Cece

Your first week, you were bright-faced and buzzing with nervous energy, practically vibrating with inexperience and caffeine. You came early, stayed late, introduced yourself to everyone, nurses, techs, environmental services, even the attending who barely glanced up. You practiced your greeting before approaching Langdon. Professional. Confident. Approachable. You found him at a workstation, scrolling through labs like they personally offended him, jaw set, blue-gray eyes moving fast over the screen. You stepped forward anyway.

"Hi, my name is-"

"I need an ECG for room 5."

It wasn't loud. It wasn't rude. It was simply... final. He brushed past you mid-sentence, shoulder almost clipping yours, eyes already locked on another screen. No smile. No acknowledgment. Not even a nod. Just a task.

You stood there half a second too long, blinking at the empty air where he'd been, your prepared words shriveling in your mouth. Okay. Maybe not the best first impression. But you've had ego-driven seniors before, surgeons who bark, residents who talk over you, fellows who treat interns like background noise. You told yourself it wouldn't get to you. Some doctors treat interns like walking clipboards. It's nothing personal

Except with Langdon… it feels personal.

Not because he snaps or belittles you, he doesn't. He simply erases you. He moves around you like you're part of the furniture, like the crash cart or the supply cabinet. You'll present a patient and he'll redirect his gaze to the monitor before you finish your second sentence. You'll stand beside him in a trauma and he'll hand instruments past you like you're a gap in space. He never mispronounces your name because he never says it. The only acknowledgment comes when he orders scans or assigns the tedious exams no one else wants: "Full neuro exam. Rectal. Document everything." No inflection. No praise. No irritation. Just efficiency.

You begin to wonder if you've offended him somehow, if you said something wrong in that half-finished introduction, if he's already decided you're incompetent.

And worse is when he decides to quiz you. In front of everyone. It happens without warning. You'll be mid-sentence presenting, heart pounding but voice steady, and suddenly: "What's the mechanism of action? What's the dose adjustment in renal impairment? Why are we not worried about this potassium?" The entire workstation goes quiet. Monitors beep, keyboards click somewhere distant, but around you there's silence. You can feel everyone watching, feel the heat climbing your neck before the question's even finished. And he stands there, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, not cruel, not mocking, but unrelenting. Observing you like a case study, like pressure applied to see where the structure cracks.

Sometimes you get it right. Relief flickers through your chest. Sometimes you stumble, your brain scrambling because under his gaze the information feels locked behind a door you can't open. And when you stumble, he doesn't rescue you. He waits. Eyes steady. Clinical. Almost like he gets off on watching your ears slowly turn red.

You hate that your body betrays you like that, heat creeping up your neck, settling in your cheeks. You hate that your pulse pounds so loud you're convinced he can hear it. You hate that he notices. Because he notices everything: your hesitations, your second guesses, the way you grip your pen too tight, the way your breathing changes when you're unsure. He doesn't smile when you're right, just a short nod and a quiet "Good," as if competence is the baseline and approval unnecessary. But when you miss something, his correction is precise and sharp: "You're thinking too small. Don't anchor. You're not listening." Not cruel. Just exact.

You go home some nights replaying his voice in your head more than your patients. You'll be brushing your teeth and suddenly hear, “Diagnosis?” You'll lie in bed thinking about the way he narrowed his eyes when you hesitated. You tell yourself it's educational, that this is how you get better. And the worst part? You can't even say you dislike him.

He's brilliant.

You've watched him drop central lines like it's muscle memory, smooth, controlled, no wasted movement. Watched him read an EKG in three seconds and call a cath lab activation before anyone else saw it. You've seen attendings defer to him without realizing they're doing it. He moves through the ER with sharp assurance, diving into cases with quick, bold moves. He thrives here. The chaos seems to hum in tune with him, like he's tuned to the same frequency as crashing vitals and overhead pages. He requires little to no supervision. He makes sound judgment calls. He is a natural. Patients stabilize under his hands. Nurses trust his orders. Other residents watch him the way you do, carefully.

And you? You are just trying not to drown. You're triple-checking doses, replaying histories in your head, second-guessing your differentials, trying to look composed while your insides buzz with constant self-evaluation.

You tell yourself it doesn't matter that he's never asked where you're from. Never asked how you're settling in. Never once used your name unless it's attached to a task. You tell yourself you don't care that when other attendings laugh at something you say, he doesn't even glance up. That when you stay late to finish notes, he leaves without looking back. You tell yourself it's better this way. Clean. Professional. Unattached.

Except safe is a lie you tell yourself when you don't want to admit you're lonely.

By the end of that first week, your throat is raw from swallowing questions. Your feet ache in a way that makes you feel older than you are. You’ve learned the geography of the department, where the crash carts hide, which nurses will teach you without making you beg, which attendings like bullet points instead of paragraphs. You’ve learned how to move quickly without looking like you’re running.

What you haven’t learned is how to exist here as a person.

Because Langdon doesn’t leave room for personhood. Around him, you become a set of tasks. A pair of hands. A voice delivering data. And when he erases you, you start erasing yourself too, tightening your smile, shrinking your presence, making yourself smaller so you can be overlooked on purpose instead of by accident.

So when someone finally looks at you like you’re not just another intern-shaped obstacle in the hallway it hits harder than it should.

The other intern starts paying you attention in a way that feels deliberate.

It begins so small you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

His chair nudges closer when you’re both charting. Not close-close, not touching, but enough that the wheels squeak and the gap between your elbows becomes a suggestion instead of a fact. He angles his screen a fraction toward you like you’re a team. He asks questions he could absolutely look up himself.

“Hey,” he says one night shift, voice pitched low over the constant chorus of monitors and overhead paging, “what did you put for your differential on the syncope in 12?”

You blink at him. “Uh. Orthostatic, arrhythmia, anemia… dehydration… PE because she’s on oral contraceptives and -”

He grins. “See, that. Your brain. I like it.”

You stare at the note you’re writing, suddenly unable to remember how to spell dehydration.

Dating is the last of your worries. You’ve got exams that sit like bricks in your stomach, the kind you can’t chew through or swallow, just carry. You’ve got skills checklists. You’ve got a list of procedures you’re terrified you’ll never get smooth at. You’ve got attendings with eyes like scalpels and nurses who have seen every brand-new intern fall apart at least once.

You do not have time for any of it.

“You’re doing fine,” he adds, as if he can read the thought scrawled across your forehead. He swivels his chair another inch closer. “Seriously. First week is brutal. I nearly cried in the supply closet.”

You snort despite yourself. “You?”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in like he’s telling you a secret. “Because I couldn’t find the right size IV catheter and a trauma rolled in and I thought I’d end up on the news as ‘intern who killed a man with incompetence.’”

Your laugh escapes you before you can trap it. It feels warm in your chest. Dangerous.

He keeps talking. About normal things. Safe things. The cafeteria coffee that tastes like someone tried to brew despair. The bizarre number of adults who come in convinced they’re dying because they ate a gummy vitamin on an empty stomach. The way the overhead voice always sounds slightly disappointed in everyone.

You find yourself relaxing around him in the same way you relax when you finally take off shoes that have been pinching you all day. It’s not romantic, you tell yourself. It’s not like that.

It can’t be like that.

Because the ER is a world that eats softness for breakfast.

And because Dr. Langdon is still moving through it like a blade.

Dr. Langdon notices.

You don’t see it at first, because you’ve trained yourself not to look at him unless you absolutely have to. Not because you’re terrified, though there’s a small, humiliating part of you that is, but because attention from him has never meant anything good.

Attention from Langdon means scrutiny.

It means: Why didn’t you order that? Why is this missing? What’s your plan?

It means: Say it. Out loud. In front of everyone.

It means the slow, creeping heat up your neck while the other interns suddenly become very interested in their keyboards.

So you adapt.

You keep your eyes on your work. On your patients. On the numbers. On the tiny order sets and lab trends and checkbox decisions that feel like they weigh a thousand pounds when you’re new and everything could be a mistake.

You make yourself smaller around him.

Efficient. Neutral. Unremarkable.

You do not look at him.

But you feel him anyway.

You feel him the way you feel a storm building, pressure shifting, air charged, something metallic under your tongue. The sense that if you glance up, you’ll find his eyes already there.

It’s subtle at first.

You’re at the central station, charting. The department hums in the background, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms, a stretcher rattling past, the overhead pager clearing its throat before announcing another consult.

Evan slides his chair closer.

Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just enough that the wheels squeak softly against the floor.

His knee bumps yours under the desk.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t move away.

“Mm,” you reply, eyes fixed stubbornly on the screen like the sodium level in room twelve is the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen.

Evan leans slightly toward you, pointing at your note. “You’re writing like… a lot.”

“It’s thorough,” you say defensively.

“It’s pretty,” he says, too earnest.

You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you and tilts upward. “That’s not a word anyone’s ever used for my documentation.”

He shrugs, smiling. “First time for everything.”

You both laugh, quiet, contained, like you’re not sure laughter is allowed here.

It’s small. Harmless. Normal. And that’s why it stands out.

Because normal doesn’t live here very long.

Across the department, someone calls, "Trauma to bay two!" The world shifts instantly, chairs scrape, nurses move, someone swears, a monitor alarm spikes. You and Evan stand in tandem, chairs skittering back. Your pulse jumps ahead of you, already in trauma mode. You grab your stethoscope, brain switching gears so fast it almost hurts.

You jog toward the bay and nearly collide with Dr. Langdon.

He's moving in the opposite direction, purposeful and fast, like the chaos parts around him by instinct. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't slow. You misjudge the distance. Your shoulder clips his chest, solid, unyielding, and the impact sends a sharp jolt through you. Your balance tips backward, stomach dropping as your heels slide against the polished floor.

And then his hands are on you. Both of them. Firm and strong. One gripping your upper arm, the other catching your opposite shoulder, fingers spreading instinctively to steady you before you can tumble. The contact is automatic, reflexive, controlled, but solid enough that you feel it everywhere. Through the thin cotton of your scrubs, straight to your pulse. His grip is steady, grounding, decisive. For a breath, you're chest to chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that your brain blanks entirely.

You look up. He's already looking down at you. Not annoyed, not amused. Focused. His jaw tightens slightly, eyes scanning your face as if confirming you're upright, intact.

"You need to watch where you're going," he says, voice low and even. But there's something under it, sharper than irritation.

Your hands are still half-raised from the impact, fingers curled against the front of his scrub top. You hadn't realized you'd grabbed him.

"I- sorry," you breathe.

He doesn’t release you immediately. His hands remain at your arms a fraction longer than necessary, like he's making sure you're steady, like he's reluctant to let go before he's certain you won't fall. Then, slowly, his grip loosens. His fingers slide away from your sleeves. The absence of his touch feels abrupt.

"Room five's ECG?" he asks.

Back to business. Back to clinical tone. But your skin is still buzzing where he held you. And you're suddenly very aware that in a department full of motion and noise, he was the only thing that didn't move. This time he's not looking past you. He's looking at you. Really looking.

"I ordered it," you say quickly, throat tight. "It should be-"

"It should be done," he cuts in. Same tone, same efficiency. Except his fingers don't leave your elbow right away. You become acutely aware of everything, how close he's standing, how steady his gaze is, how your skin feels too tight.

"Go," he says.

You nod, stepping out of his grip. The loss of contact is almost as noticeable as the touch itself.

Behind you, Evan says, "Hey-" and then stops, like he's just realized he shouldn't have spoken. You risk a glance back. Evan is staring at Langdon the way you stare at a dog that hasn't decided whether to bite. Langdon doesn't look at him at first. Then he does. Brief. A glance. But it's cold and direct and unmistakably territorial. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.

He turns away, already moving toward trauma bay two with that confident, clipped stride, quick, bold, certain. Gloves snapping onto his hands as he walks. Voice cutting cleanly through the noise as he calls for airway equipment.

But as he passes the central station, his gaze sweeps the desk where you and Evan had been sitting. Where the chairs were too close. Where your knees had touched.

He slows. Just a fraction. Barely perceptible.

And then he's moving again.

The thing about Langdon is that he exists in two speeds, with no comfortable middle ground. One is absolute stillness, standing at the foot of a bed, hands in his pockets, watching monitors like they're about to confess something. The other is sudden, decisive action: gloves snapping on, voice cutting through chaos, ordering the room into obedience without ever raising it. You've seen him drop a central line like it was nothing, intubate like breathing, read an EKG and decide someone's fate in seconds. You've also seen him stare blankly when a patient cries, like he's waiting for the crying to finish so the real conversation can continue.

You don't know what he is right now, stillness or action. He's leaning against the nurse's station, coffee in hand, pretending to read a chart. But you know he saw. He saw Evan's chair close to yours. He saw Evan leaning in. He saw you laughing. It shouldn't matter. It's ridiculous that it does. But you feel the weight of his attention anyway, heavy and wordless, pressing against the back of your neck like a hand you can't brush away.

That night, you find yourself in the supply room, restocking IV kits. It’s a small, quiet way of being helpful, trying to be useful, trying to be the kind of intern people don’t regret letting into the room. The space is narrow and overbright, shelves stacked to the ceiling with gauze, syringes, saline flushes, and IV start kits in plastic-wrapped bundles that crinkle when you touch them. It smells faintly of antiseptic and cardboard, and the fluorescent light hums overhead like it’s tired too. You count under your breath as you stack the kits, one, two, three, because if your hands are busy, your brain doesn’t spiral.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, the sound too loud in the small room. You hesitate before pulling it out, as if you already know who it is. You coming to grab coffee after? – Evan. You stare at the message like it’s a trick question, like there’s a correct answer and you’re about to choose wrong. You want to say no. You want to say you don’t have time, that you have to go home and study and sleep and prepare for tomorrow like you’re about to climb a mountain barefoot. You want to be disciplined, focused, untouchable. But you also want to say yes. Because you’re lonely. Because the ER is loud and relentless, and you’re new and trying so hard not to make mistakes that you’ve stopped breathing properly. Because every interaction with Langdon feels like a test you didn’t know you were taking, while Evan’s attention feels easy. Dr. Langdon’s attention, on the other hand, feels like a spotlight you can’t escape.

You type: Maybe. I’m still on shift. The three dots appear almost immediately. I’ll wait. Your heart does something annoying and fluttery at that, something you don’t have time for. You tuck the phone away quickly, as if someone might see it and confiscate it, and grab another box of saline flushes.

You step sideways to reach the upper shelf, and nearly walk right into Dr. Langdon. He’s standing in the doorway, blocking most of the light like a cutout, like he’s been there long enough to watch you but not long enough for you to notice. Your pulse spikes. He’s in navy scrubs, sleeves pushed up slightly, forearms bare. He looks less like a physician and more like something carved sharp and deliberate out of the chaos. His face is the same calm mask you’ve come to resent, composed, impassive, unreadable, but his eyes flick briefly to your pocket, then back to your face.

“Busy?” he asks. You blink. “Uh… no. Just restocking.” Your voice sounds thinner than you’d like. A pause stretches between you. He steps inside, and the room feels smaller instantly, the shelves feel closer. You’re suddenly hyperaware of how narrow the space is, how there’s nowhere to step without brushing against him. Your brain tries to supply a reason for him to be here and comes up empty. “I need a 20-gauge,” he says. You nod too quickly and point toward the upper drawer. “Top left.”

He doesn’t move. Not immediately. Instead, he looks at you, not through you, but at you like he’s trying to read a label you forgot to attach.

“You’re doing a lot of socializing,” he says. The words land hard. Not loud or angry, just extremely personal. It hits you like a slap, not because it’s cruel but because it means he noticed.

Your mouth opens and nothing comes out for a second. “I’m- what?” you manage. His gaze doesn’t waver. “At the station.”

Heat floods your face, immediate and humiliating. “We were charting,” you say, defensive before you can stop yourself. “And talking. It’s not, I mean, it’s not like I’m neglecting patients.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he replies. There’s a faint, dry edge to his tone, not mocking, not quite, but more like something sharpened and carefully controlled. “Though I can see why you’d jump to that conclusion.” Your nails dig into your palm. “Why are you even-”

He moves then. Steps closer. Close enough that you have to shift backward slightly to avoid bumping into the shelving behind you. He reaches up past you to grab the 20-gauge catheter. It’s on the top shelf, which means he has to lean in, one arm braced lightly against the metal shelving beside your head, the other reaching over your shoulder. His chest is inches from yours. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint brush of fabric as his scrubs shift, the subtle scent of antiseptic and coffee and something clean and sharp that is just him.

You’re in his bubble. Or maybe he’s in yours. Either way, it’s too close. Your breath catches. His fingers close around the catheter, but he doesn’t rush to pull away. For a second, his arm is still braced beside you, his head angled slightly downward, close enough that if you tilted your chin up, you’d…

You swallow hard. He straightens slowly, stepping back just enough to create space again. He slips the catheter into his pocket.

“You’re new,” he says, voice quieter now, controlled. “Distractions don’t help.” You stare at him.

“So you’re what,” you say, pulse still unsteady. “Giving me advice?”

“I’m telling you to keep up,” he replies. There it is, the familiar tone. Cold. Professional. Precise.

He turns to leave, then stops in the doorway, like something invisible caught him by the collar. Without looking back, he adds, “Evan’s not as helpful as he looks.” You blink, thrown. “What does that mean?” His shoulders tense, just slightly, a small, betraying movement.

“It means,” he says, voice flatter now, tighter, “that not everyone who smiles at you is doing it for you.” The words hang in the air, heavy, layered. And then he’s gone. Just like that. You stand there among the saline flushes and IV kits and fluorescent hum, staring at the doorway like it might explain itself. Your pulse is still racing, your skin still buzzing where he leaned too close.

Your phone buzzes again. You almost drop it. Still alive? – Evan. You swallow. Your fingers hover over the screen longer than they should. Yeah. Just busy. You hit send. And you don’t know why your hands are still shaking.

When you step back onto the floor from the supply room, the noise hits you all at once. Monitors chirp in uneven rhythms, someone argues with radiology over a delayed scan, a stretcher rattles past with a patient clutching an emesis bag. It should feel grounding, familiar chaos, something you can disappear into, but your skin still hums where Langdon leaned in, where his arm braced beside your head, where his voice dropped just enough to make his warning feel less like professional advice and more like something else entirely.

You tell yourself to shake it off. You adjust your badge, smooth the front of your coat, force your shoulders back into something resembling composure. You are fine. You are not a first-year med student flustered by proximity. You are a resident. You have patients waiting.

Evan is at the central station exactly where you left him, perched sideways in his chair with one elbow hooked over the back. He looks up immediately when you approach. His expression changes in a way that’s almost imperceptible but unmistakable, his smile softens, his brows knit slightly.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

You busy yourself with logging back into the computer, grateful for the barrier of the screen. “Just inventory,” you reply. “Thrilling stuff.”

He doesn’t laugh. He studies you instead. “Was he in there?”

You glance at him before you can stop yourself. “Who?”

Evan’s mouth tilts knowingly. “Come on.”

You don’t answer, which is answer enough.

He swivels his chair closer, lowering his voice. “Did he say something?”

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You could tell him. You could repeat Langdon’s line about distractions, about not everyone smiling at you for the right reasons. You could admit that it rattled you more than it should have. Instead, you shrug.

“It was nothing,” you say. “He needed a catheter.”

Evan’s jaw tightens just slightly. “Of course he did.”

There’s a beat of silence before he nudges a paper cup toward you across the counter. You hadn’t noticed it sitting there.

“Coffee,” he says. “I grabbed you one earlier. Figured you’d say yes eventually.”

You stare at it. You hadn’t agreed. You’d said maybe. There’s something about that, about him assuming, that makes you hesitate.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to,” you say carefully. “After shift. I have notes. And I should probably—”

“Study,” he finishes for you, smiling gently. “You always say that.”

You do hesitate. You feel it, how easy it would be to say no and retreat into the safe, disciplined version of yourself. But you’re tired. Your throat still feels tight from swallowing everything Langdon didn’t quite say.

“Maybe,” you repeat, softer this time.

Evan’s smile widens. He takes it as encouragement, as progress. “I’ll walk you to your car at least,” he says. “You don’t have to decide about coffee yet.”

Before you can respond, a voice cuts across the station.

“Room twelve’s repeat labs?”

You recognize his voice before you register the words. It cuts cleanly through the background noise of the department, steady, level, impossible to ignore. You hadn’t seen him approach. One second it was just you and Evan and the low murmur of shared conversation, and the next Langdon is there at the opposite end of the counter, close enough that his presence shifts the space.

He rests one hand lightly against the workstation, long fingers spread against the surface as he studies the patient board. He doesn’t look at Evan. He doesn’t even look at you at first. His gaze moves quickly over the columns of names and times and pending labs, absorbing everything in a way that makes you feel like the board itself is reporting to him.

“They’re pending,” you answer immediately, your voice sharper than you intend. You are suddenly very aware of how close Evan’s chair is to yours, how the paper coffee cup sits near your elbow like evidence.

Langdon’s eyes lift then.

Not the familiar quizzing look that pins you in place and demands an answer. Not the dissecting one that strips your plan down to bone. This is different. Quieter. Slower. His gaze settles on you with a kind of measured consideration that makes your stomach tighten.

“Call the lab,” he says. “They’ve been slow all night.”

There’s nothing in his tone to object to. It’s practical. Sensible. You nod and reach for the phone without argument, grateful for something concrete to do.

Beside you, Evan shifts. “I can call—”

“I asked her,” Langdon replies.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t sharpen it. The words are delivered evenly, almost mildly, but they land with the weight of a closed door. Controlled. Clean. Final.

Evan stills.

You feel the change in atmosphere immediately, a subtle tightening that hums between them. It’s the kind of shift that might go unnoticed by anyone not standing inside it, but you are standing inside it, and it makes your pulse stutter.

Langdon’s gaze drops briefly, and for a moment you think he’s returned to the board. He hasn’t. His eyes flick downward, not to your face, but to the space between you and Evan. To the angle of your chairs. To the proximity that had felt harmless a minute ago. To the coffee cup by your hand.

Then his eyes return to you.

“Room eight needs reassessment,” he says. “Now.”

You almost tell him you were about to go. The words rise instinctively to defend yourself, to prove you’re not distracted, not careless. But something in his expression holds you back. It isn’t irritation. It isn’t disappointment. It’s something more tightly drawn, something that feels less like critique and more like containment.

“Yes,” you say instead.

You push your chair back and stand. Evan stands too, instinctively falling into step with you. “I’ll come with—”

“No,” Langdon interjects smoothly. He shifts his attention to Evan for the first time, though he doesn’t fully face him. “You’re with me in bay three.”

Evan hesitates. “I thought I was—”

“You’re with me,” Langdon repeats, already turning away as if the matter is settled.

He doesn’t look back at Evan again. He doesn’t need to. The authority in his tone is enough.

You walk toward room eight with your heartbeat drumming faintly in your ears, acutely aware that Langdon didn’t accuse you of anything. He didn’t comment on the coffee. He didn’t mention Evan by name. He didn’t need to.

He simply rearranged the room.

And in doing so, he separated you.

Through the glass panels, you catch a glimpse of him in bay three. He stands beside Evan now, posture relaxed, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other gestures lightly toward the monitor. His voice carries in low, measured tones, the same voice he uses when he’s instructing, when he’s teaching without humiliation. Anyone watching would see nothing unusual. Just a senior resident guiding a junior.

But there’s a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there before. A slight tension at the edge of his mouth.

Evan listens, nodding stiffly.

For a brief moment, Langdon’s eyes lift from the monitor and travel across the department.

They find you. It isn’t accidental. It isn’t wandering. It’s deliberate.

His expression doesn’t change, but there’s no clinical distance in that look. No impersonal assessment. It feels direct in a way that makes your breath catch, as if he’s measuring something that has nothing to do with lab values or vital signs.

You look away first.

You tell yourself it’s because you have a patient waiting.

For the rest of the shift, the undercurrent remains. It isn’t loud or explosive. There’s no confrontation. No raised voices. Just presence.

Langdon appears at your shoulder more often than strictly necessary, leaning in to review your notes and correcting details that are technically fine. He redirects you to different rooms whenever Evan drifts too close, assigning you tasks in that calm, unarguable tone. When he asks you questions, they sound casual to anyone listening, but there’s weight beneath them, a focus that feels personal.

He doesn’t touch you again. He doesn’t mention Evan. But he watches.

And you can feel it, steady and unrelenting, like a hand hovering just at the small of your back.

Over the next few shifts, the changes are subtle enough that you can almost pretend they aren’t happening.

Evan’s chair ends up beside yours more often than not. If there’s an open workstation further down the counter, he ignores it. If someone else sits near you, he finds a reason to hover. It starts with proximity and the easy comfort you’d already let yourself accept. His knee brushes yours under the desk during charting, and at first you assume it’s accidental. The second time, he murmurs a soft apology without moving away. By the third time, you realize he’s angling his body toward you deliberately, his thigh resting just close enough that you’re aware of the contact even when you’re trying not to be.

When you pass charts back and forth, his fingers graze yours. The touch lingers half a second longer than necessary. He smiles each time, casual, like there’s nothing loaded in the gesture at all. It would be easy to dismiss it as friendliness if you weren’t starting to feel the pattern.

He compliments your work constantly, and at first it’s harmless. “Your notes are always the clearest.” “You think through things better than most of us.” It’s validating in a way that feels almost dangerous after the steady pressure of Langdon’s scrutiny. Where Langdon finds gaps, Evan highlights strengths. Where Langdon pushes, Evan reassures.

But then the compliments shift.

“You know,” Evan says one night as you’re both reviewing labs, “you’re wasted trying to get his approval.”

You glance at him. “What?”

He nods subtly toward the far end of the station where Langdon stands with a nurse, reviewing imaging. “You work harder than anyone here. And he acts like you’re just barely keeping up.”

Your jaw tightens. “He doesn’t act like that.”

Evan raises an eyebrow. “He doesn’t even look at you unless he’s quizzing you.”

The words hit closer than you want them to.

You turn back to your screen. “He looks at everyone like that.”

“Not like he looks at you,” Evan says quietly.

You don’t respond, but you feel it settle somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.

Langdon does look at you differently. You’ve felt that shift. The attention that lingers a second too long. The quiet assessments that feel less clinical lately. The way he rearranges assignments without explanation.

You tell yourself it’s professional.

Evan doesn’t seem to think so.

“You deserve someone who actually sees you,” he continues, softer now. “Not someone who treats you like a project.”

The comment is too personal. It crosses a line you hadn’t agreed to draw. You let out a short laugh to deflect. “I’m not looking for someone.”

“I know,” he says. “But still.”

There’s something in his tone that makes your skin prickle.

Across the department, Langdon shifts position. You don’t mean to look, but you do. He’s no longer focused on the imaging. His posture has changed slightly, weight angled toward the station. His gaze isn’t openly fixed on you, but it isn’t random either. It passes over the counter, over the cluster of residents, and lands briefly on Evan’s hand where it rests too close to yours.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

The escalation continues in increments small enough that no one else would notice.

When you’re presenting a patient, Evan steps closer than necessary, shoulder brushing yours as he leans in to “add context.” When Langdon moves into the space to ask a question, Evan shifts just slightly to remain between you and him, like it’s instinctive. It’s subtle positioning, but you feel it every time.

