BeldamDoll

(okay fine…i’ll post it here 🤭)

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Y/N Insert. Originally posted on A03, Link in post below.

WARNING: Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language.

Words: 4,350

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Summary:

At County General, being a nurse is hard enough without John Carter making every shift worse. He's confident, annoyingly smug, and always ready to argue with you over just about anything.

From the start, you clash. You think he's impossible. He thinks you're stubborn. Everyone else just rolls their eyes and watches. The problem is, beneath all the bickering, there's a chemistry neither of you wants to admit.

It doesn't help that Carter lives in the same apartment building, making him impossible to avoid. Or that he has a smile that makes you go weak at the knees. Between late-night run-ins and long shifts, the line between rivalry and something more starts to blur.

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Clashing with John Carter was part of your job at County General. Between patients, chasing charts, and keeping the ER from imploding, you somehow still found time to argue with him at every opportunity.

The rivalry started the day you met. Carter walked in with the confidence of a doctor who thought he already knew everything, and you corrected him on something minor just because you could. He insisted it didn’t matter. You insisted it did. Neither of you backed down, and the chemistry was instant, for better or, more accurately, worse.

Before long, your arguments became part of the ER routine. Carter had to have the last word. You made it your mission to make sure he didn’t get it.

He was smug in a way that made your teeth clench. He had an answer for everything, a comeback for everything else, and a smile that suggested he knew exactly how irritating he was. He was annoyingly perfect at his job. He noticed things quickly, learned fast, and had just enough heart under all that polished confidence to make hating him properly feel impossible. The only time ever you listen to what he tells you is when you’re both in a trama room together.

Worse, you hated the fact that his smug smile could make your knees go weak when you were trying to dislike him.

Carter seemed just as determined to treat you like the single greatest inconvenience in his life. He complained about your attitude, your stubbornness. But he always came back. Always found a reason to stop by the desk where you were charting. Always had some little remark ready, just waiting to make you roll your eyes.

And then there was the face you made. That tiny scrunch of your nose whenever he said something especially arrogant. Carter noticed it immediately. The first time it happened, he was halfway through correcting you when your nose wrinkled, your mouth twitched like you were trying not to laugh when a patient said something funny. Then every thought in his head simply disappeared. For a full three seconds, Dr John Carter, who usually had an answer for everything, stood there silently with a chart in his hand like he had forgotten his own name.

Benton glanced up from the desk, unimpressed. “Carter, are you planning on finishing that sentence?”

Carter blinked, looked down at the chart as if it might rescue him, and cleared his throat. “Right. Yes. The labs.”

It would have been easier if the hospital was the only place you had to deal with him, but fate apparently had a cruel sense of humour. After twelve hours of arguing under fluorescent lights, you usually went home to the exact same apartment building he lived in.

The first time you saw him in the lobby, both of you stopped dead.

“You live here?” you asked, horrified.

Carter looked just as offended. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll try not to lower the property value.”

“With that attitude, I’m surprised the elevator still works.”

You stepped inside before him and pressed your floor button with a sweet smile. “Careful, Carter. If we get stuck in here together, one of us is leaving emotionally wounded.”

His smile was slow and unbearable. “Only one?”

That was the problem with him. He irritated you. He challenged you. He made every shift harder than it needed to be. But sometimes he smiled at you like that, and suddenly your knees forgot their purpose.

Carter had his own problem, though he hid it slightly better. He could handle your attitude when it was sharp. He could handle your eye rolls, your quick comebacks, your ability to challenge him in front of half the ER without blinking. But every now and then, your nose would scrunch or your mouth would twitch like you were fighting a smile, and he would lose whatever brilliant response he had been preparing.

So you kept clashing. At work, in the lobby, by the mailboxes, in the elevator at six in the morning when neither of you had slept enough to be civil. You told yourself it was irritation. He told himself the same thing.

Unfortunately, neither of you were very convincing liars.

To both of your pleasures, you and Carter were together with a student and with Mrs Jenkins, a patient.

Guiding him through a simple IV injection, the student’s trembling hand, the medication label, the bright allergy band circling the patient’s wrist, Carter’s voice cutting through the room. “No!”

You moved before the word had fully landed. Your hand caught the syringe as the student angled it toward the IV. A sharp sting followed. The needle grazed your hand. Metal struck metal as the syringe bounced onto the tray.

The student went pale. “Oh my God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t see the allergy listed, I thought—”

“It’s fine,” you said, already reaching for gauze. “Just check the patient and the chart. Every time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. Learn from it.”

Across the bed, Carter’s expression had gone dangerously still. “That is not fine.”

“Carter.”

“He almost gave a patient medication she was allergic to.”

The patient looked between you with mild confusion. You adjusted his blanket and smiled. “Everything’s under control, Mrs. Jenkins.”

“It’s okay dear, no harm done” she replied with a sweet smile.

“See?”

“It better be,” Carter said under his breath as he walked away.

“He seems joyful” she said looking at him walking away.

“Oh, that’s his friendly face to me” you smile giving the correct dosage to her.

You waited until the patient had been reassured and wheeled away before rounding on Carter in the hallway.

“Oh, please. On our first day, you nearly electrocuted yourself with the defibs.”

His mouth flattened. To your surprise, something smug flickered across his face.

“Weren’t you the one who somehow punctured an IV saline bag and practically baptised herself with it?”

You stared, still cleaning the cut on the palm of your hand. Carter caught your wrist before you could step away. His grip was firm, careful.

“Let me see.”

“I can clean a needle nick by myself.”

“I know.”

“Does that attitude ever get exhausting?”

By the end of the shift, you were running on caffeine, irritation, and exhaustion. Your finger still ached beneath the bandage. Every time it brushed against something, you remembered the pressure of Carter’s thumb against your wrist.

It was annoying. Deeply annoying. You slipped into the supply closet for more supplies for Carol, grateful for a moment away from the noise of the ER.

You were reaching for sterile saline on the top shelf when the supply closet door opened behind you. You didn’t have to turn to know it was Carter; somehow, even his silence had become irritatingly recognizable. The door clicked shut, and the narrow room seemed to shrink around you. “If you’re here to remind me about proper needle safety again, I’m going to write you up for emotional harassment,” you said, refusing to look back as your fingertips brushed the edge of the box.

“I’m here for catheter kits,” Carter said. “Trauma Two is out.” His voice was calm, but something underneath it made the back of your neck warm. You glanced over your shoulder and found him standing too close to the door, coat rumpled, tie loosened, his expression unreadable in a way that immediately made you suspicious.

“They’re on the top shelf,” you said. “Which, tragically, means this may require you to be useful.”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped in behind you and reached over your shoulder. The movement brought him close enough that the warmth of his body settled at your back without quite touching. His arm brushed yours as he took hold of the box, but he didn’t pull it down. He stayed there, one hand on the shelf above you, the other braced against the metal rack beside you, and suddenly the air felt too thin.

You turned slightly to look at him, but the movement brought your face much closer to his than either of you seemed prepared for. His eyes met yours. No smug grin. Just that steady look that made your pulse stumble even as you tried to convince yourself you were only annoyed.

“You know,” you said, forcing your voice to stay even, “most people say excuse me before they start looming.”

“I’m not looming, I’m reaching” His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then returned to your eyes. “Maybe I found something more interesting.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it, and the fact that he noticed made you want to kick him. Instead, you lifted your chin. “Careful, Carter. That almost sounded like charm. I’d hate for you to strain something.”

His hand shifted against the shelf beside your head. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make a joke whenever you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“No?” His voice lowered. “Then why haven’t you moved?”

The comeback was there, sharp and ready, the perfect remark to put him back in his place and give you room to breathe again. You looked him dead in the eye and said, “I don’t feel the need to run every time things get—”

He kissed you before you could finish.

The words vanished against his mouth. For one stunned second, your entire body went still, caught between shock and the sudden heat of him. Then the box slipped from his hand and hit the floor, catheter kits scattering across the tile as your fingers grabbed the front of his coat and pulled him closer.

Carter made a low sound against your mouth, like that small movement had shattered whatever restraint he had left. His hand found your waist, firm and warm, while the metal shelving pressed cold against your back. The contrast made you gasp, and he paused just long enough to make sure you weren’t pulling away.

If anything, you pulled him closer, arms wrapping around his neck.

The kiss changed after that. It stopped being a mistake and became a confession neither of you were brave enough to say aloud. Every argument, every lingering glance, every smug smile he had ever thrown your way folded into the space between you. His mouth moved against yours with months of frustration behind it, and for once you had no clever answer. No cutting remark. No way to pretend this was just another fight you could win.

When he finally pulled back, it was barely enough to breathe. His forehead stayed close to yours, his hand still at your waist, his breathing no steadier than your own.

“This is a bad idea,” you whispered.

“Very bad idea,” he murmured back, kissing into your neck.

For a moment, you just stood there, sharing the same breath, pretending those words had changed anything. Then his eyes dropped to yours again, and whatever fragile attempt at common sense either of you had managed shattered instantly.

Now you kissed him first this time.

It was better than the accidental dreams you would have of these exact situations, waking up in the middle of the night, cursing to yourself that your mind had let you had such dreams.

His hand tightened at your waist as he met you halfway, and the sound he made was somewhere between relief and surrender. The supply closet, the hospital, the scattered catheter kits at your feet—all of it faded away. There was only the warmth of his mouth, the pressure of his body, and the dizzy certainty that you were both making a terrible decision.

A terrible decision neither of you seemed interested in stopping.

His fingers slid up your side, careful and deliberate, while yours stayed tangled in the front of his coat. Every time the kiss softened, every time it seemed like one of you might pull away, the other closed the distance again. You should have let go of his coat. You should have reminded him you were at work, in a supply closet, with half of Trauma Two’s catheter kits scattered around your shoes. You immediately forgot everything when you felt his knee push you up slightly in between your legs, making you gasp in surprise, tightening around him.

Carter noticed, because of course he did, you could feel his smile. Pulling more into each other deepening the desperate feeling. Before anything else could happen, an annoying sound of a pager started going off.

You broke apart staring at each other for a few seconds trying to gather everything back up.

“Go, I’ll do this” you took them off him standing back up.

“Seen exam room 5 is empty, can continue this after” he whispered into your ear, arms back around your waist.

“Oh, I am actually off in 10 minutes, forgot to tell you”

“You’re impossible” he rolled his eyes smiling swiftly moving out of the room, closing the door quickly so no one would be able to see you.

30 minutes had passed since the heated moment between you. Just as Carter was finally ready to walk out of County with the next two days off, Haleh stopped him.

“Carter, you’re keys”

“Keys?”

“Y/L/N said you dropped them”

Confused, he took the keys and looked at them, a small keychain with a number on it reading Apt: 104

His apartment number is 207.

They were her keys. He exactly knew what she had done.

The key felt heavy in his hand as he stood outside your apartment, staring at the door like it might somehow answer for him. You had given it to him earlier that day ago using a nurse as a cover up, that had nearly ruined him, pressing it into his palm like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean you trusted him with more than just a lock. He had told himself not to overthink it. Naturally, because he was an idiot, he had done nothing but overthink it.

He could still leave. That thought crossed his mind more than once as his fingers tightened around the key. He could turn around, go to his apartment one floor up, pretend he hadn’t spent the entire day replaying the moment in the supply room. Pretend he hadn’t noticed the way your smile had lingered afterward. Pretend he hadn’t wondered if you had wanted him to use it.

His jaw flexed as he exhaled through his nose. “Fuck it.”

The key slid into the lock before he could talk himself out of it. The click sounded too loud in the quiet hallway, and for half a second, his heart stopped. Then he pushed the door open. You were standing there waiting for him. Not startled. Not confused. Waiting.

Whatever thought had been in his head disappeared the second he saw you. The nerves, the doubt, the endless second guessing—all of it collapsed under the weight of the look on your face. You knew he would come. Maybe you had known before he did.

The door shut behind him with a sharp sound, but neither of you flinched. His eyes stayed on yours as he crossed the room, every step charged with all the things neither of you had been brave enough to say. By the time he reached you, there was no space left for hesitation.

His hands found your waist and pulled you into him, firm enough to steal the breath from your lungs but careful enough to give you room to pull away. You didn’t. Your fingers curled into his shirt instead, and that was all it took.

He kissed you again like restraint had finally snapped.

Months of wanting poured into it, messy and desperate and impossible to hide. It wasn’t gentle, not at first. It was relief. It was frustration. It was every almost-moment, every lingering glance, every second he had spent pretending he didn’t think about you when he was alone. You leaned into him like you had been waiting just as long, and the sound he made against your mouth was almost enough to undo you completely.

When he pulled back, it was barely enough to breathe. His forehead rested against yours, his grip still tight at your waist, like some part of him didn’t fully trust that this was real.

“You were waiting,” he said, voice rough.

Your lips curved slightly. “You took long enough.”

His laugh was quiet, breathless, almost disbelieving. Then his expression shifted, all the teasing slipping away until only the want remained.

“I’m here now, and I’m done pretending I don’t want you” he murmured.

And this time, when he kissed you again, neither of you pretended it was anything less than surrender.

The tension had been building for so long that it felt almost tangible, a living thing coiled tightly between you. Every shift of his body drew your attention. Every brush of fabric against skin seemed amplified. You were acutely aware of the space between your bodies—and how little of it remained.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” he murmured, his voice so low you felt it as much as heard it. “For months, you’ve been on my mind.”

Your heart stumbled.

“Months?”

The question came out barely above a breath. You searched his face, suddenly wondering how many moments you’d missed, how many lingering looks you’d dismissed, how many signs had slipped quietly past while neither of you had been brave enough to name what was happening.

“Every day”

He pulled you in again. Kissing you hard. Putting his knee in between your legs like he did back in the supply room in County. Moving up and down.

“Oh god” you moan into his neck, pulling at his hair.

“Oh, I knew you loved that – I could feel you “

You almost lose it as he pushed in further. He pulled up your oversized pyjama shirt leaving you bare in just your underwear.

“God you’re beautiful” staring every inch of you before pulling into you again, kissing every inch of your neck as you pull off his shirt messily undoing the buttons. Feeling his muscles on you drove you more insane. Hearing his belt unbuckle and pants hitting the floor. He wasted no time in picking you up to your bedroom. Feeling him rock hard between your legs.

You jump down from him in front of the bed. Before he could say anything, you interrupted.

“Since I invited you over…I want to do something different.”

“Like what?”

He stood at the end of your bed as you slowly crawled backward against the headboard, your legs spreading slightly as you push down your underwear. The moment he saw the look in your eyes; he understood exactly what you wanted. His gaze darkened as you began to touch yourself, never once breaking eye contact. Your breathing grew heavier just from watching him finally take off final piece of clothing, finally seeing it and not just imaging it. You felt your pulse quicken as he mirrored your actions. Watching him stroke himself just made you wetter.

The room was silent except for the sound of each other’s uneven breaths. You couldn’t look away. Neither could he. The tension between you seemed to fill every corner of the room, growing stronger with every passing second. Your eyes fluttered as the feeling continued to build, your focus slipping for just a moment.

“Stay with me,” he whispered getting closer and closer to you. “Good girl.”

He stops you as you groan picking you up now directly in front of him pinned against him and the wall. Feeling now hard he is against you. His hand all over your breasts as he kisses your neck to your collar bone. Then you feel something slip inside you. Gasping out in pleasure.

“Oh-John”

“Oh baby, these are just my fingers” as he curls them up beginning to go deeper, faster and harder. Spinning you back up to face him, grabbing you by the neck kissing every inch of you from your lips to your neck, around your breasts, to your stomach. Slowly going down further he props your right leg over his shoulder kissing the inner of your thigh then to your inner lips.

Just feeling his nose on your clit made you crazy. Feeling his tongue on you then feeling each finger slowly entering you in and out. Fucking you with his fingers slowly, building up more speed the more you moaned out his name, thrusting his fingers deep inside of you and curling them upwards so you let out another sweet moan.

His other hand gripped your thigh, massaging the flesh as you lifted your hips toward his hand, then grabbing your ass so tight you feel his nails dig, you moan in such pleasure you put your hand over your mouth to stop anyone else from hearing your pornographic sounds. He stops as he stands back up and you slowly go down on your knees. Gently at first gathering your hair you look up at him, teasing him, kissing around the tip and around his length, until you finally take all of him in your mouth.

