she hovers too close to your desk, “that if you don’t at least go for a coffee, I’m going to physically drag you out there myself.”
You glare at her without lifting your head from the chart. “You’re supposed to be working.”
“I am working,” she shoots back, all faux-innocence. “Working to make sure you don’t ruin your life by being tragically, stupidly loyal to someone who clearly doesn’t—”
“Stop.” The word comes out sharper than you mean.
Maddie blinks, taken aback for half a second.
But then she softens, her tone dipping quieter, more careful.
“I’m just saying… don’t you think you deserve someone who actually fights for you?”
Your pen stills against the paper.
You don’t want to answer her.
Because you know what she’s really saying.
She’s saying Vi isn’t fighting.
Not for you, not anymore.
But it isn’t that simple.
Vi has her own walls, her own mess she carries in her chest.
You’ve seen glimpses of what it costs her: those late nights in the ambulance bay, her head tipped back against the metal door, her breaths ragged but silent.
She doesn’t talk about it, doesn’t let anyone see.
And wasn’t that worth something?
Wasn’t patience part of loving someone?
“Fifteen minutes,” Maddie reminds you, sing-song this time, like she’s trying to tug you toward the inevitable. “Don’t overthink it. Coffee isn’t a marriage proposal.”
“Coffee is a line,” you whisper, too low for anyone else to hear.
Maddie tilts her head. “Or it’s a start.”
You want to argue, but the overhead call pulls you away: a code blue two halls down.
Your pulse spikes, your body shifting into autopilot as you rush toward it.
The next ten minutes are a blur of compressions, epinephrine, and voices barking orders over each other, until the steady beep of a pulse returns and the adrenaline leaves you shaky but standing.
And then it hits you—there are no more excuses.
Though, it has been more than the 15 minutes you promised, Sevika.
Maybe she's left and all's said and done.
You wash your hands longer than necessary, staring at your reflection in the mirror above the sink.
Your face looks exhausted. Maybe a word stronger than it.
You wonder if Sevika will notice.
When you step back into the hall, Maddie is waiting.
She bounces on her heels like she’s the one about to sneak off for a date.
But the way you walk past her, toward the sliding glass doors at the end of the corridor, is answer enough.
Maddie lets out a victory whisper-shout behind you. “Finally.”
You almost turn back. Almost. But the sight waiting outside stops you cold.
Because Sevika is still there.
She’s leaning against the wall just outside the ambulance bay doors, one hand tucked into her jacket pocket, the other holding a disposable cup of coffee she hasn’t touched.
Her posture is relaxed, but there’s a tension underneath it, like even standing still is an act of control.
And when her eyes lift to find you, there’s no mistaking it—she’s been waiting for you. Not passing time. Not scrolling on a phone. Just… waiting.
Something in your chest flips.
“Hey,” she says, easy. “Took you long enough.”
“I—there was a code,” you say, breathless in more ways than one.
Her mouth quirks. “Thats okay, saving people is sort of in the job description.”
You want to roll your eyes, but the warmth in her voice keeps you still.
She pushes off the wall and holds out the coffee. “Figured you could use this more than me.”
You hesitate only a second before taking it.
The cup is warm, the steam curling into the night air.
“No problem.” She studies you for a beat, her gaze steady but not intrusive. “Rough shift?”
You shrug, sipping. “Aren’t they all?”
That earns you a quiet chuckle.
And god, when was the last time someone made it feel this easy?
Not effortless—you don’t kid yourself; nothing about Sevika is effortless—but simple.
Direct. No guessing, no silence, no waiting around for the other shoe to drop.
She wants your time, so she asks for it.
She wants you here, so she waits.
And for a moment, that clarity feels like oxygen after drowning.
But then, behind your ribs, the guilt curls tight again.
Because if you close your eyes, you can still see Vi’s face when she walked away.
The way her jaw clenched, the silence heavy enough to suffocate.
She didn’t stop you. She didn’t fight for you. But the ache in your chest says you still wish she had.
“You look like you’re thinking too hard,” Sevika says, breaking into your spiral.
You huff out a laugh, quiet. “Occupational hazard.”
“Well, think about this instead.” She leans a little closer, enough that the smell of smoke and leather clings to the air between you. “You and me. One hour. No beepers, no interruptions. Just a meal and maybe a drink. What do you say?”
Still, you smile and nod in agreement.
The café is quiet, tucked into a corner two blocks away from the hospital. Warm light glows through tall windows, and the hum of conversation fills the air.
It should feel like an escape, a chance to shake off the weight of the ER, but you can’t quite loosen the knot in your chest.
She noticed the second you slid into the booth across from her, still in scrubs, coffee cup clutched like a lifeline.
