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[penpenpompom]

Lighthouse (Brendon Park x reader smau)

Summary: Reader was roommates with Trinity at univeristy, she was studying law while Trinity was studying medicine. They became very close friends and have remained that way while starting the world of work. In turn, through nights out and early morning coffee runs, she is now close friends with the other Pittlings. They all love her deeply but are concerned that she is spending too much time focused on work. Because of this they decide they need to set her up with someone - perhaps they should choose the only other workaholic they know and hope that it balances the two of them out.

A/n: This is kind of long I maybe got a little bit carried away... I hope you enjoy!!

Warnings: age gap, flirty humour, little bit of self doubt, reader uses she/her pronouns, reader's nickname is angel, y/n used once, any pictures used are not a representation of what reader looks like (!!), fluff, alcohol mentions.

Part Two

Angel's insta:

Groupchat:

Taglist: (There are currently 32 people on the taglist and I think I will cap it at 50 so please let me know if you want to be added/ removed!)

@eugene-emt-roe @melissa66orion @princessjas1-11 @rainaris-ac @roastyyytoastyyy @abbot-fanatic @gf4lwt @livlovesfastcars @mysthicwhispers @ineedaaronhotchner @novausstuff @ribyourtoplip @destiel-addict-forever-blog @thoroughlymimi @of-converse-books-and-chocolate @kittykaylat1987 @angel-kisses15 @cloudyparadoxqueen @lospy41 @gglouise23 @iamaunknownsecret @thekaelicobain @hufflepanda221b @lillysbigwilly @peterthehorseisinhere @unhealthyobsessive @otteryougladimback @unsaidjaelinrose @lillianarosethorns @straykids1011 @skepvids @baskettis

[fanficwritinggirl]

{The Quiet After - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

Summary - The girls only leave for a few hours, but it's enough time to remember that they're still more than just parents.

Word Count - 3.9k

We only have 1 more chapter after this so start preparing yourself for the end. Thank you all so much for the support with this fanfic it means the world.

The house was quiet. Not sleeping quiet.

Not midnight quiet.

Not the strange, thin quiet that came after everyone had cried and finally stopped.

This was worse. This was afternoon quiet.

Wrong quiet.

The kind that sat in the corners and made every ordinary sound too clear.

The fridge hummed in the kitchen. The washing machine clicked somewhere near the end of a cycle. A loose strip of tape still clung to the front window from the welcome banner that had come down weeks ago, catching the pale daylight every time the curtains shifted.

Aurora slept upstairs. Actually slept.

Not grunted. Not fussed. Not threatened to wake every three minutes and then changed her mind.

Slept. Andie was gone.

Not gone gone. Not far. Not for long.

Craig and Deran had taken her out for a few hours with Baby Duck, a snack bag, two spare socks, one packet of wipes, and a list of instructions Andie herself had given them before leaving.

"No loud."

Deran had nodded solemnly.

"No run road."

Craig had said, "Good rule."

"No eat Duck snack."

Deran had looked offended.

"I have never eaten Duck's snack."

Andie had stared at him.

Deran had lowered his voice.

"Fine. One time."

Then she had kissed Aurora on the blanket, kissed you on the sleeve because your cheek was too high, hugged Andrew's leg, and marched out the door with Baby Duck under one arm like she was heading into negotiations.

The door had closed.

Her voice had disappeared down the path.

Deran had whispered too loudly, "I AM BEING QUIET."

Craig had said something you did not catch.

And then the car had pulled away.

Now the house stood still around you.

You stood in the living room with one hand resting on the back of the couch, staring at the space where Andie had been sitting ten minutes earlier.

Her small blanket was bunched on the cushion.

One plastic giraffe lay on its side near the coffee table.

Baby Duck's backup cup sat empty on the rug because apparently even stuffed ducks needed hydration plans.

You looked at all of it and felt a strange pull in your chest. Relief.

Guilt.

Exhaustion.

A little grief for no reason you could explain.

Andrew was in the kitchen, but not really in the kitchen.

He was standing at the sink with his hands braced on the counter, looking at a plate he had not washed yet.

You could see his reflection in the dark glass of the microwave. Still. Listening. Waiting for one of the girls.

That was what the two of you did now. Listened. Even when no one was crying. Even when no one needed you.

You still listened like need had become part of the walls.

You looked toward the stairs. Nothing.

No baby sound.

No toddler call.

Nothing.

You turned back toward the kitchen.

"We should probably do something."

Andrew did not move.

"We are."

You looked at him.

"Standing?"

"Resting."

A laugh left you, soft and tired.

"That is not resting."

He looked over his shoulder at you.

"You're not holding anyone."

"That is a low bar."

"Still counts."

You rubbed a hand over your face.

"There's laundry."

"It can wait."

"There are bottles."

"They can wait."

"The nappies downstairs need restocking."

"I did it."

"You did?"

"Yeah."

"The basket in the living room?"

"And the nursery."

"And the bedroom?"

"And the bottom stair."

You stared at him.

"You restocked the stair nappies?"

His mouth twitched.

"They're convenient."

"They're weird."

"They're convenient."

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

"Fine. There are dishes."

He looked down at the plate in the sink.

"One plate."

"And a pan."

"That pan is soaking."

"It has been soaking since breakfast."

"It needs time."

"It made toast."

"It's stubborn."

You let out a breath that almost became a laugh and almost became something else.

Andrew heard the almost. He turned fully.

"What?"

You shook your head.

"Nothing."

His eyes narrowed slightly.

You hated that he knew your nothing. You loved it too.

He dried his hands on a towel and came into the living room. He moved quietly now. Not the same quiet he used to have, the sharp, careful quiet of a man trying not to disturb danger. This was different. Domestic quiet. Baby quiet.

The quiet of someone who knew which floorboard creaked outside Andie's room and which cupboard door clicked loud enough to startle Aurora. He stopped in front of you.

"What is it?"

You looked at his shirt.

There was a faint milk mark on the shoulder.

One of Andie's stickers stuck near the hem. A tiny yellow star.

You touched it.

"Did you know you have a sticker on you?"

He looked down.

"No."

"It suits you."

"No."

"Very pretty."

He peeled it off carefully and stuck it on the edge of the coffee table.

"Andie put that there."

"On you?"

"On Baby Duck first. Then me."

"Why?"

"She said I was good."

Your throat softened.

"Oh."

Andrew's face did that thing it did when tenderness got too close to the surface, when he wanted to turn away from it but did not anymore.

"She's strict with rewards."

"She is."

He looked at you for another second.

"You going to tell me?"

You sighed.

"I don't know what to do with the quiet."

His expression softened.

"Yeah."

"It feels like I should be grateful for it."

"You can be grateful and weird."

"I am not weird."

He raised his eyebrows.

"I am emotionally complex."

"That too."

You leaned against the back of the couch.

"It's just strange. When they're here, I think about how tired I am. How much I need five minutes. How much I want to sit down without anyone needing milk or a snack or a sock or a duck court ruling."

His mouth curved.

"Duck court ruling."

"You know what I mean."

"I do."

"And then the second Andie leaves and Aurora sleeps, I feel..." You stopped, annoyed at the sudden pressure in your throat.

Andrew waited. He was good at that now.

You looked down at your hands.

"Empty."

His face changed. Not panicked. Not pitying. Just open.

You huffed a small, embarrassed laugh.

"That sounds awful."

"No."

"It does."

"It doesn't."

"I don't mean I don't want the quiet."

"I know."

"I don't mean I want them crying."

"I know."

"I just..."

You pressed your lips together.

Andrew stepped closer.

"You miss them when they don't need you."

The tears came too fast. You looked away.

"That sounds pathetic."

"No."

"They're upstairs and down the road. It's not like they're gone."

"No."

"I wanted this. I wanted ten minutes where no one touched me."

His voice lowered.

"And now no one is."

The words landed gently enough to hurt. You nodded once.

"Yeah."

Andrew reached for you slowly. Not assuming. Not taking. Just offering.

You went into him before you could overthink it. His arms came around you, solid and warm and careful in all the places he knew were still tender even now, six weeks after giving birth. His hand settled high on your back. His chin brushed your hair.

For a while, you just stood there. No baby between you. No toddler asking to be lifted. No bottle in one hand. No muslin over his shoulder.

Just you and Andrew in the middle of the living room, holding each other like you had forgotten the shape of it.

Your face pressed into his chest. He smelled like laundry, coffee, and baby soap. You breathed him in.

"I feel like I've disappeared a little," you whispered.

His arms tightened. Not too much. Just enough.

You closed your eyes.

"Not in a bad way. Not all the time. I love them. I love them so much I can't even think about it properly. But sometimes by the end of the day, I feel like there isn't much of me left."

Andrew said nothing. You kept going because if you stopped, you might swallow it all back down.

"Someone always needs my body. My hands. My voice. My milk. My lap. My face looking happy so Andie doesn't worry. My calm voice so Aurora settles. And I want to give it. I do. But sometimes I look in the mirror and I don't know who I'm looking at."

His hand moved slowly over your back. You swallowed.

"My hair is always a mess. My clothes don't fit right. I cry over stupid things. I get angry over stupid things. I smell like milk half the time."

Andrew drew back enough to look at you.

You tried to look away.

He did not let you disappear from his gaze.

"I still see you."

The words were simple. Too simple.

They broke something anyway.

You laughed weakly, blinking through tears.

"Even when I'm leaking milk and crying because no one rinsed a spoon?"

His mouth softened.

"Especially then."

You gave him a watery look.

"Especially then?"

"Terrifying woman."

A laugh burst out of you. Small, broken, real.

Andrew's thumb brushed under your eye.

"There she is."

Your chest hurt.

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"Look at me like you know where I went."

His eyes stayed on yours.

"I do."

You wanted to argue. You did not. Because he did. Not always perfectly. Not magically. But enough.

Enough to find you in the kitchen at two in the morning when you were crying quietly because Aurora would not latch. Enough to take Andie to the park when he saw your shoulders starting to climb toward your ears. Enough to touch your face before touching the baby sometimes, as if reminding you that you still existed before need swallowed the room.

You leaned into his hand.

"I'm tired."

"I know."

"I'm happy."

"I know."

"I'm not unhappy."

"I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

His voice was rough now.

"I know."

You believed him. That made it worse and better.

He brushed his thumb along your cheek again.

"You think I don't see you because everyone needs you."

Your throat tightened.

"Sometimes."

"I see you more."

You looked at him.

"How?"

"Because you keep showing up."

Your lips parted. Andrew's jaw shifted like he was trying to find words big enough and hated every one of them.

"You think it's the big things. The birth. The hospital. The staying awake. The feeding."

His hand moved down your arm.

"It's not just that."

"No?"

"No." He looked toward the stairs, then back at you. "It's you cutting Andie's toast even though you haven't eaten. It's you talking to Rora when you think no one's listening. It's you making room on the couch when you look like you can't move. It's you saying sorry to a two year old because your arms are full and you don't want her to think she stopped mattering."

Your eyes burned.

"Andrew."

"It's you putting Baby Duck under a blanket because Andie asked and you didn't have to, but you did. It's you remembering which song Rora settles to. It's you telling me I'm doing good when you're the one who can barely stand."

His voice caught slightly.

"You didn't disappear."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

"You're everywhere."

You covered your mouth.

He reached for your wrist gently and lowered your hand.

"Don't hide."

You let out a shaky breath.

"I am very emotionally unstable."

"I know."

"You are making it worse."

"I know."

"You are not supposed to know that."

His mouth curved faintly.

"I know that too."

You laughed and cried at once. Andrew pulled you back into him.

This time you wrapped your arms around his waist and held on properly. For once, no one interrupted. Not immediately.

No tiny cry from the monitor. No small voice asking where Baby Duck's snack had gone.

Just quiet.

The kind you had not known what to do with.

The kind that now held you instead.

You ended up on the couch. You were not sure who moved first. Maybe you did. Maybe Andrew did.

Maybe gravity took one look at both of you and decided standing was too ambitious.

Either way, you sat down slowly, and Andrew sat beside you, then pulled you gently into his side until your legs were curled against the cushion and your cheek rested on his chest.

The television was off. The room was pale with afternoon light.

The house looked softer without Andie's voice bouncing through it, though her presence remained everywhere. Plastic animals under the coffee table.

A purple crayon on the windowsill.

Two socks that did not match sitting neatly beside each other because she had decided they were a pair and no one had the heart to separate them.

You stared at the socks.

"She really thinks those match."

Andrew followed your gaze.

"They're both socks."

"That was my argument."

"Good argument."

"She is going to grow up thinking matching means emotionally similar."

"Could be worse."

You smiled. His hand moved slowly over your arm.

Not in a way that asked for anything. Just touch. Just remembering.

You shifted closer.

"When was the last time we sat like this?"

He thought about it.

"Before she was born."

"Aurora?"

"Yeah."

You smiled faintly.

"You can say her name."

"I know."

"You keep saying the baby."

His hand paused.

"I do?"

"Sometimes."

He looked down at you.

"Not because..."

"I know."

He looked toward the stairs. You waited. He swallowed.

"Sometimes I say the baby because saying her name still gets me."

Your chest softened.

"Aurora?"

His eyes closed briefly.

"Yeah."

You touched his chest.

"Julia?"

He nodded. There it was. The name beneath the name. The sister inside the middle. The old grief tied gently to the new life.

You did not push. Andrew's hand covered yours.

"Andie says Rora like it was always supposed to be that."

You smiled.

"It probably was."

His thumb moved across your knuckles.

"She makes everything hers."

"She does."

"She made the baby hers."

"Bossily."

"Yeah."

You felt his mouth brush your hair.

"Good."

You tilted your head back to look at him.

"You were worried."

He nodded.

"After her wobble."

"Yeah."

"You thought she might feel replaced."

"I still worry."

"I do too."

His eyes moved over your face.

"She's okay?"

"She's two."

"That's not an answer."

"It is the answer. She's okay and not okay and okay again twelve times before lunch."

His mouth curved.

"That sounds right."

"She loves her."

"Yeah."

"She also thinks Aurora should follow rules and sleep when told."

"She should."

"Andrew."

"What? That would be helpful."

You laughed softly and rested your head back against him.

For a while, the room was quiet again. Better this time. Less wrong.

Andrew's hand continued moving over your arm, slow and absent, like he was reminding himself of you by touch. You let your eyes close.

Not to sleep. Just to be held.

Then he said, "I'm scared sometimes."

Your eyes opened. You did not move.

"What of?"

He was quiet for long enough that you knew the answer had been sitting in him for a while.

"All of it."

You turned slightly.

Andrew stared at the front window, at the strip of old banner tape catching the light.

"I look at them and I think..." He stopped.

You waited. He swallowed.

"I think I didn't know I could have this."

Your throat tightened.

He laughed once, but there was no humour in it.

"Not like this."

You touched his hand.

"And now?"

"Now I have it."

The room seemed to hold its breath.

"And sometimes I wait for something to take it."

There he was. The old fear. Not gone. Never fully gone. Just quieter now, buried under nappies and toast crusts and toddler rules.

But still there. Still waking in him during quiet afternoons.

You sat up enough to look at him.

"Andrew."

His eyes stayed on the window.

"I know."

"What do you know?"

"That I shouldn't."

You frowned.

"No."

He looked at you then.

"I wasn't going to say that."

His face opened a little. You held his hand.

"I was going to say I understand."

His jaw shifted.

"You do?"

"Yes."

He looked doubtful.

"Not the same way," you said. "But yes."

His eyes searched yours.

"Sometimes it feels too good," you whispered.

His hand tightened around yours.

"Yeah."

"Like something is going to notice."

His breath went still.

"And ask for it back," you said.

He looked away. There it was. Too close. Too true. You moved closer, ignoring the pull in your body.

"But this isn't temporary."

His mouth tightened.

"Everything is."

"No."

He looked at you. You shook your head.

"No. Not us."

His eyes held yours.

You felt the weight of every moment that had led you here. The prison visits. The phone calls. The baby he met behind rules. The house he came back to. The first fight. The repaired trust. The little bed. The second pregnancy. The birth. The name. The first night. Andie's wobble. Andrew on the floor with both girls asleep against him. All of it.

Not perfect. Never perfect. But real.

"You and me," you whispered. "Not us."

Andrew's face changed in tiny pieces. Like he wanted to believe you and was afraid believing too hard would break it.

You lifted his hand to your mouth and kissed his knuckles.

"We've been through too much to be temporary."

His eyes shone.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His voice dropped.

"I don't know how to be less scared of losing it."

"You don't have to be less scared today."

He looked at you.

"You just have to stay."

His mouth trembled once. Barely.

"I can do that."

"I know."

"I can stay."

"You do."

His hand came up to your face.

"I used to think staying meant standing still."

You leaned into his palm.

"And now?"

His thumb brushed your cheek.

"Now it's getting up every time they cry."

You smiled through tears.

"That too."

"It's making toast."

"Badly."

His mouth curved.

"It's learning which socks she thinks match."

"Important."

"It's singing in the hallway."

"Very important."

"It's holding Rora so you can sleep."

Your smile softened.

"It's letting me hold you."

His eyes searched yours. Something shifted then. Slowly. Not sudden. Not dramatic.

Just the air between you changing shape. Andrew looked at your mouth. You noticed. He noticed you noticing. For a second, both of you were still.

Then you leaned in. Or he did. It did not matter.

The kiss was gentle at first. Careful. Almost uncertain.

Not because you were strangers.

Because your bodies had spent weeks belonging to everyone else first. Because kissing without interruption felt unfamiliar.

Because wanting him again, not just needing him beside you, felt like opening a door you had forgotten was there.

His hand slid to the back of your neck.

Yours curled in his shirt. The kiss deepened slowly. Warm. Soft.

Enough to make your chest ache for an entirely different reason.

Andrew pulled back first, but only enough to rest his forehead against yours.

His breathing was uneven.

"Okay?"

You nodded.

"Yes."

His eyes moved over your face.

"Really?"

You smiled faintly.

"Still checking?"

"Always."

"I'm okay."

His hand slipped to your waist, then stopped. Waiting.

You covered it with yours and guided it there.

His fingers flexed once. Careful. So careful it almost made you cry again.

"You can touch me," you whispered.

His eyes met yours.

"I know."

"You're touching me like I might bruise."

"You might."

"I won't."

"You did."

Your throat softened.

"That was birth."

His mouth pressed together.

"Still."

You touched his face.

"I'm here."

He nodded, but his hand stayed careful when it moved over your side. Over the softness that had changed. Over the places that no longer felt exactly like yours because they had stretched and carried and emptied.

Your breath caught. Not from pain. From the vulnerability of it.

Andrew felt the change instantly. He stopped.

"What?"

You shook your head.

"Nothing."

His eyes narrowed.

"You hate when I say that."

"I know."

"So?"

You looked down at his hand on your body.

"I don't know how I feel in this body yet."

His face softened. You tried to smile.

"It's stupid."

"No."

"It is. I know what it did. I know I should be grateful."

"You are."

"I am."

His thumb moved once, barely there.

"But it feels different. Softer. Strange. Mine and not mine."

He looked at where his hand rested. Then back at you.

"Don't look at me like that," you whispered.

"Like what?"

"Like you're trying to decide what parts of me changed."

His brow furrowed.

"I know what changed."

You swallowed.

"And?"

His hand moved to your stomach, slow enough that you could stop him.

You did not.

He rested his palm there with a tenderness that made your eyes sting.

"This body brought both my girls home."

Your breath left you.

"Andrew."

He looked up at you.

"That sounds like something you say when I look awful."

His face did not move.

"That sounds like something I say when I mean it."

Your eyes burned again.

"You're going to make me cry through this entire one quiet afternoon."

His mouth curved faintly.

"Probably."

"That is very rude."

"I know."

He leaned in and kissed your cheek. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth.

Slow, unhurried. You closed your eyes and let yourself feel it.

Not enough to rush. Not enough to push your body somewhere it was not ready to go.

Just enough to remember that desire did not have to be demanding. It could be gentle.

It could be his mouth at your skin and his hand warm over your stomach and the quiet knowledge that he still wanted you even when you did not fully know yourself.

You turned into him and kissed him properly.

This one lasted longer.

Your hand slid to the back of his neck. His arm came around you.

For a minute, the house fell away. No nappies. No rules paper. No half folded laundry. No bottles. No cold tea.

No one calling Mama. Just Andrew.

His mouth. His breath.

His hand holding you like you were not something lost beneath motherhood but someone he had been waiting to find in the quiet.

When you parted, you were both breathing a little harder.

You smiled.

"Well."

His mouth touched your forehead.

"Yeah."

"That was almost dangerous."

His hand moved lightly along your back.

"Almost."

"I am not cleared for dangerous."

"I know."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm patient."

You lifted an eyebrow.

"Are you?"

His mouth curved.

"With you."

Your heart warmed.

"That was a good answer."

"I have those sometimes."

"You do."

He kissed you again, smaller this time.

Then tucked you back into his side.

You rested there, your cheek against his chest, your hand over his heart. It was beating fast. You smiled.

"Still works."

"What?"

"Your heart."

He looked down.

"You checking me now?"

"Someone has to."

His eyes softened.

"You have enough to check."

"I can fit you in."

He laughed quietly. The sound moved through you. You closed your eyes.

For several minutes, no one said anything. The house stayed quiet. The kind of quiet you had feared at first. Now it felt like something it was giving you.

One small room of time. One held breath. One pause between being needed.

Then the monitor on the coffee table crackled. Both of you opened your eyes. A tiny sound came through. Aurora. Not crying yet. A little newborn grunt. A warning.

Andrew's body shifted automatically.

Then he stopped. You both listened. Another small sound. Then quiet. You let out a breath.

"She'll need us."

"In a minute," Andrew said.

You looked up at him.

His eyes were on the monitor, but his arm stayed around you.

A minute. Not forever. Not neglect. Just one minute. One tiny, chosen minute where nobody moved. Your throat tightened.

"In a minute," you whispered.

Andrew kissed your hair. For one minute, no one needed your hands.

For one minute, the house held both girls safely enough to give you back to each other.

For one minute, you were not reaching, lifting, feeding, soothing, answering, carrying, checking, worrying.

You were just there. In Andrew's arms. Breathing. Existing. Seen.

The monitor crackled again. This time Aurora gave a soft, building fuss. Andrew sighed.

"There she is."

You smiled against his chest.

"There she is."

He shifted, but before he stood, he looked down at you.

"Stay."

You blinked.

"What?"

"I'll get her."

"She might need feeding."

"I'll bring her if she does."

"You don't have to do everything."

"I know."

"You're doing the thing where you make me rest."

"Yes."

"At least admit it."

"I admit it."

You smiled.

He kissed your forehead. Then your mouth. Soft. Lingering.

When he pulled away, his eyes stayed on yours.

"Still us."

Your chest ached. You nodded.

"Still us."

Aurora fussed louder through the monitor. Andrew stood. You caught his hand before he could leave. He looked back.

"I love you."

His face softened fully.

"I love you too."

Then he went upstairs. You stayed on the couch because he had asked you to, and because for once, you let yourself.

You listened to his footsteps move down the hall. The nursery door opened. His voice came through faintly on the monitor.

"Hey, baby girl. I know. Bad nap. I've got you."

Aurora's fussing softened. Not stopped. Softened.

You leaned back into the couch and closed your eyes.

A few minutes later, he came down with Aurora tucked against his chest, her face pressed into his shirt, tiny hand curled beneath her chin.

"She's hungry," he said.

"Of course she is."

His mouth curved.

"She's also offended."

"Also of course."

He brought her to you and helped settle the pillow at your side without making a production of it. You took Aurora into your arms, and she rooted immediately, impatient and warm and entirely herself.

Andrew sat beside you. Not hovering. Not leaving. Just there.

His hand rested on your knee while you fed her. Aurora latched, and the room shifted again. The quiet became baby quiet. The pause became life again.

But something was different now. Not fixed. Not magically restored. Just remembered.

You looked over at Andrew. He was watching Aurora, then you. Both. Always both.

"What?" he asked.

You smiled.

"Nothing."

His eyebrows lifted.

You laughed softly.

"Fine. Not nothing."

His thumb moved over your knee.

"What is it?"

You looked down at your daughter, then around the living room, at the toys and the socks and the old tape still stuck to the window. Then back at him.

"I'm still here."

His eyes softened.

"Yeah."

You leaned your shoulder against his.