One afternoon in the hallway outside radiology, Evan reaches for your elbow to steer you toward a case. His grip is light, but it’s firm enough that you stop walking. “You don’t have to impress him,” he murmurs. “You know that, right?”

You pull your arm back gently. “I’m not trying to impress anyone.”

“You always tense up when he’s around,” Evan says. “You don’t do that with me.”

There’s a reason for that. Being around Evan feels easy because there’s no risk of humiliation. No sudden questions. No razor-sharp corrections. With Evan, you’re not constantly bracing.

With Langdon, you are always aware.

And lately, Langdon seems just as aware of you.

He appears beside you mid-conversation more frequently. He asks for updates directly from you, even when Evan has just spoken. When you and Evan are reviewing imaging together, Langdon inserts himself with quiet authority, leaning over your shoulder to point out a finding. His arm doesn’t touch you, but the space between you shrinks until you’re hyperaware of the heat of him.

“Your interpretation?” he asks you, ignoring Evan entirely.

You answer. He listens. The intensity of his focus feels different now. Less about exposing flaws. More about pulling something from you specifically.

Evan notices.

You can see it in the way his jaw tightens when Langdon interrupts. In the way he lingers afterward, stepping back into your space the second Langdon walks away.

It becomes a pattern.

If Evan leans in, Langdon appears.

If Evan touches your wrist while handing you a pen, Langdon assigns you to a different room.

If Evan positions himself at your side during a trauma, Langdon directs him elsewhere with a calm, unarguable instruction.

“Bay four,” he’ll say, not looking at Evan. “You’re needed.”

He never references you. He never mentions what he’s doing.

He just rearranges the board.

And every time, his gaze flicks to you afterward, measuring something.

The tension builds in layers. Easy warmth on one side. Controlled intensity on the other.

Evan grows more confident in his closeness. He stands a little nearer. Lets his hand rest at the small of your back when guiding you through a crowded hallway. Compliments your appearance once, casually, like it’s nothing. “You look good today,” he says, eyes lingering just long enough to make it clear he means more than your documentation.

You laugh it off. You tell yourself it’s harmless. But you’re aware of the way Langdon’s attention sharpens when it happens.

He doesn’t confront Evan. He doesn’t confront you. He simply watches. And that might be worse than if he did.

Because there’s no explosion. No scene. Just a steady tightening of something unspoken. His presence becomes heavier, his proximity more deliberate. When he stands beside you now, it feels intentional. When he corrects you, it feels personal.

The contrast becomes impossible to ignore.

Evan offers ease. Soft praise. Physical closeness.

Langdon offers pressure. Focus. A gaze that feels like it sees straight through you.

And the more Evan pushes, the more Langdon’s silence grows charged.

The shift is nearing its end when it happens. The waiting room has thinned, the chaos dulled into a tired hum. It’s that strange hour where the ER exhales but never fully sleeps. The overhead lights feel harsher somehow, casting everything in pale fluorescence. You tell yourself you just need to get through the last few tasks, med reconciliation in room nine, discharge paperwork in twelve, restock the airway cart because no one else will.

You duck into the medication room to grab antiemetics for a patient who hasn’t stopped vomiting since triage. The space is narrow and poorly ventilated, shelves packed with labeled drawers and locked cabinets. The lighting is softer in here, slightly dimmer than the hallway, giving everything a muted edge. The door swings shut behind you with a quiet click.

You’re reaching for the ondansetron when you hear it open again.

You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Hey,” Evan says quietly.

You glance over your shoulder. He closes the door more firmly this time, not aggressively, but enough that the latch catches.

“I just needed to grab something,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the shelves.

“Yeah,” he replies, stepping inside. “I figured.”

There’s less space now. The room was small before. With him in it, it feels close.

You turn back to the cabinet, trying to keep it normal. “Did you need something?”

“Actually,” he says, and his voice is different. Softer. Intentional. “I wanted to talk to you.”

You feel your shoulders tighten. “About?”

He exhales slowly, leaning back against the counter behind him. “About us.”

Your stomach drops.

“There isn’t an us,” you say lightly, trying to defuse whatever Ethan thinks is going on.

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come on. You’ve been giving me a chance.”

You hesitate. That word. Chance. You remember the coffee. The maybe. The way you didn’t shut him down cleanly because you didn’t want to be harsh.

“I said maybe to coffee,” you reply carefully. “That’s not—”

“It’s not nothing,” he interrupts gently. “You didn’t say no.”

He pushes off the counter and steps closer. Not abruptly. Not threateningly. Just closing the distance inch by inch.

“You’ve been leaning in,” he continues. “Laughing. Staying. You could’ve walked away.”

Your back brushes lightly against the shelving. You hadn’t realized you’d stepped backward.

“I was just being friendly,” you say.

“And I was being more than that,” he says.

There’s something in his tone now that makes your pulse spike. Confidence. Assumption.

“You deserve someone who actually sees you,” he adds quietly. “Not someone who only talks to you when he wants to correct you.”

Your chest tightens. You know who he means. The comparison feels like a hook under your skin.

“That’s not fair,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure who you’re defending.

“I see you,” Evan says. “I see how hard you work. I see how he looks at you like you’re a problem to solve.”

You don’t answer. He steps closer again. This time, there’s no pretending it’s accidental.

Your brain blanks for half a second. It’s not violent. It’s not forceful. But it’s not invited either. The shock of it steals your breath. You freeze, muscles locked, trying to catch up with what’s happening.

“You don’t have to impress him,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

He leans in. You see it coming. You know what he’s about to do.

And still, you hesitate. Because you don’t want to make a scene. Because you don’t want to hurt him. Because you hate confrontation more than almost anything.

His other hand comes up to your shoulder, fingers curling gently but possessively. His face is inches from yours now.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not rough. Not aggressive. But it’s claiming.

Your body doesn’t respond. There’s no spark. No pull. No answering shift. There’s only heat flooding your face and the sudden, sharp realization that this is wrong.

In a spilt second you shove him back.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not a slap. Just a firm push against his chest that creates space between you.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt immediately, the words tumbling out on instinct. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.”

He stares at you, stunned.

“Why are you apologizing?” he asks.

“Because I didn’t—I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea.”

“You didn’t,” he insists. “You were into it.”

Your stomach twists.

“I wasn’t,” you say, stepping sideways so you’re no longer pinned against the shelving. Your voice is quieter now, but steadier. “I wasn’t.”

His expression hardens slightly, confusion edging toward defensiveness.

“I was tired,” you say, the embarrassment burning up your neck. “And I thought we were just—”

“Just what?”

“Colleagues,” you finish.

Silence stretches between you.

You feel foolish. Guilty. Like you’ve somehow created this misunderstanding even though you know you didn’t ask for his hand on your waist.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, because it feels easier than standing firm.

Evan exhales sharply. “I thought you wanted this.”

“I don’t,” you say. The words land heavier than you expect.

He studies your face for a moment, searching for something, doubt, regret, invitation. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it.

“Is it him?” he asks quietly.

Your heart stumbles.

“What?”

“Is it because of him?”

You don’t answer. The door handle rattles suddenly from the outside. Both of you look toward it instinctively.

And when it opens, it isn’t a nurse who steps inside.

It’s Langdon.

His gaze moves once, slow and deliberate.

He takes in Evan’s position first. The way Evan is standing too close to you. The way your back is angled toward the shelving instead of toward him. The small but unmistakable distance you’ve created since pushing him away. The tension still held tight in your shoulders.

Then his eyes lift to your face. There is no surprise in them. No visible anger. No flare of temper. Only calculation.

For a moment, the three of you exist in a suspended pocket of silence. The ventilation hums softly overhead. The fluorescent light flickers faintly. Your pulse is loud in your own ears.

Langdon doesn’t ask what’s going on.

He doesn’t look at Evan again immediately.

He looks at you.

“Room nine is asking for you,” he says evenly.

His voice is steady, measured, perfectly professional. Anyone overhearing it would hear nothing but routine workflow. But you know the board. You know no one paged you for nine. The lie is clean enough that no one else would question it.

You swallow. “I was just—”

“I know,” he says.

The words are quiet, but they land with weight. Not accusatory. Not sympathetic. Just certain.

Evan shifts beside you. “She’s with me.”

Langdon’s head tilts slightly, though he still hasn’t fully turned toward him. There’s a faint tightening at the edge of his mouth, so small it would be easy to miss if you weren’t watching him.

“You’re needed in CT,” Langdon replies.

It’s the same tone he uses when ordering imaging or redirecting a consult. Calm. Unimpeachable.

Evan frowns. “We were in the middle of something.”

Now Langdon looks at him.

It’s not a glare. It’s not heated. It’s colder than that. The kind of look that strips away assumption and leaves nothing but hierarchy.

“She’s needed,” he repeats, and then his gaze shifts back to you.

“Now.”

He says it to you, not to Evan.

The emphasis is subtle, but unmistakable. His eyes hold yours when he says it, steady and unwavering, as if waiting to see which direction you’ll move.

You don’t hesitate this time. “Okay.”

The word feels small in your mouth, but you step forward anyway. As you move past him, you’re acutely aware of his presence in the doorway. He shifts slightly, not enough to block anyone outright, but enough that Evan would have to brush past him to follow.

Evan doesn’t try.

There’s a flicker of irritation in his expression as he steps back. “Fine,” he mutters.

Langdon doesn’t acknowledge the tone. He doesn’t need to. He simply turns and walks into the hallway, assuming you will follow.

You do.

The ER noise crashes back in around you, bright and unrelenting. A nurse near the station glances up as you and Langdon emerge from the med room together. Her eyes linger half a second too long, curiosity sparking. Another resident pauses mid-sentence, gaze shifting between the three of you.

No one says anything out loud.

But the shift is felt.

Langdon moves through it as if nothing is unusual. His posture is relaxed, shoulders loose, one hand slipping casually into the pocket of his scrubs. If someone were watching from a distance, they would see only a senior resident redirecting a junior. Efficient. Ordinary.

Except you were just inside that room.

You know it wasn’t ordinary.

“Room nine,” he says again, as if reinforcing the fiction. “They’ve been waiting on reassessment.”

His tone leaves no space for debate.

You nod and move ahead, but he doesn’t immediately peel away to another task. Instead, he remains within a few steps of you, close enough that you feel the steadiness of him at your back.

Evan reappears near the central station, jaw tight, watching. Langdon doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t address him again. The dismissal is complete.

As you reach the workstation to pull up room nine’s chart, Langdon stops beside you. He leans one hand on the counter, close but not touching, his gaze fixed on the screen.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

The question is almost clinical in delivery, but there’s nothing clinical about the way his eyes flick over your face.

It’s the first time he’s asked something like that.

You nod automatically. “I’m fine.”

His jaw shifts slightly, as if he’s weighing the truth of that statement.

“If I wanted to embarrass you,” he says, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry beyond the two of you, “I would have asked what was happening in there.”

Your breath catches.

“I didn’t,” he continues. “That was intentional.”

There’s no triumph in his tone. No self-congratulation. Just fact.

Heat spreads up your neck, but this time it isn’t humiliation. It’s something more complicated.

“I didn’t need rescuing,” you reply, the defensiveness rising before you can stop it.

His gaze sharpens slightly at that.

“I know,” he says.

The simplicity of the answer unsettles you more than any argument would have.

“Ethan must’ve missed the importance of the consent talk in medical school,” he says quietly, almost under his breath.

He saw enough. Not the kiss but enough to step in. And he did it without raising his voice, without making a scene, without staking a claim in words.

A nurse calls his name from across the station. “Dr. Langdon, they need you upstairs. A helicopter’s arriving.”

His expression shifts instantly, smoothing back into its usual controlled neutrality, the personal sealed away behind professional focus. He nods once toward the nurse, already recalibrating.

Then his eyes return to you.

“Walk with me,” he says.

It isn’t a request.

He doesn’t wait to see if you hesitate. He turns, already moving toward the elevators, long strides confident and unhurried. For half a second you consider staying where you are, consider letting the moment dissolve back into workflow. But something in the way he said it, quiet, direct, deliberate, pulls you forward.

You follow.

The department parts around him as it always does. Nurses step aside without being asked. A tech moves a stretcher just enough to clear his path. You trail half a step behind at first, then fall into stride beside him. He doesn’t look at you as you walk, but you are acutely aware of his presence. Of the contained energy in his movements, the tension held just beneath the surface.

When you reach the elevators, he presses the call button once. The doors open almost immediately.

He steps inside and turns, holding the door with one hand as it begins to slide closed.

“Inside,” he says, his gaze locking onto yours.

You step in. The elevator doors slide shut with a muted thud, sealing you into a narrow metal box that suddenly feels far too small for both of you. The noise of the ER is cut off mid-breath. No monitors. No overhead paging. No nurses moving past with charts. Just the low mechanical hum as the car begins to descend.

Langdon stands opposite you at first, hands loosely at his sides, posture composed as ever. The fluorescent light overhead casts sharp lines across his face, emphasizing the hard set of his jaw. He doesn’t look at you immediately. He presses the button for the lower floor with the same calm precision he uses to order imaging or start a procedure.

“You can’t let people corner you like that,” he says, tone level, controlled.

It sounds clinical. Detached. As if he’s discussing airway management.

You stare at the brushed steel wall instead of at him. “I wasn’t cornered.”

He shifts his weight slightly, and you feel the movement even without looking. “You were,” he replies. “And you didn’t shut it down fast enough.”

Heat flares in your chest. “I handled it.”

“You froze.”

The word lands hard.

You turn to face him fully. “You don’t get to dissect that.”

His eyes meet yours then. Steady. Assessing. There’s no mockery in them, no satisfaction at catching you off balance. If anything, there’s tension threaded beneath the surface.

“You’re here to work,” he continues. “Not to manage other people’s feelings.”

Something in you snaps.

“Why do you care?” The question comes out sharper than you intended, but you don’t pull it back.

His expression doesn’t change. “I don’t.”

It’s automatic. Defensive. Too quick.

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right.”

The elevator hums as it moves downward. You can feel the faint vibration through the soles of your shoes.

“If you don’t care,” you press, stepping closer despite yourself, “then why do you always target me?”

That hits. You see it. The smallest tightening at the edge of his mouth. The brief flicker in his eyes that suggests you’ve struck something real.

“I don’t target you,” he says, but the certainty in his voice isn’t as solid as it was a moment ago.

“You quiz me in front of everyone. You call on me when you could call on anyone else. You make me feel like I’m constantly one mistake away from being exposed.” Your voice is rising, not loud, but intense. “You humiliate me in front of the entire station and then act like it’s teaching.”

The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, then continues moving. Neither of you look at the floor indicator.

“I push you because you can take it,” he says quietly.

“That’s not an answer.”

“You want an answer?” His composure fractures just enough for you to see the strain beneath it. “You’re capable. More than you think. And you waste time trying to make people comfortable instead of being right.”

“You think I care about making people comfortable?”

“I think you apologize when someone crosses a line instead of setting one.”

Your breath catches.

He steps closer.

Not abruptly. Not aggressively. Just enough that the space between you narrows from several feet to a breath and a half.

The elevator lurches and comes to a temporary halt between floors. The lights flicker once, then steady. The mechanical hum shifts into a strained whir.

You both feel it.

Neither of you mention it.

“You warned me about him,” you say, your voice lower now, more deliberate. “Why?”

His gaze sharpens. “Because he doesn’t see you.”

The answer is immediate.

You swallow. “He does.”

“He sees attention,” Langdon corrects. “He sees access. He doesn’t understand what you are.”

“And what am I?” you challenge.

He hesitates for the first time.

The pause is small but seismic.

“You’re not naive,” he says finally. “But you don’t always recognize when someone is positioning themselves to own a piece of you.”

The words hang heavy between you.

“You don’t get to decide who gets me,” you reply, heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

His jaw tightens.

“I know.”

The admission is quieter than anything he’s said so far.

The elevator remains stalled, suspended in that strange mechanical limbo. The air feels warmer. Thicker.

You take another step forward before you can stop yourself. Now there’s barely space between you. You can feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“You act like I’m incompetent,” you continue, but your voice has lost some of its edge. It sounds almost unsteady now. “Like I’m a liability you’re constantly monitoring.”

His eyes darken slightly.

“If you were incompetent,” he says, “I wouldn’t waste my time.”

It’s blunt. Unvarnished. Entirely him.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

Your breathing shifts. You’re aware of it. A little faster. A little shallower.

He notices. Of course he does.

“I don’t humiliate you,” he says, voice lower now. “I refuse to let you hide behind being new.”

“And what does that have to do with him?” you press.

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes.

“I don’t trust him with you.”

The honesty of it knocks the air from your lungs.

The elevator hum deepens as it prepares to move again, but the car remains suspended for a few more seconds that feel longer than they should.

“You don’t trust him,” you repeat slowly. “Or you don’t trust yourself?”

The question lands harder than you expected.

His hand flexes slightly at his side.

“You think this is about me?” he asks, but there’s no heat in it. Only tension.

“I think you care,” you say. “And you don’t know what to do with that.”

Silence fills the space between you. Dense. Charged.

The elevator jolts back into motion, but neither of you break eye contact.

“You don’t get to claim me because you noticed first,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper now. “You don’t get to decide who gets close.”

He inhales slowly.

“I’m not claiming you.”

The lie is softer this time.

The elevator slows as it approaches the next floor. The subtle deceleration shifts your balance forward slightly. Instinctively, his hand lifts, hovering near your waist as if to steady you, though he doesn’t quite touch.

Your eyes drop to the space between you.

Then back up.

“You stepped in,” you say. “You redirected him. You separated us.”

“Yes.”

No denial.

“And you’re telling me that wasn’t personal?”

His jaw tightens again.

“It was necessary.”

“For what?” you demand.

His gaze burns into yours.

“For you.”

The word lands in your chest like a weight.

Your breathing falters. The space between you shrinks further without either of you consciously deciding to close it. The elevator hum is the only sound now, mechanical and distant.

“I don’t need protecting,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“But you did it anyway.”

“Yes.”

The silence between you stretches so tight it feels like it might snap.

The elevator hums as it descends, but the sound is distant, mechanical, nothing compared to the sound of your own breathing. You're standing too close now. You don't remember stepping forward, and yet there's barely an inch of space between your bodies. The fluorescent light above flickers faintly, washing his face in pale sharpness, jaw clenched, eyes darker than they were moments ago.

"You don't get to decide who gets me," you say again, but the edge in your voice has thinned into something more fragile. More honest.

His chest rises slowly, deliberately. "I know."

He says it like it costs him something.

You hold his gaze, refusing to look away this time. "Then stop acting like you do."

Something shifts in his expression then. Not anger. Not control. Something far more dangerous.

"You think I don't know that?" he asks quietly. His voice is lower now, rougher around the edges. "You think I don't know I don't get to—"

He cuts himself off.

The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, the mechanical tension mirroring the strain in the air between you. You feel the deceleration pull you forward a fraction. His hand comes up instinctively to steady you, fingers wrapping around your waist before he can stop himself.

The contact is firm. Unthinking. You both freeze. His grip tightens.

For a split second, neither of you move. Your hands are hovering near his chest, your breath caught halfway between inhale and exhale. His thumb presses into the small of your back, anchoring you there.

His eyes drop to your mouth.

And something in him snaps.

His hand leaves your waist only to slide upward, fingers curling around your jaw. Not gentle. Not tentative. His palm is warm and solid against your skin as he tilts your face up toward his.

The kiss is sudden.

It isn't careful. It isn't sweet.

It crashes into you.

His mouth finds yours with a force that steals the air from your lungs. There's no soft lead-in, no hesitant brush. It's hunger and frustration and restraint breaking all at once. His grip on your jaw tightens just enough to hold you in place, to keep you there.

For half a second, you freeze.

Shock flares through you, bright and blinding.

And then you kiss him back.

Your hands fist into the front of his scrubs, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. The world narrows to heat and breath and the solid line of his body pressed against yours. The kiss deepens, not slow but desperate, like something long denied finally breaking free.

He makes a low sound against your mouth, almost angry, almost undone.

"Tell me to stop," he breathes, the words rough against your lips. But his mouth doesn't leave yours, can't leave yours, and his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. "Tell me you don't want this."

You don't tell him anything. You can't. Your brain has stopped functioning entirely, reduced to nothing but sensation, the heat of his palm against your skin, the press of his body, the way his breath hitches when you tug him closer.

His other hand slides back to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the tension in him, the battle between control and want playing out in the way his fingers flex against your side. He kisses you again, harder this time, deeper, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he's been thinking about this far longer than he'll ever admit.

"You have no idea," he murmurs between kisses, voice frayed, "what it's been like. Watching you. Every single day."

His lips trail to the corner of your mouth, then to your jaw, hot and insistent.

"Watching him touch you."

His teeth graze your pulse point, just enough to make you gasp.

"Smile at you."

His hand presses harder against your lower back, arching you into him.

"While I stood there. Pretending I didn't notice."

You can barely breathe. Your fingers twist tighter into his scrubs, knuckles brushing the warm skin of his chest where the V-neck gaps.

"Dr Langdon—"

The kiss slows then, just slightly. Just enough to feel every point of contact, every slide of tongue, every shared breath. His thumb traces slow circles against your hip, grounding you both.

It is not gentle. It is not careful. It is everything you both tried not to let happen.

The elevator dings.

The sharp chime slices through the heat between you, dragging reality back into the small metal box.

Langdon pulls away first.

Not gently. Not reluctantly.

Abruptly.

His hand drops from your face as if the contact has burned him. He steps back, putting a fraction more distance between you, though the air still feels charged and thin. His chest rises and falls harder than you’ve ever seen outside of a code, breath controlled but not steady. His jaw is set tight, a muscle ticking faintly near his temple. His eyes are bright, too bright, and there’s something raw there, something unguarded that he would hate anyone else seeing.

“This is a mistake,” he says, voice rougher than usual, like the words have scraped their way out of him.

You don’t trust yourself to speak. You nod, staring at the closed doors in front of you, trying to slow your breathing, trying to gather whatever professionalism you have left and stitch it back into place.

The doors slide open.

Noise floods in, voices overlapping, monitors chiming, the distant whir of a stretcher being rushed past.

You step out first.

He follows.

For a few steps, you walk side by side without touching, without speaking. He has already rebuilt the mask, shoulders squared, expression composed, the efficient senior resident returning to his post as if nothing has happened. If anyone were watching, they would see nothing but hierarchy restored.

You make it halfway down the corridor before curiosity gets the better of you.

You glance back. Just for a second. You expect to find him cold again. Distant. Regretful.

Instead, you catch him watching you.

And he is trying, very clearly trying, not to smile.

It’s subtle at first. The faintest curve threatening the corner of his mouth. The tightness in his jaw isn’t anger anymore; it’s restraint. Not of temper. Of amusement. Of satisfaction.

Your heart stumbles painfully in your chest.

For all his talk of mistakes, he doesn’t look like a man who regrets what he just did.He looks like a man who has finally stopped pretending.

The sight cracks something in you. You feel it before you can stop it, the answering lift at the corner of your own mouth. You try to suppress it. You fail.

Your eyes meet fully this time and something unspoken passes between you. The tension breaks.

A quiet, breathless laugh escapes him first, low, almost disbelieving. It pulls a matching sound from you, soft and incredulous and a little wild. You both turn your faces slightly away as if that will make it less obvious, less dangerous, but the laughter lingers in your eyes.

No one around you notices.

To everyone else, this is just another shift. Another trauma incoming. Another page overhead.

But the axis has shifted.

He straightens, composure sliding back into place, though the ghost of that almost-smile remains.

“Helicopter’s landing in two,” he says, voice steady again, but warmer somehow.

You nod, pulse still racing.

Everything has changed.

And as you fall into step beside him, the chaos of the hospital helipad rushing up to meet you, one thought threads clean and undeniable through the noise.

Pushing into the ED, you shoot a nod towards Abbot. He’s always been nice to you - patient without being passive, and informative without being condescending. He has this odd way of keeping you calm during traumas - even when he’s watching you cut a hole into someone’s throat, you don’t feel like he’s judging you, or doing anything out with your best interests.

You wish you could say the same for Robby.

It’s like he’s had it out for you since day one. From your very first shift, he’s seemed utterly convinced that you’re a bad fit for emergency medicine - better suited for something calmer, like psych.

Were it not for Frank, you’re pretty sure you’d have tried to get a permanent swap to nights - Abbot and Shen you could live with.

While you and Doctor Robinavitch don’t exactly see eye to eye most of the time, you’ll never be able to fault him for pairing you up with Frank on day one. You’d heard chatter from the nurses the morning you’d arrived about him - apparently, he’d dated one of the labour and delivery nurses, before ghosting her a month in. Your hopes were less than high when Robby had announced you’d be shadowing him.

Sure, Frank’s a little arrogant. But he’s also been nothing but kind to you. He walks you through procedures, voice low as he murmurs soft instructions. His proximity is more than distracting, but you’ve found it to be effective in the long run.

You want to do well. Want Frank to be proud of you. Maybe if you can make him like you, he won’t be as susceptible to Robby’s dislike. You know they must all talk about the residents. Discuss who they think will make the cut, versus those who'll crumble under the pressure.

So far, your charm offensive seems to be working. In just a few months, you’ve developed a rapport, to the point where Frank rarely works with any of the other junior residents. You've heard rumblings about favouritism from the nurses. It must be getting him into some kind of trouble.

You head for the lockers, and change out of your thermals and into your scrubs, before heading to Central for the morning brief. A few of the other doctors are milling about, and you watch Robby take Gloria across the room to talk away from you all.

He doesn’t look happy.

That doesn’t bode well for your shift today.

When Frank walks through the door, five minutes late as usual, his eyes find you immediately. He’s already in scrubs, flashing you a smile as he deposits his bag.

“Who pissed in his cornflakes?” He asks, slipping in behind you as he watches Robby’s scowl grow with every passing second he stands with Gloria.

“Pulse has a boyfriend,” A voice cuts in from over your shoulder. You turn, coming face to face with a girl, round about your age. “He came to pick her up after the night-shift, with a bouquet of roses. Robby’s been in a shitty mood since. I don’t think we’ve been introduced yet. Resident?”

“Uh, yeah,” You reply, and offer your name.

She tells you hers, ignoring the way Frank rolls his eyes. “Everyone calls me Skipper though. EMT. The Pitt’s finest.”

“No,” Frank corrects. “Abbot calls you Skip, and you’re so desperate to get into his pants that you adopted it-”

“Fuck off, Langdon-”

“Don’t you have a job to be doing?”

She sticks her tongue out, but begins to retreat anyway. “I just dropped Myrna off - told her you’d look after her today. And I’m only going so that I don’t have to deal with Robby. Hope you and your girlfriend have a fun shift!”

As soon as she’s gone, Frank is turning to speak directly into your ear. “Ignore her. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“I didn’t know Robby was into Pulse,” You comment, chancing a glance at your boss. His expression doesn’t look any happier.

