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cassie thinks your greatest strength as a doctor is your empathy. it makes the weight of her regrets a little lighter some days. based on this request. tw for themes of substance abuse. title from american cars by noah kahan bc i was listening to the great divide tonight.
“You’re not going to tell anyone?” your patient asks, leaning in and speaking in a low voice. “I’m really trying to get a handle on it, you know.”
You offer her a smile, and it’s tight from the stress of the day but you hope it comes off as empathetic. “It’s not my place to tell anyone the details of the care you’ve received here, unless it’s with your consent.”
Your patient shakes her head quickly. You were expecting this.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she says. “You can’t.”
“I can’t,” you repeat, turning it into a reassurance. Your voice is warm. “Get some rest, okay? I’ll be back to check in soon.”
You step out of the room, and Cassie follows behind.
“You did good with her,” Cassie says, catching up to you and walking at your side. “You had a good… temperament.”
You veer off into the break room, heading straight for the coffee pot. “It’s part of the job, I guess.”
“Take the compliment.”
You pour a cup of coffee for yourself, then one for her that you hand over promptly. “Alright, then. Thank you. But seriously, I was just—”
“Ogilvie wouldn’t have done as well as you,” Cassie interrupts. She takes the coffee from you but doesn’t sip it, just sets it down next to her on the counter by the coffee pot where she comes to stand next to you. “In fact, I know he’s done worse when helping patients who have similar issues.”
“Issues with substance abuse?”
She stiffens a little, but nods.
‘Ogilvie is a dipshit’, you want to say, but that might ruin your reputation as an empathetic doctor right as you’ve just earned it. “Ogilvie struggles with his bedside manner.”
“That’s putting it lightly.”
You smile, leaning back against the refreshments counter and mirroring Cassie’s posture. “You were good in there, too. Very calm.”
“I have a lot of experience with cases like that,” she says carefully. “I tend to take them if I can. It’s a way of…” she trails off, unable to find the right word — atonement feels too harsh. “I just have a good perspective, that’s all.”
You nod. You haven’t been at this hospital for long, but you have noticed a certain pattern in the cases Cassie takes when she has the rare ability to pick and choose.
“I want them to know that there’s someone looking out for them,” she says quietly.
“Someone that won’t judge,” you add. “I know. They deserve that.”
She wants to test you. Cassie has seen the breadth of your empathy in a clinical setting, but she wants to know how far it really stretches — if it is just for show, if it dips into infantilization, if there is any kind of flaw in your allyship. She knows those flaws well, having once been the one stung by them.
“What about the ones who never quit?” Cassie asks.
“That’s not my business,” you say.
“I didn’t ask if it was your business.”
You furrow your brows. You don’t understand why her tone has become so harsh, why she has seemed to harden. It almost reads as defensiveness, and you don’t quite understand why.
“Addiction isn’t as simple as just deciding to quit one day out of the blue,” you shrug. “I don’t know, I just think there’s more to it than whether someone has quit taking drugs or not. From a medical perspective, unless an addiction is directly related to the care someone should be receiving here, I don’t think it’s my place to say much about it.”
Cassie considers this. So far you are saying the right things, giving her the right answers. “What about when violence is involved?”
“I’m sorry?”
Cassie remembers being in the throes of her own addiction, the mornings she would wake up with bruises she didn’t remember getting and would walk into a kitchen full of shattered glass from plates, glasses, cups.
She remembers the bruises she left on others, too, the pulled hair and bloody noses and screaming into the night.
“Never mind,” she murmurs. She runs a hand over her face tiredly, sighing. “Sorry, it’s been a weird day.”
Little does she know, you have started to put the pieces together. Bit by bit you are coming to understand why she cares so much about what you think, your experiences with substance abuse patients, your views. It’s a similar attitude as the one you take on when you’re trying to figure out if it’s safe to tell someone you’re gay — what do they think about this, about that, about the nuances?
“Is there anything you think I should change in the way I handle patient care? In my bedside manner or anything?” you ask suddenly. You worry that you have done something wrong, something that could be unforgivable in some sudden and terrible way.
“No,” Cassie answers quickly. “No, no, I was only curious about your thought process. We work together a lot, you know— it’s good to be on the same page.”
“And are we on the same page?”
“We seem to be.”
You release a heavy exhale. You nod and sip your coffee. “Good.”
Cassie raises a hand to your shoulder, gives it a squeeze. It’s a friendly gesture but it lingers longer than it should, and she offers you a smile soft enough to make your chest tighten.
“You’re doing well,” she says. Her voice is low and sweet and you want to hear her say it again. “I’m proud of you.”
It’s like the air has been sucked from your lungs. You place a hand over hers on your shoulder and entwine your fingers, meeting her eyes briefly and only letting your gaze drop to her lips for a second before forcing it back up.
“Thank you,” you manage eventually. “And listen— I’m here for you, okay? I don’t want to make any assumptions, but—”
“Nine years,” she says. She punctuates the admission with a small nod, as if affirming its validity. “That’s how long it’s been.”
You understand: nine years of sobriety.
Before you can respond, Cassie steps away. She offers you one last smile from the doorway. “Once I get to ten, I’m buying a cake with a giant design of Porky Pig on it.”
“Why Porky Pig?”
She shrugs. “Who doesn’t like Looney Tunes?”
You shake your head. “Save me a slice.”
“Of course,” she says, and slips out of the break room.
you wake up feeling like someone stuffed cotton behind your eyes. your mouth tastes weird. there’s morning light shining directly on your face, and for a few long seconds you can’t figure our where you are.
then your back starts to ache, and you realize you’re on the floor. one of your legs is tangled in a blanket that smells like someone awfully familiar.
cassie.
you sit up too fast and immediately regret it, your head pounding from last nights drinks.
“fuck,” you whisper, pressing a hand over your eyes.
memories of the night before come back wrong. a bit bent around the edges. your boyfriend confessing to you that he finds you difficult, you storming out onto the deck, cassie appearing behind you and then everything after dissolves into static.
you look around slowly, your pounding head trying to piece the clues of where you were together. not your room. definitely not your room.
there’s a duffel bag next to the dresser. you spot black jeans thrown over a chair, and silver rings lined up on the nightstand. your stomach drops.
