when we are in need

hello my lovelies! I like to write & i love pedro pascal, ellie williams and vi 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

here is my masterlist

One-shot

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, medical trauma, near death experiences, angst with a happy ending, protective robby, he needs a hug, panic attacks, no use of y/n, both reader and robby pov, injury recovery, found family

Summary:

The last thing Robby expects during a shift is for the next trauma patient rolling through the doors to be you.

One minute he’s an attending running the ER like usual.

The next, he’s watching the person he loves code in trauma bay three—and discovering that maybe doctors aren’t supposed to see the people they care about flatline.

He does not handle it well.

Or: you almost died and robby absolutely falls apart about it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

The first thing I notice is the lights.

Bright white ceiling panels rush past above me, sliding in and out of focus as the gurney rattles down the hallway. Every bump sends a dull ache through my chest that makes my breath catch behind the oxygen mask.

Voices blur together around me.

“BP’s dropping.”

“Hang another line.”

“Stay with me.”

Someone squeezes my hand—steady, warm.

“You’re in the ER,” the nurse says gently. “Just keep breathing for us.”

Hospital.

Right.

My head feels heavy, like it’s sinking into the pillow beneath it. The smell of antiseptic and clean linens is unmistakable.

Then the gurney swings around the corner toward the main nurses’ station of the Pitt.

And suddenly everything stops.

“What happened?”

The voice is sharp, breathless.

Familiar enough that even through the haze in my head, my chest tightens.

Robby.

Dr. Michael Robinavitch appears beside the gurney like someone pulled him out of thin air. His scrub top is wrinkled, one glove half-off like he’d been in the middle of something and walked straight out.

Normally he’s the calmest person in the entire ER. The doctor everyone else looks to when things start going wrong.

Right now he looks terrified.

“They came in from a vehicle collision,” Mel explains as she moves alongside the bed, tablet already in her hand while she scans the numbers on the monitor. “Possible internal bleeding. Hypotensive.”

Robby’s eyes flick over me with automatic clinical precision.

The oxygen mask.

The IV lines.

The bruising along my collarbone.

But the second his gaze settles on my face, something in him cracks.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

His voice is so soft it almost disappears under the sound of the monitors.

He leans closer to the gurney.

“Hey, baby. Look at me.”

The word baby slips out like it’s instinct.

I try to focus on him. My vision swims, but I manage to catch the shape of his face leaning over me.

His eyes look wrong.

Too wide.

Too bright with panic.

“You’re okay,” he says quickly, like if he says it enough times it might become true. “You’re in the ER. I’ve got you.”

His hand hovers near mine like he wants to grab it but isn’t sure if he’s allowed.

“BP’s eighty-two systolic,” Mel says, frowning at the screen.

“That’s not good,” Robby mutters immediately.

Cassie pushes through the group with gloves already on. “Trauma bay three is open.”

“Second IV is in,” adds Trinity from the foot of the bed as she checks the fluid line.

Robby barely hears them. His attention is locked completely on me.

“You’re okay,” he repeats softly, almost to himself this time. “You’re right here.”

The monitor beeps faster.

Mel glances at it again.

“Pressure’s still dropping.”

Robby’s head snaps toward the screen.

“Why is it dropping?” he asks immediately.

“We just started fluids,” Santos says.

Garcia steps up beside Mel, calm and focused as always. “Let’s get a FAST ultrasound when we’re inside.”

Behind them, Mateo is already adjusting the oxygen tubing while Perlah hangs another bag of fluids.

Everything is moving quickly.

Everyone is calm.

Except Robby.

His hand finally finds mine.

His fingers close around it carefully, like I might break if he squeezes too hard.

“I’m here,” he murmurs. “I’m right here.”

Dana steps into the scene then, having clearly noticed the commotion from halfway across the department.

She takes one look at Robby.

Then one look at me.

And immediately understands.

“Robby,” she says carefully.

He doesn’t respond.

His thumb is brushing absent circles against the back of my hand while his eyes track every flicker on the monitor.

“Robby,” she repeats.

Still nothing.

“Michael.”

He finally turns.

“I’m fine,” he says quickly, before she can even say anything else.

Dana raises an eyebrow.

“You’re standing in the middle of a trauma intake holding their hand.”

His grip tightens instinctively.

“I can still work.”

Mel glances between them, then quietly tells McKay, “Let’s move.”

The gurney starts rolling again toward trauma bay three.

Robby follows immediately.

Dana steps directly into his path.

“You can’t be here, Robby.”

He stares at her like she’s just spoken another language.

“Yes I can.”

“You know you can’t.”

“They need surgery,” he says quickly, words tumbling out. “We should scan first but if there’s internal bleeding—”

“They’re going to do everything they can.”

“That’s not the point.”

His voice cracks.

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing half a step away before coming right back toward the trauma doors.

“I should be in there,” he says quietly. “I should be helping.”

“You can’t,” Dana says gently.

His breathing is getting uneven now.

“I’ve handled worse cases than this,” he insists.

But the words sound hollow even to him.

Through the trauma bay window, Mel and Garcia are already running the ultrasound while McKay checks the monitor again. Langdon appears beside them, calm as ever as he reviews the readings.

Inside the room, Mateo is setting up blood while Perlah adjusts the IV pump. Donnie rushes past with supplies while Lupe updates the board near the nurses’ station.

The whole ER is moving like a machine.

Robby is the only part that isn’t functioning.

His chest rises too fast.

Dana gently grabs his arm.

“You need to breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

He isn’t.

His eyes never leave the trauma bay window.

“I can’t lose them,” he says suddenly.

The words come out small and raw.

Dana’s expression softens immediately.

Inside the trauma room the monitor alarm goes off.

“Pressure’s sixty-five,” Perlah calls.

Mel looks at Garcia.

“Start blood.”

Langdon glances toward the window where Robby stands.

He’s gripping the counter so hard his knuckles are white.

Dana’s hand stays steady on his shoulder.

“They’re going to do everything they can,” she tells him quietly.

Robby doesn’t respond.

His eyes are fixed on the trauma bay doors.

Like if he looks away—even for a second—something terrible might happen.

And for the first time since anyone in the Pitt has known him, the doctor who holds the entire emergency department together looks like he might fall apart completely.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

From the hallway, Robby can see everything.

The trauma bay doors have glass panels built into them—a design choice he has always appreciated. It lets the attending keep eyes on the room even when they’re not inside, a way to supervise without crowding the team.

Tonight, it feels like a curse.

He stands only a few feet from the glass, arms folded tightly across his chest as if holding himself together. His fingers press so hard into his biceps that they ache, but he barely notices. His attention is locked entirely on the room in front of him.

Inside trauma bay three, the team moves around the bed with focused precision.

Mel stands near the monitor, her tablet tucked under one arm while she watches the numbers climb and fall. Garcia is beside her, leaning slightly forward with the ultrasound probe pressed against your abdomen, eyes scanning the screen for any sign of internal bleeding.

Cassie moves between the monitor and the IV lines, her voice calm but sharp as she relays vitals to the room. Frank stands close to the bedside, already positioned in that subtle way experienced physicians have when they’re preparing to take over if things go bad.

Near the crash cart, Perlah prepares medications while Mateo adjusts the defibrillator equipment. Just behind them, Dennis hovers with tense focus, opening packages and passing supplies the moment someone reaches for them.

Robby knows these people.

He trusts them.

He has worked beside them through chaotic trauma nights, mass casualty drills, and endless exhausting shifts where the ER feels like a battlefield.

They are some of the best doctors and nurses he knows.

But none of that helps right now.

Because the patient on that bed isn’t just another trauma case.

It’s you.

His gaze keeps drifting back to your face through the glass. The oxygen mask covers half of it. IV lines snake from both arms. The monitor beside the bed flickers with unstable numbers that make his stomach twist.

You look so small lying there.

Too still.

Robby presses his palm against the glass without realizing he’s done it.

Dana stands a few steps behind him, watching quietly. She knows him well enough to recognize when pushing him will only make things worse.

For now, she lets him look.

Inside the room, Mel glances at the monitor again.

“Pressure’s still dropping.”

Garcia nods slightly but doesn’t take her eyes off the ultrasound screen.

“We’ll know more in a second.”

Robby’s chest tightens.

He hates this part of medicine.

The waiting. The uncertainty. The long seconds between information where nothing can be done but watch and hope the numbers stabilize.

His mind runs through possibilities automatically.

Internal bleeding. Splenic rupture. Liver injury. Cardiac contusion.