She let you talk about the case, let you vent about Maddie’s scheming, even let you go quiet when the words ran out. But through it all, her eyes stayed steady on you, watching. Measuring.
Now, after the server drops off plates neither of you have touched, she leans back, metal arm resting against the table with a low clink.
“You’re not here,” she says simply.
The words land heavier than you expect.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your cup. “I’m here.”
Sevika arches a brow. “Physically, yeah. But your head? That’s somewhere else.”
You drop your gaze, ashamed.
She sighs, not unkindly. “I’m not mad. Just calling it how I see it.”
You don’t know what to say. Because she’s right.
Even here, across from someone who is bold enough to show up, to wait, to ask, you feel the ghost of Vi’s silence hovering in the space between you.
Every laugh you almost share with Sevika is weighed down by the memory of Vi’s guarded smile. Every time Sevika leans in, you feel the distance Vi left.
It’s not fair. To Sevika, to you, to anyone.
Sevika studies you for a long moment before she speaks again, her tone quieter, more careful than you’ve ever heard from her. “You know… when I walked into that bar, I thought maybe the timing was finally right. You looked at me like I wasn’t just another story with an ending already written. You looked at me like I could be something more.”
“I really wish I could have a shot here, a real one,” she continues, voice low and steady. “But it’s pretty clear I’m not the one you’re going to choose.”
She lifts her hand, stopping you, but there’s no anger in it.
Just resignation. Maybe even gentleness.
“Hey. It’s alright. I get it. Some people… they just get under your skin and don’t leave, no matter what anyone else does.” Her mouth twists in something that isn’t quite a smile. “And I can’t compete with that. Wouldn’t want to.”
The words ache, even though they’re true.
Sevika leans back, exhaling slowly. Then, softer: “Maybe in another life, I could’ve been your home.”
The silence that follows is heavy, but not suffocating. It feels like grief, shared between you both.
You want to tell her she is a home—sturdy, warm, steady—but you can’t lie. Not when she’s already read you so well.
Her gaze finds yours again, steady as ever. “But this life? You’ve got someone waiting. Whether she’s good at showing it or not.”
You blink, startled. “Vi—”
“Yeah.” Sevika’s lips quirk, but there’s no bite to it. “Don’t let her slip away before you even give her the chance. Trust me—regret doesn’t sit easy. Not for her, not for you. And not for me.”
The vulnerability in her voice makes your chest ache.
You swallow hard. “Why are you… why are you telling me this?”
“Because I like you.” The words come blunt, without hesitation. “Enough to not want to be the mistake you make while you’re still looking over your shoulder.”
Sevika pushes her untouched plate aside, reaching for her jacket. “C’mon. Let’s get you back before someone notices you’re gone.”
It should sting—that she’s cutting the night short, that this isn’t turning into the distraction Maddie probably hoped for. But instead, all you feel is a strange kind of gratitude.
Because Sevika could’ve tried harder. Could’ve pulled you further away. Instead, she let you go before you could break something neither of you could fix.
Walking back to the hospital, the air is cooler, crisp against your face.
The silence is easy, respectful. Final.
When you reach the doors, Sevika stops. “Listen.”
“Don’t wait for her to figure it out on her own. Don’t wait until you’re both too far gone. Tell her what you need. Tell her what you want.” Her eyes soften, the faintest hint of something wistful there. “And if she’s smart, she’ll fight for you.”
Your chest feels too tight, but you manage a nod.
Sevika smirks faintly, tilting her head. “Go on. Break’s over.”
And then she’s gone, walking into the night without looking back, leaving you standing in the glow of the hospital lights, your heart heavy but clearer than it’s been in months.
The hospital smells the same as it always does, a mixture of antiseptic, coffee, and something vaguely metallic that always seemed to cling to the corners of the ER. But today, it hits you differently. Coming back from your break, your steps feel heavier, though your heart is strangely lighter.
Maddie is already there when you return, leaning against the counter with one elbow propped, like she’s been holding this space open just for you. Her grin falters slightly when she sees the look on your face, the way you carry the weight of what just happened like a backpack overloaded with unspoken words.
“So…?” she starts, tilting her head, clearly bracing herself for a story. “How was coffee with… big mama?”
You pause, gripping the strap of your bag, breathing through the clatter of trays and rolling gurneys. “It’s not gonna work with Sevika,” you say bluntly.
Maddie freezes for just a fraction of a second, like she didn’t expect such finality. Then her eyes narrow, studying you carefully. “Why?” she asks, leaning forward.
“You know why, Maddie,” you reply, flat and calm. The words aren’t loud, but there’s an undeniable weight to them.
Maddie’s lips twitch into a small, knowing smile. She nods, slow, deliberate. That’s it. That’s all she needs. She can see it: the certainty that finally rests in your shoulders, the way your chest doesn’t feel like it’s tethered between two possibilities anymore. Relief washes over her face, her grin widening just a little.