” Oh, fuck-, just like that” he grunts looking down at you, he can feel your tongue going wild around it as you took every inch, feeling him grip your hair tighter as he pushes you further in. He looks at the mirror, now seeing your touching yourself as you sucked on his cock just made him harder.. “Touch yourself but don’t come, don’t you dare come” You start to feel his legs shake, you stop standing back up, tasting each other in your mouth.

He pushes you back onto the bed on your knees sinking into the mattress and facing the mirror. One hand is on your neck, and the other hand is massaging your clit again. You’re breathing for heavier being able to see him do it.

“Watch me.”

You did. Seeing the control he now has.

“Do you know how long I wanted this? How long I wanted just to come up here and ride you so hard”

“How long did you want me, John?”

“So, fucking, long”

You slightly turn your head to look at him, but his hand grabs your face turning it back to the mirror.

“I said watch me and beg for it”

“Please”

“Say and beg for it”

You pull him in closer not even whispering this time. ” I want you, please, I’m all yours,

“Please what?”

“Please John”

He turned your face again. Hungrily kissing you, quickly whispering “If you need to stop tell me”

“Just fuck me already”

He wasted no time putting it inside you. You moan so loud your neighbours probably heard. Thinking his fingers felt good went completely out the window.

“Oh-Fuck Y/N/L”

“Don’t stop-”

The neediness in your voice made him pull you up turning around, now sitting on the bed as you sit on him. It had him thrusting harder as your nails dug hard into his back and chest.

“Fu-just like that”

Seeing his back behind, red claw marks scratched down his back, moving your nails to his chest, you thought he was already thrusting as hard as he could, but you were wrong.

“Oh god- “

Grabbing your ass slapping it and gripping it hard. You grind faster on top of him seeing what he had done to your neck and breasts.

“Oh, fuck baby, so perfect, so fucking beautiful, taking in all my cock like a good girl”

The sweat poured off the both of you, changing positions many time, stopping slightly so he or you wouldn’t come just yet, until you two couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Where?” he stumbled on his words as he went harder.

“What?” you answer confused still in the rhythm.

“Where will I finish?”

“Inside me”

You barely got your words out as you finish on him. His final thrusts sent you. Your hands gripped tightly on his shoulders falling down. His guttural grunt ripped through him as he finished inside you. Falling back on him you both fell onto your backs.

Your sheets were ruined, your bodies covered in sweat and each other.

For a while, neither of you said anything. You just lay there tangled in the quiet, both trying to catch your breath, both failing not to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

Carter turned his head toward you, that smug smile already creeping back onto his face. “You know, I think I might be able to tolerate you a little more if we keep this routine going.”

His fingers brushed lightly across your cheek, far too gentle for someone who had spent months making your life difficult. You laughed and swatted his hand away. “Don’t get sentimental on me, Carter. It’s unsettling.”

“I’ll try to remain unbearable.”

“Good. I’d hate for you to lose your defining feature.”

He laughed, low and tired, and you glanced toward the clock on your bedside table. “What time is it?”

“Ten.”

Your brows lifted. “What time did you get here?”

He paused, thinking. “Around eight.”

You turned to stare at him. “We’ve been in here for two hours?”

His smile widened, entirely too pleased with himself. “I’d say we earned it, you know, you do only live two floors down.”

Your expression softened slightly, but the look in his eyes stayed warm, teasing, dangerous enough to make your stomach flip all over again. “Is that your way of inviting me back?”

“It’s my way of saying this building has suddenly become very convenient.”

He shifted closer, his hand finding your waist beneath the sheets. “Then yes,” he murmured. “I’d like to keep doing this.”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. “Regularly?”

“Yeah,” he said, brushing his mouth near yours. “Preferably somewhere with fewer hospital supplies involved.”

”So when would you like to bring me to your apartment?” You smiled against him.

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Summary -

At County General, being a nurse is hard enough without John Carter making every shift worse. He’s confident, annoyingly smug, and always ready to argue with you over just about anything.

From the start, you clash. You think he’s impossible. He thinks you’re stubborn. Everyone else just rolls their eyes and watches. The problem is, beneath all the bickering, there’s a chemistry neither of you wants to admit.

It doesn’t help that Carter lives in the same apartment building, making him impossible to avoid. Or that he has a smile that makes you go weak at the knees. Between late-night run-ins and long shifts, the line between rivalry and something more starts to blur.

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https://archiveofourown.org/works/86113951

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Warnings: Explicit Content, Enemies to Friends, Rivals, Explicit Sexual Content.

John Carter x Y/N

Words - 6k

Part One - code-blue (Read First)

Summary -

It’s finally time for you to be sent home from County General as a patient for a couple of weeks. But recovery is never as simple as going home. Somewhere between almost dying and waking up alive, Carter told you something. Something you never heard. Now, every time your eyes meet, it feels like he's deciding whether to say it again. And the longer he waits, the more certain you become that whatever Carter said could change everything.

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County General did not slow down just because you were leaving.

That was the first thing you noticed on the day they discharged you. The hospital kept moving around you with its usual indifference: phones ringing, carts rattling, nurses calling for labs, patients complaining from behind curtains, the overhead lights buzzing with the same harsh brightness they had held the night you were brought in half-conscious and bleeding. Nothing about the place looked changed, and somehow that made everything feel worse.

You sat in a wheelchair near the nurses’ station with one crutch balanced awkwardly against your knee and a hospital bag resting in your lap. Your clothes felt strange after days in a gown: loose sweatpants and a soft, oversized shirt Carol had gone to your apartment to get herself, because apparently trusting anyone else to choose comfortable clothes had not been acceptable. The bruises on your face had faded from dark purple to yellow-green, but they were still there if someone looked too closely. A small cut near your jaw had healed into a thin red line. Beneath your shirt, a fresh dressing covered the surgical incision that still pulled every time you moved too quickly.

You were finally going home, and you should have felt relieved. Mostly, you felt exhausted. Carol had helped you shower that morning and wash your hair, which meant you looked more human than you had in days, though the effort of sitting upright afterward had nearly taken you out completely. She had pretended not to notice how tired you were. You had pretended not to notice that she was pretending. That seemed to be the arrangement everyone had agreed on without asking you.

Carter stood beside you with your discharge papers in one hand and your prescription bag in the other, reading over both like he planned to be tested on them later. He had changed out of his scrubs, but the shift still clung to him. His pale dress shirt was creased at the waist and open at the throat, the tie gone completely now, probably shoved into his coat pocket or abandoned somewhere in his locker. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, unevenly, like he had done it in a hurry and forgotten to fix them. His hair was messier than usual, dark strands pushed back badly from his forehead, and there was a tired shadow along his jaw that made him look older than he had that morning.

He looked exhausted. He also looked unfairly handsome, considering you were sitting in a wheelchair with a crutch balanced against your knee and bruises still fading across your face.

“You’re reading those very seriously,” you said.

He glanced down at the packet in his hand. “They’re discharge instructions.”

“I’m aware. I was there when they read them to me.” You looked up at him. “You know I’m a nurse, right?”

Carter’s mouth twitched faintly, though the smile didn’t quite stay. “That has not stopped you from being a terrible patient.”

Before you could answer, Benton appeared from the surgical hallway with your chart tucked under one arm. He was still in scrubs, his expression as unreadable as ever, but his eyes moved over you quickly: your face, your posture, the crutch, the way your hand hovered near your side.

“Pain?” he asked.

You sighed. “Hello to you too.”

Benton only waited.

“Four,” you said. “Six if I move too fast.”

Benton flipped open the chart and scanned it, his tone clipped and clinical. “No fever, no sign of infection, vitals stable. You’re cleared to go home, not cleared to act like nothing happened. You use the crutch. You take the antibiotics. You change the dressing as instructed. You call if the pain gets worse, if you get dizzy, short of breath, confused, feverish, or if the wound changes.”

You looked at Carter. “He’s worse than Carol.”

Carter didn’t look up from the papers. “He’s also right.”

“Traitor.”

Benton looked between you both for half a second, unimpressed by whatever he saw there. “Follow-up in a week. And strictly no work for two.”

There was a softness in the way he said it, but in a Benton way. He didn’t wrap concern in comfort. He handed it to you like an order and expected you to be smart enough to understand.

Your throat tightened despite yourself. “Thanks.”

Benton nodded once, already stepping back into the flow of the ER. “Don’t make me fix anything twice.”

That was probably the closest thing to tenderness Peter Benton could offer professionally. Carol came up a moment later with your coat over one arm and a smaller plastic bag in her hand. She looked like she had been pulled in six directions already that morning, but she still stopped in front of you long enough to take you in properly. Her gaze was practical rather than dramatic: crutch, loose clothes, pale face, the way you were trying not to lean into the wheelchair like you were tired.

“I put extra gauze and tape in here,” she said, setting the bag carefully on your lap. “And don’t skip the pain meds just because you think being stubborn counts as recovery.”

“I don’t think that.”

Carol gave you a look.

“I don’t think that out loud,” you corrected.

“That’s not comforting.” She glanced at Carter. “You’re taking her home?”

“Yeah.”

“Make sure she gets upstairs.”

You opened your mouth immediately. “Carol.”

She looked at you, calm and firm. “You’re on a crutch, you had abdominal surgery, and your building elevator works about sixty percent of the time on a good day.”

Carter shifted the prescription bag in his hand. “I’ll make sure she gets in.”

Carol nodded, satisfied. There was no teasing look, no pointed smile, no making a thing of it. She was too tired and too Carol for that. She simply leaned down and adjusted the coat across your lap, her hand lingering for only a second before she stepped back.

“Call if you need anything,” she said.

You could tell she wanted to say more. You could also tell she wouldn’t, not in the middle of the ER, not with patients waiting and phones ringing and County pulling her attention back before emotion had anywhere to land. She squeezed your shoulder once, careful and brief, then turned toward the desk as someone called her name.

Carter wheeled you toward the exit, but County had one last interruption waiting. Doug Ross was in peds, half in and half out of Exam Three, talking to a mother whose little boy coughed hard enough to make everyone nearby look over. When he saw Carter, he lifted a hand.

“Carter, before you go — can you grab that asthma discharge sheet? Jerry printed the wrong one.”

Carter stopped behind your wheelchair. For a second, you felt the hesitation in him. He looked down at you, and you could practically see him deciding whether it was acceptable to leave you sitting in a hallway for thirty seconds.

You rolled your eyes. “Go. I’m in a wheelchair, not free-climbing a mountain.”

He gave you a look but stepped away toward the counter. You were parked just outside peds, near Exam Four, where a little girl sat on the bed with a splinted wrist and a pink stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm. She was small, maybe six, with damp cheeks and serious eyes. Her mother was gathering paperwork, looking tired in the universal way parents did after hours in a hospital.

The little girl noticed you immediately. She looked at your crutch first, then the bruises on your face. Adults tried not to stare. Children had no such policy.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

Her mother turned at once. “Lily.”

“It’s okay,” you said, giving her a small smile.

Lily stared at you, waiting.

“I was in an accident,” you told her.

“A car accident?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “A car accident.”

Lily’s eyes widened. “Did it go bang?”

For a second, the hallway thinned around you. Rain on glass. A horn. Metal folding. Someone shouting. Carter’s face. You forced your hand to relax against the hospital bag in your lap.

“Yeah,” you said. “It did.”

Lily’s eyes widened further. “Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Did you cry?”

“I did.”

She seemed to consider this very seriously. “Grown-ups cry?”

“Yeah,” you said. “They’re just sneakier about it.”

Lily looked down at her own splinted wrist, then back at you. “I cried when they touched my arm.”

“That makes sense. It must have hurt.”

She nodded, apparently satisfied that both of you had behaved reasonably under the circumstances. Then her eyes narrowed with sudden concern. “Did you get a sticker?”

The question caught you off guard enough that you almost smiled. “No, unfortunately. Adults rarely get stickers.”

Lily looked horrified. “You didn’t? That’s not fair.”

“No,” you agreed softly. “It isn’t.”

Carter returned with the correct discharge forms just in time to hear that. His eyes moved from Lily to you, then to your expression, and some of the worry he had been carrying all morning shifted into something quieter.

Lily looked at him. “Are you a doctor?”

“Yeah,” Carter said. “Dr. Carter.”

She studied him, apparently weighing his honesty, then pointed at you with her good hand. “She had a accident.”

“An accident,” her mother corrected gently.

Carter’s face changed only slightly, but you saw it. He lowered the discharge papers against his side.

“Yeah,” he said. “She did.”

“Did you help her?”

The question landed harder than Lily could have known. Carter looked at you for half a second, then back at her.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter. “I helped her.”

Lily waved you closer. You leaned toward her as far as you could, and she cupped her hand around your ear with absolutely no understanding of volume.

“I think he likes you,” she whispered loudly.

Her mother looked horrified. “Lily.”

You felt your face warm, but Carter’s mouth twitched, and that made it impossible to be properly embarrassed.

“It’s okay,” you said, because Lily was already looking between you both with the kind of curiosity only a bored six-year-old in a hospital could manage.

“Is he your friend?” she asked.

You glanced at Carter. He was looking at you now, careful and still, like the answer mattered more than it should.

“Yeah,” you said. “He’s a very good friend.”

Lily nodded, then looked at Carter again. “Does she get a sticker?”

Carter blinked. “I think she should.”

That seemed to settle it. Lily reached toward the sticker sheet on the counter with her good hand, but it was just out of reach. Carter stepped forward and passed it to her. She examined the options with great seriousness before choosing a yellow star.

“This one,” she said.

Carter peeled it off carefully and handed it to Lily, but Lily shook her head and pointed at your hand. “Put it on her.”

You held out your hand, the one resting on top of the hospital bag. Carter looked at you for permission first, and something about that made your chest ache. Then he placed the yellow star gently on the back of your hand, avoiding the bruised knuckles and the fading marks from IVs.

“There,” Lily said, pleased. “Now you got one.”

You looked down at the sticker, bright and ridiculous against your skin. “Thank you.”

Lily hugged her rabbit tighter. “You’re welcome.”

As her mother gathered her things, you leaned a little closer to Lily and lowered your voice. “I have a secret. If your doctor tells you his name is Dr. Ross, ask him a gazillion questions.”

Lily’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Really.”

She giggled as she waved goodbye, and Carter wheeled you away with a quiet look down at you.

“Good,” he murmured. “You still have that wicked sense of humour.”

“Oh,” you said, settling back into the chair, “I am never letting that go.”

The drive home felt shorter than it should have.

Maybe it was because Carter spent part of it talking about his shift, about a patient who had somehow failed to mention a penicillin allergy until after an injection had already become a whole situation. He told it with the tired disbelief of someone who had lived through too many hours at County and still couldn’t quite accept how determined people were to make medicine harder than it needed to be.

You smiled as he talked, watching the city move past through the window. Chicago looked washed clean after the rain, the streets dark and glossy beneath a grey sky. The car was warm, the seat beneath you unfamiliar after days of hospital sheets, and your body ached in a slow, constant way that made every movement feel deliberate.

Carter drove carefully, both hands on the wheel, his white coat discarded in the back seat. Without it, he looked different. Less like Dr. Carter and more like John. His pale dress shirt was creased from the shift, open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The tie was still gone. His hair had fallen out of place again, dark strands pushed back badly from his forehead, and the tired shadow along his jaw made him look worn out in a way that should not have been attractive.

It was, unfortunately, very attractive.

You were sitting beside him in loose clothes from your own apartment, a crutch wedged awkwardly near your knee, your side aching and your face still bruised. He looked exhausted and beautiful, and the unfairness of it felt almost offensive.

His eyes flicked toward you.

“You’re pale,” he said.

“I just got discharged from hospital, Carter. I’m not exactly going to be glowing.”

That almost got a smile from him. Almost. Carter looked back at the road, but the corner of his mouth moved. The dashboard light caught the side of his face as the city moved past in wet grey streaks, sharpening the line of his cheekbone and the tired set of his mouth. Even when he faced forward, some part of him was still tracking you, the way you breathed, the way you held your side, the way your fingers tightened against your lap whenever the car turned too sharply.

Carter was trying not to look at you too often. He was failing. You sat beside him with your body angled carefully toward the window, one hand resting near your ribs, your injured leg stretched out as much as the car allowed. There was no hospital gown now, no oxygen mask, no monitor counting each heartbeat beside you. Just soft clothes, pale skin, bruises fading slowly from purple into yellow, and the small red line near your jaw where the glass had caught you.