Each one spirals into worse outcomes before he can stop himself.

Then suddenly—

The monitor tone changes.

It’s subtle at first.

Just a shift in rhythm.

But Robby notices immediately.

His entire body goes rigid.

Inside the trauma bay, Cassie's head snaps toward the screen.

“Hold on.”

The steady beeping stretches into something long and continuous.

The flat tone fills the room.

For a moment, everything stops.

Then McKay says the words Robby never wants to hear.

“They’re in V-fib.”

The world tilts.

Inside the trauma bay, everyone moves at once.

Frank climbs onto the stool beside the bed without hesitation and positions his hands over your chest.

“Starting compressions.”

His arms lock straight as he begins CPR, each compression firm and precise.

One.

Two.

Three.

Robby feels like the air has been punched out of his lungs.

Mateo grabs the defibrillator paddles while Perlah pulls epinephrine from the crash cart. Beside her, Dennis tears open another medication kit and passes it to her immediately.

“Charging,” Mateo calls.

Robby presses his hand harder against the glass.

Inside the room, Mel studies the monitor.

“Still V-fib.”

“Clear,” Garcia orders.

Everyone lifts their hands.

The shock hits.

Your body jerks sharply against the bed.

Robby flinches like he felt the electricity himself.

For half a second the monitor shows nothing.

Then the chaotic rhythm returns.

No recovery.

Langdon immediately resumes compressions.

“One, two, three, four—”

Robby’s brain automatically runs through the algorithm.

Defibrillation. CPR. Epinephrine. Repeat.

He knows exactly what they’re doing.

He has run this exact code dozens of times.

But those were strangers.

Patients.

Not the person whose laugh fills his apartment when they cook together. Not the person who steals his hoodie every time they stay over. Not the person who falls asleep with their head on his shoulder halfway through movies.

Inside the trauma bay, Perlah hands off a syringe.

“Epi ready.”

Cassie pushes it into the IV line without hesitation.

“Two minutes,” Garcia says, watching the clock.

Mateo charges the defibrillator again.

“Charging.”

Dennis stands beside him now, eyes darting between the monitor and the supplies in his hands, ready for whatever the next command is.

Robby’s breathing becomes shallow.

His hands begin to shake.

“Robby,” Dana says quietly beside him.

He barely hears her.

Inside the room, Langdon keeps counting compressions.

“Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine—”

Mateo glances toward Garcia.

“Ready.”

“Clear.”

The second shock hits.

Robby’s chest tightens painfully.

It feels like someone wrapped iron bands around his ribs.

The room suddenly feels too bright.

Too loud.

His lungs refuse to cooperate.

He tries to inhale, but the breath stops halfway.

“I can’t—”

The words come out thin and strained.

Dana steps closer immediately.

“Robby.”

Inside the trauma bay, Mel checks the monitor again.

“Still no rhythm.”

Langdon does not stop compressions. Sweat beads at his hairline now, but his arms never falter.

The team moves around the bed with relentless focus.

Garcia calls out medications. Perlah prepares another syringe. Mateo repositions the defibrillator. Dennis reaches for more supplies before anyone even asks.

Everyone is doing exactly what they’re supposed to do.

And Robby suddenly realizes he cannot watch them try to bring you back to life.

“I can’t watch this.”

His voice cracks.

He steps away from the glass.

Then another step.

Dana reaches for his arm, but he’s already moving down the hallway.

Fast.

Too fast.

By the time he reaches the quieter corridor near the supply rooms, the panic hits him all at once.

His hands slam against the wall.

He bends forward sharply, trying to breathe.

But the air won’t come.

Each inhale is shallow and shaky, like his lungs forgot how to work.

“I can’t—” he gasps.

His heart pounds so hard it makes his vision blur.

His fingers curl against the wall as his whole body trembles.

Footsteps echo down the hallway behind him.

Dana again.

She reaches him quickly but doesn’t say anything right away.

Instead, she gently guides him down into the chair beside the wall.

He collapses into it without resistance.

“Breathe,” she says calmly.

“I’m trying.”

“You’re hyperventilating.”

“I know.”

His voice cracks again.

He drags both hands through his hair and stares at the floor.

“They’re coding,” he whispers.

Dana kneels down so she’s directly in front of him.

“Look at me.”

He shakes his head weakly.

“I should be in there,” he says hoarsely. “I should be helping.”

“You can’t.”

“They’re dying and I’m not even—”

“They are not dying,” Dana interrupts firmly.

Robby finally looks up at her.

Her expression softens immediately.

“They have Mel, Garcia, Langdon, McKay, Santos, Mateo, Perlah, and Whitaker in that room,” she says gently. “Half the best trauma team in this hospital.”

Robby swallows hard.

He knows that.

He trusts every single one of them.

But none of that quiets the fear clawing at his chest.

His hands are still shaking.

“I can’t lose them,” he whispers.

Dana reaches up and squeezes his shoulder.

“You won’t.”

Down the hallway, the trauma bay doors remain closed.

Inside that room, the people Robby trusts most in the world are fighting to bring your heart back.

And all he can do is sit in the empty corridor, shaking and struggling to breathe, while the person he loves most in the world fights for their life without him.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

The room is quiet when Robby finally sees you again.

Not the controlled chaos of the trauma bay, not the alarms and shouted commands and the violent rhythm of compressions. This room is dimmer, calmer. The steady beeping of the cardiac monitor has settled into a slow, regular rhythm that fills the silence like a heartbeat the entire floor can hear.

You’re sedated.

The ventilator breathes for you in soft mechanical sighs, the rise and fall of your chest steady beneath the hospital blanket. Tubing runs from the ventilator to the breathing tube at your throat, IV lines disappearing into your arms, monitors tracking every tiny change in your body.

Robby stands in the doorway for a long moment before stepping inside.

He almost doesn’t recognize you like this.

Not because you look different, but because you’re still.

You’re never still.

You’re the person who talks with your hands when you get excited, who fills quiet rooms with commentary or teasing remarks or laughter that echoes off the kitchen walls of his apartment. Even when you sleep, you shift closer to him at some point in the night, curling into his side without waking.

Now you don’t move at all.

The sight makes something heavy settle in his chest.

He pulls the chair closer to the bed and sits down slowly.

For a few seconds he just stares at the monitor.

Heart rate stable.

Blood pressure holding.

Oxygen saturation good.

All numbers he has spent his entire career reading with clinical detachment.

Tonight they feel like lifelines.

His shoulders sag slightly as the adrenaline finally drains out of his body. The exhaustion underneath it hits all at once.

He looks… deflated.

Like someone pulled the air out of him.

His scrubs are wrinkled from the shift. His hair is messier than usual, pushed back so many times his hands have left it sticking up unevenly. There are faint red marks around his eyes from where he pressed his palms against them earlier in the hallway.

He hasn’t fully recovered from the panic attack.

You almost died.

He watched your heart stop through a glass door.

Robby leans forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees.

For a moment he just studies your face.

The sedation has softened your features. Without the tension or pain from earlier, you look almost peaceful. The ventilator tube is the only thing that really breaks the illusion.

His hand hovers over yours.

He hesitates.

Then gently takes it.

Your skin is warm.

That alone makes something inside him loosen slightly.

He wraps his fingers carefully around your hand like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he murmurs quietly.

His voice is rough.

There’s no one else in the room to hear it.

Robby rarely lets people see him like this. In the ER he’s the steady one, the attending who keeps the room calm when everyone else starts to spiral.

But right now he just looks tired.

And relieved.

And still a little terrified.

His thumb brushes slowly over the back of your hand.

“You know that?” he adds softly.

He glances at the monitor again.

Still steady.

Still beating.

Still here.

Robby exhales slowly, leaning back in the chair.

His grip on your hand tightens slightly without him realizing it.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers.

The words hang quietly in the room.

A soft knock breaks the silence a few minutes later.

Robby straightens slightly, turning toward the door.

Dennis Whitaker steps in carefully, like he’s not entirely sure if he should interrupt.

He pauses when he sees Robby sitting there, still holding your hand.

“Sorry,” Whitaker says quietly. “I didn’t know if you wanted—”

“What happened?” Robby asks immediately.

The question comes out fast.

Too fast.

Whitaker stops where he is.

Robby’s voice is steady, but his eyes aren’t.

He’s back in doctor mode now, clinging to it like it’s the only thing holding him together.

“What exactly happened?” Robby asks again, softer but no less urgent.

Whitaker nods slowly and steps further into the room.

