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It had been too loud from the moment you walked in, bass trembling through the floorboards, bodies packed too close in every room, cheap beer spilled sticky near the kitchen tiles. Usually, you could handle it. Usually, you liked the noise, liked the way it gave everyone permission to be a little less careful for a few hours.
Tonight, though, you kept feeling like there was nowhere to put yourself.
Garrett and Logan had claimed the beer pong table almost immediately, yelling over each other like they were trying to be heard from two houses down. Dean was on the couch with some girl half in his lap, saying something that made her throw her head back laughing.
And Tucker was somewhere behind you.
You knew because you kept looking for him without meaning to.
He had been doing that thing all night where he let everyone else take up the room while he leaned back and watched. One hand curled around a red cup, shoulders relaxed, mouth tilted like he was amused by something no one had said out loud yet. He wasn’t loud about anything. Not his presence, not his attention, not even the way his eyes found you every so often from across the room.
But you felt it every time.
That was the problem with John Tucker.
He made you feel looked after before he had any right to.
You were in the kitchen when the guy first came up to you. You recognized him vaguely from campus, maybe a friend of a friend, maybe someone who had been at a few of these parties before. His name might’ve been Ryan. Or Tyler. Something forgettable enough that you felt bad for not remembering.
He leaned beside you against the counter, too close for someone you hadn’t invited into your space.
“Hey,” he said, smiling like he’d caught you waiting for him. “You’re with the hockey guys, right?”
“Friends with them,” you corrected, reaching for the bottle of soda beside the sink.
He watched the movement, eyes dropping just long enough to make your skin prickle.
“Right. Friends.” His grin got wider. “That’s what we’re calling it?”
You gave him a polite laugh, the kind that wasn’t meant to encourage anything. “Pretty much.”
He didn’t take the hint.
For the next ten minutes, every time you shifted, he shifted too. When you stepped closer to the fridge, he followed. When you turned your body toward the hallway, he angled himself in front of you just enough that leaving would mean brushing past him. Nothing dramatic. Nothing you could point to without sounding like you were making a big deal out of nothing.
But your shoulders had started to tense.
“I should go find my friends,” you said, still trying to keep your voice light.
“They’re busy.” His hand landed on the counter beside your hip. “You can hang with me for a minute.”
“I’m good.”
“Come on.” He laughed, like you were being adorable instead of clear. “Don’t be like that.”
“I’m not being anything. I said I’m good.”
This time, your voice came out flatter.
His smile flickered.
Then his hand moved.
It wasn’t much at first. Just his fingers catching lightly at your waist, like he was trying to stop you from turning away. Like he had the right to put his hand there because he wanted to.
Your stomach dropped.
You pushed his wrist away. “Don’t.”
He looked almost offended. “Relax. I’m not doing anything.”
The words were barely out of his mouth before the air behind you changed.
You didn’t see Tucker move through the kitchen. You didn’t hear him over the music or the shouting from the living room. One second you were alone with some guy’s hand too close to your waist, and the next Tucker was beside you, warm and solid, his presence cutting through the noise without him having to raise his voice.
His hand came to rest at the small of your back.
Not possessive. Not showy.
Just there.
“You okay?” he asked you.
Your throat tightened before you could stop it.
That was the worst part. You had been fine until someone asked you if you were.
“Yeah,” you said quickly. “I’m okay.”
Tucker’s eyes stayed on your face a second too long to believe you. Then he turned his attention to the guy in front of you.
He didn’t look angry.
That somehow made it worse.
His face had gone calm in that still, unreadable way that made the whole kitchen seem quieter around him.
“She said don’t,” Tucker said.
The guy scoffed. “Man, we were just talking.”
Tucker didn’t move. “Then you heard her.”
You felt his thumb shift once against your back, a small, grounding pressure through the fabric of your shirt. Your body wanted to lean into it. You hated that. You hated that you needed it so badly.
The guy looked between the two of you, like he was trying to decide if pushing it was worth the trouble. Tucker gave him nothing to work with. No raised voice. No dramatic step forward. No threat he could laugh off in front of other people.
Just that quiet look.
The kind that said he could wait all night if he had to.
The guy muttered something under his breath and grabbed his cup off the counter. He brushed past Tucker a little harder than he needed to on his way out.
Tucker let him.
Only after he was gone did Tucker turn back to you.
His hand left your back slowly, like he didn’t want to make you feel trapped by him too. “You wanna get out of here?”
You nodded before you even thought about it.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Come on.”
He didn’t grab your hand until you reached for his first.
The second your fingers slid into his, his whole expression changed. Not much. Just a little pull at the corner of his mouth, something soft and private, like he was trying not to let you see how much it mattered.
He led you through the hallway, past the living room, past Logan calling his name from somewhere near the beer pong table.
Tucker didn’t stop.
He looked back only once, enough to make sure you were still with him, and then he kept going.
Outside, the cool air hit your face hard enough to make you breathe.
The party noise dulled behind the closed door. It was still there, still pulsing through the walls, but it felt far away now. Like something happening to somebody else.
Tucker walked you down the porch steps and onto the sidewalk without saying anything. His hand stayed around yours, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted, firm enough that you knew he wasn’t going anywhere unless you asked him to.
You made it half a block before you spoke.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
Tucker slowed beside you.
He looked at you then, eyebrows drawn slightly together. “Do what?”
“You know what.”
“No,” he said, voice low. “I really don’t.”
You looked down at your shoes. “Step in.”
For a second, he didn’t answer.
Then he stopped walking completely.
You had no choice but to stop with him, your hand still caught in his.
“He had his hand on you after you told him no,” Tucker said. “I wasn’t gonna stand there and watch it happen.”
“I know. I just…” You swallowed, embarrassed by the heat climbing up your neck. “I didn’t want to make it a thing.”
“You didn’t make it a thing.”
“I kind of did.”
“No.” His voice gentled, but it didn’t lose its firmness. “He did.”
That made something in your chest ache in a way you weren’t ready for.
Tucker stepped closer, slow enough to give you room. “Hey.”
You looked up.
His gaze moved over your face carefully, like he was checking for damage he couldn’t see. That almost undid you more than the guy in the kitchen had.
“You’re not in trouble,” he said.
A laugh slipped out of you, small and shaky. “I know that.”
“Do you?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again.
Tucker’s expression softened.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let me walk you home.”
You didn’t argue.
Your apartment wasn’t far from the party, but the walk felt longer with him beside you. Maybe because neither of you filled the silence just to fill it. Maybe because every step made you more aware of your hand in his, of the warmth of his palm, of the way he adjusted his pace to yours without making it obvious.
By the time you reached your building, your nerves had settled into something else.
Something quieter.
Something worse.
Want.
Not because of the guy at the party. Not because Tucker had played hero or acted like you owed him something afterward. That was the thing. He hadn’t.
He had gotten you out. He had checked on you. He had walked beside you like being trusted with your silence was enough.
And somehow that made you want him so badly you could barely stand to look at him.
At your door, you fumbled with your keys.
Tucker stood a step behind you, giving you space even though your body had started to scream for the opposite.
“You gonna be okay?” he asked.
You pushed the door open, then turned around.
He looked ready to leave if you said yes.
That bothered you more than it should have.
“Do you want to come in?” you asked.
His eyes flicked over your face. “You want me to?”
You almost smiled. “I asked, didn’t I?”
“Yeah.” His mouth curved faintly. “You did.”
You stepped inside first, and he followed, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Your apartment was dim except for the small lamp you had left on near the couch. There were clothes folded over the armchair, a half-empty glass of water on the coffee table, a book face down by the window.
Tucker looked around for only a second before his attention came back to you.
“Water?” he asked.
You shook your head.
“You sure?”
“Tuck.”
That stopped him.
Maybe it was the way you said his name. Not sharp. Not annoyed. Just too full of everything you had been trying not to feel.
His shoulders shifted with a quiet breath. “What do you need?”
There it was again.
Not what happened, not what did he do, not are you sure you’re fine.
What do you need?
You stared at him, and your answer terrified you a little.
“You,” you said.
Tucker went still.
The silence after it felt bigger than the room.
His eyes darkened, but he didn’t move toward you. He stayed exactly where he was, hands loose at his sides, jaw working once like he had to physically hold himself back from doing what he wanted.
“Darlin’,” he said carefully.
You took a step closer. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“I’m not.” His voice was rougher now. “I’m making sure you do.”
You hated how much that made you want to kiss him.
Instead, you walked past him toward your bedroom, because standing in the living room under that soft yellow light suddenly felt impossible. You expected him to stay where he was, maybe tell you goodnight, maybe be noble enough to walk himself out.
But after a second, his footsteps followed.
Your room was darker than the living room, lit only by the thin spill of light coming through the doorway. You sat on the edge of your bed and pulled off your shoes, mostly to have something to do with your hands.
Tucker leaned against the doorframe.
Not coming in all the way.
Of course he wasn’t.
“You can sit down,” you said.
His gaze dropped to the bed, then back to you. “I know.”
“But you’re not.”
“Trying to be smart.”
That pulled a real smile out of you, even if it was small. “Is that working?”
“No,” he said honestly.
The warmth that spread through you was almost painful.
You patted the spot beside you.
This time, Tucker came in.
The mattress dipped under his weight when he sat down, careful to leave a few inches between you. A few respectful, maddening inches. His knee brushed yours once, and both of you noticed.
Neither of you moved away.
You looked at him from the corner of your eye. “You called me your girl.”
Tucker’s head turned slowly.
“What?”
“At the party.” Your voice came out softer than you meant it to. “You said something like that.”
“I didn’t say it to him.”
“No.” You looked at him fully now. “You said it to me.”
He held your gaze for a second, then looked down with a quiet exhale. “Yeah.”
“Did you mean it?”
His hands were clasped loosely between his knees. His thumb dragged once over his knuckles, a nervous habit you had never noticed before.
“Tuck.”
He looked at you then, and every teasing thing you had planned to say disappeared.
“Yeah,” he said again, quieter this time. “I meant it.”
Your breath caught.
He gave you a tired little smile, like he knew exactly what that confession cost him. “Probably shouldn’t have said it like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t ask you first.”
Something inside you melted so fast it almost hurt.
You shifted closer without thinking. “Ask me now.”
Tucker’s eyes dropped to your mouth.
For one second, he looked twenty different kinds of wrecked.
Then he said, “Are you my girl?”
Your answer came out in a whisper.
“Yeah.”
Tucker didn’t kiss you right away.
He lifted his hand first, slow enough for you to stop him, and touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers. Barely a touch. Just enough that you leaned into him before you could pretend not to.
His mouth met yours softly at first, almost too softly, like he was testing the shape of the moment before trusting it. You kissed him back harder. Tucker made a quiet sound against your mouth, one hand sliding to your jaw while the other braced against the mattress beside your thigh.
You had thought about kissing him before. Too many times. In the kitchen while he cooked eggs with his hair still messy from sleep. In the passenger seat of his truck when his hand rested on the gearshift inches from your knee. Across crowded rooms when he smiled at you like he had a secret.
None of those daydreams had prepared you for this.
Tucker kissed like he paid attention.
Like he noticed the tiny hitch in your breathing when his thumb stroked along your jaw. Like he caught the way your fingers tightened in his shirt when his mouth slanted deeper. Like he knew when to give and when to take, when to ease back and when to make you chase him.
You climbed into his lap before you could lose your nerve.
Tucker’s hands caught your waist immediately, steadying you more than holding you down. His head tipped back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, lips parted from kissing.
“Hey,” he breathed.
You settled over his thighs, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of him. “I don’t want you to leave.”
“I wasn’t going to leave.”
“I mean…” You touched the side of his neck, feeling the jump of his pulse under your fingers. “I don’t want you to leave like that.”
Understanding moved across his face slowly.
Heat followed.
His hands flexed once on your waist, then went still.
“Tell me what you’re asking for,” he said.
Your stomach flipped.
“Tucker.”
“I need to hear it.”
The words should’ve embarrassed you. Maybe they did. But there was no teasing in his voice, no pressure, no smugness. Just need, low and careful and serious.
You leaned closer until your forehead nearly touched his.
“I want you,” you whispered. “I want this. I want you to touch me.”
His eyes searched yours.
“Because of me?” he asked.
Your brows pulled together. “What?”
Tucker’s thumbs moved slowly against your sides. “Don’t make this about him.”
Your chest tightened.
“I’m not.”
“If you’re upset, if you’re scared, if you just need somebody to make you feel wanted—”
“You do make me feel wanted,” you interrupted.
He stopped.
You swallowed, then forced yourself to say the rest. “But not because of him. I wanted you before tonight.”
The air between you shifted.
Tucker’s face changed with it, something restrained giving way to something warmer, hungrier.
“Yeah?” he murmured.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth again. “How long?”
“Too long.”
That got you a smile, soft and a little breathless.
Then he kissed you like he had finally let himself believe you.
There was nothing tentative about it this time. His mouth opened over yours, his hands sliding from your waist to your back, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against his. You sank into him, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck, and Tucker groaned so quietly you felt it more than heard it.
Your hips shifted without meaning to.
He broke the kiss with a sharp breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
“Careful,” he muttered.
You almost laughed, but then his mouth touched the side of your neck and the laugh disappeared.
Tucker kissed you there slowly, once beneath your ear, once lower, his lips warm and patient against your skin. He didn’t leave marks. Not yet. He just learned you, one careful press at a time, while his hands moved over your back like he was still reminding himself he was allowed.
You tugged at the hem of his shirt.
He lifted his head. “You sure?”
You answered by pulling it higher.
A rough little laugh left him, and he helped you, one hand reaching back to drag the shirt over his shoulders. It landed somewhere beside the bed, forgotten the second your palms touched bare skin.
He was warm under your hands. Solid. All lean muscle and breath and restraint. Your fingers traced over his shoulders, down his chest, across his stomach, and Tucker watched you do it like you were taking him apart piece by piece.
Then he reached for you.
His hands found the bottom of your shirt but didn’t lift it yet. He waited, eyes on yours.
You nodded.
Only then did he pull it up.
Slowly.