To anyone else, you probably looked fragile. To Carter, you looked alive. That was the part that kept catching him off guard. He saw the bruises because he knew where they had come from. He saw the way you protected your side because he knew what Benton had repaired beneath the dressing. He saw the tired shadows beneath your eyes and the stiffness in your leg and the marks from IVs fading across your hands. His mind catalogued all of it before he could stop himself.

Then you turned your head toward the window, and the light caught your face in a softer way, easing over the bruise near your cheekbone and the tired line of your mouth. You looked worn down, but also stubbornly present. Still sharp enough to tease him, still warm enough to smile at Lily, still yourself in a way that made his chest hurt.

Beautiful was not a clinical word.

You were beautiful, and he did not know what to do with that when he could still remember you flatlining under trauma lights.

He kept both hands on the wheel because it gave him somewhere to put them. It stopped him from reaching over when you shifted. It stopped him from asking about your pain every time your mouth tightened. It stopped him from doing all the things he knew would make you feel like a patient again.

Mostly.

When he pulled up outside your building, the rain had stopped but the pavement was still slick. He came around to your side before you could argue, opening the door and handing you the crutch. He helped you out slowly, one arm coming around your waist only when you reached for balance. He was careful about it, not making a production out of the help, but steady enough that you could lean into him for a second without feeling like you had lost.

Getting inside took longer than it used to. The lobby smelled faintly of old radiator heat and someone’s cooking from upstairs. Your crutch clicked against the tile as you moved toward the elevator, the rhythm slow and frustrating. Carter walked beside you with your hospital bag over one shoulder and the prescription bag in his hand, his attention split between you and the hallway.

Then both of you stopped. A white paper sign had been taped crookedly across the elevator doors.

OUT OF ORDER.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then Carter stared at the sign. “You’re kidding.”

“Third floor, here we come.”

His expression changed.

“Don’t make that face,” you said.

“What face?”

“The doctor face.”

“You just got discharged and you’re on a crutch.”

“Nothing gets past you.”

Carter didn’t smile that time, and that was how you knew he was really worried. He looked toward the stairwell, then back at you. You could practically see him calculating risks, options, possible complications, how many people he could call, whether Benton would somehow sense this from across town and materialize to yell at both of you.

The stairwell smelled like concrete, damp coats, and old cigarette smoke. The light above the first landing flickered once before steadying. It was too quiet after the hospital, every sound too clear: the rubber tip of your crutch against the floor, Carter’s shoes on the steps, your own careful breathing.

The first few steps were manageable. Carter stayed one step below you, close enough behind so you wouldn’t lose your balance. Your hand gripped the railing. Pause. Breathe. Repeat. By the second landing, the ache beneath your ribs had become a burn.

Carter stopped with you. “Pain?”

You hated how quickly he heard it in your breathing. “A little.”

His eyes searched your face. You let out a breath.

“Fine. More than a little.”

He didn’t say he told you so. He didn’t reach for you without asking. He only crouched one step below, sleeves creased at the elbows, collar open, looking up at you with that careful concern that always seemed to undo you a little. It was deeply inconvenient that he could look like that while you were sweating in a stairwell.

“You need to sit,” he said.

“I’m halfway up.”

“And you’ll still be halfway up in two minutes.”

You lowered yourself carefully onto the step, jaw clenched against the pull in your abdomen. Carter stayed close, one hand resting on the railing near your knee, not touching you but ready if you needed him. His restraint was worse than fussing somehow. It made your throat feel tight.

“I hate this,” you said quietly.

Carter didn’t answer right away. Somewhere below, a door opened and shut. Rain tapped against the small, wired window on the landing.

“I hate that it’s hard,” you continued, staring at the chipped paint on the railing. “I tell patients to take it slow all the time. I tell them to let people help. I’m apparently very annoying.”

“You’re not annoying.”

“I’m sitting on a stairwell step arguing with a doctor because an elevator broke.”

“You’re recovering.”

“Which I am doing a terrible job at.”

His face softened, not with pity, but with something steadier.

“You nearly died,” he said. “You’re allowed to be bad at stairs.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him. For a second, he seemed to regret the bluntness, but he didn’t take it back. His eyes stayed on yours, and you saw exactly what he was trying not to show. The memory of Trauma One. The monitor. The blood. The parts of that night you only had in fragments, and he seemed to carry in full.

You held out your hand. Carter took it immediately, his fingers warm around yours.

After another minute, you stood with his help. This time, when his hand came to your elbow, you didn’t pull away. The two of you took the rest of the stairs slowly, landing by landing, step by step. Carter didn’t tell you how brave you were. He didn’t make it worse by pretending it wasn’t hard. He only stayed close.

By the time you reached your apartment door, you were pale, sweating lightly, and furious with the elevator, the stairs, your body, and possibly architecture as a whole. The apartment was dark except for the small lamp you had left on near the window. Warm light stretched across the couch, the coffee table, the folded blanket over the armrest. It smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the soup your neighbour from across the hall had left two days ago.

You stepped inside slowly, then turned back when you realized Carter had stopped in the hallway. He stood there with your hospital bag over his shoulder and the prescription packet in one hand, looking like he had escorted you to the edge of some invisible line and didn’t know whether he was allowed to cross it.

You leaned lightly against the doorframe, breathing harder than you wanted him to notice. “Well,” you said, voice softer now, “are you gonna stand there all night, or come in?”

Carter blinked, then his face eased into the smallest, tiredest smile. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ll come in.”

The apartment felt even quieter with him inside. He stepped in carefully, glancing around as if he had not already been there earlier that week, as if the space changed now that you were finally home in it. The cushions had been straightened, the coffee table cleared except for a book and a glass of water, and the dishes that had been sitting in your sink before the accident were gone.

You looked around slowly. “Did you clean up in here?”

Carter set your bag near the couch. “A little.”

“You cleaned my apartment?”

He looked almost embarrassed. “Carol helped, she had your spare key. She asked me to bring some things by after work. It was just… there were dishes, and laundry, and I didn’t think you’d want to come home to it.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

“No,” you said finally, softer than before. “I don’t mind. Thank you.”

He nodded once, like accepting gratitude was somehow more uncomfortable than a twelve-hour shift. He placed the prescriptions on the coffee table and helped you sit without making a big deal of it. He did not take your arm until you reached for his. He did not lower you onto the cushions like you were breakable. He simply stayed close, steady and silent, while you eased yourself down and tried not to let the relief show too clearly.

Carter took off his jacket and draped it over the chair. Without the coat, he looked more undone. His shirt was wrinkled, open at the throat, the tie gone, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms as if he had started rolling them hours ago and forgotten to finish. He looked younger like that. Tired, rumpled, and too careful with his hands.

It was irritating, really irritating, that exhaustion suited him.

Carol had packed extra gauze and tape in the plastic bag, and Carter saw it the same time you did.

“She said you’re supposed to change the dressing later tonight,” he said. “Do you need help?”

You wanted to say no automatically. It rose in your throat, familiar and stubborn. Then you shifted slightly and felt the damp pull of sweat beneath the bandage from the stairs, and your pride had the audacity to lose a fight with common sense.

“It would be easier if you helped.”

He nodded once, not triumphant, not smug, which was kind of rude because it gave you nothing to argue against.

The bathroom light was too bright when you flicked it on, catching on the white tile and the old mirror above the sink. Carter washed his hands first, careful and thorough, then opened the gauze packet with practiced ease. You stood in front of the mirror, and he helped lift your shirt just enough to expose the dressing beneath. The movement tugged at your side, and your jaw tightened.

Carter noticed, but he didn’t comment. That mattered. He stepped close, not crowding, and peeled back the old tape with slow precision. His fingers were warm when they brushed your skin. It should have felt clinical. In another room, with another doctor, it might have. But this was your apartment. Your bathroom. His collar was open, his sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and his focus had narrowed to the healing wound at your side like the rest of the world had fallen away.

You watched his face in the mirror. His brows drew together slightly in concentration. His shirt was creased at the shoulders, the open collar showing the top of his undershirt beneath it. A lock of hair fell toward his forehead when he leaned in, and he pushed it back with the back of his wrist before reaching for the edge of the tape.

You were supposed to be thinking about the bandage. You absolutely were not thinking about the bandage.

“You’re doing the careful face,” you said, mostly because it was safer than saying anything else.

His eyes flicked up. “I’m changing a bandage.”

“You’re acting like one wrong move will break me.”

Carter paused with the old dressing half-lifted. For a second, he said nothing. Then he lowered his eyes again and finished removing the tape.

“I’m trying not to.”

That took the sharpness out of you. The incision looked better than it had, though you still hated looking at it. Angry in places, tender, healing slowly enough to make you impatient. Carter inspected it without fuss, checking for redness, swelling, discharge, all the things Benton would have barked about if he were standing there. Satisfied, he reached for the clean gauze.

Carter knew he was taking too long. The incision looked fine. Healing normally. No signs of infection, no swelling that made him want to drag you back to Benton immediately. He knew exactly what he was looking at and exactly what he needed to do next.

Still, his hands slowed. Because standing this close to you in your bathroom was affecting him in ways he couldn’t explain away with medicine or logic. You watched him through the mirror, tired and bruised, hair pulled messily back from your face, one hand braced against the sink. Nothing like the version of you he kept seeing in flashes from Trauma One, and yet somehow both versions existed in his head at once. You bleeding beneath fluorescent lights. You here now, alive and breathing and rolling your eyes at him.

It was not only relief that made him look at you too long. That would have been easier to explain. There was relief, of course. So much of it that it made him feel hollow when he let himself touch it. But there was also the curve of your mouth when you tried not to smile, the faint crease between your brows when you were annoyed, the way your hair fell loose around your face after days of hospital pillows and Carol’s careful attempt at brushing it out. There was the stubborn lift of your chin, the warmth that survived even under pain and exhaustion, the fact that you could sit there bruised and sore and still make him feel like the room had shifted around you.

He had seen you at your worst, but it had not made you less beautiful.

It had only made him terrified of how much he loved you.

He had told you that in recovery because he thought you couldn’t hear him. Now you were standing right in front of him, and he could barely manage a strip of tape without losing his composure.

“You heard what I told Benton,” you said.

Carter’s hands slowed.

You looked at him in the mirror. “About not remembering.”

He tore off a strip of tape but didn’t place it right away. “Some of it.”

His eyes lifted to yours in the mirror, and there it was: the thing he had been holding back since the exam room, since recovery. Carter could handle blood, panic, and Benton yelling in the middle of a trauma. Feelings required more courage.

You turned slightly, enough that he stopped working and looked at you properly.

“I didn’t tell him everything,” you said.

Carter went still. The apartment was quiet beyond the bathroom door. The lamp in the living room threw a soft strip of light across the hallway. Somewhere below, a car passed slowly through the wet street. Carter’s hand was still near your side, one last strip of tape held between his fingers.

“What do you mean?”

“I left something out.”

His expression changed. Guarded. Careful. Almost afraid to ask.

“From recovery?”

You nodded.

Before you could say anything else, his pager went off.

The sound was sharp and ugly in the small bathroom, cutting through the quiet so suddenly that both of you froze. Carter looked down at it, and you watched the change happen. The softness in his face tightened into focus. The doctor came back first because the doctor always had to.

For one second, he just stared at the message like he could make it disappear.

“You have to go,” you said.

His jaw flexed. “I can call—”

“John.”

He looked at you.

“Go.”

He hated it. You could see that clearly. He hated the timing, hated the unfinished sentence, hated the fact that County could reach into your apartment and pull him away before either of you got to say what had been sitting between you all day.

He placed the last strip of tape carefully over the dressing before stepping back. Even with his pager going off again, he finished the job properly. Carter could stand in the middle of an emotional disaster and still make sure the bandage was secure.

“If the pain gets worse, call,” he said, already reaching for his jacket.

“I will.”

“If you get dizzy—”

“I’ll sit down.”

“If you feel short of breath—”

“I’ll call.”

Carter hesitated in the doorway, coat half-on, eyes still fixed on you like leaving was physically painful.

You softened. “Go be a doctor.”

That got through. He nodded once and left.

The apartment felt too still after he was gone. For a while, you stayed where he had left you, sitting on the couch with the discharge instructions spread across the coffee table and Lily’s yellow sticker still stuck to your hand. The silence of your apartment was nothing like the hospital quiet. Hospital quiet had machines under it, footsteps, distant voices, the knowledge that someone was always nearby. Home quiet had space in it, too quiet.

Eventually, sitting still became worse than moving. You should have waited. You could hear Carol’s practical voice telling you to take things slowly, Benton saying discharge instructions were not suggestions, Carter asking if you were sure. That was exactly why you wanted to do one normal thing by yourself.

A shower was normal.

You moved slowly to the bathroom, one hand against the wall when your balance felt uncertain. The shower filled the small room with steam, softening the mirror and warming the tile beneath your feet. For a few minutes, with the water running over your shoulders and the hospital smell finally leaving your skin, you almost felt human again. You held onto the small railing in the shower you didn’t know the purpose for, now giving it one.

Then the corner shelf gave up on life.

It came loose as you reached to put the body wash back, clattering down with a crash loud enough to make you jump. Shampoo, conditioner, and the body wash hit the tub floor like an avalanche. You froze, one hand gripping the shower wall, heart pounding.

Outside the bathroom, the apartment door opened.

You didn’t hear Carter come in at first over the water. You only heard his voice a second later, sharp with panic.

“Y/N?”

You closed your eyes.

“I’m fine!” you called quickly.

His footsteps crossed the apartment fast. “Y/N?”

The bathroom door opened, and you pulled the shower curtain against yourself before peeking out. Carter stood in the doorway, still in his work clothes, coat unbuttoned, shirt wrinkled beneath it, sleeves still rolled to his forearms. His collar was open at the throat, and his hair was damp from the rain outside, pushed back badly like he had run his hand through it on the stairs. He looked exhausted, alarmed, and far too good in the harsh bathroom light, which felt deeply unfair considering you were half-hidden behind a shower curtain and surrounded by fallen shampoo bottles.

His eyes found your face first. Then the curtain clutched to your chest. Then the bottles scattered across the tub floor.

“Sorry,” you said, trying for casual and landing somewhere near embarrassed. “The shelf decided to cave in”

Carter stared at you.

Then he looked at the bottles scattered in the tub. Then back at you.

“The shelf?”

“Yes.” You pointed to the dismantled dainty shelf now on the shower floor with everything sprawled across.

He drew in a breath and forced his voice lower. “I heard a crash- I thought you fell”

You softened a little, because beneath the irritation, beneath the doctor questions, you could see the panic he hadn’t quite shaken. “I’m okay. I promise.”

Carter nodded once, though he still looked like he didn’t fully believe the room. His gaze moved over you again, quicker this time, more controlled. Slightly damp hair in a messy bun, one hand gripping the curtain. Shoulders tense. Face tired but alert.

That was enough to make him light-headed.

“Can you get out safely?” he asked.

You glanced down at the slick tub, the scattered bottles, your one good foot trying not to step on conditioner. Carter seemed to understand the answer before you said anything.

“Where’s your robe?”

“Back of the door.”

He reached for it without looking at you and held it through the gap, staring determinedly at the wall. “Here.”

“You’re staring at the wall.”

“I’m giving you privacy.”

“That is not what privacy usually looks like.”

“Can you just take the robe?”

You did, because arguing while standing in a wet tub after abdominal surgery and a traitorous shower shelf was ambitious even for you. Carter kept his face turned away while you shut off the water and pulled the robe on. The bathtub suddenly seemed higher than it ever had before.

When you shifted your weight, pain pulled through your side. Not sharp enough to scare you, but enough to make you stop.

Carter heard the silence.

“Y/N?”

“I’m okay.”

His voice tightened. “Let me help.”

You closed your eyes, hating the way your throat tightened. Not because he was wrong. Because he wasn’t. Because the stairs had been hard, the shower had been harder, and you were tired of every ordinary thing turning into a negotiation.

After a moment, you opened the curtain wider. Carter still looked away until you said his name. Then he turned back carefully, eyes staying on your face.

“I need you-r - your arm,” you admitted.

The worry in him softened immediately into something quieter. He stepped closer and offered his forearm instead of grabbing you. You held onto him as you stepped over the edge of the tub, slow and awkward and more humbling than you wanted it to be. Carter kept one hand near your elbow, not touching unless he needed to, his body angled like he was ready to catch you without making you feel caught.