“They’re stable now,” he says first, clearly choosing his words carefully. “The code lasted just under five minutes before we got ROSC.”

Robby nods once.

He already saw the timeline in the chart.

But hearing it out loud still makes his chest tighten.

Whitaker shifts slightly, glancing toward the monitor before continuing.

“The crash caused multiple injuries,” he explains. “They’ve got five fractured ribs on the left side—two of them displaced. One of those fractured ribs punctured the lung, so they developed a moderate pneumothorax.”

Robby’s eyes flick automatically toward the drainage tube at your side.

Whitaker notices.

“Chest tube’s in place,” he says. “It’s draining well. Lung’s already re-expanding.”

Robby nods slowly.

Whitaker continues.

“There’s also a pretty significant pulmonary contusion. That’s the main reason they’re still intubated. Their lungs were struggling to oxygenate properly on their own after the trauma.”

Robby’s thumb moves slowly against the back of your hand as he listens.

“And the cardiac arrest?” he asks quietly.

Whitaker exhales.

“Combination of hypoxia and blood loss,” he explains. “They’ve got a grade three splenic laceration. Not completely ruptured, but it bled enough to drop their pressure fast.”

Robby’s jaw tightens.

Whitaker continues gently.

“Trauma surgery looked at the CT. For now they’re managing it non-operatively, but they’re watching it closely in case the bleeding worsens.”

Robby nods again, absorbing the information piece by piece.

Whitaker glances briefly at the chart in his hand.

“They’ve also got a fractured clavicle and a small liver contusion,” he adds. “Plus a moderate concussion. CT was clear for brain bleed, though.”

Robby exhales slowly.

A breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Whitaker looks between the two of you.

“So,” he finishes quietly, “five broken ribs, collapsed lung, splenic laceration, fractured clavicle, lung contusion, liver bruising… and a concussion.”

He pauses.

“But everything is treatable.”

Robby looks back at you.

The ventilator breathes in.

Then out.

The monitor continues its steady rhythm beside the bed.

He squeezes your hand gently.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

Whitaker watches him for a moment before speaking again.

“They’re going to be in a lot of pain when they wake up,” he says quietly.

Robby gives a tired half-smile.

“They complain about paper cuts,” he mutters softly.

Whitaker huffs a small laugh.

But Robby’s eyes never leave you.

“You’re lucky,” Whitaker adds gently.

Robby’s gaze softens.

His thumb brushes slowly over your hand again.

“I know,” he says quietly.

—

Hours pass quietly in the dim hospital room.

The lights have been lowered to the muted overnight setting, just bright enough for staff to read monitors and medication labels without waking patients unnecessarily. The ventilator breathes steadily beside the bed, a slow mechanical inhale followed by a soft exhale, repeating over and over with patient precision. The cardiac monitor answers it with its own rhythm—steady, even beeps that mark each heartbeat.

Robby hears every one of them.

He hasn’t moved from the chair beside your bed in hours.

At some point he shifted forward, elbows resting on his knees, his shoulders slightly hunched like gravity finally caught up with him. One arm rests against the mattress, his hand wrapped loosely around yours. His thumb moves slowly across your knuckles every so often, an absent, repetitive motion that he doesn’t even seem aware of.

It’s the only thing about him that moves.

He’s checked the monitor numbers more times than necessary.

He’s read the chart twice.

He knows your vitals are stable. He knows the ventilator settings. He knows exactly how much fluid is running through your IV lines and what medications you’re sedated with.

But he keeps watching anyway.

Your chest rises slowly with the ventilator.

Then falls again.

Each breath feels like proof you’re still here.

Someone draped a thin hospital blanket over his shoulders earlier. He doesn’t remember when that happened or who did it. His scrubs are wrinkled now, and his hair sticks up unevenly from where he’s dragged his hands through it again and again.

He hasn’t eaten.

He hasn’t slept.

And he hasn’t left the room.

The door opens quietly sometime after midnight.

Robby barely reacts at first, assuming it’s one of the night nurses coming in to check your lines or adjust medications.

But the footsteps that enter the room are slower.

Familiar.

He lifts his head slightly.

Dr. Jack Abbot stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms folded loosely across his chest.

Abbot doesn’t say anything right away.

He just watches for a moment.

Robby slumped in the chair.

Still holding your hand.

Still staring at you like the rest of the room has faded out of existence.

Abbot exhales softly through his nose.

“Jesus, Robby.”

Robby glances up briefly.

“Yeah,” he mutters.

Abbot steps inside the room, the door clicking shut quietly behind him. His eyes sweep over the monitors, the ventilator tubing, the IV pumps, taking in the scene out of habit before settling back on Robby.

“You’ve been here the whole time?” he asks.

Robby shrugs faintly.

“Pretty much.”

Abbot glances down at his watch.

“That was… what, six hours ago now?”

Robby doesn’t answer.

Time stopped meaning much after the trauma bay.

Abbot drags another chair closer and sits down across from him, elbows resting on his knees as he studies Robby’s face more carefully.

He looks wrecked.

Not the usual end-of-shift exhaustion that everyone in emergency medicine carries around like a badge of honor.

This is different.

Robby looks hollowed out. Like someone pulled the energy straight out of him.

“You look like hell,” Abbot says quietly.

Robby huffs out a weak breath that almost resembles a laugh.

“Thanks.”

Abbot nods toward the bed.

“They’re stable.”

“I know.”

“You checked the chart.”

“Yeah.”

“Twice.”

Robby doesn’t bother denying it.

His thumb drifts slowly across the back of your hand again.

Abbot notices.

“You should go home,” he says gently.

Robby shakes his head immediately.

“No.”

Abbot sighs quietly.

“Robby—”

“I’m not leaving.”

There’s no anger in it.

No defensiveness.

Just a simple, exhausted certainty.

Abbot gestures lightly toward the machines around the bed.

“They’re sedated. Ventilated. Monitored by half the ICU staff on this floor.”

“I know.”

“So you sitting here staring at them isn’t actually doing anything.”

Robby finally lifts his head.

His eyes are tired, rimmed red from too many hours without sleep.

“That’s not the point.”

Abbot studies him carefully.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “Then what is the point?”

Robby’s gaze drifts back to you.

Your face is calm under the sedation. The ventilator lifts your chest slowly before letting it fall again.

His fingers tighten slightly around yours.

For a long moment he says nothing.

Then he exhales quietly through his nose.

“I didn’t exactly handle earlier very well.”

Abbot tilts his head slightly but doesn’t interrupt.

Robby’s voice stays low.

“There was a moment in the hallway,” he continues slowly, choosing each word with careful precision, “where breathing became… a little unreliable.”

Abbot’s expression softens almost immediately.

Robby shrugs faintly.

“Turns out watching someone you care about get shocked twice does weird things to your lungs.”

Abbot lets out a quiet breath.

“That’s one way to describe it.”

Robby’s thumb moves across your knuckles again.

Slow.

Grounding.

“I stepped out,” he adds.

Abbot doesn’t correct him.

Doesn’t push.

He simply nods.

“You came back.”

Robby glances at him briefly.

Then back to you.

“Yeah.”

Silence settles over the room again.

The ventilator breathes in.

Then out.

Abbot watches Robby for a moment before speaking again.

“You love them.”

The words are simple.

Matter-of-fact.

Robby doesn’t answer.

But the way his fingers tighten slightly around your hand says enough.

Abbot exhales slowly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”

Robby’s eyes never leave your face.

“They almost didn’t make it,” he says quietly.

His voice is softer now.

Less guarded.

Abbot nods.

“But they did.”

Robby watches the monitor for another long moment.

Green lines rise and fall across the screen.

Your heart continues beating in steady rhythm.

Your chest rises.

Falls.

Still here.

He squeezes your hand gently.

“I’m not leaving,” he murmurs.

Abbot pushes himself up from the chair with a quiet sigh.

“Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”

He walks toward the door, pausing before he opens it.

When he glances back, Robby hasn’t moved.

Still in the chair.

Still holding your hand.

Still watching every breath like it matters more than anything else in the room.

Abbot gives a small nod.

“Try to sleep at some point,” he says.

Robby doesn’t answer.

He just brushes his thumb across your knuckles again, leaning a little closer to the bed.

“I’m right here,” he whispers softly.

And this time, he’s not talking to Abbot.

He’s talking to you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

a/n:

i've been obsessed with the pitt and thinking about how robby would react if we got injured lolol.