The fabric dragged over your ribs, up your arms, catching for a second before you helped him get it over your head. Your hair fell messily around your face afterward, and before you could fix it, Tucker was kissing you again, one hand sliding into it, the other settling against your bare waist.
It stopped feeling like undressing after that.
It felt like being chosen apart.
Your fingers worked at his belt while his mouth moved back to your neck. He made a sound against your skin when you got impatient, his hand covering yours for a second like he meant to slow you down, but he didn’t stop you. Not really.
He just kissed you deeper.
Your jeans came undone with clumsy fingers and uneven breathing. Tucker helped you shift off his lap just long enough to ease them down your legs, his touch careful at your hips, your thighs, your knees. When you kicked them off, he looked at you like he was trying to memorize the moment without making you feel exposed.
It made you want to hide and pull him closer at the same time.
“You okay?” he asked.
You touched his face. “I’m okay.”
His mouth brushed your palm. “Still with me?”
“Still with you.”
That seemed to settle something in him.
He pulled you back into his lap, and the kiss turned messy in seconds. Your hands were everywhere now, his shoulders, his hair, the back of his neck. His hands weren’t careless anymore. They moved with more confidence, smoothing up your sides, over your back, down to your hips, holding you like he had wanted to all night and had finally run out of reasons not to.
When your back met the mattress, you barely remembered moving.
Tucker hovered over you, one knee between yours, his forearm braced beside your head. His hair had fallen forward slightly, his breathing uneven, his lips swollen from yours. For a moment, he just looked at you.
“What?” you whispered.
He shook his head.
“Tell me.”
His smile was faint, almost shy. “You’re gorgeous.”
It was too simple to argue with.
Too honest to dismiss.
So you pulled him down and kissed him again.
He followed easily, settling over you with careful weight, his mouth finding yours, then your cheek, then the curve of your jaw. You arched into him when his hand slid over your thigh, and his breath caught hard enough that he had to stop kissing you for a second.
“Wait,” he said suddenly.
You froze.
Tucker lifted his head, expression softening the second he saw your face. “No, no. You’re okay.” His thumb brushed over your hip. “I just don’t have a condom.”
Your body relaxed, but only a little.
“I’m on the pill,” you said, still breathless.
His eyes stayed on yours. “That’s not the only thing I’m asking.”
You went quiet.
He leaned down, pressing one gentle kiss near the corner of your mouth.
“I’m asking if you’re sure about me,” he murmured.
The room felt very still around you.
You looked up at him, at the boy who had pulled you out of a crowded kitchen without making you feel small. The boy who had walked you home and waited at every door. The boy who had stopped more than once, even when wanting you was written all over his face.
You slid your hand to the back of his neck and pulled him close enough that your lips brushed his when you answered.
“I’ve never been more sure.”
Tucker’s eyes closed for half a second.
When they opened again, the last of his restraint was barely hanging on.
“Okay,” he breathed, the word a soft vibration against your lips before he kissed you again.
The kiss was slow and tasted of longing. Tucker’s hands stayed on your waist, his grip firm but careful as if he were holding something precious. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze searching to ensure you were still with him. When you leaned back in, your hands sliding over the lean muscle of his bare chest, he let out a shaky breath.
His hands moved to the clasp of your bra. He didn't rush, his fingers working the hook with a deliberate patience. As the straps fell away, he didn't immediately pull the fabric off. He paused, his eyes roaming over your breasts with a look of pure reverence. He kissed the valley between them, his lips warm and patient, before he eased the bra away completely.
You reached for the button of his jeans, your fingers trembling slightly. Tucker let out a soft, encouraging chuckle and covered your hand with his to help you guide the denim down. You helped him kick the jeans and boxers away, leaving him completely exposed and pulsing with need. Finally, he reached for the edge of your underwear. He looked at you, a silent question in his dark eyes, and when you nodded, he slid the lace down your legs.
When you were finally, completely naked, the air in the room felt electric. Tucker didn't immediately move to claim you. Instead, he just looked at you, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered, his southern drawl thickening. "Absolutely breathtaking."
He began a slow, worshipful descent, his lips trailing fire down your stomach. He paused, glancing up to make sure you were okay, and when you arched your back and whimpered, he continued. He moved to your breasts, capturing one nipple in his mouth. He sucked firmly, his tongue swirling around the peak and teasing it into a hard point.
A loud moan escaped you, and Tucker paused, his voice a low rumble against your skin. "You like that, sweetheart? I can keep going if you want."
"Yes... please, Tucker, don't stop," you gasped.
He moved to the other side, repeating the process with a focused intensity. He praised you softly, murmuring about how perfect you felt and how much he'd wanted to touch you. He treated your body like a sanctuary, ensuring every touch was welcomed.
As your breathing became erratic, Tucker slid down further, his hand gliding over your thigh to find the center of your heat. He found you soaking, your pussy glistening and open for him. He started slowly, pressing a single finger against your clit, circling it with a precision that made your hips jerk upward.
He watched your face intently, memorizing the way your eyes fluttered shut and the way your lips parted. He slid one finger inside you, then a second, feeling the tight, wet walls of your pussy clamp around him. He moved his fingers in a slow, rhythmic curl, opening you up and exploring your depth.
"You're so wet for me," he breathed, his voice shaking.
The sight of you falling apart beneath him—the way you gripped the sheets, your knuckles white, your moans turning into desperate pleas—was too much for him to bear in silence. While his fingers continued to work you open, driving you toward a peak, Tucker reached down with his other hand. He wrapped his fingers around his own cock, stroking himself in long, heavy slides. He was overwhelmed, caught between the need to give you everything and the agonizing pressure in his own groin, but he never took his eyes off you.
"Still okay? You want me?" he whispered, his voice ragged.
"Yes, please... I want you inside me," you whimpered.
Tucker shifted, moving his body to hover over you. He guided his thick, pulsing cock to your entrance, pausing for a second to lock eyes with you. He pushed forward slowly, easing himself into your warmth. As he sank deeper, you let out a sharp gasp, your body tensing as the fullness felt like a bit too much.
Tucker stopped instantly. He didn't push further. He froze, his muscles locking as he looked at you with immediate concern.
"Hey, hey," he whispered, his voice steady and soothing. "I'm stopped. Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Tell me if you need me to pull back."
"I'm okay," you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. "It's just... you're so big. Just give me a second."
He waited, kissing your forehead and your eyelids, whispering reassurances until he felt your muscles relax and your hips tilt upward, inviting him back in. Only when you whispered for him to continue did he begin to move.
His thrusts were slow and shallow at first, mindful of your comfort. He stayed close, his chest brushing against yours, his breath hot against your skin. He kept his eyes locked on yours, searching for any sign of discomfort.
"You doing alright, baby?" he murmured, his voice a low, honeyed caress.
"Yes," you whispered, your voice trembling. "It feels so good."
As the rhythm established itself, you reached up, your fingers diving into his thick curls. You tugged gently, threading your fingers through the soft hair as you pulled his face down to yours. You kissed deeply, a slow, romantic melding of souls that matched the steady pace of your bodies.
The feeling of your fingers in his hair seemed to break something inside him. Tucker let out a low groan and leaned into your touch, his forehead resting against yours. He kissed your palm, his breath hitching as he felt your acceptance.
Slowly, the shallow thrusts began to deepen. He didn't rush, but as you began to meet his pace, his restraint started to slip. He pushed deeper, filling you completely, his movements becoming more fluid and passionate. He continued to check in, his whispers becoming more frequent, telling you how much he loved the way you felt around him.
The quiet of the room only made every sound feel sharper, the uneven pull of his breathing, the soft creak of the mattress, the broken little moans he kissed out of you every time he pushed in deep. Your fingers slid back into his curls, tugging gently, and Tucker’s eyes fluttered for a second like that simple touch nearly undid him. “Keep doing that,” he murmured, voice rough against your mouth, his hips pressing slower but deeper, giving you time to feel every careful inch of him.
You held onto him tighter, legs wrapping around his waist, and the last of his restraint slipped in a way that still felt tender. He didn’t stop watching you. Didn’t stop kissing you. Didn’t stop asking with his hands and his mouth if you were still with him. And you were. You were with him in every breath, every touch, every quiet gasp of his name, choosing him again and again because Tucker didn’t just make you feel wanted. He made you feel safe enough to want him back.
You kept your eyes locked on his, the intensity of his gaze making your heart race. He looked at you with such raw adoration and hunger, yet his hands remained tender, framing your face and brushing your hair back from your forehead. You threaded your fingers deeper into his curls, tugging gently, and he responded by kissing you with a renewed passion, his tongue dancing with yours in a slow, wet rhythm that mirrored the friction below.
"You're so tight," he whispered against your lips, his southern drawl thick and heavy with need. "God, you feel perfect."
As you began to meet his thrusts for thrust, the friction building into a searing heat, Tucker’s composure finally began to fracture. He wasn't rough, but he was no longer holding back the sheer force of how much he wanted you. His movements became more fluid, more desperate, though he still paused for a split second every few thrusts just to search your eyes and make sure you were still with him.
"Still okay? You still like this, baby?" he murmured, his voice ragged.
"Yes, Tucker... please, don't stop," you whimpered, your voice breaking.
The feeling of you wanting him so badly seemed to push him over the edge. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and erratic against your skin. He groaned, a deep sound of surrender, as he pushed himself as deep as he could go.
"I'm close, sweetheart," he gasped, his voice trembling. "I'm not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that."
"Don't stop," you pleaded, pulling his face back up to yours. "I want you. I want all of you."
The admission shattered the last of his restraint. He began to move with a focused, driving intensity, his hips snapping against yours in a rhythmic, wet heat. You could feel the tension building in your own core, a tight coil of pleasure that was winding tighter with every deep, sliding stroke. You gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, as the world narrowed down to just the two of you and the sound of your synchronized breathing.
Tucker didn't look away. He watched your expression, his eyes darkening as he saw the moment your pleasure peaked. He sensed the first ripples of your orgasm beginning to squeeze his cock, and he let out a choked sound of pure bliss. He pushed one last time, deep and firm, and you screamed his name, your body shaking in a violent, beautiful release.
The feeling of you coming around him was the final trigger. Tucker let out a loud, breathless moan, his body locking up as he spilled himself deep inside you. He held you tight, his arms wrapping around you as if he never wanted to let go, his forehead pressed firmly against yours. You both stayed like that for a long time, locked in a mutual, shaking climax that felt as much emotional as it was physical.
As the intensity faded, Tucker didn't pull away. He stayed heavy and warm on top of you, though he shifted his weight to his elbows so he wouldn't crush you. He began to kiss you softly, starting with your eyelids, then your cheeks, and finally a long, lingering kiss on your lips.
"You okay?" he whispered, his voice returning to that steady, soothing tone. "I've got you.”
You nodded, still catching your breath, your fingers slipping gently through his curls.
“I’m okay,” you whispered.
Tucker’s expression softened, and he kissed you once, slow and sweet, like he needed to make sure you felt it.
“Good,” he murmured, easing beside you and pulling the blanket over your bare skin. His arm wrapped around your waist, bringing you against his chest, warm and careful and certain.
For a while, neither of you moved.
You rested your cheek over his heartbeat, listening as it slowly steadied beneath you. Tucker’s hand traced lazy lines along your back, his lips brushing your forehead every so often like he couldn’t quite help himself.
“Tuck?” you whispered.
“Yeah, darlin’?”
You smiled against his chest. “I like being your girl.”
His arms tightened around you.
“Good,” he said softly. “Because I meant it.”
And wrapped up in his arms, with his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, you believed him.
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SYNOPSIS — you give him a surprise birthday present
CONTENT — 18+ minors dni | sub!dennis, whiny!dennis, mentions of alcohol, car sex, grinding, premature ejaculation (dennis cums in his pants), basically no foreplay (reader is impatient), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), creampie. let me know if i’ve missed anything!
WC — 7.4k
NOTE — this came to me on a whim… enjoy lol
MASTERLIST
The fluorescent lights at PTMC felt harsher at the end of a shift—like they knew how tired everyone was and decided to make it worse. You leaned back against the nurses’ station, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes for a second longer than you probably should have.
Your whole body ached with that deep, bone-level exhaustion that only came after a shift like this—too many patients, too many close calls, too much adrenaline with nowhere to go now that it was over.
Your board was finally clear. Handovers done. Notes signed. You should’ve felt relieved. Instead, you just felt… wrung out.
“Today,” Santos announced, ripping off her gloves and tossing them into the bin with unnecessary force, “was a nightmare.”
“Understatement,” Javadi muttered, already halfway into her coat, one arm jammed through the sleeve as she tried to multitask packing up her bag.
From the other side of the desk, Dennis looked like he might actually fall asleep standing up.
You nudged his arm lightly. “Hey. Don’t pass out yet.”
He gave a tired huff of a laugh. “Give me five minutes.”
Santos suddenly straightened, her whole posture shifting like a switch had been flipped. Her eyes lit up—bright, mischievous, and immediately suspicious. “Wait—hold on. We are not ending today like this.”
“That sounds ominous,” Javadi said flatly.
“It’s Dennis’ birthday.”
Dennis blinked, properly focusing for the first time in what looked like an hour. “You remembered that?”
“No, I saw it on the rota this morning,” Santos shot back instantly, completely unapologetic. “But that’s not the point. The point is—” she clapped her hands once, sharp and decisive “—we’re going out.”
You exhaled slowly, considering it. Every part of you screamed for sleep—for your bed, for silence, for not having to think anymore—but the idea of just… ending the day like this, scattered and exhausted, felt wrong somehow.
“A drink sounds…” you tilted your head, searching for the right word, “…dangerously necessary.”
Javadi gave you a look, one eyebrow raised. “Some of us would like to sleep.”
“And some of us,” you shot back, straightening slightly despite yourself, “just survived a twelve-hour shift from hell and deserve one drink.”
“One,” Javadi repeated firmly.
“Minimum,” Santos added without missing a beat.
Dennis looked between all of you, a little overwhelmed but smiling properly now. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s your birthday,” you said, pointing at him. “You don’t get a say.”