Once both your feet were safely on the bathmat, neither of you moved. You were close enough to see the water beading on his sleeve where your hand had touched him, close enough to see the exhaustion around his eyes. He looked at you like he was trying not to look too much, worry trapped with nowhere to go.

You knew what he had thought. You had seen it in the way he reached the bathroom door, in the pale fear beneath his tiredness, in the way he had asked about your head first.

“It was just the shelf,” you said.

Carter glanced past you at the bottles scattered in the tub. His mouth moved faintly. “That shelf is a hazard.”

“It’s been holding on for years.”

“It picked tonight?”

“Apparently.”

For the first time since he came back, the corner of his mouth lifted properly. Only a little. Enough.

Then his gaze dropped to the edge of your robe where the dressing sat hidden beneath the fabric. “Your bandage got wet.”

“A bit.”

He gave you a look.

“And now you get to do it again,” you said. “Lucky you.”

You let him guide you to the closed toilet lid because your legs were beginning to tremble slightly, and both of you knew it. He gathered the fallen bottles from the tub first, setting them on the counter with more force than necessary. Then he washed his hands and reached for the spare gauze Carol had insisted on packing.

The moment quieted again.

Carter knelt in front of you with the clean dressing in hand, his sleeves pushed up, collar open at his throat, hair falling slightly forward. He was tired. You could see it in every line of him. But his hands were steady as he peeled back the damp edge of the bandage, his focus dropping to the healing incision with practiced precision.

You watched him for a moment.

Then you said softly, “I remember the kiss.”

Carter did not move.

For a second, the only sound in the bathroom was the faint drip of water from the showerhead and the quiet hum of the old light above the mirror. Steam still clung to the glass, blurring both of your reflections. Carter stayed kneeling in front of you with the clean gauze in one hand and tape in the other, his face lifted toward yours, the careful doctor expression gone so completely that he looked almost younger without it.

“You remember?” he asked.

His voice was low, quieter than the room required.

You nodded, fingers resting over the damp edge of Lily’s yellow sticker. “Not everything. Not clearly. But enough. The mask. Your hand. Being scared. And then…”

You didn’t finish the sentence. Carter looked down, but not fast enough to hide what crossed his face. Relief first. Then hurt, quieter and more complicated, because he had spent the day thinking he was the only one carrying that moment.

“I thought you forgot,” he said. “You told Benton you didn’t remember waking up.”

“I didn’t want to discuss kissing you with Peter Benton while he checked my pupils.”

A faint breath of laughter left him, barely there but real. “Fair.”

He set the clean gauze carefully over the incision and smoothed the tape down with precise fingers. He finished the practical task first, because of course he did. Carter could stand in the middle of an emotional disaster and still make sure the bandage was secure.

“There’s more,” you said.

His hands stopped again.

This time, the silence felt different.

You looked down at yourself, robe damp at the hem, hair dripping onto your shoulder, bare feet pressed to the bathmat, sitting on a closed toilet lid while broken shampoo bottles waited in the tub like evidence.

“But I’m not telling you the rest while I’m sitting here like this.”

Carter blinked, then looked around the bathroom as if he had only just remembered where you both were. The corner shelf was still hanging crookedly in the shower. Steam clung to the mirror. The whole thing should have made the moment ridiculous.

Instead, it made it feel real.

“Right,” he said softly.

He helped you stand, one hand at your elbow only after you reached for him. He kept his eyes on your face, giving you privacy without making it awkward, and guided you slowly down the hall to your bedroom.

The bedroom was dimmer than the bathroom, lit only by the small lamp on the bedside table. The sheets were rumpled from where you had tried and failed to lie down earlier. Outside the window, Chicago was fading toward early morning, the sky no longer fully dark but not yet light. Carter helped you sit on the edge of the bed, then crouched briefly to pick up one of your slippers from where it had been kicked under the chair.

It was such an ordinary gesture that it made your throat tighten. He was still in his work clothes, shirt creased, sleeves damp at the cuffs from the bathroom, collar open, exhaustion tucked into every line of him. There was no tie now, no white coat, nothing to hide behind. Just Carter, tired and careful, standing in your room like he wanted to be closer and was afraid of wanting it too much.

You could feel him watching you, though he tried not to make it obvious. His eyes moved over your wet hair, the robe gathered carefully around you, the yellow star still clinging to your hand, the bruises fading at the edge of your face. But there was something different in his expression now. Less clinical. Less afraid to see you as something other than injured.

Carter was trying to be careful, but careful had never meant blind. You looked fragile in the low light, but not weak. Damp hair curled slightly against your cheek. Your eyes were tired but clear. The robe swallowed you a little, and one shoulder had slipped just enough that you tugged it back into place without thinking. He noticed the bruises because he could not help it. He noticed the way your mouth softened when you looked at him, because he could not help that either.

You were beautiful.

Not despite the bruises, not because of the survival, not in some tragic hospital way that turned pain into poetry. Just beautiful. Sitting on the edge of your bed, exhausted and stubborn and alive, looking at him like you were asking him to finally be brave enough to say the thing out loud.

“You do that thing when you’re nervous,” you said.

He looked up. “What thing?”

“With your nose.”

“I don’t do anything with my nose.”

“You do. It’s a Carter symptom.”

His smile faded into something more exposed.

“What else happened?” you asked.

Carter stayed quiet for a moment, his eyes on yours now. He did not look away this time.

“I told you I love you.”

The words were quiet. They did not need to be anything else. For a moment, you simply stared at him. You had known there was something. You had felt it in the way he looked at you when he thought you didn’t remember, in the carefulness of his touch, in the weight behind his eyes. But hearing it was different.

“You told me?”

Carter nodded once. “After you fell asleep again. Or I thought you had. You were exhausted, and I didn’t think you could hear me.” His voice stayed controlled, but there was effort in it now. He was not good at this. Not because he didn’t feel things, but because feeling them out loud made him look like he wanted to reach for a chart just to have somewhere safer to put his hands. “I didn’t say it because I expected anything. I just… said it.”

You looked down at the yellow sticker Lily had given you, now damp at the edges and barely holding on. The accident had taken so much in obvious ways: strength, time, sleep, the ease of walking into County without your body remembering the sound of metal and glass. But this felt different. Quieter. A moment you should have had, a confession you should have heard clearly, reduced to something Carter had carried alone because you had not been awake enough to keep it.

“I don’t remember that part,” you said.

“I figured.”

There was no accusation in his voice. That almost made it worse. You reached for him before you could overthink it, your hand finding his cheek with damp fingers. Carter went still beneath your touch, like even after everything he was still waiting for permission to believe he was allowed this close.

“Say it again,” you said.

His expression broke just slightly.

“You don’t have to—”

Carter searched your face, still careful, still afraid of asking too much from someone who had already been asked to survive too much. The old instinct was there, the part of him that wanted to protect you even from his own feelings if he thought they might become another weight.

“I want to hear it this time.” You brushed your thumb lightly along his jaw. “Please.”

That was what did it.

Carter drew in a breath, and when he spoke, his voice was still quiet, but there was no hiding in it.

“I love you.”

This time, there was no oxygen mask between you. No monitor keeping count beside a hospital bed. No pain medication blurring the edges. No missing space where the memory should have been. Just Carter, standing in your bedroom after coming back from County, telling you the truth with rain-damp hair, a wrinkled shirt, and his heart in his throat.

Your eyes burned before you could stop them.

He noticed immediately. “Y/N—”

“I love you too,” you said.

He went completely still.

Not in surprise exactly. More like the words had reached him but had to travel through every fear he had been carrying before they could settle.

You gave a small, uneven breath. “I don’t remember hearing you say it the first time. But I know what I would have said if I had.”

Carter’s eyes moved over your face, searching for doubt, for hesitation, for any sign that you were saying it because of the accident or the kiss or because he had come back when he said he would. You let him look. Let him see that you were tired, sore, damp-haired, and still healing, but you were not confused.

“I love you,” you repeated, softer.

The breath Carter let out was almost painful. His forehead lowered for half a second, not crowding you, just bowing under the weight of relief he did not seem to know what to do with. When he looked up again, his face was open in a way you had rarely seen at County, stripped of the careful professionalism and nervous deflection. He stood slowly, giving you time to move if you needed to. You didn’t.

When he leaned in, he did it with the same caution he had shown all night, one hand coming to your cheek, the other bracing lightly against the mattress beside you. His eyes flicked to yours once more, asking without making you say it. You answered by lifting your chin.

The kiss was gentle at first. Carter kissed you like he was still aware of every bruise, every stitch, every reason to be careful. But it was not frightened this time. It was not the desperate rush of relief from when he had heard the crash, or the blurred memory from recovery that came back only in pieces.

This one was steady. Present. Chosen.

You reached for the front of his shirt and held on, fingers curling into the wrinkled fabric as his breath caught against yours. For one moment, the carefulness slipped just enough for you to feel how long he had been holding himself back. Not enough to hurt. Never that. Just enough to make the kiss deepen, enough to make your chest tighten for reasons that had nothing to do with pain.

When he pulled back, he stayed close, his thumb brushing gently along your cheek. You looked down at yourself: robe, damp hair, clean bandage, bare feet on the rug beside your bed. “This is probably not how you imagined this conversation.”

Carter glanced toward the hallway, where the bathroom light still glowed faintly. “I try not to imagine medical conversations in bathrooms.”

“That’s wise.”

“It also wasn’t really a medical conversation.”

“No?”

His eyes softened. “Not after the bandage.”

For a second, neither of you moved. Then your legs trembled slightly, enough that Carter’s expression changed at once.

“Okay,” he said, the doctor returning in a quieter form. “You need to rest.”

“I just confessed my love to you after nearly being taken out by a shower shelf, and you’re telling me to rest?”

“Yes.”

“Romantic.”

Carter could joke about the shelf now because you were upright and breathing and mostly fine. But for one awful second, when he had opened your door and heard something fall behind the bathroom wall, he had been back there again: back in the panic, back in the sound of things breaking, back in the fear that the next thing he saw would be you hurt and out of reach. You held out your hand. He took it immediately.

“I’m okay,” you said, not as a dismissal this time, but as something steadier.

Carter looked at you for a moment before nodding. “Let’s keep it that way.”

He helped you shift back against the pillows, carefully, one hand at your elbow only after you reached for him. That mattered. The small choice. The space to accept help instead of having it forced on you. Outside the window, Chicago was beginning to fade toward early morning, the sky not light yet but no longer fully dark.

His gaze moved to the clock on your bedside table. The display blinked 12:00 in bright red numbers, useless after some power outage you hadn’t bothered fixing. He stared at it for a second, then glanced at the window instead.

“I’m off tomorrow,” he said, then corrected himself. “Well, technically today.”

The room quieted around that. You looked at him, at the way he seemed ready to sit in the chair beside the bed like some self-sacrificing hospital ghost. Before he could make the predictable choice, you shifted carefully under the blanket and lifted the edge of it.

“You coming to bed?”

Carter blinked.

You gave him a tired look. “To sleep, Carter.”

A small laugh slipped out before you could stop it, and the pull in your side made you wince. Carter’s hand lifted immediately, hovering near your shoulder.

He turned off the bathroom light, then came back and hesitated only a second before toeing off his shoes and setting them neatly near the chair. He lay down beside you with an almost ridiculous amount of caution, staying above the blanket at first and leaving enough space between you that you turned your head to look at him.

“You’re halfway off the bed.”

“I’m giving you room.”

“You look like you’re preparing to evacuate.”

That got a quiet laugh from him, tired and real. You reached for his hand. He moved closer after that, still careful, and settled beside you. His arm came around you gently, not pulling, just resting there, warm and steady. You let yourself lean into him, your head near his shoulder, your body aching but finally still.

For a while, neither of you spoke. There was no need to fill the quiet. The apartment held around you, warmer than the hospital, softer than recovery, nothing like the trauma room where everything had almost ended. Somewhere across the city, County General was still bright and loud and relentless. Carol was probably still at the nurses’ station, pretending she was not checking the clock. Benton was probably still insulting someone into better medical practice. Doug was probably being charming and infuriating in equal measure.

But here, for once, none of them could reach you. Carter’s breathing slowly evened out beside you. His thumb moved once over the back of your hand, near the damp, peeling yellow star Lily had given you.

For your accident, Lily had said.

You looked at it in the dim light and thought maybe you would keep it after all. Press it into a book. Tape it somewhere safe. Something small and ridiculous and bright from the day you started coming back to yourself. Just before sleep pulled you under, Carter pressed a soft kiss to your hair.

“I love you,” he murmured, so quietly you might have missed it if you had not been listening.

You smiled against his shoulder. This time, you remembered.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

- John Carter x Reader ER

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Summary -

As an ER nurse, you’re used to long shifts, impossible patients, and the kind of emergencies that make your heart race. But nothing could prepare you for becoming County General’s next trauma patient. John Carter is forced to confront what he’s been avoiding for months, you were never just another coworker.

Content Warning: This one-shot contains a serious ambulance accident, medical trauma, blood and injury, emergency treatment, cardiac arrest/coding, defibrillation, surgery and coding.

Words - 6890

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County General never truly slept.

Even in the dead hours of the night, when the rest of Chicago seemed drowned beneath rain and darkness, the ER kept moving. Phones rang behind the admit desk, stretchers rolled over wet tile, and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with the same unforgiving brightness they had at noon. The waiting room was crowded with the tired, the sick, the angry, and the afraid. Somewhere behind Curtain Three, a child was crying. Somewhere near the nurses’ station, Jerry was arguing with a man who insisted he had been waiting longer than everyone else, despite arriving ten minutes ago.

It was the kind of night everyone at County knew too well. Too many patients, not enough beds, not enough hands, and no time to complain about any of it.

Mark Greene stood in Trauma One with his gloves already on, his sleeves pushed up to his forearms. His face had settled into that calm, concentrated expression he wore when the room around him was about to become anything but calm. Peter Benton stood near the foot of the trauma bed, rigid and impatient, arms folded across his chest as he looked toward the ambulance bay doors. The call had come through broken by static but clear enough to make everyone move faster.

“Vehicle involved in an MVA,” Greene said, listening as the clerk relayed the details from the radio. “Hit by a drunk driver two blocks out. Driver’s conscious. Passenger ejected through the windshield.”

Benton’s eyes narrowed. “Ejected?”

“That’s what dispatch said.”

Benton’s jaw tightened. He didn’t say what they were both thinking, because there wasn’t time. Outside, red light washed across the bay doors in quick, frantic pulses, reflecting off the rain-slicked pavement and streaking across the trauma room floor.Then the doors burst open.

The gurney came in fast, wheels rattling hard over the tile, paramedics moving on either side with rainwater dripping from their jackets and blood on their sleeves. The patient was strapped to a backboard, C-collar in place, oxygen mask covering the lower half of her face. Her navy uniform had been cut open at the collar, the fabric soaked dark against her shoulder and chest. Blood had dried along her temple and disappeared into her hairline.

“Female, late twenties,” one paramedic called out, breathless but controlled. “Blunt head and chest trauma, ejected through the windshield after impact. Brief loss of consciousness at the scene, came around in the rig, now declining. GCS ten and dropping. BP eighty-two palp, pulse one-thirty-four.”

Greene moved to the head of the bed. “Airway?”

“Maintaining for now. Fifteen liters non-rebreather.”

Benton stepped closer, eyes sweeping over the injuries. “She restrained?”

“She was, she was in the ambulance”

“What ambulance? How the hell did she go through the windshield?”

The paramedic’s expression shifted, just enough to show how badly the crash had shaken him. “The belt snapped on impact. We don’t know how. Passenger side took most of the hit.”

Greene reached for the rail of the stretcher. “All right, transfer on my count.”

Then he looked down properly. It was not dramatic, only the small, terrible pause of a man whose mind had recognised something before the rest of him wanted to. Greene’s eyes moved from the blood in your hair to the ID badge clipped crookedly to what remained of your uniform.

Y/N Y/L/N.

His face changed.

“Oh God,” he said quietly.

Benton followed his gaze, and for half a second his hands stopped moving. In a trauma room, half a second was enough to mean something.

“It’s Y/N,” Benton said.