"So are you."

His hand covered yours.

"Yeah."

The front door stayed closed. Andie would come home later with sand in her shoes or crumbs in her pockets or some new grievance against Deran. Craig would probably bring more food. Baby Duck would need a full report. Aurora would feed again and cry again and sleep again. You would become Mama in every loud, needed way the second the house filled back up.

But for now, you sat beside Andrew with your daughter in your arms and his hand over yours.

Not gone. Not swallowed. Not only needed.

Still you. Still him. Still us.

And when Aurora made a tiny satisfied sound against you, Andrew looked down and smiled. Small. Private. Peaceful.

Like the quiet had left something behind after all.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

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[fanficwritinggirl]

{Dada Has It - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

Summary - With Mama finally getting some rest, Andrew and Andie take charge downstairs. It isn't perfect, but by the end of the afternoon, everyone knows one thing for certain: Dada's got it.

Word Count - 4.8k

Only 2 chapters left...

By the time Aurora was two weeks old, the house had developed a system. Not a good system. Not a neat system.

Not one anyone would recommend in a parenting book unless the book was titled Everyone Is Tired And The Duck Is In Charge.

But a system.

There were nappies in the living room, the nursery, your bedroom, and, for reasons no one could fully explain, on the bottom stair.

There were muslins everywhere. On the armchair. On the back of the couch. Over Andrew's shoulder. In Andie's toy basket. Once, somehow, inside the fridge, which Andrew had discovered at midnight while looking for a bottle of water and then stared at for long enough that you had asked if he had found a body.

Baby Duck had a permanent place on the couch now, though that place changed depending on Andie's rules for the day.

The baby swing still existed in the corner, functional and deeply disliked.

The rules paper remained taped to the fridge, curling at the edges. Andie added to it whenever she felt the household was slipping into lawlessness.

Current rules included: No loud. No face. No steal Mama tea.

Dewan practice quiet. Mama sit. No bad feet. Luboo.

Andrew had pointed out that luboo was less a rule and more a statement. Andie had told him, "Still rule."

No one argued after that. You had learned many things since coming home with a newborn and a toddler.

One was that newborns could make sounds no human should be able to produce.

Another was that toddlers could smell weakness.

And the most important was that Andrew Cody could function on almost no sleep, but he could not tolerate watching you pretend you were fine when you were not.

Which was unfortunate. Because pretending you were fine had become one of your main skills.

You were in the living room on a grey afternoon, sitting cross legged on the rug in a position you had chosen optimistically and now regretted deeply. A pile of tiny clothes sat in front of you, half folded, half not, because every time you folded one thing, Aurora made a noise and you forgot what you were doing.

She was asleep in the bassinet beside the couch, face turned slightly to the side, one hand loose near her cheek.

Andie was sitting beside you, placing socks into pairs with the confidence of someone who did not understand matching.

She held up one yellow sock and one white sock.

"Pair."

You looked at them.

"Almost."

Andie frowned.

"Pair."

"They are both socks."

"Yes."

"That is definitely a start."

She placed them together with deep satisfaction.

"Good pair."

You nodded.

"Lovely pair."

Andrew walked in from the kitchen holding your water bottle in one hand and a plate with toast in the other.

He stopped when he saw you on the floor. His face changed. Not dramatically.

Andrew rarely did anything dramatically unless one of his daughters made a noise he did not recognise.

But the look sharpened.

"Why are you on the floor?"

You looked up.

"Folding."

"You have a basket."

"I have several baskets."

"On the couch."

"The couch is full."

He looked at the couch.

The couch held one blanket, two muslins, Baby Duck, a toy giraffe, one of Andie's books, and nothing else.

"That couch?"

You followed his gaze.

"Yes."

His eyes came back to you.

"You sat on the floor because the couch was full?"

"I was already down here."

"No, you weren't."

"You don't know my journey."

"I left you in the armchair."

"That was before the socks needed me."

Andrew set the plate and water bottle on the coffee table.

"Up."

You smiled.

"Is that for me or the socks?"

"You."

"And if I say no?"

"I'll pick you up."

You glanced toward the bassinet.

"Aurora is sleeping."

"I can be quiet."

"You are not subtle when you're annoyed."

"I'm not annoyed."

"You have a face."

He crouched in front of you, ignoring that entirely.

"You're pale."

"I'm tired."

"You're shaking."

"I am folding socks under intense pressure."

Andie held up two completely different socks.

"More pair."

Andrew looked at them.

"Good job."

You pointed at him.

"You are encouraging chaos."

He looked back at you.

"You need to rest."

"I am resting."

"You are on the floor."

"It's a restful floor."

"You couldn't get up yesterday."

"I could."

"You said, and I quote, 'I live here now.'"

Andie looked at you.

"Mama live floor?"

"No, baby."

Andrew held out his hand.

"Up."

You stared at it. Then at him.

Then sighed, because the annoying thing was that he was right, and the even more annoying thing was that he knew he was right.

You took his hand.

He helped you slowly, one hand at your elbow, the other hovering near your waist without gripping too hard. You were more steady now than those first few days, but your body still had limits, and you had been very creative about ignoring them.

When you were standing, Andrew did not let go right away. His eyes moved over your face.

"You dizzy?"

"No."

"Pain?"

"Sore."

"Bad?"

"No."

"Tired?"

"Always."

His mouth pressed into a line.

"You're going upstairs."

You blinked.

"What?"

"Bed."

You looked at the bassinet.

"She'll wake soon."

"I know."

"Andie needs lunch."

"I know."

"The washing needs moving over."

"I know."

"There are bottles to sterilise."

"I know."

You looked at him.

"You cannot just know everything and send me away."

"I can."

"No, you cannot."

"Watch me."

You stared at him. Andie stared at him too, thrilled by the sudden authority in the room.

Andrew picked up the toast and handed it to you.

"Eat this. Then bed."

"I don't need bed."

"You do."

"I can sit on the couch."

"No."

"That feels rude."

"You will sit on the couch and fold more things."

"I might."

"You will."

"Fine, then I will sit on the couch and not fold."

"You'll stare at the baby."

"She's my baby."

"She'll still be your baby after you sleep."

The words landed gently, but you still felt the guilt rise. You looked toward Aurora. She slept. Tiny chest moving.

Tiny mouth soft. Impossible to leave even for an hour. Andrew saw your face and softened.

"Hey."

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

"I just feel bad."

"For sleeping?"

"For leaving you with both of them."

Something shifted in his expression. Not hurt. Not exactly. More like the words had struck something old.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"You're not leaving me with them."

You swallowed.

"You know what I mean."

"They're mine too."

The sentence was quiet. Flat. True. It caught you somewhere beneath the ribs.

Andrew's eyes stayed on yours.

"They're mine too," he said again, softer this time. "You don't have to be in the room for me to be their dad."

Your throat tightened.

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Then bed."

You let out a shaky laugh because if you did not, you were going to cry over toast.

"You are so bossy."

Andie looked up at you.

"Dada rule."

Andrew nodded.

"Dada rule."

You looked at him.

"You have allied with the toddler government."

"She has good policies."

Andie lifted one finger.

"Mama sit."

Andrew pointed at her.

"Exactly."

"I am standing."

"Mama bed," Andie added.

Andrew looked smug. You looked at her.

"Traitor."

Andie smiled.

"I help Dada."

Andrew's smugness faded into concern.

"Oh."

You almost laughed. There it was. The danger. Andie helping.

Andie, who meant well with the force of a natural disaster. Andrew looked at her, then at you, then back at her.

"You want to help me?"

Andie nodded hard.

"I assistant."

You bit your lip. Andrew was silent for half a second longer than usual. Then he nodded.

"Okay. Assistant."

Andie climbed to her feet immediately, socks forgotten.

"I help Rora."

"Yes."

"I help Dada."

"Yes."

"I help Mama sleep."

Your heart softened. Andrew's eyes flicked to you.

"See?"

"I see."

Andie marched to the couch and picked up Baby Duck.

"Duck help too."

Andrew exhaled.

"Of course he does."

You lifted the toast and took a bite because three people and one stuffed duck were now apparently invested in your rest.

Andrew watched you chew. You gave him a look.

"Do not supervise my toast."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm making sure you eat."

"That is supervising."

"It's caring."

"It is aggressive caring."

He leaned down and kissed your forehead.

"Bed."

You sighed.

"Fine."

Andie clapped once.

"Mama sleep."

"Yes," Andrew said. "Mama sleeps."

"Quiet."

"Yes."

"No wake Mama."

Andrew nodded solemnly.

"No wake Mama."

Andie pointed at the bassinet.

"Rora no wake Mama."

Aurora slept on, uninterested in the law. Andrew looked at the baby.

"We'll discuss that with her."

You made it halfway up the stairs before turning back. Andrew had known you would.

He stood at the bottom with one hand on the railing, waiting.

"What?"

You frowned.

"I didn't say anything."

"You turned around."

"I forgot to tell you where the clean sleepsuits are."

"In the nursery drawer."

"The muslins?"

"Basket by the couch."

"The little socks?"

"Everywhere, apparently."

"What if she needs feeding?"

"I'll bring her up."

"What if Andie needs lunch?"

"I will feed her."

"What if she refuses lunch?"

"I will negotiate."

"What if Aurora cries while you're making lunch?"

"I will pick her up."

"What if Andie cries while Aurora cries?"

He looked at you.

"Then everybody cries."

You did not mean to laugh. It slipped out, pulling at your sore body. Andrew's face softened despite himself.

"I have them."

You breathed in.

"I know."

He tilted his head slightly.

"Do you?"

You looked past him. Aurora asleep in the bassinet.

Andie on the couch with Baby Duck, already whispering something to the toy about being assistants.

Your whole life downstairs. Your body felt too heavy and too empty all at once.

"I know," you said, quieter. "It's just hard."

Andrew came up two steps, enough to put his hand on your hip.

"Go lie down."

"I feel guilty."

"Feel guilty in bed."

You stared at him.

"That was not comforting."

"It was practical."

"It was very you."

His mouth curved.

"Yeah."

You touched his face.

He leaned into it for half a second, eyes closing in a way that made him look more tired than he would ever admit.

"You need rest too," you whispered.

"I'll rest after."

"You always say that."

"I mean it sometimes."

"No, you don't."

His eyes opened.

"I mean it today."

You did not believe him. He knew. He kissed your palm.

"Go."

Downstairs, Andie called, "Mama sleep now?" You looked over the railing.

"I'm going."

"Good," Andie said.

Andrew's mouth twitched. You pointed at him.

"Do not let her enjoy this too much."

"She's already gone."

Andie appeared at the bottom of the stairs, Baby Duck tucked beneath one arm, chin lifted with great importance.

"Mama no come down."

You raised your eyebrows.

"Oh?"

"Mama rest."

Andrew looked away, but you could see his smile.

"And what are you going to do?"

"I help Dada."

"With what?"

Andie looked at Andrew.

"What do?"

He looked suddenly less confident.

"We will figure it out."

You laughed softly. Then you turned and went upstairs before your body or your guilt could argue any louder.

For twelve minutes, everything was fine. Andrew knew because he checked the clock. Not because he was nervous.

He was not nervous. He was their father. He had this. Aurora was asleep in the bassinet.

Andie was sitting at the coffee table with a bowl of cut banana, a piece of toast, and Baby Duck placed beside her with his own empty bowl because apparently assistant work required snacks.

The house was mostly quiet.

The washing remained unfolded on the rug, but Andrew had decided that socks were not an emergency.

He stood in the kitchen, moving quietly as he filled your water bottle again for later, because you were going to wake up thirsty even if you insisted you would not.

Andie lifted a piece of banana toward Baby Duck's face.

"Duck no like."

Andrew looked over.

"Maybe Duck is full."

"No."

"No?"

"Duck waiting."

"For what?"

Andie looked at the empty bowl.

"Pasta."

"It's morning."

"Duck like pasta."

"Duck can have pretend pasta."

Andie sighed.

"Dada."

He looked at her.

"What?"

"Duck hungry."

Andrew stared at the stuffed duck. Then opened a cupboard and took out a small dry pasta shape.

He placed it in Baby Duck's empty bowl. Andie smiled.

"Good Dada."

Andrew felt absurdly proud of that. Then Aurora woke up. Not softly. Not in stages.

She went from sleeping to furious with no warning, one tiny squawk becoming a cry that filled the room faster than seemed possible.

Andie froze with banana halfway to her mouth.

"Rora loud."

"I know."

Andrew crossed to the bassinet. Aurora's face had turned red with effort, her fists waving near her cheeks.

"Hey," he murmured, bending over her. "Hey, angry girl. What happened?"

Aurora cried harder. Andrew checked the obvious things. Blanket clear. Breathing fine.

Nothing caught. No visible disaster. Still angry.

He lifted her carefully, one hand under her head, the other supporting her body, and settled her against his chest.

"There. Dada has you."

Her cry hitched, then continued directly into his shirt. Andie appeared beside his leg.

"Rora sad."

"She's okay."

"Rora loud sad."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I don't know yet."

Andie looked alarmed.

"Dada no know?"

Andrew paused. Important moment. He could feel it. If he panicked, she would panic.

If he pretended, she would know. So he kept his voice calm.

"Not yet."

Andie frowned.

"Find out."

"I'm going to."

Aurora cried again.

Andrew shifted her slightly and checked her nappy by touch, the way he had learned to do with increasing competence and decreasing fear.

"She needs changing."

Andie straightened.

"Assistant."

He looked down at her.

"Assistant gets nappy."

Andie ran to the basket, grabbed one, then ran back with the triumph of someone delivering medicine during wartime.

"Nappy."

"Good."

"Wipes."

"Yes."

She ran again. Came back with a muslin. Andrew looked at it.

"That is a muslin."

Andie looked down.

"Wipes."

"No."

She frowned.

"White."

"It is white."

"Wipes white."

"Good point. Different white."

She glared at the muslin as if it had deceived her. Andrew adjusted Aurora, who was now crying directly into his ear.

"Try again."

Andie ran back and returned with the wipes packet this time.

"Wipes."

"Good job."

Her chest puffed.

"Best assistant."

Andrew glanced down at her.

"Best assistant."

Aurora screamed. Andie's pride vanished.

"Rora no like."

"She does not."

"No cold."

"I'll be quick."

"No bad feet."

"I'll control her feet."

This was immediately proven impossible.

Aurora's legs kicked free the moment Andrew opened her sleepsuit, two tiny feet fighting the air with unreasonable determination.

Andie gasped.

"Bad feet."

"I know."

"Rule."

"She does not respect the rules."

Andie looked deeply offended.

Andrew changed the nappy with one hand braced lightly over Aurora's stomach and the other moving quickly, because he had become good at it in the way people became good at things they did fifty times while sleep deprived.

Aurora cried the entire time. Andie hovered near his knee, clutching the muslin.

"Rora sad."

"She's cold and annoyed."

"Make happy."

"I'm trying."

"Dada fix."

Andrew looked down at Aurora's furious face.

"I'm fixing."

Andie shoved the muslin forward.

"Here."

"Thank you."

"She need."

"She does."

Andie pushed it too close to Aurora's face. Andrew caught her wrist gently.

"Not near her face."

Andie froze. Her face changed. Not sad. Offended.

"I assistant."

"I know."

"You say."

"I did."

"You say best."

"You are."

"You say no."

Andrew heard the wobble. Small. Quick. Dangerous.

Aurora was still crying. The nappy tabs were not fastened. Andie was looking at him like he had demoted her in a profession she had invented ten minutes ago.

He took a breath. Then another.

"Assistant."

Andie's eyes stayed bright.

"What?"

"Best assistant still has to be gentle."

She looked at the muslin in her hand.

"Gentle."

"Yeah. You were helping. I know. We just keep it away from her face."

Andie sniffed.

"Because rule."

"Because rule."

"No face."

"No face."

Her shoulders lowered.

Andrew finished the nappy and zipped Aurora back up. She stopped crying for half a second, then started again, apparently offended that the process had ended without a formal apology.

Andie leaned close, carefully this time.

"No loud."

Aurora cried. Andie looked at Andrew.

"She no listen."

"She is very bad at rules."

Andie sighed.

"She learning."

Andrew picked Aurora up and settled her against his chest again.

"She's learning."

Andie patted Aurora's back with two fingers, gentle enough that Andrew almost broke apart right there.

"There," she whispered. "No sad."

Aurora cried once more. Then hiccupped. Then slowly began to settle. Andie's face brightened.

"I fix."

Andrew nodded.

"You helped."

"Best assistant."

"Best assistant."

She smiled. Andrew held Aurora against his shoulder and looked toward the stairs. He thought of you asleep upstairs.

Or trying to sleep. He thought about calling you. Not because he needed to.

Because his body still believed you were the centre he should return to when something felt too big.

But Aurora was quieting. Andie was smiling. The nappy was changed. No one was hurt.

He did not call you. He looked down at both girls and said, softly, "Dada has it." Andie looked up.

"Dada has Rora?"

"Yeah."

She touched his knee.

"Dada has Andie?"

His throat tightened. He crouched slowly, careful with the baby, until he was closer to her height.

"Always."

Andie stared at him. The word landed. He saw it. She looked down at Baby Duck tucked beneath her arm.

"Dada has Duck?"

Andrew's mouth curved.

"Duck too."

Andie nodded.

"Good."

Twenty minutes later, the snack bowl was on the floor. Not spilled badly.

Just enough that several banana slices had made a break for freedom. Baby Duck had acquired a bib.

Andrew was not sure how that had happened.

He suspected Andie had done it while he was trying to settle Aurora after another small fussing spell, but the timeline was unclear and he had chosen not to investigate.

The pasta shape in Baby Duck's bowl had been replaced by three raisins. Also unclear.

Andie sat beside him on the rug, eating toast with one hand while holding a muslin in the other like she was ready to respond to an emergency.

Aurora slept against Andrew's chest. Not deeply enough for him to risk putting her down.

Just enough that he had become trapped.

He was sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, one knee bent, one arm supporting Aurora, the other resting around Andie because she had backed into his side sometime after declaring that the rug was "too far."

The television was on low. He had not turned it on for Andie.

Andie had asked for it, then stopped watching after three minutes.

Now a cartoon dog was having a crisis no one in the room understood. Andrew stared at the living room.

The washing was still on the rug. The half folded socks had been mixed with Andie's plastic animals.

Your cold tea sat on the coffee table, untouched. Your toast plate still had crust on it.

The house looked worse than when you had gone upstairs. But both girls were quiet. That counted.

Andie leaned her head against his side.

"Dada."

"Yeah?"

"Mama sleep?"

"I hope so."

"No wake."

"No wake Mama."

"Rule."

"Rule."

Aurora made a tiny sound against his chest. Andie lifted her head.

"Rora wake?"

"Maybe."

"No. Sleep."

Aurora settled. Andie nodded.

"She listen me."

Andrew smiled faintly.

"She does sometimes."

Andie took another bite of toast. Then held a piece up toward Andrew's mouth.

"Dada eat."

He blinked.

"I'm okay."

"Eat."

"I'm holding your sister."

She pushed the toast closer.

"Dada hungry."

He took the smallest possible bite. Andie watched him chew with satisfaction.

"Good."

He swallowed.

"Thank you."

"You need water?"

Andrew looked at her. The words were familiar. Too familiar. He heard himself in them.

You too. The house speaking through your daughter.

"I'm okay."

Andie frowned.

"You say Mama need water."

"Mama does need water."

"Dada too."

He stared at her for a moment. Then nodded.

"Yeah. Dada too."

She reached for your water bottle. Andrew caught her hand gently.

"That's Mama's."

Andie paused.

"No steal Mama tea."

"Water too."

"Mama water."

"Yeah."

"Dada water?"

"In the kitchen."

Andie looked toward the kitchen. Then down at Aurora. Then back at Andrew.

"I get?"

"No, baby. Stay here."

"I assistant."

"I know. But you stay with me."

She considered this. Then settled back against his side.

"Dada stuck."

Andrew looked down at Aurora. Then at Andie tucked against him.

"Yeah."

Andie smiled.

"Both hands full."

The words hit him differently this time. Not like a title. Not like a thing to be frightened by. Just the truth.

Both hands full. Both daughters safe. You asleep upstairs. The house messy.

The day imperfect. And somehow, somehow, he was doing it. Aurora shifted in her sleep, mouth opening against his shirt.

Andrew watched her breathe. Andie's head grew heavier against his ribs. He felt the exact moment she began drifting.

She fought it, of course. Her eyelids lowered, lifted, lowered again.

"Not sleep," she mumbled.

"No?"

"No."

"Okay."

"Assistant awake."

"Very awake."

Her eyes closed. Andrew did not move. The cartoon dog continued its crisis.

The banner tape on the window caught a strip of grey afternoon light. Aurora slept against his chest.

Andie slept against his side. Baby Duck, wearing a bib, lay across his knee like a fallen soldier.

Andrew looked toward the stairs again. He still did not call you.

You woke slowly. That alone felt suspicious. There was no baby crying. No toddler yelling.

No Andrew saying your name in that careful voice that meant he was trying not to alarm you but had already become alarmed himself.

Just quiet. Not perfect quiet. The house still hummed. A floorboard creaked somewhere below.

The wind shifted against the window. But the urgent sounds were missing.

You blinked at the bedroom ceiling, disoriented by the fact that you had slept long enough to feel heavy with it.

Your body ached in the way it always did now, but less sharply than before. Your breasts were full, your mouth dry, your hair stuck to your cheek.

You turned your head toward the clock. Two hours. Nearly two full hours.

You sat up too fast and regretted it immediately.

"Idiot," you whispered to yourself.

Then you listened. Still no crying. No panic. No calling for you.

Your heart started moving faster anyway. Because quiet could be good.

Quiet could also mean disaster had taken a silent form.

You got out of bed carefully this time, one hand braced against the mattress, and pulled Andrew's hoodie around yourself before leaving the room.

The hallway was dim. Andie's door was open. Her bed was empty.

Your stomach dropped for half a second before you remembered Andrew had her. Andrew had them.

You moved down the stairs slowly, expecting some kind of scene. You found one. Just not the one you feared.

The living room looked like a small, very domestic crime had been committed.

The snack bowl was on its side on the rug, banana slices scattered nearby like evidence. Half folded baby clothes had been mixed with plastic animals. A muslin hung over the back of the couch. Another lay across Andrew's shoulder. Baby Duck was wearing one of Aurora's bibs and had three raisins in front of him on a toy plate.

The television played quietly to no one.

And in the middle of it all, Andrew sat on the floor with his back against the couch.

Aurora slept on his chest, one cheek squashed against his shirt, tiny body tucked safely beneath his hand.

Andie slept against his side, head heavy on his ribs, one arm thrown over his thigh. Baby Duck lay across his knee.

Andrew was awake. Barely, maybe. But awake. His eyes lifted to yours the second you appeared.

"You're up."

Your chest tightened.

"You didn't come get me."

"You were sleeping."

"For two hours."

"I know."

"You managed two hours?"

His mouth curved faintly.

"Almost."

You took in the room again.

"The house looks like a crime scene."

"We survived."

"What happened to Baby Duck?"

"Assistant uniform."

You pressed your lips together.

"And the raisins?"

"Payment."

"For what?"

"I stopped asking."

You covered your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. Andrew looked exhausted. Deeply. Beautifully.

There were shadows beneath his eyes. His hair was a mess from Andie's hands. A small damp patch sat on his shoulder where Aurora had either drooled or spat up. One of his legs had to be numb beneath Baby Duck and Andie's weight.

But his face was calm. Not peaceful exactly. He was too alert for that. But calm.

Steady. Full. You moved closer and sat on the couch behind him, careful not to jostle anyone.

"Are you okay?"

He nodded.

"Yeah."

"Really?"

His eyes softened.

"Really."

"You could have woken me."

"I know."

"Why didn't you?"

"You needed sleep."

"They needed you."

He looked down at Aurora, then at Andie.

"I had them."

There it was. Simple. Quiet. Everything.

Your eyes burned. Andrew saw it and tilted his head.

"Don't cry."

"You cannot say things like that and tell me not to cry."

"I didn't say anything."

"You said I had them."

"I did."

"That is something."

His mouth softened.

"You cry a lot now."

"I had a baby two weeks ago."

"I know."

"You keep forgetting that when it's inconvenient."

"I never forget."

That shut you up. His eyes moved over your face. Not checking in a panicked way this time. Just seeing you.