“oh my god.”
you look beside you quickly, but the space was empty. cassie wasn’t laying next to you, she wasn’t even on the bed.
before you could stop yourself, your brain gives possibilities faster than you can stop it. thoughts of having sex with cassie flooded your mind, but no, no, you’d remember that. wouldn’t you?
it takes everything in you to push yourself up, still wrapped halfway in the blanket, and stumble toward the door.
the energy in the cabin is quieter than it was last night. you can hear soft chatter downstairs, cabinets opening and closing, a coffee machine sputtering.
“you sleep well?”
cassie stood at the end of the hallway holding a mug of coffee. her hair was wet and pulled back messily, dark circles under her eyes like she barely slept. she’s already dressed, in a white shirt and blue jeans.
“yeah, uh,” you rub at your forehead. “why was i sleeping on your floor?”
cassie looks down at her mug. “well, you were drunk. you had an argument with your boyfriend.”
“right.” you whispered, then paused looking down at your feet then back up at her. “did we…like-did something happen?”
cassie’s shoulders tensed. if she told you the truth, there was no going back. and looking at you right now, oblivious and bracing for the worst, a wave of hesitation hit her.
tell her.
tell her i held her wrist against my heart for three hours because i was too weak to push her away.
“cassie?” you spoke, a little more anxious this time. “oh god. did i do something stupid?”
cassie couldn’t look at you now. she had about three seconds to choose her lie or her truth.
“no,” she says quickly. “no, nothing happened.”
a lie that tasted weird on her lips, the same lips that remembers yours from a couple hours ago. the same lips that kissed her first, tasting of everything that was bound to ruin her.
cassie’s body close to yours while you curled beside her on the floor sometime after three in the morning, your voice wrecked with sleep when you whispered
you don’t have to leave me behind to fix yourself, cass. you can change, but you can still choose me
“you needed somewhere to sleep,” she says.
you stare at her for another second, trying to read something in her face, you nod, a wave of relief washing over you as you take her word for it. you actually believe her. you think you just fell asleep.
“okay,” you breathe, offering a small smile. “good. i was worried i made a fool of myself.”
“never,” cassie says, her thumb tracing the ceramic rim of her mug over and over, trying to forget the exact pressure of your lips against hers.
-
after taking a hot shower to help relax your muscles, you find your boyfriend in the kitchen downstairs digging through the cabinets when you finally decide to rejoin society.
he looks like he’s had a rough night as well. his hair was sticking up everywhere, and he was wearing sunglasses indoors like an idiot.
he spots you immediately, and his entire body stills. he’s frozen mid reach, one hand gripped around a box of cereal, the dark lenses of his sunglasses completely hiding his eyes, but you can feel the exact weight of his stare anyway.
he slowly lowers the cereal box onto the counter, his movements stiff, like he's trying not to make any noises that might hurt his own head.
“morning,” he says. he doesn't move towards you, just stays near the kitchen counter, watching you hover until you land near him.
he clears his throat, trying and failing to look casual. “you, uh... you want some water?”
you don’t respond.
parker, who was sitting on the kitchen island eating cereal, slips awkwardly past you and disappears outside the second she sensed the tension.
your boyfriend exhales through his nose. “where did you go last night?”
“i don’t think i owe you that answer.”
his face pinches. “are we still doing this?”
“you talked about me like i’m some kid. so yeah, we’re still doing this.”
“i was drunk.”
“and?”
“and you were yelling at me,” he snaps, his voice rising enough to make him wince.
“you’re unbelievable,” you scoff.
“i don’t even remember half the fight.”
“well, i do.”
that finally gets him to look at you properly. he reaches up, pulling the sunglasses off his face with an annoyed grunt, letting them drop onto the counter with a clatter.
there’s something in his face. not remorse. more like irritation that this is continuing into the morning, that he has to deal with the consequences of a night he already crossed off.
“you can’t say shit like that,” you say quietly, the coldness in your voice surprises you. “and then expect me to excuse you because you had a couple drinks?”
he laughs quietly, looking away toward the window. “okay.”
“no, seriously. you’re a piece of shit.”
he doesn’t speak, he doesn’t defend himself, he doesn’t even move. the only sign that he heard you was the way his bloodshot eyes slightly squinted.
“a piece of shit,” he repeats. his voice is flat.
he takes a step back, leaning against the sink, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. there’s no apology in his posture. he’s just digging his heels in, the irritation turning into something bitter.
“i was drunk, you were drunk. we had an argument. it happens. but you have to turn it into some grand act because god forbid you ever just let something go,” he says, a humorless smile at the corner of his mouth.
before you got the chance to respond, cassie walks around the corner, stopping short at the sight of the both of you.
she takes in the scene, you standing by him, your boyfriend holding the edge of the sink with his jaw clenched.
“oh,” cassie says, her eyes darting between you and him. she holds a set of keys, her fingers wrapping around them to stop them from jingling. “sorry, i didn’t mean to interrupt. i was looking for my jacket.”
your boyfriend blinks, his face going back into something softer than the glare he had on. he clears his throat, as if he hadn’t just been on the verge of a rage fit.
“hey,” he says. “no, you’re fine. we were…getting breakfast started.”
cassie doesn’t look at him. her eyes lock onto yours, checking the look in your eyes, silently asking if you were okay. she stays right where she is.
“actually,” cassie says, keeping her gaze on you, “i was hoping you'd come up and help me look for it?”
“yeah, of course,” you say.
you don't look back at your boyfriend as you move away from the counter. you walk right past him, your shoulder barely missing his, but you can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face. he doesn’t say anything to stop you.
cassie steps back into the hallway to give you space, then turns to walk beside you as you head toward the stairs. she keeps her pace matched to yours, her shoulder brushing against yours as you climb up.
when you finally reach the top of the stairs, cassie stops in the hallway, looking at you.
“you don’t actually have to help me find the jacket,” she says quietly, so your boyfriend wouldn’t be able to hear. “i know where it is.”
“i figured.”
“i heard what he said,” she says with no hesitation in her voice, no carefulness around your relationship status. “he’s a jerk.”
“yeah. i told him he was a piece of shit”
“you did?” cassie’s eyebrows shot up, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“yeah.”