The name passed through the room like a current. Haleh froze with a roll of tape in her hand. Malik looked up sharply from the line tray. Even the paramedic glanced down again, as if knowing your name made the blood worse.

Carol Hathaway came through the doors a moment later, moving quickly with a chart in her hand, already asking, “Mark, what do you need?”

She stopped before she finished the sentence. Her eyes found the bed, then your face beneath the oxygen mask, then the blood matting your hair.

“No,” she breathed.

Greene looked at her once. “Carol—”

But she was already at your side, professionalism holding by a thread and stubbornness. She took your hand, the one not already being worked on, and leaned over you.

“Y/N?” Her voice was controlled, but barely. “It’s Carol. Can you hear me?”

Your eyelids fluttered. It was small, barely there, but Carol saw it and clung to it.

“That’s it,” she said quickly. “Stay with me. You’re at County. You’re in Trauma One. Greene and Benton are here.”

Greene nodded to the team. “On three. One, two, three.”

They lifted you from the gurney onto the trauma bed. Your body landed with a heavy stillness that made Carol’s grip tighten around your hand. Benton cut through the rest of your uniform with trauma shears, his expression shutting down into focus. Greene checked your pupils with a penlight, and the small tightening around his mouth said enough.

“Y/N,” Greene said firmly. “Open your eyes for me.”

Your eyes opened halfway, unfocused and glassy under the harsh white lights. Carol leaned into your line of sight, forcing calm into her face even though her own eyes were wet.

“Look at me, okay? Just look at me.”

For one brief moment, your gaze seemed to find her. Your lips parted beneath the mask, but no sound came out. Then your eyes began to drift shut again.

“No,” Carol said too quickly. Her voice sharpened, panic breaking through the edges. “No, Y/N, keep your eyes open. You have to stay awake.”

“Pressure’s dropping,” Haleh called. “Seventy-eight over forty-six.”

“Pulse one-forty,” Malik added.

Benton pressed along your abdomen, hands quick and precise. His face hardened almost immediately. “She’s guarding.” Greene kept his attention on your airway, but his voice stayed steady. “Two large-bore IVs. Type and cross four units. CBC, chem seven, coags. Portable chest and pelvis. Call surgery and tell them we may have an unstable trauma going up.”

“Already paging,” Haleh said.

Carol stayed close to your face. “Y/N, listen to me. Stay awake. Don’t close your eyes.”

Your eyes fluttered open again, weaker this time. You looked scared, but not fully there, caught somewhere between pain, shock, and the bright, brutal lights overhead. Carol brushed damp hair carefully away from your forehead, and her fingers came away red.

Across the department, John Carter stood beside Doug Ross near the light box, studying an X-ray with the strained concentration of someone too tired to admit he was tired. Doug was pointing something out with the end of a pen, speaking in that casual way he had when he was trying to teach without making it feel like teaching. Carter leaned closer to the film, brows drawn together, one hand tucked into the pocket of his white coat. A nurse came around the corner fast enough that both of them looked over.

“Dr. Ross. Carter. Trauma One needs help.”

Doug straightened. “What happened?”

“Ambulance accident.”

Carter glanced toward the trauma rooms. He could hear the difference in the ER now, the way voices rose and shortened when something bad came in. “Who’s in there?”

The nurse did not move.That was what Carter noticed first. Not what she said, but what she didn’t. Her eyes shifted toward Trauma One and back again. Her face had gone pale.

Doug saw it too. “What?”

The nurse swallowed. “Nurse Y/L/N is the patient.”

The words did not seem to land at first. Carter stared at her, his face blank in a way that was worse than shock. Doug’s expression changed immediately, but Carter was already moving before anyone could stop him.

He ran.

He did not ask how bad it was. He did not ask whether you were conscious. He hit the doors to Trauma One with both hands, and they swung back hard against the wall. Inside, the room was all noise and movement. Greene at your head, Benton at your side, Carol holding your hand, Haleh working a line, Malik calling numbers from the monitor. The smell of blood, rain, and antiseptic hit Carter all at once.

Then he saw you. For a moment, he stopped just inside the doors. The colour drained from his face. You were on the trauma bed beneath the lights, your uniform cut open, oxygen mask strapped over your face, blood matting your hair and streaking down your neck. You looked nothing like the nurse who had walked past him earlier with a chart tucked under one arm, teasing him for looking half-dead before midnight.

“Carter,” Greene said sharply.

Carter didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on you. Carol looked up, and whatever control she had been clinging to cracked for half a second. “She’s trying to stay awake but she keeps slipping in and out.”

That broke him out of stillness. Carter grabbed gloves from the wall and pulled them on too fast, the latex catching at his wrist. He moved toward the bed, breathing unevenly, trying to force himself into the shape of a doctor.

“I can help,” he said.

Benton looked at him once and saw too much. “Carter.”

“I can help!” Carter repeated, sharper this time.

Benton stepped into his path, not blocking the bed entirely but enough to make him stop. His voice was low, clipped, and hard enough to cut through the room. “We can’t have you emotional right now. I know she means a lot to you, but we need you to be a doctor right now.”

Carter stared at him, jaw tight, eyes burning with the effort of holding himself together. For a second, it looked like he might argue. Then your hand twitched weakly in Carol’s, and Carter’s gaze snapped back to you.

“What do you need?” he asked.

Benton held his stare for half a beat longer, making sure. Then he pointed to your side. “Pressure here. Don’t let up.”

Carter moved immediately, placing his hands where Benton directed. Blood warmed his gloves. He pressed down hard and steady, and tried not to think of it as yours.

Carol leaned close to your face again, still holding your hand. “Y/N, open your eyes. Come on.”

Your eyelids fluttered.

Carter leaned forward despite himself. “Y/N?”

Your eyes opened slowly, barely more than a slit, but they found him. For one fragile second, the room seemed to narrow to the space between you. Carter’s face almost broke.

“It’s me,” he said, voice low. “You’re at County. We’re taking care of you.”

Your lips moved beneath the oxygen mask. He bent closer, unable not to.

“John…”

It was barely a sound, more breath than voice, but he heard it. So did Carol. Her face folded for one second before she forced herself back into motion. Then the monitor changed. At first it was subtle, the rapid beeping losing its rhythm, stretching too far between beats. Greene looked up immediately. Benton’s head turned toward the screen. Carol’s grip tightened around your hand.

“Pulse?” Greene said.

Haleh’s fingers went to your neck.Carter froze, hands still pressed against your abdomen, eyes fixed on Haleh’s face because he could not bring himself to look at the monitor.

“Haleh?” Greene snapped.

Her answer came too fast and not fast enough.

“No pulse!”

The long tone tore through Trauma One, loud and merciless.

“She’s coding!” Greene shouted. “Start compressions. Bag her. Get me a tube.”

The room erupted. Haleh climbed onto the step and began compressions hard and fast, your body jerking beneath the force of them. Carol grabbed the ambu bag with shaking hands, sealed it over your mouth, and started breathing for you because you weren’t breathing on your own. Greene reached for the laryngoscope, his voice calm only because he made it calm. Benton shoved a tray aside and barked for epi, suction, another line, more blood. Carter did not move.He stared at the monitor, then at you, as if the sound was something he could refuse by sheer force. Your hand slipped from Carol’s grasp and fell limp toward the edge of the bed.

“No,” He stepped forward.

Benton caught him before he reached you. “Carter, get out!”

Carter shoved his arm away. “No!”

“You’re in the way!”

“I can help!”

“You’re not helping!”

Benton’s voice cracked through the room, furious and absolute, but Carter tried to push past him anyway. His eyes were fixed on your face, on the compressions, on Carol squeezing air into your lungs with tears on her cheeks and no time to wipe them away.

“Epi one milligram IV push,” Greene ordered.

“Pushing epi.”

“Keep compressions going.”

Carter lunged again, and this time Benton turned fully on him. “Get him out of here!”

Doug burst through the doors almost instantly, as if he had been right outside waiting for the moment Carter stopped being a doctor and became only John. He took in the tone, the compressions, Carol’s face, Benton’s stance, and Carter fighting to get back to the bed. He didn’t ask questions. He grabbed Carter from behind, one arm locking across his chest, the other clamping hard around his shoulder.

“John, come on.”

Carter fought him immediately. “No—Doug, let go!”

Doug pulled him backward. “You can’t be here!”

Carter twisted hard, almost breaking free. His shoe slipped against the tile, and his elbow knocked into a metal tray. Instruments clattered to the floor, loud and useless beneath the endless scream of the monitor. No one looked down. No one had time. Inside the room, the rhythm broke into something jagged and chaotic across the monitor. Greene looked up, sharp and focused.

“V-fib. Charge to two hundred.”

“Charging,” Malik called.

Carol stayed at your head, breathing for you, her eyes locked on your face.

“Clear,” Greene said.

Doug forced Carter back as everyone lifted their hands away from your body. The shock hit with a dull, brutal force, your chest rising from the bed before dropping back against the mattress. Carter heard himself say your name, but it barely sounded human.

“No pulse,” Haleh said.

“Resume compressions,” Greene ordered. “Again.”

Doug dragged Carter another step toward the doors. Carter fought him with the frantic strength of someone who had forgotten everything except the fact that you were on that bed and he was being pulled away from you.

“Y/N!” he shouted.

Benton was already back at your side. “Where’s the blood?”

“Coming up.”

“Charge to three-sixty,” Greene said.

“Charged.”

“Clear!”

Doug hauled Carter through the trauma doors just as the second shock landed. Carter heard the impact before the doors swung shut between them. The hallway hit him cold. The sound from inside became muffled, but not gone. Carter tore halfway free and tried to turn back, but Doug shoved him against the wall with one hand planted hard against his chest.

Carter stared at him, breathing ragged, eyes wide and wild. “Move.”

Doug didn’t. “No.”

“Doug—”

“No.” Doug’s voice was hard now, not cruel, but final. “You go back in there like this, and you make it worse.”

Inside Trauma One, Greene’s voice rose over the alarm. “Again. Clear.”

Another shock. Carter flinched as if it had hit him too. For a moment, he looked like he might fight Doug properly, like panic had stripped everything else away. Then his eyes dropped to his own hands. Blood covered the gloves. Your blood. The fight went out of him so suddenly Doug nearly moved with the weight of it. Carter stopped pushing, stopped arguing, stopped trying to get around him. He stood against the wall in the hallway, chest rising too fast, eyes fixed on the trauma doors as voices moved behind them in urgent fragments. Another round. More suction. Keep going. Come on. Carter’s voice came out wrecked and quiet, and then he broke down.

“She was just looking at me, I can’t lose her…I can’t.”

Doug’s expression softened, as he hated to see him cry, flashbacks of when Carol almost died came back to him briefly. Neither of them trusted him not to run back in. Behind the doors, Carol said your name again, broken but still working. Then, the sound changed. The endless tone cut off. The voices inside stayed urgent, but something shifted. Carter’s head lifted. Doug turned toward the doors.

Inside Trauma One, Haleh’s fingers pressed to your neck, and her eyes widened.

“There,” she said quickly. “There, I’ve got a pulse.”

Carol froze over the bag. Greene looked at the monitor. “We’ve got a rhythm.”

Benton didn’t let the relief breathe for more than a second. “Pressure?”

“Sixty over thirty-eight.”

“That’s not stable,” Benton said. “She needs an OR now.”

Greene nodded. “Keep bagging. Keep the blood running. Call upstairs and tell them we’re coming up.”

The trauma doors burst open, and Carter straightened so fast Doug had to grab his arm again.

Greene came through at the head of the bed, one hand controlling the ambu bag as the team rolled you out. Benton was beside the stretcher, still pressing where blood kept seeping through fresh gauze. Carol walked with them, one hand on the rail, refusing to let go until someone made her. You passed Carter in a blur of white sheets, tubes, blood, and movement, alive but frighteningly still.

Carter stepped forward. “Y/N—”

Benton’s eyes cut to him. “Not now.”

It was not cruel. It was not gentle either. It was Benton, and that meant it was true. Carter stopped. The elevator doors opened, swallowed the team whole, and closed with Carol still staring back at him until the last possible second.

Then you were gone. For a moment, Carter stood in the middle of the hall with blood on his gloves and nothing to do. The ER kept moving around him because it always did. Phones rang. Someone called for a wheelchair. A patient moaned from Curtain Three. A clerk asked for a chart. The whole department continued breathing while Carter stood there feeling like he couldn’t.

Doug took the gloves off him because Carter didn’t seem to know they were still on. He peeled them away carefully, one at a time, and dropped them into the bin. Carter looked down at his bare hands as if he expected the blood to still be there.

“Come on,” Doug said quietly.

Carter didn’t answer. Doug led him into an empty exam room because there was nowhere else to put him and because the hallway was too public for what was coming. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and old coffee. The paper on the exam table had been half-torn from the last patient, and someone had left a blood pressure cuff curled beside the sink. Doug shut the door behind them, blocking out most of the noise from the ER.

Carter stood there for maybe three seconds. Then he broke. It happened without warning. One moment he was staring at the wall, jaw clenched so hard it looked painful, and the next his face collapsed. He turned away from Doug like he could hide it, like there was any dignity left to protect, but the first sob tore out of him before he could stop it. He pressed both hands over his mouth, shoulders shaking, eyes squeezed shut like that could erase the image of you on the table.

Doug didn’t say anything at first. He just stayed by the door, giving him the only privacy he could. Carter tried to pull himself together and failed. Every time he got a breath, another one broke apart in his chest.

“She said my name,” Carter said finally, voice wrecked and muffled behind his hands. “She was awake. She looked at me, and then she—”

He couldn’t finish it. Doug looked down, his own face tight. He had seen Carter upset before. He had seen him exhausted, angry, overwhelmed. This was different. This was Carter stripped of every layer he usually hid behind, with nothing left but fear.

“They got her pulse back,” Doug said.

Carter shook his head. “She was coding. She was right there, and I couldn’t—” Carter stopped, swallowing hard, but it didn’t help. His eyes were red, his whole face blotched with panic and grief he hadn’t had time to name. “I couldn’t do anything.”

Doug stepped closer then. “You would’ve hurt her chances if you stayed.”

Carter flinched, but Doug didn’t soften it.

“You know Benton was right.”

Carter looked at him, furious for half a second, then the anger folded into something worse because he did know. That was the thing that made it unbearable. Benton had been right. Greene had been right. Doug had been right to drag him out. Knowing that did not make standing outside the doors while you died any easier. Carter sank onto the edge of the exam table like his legs had finally stopped working. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and pressed his hands into his hair. Doug stayed with him until Carter’s breathing slowed enough that it no longer sounded like he was choking on it.

The hours that followed did not feel like hours. They felt longer. Carter waited because there was nothing else to do. He paced until Carol told him to sit down. He sat for less than a minute before standing again. He drank half a cup of coffee Doug handed him and then forgot he was holding it. Carol came and went, trying to work because standing still was worse, but every time the surgical doors opened, she looked up. Carter looked up too, every single time, and every single time it wasn’t Benton.

By the time Benton finally appeared, Carter had stopped pretending he was fine. His eyes were red, his face puffy in a way he clearly wished no one could see, and his white coat was gone because Doug had taken it from him after Carter realized there was blood on the sleeve. He stood the second he saw Benton, too fast, like his body had been waiting for permission to panic again.

Benton came down the hall still in surgical scrubs, cap pulled off, exhaustion sitting heavily in his face. There was blood at the edge of one sleeve and a tension in his shoulders that told Carter the surgery had not been simple. Carol stood too, one hand pressed to her mouth. Carter tried to speak, but nothing came out. Benton stopped in front of them.

For once, he didn’t make them ask twice.

“Surgery went well,” Benton said.

Carter’s face changed, but he didn’t move, as if he didn’t trust relief enough to touch it yet. Benton kept going, blunt and careful in the same breath. “She had internal bleeding. Splenic injury. We controlled it. She lost a lot of blood, and she’s going to be unconscious for a while. We’re going to keep a close eye on her, but she made it through.”

Carol let out a sound that was almost a sob and turned away, pressing her fingers to her eyes. Carter stared at Benton. His mouth opened once before he managed words.

“She’ll be fine?”

Benton held his gaze. There was no smile, no easy comfort, because Benton didn’t give what he couldn’t promise. But his voice lowered just slightly.

“She has a long recovery ahead of her,” he said. “But yes. She should be fine.”