“Yeah,” Santos chimed in, folding her arms with mock authority. “This is literally the one day you’re not allowed to opt out.”
Dennis huffed out another laugh, this one more awake, shaking his head like he’d already accepted defeat.
“Alright,” he said. “Alright, fine.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” you smiled, gently shaking his shoulders.
A few minutes later, you and Santos had split up to see who else you could rally with you. Trinity had already cornered Dana and Cassie near the exit, blocking their escape with the kind of determination no one argued with at the end of a shift. You caught Robby just as he was slipping past the desk, clearly aiming to disappear before anyone could rope him into anything.
“Don’t even think about saying no,” you said, stepping into his path.
He hesitated, then sighed. “One drink.”
You tracked down Langdon next, catching him mid-conversation, then Mel and Samira by the lockers, both of them were easy enough to convince once the words ‘Dennis’ birthday’ were mentioned.
By the time you circled back, the group had grown—Perlah leaning against the wall with a reluctant sort of acceptance, Donnie already checking his phone for nearby bars, Princess was already creating bets on who could down the most shots in a minute, and Garcia well, Garcia looked like she was still deciding if she regretted being included.
Donnie glanced up from his phone, thumb still hovering over the screen. “There’s a place like ten minutes away,” he said. “Not fancy, but it’s open late and won’t care how we look.”
There was a general murmur of agreement as people started mentally committing—bags slung over shoulders, lockers shut properly now, the slow shift from hospital mode to something almost resembling real life.
You fished your keys out of your pocket, twirling them once between your fingers. “I can drive a few people, if anyone wants a lift.”
A couple of heads turned. It wasn’t a long drive, but at this hour, after a shift like that, even ten minutes felt like effort.
“I’ll take that,” Dennis said a little too quickly. Then, like he realised it, he cleared his throat and added, more casually, “If that’s okay.”
You smiled, easy, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Yeah, of course.”
“Oh, amazing,” Santos cut in, already moving. “Shotgun.”
Dennis blinked. “Wait—”
Too late. Santos had already breezed past him, slipping the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder as she headed for the exit. “I call it,” she added over her shoulder, not even pretending this wasn’t deliberate.
Dennis opened his mouth, closed it again, then exhaled through his nose.
You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “You good?”
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, I’m good.”
He wasn’t. He trailed just behind you as the group started filtering out of the department, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft mechanical sigh. Santos was already leaning against the passenger door of your car when you finally arrived.
You unlocked your car with a soft click of your key and Trinity instantly slipped into the passenger seat.
“Back seat, birthday boy,” she added sweetly.
Dennis paused for half a second, like he might argue. Then he briefly caught your eye and whatever protest he had seemed to dissolve.
“Yeah… Okay,” he said, quieter now.
He slid into the back seat, the door shutting with a dull thud that felt louder than it should’ve. From the front, Santos was already messing with the radio. You started the engine, glancing at Dennis in the rearview mirror for a second. “Seatbelt.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, pulling it across his chest. “Yes, doc.”
The drive itself was chaotic. Trinity had taken full control of the music within seconds, cycling through songs and offering loud, unsolicited commentary on each one. You humoured her, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against it in time with whatever she’d decided was acceptable.
Dennis, in the back, stayed quieter. Not silent—he chimed in now and then, dry comments slipping in at just the right moments—but mostly, he watched. The back of your seat, the way your hands moved on the wheel, the quick glances you made in the mirror when Santos said something particularly ridiculous. It wasn’t what he’d hoped for. But it wasn’t nothing, either.
By the time you pulled up near the bar Donnie had suggested, the street was packed—cars lined bumper to bumper, headlights cutting through the dim glow of streetlamps, groups of people spilling out onto the pavement.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” you muttered, slowing the car.
“Please tell me you see something,” Santos said, craning forward like that would magically create a space.
“I see plenty,” you replied dryly. “All of them taken.”
You circled once. Then twice. Still nothing.
Dennis leaned forward slightly between the seats, peering out. “We could just—park further out?”
“And walk?” Santos said, like the word personally offended her. “After that shift?”
You let out a small laugh, already giving up on the idea of finding anything remotely sensible. There was a narrow gap that probably counted as parking only in the loosest, most optimistic sense of the word, but it would do.
It wasn’t exactly a space, more like a suggestion of one. It was half on the curb and slightly questionable. Which meant it was definitely not legal.
“Right,” you said, easing the car in. “This is… sort of a parking space.”
Santos leaned forward to look. “That is definitely not a parking space.”
“It is tonight,” you corrected, already pulling in. The car tilted ever so slightly as the tyre bumped the curb, but it fit. Barely.
You killed the engine and turned off the headlights, already knowing it was the kind of decision that would make someone in a better mood raise an eyebrow and say something about getting a ticket. But after the day you’d all had, you were past caring.
Santos twisted in her seat to look. “Oh, that is illegal illegal.”
“It’s fine,” you said, already unbuckling. “We won’t be long.”
“That’s what people say right before they get a ticket,” Santos said, opening her door.
You shot her a look. “Are you getting out or not?”
Dennis climbed out more slowly, glancing at the car with a faintly amused look. “You just parked a bit badly.”
“Thank you,” you said. “I prefer ‘creatively.’”
Dennis lingered for half a second by the car door, glancing back at it. “You’re definitely getting a ticket.”
The three of you crossed the street together, the bar’s warm light spilling across the pavement and the faint thump of music growing louder with every step. Inside, it was all low amber lighting, crowded tables, and the buzz of people who looked like they had not just spent twelve hours at PTMC. The place felt almost unfairly relaxed compared to the fluorescent glare you’d left behind.
“Oh, thank God,” Santos said, like she’d just reached salvation. She barely made it two steps in before she made a beeline for the bar.
“Wow,” Dennis muttered, watching her disappear. “Didn’t even wait.”
You followed his gaze with a small smile. Santos was already waving at the bartender like she’d known them for years, one hand lifted, her energy somehow fully restored the second she smelled alcohol.
You snorted. “I’m surprised she didn’t start running.”
Dennis huffed a quiet laugh beside you, though he looked a little more distracted than amused. He had hoped for a little time alone with you—just enough to talk without Santos talking over both of you. Instead, he was still trying to find his footing when Princess appeared at his side like she’d timed it perfectly.
“Found you,” she said brightly.
Before either of you could answer, she held up two shots in her hands, the amber liquid catching the low light. One for him. One for you.
“I thought the two of you might be lagging,” she said, offering one of the shots to you first.
You took it with an appreciative smile. “That’s very considerate of you.”
Princess tilted her head, pleased with herself. “I know.”
Dennis accepted the other shot, still looking faintly overwhelmed. As Princess left the two of you, rejoining the noise of the bar, you glanced down at the shot in your hand, then back up at Dennis.
“Actually—” you said, holding it out toward him.
He frowned slightly. “What?”
“I’m driving,” you reminded him, gently pressing the glass into his hand. So you’re going to have to suffer through an extra one. Tragic, I know.”
“Right,” he said finally, a hint of a smile breaking through. “For safety.”
“For safety,” you echoed, a small smile tugging at your mouth.
He exhaled once, then knocked them back one after the other, quick and efficient. The burn hit almost immediately, sharp enough to make him wince slightly as he lowered the empty glasses.
“Wow,” you said, raising a brow. “Impressive.”
Dennis coughed once, shaking his head as the warmth settled in his chest. “Yeah, well—”
“Birthday boy!” Robby’s voice cut clean through the noise before he could finish. A hand landed on Dennis’s shoulder, already tugging him back toward the rest of the group. “You’re needed,” Robby added, grinning.
“I just—” Dennis started, glancing back at you.
But Robby was already pulling him away, momentum winning out before he could properly resist. Dennis twisted slightly in his grip, looking back over his shoulder. For a second, his eyes found yours and there it was again—that same quiet, almost hopeful look, like he’d been about to say something and hadn’t quite gotten the chance.
You just smiled, easy and warm, lifting your hand in a small wave.
“Go,” you mouthed.
He hesitated—just for a heartbeat—then let himself be dragged back into the crowd, the moment slipping away as quickly as it had come. You watched him go for a second longer, then turned as Mel nudged your arm.
“Help me,” she mumbled. “Santos is trying to force me into a drinking game.”
You laughed softly, and with one last glance toward where Dennis had disappeared into the crowd, you headed off to join the girls. Mel was rambling about something as she tugged you farther into the bar, the noise growing louder with every step.
The place was packed now in a way you hadn’t fully appreciated from the doorway—music pounding through the floor, glasses clinking, people shouting over one another in bright, half-drunken bursts of conversation.
Then came the whooping, loud and encouraging. Followed by whistles that cut clean through the music.
You slowed instinctively, brows drawing together as curiosity tugged at you. “What’s that?”
Mel barely looked over her shoulder, clinging onto your arm. “No idea, but it sounds stupid.”
That, naturally, only made you more interested. You craned your neck, trying to see past the crowd as another burst of cheering rose up from the back of the bar. People were gathered in a loose circle around something you still couldn’t quite make out, phones lifted, shoulders jostling, everyone shouting over each other like they’d all agreed this was the most important thing happening in the world.
Then you spotted him, Dennis, on a mechanical bull. For a split second, your brain couldn’t quite process it. He was doing absurdly well, one hand gripping it tight, the other held out for balance, his posture tense but surprisingly steady as the bull rocked and spun beneath him.
There was a look of absolute concentration on his face, jaw set, eyes fixed ahead like he was determined to prove something to the machine itself. You couldn’t help it—you laughed, a hand coming up to cover your mouth as you watched him.
“Since when can he do that?” you mumbled in shock.
“No idea,” Mel said. “But I respect it.”
Then, almost as if he could feel it, his eyes flicked up. They found yours in the crowd, and the second they did, everything changed. Dennis visibly faltered—his focus breaking, his expression shifting from determined to startled to horrified all at once. The bull lurched again beneath him, and that tiny lapse was enough.
His grip slipped, his balance went with it, and suddenly he was tipping sideways, the controlled rhythm gone as he lost the movement completely. The crowd gasped—then burst into laughter and cheers as he hit the padded floor with a dull thud.
You winced instinctively, already pushing forward a step. “Oh my God—”
Dennis lay there for a second, staring up at the ceiling like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this exact moment. Then he groaned, dragging a hand over his face as the operator shut the bull off.
Dennis huffed weakly, dragging himself up to sit properly. A faint flush crept up the back of his neck, spreading slowly, betraying him completely despite the way he tried to play it off. He rubbed the back of his head, staring at you for a beat, then gave the smallest, most embarrassed shrug imaginable.
Before you could even properly register Dennis climbing back to his feet, Langdon’s voice cut through the noise beside you.
“There you are,” he said, like he’d been looking for you specifically for this exact moment.
You turned slightly, still half distracted by the aftermath of Dennis’ very undignified exit from the bull. “Unfortunately,” you replied.
Langdon snorted, following your gaze. “Right. Your turn.”You took one look at the bull, then at him, and immediately shook your head. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, already reaching for your arm, trying to steer you forward. “You can’t watch that and not try it.
“I can, actually,” you shot back, planting your feet slightly. “Very easily. In fact, I’m doing it right now.”
He laughed, undeterred. “It’s basically mandatory at this point.”
You stepped sideways to avoid him, shaking your head. “I’m going to stop you right there.”
Langdon opened his mouth again, but you were quicker. Before he could keep pushing, you caught sight of Dana nearby and, with the speed of someone trying to save themselves from public humiliation, you seized the first opening you could find
You turned on her with a bright, innocent smile. “Oh—Dana! Perfect timing.”
Dana turned sharply, immediately suspicious. “Why do I feel like I’m about to regret this?”
She gave you a long, flat look that made it very clear she understood precisely what you were doing. Dana glanced from you to the bull, then back again, and sighed with the exhausted resignation of someone who had just realised she was being dragged into nonsense against her will.
Dana’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Oh-ho, no chance.”
You put a hand to your chest in mock innocence. “Not even for me?”
“I love you, sweetheart,” she said flatly, “but no.”
You frowned dramatically, already pivoting. “Cass—”
“Nooo,” McKay laughed, shaking her head, already stepping back like she needed physical distance from the idea.
“C’mon,” Langdon grinned, reappearing behind you and grabbing your shoulders, steering you back toward the bull again. “It’ll be fun.”
“Perlah? Samira?” you tried, twisting slightly to look around for backup as he dragged you with surprising determination. “Garcia? Anyone?”
No one stepped in and suddenly the mechanical bull felt a lot closer than you would’ve liked. You tried to dig your heels in as Langdon continued to guide you through the crowd. The circle of people parted just enough to let you through, a few amused faces already turning your way as it became very clear what was happening
You shot them all a look that said I hate all of you, though there was a reluctant smile tugging at your mouth now. You caught sight of Dennis again and he was still rubbing the back of his head, hair slightly mussed, shirt a little more rumpled than before. But the second he realised what was happening—realised you were being pushed toward the bull—his entire expression changed.
“Wait—” he called, stepping forward instinctively. You glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “Just—” he gestured vaguely toward the bull, clearly trying to gather his thoughts fast enough to be helpful. “Lean with it, not against it—don’t lock your arm, and—uh—keep your centre—”
He stopped, clearly aware he was rambling. You tilted your head, watching him for a second, then smiled—slow, teasing.
“I know how to ride,” you said, patting his chest.
The words landed with exactly the effect you’d intended. His eyes widened, just a little, and for a second he looked like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh, panic, or simply turn around and disappear into the crowd. The flush that rose up his neck was immediate and unmistakable.
“Right,” he said quickly, looking anywhere but directly at you now. “Right—good. That’s—good.”
Before you could second-guess yourself, someone from the crowd reached out and plopped a cowboy hat onto your head. You reached up automatically, adjusting the hat with a grin, while the crowd around you reacted with a fresh wave of cheers and whistles. Dennis looked at the hat, then at you, and for a second his expression went almost helplessly soft.
You climbed onto the mechanical bull and Dennis’ eyes followed your every move. As the machine started up and the crowd began to notice, Santos cupped her hands around her mouth, leaning forward slightly.