Pulse is the Dana of the night shift. Quite where she got her nickname, you’re not sure, but she’s been good to you on the occasions your shifts have overlapped. On your first ever night-shift, she’d pressed a coffee into your hand right when you’d been about to crash.

You’ve felt a little indebted to her ever since.

“He’d never admit it, but I think he’s been into her for years. They were like that when I was a med student here.”

“Huh,” You murmur, falling silent as Robby finally makes his way over.

“Alright guys - busy day today,” He starts, clapping his hands together. “New Year’s is always rough for ERs - we can expect firework incidents, and more drunk and disorderly patients than we get at any point in the year. I want efficiency-”

A glance at Samira.

“-compassion-”

A glance at Trinity.

“-and assertiveness.”

His eyes land on you, and you fight the urge to shrink under his gaze. It’s no secret that you’re not Robby’s favourite resident. In fact, in a programme with thirteen residents at various levels, you’re not sure you even crack the top ten.

Frank’s definitely top three - potentially top one, now that Heather took an attending job in Philadelphia.

You can feel your cheeks starting to burn, embarrassment rising.

Everyone here knows you’re not cut out for emergency medicine. That you’re too weak for this specialty. Not a good enough advocate for your patients. You can almost hear his thought process.

Maybe family medicine is more your speed.

Then a hand claps down on your shoulder. You know before you even turn around that it’s Frank. “Don’t mind him,” He murmurs, as everyone disperses. Like clockwork, Frank falls into step beside you. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“He’s the Chief of Emergency Medicine,” You reply, unconvinced. “I think he knows his stuff.”

“Not in this case,” Frank insists. “This place needs empathy - which you have in spades. I bet if you asked every patient in here if they’d rather be treated by you or me, they’d choose you.”

“No they wouldn’t,” You roll your eyes.

“They would so. And who cares if you’re not assertive enough? You shouldn’t ever be alone in a scenario where that’s an issue. You know I’d coming running if you paged me, Page.” He finishes off with a grin, as you let out a sigh.

Page had been a recent development. After managing a whole shift without realising your pager was dead, and getting bawled out by Robby, Santos had taken to calling you the nickname. Unfortunately, it had spread like wildfire.

You wish Frank wouldn’t call you it. Wouldn’t see you like a failure.

Your brow furrows a little, and he frowns. “Hey, come on - I was just kidding. But the sentiment still stands. You call, I come. Okay? What are you on today?”

“Triage. You?”

“Unfortunately not. I’ve got Santos today.”

On a normal day, you’d defend Trinity. You do like her, even if she is the root of your nickname, and has moderately abrasive tendencies. But today has already gotten off to such a terrible start, that you can’t bring yourself to manage. “I should probably go, before Robby chews me out for being slow.”

7AM

“So,” You start, glancing nervously at Whitaker. “You ready to get started?”

Where you’d been hoping for some assurance from Dennis, you’re met with a stressed and nervous energy, maybe even worse than your own. “Uh, sure?”

“Great!” You force a smile, and lead him out to the waiting room. Almost immediately, you’re ambushed by a crowd. “Uh, Whitaker, could you take a Ms. Precious Abebe to room three? She just needs sutured - can I leave you to that?”

He nods, and stands at your back.

“I’ve been here for five hours-”

“There’s green stuff coming out of this wound-”

“I was told I’d be next, but someone else got to go-”

“Sorry,” You interject, trying to move past to the middle of the room. “We’ll be with you as soon as possible. We’re understaffed today, that’s why things are a little backed up.”

A lie. But people tend to be more understanding if they think that this is out of the norm. That the Pitt isn’t backed up twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

You check your iPad, glancing at the next name on the list. “Beth Garcia?”

A lady stands up across the room, away from the group that immediately approached you both. At first glance, there’s nothing obviously wrong. She’s maybe a little pale, but that’s about all you’d say. “Hi,” She smiles.

You introduce yourself and lead her to one of the consultation rooms, leaving Whitaker to grab Ms. Abebe. “What’s brought you in today?”

“I’ve had a really bad stomach-ache, for the past twelve-ish hours.”

You nod, sitting her up on the bed. “Do you mind if I have a feel?”

“Go ahead.”

You examine her abdomen, while asking some more questions.

Yes, it feels sharp and stabbing.

No, she hasn’t eaten anything.

There’s been some vomit, but no blood. No changes to stool or urine output.

Six out of ten pain.

“Alright, well, I’m going to take some bloods and do a quick ultrasound, just to rule out stones, okay? But then, until we get the results back, you’ll have to go back to the waiting room, I’m sorry. We don’t have the facilities for everyone to wait back here.”

Normally, this is where patients get mad, if they haven’t already. Nobody likes being seen, before being told you need to wait again. What they don’t seem to realise is that the people who get seen immediately are the ones you very much do not want to be.

But Beth just nods again, and gets to her feet. “No worries. I wrote the day off anyway.”

*****

“Jesus Christ, can you look a little happier to see me?” Santos rolls her eyes, snapping Frank out of his haze. “I know I’m not Page, but I’d still like to learn something today, if that’s alright with you.”

“You know, you could really learn a few things from her,” He replies, unimpressed at being caught staring. “Like basic human empathy, for starts.”

“I have empathy,” She retorts. “Just not for you, or the three tonnes of hair gel you use each day.”

Frank grabs an iPad, glancing at the board. “We’ll take chest pain in four.”

If Frank was cherry-picking for himself, or for you, Trinity would be the first to call it out. But today, it benefits her, so she keeps her mouth shut, and nods.

“Look at this ECG. Tell me what you see.”

Trinity frowns, glancing across the different leads. No obvious STEMI anywhere, or hyperkalaemia. No obvious heart block that she can see, though it’s hard to tell with P waves at the best of times. It’s not a very good tracing, but on the surface there’s nothing wrong. “Looks alright to me. Maybe a little tachycardic?”

“Look closer.”

Letting out a huff, she examines it again, before sighing. “I don’t see anything-”

“Great. Now your patient is dead. It’s bundle branch block. Left or right?”

“Bundle branch block doesn’t kill people, dumbass. Not like that.” With a guide, Santos refocuses on the ECG, frowning as she spots the telltale M shape on the V1 lead. “Right.”

“Good. And just because it won’t kill them particularly acutely, doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous. Especially if you look at this guy’s past medical. But I want you to do the history, and discharge unless there’s anything particularly worrying.”

With that, he’s gone.

Probably to try and find you. God, he’s such an annoyance.

So much for the chest pain being a good case.

8AM

When you were eleven, you were diagnosed with leukaemia for the first time. It had made for a brutal eighteen months, spent almost entirely in hospitals. You knew what the whisperings were. Neither the doctors, nor your parents, expected you to survive.

But somehow, things had started to look up, and you were in remission for your thirteenth birthday.

Everybody had told you how strong you were, how you could get through anything if you got through this. And for a while, you believed them. Believed that this was as bad as you were ever going to go through in your life.

Until your first year of undergrad when the fevers came back, the cancer following in its wake.

You’d been certain you weren’t going to survive that one.

Except, against every single odd, you pulled through, and are still here almost a decade later. Not without consequences, though. Each day brings a new fear of relapse, at the idea that you’ll never fully be out of the woods. Sure, AML is normally more common in children. But you’d been well out of the risk zone for relapse when you’d fallen ill again, so you figure the universe is just out to get you.

Where your college experience was supposed to be your first taste of freedom, of dating and living life, you’d ended up living in a house across town from campus, with your parents as your caregivers.

You love your mom and dad. You do. Truly.

Moving to Pittsburgh is the only time you’ve ever had in your life to try and discover who you are. It’s not working out too well so far, granted. But you need this, either way. Even if all the guys you’ve dated are complete douchebags, and you’re not entirely sure that orgasms exist.

Someone says your name, and you snap out of your funk. Turning, you almost collide with Robby, as he repeats it. “Got a teaching case. Come on.”

He doesn’t slow down, just angles toward the workroom where the rest of the team is gathered. It’s you, Mel and Javadi. All the younger residents and students, minus Whitaker on triage, and Trinity, who should be with Frank.

God, what you’d give to swap places with her right now.

“Patient in South Four needs an LP,” Robby says, glancing around the room. “Good teaching opportunity. I need a volunteer.”

You open your mouth.

Javadi’s voice cuts in first. “I’ll do it.”

She’s already standing, chair scraping loudly against the floor, hand halfway raised. Robby hesitates, just a beat too long, then nods.

“Alright,” He nods. “Let’s go.”

You shut your mouth again. Swallow whatever it was you were about to say. Fall into step as everyone starts moving, telling yourself it doesn’t matter, that you don’t need to be the one who always steps forward.

The room is small, crowded with bodies and equipment and the low, nervous energy that always comes with procedures. Robby does the talking to the patient, asking you and Mel a couple of questions, while Victoria gets ready.

You can tell she’s nervous, talking through each step like she’s reassuring herself as much as anyone else. Robby stands opposite her, arms folded, supervising. You take the spot no one else claims, leaning back against the counter, hands tucked into your pockets.

You watch.

You watch her feel down the spinous processes, hesitate, adjust. Watch the way her shoulders tense when the patient flinches, the way she bites her lip in concentration. Nothing goes disastrously wrong. Nothing goes perfectly, either. It takes longer than it should, even though that’s to be expected on your first try. She asks Robby questions she should already know the answers to. He answers them, clipped, professional, and detached.

Like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Maybe Frank’s right. This is potentially the worst mood you’ve ever seen from him. Even over Pittfest. Maybe he is actually in love with Pulse, and this boyfriend news has thrown him for a loop.

You think about what you’d feel if Frank announced tomorrow that he had a girlfriend.

Probably pretty shitty.

The thought sends a shiver through you. At the image of you, and a heartbroken Michael Robinavitch, drowning your sorrows at the local dive bar, as the two most pathetic people in the Pitt.

When it’s over, Javadi exhales, smiling, flushed with relief. She thanks the patient, starts talking about how cool it was, how she’s glad she got the chance, thanking Robby profusely.

He just nods, already peeling off his gloves. “Nice work,” He says, neutral enough to be meaningless.

You’re halfway out the door when you feel his hand brush your sleeve.

“Hey,” He mumbles, as Mel and Javadi push past. “Hang back a second.”

You stop in the hallway, the door swinging shut behind you. Robby rubs at the bridge of his nose, frustration finally breaking through.

“Javadi’s a fucking MS3,” He sighs. “She shouldn’t have been doing a lumbar puncture. It should’ve been you.”

“You asked for a volunteer!” You protest.

Robby’s expression tightens, whatever patience he’d been rationing finally running out.

“And you hesitated,” He says. Flat. “You always do lately.”

“That’s not fair,” you shoot back, heat rising fast. “So that was what… a test? You’re just trying to make me look bad now?”

He doesn’t soften. Doesn’t give you the out. “I watched you open your mouth and then stop. You let a medical student jump in front of you.”

“She volunteered,” You say. “Mel and I were both going to speak, but I don’t see you criticising her.”

“You should have fought for it,” he says, voice sharp now. “That’s the problem.”

You stare at him. “The LP went fine.”

“For her,” Robby says. “Because I was standing there ready to bail her out. Because the patient got lucky.” He exhales, irritated, and drops his voice. “You know better than that.”

Your jaw tightens. “So what do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop acting like you’re invisible,” He snaps. “You’re a resident. A good one. And you keep shrinking yourself like you don’t belong here.”

don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry

“Maybe I just don’t feel like fighting for every procedure,” You say quietly. “I thought fighting every step of the way to get here would be enough.”

“That’s not how this works,” Robby says. “You don’t get to coast because you’re tired. Everyone’s tired. You want to do well? Then step up. Because right now, you’re making my job harder.”

The words sting, and the tears threaten to prick at your periphery. You look away, down the hallway, anywhere but at him.

“I didn’t realize I was underperforming,” You grit out.

“If you were,” He replies, voice softening just slightly, “this conversation would be different.”

You get the sense that’s supposed to be some kind of praise. The smallest bone, thrown to make you feel a little better. Stop you from throwing yourself off the roof.

You nod once. Short. Controlled. “Got it.”

Robby watches you for a beat, like he’s deciding whether to say something else. Whatever he considers, he lets it go. “Just… be better about it,” he says. “I know you can be.”

You don’t trust your voice, so you don’t use it.

“I need to get back to triage,” You finally mumble, stepping away.

He doesn’t stop you.

You walk down the hall faster than necessary, pulling the list of your jobs from your pocket like it’s an excuse. Bloods to be drawn, X-rays to be checked, prescriptions to be written. Concrete things you can do right.

Patients don’t ask why you hesitate. They don’t care who speaks up first. They just want you to show up, do the work, move on.

That, at least, you can manage.

9AM

It takes half an hour for your path to cross with Frank’s again. As if sensing your discomfort at your current patient, a drunk man in his seventies, Frank starts to float across the Pitt.

Pretending he’s not paying the utmost attention to the way your back stiffens with each passing exchange.

“Need any help, Doctor?” He finally interjects, eyes darting between you both.

“We’re just fine, actually. She’s takin’ real good care of me,” The patient, Darren, grins, eyes darkening just a little at the intrusion.

You shoot Frank a look over his shoulder, one that you hope screams help me. Much to your immense relief, he catches on immediately.

Darren isn’t even sick. He’s in for some sutures after falling on his way home. Quite where he’s been all night to only be heading home at nine, you’re not sure, but you’re not in the mood to find out.

“Why don’t I get started on your left side? Get you out of here twice as fast.” Frank smiles down at him, but there’s a tick in his jaw that gives away his true feelings.

“No, it’s okay-”

“Don’t be silly!” Frank cuts Darren off, snapping the wristband of his gloves as he reaches for a suture kit.

A silence falls, tense and awkward as you both try and hurry through Darren’s stitches, doing your best to work quickly without compromising the quality of care too much. If he’s left with a little bit of a scar, you won’t be too worried.

“Any plans for after this?” Darren finally asks, eyes glued to yours, ignoring Frank’s presence entirely.

“Hm,” You murmur, pretending to give it serious thought. “Probably heading back out to triage to get the next patient in.”

“I meant after your shift,” He sighs, frustration seeping into his tone. “Like-”

“Page?” Frank interrupts. “You know, I’m sure I heard that Dana was looking for you.”

“Are you sure?” You arch an eyebrow, seeing right through his tactic.

“Positive,” Frank says easily, already stripping off his gloves. “Sounded urgent.”

Darren looks between the two of you, clearly clocking that something has shifted, then scoffs. “Guess I’ll see you around, Doc.” There’s an edge to it now, more wounded pride than anything.

“Take care,” You reply, already turning away. “Doctor Langdon is the best of the best.”

Fifteen minutes later, Frank appears again, right as you’re leaving an easy consultation. Sirens wail somewhere down the street. Hopefully nothing major. You’re not even four hours into your shift yet, and you’re already exhausted.

Frank leans against the railing, arms folded, looking almost… jealous? “Guy was… persistent,” he says at last, staring out across the Pitt instead of at you.

“That’s one word for it.” You glance sideways at him. “Thanks for stepping in.”

He shrugs. “Part of the job.”

Another pause. His foot taps against the ground, in a steady rhythm. “You get that a lot?”

You frown slightly. “Get what?”

He exhales through his nose, a quiet huff. “Creeps hitting on you.”

“Oh.” Understanding settles in. “Sometimes.”

Frank nods, like that confirms something he already suspected. “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

“I had it handled,” you say gently.

“I know.” He finally looks at you then, expression unreadable. “I just-” He stops, shakes his head. “Never mind.”

You wait. He doesn’t continue.

Moment over.

After a beat, he straightens, clearing his throat. “Anyway. Dana probably does need you. Place is chaos.”

You smile faintly. “Thanks again, Frank.”

He gives you a crooked half-smile in return, slinging his stethoscope round his neck. “Anytime, Doctor.”

10AM

You hear the commotion before you see anything. On the way back from checking on Beth in the cafeteria, the noise from the waiting room bounces around the corridors, and you speed up your pace.

Inside, Whitaker is desperately trying to keep two men from attacking each other. Security is nowhere in sight. Neither is Dana.

Shit.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?” You ask, voice raised considerably higher than your usual volume.

“This bastard keeps talking shit about my wife-”

“Your wife is an uneducated moron!” The other guy yells, and the two make to try and get at each other again.

“Whitaker, get Ahmad,” You urge, before putting a hand out to try and keep them apart.

“Don’t you dare touch me-”

The first man escalates to yelling, and you don’t have time to react to him cocking his arm.

It takes you a second to realise what’s happened. A sharp sting, the sound of skin-on-skin ricocheting across the waiting room, and suddenly your entire world is spinning. The impact is hard enough to send you stumbling as your head smacks into one of the pillars behind you.

You reach out for something, anything to keep you upright, but there’s nothing, and you land awkwardly on your arm on the waiting room floor.

A warmth floods your face - a mix of embarrassment and the blood trickling from split skin on your cheekbone. You sit up, while all the patients take a few steps back, clearing out in a two metre radius.

There’s a single moment of shocked silence, before a voice breaks out across the ER. Dana Evans, your lord and saviour.

“What the hell is going on out here?” Her hands land on your shoulders, firm and steady as she helps you to your feet. “You okay, kid?”

Arguments break out across the waiting room, while Ahmad appears in the doorway, Frank right behind him, eyes wide. He calls your name, and the tears that you’d been fighting so hard against suddenly prick at your periphery.

You don’t want him to see you like this. Weak-willed, and unable to break up a single fight.

Much to your dismay, Dana’s immediately passing you over to him, a small push in his direction while she continues to yell at the man.

“Are you alright?” Frank murmurs, eyes searching as he checks you over. When he checks your temple, there’s a little bit of blood at the crown. “Shit, sweetheart - you hit your head.”

“Yeah, no shit,” You manage, letting out a low groan as you scrunch your eyes shut. The fluorescent lights make you want to curl in a ball and try to pretend the last hour didn’t happen. Maybe you’ll get some trauma-induced amnesia and be able to forget the whole shift.

“Making jokes. That’s a good sign.” His arm is wrapped round your waist, and he ushers you towards one of the trauma rooms. Once inside, he shuts the door, and dims the lights. “What happened out there?”

The lowered intensity already makes you feel a little better. “Patient demanding to be seen straight away. Didn’t appreciate being told no.”

“You should’ve got me,” He replies, voice low as he inspects the cut, earning a hiss from you. “Sorry.”

“You can’t fight my battles, Frank.”

“Sure, but I could’ve fought that one.” He’s razor-focused, hands gentle. “Putting antiseptic on now, then I’ll cover it, okay?”

You nod, and steel yourself for the cool sting. “I’m sure that would go down well with Robby. Punching patients on my behalf.”

“I’d do it,” He insists.

“I don’t doubt that,” You mumble, offering a small smile. “Are you done yet?”

“I was going to send you for a CT-”

“Frank. I do not need a CT.”

“You hit your head!”

You scoff a little. “Barely!”

“It’s a CT or a full neuro exam. Take your pick.”

Rolling your eyes, you allow him to guide you backwards towards the pillows, until you’re horizontal. “Neuro exam, I suppose. I have too much work for a CT.”

“I’ll cover you-”

“Yeah, okay. And then Robby will hate me even more than he already does.”

Nonetheless, you comply, and allow him to flash a light into your eyes to check your pupillary responses, before checking every single reflex you have. It’s a more thorough exam than you were doing in med school. “Frank, come on. This is ridiculous,” You finally call, when he begins his series of special tests - saved only for the most serious of cases.

“Gotta cover all bases, sweetheart. Can’t have my best resident injured.”

“I am not your best resident,” You scoff, feeling heat rising to your cheeks.

He shoots you a look, before sitting down on the edge of the bed. “You are hands down my best resident, are you kidding?”

“There’s a difference between liking me as a person, and thinking I’m your best resident.”

“Okay, fine,” He concedes. “You’re my best resident, and my favourite person here. Happy?”

“Flirt,” You mumble, earning a deep laugh from the man beside you.

“Only for you, honey-” He’s cut off by his pager beeping, letting out a heavy sigh as he glances down. “Duty calls. Sit in here for fifteen, and only go back to work if you’re feeling a hundred percent. Anything less, and I want you to call me. Alright?”

You roll your eyes, but Frank’s expression is deadly serious. “I could still order a CT-”

“Fine, fine! I’ll call you if I feel the slightest bit dizzy.”

“Good girl.”

You have to pretend that his words don’t make you feel light-headed as he leaves the room. Frank is absolutely off-limits. He’s one of your superiors, and getting involved with him could fuck up your entire working experience.

He’s also been married before, and you can’t imagine him going for an inexperienced resident who’s spent a sizeable chunk of her life in hospital.

You’ll just have to get over this little crush.

11AM

You forget all about Beth until she’s wheeled into North Seven, looking considerably worse than the last time you saw her. Frowning, you’re immediately checking the labs. Bloods are normal, other than a mildly elevated white cell count, and there’s no fever. It’s odd. Normally people with kidney stones are doubled over in pain.

Aside from the newly developed vomiting, she still insists she’s fine.

Finally, you call Frank in. He’s the only one you feel alright with admitting uncertainty to.

You don’t realize how tense you are until he shows up and quietly leans against the counter beside you, glancing down at the charts in your hands. Beth lies in the bed looking smaller than before, curled slightly on her side. There’s an sick bowl near her hand now. She keeps apologizing for it. You keep insisting it’s the least gross thing you’ve seen all day.

You turn back to the computer, jaw tight.

“Ultrasound’s clean,” You say, more to yourself than to Frank. “No hydronephrosis. No obvious stones.”

Frank gives a small nod. “Okay. What are you thinking?”

“That should make me feel better,” You continue, scrolling. “But it doesn’t.”

You flip through the vitals again. Still afebrile. Heart rate a little fast, but nothing dramatic. Labs next, mostly reassuring, except for the white cell count.

You glance back at Beth. She’s not restless. Not writhing. Just pale and tired, and probably sick of this hospital.

“She’s vomiting,” You say slowly. “And she wasn’t yesterday.”

Frank shifts, but lets you keep going.

“And she looks worse. Not better.” You pull up the urinalysis again, your eyes slowing this time, forcing yourself not to skim.

Blood.

White cells.

Nitrites.

Your chest tightens.

“It’s not showing up,” you murmur. “Maybe the stone is tiny, but it’s infected. Which is why I didn’t see it on the ultrasound.”

Frank turns his head toward you.

“An obstructed infection isn’t always obvious,” You continue, the words coming faster now as the picture sharpens. “No obvious findings if the blockage’s intermittent or higher up. Ultrasound can miss it. We need to send her for a CT, and get urology down here now. I think she has pyelonephritis.”

Orders spill out of you. IV fluids. Broad-spectrum antibiotics. Urology, urgent. Frank follows them all diligently, a look that you can’t quite place in his eyes.

When you step into Beth’s room again, she looks at your face and immediately knows something has changed.

“Is something wrong?” she asks quietly.

“We think you might be sicker than you look,” You murmur, gentler than you feel. “There’s an infection in your kidney, and we need to take care of it properly. So we’re going to send you for a CT right away, and then get surgery down to have a chat, okay?”

She nods, trusting, even as they start preparing her for transfer. “Thank you.”

You offer her as warm a smile as you can muster. “Don’t mention it.”

As the bed is wheeled away, Frank remains beside you, gaze trained on your form.

“You figured it out,” He says.

You stare at the doorway long after it closes. “I almost let the ultrasound talk me out of it.”

“But you listened to her,” He replies. “And to yourself. That’s what a good emergency physician does.”

You exhale, slow and shaky, then straighten your shoulders, heat blossoming through your chest.

“Anyway, I should get back to Santos, before she complains to Robby and I get yelled at. Again.”

*****

You're standing at Central doing paperwork when a hand lands on your waist, steering you towards the front door.

"What are you doing?" You frown, glancing up at Langdon. "You're supposed to have Santos today."

"Santos can take it up with Robby if she's got a problem. We've got a trauma coming in, and I need my best resident."

It's a battle to pretend that his words don't make your heart soar. Sure, he's a little bit older, and he's one of your direct superiors, but a harmless daydream never hurt anyone.

The patient is wheeled in, and Frank talks you through a cricothyroidotomy - brushing off Garcia's sneering comments.

"The kid's got it. She'll be fine."

Hands trembling a little, you focus desperately on the task at hand. Thankfully, everything goes to plan, and soon the patient is stabilised, and ready to head for surgery.

Frank is right at your back, almost enveloping you. "Good girl," He murmurs, directly into your ear, and just low enough that no one else can hear. "You'll be doing these in your sleep soon."

"I doubt it," You snort. "I could only do it because you talked me through everything."

"Guess I'll just have to make sure I'm around for them all then. Professional expertise, and all that." Finally moving away, he shoots you a wink over his shoulder.

You’re desperately trying to force yourself to focus on the task at hand. Documenting the procedure, and the treatment plan for the nurses to follow. Suddenly, your phone dings, the distinct sound of your Outlook app, and you freeze.

It can’t be today.

You were told you wouldn’t hear back for at least two weeks, and you’d only interviewed on Monday.

Ever since tensions have risen with Robby, you’ve been considering your place in medicine. More specifically, your place in the Pitt. Whether you’re really cut out for this life. Doctor Abbot had advised you against it, told you that you should stay the year and make up your mind later, but you’d still found yourself applying for a couple of residencies.

Nothing crazy.

One in Boston. One in Wilmington. One in San Diego, in case you felt like the West Coast.

You’ve only interviewed for Boston so far. The others are in the New Year.

Hands trembling, you check your emails, to be met with a resounding yes.

We’d be delighted to offer you a position on our family medicine programme, starting on the first of February next calendar year…

You’re not filled with excitement. You’d rather not move city again - finding yourself starting over, when you’ve barely managed to scratch the surface of Pittsburgh. But there is a deep rooted relief, at the idea that someone wants you, and can see value in the way you practice medicine.

“What’s that?” From nowhere, Samira appears at your back, glancing over at your phone.

“Oh! Nothing,” You say, immediately scrambling to shove your phone back in your pockets. “Just a scam email.”

“Hm.” She sounds entirely unconvinced, but doesn’t comment further. “Well, Langdon wants you in South 12. As usual.”

Her eyes gleam a little with the last sentence.

“Shut up,” You grumble.

“What? I didn’t say anything!”

“You implied, and that’s enough.”

12PM

Santos storms up to Robby near the charting computers, face flushed and eyes bright with anger. “Is this a joke?” she snaps.

Robby looks up. “What’s going on?”

She doesn’t answer, instead opting to point. Down the hall, Frank is hovering by your side. Again. His hand is inches from your waist, grin crooked as he talks you through something on the board in front of you both.

“That,” Santos says. “That’s what’s going on.”

Robby watches it happen, his mouth flattening. “He left you?”

It’s a question, but really he already knows the answer. Ever since you started working here, Frank has been afflicted with a severe case of tunnel vision. He can hardly function while you’re around. It would be endearing, if this didn’t happen every year. He fixated on a girl for a while, and then broke her heart.

Granted, the heart’s are normally broken by now, but still.

Since his divorce, Frank hasn’t been so great at holding down relationships.

“Mid-presentation,” Trinity says sharply. “Again. I was talking. He didn’t even pretend to listen, just told me to follow my gut, and ditched me for her.”