"You look better."

"I slept."

"Good."

"You look worse."

"I had assistants."

You smiled.

"Plural?"

His gaze dropped to Baby Duck.

"One was mostly symbolic."

You reached down and brushed a hand over Andie's hair. She did not wake.

"Was she okay?"

"Yeah."

"She didn't get upset?"

"A little."

Your eyes moved to him.

"What happened?"

He shifted his shoulder carefully, keeping Aurora steady.

"She brought the wrong wipes."

You blinked.

"That was the crisis?"

"She thought I said she wasn't a good assistant."

"Oh."

"I fixed it."

Your heart softened.

"Of course you did."

He looked down at Andie.

"She asked if Dada has Rora."

Your breath caught.

"And?"

"I said yeah."

His thumb moved over Aurora's back.

"Then she asked if Dada has Andie."

Your throat closed.

"What did you say?"

He looked up at you.

"Always."

Oh. You pressed one hand to your mouth. Andrew's face shifted.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're doing the face."

"I'm allowed to do the face."

"What face?"

"The face of a woman who got two hours of sleep and came downstairs to emotional murder."

His mouth curved.

"Emotional murder?"

"Yes."

Andie stirred against him. Both of you froze. She mumbled something into his shirt. Andrew looked down.

"What, baby?"

Her eyes did not open.

"Dada has it."

Your heart broke clean in two. Andrew went very still. Andie sighed and sank back into sleep.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Aurora made a tiny sleeping noise against his chest. The television murmured.

The house held its breath around you. You looked at Andrew. His eyes were wet. Not crying.

Not yet. But close.

You slid off the couch carefully and lowered yourself beside him on the rug, ignoring the way your body protested because this mattered more.

Andrew frowned immediately.

"You should not sit on the floor."

"I know."

"Then why are you on the floor?"

"Because you're down here."

"That is not a good reason."

"It is the reason."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but Aurora shifted, and he adjusted her instead.

You leaned against his free shoulder carefully. For a while, you just sat there.

Your family in a pile on the living room floor. Mess everywhere. Sleep everywhere. Love everywhere.

You reached over and touched Aurora's blanket. Then Andie's hair. Then Baby Duck's ridiculous bib.

"You really did have it."

Andrew was quiet. Then he said, "I was scared for a minute." You looked at him.

"When?"

"When they both needed something."

You waited. He swallowed.

"I thought about calling you."

"But you didn't."

"No."

"Why?"

His eyes stayed on the girls.

"Because you needed sleep."

You touched his wrist.

"That's not the only reason."

His jaw shifted.

"No."

"What was the other?"

He looked at you then. Raw. Tired. Honest.

"I wanted to know I could."

Your chest softened.

"Oh, Andrew."

"Not for you," he said quickly. "Not like proving something to you."

"I know."

"For them."

You nodded.

"For me too, maybe."

Your hand tightened around his wrist.

"I know."

He looked back down at Andie.

"She trusts me."

"Yes."

"And Rora doesn't know anything yet, but she..." He looked at Aurora, sleeping against him with impossible trust. "She settles sometimes when I hold her."

"Because she knows you."

His throat moved.

"She's two weeks old."

"She knows you."

He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he looked at you.

"I missed a lot with Andie."

"I know."

"I'll always hate that."

"I know."

"But this." His eyes moved over both girls. "This I can do."

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

"Yes."

He breathed out slowly.

"I can have them."

"You do have them."

His mouth pressed together. You watched him fight it. The emotion. The old disbelief.

The part of him that still sometimes looked around a happy room as if happiness required someone else's permission.

But he did not look like he was waiting to be told to give them back. Not today.

Not sitting there with Aurora asleep on his chest and Andie tucked against him, with Baby Duck in a bib and banana on the floor.

He looked exhausted. He looked wrecked. He looked happy.

He looked like a man with both hands full and no intention of putting anything down.

Andie shifted again, little fingers tightening in his shirt. Andrew looked down.

"Hey."

She blinked sleepily.

"Mama?"

"I'm here," you whispered.

Her eyes found you.

"Mama sleep?"

"I did."

She smiled, drowsy and pleased.

"Good."

You laughed softly.

"Yes. Good."

"Dada did it."

Andrew went still again. You smiled at her.

"He did."

"Assistant help."

"You did?"

She nodded, eyes half closed.

"Best assistant."

"The best," Andrew said, voice rough.

Andie looked at him.

"Dada has Rora?"

He nodded.

"Yeah."

"Dada has Andie?"

His mouth trembled.

"Always."

She smiled.

"Dada has Duck?"

He looked down at the bibbed doll on his knee.

"Unfortunately."

Andie frowned.

"Dada."

He softened.

"Yes. Dada has Duck."

Satisfied, she closed her eyes again. You stared at Andrew over her head. He looked back at you.

For once, there was nothing to fix. Nothing to reassure. Nothing to explain. The girls had asked.

He had answered. And the house believed him. A few minutes later, Aurora started rooting against his chest.

Andrew looked down.

"She's waking."

You shifted.

"I can take her."

He glanced at you.

"You just slept."

"She'll want feeding."

"I'll bring her to you on the couch."

"You're pinned."

"I've escaped worse."

You looked at the toddler asleep against his side, the newborn on his chest, the duck on his knee.

"Have you?"

His mouth curved.

"No."

You laughed quietly.

Andrew moved with impossible care. Somehow, he transferred Baby Duck to the rug, eased Andie's head onto a cushion, kept one hand on Aurora, and still managed to help you back onto the couch before you could argue.

By the time he placed Aurora in your arms, she was fussing softly, not yet furious. Andie slept on.

Baby Duck lay on the rug in his bib, deeply undignified. Andrew sat beside you and rubbed a hand over his face.

You settled Aurora against you and looked at him.

"You should sleep now."

He looked at Andie on the floor. Then at Aurora feeding. Then at you.

"In a minute."

"You always say that."

"I mean it."

"You don't."

He leaned back against the couch, shoulder touching yours.

"I will."

You watched his eyes drift toward Andie again.

"You won't."

His mouth curved faintly.

"Probably not."

You rested your head against his shoulder.

"You know," you whispered, "this is not helping."

"What?"

"You being amazing."

He looked down at you.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I changed a nappy and gave a duck a bib."

"You let me sleep."

"That's not amazing."

"It is to me."

His expression softened. Aurora made a small sound as she fed. Andrew touched the edge of her blanket with one finger.

You looked at his hand. Then at Andie sleeping on the rug. Then at the mess around you.

"Dada had it," you whispered.

His eyes lifted to yours. For a moment, he looked like he might deny it. Like the words were too kind. Too large.

Too dangerous to keep. Then Andie sighed in her sleep, one hand reaching blindly until it found Baby Duck's foot.

Aurora settled closer against you. Andrew looked at both girls. Then back at you.

"Yeah," he said softly. "I did."

You smiled. He leaned in and kissed your forehead. The house stayed messy. The socks stayed unmatched.

The snack bowl remained on the floor. Baby Duck kept his bib.

And for once, no one rushed to tidy away the proof of what had happened there. Andrew had held both girls.

You had slept. The house had not fallen apart.

And somewhere in the ordinary wreckage of banana slices, muslins, nappies, rules, and one very patient stuffed duck, Andrew stopped looking like a man trying to earn his place in the room.

He was already in it. On the floor. On the couch. In every cry, every rule, every whispered promise.

Dada had it. And all three of you knew he did.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

@itwas-maroon16 @locaalolaa @lizzyhaas-blog @angelbunny222 @ynniksslirg @mn2024x @leilawarnerr @lillly-ofthevalley @nyxmoretti @happyendingarentreal @jennataurus @heyyimmisunderstood @just-reading22 @karlawithacapitalk @alexxavicry @tubby23 @mil88691 @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @changbinsrightboob @labiblioteque @booknerd0394 @pinguphd @fulla02 @nightshadestars @romantic-insomniac @sage-files @starwarsdinosaur @goddess-of-spring @tulilip21 @mxkhxx @rabbotseatcarrots @hazydespair @dreamlover81 @valentinevampp @chanelwidag @velvetumbranightmare @thebookbutterfly @honeysblogx @suzie18 @saigereaper @tiredemu @mistressmkay @littlezee80 @blancastans @croissant31 @1dhoe93 @amacphet @iron-aries-world @bokutowo @v3ntis-lyr3 @hisdyingbride @hehehehehehehaaaaaaaa @fromirkwood @rebeccaflores1 @jeshomie @antisocialparasocial @mssarahpaulsooonn @simp4f1 @winnietiltheday @shetasteslikesunlighttt @ifyoubewooedingoodtime @realwhoreforfictionalmen @vicky066 @laceyvt3

[sunshinehoneyyy]

NEED PART SIX OH MY GOD (no rush ur perfect)

HELLO ANON u're so nice <3 and dont worry u didnt rush me, i already had this chapter locked and loaded ;)

risky and you hit send (smau) | brendon park x sunshine!ERdoctor!reader | pt. 6

in which you struggle to book a ride home amidst the rainy weather

pt. 5 | next

a/n: whole house mad over brendon last update but he wasn't actually actually being rude 😔 pls forgive him he just doesnt know how to be nice. he's trying tho!

taglist: @alphabetically-deranged @novausstuff @mel164 @hazydespair @xsoupnoop @outpostsworld @daddyrafeslittleslut @imcool77 @little-dollygirl @ineedaaronhotchner @butarealgoodtime @homeslices @thesunxwentblack @letstryagaintomorrow @lillianarosethorns @pinkpantheressluver @ibeliveinunicornsandmagic @ajeff855 @angel-kisses15 @dianaxx99 @heartz4chucky @violatedvibrators @uncertainblissss @aizawaslefteye1 @elizamoe133 @coolvoidfire @gf4lwt @cloudyparadoxqueen @barcelonaaababe @lospy41 @mira-xx @abschaffer2 @cami28hucklerabbot @destiel-addict-forever-blog @roastyyytoastyyy @emeraldraptorsworld @put-the-t-in-rrt @jor-jor-wel @shak1ra124 @straykids1011 @iloveejackabbott @realwhoreforfictionalmen @thequietofmymind @soobshi @iamaunknownsecret

divider credits: @/angeliicide

[sydluvwrites]

Cat’s Out Of The Bag | Mateo Diaz

Pairing: Mateo Diaz x nurse!reader

Summary: in which the ptmc’s newest residents and student doctors find out two of its best nurses are actually married.

Content: first post writing, fluff, occasional y/n use, I tried using gender neutral language but it is my first time writing a gender neutral reader/character so if I missed anything, let me know!

1. Victoria Javadi

Being a child prodigy hadn’t been easy on Victoria Javadi. Specialized schools and skipping enough grades to be a third year medical student at twenty had hindered her social skills and robbed her of the experience of a teen dating phase. Being a certified genius of sorts had accelerated her life while robbing her of the ability to engage with cute boys her own age.

The longer she shadowed Cassie McKay, the more she seemed to notice Mateo Diaz. She took note of his genuine kindness, his quick wit, and his almost unconscious effort to ease the load of those around him. And without meaning to, she began to notice how difficult it seemed to breathe around him. She’d started to get caught in the web of a blooming crush and the warping it seemed to do to someone’s ability to think.

Had she wanted to, maybe Victoria would’ve noticed other things as well. Like the way Y/F/N Y/L/N and Mateo seemed to find each other after every case. Like how they seemed to drift toward each other at the nurses station or the gentle touches that brushed skin every time they passed each other. Like the way they both seemed to visibly soften each time they saw each other.

If she hadn’t been so fixated on her developing crush, she would’ve picked up on the more obvious things before her own humiliation. She would’ve thought more about Cassie’s layered questions hinting at something beyond the workplace. Maybe she would’ve picked up on the meaning slipped into Dana’s teasing comments or how Mateo and Y/N seemed to speak a secret language that no one else had figured out. And, God, she really wished that she’d noticed the ring hanging from the chain on Mateo’s chest.

“Oh, I’m married.”

Victoria Javadi had never wanted the floor to open up and swallow her more than that moment. Her cheeks burned sharply as her lips parted. Embarrassment flooded her, made worse by their patient’s sharp and audible inhale. She was flustered and shocked, struggling to get her brain.

“You-you’re married?” she finally stammered and swallowed thickly.

“That’s what the man said,” the patient and her cheeks darkened. His eyes flickered to Mateo whose gaze had flickered to his feet. “You don’t look old enough to be married.”

“Well, when you know, you know, I guess,” Mateo chuckled with a light shrug.

“Yeah, no, that’s great. I was just asking because I’m new and all. Just trying to make friends,” Victoria explained as she fidgeted with her fingers. She gestured over her shoulder at the door and caught herself turning from the door to Mateo and back to the door. “I, um, I just need to, um, yeah.”

She quickly shuffled through the door without looking back. Her eyes screwed shut and she contemplated how hard it would be to transfer to another hospital when a hand landed on her shoulder.

“You alright, kiddo?” Dana asked with a concerned crease in her brow.

“I think I might die of embarrassment,” she shakily admit.

“Oh, it can’t be that bad,” Dana returned and waved her off.

“Oh, it is,” Victoria countered and began pulling at her fingers. “I just asked out Mateo. With his wedding ring hanging in my face. And a patient was right there. Because I ignored literally every sign that he was not available.”

Victoria finished and pressed her mouth into a thin line. Dana, to her credit, didn’t laugh immediately. But when she did, she laughed so hard she grasped Victoria’s arm to keep from doubling over.

“Oh, honey, that was good,” Dana sighed and patted her arm. “It’s been about a year and a half since him and Y/N got married.”

“Him and Y/N?” Victoria stammered and her eyes flickered across the ER to you.

“Oh yeah,” Dana answered, shaking her head. “They’ve been together since they got here.”

“Oh,” Victoria squeaked as her eyes widened.

2. Trinity Santos

Trinity Santos was more observant of her coworkers than people gave her credit for. She noticed sunken shoulders and whispered conversations and more often than not she chose to just ignore them. But that didn’t stop things from bothering her.

One of the first things she noticed about you on her first day, aside from your startling confidence and your frustratingly high level of competence, was the way you always seemed to work the ring you kept around your neck between your finger. When she stopped you for a quick consult, your fingers grasped the ring. When you sat for a moment to work through a chart, you turned the ring back and forth. When you spoke with a patient, your fingers closed around the ring just to close around the ring. And she’d been noticing it every day after.

She also was quick to notice how you and Mateo seemed to orbit each other. You always ended up on the same side of the nurses station. Stolen moments at the vending machine nearly always seemed to extend to sitting in the break room until Dana forced you out. If one of you could be seen, the other was never very far. You and Mateo always seemed to talk with the quiet intimacy of two people who knew each other as deeply as two people could.

She’d suspected something was amiss between the two of you for a while but she couldn’t quite but her finger on it. She’d thought, either by sheer stubbornness or a severe overestimation of her skill in the area, that she’d figure it out through pure observation. It had always worked for her in the past. But you and Mateo had learned the art of semi-professionalism at work to a frustrating degree.

If Trinity could be thankful for anything, it was that she’d finally grown comfortable enough at the PTMC to have made a couple friends. Or maybe it was that the tail end of a shift made a gossip like Princess Dela Cruz a bit more open to sharing. When she tiredly dropped into a chair to begin an endless list of charts, Princess barely looked up.

“So,” Trinity began with a forced casualness. “Y/N and Mateo.”

“What about them?” Princess questioned and her eyes flickered to where the two of you stood shoulder to shoulder at the nearby mobile cart.

“Which of them is having an affair?”

That made Princess stop completely. She saved the progress on her chart and turned her chair to fully face Trinity. “Affair?”

“Yeah, an affair,” Trinity replied. Nervousness rushed over her and she let out a light chuckle. “They’ve both got wedding rings on a necklace but they’re way too cozy to not be having an affair.”

“Wait a minute,” Princess paused and a wicked grin twisted her mouth. “You think those two are having an affair with each other?”

“Yeah,” Trinity answered, her conviction draining from her voice.

“Babe,” Princess hummed. A snicker forced its way past her lips and she briefly ducked her head. “You’re right about them being married. They’re married to each other.”

“They’re married?” Trinity repeated. She felt her face flush and her eyes widened slightly. Princess nodded and Trinity sharply turned to her computer screen. “To each other?”

“Oh my God, wait, you really didn’t know?” Princess gasped and reached out to grasp her arm.

“I’m not talking about this,” Trinity immediately replied.

“Oh I love this,” Princess hummed, settling back in her chair.

3. Dennis Whitaker

Dennis Whitaker had started to regret letting you talk him into working a double by hour eighteen when he reached for the protein bar in his pocket only to realize he’d already finished it before the night crew even arrived. By hour twenty-one, he swore off doubles forever when a drunken patient looking for a fight decided he was as good an opponent as any. At hour twenty-four, handoffs were completed and he could almost be talked into giving up on medicine completely with how much his calves and knees ached.

“Well,” you began, forcing a tired smile as you stopped before Dennis. “You survived your first double.”

“I thought I wouldn’t,” he chuckled and watched you reach up to unclip your necklace.

“That bad?” you muttered. Your lips twisted sympathetically and you let the ring hanging from the chain fall into your hand.

“I thought it’d never end,” he snickered. His eyes dipped long enough to watch you slip the circular metal onto your left ring finger and slip the necklace into your scrub top pocket before his eyes found yours again. “I’m considering other career choices.”

“I don’t blame you,” you chuckled. “If Mateo wasn’t picking me up, I’d probably be on LinkedIn with you.”

“Wait, Mateo?” he asked. Confusion drew his brow together as he watched your head tilt. “He’s picking you up?”

“Yeah, Mateo’s picking me up. He also dropped me off,” you answered. Your brow pinched and you tucked your hands into your pants pockets. “Husbands do that on occasion.”

“Husband?” he slowly questioned and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “As in, you’re married?”

“You sound surprised,” you pointed out. Your lips twitched until they contorted into a smile.

“No, no, no! I don’t mean it like that!” he stammered and shook his head. “I just didn’t realize you married is all.”

“Yeah, it’s been about a year and a half. We keep it quiet so HR stays off our back,” you shrugged. Your phone buzzed against the nurses station and your gaze flickered across the text that lit the screen. “Well, my ride’s here. I’ll see you the next time we work together.”

“Yeah, for sure,” he answered and quickly nodded. He watched you retreat until you disappeared through the ambulance bay doors and quickly turned to Dana. “They’ve really been married this whole time?”

“Whole time,” Dana confirmed.

4. Mel King

Mel King is the first to figure it out. She’s surprised it took people longer than the five hours it took her to piece it all together.

She was notorious for struggling to pick up on social cues. She took everything at face value unless it was stated that there was underlying meaning in the words someone was saying. Despite her someone social ineptitude, she was actually much more observant that people give her credit for.

She noticed the quiet intimacy and that you and Mateo seemed to communicate without any words. She noticed the gravitational pull that tugs the two of you closer and the subtle touches you shared when you thought no one was looking. She noticed the rings hanging at your chests and how they seemed to match. And when she saw a shared kiss in the empty break room on her way past the open door, her suspicions had been confirmed.

In all of her noticing, it didn’t take long for her to gather that the two of you seemed to be, at the very least, private about your relationship. That’s why she waited to bring it up. As she picked gravel from a leg wound, her patient had fallen asleep. You’d been quiet when you slipped through the door and were careful as you shut it behind you. You were halfway through a recheck of his vitals for his chart when Mel decided to get confirmation.

“How long have you and Mateo been together?”

Her eyes barely flicker up from the patients leg. But she did see your lips tip upward. You quickly swiped your badge to open the computer and your fingers glided across the keyboard.

“Are we that obvious?” you asked and briefly cut your eyes at her.

“I don’t think so,” she mentioned. She shrugged lightly and let her eyes fall to the wound. “I just noticed.”

“We started dating our sophomore year of college,” you answered without looking away from the computer. “We got married a year and a half ago.”

“Working together doesn’t bother you?” she asked and let gravel fall from her tweezers and into the metal bowl.

“Not really,” you shrug. “It’s nice sometimes. I don’t think we’d see each other much of we didn’t.”

“Do other people know?” Mel inquired without looking away from the road rash.

“Oh, yeah, everybody knows. We try to be professional at work but we’re not secretive about it,” you answered as you saved the chart and turned off the computer. “We look forward to new people. It’s our version of fun to see how long it takes people to figure it out.”

[belleeebelleee]

Mateo Diaz (The Pitt) x fem!reader

Mateo unexpectedly becomes guardian to his younger sibling after a family emergency and is completely overwhelmed trying to juggle nursing, grief, and parenting. You start helping “temporarily.” The kid immediately becomes obsessed with you.

The first time you met Mateo Diaz, he looked like he was about three bad minutes away from a complete emotional collapse.

You didn’t know that yet, obviously.

All you knew was that a man in navy scrubs was standing frozen in the children’s section of your bookstore at nearly eight-thirty at night, staring at a display called Books That Might Convince Your Child Vegetables Aren’t Evil like it had personally offended him.

He looked exhausted.

Not regular tired. Not “long day at work” tired.

This was catastrophic exhaustion. Bone-deep. The kind that lived behind the eyes.

Dark curls shoved messily back from his forehead. Scrub top wrinkled. One sneaker untied. A hospital badge clipped crookedly to his chest.

And next to him stood a little girl with enormous brown eyes and glitter glue on her cheeks who was very seriously attempting to climb the shelves.

“Lucia,” he said weakly, not even looking up. “Please don’t scale the furniture.”

“I’m not scaling,” she informed him. “I’m exploring.”

“That feels legally different but spiritually the same.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

Both of them turned toward you.

The little girl beamed instantly. The man looked horrified that another human being had witnessed this interaction.

“Sorry,” you said, trying not to laugh. “Store policy says we only allow mountain goats after nine p.m.”

The little girl gasped.

“Mateo,” she whispered loudly, “she’s funny.”

He closed his eyes briefly like this information might actually kill him.

“Great,” he muttered. “Now I’m outnumbered.”

You smiled despite yourself, “Can I help you find anything?”

Mateo opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Looked down at the books.

Then at the kid.

Then back at you with the lost expression of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

“I need…” He exhaled hard. “Honestly? I don’t even know. Something for seven-year-olds that doesn’t involve murder, swearing, or emotional damage?”

“That eliminates a surprising amount of children’s literature.”

Lucia giggled.

Mateo looked tired enough to cry.

And maybe it was the way he kept unconsciously checking that Lucia was still beside him every three seconds. Maybe it was the way his shoulders stayed tense like he physically could not relax. Or maybe it was simply the expression on his face when Lucia tugged his scrub sleeve and asked quietly, “Are we gonna be okay?”

Something in your chest tightened.

Because he answered immediately, “Yeah, Luce. Course we are.”

But he sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

You learned the basics over the next few weeks.

Not because Mateo volunteered information.

Mostly because Lucia did.

“I hate peas now.” “Mateo burned pancakes.” “He fell asleep sitting up yesterday.” “We had to move apartments.” “He cries in the shower sometimes but pretends it’s allergies.”

That last one hit you like a punch to the ribs.

You crouched beside Lucia while she colored at the little activity table near the register.

“Oh,” you said softly.

She nodded solemnly, “He thinks I don’t know.”

Children always knew.

That was the terrible thing.

Mateo came in almost every other day now.

At first, it had clearly just been desperation. Lucia liked the bookstore, and Mateo seemed perpetually one inconvenience away from losing his mind. The place was quiet, safe, and had a kids’ corner.

Then somehow it became routine.

You’d see him after shifts still wearing scrubs.

Sometimes with coffee stains. Sometimes barely awake.

Always apologizing for existing.

“Sorry she’s touching everything.” “Sorry we stayed so long.” “Sorry she asked if dinosaurs could beat Batman in a fight.”

“She’s right,” you’d said once. “Batman would absolutely lose.”

Mateo had stared at you in betrayal while Lucia cackled victoriously.

That was the first time you saw him really smile.

Not polite. Not exhausted. Real.

It changed his entire face.

Warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. Crooked grin. Soft laugh.

Dangerous, honestly.

And then one rainy Thursday night, everything shifted.

You were closing up when Mateo rushed in looking pale.

Actually pale. Like something was wrong.

Lucia was asleep against his shoulder, tiny arms wrapped around his neck.

“Hey,” you said immediately. “You okay?”

He blinked at you like he hadn’t expected kindness.