Carter closed his eyes. For a second, he looked like he might fall apart all over again, right there in the hall, but he pulled in a breath and forced it down. Badly. Everyone could see it. Nobody said so. When he opened his eyes, they were still wet.

“Where is she?”

“They’re bringing her to recovery now,” Benton said. He looked at Carter for another beat, then nodded down the hall. “Go.”

That single word did what nothing else had.

Carter moved immediately. He didn’t run this time, not quite, but it was close. Carol followed a few steps behind him, wiping quickly at her face, and Doug stayed where he was with Benton for a moment, watching them disappear down the corridor.

Benton exhaled once, low and tired.

Doug glanced at him. “You okay?”

Benton looked at him like the question was ridiculous. Then he turned back toward the elevators.

“She’s alive” Benton said.

For him, that was answer enough. Recovery was too quiet. After the noise of Trauma One, the silence felt wrong. It wasn’t really silence. There were monitors, the soft hiss of oxygen, the distant squeak of wheels in the hallway, a nurse speaking low somewhere behind a curtain. But compared to the code, compared to the shouting and the alarms and the crash of bodies moving around the table, it felt almost still.

Carter stopped just outside your room. For a second, he couldn’t make himself go in. Carol stood beside him, close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his. Her eyes were red too, though she had wiped her face clean before they came upstairs. She looked through the half-open door first, and whatever she saw made her mouth tighten.

“She’s alive,” Carol said quietly.

Carter nodded, but he didn’t move. Because alive had sounded different in his head. Alive had meant you opening your eyes. It had meant your voice, weak but there. It had meant your hand squeezing his back, maybe only a little. It had meant some sign that the person on the table was still you.

This was different. You lay in the recovery bed beneath a pale hospital blanket, still and small against the white sheets. The overhead lights had been dimmed, but there was enough light for Carter to see every bruise, every line, every place the accident had left its mark. Your face had been cleaned, but not completely. There was still a faint reddish stain near your hairline, disappearing beneath a fresh bandage wrapped carefully at your temple. One side of your face was swollen, a dark bruise blooming along your cheekbone and under your eye.

An oxygen mask covered your mouth and nose, fogging faintly with each breath. Leads disappeared beneath your gown, connecting you to the monitor beside the bed. An IV ran into one arm. Another line was taped carefully at your hand. There was a blood pressure cuff around your upper arm, a pulse ox glowing red on your finger, and surgical dressings beneath the blanket where Benton and the surgical team had opened you up and put you back together.

Carter stared at the machines first because they were easier. Heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation and numbers. Things he understood. Things he could read without falling apart.

Then he looked at your face, and all the training in the world did nothing for him. You looked exhausted in a way sleep couldn’t explain. Your lashes rested against your cheeks, too still. Your lips were pale beneath the edge of the mask. Someone had washed most of the blood from your skin, but your hair was still tangled and damp in places, pushed back messily from your forehead. There were scratches along your jaw and throat, small cuts from glass, angry and red against skin that had lost too much color.

Carter stepped into the room slowly, like sudden movement might hurt you.Carol stayed near the doorway for a moment, watching him. She didn’t tell him to be careful or to not touch anything. He already knew and that was the awful part. He knew exactly what every tube and line and bruise meant. He came to the side of the bed and stopped there.

For a long time, he just looked at you. In the ER, you were always moving. Reaching for charts, cutting through crowded hallways, snapping gloves on with your teeth when both hands were full, rolling your eyes at Benton when he barked orders you were already doing. You were quick. Sharp. Warm in ways County General tried to beat out of people and somehow never managed to take from you.

He hadn’t expected to fall for you. Not after the arguments over charts, the clipped remarks during impossible shifts, or the way you challenged him in front of everyone when you thought he was wrong. It had happened slowly, quietly, somewhere between trauma calls and midnight coffee, between irritation and trust, until one day he realised the ER felt different when you weren’t in it.

Now you didn’t move at all except for the rise and fall of your chest beneath the blanket. Carter swallowed hard. His eyes burned again, and he hated it. He looked down quickly, but there was nowhere safe to look. Your hand lay near the edge of the bed, bruised at the knuckles, tape holding the IV in place. Your other hand rested against the sheet, free of needles, palm turned slightly upward.

Carefully, he reached for that hand. He didn’t wrap his fingers around it right away. He touched the back of it first, light enough that it barely counted. Your skin was warm. Not warm like the blood had been, warm like life.

The breath Carter let out shook before he could stop it. Carol saw it, but she didn’t say anything. Carter finally took your hand properly, folding his fingers around yours with almost painful care. His thumb moved once over your skin.

“Hi,” he said softly.

His voice sounded wrecked in the quiet room. You didn’t answer. The monitor continued its steady rhythm beside him. Carter sat down in the chair next to the bed, slowly, like his body had only just remembered how tired it was. He kept hold of your hand, eyes fixed on your face.

“I’m here,” he said, quieter this time.

Carol looked at you, then at him. Her own face tightened again, but she held herself together.

“She heard you before, she asked for you before you came” she said. “In Trauma One.”

Carter closed his eyes for a second.He opened his eyes and looked at you again. The mask hid too much of your face. He hated that. He hated the bandage, the bruises, the machines, the way your body seemed swallowed by hospital equipment. But the monitor kept beating steadily, and your hand was warm in his.

Carol stepped closer and rested a hand briefly on the rail of the bed.

“She’s stubborn,” she said, voice low. “She’ll hate all of this attention when she wakes up.”

Carter gave the smallest breath that almost became a laugh but didn’t quite make it.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “She will.”

Carol lingered another moment, then gently touched Carter’s shoulder. It was quick, but comfort, without making a show of it.

“I’ll be right outside.”

Carter nodded, but his eyes never left you. When Carol left, the room settled around him. The machines kept their steady watch. The oxygen mask fogged and cleared, fogged and cleared. Carter leaned forward, still holding your hand, and rested his other hand carefully against the edge of the mattress.

He lifted your hand slowly, checking first that there were no lines, no tape, nothing he could disturb. Then he bowed his head and pressed his lips to your knuckles. The kiss was gentle. Barely there, his hand trembled around yours.

“I love you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

The words broke on the way out. He lowered his head, pressing his forehead gently against the side of your hand, careful of the bruises, careful of everything.

“You really scared me.”

The first thing you heard was the monitor. Slow. Steady. Repeating.

For a while, it was the only thing that existed. Then came the faint hiss of oxygen, the dull ache in your body, the heavy pull of sleep trying to drag you back under. Your mouth felt dry. Your chest hurt when you breathed. Your abdomen hurt worse, deep and sharp beneath the blanket.

Something covered your face and your eyes opened. The room came into focus in pieces, dim lights, pale walls, the monitor beside your bed, tubes running from machines you understood too well. Leads disappeared beneath your hospital gown. An IV was taped into one hand, the skin around it bruised. A blood pressure cuff hugged your arm. Your thoughts struggled to connect, slow and heavy from the anesthesia, but your body reacted before your mind could catch up.

You tried to move, but the pain tore through your abdomen so sharply that your breath hitched against the mask. The monitor quickened immediately, the beeping growing faster, more urgent. Your fingers twitched, searching for something to hold onto, and that was when you realised someone was already holding your other hand.

John sat beside your bed, his fingers wrapped carefully around yours, as if he had been afraid to hold on too tightly and more afraid to let go. His head had been bent forward, shoulders rounded with exhaustion, but the moment your hand shifted in his, he looked up.

For a second, he didn’t say anything. He just stared at you, as if he wasn’t sure you were really awake. Then his chair scraped back slightly. “Y/N?”

Your breathing came faster beneath the mask. The room was too bright and too blurred at the edges. The machines felt too close. The mask felt wrong against your face, and the pain beneath the blanket made you feel trapped inside your own body.

Carter stood quickly, but he didn’t release your hand. “Hey, hey. Don’t move. You’re okay.”

You shook your head weakly, eyes moving around the room. You knew hospitals. You knew recovery rooms. You knew monitors, oxygen masks, IVs, post-op patients. But knowing those things did not make it easier to wake up as one of them.

Carter leaned closer, voice low and controlled, though his face looked anything but. His eyes were red, the skin beneath them puffy, his hair messier than usual. He looked like he hadn’t slept. He looked like he had tried very hard not to cry and had failed.

“Look at me,” he said gently. “Just look at me.”

Your eyes found his. “There you go,” he said, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You’re at County. You’re in recovery. You had surgery, but you’re safe.”

Your lips moved beneath the oxygen mask. The first sound came out too weak to be a word, muffled and dry. Carter bent closer, watching your face.

“What?” he asked softly.

You swallowed, your throat aching. “John?”

His expression broke for half a second. Only half a second, but you saw it.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s me.”

The monitor was still beeping too fast. Carter glanced at it, then back to you, forcing himself into the steady rhythm he used with scared patients. Except this time, his hand trembled around yours.

“You need to slow your breathing,” he said. “You’re okay. I know it feels strange, but you’re safe.”

You tried to pull in a slower breath. It caught halfway, pain flaring through your ribs, and your eyes filled before you could stop them.

Carter’s face tightened. “I know. I know it hurts. Don’t try to move.”

“What happened?” you whispered.

The words were faint beneath the mask, but Carter heard them. His thumb stopped moving over your hand. For a moment, he didn’t answer. That scared you more than the pain did.

“What happened?” you asked again, your voice rougher this time, panic rising with the question.

Carter sat carefully on the edge of the chair again, still holding your hand. He was close enough now that you could see the exhaustion on his face clearly, the way his jaw clenched like he was trying to keep himself together by force.

“Do you remember anything at all?” he asked.

You stared at him, trying to pull something from the fog in your head. At first, there was nothing. Just darkness. Then flashes came in pieces, rain on the windshield, the back of the ambulance, the hum of the engine, a paramedic’s voice, red light spreading across wet glass. Your chest tightened.

“I was…” You swallowed. “I was in the ambulance.”

Carter nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“There was a call,” you murmured, eyes narrowing as you tried to think. “We were coming back. I think…” Your breathing grew uneven again.

Carter leaned in a little. “Okay. That’s enough. Don’t force it.”

But the memories kept pushing in, broken and sharp. The sudden blast of a horn. The violent turn of your body. The sound of metal folding in on itself. Glass. Rain. Someone shouting your name. Your hand tightened around Carter’s.

You looked at him, frightened now. “Was I in an accident?”

Carter’s throat moved as he swallowed. “Yes.”

The simple answer landed heavily between you.

He seemed to choose every next word carefully. “The ambulance was hit by a drunk driver a couple blocks from County. Drunk driver’s in surgery but cops are waiting for him, the other paramedic was shaken up, but wasn’t hurt too bad.”

You watched his face. Carter’s fingers tightened slightly around yours. “You were hurt.”

There was more in his voice than the words said.

Your eyes searched his. “How bad?”

He looked down at your hand for a second, then lifted it carefully. He checked the skin instinctively, making sure there were no lines, no tape, nothing he could disturb. Then he pressed his lips gently to your knuckles.

The kiss was soft, barely there, but his hand shook. When he lowered your hand back to the bed, he kept holding on.

“Bad,” he admitted quietly. “You came through the windshield. You had internal bleeding. Benton took you to surgery.”

Your eyes widened, the monitor picking up again.

“Surgery?”

“You’re okay,” Carter said quickly, leaning closer. “You made it through. Benton said it went well. They’re going to keep watching you, and you’re going to be unconscious on and off for a while, but you made it.”

The words should have comforted you. They did, a little. But then another question formed, slow and awful, from the way he looked at you. From the redness in his eyes. From the way he kept holding your hand like he was afraid it might disappear.

“Did I…” Your voice caught. “Did I-?”

Carter went completely still. He looked away for half a second, and when he looked back, his face was controlled badly enough that it hurt to see.

“You coded,” he said quietly. “For a few minutes.”

The room seemed to shrink around you.The monitor beeped faster. Carter stood immediately, one hand still around yours while the other rested carefully near your shoulder, not pinning you down, just grounding you. “Hey. Look at me. You’re here. You’re breathing. You’re okay.”

“I coded?” you whispered.

“They got you back.”

“You were there?”

His expression shifted again, something raw passing through before he could hide it.

“I was there,” he said.

You watched him, the fog in your head thinning just enough for understanding to creep in. “Were you crying?”

Carter blinked. For the first time since you woke up, he looked caught.

“No,” he said automatically.

Even drugged, injured, and half-conscious, you did not believe him for a second. Your tired eyes stayed on his. Carter looked down at your hand, jaw tightening. “Maybe.”

The smallest breath left you. It might have been a laugh if it hadn’t hurt too much.

He glanced up quickly. “Don’t laugh. You have stitches.”

That sounded like Carter. Tired, careful, trying to be normal because normal was easier than admitting he had been terrified. You wanted to say something back, something teasing, something that would make his face look less broken, but exhaustion pulled at you hard. Your eyelids grew heavy.

“What happened after?” you asked, voice fading.

Carter brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “You went to surgery. Benton repaired the bleeding. Carol stayed close. Doug was here.”

Your eyes moved over his face again. “And you?”

His mouth pressed into a thin line.

“I waited.”

There was something in the way he said it that told you waiting had not been simple. It had not been calm. It had not been easy. You wanted to ask, but your body was already dragging you back down.

“Don’t go,” you whispered.

Carter’s face softened completely. He lifted your hand again and kissed it once more, slower this time, his lips warm against bruised skin. When he lowered it, he held it between both of his. You gently lower down the oxygen mask ever so slowly, letting him lean in to kiss you, for the first time.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, gently placing it back on.

Your eyes fluttered shut, but this time the darkness did not feel as frightening. The monitor kept beeping. The oxygen mask fogged softly with each breath. Carter’s hand stayed wrapped around yours, steady and careful. Just before sleep took you again, you heard him lean closer.

“I’m right here,” he whispered.

You were alive and your hand was warm in his. The monitor kept its steady rhythm beside the bed.

Chapters 1-4 are now on Wattpad (:

I will also be uploading on Ao3 -

Something is wrong with Hawkins.

Slow Burn: Reader x Steve Harrington

Notes: I decided to put Robin in as Via’s best friend from season 1. I will stay close to the story lines but I will be introducing some of my own ideas <3 I can’t wait to publish this! ❤️

4 Chimes - Steve Harrington x Y/N Byers

(Don’t Let Go Steve Part 2)

The house felt wrong the second they stepped inside.

It wasn’t just the silence it was the kind of silence that lingered, thick and watchful, like the walls were listening. The air was stale, unmoving, carrying the faint scent of dust and something older, something that didn’t belong to any place still standing.

Y/N stayed close to Steve as they moved carefully through the hallway, their footsteps slow, controlled, every creak of the floorboards sounding too loud in the quiet. No one spoke. No one dared to. Instead, they communicated in quick glances, small gestures, and the notepads clutched tightly in their hands.

They settled along the wall, the group spreading just enough to keep watch without making unnecessary noise. Y/N lowered herself to the floor beside Steve, her back brushing lightly against the peeling wallpaper. The headphones rested around her neck for now, the tape ready, waiting.

She pulled the notepad into her lap, flipping it open with careful hands, the faint scratch of pen against paper the only sound she allowed herself to make. Steve nudged her elbow lightly, waiting until she looked at him before holding out his own notepad.

you okay?

His handwriting was quick, slightly messy, like he hadn’t thought too hard about making it neat. Y/N stared at the words for a moment before writing back beneath them.

yeah (:

She hesitated, then underlined it once, like even she didn’t fully believe it. Steve read it, his jaw tightening slightly, but he didn’t push. He just took the pen again, flipping the page.

after this we go see a movie?

Her lips twitched faintly at that, something soft breaking through the tension as she wrote back.

only if i pick

A quiet breath left him almost a laugh as he scribbled again.

what would that be?

She didn’t hesitate.

top gun

He glanced up at her, raising his brows slightly, then nodded once before writing again.

it’s a date <3

The words sat between them for a second longer than they should have, warm in a place that didn’t allow for much of it. Y/N’s fingers brushed lightly over the page before she pulled it back, holding onto it like it mattered more than it should.

Steve flipped to a blank page and started sketching, quick rough lines forming under his pen. It wasn’t neat, not even close, but she watched anyway, her focus drawn to it like it was easier than thinking about anything else.

When he finished, he tore the page carefully and handed it to her. Two stick figures stood side by side, holding hands, a crooked little house drawn beside them.