“Get ‘em, cowgirl!” she called out brightly.
You laughed, gripping the handle as the bull gave its first testing jolt beneath you. Dennis stayed near the edge of the crowd, his eyes fixed on you immediately, like the rest of the room had blurred into nothing more than background noise.
The bull dipped and twisted, sharper now, faster—but you stayed centred, hips shifting smoothly with the motion, your balance never quite breaking. The cowboy hat stayed firmly in place, your grip steady, your expression somewhere between focused and faintly amused, like this was less of a challenge and more of a game you were already winning.
Even the operator seemed to clock it, nudging the controls a little harder, a little faster, like they were trying to throw you off on purpose now. You leaned into it, adjusting without thinking, every movement instinctive, controlled. When the bull jerked suddenly to the side, you followed it, legs tightening just enough, your free hand dipping slightly before lifting again to steady yourself.
It was effortless. Or at least, it looked that way. And from where he stood, Dennis couldn’t look away. At first, it was just awe. Genuine, open, unfiltered awe—the kind that made his eyebrows lift slightly, a disbelieving laugh catching in his throat as he watched you somehow do better than he had.
Dennis adjusts his stance, praying that you—or anyone else—notices the effect you’re having on him. The way you moved with the bull was an intoxicating view and Dennis couldn’t help the way his breathing grew shallow.
A bead of sweat slid down his temple as his gaze focused on your hips. He watched as you moved with the rhythm of it, completely in control. His body is a mess of conflicting emotions and desires.
Dennis blinked hard, dragging a hand down his face like he could physically reset his thoughts. The noise of the bar and the cheers are a distant whisper, drowned out by the roar of his own heart. He tore his gaze away for half a second. Then, like an idiot, looked back.
Dennis couldn’t help but think that, if that's how you rode a bull, how would you ride—
“Yeah, no,” he muttered quickly, taking a step back. “Nope. Not—no.”
Heat crept up the back of his neck again, and he let out a quiet breath that was somewhere between a laugh and sheer disbelief at himself. He shook his head once, firmly, like that would fix it, already retreating a step further from the crowd.
“Get it together,” he mumbled under his breath.
He turned and made a beeline for the bar, pushing through the edge of the crowd with slightly more urgency than necessary, like distance alone might help him regain some sense of composure. By the time he reached it, he exhaled sharply, bracing his hands against the counter for a second.
“Water,” he said quickly to the bartender, closing his eyes briefly.
The noise of the room seemed to blur around him—laughter, music, the scrape of stools, the rising and falling swell of voices—but he barely registered any of it. His mind was still somewhere back by the mechanical bull, still caught on the image of you up there.
He was so deep in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice when the cheering changed. It wasn’t until a hand settled gently between his shoulder blades that he startled, jolting slightly and turning his head at once.
You were there, gently rubbing your hand up and down his back. Then you tilted your head slightly toward the door, a small, silent suggestion. He set the glass down without thinking, pushing himself off the bar as he followed you, still a half-step behind as you slipped through the crowd toward the exit.
Dennis exhaled the second he crossed the threshold, the tension in his shoulders easing almost on reflex. You stood nearby with a small, knowing smile, and Dennis glanced at you once before looking away again, still trying very hard to act like he had not just been thoroughly thrown off by your existence in the worst possible way.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Somewhere down the street, a car passed, headlights briefly sweeping across the pavement before disappearing again.
“Hey,” you frowned slightly, studying him in the dim light spilling out from the bar. “You okay?”
Dennis was already shaking his head before you’d even finished. “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. He pushed his hands into his pockets, rocking back slightly on his heels. “Just needed some air. It’s—uh—it’s warm in there.”
You didn’t look convinced, keeping your gaze on him for a second longer, and reading into the tension he hadn’t quite managed to hide, the way he kept avoiding your eyes.
Your expression softened, concern creeping in around the edges.“I didn’t, like—ruin your birthday or anything, did I?”
“What?” His head snapped up. “No—no, no, not at all.”
Dennis let out a small breath, rubbing the back of his neck again, a nervous habit he clearly hadn’t even realised he was doing.
“I swear,” he added quickly. “You didn’t ruin anything. This is—” he gestured vaguely back toward the bar, the noise, the chaos, “—this is probably the best birthday I’ve had in a while.”
You searched his face, still unconvinced, and he seemed to realise that he was going to have to be more honest if he wanted you to stop worrying. Dennis shifted his weight, glancing down at the pavement, then back up, then away again.
Dennis’ ears went faintly pink as he looked like he was debating something internally. He dragged a hand down over his mouth, then let it fall again, as if he could physically buy himself a few more seconds.
“I was just,” he started, then stopped. He huffed out a quiet, self-conscious laugh, scratching his jaw. “I was just being an idiot, honestly.”
You tilted your head slightly. “How?”
Dennis winced faintly, like he already regretted opening his mouth. He looked away first, a little sheepishly, and gave a tiny, awkward shrug. “I’m annoyed at myself, that’s all.”
“For what?” you wondered.
He hesitated again, shoulders tightening just slightly. “Because,” he said at last, voice low and mortified, “you were on that bull, and you looked… really good.”
Your eyes widened slightly. He made a sound that was halfway between a groan and a laugh, immediately regretting having said anything at all. “And I know that sounds ridiculous, but I was trying very hard not to think about it, and then I started thinking about it, and then I was just—” He stopped, hating himself a little more with every word. “I was distracted. Really distracted.”
The words came out rushed, a little uneven, like he was trying to get them over with before he could stop himself. And the second they were out there, he looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
Your expression shifted, the corners of your mouth lifted, something more playful creeping in as you tilted your head at him.
“So…” you added, your voice light and teasing, “you enjoyed watching me a little too much?”
His eyes widened a fraction, and then, almost instantly, that telltale flush crept back up his neck, spreading across his cheeks this time with absolutely no mercy.
“I—” he started, then stopped.
You just watched him, clearly entertained now, but not unkindly so. Dennis let out a quiet, defeated breath, shoulders dropping as he realised there was no way out of this that didn’t involve at least a little honesty.
“Yeah,” he admitted, voice softer, a little rough around the edges. “I did.”
He glanced at you, then away again almost immediately, like holding your gaze for too long might make it worse.
“More than I probably should have,” he added under his breath.
You tilted your head slightly, studying him for a moment before your smile turned a little more knowing.
“You sound nervous,” you pointed out gently.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I am.”
Your expression softened, curiosity replacing the teasing edge. “Why?”
Dennis glanced down at the pavement, then back up at you, like he was weighing whether or not to say it—really say it this time. “Because,” he started, then stopped, exhaling quietly. “I’m always a bit nervous around you.”
You blinked, surprised. “Me?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, giving a small, almost helpless shrug. “I’ve got a bit of a crush on you,” he said, the words coming out quieter, but steadier than before. “Which I know I probably shouldn’t, because… work, and everything that comes with that.” He huffed a small, self-conscious laugh. “It could get complicated. I know that.”
Your heart gave a small, unexpected pull at that. Dennis looked at you again, properly this time, all honesty and just a hint of uncertainty lingering underneath it.
“But I can’t really help it,” he finished, a little softer. “I tried. Didn’t work.”
You gave him a small smile, stepping a little closer. You rose slightly on your toes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. When you pulled back, Dennis was completely frozen—eyes wide, body still, like his brain had just stopped processing information entirely. He blinked once, slowly, then again, like he was trying to catch up with what had just happened.
“You just kissed me,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
“Consider it a birthday present,” you smiled fondly.
It took a little while but Dennis’ brain finally caught up—just enough to realise two things at once: one, that you had kissed him, and two, that he might never get a moment like this again if he didn’t do something about it.
He didn’t think, didn’t overanalyse, didn’t give himself time to panic. He just stepped forward and kissed you. Properly. It wasn’t perfect—there was a hint of hesitation in it, a flicker of nerves—but it was soft, certain, like he’d committed to it the second he started. But then, just as quickly, he pulled back.
“Oh—” Dennis’ eyes widened immediately, panic crashing in all at once as the reality of what he’d just done hit him. He took a small step back, running a hand through his hair in a flustered rush. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t—I don’t know if that was okay, I just—” He stopped himself, clearly spiralling, his expression somewhere between hopeful and horrified. “I didn’t mean to overstep,” he added quickly, voice quieter now. “I just—yeah. Sorry.”
You stepped closer again, shaking your head slightly, your expression soft but steady. “I didn’t mind.”
“You didn't?" he asked carefully.
There was still that uncertainty in his voice, that need to be absolutely sure he hadn’t crossed a line he couldn’t come back from. He stared at you for a moment, unsure he’d heard you right.
“No. I didn’t,” you said reassuringly.
He searched your face for a second longer, like he was double-checking for any sign of hesitation, any hint that you were just saying it to make him feel better.
“You’re not mad?” he asked, quieter now.
And that did it. Before he could spiral again, you reached up, closing the distance without another word, and kissed him. Dennis was ready for anything—a lecture, a rejection, even you walking away without a word—but the moment your lips met his, all thoughts left him.
He froze for only a second before his body took over, his hands moving almost automatically to your hips, pulling you closer. The kiss was a whirlwind of raw heat and restrained passion, years of pent-up desire finally finding release.
Dennis’ touch was urgent, his fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt tightly. Time lost all meaning as the kiss deepened, becoming more desperate. The world around you seemed to fade into a blur, leaving only a raw, unbridled connection.
The kiss was a silent confession of need, and when you finally broke the kiss, Dennis’ eyes locked with yours filled with an intense mixture of desire and uncertainty.
“Does that answer your question?” you whispered breathlessly.
“Yeah,” he cleared his throat, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your hip. “Yeah, it does.”
“Good,” you hummed, taking a hold of his hand and pulling him across the road.
Dennis followed you without protest, his hand automatically intertwining with yours. His brain was still buzzing with the remnants of the kiss, but curiosity quickly took the forefront.
"Where are we going?" he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
“Get in,” you grinned, unlocking your car and sliding in.
Dennis hesitated for half a second before ducking into the passenger seat. As soon as the door shut behind him with a soft click, you pulled away and drove down the road. Dennis watched the scenery blur past, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh.
His breath caught as the car rolled to a stop, the parking lot deserted except for a few other cars at the far end. The river stretches out in front of them, a stretch of moonlight reflecting on the surface.
You shut the car off and Dennis glanced around before turning fully toward you now that he had no distractions left. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as reality set in; no one else was there but you two.
“I thought I’d give you your birthday present here,” you whispered, unbuckling your seatbelt.
“H-here?” Dennis gulped, looking around. “Is it in the trunk?”
“No, Huckleberry,” you chuckled, shaking your head.
You leaned forward, unbuckling his seatbelt before slowly climbing over the centre console and into his lap.
“Is this okay?” you wondered, placing your hands on his shoulders.
His heart is thundering, but his hands immediately move to your hips, gripping the fabric of your shirt instinctively, as if he needed something to hold.
His voice was hoarse as he answered you, his eyes on yours. “Yeah,” he replied a little too quickly. “Yeah, this is, uh, yeah… this is fine.”
“Just fine?” you teased, tilting your head.
“A goddamn dream come true, actually,” he breathed, trying to keep his cool as he looked up at you.
You feel the corners of your mouth lift at his response and you can't help but tease him further with a slow roll of your hips. As you rock your hips against him, Dennis exhaled sharply, his eyes closing for half a second as a shudder ran down his spine.
He swallowed hard, the friction between you two sparking a fire of raw, primal need in him. His hands flexed at your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. His jaw clenched, hard, as he fought to keep control of himself, but the way his body reacted was anything but subtle.
You connected your lips once again and he kissed you back with desperation, his tongue sliding past your lips, tasting you like he was starved of air. His hands moved up from your hips to your face, cradling it gently.
He tugged you closer, wanting more, needing to taste more, feel more, touch more. Your tongues slid against one another with an inappropriate amount of hunger as one of his hands found its way into your hair, pulling gently at the roots. There was no stopping him now, not when you tasted like this and felt so damn good pressed up against him.
Dennis groaned raggedly into your mouth, dropping one of his hands from your face to your waist, sliding his hand under the fabric of your shirt. His fingers splayed on the bare skin of your back, the feeling of your body against his was addictive. It was overwhelming, exhilarating and terrifying all at once.
You pulled back just enough so you could breathe, your chest rising and falling rapidly. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip as he struggled for words—struggled not to drag you closer again.
“Was that… okay?” He rasped, leaning forward and resting his forehead against yours.
“You need to stop worrying,” you panted, kissing his jaw and down his neck.
“Worrying is kind of my thing,” he whispered between panting breaths.
His protest, however, died instantly when your teeth grazed a particularly sensitive spot just below his ear. A sharp inhale later and all coherent thoughts evaporated. Dennis tilted his head back, exposing the line of his throat to your lips, as he rolled your hips on his lap.
The sound you make combined with sudden press of your hips sends shocks of heat through Dennis’ entire body, and he involuntarily bucks up against you, his fingers digging into your thighs as he curses softly below you.
“Oh, God—” he muttered, burying his face into your neck.
Unable to help yourself, you continue to roll your hips against his, feeling the pulse of his clothed cock—even beneath the fabric of his jeans. Dennis let out an almost-whine in response, his hands coming to your hips and tightening against your top.
His breathing was ragged and labored, his whole body tight as a wire, almost trembling with how much physical effort it was taking him to stay semi-collected. Dennis shuddered violently under you, his entire body tensing as pleasure overtook him.
A rough, punched-out groan escaped his throat, half-embarrassed, half-wrecked, as he clung to you like a lifeline. His hips jerked upward helplessly against yours for a few more seconds before finally stilling with an exhausted pant.
“H-holy shit,” Dennis mumbled weakly, his eyes hazy and dazed.
His voice was wrecked beyond recognition, sounding equal parts overwhelmed and blissfully ruined. Dennis swallowed hard, he couldn’t even look at you right now. You soften, gently cupping his jaw and bringing his gaze back onto you.
You took a quick glance down, spotting the damp patch spreading from the front of his jeans. Dennis shifted in the seat, trying to ease the discomfort as the fabric clung to him. Your brows furrowed slightly and you reached a hand down between you both, palming him softly.