“Yeah. Sorry. I just—”

He stopped.

Swallowed hard.

“I got called into another overnight shift and my sitter canceled and I don’t…” He looked wrecked. “I don’t know what to do.”

You stared at him.

“How long have you slept?”

He laughed once.

That answered that question.

“Mateo.”

“I’m handling it.”

“You look like you died two days ago.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“You walked into a coat rack.”

“In my defense, it attacked first.”

Despite everything, you smiled.

Then looked at Lucia sleeping against him.

Then back at him.

And before you could overthink it, you said, “I can watch her.”

His head snapped up.

“What?”

“I’m serious.”

“No, no, I can’t ask you to—”

“You didn’t.”

“That’s worse.”

You folded your arms.

“Mateo. I’m offering.”

He looked immediately emotional about it, which clearly made him furious with himself.

“I barely know you.”

“You know where I work.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

Lucia stirred sleepily against him.

“Bookstore lady?”

You laughed softly.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

“She smells nice,” Lucia mumbled.

Mateo looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

“Oh my God.”

“It’s okay,” you said, laughing.

“No, see, this is exactly why I can’t leave her with people. She says things like that.”

Lucia was already asleep again.

You looked back at him.

“You need help.”

His jaw tightened instantly.

That told you everything.

People who were drowning usually hated admitting it.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

You gave him a look.

He stared back for three seconds before deflating.

“I’m trying to be,” he admitted quietly.

And there it was.

The truth.

You stepped closer carefully.

“What happened?”

For a second, you thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then he looked down at Lucia.

“Our mom had a stroke three months ago.”

Oh.

“She’s alive,” he said quickly. “But… rehab facility. Long-term care probably. Lucia’s dad disappeared years ago and mine’s not exactly…” He rubbed a hand over his face. “So now it’s me.”

Twenty-five years old.

ER nurse.

Suddenly raising a seven-year-old.

Alone.

Your chest hurt.

“That’s a lot.”

His laugh sounded exhausted.

“Yeah.”

“And you’ve been doing this by yourself?”

“Trying to.”

No wonder he looked shattered.

You held his gaze.

“Let me help.”

He opened his mouth to refuse again.

Then Lucia shifted in his arms and he nearly stumbled from exhaustion.

That decided it.

Temporary turned into routine embarrassingly fast.

The first night became two.

Then Mateo started texting occasionally.

Hey. Any chance you’re free for two hours?

or:

Lucia has a school thing and I’m stuck at the hospital.

or:

I owe you approximately my entire life.

You always said yes.

Not because you pitied him. Because somewhere along the way, the two of them had quietly become important to you.

Lucia especially.

She attached to you with alarming speed.

By week three she’d started asking for you constantly.

“Can Y/N come?” “Can we call Y/N?” “Y/N says octopuses punch fish for fun.”

Mateo looked exhausted every time she brought you up.

Not annoyed.

Just emotionally overwhelmed.

One evening you arrived at his apartment carrying groceries and found him asleep at the kitchen table.

Actually asleep. Head pillowed on folded arms beside an untouched cup of coffee.

Lucia looked up from the couch and whispered, “He does that a lot now.”

Your heart cracked clean open.

You set the bags down quietly.

“Did he eat dinner?”

She shook her head.

“He forgot.”

Of course he did.

You walked over carefully.

“Mateo.”

Nothing.

You touched his shoulder gently. His entire body jerked awake violently.

For one horrible second, panic flashed across his face so intensely it scared you.

Then he saw you.

“Oh,” he breathed.

Relief. Pure relief.

“Sorry,” you said softly. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, I just…” He rubbed his face hard. “Sorry. I’m good.”

He very clearly was not good.

“You fell asleep sitting upright.”

“That’s basically self-care in healthcare.”

You snorted.

He smiled faintly.

Then noticed the groceries.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“You’re making me look incompetent.”

“You’re making yourself look incompetent.”

“That’s fair.”

Lucia appeared beside you.

“She bought dinosaur nuggets.”

Mateo gasped softly.

“You angel.”

“You haven’t eaten anything except vending machine food for three days.”

“Slander.”

“You had crackers for dinner yesterday.”

“Charcuterie.”

You laughed.

And for the first time in weeks, Mateo laughed too.

Real laughter. Tired but genuine.

The sound settled somewhere warm inside your chest.

The first time Lucia called you during a nightmare, Mateo almost cried.

It was two in the morning.

Your phone rang.

You answered blearily, confused.

Then heard tiny hiccuping sobs.

“Y/N?”

You sat upright instantly.

“Lucia? Sweetheart, what happened?”

“I had a bad dream.”

“Oh, baby.”

In the background, you heard Mateo speaking softly.

Then closer, soft, “She wants you.”

You could practically hear how guilty he felt about it.

You softened immediately.

“It’s okay,” you said gently.

Mateo exhaled shakily.

You stayed on the phone for almost forty minutes telling increasingly ridiculous stories about bookstore ghosts until Lucia stopped crying.

By the end of it, Mateo sounded half-asleep himself.

“You didn’t have to stay up,” he murmured.

“You needed backup.”

Silence.

Then very quietly, “You make this easier.”

Something about the way he said it nearly ruined you.

Not flirtatious. Not smooth. Just honest. Raw honesty from someone too exhausted to hide it anymore.

You swallowed.

“Get some sleep, Mateo.”

“Trying.”

A pause.

Then softer, “Thank you.”

The problem with falling for Mateo Diaz was that it happened slowly enough you didn’t notice until it was too late.

It was little things.

The way he always made sure you got home safe. The way he absentmindedly handed you the marshmallows from his hot chocolate because he remembered you liked them. The way he spoke to Lucia with endless patience even when he was clearly running on fumes. The way he looked at you sometimes when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Like you were something precious.

And God, he was trying so hard.

You saw it constantly.

The parenting books stacked beside medical journals. The sticky notes on the fridge reminding himself about school lunches and dentist appointments. The exhaustion he tried desperately to hide.

One night you found him sitting on the kitchen floor after Lucia had gone to bed.

Just sitting there staring blankly at nothing.

You lowered yourself beside him carefully.

“You okay?”

“Nope.”

Honest.

That scared you more.

“What happened?”

He laughed tiredly.

“I forgot it was pajama day at school.”

“Oh no.”

“She was the only kid not wearing pajamas.”

Your heart twisted.

“She cried.”

“Mateo—”

“And then I cried in the hospital bathroom because apparently that’s who I am now.”

“You’re human.”

“I’m screwing this up.”

“No, you’re not.”

“She deserves someone who knows what they’re doing.”

You turned toward him fully.

“She deserves someone who loves her.”

He looked at you then.

Really looked at you.

Eyes glassy with exhaustion and grief.

“That’s the problem,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“I love her so much it feels like I’m constantly terrified.”

Oh.

Oh.

You understood that.

He scrubbed both hands down his face.

“I don’t know how parents survive this. Every day I’m scared I’m gonna fail her somehow.”

“You won’t.”

“You sound very confident for someone who watched me accidentally pack an energy drink in a second grader’s lunch.”

You laughed helplessly.

“That was objectively funny.”

“She told her teacher I’m ‘trying my best but deeply confused.’”

You lost it completely.

Mateo finally laughed too, head dropping back against the cabinet behind him.

God.

You loved him.

You realized it right there on the kitchen floor.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just suddenly undeniable. And terrifying.

Because Mateo already had too much on his shoulders.

The last thing he needed was complicated feelings from the woman helping him survive.

Unfortunately, Lucia noticed everything.

Children were horrifyingly observant.

“You love him.”

You nearly dropped your tea.

Lucia sat cross-legged on the couch coloring calmly like she hadn’t just detonated your nervous system.

“What?”

“You love Mateo.”

“I—”

“You get the same face he does.”

“What face?”

“The mushy one.”

You stared at her.

She stared back with the unsettling confidence only children possessed.

“You should marry him.”

You choked on air. “Lucia—”

“He likes you too.”

“You’re seven.”

“And observant.”

That was way too close to something Mateo would say.

You pointed accusingly.

“You sound exactly like your brother.”

“He says you smell nice too.”

“Oh my God.”

Lucia dissolved into delighted laughter.

Traitor.

The thing about Mateo was that he genuinely didn’t realize how much he gave away.

Especially when he was tired.

And he was always tired.

One evening you were making spaghetti while Mateo helped Lucia with homework at the kitchen table.

“Well,” Lucia announced, “Y/N says volcanoes can make lightning.”

Mateo looked over at you immediately.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s metal as hell.”

You grinned. “I know.”

He stared for a second too long.

Then Lucia groaned loudly.

“Mateoooo.”

“What?”

“You’re doing the face again.”

He blinked.

“What face?”

“The one where you look at Y/N like she invented Christmas.”

Silence. Absolute silence.

You stopped stirring the pasta.

Mateo looked like someone had hit him with a truck.

Lucia continued calmly writing spelling words.

“I’m observant,” she explained.

Mateo turned bright red. Actually bright red.

“Okay,” he said weakly. “Cool. Awesome. Great.”

You bit your lip so hard it hurt.

Lucia looked delighted.

“You both do it.”

“Lucia,” Mateo whispered desperately.

“What? It’s true.”

You finally lost the battle and laughed.

Mateo covered his face with both hands, groaning, “I’m being bullied in my own home.”

“You are,” you agreed.

He peeked at you through his fingers.

And there it was again.

That look. Soft. Fond.

Ruining your life, honestly.

Three days later, Mateo broke down in front of you for the first time.

Not dramatically.

Quietly.

Which somehow felt worse.

You’d come over after closing the bookstore and found him sitting at the table surrounded by bills and paperwork.

Lucia was asleep already.

Mateo looked exhausted.

More than usual.

His eyes were red.

“You okay?”

“Mmhm.”

Lie.

You sat beside him.

“What happened?”

He stared at the papers for a long moment.

Then said quietly, “The rehab center called.”

Your stomach dropped.

“How’s your mom?”

“She had another setback.”

Oh no.

He nodded once stiffly.

“They’re not sure she’ll regain full speech.”

You reached for his hand instinctively.

He looked down at it like he’d forgotten human beings could touch him gently.

“I’m sorry.”

He inhaled shakily.

“I just keep thinking…” His voice cracked. “What if Lucia forgets her old voice?”

Your chest physically hurt.

“She won’t.”

“But what if she does?”

And there it was.

Not just grief. Fear. Constant relentless fear.

You squeezed his hand tighter.

“Mateo.”

He looked at you.

Eyes exhausted and wrecked and painfully vulnerable.

“You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

That did it.

You saw the exact moment his composure snapped.

He bent forward suddenly, covering his eyes with one hand.

And then he cried.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet devastated tears from someone who’d been holding too much for too long.

You moved immediately, arms around him without hesitation.

He made this tiny broken sound that nearly destroyed you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely.

“No.”

“I’m trying so hard.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

“You can.”

But honestly? You understood why he felt like he couldn’t.

He buried his face against your shoulder, shaking slightly.

And you held him. Just held him while months of exhaustion and grief finally spilled out.

After a while he whispered, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You closed your eyes.

Dangerous sentence. Very dangerous sentence.

Nothing changed after that.

And somehow everything did.

Mateo started reaching for you unconsciously.

A hand against your back while passing behind you. Fingers brushing yours when handing you coffee. Leaning into your space like he felt safest there.

Lucia noticed all of it with the smugness of a tiny evil genius.

One Saturday afternoon she announced, “You should just kiss already.”

Mateo nearly dropped an entire pizza.

You choked laughing.

“Lucia!”

“What?” she demanded innocently. “You’re both acting weird.”

Mateo looked seconds from cardiac arrest.

“We are not.”

“You stare at her like a sad cowboy.”

You wheezed.

Mateo looked personally attacked.

“A sad cowboy?”

“You know. Like this.”

Lucia attempted the world’s most dramatic yearning expression.

You completely lost it.

Mateo slid slowly down in his chair.

“I used to be respected.”

“No you didn’t,” Lucia said immediately.

Honestly, fair.

The kiss finally happened because Mateo hit his breaking point.

Again.

But this time differently.

Lucia got sick.

Not dangerously. Just enough to be miserable.

Fever. Coughing. Crying at three in the morning.

Mateo hadn’t slept in almost thirty-six hours because he kept checking her temperature every fifteen minutes like an anxious ghost.

You arrived with soup and found him pacing.

“She won’t eat.”

“She’s sick.”

“What if she gets dehydrated?”

“She drank half a bottle of Gatorade.”

“What if—”

“Mateo.”

He stopped pacing.

You stepped closer.

“She’s okay.”

He looked at you helplessly.

“I know too much,” he admitted quietly. “Working in emergency medicine is like having every worst-case scenario permanently stuck in your head.”

That made awful sense.

You touched his arm gently.

“You’re a good brother.”

He laughed tiredly.

“I burned grilled cheese yesterday.”

“You also stayed awake all night making sure she could breathe.”

His face crumpled unexpectedly.

God.

He was so exhausted.

You softened immediately.

“Hey.”

“I just…” He rubbed his face hard. “I’m so tired.”

“I know.”

“And every time something happens I keep thinking I can’t screw this up because she only has me.”

The raw terror in his voice nearly broke your heart.

Without thinking, you cupped his face.

“You’re not screwing this up.”

He went completely still.

Brown eyes locked on yours. Your thumb brushed exhausted shadows beneath one eye.

And suddenly the air felt too tight. Too warm. Too full.

Mateo looked at you like he was starving.

Then whispered, “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your breath caught.

Neither of you moved.

From the couch, half-asleep Lucia croaked, “Finally.”

You both burst out laughing.

The tension shattered instantly.

Mateo covered his face.

“Oh my God.”

“You’re welcome,” Lucia muttered.

Then immediately fell back asleep.

You laughed so hard you had tears in your eyes.

Mateo stared at you helplessly.

Then started laughing too.

And somewhere between one breath and the next, it shifted.

The laughter faded.

The room quieted.

And Mateo looked at you with so much tenderness it physically hurt.

“You’re incredible,” he said softly.

Then he kissed you. Gentle. Careful. Like he was afraid you might disappear.

Your fingers slid into his curls instinctively and he made this quiet surprised sound against your mouth that nearly ruined you.

When you pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Okay,” he whispered shakily. “Wow.”

You laughed softly.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve wanted to do that for a really long time.”

“Same.”

He looked genuinely offended, “Why didn’t you say something?”

“You were busy becoming a parent overnight!”

“That’s.. fair.”

You smiled.

Then his expression softened again into something unbearably fond.

“You stayed,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Most people would’ve run screaming from this mess.”

You touched his cheek gently.

“Mateo.”

He leaned into your hand unconsciously.

And God, that tiny movement told you everything.

“You and Lucia aren’t a mess.”

Emotion flashed across his face so quickly it almost hurt to look at.

Then he kissed you again.

This time less hesitant. Still soft. Still careful. But certain.

Like coming home.

Dating Mateo turned out to be surprisingly easy considering the chaos of your lives.

Mostly because you’d already accidentally become a family before either of you admitted feelings.

You were already there for movie nights. Already helping with homework. Already asleep on his couch half the time after late dinners and impossible shifts.

The only real difference now was the kissing.

And the fact Mateo looked constantly dazzled every time you touched him.

Which was honestly adorable.

One night after Lucia fell asleep during a movie, Mateo looked over at you curled against his side.

“You know she told her teacher about you?”

You smiled sleepily.

“Oh?”

“Mhm.”

“What’d she say?”

He laughed quietly.

“She said, ‘My brother was sad all the time and then Y/N showed up and now he smiles again.’”

Your throat tightened instantly.

Mateo looked down.

“I didn’t realise it was that obvious.”

“It was.”

He nodded slowly.

Then admitted softly, “I think I was drowning before you.”

Your chest ached.

You reached for his hand.

He intertwined your fingers immediately. Automatic now. Natural.

“I love you,” he said suddenly.

You stared at him.

His expression immediately panicked.

“Sorry. That sounded intense. You don’t have to say it back, I just—”

“I love you too.”

He stopped completely.

“You do?”

You laughed softly.

“Yes, you disaster.”

He grinned then.

Huge. Bright. Beautiful.

And honestly, it was worth every difficult thing that had brought you there.

Six months later, you were standing in Mateo’s kitchen helping Lucia frost cupcakes for a school fundraiser while Mateo danced badly to music with dish soap bubbles still on his forearms.

“You’re getting frosting in your hair,” you informed Lucia.

“It’s fashion.”

Mateo pointed at her proudly.

“She gets that from me.”

“She does not.”

“I’m iconic actually.”

“You wore two different shoes to work last week.”

“That was a cry for help.”

Lucia giggled hysterically.

Mateo caught your eye across the kitchen.

And there it was again.

That look. Still soft. Still full of wonder. Like he couldn’t believe you were really there.

The apartment was louder now than when you’d first walked into it. Warmer too.

Not because life had become easy. It hadn’t.

Mateo still worked brutal shifts. His mother still struggled through rehab. There were still hard days. Exhausting days. Grief-heavy days.

But now he had help carrying them. And somehow, together, the weight felt lighter.

Lucia suddenly held up a cupcake covered in approximately three pounds of frosting, “This one’s for Y/N because she’s the best.”

You laughed.

Mateo immediately nodded, “She’s right.”

Your cheeks warmed.

“Are you two conspiring against me?”

“Yes,” Lucia said cheerfully.

Mateo wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you against him.

“Constantly.”

You leaned into him automatically.

Comfortable. Easy. Home.

And as Lucia launched into a passionate explanation about why dragons would absolutely survive the apocalypse, Mateo pressed a quiet kiss against your temple.

Certain. Like he planned to keep doing it for the rest of his life.

[pittmebabyonemoretime]

summer camp besties // john shen

(a/n: yeah so exactly no one asked for this and probably no one is going to read it, but thats okay but i really just self indulged and made it for me. this story is about the john shen from my 3 part story Man I Love Feelings - go read it if you haven't to get context. to be honest, i think you could read this as a stand alone, but it's one of my favorite stories I've done recently so it's worth it trust me!! but i just HAD to write how y/n and john shen became besties, so that's what this is lol.)

in which you convince john shen to work with you as a camp counselor and you spend the summer becoming best friends and discovering that you want to be doctors.

genre: best friend john shen from Man I Love Feelings x reader, platonic soulmates, besties for the resties, ft. jack abbot getting initiated in to the friday night sleepovers

word count: 1500

Then

You almost didn't talk to John Shen at all.

You were in the library, cramming for one of the first tests you had to take since declaring your pre med major. You'd claimed the corner table because it was farthest from everyone else and it had been going great, right up until the guy at the next table started laughing. A big bark of a laugh that echoed against the stacks of books. 

You looked up and he didn’t notice. He was watching something on his phone, one earbud in, shoulders shaking.

"Do you mind?" you said.

He looked over and had the gall to look surprised at someone else being in this library at the same time as him. "Sorry." He held up the phone like it explained everything. "Guy fell into a pool at a wedding."

"I'm trying study." You scowled at him, you know you were laying it on thick but come on, couldn’t he watch his videos in his own room?

Without asking, he reached over and slid your notes toward himself, scanning them upside down. "You have succinate and fumarate backwards."

You stared at him. "I do not."

"You do. Right there." He tapped the page. Didn't even look smug about it, which was somehow worse.

You checked and he was right. That was, annoyingly, how your friendship had started. 

...

By finals week you'd learned three things about John. He was insufferable, he was somehow always right and he had a truly heroic ability to make you laugh at the worst possible moments, like during a practice MCAT and you had to leave the room to stop laughing.

You'd also learned he had no plans for the summer. "None?" you said, over the world's saddest cafeteria pizza. "Nothing?"

"I was going to work at my uncle's insurance office. Just filing, for like three months.” He shrugged and took a bite of his apple.

"Come be a camp counselor with me!" 

He blinked at you. "I'm sorry?"

"Camp Bumblebee for kids. It’s up in the mountains. I've done it the last two summers, they're always short staffed, you'd get free housing and it's the opposite of filing boring business paperwork." 

"I don't know anything about children." he said. 

"Nobody does.” You pointed your fork at him. "Also I already put your name down as a maybe. So."

"You what." He stared at you for a long moment and you could see him actually considering it, which surprised you.

"Fine." he said finally. "But if I die out there in the woods, I want it on record that it was your fault."

"Duly noted."

...

Camp Bumblebee was all pine trees and bug spray and somehow, always smelled slightly like burnt marshmallow. John got out of the car, looked around at the lake, the cabins and the flagpole with its faded rope and said "There is no cell service here."

"Nope." You yanked your bags out of the trunk.

"None at all." He was tapping at his phone as if that would make some cell towers magically appear.

"You get one bar by the dining hall if you hold your phone up and pray."

He looked at you. "I hate it here already."

But as per usual, you were right. And he did not in fact hate it there. By day three he'd named every duck on the lake and had gotten into a full debate with an eight year old about whether a hot dog was a sandwich.

You were both assigned to Cabin 7, ages nine to eleven, a group of ten boys who within forty eight hours had established themselves as a small, feral government with no clear chain of command.

"They've unionized." John reported to you, deeply serious. "I found a note under my pillow. It said we want later bedtime and it was signed by all of them. In crayon."

...

A kid got stung twice by a bee during afternoon snack and within minutes her lips were swelling and her breathing had gone thin. Instinct kicked in and you were already calling for the epipen, already counting her breaths out loud so someone could time them and John was right there beside you, keeping her talking, keeping her looking at him instead of at the panic on everyone else's faces.

She was fine within the hour. Color back, breathing easy, sitting up demanding to know if she still got dessert. But it took a long time for your hands to stop feeling like they belonged to someone else.

That night, once the cabins had gone quiet and the last stubborn kid had finally stopped whisper arguing about ghost stories, you and John ended up at the fire pit behind the mess hall, the coals from the evening campfire.

"I keep thinking about her face." John said, staring into the coals. "Right before the epi kicked in. She looked so scared."

"I know."

"I wasn't, though." He said slowly, like something was dawning on him. "I thought I would be. I've never watched someone's throat close up, but still I wasn’t scared. I just wanted to fix it."

You poked at the fire with a stick. "Yeah. Me too."

He pulled his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, looking younger than you'd ever seen him look. "I don't think I ever thought I'd be good enough for something like that. Medicine, I mean. Actually doing it, not just talking about it at parties to sound impressive."

You looked back at him with a look of disbelief. John Shen getting vulnerable? And with you? 

"I'm serious. My whole life people have told me I'm smart, but not smart like someone should trust me with their kid's throat closing up." He huffed, not quite a laugh. 

"You know," you said, "I thought you were kind of an asshole when I met you."

"Excuse me?"

"In the library. Laughing at your phone like a maniac while I was trying to study." You knocked your shoulder against his. "And now look at us. Best friends."

John turned to look at you. "We are not best friends."

"We are absolutely best friends." You smiled and let your head drop sideways onto his shoulder. "We'd make amazing doctors." 

John was quiet for a second. You felt him nod, the idea was settling into a place inside him that hadn't existed before tonight. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, we would."

…

Now

The doorbell rang right as John was refilling both your glasses. "I am letting him in on this on a trial basis. He needs to pass the test."

You snorted into your spritz. "What test?"

John just shrugged, sipping his drink. "You'll see."

You both went to the door together and swung it open to find Jack standing in the hallway holding a plate of cookies and smiling like he had no idea what he was walking into.

John looked him up and down, assessing. Then, he produced a shirt from behind his back. "In order to come in you have to put this on."

Jack took it. Unfolded it. Looked back at the two of you, standing shoulder to shoulder, fully blocking the doorway. "Seriously?"

You both nodded. Neither of you moved.

Jack set the cookies down and pulled his own shirt off right there in the hall. "Woooooweee baby!!" you sang at him immediately, the alcohol coursing through your veins causing you to cat call your boyfriend with zero shame.

John gagged, shoving your shoulder with his own. 

Jack, ignoring both of you, pulled the new shirt over his head. Puffy pink letters stretched across his chest: I SURVIVED THE SISTER SLEEPOVER. He twisted to check the back in the hallway mirror, where smaller pink script added: ...barely.

He looked down at himself and then at you. You had stupidest grin on your face, absolutely delighted with yourself, and something about that expression got him, because he leaned in and kissed you, quick. "Cute." he said.

You giggled and stepped to the side, finally letting him through.

As he passed, John looked at him, wounded. "What? No kiss for me?"