“good.” she says softly, reaching out, her hand hovering before her fingers gently catch your sleeve, tugging you toward her room. “come here.”
she pulls you inside and shuts the door behind you. the room is exactly how you left it a few minutes ago, the blankets on the floor where you layed with cassie still there.
cassie doesn't go back to the bed. she stays by the door, leaning her back against it, watching you as you sink down onto the edge of her mattress.
then she walks over, sitting down on the floor right in front of you, crossing her legs.
“are you okay?” she asks, looking up at you.
“i don’t know,” you shrug.
your mind tugs at the blank space in your memory again. the blurry image of her face close to yours, the smell of her shirt.
“cassie,” you say, her name slipping out before you can stop it.
“yeah?”
“are you sure nothing happened last night?” you look at her closely.
cassie freezes. she doesn’t look away, she never looks away, but her throat moves as she swallows.
“you don't remember,” she says, her voice almost a breath. it’s not a question.
“i remember some bits,” you admit, your heart starting to hammer against your ribs. “i remember being on the floor. i remember... getting closer to you. did i do something?”
cassie feels her heartbeat everywhere at once.
she should tell you.
she should just tell you the truth. you kissed her. your hands were shaking when you did it. you looked at her like you were terrified of still wanting her and did it anyway.
she knows exactly what happens if she says it out loud. the night comes ripping back open and every old wound with it. every moment the two of you spent pretending this thing between you was manageable as long as nobody acknowledged it directly.
you barely survived it the first time.
neither of you did, really.
her mind flashes to the feeling of your mouth against hers, soft for a second before it became desperate. like you were trying to say something you didn’t know how to say sober.
and god, she wanted to answer you.
what if you regret it, if you pull away, apologize, decide it was just the alcohol, cassie genuinely doesn’t think she can survive reopening this just to lose it again.
so she lies to you.
“we just talked. you were really upset about the fight, and you fell asleep,” she says easily, reaching out and giving your knee a reassuring squeeze before pulling her hand back. “that’s it. i promise.”
a knock on the door interrupted the moment, your boyfriend’s voice from the other end made cassie back away from you.
“babe? can we just go home? we’re both exhausted. let’s just get in the car and talk about this on the way back.”
cassie looks back at you. “you don’t have to go with him.”
“unfortunately, i live with him,” you say, eyes dropping to your hands.
“no, i mean i can take you home,” cassie offers, lowering her voice so your boyfriend wouldn’t hear the two of you talking.
“but what about your–”
“this isn’t about her, she’s not even my girlfriend,” cassie interrupts and studies your hesitation for a moment. “you can say no.”
“i don’t know if it’s a good idea. i mean i haven’t-we haven’t been around each other for longer than an hour in years.”
“you can say no.” cassie repeats.
you look at her then, really look at her. the way she was sat in front of you silently wanting you to say yes and be hers again even if it’s just for a couple lf hours.
“okay, yes,” you nod quicker than expected.
“baby?” your boyfriend calls.
cassie gets up and heads for the door, pulling it open and watches the way your boyfriend straightens up at the sight of her. “i’m driving her back.”
her lets out a dry laugh. “thanks cassie but we live together. so i don’t really see the point in that.”
“i don’t want to get in a car with you,” you say, feeling the coldness returning to your body.
“come on baby,” he steps forward, his face pinching with irritation. “you’re going to make a scene over a stupid argument? come on. let's go home.”
cassie steps right in front of him. “you heard her. she he just said no. if you want to go home, go. she can crash at my place tonight.”
your boyfriend stands dumbfounded, looking from cassie, to you, and back to cassie.
“when did you two get so close?” he asks, his voice dropping.
when did you two get close? it feels like a trick question. two years ago. a humid month in a beat up car, driving through state lines until we ran out of road and ended up in a motel.
i spent months putting myself back together after she hurt me, eventually finding something stable, with the man standing waiting fir me now.
and yet, looking at cassie right now, the anger and the memory of that abandonment are fighting with the realization that even after two years of silence, one night on her floor was all it took to pull you right back into her orbit.
cassie had spent those two years pretending she didn’t regret it. hut seeing you end up with a guy like this who makes you look this small is a sickening mirror. cassie knows she doesn't have the right to be the protector here. she knows she gave up that right the second she walked out. but looking at the exhaustion in your eyes, she realizes she’d rather face the wreckage of your past than let you spend one more night with a man that didn’t deserve you. even if she didn’t deserve you either.
you boyfriend scoffs and looks past cassie's shoulder, trying to lock eyes with you. “you're going to crash at a stranger’s house because of a stupid argument? grow up.”
“fuck you. i am grown,” you say, your voice finally finding its stability, shaking just enough to betray the adrenaline spiking in your veins. “that's why i'm leaving.”
“fine,” he snaps. “go. play whatever little game you're playing. but don't expect me to be waiting around when you realize you're being ridiculous.”
he doesn't wait for a response. he storms back into the hallway. the heavy thud of the front door slamming shut echoes through the house.
and then, it’s just the two of you.
you look at cassie's back, your heart hammering against your ribs.
cassie slowly turns around to look at you.
“my car's out back,” she says quietly, her voice now soft in a way that always undid you. “let's get your stuff.”
-
you lean your head against the cold window and watch buildings streak by. the adrenaline from earlier has burned out of your system, leaving nothing behind except that awful hurt spreading through your chest.
“you can take the bedroom tonight,” cassie says so quietly you almost miss it. her eyes never leave the road. “i’ll sleep on the couch.”
“cassie, no.” your voice comes out raw. “it’s your house. i can take the couch.”
“i’m not making you sleep on a couch,” her tone stubborn and soft at the same time. “let me do this. please.”
you swallow the lump in your throat, looking over at her. she’s being good to you and it only drives you more into confusion.
“you didn’t have to do that,” you whisper.
cassie’s thumb twitches against the steering wheel. “do what?”
“taking me home. defending me against my boyfriend.”
cassie slows the car as she approaches a red light, bringing it to a stop. finally, she turns her head to look at you. it was the exact same look she gave you before she opened the door to leave you two years ago.
“i wasn't going to let him talk to you like that,” she says, her voice low.
you let out a breath, looking away from her, back out at the road.
“what, you’re like some savior now?” you whisper, anger running through your veins.
cassie doesn't step on the gas even when the light turns green, letting the car roll on momentum.
“i’m not trying to be a savior,” she says. “i’m trying to be a friend.”