His hips jerked forward despite being overstimulated. His chest was heaving with short, ragged breaths as he looked up at you with eyes that were practically pleading—like he desperately wanted more but also wasn't sure he could handle it.
It was a beautiful contradiction of desire and uncertainty that you were taking full advantage of. Your hand undid his belt, not bothering to remove it from his jeans as you unzipped them. He lifted his hips without any objection and as you pushed the fabric down, you caught sight of how much mess Dennis made.
You traced a finger over his damp boxers, admiring the way they clung to his cock. His eyes watched as you reached for his waistband and pulled down the ruined clothing. Strands of his release connected him to his boxers as you finally freed him from his confines.
"Please…" Dennis murmured thickly and it was very clear he was hanging by a thread now.
“Please what?” you hummed, running a finger over his thigh and collecting some of his release and sucking his release off your finger.
His whole body ached for you—every muscle coiled tight with anticipation. His throat bobbed visibly as he swallowed hard, his hips twitching forward uselessly against nothing while his cock strained painfully.
His voice was barely more than a strained whisper now; a raw sound that trembled with need and desire as he choked out, "Please… I need you…"
The confession made your cunt clench around nothing; it craved his fingers, it craved his cock, it craved him. He was already embarrassingly hard, flushed and leaking. He was completely at your mercy now; a mess of desperate whimpers and shaky exhales as he tried to keep himself from losing control but failing miserably when all it took was one particularly rough stroke for his hips to jerk forward into your touch with a choked-off moan.
"Fuck—I can't…" His voice cracked and Dennis was beyond words at this point.
The need for more was driving him insane as you continued to pump him slowly. He kept his eyes locked on yours and there was a desperation, a need, in his gaze that silently implored you to give him even the smallest bit of relief.
"Please…" he babbled incoherently, his voice little more than a whisper. "Don't tease me, not now.” His eyes searched yours—begging and pleading. “I need you…
“Okay,” you whispered, unbuttoning your jeans.
Dennis helped you clumsily and a little uncoordinated. It took him a few steadying breaths, but he finally managed to work your jeans and panties down over your hips and then off completely before tossing them onto the drivers seat.
He glanced down and there was something almost reverent about his gaze now. His hands skimmed up your thighs slowly, the touch feather-light. He dragged his fingers up, then down again, feeling the way you shook at his touch.
His fingers slipped through your folds, circling your clit, spreading your wetness around. It was almost embarrassing how soaked you were and before Dennis could ask if what he was doing was okay, you lifted yourself up, dragging his tip through your folds.
Your moan was filthy as you slid down onto him, inch by antagonising inch, until he bottomed out. Dennis was thick inside you and you couldn’t help the little broken moan that slipped past your lips as the stretch burned.
Dennis’ eyes stayed locked on you, drinking in every part of you. You gave yourself a moment to adjust, before you began to move. slowly at first, lifting your hips up and then sliding back down.
The pleasure was almost overwhelming, his pelvis grinding against you with every thrust. He wasn't even trying to be quiet anymore—not caring who might wonder what was happening inside your car. He just wanted you.
"P-please…" Dennis whined—the word sounding almost painful as it ripped from his throat.
Every nerve in your body felt alight as Dennis gave you everything he had and more. His grip on your thighs tightened, fingers digging into soft skin as his body trembled with the effort of holding back.
The fogged windows and the scent of sex filling the car, drove your mind into a frenzy. Your body arched above him, legs clenching around his hips, drawing him deeper. The two of you moaned together at the feeling and Dennis’ movements began to falter as he struggled to keep his impending orgasm at bay.
You moaned lewdly, the heat in your lower stomach spreading. You clenched around him as he bucked his hips up over and over again bringing you closer to your climax. Dennis keened at your moans, his hips stuttering at the sounds tumbling from your lips.
As he got closer and closer to his release, you knew you weren’t far behind. Dennis felt you tighten around his cock and he was determined to make you cum before him. It only took a few more thrusts before the pressure became too much and you let your orgasm wash over you.
You moaned, fingers threading through his hair, your whole world narrowing down to the moment in front of you. The feeling of you climaxing around him sent Dennis over the edge. His thrusts became sloppy and he released deep inside of you—his hips stuttering through the tremors of his orgasm before finally stilling completely.
For a few long seconds, the car was filled with the sound of both of your uneven breaths, mingling as you tried to catch your breath. The two of you were too spent to even think about moving and Dennis slumped against you, his forehead resting against your shoulder while murmuring: "Fuck... I'm so sorry..."
“It’s okay,” you whispered breathlessly, still coming down from your high.
Dennis pulled back when he could finally manage it, his gaze landing on you; a lazy, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he took in the sight of you above him. There was still a faint trace of disbelief in his expression, like he hadn’t quite processed how the night had turned into… this.
“Best birthday ever,” he whispered, leaning his head back.
Your hand came up and gave his arm a light, lazy slap.
“Oh my God,” you muttered, though there was a smile in it. “You’re unbelievable.”
Dennis let out a soft laugh, still grinning, completely unbothered. You shifted slightly, glancing at him before rolling your eyes just a fraction.
“Yeah,” you added, a little smug now, “you’re welcome."
Hey guys! I just wanted to share this little snippet of the next story I’m writing. This will probably be my next series. I’m kinda excited about the idea.
Pitt Masterlist
Michael Robinavitch has a daughter…
Michael Robinavitch hadn’t thought much about the daughter he left behind.
Not since the day he signed away his parental rights twenty-three years ago, when her mother got married to a more reliable man. She’d been four years old; small enough to still reach for his hand, too young to understand why he stopped showing up.
It had all started with one stupid decision. A drunken one-night stand at a college party during his senior year of undergrad. A mistake made by a twenty- three year old who thought he had his whole life ahead of him and wasn’t ready to be anyone’s father.
Now, at fifty, it was almost ironic.
After years spent at PTMC watching families fall apart in the worst moments of their lives and doing everything he could to keep them together; all Robby wanted was a family of his own.
But the little girl with big brown eyes had long since become nothing more than a memory. A life he convinced himself never really happened. A chapter buried so deeply in the past that it almost felt imagined.
Until a new nurse practitioner started at PTMC.
She was twenty-seven. Bright. Bubbly. Effortlessly kind. The kind of person who could make even the most exhausted patient smile.
And when she laughed, her chocolate-brown eyes crinkled in exactly the same way the chief attending’s did.
Will Robby recognize the daughter he hasn’t seen in twenty-three years?
Does she even know that the physician signing off on her orders is the biological father who walked away?
Or is PTMC about to become the setting for a reunion neither of them ever saw coming?
I think it might eventually turn into Frank Langdon being the love interest but i’m undecided. I just think that would add some dirt into the wound for more drama. But it will mostly been about Robby and his daughter’s relationship. Let me know what you think!!!
gerran being soooo touchy feely on set he keeps getting in trouble and people keep asking if you're okay... ugh
you just reply with "oh yeah he's just like that" with a happy smile even though he's really not.... at least not like how he is with you... his hands grabbing your waist and hips as he passed you as he talks to you. his hand fixing your hair or gently touching your face and neck. the way he hugs you.... isa swears she's seen his hand on your ass but maybe she was just seeing things...
the worst part is you always end up nearly getting caught making out... you'll sneak into his trailer to "run lines" when really he's running his tongue over whatever skin he can get to during your 20 minute break.
One time you were straddling his hips finding the perfect rhythm as your hips grind together and you get a knock at your door a familiar voice calling your name your hand flys over Gerrans mouth to muffle his moans and your hips came to an abrupt stop
"hey, wanna go get coffee while we're on break?" you hear Shabana's muffled voice on the other side of the door. You're scrambling to get up and shove gerran aside muttering at him to hide. he gives you a huff concealing his hard-on and moving out of sight so you can go out with Shabana
thankfully she didn't suspect anything...
on carpets he loves being next to you in pictures there's definitely a few of him whispering to you you just laugh so they think he's being clever but he's saying whatever perverse idea came to his twisted head. while you're hoping no one notices his hands grabbing groping your ass
Summary: Eight months in, June and Dennis have finally found something soft, steady, and almost easy. But when June starts feeling off during a shift, one quiet answer changes the shape of everything she thought she was ready for.
Warnings: anxiety/spiraling, fear of ruining a relationship, brief emotional distress/crying, hospital/workplace stress, mentions of medical procedures/surgery, lots of softness and Dennis Whitaker being painfully sweet. Long Af
June Bug Masterlist (1-14)
Main Masterlist <--- check out my other stories
Eight whole months. That is how long Dennis and you have been dating. Eight whole months. But you couldn’t say they were uneventful. There have certainly been ups and downs. Mostly on your end and giving Dennis a heart attack every single time.
But being through what you’ve been through, it’s really easy to feel like you’re undeserving of love. Dennis however, has proven that love isn’t conditional. He’s been slowly picking up each piece of your broken heart that you thought was unmendable.
He loves you in a way that never feels like a bargain. He loves you even when you're sharp from exhaustion, when you're buried in work, and panicking in silence. You don't have to shrink down to be kept with Dennis.
He makes you breakfast, remembers your coffee, holds you through the ugly feelings, and looks at you like every complicated piece of you is still worth choosing. For the first time, love doesn’t feel like something that can be taken away when you become inconvenient. It feels steady. Patient. Safe. Unconditional.
Which is why him practically living in your apartment doesn’t terrify you. He doesn’t officially live with you. His name is still on the lease with Trinity. Half his clothes still live in his bedroom at their place, his mail still goes there, and his toothbrush is still tucked in the cup beside Trinity’s like evidence of an actual roommate situation.
But unofficially, his favorite hoodie is draped over the chair in the corner of your bedroom. His boots are by your front door for when he goes and helps Amy. Who is slowly becoming a regular person in your life, rather than some competition for Dennis’ love.
His razor is in your shower. There’s extra clothes tucked away in your closet. His scrubs folded neatly in the laundry basket with yours. Avocados in your fridge, even though you do not like them. But he does, plus it keeps him from eating all of Trinity’s. His book on the nightstand. He sleeps next to the window because he knows you like the wall.
e bed. And somehow, somewhere between eight months of sleepovers and shared groceries and him learning which blanket you like when you come home from a bad shift, Dennis Whitaker has become part of your apartment in the same quiet, steady way he became part of your life.
You should be terrified by that. Eight months ago you would’ve been.
Sometimes you are.
Mostly, though, you are happy.
Happy in a way that still feels new enough that makes you suspicious if you think about it too long. Happy in a way that sneaks up on you during ordinary moments.
Dennis barefoot in your kitchen.
Dennis brushing his teeth beside you before work.
Dennis asleep with one arm thrown over your waist, breathing warm against the back of your neck.
Dennis treating your family like it was his own. Penny and Tanner are attached to him the minute he walks through the door. Frank pretending he doesn’t like him that much. Abby politely conversing with him about his hometown.
You are happy.
Safe and happy.
Today when you wake up, the first thing you notice is the lack of Dennis next to you. You hear him in the kitchen making breakfast like this is part of the normal routine now.
The second thing you notice is the feeling like your stomach is trying to crawl out of your body. At first, you blame the smell. Which is unfair because Dennis is making eggs, and Dennis makes good eggs. Soft scrambled, because he once watched you overcook them while post-call and has never emotionally recovered.
But today, the second the scent reaches your bedroom, your stomach rolls.
Hard.
You press a hand over your mouth and sit up too fast. The room tilts. “Oh, absolutely not,” you mutter. From the kitchen, Dennis calls, “You awake?”
You close your eyes and breathe through your nose.
Bad choice.
Eggs.
You gag. “June?” Dennis calls again, closer this time. “I’m fine!” you yell, which is both unconvincing and deeply suspicious. You scramble out of bed and make it to the bathroom just in time to kneel in front of the toilet.
Nothing comes up. Which is the most awful feeling. You are crouching in front of the toilet, one hand on the edge of the skin. The other pressed to your abdomen like that will somehow calm down your GI system. News flash, it does not.
Dennis knocks lightly on the half opened bathroom door. “Can I come in?” “No,” you said immediately, voice hoarse. He pauses, one hand on the door. “Okay,” A beat. “Are you throwing up?” “No.”
A short terrible silence follows. Then you add, ‘Not successfully.” You can see his shadow shift underneath the door. “Do you want water?” You rest your forehead against your arm. “Yes, please.”
He leaves, and you use the precious seconds alone to splash cold water on your face and try to pull yourself together.
You look terrible. Not objectively. Probably not. But your face feels wrong. Too pale under the bathroom light, eyes too tired, mouth too dry.
Your scrub pants are folded on the bathroom counter because you had planned to be efficient last night.
Cute.
Optimistic.
Stupid.
You reach for them, and that is when your fingers brush against the box tucked behind the hand towels.
Pregnancy tests.
Your entire body goes still. You forgot they were there.
No, that is not true. You did not forget. You shoved them there three days ago after Dana stared at you over the charge desk while you turned away from someone’s microwaved salmon and said, flatly, “Little Langdon, when was your last period?” You told her to stop practicing witchcraft.
Dana told you to pee on a stick before she made you pee on one between consults. You bought the tests on the way home and immediately decided that you weren’t mentally ready to see what the test actually said. Now the test sit behind the hand towels in the bathroom closet, mocking you.
Your stomach flips again, but this time out of fear and anticipation. Not from the eggs cooking in the other room. Dennis knocks once and pushes the door open slightly, just enough to pass in a glass of water without looking in.
Because that is the thing about Dennis. He listens. He respects closed doors and boundaries. He is the type of man to make things worse by being too good. “Thank you,” you say quietly, taking the glass.
“You sure you’re okay?” You stare at the test box. “Yeah,” you lie. “Just give me a minute.” “Okay.” His voice softens. “Breakfast is almost done.” Your stomach lurches. “Great,” you say weakly. His footsteps retreat.
You stand there for another thirty seconds. Then another, then you finally grab the box. You tell yourself it is only to prove Dana wrong.
That is all. A practical step. A clinical ruling out. A basic diagnostic measure.