Robby exhales. “How many times today?”

“Does it matter?” Santos fires back.

She folds her arms tight. “I know Page’s a second-year. I know she’s more experienced. But I’m his intern today. I keep getting stuck with all the shitty cases, because of him.”

Robby nods slowly. “Did you say something to him?”

“What, so I can look like a needy first-year?” Santos scoffs. “No. Langdon’s never listened to a single word I’ve said. He certainly won’t start today.”

“Go grab coffee or something,” Robby says gently. “I’ll deal with it.”

Santos hesitates, then nods, jaw clenched as she walks away.

Langdon comes back a minute later, flipping through labs, clearly in a hurry, until he nearly runs into Robby.

“Oh - hey,” Frank mumbles, obviously preoccupied. “If this is about the admit in Three-”

“It’s about Santos,” Robby cuts in.

Langdon stiffens. “What about her?”

“You keep leaving her,” Robby says flatly. “You’re the senior. She’s your intern. Yet every time Page needs something, you disappear.”

“That’s not fair,” Langdon says quickly. “Page’s cases are more complicated.”

“She’s a second-year,” Robby replies. “She should be able to wait. Or handle it herself. Your intern can’t. You need to be teaching. Not favouring.”

Langdon frowns. “I’m not favouring anyone.”

Robby raises an eyebrow. “Then why does Santos feel like she doesn’t exist?”

Frank opens his mouth, closes it. His eyes flick instinctively down the hall toward you, as you help an old lady into a wheelchair.

Robby catches it. “There. That. That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I’m just trying to help Page,” Langdon insists. “She doesn’t always speak up. You’re hard on her.”

“And Santos does?” Robby shoots back. “She’s brand new, and impulsive. She needs structure, not abandonment. Someone to work on her communication skills with her.”

“I didn’t abandon her.”

“Call it whatever you want, but she calls it favouritism.”

He bristles, eyes narrowing. “That’s not what this is.”

“Intent doesn’t matter,” Robby says, already turning toward Central. “Impact does. And right now, your intern thinks you don’t give a damn.”

Frank follows, irritation simmering. “This is being blown way out of proportion.”

“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you-” Robby starts, and Frank’s brow furrows.

“Who? Page?”

“-but you cannot ignore your teaching duties for your girlfriend.”

“She is not my-”

“Alright, not girlfriend. Friend with benefits, or whatever the kids call it these days. Hook-up, I don’t care-”

“Please don’t ever say the word hook-up again,” Frank groans.

“You’ve run enough staff members out of this hospital,” Robby warns, continuing the walk to Central to inspect the admissions list.

Frank follows, trying to fight the outrage building in his chest. “That is not true-”

“Cailey in neuro?”

“She got a fellowship at Hopkins!”

“Hm, yeah. Right after you dumped her for Madeline in geriatrics. Who you then dumped for Calista in admin. Who got shafted for Valerie in respiratory. All of whom, coincidentally, no longer work at this hospital anymore.”

“That’s not my fault!” Frank protests. “And besides, Page and I are not sleeping together.”

“It’s not not your fault. And even if you’re not fucking… it’s crystal clear you want to.”

“That’s beside the point,” He huffs, eyes darting around the Pitt to make sure you’re nowhere near. He’d rather die than let you overhear this conversation.

“Do not hurt her,” Robby says firmly, drawing Frank’s attention back to him. “She’s had a rough transition. Complicating things won’t help.”

“Yeah, no thanks to you! She thinks you hate her-”

“I don’t hate her. I just want her to do well. She has potential, but she-”

“-needs to be more assertive,” Frank parodies, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I know. She knows. It’s all you ever fucking say to her. She tried that today, and she got punched. So I’m not sure how good your advice is.”

1PM

The nurses think they’re subtle with the gossiping. They’re not, but by some miracle you don’t hear it. The comments passed between Perlah and Princess every time you and Frank interact. The knowing looks that Dana throws Robby on each staff night out, when Frank never fails to gravitate towards you as the night wears on.

They’re half-surprised that neither of you have found the betting board, shoved in one of the lounge cupboards.

Santos. $20. They’re already fucking, but it ends when he breaks her heart.

Samira. $10. They’ve been secretly dating since they met, and they’re screwing with us all.

Skipper. $30. Haven’t met Page, but she seems too good for him - they date for a while and then she leaves him for someone better looking and more successful :)

Abbot. $50. They get together before Robby gets another girlfriend

McKay. $15. He screws things up somehow

Pulse. $5. Leave them both alone!

Dana. $50. They’re pining for each other - will get together before this year is out.

*****

Your pager goes off. Paeds. Unresponsive.

You’re already moving by the time the words finish registering, feet carrying you through hallways you could navigate blind. Robby and Frank are there when you arrive, sleeves pushed up, expression solemn as Skipper reads off vitals.

They wheel her in fast, followed by an anxious father and a terrified father.

You wish you could bring them some comfort, but there’s nothing to be done. Not when their daughter’s life is on the line.

She’s small. Too small. Limbs thin to the point of fragility, chest barely moving. Someone says anorexia, says cardiac arrest, says ROSC, and your brain files it all away with brutal efficiency.

Your eyes catch on the teddy bear clutched in her hands.

As they move to transfer her, her fingers loosen. The bear slips free and hits the floor, landing on its side in the chaos. No one notices. No one can.

Something twists in your chest.

Not now.

You step in without being asked. Your voice stays even as you call out vitals, as you move where you’re needed, as your hands do exactly what they’ve been trained to do. Tubes, monitors, numbers that refuse to feel abstract when the patient looks like this. When she looks like a child who should be worrying about spelling tests, not dying.

Robby looks at you once, quick and sharp. “You with me?”

“Yes,” you say, and this time it’s true enough.

You don’t look at the bear again. You don’t think you can.

But despite everything - the compressions, the meds, the desperate coordination… she doesn’t make it.

The monitor flatlines.

Robby curses under his breath. The team goes still. An anguished cry escapes from her mother’s lips, while her father can do nothing but stare, eyes darting between the doctors, as if imploring them to do more.

There’s a sudden commotion. A bustle of people, as the parents rush out in a flurry of sobs, Robby and Kiara on their heels. Trying to find them a room for their grief, when it’s too much to be in the same room as their dead daughter.

When it’s over, when the room finally empties, when the chaos recedes, you bend and pick up the teddy bear from the floor. It’s lighter than it should be. That’s when your hands start to shake.

Just a little.

And then the tears come.

2PM

It’s like somebody’s crushing your chest, as you start to gasp for breath. The bear sits discarded in the corner, it’s eyes boring deep into your soul. You think you might die if Robby sees you like this. If anybody, other than Frank, sees it.

Short, sharp breaths aren’t enough to fill your lungs, and you can see Frank’s brow furrow as he crosses, the room. “Hey, you’re alright, I’ve got you.”

His voice is low, murmured just for you, and he pulls you in tightly. The embrace helps a little, but you can still feel tears start to trickle down your cheeks. A wave of shame washes over you.

This is what comes with the territory.

Death.

You don’t know what it is about this case that’s bothered you so much. It’s always hard… losing people, but the idea of continuing on with your shift right now makes you want to bawl.

Maybe it’s time you consider that offer from Mass General. If you switched now, you could be trained in family medicine before you hit thirty-five. A fresh start, away from a boss that hates you and a senior resident who you’re so painfully in love with that you can barely function.

Frank’s glancing outside, making sure the coast is clear, before he laces his fingers through yours, and pulls you out into the corridor, and into one of the supply closets. Face burning, you’re endlessly grateful nobody’s around to watch you fall apart like this.

“I-I-” You begin, but your voice cuts off in another sob.

“Sweetheart,” Frank mumbles, thumb catching your tears as he gives you a quick once-over. “Come on. Breathe with me. It’s okay.”

In vain, you try and follow his breathing patterns, but you’re still too worked up. “I don’t think I-I’m meant to be here,” You finally manage.

“What do you mean?”

“Here. The Pitt. Emergency medicine. I don’t know. All of the above. R-Robby was right, and I think maybe I need to think about Boston-”

“Woah,” Frank interjects. “What the hell does Boston have to do with any of this?”

Eventually, you pause, Frank’s hands settling on your forearms. His grip is tight, as if he’s scared you’re going to disappear from under him.

This had not been how you planned on breaking the news to him. Hell, you still aren’t even sure you’re going to take it. But it’s looking better and better as an option each day. “I applied for a family medicine residency at Massachusetts General - I got an offer through this morning.”

“Wha- but, why? I thought you liked the ER? Thought you were settling in?”

“Come on, Frankie. You know I’m not cut out for this-”

“Bullshit - is this about Robby this morning? Because he’s just in a shitty mood because of Pulse. Nothing else. He hasn’t been laid in a really long time, and-”

“It’s not Robby, it’s me - I mean, god, just today I’ve been hit, yelled at, and cried over a patient I’d known for fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah, and that empathy is why you’re a hell of a doctor,” Frank argues. “This ER needs you so badly, honey, and I’m so sorry you’ve been made to feel otherwise.”

When you don’t reply, he storms on.

“Don’t go to Boston. Stay here. Please.”

“I don’t know that there’s anything for me here,” You whisper, eyes shining as you meet his gaze.

“I’m here.” He’s never sounded so firm, lip between his teeth as he watches for any changes in your expression.

A silence falls between you both, chests still heaving, before he makes a sudden movement. When he kisses you, the air is sucked from your lungs for a very different reason. Hands fisting in Frank’s scrub top, it’s all you can do just to stay upright.

Initially slow, it doesn’t take long to build to tongue and teeth, your breaths coming in sharp gasps as he presses you against the counter.

“Frank,” You whimper, barely pausing as you melt into his touch. His knee slots between your thigh, anchoring you to him. His hands drop to your waist, pulling you to him as tightly as possible. He’s everywhere, and it’s somehow not enough.

It feels like a lifetime before he finally pulls back, breathing heavily as he rests his forehead against yours. “Can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that for.”

“I’d actually really like to know how long you’ve wanted to do it for,” You mumble, letting out a laugh when he starts to pepper kisses across your face.

“Since about thirty minutes after you arrived on your first day.”

“Well, I think I’ve got you beat then, because I’ve wanted to do that since the second I met you.”

He kisses you once more, soft and slow as he moulds against you. “You’re incredible.”

“Shut up,” You scoff, but he’s immediately shaking his head.

“It’s true! I don’t lie.”

“You lie all the time. To Trinity, about not eating her bagel when you did, to Robby when you said you had plans and couldn’t cover, to Whitak-”

“Alright, alright, I lie a little. But not to you. Never to you.”

Someone walks past the closet, making you jump. Turns out, it’s very easy for the world to shrink down to just you and Frank. “We should uh… we should get back out there.”

“Yeah, of course,” He nods, finally taking a step back. “Should really get back to Santos.”

He makes a face, and you have to bite back a laugh. “She’s not that bad.”

“To you, maybe. She hates me.”

“And who’s fault is that?” You both make for Central, smiles dropping when you see everybody gathered around the phone.

Frank’s at your heel, a hand resting on your lower back. It appears that subtlety is not his strong suit. “What’s going on?”

Robby’s expression is grave. “A bomb just went off at the New Year’s celebration - we’re the closest, we’ll be getting most of the casualties.”

You think you might be sick.

3PM

You get fragments of details, ricocheting round the ER from various sources. At Pittsburgh’s biggest gathering for New Year’s, which usually lasts all day, there had been a bomb. Right in the middle of the city centre.

There’s no telling how many casualties you’ll have yet.

The police think it was a suicide bomber. Beyond that, there’s nothing.

Just confusion, where nobody knows exactly what’s going on.

The first wave hits like a wall.

Abbot, Shen and Ellis have all made their way in to help out. Robby’s taken triage, while Shen runs reds with you, Cassie and Samira, while Abbot floats. Frank’s on pinks with Whitaker, while the other residents spread out across the less severe cases.

You barely have time to breathe before a stretcher is pushed into your bay, Skipper’s partner rattling off details as you fall into step beside her. Early twenties. Found near the blast radius. Breathing fast, skin clammy, pupils blown wide with shock.

You take over automatically.

“Hi there,” you say, voice steady even as your heart hammers. “You’re at Pittsburgh General. I’m one of the doctors, and I need you to keep your eyes on me, okay? We’re going to treat you as best we can.”

Airway’s clear. Breathing shallow but present. Pulse fast, thready

You call for fluids. Oxygen. Get a pressure cuff on.

Eventually, she stabilises. It’s still not wonderful - she’s covered in burns that plastics are going to have a field day with, but you can send her to the surgeons to make that happen.

There’s no time to dwell on it.

The next patient is worse. Middle-aged, unresponsive, brought in with CPR already in progress. Skipper’s perched on top of his stretcher, working furiously. Jack is at her back, a hand hovering to keep her steady with each twist and turn of the gurney. Someone calls out the time down. Three minutes. Your heart constricts, but you’re already snapping gloves on, reaching for a defibrillator.

“Continue compressions,” You order, sharper than you mean to. “Let’s get pads on.”

Abbot takes over from Skipper, allowing her to get back out to the ambulance. You glance at him, in case he wants to take over, lead the case. All you get is a reassuring nod. “All yours, kid. I’m at your disposal.”

The room narrows to rhythm and timing. Pause for breaths, then compressions start again as you place each pad.

“Charging. Clear!”

You clear back, heart in your throat. The shock lands, the body jolting once before going still again.

For a split second, nothing happens.

Then… “Pulse.”

It’s faint, but it’s there.

The relief is dizzying, almost painful. You steady yourself against the bed as the room surges back into motion. Airway secured, lines placed, vitals shouted aloud. Jack claps you on the back, and you snap back to work.

This patient won’t need surgery, thankfully. Just a stay in critical care to check brain activity.

You catch Frank’s eye from across the bay; he gives you a sharp nod, pride flickering through the exhaustion while he works on an elderly man, missing a leg.

The third stretcher comes in a flurry of noise, as she crashes en route from the front door to Central.

CPR is started, with you on compressions this time.

But this feels different to the last. Something low in your gut tells you that this woman isn’t surviving.

You spend ten minutes on CPR. Longer than Robby would have liked, you’re aware. But he’s still outside directing patients, and you can’t quite bring yourself to stop.

Time of death is called, and the words sit heavy in the air. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stay upright, to stay professional as the team disperses. There’s a name on the chart. Someone who came here to celebrate and didn’t get to leave.

Someone who doesn’t get to see the new year.

You step back, hands curling into fists at your sides.

Frank appears without a word. He doesn’t touch you, not here, but he doesn’t leave either. It’s fleeting. You both have endless patients to get to. But it’s grounding. “You okay?” He asks quietly.

You nod. Then shake your head. Then nod again. “There’s more coming,” You say, voice tight.

“I know,” he replies. “You’re doing great.”

You draw in a breath, square your shoulders, and turn back toward the noise.

Two saved. One lost.

4PM

The patient comes in already shouting.

Mid-thirties, male, reeking of alcohol and stinking of marijuana. He’s bleeding, a head wound and maybe a forearm, but it’s the way his eyes track the room that sets you on edge.

Fight-or-flight tipped violently toward fight.

Somehow he lands in your bay, Skipper throwing you a guilty look as she drops him off. "Sorry. I'd give him to Frank, but he's elbow deep in some guy's guts right now. Told him to get his ass over to you as soon as he was done though."

"Don't worry about it," You reply, smile tight, as you turn to the patient.

“Sir, I need you to stay on the stretcher,” You say, calm and even, hands raised just enough to be non-threatening. “We’re here to help you.”

“I don’t need help,” He snaps, trying to sit up. “I need you to get your hands off me.”

“I haven’t touched you,” You reply gently, already signaling for Ahmad with a glance. Except, the ER is so full of noise that nobody's paying any attention.

He doesn’t like that.

He swings his legs off the bed, movements sloppy but forceful.

Blood drips onto the floor, dark and slick under the harsh lights. The smell of iron hangs in the air, mixing with the weed. It's somehow worse than the burning flesh smell.

“Sir-” You start.

He shoves you.

It’s sudden enough that you don’t have time to brace. Your heel slides in the pool of blood, traction lost, and for a split second all you can see is the floor rushing up to meet you.

A hand clamps around your waist.

Strong. Steady.

Frank.

He yanks you back against him, arm locked tight around your middle as you regain your footing. Your back hits his chest, solid and real, and you gasp.

“That’s enough,” Frank says, voice low. “You do not touch her.” She is trying to help you."

Ahmad rushes in after that, hands on the patient as he makes another swing at you both. He keeps yelling, but he’s already being moved, already no longer your problem.

You'd put money on him being taken to Abbot.

There's nothing he likes more than taking down obnoxious men a few pegs.

Frank doesn’t let go right away.

“You okay?” He murmurs, pitched just for you, thumb flexing once at your side like he needs the reassurance that you’re still upright.

“Yeah,” You say, though your heart is racing hard enough to make your ears ring. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

He releases you reluctantly, eyes scanning you head to toe with barely restrained panic before he steps back. Re-thinking his movement, he presses a quick kiss to your temple before moving towards the hallway. "Can't have two concussions in one day, sweetheart. You'd think we abuse you."

“Langdon,” Robby’s voice cuts in. “You’re needed out front - take triage for a little bit.”

Frank hesitates, looking at you.

“I’m good,” You repeat, more firmly this time, offering as much of a smile as you're able.

He nods once and goes, jaw clenched tight.

You look down.

There’s blood on your shoe. Not yours.

There’s no time to spiral.

The next patient crashes minutes later. Hypotensive. Internal bleeding suspected. Everything moves fast. Walsh is at your side, as you try and figure out how to proceed.

“We’re losing her,” someone says.

"She needs a chest tube," You breathe, leaping into action before Walsh can talk you out of it.

*****

Robby finds you by the desk a few minutes later, when the lull finally begins. There are still patients being brought in regularly, but it's not as fraught anymore.

With most of the patients stabilised, everyone's allowing themselves to breathe a little easier.

“You did good today - handled the pressure well,” He says.

You glance up, surprised. “I just did what needed doing.”

He studies you for a moment, then sighs. “I was hard on you earlier. With the lumbar puncture. With… everything.” He rubs a hand over his face. “That was unfair.”

You don’t answer right away. You’re still coming down, still replaying everything in your head.

“You have real potential here. And it was just... so infuriating that you weren't making the most of that,” Robby continues. “You trusted your instincts today. That matters. And it shows that you're meant to be here.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

5PM

“Shit!” You curse, as the final patient of the night manages to spray blood directly across your face. Just your luck.

Frank’s at your side immediately, the way you can tell he’s been itching to be all night. With all the chaos of the last few hours, you’ve barely been able to keep track of each other. “You okay?”

“Bloody. But fine.”

Robby emerges from Central, eyes darting between you both. “I’ve got this one. Go get cleaned up. You both did good work today. Don’t want to keep you here any longer than necessary.

You flash Robby a grateful smile, hoping that this is the beginning of some kind of truce.

The exhaustion is beginning to seep into your bones, and you’re easily pliable under Frank’s arms as he guides you towards the staff lounge, currently deserted. He clicks the door shut behind you, and reaches up into the cupboards above the sink.

“Long day,” You sigh, resting against the counter, eyes fluttering closed. “And a shitty end to the New Year.”

“Saved a lot of people though,” Frank counters, positioning you so that he can clean you. His expression is focused, lip between his teeth as he dabs at your face with a cloth.

“Do I look like an extra from The Walking Dead?” You murmur, trying not to imagine how difficult it’s going to be to get the blood out of your hair. So much for a new start going into the new year.

“You’re too pretty to be on The Walking Dead,” He replies, and you roll your eyes.

“Liar.”

“It’s true!” He protests. “Close your eyes for a sec-” The cloth brushes across your eyelids, as Frank lets out a small hum. “There. That’s you.”

You offer him a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem.” His voice is quiet, almost contemplative, his hand still hovering near your cheek.

A sudden wave of self-consciousness rushes through you. You haven’t looked in a mirror since midday- god knows what you look like right now. “What?”

“Just thinking,” He shrugs, discarding the cloth before his other hand pushes a stray hair from your face.

“About…?” You trail off, arching an eyebrow.

“How I really don’t want you to go to Boston. How I think you’re perfect in Emergency Medicine. How much I’d like to kiss you again.”

A smile spreads across your face. It’s been the worst shift of your life, hands down, and yet you’re not sure you’ve ever been happier. “Are you just thinking about it or are you actually going to make a move?”

“Someone’s impatient,” Frank murmurs, before his hands drop to your waist and he pulls you in, kissing you deeply.

It’s softer than the first kiss - less desperate. Your hands fist his scrub top, and you sigh into his movements. There’s none of the usual early awkwardness - trying to work out the dynamic, the push and pull. It’s like you and Frank have been doing this for years.

Finally, he pulls back a little, resting his forehead against yours.

“Pity it’s not midnight,” You breathe, and he lets out a low laugh.

“We’ll just have to do it again, then.”

“Very smooth, Langdon.”

“And Boston?” There’s an air of nerves to his tone, like he’s not quite sure where he stands. Where you both stand. Together.

“You can decline the offer right now, if you want.”

The door to the office swings open, and you both leap apart as Dana sticks her head in. “Don’t mind me,” She starts. “Just need a pen.”

Once the door closes again, you worry that the moment is ruined. That today is just going to go down as an almost. Instead, Frank speaks. “Do you have plans tonight?”

You wish you could say you did. But in a new city, you haven’t quite managed the friends thing yet. Omaha to Pennsylvania is a long way, and your plans had involved a glass of wine, and a viewing of When Harry Met Sally. Lip between your teeth, you shake your head.

“Come out with me,” He urges.

“To do what?”

“Anything. I’ll pick you up at eight - we can go get drinks, catch a firework show, whatever you want.”

It’s the easiest decision of your life. “Okay, yeah,” You smile. “That sounds fun. I uh, I don’t have my car, though. Might take me a little bit to get home.”

His jaw drops a little. “You walked?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” You shrug.

“Okay, well. Change of plans. I’m going to drive you home, and then go get changed myself, and come back to pick you up.”

“You don’t have to do that,” You start, but Frank is immediately shaking his head.

“Don’t bother, sweetheart. Sweeping you off your feet does not involve a two mile walk home in the dark. I’m driving.”

6PM

Dana’s been aware of you both all day. Aside from being Charge Nurse, and her duty to keep track of the staff, she’s been paying extra special attention to you and Frank Langdon.

Even if she hadn’t walked in on you both about to jump each other, she would’ve noticed the shift. Normally after traumas, you’re withdrawn and quiet. A little aloof with everybody, even Frank.

Tonight, your demeanour is relaxed, and the smile hasn’t left your face as you follow Frank out of the hospital.

Frank isn’t much better. His body has been angled towards you, ever since you both emerged from the supply closet, and his fingers keep twitching, as if he’s suppressing the urge to reach out for you.

She has a feeling she might be collecting some money from Perlah tomorrow - the two of them have had an ongoing bet about whether Robby or Frank will get their act together first. Perlah had been firmly Team Robby, on the grounds that he’s been pining for the night-shift charge nurse for literal years, and surely he couldn’t drag this out much longer.

Dana, on the other hand, always knew that Frank had it in him.

He’s afforded the luxury of being mildly less fucked up than Robby, and he’s in very close proximity to you on almost every shift.

Knowing there’s some money coming her way from the betting pool helps too.

The eyes never lie, and the two of you have been gone for each other since day one.

She does see the irony in a very occasion for you both sprouting from a hellish shift, but she figures someone deserves to be happy tonight.

Dana’s gaze follows your figures out to Frank’s car, and she has to bite back a smile when he leans down to press a kiss to your cheek, before opening the door for you.

Maybe they’ll all get a Pitt wedding before long.

You turned up the radio, letting the familiar guitar riff of a Fleetwood Mac song cut clean through the noise. You were prone to drowning things out with music; it was a great way to avoid your own thoughts.

The car wasn’t new. You couldn’t afford new. But she had personality—a red 1970s convertible you’d found through a guy in Venice who insisted she “ran like a dream,” which was only true if that dream involved the occasional stutter uphill. You named her Cherry because subtlety was overrated.

Your whole life fit neatly inside Cherry: two suitcases in the trunk, a stack of half-filled notebooks on the passenger seat, and a battered guitar case in the back seat. 

You’d spent the last few years chasing inspiration across cities like it was a full-time job with no benefits. You’d written songs in shared kitchens, poems on bar napkins, and once had an Oscar-worthy breakdown in a Portland laundromat when someone stole your clothes and left you with nothing but the denim shorts and old Top Gun sweatshirt you were wearing.

Life experience, you called it. Character development, if you were feeling generous. But after your last roommate tried to start a kombucha brewery in the bathtub, you decided it was time to come home.

Once you passed San Diego, the road curved inland toward the base. You slowed down, mostly because you always did here. The air had that sharp metallic tang of jet fuel that never quite left your memory. 

You didn’t mean to look up. But then you did, and that was your first mistake.

Four jets cut across the sky in formation, sunlight bouncing off their wings. The sound reached you a few seconds later, deep and thunderous, vibrating straight through your chest. Your breath caught before your brain could even register why.

It always made you think of Bradley.

You wondered if one of those pilots was him. Seeing those jets reminded you that he’d stayed while you’d run.

You forced your eyes back to the road, heart doing that inconvenient nostalgia thing you pretended not to notice. You told yourself you were older now, grounded, emotionally evolved. 

By the time you pulled into The Hard Deck’s parking lot, the sky was washed in peach and gold. The sign out front was still a little crooked, still sun-faded, and the gravel crunched under your tyres exactly the same way it had last summer. You turned off the engine and let the quiet sink in.

Your reflection in the rear-view mirror looked tired, but you could pass it off as intentional—messy eyeliner, bitten lips, wind-swept hair. 

You got out and stretched, legs stiff from the drive, and reached into the back seat for your patchwork shoulder bag. The strap was a little frayed where it rubbed against your shoulder, but you liked it that way. It was the one thing you took with you to every city you’d called home. 

Inside, the bar hummed with life in that low, comforting way you’d missed. The clink of glasses, laughter, the faint buzz of a jukebox humming in the corner. You could have closed your eyes and known exactly where you were.

The Hard Deck hadn’t changed since you’d visited your dad last summer. The same scuffed floorboards. The same pool tables that leaned slightly to the left. The same smell of salt and spilt beer baked into the walls. 

Penny’s touch was everywhere. The neon sign over the bar gleamed a little brighter. The old jukebox, once half-broken and temperamental, now glowed in the corner like it had been restored within an inch of its life.

Eight years ago, it had been different. Louder, rougher around the edges. A full-on Navy haunt when Bradley was just another new aviator at Top Gun, eager to show you his favourite spots.

Bradley had taken you straight to the piano.

You could still see him there, sleeves rolled, hair too long, grin wide enough to make you forget how to speak. The room had been packed, people shouting, drinks sloshing, but he’d been completely lost in the song. You’d tried to keep up, but your hands knew guitar strings, not piano keys.

Bradley had only laughed, covered your hand with his, and pressed your fingers into the right chord. His touch had been light, sure, and entirely unfair.