Jack didn't even hesitate. He turned and planted a big, sloppy kiss right on John's cheek. "Oh yuck!!" John reeled back, scrubbing furiously at his face with the sleeve of his own ridiculous shirt. "Disgusting. I take it back. Get out."

"Too late." Jack said, already heading for the couch. "I'm in the club now."

...

Several drinks later, the opening chords of Dancing Queen kicked in over the TV speakers, and you and John were on your feet before the first line even hit.

John turned toward the couch mid verse, still singing, and beckoned Jack up with both hands, no room for negotiation.

Jack stood without a second of hesitation. Didn't need convincing, didn't need the bit about it being tradition, just got up and joined in, off key and completely unbothered by it, mangling the falsetto right along with John, and for the length of one entire ABBA song the three of you were, collectively, a menace to the neighbors and to good taste and to your own dignity, and none of you cared even a little.

When the song ended, John looked over at you, slightly out of breath, grinning. "He passed."

You didn't say anything. You just threw your arms around your best friend and held on tight. Your wonderful, ridiculous, impossible best friend, who you very much hoped you'd be spending every Friday night with for a long, long time to come.

[of-apollo]

₊⊹ THOSE WE LOVE !

PAIRING: Frank Langdon x GN!Nurse!Reader.

SUMMARY: Dealing with the fallout of a mass casualty is intense enough as it is. But, when a disgruntled patient fires at you, the department has to fight desperately to keep you alive even in the midst of chaos.

NOTES: Pittfest-based, accidental shooting, GSW and blood, medical settings (ICU), angst, established relationship.

REQUESTED BY: @maxinebxrnes

NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI

The sirens outside the Pitt had long since ceased to sound like individual vehicles, blending instead into a continuous, howling wall of noise that vibrated through the very soles of your sneakers. It was just past seven in the evening, but the concept of time had completely fractured three hours earlier when the first alerts of a mass shooting at Pittfest started flashing across the emergency department monitors.

The hospital wasn't just overrun. It was drowning in a deluge of torn flesh, muddy festival gear, and the raw, piercing panic of the young and the terrified.

You had been moving on pure adrenaline, your nursing scrubs already stained with a patchwork of fluids from half a dozen different patients, your hands working in a flawless, unspoken synchronicity with Frank. That was the thing about the two of you, even in the middle of a literal war zone, with the entire department tearing itself apart at the seams, Frank Langdon was your anchor. An established rhythm existed between you.

Right now, that rhythm was being tested to its absolute limit on a patient crammed into the makeshift overflow area near the ambulance bay. The man on the gurney was large, aggressive, and reeked of cheap bourbon and woodsmoke, his upper thigh torn open by a jagged piece of shrapnel or a ricochet from the festival grounds. He was thrashing, his eyes rolling back in his head as he roared obscenities, fighting the very hands trying to save his life.

Frank was leaning over him, his broad shoulders tensed as he applied heavy, two-handed pressure to the femoral artery, his face a mask of fierce, locked-in concentration. You were positioned just opposite him, your fingers deftly trying to establish a secondary IV in the man’s uninjured arm while the chaos of the ER swirled madly around you.

Just a few feet away, Dr. Abbot was shouting orders, his voice cracked with exhaustion as he directed a trauma team toward a crashing teenager. Dana was somewhere down the corridor, her authoritative tone echoing as she managed the triage nightmare at the front doors. Everyone was stretched to their absolute breaking point, operating on instinct and sheer willpower.

"I need that line running now!" Frank barked, not out of anger toward you, but to be heard over the deafening noise of a nearby heart monitor screaming and the desperate sobbing of a girl two bays down. "He's losing his pressure. We don't have time for him to be fighting us."

You nodded quickly, your voice calm and steady as you spoke to the thrashing man. You told him he was safe, told him that he was at the hospital and that Frank was going to fix his leg, but the words didn't seem to penetrate the thick fog of his intoxication and terror. The man gave a sudden, violent heave, his free arm flailing out wildly. His fingers clawed frantically at the heavy tactical waistband of his cargo trousers, diving beneath the blood-stained fabric of his shirt.

It happened in a terrifying, fragmented blur that defied the frantic speed of the room. You saw the dark glint of steel before your brain fully processed what it was, a compact handgun snagging on his belt as he yanked it free in a blind, paranoid reflex.

"Gun! He’s got a gun!" someone screamed from the corridor. It sounded like Robby, his voice cracking with a raw, primal panic that instantly silenced the immediate vicinity.

Time seemed to violently liquefy. Frank’s eyes widened, a sudden, horrifying comprehension dawning on his features as he instantly let go of the wound, lunging across the gurney in a desperate, instinctive attempt to smother the weapon or shield you. The patient fired blindly into the air, the deafening roar of the gunshot exploding inside the enclosed space, shattering a nearby fluorescent light fixture in a shower of sparks and white dust.

From down the hall, the immediate, instinctual response was instantaneous; voices shouted to get down, and a chorus of bodies hit the linoleum floor as medical staff and ambulatory patients dropped to seek whatever cover the flimsy privacy curtains and stainless-steel carts could provide.

But the man’s wrist snapped sideways as he recoiled, the weapon discharging a second time before Frank could pin his arm to the mattress.

There was no grand explosion of pain, just a sudden, violent impact against your ribs that felt like being struck full-force by a swinging baseball bat, knocking the breath entirely out of your lungs. The momentum threw you backward, your feet tangling in the stool behind you, and you went down hard against the cold, hard floor, the bag of saline you had been holding bursting against the metal leg of the gurney.

For a second, the world went completely silent, the ringing in your ears drowning out the screams, the shouting, and the heavy thud of security guards finally tackling the gunman to the ground just inches away from where you lay. You stared up at the cracked ceiling tiles, wondering vaguely why the air felt so thick, why it was suddenly so incredibly difficult to draw a single breath.

Then the silence shattered, and the world rushed back in with a terrifying, agonizing roar. Frank was on his knees beside you before you could even register that you were on the floor, his hands trembling in a way you had never seen before as they hovered over your chest. His face was entirely drained of colour, his lips parted in a silent gasp of horror that quickly transformed into a frantic, breathless plea. "No, no, no, please, God, no," he muttered, his voice stripped of all its usual authority, sounding entirely small and broken.

His palms came down hard against the left side of your upper abdomen, just beneath your ribs, and the sudden, searing agony that ripped through your torso made your back arch off the floor, a choked, ragged scream tearing from your throat. The fabric of your scrubs was already turning a deep, heavy crimson, the warmth of your own blood soaking through his fingers as he pressed down with everything he had.

The immediate area exploded into a frenzied, chaotic scrum of activity, but this time, the emergency was you. Robby was there in an instant, his face pale and eyes wide with shock as he dropped to his knees on your other side, "I’ve got the back, Frank, I’ve got the exit wound, keep pressing!" Robby yelled, his voice shaking as he tried to stabilize your writhing frame.

Jack appeared above you, his authoritative calm momentarily cracking as he took in the sight of one of his own nurses bleeding out on the floor. "Get a gurney over here now! Someone get me a chest tube tray and two units of O-negative!" Jack roared, his commands snapping the stunned onlookers into motion.

Samira was right behind him, her hands steady despite the visible tremor in her jaw as she ripped open a pack of trauma dressings, quickly tucking them under Frank’s straining hands. Dana was on the radio, her voice cutting through the hospital page with a sharp, trembling urgency, calling for an immediate surgical consult and clearing a path straight to the operating theatres.

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a wet, shallow gasp and the sound of it seemed to fracture something deep within him. "Stay with me, do you hear me? Look at me, sweetheart," he begged, leaning down so close that his sweat-dampened hair brushed against your forehead. His eyes were wild, swimming with tears that he refused to let fall. "Don't you dare close your eyes. You breathe for me, come on, just keep breathing."

The vulnerability in his voice was terrifying; this was a man who stared down death every single day without flinching, but looking at you, he looked utterly defeated, stripped entirely of his medical armor.

With a coordinated heave, Frank, Robby, and Jack lifted you off the blood-slicked floor and onto a clearing gurney, the sudden movement causing the agony in your chest to flare into a blinding, white-hot sheet of pain that threatened to turn the world completely black.

You gasped, your fingers clawing blindly at the air, and Frank instantly caught your hand in his own, his grip incredibly tight, almost crushing, yet it was the most comforting thing you had ever felt. He didn't let go, not even as Jack began cutting away the remnants of your ruined scrubs, exposing the neat, horrific puncture wound where the bullet had torn through your muscle and bone.

“Shit, this doesn’t sound good," Jack muttered, his stethoscope pressed firmly against your skin, his expression grim. "Dr. Mohan, give me that scalpel, we need to drop a tube now before they arrest."

"Frank," you whimpered, the word barely a whisper, your vision beginning to tunnel, the bright fluorescent lights of the ER fading into a hazy, shimmering blur.

"I'm right here, I’m not leaving you, I swear to God I’m right here," Frank cried, his voice breaking completely as he used his free hand to wipe the blood from your lip, his thumb caressing your cheek. He looked up at Jack, his eyes blazing with a mixture of terror and fury. "Do it fast, Jack, please, just do it fast."

You felt the sharp, sudden sting of the local anesthetic, followed almost immediately by the heavy, suffocating pressure of the chest tube being inserted between your ribs. It was an invasive, brutal sensation, a choked sob tearing from your throat as you tried to pull away from the pain.

Frank held you steady, his strong arm wrapping around your shoulders to keep you pinned to the mattress, his face pressed against the side of your neck as he whispered frantic, broken promises into your skin. "You're okay, you're doing so well, just hold onto me, sweetheart. I've got you."

As the tube found its mark, a dark, heavy rush of blood and trapped air hissed into the collection chamber, and suddenly, a massive, cooling relief washed through your lungs. You could breathe again, the suffocating weight lifted from your chest, even as the profound exhaustion of blood loss began to pull you down into the dark.

The gurney was suddenly in motion, rattling violently as it was pushed out of the trauma bay and down the long corridor toward the elevators. Dana was there at the doors, holding them open, her face pale as she reached out to briefly touch your leg, her voice fierce as she looked at the surgical team waiting for you. "Take care of them," she ordered, her tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.

Frank walked alongside the moving bed, his hand still locked in yours, his eyes on you, his thumb tracing endless, soothing circles against the back of your hand.

When they finally reached the double doors of the surgical suite, the anesthesia resident stepped in front of him, gently but firmly placing a hand on Frank's chest. "Frank, you need to stay here. We've got them, we're going to take care of them, I promise."

Frank stopped, his sneakers skidding slightly on the polished floor, his chest heaving as he fought the urge to push past the man. He looked down at you, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with a profound, terrifying helplessness, his grip loosening only when the momentum of the gurney forced your fingers to slide apart.

"I'll be right here," he called out, his voice echoing down the sterile hallway as the heavy doors began to swing shut, separating you from his sight. "Right here when you wake up. I love you, do you hear me? I love you!"

As the darkness finally took you, the smell of antiseptic and the bright, shadowless lights of the operating room fading into nothingness, the last thing you felt was the lingering warmth of his hand against your skin, and the steady, unbreakable promise of his voice.

Everything felt incredibly heavy, as though your limbs had been poured full of wet sand, and your throat was dry and parched, tasting of stale plastic from the oxygen cannula resting beneath your nose. For a long moment, you simply drifted in that twilight space, aware of a dull, throbbing ache radiating across the entire left side of your chest, a deep-seated soreness that flared into a sharp pinch every time you tried to take a deep breath.

But beneath that pain, and the overwhelming exhaustion pulling at your eyelids, there was a profound, grounding warmth enveloping your right hand.

Slowly, with an effort that felt almost monumental, you forced your eyes open. The harsh, chaotic glare of the emergency department was gone, replaced by the soft, dimmed shadows of a private recovery room in the intensive care unit. The blinds were drawn against the morning light, casting long, quiet bars of grey across the linoleum floor. And sitting right beside your mattress, his frame uncomfortably curled into a stiff hospital armchair, was Frank.

He looked entirely shattered. He was still wearing his scrub trousers, though he had swapped his blood-stained top for a faded, oversized grey university sweatshirt that looked as though it had been pulled from the bottom of his locker. His elbows were resting on the edge of your mattress, his face buried in the crook of his arm, his fingers tightly, desperately interlaced with yours.

As you shifted your weight slightly, trying to ease the pressure on your chest tube site, a soft, involuntary whimper escaped your lips. The sound was barely audible, but it acted like an electric shock to Frank. His head snapped up instantly, his eyes bloodshot, dark shadows bruising the skin beneath them. For a fraction of a second, his expression was blank with a raw, lingering terror, but as his gaze focused on your open eyes, his face cracked, a look of profound, overwhelming relief washing over his features.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice incredibly thick and hoarse, rough from hours of silence and unshed tears. He shifted instantly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a tenderness that made your chest ache for reasons completely unrelated to the bullet wound. "Hey, beautiful. Don't try to move too much, alright? You're okay. You're safe."

"Frank," you croaked, the word catching in your throat, sounding small and entirely broken.

"I'm here. I'm right here," he murmured, his touch lingering against your skin as if he needed the physical contact to completely convince himself that you were truly alive. He reached for a small plastic cup on the bedside table, dipping a pink foam swab into some ice water before gently pressing it against your cracked lips. "Just a little bit, sweetheart. Your throat's going to be sore from the ventilator, just let it sit there."

The cool moisture was an absolute blessing, and you closed your eyes for a moment, letting the relief wash over you. When you opened them again, you looked down at the heavy, white dressings taping the chest tube firmly to your ribs. The memory of the gunshot, the sudden, violent impact, and the terrifying sight of Frank kneeling over you in a pool of your own blood came rushing back with a vividness that caused your heart rate to spike on the monitor.

Frank noticed the rhythmic acceleration of the beeping instantly. "Hey, look at me, honey," he commanded softly, squeezing your hand a little tighter. "The guy's gone. Security took him down, police have him. The hospital is secure. You are out of danger, I promise you."

"You... you look terrible," you managed to whisper, a faint, weak attempt at a smile touching the corners of your lips.

A ragged, wet laugh spilled from his chest, his shoulders dropping as he leaned his forehead gently against your shoulder, his breathing heavy and uneven. "I have never been so terrified in my entire life," he confessed into the fabric of your hospital gown, his voice trembling in a way that made your throat tighten. "I’ve seen a lot of things in that department. A lot of blood, a lot of close calls. But when you went down... when I saw what that bastard did... I froze. My brain just stopped working because the only thing that mattered was that it was you."

You squeezed his hand back with what little strength you had, your heart swelling at the raw vulnerability in his tone. "You didn't freeze," you murmured softly. "You caught me. You held me."

"Because I couldn't let you go," he said, pulling back to look down at you, a single tear finally escaping and tracking down the rugged line of his jaw. "Robby, Jack, Samira... they all practically had to drag me out of the operating theatre doors. Dana sat with me in the hallway for four hours while you were under. She kept telling me to go home, to wash the blood off my clothes, but I couldn't leave this building knowing you were in there. Collins kept checking the surgical log every fifteen minutes just to give me updates. Everyone's been by, sweetheart. They’re all terrified for you, but they're all waiting to see you."

"Tell them thank you," you whispered, the exhaustion beginning to pull at your consciousness again, your eyelids growing heavier by the second as the hospital pain medication kept you drifting.

"I will. I'll tell them all," Frank murmured. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "You just rest now. I'm not going anywhere. I’ll be right here when you wake up again, and I’ll be here when we finally get to go home. I love you so much."

As the darkness drifted back in to claim you, softer this time, devoid of the terror and the pain of the ER, you let yourself sink into the mattress, completely enveloped by the steady, protective warmth of his presence and the quiet, reassuring beat of his heart right beside you.

— COME AND JOIN MY TAGLISTS !

ALL PITT MEN: @malindacath @superlegend216 @sapphire882 @challengers4ev @hazydespair @hallecarey1 @teenwolfbitches28 @imabapical @sleepylunarwolf @lacy1986 @thehockeynerd30 @teardropcup @staygoldsquatchling02 @typicalkhani @ibleednavyandorange @cozyvanillacashmere @amacphet @hellsxbellsx @alexxavicry

FRANK LANGDON: @lastwandastan @marvelsbipolarnerd @abbotaes

[sunshinehoneyyy]

risky and you hit send (smau) | brendon park x sunshine!ERdoctor!reader | pt. 5

in which you get reminded of how much empathy brendon lacks

a/n: IM SORRY IN ADVANCE i know u love these two bec they're funny and entertaining but i want to show that they're still getting to know each other and getting used to having the other in their lives! so this chapter is Needed to move the story forward <3

cw: reader makes a kms joke, brendon is rude, i mean not really but reader takes his comment personally, slight angst

pt. 4 | next

a/n2: i used a different app and will be sticking with that so im sorry for the changes! i appreciate everyone reading and loving the two, especially those who leave lovely comments and reblogs i swear they make my day :c thank you thank you!!!

taglist: @alphabetically-deranged @novausstuff @mel164 @hazydespair @xsoupnoop @outpostsworld @daddyrafeslittleslut @imcool77 @little-dollygirl @ineedaaronhotchner @butarealgoodtime @homeslices @thesunxwentblack @letstryagaintomorrow @lillianarosethorns @pinkpantheressluver @ibeliveinunicornsandmagic @ajeff855 @angel-kisses15 @dianaxx99 @heartz4chucky @violatedvibrators @uncertainblissss @aizawaslefteye1 @elizamoe133 @coolvoidfire @gf4lwt @cloudyparadoxqueen @barcelonaaababe @lospy41 @mira-xx @abschaffer2 @cami28hucklerabbot @destiel-addict-forever-blog @roastyyytoastyyy @emeraldraptorsworld @put-the-t-in-rrt @jor-jor-wel @shak1ra124

divider credits: @angeliicide

[sleepingbeautiiies]

When Did You Get So Hot? - Animal Kingdom SMAU - PT. 46

+18 MDNI

pt. 45 / pt. 47

summary: family dinner with the cody's. dun dun DUN.

content: pope cody x fem!reader, age gap (reader is around deran's age), lewd conversations. VIOLENCE. a fork being used as a weapon. reader goes feral. VERBAL ABUSE (?) - reader receives and dishes out. smurf is a warning on her own. so is baz. making out. craig having ZERO table manners. mentions of prostitution. mormons. brief talk of pregnancy. brief mentions of incest. pope would kill for reader. reader would kill for pope.

a/n: this was a BEAST. literally thought this chapter was gonna kill me but we made it. 🫡 also! au where craig doesn't have a kid. I HOPE IT HITS!!!!! - taglist is closed!

────﹒♡﹒────

“We can still leave.” 

You look over at Pope; his brow furrowed and concern written all over his face. 

“Andy, babe, it’s gonna be fine.” you say, rubbing soothing circles on his bicep. “If things get weird, we’ll dip.” you shrug. 

Pope huffs. “So we’ll walk in and then immediately walk out?” he jokes.

You snort out a laugh, slapping his arm. Pope shoots you a lopsided smile.

“C’mon, let’s go.” you say, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. Heading into the arena (aka the Cody house) hand in hand.  

You’re walking through the house when all of a sudden, you hear this agitating, grating voice call to you from the kitchen. 

“In here you two!” Smurf yells. 

You feel Pope tense next to you as you make your way into the kitchen. Smurf greets him with a hug first, barely acknowledging you. 

“Hi, baby.” she says, kissing the corner of his mouth. Smurf turns to you with a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes. “So nice to see you again, Y/N.” her tone bored, giving you a brief hug, fingers digging tightly into your arms. 

“You want some wine?... If Cath hasn’t drank the whole bottle.” Smurf laughs, turning back to the pot of pasta sauce boiling on the stove. Cath bristles, lazily chopping a carrot. 

“Hey Cath!” you say brightly, giving her a little wave. She smiles back, relaxing slightly at your presence. “I’d love a glass of white.” you request, keeping your tone even. 

Smurf gives you a tight smile, her patience with you already waning. Before she can bark out an order, you quickly turn to Pope, giving him a sweet smile. 

“Babe, would you get me a glass?” you say, batting your eyelashes at him. 

“Sure, sweetie.” he mumbles gruffly, giving your hand a squeeze before moving through the kitchen. 

Smurf looks you up and down, sizing you up. You meet her gaze head on, not shying away. Leaving you both in a silent standoff. Cath has abandoned the carrot, staring between you two with a mixture of worry and amusement. 

Pope returns to your side, handing you the glass. Noting the tension but saying nothing. 

“Thanks, Andy.” you smile, wiping away where Smurf kissed him and planting a sensual kiss on Pope’s lips. 

You see Smurf tense, but her fake smile stays plastered on her face. 

“Need any help, Smurf?” you ask, tone sweet but with a sharp edge to it. 

“No, Cath and I’ve got it. You don’t seem like the kind of girl who likes to get her hands dirty.” she says it lightly, but there’s an undercurrent of ridicule behind it. 

You let out an obviously fake laugh, narrowing your eyes at her. 

“C’mon babe, let’s go sit.” you say, gripping Pope’s arm tightly in your perfectly manicured hand. 

You give Cath a wink and a smirk as you leave the kitchen and head to the living room to sit with the rest of the family. 

────﹒♡﹒────

Deran and Craig are already giving you side eye as you walk in, both wondering what you’ve got planned. 

“Idiots.” you nod to them both, before turning to Baz and J.

 “J, good to see you.” you smile. He gives you a simple nod in response. “Barry.” you say flatly, not bothering to look at him as you guide Pope down on the couch, next to Deran. 

You settle yourself right on his lap, nestling comfortably against him. He gives a surprised look but quickly grips onto your hip, holding you close to him. You can feel the heat of Baz’s stare looking up and down your body. You ignore him, focusing your attention on Craig. 

“So… what’s happening in the ghost hunting world.” 

“Alright so they’re in an old hotel, fuck ton of spirits. One of em’ is a 12 year old boy named Radcliffe. He’s from the civil war, I guess. I think-”

You’ve already stopped listening, your eyes glazing over. Craig’s making punching motions with his fist, saying something about being able to take Radcliffe. 

Pope chuckles under you, making your eyes shoot over to him. He’s staring at you with a warmth in his eyes that’s only reserved for you. You quirk a smile at him, cocking an eyebrow. You take a hearty gulp of wine, a drop dripping from your mouth and down your chin. Pope catches it with his thumb, bringing the drop to his mouth. Sucking it off his thumb. 

You giggle, leaning in to give Pope a light kiss. 

A harsh gagging sound breaks you from yours and Pope’s bubble. 

“Yo! You two are fucking nasty.” Deran groans. 

“Oh my god, chill. We’re kissing.” you roll your eyes. 

“Craig! Come in here and help me with the garlic bread!” Smurf calls from the kitchen. Craig groans, dragging himself from the couch. 

“Dude, you better wash your hands. I’m not missing out on garlic bread cause’ you got your unwashed ballsack hands all over it.” Deran complains. 

“I second that motion!” you pipe up. 

“M’ gonna wash my hands.” Craig says, offended. “Do you guys think I’m an animal or somethin’?” 

You and Deran answer “yes” at the same time. Both of you turning to each other with a laugh, and high fiving. 

Craig mumbles “fuck you guys” under his breath as he stumbles out of the living room. Cath passes him, settling in next to Baz. You give each other knowing looks. 

Cath snorts out a laugh, earning stares from the rest of the room. You giggle behind your wine glass. Pope raises an eyebrow but you just shake your.

Cath lets out another chuckle, shaking her head at you. You wink at her and finish off your glass of wine and move to stand up. 

“I’m gonna get a refill.” 

Pope almost doesn’t let you up, gripping you tighter against him. You kiss his cheek and he releases you, reluctantly. He gives you his hand, helping you stand up. 

“Thanks honeybee.” you smile, giving his hand a rub. 

“Honeybee?” Deran snorts. 

“I don’t need your toxic energy right now Deran.” you say, giving a ‘talk to the hand’ gesture as you walk past. 

You head into the kitchen, bracing yourself for whatever bullshit Smurf’s gonna throw your way. Thankfully, she’s setting the table. Craig’s digging into a jar from the fridge. 

“Dude, what are you doing?” you ask, grabbing the bottle of wine and refilling your glass. 

“Hungry. Wanted a snack.” Craig mumbles around a mouthful of…

“Bro no way you’re raw dogging pickled jalapeños right now?” you snort. 