“Damn Vi and her nonchalantness,” she says, almost to herself. “But thank god you’re the opposite.”
You allow yourself a tiny smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes fully.
Maddie leans back, giving you space, though her eyes never leave you. “You know what this is good,” she murmurs. “Because this? This is what it looks like when someone has eyes on the prize!"
You hum, a noncommittal sound, though inside, your chest feels a little lighter.
There’s clarity here, a line drawn in the sand, and it feels like a small victory.
Work picks up again immediately. Patients flood in like tides, the monitors beep, and the alarms ring.
You’re thrust back into the rhythm of the ER, your hands moving on autopilot while your mind drifts, replaying Sevika’s soft smile, her gentle nudges, and the way she gave you the space to breathe without demanding anything. You know you’ve been lucky — rare, even — to have someone so open, someone willing to lay themselves bare in a world that often thrives on distance.
But luck isn’t what you want.
You don’t want easy or predictable.
You catch glimpses of her as the day unfolds, across the hall, moving a gurney with practiced efficiency, giving instructions with clipped authority. She doesn’t look at you. Not once. And every time your eyes meet briefly in passing, she looks away first, boots tapping a rhythm that echoes in your chest.
It hurts, but differently now.
Less like confusion, more like longing tempered by choice.
Maddie checks in intermittently, hovering like a hawk disguised as a friend. “So… What exactly did you think about?” she asks casually during a lull in patient intake.
You shake your head, not lifting your eyes from the chart you’re filling out. “What?”
“Oh, come on,” she teases, leaning over so her shoulder bumps yours. “Grumpy Paramedic! Did Vi cross your mind while you were with Sevika? Or was it a decision when you got here?”
“Yes,” you admit quietly, and Maddie freezes for just a second. Then she tilts her head, curious.
You raise a brow, knowing that she already knows the answer.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you mutter, letting a small laugh slip.
“Maybe,” she admits, shrugging with mock innocence.
“But seriously, you’ve been carrying this indecision like a patient with a massive IV line dangling off their shoulder. Finally letting go? That’s progress, my friend.”
The rest of the shift drags by in a blur of adrenaline, paperwork, and controlled chaos.
Each time Vi passes through, your stomach twists.
She’s distant, distracted, professional. She doesn’t speak to you beyond the necessities.
She doesn’t give the casual warmth you’ve come to rely on. And every time, it stings. But now, it also clarifies something you hadn’t fully admitted to yourself: her absence doesn’t make you flounder anymore. It makes you ache, yes, but it also reinforces the reason you have to make your choices clearly.
The end of the shift approaches, and you take a moment in the supply closet to breathe, leaning against the cool metal shelves. Maddie’s voice echoes faintly outside, still comforting, still hovering.
“Don’t worry,” she calls softly. “She'll figure it out.”
You close your eyes for a second, letting the hum of the hospital wash over you.
Vi passes again, pushing a gurney down the hall while you leave.
She’s focused, efficient, but even from a distance, you notice a subtle tension in her shoulders, a tightness you’ve seen before but can’t place today.
She doesn’t acknowledge you.
Doesn’t even glance your way.
And yet… it fuels something inside you, a quiet, smoldering determination.
By the time you step inside your apartment, the familiar smells and soft lighting do little to ground you. You set down your bag, shrug out of your coat, and slump onto the couch. Coffee in hand, you stare at the ceiling, letting the day and everything that happened settle around you.
You pull your notebook toward you, pen poised over the page. Maybe it’s silly, maybe it’s futile, but you start scribbling ideas on how to talk to Vi.
How to start the conversation without sounding desperate. How to make her see what she means to you, without scaring her away.
You erase lines, cross out phrases, start again, over and over, because there’s no perfect way to capture months of unspoken words and growing feelings.
Hours pass. The quiet of your apartment amplifies every thought, every memory, every ache.
You try to imagine how she’ll respond, how to handle silence, how to bridge the distance she’s put between you both. It’s exhausting, but also… necessary.
You glance at it, expecting a routine notification. Instead, it’s an unknown number. The text reads:
“Hey… is everything ok? It’s me, Jinx. I, uh… borrowed your number off Vi’s phone. Don’t freak. But she’s been… off. Distant. Not herself. I was wondering if you know anything?"
You stare at the message for a moment, unsure if you’re relieved or panicked.
Vi’s been acting distant… she noticed, too, and now Jinx has reached out. You inhale sharply.
Finally, you tap the screen, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then, slowly, you type:
“I like your sister. A lot. And I don’t know if I’ve messed things up.”
You hit send before you can second-guess yourself.
a/n: finally we can crack!!
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