“is that what we are? friends?” you laugh. you turn in your seat to look at her, your chest heaving.
cassie’s grip on the wheel turns white. she pulls the car over to the curb, hitting the hazards with a click.
when she finally turns to look at you, her eyes are swimming. the facade she wore in front of your boyfriend is gone.
“you think i didn't care?” she asks. “you think walking away didn't hurt me? i was terrified. you were getting under my skin in a way that scared the hell out of me, and i ran. it was stupid, and i have spent every single day since then wishing i had just stayed."
she takes a shaky breath, her stare locked onto yours.
“but seeing you with him? seeing you let some guy make you feel like you're a burden for existing?" she says. “i couldn't sit and listen to it. i couldn't. call me whatever you want, hate me for what i did, you have every right to, but don't you dare tell me i don't care about you.”
your heart is hammering so hard it hurts your ribs. the air in the car is thick with the unsaid. you stare at her, your vision blurring as your tears spill over.
“i wish you’d stayed as well,” you choke out. “but you don’t get to come back two years later and tell me how hard it was for you to leave me.”
“i know," she whispers. “i know. i'm sorry. i'm so sorry.”
“i built a whole new life just to forget you,” you say, your voice a desperate whisper, your hands gripping the edge of the passenger seat just to keep from reaching for her. “ i found someone safe. and now i'm sitting in this fucking car, and it feels like all that progress didn't even happen.”
she looks at your mouth, and for a second, the space between you vanishes.
she wants to tell you. you can see the truth fighting its way up her throat. she wants to tell you that you didn't forget her, that your body remembered her even when your mind couldn't, that you kissed her and begged her to stay.
but she forces the truth back down. she protects the lie, even as it chokes her.
“this doesn’t have to mean anything,” she whispers, her hand trembling as she reaches across, her fingers hovering above your knee, desperate to touch you.
you look down at her shaking hand, leaning your head back against the glass of the window, feeling defeated.
“just drive,” you whisper into the cold glass. “cassie, please. just drive.”
-
the rest of the drive was a blur, you spaced out for the entire way home. a part of you was anticipating getting a glimpse of cassie’s life, she was so closed off you barely knew anything about her, going to her house and staying there might give you hints on who she really is.
when she pulls into the driveway of a small house on the edge of town, she kills the engine.
“we’re here,” she says softly.
you get out of the car, grabbing your bag from the backseat. cassie leads the way up the porch steps., she pushes the front door open, expecting a house where everyone is away.
she thinks her son is at her parents' place for the weekend. she thinks she has time to hide her life, just like she always does.
she’s wrong.
the smell of waffles and maple syrup hits you. from the kitchen down the hall, a little voice cuts through the house.
“mommy!”
cassie freezes in her tracks. the keys slip from her fingers, clattering against the floor.
before she can move, a boy with wide eyes comes running around the corner, a toy clutched in his hand. he stops short when he sees you standing in the entryway, blinking up at the stranger in his house.
you stop breathing. because he looks like her, he has her eyes. not exactly, but enough to make something cold settle in your stomach.
the boy blinks at you curiously. “who’s that?”
cassie still hasn’t moved.
“hi baby, can you go back into the kitchen for me?” she says, but her voice comes out thin and fragile.
“but-”
“please.”
cassie looks like she’s about to faint. her chest is heaving, her eyes darting from her son to you, her hands shaking, she can’t even pick up the keys she dropped. the carefully constructed wall she built around herself, has collapsed.
a man appears behind him a second later, older, tired looking. probably cassie’s dad.
“harrison,” cassie chokes out. she drops to her knees, her hands gripping the little boy’s shoulders, partly to hold herself up and partly to turn him away from the look on your face. “sweetie, go back into the kitchen with grandpa for a second, okay? mommy has a friend over.”
“come on,” cassie’s dadsays gently, taking his hand. “let’s go eat.”
the little boy pouts but lets him pull him away.
you can't breathe. your lungs feel like they're full of glass. you stand paralyzed by the doorway, your hands gripping the strap of your bag.
you step back, your heel hitting the front door. you look at cassie, and it feels like you're looking at a complete stranger. every memory, every tear you shed over her leaving you, it all feels dirty. It all feels fake.
“i can’t–i can’t be here,” you manage as you frantically turn around to open the door and escape this hell.
“no, wait please,” cassie slams her hand on the door trapping you between her and the door behind you. “please listen to me.”
“how old is he?” you asked.
“what?”
“how old is he?”
“five,” cassie breathes out, closing her eyes.
which means when you met her two years ago, he was already there. three years old somewhere while you and cassie drove across state lines and slept in cheap motel rooms and built something you thought was real.
you laugh once under your breath. “this is fucking crazy.”
“please–”
“you have a kid,” your voice trembling. “and you never said anything.”
“i know how this looks,” cassie’s face crumples.
“how this looks?” you stare at her. “what the fuck is wrong with you, cassie?”
“i didn’t know how to tell you.”
“how do you not mention something like that?”
“i was scared,” she bites her lip as tears start to well up in her eyes. this the most vulnerable you’ve seen her and it was taking everything in you not to just hold her.
“of what? me finding out you had a life outside of me?”
“no,” cassie looks at you, eyes red and desperate. “of you seeing what my life actually looked like.”
you didn’t know what to say, you just kept staring at her.
“i was scared, that you wouldn’t have wanted me anymore if you found out.” she swallows hard. “if you knew i had a kid, if you saw what my life actually looked like, you would’ve left.”
something sharp twists in your chest.
“how do you know that?” you ask immediately.
“look–”
“no,” you step closer before you can stop yourself. “how the fuck did you decide that for me?”
“you were twenty one.”
“so?”
“you were free!” her voice cracks slightly. “you could’ve had anything. anybody. why would you tie yourself to somebody with a kid and baggage and–”
“i didn’t want anybody! what don’t you understand?” you snap. “i fucking loved you, cassie.”
“no, you don’t mean that,” she says quietly. “love is stupid, it’s not enough. people say it when they’re lying. or cheating. or about to leave.”
she wipes at her face. “eventually it just starts sounding like something people say to make themselves feel better.”
“and you think that’s what this was?”
“no.” her voice breaks slightly. “that’s what made it scary.”
you don’t know what to say to that.
because the issue isn’t that cassie didn’t love you enough. it’s that she loved you so much and still didn’t believe love could save either of you.