“See?” he’d said, still grinning. “You’re getting it.”

You hadn’t been. You’d been too busy trying to remember how lungs worked.

Now, the jukebox played something jaunty, and you blinked as the memory desolved. The Hard Deck had changed since your first visit, and so had you.

“Well, look who it is!”

You turned toward the voice, already smiling. “Penny!”

Penny Benjamin was making her way around the bar, sun-kissed and grinning, all warmth and disbelief. She pulled you into a hug that smelled faintly of citrus and salt air.

“Pete wasn’t kidding,” she said, holding you at arm’s length. “He told me you were moving back for real this time. I didn’t believe him. He’s been saying that for, what, two summers now?”

You laughed. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t sure I believed me either. But I think I’m ready to stay in one place for a while. Maybe even put down some roots.”

Penny’s smile softened. “Music to my ears. And if you need something to do while those roots take hold, I could always use another pair of hands behind the bar.”

You blinked, pleasantly surprised. “You’re offering me a job?”

“Only if you’re not too good for us locals now,” she teased. “Pete says you’ve been living the free spirited artistic dream. But I remember those drinks you made at the barbecue last summer. You’ve got some serious skills.”

You grinned, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “I could start once I’ve unpacked, assuming you’re serious.”

“Dead serious.” Penny ducked behind the counter, filled a glass with Coke, and added a wedge of lime. The ice clinked as she slid it toward you. “On the house. For my favourite Mitchell.”

You picked up the glass, hiding your smile behind the rim. “Don’t let my dad hear you say that.”

“Oh, please,” she said, smirking. “He already knows.”

You took a sip and let the comfort of being home settle in your chest. For the first time in years, you weren’t just passing through.

You were people-watching, entertained by the group of pilots playing darts and arguing about whose landing had been cleaner that day, when someone slid onto the stool beside you.

He was broad, blond, and cocky. The kind of man who probably practised his smirk on reflective surfaces. The service khakis gave him away instantly; neat, pressed, and impossible to mistake for anything but Navy. You knew more about pins than the average tourist, and the ones over his pocket told you everything you needed to know.

This man wasn’t just Navy. He was an aviator. Judging by the overconfident lean and movie-star grin, you’d bet good money this was the infamous Hangman you’d heard about from your dad.

“Well, hello there,” he drawled, flashing a grin that you could tell had a high success rate. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around before. You visiting?”

You tilted your head, giving him your best imitation of a curious outsider. “Something like that.”

Hangman leaned closer, elbows on the bar, radiating charm. “Let me guess. You’re a tourist. Beach trip, maybe? Or did you come to watch the planes?”

You widened your eyes just enough to sell it. “Planes? You mean the Navy ones?”

Penny briefly caught your eye from behind the counter, her mouth twitching like she was desperately holding in a laugh.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Hangman said, grinning wider. “The Navy ones. You ever been on base before?”

You shook your head, sipping through your straw with deliberate innocence. “No, can’t say I have. But I’ve always heard the pilots around here are impressive.”

He straightened a little, grin turning self-satisfied. “That’s one word for us. I could show you around sometime, give you the full experience.”

You leaned in, mirroring his posture, voice just soft enough to make him listen closer. “The full experience?”

“Strictly professional,” Hangman said, not even pretending to mean it. “Though, fair warning—once you’ve flown with a pilot, nothing else really compares.”

You blinked up at him innocently, hiding your grin behind your straw. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely.” Hangman rested a hand casually against the back of your stool, confidence oozing from every pore. You were about to give in a little and see how far he’d go when a familiar voice cut in.

“Hangman, step away from my daughter.”

You’d never seen a man pale so fast. Hangman froze, his grin disintegrating as he turned toward the source. “Sir?”

You spun on your stool, already smiling. “Dad!” You jumped up to hug your dad, laughing against his shoulder while Hangman looked like he was praying for a time machine.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Maverick looked entirely too pleased with himself when you parted. Calm, casual, just enough smugness in his voice to let you know he’d seen the whole thing. “You two know each other?”

“Not officially,” Hangman said tightly, posture stiffening like he’d just remembered how to stand at attention. “I was just, uh, welcoming her to town.”

“Sure you were,” Penny said, sliding Maverick a beer down the counter without missing a beat. “Very hospitable of you, Hangman.”

You grinned, unable to resist chiming in. “Such a gentleman. It’s generous of you to offer to show me around my hometown, but I think I’ll manage just fine.”

A loud laugh burst from the pool table. Payback, naturally. “Hangman, you hitting on the boss’s daughter?”

The reaction was instant. Phoenix nearly dropped her cue, doubled over with laughter until Bob caught her arm to keep her from tipping forward. Coyote choked on his beer. 

Fanboy muttered something that sounded like “Oh, dead man walking.”

Hangman went very still. “I don’t know that I would call it ‘hitting on’ her,” he said faintly, but the damage was done.

You turned toward the group, the picture of composure despite the glee bubbling under your ribs. “Nice to meet you all,” you said sweetly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Bet you have,” Phoenix said, still giggling. “Didn’t think I’d ever see someone wipe the smug off Bagman’s face, but damn, I owe you a drink.”

Bob smiled shyly from where he stood beside her. “It’s nice to meet you,” he offered.

“Same here,” you said warmly. “You must be Bob. Dad’s mentioned you. All of you, actually,” you added, motioning to the group. “I’m really excited to finally meet you.”

“Damn, Hangman,” Coyote said, laughing as he clapped Hangman on the shoulder. “At least you went down swinging.”

“Yeah, straight into the ground,” Payback said, grinning. “Classic Bagman.”

Hangman groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “You all done, or should I start digging my own grave?”

“Don’t worry,” Maverick cut in, clearly enjoying himself. He clapped Hangman on the back with mock sympathy. “You’ll have plenty of chances to rebuild that ego in training tomorrow.”

That sent another round of laughter through the group, and you couldn’t help it. You reached up to hug your dad again, squeezing him tightly. “I miss you.”

No matter how far you’d run from his career, his shadow, or the kind of roots that terrified you, you always came back to this. Your dad had been the one steady presence in every stage of your life, the compass that never stopped pointing you home.

“Missed you too, kid,” Maverick said quietly, squeezing back before leaning away with a proud smile.

When you turned again, the rest of the squad had gathered around, curiosity replacing their laughter. Phoenix leaned her hip against the bar, Coyote nursing a beer beside her. 

“So,” Phoenix said, studying you with a spark of amusement, “you’re Maverick’s daughter. Explains the confidence.”

You smiled. “Confidence or trouble?”

“Both,” Coyote said immediately, and everyone laughed again.

Phoenix tipped her bottle toward you, still smiling. “So what brings you back? Visiting, or…?”

“Actually,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “I’m moving back home. Figured it was time. I’m crashing with Dad until I find my own place.”

“That’s brave,” Payback said. “Living with your old man again? You must really love him.”

Maverick just smirked. “She’s always had excellent taste.”

That drew another round of laughter and groans, and you rolled your eyes affectionately. “He’s already trying to recruit me as his new copilot.”

“Don’t tempt him,” Phoenix said, grinning. “You’d probably be better than half the guys in this room.”

You laughed, then nodded toward her. “I’ve been dying to meet you! How’s life in an elite squadron treating you?”

Phoenix lit up, leaning one elbow on the bar. “Aside from putting up with these idiots, it’s been great.” She broke off mid-sentence, gaze darting past you. “Bradshaw!” Phoenix waved him over with unfiltered enthusiasm. “About time.”

Your pulse stumbled.

Bradley paused in the doorway, tall and sun-browned, the golden bulbs casting a warm glow across his shoulders. The bar’s hum seemed to fade, or maybe it only did for you.

Phoenix glanced between you, her grin softening into curiosity. “You two must know each other, right?”

You tried to keep your tone light, though your smile wavered at the corners. “Yeah. We know each other.”

When you finally turned to face Bradley, his eyes were already on you—warm, surprised, a little disbelieving. Eight years apart, and it still hit like free fall.

You’d kept in touch for a while, after things between him and Maverick had soured. But life stretched the distance until texts faded to yearly birthday wishes, and visits stopped altogether. Maverick had moved off North Island, Bradley had been deployed more often than not, and you’d convinced yourself that growing apart was just the natural order of things.

Now, standing here, it didn’t feel so natural at all.

Bradley’s mouth curved, soft with disbelief. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“Guess I’m full of surprises,” you said softly.

The corner of his jaw ticked, just the smallest flicker of something you couldn’t read.

Phoenix glanced between you again, realising she’d just stumbled into something layered. “Okay,” she stretched the word out, raising her hands.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Bradley smiled, small and genuine and a little dazed, and closed the distance.

“Come here,” he said, and you were already stepping forward.

Bradley pulled you in without hesitation, his hand warm and solid against your back. The scent hit first: soap, sun, and that clean cotton smell that always clung to him. His shirt was rough with salt and sweat, the kind of texture that reminded you he lived half his life on tarmacs and flight decks. 

His breath was close in your ear, even and steady, until you realised yours wasn’t.

“I didn’t believe Maverick when he said you were moving back,” Bradley murmured.

You smiled against his chest, trying not to inhale like someone deprived of oxygen. “Surprise again.”

When you stepped back, the air felt thinner. His hands lingered a beat too long, brushing your arms before he dropped them like he’d only just remembered how intimate it was. His gaze flicked briefly to your mouth, then away, and you pretended not to notice. 

You both pretended a lot of things.

“Still playing?” Bradley asked, his voice a little rougher than before.

“Guitar? Yeah. You still ignoring my playlists?”

He laughed, and the sound made your heart tighten. “Only the ones labeled ‘for when you’re feeling emotionally constipated.’”

You tilted your head. “So, all of them.”

That earned you a real grin. You hated how quickly it short-circuited your brain. He looked good—too good. 

“You look…” Bradley trailed off, as if the word was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to go. “Different.”

You raised a brow. “Good different, or ‘emotional crisis’ different?”

“Definitely good.” His voice dipped lower, softer. “You were always beautiful, but you’re glowing now.”

And there it was again: the pull. The quiet, magnetic thing that never really went away, no matter how much time or distance tried. You found yourself leaning closer without thinking, caught between instinct and caution, until your hand brushed his where it rested on the bar.

The contact was brief but enough to send a quick jolt through your body before you both instinctively pulled back, hiding behind awkward smiles.

“So,” you said lightly, thumb swiping at the condensation on your glass. “How’ve you been, Rooster?”

He smirked, eyes glinting. “It’s so weird to hear you say my call sign.”

You gasped theatrically. “Rude!”

“You can call me whatever you want,” Bradley said, quieter now. “But you’re the only one who still calls me by my name.” Something flickered behind his eyes, unguarded and dangerous. “I guess I missed the sound of it in your voice.”

Before either of you could say something you couldn’t take back, a voice cut through the moment.

“Hey, nerds!” Fanboy was waving from across the room, grinning like a man who had just spotted a plot twist. “Come join us! We know you’re childhood friends, but we want a chance to get to know Maverick’s daughter.”

You smiled, eyebrows arched at your so-called childhood friend. “What do you say, Bradley?”

Hearing you say his name brought another wide grin to his face. “I wouldn’t want to deprive your adoring fans,” he teased.

When Bradley gestured toward the booth, you followed. His hand brushed the small of your back as you passed; light enough to seem accidental, but enough to make your heart trip over itself.

When your dad invited you to a beach day with Penny and the squadron, you’d said yes before he could finish the sentence. An afternoon of dog-fight football, popsicles, and sand in your sunglasses felt like the kind of chaos you used to live for in childhood summers with Maverick and Iceman. 

The afternoon sun brushed the waves with golden glitter. When Maverick called everyone over, you knew exactly what he was about to do. After the usual warm-up theatrics and fake groaning, teams were picked, and everyone persuaded your dad to join in.

Phoenix hooked your arm, already grinning. “Come on, you’ve got to see this circus up close. Hangman’s in peak insufferable form.”

You laughed, brushing sand from your shorts, and followed her. Bradley was already leaning back, shoulders flexed under the sun, tossing the ball to himself with that effortless control that made your stomach flip. 

He looked like he belonged in a recruitment ad for hot, emotionally unavailable Navy pilots.

Bradley caught your eye, winked, and sent the ball your way like a dare you weren’t ready for.  You jumped, barely keeping it from hitting your chest, and stumbled back laughing.

“Careful,” he called, jogging closer. “Wouldn’t want you spraining anything important.”

“Does my pride count?” you shot back.

“Absolutely,” Bradley said, grinning, and you had to fight the urge to glance at his hands. Lately, they had developed a suspicious habit of finding you. “I’m very thorough.”

Phoenix snorted, but gave no other commentary on his double entendre. You decided to ignore the very specific flutter that word sent through your chest. Thorough. Great. Fantastic. You were doomed.

You joined the team opposite Maverick and gave him the universal two-finger I’m watching you warning. The squadron hollered happily, and you could hear Fritz and Omaha exchanging bets on which Mitchell would be victorious.

Phoenix filled you in on the unspoken rules: always dive like it’s life or death, and never—under any circumstances—let Hangman get a free pass. It was easy enough to remember, especially with the Texan cackling at you from the other side of the beach.

The game started officially, Penny refereeing from the sidelines with exaggerated seriousness. You fell into a rhythm quickly, laughing harder than you had in years. Sand flew everywhere, the sun warmed your shoulders, and Bradley kept finding reasons to brush past you as you ran. He always seemed to be exactly close enough for your brain to short-circuit.

Every accidental touch made your heart skip.

“Hey, Mitchell,” Hangman called, standing close enough that you could smell his sunscreen. “You think you can take me down?”

“Cute,” you said flatly, flicking sand in his direction. “I may not be in the Navy, but don’t forget who raised me. I don’t do anything halfway, and I don’t lose.”

He raised both hands in mock surrender. “You’re scary. I’ll admire you from a safe distance.”

Phoenix groaned. “Emphasis on ‘distance,’ Bagman. She’s busy kicking your ass, not dodging your pickup lines.”

“Well said,” you declared, grinning and offering Phoenix a high-five.

“It’s nice to have you around,” she said earnestly. “Everyone’s already decided you’re one of us. Rooster’s obviously obsessed with you, but that goes without saying.”

Your eyes flicked to Bradley, who was laughing at something Bob had done. You told yourself you weren’t constantly glancing his way and dragged your eyes back to the game. You weret, of course, but denial was your favourite coping mechanism.

Hours passed in a blur, and you managed to avoid breaking anything. Hangman teased relentlessly, but with Phoenix and Bob around to back you up, you felt like you belonged. Bradley stayed close, subtly protective, saving you from catastrophic falls.

Eventually, Penny called out, “Snack and water break. You’ve earned it!”

Everyone collapsed onto towels in the setting sun. Bob handed you a towel, and Hangman leaned back, sunglasses low, pretending to evaluate your performance.

“Not bad,” Hangman said, pointing. “I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” you said dryly, wiping sweat off your forehead. “Your compliment is noted.”

You headed toward the coolers, only to realise the tie on your bikini top had loosened in the chaos. You made your way over to Bradley, your arm contorted behind you to keep the strings from coming undone. 

He was sitting on a towel near the coolers, arms resting on his knees, watching Yale and Harvard fight over the last rocket-shaped popsicle.

“Bradley?”

He looked up, eyebrows lifting like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Yeah?”

You shuffled a fraction, smiling unsurely. “The tie on my bikini came undone, and I can’t quite reach it. Could you fix it for me?”

Bradley’s eyes went wide. You caught the faint hitch of a breath before he tried to mask it. You sat in front of him with your back turned, showing him how you held the strings together. 

He froze for a beat. Then another. His shoulders tensed, fingers twitching, too aware of the bare expanse of your back. Bradley shifted forward carefully. 

You felt him before he touched you. His hands hovered near the strings, uncertain, cautious, as if he could break something with a wrong move. Your shoulders tensed when his fingertips brushed the skin of your back. 

“Okay,” Bradley murmured. His voice was quiet, not commanding or joking. You caught the slight hitch in his breathing. Not fear, exactly; more like anticipation.

He looped the strings slowly, once, twice, adjusting. Gentle. So slow it felt like he was measuring time against your pulse. You were hyper-aware of the way his fingers pressed, the careful tilt of his wrists, how his arms flexed slightly with the tiniest tension. 

You tried to keep your breathing quiet, but his shallow inhales gave him away. It felt like Bradley was holding everything back, keeping his distance in every movement, even while he was behind you.

His thumbs brushed the dimples at your lower back and a shiver zipped up your spine. 

“There,” Bradley said quietly. His knuckles grazed your back again, lingering just long enough for heat to bloom where he touched you.

You felt every shift of his weight, every slow exhale that brushed your neck. The rest of the squad and your dad were chatting nearby, but you weren’t thinking about them. You were thinking about Bradley’s hands; how careful they were, how he couldn’t quite seem to stop touching you.

You glanced over your shoulder, meeting his eyes. He swallowed, his pupils dark, wide, and attentive. He was mesmerised by the shape of your shoulders, the tilt of your head, and the way you were biting your bottom lip subconsciously.

You wanted to say something clever. Something that wouldn’t make your knees fold. What came out was a whisper-soft, “Thanks,” which was neither clever nor steady.

Bradley didn’t move. He let his hands hover, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate lines into your skin. For a long moment, all you felt was the light drag of his fingertips.

You let yourself shift, just enough to meet him, just enough to let your bodies acknowledge what neither of you was saying. Not with words. Words would make this interaction real, and you weren’t ready to face that reality yet. 

Bradley started to say something, but Phoenix’s voice cut through the air. “Who wants chips?”

You cleared your throat and stood, brushing sand off your legs. “Me,” you said, pretending your voice didn’t wobble.

You had been in town for a month, long enough to get sand permanently stuck in your shoes and afford a deposit on a nearby apartment. You had Penny’s generous customers to thank for that one; they tipped better than any bartending job you had in bigger cities.

The new apartment wasn’t much, just one bedroom, a minuscule kitchen, and the world’s most dramatic plumbing—but it was yours. And you loved it, even if the previous tenant had painted the bedroom a colour best described as the dark blue of an existential crisis.

You wanted sage green; something calm that didn’t make you feel like you were sleeping inside a sad thought.

The squad had all promised to help paint, because apparently manual labour was their version of team bonding. You’d stocked the fridge with drinks and ordered enough pizza to feed your notoriously hungry friends. Then the texts started. Bob had “a thing.” Phoenix’s “errand” mysteriously lasted four hours. Hangman sent a single thumbs-down emoji, which you assumed meant “no chance in hell.”

So when you opened the door and found only Bradley standing there, you weren’t surprised. He stood holding up a six-pack like a peace offering. His shirt was faded and soft-looking, hanging loose over his jeans in a way that made your brain short-circuit for a second.

He raised the beers. “Looks like it’s just us.”

You pretended to find that funny instead of vaguely panic-inducing. “Lucky you.”

Bradley’s eyes flicked past you into the apartment. “You sure about that? That’s a lot of wall.”

You stepped aside to let him in. “Well, your cowardly pilot friends backed out at the last minute. I’m filing a formal complaint with their superior officer in the morning.”

“Getting Mav involved,” Bradley said, brushing past you. “Bold choice.”

“Desperate times,” you muttered.

You’d already tried to scrub the old navy-blue paint off the walls, but the result looked like an avant-garde crime scene. 

Bradley took it all in with an amused glance. “You started without supervision.”

“I’m an independent woman,” you said, reaching for a can of paint with exaggerated confidence. “I don’t need supervision.”

“You’re holding the can upside down.”

You looked down. “…That feels like an opinion.”

Bradley laughed under his breath, low and warm, and picked up a roller. “Come on, Picasso. Let’s paint ourselves a masterpiece.”

He crouched and opened the can for you, forearms flexing as he stirred the sage green paint and poured it into the paint tray. You tried not to stare and failed miserably.

The first few minutes were quiet except for the squeak of rollers and the hum of classic rock playing from your Bluetooth speaker. The playlist was mostly your doing: Tom Petty, Springsteen, and a few guilty pleasure tracks you hoped Bradley wouldn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t say anything.

Bradley painted like a man on a mission: slow and careful strokes, all precision. You, on the other hand, were a little more abstract. Less plan, more chaos with flair.

That had always been the difference between you. Bradley had his life plotted like a flight path, every box ticked and corner squared. You were impulsive, chasing whatever caught your interest in that moment. That probably explained why he was in the Navy, and you were affectionately known as the “anywhere but here” girl.

“Yours looks better,” you admitted eventually.

Bradley didn’t look over. “Years of repainting Navy housing.”

“Of course,” you said. “All those government-issued beige walls really sharpened your technique.”

He chuckled, rolling another line of paint. “Yes, I’m very well-rounded. Wait till you see me fold laundry.” 

You pretended to swoon, voice all old-Hollywood and dramatic. “Oh, Rooster, your talent is simply too much for a girl to bear! Do you also do your own taxes?”

Bradley rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to hide his grin. “Keep your pants on, Grace Kelly.”

You fought a grin and lost. “Actually, I was going for Katharine Hepburn, but thank you!”

It was ridiculous how easy it was, how quickly you fell back into this rhythm; the back-and-forth, the teasing. The kind of ease that made you forget how long it had been since you’d really laughed like this.

You both reached for the paint tray. Bradley’s fingers brushed yours,  touch, but it set off a spark in your stomach. Neither of you pulled away. You blamed the beer, the heat—anything but what it actually was.

“You missed a spot,” you said, because your brain was desperate to fill every silence.

Bradley leaned in to look, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. “No, I didn’t,” he said, squinting at the wall.

“You did. There.” You pointed, mostly to distract yourself.

Bradley sighed, mock suffering in his voice. “You’re bossy when you’re right.”

“And yet you love that about me.”

That stopped him for just a second too long. Bradley looked at you, smiled, and nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Something like that.”

You tried for casual, reaching for your beer. “You’re getting sentimental, Bradshaw. Careful.”

He wiped a streak of paint off his arm with a rag, the muscles in his forearm becoming taut. “Don’t tell Hangman. He’ll make it weird.”

“He already makes everything weird. What’s one more?”

Bradley laughed, that low, familiar sound that always seemed to settle somewhere in your chest. You couldn’t tell if the room was warmer now or if it was just you. Probably just you. 

The next song that came on made you pause. It was your favourite Otis Redding song, a soulful track that made everything feel too close, too soft around the edges.

Bradley stilled, putting the roller down to admire his painting progress. “I love this song,” he said, smiling faintly. “You really went for the classics.”

He hummed a few notes under his breath, low and rough around the edges. Then he sang along to the chorus, and you stilled like your body had turned to stone. Bradley’s voice fit the song perfectly; unpolished but warm, a little like arriving at home after a long trip.

“Still showing off, I see,” you teased to hide how your heart was doing double backflips. 

Bradley shrugged, eyes still on the wall. “Occupational hazard.”

“Yeah, right. I think you just like reminding people you’ve got range.”

He laughed, the sound soft and deep. “Well, I did say I was well-rounded. I’m just living up to expectations.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, even though your voice came out thinner than you meant. Bradley’s singing was doing something to your insides that you didn’t particularly feel like acknowledging.

Bradley must’ve noticed your silence because, without warning, he started singing along louder, like he couldn’t help it. His voice filled the room, easy and lazy and heartbreakingly good.

You rolled your eyes fondly, grinning. “Okay, rockstar, you’re ruining my productivity.”

Bradley dipped his roller, smirking. “You weren’t very productive to begin with.”

“Excuse me,” you said, gesturing to your wall. “I did this one all by myself!”

“Uh-huh,” Bradley said, mimicking your tone. “Meanwhile, I did the other three.”

By the time the playlist ended, the walls were painted a soft sage green. The room looked lighter, like it could finally breathe. Bradley stepped back, hands on his hips, inspecting the walls. A smear of green paint streaked his jaw, and somehow that made him even more endearing. 

“Not bad,” Bradley declared. “Could almost pass for professional work.”

You pretended to inspect your section. “Yeah, I feel bad. I’m too broke to pay you.”

“I’ll settle for the pizza that’s definitely cold by now.”

You huffed a laugh. “Big spender.”

He shrugged, grabbing his beer and taking a sip. “It’s the company I’m here for, anyway.”

You blinked at that and were suddenly too aware of how close he was; of how his shoulder brushed yours as he turned to look at the wall again. You caught the faint scent of his cologne—warm, clean, maddeningly familiar.

Just like that, the room fell away, and you were transported back eight years. 

After showing you all his favourite Navy spots on North Island, Bradley had driven you home in the same Bronco he’d driven in high school. The radio was tuned to a classic rock station that kept losing signal, and every few minutes, he’d reached out to fix the dial.

At the time, you hadn’t seen him in eight years. 

Bradley had cut you out alongside Maverick when you were both teenagers, and it wasn’t until your twentieth birthday that you finally reached out. By then, he’d been twenty-four, two years into his Navy career, and hoping you’d call.

There’d been a lot of phone calls, the occasional letter, the postcards you’d sent him from wherever you happened to be that month. But none of it had felt quite real until you were sitting beside him again, the windows rolled down, the salt air blowing through the cab.

Bradley looked older, of course. Broader through the shoulders, quieter in his movements. The loud boy who used to tease you about your terrible driving had been replaced by someone who carried himself differently—steady, restrained.

You’d tried to hide how much that unsettled you.

“Still got the same car,” you’d said, nodding at the dashboard.

Bradley smiled, eyes still on the road. “She’s reliable. Thought about upgrading, but I couldn’t do it.”

“Too sentimental?”

“Too broke,” he’d corrected, grinning.

You’d laughed, and the sound surprised you. You hadn’t realised how much you’d missed the way Bradley looked at you like he was storing the moment away for later.

He’d finally achieved his dream and been sent to train at Top Gun, and when he told you, you hadn’t hesitated to drive down from Santa Barbara to see him. You’d told yourself you were only catching up, but the truth was impossible to ignore now.

“How’s Mav?” Bradley had asked after a while, voice careful.

You’d inhaled sharply.

You and Bradley had reconnected a few years ago, but you’d never once talked about your dad. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend the distance was because Bradley had devoted his life to following in his father’s footsteps, and you’d devoted yours to getting as far away from your father’s career as possible.

The truth was messier. Maverick had set Bradley back four years, pulled his papers to the Academy, and they hadn’t spoken since.

You’d shrugged. “Still flying. Still impossible to live with.”

Bradley had nodded. “Guess some things don’t change.”

“Guess not,” you’d said. “I’m just lucky Dad was too sentimental to sell the house, so I don’t have to pay for an overpriced hotel whenever I’m home.”

The silence that had followed hadn’t been uncomfortable. It had been the kind of silence you only had with someone who already knew most of your stories.

When Bradley had pulled up in front of your childhood house, the porch light flickered on automatically. You’d forgotten how small it had looked, how the paint had peeled from the railing where you used to sit and talk with Maverick for hours on end.

Bradley’d cut the engine and turned to you.

“Thanks for the ride,” you’d said, because it had felt like the safe thing to say.

He’d nodded. “Anytime.”

You’d unbuckled your seatbelt but didn’t move. Bradley hadn’t either.

“So,” you’d said, “Top Gun.”