You are a doctor. You like data. Data is neutral. Data is calm. Data does not rearrange your entire life before seven in the morning while your boyfriend makes eggs in your kitchen.
You take the test because you are brave.
No.
You take the test because you are terrified and need not know to stop.
The three-minute wait feels violent.
You sit on the edge of the bathtub in your scrub pants and bra, one sock on, one sock off, with the test face-down on the counter because you cannot look at it yet. You can hear Dennis humming faintly in the kitchen.
The coffee maker beeps. A cabinet closes. But you barely hear them, as you focus on the test in front of you. A thousand thoughts run through your mind as you silently panic.
Your phone buzzes on the sink.
Yoyo, My Lover: Tell me why Park texted me to be quiet today.
Yoyo, My Lover: I haven’t even drank my coffee yet.
You do not answer.
Your timer goes off. You stare at the phone in your hands, then at the test. Your hand reaches for it before the rest of you is ready. You turn it over. And low and behold, two pink lines stare back at you.
For a second, you do not understand what you are seeing.
Which is ridiculous.
You are a physician.
You have seen pregnancy tests before. You know how they work. One line negative. Two lines are positive. False positives are rare. You know the next steps. Repeat test. Confirm with serum or urine hCG. Estimate gestational age from LMP. Prenatal vitamins. OB appointment. Avoid alcohol. Watch meds and blood pressure. Adjust caffeine. Think about everything.
Everything.
Everything.
Your vision narrows around the two pink lines.
Pregnant.
You are pregnant.
Your breath comes in shallow. You stare until the lines blur. Then, suddenly, all the options hit at once. You could tell Dennis right now. He is in your kitchen making breakfast. He is probably cutting fruit because he is annoying like that. He would turn around when you walked in. He would know immediately something was wrong because Dennis notices when your left eyebrow moves half a millimeter.
You could show him the test. You could say the words. I’m pregnant.
Your chest tightens so sharply you almost gasp. Because you can see him. Not leaving. Never leaving. That is not what scares you. Dennis Whitaker would not leave you. Not like that. Not for this.
He is too loyal. Too steady. Too good in the way that scares you because it does not come with obvious escape routes. Dennis would stay even if he did not want to. He would sit beside you at every appointment. He would hold your hand. He would buy the prenatal vitamins and read every pamphlet and ask Dana too many questions and probably start tracking your protein intake like a man possessed.
He would stay. Even if this was not what he wanted. Even if he looked at you one day and realized his life had narrowed around something he did not choose. Even if he never said it. Even if the resentment came quiet. He would stay and you would ruin his life plans and goals but one stupid test.
Your hand shakes around the test. You love him.
God, you love him.
You are happy with him. Normal with him. For the first time in your adult life, your relationship is not something you are surviving, managing, or bracing against. Dennis is not a storm. He is not a test. He is not another person asking you to be less so he can feel like more. He is just present, always showing you how much he loves you.
He is breakfast before work. He is warm hands at your waist. He is your favorite coffee appearing beside your elbow on bad days. He is asleep in your bed with one arm thrown over his face and his mouth slightly open while you pretend not to think he looks adorable.
He is yours.
But now there are two pink lines on your bathroom counter that may potentially ruin everything. But instead of being unhappy, you’re not. Which is surprising, scared yes, but not unhappy. You do not feel unhappy. That may be the worst part.
Under the fear, under the panic, under the spiral of every catastrophic possibility your brain can produce before seven in the morning, there is something else. Something tiny. Something bright. Something that looks suspiciously like joy.
You press a hand over your mouth.
Dennis calls from the kitchen, “You almost ready?” Your heart jumps so hard it hurts. You look at the test. Then the door. Then the test. You do the only reasonable thing. You tuck the pregnancy test into your scrub pocket like it is contraband and pull your top on over your head. “I’m coming!” you yell, voice too high.
You brush your teeth twice because your mouth tastes like panic and mint and secrets.
When you finally step into the kitchen, Dennis is standing at the stove in his navy scrubs, hair still damp from the shower, one hip against the counter. There are eggs on two plates, toast, fruit, and your coffee in your travel cup.
He turns when he sees you. His face softens. Then immediately sharpens.
“You okay?” “Yep.” Dennis stares at you. You grab your coffee. “June.” “What?” “You look pale.” “I’m always pale. I’m Irish through Dad’s genetics.”
He does not smile.
Annoying.
You lift the coffee to your mouth and take one sip. Your stomach revolts instantly. You lower the cup down.
Dennis sees that too. “You sure you should work?” “I am not calling out because I dry heaved once.” “You said you didn’t throw up.”
“I said not successfully.” “That is worse.” You grab your bag from the chair. “We’re going to be late and then Park will kill me.”
He looks like he wants to say more. He does not. Instead, he turns off the stove, packs the toast into a paper towel, and hands it to you.
“Take this.” You stare at it. Your stomach turns again. “Thank you.” “Eat it when you can.” You nod.
You do not eat it.
The drive to work is quiet. Not silent. Dennis asks about your OR schedule. You answer. You ask about his patients from yesterday. He tells you. The radio plays low. The morning traffic is normal.
Everything is normal. Except there is a positive pregnancy test in your scrub pocket. You can feel the plastic edge against your thigh like a brand.
Dennis drives because he always does in the morning even when you pick him up from your own apartment, which makes no sense and makes perfect sense at the same time. His hand rests on the gear shift. Your hand stays in your lap.
He notices that too. You know he does. But he still does not push.
By the time you walk into the ED, you have convinced yourself you are fine. You are a highly trained orthopedic surgeon. You can compartmentalize. People do it all the time. There are worse things going on in this hospital than the positive pregnancy test in your pocket.
Frank is at the physician station when you arrive, looking down at a chart while Mel talks beside him. He spots you immediately.
Then Dennis.
Then your face.
His brows pull together. “What’s wrong with you?” You blink. “Good morning to you too.” Frank points his pen at you. “You look weird.” “I’m choosing to believe that’s a compliment.” “It wasn’t.” Dennis shifts beside you.
You feel his worry like heat. “I’m fine,” you say. Frank’s gaze narrows in the exact same way it has since childhood when he caught you lying about stealing his Halloween candy.
“You’re doing the face.” “What face?” “The lying face.” “I have never lied in my life.”
Frank barks a laugh. Mel looks between you and Dennis. “Should I leave?” “No,” Frank says.
You reach across the desk and steal his coffee. “Hey.” You take one sip and immediately regret every life choice that led you here. The coffee tastes wrong. Not bad, just wrong.
Too bitter. Too warm. Too much.
Your stomach rolls. You set it down fast. Frank notices. Dennis notices. Dana, twenty feet away at the charge desk, notices without even looking up because she is a witch.
You swallow hard. “That’s disgusting.” Frank looks offended. “That is my coffee.” “My condolences.” “You drink iced sugar milk. Your opinion means nothing.”
Dennis touches your elbow lightly. “Water?” You step away too quickly. “I have to go review cases with Park.” Dennis’s hand drops.
You see it. You hate yourself a little. “I’ll see you later,” you say, softer. His face smooths into something calm for you. “Okay.” But his eyes are worried.
Frank waits until you walk past before he turns to Dennis. You do not hear what he says. You do not want to.
Upstairs, Park is already in front of the board, arms crossed, radiating disapproval at the entire orthopedic census. “You’re late,” he says. “I am thirty seconds early.” “You’re late objectively.” You stop beside him. “What does that mean?”
He looks at you. His eyes narrow.
No.
Absolutely not. You are not going to be mentally evaluated by Park this early in the morning.
You turn to the board. “Cases.” Park does not move. “Langdon.” “Cases,” you repeat.
Yolanda appears at your other side with an iced coffee in hand, cheerful and loud and exactly the wrong person to be around when you are keeping a life-altering secret.
“Good morning, bone gremlins.” Park says, “You’re loud.” “Thank you.” She turns to you. “You didn’t answer my text.” “My phone was in my bag.” “It was about Park calling me loud before arrival. Historic event.” Congratulations.” Yolanda’s smile dims slightly.
She studies you. “Oh no.” You do not look at her. “Don’t.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You were thinking loudly.” “You taught me.” Park looks between you both. “Why is everyone being annoying before seven?” “Because you inspire us,” Yolanda says.
The morning board is not terrible, which feels like the universe is mocking you.
A tibial plateau fracture from a scooter accident. A distal radius that failed closed reduction overnight and needs operative fixation. One hip hemiarthroplasty. Two post-op checks. A possible septic knee consult waiting for aspiration depending on labs.
Normal things. Bones. Blood. Metal. Plans. You latch onto them like a lifeline.
Park makes you present each case, and you do it well enough that no one would know your entire internal world has split into before and after. But Park knows something is wrong. Of course he does.
He watches you the way he watches fracture reductions: silent, suspicious, looking for the hidden displacement. During the first case, the distal radius, you are fine. Mostly.
You scrub. You breathe through the smell of chlorhexidine because apparently your body has decided even familiar hospital smells are now personal attacks. You focus on the incision, the exposure, protecting tendons and neurovascular structures, reducing the fracture, plate positioning under fluoroscopy, screw length, restoring volar tilt and radial height.
Park corrects you twice. Normal. Yolanda hums under her breath until he threatens to remove her vocal cords. Also normal. But when the scrub tech opens a packet of something with a sharp plastic-chemical smell, your stomach flips so violently you have to turn your head.
Park sees it. “Orca.” “I’m fine.” “Stop saying that.” “Stop making it sound untrue.”
Yolanda’s eyes flick to you over her mask.
You focus harder.
By ten, Dennis has texted you twice.
Dennis💕 : Are you doing okay?
You stare at it in the OR lounge between cases.
You type: yes
Delete it.
Type: long morning
Send.
A second later:
Dennis 💕: Did I do something?
Your heart drops. You close your eyes. Oh, Dennis.
Sweet, anxious, ridiculous Dennis, who has been loved badly enough to assume distance is something he caused.
You type back immediately.
You: no
You: promise
You: you didn’t do anything
The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Dennis 💕: Okay. I love you.
Your eyes sting.
You look away from the phone because Yolanda is watching. “Are you crying over a text?” she asks. “No.” “Is it a Dennis text?” “No.” “So yes.”
You shove the phone into your pocket. The pregnancy test hits your fingers. You freeze.
Yolanda notices that too.
You pull your hand away too fast and stand. “Coffee?” She blinks. “That was a transition.” “I need coffee.” “You look like coffee might kill you.” “Then avenge me.” She follows you anyway.
The walk to the coffee cart is usually sacred.
It is your ritual. Yours and Yolanda’s. A small pocket of gossip and caffeine and orthopedic complaining between ORs. You usually spend it mocking Park, discussing hospital drama, or arguing about whether Dennis looks more like a golden retriever or a man who would apologize to a chair after bumping into it.
Today, you walk quietly.
Yolanda lets it last exactly one minute. “Okay,” she says. “Who died?” “No one.” “Who annoyed you?” “Everyone.” “That’s baseline.” You keep walking.
She steps in front of you near the elevators, forcing you to stop. “June.” You sigh. “Yolanda.” “You’re quiet.”
“I can be quiet.” “You once talked for fifteen minutes about why orthopedic screws should not be allowed to strip at three in the morning.”
“They shouldn’t.” “You called one a little bitch.” “It was.” She studies you, face gentler now. “Is it Dennis?” “No,” you say immediately.
Too immediate. Her eyebrows lift.
“No,” you repeat, softer. “Dennis is good. He’s…he’s Dennis.” “Okay.” You cross your arms, then uncross them because the test in your pocket presses against your hip. “I’m just having a day.”
“Do you want me to ask again later?” “No.” “Will I ask again later?”
“Yes.” “Good. We understand each other.”
By noon, Trinity knows something is wrong. Of course she does, because the ED is a gossip ecosystem with vital signs. You come downstairs for a consult on a shoulder dislocation that reduced itself during x-ray, and Trinity appears beside you at the workstation.
“Are you mad at Dennis?” You look up. “Hello to you too.” “I don’t do small talk when Huckleberry is spiraling.” Your stomach sinks. “He’s spiraling?”
“He asked me if he’s been too clingy.” You close your eyes. “Oh no.” “Then he asked if you secretly hate that he’s basically moved into your apartment.”
“Oh, Dennis.” “Then he reorganized the supply drawer.” You blink. “In the ED?” “Yes.” “That’s not his job.” “He was stress organizing.” You glance across the department.
Dennis is with Robby near Trauma Two, listening, but his eyes flick to you before you can look away. You give him a small smile. He smiles back.
It does not reach his eyes. Your chest aches. Trinity watches the entire exchange. “So,” she says slowly. “Not mad at him.” “No.” “Good, because he is one minor inconvenience away from asking if he should move his toothbrush back to our apartment.”
Something about that makes your throat close. “No,” you say, too sharp. “No. He shouldn’t.” Trinity’s expression softens. She leans a hip against the desk.
“June.” “I’m fine.” “God, you and Dennis both do that. It’s like watching two raccoons pretend not to be in a trash can.”
You almost laugh.
Almost.
Trinity lowers her voice. “Whatever it is, you should tell him before he convinces himself he broke something.” You look down at the chart. “I know.”
You do know.
That is the problem.
Frank notices during rounds. You are checking on the infected hip hemi when he steps into the room behind you, pretending to look for a patient sticker.
You glance over. “Can I help you?” “No.” “Then leave.” “No.” The patient, an eighty-three-year-old woman named Marlene who already told Park he has “angry eyebrows,” looks between you and Frank with open delight.
“Sibling fight?” she asks. Frank points at you. “She started it in 1999.” “I was a baby.” “You were a menace.” Marlene smiles. “My sister once hit me with a canned ham.”
You pause. “I’m sorry, a what?” Frank looks at you. “Don’t get ideas.” You finish checking Marlene’s dressing, distal pulses, motor and sensation, then step into the hall.
Frank follows. You stop. “What?” He looks at you, not teasing now.
“What’s going on?” “Nothing.” “June.” “Frank.”
He exhales through his nose. “You’ve been quiet all day.” “Maybe I’ve matured.” “You told Park his personality needed a revision arthroplasty yesterday.”