“i did love you,” you repeat, tears burning behind your eyes. “and you just decided that for me. you decided i’d leave before i even got the chance to stay.”
cassie shakes her head immediately.
“you don’t understand–”
“no, i don’t understand,” you say. “because i spent so long thinking i wasn’t enough for you. thinking there was something wrong with me. and the entire time, you were sitting here convincing yourself i would’ve stopped loving you because what? you had a kid?”
“i was scared.”
“so was i!” you almost yell, your eyes locked on cassie’s red face.
cassie presses the heel of her hand against her mouth, trying unsuccessfully to hold herself together.
“you don’t get it,” she whispers. “people look at you differently after stuff like that. after becoming somebody’s mother. it’s like…” she laughs bitterly through tears. “it’s like they stop seeing you as a person first.”
your chest aches so badly it feels unbearable.
“so you thought i’d stop seeing you too?”
“i was ashamed of myself,” she says through tears. “if i stayed, eventually you would’ve seen the rest of my life. the ugly parts. the hard parts and i couldn’t survive watching you realize i wasn’t what you thought i was.”
“you should’ve let me decide that,” you whisper.
cassie nods slowly without looking at you.
“i know.”
the kitchen gets louder for a second, harrison laughing at something on TV, cassie’s father talking softly over the sound of dishes.
normal sounds. real life sounds.
it made you feel suffocated, like the walls were about to crush you in.
“this feels fucking humiliating.”
cassie drags her hands down her face and takes a shaky breath.
“let’s sit down,” she says weakly.
you wanted to laugh. instead, you drop your bag by the door and follow her into the living room, sitting next to each other on the couch. neither of you look at each other.
“i hated you for a while,” you admit. “i mean really hated you. i thought you used me and got bored. and then i thought maybe i imagined the whole thing. like maybe it meant more to me than it did to you.”
“no,” she says too fast, her eyes welling up with tears again. “it wasn’t nothing. it was never nothing.”
your chest tightens so hard it pisses you off.
“then why did you leave?”
cassie leans her head back against the cushion behind her.
“because i went home.”
“what does that mean?” you frown slightly.
“it means reality came back.” she wipes under her eyes with her sleeve. “i got home and harrison ran up to me and wanted cereal and cartoons and my dad was asking if i’d finally gotten my shit together and suddenly the entire trip felt insane.”
you don’t say anything, deciding to stay quiet and listen to her.
“i remember looking at you asleep that last morning,” she says softly. “and all i could think was, that you were just a girl and you had no idea what you were getting yourself into.”
the word girl stings more than it should. she said it like you were just some kid to her. cassie notices immediately.
“i don’t mean–”
“no, it’s fine.” you look away. “i get it now.”
“that’s not what i meant.”
“you were right though, weren’t you?” you ask quietly. “you were older. you had responsibilities and a kid. i was just…” you shrug helplessly. “some twenty one year old who fell in love with the first person who made her feel like she’s worth something like she’s finally seen.”
”don’t say that, you made me feel seen too,” she says firmly, even with her tears. the sincerity in her voice makes your stomach turn. because you believe her. that’s the problem.
you believe every word she’s saying and you still don’t know if you can forgive her.
the kitchen door opened and both of you look up immediately. cassie’s dad steps halfway into the hallway, hesitating when he sees your red faces.
“harrison wants to know if your friend likes waffles,” he says carefully.
cassie looks mortified.
you actually almost laugh this time. not because it’s funny. because the situation is so painfully human that your brain doesn’t know what else to do with it.
cassie covers her face with one hand. “dad, please.”
“what?” her dad says gently. “the kid’s asking.”
before you can think too hard about it, you hear yourself say.
“yeah. i like waffles.”
cassie looks at you immediately. a stunned look on her face. her dad nods once before turning around to disappear into the kitchen.
“i’ll make another plate,” he says softly.
“you don’t have to stay,” she whispers.
“i know.” the two words feel heavy in your mouth.
“but you are.” it’s not a question. it’s a quiet observation, her gaze dropping to your hands on your knees, then back up to your face, searching for a hint of the anger that was just there.
you swallow hard, the muscles in your throat tight. your hand twitches against your jeans.
“i think so.”
cassie’s eyes fill again at that, the tears welling up and spilling over her lower lids before she can even blink. the raw look on her face is too much to look at, too real.
almost.
-
the bubble bursts about an hour later.
you’re sitting at cassie’s small kitchen table, staring into a mug of black coffee you haven't touched. cassie’s dad left twenty minutes ago, taking harrison to the park after a conversation with cassie by the back door. the house is finally quiet.
then your phone starts vibrating against the table.
the screen lights up with your boyfriend’s name and his picture. it buzzes three times, cuts off, and instantly starts vibrating again. he’s not letting it go to voicemail.
cassie is standing by the sink, her back to you. the second the phone starts ringing, her shoulders tense up. she doesn't turn around, but you can see her reflection in the window above the sink, her eyes are fixed on the reflection of the phone on the table.
you slide your thumb across the screen and put the phone to your ear. you don't even say hello.
“are you done?” his voice comes through the speaker, entirely stripped of the patience he was trying to fake this morning. he’s back in your apartment, and you can hear the sound of his television in the background. “are you done throwing your tantrum?”
you swallow, your voice feeling small. “i’m not throwing a tantrum.”
“good. then get in an uber and come home,” he snaps. “i’m not doing this with you, babe. i’m not playing into to whatever weird breakdown your having. you left your house keys here anyway, so you can't even get in unless i’m home."
the reminder of the keys makes your stomach drop.
across the kitchen, cassie slowly turns around. she’s watching your face.
“i’m not coming back today,” you say into the phone.
an irritated sigh comes through the line. “fuck. are you serious? over what? because i stayed over at my ex’s house? you’re going to stay at the house of a woman who is a complete stranger to you, because of an argument about something taht happened before we were dating?"
your eyes dart up to cassie. she doesn't move, she looks down at the floor.
“you don't know anything about her,” you whisper, your grip tightening on the phone.
”i know you're using her to avoid fixing your own shit. look, i’m going out with the guys in an hour. if you’re not back here by the time i get home tonight to talk about this like an adult, don't bother coming back tomorrow to get your clothes. i’ll just leave them outside." he fires back, his voice rising.
the line goes dead.
you slowly lower the phone, the silence of the kitchen rushing back in to fill the space.
he didn't just ask you to come home, he drew a line in the sand, using the apartment, your clothes, your entire stable, to force you into coming back.
cassie watches you, her hands flat against the edge of the counter behind her. she looks at the phone in your hand, then up at your eyes.