Craig shrugs and shoves a couple more slices into his mouth, sucking his fingers clean. 

“Oh hey…. You find Ferretuccine yet?” you whisper conspiratorially. 

“No.” Craig sighs dejectedly. “He’s living in the walls now. Found a hole Smurf don’t know about. Been leaving food for him. I hear him rustling sometimes, so at least he’s still alive?” 

“What are you two whispering about?” Smurf says, annoyed. 

“Nothing.” you both say simultaneously. 

Smurf gives you both a narrowed glare, shaking her head. Moving about the kitchen. 

“Dinner’s gonna be ready soon.” Smurf says coldly, giving you a judgemental look up and down. “Y/N, go get my boys.” she turns away from you, her tone possessive. 

You hum, taking another gulp of wine. This is going to be… interesting. 

────﹒♡﹒────

You’re all seated around the dining table, the sounds of casual conversation and clinking utensils filling the room. Smurf’s at the head of the table, watching you carefully. Baz is next to her, trying to talk business, with Cath bored out of her mind next to him. J’s on Smurf’s other side, picking at his food and texting under the table. You’re in the middle, between J and Pope. Craig and Deran seated across from you. 

Pope hasn’t moved his hand from your thigh since you sat down. You’ve never seen him more tense than he is right now. He’s barely eating, his eyes flickering between you and Smurf. 

Craig’s shoveling forkful after forkful of pasta in his mouth. Deran’s watching him in disgust, like a car crash you can’t look away from. 

“Craig, no one’s gonna take it from you.” you mock, picking at the piece of garlic bread on your plate. 

Craig takes another huge forkful out of spite and flips you off. 

“So Y/N, how long have you and Andrew been together now?” Smurf asks, studying you. 

You take a long sip of wine, making her wait. Pope’s staring her down, waiting for when she might strike. 

“Oh… It’s been what, babe?” you turn to Pope in mock wonder. “5-ish months?” you look back over at Smurf with a smile that’s anything but sweet. 

Craig snorts. 

You glare at him. 

“What? You’re acting like you don’t keep track down to the day.” Craig shrugs. 

Deran kicks him in the shin. Mumbling at him to “shut the fuck up”. 

“Craig, don’t be a weasel.” you glare, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Right… sorry. Shutting up.” He mumbles, stuffing an entire piece of garlic bread into his mouth. 

“Down to the day, huh?” Baz scoffs. 

You can feel your eye start to twitch. 

“Okay fine. 5 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days.” you say matter of factly. 

“Cute.” Smurf chuckles, continuing to size you up. 

Cath tries to steer the conversation toward neutral territory, something about renovations on their house. You give her a thankful look. 

Smurf doesn’t budge. 

“Over 5 months and Andrew’s just now bringing you around for a family dinner?” she says thoughtfully. “I thought you said it was serious?” 

“Oh it is!” you correct, smile tight and fake. “I guess I’ve just been… keeping him busy.” you smirk at her, letting the insinuation land. Pope’s grip on your thigh tightens. 

Smurf’s jaw ticks, narrowing her eyes at you. 

The room has gone quiet, except for Craig's scarfing. 

You take another deep gulp of wine, trying to steady yourself. 

“Smurf, what’s with all the questions?’ Deran says, breaking the silence. 

She shoots Deran a look that has him clearing his throat and looking back down at his plate. 

“Just wanting to get…. reacquainted with Y/N. As Andrew’s… girlfriend-.” she says girlfriend like it’s a bad taste in her mouth. “Not just yours and Craig’s little groupie.” 

“Smurf…” Pope warns. 

Deran and Craig are looking between the three of you like this is a tennis match. 

You grip your fork tightly, considering jamming it right in Smurf’s eye. Pope rubs soothing circles on your thigh, reminding you that you’re not alone in this. 

“Groupie? Do you mean a ‘friend’?” you joke. “I know you don’t have any of those that aren’t either blackmailed or bought, so it must be confusing.” you say with mock sympathy. 

Everyone at the table freezes. Deran and Craig are looking at you like you’ve grown a second head. Cath lightly gasps, her eyes going wide. 

Smurf bristles, putting her wine glass down. 

“Hmm… funny.” Smurf says, leaning back. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what’s your going rate?” 

You furrow your brow, tilting your head slightly. 

“Your work.” Smurf says, like it’s obvious. “Do you have any other clients or is it just my son paying you to spread your legs?” 

You can’t help the shocked laugh that bubbles from your throat. 

The table falls dead silent for a moment before erupting into chaos. 

Deran and Craig both protesting, asking Smurf “what the fuck.” You can feel the anger radiating off Pope, his hands now flat on the table. He’s staring at Smurf like he might rip her head off. 

“Smurf…” Pope warns, voice coming out in a growl. 

“What?” Smurf asks innocently. 

Pope just stares her down, eyes full of hatred. It catches Smurf off guard for a moment before she’s able to replace her mask of cool indifference. 

“This tracks…” you mumble, rolling your eyes. 

“What tracks?” Smurf asks. 

“You being way too interested in where your son sticks his dick. It tracks.” you shrug, not breaking eye contact. 

“Y/N, please don’t.” Deran groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“What are you implying?” Smurf asks, leaning forward in her chair.

“I think you know exactly what I’m implying.” you say, a laugh escaping. 

Smurf is speechless. Actually speechless. Her eyes go wide, full of fire. 

“You disgusting little-“ 

You hold your hands up in surrender. 

“Hey, you’re the one who’s always macking on her adult sons.” you say. 

“Listen here you little bimbo-“ 

“Oh my god! I’m so sick of your monologuing, you fucking cunt-“ 

Pope slams his palms down on the table hard, making everyone jump. 

“Enough.” he commands harshly. 

“Andrew-“ Smurf starts. 

“No Smurf. I said enough.” Pope grunts. “You will not talk to her that way.” His eyes never leaving Smurfs. 

“Talk to her that way?! This little slut just called me a cunt!” 

You scoff. Rolling your eyes and crossing your arms. 

“I don’t care. You started it. I’m finishing it.” Pope says. “Y/N is mine. No one talks to her that way.” He clenches his fists and his jaw. “No. One.” 

Smurf is silent, reassessing her son. Her eyes cloud with several different emotions; anger, shock, fear. 

Her and Pope are still in a standoff when Baz laughs into his beer, earning a jab in the ribs from Cath. 

“I know your ass isn’t laughing right now.” you warn, shooting Baz daggers. 

Baz shrugs with a smug smirk. 

“No seriously, Y/N. Is he paying you? Cause that would make him pulling you make way more sense.” Baz asks. 

“Baz, I swear to god.” Cath grumbles, covering her face with her hands. 

“Excuse me?” you ask darkly, squeezing your hands into fists. 

“Y/N… chill.” Deran says carefully. “He’s not worth it.” 

Baz chuckles, leaning back and putting his hands up in surrender. 

“I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Pope’s a freak, he’d have to pay a chick to put up with him.” Baz laughs.

“Baz, that’s enough-“ Smurf starts 

You don’t let her finish. You’re already flying out of your chair, knocking it to the ground behind you. You grip your fork and lunge across the table at Baz.

“I will fucking gut you, you shrimp dick motherfucker.” you growl, jabbing your fork in his direction. 

Pope wraps his arms around you quickly, holding you against his chest. Deran is up and trying to take the fork from you. Craig is cheering you on, clapping and whooping. J is staring between you and Baz in shocked silence. Cath is trying to mediate, without much success. And Smurf is watching you, shocked, with her eyebrows up to her hairline. 

“Let me go, Andrew!” you grunt, trying to free yourself from Pope’s grip.

Baz is backing away from you with his hands up and his brows furrowed. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Baz shouts.

“Choke and die.” you say simply.

Deran is able to pry the fork from your vice like grip, letting it clatter to the floor. 

“Y/N, calm down.” Pope mumbles into your ear, still hugging you to his chest.

“No! I’m not gonna let this sack of shit talk about you like that.” 

“Get her out of here before she destroys my dining room.” Smurf yells, watching you like you’re a live grenade. 

“Craig.” Pope motions to you with his head. “Take her outside.” 

Craig hesitates briefly, before coming around the table and throwing you over his shoulder. 

“Oh put me down you big doofus.” you complain, slapping at Craig’s back. You pass Baz and Cath on your way out. “Baz… when I get my hands on you…” you warn, looking at him with complete disgust and hatred. 

You’re spewing insults at Baz, “cocksucker” and “manwhore”, as Craig carries you out of the house and to Pope’s truck. 

“Craig put me down already.” you huff, pushing at his back. 

“You promise you’re gonna be chill?” Craig questions.

“Sure, whatever.” you grumble, rolling your eyes. 

Craig groans, pulling open the passenger side of Pope’s truck and depositing you into the front seat. You cross your arms over your chest, glaring towards the house. 

“Dude…” Craig starts “That was fucking awesome.” he laughs, sticking out his fist for a fist bump. 

You stare at him for a moment, trying to fight a smile, before rolling your eyes and giving in. Bumping your fists. You sit in silence like that for a minute before you groan in realization. 

“Smurf is totally banning me from the house now…” you pout, slumping in your seat. “There goes my pool time.” you grumble. Craig chuckles and ruffles your hair. 

Movement near the front door catches your eye; Cath and Baz are headed towards their car. Baz is avoiding looking your way, moving quickly as Cath angrily berates him. She looks over to you and nods. 

“Sorry Cath!” you say, cringing at the fact that she was caught in the middle of that.

Baz scoffs, throwing open his door. “Get in the car, Catherine.” 

Cath turns to you.

 “I’ll text you.” she says softly, giving you a small smile, before joining Baz in the car.

He wastes no time, pulling out of the driveway quickly and driving off. You flip off the car as it goes, shaking your head. 

Craig lets out a low whistle, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Can you go see what’s taking Andrew so long?” you ask. 

“Yeah sure thing, dudette.” Craig nods, giving you an awkward pat on the knee before heading off back to the house. 

Tossing your phone on the center console, you watch Pope stalk towards you. He doesn’t say a word as he stands in front of you and buries his head in your chest, taking deep breaths. 

“Andy… I’m so sorry…” you say, your voice small and vulnerable. 

Pope doesn’t speak, just grips your waist tightly and groans. He doesn’t look at you as he pulls away and gets you settled in your seat, buckling you in and closing the door. You watch him cross in front of the truck, rubbing a hand down his face in frustration. 

He still doesn’t say anything to you when he gets in the car. Or when he pulls out and heads towards your apartment. You’re halfway to your place when you finally break the silence.

“Andrew. I really am so sorry. I shouldn’t have-” 

“You’re fine.” Pope grunts, keeping his focus on the road. 

“Andrew-” 

“Sweetheart. Drop it.” 

“We need to talk about what happened.” 

“Later.” he says, pulling into your complex. 

“But-” you whine lightly. 

“No.” he says, a finality in his tone. 

The intensity in his eyes tells you not to argue. You just nod, looking down at your hands in your lap. 

You can’t help but worry that the family dinner from hell ruined things. That you ruined things. 

────﹒♡﹒────

────﹒♡﹒────

You toss your phone on your bed and finish getting unready. Sliding on your pink, silk pajamas. Making your way out of your bedroom, you spot Pope sitting on the couch; his head in his hands. Padding your way to him, you clear your throat. Pope shoots his head up, dropping his arms to his sides. You plop down onto his lap and lock your arms around his neck. 

“Okay first things first.” you start, meeting his stormy eyes. “I’m sorry for calling your mom a cunt and trying to murder Baz at the dinner table.” 

Pope huffs, shaking his head. “Sweetheart…” 

“No. Let me finish.” you cut him off. “Second. Deran told me what went down after I left… I love you so so so much for defending my honor against Smurf. You are the sweetest, most amazing boyfriend anyone could EVER ask for.” you say, kissing him sweetly on the lips. 

Pope chases your mouth as you pull away. His eyes are glossy and a red flush across his cheeks. 

“And finally… Baz is a fucking moron.” you say, rolling your eyes. “We haven’t talked about it but… I want you to know I see a future with you. The whole white picket fence thing…” you say shyly, voice small and vulnerable. 

“Really?” Pope questions, voice coming out hoarse.

You giggle and nod your head. “I mean- I am so not ready to be a mom.” you laugh. “But eventually… I would love to have a baby with you.” you whisper. Kissing him again, slower and sensually. 

Pope whimpers into the kiss, holding onto you like a life preserver. You quickly find your rhythm, the kiss turning open mouthed and sloppy. Your tongues exploring each other's mouths. You whine into the kiss, feeling him harden underneath you. 

He reluctantly pulls away, resting his forehead against yours. 

“You really mean that?” he asks, his voice full of hope and longing. 

You nod at him with a shy smile. Hugging him tightly.

“Come to bed Andy…” you say breathlessly. Your lips are swollen from the kissing, eyes hooded, and face flushed. 

He growls and scoops you up in his arms, hauling you to the bedroom. A giddy shriek leaving your lips. You hold on tight, looking up at him like he hung the moon. 

────﹒♡﹒────

୨୧ taglist: @gaypoetsblog @17th-sector @edynmeyer1 @fortjackson @tulipbreeze @cardcaptorrin @jeshomie @10ava01 @sunbonesss @ilikebeingdelulu @missykoaladelulu @caridundermifflin @pagingmrsabbot @supernaturalsuperhero @whore4fictionalmen19 @mentallyilldarling @frankiebeeslyshouse @wylewhims @themoviefangirl-blog @bearymuchso @killora1708 @kaorisakamotofan @stevesaint-eve @stoptheinnocence @oddin4ry @aurora-pandora626 @1dhoe93 @sivanstreasure @tatoda @virgoalert123 @stylesonlyangel4 @nateisblue @joelmillersbabygirll @dumbbandpoetic @changbinsrightboob @starsmoonn @kneelforloki @loonyperhapslupin @angelbunny222 @eugene-emt-roe @poemfreak306 @sirens-and-moonflowers @uncertainblissss @vanillafan6 @harrystylesfourthnipple924 @hazydespair @bruhitsmoose @mythologicallyversed @honk4emoboyz @callmefatherr

[buttermellow-niffler]

The Pitt | Kids These Days

This fic exists because Robby said "kids these days" in S1 E6, and my brain immediately went, "What if someone at The Pitt spoke exclusively in Gen Z slang?" The answer, apparently, is absolute workplace chaos.

warnings: crack treated seriously, canon-typical medical emergencies, mass casualty event, hospital setting, emergency medicine procedures and injuries, lots of Gen Z slang and internet brainrot, Abbot just wants to be cool, workplace chaos, everyone gets bullied equally, reader is an absolute menace (affectionate), accidental emotional support through comedy, established cast dynamics, no use of reader pronouns, not beta read, I know nothing medical related, I might be wrong with everything medical related

This is a work of fanfiction based on The Pitt. I do not own The Pitt or any related characters or settings; all original material belongs to their respective creators.

The first thing anyone learned about you was that you were brilliant.

Annoyingly brilliant, depending on who was asked.

At twenty years old, you were the kind of medical student who made attendings pause mid-sentence because you had already reached the conclusion they were trying to guide you toward. You remembered obscure presentations, drug interactions, abnormal lab patterns, and the exact difference between “unlikely but possible” and “statistically improbable but still worth ruling out.” You could walk into a room, listen to a patient describe their symptoms for thirty seconds, and somehow ask the one question that made everyone else go still because, irritatingly, impossibly, it was the right one.

The second thing everyone learned about you was that you were a menace.

Not in a dangerous or in an incompetent way. Robby would have kicked you out of his emergency department within the hour if you were either of those things. No, your particular brand of menace came wrapped in big eyes, an innocent expression, and the kind of unhinged Gen Z vocabulary that made half the staff feel like they were being actively aged by exposure.

You had been at the Pitt for less than two months before Santos started calling you “the prodigy gremlin,” which was unfair only because she said it like you weren’t proud of it.

You were very proud of it.

Especially today.

Today, the emergency department was already groaning under the weight of a bad morning when the call came in. A bus had clipped the median on an icy stretch near an overpass and caused a multi-vehicle collision that sprawled across three lanes of traffic. Initial reports were messy, the way they always were in the first few minutes of a disaster. Multiple injuries. Entrapments. Possible ejections. At least one paediatric patient. EMS was still triaging on scene, but they were already warning hospitals in the area to prepare for overflow.

Robby stood at the center of the department as the air changed around him.

It happened quickly, that shift from ordinary chaos into organized crisis. Dana’s voice cut through the noise at the nurses’ station, assigning beds, clearing rooms, moving patients who could be moved and snapping at anyone who looked like they were waiting for permission to be useful. Robby started calling out roles before the first ambulance even arrived, eyes sharp, posture squared, his entire body seeming to settle into the shape of command. Collins moved with grim efficiency. Langdon grabbed a tablet. Mohan started checking available trauma bays. Mel’s expression closed into focus, all soft edges vanishing as she turned toward the work that needed doing. McKay was already tying her hair back, irritation and readiness blending into one sharp line across her face.

Then someone announced that night shift was being held over.

A collective groan rose from somewhere near the nurse station.

Jack appeared with a coffee in hand and the expression of a man who had spiritually clocked out six hours ago and was now being dragged back into the narrative against his will. Ellis followed him, already annoyed, jaw tight, eyes scanning the board like it had personally insulted her. Shen came in a moment later with his usual calm, looking like he had accepted the cruelty of the universe and planned to chart it appropriately.

Brendan, who everyone still called Park the Shark when he was out of earshot and sometimes when he wasn’t, appeared from ortho with a surgical cap still shoved half into his pocket.

“Tell me this isn’t as bad as it sounds,” he said.

Dana looked up from the board. “It’s worse.”

Brendan shut his mouth.

You, standing beside Whitaker with a fresh pair of gloves tucked into your pocket, watched all of them arrive like reinforcements in a war movie and felt something bright and terrible spark in your chest.

A captive audience. A stressed captive audience. A stressed captive audience containing several people over the age of forty.

Perfect.

Whitaker noticed your expression and immediately narrowed his eyes. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you just had an idea.”

“I have many ideas.”

“That’s what scares me.”

You gave him your sweetest smile, the one that made Santos once say you looked like a raccoon about to commit tax fraud. “Relax, Dennis.”

“No.”

“Lowkey, you worry too much.”

Whitaker’s face tightened. “See, that. That’s what I mean. I don’t know what percentage of your sentences are threats.”

“Skill issue.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, defeated before the day had even properly begun.

The first ambulance arrived three minutes later, and whatever mischief had been gathering behind your eyes vanished so cleanly that anyone who hadn’t known you would never have believed it had been there at all. The bay doors opened, cold air rushed in, and EMS rolled in a teenage girl strapped to a backboard, blood matting the hair near her temple, one leg splinted, oxygen mask fogging with shallow breaths. Robby stepped in at once, voice steady, asking for vitals, mechanism, interventions done en route. You moved when Dana pointed you toward Trauma Two, falling into place beside Mel and Collins as EMS rattled off the report.

“Seventeen-year-old female, restrained passenger, significant intrusion on passenger side, brief loss of consciousness on scene, GCS thirteen, BP ninety-two over sixty, heart rate one-thirty, obvious deformity to right femur, abdominal tenderness, FAST not done, two large-bore IVs established.”

“On my count,” Collins said, and everyone moved together.

One, two, three.

The patient shifted from stretcher to bed, monitors connected, clothes cut away, warm blankets pulled up as much as possible while still allowing access. You stood near the foot of the bed, hands moving before your brain had to command them, helping expose the injured leg, checking pulses, noting the rotation, the shortening, the swelling that already made the skin look too tight. Mel called out vitals. Collins ordered blood. Dana pushed someone toward the warmer. Robby stepped in briefly, eyes sweeping the room.

“What do you have?” he asked.

You answered before anyone else could. “Likely femur fracture with hypotension concerning for haemorrhage, plus abdominal tenderness after high-speed impact. Distal pulse present but weak. We need pelvic binder considered if instability worsens, type and cross, trauma labs, FAST, pain control, ortho consult, and imaging once stable.”

For half a second, Robby’s gaze landed on you.

Then he nodded. “Good. Keep going.”

You did not say anything.

You did not say anything because there was a bleeding teenage girl on the bed and you were, contrary to popular belief, capable of behaving like a normal human being when it mattered.

But when the FAST came back negative, when the blood pressure responded to fluids and the first unit of blood, when Brendan arrived and took one look at the leg before muttering that, yes, obviously ortho was involved now, and when the room settled into the controlled rhythm of a patient who was not okay but was no longer actively trying to die in front of you, you finally let yourself breathe.

Brendan finished assessing the leg, his hands careful despite the irritation permanently stamped onto his face. “We’ll need traction films and then she’s going upstairs. This isn’t staying down here.”

You nodded solemnly. “You ate that.”

The room went quiet in a way that no medical emergency had managed to achieve.

Brendan slowly looked up. “I what?”

“You ate.”

His eyes shifted to Collins, then to Mel, then back to you. “Is that…medical?”

“No.”

“Is it bad?”

“No.”

“Then why did you say it like that?”

“Because you did.”

Mel’s mouth twitched.

Collins turned away with a cough that was very obviously not a cough.

Brendan stared at you for another beat, decided he did not have the time, energy, or spiritual resilience to investigate further, and looked back at the patient’s leg. “I hate this place.”

You leaned slightly toward Mel and whispered, “Park the Shark is giving confused.”

Mel did not look at you. “Please don’t make me laugh in front of the femur fracture.”

“Valid.”

Across the room, Dana saw the entire exchange and made the mistake of smiling.

That made her next.

You waited until the patient was transported to imaging, until the bed was stripped and reset, until Dana swept through the bay with clean efficiency, barking at Whitaker to stop standing in the doorway like a decorative plant and actually restock gloves if he wanted to be helpful. She moved with the kind of terrifying competence that made the entire department bend around her. A family member appeared at the desk demanding information, a monitor started shrieking in Trauma Three, and someone dropped a tray of instruments with a crash that made three people flinch. Dana handled all of it without so much as blinking.

You watched her redirect two nurses, answer a question from Robby, locate a missing portable ultrasound, and scare an intern into moving faster using only one eyebrow.

When she passed you, you pressed a hand to your chest. “Queen behaviour.”

Dana stopped.

Very slowly, she turned her head.

“What?”

“Queen behaviour,” you repeated, reverent.

Dana looked at Robby. “Am I being insulted?”

Robby, who was signing something on a clipboard, did not look up. “Probably.”

“I’m complimenting you,” you said.

Dana’s eyes narrowed. “That makes me trust it less.”

“You slayed the house down.”

Whitaker, who had been restocking gloves exactly as ordered, made a strangled noise.

Dana’s stare sharpened. “I’m sorry, I what?”

You smiled. “Nothing.”

“No, say it again.”

“I value my life.”

“Smart kid.”

“Thank you, queen.”

Dana pointed at you as she backed out of the trauma bay. “Thin ice.”

The second she was gone, Whitaker collapsed against the cabinet, one hand over his mouth. “You’re going to get us killed.”

“Us?”

“I’m associated with you against my will.”

“Bestie, that’s so sad.”

“I am begging you to stop calling me things.”

You patted his arm.

He stared at the ceiling. “I’m not built for this.”

By the time the third and fourth ambulances arrived, the department had tipped fully into disaster mode. The noise became a living thing, pressing against the walls, filling every corner with alarms, voices, wheels, footsteps, orders, pain. Patients came in waves: a middle-aged man with chest trauma from the steering wheel; an older woman with a scalp laceration that bled dramatically but blessedly less dangerously than it looked; a child with a fractured wrist and eyes too wide for his face; a driver with glass embedded along one cheek and a blood pressure that made everyone in the room stand straighter.

You were assigned where you were needed, which meant everywhere.

One minute you were helping Santos keep pressure on a wound while Robby placed a chest tube, the next you were pulling up medication dosing for Javadi, then running labs, then helping Mateo move a patient, then answering a question from McKay before she had finished asking it.

You were good.

Infuriatingly good.

Even Parker Ellis, who looked as though compliments physically pained her, seemed forced to acknowledge it when you correctly flagged a possible compartment syndrome developing in a patient whose forearm had been crushed between two vehicles.

Parker swept in with Brendan, irritation sharpening into focus as she assessed the limb. The patient was pale, sweating, trying not to cry as his arm swelled against the splint. You gave the history cleanly, noting pain out of proportion, increasing paraesthesia, tense compartments, and preserved but concerning pulses. Brendan’s face changed immediately. Parker’s did too.