I posted this on my AO3 page (fireflystories)

anyways, love you all!!!

can someone please draw ilya and shane inspired by this photo! 👀👀

FUCK ICE

FREE PALESTINE

FREE CONGO

FREE IRAN

I LOVE TRANS PEOPLE

I LOVE QUEER PEOPLE

FEMINISM IS GREAT

IMMIGRANTS ARE GREAT

PEOPLE OF NATIVE HERITAGE IS GREAT

I’M PRO ABORTIONS

if you don’t agree, then you can leave.

SEE YOU IN HELL - Nora Kelly Band

One-Shot

Tags: fluff, a bit of angst, timeline is not accurate to the game, this is just an excuse to write a fan fiction about Nora lol, 90's girls and then present girls. This isn't proofread so ignore.

Summary: Past you thought the connection would last forever. Present you knows better, and still finds them impossible to let go of.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

BLOOM

The Yooper Scooper is barely a building.

It’s an ice cream stand bolted to the sidewalk, paint faded and peeling, next to the movie palace, freezers rattling behind fogged plastic windows. Strings of lights hum overhead, casting a soft, tired glow onto the cracked concrete. At sixteen, with nowhere else open, it feels impossibly vast.

You’re new—not to town, exactly, but to them.

Swann stands in front of the service window, leaning she teases Autumn, soft, almost careful, nudging her about milkshake flavours in that light-hearted way she always does. Autumn laughs, face pink, pretending to be annoyed. Nora is on the bench edge, full of energy, retelling a story she’s told a hundred times but somehow makes it fresh every time. Everyone laughs anyway, because that’s what she always does.

Kat sits slightly apart on the low metal bench outside the stand’s glow. Quiet. Observing. One-foot rocks slowly, a rhythm that matches the hum of the lights. She isn’t eating. She isn’t participating; at least, not yet.

You end up beside her, by accident.

“Didn’t peg you for ice cream this late,” she says, eyes forward, voice calm but edged with that familiar scrutiny.

“Didn’t peg myself either,” you reply.

She glances at you, assessing. Careful. Calculated.

Nora notices you next. Always notices.

“Hey,” she says, pointing her cup like she’s daring you to say something. “You sticking around or just lurking dramatically?”

Swann laughs softly, genuine, welcoming. “Stick around. You might survive us.”

Nora scoots over, nudging a little space for you. “Sit. You can’t hover forever.”

And just like that, you’re part of it.

Nights begin to stack. Scooper runs after closing, shoes dangling off the curb. Kat pockets extra napkins, mischievous and unapologetic. Swann tells little stories that draw smiles from everyone, her voice soft, never cutting, never mocking. Autumn listens, occasionally half-laughing, her quiet presence steady.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

You all sit at the abandoned park, the swings creaking softly in the background. Stories spill easily, about Dylan and Corey, about Autumn’s lost keys, each one more dramatic than the last, especially the way Nora tells it.

“And then fists were flying like—BAM! BAM! BAM!” Nora throws wild punches into the air, nearly knocking herself off the swing.

“Nor, nobody punched anybody,” Autumn laughs, shaking her head.

“It could’ve happened.” Nora crosses her arms, unapologetic.

You all break into laughter, the kind that comes easy, the kind that makes you feel like you belong. Somewhere between the jokes and the half-true stories, you learn their names.

SWANN – THE FILMMAKER

AUTUMN – THE SKATEBOARDER

KAT – THE POET

NORA – THE PUNK

Conversations show you the dynamics between them. Kat doesn’t talk as much as the other three. She watches, weighs. But she’s present.

You and Autumn talk about your favourite drinks, you and Swann talk about your favourite films, you and Kate talk about Jane Eyre.

You and Nora. Gosh. You tell yourself it’s just an awkward friendship, brushed shoulders, fingers colliding when something’s passed down the bench. Small moments. Fleeting ones. The kind you pretend don’t mean anything, moments brief, fleeting, unnoticed, but they matter.

You once caught her staring at you. You thought it was just a coincidence, but something on the back of your mind stated otherwise.

The garage isn’t fancy, just mismatched furniture, pizza boxes, the smell of cigarettes and posters peeling off the wall. A couple of instruments rest against crates of old VHS tapes and tangled cords. It feels like their space, chaotic, loud, and entirely unsupervised.

Autumn sits cross‑legged near the amp, plucking at the bass with tentative curiosity. Nora stands behind her, tuning her guitar, brow furrowed, a rare look of concentration.

Swann sits on a low stool with her camera, framing the scene. Kat sprawls on her back, flipping through a notebook of lyrics, humming under her breath.

The strum of Nora’s guitar fills the room as Autumn joins in. Swann leans forward, adjusting the camera.

“You two sound… really good,” Swann says quietly. “Like, actually good.”

Kat grins. “If you ever play live, I want a signature entrance. Fireworks. Or maybe smoke. Something epic.”

Nora smirks. “Too many fireworks, and my dad will actually kill us.”

Swann laughs softly, clicking the camera off. “Well I'm glad I just filed our first chaos-filled concert.”

Then the garage door creaks open. You steps in quietly, not wanting to interrupt.

“Nora?” Nora’s head snaps toward you. Her face lights up instantly. “You’re here!” She grins, running a few steps to greet you, arms out. There’s a warmth in her eyes you’ve never seen before, pure relief and excitement.

You grin back, stepping fully into the basement. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Nora beams, and for a moment, the four of them stop — just long enough for you to take in the chaos: Autumn’s bass strumming steadily, the sound of Kat scribbling in her journal, Swann framing everything through the camera lens.

Autumn sets her bass down gently, thoughtful. “Maybe we should write something tonight. Just for us.”

Nora meets Autumn’s eyes, then tilts her head toward you. “What do you think? Help us write? Or just record our chaos?” she asks, half-teasing.

Swann points the camera at you. “Both,” she says with a shrug.

Kat looks up. “Both. Definitely both.”

A beat of laughter breaks the basement tension. It’s messy, raw, alive.

Nora lifts her guitar, voice soft but full, and Autumn harmonises behind her. Swann films. Kat provides an offbeat rhythm, clapping along, occasionally hitting wrong notes, but it works.

Then they restart, Nora and Autumn singing together, harmonising perfectly, Kat bouncing subtly in her seat, You’re swaying side to side with a smile on your face, Swann captures it all, zooming in on each of your faces as the sound fills the garage.

It’s an original, gritty guitars, driving bass, and that unmistakable teen angst that feels alive in the tiny space. You listen intensely, seeing the way they move with passion as Nora glances at you, your eyes meeting, a small smile tugging at her lips.

For a moment, time collapses. The basement, the laughter, the music; all of it is alive, and you’re part of it.

It feels like this: raw energy, chaotic harmonies, laughter that overlaps with music, hands brushing accidentally, smiles shared without words, and the feeling that this — right now — is exactly where you belong.

Kat stood up and wiped her hands on her jeans, eyes bright with that spark she always got when she was onto something. “We need a name,” she said, voice loud in the basement hush. A pause. Then: “How about Bloom & Rage?”

The words hung there, messy and perfect, like everything else about that summer.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

RAGE

The Blue Spruce hasn’t changed.

Or maybe it has, and you’re all just pretending it hasn’t.

The sign still glows that tired blue-green, humming over the parking lot like a bug trapped in amber. The spot where Kat collapsed that night. Inside, the diner smells like alcohol, cigarettes, pine cleaner, and old coffee that’s been sitting on the warmer too long. It’s louder than you remember—gambling machine, low conversation, a jukebox stuck on something nostalgic.

The booth you’re in is regular sized. A corner booth. Enough space that no one’s knees touch unless they choose to.

Which somehow makes it worse.

You see Swann, Nora, Autumn and….

You sit beside Nora, close but not quite leaning in. Swann is across from her, sprawled like she’s trying to fill the space Kat used to take up. Autumn sits next to Swann, talking to Swann, fingers wrapped tight around her glass.

Kat’s not there.

No one says it out loud, but the absence is loud enough on its own.

You catch Nora looking at her phone, someone is messaging her repeatedly. Her jaw tightens. She looks away before anyone notices.

The Blue Spruce is quieter than it used to be. The booth wood is scratched now, familiar and worn, and the jukebox hums low in the corner — the same one that used to play cheap hits when laughter felt lighter.

You sit across from Swann and Autumn on one side of the booth. Swann has that easy, observant way of smiling at strange little moments, the way she always did. Autumn’s posture is open and warm, but her eyes carry a weight that wasn’t there years ago.

Nora sits beside you, breathing shallowly. Her gaze turns to you, noticing the way your hair is shorter, curled, with a hint of purple highlighting your natural hair colour. She notices the way your clothes compliment your body as she notices a tattoo of a sun and a moon on your collarbone.