Bradley had smiled faintly. “Yeah. Guess I finally made it.”

“You always were the overachiever,” you’d teased.

“One of us had to be,” he’d teased you right back.

You’d rolled your eyes. “Hey, I got into college! I just decided not to go.”

Bradley had chuckled, and for a second, you’d seen the boy who used to sit on that same porch with you every summer. He and Carole used to make their way down from Virginia every year when you were growing up, and the two of you were always thick as thieves.

The memory had tugged at something in your chest. You’d cleared your throat. “You look good, Bradley.”

“Thanks,” Bradley had said quietly. “You too.”

You’d meant to leave it at that, but the way he’d said it had made your pulse jump.

He’d leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the steering wheel. “You ever think about those summers? The ones before—everything?”

“All the time,” you’d said before you could stop yourself.

Bradley had nodded once, eyes flicking down, then back to yours. “I missed you,” he’d said simply.

The words had hit like a wave. You’d imagined Bradley saying them for years, but now that he had, you hadn’t known where to put the feeling.

“You didn’t have to disappear, you know,” you’d said. “When Dad pulled your papers, he didn’t mean for you to disappear from our lives.”

Bradley had exhaled slowly, leaning back in his seat. “I know. But I couldn’t call you. Not then. I was so angry; at him, at myself, at the universe. I didn’t want you caught in the middle.”

“You didn’t even give me a choice.”

His jaw had tightened. “You were still in high school. I was eighteen and angry at the world. You had your own life to figure out. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

You’d laughed softly, without humour. “You always think you’re doing the right thing.”

Bradley had looked at you then, and for a second, you’d seen every year that had passed between you. He might have looked the same, only broader and tanner, but Bradley Bradshaw wasn’t the naive eighteen-year-old he’d been ten years ago.

“Let me walk you to the door,” Bradley had said, because no matter how much time had passed, Carole had raised him to be a gentleman.

He’d got out of the truck and come around to your side, opening the door for you. It had been such an old-fashioned gesture that it made you laugh, but the sound broke halfway out of your throat. You’d stepped out and headed for the porch together.

The boards had creaked softly beneath you, and Bradley had come to a stop as you’d fished your keys out of your bag.

“Well,” you’d said, “this is where you say goodnight and make me regret every life choice that led to this moment.”

Bradley had smiled that familiar half-smile you’d heard through the phone every few days. “Something like that.”

He’d taken a step closer. The space between you had seemed to shrink without either of you deciding it should. For a second, neither of you had spoken.

When Bradley had reached out, his hand hesitated in midair before finding your face. His thumb had brushed along your cheekbone, the touch feather-light, almost reverent. 

Bradley’s voice had dropped, rough at the edges. “For what it’s worth, you are the most amazing person I know.”

You hadn’t answered. You couldn’t. You’d only tilted your chin up, and he’d leaned in at the same time. No hesitation now.

The kiss had been slow, too careful, like you’d both been afraid to break whatever fragile thing had survived all those years apart. Bradley’s hands had found your waist—tentative at first, then sure—and you’d sunk into the warmth of him.

When you’d finally pulled back, your heart was pounding so hard you could barely hear yourself think.

Bradley had looked a little dazed. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

“Two years?” you’d said. 

That had been when you’d noticed a shift in your phone calls. You’d been travelling the world, Bradley’d been trying to prove he deserved to be sent to Top Gun, and things didn’t feel so platonic anymore.

He’d grinned, soft and knowing. “Two years.”

You’d smiled back. “Go before I talk you into staying.”

“I’ll bring you coffee and pastries tomorrow morning,” Bradley had promised, still grinning.

Then he’d walked down the path to his truck. You’d watched him go, his figure lit briefly by the headlights as he started the engine. He’d waved once through the open window before pulling away.

The sound of the engine had faded, leaving the street quiet again.

And for a second, you saw another version of him in the same spot—a year later, walking away from the same porch, but with his jaw set and his eyes red from crying.

You’d watched him go then, too. But that time, he didn’t look back.

You blinked, and it was gone. Just Bradley again; older now, standing in your newly sage green room. He was still the person who’d known you when you thought you had the whole world figured out.

“Hey,” he said quietly, tilting his head. “You okay?”

You nodded too fast, trying to play it off. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

Bradley smiled a little. “Dangerous habit.”

“Tell me about it.”

You both stood there, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the wall like it held the answers to things neither of you was brave enough to ask.

You had never been the type to throw a housewarming party, but a ladies’ night felt doable. Low-stakes controlled chaos. You unpacked the last of your boxes that morning and figured it called for celebration. 

So you texted Phoenix and Halo. By eight o’clock, there were two bottles of wine open, pizza boxes on the counter, and a shuffling indie playlist in the background.

Halo sat cross-legged on your rug, her hair in a messy bun and her phone halfway across the room because she kept getting work calls. Phoenix had claimed the end of your couch and was already halfway through her second glass of rosé, shoes kicked off, legs tucked under her.

Your little apartment smelled faintly of pizza and garlic bread. You’d lit a candle on the coffee table for ambience, but now the wax had melted into a crooked puddle.

“So,” Phoenix said, pointing her wine glass at you, “how’s it feel being back? You’ve been here what, five months?”

“Six,” you said. “And surprisingly not miserable.”

“‘Surprisingly’?” Halo echoed, grinning.

You leaned back into the cushions. You could feel the wine in your cheeks, warm and loose, making honesty come too easily. “I’ve always wanted to get out of North Island. Like, the second I was old enough to dream about leaving, I was halfway gone in my head.”

Phoenix arched an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“Not bad,” you said quickly. “Just… limiting. My dad’s great, he really is. But his great love has always been the sky, you know? Flying, teaching, all of it. And that comes with a certain lifestyle. Constant motion, waiting on calls, never really belonging to yourself. I spent my whole life watching him break the rules and still have to bend to someone else’s orders, and I swore I’d never do that.”

Halo poured herself another glass and nodded slowly. She shifted closer, her knee brushing your leg. “So you ran.”

You smiled. “Constantly. I was the ‘anywhere but here’ girl. New cities, short leases, jobs I didn’t care about. I convinced myself that if I kept moving, I’d eventually land somewhere that felt right.”

“And now?” Phoenix asked.

You hesitated, swirling your wine like it might spill if you said too much. “Now I don’t want to run. For the first time ever. Which is… weird.”

Halo tilted her head. “Weird how?”

You thought about it for a moment. “It’s kind of a relief, honestly. I like my job, I like my apartment, I even like that I can walk to the beach in under ten minutes. But it’s also a little scary. If I’m not running, what am I doing?”

Phoenix gave you a look that said she’d already guessed the answer. “Maybe you’re staying for a reason.”

You caught her smirk and groaned. “Oh, don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Phoenix said, all mock innocence. “Certain people seem to be one of the reasons you want to stick around.”

“‘Certain people’ who go by chicken-related callsigns?” Halo added, and Phoenix snorted.

You groaned. “Not this again.”

Phoenix grinned into her glass. “Come on, it’s so obvious! You and Rooster have been orbiting each other since you arrived. Everyone sees it.”

“Everyone?” you asked.

“Everyone,” Halo confirmed. “He looks at you like he’s trying not to. Which, honestly, makes it so much more obvious.”

You laughed softly, though something in your chest tightened. You fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, your stomach fluttering with nerves. “You’re both reading too much into it. We’re friends.”

Phoenix leaned forward. Her voice dropped, low and sure, her eyes steady on yours. “Friends don’t look at each other like that. Friends don’t fix your shower head without being asked, or volunteer to pick up IKEA furniture over an hour away. I think the two of you are more than friends.”

You smiled, a little sadly. “Not so much. We, uh, used to date, though.”

For a second, both women blinked at you like you’d spoken in a foreign language. Then Phoenix choked on her wine, coughing into her hand as Halo’s eyes went huge. Her hand shot out, gripping Phoenix’s arm like she needed something to hold onto.

“I’m sorry, what?” Phoenix said once she recovered.

Halo’s jaw dropped. “You dated Rooster?” Her voice came out an octave higher than usual, and she squeezed Phoenix’s forearm for emphasis.

“Back when he first got sent to Top Gun,” you said. “I moved into my childhood house for a year, got a job waitressing in the next town over, and… yeah. We dated. I must’ve been twenty-four, Bradley twenty-eight.”

Phoenix straightened on the couch, her glass halfway to her lips and forgotten. “Hold on. That year? I was at Top Gun with him. He never said a word.”

You shrugged. “We weren’t exactly shouting it from the rooftops.”

Halo let out a scandalised gasp. She twisted toward Phoenix, and the two of them started hitting each other’s arms out of excitement. 

“Oh my god,” Halo exclaimed. “That’s why he used to skip out on bar nights?! We thought he was just being old and boring.”

Phoenix let out a snort, shaking her head. “You’re telling me I sat across from that man every day for months and he never once mentioned he had a girlfriend?”

You nodded, smiling a little at the memory. “He’d drive out to see me after training. We’d grab dinner or sit on the porch and talk for hours. Sometimes he’d stay the night if he didn’t have early drills. We decided not to tell anyone.”

Halo blinked, her expression softening as the air shifted. Her hand fell from Phoenix’s arm. “Why not?”

Your throat was tight, the words catching halfway up. Phoenix’s gaze softened when she noticed. Her hand settled over yours. You took a sip of wine before answering.

“My dad was still a taboo subject back then,” you confessed. “And I’m not a local celebrity, but being Maverick’s daughter means I’m a familiar face on North Island. We knew word would get back to him if people found out—or at the very least back to Uncle Ice. Besides, Bradley was in the middle of Top Gun, and I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. It was supposed to make things simpler.”

Phoenix snorted. “Sounds simple,” she said sarcastically. Halo gave her a nudge, a silent reminder to be gentle.

You smiled. “Yeah, we really nailed that part.”

The humour in your voice faded a little. “It was a good year, though. He was the perfect boyfriend—thoughtful, steady, stupidly chivalrous. He’d make me coffee in the morning and kiss my hand before he left for work. He’d tell me about flying without realising his whole face changed when he talked about it. I really loved him. But…”

“But?” Halo prompted hesitantly. Phoenix exhaled quietly beside her.

You sighed. “But he was always going to belong to the sky. And I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be someone waiting for the next deployment or living by his schedule. I wanted to travel, to work, to not feel like I was stuck in my childhood house lying to my dad about who I was dating. We were in completely different places. So I left.”

Phoenix watched you for a moment; her usual sharpness softened. “Did he know you were going to?”

You nodded. “We both did. We just didn’t say it out loud. One day he dropped me off after dinner, and that was it. He hugged me one last time, and we pretended we weren’t both crying. He walked down the path, got in his truck, and drove away. I was in Nevada by sunrise.”

For a long second, none of you spoke. The music hummed quietly from the speaker, a slow song. 

Halo reached out, her hand resting briefly on your knee. “Hey,” she said quietly. “That sounds brutal.”

You shrugged, though your throat felt tight. “It was a long time ago. Now we’re friends again. Or something close to it. We painted my apartment—thank you for abandoning me, by the way. I know a set-up when I see one,” you added, giving them a meaningful look. Phoenix and Halo didn’t even pretend to be ashamed. “We still hang out in group settings, and we never told my dad what happened between us. It’s easier than I thought it would be.”

“Except you still look at him like you used to,” Halo said, tilting her head and grinning.

You gave her a small, helpless smile. Your chest ached, a soft pull just beneath your ribs. “Yeah, maybe. But we’ve both changed. Things are different now.”

Phoenix set her glass down on your coffee table. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s still completely in love with you.”

You laughed softly. “You think everyone’s in love with everyone.”

“Maybe,” Phoenix said, grinning. “But I’m right about this one.”

The conversation drifted after that, back to work gossip and whether Halo should see her ex while she was in town.

You could still feel the warmth of their closeness long after the laughter faded. But the subject of your history with Bradley lingered long after they’d gone home, and the apartment was quiet. 

You stood by the sink, washing wine glasses. You’d spent years convincing yourself that staying meant settling. But now, standing there in your own little kitchen with three empty glasses and an ache in your chest, you weren’t so sure.

Your dad’s house still smelled the same. You’d expected it to feel different now that it wasn’t yours, but it didn’t. Just more lived in. There were photos on the mantel that hadn’t been there before, a new coffee mug beside the old ones, a few of Penny’s things scattered across the counter.

You heard them before you saw them, their voices mixing with the sound of the stove fan. Maverick was chopping tomatoes, Penny stirring something on the hob, both laughing at a story you couldn’t quite catch. 

You leaned against the doorway for a second and watched them. Your dad looked lighter than he used to, and so did Penny. A quiet warmth crept in and you were happy the two of them finally figured things out.

When they noticed you, you were smothered with hugs and affection until you pulled away, laughing. Penny finished up the pasta, Maverick opened a bottle of wine, and conversation flowed the way it always did when the two of them were together. You didn’t have to fill any silences or think too hard.

Then there was a knock at the door.

“Can you grab that?” Maverick asked, wiping his hands on a towel.

You went to open it and stopped short when you saw Bradley on the porch.

“Hey,” he said, his voice even.

“Hey,” you said finally, your voice softer than you meant it to be. You smiled, because that’s what you’d always done around Bradley. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

Bradley shrugged, eyes flicking past you toward the kitchen. “Mav invited me. Guess he forgot to mention it.”

“Right.” You stepped back to let him in, trying to ignore the faint smell of his cologne mixing with the sea air. “Come on, they’re in the kitchen.”

He nodded, but his smile never reached his eyes. There was a tightness to him that hadn’t been there the last time you saw him. You told yourself it was nothing, but your pulse didn’t slow as you followed him inside.

Dinner didn’t go badly. If anything, it went almost too well. The four of you talked and laughed, the kind of easy rhythm you could fall into without thinking. You and Bradley had done this dance before; pretending you were just old friends, nothing more, nothing less. 

He sat across from you, relaxed enough to look natural. He passed you the parmesan, smiled when Penny teased Maverick, and joined in when your dad told stories from the hangar. You found yourself smiling back, and for a while, it felt like old times.

After dinner, you and Bradley both tried to stand, but Penny waved you down. 

“Absolutely not. You’re guests,” she said, already stacking plates. Maverick backed her up, grinning at your protests.

So you and Bradley ended up outside on the porch, on the same old bench that had been there since you were a kid. The wood creaked under your weight.

You sat with your hands clasped loosely in your lap. Bradley leaned back, one ankle crossed over the other, silent in a way that wasn’t quite comfortable.

“So,” he said eventually, his tone careful. “You told Phoenix.”

You turned your head toward him. “Told her what?”

Bradley gave you a look, eyes narrowing just slightly. “About us.”

You blinked, surprised. “Oh. Yeah, it came up.”

He let out a short laugh, but there wasn’t any humour in it. “You didn’t think to give me a heads-up before dropping that little piece of history into squad gossip?”

You frowned, sitting up. “It wasn’t gossip. It was just a conversation.”

“About something between you and me,” Bradley said, voice low but edged. His arms crossed over his chest like he needed somewhere to put the frustration.

You shifted slightly, mirroring the gesture without meaning to. “Bradley, it’s been eight years. It’s not like I was giving them details or spilling your secrets. We were talking; we’re friends.”

Bradley turned toward you fully now, eyes catching the light from the kitchen window. “You think I want everyone looking at me like some guy who couldn’t hold on to Maverick’s daughter?”

You stared at him, caught off guard. “That’s what this is about? What other people think?”

His jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek jumping. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make me sound shallow just because I care how it looks.” Bradley’s tone was clipped, defensive.

You exhaled, trying to keep your voice even. “I didn’t tell Phoenix and Halo to hurt you.”

“I know you didn’t,” he said. His voice cracked a little on the words. “But it still did.”

That stopped you for a second. “Why?” you asked quietly.

Bradley looked at you for a long moment before answering, his fingers tapping once against his knee. “Because you didn’t just leave town back then. You left me too.”

You felt your throat tighten. “You were never really here, Bradley.”

His mouth pressed into a line. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You turned toward him, heat rising in your voice. “You were always chasing the next posting, the next mission, the next step. I couldn’t even get you to slow down long enough to talk about what you wanted for dinner without it turning into logistics.”

Bradley pushed a hand through his hair, eyes flashing. “I was trying to build something—to have a plan. That’s what people do when they care.”

You let out a short, sharp laugh. “You cared more about the plan than me.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You didn’t know what you wanted.”

“I was twenty-four,” you said, your voice rising. “I was still figuring it out.”

“And you decided you couldn’t do that with me around!”

“That’s not true!” You were on your feet now, before you realised it, pacing a few steps toward the railing. “I loved you, but I couldn’t keep being the girl waiting for you to come home.”

Bradley stood too, his voice rougher now. “You could’ve told me that.”

“I did,” you shot back. “You just didn’t want to hear it.”

Bradley let out a sharp exhale and turned away, hands on his hips. “You think it was easy for me? I had no one, alright? My mom was gone, Mav and I weren’t talking, and you—” He broke off, jaw tight. “You were supposed to be the one person who didn’t walk away.”

You stared at him, your chest tightened. “You’re kidding.”

He frowned. “What?”

“You think it was easy for me?” you said, your voice shaking. “Lying to my dad? Pretending I didn’t still talk to you, didn’t still—” You stopped, swallowing hard. “Don’t put it all on me.”

“I’m not putting it on you, I’m telling you how it was!” Bradley’s voice cracked with something raw. “You had a home here. You had Maverick—wherever he was deployed that year. You had people who actually gave a damn. I had empty apartments and transfer papers.”

“Yeah, I ‘had Maverick,’” you echoed. “Some relationship we had that year, what with me lying to him every day.”

Bradley’s mouth opened, then closed again. His jaw flexed. “I didn’t think you wanted to tell him.”

“He’s my dad,” you said, voice rising. “The only parent I’ve ever had. Deciding to lie to his face every time he asked if I’d heard from you wasn’t something I did lightly. But we agreed to keep it quiet, remember? You didn’t want anyone to know.”

“I was protecting you,” he said quickly, taking a step closer.

You gave a short, incredulous laugh. “No, you were protecting yourself. Protecting your perfect image, your golden-boy career, your chance to prove you weren’t just Goose’s son dating Maverick’s daughter.”

Bradley’s eyes flashed. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not,” you said, your voice shaking. “But it’s true.”

He groaned, frustration sparking again. “You think you were the only one carrying something? You had your dad—someone who was always in your corner. I had to do it all on my own.”

Your throat burned. “You had me!”

“Until I didn’t,” Bradley shot back. “Until you decided you couldn’t handle it anymore and ran.”

That one hit deep. Your arms crossed instinctively, a weak sort of shield. “You make it sound like I didn’t even try.”

Bradley’s voice rose. “You didn’t stay.”

You inhaled sharply, feeling your eyes sting. “And you didn’t even notice I was falling apart!”

He froze, chest rising and falling fast.

“I couldn’t breathe, Bradley,” you said quietly, voice breaking. “Do you know what that felt like?”

His expression softened for half a second, but then his shoulders straightened, defensive. “You were always the ‘anywhere but here’ girl,” Bradley said. “I should’ve seen it coming. You’ve been running your whole life.”

You took a shaky breath, blinking hard to keep your eyes clear. “And you’ve been chasing ghosts,” you said, voice low. “Your father, your career, whatever version of yourself you think you owe him. I wasn’t going to stick around and become everything I was scared of growing up—living life according to someone else’s orders.”

The words hung between you, heavy and hot. Neither of you moved for a long moment.

Bradley finally exhaled, his shoulders dropping. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered. “That you ran. That’s not fair.”

You didn’t answer at first, watching the way his hand flexed at his side, like he didn’t know what to do with it.

“I was the one running,” Bradley said finally, quieter now. “From everything. Every mission, every deployment, every new posting—whatever kept me busy enough not to think.” He gave a small, tired laugh. “I thought if I just kept working, I’d never end up like my dad.” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “But I was scared all the time. Terrified, actually. Of chaos, of losing control, of you seeing me come apart.”

You turned toward him, your voice softening. “Bradley…”

“I didn’t want you to go through what my mom did,” he went on, voice rough. “The waiting, the worrying. I thought keeping it quiet would protect you. But maybe I was just protecting myself. Because if something happened to me, and you were still—” He stopped, clearing his throat. “I couldn’t live with that.”

You stood still for a moment, feeling the wind shift, the scent of salt in the air. “I knew all that,” you said quietly. “I knew why you did it. Why you pulled away.”

Bradley looked at you then, searching your face.

You gave a small, sad smile. “You weren’t the only one who was scared. I felt stuck. Living in my childhood home again, pretending I wasn’t lying to my dad every day… it was like being sixteen all over again, except worse, because I actually had something to lose.” 

You shook your head, the motion small. “Growing up with Maverick taught me to rely on myself, to move fast, to never get too comfortable anywhere. So when things started getting real with you, I panicked. I didn’t know how to sit still.”

Bradley’s expression softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. “You thought if you kept moving, you wouldn’t need anyone.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice low. “And then you ruined that theory completely.”

That drew the faintest ghost of a smile from him. “You think I meant to?”

You huffed a small laugh, the tension easing between you. “Pretty sure you didn’t. You just existed, and that was enough.”

Bradley ran both hands over his face, dragging them down to his jaw. “You know, I thought I’d made peace with it,” he said. “I told myself I was over it. Then you moved home, and suddenly it all came flooding back like it never ended.”

You let out a slow breath, your heartbeat still loud in your ears. “Tell me about it.”

Bradley huffed a quiet laugh, then went still again. “You really didn’t mean to tell Phoenix?”

You shook your head. “No. I wasn’t thinking. It just came up, and I trusted her not to tell anyone. I guess I didn’t think she’d bring it up to you.”

“She told me we were being dramatic,” Bradley admitted, chuckling.

“She’s not wrong,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth.

That earned you a smile back—tired, but real. The tension between you eased, but it didn’t fade completely. Bradley looked at you again, softer this time. “You look different.”

“So do you,” you said, the corners of your mouth twitching. “In a good way.”

His brow lifted just slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you.

You took a slow breath. “You know, I’m proud of you.”

Bradley blinked, caught off guard. “Of me?”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice steady. “You worked so hard for everything, and you did it without a safety net. Without anyone really holding you up. You built the life you wanted from nothing, and that’s—” you exhaled softly, searching for the right word, “that’s brave. Doing it scared, doing it alone, is a hell of a lot braver than doing it with the kind of confidence someone like my dad has.”

His expression flickered, somewhere between disbelief and something warmer.

“I know your parents are proud of you,” you went on. “You did all the things you used to talk about when we’d sneak onto the tarmac and you’d point at the sky like it already belonged to you.” You smiled faintly, eyes unfocused for a moment. “You made me want to find somewhere that actually felt like home. And the only place that’s ever even come close was North Island, that year I was here with you.”

Bradley stared at you, silent for a long time. Then he leaned back slightly, shaking his head as if trying to get a handle on whatever was building in his chest. “You always did know exactly what to say.”

“That’s not true,” you argued softly.

He smiled at that, small and rueful. “You know what I always admired about you? How easily you fit in anywhere. You could move halfway across the country, not know a single person, and by the end of the week you’d have a new routine anda new friend group. I used to think that was your version of magic.”

You laughed under your breath. “It was survival.”

“Maybe,” Bradley said, eyes lingering on you. “But it’s also something I wish I had. I still have all your postcards. Philly, Austin, Chicago. I keep them in the top drawer of my desk, like little reminders that there’s more to the world than checklists and orders.” He hesitated, his thumb rubbing along the edge of his jaw. “You never settled for anything less than what felt right for you. And I think that’s what I learned from that year: if I could be just a little more like you, I’d be a much happier man.”

You smiled, small but real. “You do look happier. I’m glad I got to be a tiny part of that.”

Bradley looked at you for a long beat, eyes softening in the golden porch light. “For what it’s worth, you’re still the most amazing person I know,” he said quietly. “You were always so beautiful. You still are, more than ever.”

You smiled sadly, your shoulders lowering. “You’re the most amazing person I know too, Bradley.”

He laughed under his breath, then after a beat, said, “I missed you.”

You froze, every nerve in your body alert. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” His voice was low now, quiet in a way that felt dangerous.

“Because it’s not fair,” you said, breath unsteady. “You can’t just say that now.”

Bradley shifted closer, eyes flicking to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “You think I planned this?”

“I think you always have a plan,” you said. “That’s the problem.”

He smiled, small and tired, running a hand along his thigh. “Maybe this time I don’t. Maybe I’ve learned that not everything has to be perfect. That life with the people you love isn’t about checklists and timelines.”

You blinked at him. “You really mean that?”

“I do,” Bradley said, voice softening. “Being with you showed me I could let go a little. So, I’m taking the chance to tell you I still love you.”

The space between you shrank. You could see the faint crease between Bradley’s brows, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t know if he should.

“Bradley,” you said quietly.

He reached up anyway and brushed his thumb along your cheek. You tilted your head slightly, closing the tiny gap, your pulse pounding in your ears. His fingers slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, tilting your face closer, and you inhaled sharply.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this,” Bradley murmured before connecting your lips.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. The kiss started slow, tentative, but the second your lips moved, Bradley’s restraint shattered. 

His hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and the rest of the world—the ocean breeze, the light streaming in from the kitchen window, the creak of the porch—faded out.

He groaned low in your mouth, and it made your knees weak. Teeth caught briefly on your lower lip, and you parted just enough for him to deepen the kiss, tilting his head so your mouths fit perfectly together. Every touch, every brush of skin against skin, was electric. 

You could feel the tension of the last eight years unravelling between you with every press, every gasp, every tiny, desperate shift closer.

Bradley’s hands moved to your waist, gripping the curve of your hips with a hunger that mirrored your own. You pressed against him, leaning into his warmth, letting yourself melt into the familiarity of him. It was reckless and indulgent and everything you’d wanted for ten years without ever saying it out loud.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Bradley whispered between kisses.

You laughed, a soft, shaky sound, and kissed him again, harder this time. “I’ve been waiting—”

“For far too long,” he interrupted, nipping your jaw, then pressing his forehead to yours. “I know, gorgeous. But we’re here now.”

Bradley’s mouth moved over yours again, teasing then demanding, hands everywhere you wanted them. Your fingers tangled in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him close, shocked at how easy it felt to lose yourself in him again.

His lips trailed down your jaw, your neck, each kiss leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He whispered your name against your skin, and it made something inside you shatter and mend all at once. 

“You’ve been mine all along,” Bradley murmured, voice urgent. “Even when we weren’t together, I still loved you. You were all I thought about, every single day, for ten years.”

“I love you,” you breathed, cutting him off with another deep, desperate kiss. “I always loved you.”

When you finally broke apart, gasping, you rested your foreheads together, both of you laughing breathlessly. Bradley’s hands stayed on your waist, yours on his chest.

“I’ve missed you,” he admitted, voice ragged.

“I’ve missed you too,” you breathed back, and it was impossible to say whose smile was brighter.

Inside, Penny froze mid-step, dish towel in hand, staring out the window. 

“Are they—” she started, eyes wide as she watched you and Bradley tangled together on the porch. “Are they kissing?”

Beside her, Maverick leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a grin slowly spreading across his face. 