“what did he say?” she asks quietly.
-
the front door of your apartment was left unlocked.
you push it open and step into the living room. you drop your bag by the door and walk into the bedroom.
your suitcase is in the top of the closet. you pull it down, the heavy thud of it hitting the mattress. you don't even look at the hangers, you just start grabbing handfuls of your clothes from the dresser, shoving them into the open bag without folding them.
then the click of the door lock makes you freeze, a handful of shirts clutched against your chest.
the thud of his boots echoes, followed by the rattle of his keys hitting the entryway bowl. he wasn't supposed to be back for hours, but the silence from the living room tells you he’s alone. and he’s sober enough to be angry.
“baby?”
you don't answer. you stand still by the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs.
footsteps approach the bedroom door. when he steps into the frame, he’s already taking off his jacket, his eyes sweeping over the open suitcase on the mattress, the half empty drawers, and finally, you.
he lets out a mocking laugh, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “oh, wow.”
“i’m just getting my things,” you say. your voice sounds small compared to how loud your pulse is in your ears.
“i can see that,” he walks fully into the room, you felt like you were being backed into a corner. “look babe you don’t have to–”
“please, you’ve said enough,” you interrupted him, holding a hand up to shut him up. “was i some part of your weird fantasy? of fixing the fucked up girl? you’re only with me because you wanted to prove you could manage or heal me.”
“that’s not what i meant,” he snaps, his hands shoving deep into his pockets as he tries to regain the upper hand. “i was scared of committing. people get cold feet. i didn't hide anything from you.”
“no, you just hid your feelings,” you say, your voice dropping to a whisper. “you sat there and told me i was too much to deal with, because you couldn't handle a real relationship.”
“i came back,” he defends himself. he takes a step back, looking at the messy room. “i put a roof over your head. i’d like to see you go find out how long anyone else puts up with your shit.”
“i don't need anyone to put up with me,” you say, your voice steady despite the stinging in your eyes. “i just need you to get out of my way.”
he stares at you, realizing he's lost his grip on the conversation. with a scoff, he turns on his heel and storms out of the bedroom. the door slams so hard the framed prints on the bedroom wall rattle against the drywall.
you stand alone in the room, looking at the closed suitcase. your chest is aching, your hands are shaking.
and then the sobs catch in your throat, ripping out of you in ugly bursts.
it’s too much. the entire day is just crashing down on you at once, the car ride, cassie’s secret son, and now your boyfriend and this bedroom.
you cry until your ribs hurt, your tears soaking into the dark fabric of your shirt. you’re entirely on your own, trapped on the floor of a home that was never really yours.
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baran al hashimi x fem!reader - 2k words - age gap (r is late 20s, baran is 40) - you and baran have been hooking up for a few months, never really going beyond that. one satruday you run into her at your favorite museum, and she has a guest | from this poll |
note: happy pride month gays. love y'all. unhh. (the sound is included in the message.)
Every other week, Kaveh stayed at Baran's house, which meant that every other Saturday, they ended up at the Carnegie Museum of Art.
It was one of Baran's favorite traiditons. The museum itself was stunning on its own, but it was made lovier when a tiny little body was pattering next to her, pointing out this-and-that, talking his little head off with questions, darting around the exhibits while Baran tried to mindfully enjoy it.
Baran had loved this museum since she was roughly fourteen years old and miserable on her middle school trip to D.C. She had gone to a nice enough school that they could afford to do an afternoon stop in Pittsburgh on the way home, and Baran had wandered into the museum half-asleep and walked back out feeling rearranged. There were many things about Pittsburgh that, now 40, she tolerated rather than loved. But this place had stayed in her bones.
Kaveh, unfortunately, was seven. He was usually a fantastic sport, but there were only so many oil paintings a child could stare at before he felt he'd seen them all.
Still, every Saturday Baran asked, “Do you want to come with me today, joonam?”
And every Saturday her sweet boy said yes.
She always let Kaveh lead when they visited the museum because there wan’t a single exhibit she didn’t enjoy and she had learned really quickly that if he felt he had control over what they were seeing, the longer he was able to last.
Usually, this meant they ended up in the sculpture hall. Kaveh adored the tall, skinny statues there with his entire little heart.
“They look silly,” he would whisper loudly, staring up at the long bronze limbs and dramatic poses with complete delight.
And every single visit, without fail, he would eventually turn to Baran with barely-contained excitement and say, “Māmān, take a picture.”
Then he’d plant himself beside the statues and imitate them as seriously as possible, long face, arms thrown awkwardly into the air, knees bent at impossible angles as Baran gleefully snapped his photo.
Kaveh was bounding back to her side and standing up on his tip-toes to see the fruit of his photo shoot. She was showing him the latest one, his nose wrinkling with pleasure at his own performance, when his head snapped to the side with the speed of a small animal catching a scent.
Baran had about half a second of confusion before he pulled in a breath and used every bit of it:
“DOCTOR Y/N!!!”
Baran jolted so hard she nearly dropped her phone.
“Kaveh—”
Too late.
Across the gallery, you turned around and Baran’s heart sunk through every floor of the museum. It seemed like an awful collision of her two worlds that she very carefully kept separate.
She knew you in fragments that didn’t belong in a place like this, your scrubs and tired eyes after a long shift that always softened when you saw her, you padding through her kitchen at night, stealing water from the fridge like you lived there too, you half-asleep against her shoulder, breath warm.
She also knew how your voice sounded when it went all high-pitched and breathy, whimpering pleas of her name in her ear as your hands scraped down her back, her kissing your neck—
And now there you were. Dark jeans, a soft cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to your elbows, a tote bag from a college Baran had never heard you mention, rings stacked on your fingers that caught the gallery light. Your hair was different than she'd ever seen it. You looked soft.
She watched your expression move through confusion and arrive at something warm and surprised and delighted.
"Hi, Kaveh," you called across the gallery.
Kaveh was already moving. He crossed the room at a pace that was technically not running because his feet were not fully leaving the floor at the same time, but was in every other sense running. You crouched down to meet him and he wrapped his arms around your neck without preamble, without hesitation, the way children do when they've decided about a person.