“He did.” “You didn’t steal my coffee this morning after one sip.”
“It was disgusting.” “My coffee is always disgusting. That has never stopped you.”
You look away. Frank’s face changes. “Are you sick?” “No.” “Are you sure?” You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Frank steps closer. “Bug.”
Your eyes burn.
Not here.
Not with Frank, because Frank will know too much too fast. Frank will go full older brother, and then Abby will know, and then your dad will somehow know despite living nowhere near the hospital, and then Penny will draw a picture of you with a baby in your stomach before Dennis even gets a chance to process being a father.
“I’m just tired,” you say.
Frank does not believe you. But unlike Dennis, Frank pushes.
“That’s not what I asked.” You look at him sharply. “I said I’m fine.” He leans back like you slapped him. Immediately, guilt twists through your stomach.
“Frank,” you say softer. He studies your face, then nods once. “Okay.”
That is worse.
You almost tell him. The words climb up your throat.
I’m pregnant.
But you swallow them down. Not yet.
You need one thing today that still belongs only to you. Even if that one thing is terrifying.
At 1430, Dana catches you near the med room after you nearly gag when someone opens a container of leftover garlic pasta at the nurses’ station.
She does not say anything at first. Dana never wastes words when a look can do the work. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and avoid her eyes. “Don’t.”
Dana crosses her arms. You look at the ceiling. “Please do not look at me like that.” “Did you take one?” Your throat tightens.
The hallway is too loud.
Too bright.
Too full.
You glance around.
Dana’s face changes immediately. “Come here.” She pulls you into the small staff room near the charge desk and shuts the door.
For a second, neither of you speaks. Then Dana says, much gentler than usual, “Positive?”
Your eyes fill so fast you barely have time to look away. “Yeah.” Dana exhales softly. “Oh, honey.”
That does it. A tear slips down your cheek. You wipe it away angrily. “I’m not sad.”
“I know.” “I’m not.” “I believe you.” “I just…” You press both hands to your face. “I don’t know what I am.”
Dana waits.
You drop your hands.
“I love him,” you whisper. Her eyes soften. “I know.” “And things are good. They’re so good, Dana. Like disgustingly healthy. He practically lives with me now. He makes breakfast and he remembers how I like my coffee and he folds towels wrong but in a way that’s somehow charming. He looks at me like I’m not hard to love.”
Dana’s expression gentles further.
You shake your head. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
“A baby doesn’t mess up love,” Dana says quietly. “It changes the shape of things. That’s different.” Your lips tremble. “He’d stay.” “Dennis?” You laugh once, wet and shaky. “Obviously. He’s too loyal not to. He’d stay even if he was terrified. Even if he didn’t want this. Even if he resented me later.”
Dana’s face turns firm. “Now you’re borrowing trouble.” “I’m being realistic.”
“No, you’re being scared.” You look away. Dana steps closer. “June, that boy looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Despite yourself, you smile.
Dana smiles faintly. “Is he going to be scared? Probably. He’s a first-year resident dating an orthopedic surgical resident who can emotionally eviscerate people before lunch. He’s not stupid.” “Rude.”
“But Dennis loves you,” she says. “And he deserves to know before your fear turns this into something it doesn’t have to be.” You press a hand over your scrub pocket. The test is still there.
Dana sees.
Her voice softens again.
“You don’t have to tell the whole department. You don’t have to decide everything today. But don’t carry it alone just because you know how.” Your eyes burn.
“I wanted to be happy first,” you whisper. Dana tilts her head. “I saw the test and I was happy,” you admit. “For like one second. And then I ruined it by thinking.” “That sounds like you.”
You laugh again, quieter this time. Dana squeezes your shoulder. “Take the happiness seriously too,” she says.
The rest of the shift becomes impossible. Not because the work is hard. The work is fine.
Rounds. Post-op checks. A septic knee that turns out to be gout. One consult for a metacarpal fracture that absolutely could have not involve you but did because the ED believes ortho exists in a closet and can be summoned by vibes, even for fractures they know we won’t fix.
Dennis passes you twice.
The first time, near CT, he opens his mouth like he wants to ask if you are okay. You get paged before he can. The second time, at the physician station, he hands you a cup of ice water without a word.
You take it. Your fingers brush. The contact almost breaks you. He looks exhausted by worry. You hate that you are doing this to him. But you still cannot say it.
Not there. Not in the ED. Not with Dana and Frank and Trinity and Yolanda all watching like emotionally invested hawks. Not with Park walking around the department as if he can smell secrets.
Which, apparently, he can.
You are reviewing post-reduction films on a teenager with a distal radius fracture when Park appears behind you. He says nothing for long enough that you finally snap, “Can you stop lurking?” “No.”
You sigh and zoom in on the image. “Alignment looks acceptable.” “Your read is acceptable. Your personality is not.” “Wow, fun twist.”
Park crosses his arms. You wait. He waits.
You turn slowly. “What?” “Where has my resident gone?” Your stomach drops.
“I am literally standing here.” “No.” His eyes move over your face. “The loud one. The annoying one. The one who tells me when my plans are old man medicine.”
You try to smile. It fails.
Park’s gaze sharpens. “Ah.” You look away. “Don’t.” He lowers his voice, which from Park is the equivalent of a blanket.
“On-call room. Now.” “I’m not having a breakdown.” “I didn’t ask.”
“You are so bossy.” “I’m your attending.” “Barely.” “Room.”
You go, because arguing with Park when he has decided to care about you is pointless and irritatingly comforting. The on-call room is empty. Park shuts the door behind you and leans against it like a man guarding an exit, which is ironic considering he is the one who made you come in here.
You sit on the edge of the bed. Then stand. Then sit again.
Park watches. “You’re making me dizzy,” he says. “You’re making me homicidal.” “There she is.” You glare. He folds his arms. “What happened?”
You swallow.
For some reason, saying it to Park feels both impossible and easy.
Maybe because Park is not soft in a way that demands softness back. Maybe because he loves you like a grumpy sea creature with a favorite fish. Maybe because he has never once asked you to perform your feelings in a way that makes them prettier.
You reach into your scrub pocket.
The test is wrapped in a paper towel now because you are not completely feral.
You hold it out. Park looks at it. Then at you. Then back at it. His eyebrows lift slightly.
“Oh.” You bark out a laugh. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
He takes the paper towel-wrapped test with the clinical detachment of a man who has held stranger things in hospitals and unwraps it enough to see the lines.
Then he wraps it back up and hands it to you. “Well,” he says.
“Well?” “You’re pregnant.”
“I am aware.” “Good. We’ve established diagnosis.” You stare at him. “Park.”
He looks at you. For once, he does not look annoyed.
Not really. Just steady.
Your face crumples before you can stop it.
“I’m scared.” Park nods once.
Not surprised.
Not dismissive.
Just accepting the information.
“That’s reasonable.” You press the heel of your hand to one eye. “That’s it?” “What do you want me to say?” “I don’t know. Something wise.” “I’m an orthopedic surgeon.” “Fair.”
He sighs and sits in the chair across from you, which is how you know this is serious because Park does not sit unless he is charting, eating, or emotionally preparing to be inconvenienced.
“You want it?” You look up quickly.
There is no judgment in his voice. None. Just the question.
Your hand moves to your abdomen before you realize it. “I think so,” you whisper.
Park watches the movement.Your eyes fill.
“I mean, yes. I think yes. I just…” You breathe shakily. “I don’t know what Dennis wants.” “Ask him.” You laugh wetly. “Wow, revolutionary.” “You’re spiraling around a conversation you haven’t had.” “I’m trying to prepare.” “No. You’re trying to control the damage before knowing if there is any.”
You look down.
Park leans forward, elbows on his knees. It is so unlike him that you look up again.
“Whitaker loves you,” he says. Your throat tightens. “He’s scared of disappointing you on a normal Tuesday,” Park continues. “You think he doesn’t already know you’ve been off all day? You think he isn’t down there rearranging his entire life because you wouldn’t drink coffee?”
Your lips part.
“He asked Trinity if he should move his toothbrush.” Park’s face goes flat. “Idiot.” You laugh. Then cry a little.
Park lets you. Which, from him, is practically a lullaby.
After a moment, he says, “Tell the ER resident before it eats them both alive.” You wipe your face. “Them?” “You and him.”
“Oh.” “He thinks he did something wrong. You think he’ll stay for the wrong reasons. Both of you are exhausting.” You sniffle.
Park stands.
“And for the record,” he says, hand on the doorknob, “I do not think Whitaker has enough imagination to fake wanting a life with you.” You blink.
“That was almost sweet and rude at the same time.”
“Tell anyone and I’ll deny it.” “You secretly love me.” “I tolerate you because Garcia would be difficult if you died.” “That’s love.” “That’s paperwork avoidance.”
He opens the door. Then pauses.
“Also,” he says without looking back, “start prenatal vitamins if you haven’t. Confirm with OB. Watch your caffeine. And stop smelling surgical prep like it’s a personal challenge.” “You are such a dad.” Park points at you. “Do not.”
You salute weakly.
At the end of the shift, you are so tired your bones feel full of sand. Dennis waits by the lockers. He is trying to look normal, but he is failing horribly.
His hair is a mess from running his hands through it. His scrub top is wrinkled. His eyes follow you the second you appear.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey.”
A pause.
A bad one. He swallows. “Do you want me to come over tonight?” Your heart squeezes. “Yes,” you say too quickly. “Yes. I just…I have to run some errands first.”
His face flickers. “Errands?”
“Yeah.” “Okay.”
You can see him trying not to ask. Trying not to cling. Trying to be good for you even though you have spent all day making him wonder where the floor went. You step closer and take his hand. His fingers close around yours immediately.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say. Dennis looks at you. “I promise.” He nods, but his eyes are still uncertain. “I’ll come over after?” he asks. “Give me like an hour.” “Okay.”
You kiss him quickly, because if you kiss him longer, you will tell him beside the lockers with Trinity pretending not to listen from three feet away.
Actually, Trinity is not pretending. She is staring.
“Goodnight, Trin,” you say. She narrows her eyes. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I don’t like it.”
Dennis closes his eyes. “Trinity.” “What? It’s weird. You’re both being weird. The vibes are rancid.” You point at her. “Stop reading vibes.” “No.”
You leave before she can ask anything else. Your errands take forty-seven minutes.
Not that you count.
You go to Target. Because apparently that is where life-changing emotional preparation happens. You stand in the baby aisle for ten full minutes staring at onesies so small they make your lungs stop working.
They are ridiculous.
Tiny.
Unreasonable.
You touch one with little yellow ducks on it and almost cry in public. “Nope,” you whisper to yourself. “We are not doing this under fluorescent lighting.” You buy the duck onesie anyway. And a pair of impossibly small white baby socks. And a little woven basket from the home section because you need something to put it all in, because handing Dennis a used pregnancy test wrapped in a paper towel feels psychologically aggressive.
You also buy two more pregnancy tests because one test feels too fragile to build a life on, even though you know how tests work.
At home, you take both.
Positive.
Positive.
You sit on the bathroom floor for a long time staring at all three tests lined up on the counter. There is no arguing with three. You shower. Brush your teeth. Put on leggings and Dennis’s sweatshirt because you need armor and apparently your armor is cotton drenched in Husker red.
Then you sit on your bed with the basket in front of you. The duck onesie folded carefully. The baby socks tucked beside it. The three positive tests lined along the bottom like evidence in a trial.
You almost take one out. Then put it back. Then almost hide the whole basket in the closet. Then your phone buzzes.
Dennis 💕: Heading up. Is that okay?
You stare at the message.Your hand moves to your stomach again.
Still flat, still yours, but yet not only yours.
You breathe in and then out.
You: yeah
You: door’s unlocked
The next three minutes are the longest of your life. You hear his key anyway, because Dennis hates unlocked doors even when you tell him you are literally home.
The front door opens. “June?” His voice is cautious. You close your eyes. “In the bedroom.” His footsteps pause and then slowly move closer, like he’s afraid he will step on a bomb.
You can picture him walking through your apartment. Taking in the lights. The dishes in the sink from breakfast. Your work bag was abandoned by the chair. His sweatshirt is missing from the couch because you are wearing it.
He appears in the doorway. He stops.
His eyes go to you first, like they always do. Then they slowly drift to the basket and back to you.
“Hey,” he says slowly. “Hey.” He steps into the room, still careful, like you are something easily startled. “What’s going on?”
You look at the basket. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out
Dennis’s eyes drop again. He moves closer.
Close enough to see, the duck onesie.The socks. The tests.
You watch his face change. Confusion first, that turns to recognition of what's in the basket, to finally shock.
His entire body stills. His mouth parts slightly.
He looks at the basket like he is trying to make sense of it and already has and cannot quite trust the answer. Then he looks at you.
“June,” he whispers. The sound breaks you.
“I’m sorry,” you say immediately. His eyes widened.
“I’m sorry. I know this is a lot. I know we didn’t plan this. I know eight months isn’t that long, and you’re still in residency, and I’m still in fellowship, and we’re both always working, and you don’t even technically live here but you kind of do, and I don’t want you to feel trapped or like you have to be okay with it because you love me, and I know you’d stay even if you didn’t want to because you’re you and you’re good and loyal and—”
Dennis crosses the room in three strides. He drops to his knees in front of you. You stop talking. His hands come up to your face. “Breathe,” he says. You inhale shakily. “Again.” You do.
His thumbs brush your cheeks. You did not realize you were crying until he wipes the tears away. “I’m pregnant,” you whisper. Dennis’s eyes fill. You can see it.
The exact second the words hit him. Not the basket. Not the tests. The words.
I’m pregnant.
His breath catches. You start crying harder.
“I didn’t tell you this morning because I panicked,” you say. “I found out before work, and you were making breakfast, and I just looked at it and I couldn’t make my brain stop being awful. And then you asked if I was ready, and I just shoved it in my pocket because I had to work, which is objectively insane, and Dana knew, of course Dana knew, and Park knew because apparently he knows when I’m off, and I wanted to tell you, I did, but I was scared.”