“Good catch,” Parker said, briskly, already reaching for the next step.

You blinked at her.

Parker made the mistake of noticing. “What?”

“I’m processing.”

“Process faster.”

“You complimented me.”

“I acknowledged a clinical observation.”

“Mother is mothering.”

Parker froze.

Brendan, beside her, closed his eyes like he had just developed a migraine behind both temples.

Parker turned to you, slowly. “Do not call me that.”

“Understood.”

“Do not explain it either.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

“You lowkey ate, though.”

Parker inhaled through her nose.

Brendan muttered, “I don’t know what that means, but I feel attacked on your behalf.”

“You should,” Parker said.

You grinned.

Parker pointed a gloved finger at you. “No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I don’t need proof. I have instincts.”

“Your instincts are giving paranoia.”

Parker stared at you for one long, dangerous second before turning back to the patient. “I want them off my service.”

“I’m not on your service.”

“Then I want them farther away from me spiritually.”

From the doorway, Ahmed the security guard leaned in just enough to observe the aftermath. He had been posted near the ambulance entrance since the first combative patient of the morning tried to swing at Mateo, but he had somehow managed to appear wherever the funniest thing was happening, which told you that security work had given him either incredible situational awareness or a deep appreciation for workplace chaos.

Possibly both.

He looked at Parker’s expression, then at your delighted one, then at Whitaker absolutely failing to pretend he had not been listening from the hall.

Ahmed’s eyes narrowed with interest.

Fifteen minutes later, during the first true lull anyone had seen since the mass casualty began, you found him near the security desk with a folded piece of paper and a pen.

Whitaker stood in front of him.

“So ten on Robby?” Ahmed asked.

Whitaker nodded gravely. “He’s already halfway there.”

Ahmed wrote it down.

You stopped walking.

Whitaker stiffened.

Ahmed did not.

“What is this?” you asked.

“Nothing,” Whitaker said too quickly.

Ahmed looked up at you calmly. “Morale initiative.”

Your eyes dropped to the paper.

There were names.

Robby. Dana. Ellis. Brendan. Jack. Shen. McKay.

Beside each name were dollar amounts.

You gasped.

“Is this a betting pool?”

“No,” Whitaker said.

“Yes,” Ahmed said at the same time.

Whitaker turned to him. “Dude.”

Ahmed shrugged. “She was going to find out.”

You stepped closer, delighted beyond measure. “A betting pool for what?”

Ahmed clicked his pen. “Who breaks first.”

You pressed both hands to your chest. “Because of me?”

“Mostly.”

“I’ve never been so honored.”

Whitaker looked deeply regretful. “This is going to make you worse.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Ahmed studied you for a moment, then added something to the paper.

You tried to look. “What did you write?”

“Side bet.”

“On?”

“Whether you get all of them before end of shift.”

Your grin spread slowly.

Whitaker groaned. “Ahmed, why would you give them a goal?”

Ahmed capped his pen. “Because I believe in excellence.”

“You believe in chaos.”

“That too.”

Before you could respond, Dana’s voice cracked across the department with terrifying precision. “Y/N! Trauma Two!”

You spun on your heel. “Coming, queen!”

“Thin ice!”

“Love you too!”

Whitaker looked at Ahmed. “We’re doomed.”

Ahmed looked down at his paper. “No. We’re invested.”

By early afternoon, the hospital had settled into the long, gruelling rhythm that followed the first violent impact of disaster. The initial wave was over, but consequences kept arriving. Patients who had seemed stable on scene started to decline. Imaging revealed worse injuries than expected. Families arrived panicked and demanding answers no one fully had yet. The operating rooms filled. Ortho kept getting called. Surgery moved in and out of the department like storm clouds. Everyone looked a little more tired, a little sharper around the edges.

Abbot appeared beside you at the nurse station while you were charting, his coffee replaced by another coffee, because apparently his bloodstream had given up and simply become caffeine.

“You’re causing trouble,” he said.

You kept typing. “Allegedly.”

“I respect it.”

That made you pause. You looked up slowly. “You do?”

Abbot leaned against the counter with the casual confidence of a man who had decided, very incorrectly, that he understood the assignment. “I’m not like Robby. I know things.”

You stared at him. He nodded once, as if confirming this to himself. “I’m cool with the kids.”

From the other side of the station, McKay looked up from her charting with immediate interest.

“Oh?” you said.

Abbot smiled. “Yes.”

“Define ‘rizz.’”

His smile faltered for half a second before recovering. “Charisma.”

You blinked. Unfortunately, he was correct.

McKay’s eyebrows lifted.

Abbot looked smug. “See?”

“Okay,” you said slowly. “Define ‘ate.’”

“Performed well.”

Your mouth dropped open.

Abbot pointed at you. “I told you.”

McKay leaned back in her chair. “I don’t like this. He’s adapting.”

Abbot took a sip of coffee, visibly pleased with himself. “I contain multitudes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Define ‘Ohio.’”

Abbot stopped. The silence stretched. McKay’s grin grew. Abbot set his coffee down with great care. “That’s a state.”

“Yes.”

“But not in this context.”

“Correct.”

His eyes narrowed. “Bad?”

“Sometimes.”

“Embarrassing?”

“Sometimes.”

“Cursed?”

“Getting warmer.”

He looked genuinely invested now, the mass casualty temporarily forgotten in the face of a linguistic puzzle he had absolutely no business trying to solve. “So if I said Robby was being Ohio—”

From behind you, Robby’s voice cut in. “Don’t.”

All three of you turned. Robby stood there with a chart in hand, exhaustion settling into the lines of his face, his glasses slightly crooked, his expression caught somewhere between suspicion and resignation.

Abbot straightened. “We’re discussing language.”

“You’re discussing nonsense.”

“It’s actually quite nuanced.”

You nodded solemnly. “Dr. Abbot is lowkey cooking.”

Abbot pointed at you. “That’s good.”

You beamed. “That is good.”

“I knew that.”

Robby looked between the two of you. “Why are you encouraging him?”

“Because he’s cool with the kids.”

Abbot looked deeply satisfied.

McKay muttered, “God help us.”

Robby stared at Abbot for a long moment, then at you. “Both of you back to work.”

“Yes, king,” you said automatically.

Robby closed his eyes. Abbot’s shoulders started shaking. McKay turned fully away from her computer, delighted.

Robby opened his eyes again. “Do not call me that.”

“Understood.”

“Do you understand?”

“Highkey.”

He stared at you.

You stared back, angelic.

Robby looked at Abbot. “Translate.”

Abbot, glowing with the confidence of two correct definitions and one catastrophic failure, said, “It means very.” Robby looked betrayed that this was a real answer.

You clapped once. “He ate!”

Abbot lifted both hands. “I’m telling you, I know things.”

Robby rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I have patients actively trying to die, and somehow this is still the thing giving me a headache.”

“Skill issue,” McKay said under her breath.

The three of you went silent. You turned to her slowly. McKay’s face changed as she realized what had just left her mouth.

“Oh no,” she said.

You pointed at her. “YOU’VE BEEN INFECTED.”

“I have not.”

“You said skill issue.”

“I said it medically.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

Abbot looked thrilled. “Welcome.”

McKay glared at you. “I hate all of you.”

Before anyone could respond, another overhead page called Robby back toward Trauma One, and the moment snapped back into motion. The department swallowed everyone again: Robby to a decompensating patient, McKay to a shoulder reduction, Abbot to a confused older man with chest pain, and you to wherever Dana pointed next.

But the damage had been done. The language had spread. And you had witnesses.

Ahmed caught your eye from across the department and silently lifted his betting sheet. You gave him a thumbs-up. He shook his head, but he was smiling.

By the time you reached Trauma One, Robby was already elbow-deep in the kind of controlled chaos that made everyone around him move faster. The patient was a man in his forties who had initially seemed stable after the crash and then suddenly wasn’t. His pressure was dropping. Breath sounds were diminished on one side. The room smelled like antiseptic, blood, sweat, and the metallic bite of adrenaline. Robby called for a chest tube with that rough, steady authority that made even panic organize itself around him.

You stood ready when Dana shoved supplies into your hands. Santos watched from the far side of the bed, eyes wide but focused. Mateo assisted with positioning. Robby worked quickly, cleaning the site, draping, anesthetizing, cutting through skin and tissue with practiced precision. He moved like someone who had done this too many times to be impressed by it, fingers sure as he dissected down and pushed through the pleura. Air rushed. Blood followed. The tube slid in, connected, secured. The patient’s oxygen saturation began to climb.

For a moment, the room exhaled.

Robby pulled off his bloody gloves and looked at the monitor. “That bought us time. Get surgery down here now.”

Dana was already moving. “On it.”

You watched the numbers stabilize, watched the team reset around the patient, watched Robby’s shoulders lower by a fraction.

And because you had been very good for almost twenty whole minutes, you smiled.

“Respectfully,” you said, “you devoured that chest tube, king.”

The silence was immediate.

Robby turned his head very slowly.

Santos looked at the floor. Mateo looked at the ceiling. Dana, halfway to the door, stopped dead.

Robby stared at you with the expression of a man who had just been forced to process a second emergency against his will. “I did what.”

“You devoured.”

His eyes narrowed. “The chest tube?”

“Metaphorically.”

Dana made a sound that might have been a cough if she had ever been less committed to lying.

Robby looked at her. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something.”

“I think a lot of things.”

He looked back at you. “Is that supposed to be good?”

“So good.”

“No cap,” Mateo added, and immediately looked like he regretted every choice that had led him to this moment.

You whipped around. “MATEO.”

He pointed at you. “No. Don’t make it weird.”

“You’re learning.”

“I’m surviving.”

Dana finally lost the battle and laughed, one sharp burst before she walked out of the room shaking her head.

Robby stared at the doorway she had escaped through, then at Mateo, then at you. His face shifted through exhaustion, confusion, irritation, and something dangerously close to amusement before settling back into command by sheer force of will.

He shook his head once.

Quietly, almost to himself, he muttered, “Kids these days.”

Your entire body went still.

Santos’s eyes widened.

Mateo whispered, “Oh no.”

You pointed at Robby with both hands, triumphant. “HE SAID THE THING.”

Robby looked immediately regretful. “What thing?”

“THE THING.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“YOU SAID THE LINE.”

“I say a lot of lines.”

“Iconic behaviour.”

“Stop.”

“Never.”

From the hallway, Whitaker appeared at the doorway like he had sensed comedy through the walls. “Did he say it?”

You spun toward him. “HE SAID IT.”

Whitaker doubled over.

Robby’s eyes closed.

Somewhere behind you, Ahmed’s pen clicked.

And even though there were still patients waiting, charts unfinished, families crying, surgeons being paged, and half the hospital running on fumes, laughter rippled briefly through the trauma bay like a pressure valve releasing steam.

Robby opened his eyes, looked at the ridiculous collection of people around him, and sighed with the bone-deep exhaustion of a man who knew he had lost control of something far less medically significant and far more spiritually damaging than a mass casualty event.

“Back to work,” he said.

“Yes, king,” you replied.

Dana’s laughter echoed from the hall.

Robby pointed at you without turning around. “Thin ice.”

You smiled sweetly.

Behind the security desk, Ahmed added another mark to his betting sheet.

[silverlullabies]

Park hasn’t stopped ranting in nine minutes.

You know this because the clock on the vitals monitor is directly in your line of sight, and you’ve been keeping track of the minutes while tracking the patient’s vitals- numbers ticking over in the periphery of your attention while the rest of your brain tries to keep your hands from shaking.

Fourteen hours. You’ve been on for fourteen hours. The last thing you ate was half a protein bar at six am that tasted like shit, washed down with burnt coffee from the break room pot that nobody’s cleaned since before you started this rotation. There’s a tremor in your left hand that you’ve been hiding by keeping it pressed flat against your thigh whenever you’re not actively doing something with it. The skin around your fingernails is ragged where you’ve been picking at it- a habit you thought you’d kicked in undergrad, resurrected now by the particular misery of being the stupidest person in every room you walk into for twelve weeks straight.

And Park is still ranting

It’s the sutures. It’s always the sutures, or the charting, or the way you positioned the drape, or the fact that you apparently hesitated for a quarter of a second too long before calling out a dosage. Today it’s the sutures. Something about your tension. Something about spacing. His voice has that cadence it gets when he’s not actually teaching anymore, when the correction has already been made and absorbed but he’s still going because he likes the sound of his own authority filling a room. It rolls out of him, low and unhurried, the kind of voice that doesn’t need volume because it knows no one in a thirty foot radius would dare interrupt it.

Your eyes sting. Not from crying; you’re so far past crying that the thought of it feels almost quaint, a luxury for people who slept more than three hours last night. They sting because you haven’t blinked in too long, because the fluorescents in this room have that particular institutional flicker that you can’t quite see but can absolutely feel, a faint buzzing pressure behind your orbital bones that’s been building since noon.

"- and if you’re going to work in my department, you need to understand that I’m not going to hold your hand through basic -”

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up.”

The words don’t feel like yours.

That’s the first thing. They don’t feel like something you decided to say. They feel like something that fell out of you, dislodged by exhaustion, the thing holding it in place quietly giving up. Your voice doesn’t even sound right. It’s flat, toneless, the weight of someone who genuinely, completely meant it.

The room changes.

It’s not silence- the monitors are still going, the ventilator still pushing rhythmic air through tubing, the IV pump clicking through its programmed drip rate. But the human layer of the room, the subtle living soundscape of people breathing and shifting and existing in proximity to each other... that just stops.

You feel it before you understand it. A stillness that presses against the outer edges of your awareness like a change in barometric pressure.

Then your brain catches up.

First, the echo of your own voice playing back to you on a half second delay, the consonants sharper than you expected, the fuck landing with a hard, percussive weight that seems to bounce off the tile and come back louder. Then the context: the room, the hierarchy, the badge clipped to Park’s scrubs with ATTENDING PHYSICIAN printed beneath his name. Then the realization. The simple, devastating realization of what you just did.

You are an intern.

Twenty six years old. Four months into your emergency medicine residency. You do not yet have the authority to order a meal from the cafeteria without someone double checking it. You have told a senior attending- the senior attending, the one the other attendings don’t even argue with- to shut the fuck up.

In front of people.

Your peripheral vision starts feeding you information you don’t want. Robby, to your left, has shifted his weight backward. Not a full step. Just a transfer of gravity from the balls of his feet to his heels, a subtle rocking away from you that his body chose before his conscious mind caught up. Whitaker has dropped his gaze to his hands, looking at his own fingers like he’s never seen them before, studying them with the rapt, deliberate focus. Behind you Princess has stopped writing. The pen isn’t moving. The soft scratch of ballpoint on paper that’s been a constant background noise for the last hour is just gone.

Nobody is going to save you.

The thought arrives with a nauseating clarity. There is no version of the next thirty seconds in which one of your co-interns steps forward and makes a joke to cut the tension or offers some plausible reinterpretation of what just happened. You are alone in this like a dream where you’ve shown up somewhere without clothes, exposed and and suddenly aware that every exit is very, very far away.

Your pulse is doing something it shouldn’t. You can feel it in your throat, your wrists, the soft dip behind your ears. A rapid, threadlike fluttering that you’d flag as tachycardic if it belonged to someone else. Your mouth has gone dry, tongue too thick, too present, a useless slab of muscle sitting behind your teeth with nothing helpful to contribute.

Apologize.

The word surfaces like an air bubble, wobbly and urgent.

Apologize right now. Open your mouth. Say Dr. Park, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what- say something, say literally anything, you have a medical degree, you passed boards, you are a person who is capable of organizing words into sentences that-

Your eyes lift.

You don’t decide to look at him. It’s closer to compulsion, the same instinct that makes you look toward a sound you didn’t expect, your body orienting itself toward the source of the danger before your higher brain can intervene.

Park hasn’t moved.

He’s in the same position he was in thirty seconds ago, shoulder against the supply cabinet, arms folded across his chest, one ankle crossed over the other. The posture of a man who was mid-lecture and simply… stopped. His mouth is closed. The steady, unbroken stream of correction that’s been filling this room for the better part of ten minutes has ceased completely, and in its absence his jaw is set, his lips pressed together tight, like he’s keeping something behind it.

His eyes pin you to the floor.

They’re on you. They’re only on you. Not scanning the room for the reactions of the other interns, not cutting toward the door, not doing any of the things you’d expect from a man whose authority was just challenged in front of others. He is looking at you with a fixed, undivided attention that feels less like being seen and more like being ripped apart from the inside, read down to the last molecule.

His expression is... you don’t have a word for it. His brows are level, not raised in surprise or drawn together in anger. There is no visible tension in his forehead, no flare to his nostrils, no whitening around the corners of his mouth. The set of his face is almost neutral, would pass for neutral, except for something happening in the space between his eyes and his mouth that doesn’t match. Something you keep trying to categorize and failing because it doesn’t fit any of the reactions you braced for. Not fury. Not cold professional disapproval. Not the performative disappointment of a superior preparing to make an example of you.

He looks like someone just set something down in front of him that he didn’t order but has every intention of keeping.

Your stomach drops about six inches.

It drops because you recognize that look. Not from Park, not from this context, but from somewhere older and less clinical, somewhere your hindbrain catalogued and filed away under a category you absolutely cannot be accessing right now, standing in an exam room in your scrubs with your career in a shallow grave at your feet.

The air conditioning kicks on overhead, a low mechanical shudder that moves through the vents and stirs the hem of the curtain partition to your right. Someone’s pager goes off down the hall, muffled through the closed door, two short bursts and then nothing.

Park still hasn’t said a word.

He’s watching you the way you’ve seen him watch a complicated case- that particular narrowing of focus, that quality of stillness that means the gears are turning somewhere behind his expression, that means he’s already three steps ahead and you just became the most interesting problem in the room.

His chin dips. Just barely. A fractional tilt downward that changes the angle of his gaze, sends it through his lashes instead of over them, and the difference that makes is something you feel in the backs of your knees.

Your mouth is still open. You haven’t apologized. You haven’t said anything at all. The silence has gone on long enough now to calcify into something that feels almost agreed upon, a held breath between two people who both know what just shifted and neither one has decided what to do about it yet.

Somewhere behind you, Robby clears his throat and murmurs something about checking on a patient in Bay 4. Whitaker rushes to join him. The door opens. The door closes.

Park’s mouth changes.

It’s not a smile. It’s barely even movement. Just the faintest asymmetric pull at one corner, a shift in his expression so subtle that if you weren’t staring directly at it- and you are, god help you, you absolutely are- you would have missed it entirely.

Your brain is still trying to apologize. You can feel the words piled up somewhere behind your soft palate, a traffic jam of I’m so sorry and I didn’t mean and please don’t report this, but none of them are making it to your mouth because your mouth is busy doing nothing. Your lips are parted about a centimeter. You’re breathing through them because at some point in the last forty five seconds your nose stopped being sufficient, your body rerouting to the faster intake the way it does when you’re afraid, when your hindbrain has identified a threat and started allocating resources accordingly.

The problem is that your hindbrain and your forebrain are in violent disagreement about the nature of the threat.

Your forebrain says: career. You’re thinking about your career. The program director. The evaluation that Park files at the end of this rotation. The letter in your file that will follow you to every fellowship application, every attending position, every hospital that ever Googles your name.

Your hindbrain says something much less articulable and significantly more inconvenient.

Park takes a step forward.

Not toward the door. Not toward the computer, or the supply cabinet, or any of the dozen professional destinations that would make this a normal post lecture movement of a senior physician continuing with his day.

Toward you.

It’s one step. A single, unhurried shift of weight that puts him maybe three feet closer than he was, which means he’s now close enough that you can see the specific weave of his scrub top, the way the fabric pulls differently across his shoulders than it does across the plane of his chest, the slow and even rise of his breathing. He’s not winded. He’s not tense. His respiratory rate hasn’t changed at all, and you hate yourself for noticing that, hate yourself for the clinical part of your brain that’s catches that like he’s a patient instead of the man who holds your professional future in his hands and is currently standing close enough that you can see the flecks of amber in his irises that the fluorescents keep catching.

The room feels like it’s shrinking. Not metaphorically; you know it’s not actually shrinking, you’re not psychotic, you haven’t lost your grip on the material dimensions of an eight-by-twelve exam room, but something about the air quality has changed. It feels thicker. Closer. Like the ventilation system decided to shut down at the exact worst moment, leaving you to breathe the same recycled air that he’s breathing, the same molecules passing back and forth between you in a loop that feels more intimate than it has any right to.

Princess leaves.

You don’t see her go, but you hear it, the soft lick of the door latch, the brief rush of hallway noise that floods in through the gap and then seals shut again, the retreating squeak of shoes on linoleum fading into the mid distance. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t make an excuse. She just left, which means she either read the room and decided she wanted no part of it, or she read the room and decided you needed no audience for whatever is about to happen to you.

You’re alone with him.

The realization seeps in, cold and slow, like water filling a basement. It rises around your ankles first, the awareness that the door is closed, that the hallway noise is gone, that the only breathing you can hear besides your own is his. Then it’s at your knees, your waist, your chest, and by the time it reaches your throat you understand with a complete, full body certainty that whatever is happening right now is not what you thought was happening thirty seconds ago.

Park tilts his head.

It’s a small movement. The kind a dog makes when it hears a frequency it can’t quite identify: curious, alert, the whole body orienting around a single point of interest. But there’s nothing canine about the way he’s looking at you. Dogs tilt their heads because they’re confused. Park tilts his head because he’s decided something and he wants to see you from a slightly different angle while he enjoys it.

“Fourteen hours,” he says.

His voice is different. You can’t identify what changed. The pitch is the same, the register is the same, the vowels still carry that particular unhurried precision that makes everything he says sound like a bastard. But there’s a texture to it that wasn’t there during the lecture. Something underneath the words, packed into the consonants, something that makes the back of your neck prickle the way it does when you walk into your apartment and feel certain someone else was just in it.

You swallow. You feel your throat click with the effort. “What?”

“Fourteen hours on your feet. Four months into the hardest rotation of your first year. Running on what, coffee and adrenaline? Maybe some spite.” He pauses. His gaze moves down your face in increments. Your forehead. The bridge of your nose. Your mouth. He stays on your mouth for a beat that lasts about a half second longer than clinical assessment would require. “And that’s what comes out.”

You can’t tell if it’s a question.

Your hands are shaking again. You gave up pressing them against your thighs sometime in the last minute and now they’re just hanging at your sides, trembling faintly in a way that you’re desperately hoping he can’t see but almost certainly can because Park doesn’t miss things. That’s the whole problem with him. That’s always been the whole problem with him. He catches the suture tension that’s off by a degree, the half second hesitation, the pulse that’s running eight beats faster than it should. He is a man who is professionally trained to notice the things your body does before you’re aware of them, and right now your body is doing several things you’d prefer to remain unaware of.

“Dr. Park-” you start, and his expression shifts.

Shifts. Not changes. There’s a difference. A change would be readable. A change would give you something to work with, anger you could apologize to, disappointment you could grovel through, cold professionalism you could match with your own until the moment passed and you could go have a cardiac event in the supply closet like a normal person with dignity. But this isn’t a change. It’s a shift, tectonic and internal, something rearranging behind the surface that you can only detect by its effects on the landscape of his face.

His eyes narrow, lids dropping maybe a millimeter, just enough to change the structure of his gaze, and the look that comes through that narrower aperture is... focused isn’t the right word. Focused implies effort. This is something past focus. Something that has settled into its attention the way a thing settles into still water, disturbing nothing, displacing everything.

He looks at you like he’s already taken you apart and is now considering the order in which he’d like to do it again.

His tongue touches the inside of his lower lip. You see the movement through the skin, a brief, subtle pressure that reshapes his mouth for less than a second before it’s gone. It’s nothing. It’s a unconscious gesture, a self soothing tic, the kind of thing people do a hundred times a day without thinking.

It doesn’t look unconscious.

“Dr. Park, I’m- ”

“Don’t.”

One word. Quiet. Not sharp, not cutting, not delivered with the clipped authority he uses on the floor when a resident is about to make a mistake. This is softer than that. Lower. It comes from somewhere deeper in his chest, and the sound of it lands at the base of your spine and sits there, warm and heavy and refusing to move.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, and then he smiles.