“Did you—?”

“Of course I knew,” he said smugly. “Ice and I had a long-running bet about when they’d get back together.”

Penny tore her gaze away from the window to stare at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Gross.” 

“It’s just a turkey neck,” he said, holding it closer to you. You jumped back.

“I will throat punch you if you touch me with that.” He laughed, edging it closer, and you raised a fist. There was a reason a condition of you hosting everyone for Friendsgiving was someone else cleaning the turkey.

“Didn’t take you for being squeamish.” 

“You would be, too, if your grandpa chased you around the house with it when you were a kid, and you had to lock yourself in a bathroom to escape.” At his barked laugh, you shook your head. “I told that to my ex, and he thought it was funny to put it in his zipper and chase me around the house with it. If floppy dick isn’t attractive, a turkey neck sure as shit isn’t.” 

Bradley choked on a laugh. For as prim and proper as you were at times - hence the callsign Duchess - you sometimes reminded everyone that you also had a military sense of humor. “Maybe you just haven’t seen the right ‘floppy dick,’” he smirked, dropping the neck into the trash. 

Shrugging, you glanced away from him when the oven beeped, alerting that it was preheated. “You’re right. Bob probably has a pretty one.” A rosy flush crept up his cheeks as he turned back to the turkey and forced a laugh. Bradley didn’t want to hear that you were thinking about Bob’s dick. “Put it in this afterward, and I’ll dry it.” After dropping the roasting pan beside him, you rewashed your hands.

Standing in front of your bread, you bit your lip to keep from giggling as you contemplated scoring a dick into the dough but decided to go with a traditional wheat stalk. To your surprise, he grabbed the roll of paper towels by the sink and patted the turkey dry, even the cavity. As you removed the Dutch oven from the preheated oven, he tied up the trash bag and took it out. After putting the bread into the oven, you set the timer and moved to the sink, glancing at Bradley when he came back in. Standing beside you, he reached for the soap and lowered the water temperature before scrubbing his hands. Removing the hand towel from your shoulder, you draped it over his after drying your hands. “Thanks,” he murmured. 

“Thanks for taking care of the turkey.” Standing by the island, you crouched to retrieve a cutting board. The sound of other cabinets closing made you peek over the countertop to see him rooting through the overhead storage. “Are you looking for something?” 

“Coffee mugs.” Biting back a retort about making himself comfortable, you pointed to the right of the stove. You bit your tongue when he grabbed two mugs - including your favorite - and went to the wet bar where the full pot was finished brewing. Placing the cutting board on the counter, you grabbed a knife from the block and were surprised to see a mug of coffee beside your workstation. Murmuring your thanks, you grabbed the creamer from the fridge along with packages of herbs and butter. “What are you making?” Bradley asked.

“A marinade since I didn’t brine the turkey.” 

“You want a hand?” 

“I’ve got it,” you said automatically. “I’ve got a schedule.” He didn’t need to know that you were already behind after falling asleep on the couch early last night and forgetting to set your alarm. And he definitely didn’t need to know that you’d only been awake for 20 minutes before he arrived. If you put your head down and focused, everything would still be ready to eat at the agreed-upon 3:00 PM. Some of your time to get yourself ready would just have to be sacrificed. For some reason, you’d insisted that everyone dress nicely for Friendsgiving. Wearing a uniform almost every day didn’t give you any opportunities to dress up, and sometimes it felt nice to wear something other than jeans and a t-shirt. 

Setting your tablet up, you navigated through the bookmarked recipes and rinsed the herbs before pulling them from the stems. Bradley leaned against the counter beside you and sipped his coffee while glancing around the kitchen. Seeing him relaxing there, one leg crossed over the other and looking like he’d just rolled out of bed, made something flutter in your chest. 

“You know, you could have saved a lot of time if you’d just agreed to let Hangman fry the turkey.”

That made you snort. “I just finished my renovations - the last thing I want is for my house to burn down.” It had taken months to get your home exactly how you wanted it. After twelve years in the Navy, you were ready to put down some roots, and buying a home had seemed like the smart thing to do. Living in a construction zone for the last year hadn’t been fun, but a well-timed deployment meant you weren’t there for the worst of it. The results were worth the pain, and you’d jumped at the chance to host when you got back and realized most of the squad had no plans for Thanksgiving. You couldn’t wait for them to see the changes in the Craftsman that had been a definite fixer-upper when you purchased it. The kitchen had been completely gutted and replaced with double ovens and quartz countertops, and the smaller kitchen island had been moved and changed to a wet bar with a wine fridge, replaced with an oversized one. The popcorn texture was scraped from the ceiling throughout the house, the floors redone, and the walls painted. The primary bath had been updated with a large soaker tub and walk-in shower, and you loved the giant closet. The guest bathrooms still needed work, as did the yard, but those were projects for later. 

“It looks good, Duch,” he said softly, gaze holding yours for a long moment. You felt those inconvenient butterflies again and shoved them aside, dropping your eyes to the cutting board. Bradley wasn’t for you. You were too different - he enjoyed nights out at the bar, while you liked to spend time at home. He liked being the center of attention while you preferred to blend into the background. Besides, he didn’t seem much like a relationship guy, given the number of flings he had at the Hard Deck, while the idea of casual dating gave you hives. Pushing away from the counter, Bradley reached under the sink for a trashbag, putting it into the can before washing his hands. He moved closer, nose twitching slightly at the scent of rosemary, and braced his big hands on the countertop beside you. “Alright, what can I do?” 

“You don’t - ”

“Lemme help.” His eyes met yours, smiling when you sighed. 

“Fine. The meat injector is in here,” you said, bumping one of the drawer handles with your hip. “And I’ll need the chicken stock from the pantry.” Pouring the stock, herbs, and a couple of sticks of butter into a stockpan, you handed Bradley a silicone spatula and told him to stir. You rolled your lips together to keep from smiling when he pulled his phone from his pocket and watched videos of turkey injections before declaring he would be in charge of it. Reluctantly, you agreed. Once the marinade had cooled, the bird was given a second drying, you had finished the coffee, and Bradley had rewatched the video three times, it was time. He studied the turkey through narrowed eyes as you tried not to laugh. “You want to - ”

“Ah!”

“The breast and thighs - ”

“I’m doing it, Duch,” he cut you off. 

“Well, remember that if it turns out dry.” The unimpressed look Bradley shot you made you grin as you put your chin in your hand and motioned for him to proceed. The tip of his tongue poked through his lips as he filled the injector and hovered the needle over the turkey. His eyes darted to you, and you raised an eyebrow. “You can tap out at any time, Rooster.” Instead of replying, he pierced the meat and pushed down on the plunger. You couldn’t help but laugh when he yelped, marinade spraying in his face after pushing too hard. But when he reached to wipe it away, you caught his hands. “Don’t put turkey germs all over your face,” you scoffed, towing him toward the sink. You held his chin while cleaning his face with wet paper towels. 

“Now you’re just messing with me,” he chuckled when you scrubbed his mustache, but he didn’t pull away. His breath was hot on your hand, and his smile soft when you reached up to dab away a speck of garlic in his eyebrow. Balling up the paper towel, you shook your head. 

“Wash your face with soap to make sure you don’t get salmonella. Cyclone’ll kill me if you’re out with food poisoning.” Turning on the water, you ensured it was warm before getting a clean washcloth. The oven timer beeped as you dug through the linen closet, and you hurried back into the kitchen, throwing the towel on the sink beside him and grabbing the pot holders to take out your bread. Once it was on the wire rack to cool, you moved to the turkey. 

“What’re you doing?” Bradley demanded, turning while drying his face. 

“Taking over.” You gasped when he closed the space between you in a few strides, wrapped his arm around your waist, and lifted you away from the counter. “Bradshaw! What the hell?”

“Told you I’m doing it,” he chuckled in your ear. Once back on your feet, you spun in his hold and stared at him. Butterflies erupted in your stomach at his cocky smirk. 

“Fine, but if you waste more of my marinade, you’re out of my kitchen.”

“Deal.” 

Thankfully, there were no further incidents, but you kept a close eye on him while slicing up a loaf of bread you’d baked two days before and let go stale for stuffing. After covering the roasting tray with tin foil, the bird went back into the fridge to rest for a few hours. “Thanks, Rooster. I guess I’ll see you later?”

“What else can I do?” 

“You don’t - ” 

“I want to help. I haven’t…” his eyes dropped to the floor as he shrugged. “I never got to do this before. My mom and I would always go to my cousin’s for Thanksgiving before she died, and it always seemed kinda fun.” 

Everyone on the squad knew that Bradley’s parents had passed when he was young. He didn’t mention them often, but you noticed he’d get quiet sometimes when people talked about their families. So his volunteering the information felt important, and glancing at the clock showed that you were still behind schedule. “Fine.”

“Yeah?” he asked, excitement flashing in his eyes. 

“Don’t look so happy - you’re doing prep work. You can peel potatoes, assemble the veggie tray, and roast the garlic. I need to work on sides and desserts.” 

And he did. Bradley followed your instructions, grimacing while peeling potatoes over the trash can until you took out a plastic bag and put it in the sink for him to do it there. You kept an eye on him as he cut the spuds into uniform pieces after explaining that they wouldn’t cook evenly for the mashed potatoes, somewhat worried that he would cut himself. Rather than deal with the onions, you delegated the task and tried not to laugh at his near-constant sniffles and swipes at his watery eyes as you diced peppers. Once you dug out the hand-me-down crystal platters, he arranged the veggies you’d prepped the night before while making pies. Dips were mixed, and cans of olives and bottles of pickles were opened and drained before being plated.

Other than bumping into one another when going for the fridge at the same time, it wasn’t too bad sharing the kitchen. The coffee pot was quickly emptied, and Bradley brewed another between shredding blocks of cheese. You sang along with your playlists, his deep voice joining on a few songs while teasing you about others. When you sang about karma being a kink, he watched your hips sway at the sink, clenching his jaw when you sang a breathy ‘oh god.’ 

He slid the roasting tray into the oven when the turkey was rested and ready to cook. “Now what?” he asked, turning to look at you. 

“Now we keep an eye on it for about four hours. Baste and re-inject it every hour or so,” you shrugged. A glance at his watch showed it would be almost 2:00 PM by the time it was ready. As though realizing it would still be hours before eating, his stomach grumbled its discontent. He blushed when you smirked. “I guess the least I can do is make my sous chef breakfast. Get the muffins and butter from the fridge for me.”  

“Did you make these?” he asked, setting the containers beside you as you heated a skillet on the stove.

“I did - family tradition is grilled muffins on Thanksgiving morning. You okay with blueberry?” At his nod, you started slicing muffins in half. Rather than giving you space, Bradley stayed at your elbow. A comfortable silence fell, broken only by sizzling butter. His gaze met yours when you glanced up at him, and a smile tugged at his mouth. 

An image of reaching up to bury your fingers in his messy curls and tugging his mouth down to meet yours flashed through your mind. Your fingers twitched with the urge to do it, eyes drifting to his mouth and lingering there for a moment too long. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and you forced yourself to look away, heat creeping into your face. 

You nearly jumped out of your skin when he reached up to shift a strand of hair that had fallen from your messy bun. “I’m glad you're back, Duch,” he said, voice slightly raspy. 

Forcing a laugh, you plated two muffins and handed them to him. “Everyone misses the mom friend of the group when she’s deployed.” Your eyes darted to his stomach when it growled again, just in time to see the front of his sweats twitch. Pretending you didn’t see it, you nodded to the living room. “The parade is recording if you want to watch it.” 

Bradley opened his mouth as though he would say something before taking the apparent dismissal. Alone in the kitchen, you touched your cheek and felt warm skin. With a deep breath, you grilled yourself a muffin as the sound of the broadcasters came from the living room. After topping up your coffee, you joined him. He sprawled on one end of the couch, plate balanced on a thigh as he sipped his coffee. Sitting on the opposite side, you crossed your legs and let out a soft groan. Only a couple of hours standing in the kitchen and your back was already starting to protest. “What else do you have to do this morning?” he asked after a moment.

Mentally running through your list, you sighed. “I need to do some cleaning and get into the attic. I’ll start cooking a bit closer to noon, so things just have to be warmed up.”

“What do you need from the attic?” 

“My nice china. My parents bought my sister and I sets for our hope chests when we were kids.”

“What’s a hope chest?”

“You know, stuff you’d need once you get married?” When his eyebrows shot up, you shrugged. “They weren’t really serious about it - it was more of a joke. But, every once in a while, they’d buy something for us and put it away for when we were older and say it was for our hope chest.” Taking a bite of muffin, you gave him a sad smile, “Mine’s more of a ‘hopeless’ chest,’ though. I guess they finally gave up on me getting married because they gave it to me when they sold their house and moved closer to the grandkids. I figured I’d get it out and use it instead of having it sit in the cardboard boxes it’s been in for over two decades.” Something passed over Bradley’s face but disappeared in an instant. Wanting to change the subject, you asked, “What do you usually do for Thanksgiving?”

“Nothing. It’s just another Thursday.” When you frowned, he lifted a shoulder. “A couple of times, I went to the Officer’s Club, or someone would invite me over. But most of the time, I just make myself a turkey sandwich and catch up on sleep. What about you?”

“If I’m not with my family, then this. When I first commissioned, I went to the O-Club with some friends but missed cooking and hanging out. And you know how hard it is to go home for the holidays.” He nodded even though he didn’t. Bradley never asked for the time off unless he was dating someone who insisted on it. With no family to visit, he was happy to volunteer when there was reduced manning and allow others to take leave. “So I invited a couple of people from my squad over, and that was that.” 

“It’s a lot of work.”

“It is,” you agreed. “But it’s worth it.” Bradley’s fingers curled around his plate and in his sweatpants, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath. When he shifted forward, you quickly stood and reached out your hand for his empty plate. “Do you want another one?” Shaking his head, he stood and took your plate. 

“Do you?” Swallowing hard, you shook your head and watched him walk back into the kitchen. Biting back a groan, you gave yourself a moment to collect yourself. Things had been…different… since you’d gotten home. And as much as you enjoyed these quiet moments alone with Bradley, it also stung. You’d thought the time away would help, but as soon as you were back, it was like no time had passed. He was still there, partnering for foosball in the Ready Room and coaxing you to go to the Hard Deck. Making sure that you sat next to him in briefings. Offering to look at your car when it made a noise.

Friends. That’s what friends do for each other. After all, he did the same for Nat. 

Collecting the empty coffee mugs, you followed him to the kitchen and watched as Bradley cleaned up the mess and set it in the sink. “Don’t feel like you have to stick around, Rooster. I can handle getting everything ready.” 

“I’m happy to help if you want me here. I’d just sit at my house watching TV and wait to come back if I went home.” 

Chewing the inside of your lip, you bit back a wave of want. “Don’t think this gets you out of the dress code,” you replied, forcing your voice to be cool while allowing your eyes to run the length of him. “I’m serious - slacks and button-downs, not sweats.” 

Laughing, he snapped a salute. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll make sure I run home and change to pass your inspection.” 

The rest of the morning was a blur, punctuated by moments of stark clarity. 

Bradley’s hands on your waist as you climbed down the attic stairs. 

Biceps flexing as he carried your Christmas tree to a spare bedroom to set up tomorrow.

His elbow bumping yours as he dried the china and set it aside.  

The look of concentration on his face when he basted and injected the turkey again.

His body passing close to yours as he emptied the dishwasher and you assembled dishes.

Just after noon, he went home to get ready while you showered. People were due to arrive around 1:30 PM, and you were back on schedule with your unexpected assistant. 

Sooner than you expected, there was a knock at the door. Groaning, you capped your mascara, shimmied into your black sheath cocktail dress, and went to answer it. Bradley stood on the porch, having changed into a pair of slacks and one of his nicer Hawaiian shirts, hands in his pockets. Folded over his arm was a coat, and he grinned at you when he caught you looking at it. “Wasn’t sure if I would pass inspection without a sports coat,” he chuckled, allowing his gaze to rake over you. A flush rose on your cheeks as you reached behind yourself to pull up the dress zipper. It caught just above the top of your thong.  “You look… you’re fine.” Chuckling, he shook his head. 

“Turn around, Duch.” After a beat, you stepped back to allow him inside and did as he said.

“There’s a hook and eye at the top,” you said and inhaled sharply when you felt his fingers brush the back of your neck. The smell of his cologne enveloped you, and you bit back a moan when his hand moved to your lower back and tugged the zipper up. After a beat, you turned to face him and were surprised by how close he was. His mouth curved into a smile as he looked down at you, hand resting on your waist. 

“You look fine, too,” he said softly. Your hands itched to move to his chest. Bradley’s eyes drifted to your lips, and your breath caught as his fingers flexed around you. If asked, you would have sworn you felt the lightest pressure pulling you closer - but then someone knocked on the door. Stepping out of his hold, you smoothed your hair down and ignored the brief moment his hands hung in suspension before being shoved back into his pockets. 

“I came early to see if you needed a hand,” Phoenix said when you opened the door. In her hands was a tray, and she’d also chosen a cocktail dress for the occasion. Her normally tied-back hair was loose around her shoulders. 

“Hey,” you smiled, hoping that you weren’t blushing. Nat’s eyes shifted over your shoulders and narrowed slightly. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Same as you - seeing of Duch needed help.”

“He’s been here all morning,” you blurted out, flushing when both sets of eyes landed on you. “He’s taking care of the turkey.” 

“The guy who hates cooking is in charge of the main dish?” Nat smirked. “Probably would have been better letting Hangman fry it.”

“He’s being supervised,” you assured, glancing over your shoulder to see him rolling his eyes. Stepping back to let Nat into the house, you accidentally bumped into Bradley, who held your hips to steady you. Quickly moving away from his touch, you took the tray from her and motioned for them to follow you into the kitchen. “I haven’t had a chance to put any drinks out, but there’s some coffee left and wine chilling. I still need to make the cocktails, but there’s also soda and flavored water.” The two followed you, exchanging a look that you missed.

As soon as he entered the kitchen, Bradley tossed his coat onto the wet bar and moved to the oven, flipping on the light to check the turkey before glancing at his watch. “I need to do the last basting, right?” 

“It’s about that time,” you agreed, glancing at the clock. Digging through a drawer, you pulled out an apron and put it on, crossing the strings behind your back before tying them in a bow across your stomach. You thought you heard a murmured ‘Jesus Christ’ when you turned around to see him holding the pot holders. 

You could feel Nat watching as you worked together to remove the turkey and then return it to the oven, popping olives into her mouth and smirking. “Looks like you guys have it down,” she said. “Don’t need my help at all.”

“Nope,” Bradley said, drowning out your, “You can feel free to relax.” 

“Might as well do something since I’m here,” she shrugged, pushing off her elbows. “What can I do?” 

And so, with a third set of hands, you set them to making large batches of seasonal cocktails while you cut the bread you’d made that morning, covering it with slices of brie and dried cranberries before drizzling it with honey. A quick scroll through your schedule gave you the times to start cooking, and you preheated the second oven.

The house slowly filled as more of the squad arrived. Countertops were quickly covered with their contributions - thankfully, more than beer and wine, and only a few sides repeated -  and you mentally shifted your schedule to accommodate the additional dishes.

Mav, Penny, and Amelia were the last to arrive, with her new bartender, Georgia, in tow. Penny had asked you if she could invite her, given that the woman was new to the area and didn’t have anywhere else to spend the holiday. You’d replied with, “The more, the merrier,” just like you had for everyone else’s requests to bring a guest. 

But you regretted that sentiment when you saw how she zeroed in on Bradley, staying close to him while you worked in the kitchen. The few times you broke away to mingle - showing off your renovated home, making sure that everyone’s glasses were topped off and that they didn’t need anything - you saw her hanging off his arm, giving him a simpering smile that set your teeth on edge. And, while she’d adhered to the dress code, you weren’t exactly thrilled to see that her breasts were nearly spilling out of her low-cut dress. 

“You need anything, Duchess?” Payback asked, setting down the pitcher of spiced ginger pear and bourbon. 

“I’m good,” you replied, wiping your hands on the dish rag thrown over your shoulder and blowing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Turkey should be done in a few minutes; once it rests, we can eat.” 

“Thanks for doing this,” he said, glancing over at your full house. Aviators were sprawled across your living room and spilled out into the backyard. It was exactly what you’d hoped for when redesigning the house - plenty of space to comfortably entertain. 

“I’m happy to, Payback,” you smiled, allowing him to pull you in for a hug. “Beats having a quiet house for the holidays.” 

“Want me to get the turkey out for you?” 

“I’ve got it covered,” a voice said behind you, and you couldn’t help but wonder about Bradley's slightly sharp tone as you pulled away from the hug. 

“Got it,” Payback replied, raising an eyebrow and lifting his hands. “Let me know if you need anything, Duch.” Squaring your shoulders, you turned to face the man behind you and forced a smile. 

“I’ll clear off a spot on the stove for you to put the pan, and then we’ll let it sit for half an hour.” 

“Then it’ll be done?”

“Then you’ll have officially made your first turkey,” you nodded. When the timer went off, Bradley quickly pulled the bird from the oven and set it on the stove, closely inspecting his work. 

“Does it look right?”

“Yes, relax.”

“Did you make it?” a smokey voice asked, and you felt your shoulders rise. Glancing at Georgia, you saw Bradley’s eyes dart between you.

“He did,” you answered, smiling at the woman. 

“I just followed her directions,” he replied. 

“It looks great!” Georgia giggled. Forcing a smile, you undid the apron strings and pulled it off before excusing yourself. You could feel eyes on you as you walked down the hallway to your bedroom and shut the door, retreating to your en suite.

After washing your hands for the millionth time, you quickly applied lotion while examining your appearance in the mirror. Compared to Georgia, you looked matronly with your hair pulled back and a higher neckline. Sure, your dress was classy - somewhat tight and falling just above your knees - but not attention-grabbing. 

Not that you were trying to grab anyone’s attention.

A knock on your bedroom door startled you, and you peeked out to call, “Who is it?”

“Rooster.” Glancing back in the mirror, you saw your cheeks were slightly pink and scowled at your reflection.

“Get it together,” you hissed before turning off the light and going to open the door. And there he was, smiling down at you.

“Your phone was going off,” he said, holding up your cell. When your eyes flitted toward it, the device unlocked to show your family group chat was going off. Taking it from him, you swiped up to see videos and pictures. A smile crept onto your mouth as you clicked the first and heard your older sister’s voice.

“Guess what?” she said before tossing a card down and throwing her hands up. Cheers and laughs broke out, and you could hear your nephew complaining as your grandmother said, “Looks like Mom won!”

The camera panned to show your other nephew licking whipped cream off his pie, utterly unfazed by the family now pounding on the table in a drumroll. Catching Bradley’s interested expression, you moved so he could see the screen. Scrolling through the other videos, you watched your mom roll down a hill with the boys and your dad holding a glass of wine with your brother-in-law. The sight made your heart clench, and you sighed. Being away from family on the holidays was the worst. Thankfully, they all understood that your job didn’t always give you the flexibility to be with them.

“Looks like a fun group.”

“They are. I’m glad I get to spend Christmas with them.” He nodded, a flicker of sadness and something else in his eyes. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Mav’s already told me I’m spending it with him and Penny.”

“Sounds like fun.” You knew a complicated dynamic existed there but didn’t want to pry. His shoulder lifted, eyes drifting to your now dark phone. And that’s when you recognized the look on his face - longing. “Hey, you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” When he saw your unconvinced expression, he sighed. “Holidays kind of suck when you don’t have family.” 

“I’m sorry, Bradley.” Something in his expression changed when you said his name and reached out to touch his arm. His eyes darted from your hand to your face, and you quickly pulled away. But he was faster, catching your fingers and holding tightly. Your breath caught with the intensity of his gaze, and he stepped into your room. His breath was warm on your face when you refused to retreat. Lifting your chin, you saw his throat bob when he swallowed.  

“Hey, there’s a timer going off,” Bob called down the hall. 

“Be right there,” you yelled back, pushing lightly against Bradley’s chest and forcing space between you. But when you tried to shake off his hand, he held fast. “I need to go, or something will burn,” you breathed. Reluctantly, he nodded and released you. 

You’d already removed the green bean casserole and macaroni and cheese from the oven when Bradley reappeared. Unsurprisingly, Georgia glued herself to his side as he sipped his drink. Though you could feel him looking at you, you refused to meet his gaze. 

When everything was ready, you looked over your kitchen and nodded approvingly. When the guys offered to carve the turkey, you turned them all down and delegated that task to Bradley.  “He earned it,” you said, glancing at him before busying yourself with opening another bottle of wine. With Coyote and Fanboy at his elbows critiquing his cuts, you steered clear of that part of the kitchen and chatted with Penny while pulling out silverware. 

Hangman refused to let you go around the room and tell people that food was ready, instead pulling out a chair and helping you stand on it before whistling loudly to get everyone’s attention. “Dinner’s served!” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder, his arm around your hips to keep you steady. “Thank you for bringing something, and please help yourself. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone - I’m glad I get to spend it with you.” Lifting your wine glass, you took a quick sip and laughed when Hangman lifted you off the chair to set you back on the floor. 

Choosing to wait until your guests had a plate, you leaned against the wet bar and smiled tiredly, watching your hard work be devoured. There weren’t enough chairs for everyone at the table, so the group spread into the living room. You took a few pictures and sent them to your family. 

Someone stepped in front of you, pulling your attention from your phone. “You’re not gonna eat?” Bradley asked. 

“Just waiting for the line to clear,” you replied, forcing a nonchalant tone. The corner of his mouth twitched as he shook his head. 

“Come on, Duch.” His fingers curled around yours, drawing you from the counter and into the line. Grabbing one of the smaller salad plates, you let him push you in front of him, taking small amounts of almost every dish while he served himself larger portions. After topping up your wine, you walked to the living room and felt him behind you, ignoring Georgia's attempt to get his attention. He motioned for you to take the last spot on the couch and sat on the floor. “Jesus,” he moaned after taking the first bite of turkey.

“Mmmm,” you agreed. “You did a good job.”

“Who would have thought the guy who made the barracks evacuate after he burned ramen would make a good turkey,” Nat smirked. Bradley flipped her off, unable to keep the proud grin off his face. 

Dessert was eaten, and the last bottle of wine finished before 7:00 PM. The house felt quiet as it slowly emptied, and you hugged everyone goodbye. Already, tentative plans for a Christmas party formed even as you fought off a yawn. After assuring Penny that you were fine cleaning up, she left with Mav and Amelia in tow. 

Which left only Bradley. 

The sound of running water drew you back into the kitchen, and you paused in the doorway at the sight of him rinsing silverware and loading the dishwasher, a hand towel thrown over his shoulder. “I can take care of that,” you said quickly. Bradley glanced at you and shook his head.

“Relax, I’ve got it. Can the plates go in here, or do they need to be hand-washed?”

“They can go in there.” Ignoring the order, you walked around the house, picked up empty glasses and forgotten dishes, and set them by the sink. Donning your apron, you surveyed the leftovers, “Did you want any of this?”