Y/N let out the faintest breath, something softer settling in her chest as she folded the paper carefully, keeping it close. For a moment, the house didn’t feel quite as heavy.

Then the floor creaked somewhere deeper inside, sharp and sudden, snapping the moment clean in half. Every head turned. At the far end of the hallway, Nancy and Robin stood side by side, each holding up a page.

we found vecna…

The words sent something cold straight through her. Steve’s hand found hers instantly. And just like that, the quiet shifted into something worse.

They moved without speaking, the message still hanging between them, heavier than anything else in the house. The silence wasn’t empty—it pressed in, thick and watchful, like the walls themselves were listening. Y/N felt it settle deep in her chest as Steve’s hand tightened slightly around hers, grounding her before she could spiral.

Nancy turned first, already focused, already moving toward the staircase with quiet determination. Robin followed close behind, her usual restless energy subdued into something sharper, more controlled. Y/N pushed herself up from the floor, the wood creaking softly beneath her weight, and Steve rose with her, their hands still linked.

They crossed the hallway together, every step slow and deliberate. The house reacted to it, each floorboard groaning louder than it should, the sound stretching unnaturally into the silence. The staircase loomed ahead, narrow and shadowed, the upper floor swallowed in darkness that seemed too thick to be natural.

Nancy took the first step, careful, testing the weight before committing. The wood creaked under her, long and low. Robin followed, wincing slightly at the sound, her hand tightening around her notepad like it might somehow keep the noise down. Y/N hesitated for just a second at the bottom, her grip tightening instinctively around Steve’s hand.

He felt it immediately. His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles, a small, steady motion meant only for her. When she glanced at him, he didn’t say anything just gave a slight nod, quiet reassurance passing between them.

She nodded back and stepped onto the stairs. Each step upward felt heavier than the last. The air changed as they climbed, growing thicker, harder to breathe, like something unseen pressed down on them the higher they went. The house seemed to settle around them, the creaks of the wood stretching into long, hollow echoes that didn’t quite fade the way they should have.

By the time they reached the top, the hallway felt different. Darker. Narrower. The light didn’t reach as far, and what little did seemed dull, swallowed by the walls before it could spread. At the far end of the hall, her brother Jonathan stood outside a closed door.

He was still, completely still, like he had been standing there for a while. The moment he saw them, his posture shifted slightly, tension settling into his shoulders. His finger came up to his lips immediately, a silent warning before any of them could make a sound. They slowed as they approached, instinctively quieter now, their footsteps careful against the creaking floor. Y/N could feel the difference the closer they got, something in the air changing, colder, heavier, like the space around that door carried more weight than the rest of the house combined.

Jonathan glanced at Nancy first, then Robin, giving a small, confirming nod. Then his eyes moved to Y/N. Something in his expression softened not enough to lose the tension, but enough to show it was still him under it. Protective. Worried. He stepped closer, just enough to meet them without raising his voice, keeping it low, controlled.

“He’s in there.”

The words barely carried, but they didn’t need to. They landed anyway. Y/N’s gaze shifted to the door behind him, something tightening in her chest as she looked at it. It didn’t look like anything special just old wood, worn at the edges but something about it felt wrong. Like everything in the house led to that one point.

Jonathan followed her line of sight before looking back at her. “You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly, his voice softer now, meant only for her.

She didn’t answer right away. Her grip tightened slightly around Steve’s hand, her thumb brushing against his like she needed to remind herself he was still there.

Then she shook her head.

“I do.”

Her voice was quiet, but there was no hesitation in it. Jonathan studied his sister for a moment, like he was weighing whether to argue, whether to push back but he didn’t. Instead, he stepped forward and pulled her into a quick, tight hug, his hand pressing briefly against the back of her head.

“I love you” he mumbled.

“I love you too” she squeezed tightly.

It didn’t last long. It couldn’t. When he pulled back, his hand lingered on her shoulder for just a second before dropping.

She turned to Nancy and Robin giving a warm smile. “See you two for a girls trip?”

“A much needed girls trip” they both smiled.

Y/N turned around walking out holding onto Steve’s hand to the stairs leading to the attic.

Nancy stepped forward, her focus already back on the door. Robin inhaled slowly beside her, steadying herself, and Jonathan moved with them, his attention snapping back into place. They were ready.

Steve and her sat down on the floor with her music playing.

“Ready?” he asked holding onto her hands.

“Yeah…see you soon” she smiled back.

“I’ll be right here…” he held her hands tighter. She closed her eyes and waited. She waited for what felt like an eternity. She opened her eyes to see Steve gone no longer beside her. The attic didn’t disappear. That was what made it worse. The walls stayed exactly where they were, the dim light from the window stretching across the floorboards, the air thick and unmoving. But something underneath it shifted, like the world had tilted just slightly out of place.

Y/N sat where she had been, her chest tight, her breathing uneven, the weight of her own words still sitting heavy around her. The silence that followed didn’t feel normal, it stretched too long, too still, pressing in from all sides.

Steve wasn’t in front of her anymore. He stood by the window now, his back turned, his shoulders tense in a way that immediately felt wrong.

“Steve?” she said quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. When he turned, something in her stomach dropped. His expression wasn’t right. There was no softness in it, nothing familiar just something sharp, something cold that didn’t belong to him.

“You wanted him dead?” he said, his voice low, cutting in a way that made her chest tighten. Her pulse picked up instantly. “That’s not what I meant”

“But you said it.” He stepped closer. “So when we got into a fight did you wish death upon me?”

“No—” she shook her head quickly, stepping back. “That’s not—”

“You were there.” Another step. “You could’ve done something.” Her breath caught. “You didn’t.” The air felt heavier, pressing against her lungs.

“You let him die.” The words hit hard enough to make her flinch. That wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. Steve didn’t sound like that. Didn’t look at her like that. The realisation hit all at once, sharp and certain.

This isn’t real. Her chest rose quickly, panic threatening to take over, but she forced her eyes shut before he could say anything else. She cut him off, cut the room off, cut everything off.

Don’t listen. Don’t look. Think. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides as she searched for something anything real. For a moment, there was nothing. Just darkness pressing in, cold and suffocating. Then, slowly, something shifted. Warmth. Faint at first, barely there, but real.

It spread gradually, pushing back against the cold, filling the empty space around her until the tightness in her chest eased just slightly. Her breathing steadied enough to hold onto it. When she opened her eyes, the attic was gone.

Soft golden lights stretched across a gym ceiling, glowing gently against polished floors. The air felt warmer here, lighter, carrying a faint hum of music that settled into her chest instead of suffocating it. Decorations hung above, swaying slightly, blurred at the edges like the memory wasn’t perfect but it didn’t need to be.

The Snow Ball. She stood in the middle of it, completely alone. No voices reached her. No one called her name. Figures moved in the distance, indistinct and unimportant, like shadows that didn’t belong to her memory. None of it mattered. What mattered was the feeling. The warmth spreading through her chest with a quiet calm that replaced the panic.

The music, soft and steady, wrapping around her like something safe, something familiar. She turned slowly, taking it in, grounding herself in it, letting it settle into every part of her. This was real not the place, but the feeling, the memory itself. A moment untouched by everything that came after.

Her chest rose in a deeper breath this time, steadier, as she closed her eyes briefly, holding onto it. Holding onto the warmth, the light, the stillness that didn’t hurt. Something pressed faintly at the edges of it, something cold trying to break through, but it felt distant now, weaker, like it couldn’t reach her fully.

Not while she stayed here. Not while she held onto this. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, anchoring herself in every detail the glow of the lights, the softness of the air, the quiet rhythm of the music. For the first time since she stepped into it, she wasn’t afraid. And slowly, the darkness began to lose its hold.

“Y/N?!” a familiar voice called out. Making her jump.

The voice showed itself. It was El.

“El!? You’re here?! Did I make you up?!” she cupped her face scanning her expression.

“Y/N, I am here” El gently took her hands pressing against her chest.

“But how?” she asked confused.

“Oh, i piggybacked through a pizza dough freezer”

“What?” she asked even more confused.

Before El had time to explain herself another deeper more violent crash came upon them. The red world pulsed around them, unstable and alive in the worst way. Lightning tore across the sky in violent flashes, illuminating the cracked ground beneath their feet. The air felt thick, suffocating, like it didn’t belong in her lungs.

Y/N barely had time to react. One second she was standing beside El, her hand still wrapped tightly around her slammed into her from behind.

She was yanked backward so violently her feet left the ground. Her back hit something solid, something alive, and before she could even turn, a hand clamped over her face. Long fingers dug into her jaw, her temples, forcing her head back. She choked instantly. Air caught in her throat, her chest tightening as panic hit all at once. Her hands flew up, grabbing at his wrist, trying to pry him off, but it didn’t move. It didn’t even shift. Vecna held her like it was nothing.

“You cannot hide,” his voice echoed, low and steady, not around her—but inside her.

Her breathing broke into sharp, uneven gasps that didn’t pull in enough air. Her vision blurred at the edges as she struggled, her fingers clawing at his arm, her body twisting uselessly against his grip.

“El—” it came out broken, barely a sound.

El moved instantly, stepping forward, her hand lifting as she focused on him. “Let her go!”

The air around her warped as she pushed, pressure building in waves. For a second, it worked—Vecna’s grip faltered just enough for Y/N to drag in a breath but it didn’t last. His hand tightened again, dragging her back against him, his fingers pressing harder into her skull.

“You feel it,” he murmured, quieter now. “The guilt.”

Something inside her chest pulled. Not physically, deeper than that. Her breath hitched violently as the sensation spread, like something invisible had reached inside her and found something fragile, something essential—and was starting to drag it out.

“No—” she forced out, her voice shaking, her grip weakening.

It wasn’t pain. It was worse. It felt like she was being emptied. Memories flickered at the edges of her mind laughter, warmth, fleeting flashes of moments she couldn’t hold onto before they slipped away again.

“El—!” she gasped.

El pushed harder, her arm shaking slightly with the effort, her voice rising. “No!”

The ground cracked beneath them, splitting wider, the air distorting with the pressure. Vecna didn’t move. His focus stayed entirely on Y/N.

“You were there,” he said softly.

Her chest tightened. “You failed.”

“That’s not true—” she tried, but her voice wavered, weaker now, like even her words were being taken from her. His grip shifted slightly, tightening just enough to make her choke again, her breath catching, her body going tense.

“You wished it his downfall.” The words hit deeper than anything else. Her strength slipped.

Her hands fell from his arm, her fingers curling weakly at her sides. Her body trembled as the pull inside her chest grew stronger, deeper, slower, like he was taking his time.

Her breathing turned shallow, uneven, barely there. “El…” it came out softer now, fading.

El stepped closer, pushing with everything she had, her voice cracking as she shouted, “Let her go!”

Y/N caught by Vecna as his hand latched onto her face.

“No!” El cried out.

The music stopped. “No! No! Shit!“ Steve tried to play the tape again but he couldn’t. It was jammed. “No! No! Y/N!?” Steve watched in horror as he sees Y/N’s eyes roll back blinking rapidly her grip on his hand loosening, he looked in horror calling her name as she started to ascend into the air. Steve tried to catch her from going further but all he could do was look and yell in horror. The tears falling from his eyes, his throat raw from the roars he was giving.

The air warped violently and the ground shook. For a second, everything held and something snapped. A force slammed into Vecna, just enough to break his focus. His head turned slightly, his grip faltering just for a second. But it was enough. Y/N’s body jerked in his hold, the pull inside her chest stuttering, loosening just slightly as the pressure broke. She gasped sharply and then she was gone.

The moment she dropped, the impact knocked the breath out of him as Steve hit the floor with her, his arms wrapping around her instinctively, trying to take most of the fall. Pain shot through him, but he didn’t care. He barely even felt it.

“Y/N—!”

“Steve… I can’t feel anything…” Her voice was weak, trembling, barely there. “I’m not ready… please, I’m not ready to die…”

“No—you won’t,” he rushed out immediately, his voice breaking under the weight of it. “I won’t let you. It’s okay, babe, I’m here—just stay with me, okay? Stay with me.”

“Steve, I love you-it’s-always been you” she cried out weakly.

“Babe I love you so so much” His words came fast, desperate, like if he stopped talking she might slip away. He scrambled up, pulling her with him, his hands moving everywhere at once—her face, her shoulders, her arms—like he could force her back just by holding onto her hard enough.

Her eyes were closed. She wasn’t moving. Nothing. Her head lolled slightly with the movement. His stomach dropped.

“No, no, no, no” His voice rose, louder now, breaking completely as he pulled her closer, one hand gripping the back of her head, pressing her against him like he could keep her here, like he could stop her from slipping away. “Hey, don’t do this! Please don’t do this.”

Still nothing. Her chest barely moved. If at all.

“Y/N!” he shouted, the sound tearing out of him, raw and desperate. “No—no, come on, babe—please, wake up!”

His hands shook against her face, brushing her hair back, his thumb pressing under her jaw like he was trying to feel something—anything that told him she was still there.

“Please…” His voice cracked again, quieter for a split second before it broke completely. “Please don’t leave me…”

The words hit harder than anything else. He shook her again, more frantic now, his grip uneven, desperate. Nothing. Her body stayed limp in his arms.

“No!” he yelled, louder this time, his voice echoing through the attic as it began to break apart around them. “Y/N, please—!”

His forehead pressed against hers, his breath uneven, shaking, like he was trying to hold himself together and failing.

“Come back,” he whispered, barely holding on. “Come back to me…”

A sudden gasp tore from her. Steve froze. But she didn’t move. Didn’t open her eyes.

“Y/N—?” His voice was smaller now, fragile, afraid to hope.

The house shook violently. The floor split with a sharp, cracking sound, wood tearing apart beneath them as a jagged fracture ripped through the attic. Steve didn’t move at first. He couldn’t. Not when she still wasn’t waking up.

Another violent shake snapped him back, instinct kicking in as he pulled her tighter against him, dragging them both away from where the floor was breaking apart.

“Stay with me,” he choked out, his voice still breaking as he shielded her from the falling debris, holding her close like he refused to let anything else take her.

Below, the house was collapsing in on itself. Nancy stumbled forward, grabbing onto Robin as another crack split through the floor, the sound deafening as the structure gave way.

“Move!” Nancy shouted, pulling her with her as the ground shifted again.

Robin caught herself, her breath coming fast as she looked up, her eyes wide, scanning the damage above them. “…four chimes…”

Her voice came out small. Horrified. Nancy froze for half a second, her stomach dropping as the realization hit.

“Y/N—”

“No!” Jonathan didn’t hesitate. He turned instantly, already running, already moving for the stairs, panic overriding everything else. “No, no, no!”

He took the steps two at a time, nearly slipping as the house shook again, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. He forced himself forward, pushing past the fear, past the noise, past everything except getting to her.

“Jonathan!” Nancy called after him, but he was already gone.

He burst through the attic door. The room was chaos splintered wood, cracks tearing through the floor, dust thick in the air.

And in the corner—

Steve. Curled around her. Holding her. Breaking.

Jonathan’s chest tightened violently as he dropped to his knees beside them, his hands already reaching for her, brushing her arm, her face, like he needed to make sure she was still there.

“No—no, hey” His voice broke as he leaned closer, panic hitting all at once. “Y/N, come on…stay with us—”

Together, they both lift her, to steady her, to keep her safe as the house continued to tear itself apart around them.

Steve didn’t let go. Not for a second.

One Day Later -

The steady beeping filled the room, quiet but constant, the only thing keeping everything from feeling completely still. It echoed softly against the walls, blending with the low hum of the machines beside the bed. Her favourite song playing out of Steve’s radio.

Y/N lay motionless against the white sheets, her skin pale, her breathing slow and shallow, barely noticeable unless you were watching closely. And they all were.

Steve sat closest, hunched forward in the chair beside her, one hand wrapped tightly around hers. His thumb brushed over her knuckles in slow, repetitive movements, like he was trying to keep her grounded to keep himself grounded.

“She… her heart stopped for an entire minute,” he said quietly, his voice rough, uneven. The words felt heavy in the room. “I thought she was gone.” No one spoke.

Across from him, Jonathan Byers stood still for a moment, then stepped forward, taking Y/N’s other hand carefully, like she might break. His fingers curled around hers, his jaw tight as he looked at her face, searching for something that wasn’t there.