It’s barely a smile. It wouldn’t register as one in a photograph, wouldn’t survive the flattening of a two dimensional image. You’d need to be standing exactly where you’re standing, this close, in this light, in this airless little room to catch the way the corner of his mouth lifts. To see the way it pulls something taut across the planes of his face, reshapes the hollows beneath his cheekbones, turns the set of his jaw from something authoritative into something predatory.

It is, you realize with a clarity that goes all the way to the marrow, the expression of a man who has been waiting for something he’s very much looking forward to ruining.

The smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

It doesn’t need to. His eyes are doing something far worse- they’re warm. Not kind warm. Not reassuring warm. Warm the way a hand on the back of your neck is warm right before the fingers tighten. Warm the way a voice goes warm when it drops into the register it only uses behind closed doors. There is a heat in the way he’s looking at you that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with appetite, and it is so profoundly, catastrophically different from anything you prepared for when you walked into this hospital fourteen hours ago that your brain simply stops trying to process it and hands the reins to something older and less rational.

Your body knows what this is.

Your body has known since his chin dipped, since the first pull of his mouth, since he hasn't stopped looking at you. Your body has been screaming the answer at your prefrontal cortex for the better part of two minutes and your prefrontal cortex has been politely declining the call because accepting it would require you to reconcile the clinical reality of your attending physician with the man who is currently looking at you like he intends to take his time.

Park reaches past you.

His arm extends to your right, his hand landing flat on the counter behind you, and for one vertiginous, blood loud second you think he’s reaching for you, caging you in, and every nerve ending you have lights up simultaneously. But he’s not. His fingers close around the chart Princess was writing in before all of this happened: your chart, your patient, the one with the sutures he was critiquing when you decided to set fire to your entire professional trajectory.

He picks it up. He looks at it. He looks back at you.

“Fix your tension,” he says. Same low register. Same impossible warmth. “Then come find me.”

He holds the chart out between you.

You take it. Your fingers brush his. The contact lasts less than a second, barely qualifies as touch, just the drag of his knuckle against the pad of your index finger as the chart changes hands. He doesn’t pull away quickly. He lets the contact happen, lets it register, lets you feel exactly how steady his hands are compared to yours.

Then he turns and walks to the door, and you watch him go because you can’t do anything else, because every voluntary muscle in your body has been temporarily requisitioned by the part of your brain that’s still processing the afterimage of his smile.

He pauses with his hand on the door. Half turns. Looks back at you over his shoulder with an expression you’ll be replaying at two in the morning for reasons you refuse to examine.

“And intern?”

You can’t speak. You manage something- a breath, a sound, a squeak, something that exists in the neighborhood of acknowledgment.

The warmth in his eyes sharpens into something with an edge, something that gleams.

“Get some sleep,” he says. “You’re going to need it.”

The door closes behind him.

You stand there, chart in your hands, pulse in your teeth, the ghost of his knuckle still burning along the length of your finger.

The ventilator cycles. The IV pump clicks. Down the hall, someone pages radiology.

You don’t move for a very long time.

[wichitavic]

𝔹𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝕥𝕠 𝕐𝕠𝕦

summary: A year of silence, hidden truths, and a past you couldn’t quite leave behind all lead to night shift at the Pitt. Stepping into the buzzing ER, you find yourself face to face with Frank Langdon; the man who once shaped your boundaries, vanished into his own battles, and left you with endless unanswered questions. Before the unresolved tension between you can find its words, a life or death trauma crashes through the doors, forcing you both into a high stakes rhythm where a single move makes the difference. As the blood cleans up and the alarms quiet down, one truth remains: the shift is just getting started, and the breakroom is waiting for the conversation you’ve avoided for a year. pairing: frank langdon x attending!reader warnings: mentions of addicton, probably medical inaccuracy, single langdon! 2.1k words, not one-shot

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪ :

Tonight, as always, the hospital corridors echoed not with the chaos of the city, but with the rhythmic beeping of monitors. Lit by dozens of fluorescent lights, the clean emergency room was operating just like a busy beehive. But tonight was different; a new name had been added to the night shift.

The new night shift doctor, You. Guided by an urge you couldn't even admit to yourself, you had turned everything down and chosen to come straight to the ER.

"You can only see your limits here," Frank Langdon had said on the very first day you met.

And that sentence was still echoing in your mind. You had met him during your ER internship; his deeply confident demeanor and the sharp intelligence backing it up had captivated you from day one. The frantic rush you shared, your shoulders brushing against each other while stitching up wounds, bitter cold coffees drunk in the breakroom, and an internship year filled with feelings that were never voiced by either of you... In the end, you had decided you wanted to stay in the ER; the place and the tempo suited you. He suited you.

However, life had made other plans behind your back. When you completed your exams and returned to the ER for the new term, you couldn't find him. You thought maybe he was on the night shift, but that hadn't been the case. You had learned about his situation from the nurses, Princess and Perlah. You now knew he was struggling with addiction. You wanted to call him countless times, ask him how he was doing, and why he hadn't shared what he was going through with you, but you could never find the courage to hit the call button. Yet, the excitement you felt the day you got his number was still fresh in your mind.

A year had passed like this: Langdon continued his journey, while you graduated and began your job search. Life went on. The moment you heard there was an open position at the Pitt, you took the job. In the meantime, Langdon had also returned to work, proven himself, and gotten his attending status. He was trying to be okay, to heal, and to just do his job. Still, the staff's whispers, his superior Robby's attitude, and changing dynamics had pushed him to the night shift. He was happier there. You had learned he was back at work from Cassie. This fearless redheaded woman, a very old friend of yours, had helped you immensely during that time. You two had talked dozens of times about what you would do and what you would say when you met him, and now, that moment rehearsed over and over was 5 steps away, about to become reality.

Now Langdon was doing patient charts at the other end of the room. As usual, his bright brown hair and the top of his black scrubs were slightly disheveled; his sky blue eyes carried a tired but attentive expression. You looked at the monitor screen where Langdon was entering patient information, then your eyes unknowingly drifted to him. You watched him and the surroundings carefully, trying to adapt to the environment and figure him out. Just as you were about to avert your gaze, Langdon raised his head at that exact moment, and your eyes met. It lasted a second, maybe two. But both of you felt time slow down a bit.

"When I saw your name on the shift list, for a second I thought I read it wrong," he said. His voice was low, slightly raspy. No exaggerated greeting came out of his mouth, nor did he act like a total stranger.

"No, you didn't read it wrong," you said, crossing your arms over your chest and keeping a few steps of distance between you. The distant tone you tried to capture in your voice wasn't enough to hide the undisciplined rhythm of your heart pounding against your ribs. "Here I am, Langdon."

Frank slowly closed the cover of the chart he had just entered into the computer. No exaggerated greeting came out of his mouth, nor did he act like a total stranger; but in those blue eyes hovered the awareness of those questions you hadn't dared to ask for months. He straightened up slightly from the desk and squared his shoulders. The small, controlled smile appearing at the corner of his lips was like a fleeting reflection of the old days, but that heavy gray armor left behind by rehab and months of isolation was still on him.

"You could have tried one of those quieter spots at St. Margaret's or Mercy," Frank said. His voice was careful. Without taking his eyes off your face for even a second, he took a small, measured step toward you. "You would have fewer shifts, less chaos, and probably a much more decent life there. Instead of jumping right into the middle of the chaos here, you could have gone for an option that would be... kinder to you."

You gave a slight nod, locking your gaze onto his sky-blue eyes.

"Other hospitals didn't have what I was looking for, Langdon," you said, as the subtle implication in your voice instantly thickened the air between you. "This was the only place that would suit me." You said, adding, "And by the looks of it, you decided this place suits you best, too."

The tiny spark that flickered in Frank's eyes appeared instantly under the weight of your sentence. His familiar scent wafting to your nose revived all those incomplete phone call attempts and unspoken sentences in your mind. Frank parted his lips to speak, but just as that electric silence between you was about to deepen—

The double doors at the main ER entrance swung open with a loud crash. The night flooded in, accompanied by siren screams and shouts.

"Trauma 1! Open the gurney!" yelled the paramedic as he ran inside.

Beside the gurney appeared Victoria Javadi, a 4th year medical student clinging tightly to her notepad. Overly ambitious and bursting with theoretical knowledge, Javadi began listing the parameters out of breath, her eyes wide with panic. "Female patient, 30s, trapped in vehicle. BP 80/40, pulse 135! Respiration shallow, trachea shifted to the right!"

The personal, hesitant look on Frank's face erased in a single split second. Only medical focus and expertise remained in his eyes. "Javadi, calm down and get the thoracostomy tray! Now!"

When he stepped to the opposite side of the gurney, his eyes met yours once more. In that moment, the months of silence and unspoken feelings were brushed aside instantly. The moment both of you stepped up to the patient, that shared reflex from your residency years revived and kicked into gear without needing a single word.

You placed your stethoscope on the patient's chest. "Tension pneumothorax," you said, your voice filling the room with icy clarity. "Left lung is completely collapsed. The pressure is hitting the heart, we need to go in right now."

Frank grabbed the scalpel while pulling on his gloves, then looked at you. In his eyes shone the shadow of that unconditional trust and admiration he had held for you since your intern days. "Incision is yours," he said, handing the handle of the scalpel toward you. "Make the cut."

You didn't hesitate. You took the scalpel and made a clean incision at the fifth intercostal space. As you bluntly dissected through the tissue and reached the pleura, the whisper like, lifesaving sound of trapped air escaping the chest cavity filled the room.

Following that slick incision you made at the start, the tension pneumothorax pressure in the room dropped, but the patient's condition was not yet fully secured. Though the green lights on the monitor offered a momentary breath of relief, the rhythmic beeps were still beating faster than they should be.

Frank quickly approached where you set the scalpel down, stabilizing the incision site with a sterile lap sponge. His gaze didn't leave the monitor for a single second. "Pressure relieved, but the heart rate still hasn't picked up enough," he said, his voice ringing with medical composure. "Connect the chest tube. Javadi, prepare the drainage bottle and set the suction!"

Victoria Javadi tried to connect the end of the tube to the suction system, her hands trembling slightly from excitement. "Ready, Dr. Langdon, but there's bleeding, heavy blood coming through the drainage tube."

You moved a bit closer to the gurney, and as you checked the placement of the tube with the blunt forceps in your hand, that slight rigidity in the patient's abdominal area didn't escape your notice. This time, you slid your stethoscope down to the patient's abdomen. The normal bowel sounds were absent. "The bleeding isn't just from the pleura," you said quickly, your eyes meeting Frank's. "They said trapped in vehicle. The impact to the chest might have compromised the diaphragm. There's a splenic or liver rupture; blood is leaking up from the abdominal cavity."

Frank picked up the ultrasound probe without hesitation. As he applied the gel to the patient's abdomen, his left hand accidentally -or unconsciously- brushed against your hand holding the tube. The instantaneous warmth spreading across both your skins ripped through the ice-cold air of the trauma room for a split second. That inner voice inside you whispered again: You're right here, right beside me. But Frank had his eyes fixed on the monitor screen.

"You're right," Frank said, angling the probe in his hand slightly. He pointed to the black void appearing on the screen. "Fluid in Morrison's pouch. Splenic laceration. We should stop this bleeding before getting her to the OR."

At that moment, a shadow appeared at the door. Dr. Parker Ellis looked inside the trauma room with her usual unbothered, effortlessly cool demeanor. She scanned the monitor. "Did you call surgery?" Ellis asked, her voice so calm it sounded like she was tracking a game score rather than a surgery.

"Javadi, call surgery! Tell Dr. Walsh to get the patient to the OR immediately," you said, while accelerating the IV fluid push.

As Javadi grabbed the phone and rushed out of the room, Frank picked up the needle driver to secure around the tube with a suture. At that moment, both of you were leaned right over the patient. As Frank passed the needle through the skin, your shoulders pressed together. Just like back in your residency days; in cramped treatment rooms, working locked together at four in the morning over a patient... Frank's slightly tired voice echoed right beside your ear:

"You still got it, huh."

"You forget who trained me, Langdon," you said in a low voice. You didn't care that Parker Ellis was a few steps away or that the devices in the room were noisy.

As Frank tied off the suture knot, that genuine smile hidden at the corners of his lips appeared, the one very few people ever got to see. "Glad to hear that. Because back when I was teaching, I thought you were a good student..." said Ellis.

When the surgical team and orderlies burst into the room and moved to take the patient up to the OR, the room emptied in an instant. Bloody gloves were tossed into the trash, and the frantic alarm sounds of the monitors fell silent. Only the faint smell of antiseptic and that strange quietness in the trauma room.

Parker Ellis took another bite of her protein bar and straightened up from the doorframe. "Not bad," she said, looking at both of you. "Brings a tear to my eye seeing two newbies who don't trip over each other. I'm in Room 3, superglue incident, wouldn't want to miss it."

Ellis disappeared down the hallway with heavy steps.

Langdon leaned against the desk. The heavy armor on his face slowly melted away, making way for a tired man lightened by your presence. He locked his eyes directly onto yours. All those questions you hadn't been able to ask, call about, or bear to hear the answers to for months seemed soaked into the smell of IV's and blood in the air.

"It's calming to see you back here," Frank said, his voice coming out lower and more fragile this time.

"You too, Frank," you said, finding his eyes in the mirror's reflection as you washed your hands at the sink. Frank took a deep breath. He took a step, stopping right behind you. Your gazes locked once more in the mirror.

"Coffee is still terrible," he said, offering this small excuse in place of the dozens of sentences he wanted to say but swallowed right at the tip of his tongue. "But we have five minutes in the breakroom. Coming?"

[honeysbloom]

viii. neverita | dennis whitaker x fem! latina! reader

— warnings • cursing, idk the usual, mi güero - my white boy, mi vaquero - my cowboy

— note • this lowk filler ass chapter of r just yearning lol my bad u guys💔

— moscow mule masterlist !

tags !! @tendertulip @lillysbigwilly @beths-shoelaces @mayax2o07 @sofianotvergara @strawberrygng @slasherlover29 @vanillafan6 @lovestriuck @halfnvt @kyle0swag @softpia @angel-kisses15 @sullyselena @hstbsl06 @lala-berry

[cherrywineisawaltz]

━━━━━·:*☆ STRONGER THAN ME

008. tank top

warnings: lewd humor. cursing. teasing. no pope :(. smurf mention.

taglist:

@theariespov @honk4emoboyz @sunbonesss @spiderval @fortjackson

@archxve @hotnhatosy @olivia21blunt @thesunxwentblack @isasdreams

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[penpenpompom]

Lighthouse (Brendon Park x reader smau)

Summary: Reader was roommates with Trinity at univeristy, she was studying law while Trinity was studying medicine. They became very close friends and have remained that way while starting the world of work. In turn, through nights out and early morning coffee runs, she is now close friends with the other Pittlings. They all love her deeply but are concerned that she is spending too much time focused on work. Because of this they decide they need to set her up with someone - perhaps they should choose the only other workaholic they know and hope that it balances the two of them out.

A/N: Hopefully self explanatory!! I love when strong, capable women are represented in fics so I wanted to do that myself!!

Warnings: Will grow through the series probs, reader uses she/her pronouns, reader's nickname is angel, mentions of alcohol, will be cute and fluffy, age gap.

Part one

A/n: This is my first smau so I hope it is okay!! Brendon and reader will interact soon I promise!

[apfelkernchen]

You chose not to call me because I’m a doctor?

Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you

Summary: A daycare call. A big presentation. And way too many assumptions.

A/N: I'm no longer updating the taglist because Tumblr has been glitching way too much lately. If you don't want to miss any updates, feel free to turn on notifications for my posts! <3

Link to "You stole my cart" master list (1)

Link to "You stole my cart" master list (2)

Previous chapter: Part 146: You know how I feel about Dr. Google

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You sat in the conference room that had - by now - become so familiar to you like your own living room. The long table was already covered with laptops, architectural drawings, coffee cups and half-eaten pastries. Nearly twenty people had squeezed into the room - representatives from Facilities, Architecture, Engineering, Environmental Services, IT, Finance, Operations, Ambulatory Surgery and - because no hospital project was ever complete without them - three physicians who had already managed to disagree with you before the meeting had officially begun.

Across the screen stretched a detailed floor plan of the future outpatient building - six stories of clinics, procedure rooms, imaging suites, waiting areas, laboratories and administrative offices.

You stood at the front of the room with a clicker in one hand - you were nervous but you were slowly beginning to find your footing. “... we’ve incorporated the latest feedback from Nursing, Environmental Services, Security and Patient Experience.”

You clicked.

“As you’ll notice we’ve relocated the staff support spaces closer to the clinic core.” Your phone lying on the table started to vibrate. You tried to ignore it. “That shortens average walking distances by approximately twenty percent.”

A representative from Environmental Services raised his hand. “Sorry to interrupt but we’re still concerned about waste collection.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “Thanks for the reminder, Harvey. We’ve already addressed that.” You clicked again. Your phone started vibrating again. You gave it a quick glance, a knot slowly forming in your stomach. “The revised layout separates clean and dirty circulation. Waste removal no longer crosses patient traffic.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

Another click. “The next topic is patient wayfinding.”

Your phone vibrated again. You glanced at the screen.

Daycare

You swallowed hard as your pulse started racing. “I need to take this. Emma, would you mind walking everyone through the next few slides?”

Emma nodded immediately and stood. “Of course.” She took the clicker out of your hand and gave you a reassuring smile.

“Daycare” you mouthed before grabbing your phone and hurrying out of the room. You took the call. “Hello?”

“Good morning. Is this Elizabeth Abbot’s mother?”

“Yes. Is everything alright with her?”

“This is Cradle to Crayons Daycare. I’m afraid Elizabeth has developed a fever this morning. She’s currently resting in the nurse’s office and we’ll need someone to pick her up.”

You furrowed your brows. “And my husband wasn’t available?”

That was met with a brief silence. “We called you first.”

You closed your eyes for a second. “... okay. I’ll arrange a pickup.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Abbot. Very much appreciated. See you later.”

The call ended.

You stared at the screen for a second, taking a couple of deep breaths to calm yourself down before opening your contacts and scrolling down to Jack’s name.

He answered after the second ring. “Sweetheart, everything alright? Did the presentation go well?”

“I thought so until the daycare called me because someone needs to pick up Lizzie. She’s running a fever.” You didn’t even try not to sound frustrated.

“They called you?!”

“Yeah.”

“But we changed the primary phone number to mine just last week.”

“I know.”

“I got the confirmation and everything.”

“I know, Jack. And they still called me.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Could you please take care of that?”

“Of course” he answered immediately. “I’m home. I’ll go and get her. And I’ll have a nice little chat with admin while I’m there.”

You let out a long breath. “Thank you.”

“Don’t you dare thank me for doing the bare minimum. You have to hold me up to a higher standard, sweetheart.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“I’ll sort it out.”

Uh-oh. You knew that tone. “Jack. Don’t make a scene. And don’t take your anger out on the teachers, okay? It’s an admin fuck-up.”

“Copy that. And you go back to your presentation. Sweep them off their feet, darling.”

You started smiling. “Okay. I’ll try that.”

“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Now you were laughing. “Okay, thanks. See you later. Love you.”

“Love you too. Bye sweetheart.”

You ended the call and looked at your reflection in the dark phone screen for a moment, collecting yourself. You took one last deep breath, straightened your blazer and plastered your professional smile back into place. Then you walked back into the conference room. 

Jack parked outside the daycare less than fifteen minutes later. He wasn’t particularly worried about Lizzie - children caught viruses and especially for his daughter it was practically her full-time occupation.

He was more bothered by the fact that the daycare administration had deliberately overridden his request to be contacted first.

He was buzzed in and started walking down the hallway leading toward Lizzie’s classroom. He wasn’t entirely sure where the administration office was. 

Abigail looked up from helping a little boy into his coat. “Oh, Dr. Abbot, hi!”

“Hey Abigail.”

“Poor Lizzie’s in the nurse’s office. It’s that way and then up the stairs.” She smiled. “I don’t think it’s too bad but she wasn’t feeling well enough to stay in class today.”

He nodded. “I’ll get her in a minute. But before I do I need to speak with admin. They called my wife first.”

Abigail frowned. “But we changed that just last week, didn’t we?”

“Yeah.” Jack shrugged. “I just want to make sure it actually went through.”

She nodded. “Yeah, sure. It’s right over there.” She pointed toward a door near the entrance. “Mr. Hoffman is covering reception today. He’s filling in, so it’s possible there was a mix-up.”

“Ah. Yeah, that could be. Thanks, Abigail. Have a nice day!”

“You too, Dr. Abbot! And tell your wife we’ve all got our fingers crossed for her big presentation.” She smiled then turned her attention back to the little boy. “So, Timothy, let’s see if I can help you with that nasty zipper, huh?”

Jack turned and walked to the office. The door was open and a man in his fifties sat in front of a computer, completely absorbed in whatever task he was doing.

Jack knocked lightly. “Good morning.”

The man looked up. “Good morning - come in!”

Jack smiled politely and stepped in. “I’m Jack Abbot.”

“Ah!” The man nodded. “Little Elizabeth’s dad.”

“Yeah, that’s me. And you’re Mr. Hoffman, right?”

He nodded.

“Great. I’ll be taking Lizzie home in just a moment but before I do I’d like to ask you something.”

“Sure.”

“My wife received the call today and I was wondering why.” Jack held up his phone.

The man looked mildly surprised. “Because she’s Elizabeth’s mother.”

Jack blinked once. “Um, okay, yeah, but I’m the father.”

“Yeah.” Mr. Hoffman shrugged. “But we usually call the mom first, you know?”

“But…” Jack slowly unlocked his phone and opened his email. “I actually sent an email last week asking for my mobile number to become the primary emergency contact.” He turned the screen around. “We also received confirmation that the change had been made.”

The man nodded solemnly. “Hm. Let me check.” He clicked around on the computer. “I’m actually just filling in today, you know? I’m not a hundred percent up to date how things are working here.”

Jack waited.

“Ah, yeah, now I remember. I saw that you were listed as the primary emergency contact but then I saw you’re a doctor at the PTMC and assumed you were at the hospital.” He shrugged. “And then I assumed I should call your wife first.” He gave Jack a smile like this solved everything.

Jack was quiet for a moment. “Um, you chose not to call me because I’m a doctor?”

“Yeah.”

“Even when I’m listed as the primary emergency contact - and specifically requested to be?”

Mr. Hoffman shrugged. “I didn’t know about your email.”

Jack closed his eyes for a moment. “Okay, I guess I understand where you’re coming from but… still - that’s not what our family asked you to do. I’m very aware of the fact that I’m a physician - but that doesn’t make her work less important.”

Mr. Hoffman looked slightly embarrassed, his eyes darting between Jack, the computer and the door. “I wasn’t trying to cause any problems.”

“I know - but today my wife had to walk out of an important meeting because of a phone call that should have come to me. We specifically asked any phone calls to come to me first.” Jack folded his arms. “I’m working nights so I’m always at home during the day. I requested the change. You confirmed the change. And then you ignored it because you made an assumption instead of checking.”

Mr. Hoffman shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Dr. Abbot. I suppose…I just didn’t think about it.”

Jack shrugged. “No, I don’t think you did.” His voice remained calm. “My wife is currently leading a major outpatient building project at the PTMC. She’s working incredibly hard on this. It’ll affect physicians, nurses, therapists, social workers, administrative staff and patients. You see - her work matters.” Jack couldn’t help but smile proudly. “And I’m a perfectly capable parent. So next time call me. I don’t care if it’s a forgotten lunch, a request for more diapers or ice cream money, a stomach bug or a fever. Please, for the love of God - call me. I’m the parent who asked to receive that phone call.”

A silence followed. Then Mr. Hoffman nodded. “Yes, of course, I’ll make sure everyone knows.”

Jack smiled. “Thank you. That’s all I wanted.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Now I think I should pick Lizzie up before she’s infecting everyone around here.” He nodded. “Have a good day, Mr. Hoffman.”

The administrator sat there for a moment after Jack had gone. Then he sighed heavily and rubbed both hands over his face.

“Well…” He picked up the phone and opened the staff group chat. 

Mr. Hoffman: Quick reminder for everyone (myself included): Please always check the emergency contact list before making calls home. The primary emergency contact should always be contacted first unless otherwise instructed. Thanks!

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You wanna keep reading? - Next chapter is coming soon, I promise!

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