“Yeah, I’ll take a plate.” Nodding, you started to put the food away. Thankfully, there wasn’t a lot left. Everyone had been happy to take leftovers, and you were glad you’d had the forethought to buy containers for them to keep. 

The silence was comfortable, and you were stifling yawns with the back of your hand. Between the turkey, wine, and lack of sleep the night before, you were ready to change back into comfy clothes and pass out. Without prompting, Bradley started to cut up what was left of the turkey, placing some in the containers you’d portioned for him before putting the rest in the fridge. You started the dishwasher when it was full and wiped down counters. After tossing the rest of the turkey, he took the trash out.

When the door swung shut, you took the opportunity to stretch, moaning when your back popped before bending at the waist and letting your arms dangle. As much as you enjoyed hosting, your body took a beating, being on your feet all day. You would definitely need to invest in some mats to make the kitchen floor more comfortable before your next full day of cooking. 

Even when the door opened, you felt too good stretching to stand up straight. You heard Bradley chuckle and then the sound of water running, followed by the snap of a trashbag being shaken out. Finally, you stood and threw out a hand to steady yourself when the world spun. Hands wrapped around your hips and drew you closer. “You okay, honey?” 

The term of endearment caught you off-guard and had clearly slipped out by the flush on Bradley’s cheeks. “Honey?” you echoed, quirking a brow.

“Duchess,” he corrected. 

“Rooster.” Your hands rested on his forearms, feeling the muscles flex as his fingers clenched around your hips. Taking a deep breath, you felt your chest brush his. His lips quirked into a wry smile. “What?” 

“Just waiting for something to interrupt.” At your questioning look, he chuckled. “Been trying to kiss you all day, and something always gets in the way.” 

“What?” you breathed, shock written across your face. 

“Been thinkin’ about kissing you since that night at the Hard Deck, actually.” 

“T-the Hard Deck?”

“Yup. Before you deployed.” Heat rushed to your face at the memory - or lack thereof - of your going away party. There had been one too many shots, and you had a vague recollection of Bradley driving the Bronco. Of him telling you not to throw up while he helped Nat into her apartment before taking you home. Half carrying you to bed and making sure you had water and medicine - warm hands on your face and a raspy laugh.  

“When I was drunk?”

“When you told me you liked me.” Mortified, you felt a sudden flush of heat and tried to pull away, but he held firm. “But that you didn’t think I was a relationship guy.” 

“Roo - ”

“I am. A relationship guy,” he clarified, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “For the right woman.” Your mouth was dry, unable to force out a single word. “I was gonna say something before you left, but you avoided me. And then you were gone for three months.”

“I… you messaged me.” 

“Wasn’t exactly something I wanted to say over email,” Bradley chuckled. “I like you too.” 

“What about Georgia?”

That drew him up short, and a confused look crossed his face. “The bartender?” 

“Yeah. She… I mean, she’s clearly interested. And more your type.” Groaning, he leaned down to rest his forehead on yours.

“Honey, I’m not interested in her. And she’s not… ask Nat. She’s been on my case about my” - he lifted a hand to make air quotes - “‘hoe phase’ since I got out here.” That drew a snort from you, and Bradley pulled away to smile at you bashfully. “Gimme a chance, Duch.” 

Hesitating a moment, you took another deep breath and gave the butterflies in your stomach free rein. Hands shaking, you wrapped your arms around his neck and nodded, unable to keep from matching his smile. 

Moving slowly, as though afraid to spook you, Bradley leaned down and brushed his nose to yours. “As much as this is doin’ things for me,” he said softly, pulling at the apron strings tied at your stomach, “I think we’re done in the kitchen tonight.” Biting your lip, you could only nod, leaning away as he tugged it over your head, balled the apron up, and tossed it behind you. With his hands back on your hips, he walked you backward and lifted you onto the counter, stepping between your knees. “This alright?” 

“Yeah,” you whispered, allowing yourself to reach out and run a hand through his curls. Bradley's eyes closed when you lightly scratched his scalp, and he swayed closer. His breath ghosted over your lips and - 

“Fucking Christ,” he groaned when his phone started to buzz. You jumped, feeling the vibration against your shin, and laughed as he dropped his head into the crook of your neck. Your breath caught, feeling his lips on your throat. When he reached into his pocket and scowled down at the screen, you saw Nat’s name before he sent the call to voicemail. 

Leaving the phone on the counter, he smirked and guided your legs around his waist as your arms went around his neck. His hands cupped your ass as he lifted you. In the doorway to the kitchen, he paused long enough for you to slap the walls until the lights turned off before walking toward the couch and lowering himself onto it. Your knees dug into the cushion on either side of him, forcing the hem of your dress higher. 

From this angle, he had to look up at you. Hands migrated from your ass to thighs, callouses lightly scraping and fingertips darting under the fabric to trace shapes on your skin and drag the hem higher. Lightly, you ran your thumb along the scars on his chin before ghosting over the ones on his cheek that had always intrigued you. A moan rumbled from his throat as he followed your touch, mustache tickling the delicate skin of your wrist. Blushing, you wondered how it would feel on your inner thighs. He chuckled, kissing your cheek, “What’re you thinking that’s got you red?” 

Rather than answer, you turned and kissed him - just a light brush of your lips against his that seemed to catch him off-guard. You stared at one another for a long moment until he guided you closer. His mustache prickled, not unpleasantly but different, when he kissed you again. It was sweet and unhurried, a direct contradiction to the hardness you felt straining against his zipper. 

Pulling away, you smiled tentatively down at him, seeing the remnants of your lipstick on his mouth. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and you leaned forward to press your lips to them. “Hi,” you said softly.

“Hey.” 

“You like me?” 

“Yeah. You like me?” 

Rather than reply, you captured his lips again. “Drunk words,” you said between kisses, “are sober thoughts.” He barked a laugh before tugging you closer and licking into your mouth. 

“Shoulda said something earlier,” he chided, gripping your ass tightly. “Coulda been doing this for a long time.” 

“Blame the tequila.” The word came out as a moan when he trailed kisses down your neck, and you felt him smile. 

“Thank god for tequila,” he mumbled, nuzzling your breasts and making you grind down on him. Bradley caught your hands when your fingers trailed down his chest to tug at his shirt. “Nuh-uh, honey. Gonna take you on a couple of dates before we get to that.”

“What?” 

“No more ‘hoe phase.’” 

“Maybe just one more night?” That made him laugh again as he shook his head.

“No, Duch. Wanna do this right with you.” 

“I’ve heard the stories. I know you would.” When you rocked against him, he pinned your hand at your lower back and stilled you with a hand on your hip. He growled your name and smirked when your thighs clenched.

“Liked that, huh?” he teased. “Ms. Prim and Proper Duchess likes to be bossed around?” Heat flooded your face, and he chuckled again. Without warning, he stood, and you squeaked, trying to keep from falling. But he held you steady and set you on your feet, towering over you. “Can I stay over?” You didn’t hesitate in nodding, and his kiss was rough before he pulled away and swatted your ass. “Go get ready for bed while I lock up.” 

When you emerged from the bathroom, face cleaned and in your panties and a tank top, Bradley was lying in the middle of your bed in just his boxers. Groaning, he looked at you and shook his head. “Where are those sweats from this morning?” 

“You want me to wear sweats to bed?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe and raising an eyebrow. His hand drifted down to his hard cock, squeezing lightly. “You’ve seen me in less at the beach.”

“Trying to do this right, honey.” Rolling your eyes, you walked to your dresser and pulled on sweatpants before digging out a pair of fuzzy socks. He laughed when you tossed them at his head, setting them aside as you circled the bed to lie beside him. Quickly, he pinned you beneath him, settling in the cradle of your thighs. As he licked into your mouth, you felt his hips rolling against yours. “Still too damn sexy,” he murmured against your lips. 

“Housewife lingerie does it for you?” you teased, running your hands through his hair. Rather than answer, he looped an arm under your knee and drew it up, allowing you to feel him better. “Fuck.”

“Not tonight.” 

And, unfortunately, he was true to his word. Anytime your hands strayed to his boxers, he pinned them over your head, seemingly content to tease and kiss all night. 

Eventually, though, you could no longer keep from yawning. After setting his alarm - Bradley was on duty in the morning while you’d taken the day off - he tucked you against him, your back to his chest. His cock pressed against your ass as he kissed your shoulder, hand slipping under your shirt to brush the underside of your breast. Sighing, he murmered, “Best Thanksgiving I’ve had in a long time.” 

You couldn’t help but agree.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Author's Note: Do I think that Bradley has a raging domesticity kink? Possibly.

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Why am I so aroused all the time??? 

The question marks aren’t necessary, but they feel right given how perplexed you are by this development. What’s returned is page after page of different threads and message boards, all filled with women over the age of 30 confirming that, yes, their libido also increased with age. In fact, it seems fairly commonplace for women to experience their sexual peak a little bit later in life. 

While you’re relieved that this phenomenon isn’t unusual, you’re still frustrated by the fact that you feel insatiable. There’s absolutely no time to take care of yourself as often as you’d like, no space with enough privacy to even try. Your bunk on the tour bus is your only sanctuary, but even then, the curtains are easily ripped from their velcro tabs, and someone is always awake when you’re at your most desperate. 

Hotel rooms aren’t any better. You always end up sharing the space, which you can’t begrudge anyone for, really. It’s a matter of pragmatism made up for by all of the other perks of touring with Hozier—or, Andrew, as he prefers from colleagues. 

Therein lies your other issue: Andrew is currently the bane of your entire fucking existence. Not for any malicious reason, it’s just…well, you have eyes, and he’s an attractive lad. A kind lad. Funny, sensitive, talented—the list goes on. But he’s Hozier, for Christ’s sake. If he’s not a household name by now, he’s very well on his way with the release of “Too Sweet,” perhaps to his chagrin. 

Honestly, it’s just a silly crush that you would handle a lot better were it not for the fact that you live within 20 feet of the man constantly. You’re either singing on stage behind him, or sitting a stone’s throw away from him on the bus. The only reprieve you get is on hotel nights, but even then, you’ve been dragged out for dinner and drinks on several occasions, somehow always ending up either seated directly across from him or squished into a booth next to him. 

Recently, you’ve been trying to maintain a reasonable distance. You’ve stepped out of rooms he’s entered, hidden around corners as he strides by, and recused yourself from group outings for your own peace. It’s not as though anything would ever come of your crush, and it’s better to maintain space than force yourself into proximity to him and suffer at the hands of your own libido.

Honestly, you never expected him to take notice. Sure, he’s kind to you, and he’ll strike up a conversation with you when he’s in the mood, but otherwise, you’ve always thought of yourself as inconsequential. Not like Alex or Rory who have been with him since the beginning. Not like Larissa who enmeshes themself into the fold with their radiating energy and charm, nor Kamilah who is the human embodiment of glee.  

Tonight is another night of planned avoidance. The group is getting ready to go out for dinner and enjoy their evening off before the show the next night. You’ve already declined the invitation in the group chat, already fended off Joy and Mel who follow you with exaggerated pouts and pleas. In the end, they respect your decision to stay behind and promise to bring something back for you. 

With the next few hours to yourself, you curl up in bed and crack open the same book you’ve been attempting to read for the past few days—some fantasy novel with a gratuitous amount of steamy, spicy scenes that are…a little silly, if you’re being honest. But it’s fun, nearly brainless entertainment. A dessert of a novel, or perhaps the after-dinner mint. 

A quiet, polite knock at the door startles you out of your reading not even 20 minutes later. You wonder if it’s Mel, if she forgot her damn room key again, and hop out of bed in your pajama shorts and tank top without another thought. 

When you open the door, you’re surprised to find that it’s Andrew on the other side, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. 

“Oh, hey!” You greet, befuddlement obvious in your voice. “What’re you doing here? I thought you went out with everyone else.”

Andrew shakes his head. “Nah, I wasn’t feeling up for it tonight.”

“Ah.” There’s a few beats of silence as you stare at each other, until you finally ask, “Did…did you need something, or…?” Because, really, why the fuck is he here?

He’s quiet as he studies you, head tilting to one side. You’ve never been on the receiving end of his scrutiny before—at least, not that you’re aware of, anyway. It’s slightly intimidating, mostly because of his stature, but also because his attention is solely directed on you in a way you haven’t experienced previously. 

Finally, he lets out a little huff and asks, “Are you avoiding me?” 

Your eyes go wide and your mouth drops open. You quickly snap it shut, a flush already making your ears go hot.

“No! Of course not! What gave you that impression?” Lies, lies, lies, but what are you supposed to say to a question like that? 

Andrew looks rightfully unconvinced. “I just…haven’t seen you around lately.” 

He noticed?

“Right, yeah, uh…” You flounder for a response, rubbing your clammy palms against your shorts. “I’ve just—I’ve been busy, y’know? With stuff. And things.” 

“Stuff and things,” Andrew repeats back slowly with a half-smile. 

You nod, smile tightly. “Mhm. Stuff and things. Matters, even! And, um…affairs. States of affairs.” 

“Of course.” He nods sagely. “It just seems like one of those very important matters that you’re tending to might be avoiding me.” 

“Oh,” you reply lamely. “It’s—I’m not—” You’re beginning to panic, trying to think of anything to get out of this conversation that doesn’t involve slamming the door in his face. 

“Because you haven’t gone out with us in weeks,” he continues as you stammer. “And you’re fairly quick to leave any room that I enter. Or, is that just a coincidence?” 

Annoyance buzzes beneath your skin.

“There have been stranger occurrences, I’m sure,” you reply evenly.

“Right. I’m sure.” He pulls a grimace of a smile, lips pressed together tightly as he knocks once on the doorframe before taking a step back. He almost looks dejected, though that’s probably just wishful thinking on your part. 

You’re ready to close the door on him, ready to curl back up under the blankets and try to sleep off your embarrassment. Just as he begins to turn away, Andrew stops and turns back to you with a curious half-smile. 

“Would you like to go down to the hotel bar with me, then?” 

You blink. “What?” 

He shrugs easily, assuredly. “Since you’re not avoiding me, come down and get a drink with me.”

Anxiety grips your heart as your stomach flutters. It’s a bad idea. A terrible one, even. Being alone with Andrew under the influence of alcohol? You can only imagine that being a one-way ticket to a massive disaster that ends with you getting kicked off the tour entirely. God knows what dumb shite will spill out of your mouth the moment you start to feel loose.

His smile turns coy as he tilts his head. “Or I could always bring something up for you. They’ve a lovely wine list here.” 

You swallow, searching his face as he raises a questioning eyebrow at you. 

Finally, you sigh and let your head rest against the doorframe. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” 

Andrew laughs, shakes his head. “No. Unless you tell me to fuck off, of course.”

You can’t help but smile and shake your own head. “I would never. Can you give me a few minutes, though? I can’t go down looking like this.” 

He waits outside like a gentleman, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. He smiles as you reappear in clothes more suitable for a public setting—merely a hoodie and a pair of jeans, but it’s good enough for a booth in the dimly lit, fairly empty hotel bar. 

You order a glass of blush wine, smirking when Andrew requests the bottle for the table instead. 

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” It’s light, airy, asked as a joke and nothing more. 

Andrew looks at you with a sly tilt of his head. “Trying to find reasons for you to stay a while.”

The answer stuns you, your face going pink as you avoid the waiter’s amused expression.

He orders a glass of Woodford Reserve, neat. When the waiter drops it off, he holds it out to you for a taste, and you hold out your wine glass in turn. The whiskey is bitter, spicy, and makes you cough into the crook of  your elbow as the amber liquid burns all the way down to your stomach. 

“Good lord,” you splutter as he grins at you. “That’ll put some hair on your chest.”

You study him as he sips from your wine glass, as he tilts his head in thought and nods to himself assuredly before commenting that it’s actually quite good despite blush wines not being his thing.

“So…” you start, hands folded on the table as you level his stare. 

“So…” he echoes as he rests his head in his hand, elbow planted firmly on the table. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

The question startles a laugh out of you. “Straight to it then, yeah?” 

He shrugs, takes another sip of his drink. “It’s not typically how I operate.” 

“Oh?” You tilt your head, an exaggeration of his own mannerisms. “And what makes me the lucky one to be graced with your focus and attention?”

Andrew chuckles. “I think you’re trying to dodge my question.” 

“And I think you’re trying to dodge mine.” You smirk before taking a sip from your glass. 

There’s a brief pause as he studies your face. “Honestly? I think my ego is a little bruised.” You raise an eyebrow at him, and he continues, “You can’t deny that you’re avoiding me, yeah? It’s been fairly obvious. And I…well, you've been on my mind, is all.” 

Once again, you’re stunned into silence. He’d been thinking of you? Apparently so, and often enough that he’s not only noticed the distance you’ve maintained from him, he’s actually hurt by it. The thought of hurting him at all makes your chest feel tight.

“It’s not personal,” you say weakly. 

“Feels personal,” he retorts. “Have I done something or said something to…I don’t know, make you not want to be around me?”

“No! No. Of course not.”

Andrew frowns. “I haven’t made you uncomfortable, have I? I try not to be too forward, but I suppose it’s the Pisces in me. Or something. Alex told me that once, I don’t know.” 

You blink. “You haven’t made me uncomfortable.” Not in the way he would expect, anyway.

His cheeks turn rosy as he runs a hand through his curls. He seems almost frustrated, as though your answers perplex him further. Andrew takes another sip from his drink, and you decide to follow suit, gulping down the last of your wine. Before you can even reach for it, Andrew takes the bottle and begins to pour a generous refill into your glass. 

You meet his eyes as he sets the bottle back down with a thud before bringing the glass up to your lips again. He watches you carefully, unable to maintain your stare as his eyes flit to your mouth, your throat, your fingers carefully curled around the stem. 

“Good. Grand.” He sighs. “If I haven’t made you…I mean, is there something else, then?” Your puzzled expression makes him frown. “Or, someone else, rather?”

The gears slowly begin to turn in your mind.

“Someone…else?” 

It must be your tone, the obvious confusion in your voice that clues him in, a look of understanding softening his features. Embarrassment quickly overtakes him as he covers his reddening face with a nervous laugh. 

“You—you’ve no idea what I’m—? Oh, Jesus…” He avoids your eyes as he slams back the remainder of his drink in one go, then sets the glass down with a wince and a grimace. “I think we may have a misunderstanding here.” 

Your own embarrassment has you speechless, mouth opening and closing as you process what he’s just said. Surely, he didn’t mean…? No, he couldn’t mean that, because things like that don’t just happen, at least not to you. Not when it’s Andrew of all people. 

It’s the wine that grips your throat and controls your voice, and you laugh incredulously as you ask, “Oh my god, do you have a crush on me?”

He groans into his hands, then smooths them back over his hair before collapsing onto the table with a laugh. His face is tinged pink with drunken embarrassment, and he smiles at you before turning to hide his face in his arms. 

“In no uncertain terms,” comes his muffled reply.

You laugh again and cover your own face, unsure of what to say. Your heart feels like it might beat out of your chest, your pulse thumping as a familiar heat begins to pool in your stomach. 

After a moment, Andrew lifts his head again and pulls himself from the table until he’s upright once more. His eyes are tinged red now, bloodshot from booze. Your own head swims as you rest your head in your hand and smile at him warmly. 

“D’you want to know why I was avoiding you?” You avert your gaze to the table, then sigh before the words tumble from your mouth. “Because you’re too fucking attractive. How am I supposed to get anything done when you walk around looking like this?”

He splutters a laugh as you gesture vaguely towards him. “Oh?” 

The wine bottle is nearly empty now as you encourage him to pour some for himself in the empty glass on the table.

“It’s terribly inconsiderate of you,” you hum, and you catch his grin before he takes a drink.

Andrew grins. “My apologies for being such a distraction. I’d no idea I caused such distress.” 

You chuckle and eye him coyly. “I wouldn’t necessarily call it distress.”

“What would you call it, then?”

“Hmm…” You scrunch your face as you pretend to think. “Intrigue, certainly...and the uncanny ability to make me—” 

“Anything else for you?” The waiter’s voice startles you both, and you whip your head up to look at him wondering how much of that he heard. If he’s heard anything, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he mostly looks bored, and you can see the black booklet in his hand that surely contains the check. 

Andrew is quick to take it and scribbles in his room number for the charge, nearly shoving the booklet back into the waiter’s hands with hasty thanks. 

You’re both drunk enough to make bad decisions that you know you’ll regret come morning, but it’s difficult to care about that when he’s pressing you back against the wall in the elevator and kissing you like you’re his only source of air. When his hands are all over you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to reality.

“C’mon,” he murmurs as the doors open to let you onto his floor. 

You stumble over yourself with a whispered, “Shit!” as he pulls you over the threshold of his room, and he laughs and apologizes before flipping a light on. 

Andrew is a messy creature, and his room looks as though his overnight bag spontaneously exploded while he was out. It’s weirdly charming, another reminder that he is, in fact, just a regular fucking guy with standard quirks. 

A thrill runs through you when he kisses you again, softer this time as he cradles your face in his hands. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” The question is sudden, his eyes wide as he searches for any hint of doubt. 

You’re quiet for a moment as you turn the question over in your mind. Even in an inebriated state, he’s still so concerned about your comfort, your consent. It’s unsurprising given how anxious he seems in general, but it’s sweet all the same. 

Finally, you rest a hand on his arm and look up at him with a smirk. “What I was saying earlier, about you and intrigue…well, you have a knack for making me weak in the knees, amongst other things. It’s typically based on your proximity, though.” 

You see his mouth turn up in a half-smile just before he crowds closer to you, pulling you flush against him as you wrap your arms around his neck and laugh into another kiss. 

“I don’t normally do this,” he breathes just before moving to kiss along your neck. 

“I feel like I should be the one saying that.” You gasp when he bites down, not hard enough to cause any truly lasting damage, but enough to know that you’ll still be wearing his marks come morning. A thrilling thought, though you’re sure you’ll be mobbed by the ladies and Larissa for details later on. 

Your hoodie is in the way, impeding his access, and he steps away to tug at the hem until you’re helping him peel it off. He stares at your chest, clearly surprised by your lack of bra and the way your nipples pebble beneath the thin fabric of your tank top. 

“In my defense,” you say with a smirk, “I didn’t expect all of this to happen.”

He laughs quietly as he walks you back towards the bed. “You’ll hear no complaints from me.” 

The sheets are rumpled and easily kicked away as you shuffle back on the mattress. Andrew drops kisses along chest, teeth grazing your skin and leaving little imprints. You squeak when he shoves your shirt up roughly, and he throws an apologetic look your way. 

“Sorry, just a bit enthusiastic,” he muses. 

You laugh, feeling breathless as his hands wander along your newly bared skin. 

“You’ll hear no complaints from me.” 

His responding laugh— a low, warm sound, sweet as honey—makes you blush. You gasp when he gently bites your nipple just before taking it into his mouth. It sends a shiver through you as he moves to the other, and you squirm beneath him, almost glad that you’re too drunk to really be embarrassed at the moment. 

Once your jeans are off and tossed away, Andrew freezes, his eyes greedily taking in your nearly nude body before snapping back up to meet your stare. He dips a hand beneath the waistband of your panties—a simple black pair without any details or flair, because you didn’t expect to have Andrew’s hand shoved into them like this.

He seems surprised to find you an already slick mess, his fingers dipping easily into you before pulling them back to rub your clit in slow circles. 

“I told you,” you huff a harsh laugh that breaks into a small moan. “Weak in the knees, amongst other things.” 

Andrew’s grin is obscured by his hair that curtains his face. He continues to touch you slowly, methodically, while capturing you in a kiss and swallowing down every little sound that escapes you. 

He breaks the kiss with a small gasp and asks, “What do you—how do you want to—?”

You’re far too impatient for anything that isn’t his cock inside of you right fucking now. You’re aching, feeling empty in a way that you have so many times over the past few weeks. Except this time, the object of your affections is stumbling over himself to rummage through his bag after you ask about protection. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you muse as he approaches you again with something square in hand. 

“So are you,” he shoots back, and he watches in awe as you slip your underwear off and cast them aside without batting an eye, emboldened.

He licks his lips before saying weakly, “Oh, you’re going to be the death of me, aren’t you?”

Andrew is far too impatient to remove everything, barely able to focus on even shoving his own jeans down and hastily rolling on a condom with shaky hands. 

The feeling as he presses into you is heavenly, so full, warm, and satisfying. You bury your face into the crook of his shoulder as he sets an even pace. The slick sound of your arousal makes you blush, but it’s obvious how much it spurs him on, delighting in your body’s reaction to him, his touch, his everything.

Weeks of wishing and wanting, and now you can’t hold back your moans as he fucks you the way you’ve imagined. You can feel the way he stretches you as he fills you, and he gasps when you clench around him. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes screwing shut as he takes a deep breath. 

You reach up and brush a stray curl from his face. “Are you okay?”

When he opens his eyes, he gives you a little smile and a nod. “Yeah, yes, grand,” he huffs, then lets his head fall forward until his forehead rests against your shoulder. “You feel so fucking good.” 

He grips your thigh and squeezes gently, a silent bid to get your legs around him. 

At first, he’s slow, taking his time as he kisses you between breathy laughs and whispered swears. It isn’t until you murmur, “You don’t have to treat me so preciously,” in his ear that he hums and shifts to press your legs further, damn near folding you in half. But it’s good, so fucking good, and you can barely form a thought as your eyes roll back and flutter as he picks up his pace.

And, Jesus, how are you already so close to your peak? Another testament to your seemingly insatiable desire. You cry out when he rubs a thumb against your clit roughly, out of sync with his thrusts as you press back and grind against his palm.

The stimulation is enough to send you tumbling over the edge. Tears blur your vision as you let out small, sobbing moans against his neck. Each wave of pleasure has you clenching down around him.  and then he’s snapping his hips one, two, three more times before groaning in your ear while his cock twitches with his release.

Andrew is quick to collect you into his arms after collapsing next to you in bed. He reaches blindly for a blanket to tug over both of you, seemingly more of a courtesy than anything. You allow yourself to relax into him, nuzzling his shoulder before settling with your head on his chest. 

“Wow,” he says after his breathing has evened, and he laughs quietly as he squeezes you. 

“Yeah,” you hum.

There’s another stretch of silence, and your eyes begin to feel heavy as you follow the pattern of his breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest. 

Another small laugh from him stirs you, and you look up at him questioningly. 

“We’re going to feel fucking awful tomorrow, aren’t we?” 

“Oh, yeah.”

“Is a hungover breakfast a proper first date, d’you think?” 

You grin at him and lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. 

ׂ╰┈➤ none of these stories belong to me! this is a masterlist of all ted lasso stories i’ve read and reblogged! just thought it would be nice to have them all in one spot! (if your fic is on here and you wish not to be, please let me know!) some with have summaries if provided <3

╭┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈╮

₊⊹ jealous ted by @ccbb2222

* Ted has feelings for the new AFC Richmond marketing manager—but can’t seem to tell her. When one Bantr match gets her a little too excited, Ted finally takes matters into his own hands.

₊⊹ operation seduce ted by @thisismysecondrodeo

* You've been dating Ted for a while and things seem like they're going well…so why haven't you slept together?

•masterlist

•ted lasso masterlist

hopefully all links work, let me know if not <3