“You look… different,” Nora finally says, her voice low, familiar, but tense in a way that makes your stomach twist.

Swann perks up, bright. “Wow, that’s the first thing you say to them after all these years?” she jokes, but her eyes dart between you and Nora like she’s reading the room, as she always does.

Autumn laughs softly. “Honestly, same person. You just… grew into yourself.”

Nora’s eyebrow twitch is subtle, but you see it. “Yeah, sure.”

Finally, you meet Nora’s eyes. Up close now, a few more lines at the corners than you remember, but still that same spark of steel and defiance.

“So,” you pause. “Tell me… what’s been going on with you all?”

Her jaw tightens. “Life,” Nora says flatly. Then softer, almost forced: “I’m married.”

Your breath catches — the tension you’ve been trying to ignore surfaces all at once. It’s quiet, but heavy.

“Oh,” you say, careful. “That’s… good, right?”

She looks away, fingers tapping against the booth’s edge. “It is good. She’s… amazing in every way. But —” She bites the word off. “She doesn’t like me doing this.”

You blink, startled. “Doing what?”

“This,” she says. Nods toward you. Toward all of you. “Reconnecting. Talking about things we never finished. Memories I didn’t want to touch. It’s… messy. And she hates mess.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that feels like waiting for something to break or heal, and you don’t know which.

Swann watches quietly, her voice gentle. “We all lived our lives, Nora. We’re here together now. It doesn’t erase anything; it just… exists.”

Autumn reaches out, placing her hand over Nora’s. “It’s okay to feel tangled. We all are.”

Nora looks at Autumn’s hand, then at you. Her eyes shift, guarded, but soft beneath it all. “You all were my first real friends,” she says quietly. “Not the… big drama of who I was supposed to be.”

You blink, stunned by the honesty. “You were mine too,” you say, careful but true.

Her lips twitch, almost a smile. Almost acceptance. “Yeah,” she whispers. “But life got… real.”

And it did.

Swann clears her throat lightly, trying to bridge the tension with warmth. “So,” she says with a small grin, “tell us about your life. All of it...the good parts and the weird parts.”

Autumn nods, sipping her coffee. “We might be a mess,” she says, “but we’re still friends. That counts.”

Nora looks at each of you, then down at her hands — and for a moment her walls drop just a little.

“We’re not exactly healed,” she says softly. “But… I didn’t run away this time.”

That’s enough for now.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

“SEE YOU IN HELL! YOU’LL FIT IN WELL. I’LL BE YOUR QUEEN, AND YOU’LL BE UNDER MY SPELL!”

You, Swann, Nora, and Autumn are standing off to the side, just far enough from the crowd to feel the space, but close enough to watch. The speakers have gone silent, Corey turning it off, but Kat doesn’t slow down. She’s yelling the lyrics acapella, voice raw and urgent, and somehow, without the music, it’s even louder in your head. The pounding in your skull isn’t from bass anymore—it’s from her, from the sheer force of her, and it won’t stop.

A thin streak of blood runs down her nose, but she doesn’t notice. She’s too caught up, too alive in the song, too Kat to care. She sways, throws her hands, sings with a kind of reckless energy that makes your chest ache.

And then her knees wobble. She swipes at her face, still yelling, still screaming the words, and suddenly—she collapses. Concrete hits first. The world tilts.

You all freeze.

Dylan’s there before anyone can move, steady under her shoulders. Her voice is angry, broke and unbearable: “She has leukemia.”

The words crash into you. Kat lies there, out of it. Your head pounds, your stomach twists, and all you can think is: How did we not see this coming?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

The garage smells like dust and old vinyl ,a mix of cigarette smoke baked into the walls and something warmer underneath it, music playing in the background like a memory refusing to leave. Light spills through the garage door windows, catching on stacked instruments, milk crates full of tapes, shelves crowded with things no one’s touched in years.

Nora sits on the couch, back from LA, guitar resting against the wall beside her. You’re next to her, knees pulled in, shoulder brushing hers every time you shift. The house is quiet. Too quiet, after the chaos of the Blue Spruce.

“I can’t stop thinking about Kat,” you admit, voice low. “She looked okay, but then… the blood. The hospital.” You swallow. “What if it’s worse than they’re saying?”

Nora doesn’t hesitate. She slides an arm behind you, easy and familiar, her hand settling on your knee like it’s always belonged there. Warm. Steady.

“To be honest,” Nora says, voice low and shaking, “I’m shitting myself. I’m so scared. She just—fuck—she just collapsed. That night never should’ve happened.”

She scrubs a hand over her face, then forces herself to breathe.

“But she’ll be fine,” she adds, calmer now, like she’s choosing the steadiness on purpose. Grounding. “And she isn't alone, Dylan is with her.” A brief pause. “Kat doesn’t go down easy.”

You glance up at her. “You really think so?”

“I do.” She turns slightly toward you, brushing your hair back without thinking about it. Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls something small into the light, a thin silver bracelet, delicate, with a few tiny charms that catch the glow.

“I made this when I was in L.A.,” she says. “Visiting my mom.” Her voice softens. “I missed you.”

You take it carefully. Your fingers brush hers, and the contact lingers. The bracelet is cool against your skin, lapis threaded through the silver.

“My favourite stone,” you breathe. “You made this… for me?”

Nora smiles, small and unguarded. She leans closer. “I trust you,” she says simply. Then, quieter, teasing: “And I like seeing you wear things I choose.”

Something in your chest loosens. The knot you’ve been carrying since the concert eases just a little.

She tilts her head, studying you. “You know,” she murmurs, “I’ve always liked when you sit close like this. Makes everything else feel… smaller.”

Your heart stutters. You reach out, tentative, letting your fingers brush her hand. She doesn’t pull away. She moves closer instead, just enough to close the space.

Her eyes flick to your mouth. Then back up.

You don’t overthink it. You lean in.

The kiss is slow, careful, like you’re both testing something fragile. Her lips are warm, steady, unhurried. She kisses you back with the same quiet certainty she’s used all night, her fingers curling around your wrist as if to keep you there.

When you pull back, barely enough to breathe, she rests her forehead against yours.

“I… care about you,” you whisper. “More than I probably should.”

She exhales a soft laugh, that familiar half-smile tugging at her mouth. “I know,” she says. “And I like that.”

Relief washes through you. She presses a brief kiss to your temple, lingering there just a second longer than necessary.

“Bracelet looks good on you,” she adds lightly. “Better than it ever would on me.”

You glance down at your wrist, but all you really see is her. Calm. Certain. The safest kind of chaos.

And somewhere between the quiet garage, the soft light, and the way she’s still holding your hand, you realise:

You’ve said it.

Without ever saying it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

BLOOM & RAGE

The bar door swings shut behind you with a muted thud.

Outside, the night is cold and still, the kind that presses close to your skin. Neon from the sign bleeds onto the pavement, flickering just enough to be unreliable. Nora sits at a table a few steps away near the door, cigarette between her fingers, shoulders hunched slightly against the chill.

She doesn’t look at you when you step out, but she knows it’s you.

“Took you long enough,” she says.

“You disappeared,” you reply.

A pause. Then, softer: “Yeah.”

She exhales, smoke drifting up and dissolving into the dark. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Cars pass somewhere down the street. Music muffles through the walls behind you.

You come to sit in front of her. Not touching. Close enough that it matters.

“I didn’t think you smoked anymore,” you say.

“I don’t,” she answers. A beat. “Not really.”

That feels like an admission.

You nod, Nora’s eyes drifting to your hands. That’s when she sees it—your wrist, half-lit by neon. The bracelet. Still there. Silver dulled with age, charms worn smooth from years of touch.

Nora notices your gaze.

Her breath catches. Just slightly.

“You kept it,” she says.

“You gave it to me,” you reply. “I didn’t think I was supposed to give it back.”

She looks away, jaw tightening, then lets out a quiet huff of a laugh. “God. You always did that. Say things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like they mean more than they should.” She glances at you again, eyes softer now. “They always did.”

Silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable. Familiar.

“I missed you,” you say finally. You don’t dress it up. You don’t make excuses.

Nora closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them, they shine in the low light.

“I know,” she says. “I felt it every time I tried not to.”

Her fingers brush your wrist before she can stop herself. The bracelet shifts under her touch. She freezes, then lets her hand stay.

A quiet callback. A memory neither of you names.