"You're here!” he beamed.
"I am here," you laughed, settling back on your heels with your arms resting on your knees, completely unbothered by the contact with the museum floor. "What are you doing here, little dude? Are you an art guy?"
Kaveh pulled back and shrugged. "Sometimes," he said. "Māmān likes it a lot more than me though. But she says it's good for my brain."
"Smart woman, your mama."
Baran had crossed the gallery at a more appropriate pace and arrived to find you already looking up at her, easy and warm, not making anything of it.
"Dr. Al-Hashimi."
"Dr. Y/L/N." She heard how formal it sounded and internally winced. She cleared her throat and softened her tone. "Small world. I'm sorry about the ambush."
"Please don't be," you beamed, standing. "This is the best thing that's happened to me all morning."
You had met Kaveh twice before and Baran had kind of freaked out both times (you knew good and well she didn’t really want you two interacting, didn’t want to blend whatever fuck-buddy situation you had going on with the version of her life she was presenting to her son) but both interactions had been really, really lovely. You’re not sure what you did to earn Kaveh’s adoration, but you were glad you had it as the adorable little boy beamed up at you, staring at you like you hung the stars.
Baran, standing slightly to the side, was also looking at your face. For completely different reasons. She took in the different style of your hair, the jewelry she hadn’t seen because it was kind of a pain to wear rings at work, the tote bag with your college insignia — a school Baran had not known you attended, had never heard you talk about, another piece of the woman she hadn’t had yet.
There were so many pieces.
“Are you here alone?” Baran heard herself ask.
You smiled. “I am, embarrassingly enough. I just like it here.” You paused. “Mom-son date?”
“We come most Saturdays,” Baran said. “When Kaveh is persuadable.”
“It’s an awesome hangout spot,” you nodded warmly, trying to will your heart to stop fluttering. Baran looked so… touchable? Something about her was calmer, more settled, and you wanted to soak it in like a sapling begging for just a drop of water to sustain it, but she was here with her son. And you were just a friend. Barely even that.
“Well, it was lovely to see you both,” you started to turn, “I hope you—”
Kaveh latched onto your arm, eyes going big with sudden sadness. “Wait, are you going?”
You froze, mouth falling open a bit, and your eyes shot to Baran. Sure, you liked her company and loved her son, but you knew this woman had boundaries and you never took that personally.
“Um, well, Kaveh—” you began…
"Don’t go because we are looking at statues and you can join us," Kaveh said excitedly. "Do you want to see?"
You blinked. Your eyes came up to Baran's face first.
She allowed her head to tilt, a warm smile to come across her face. You were sweet.
"Yes," she said warmly. "Join us. We could use the company."
"I'd love to," you replied, a warm smile slowly pulling at your lips. "Show me."
—
You fell into step beside her at an easy distance, and Baran noticed that too — the careful inch of space you maintained, not crowding her nor presuming that the invite meant she, all of the sudden, wanted you on top of her.
You talked to Kaveh mostly, crouching when he pointed at things, asking him questions that took his opinions seriously, which made him stand a little taller each time.
"That one is super sad," Kaveh pointed at a bronze figure with its head bowed.
"Hm," you studied it. "What do you think he's sad about?"
Kaveh thought about this. "Maybe he lost something."
“Lost something?” Baran prompted.
“‘Cause his head is down, Māmān,” Kaveh replied. “He’s lookin’ for it.”
It surprised a laugh out of you — real and unguarded, bubbling up from your chest and floating out into the high-ceilinged room — and Baran's eyes went straight to your face.
She'd heard you laugh before. But not like that. Not with nothing behind it but the simple fact that something delighted you.
She looked away before you could catch her looking.
She was noticing things she had no particular right to notice. The way you paused longest in front of the landscapes. The small private smile when something caught you, unannounced and unperformed. The fact that you knew which paintings were which without looking at the placards.
Initially she had been bracing herself for some level of awkwardness bred from the reminder that you existed in a different compartment of her life, one that didn't belong here under the high windows with her son. But you hadn't made it awkward. You just looked very content not to be alone on a Saturday, and it made her heart twist.
She felt herself begin to unknot.
"You come here often?" she nudged you with her hip as you walked again, and didn’t miss the way your eyes twinkled at the contact.
"Most weekends I'm not working," you tilted your head at the room around you. "There's a painting in the next gallery I've been coming back to for about a year."
"Which one?"
You smiled a little. "I'll show you when we get there."
In the decorative arts wing Kaveh grabbed your hand to drag you toward a suit of armor, and you let him, and Baran watched your face when he pressed his small nose against the visor to peer inside. The expression you wore was so soft, so unself-conscious, that it caught her off guard.
She had long wondered what you were like when you weren't managing anything at all, be it your poise at work or your manners in her apartment or your ecstasy in her bed. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was exactly what you looked like laid bare.
—
They reached the end of the last gallery with the slow inevitability of a good afternoon running out. Kaveh had gone boneless against Baran's side around the second hour mark, dragging his feet and clinging to her arm, suddenly non-verbal.
You crouched down to him. "It was very good to see you, Kaveh. Thank you for the statue tour."
"You can come next Saturday," Kaveh offered, hand reaching out to fiddle with the neckline of your shirt.
Baran watched your face. She saw you almost smile and then she watched you catch it and smooth it over.
"That's a very kind invitation," you said carefully, to Kaveh, but you were still looking at her.
The restraint of it was so practiced and so deliberate that it nearly hurt. She had put you here in this careful, curtailed space and you had stayed in it without a word of complaint, because she'd asked you to a few months ago. Please don’t ask about my ex-husband, please don’t ask about my son. You had nodded and respected it ever since, because that was the kind of person you were.
She had an empty afternoon ahead of her, but you were full of so many little pieces that had started to crack away from your skin and fall into her palm just over the course of an hour. She wanted more. She wanted every shard until she could build your full mosaic.
"We were going to get lunch," Baran said. "There's a place around the corner Kaveh likes."
She paused, small and deliberate.
"I would like it if you came."
Baran watched the surprise dance across your eyes even though you tried to remain nonchalant. You were a very smart girl and she knew you understood exactly what she was actually saying. This was very different from when you would brush shoulders in the hospital, or when your phone would buzz with a "Are you free tonight?"
"Are you sure?" you asked softly.