Behind him, Nancy lingered, her eyes fixed on Y/N, glassy with unshed tears. She swallowed hard, blinking them back as she stepped closer, her hand lifting hesitantly before resting gently on Jonathan’s shoulder. “I’m gonna…” she started, but the words didn’t quite come out right.

Instead, she leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Jonathan’s head, her hand squeezing his shoulder lightly. “See you later.” Jonathan nodded faintly, not trusting himself to speak. Beside her, Robin hesitated, her eyes flicking between Y/N and Steve. For once, she had nothing to say. No joke. No comment to break the tension.

She stepped forward instead, wrapping her arms quickly around Steve’s shoulders in a tight hug. He didn’t move at first, caught off guard, but then one of his hands lifted slightly, gripping her arm for just a second before she pulled away.

Robin looked at Y/N one more time, her expression soft, worried, before stepping back. Neither of them said anything as they left.

The door closed quietly behind them. For a moment, the room felt smaller. Quieter. Just Steve and Jonathan now, both holding onto her like letting go wasn’t an option.

Then the door burst open. Joyce rushed in first, breath uneven, eyes already searching, followed closely by Hopper and Will and El. They stopped the second they saw her. The machines. The wires. The way she wasn’t moving.

Hopper froze near the door, the shock hitting him hard and fast. His eyes locked onto Y/N, his expression tightening as everything seemed to register at once. For a second, he didn’t move at all, like his body hadn’t caught up with what he was seeing.

Joyce didn’t stop. “Oh my God—” The words fell from her as she rushed to the bedside, her hands already reaching, one coming up to Y/N’s face, brushing her hair back, the other hovering before gently taking her arm. “Baby… baby…” Her voice broke, soft and trembling as she leaned closer, her thumb brushing over her cheek like she was trying to wake her gently.

“What happened to you…” she whispered, her breath uneven.

Will and El followed right behind her, their movements hesitant at first, then quicker as they reached the other side of the bed beside Jonathan. Their eyes were wide, fixed on Y/N, taking in every detail, every still moment.

“Y/N…” he said quietly, like he was afraid to say it too loud. El stood there looking at the sister she just got, to be lost.

Jonathan shifted slightly to make room, but he didn’t let go of her hand. Not for a second. His grip stayed firm, his thumb brushing over her fingers in the same absent, grounding motion.

Hopper finally moved. Slowly at first, then a step closer, then another, until he stood just behind Joyce, his eyes still locked on Y/N. His jaw tightened, something heavy settling in his chest, something he didn’t know how to fix.

“She’s here,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “She’s still here.”

But the words didn’t sound as certain as he wanted them to. Steve didn’t look away from her. Not even once.

His hand stayed wrapped around hers, his thumb still moving slowly, like it was the only thing he knew how to do. The room filled again, not with noise, but with something heavier.

Fear. Hope. Waiting.

And the steady, unchanging sound of her heartbeat on the monitor.

El sat by Steve, looking at him with tears in her eyes, looking at him for permission to hold her hand, he gently let go placing Y/N’s hand on hers. El took a hold of her hand now “Y/N, I’m here”

She closed her eyes letting herself into her mind. She walked around in the empty void, water splashing below her feet. “Y/N? Y/N!?!” she screamed out desperate to see her. But nothing. Nothing was there.

She opened her eyes again, seeing her family look at her sadly. Steve looking at El, looking for hope. But there was none. Only faith now.

The sky over Hawkins was thick with unmoving clouds, a dull grey stretching endlessly overhead, muting everything beneath it. The cemetery felt quieter than it should have, the kind of silence that didn’t comfort but pressed in, heavy and suffocating. Damp grass bent under the weight of recent rain, brushing against worn headstones that leaned slightly with time, their edges softened by weather and grief.

Y/N sat in front of one of them, her body still in a way that didn’t feel natural. She hadn’t meant to sit it had just happened, like something in her had given out without asking permission. Her hands rested loosely in her lap, fingers tucked into the sleeves of her jacket, unmoving. Her gaze stayed fixed on the name carved into the stone, tracing it over and over until the letters blurred together.

The tightness in her chest hadn’t eased since she got there. If anything, it had settled deeper, heavier. The worst part was the absence of tears. She thought she might feel better if she cried, if something finally broke, but instead there was just this hollow, aching stillness. She prayed for his downfall when he was alive. Now she had gotten her wish, it was consuming her alive.

Robin sat beside her, quieter than usual, though the quiet didn’t sit comfortably on her. She shifted every so often, brushing her hands against her jeans, glancing sideways as if she was searching for something to say and coming up short every time. Still, she stayed.

“This sucks,” she said finally, her voice softer than usual but no less certain.

Y/N let out a faint breath, barely there, but enough to answer. “Yeah.”

Robin nodded, staring ahead for a moment before continuing, unable to leave the silence alone for too long. “I had a whole speech planned,” she admitted, almost to herself. “Something deep. Thoughtful. Possibly even helpful, which honestly…would’ve been new for me.”

She squinted slightly, like she might be able to find it if she tried hard enough. “Pretty sure it was going to stop wars.”

That earned the smallest reaction. The corner of Y/N’s mouth twitched, subtle enough that it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else.

Robin caught it instantly. “Oh, that was almost a smile. I saw that.”

A quiet laugh slipped out of Y/N before she could stop it, soft and fleeting but real enough to feel out of place in a setting like this.

“You’re lucky I love you,” she murmured with a smile.

Robin pressed a hand to her chest. “Of course we love each, and as duty as your best friend I am chasing away any guy who uses Farrah Fawcett Spray” She sat closer to her.

For a moment, the weight lifted just enough to breathe. Not gone, never gone, but lighter. It didn’t last. The sound of footsteps broke through the quiet, gravel shifting sharply behind them. Robin’s head turned immediately, her expression dropping the second she saw who it was.

“No. Nu uh. What do you two dinguses think you’re doing here?”

Y/N didn’t need to look to know, but she did anyway. Steve stood a few feet away, Dustin just behind him, both of them hesitant in a way that made it obvious they already knew they shouldn’t be there.

“Of course,” Y/N muttered, turning back toward the headstone.

Robin was already on her feet, stepping in front of them without hesitation. “Nope. Absolutely not. This is not happening right now.”

Dustin blinked, caught off guard “What did I do i’m just here-“ Robin cut him off “You are an accessory with dingus over here so therefore you are one too”

Steve didn’t react. His attention stayed fixed on Y/N. “I just want to talk.”

“You said enough.” She didn’t turn this time. Her voice didn’t need to rise to land. Steve hesitated, something flickering across his face before he tried again. “I didn’t mean”

“You did.” There wasn’t anything to argue with after that.

Robin stepped forward again, firmer now, gesturing back the way they came. “Go. Take a walk. Reflect. Grow. Maybe journal.”

Dustin gave Steve a small, uncertain look before tugging lightly at his sleeve. After a second, Steve stepped back. He didn’t push it. He didn’t argue. He just looked at her for a moment longer, like he was trying to hold onto something he didn’t have anymore, before turning and walking away.

Robin watched them go, jaw tight, then exhaled and dropped back down beside Y/N. “They’re gone. Temporally, do you want me to train my dog to attack on sight?” She joked. The quiet returned, but something about it had shifted. It didn’t settle the same way.

Robin glanced sideways. Y/N hadn’t moved. Not even slightly. Her hands remained in her lap, her posture unchanged, her gaze fixed forward in a way that felt wrong now, too still, too distant.

Robin leaned closer, nudging her shoulder lightly. “Hey.” Nothing. She tried again, firmer this time. Still nothing. A cold feeling settled in her chest as she reached for Y/N’s arm. Her skin felt colder than it should have.

“Okay… not funny.” She shook her gently, then harder when there was still no response. “Hey. Come on.”

Nothing. No blink. No reaction. No shift in her expression. Panic came fast, sharp and rising.

“Y/N? ”

She grabbed both of her shoulders, shaking her more urgently now, her voice starting to break despite herself. “Hey! look at me. Come on.”

Nothing. The emptiness in her eyes hit harder than anything else.

“I don’t like this,” Robin muttered, more to herself now. “I really don’t like this! Y/N!”

Down the path, Dustin slowed, something pulling at his attention before he fully understood why. When he turned and saw Robin shaking her, Y/N completely unresponsive, his stomach dropped immediately.

“Steve…” Steve followed his gaze and didn’t hesitate. He ran.

By the time they reached them, Robin’s voice had already broken. “She won’t answer! look at her eyes!”

Steve dropped in front of Y/N, his hands coming up immediately, cupping her face as if he could force her to focus on him. “Hey look at me” Nothing. A tear slid slowly down her cheek.

Dustin felt the dread settle in all at once. “Oh no…”

Robin turned on him instantly, panic spilling over. “What do you mean ‘oh no’? What is that supposed to mean?!”

“This is how it started,” Dustin said quickly, already shaking his head. “She’s not here..she’s…”

“What do you mean she’s not here?!”

Steve’s hands trembled slightly against her face, his voice dropping under the weight of it. “Hey… don’t do this…” Still nothing.

Dustin turned, already moving. “We need music.”

“What?!” Robin and Steve both examined still holding Y/N’s hands.

“Her song her favourite song now!” He ran, digging through tapes with shaking hands, barely thinking, just grabbing what he could.

Robin held onto Y/N’s hand, gripping it tightly, her thumb brushing over her knuckles as if she could anchor her there with Steve holding onto her other hand.

“Hey… I’m right here… babe okay? You’re okay…” Steve didn’t move. Didn’t let go. “Please…”

Dustin came running back, breathless, tape in hand. “What’s her favourite song?!”

Robin didn’t hesitate before looking at Steve. “This is Y/N’s favourite tape!”

“Yeah, I know!” The words came out sharp, immediate, driven by panic more than anything else.

His hands shook as he shoved the tape into the player, fumbling once before it clicked into place. The music started faint at first, then clearer, cutting through the silence.

Steve grabbed the headphones, her, pressing them over her ears. “Y/N baby, listen to me.” His voice broke, “You’re not alone. I’m right here, babe please” For a moment, nothing changed. Then her body lifted.

Slowly.

Unnaturally.

Robin stumbled back, breath catching, hands flying to her face. Steve reached for her immediately, gripping her arms as her feet left the ground, but she was lifted so high he lost her grip. Her head tilted slightly, her body slack, her eyes still distant.

And she was gone.

Darkness didn’t just surround her it pressed in, thick and suffocating, as if the air itself had weight. It clung to her skin, seeped into her lungs, made every breath feel sharp and wrong. The ground beneath her feet was uneven, cracked like something long abandoned, and each step sent small fragments shifting, brittle under her weight.

Y/N turned slowly, her chest rising too fast, her pulse loud in her ears. Nothing looked familiar. Nothing felt real. The silence stretched too far, broken only by a low, distant hum that didn’t seem to come from anywhere at all.

“Hello?” Her voice echoed back at her, warped and hollow, like it didn’t belong to her anymore.

A shape shifted in the distance. Not moving quickly. Not rushing. Waiting. Vecna stepped forward from the shadows, his form towering, unnatural, something that didn’t belong in any world she understood. The air around him seemed to warp, darkening further, pulling everything toward him like gravity had changed its mind.

“You feel it.”

The words didn’t travel through the air they settled directly into her mind, heavy and unavoidable. Before she could react, the ground beneath her shifted, reality folding in on itself.

Smoke curling thick into the air. The car stood in front of her, but it wasn’t right. The colours were wrong, the edges warped, like she was looking at something through broken glass.

He stood there. Alive. Her breath caught so sharply it hurt. He turned, but his expression wasn’t relief. It wasn’t warmth. It was anger.

“You were supposed to stay back!”

The words hit like something physical.

“I didn’t” Her voice broke, thin and unsteady. “I tried”

“It’s your fault!”

The scene fractured, the moment repeating before she could escape it. His voice layered over itself, louder each time, harsher, sharper.

“You should’ve listened!”

“You should’ve stayed!”

“You let me die!”

“No” She shook her head, backing away, her hands trembling. “No, that’s not—”

The ground split beneath her feet, and before she could catch herself, something wrapped around her wrists tight, sudden, alive.

She was yanked backward, her body slamming into something cold and uneven. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs as vines coiled around her arms, her legs, pinning her in place. They tightened with every movement, reacting to her panic, to the way her chest heaved uselessly as she tried to breathe.

Her feet barely touched the ground. Her head spun. Vecna stepped closer, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. “They can’t save you, Y/N.”

Her vision blurred at the edges, her chest burning as the pressure tightened. The guilt. The weight of it as it almost pulled her under.

Then something cut through it. Faint yet soft, a sound she knew. Music. (Insert your favourite song here)

At first, she thought she imagined it, something her mind was grasping for just to survive. But it grew stronger, clearer, threading through the darkness like something that didn’t belong there.

The world around her cracked. Behind Vecna, a tear split open in the air, light spilling through in a way that hurt to look at. It wasn’t like the rest of this place it was warm, alive, real.

Steve.

Robin.

Dustin.

Blurred, distant, but there. Calling her.

Her name carried through the sound, breaking through the weight pressing against her.

“They can’t save you,” Vecna said again, closer now, his voice almost calm.

Her head shook weakly, her voice barely more than air. “You’re… not real…”

Vecna tilted his head slightly, almost curious. “Oh, but I am real, Y/N.”

Her breath hitched, her chest tightening again, but her eyes flicked back toward the opening, toward the light, toward them, but something shifted. Not outside. Inside.

Robin and her at Scoops Ahoy after failing miserably to be able to flirt with anyone with those stupid uniforms, Robin laughing so hard she couldn’t stay upright.

Nancy slipping in the snow, grabbing her and dragging her down with her, both of them collapsing into laughter as the cold soaked through their clothes.

Steve, standing just a little too close, nervous in a way she’d never seen before, his hand brushing her cheek before their first kiss, soft and careful, like he was afraid she’d disappear. The dance, his hand steady in hers, pulling her closer, the rest of the world fading out around them. Later that night in his bedroom, the quiet, soft, safe the warmth of his arms around her, the kind of stillness that didn’t feel heavy, just right, the first time they showed their love to each other.

It was real. All of it.

Her breathing steadied not fully, not easily but enough. The pressure in her chest didn’t disappear, but it shifted, no longer suffocating her completely. Vecna faltered. It was small. Barely noticeable. But she felt it.

“You don’t get to take that from me.”

Her voice was still unsteady, but there was something else in it now. Something that hadn’t been there before. Resolve. The vines tightened again, reacting, pulling harder, but this time she didn’t freeze. She pushed against them. Her fingers curled, not in panic, but in resistance. She forced her arm forward slow, difficult, like moving through something thick and heavy and grabbed him.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then she pulled. It wasn’t strength, not really. It was something deeper, something rooted in everything he was trying to twist, everything he was trying to take. Something tore. Not flesh. Not something visible. Something beneath it. Vecna recoiled, his body twisting unnaturally as whatever she had grasped slipped free under her grip. For the first time, his control fractured. The vines loosened. That was enough.

She dropped, stumbling forward as her feet hit the ground properly, and she ran. The world cracked around her with every step, the darkness splintering, breaking apart like glass under pressure. The light grew stronger, pulling her toward it, their voices clearer now, sharper.

“Y/N!”

She pushed harder, faster, her chest burning, her breath uneven, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. The opening widened, and as she reached it, she saw herself. Floating, still, her body suspended in the air, eyes distant, tears slipping down her face.

Steve beneath her, arms reaching, his expression panicked in a way she had never seen before. Robin beside him, shaking, crying, her hands pressed to her face. Dustin frozen just behind them, fear written all over him.

“Y/N!”

The sound pulled her forward, stronger than anything else.

She reached, and everything shattered.

Her eyes snapped open as her body dropped, the sudden shift knocking the air from her lungs. Strong arms caught her before the hit the ground hard, pulling her in tightly, holding her like letting go wasn’t an option.

She gasped, breath breaking apart, fingers gripping onto Steve’s shirt as reality slammed back into place. Crying with the fear she pulls him into her more.

“Oh God, I thought I lost you” His voice broke completely, the words rushed and uneven as he held onto her.

She shook her head quickly, still trying to catch her breath, still trying to ground herself in something real. “I’m right here… I’m right here…”

Robin staggered back slightly, her hands covering her face as tears spilled through her fingers, her shoulders shaking with it. She threw herself on Y/N hugging her tightly. Dustin sat there frozen, wide-eyed, the shock still catching up to him.