“I think about that night sometimes,” she admits. “In the garage. After the show.” Her thumb presses lightly against your pulse. “I didn’t know how to be brave back then. Not the right way.”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “You were brave.”

She laughs softly. “I kissed you and then spent twenty seven years running from it.”

Her hand drops. She takes another drag, then crushes the cigarette under her boot, unfinished.

“My wife’s divorcing me,” she says.

The words land gently. No drama. No buildup. Just truth.

You turn to her fully. “Nora…”

“It’s not because of you,” she says quickly. Then, after a beat, more honestly: “But it’s not not because of you either.”

She leans against her hand. “She said I keep living in memories. That there’s this part of me I never let go of.” A small, sad smile. “She wasn’t wrong.”

You don’t reach for her. You let the moment breathe.

“I’m not asking you for anything,” Nora adds. “I just… needed you to know. Because when I saw you tonight, it felt like something unfinished walked back into my life.”

Your heart aches in a quiet, familiar way.

“I never stopped choosing you,” you say. Not as a confession. Just a truth. “Even when we stopped talikng.”

She looks at you then. Really looks at you. And for the first time all night, the guard drops completely.

“You don’t make it easy,” she says softly.

“You don’t either.”

From across the bench, she shuffles, knees brushing first, then breath. Her hand interlocks with yours. A gentle peace fills the air. Something that lingers.

“That night,” she murmurs, “I knew. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Your thumb brushes the bracelet. “You didn’t have to.”

She smiles. A real one. Fragile. Hopeful.

The bar door opens behind you, laughter spilling out into the night. Nora pulls back just slightly, but her hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together.

“I’m scared,” she admits suddenly. No buildup. No deflection. “Of messing this up. Of wanting something I don’t know how to hold.”

You turn toward her. “You don’t have to decide anything tonight.”

Her eyes meet yours. They’re tired. Honest. Soft in a way they haven’t been all evening.

“Stay with me for a minute,” she says.

You nod.

It’s quiet. Just breathing. The hum of the sign. The weight of years settling gently instead of crushing.

Her fingers brush your hand. This time, she doesn’t hesitate. She takes it.

“Do you remember how you looked at me back then?” she asks. “Like I was… something solid.”

“You were,” you say. “You still are.”

That’s what does it.

She leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t.

The kiss is soft. Careful. Not the kind that demands anything. Her lips are warm despite the cold, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. She rests her forehead against yours after, exhaling a breath that feels like relief.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Yeah.”

Your thumb traces the edge of her sleeve. “Yeah?”

She nods once. “Yeah.”

No promises. No explanations. Just a moment that exists because it’s allowed to.

She presses one more kiss to your lips, lighter this time, like punctuation. Then she rests her head against your shoulder, just for a second.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For not asking me to be anything other than this.”

You close your eyes. “I never would.”

When she pulls away, her hand lingers in yours, fingers squeezing once before letting go.

“Come on,” she says. “They’re probably wondering where we went.”

You follow her back toward the door, heart steady and unsteady all at once.

The night doesn’t feel finished anymore.

Just…open.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

A/N: I hope yall enjoy this!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

"Baby i'm yours."

One-Shot (possibly going to do another part if I have the energy to lol)

Rating: 18+

Tags: smut, litttleee bit of angst if you squint, you and joel love each other, Joel is older than his normal age before the outbreak, he's in his late 30's, and you are around the same age here, Sarah is alive! Lotsss of fluff! You and Joel literally live very close to each other. Sarah is on school break

Summary: You and Joel are divorced with a thirteen-year-old. It should be simple, right? Show up to your daughter’s events, trade polite smiles, pretend you don’t still love each other. Easy… right?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

Your car coughs out a sad click-click-click and dies. Again.

You sit there in the driver’s seat, exhaling through your nose, the interior light catching the shimmer of the outfit you definitely didn’t put on for nothing.

You try the ignition a second time.

Click. Nothing.

You drop your head back and groan. Of course this happens on the one night you’re actually trying.

You climb out, arms wrapping around yourself, the cool night brushing over exposed skin. You stare down your useless car like it personally betrayed you.

Your phone buzzes. A message from Bradley:

You mutter, “Of course you do,” as you roll your eyes and shove your phone away.

After a long minute of pacing, you finally give in.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

You wait in the driveway, tapping your foot, refusing to admit you’re also waiting for him.

Headlights turn the corner, familiar, too bright; and Joel’s truck pulls into your driveway with a crunch.

He hops out, taking one look at you, hair done, outfit perfect, a little sparkle, and his brows lift, just slightly.

“You goin’ somewhere fancy,” he says. “Not anymore.”

“Let me see,” he mutters, popping the hood.

He leans in, sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing as he works. You watch him, pretending you’re not watching him.

He straightens after a moment.

“Like I said, battery’s dead.”

“Fantastic.”

He eyes you again. “So…where were you headed?”

“…a date.”

He blinks. Once. Slowly.

“Oh.”

You bite your lip. “His name is Bradley.” Joel makes a face like he just bit into a lemon.

“Bradley,” he repeats. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“Don’t gotta know. I know the name.”

You cross your arms. “Don’t start.”

“I ain’t startin’,” he mutters, attaching the jumper cables a little too hard. “Just sayin’. Bradley.”

You huff. “He seemed nice.”

“You hesitated,” Joel points out quietly.

You shut your mouth.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”

He jumps the car. The engine sputters to life. Joel steps back, wiping his hands. He won’t quite meet your eyes.

“Text me when you get home.”

“You sound bossy.”

“Good,” he says softly. Then: “Please.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

The next day you pull into Joel’s driveway, and before you’ve even shifted the car into park, Sarah’s unbuckling. The second the doors unlock, she’s gone—darting up the path and bursting into the house like she lives off pure enthusiasm.

“Dad! Can we have pancakes? The crispy-edge kind?” she calls out as she kicks off her shoes.

Joel stands in the doorway waiting for her, but his smile is faint, almost distracted. He ruffles her hair, murmurs something you can’t hear, and that’s about all the energy he gives.

When his eyes lift to yours, something’s off. There’s a tightness behind them, a kind of tension you can feel even from a few feet away. He barely says hello. Doesn’t ask how the morning went. Doesn’t make space for you on the porch the way he usually does.

And the distance isn’t an accident—you can tell. He keeps a safe step between you, like last night left a scorch mark he’s trying not to brush up against.

You hand him Sarah’s backpack, and even then he grabs it quickly, avoiding the moment your fingers might touch.

“Alright. I’ll… see you later,” you say, unsure why your voice feels too soft.

Joel gives a stiff nod. “Yeah. Later.”

By the time you’re back in your car, confusion is already twisting with irritation in your chest. You didn’t expect him to be warm, maybe, but this cold attitude, this carefulness? It hits somewhere you don’t want to name.

And underneath all of it sits a dull throb of guilt.

You don’t even make it to the end of the street before your phone is in your hand. You text him before you get home.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

His house is quiet when you pull up—too quiet for a Saturday morning. Joel usually has music playing or some random project he started in his garage, but not today. Today feels… expectant.

The front door is exactly how he said: unlocked. You step inside, and Joel is standing in the middle of the living room like he didn’t know what to do with himself while he waited. He’s in a soft gray T-shirt and sweats, hair a little messy, eyes already on you the second the door clicks shut.

He breathes out like he’s been holding it in. “You made it in three,” he says.

There’s a rasp in his voice. A need he’s not quite hiding. You let your bag slide off your shoulder. “You told me to.” Joel’s jaw flexes, like he likes the reminder.

You step closer. He doesn’t move back. Doesn’t move at all, actually. He stands there, solid and still, like he’s waiting for instructions he’s too proud to ask for. “You missed me last night?” you ask.

Joel lowers his eyes, then lifts them again, but slower this time.

“…Yeah,” he murmurs. “Couldn’t sleep worth a damn.”

Your fingers graze the front of his shirt, and he shivers—subtle, but there. “Why couldn’t you sleep, Joel?”

He swallows. “Knew you weren’t here.”

His honesty hits deeper than he probably meant it to. You step in until your chest brushes his. He draws in a sharp breath, quiet but noticeable.

“Do you want me close?” you ask.

Joel nods once—small, tense, needy in a way that makes your pulse jump. “Use your words,” you say softly.

Joel’s eyes flicker, heat blooming there.

“…Yes,” he whispers. “Want you close.”

You slide your hand to the back of his neck, and he leans into it, just barely, but enough to show how much he’s been craving this. Craving you.