Dennis’s expression crumples with tenderness.
“June.” “I don’t think you’d leave,” you say quickly. “That’s not what this is. I know you wouldn’t leave. That’s the problem. You’d stay even if you didn’t want this.” Something flashes across his face.
Hurt. Not at you. For you. For the fact that your fear knows exactly how to make love look dangerous. He lowers his hands from your face and wraps his arms around you. Not carefully this time. Completely.
He scoops you off the edge of the bed and into him, crushing you against his chest as he kneels there on your bedroom floor. You make a broken sound and cling to him. Dennis holds you like he has been waiting all day to finally be allowed.
“I’m here,” he whispers into your hair. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” “I’m sorry.” “Stop apologizing.” “I’m trying.” “I know.” His voice is thick. “But you don’t have to apologize for this.”
You pull back enough to see him. His eyes are wet. He’s crying. Your heart twists. “Are you upset?” you ask. Dennis lets out a breath that is almost a laugh, almost a sob.
“I’m overwhelmed,” he says honestly. “I’m scared. I’m definitely going to have several medically embarrassing questions for Dana, even though I’m a doctor.” A laugh breaks out of you.
He smiles through the shine in his eyes. “But upset?” He shakes his head. “No.” You search his face like you are looking for the catch.
Dennis sees that too. He always does. “If this is what you want,” he says carefully, “then I’m excited.” Your breath catches. “And if you needed something different, I would be here for that too. But if you’re asking me if I want this with you…” His hand moves down, hesitant, stopping just shy of your abdomen until you nod.
You nod. His palm settles gently against your stomach.
There is nothing to feel. Not yet. But both of you look down anyway.
Dennis’s face does something you will remember for the rest of your life.
Soft awe.
Terrified joy.
Wonder so naked it makes your chest ache.
“I want this with you,” he whispers. Your face crumples again. He looks up quickly. “I do,” he says. “June, I do. I love you.”
“I love you too.” “I love you,” he repeats, like he needs the words to build a floor under you. “And I’m not staying because I’m loyal. I mean, I am loyal. Obviously. But that’s not why.”
You sniffle. “Then why?” He looks at you like the answer is obvious. “Because it’s you.”
The sob that comes out of you is embarrassing. Dennis pulls you back in. You cry into his shoulder, and he holds you through it, one hand in your hair, the other still spread over your lower back.
Eventually, you both end up on the bed.
Shoes off.
Basket between you.
The duck onesie unfolded across Dennis’s lap. He holds it with both hands like it is something sacred and mildly dangerous.
“This is so small,” he says. “I know.” “Babies are small.” “That is generally how they start.” He looks genuinely alarmed. “How small?”
You laugh, wiping your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You work in an ED.” “Not the same.” “You’ve seen babies.” “Other people’s babies.”
You look at him. His eyes lift to yours. The room goes quiet.
Other people’s babies.
This one is not that.
This one is yours.
His.
Both.
Dennis swallows. “We’re having a baby,” he says, like he is testing the words. Your stomach flips. This time, not from nausea.
“I think so.” “You think so?” “I took three tests.” His eyes flick to the basket. “That seems statistically persuasive.”
You smile weakly.
“We’ll confirm,” you say. “I’ll make an OB appointment. Figure out timing. My last period was…” You trail off, doing the math in your head, then immediately regret doing math. “Oh God.” Dennis’s face changes. “What?”
“I might be like six weeks. Maybe seven? I don’t know. My cycles are weird sometimes with stress.” “Okay.”
“Okay?” “Yeah.” He nods, looking terrified but determined. “We’ll find out.”
We.
You press your lips together.
Dennis catches it. “What?” “You said we.” His expression softens. “Yeah.” You look down at the onesie in his lap. “I’m scared,” you admit. “Me too.” “You are?”
“June, I am an R1 who still asks Robby if I’m doing life correctly at least twice a shift. Yes, I’m scared.” A laugh bursts out of you. Dennis smiles. “But I’m also…” He looks down at the little socks in the basket and touches one with the tip of his finger. “I’m happy.”
You stare at him. “Really?” He nods, slow and certain. “Really.”
You fold into his side. He wraps an arm around you and kisses the top of your head.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The apartment is quiet around you. The same apartment it was this morning. Same bed. Same dresser. Same laundry basket in the corner with Dennis’s scrubs mixed in with yours.
But everything feels different now.
Bigger.
Tender in a way that aches.
Eventually Dennis says, “Do we tell people?” “Not yet,” you say quickly. “Okay.” “I mean, soon. Eventually. I just…” You lift your head. “I want it to be ours for a little bit.”
Dennis’s hand moves slowly along your arm. “Then it’s ours.” “Frank is going to lose his mind.” “Yes.” “Abby will cry.” “Probably.”
“Dana already knows.” Dennis blinks. “Dana knows?” “She guessed.” “Of course she did.” “Park knows too.” Dennis sits up slightly. “Park knows before me?” You wince. “Technically, yes.”
Dennis stares at you. “I was having a small spiral.” “A spiral?”
“He cornered me in an on-call room.” Dennis exhales. “That sounds right.” “He told me to tell the ER resident before it ate us both alive.”
Dennis looks down, smiling faintly. “What?” “He called me the ER resident?” “Yes.” “That’s basically affection from him.” “He also said you don’t have enough imagination to fake wanting a life with me.”
Dennis is quiet for a second.
Then he says, “He’s not wrong.” You lean your head against his shoulder. “No,” you whisper. “I don’t either.”
Dennis turns his face and kisses your forehead, then your temple, a then your cheek. Soft, slow, reverent kisses that make your eyes close.
“I’m sorry I scared you today,” you say. “You were scared too.” “I still should’ve texted more than ‘long morning.’” He laughs lightly. “It was a very you spiraling response.” “You thought you did something wrong.” “Briefly.” “Dennis.”
“Moderately.” “Dennis.” He sighs. “Yes.” You sit up enough to face him. “You didn’t.” “I know that now.” “I love you,” you say. “I was scared because I love you. Because this matters. Because you matter.”
His eyes soften. “I know.” “And because I’m insane.” “That too.” You gasp. “Wow.” He smiles. “Sorry. Emotionally honest moment.”
“I am vulnerable and pregnant. Be nicer.” The second the word leaves your mouth, both of you freeze. You said it like it is real. Dennis’s smile changes. You look at each other. Then you laugh.
Both of you.
Soft at first, then harder, until you are leaning into him and he is pressing his face into your hair, laughing like the fear has finally cracked open enough to let the joy breathe.
When the laughter settles, Dennis shifts down the bed and lies on his side facing you. You mirror him. The basket sits between your knees. He reaches over it and takes your hand.
“We should probably talk about practical things,” he says.
“We should.” “Money.” “Schedules.” “Childcare.” “My lease.” “Trinity.” He winces. “Trinity.” “She’s going to scream.” “She might make me move out on principle.” “She loves you too much.” “She loves having her own bathroom too.”
You smile.
Dennis’s thumb moves over your knuckles. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” he says. You let out a slow breath. That is hard for you. Not figuring it all out. Not making a plan immediately.
Not building a spreadsheet in your head with due dates, appointments, rotations, call schedules, leave time, and which family member will be least likely to post an announcement on Facebook without permission.
Dennis sees the war on your face. “June.” “I’m trying not to make a list.”
“I know.” “I love lists.” “I know.” “They’re soothing.” “We can make one tomorrow.” You brighten. He laughs. “One.” “Three.” “One.” “Two and a half.” “How do you make half a list?” “Subcategories.” He looks at you with such affection that your chest hurts. “God, I love you.” You smile, smaller this time. “I love you too.”
He reaches across the basket and rests his hand lightly on your stomach again. “Hi,” he says quietly. Your breath catches. You stare at him. Dennis goes pink. “I know it’s early,” he says quickly. “I know there’s not really— I mean, there is, obviously, but not like— medically, I know—”
You place your hand over his. He stops. Your eyes fill again, but this time the tears are different. “Hi,” you whisper too. Dennis looks at you like you have given him the whole world and asked him to keep it safe.
He will. You know he will. Not because he is loyal enough to stay where he is unwanted. But because he wants this. Because he wants you. Because the life you were so afraid of messing up has already started changing shape around the two of you, and somehow, impossibly, it still feels like yours.
Later, you fall asleep curled against him, the basket on the nightstand, the duck onesie folded beside three positive tests. Dennis stays awake a little longer. His hand moves once, barely there, over your stomach.
Careful.
Wondering.
Terrified.
Happy.
When he whispers, “I’ve got you both,” he probably thinks you are asleep.
You do not tell him otherwise. You only move closer. And for the first time all day, the two pink lines do not feel like the end of normal. They feel like the beginning of something else.
Something terrifying.
Something tender.
Something loved.
It can’t be a June and Dennis story without something coming along to make June question everything… except her love for Dennis. Thank you all so much for waiting so long for this update. I’m sorry it took a minute, but I hope this one was worth the wait. June and Dennis are having a baby!!!
Sorry if this is too long! Trying to get all my thoughts out so the story feels like it has a proper ending. I always knew that I wasn't going to let June and Dennis have a normal conventional relationship. That would be boring and not allow their characters to grow together.
One more part to go! Can you believe it?
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Hey guys! If you’re patiently or even impatiently waiting for the next chapter of the June Bug series, here’s a little update. I’m hoping to have the final two chapters posted by the end of this coming weekend. It’s so sad to think it’s going to be over soon. But I’m ready to write some other series and Dennis stories. It just seems like too much to do before ending this series. I’m very happy with where the ending is heading and I hope you guys enjoy them. Please don’t hate me haha Have a good day! Thank you for coming along for the ride.
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Summary: You came in to work every day with a fun fact, determined to catch the BAU's genius with one that he wouldn't know (friends to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mutual feelings, fluff, confession)
Note: my spencer reid debut fic <3 sorry if there are any inaccuracy, just started rewatching after 3 years
Word count: 10.9k (sorry)
“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)
“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst.
You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.
The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.
“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence.
“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge.
“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.
The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.
“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.
“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.
“I’ll get you someday.”
Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.
“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.
“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”
“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.
“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.
“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.
“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”
“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”
“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.
“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.
“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.
“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”
“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.
So, let the challenge begin.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”
“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.
“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.
“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”
“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze.
“Well then, good luck.”
“Won’t need it.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”
Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.
Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.
You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.
“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.
“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”
Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.
Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item.
Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.
“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.
“359 days left.”
“More than enough.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.
“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”
Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.
“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.”
Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.
“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.
You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.
Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him.
“I won.”
Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.
“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”
“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.
“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down.
Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.
You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.
“Sore loser.”
“Cheater.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.
Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.
The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.
“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”
“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”
You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:
“Done!”
Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.
“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.
Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail.
Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.
From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.
“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior.
He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.
To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee.
He simply has always gotten it right.
It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.
“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”
Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.
Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.
His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.
Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.
“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.
“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.
“Maybe.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.
“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”
Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.
“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.
Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches.
Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.
Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed.
Why?
His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.
Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.
The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.
And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”
Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement.
“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”
You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words.
In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.
“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”
“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”
This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound.
If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.
Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work.
With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:
You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.
Both your phones started ringing at the same time.
“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.
“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.
After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.
“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.
“I know.”
A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.
“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.
“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.
“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.
The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.
“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.
Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.
“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.
“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.
By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”
Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly.
Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.
Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze.
“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.
The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf.
The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.
Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:
“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.
“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”
“Nothing.”
Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work.
Ah, the perks of being a profiler.
“Sure, pretty boy.”
“What was that loo—”
The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.
Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.
Immediately, his body stiffened.
“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress.
“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”
Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.
Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.
“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal.
“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”
“In sickness and in health, as they say.”
Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.
Derek’s brows scrunched at that.
“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.
“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end.
He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.
“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.
Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.
Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you.
Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.
It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance.
Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry.
For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.
His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.
Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms.
Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.
That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.
Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength.
The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.
After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together.
Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.
Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.
Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him.
However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.
Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.
It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind.
So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.
His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed.
Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.
Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.
A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.
With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task.
When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.
Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.
Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.
“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”
There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.
There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.
But maybe his probability was not entirely against him.
“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”
You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.
“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…”
Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again.
“You’re my favorite October 12th.”
And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.
It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer.
And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.
Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.
God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.
One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.
Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.
“Thank you.”
Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness.
Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing.
And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.
“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.
Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.
You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.
For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—
A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.
First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song.
It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano.
Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.
Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.
“I thought you only listened to classical?”
“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.
Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.
Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures.
You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.
You moved on with a quiet murmur.
“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”
“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.”
“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that.
“We should head up. It’s getting late.”
You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”
An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.
“Never.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”
“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.
“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”
Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.
The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.
This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.
An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.
Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.
“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.
Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event.
You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.
“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.
“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.
“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.
“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”
You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust.
The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.
Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.
Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.
You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two.
“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”
Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.
That was kind of embarrassing.
The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.
It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—
Oh.
You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong.
Oh God.
But were you really surprised though?
A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.
You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.
And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.
Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.
Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.
The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.
You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.
“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”
“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10 to the power of 120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 10 to the power of 80, to 10 to the power of 82.”
He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.
“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”
“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”
“You’re tired.”
You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.
You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.
For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.
Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”
Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.
Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow.
Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.
But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose.
He wanted you to mean it.
You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering.
You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.
But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.
Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.
One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.
“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.
Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course.
Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both.
“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.
“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”
You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:
Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason.
Well, for no reason but you.
The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace.
You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.
Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.
Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.
“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone.
God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face.
“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different.
With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.
“I like you.”
Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.
“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.
Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?
You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.
But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer.
Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.
Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.
Oh…?
Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.
In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.
Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.
His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light.
You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these.
You pressed your lips harder against his.
Good lord, Spencer could do this forever.
He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.
Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch.
One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.
In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently.
You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them.
You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.
Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.
Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.
“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true. Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”
Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.
“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.
“But?”
“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.
“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”
“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.
“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”
“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.
“When did you figure it out?”
“That you like me? At the orchestra.”
“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”
“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.
You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.
As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.
“I’m still gonna get you someday.”
Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.
“I’m counting on that.”
With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.
You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score.
Day 187 status: unsuccessful.
But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.
link to: epilogue/bonus bit
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