"Very sure," she said, then raised her brow with a smirk. “Do I have to say please?”
You looked at her for a beat longer, something soft and open moving through your expression, and then you smiled so large it changed your whole face.
"Okay," you said. "I'd like that."
Kaveh grabbed both your hands at once, one each, and lurched forward without ceremony.
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based on this request. baran prefers when you visit her work walking and not being rushed in on a gurney, and with her son at home and not trailing in behind you. unfortunately, she doesn’t always get that choice. TW injuries, implied but non-graphic car accident, hurt/comfort. no taglist on this one bc tbh it’s late and I’m tired and it’s a pain to log into forms on my phone. SORRY.
It’s safe to say that when you wake up alone in a hospital room with a monitor beeping with every beat of your heart and an IV stuck in your arm, you’re on the verge of freaking the fuck out.
You don’t remember much of what happened. One moment you were fine, walking back to the car from an ice cream spot you frequently take Kaveh to after school and warning him not to get any ice cream on the seats of his mom’s car, and the next…
You look around you. You can only guess what happened after that.
The door opens then, and your wife pauses halfway through it. She looks at you with an indecipherable expression and you can’t tell if it reads as relief, anger, maybe both?
“You’re awake,” she says, and you can hear the relief in it then. She comes into the room the rest of the way and lets the door close gently behind her. “Good.”
“How is Kaveh?” you ask. Your words come out sounding gravelly and tired. “Is he okay? Baran, I’m so fucking sorry. I don’t know how—”
“He’s fine,” she interrupts. “A couple of cuts here and there, some bruising we’ll have to keep an eye on, but that’s the worst of it. He’s in the break room with McKay.”
Tears prick your eyes and you look down at your hands, one of which is in a cast. You had been fully prepared to hear something much, much worse.
“He’s pretty concerned about you, though.” Baran comes to stand at your bedside, finally approaching you, and it’s as if she’s been afraid to get too close. “So am I. When you first came in, I thought…” she trails off.
You look up at her, meeting her eyes. You notice the way her professionalism cracks and fear seeps through, and she looks as if she wants nothing more than to reach out for you.
For some reason, she doesn’t. That is as close as she gets.
“I’m sorry,” you say again.
She looks away. “How are you feeling?”
“Baran, please look at me.”
“You fractured two ribs, fractured your left wrist, and that’s just the top of the list. You need to get some rest.”
You do want to rest, if you’re being honest with yourself. You feel loopy from pain meds and sedatives and, ironically, you think your stomach aches from all of the ice cream you ate earlier.
But you can’t give in. Not until she really talks to you, not as a doctor but as your wife.
“You know I would never intentionally put your son in any danger,” you say. “I never meant for this to happen.”
“Well, you don’t typically mean to be wheeled in on a fucking gurney with a ten year old trailing in behind you,” Baran snaps, raising her voice.
Even though it’s anger you’re getting out of her, at least it is something. It would be worse if she refused to talk to you beyond medical jargon.
“Do you have any idea how it felt to see them pulling you out of that ambulance? To look over and see Kaveh there beside you while a fucking paramedic tried to get him to look away when all he wanted was to stay by your side?” she continues, pacing in front of the bed now.
You don’t know what to say. It seems like overkill to try apologizing again, and anyway it wouldn’t fix what happened.
“At least it wasn’t him,” you try eventually, and hope it won’t make things worse.
“But it was you,” Baran says. She stops pacing and comes to your side again, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “It has always been my worst fear to have to choose between the two of you in a situation like this. That happened today.”
You don’t have to ask who she ended up picking — she will always pick her son, and you wouldn’t want her to choose any other way. So it doesn’t sting that she put Kaveh first or that you woke up alone this afternoon, but it does sting that Baran was the one with a wife and son being escorted into the ED and a responsibility to both.
“I know you didn’t end up here on purpose,” she says. She shakes her head, finally caving and reaching to take your uninjured hand. “And I know you’re sorry. But here you are.”
You nod. You give her hand a small squeeze and when she squeezes back it makes your heart ache in your chest. You hear a slight alteration in the monitor nearby, and out of the corner of your eye you see Baran turning to check it.
“Do you want to know what Kaveh asked me earlier after I told him you were stable?”
“Sure,” you say. You prepare yourself for something heartbreaking, as if hearing whatever he said repeated to you by Baran is going to be what severs your sanity completely after this whole event.
“He asked me if we could go get more ice cream once you got discharged, because he didn’t get to finish his cone of rocky road earlier,” Baran tells you.
You laugh at that, and while you feel a painful twinge in your ribs you think it would be a lot worse if you weren’t hopped up on whatever medication you’ve been given. “He’s definitely your son.”
Baran shakes her head. “I don’t like rocky road.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
A small smile pulls at her lips. It fades quickly, but you caught it while it lasted and that is enough.
Baran brings your hand up to her lips and kisses your knuckles, and when she looks at you her eyes are glassy. She was strong when she came in, almost combative in the heat of tragedy, but now that she has said her piece she is unraveling bit by bit.
“I’m really fucking glad you’re okay,” she says, and her voice is tight with the effort to keep the tears at bay. She squeezes your hand harder, enough to make it ache, but there is no aggression in the firmness — only love, and too much fear.
She doesn’t usually curse, but this is the third time she has in the span of a few minutes and that alone tells you the gravity of the situation and the extent to which your injuries must have been.
“Me too,” you say. “And I’m glad you’re here with me.”
Baran nods. She looks as if she wants to shift you over and crawl into the small bed beside you, neglect the rest of the world and stay at your side for as long as she can. “I wish you were in our bed. I want to take care of you at home where the lights aren’t so bright and the sounds aren’t so harsh and I can take care of you softly.”
It sounds nice. You want that, too.
“Soon,” you say. “For now, just stay here with me.”
She can still feel the weight of her son running up and crashing against her, the way his arms wrapped tightly around her when she knelt down to his height, his tears that had soaked her jacket. And she can still see you being wheeled into an empty room, Dr Robby following (which had proved to be another source of anxiety itself), and the waves of fear that had kept coming even after all was said and done.
But the vision of home helps to soothe her. She keeps gripping your hand and when she closes her eyes she can almost pretend that she is sitting at the edge of the bed she shares with you, that there is a mug of tea on the bedside table and a book in her lap that she intends to read while you rest.
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