“That’s better,” you murmur. Joel’s breath shakes. You tug gently at his shirt. “Come here.” He follows instantly. His hands hover like he’s afraid to touch without permission. You catch his wrists and guide them to your hips. His fingers tighten, cautious, gentle, like you’re something precious. “Good,” you say, and he shudders again.

Your lips brush his jaw. Joel tilts his head for you—submissive by instinct, not by training. Just a man who trusts you. Wants you. And doesn’t want to mess up by taking too much.

“You’re acting real sweet today,” you whisper against his skin. Joel lets out a low, breathy sound. “Only with you.” You slide your mouth to his ear. “Show me.”

That does something to him. His hands grip a little firmer, his breath growing unsteady as you press closer. Heat rolls off him in waves, his body already responding before either of you say another word.

You guide him backward until the back of his legs hit the couch. He sits because you make him sit. His eyes stay locked on you the whole way down.

You climb onto his lap, slow enough to watch his reaction. Joel’s hands tighten on your thighs like he’s fighting not to pull you down harder.

“Behave,” you murmur.

His voice drops to a whisper that borders on a plea. “I’m tryin’.”

You kiss him, slow, deep, claiming. Joel melts under you, hands trembling slightly where they hold your hips, letting you set the pace, the depth, the intensity. Every part of him answers to your touch.

He groans into your mouth, low and helpless, and you feel the sound all the way through you. Your fingers slip under his shirt, and Joel breaks the kiss with a shaky breath, looking up at you like you hung the moon.

“Tell me what you want,” you say. Joel’s lips part, his voice rough and unsteady.

“…You. However you want me.”

You stare at him, those same eyes, and his hands are everywhere at once like you never spent a day apart. "Need you in bed," he rasps, breath hot against your neck. 

You barely make it to the bedroom before you’re tearing at each other's clothes. Shirts hit the floor somewhere in the dark.  

"God..." Joel's gaze rakes over you, lingering. Your body's different now, softer, marked by your daughter; but the way he looks at you? Like you’re some masterpiece. "Missed this," he murmurs, closing the distance. His thumbs trace the dip of your hips, palms cradling the weight of your breasts through my bra. "Need you now."  

Then rough hands grip your waist. "Sit on my face," he demands, already attempting to kick off his pants. No underwear, you noticed, just that hungry look.  

You climb over him, smirking as your damp panties press against his thigh. Joel shifts the fabric aside as you lower yourself onto his mouth.  

No hesitation. He devours you—starved, relentless—tongue working like he’s dying of thirst. "J-Joel—fuck!" His hands lock around your thighs, pinning you down as you writhe.  

The room fills with slick sounds and your choked moans. Neighbors be damned. "Baby—taste so—" he groans against you, the vibration tearing a cry from your throat.  

"Joel—I’m close—"  

"Cum for me," he grits out, "please—now—"  

Your thighs clamp around his head as you shatter, soaking his beard.  

When you finally slide off, he’s glistening. "Love you," Joel says, voice raw. "Need to be inside you."  

"But what about—?"  "Later."  

You turn, ass toward him as he strips fully.  

"Joel, please—can’t wait—"  

"I know—fuck—okay."  

He pushes in slow, careful. That familiar stretch makes you whimper. "Goin’ slow," he promises. "Don’t wanna hurt you."  

Once you’ve adjusted, You rock back, taking control, and he gasps. "Agh, baby—" His fingers dig into your hips like anchors. "You fit so well—fucking love you—so fucking perfect—"  

Submissive Joel unmasked, begging as you ride him. "Faster—let me—please—"  

You barely nod before he’s slamming into you, deep, frantic, your moans tangled in the dark.  

"Gonna come—please—can I—?"  

"In me, now—"  

Three brutal thrusts and he spills, shuddering. Deep. Messy. Yours.

You collapse onto the bed together in a tangle of limbs and uneven breaths, the room still humming with the heat of what just happened. Joel’s chest rises hard beneath your cheek, his arm wrapped tight around you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he loosens his grip even a little.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. You just breathe, letting the quiet settle over you, soft, warm, almost unreal.

Joel finally exhales a shaky laugh. “Lord,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back from your forehead, “you’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

You tilt your head to look up at him. His face is flushed, relaxed in a way you haven’t seen in years, eyes still soft and blown from the intensity of it all. “If anyone’s killin’ anyone,” you tease, “it’s you.”

He laughs—really laughs—and the sound goes straight to your heart. His thumb strokes along your shoulder, slow and tender. “Still can’t believe you’re here,” he whispers. “Can’t believe we… did all that.”

“Regretting it?” you ask lightly, pretending not to care even though your pulse jumps.

He gives you a look that shuts that down instantly. “No. God, no. I—” He cups your face, searching your eyes like he’s looking for permission. “I love you. I ain’t ever stopped.”

Your breath catches. You swallow, fingers curling over his chest. “I love you too,” you whisper. “I never stopped either. Even when I tried.”

The confession settles between you, warm and dangerous and true. Joel pulls you even closer, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

Then his hand drifts down, warm against your stomach, and he smirks. “You know,” he drawls, tracing little circles on your skin, teasing creeping into his voice “the way that went… we might be makin’ trouble for ourselves nine months from now.”

You burst out laughing, swatting at his chest. “Oh my god—Joel.”

“I mean,” he says, raising his brows, “Sarah would love a little sibling.”

“Joel,” you warn, still laughing.

He just grins, proud and unbothered. “What? I’m just sayin’. You looked pretty set on makin’ it happen.”

You press your face into his shoulder, half mortified, half melting. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it.”

You huff a soft laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

He slides his hand up your back again, gentling his voice. “We don’t gotta decide anything. Not right now. But… the thought don’t scare me. Not with you.”

You look up at him—at the man you loved, the man you lost, the man lying in your bed again—and something warm blooms in your chest.

“It doesn’t scare me either,” you admit.

He smiles, slow and tender, tugging you closer until your nose brushes his. “Good. ’Cause I was kinda hopin’ you’d say that.”

You lie there tangled together, joking and whispering and letting yourselves imagine a future you never thought you’d get back, one where love feels possible again.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

A/N: AHHHHH I REALLY ENJOYED MAKING THISS!!

I hope yall enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing this, I love making fake texts and including them in my fics.

lemme know what you guys think!!

i love you all and i appreciate every single one of you!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

BLURB:

You and Joel are divorced with a thirteen-year-old. It should be simple, right? Show up to your daughter’s events, trade polite smiles, pretend you don’t still love each other. Easy… right?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

PALESTINE SOLIDARITY CAMPAIGN!

FREE PALESTINE

Rating: 18+ (Age Gap - Ellie is 38, Reader is 28)

Summary: One of the other interns caught you and Ellie. Will you hide from the truth, or will you embrace it?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

They say hospitals are built on secrets. Not the kind you find in files or charts. Not medical secrets, but human ones. The kind whispered between shifts, hidden behind break-room doors, tucked into the quiet moments between chaos. Secrets that pulse beneath the surface, that threaten to burst if anyone looks too closely.

But in a place where life and death live side by side, where every heartbeat counts — secrets don’t stay buried forever.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

The Locker Room

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and unforgiving. The room smells like sweat, soap, and caffeine — the unholy trinity of surgical interns.

You’re sitting on the bench, tying your shoes, when Owen Moore plops down beside you with a groan loud enough to wake the dead.

“Another twelve-hour shift with Miller,” he grumbles. “I swear she’s trying to kill us.”

Nora doesn’t even look up from the mirror as she ties her hair back. “That’s because you still can’t start an IV without almost blowing the vein.”

Owen throws her a mock glare. “Rude. I’m improving.”

“Uh-huh,” Nora says dryly.

Across the room, Riley Abel is perched on the edge of the counter, legs crossed, lip gloss in hand. She’s the kind of person who makes exhaustion look like fashion. “At least Dr. Williams isn’t your attending,” she says, snapping her compact shut. “Everyone’s saying she’s worse than Miller. Hotter, though.”

At the mention of Ellie’s name, your hands pause mid-lace. You force yourself to keep tying.

Nora shrugs. “She’s tough, but fair. She’s one of the best in trauma.”

“Yeah,” Owen says. “Best at making people cry.”

Riley smirks, her eyes flicking toward you. “Oh, I don’t know. I think Dr. Williams has her favorites.”

Your spine stiffens.

Nora catches the tone immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on,” Riley says, with that same too-sweet voice she uses on attendings. “You don’t see it? The extra time she spends with L/N? The little looks during rounds? You’d think they were—”

“Careful,” you say, standing up slowly.

Riley doesn’t flinch. If anything, her smile sharpens. “I saw you.”

The words hang in the air, slicing through the hum of chatter.

You freeze. “…What?”

“In the stairwell.” She tilts her head, enjoying every syllable. “You think you’re being subtle, but this hospital has eyes everywhere. Late-night meetings? Please. I saw you with her.”

Your heartbeat stumbles.

Nora’s eyebrows knit. “Riley, that’s—”

But Riley’s not done. “She’s your attending, and you’re hooking up with her. You think no one’s going to notice? You think you’re just going to flirt your way into cardio or trauma or whatever rotation you want next?”

Owen’s jaw drops. “Riley, Jesus—”

“Don’t,” you snap, cutting him off. Your voice is low, dangerous. “You don’t know what you saw.”

Riley crosses her arms, smug. “Didn’t need to know. The way she looked at you told me everything.”

The silence is heavy. The air feels thinner.

Finally, you grab your bag, your hands trembling only slightly. “You’re out of line.”

Riley’s smirk doesn’t fade. “Am I? Or did I just say what everyone’s thinking?”

You turn away before you can say something that’ll get you fired. The locker door clangs shut, echoing through the room as you leave.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

In medicine, we’re taught that observation is key. Notice patterns. Track symptoms. See what others can’t. But when people start observing you, when their gaze becomes scalpel-sharp— Suddenly, you’re not a doctor. You’re the patient. And everyone’s dissecting you, piece by piece.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

The Pit

The trauma bay is chaos, pure and familiar. Blood, shouting, motion—comfort in noise.

A pileup on I-5 means five new patients in fifteen minutes. You throw yourself into the rhythm, gloves on, mask up, heartbeat steadying as you find your flow.

“L/N!” Dr. Miller calls, pointing to a stretcher rolling through. “Chest trauma! With me!”

“Yes, Doctor!”

You grab suction, check vitals, and start compressions while Miller calls for a chest X-ray. It’s almost mechanical—muscle memory taking over where your brain can’t.

But when Ellie walks in, everything inside you tilts.

“Dr. Williams,” Miller acknowledges curtly.

Ellie nods once, eyes sweeping the room, landing on you for just a fraction too long. “Status?”

You keep your gaze on the monitor. “BP 86 over 54, pulse irregular, O2 at 89. Suspected flail chest.”

“Prep for a chest tube,” Ellie says. “L/N, you’re with me.”

Your hands move automatically. Scalpel. Clamp. Tube. She works beside you, steady and sure, her voice calm as a heartbeat.

“Good retraction,” she murmurs. “Keep pressure steady. You’re doing fine.”

You can feel Riley’s eyes on you from across the bay. You can feel them. Like a needle in your skin.

When the lung reinflates and the monitor steadies, Ellie steps back. “Good work,” she says—too soft, too private for a trauma room.

Then, under her breath, “Stairwell. Five minutes.”

Your throat tightens. You nod, not trusting your voice.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

The Stairwell (Again)

You push the door open and step into the dim, echoing stairwell. The concrete walls hum faintly with the vibration of the hospital’s heartbeat.

Ellie’s already there, pacing. She looks furious—not at you, but for you.

“What happened?” she asks immediately.

You blink, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I heard Abel,” Ellie says. Her voice is sharp, controlled. “She told people she saw us. That we’re… involved.”

You swallow. “She did see us.”

Ellie stops. “How much?”

You hesitate. “Enough.”

She exhales through her nose, scrubbing a hand over her face. “Goddammit.”

“It’s just gossip,” you say quickly. “She doesn’t have proof.”

Ellie’s eyes flash. “She doesn’t need proof. All she needs is a rumor, and this hospital will eat it alive.”

You cross your arms, feeling the walls closing in. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I’m saying you shouldn’t have to deal with it alone,” she says, stepping closer. “This is my fault too.”

You laugh—a short, bitter sound. “You think I’m worried about blame? Ellie, I’m worried about being labeled. I’m worried about every look in the hallway. Every whisper.”

Her voice softens. “Hey. Look at me.”

You do.

“You are a damn good doctor,” she says, fierce and quiet. “You earned your place here. No one can take that from you.”

You shake your head, eyes burning. “They already are.”

For a moment, there’s silence. The kind that feels like a heartbeat held too long. Then Ellie reaches out, fingertips brushing your sleeve. “I can’t lose you over this,” she whispers.

You want to say you won’t. But the words die in your throat.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

The Cafeteria Confrontation

The cafeteria hums with exhaustion. Plastic trays clatter, coffee machines hiss, and somewhere a pager beeps endlessly.

You’re sitting alone, stabbing at what might be mashed potatoes, when Riley slides into the seat across from you, her tray untouched.

“Busy morning,” she says casually.

You don’t look up. “If you came to apologize—”

She laughs. “Please. I came to talk.”

You glance up. “About what?”

Riley leans forward, eyes glinting. “About what you’re hiding.”

You freeze. “You’ve made your point.”

“Oh, not yet,” she says sweetly. “See, I’ve been thinking. About how nice it must be, having an attending who’ll cover for your mistakes. Who’ll ‘mentor’ you after hours.”

Your fork scrapes the tray. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m observant.”

“That’s not what you are.”

“Then what am I?”

You stand, pushing back your chair so fast it screeches. Heads turn. Conversations stop.

“You think this is easy?” you say, louder than you mean to. “You think having feelings for someone who could end your career with one bad choice is some kind of game?”

The cafeteria goes silent.

Riley’s smirk fades.

“She saved my patient,” you continue, voice trembling but steady. “She saved me. Because she’s a damn good doctor, not because of whatever story you’ve made up in your head.”

You take a breath that feels like it might split your chest. “You want the truth? Fine. I love her. And it’s not strategic, or manipulative, or convenient. It’s terrifying. It’s the one thing I can’t control. But it’s real.”

No one moves. Even the beeping from someone’s pager feels muffled.

Riley blinks, stunned into silence. Nora’s staring at you like she’s seeing you for the first time. Owen mutters something under his breath, probably a prayer.

You grab your tray, the metal trembling in your hands, and walk out.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

Sometimes the truth is like a scalpel. Clean. Sharp. Precise. You think cutting it open will heal you. But the moment it’s out there, you realize— You’ve just exposed a wound no one knows how to close.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

Outside the hospital

The sun’s bleeding out over the city when you find yourself outside the hospital. The wind smells faintly of rain and exhaust.

Ellie steps out a few minutes later, silent except for the sound of the door clicking shut behind her.

“You told them,” she says finally.

“I told them,” you admit.

She exhales, leaning against the railing beside you. “You didn’t have to.”

“I did,” you say softly. “I couldn’t let them think I was using you.”

Ellie looks at you, eyes tired but warm. “You didn’t have to protect me.”

“I wasn’t,” you say. “I was protecting what we have.”

She doesn’t answer. She just studies your face, the orange light catching in her hair, her expression caught somewhere between pride and heartbreak.

“You know this doesn’t fix anything,” she says eventually. “They’ll still talk.”

“Let them,” you reply. “At least now they’ll know it’s real.”

For a long time, neither of you speaks. The city hums below, the hospital buzzes behind you, and between you—something fragile, but alive.

Finally, Ellie reaches out, her fingers brushing yours. You don’t pull away.

“You’re going to make one hell of a surgeon,” she murmurs.

You smile faintly. “If I don’t get fired first.”

“If they fire you,” she says, lips curling, “I’ll hire you myself.”

You laugh, quiet and disbelieving. “That’s not how this works.”

“Maybe not,” she says, her voice a low promise. “But I’d try anyway.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

In a hospital, we measure everything. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Oxygen levels. We monitor every vital sign.

But love isn’t measurable. It doesn’t fit on a chart. It doesn’t stay sterile.

It infects everything it touches. And sometimes— It’s the only thing that keeps you alive.

FREE PALESTINE

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

HEARTBEAT & HIGH FEVER

ELLIE WILLIAMS X READER

song: All I Ask (Adele)

pairing: no outbreak!ellie williams x reader

tags: jesse and dina being little shits, ellie is obsessed. Ellie likes singing but she prefers to sing privately (like the music store scene in tlou2)

summary: you? singing? You and Ellie sing, but never will either of you perform for people. Being dragged to the karaoke bar and bribed with cheese fries is one thing, but being forced to sing when people are watching you? uhhhh.....

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

The neon buzz of the 'Bucker Karaoke Bar' sign flickered overhead as you stepped inside, the cozy chaos of karaoke night wrapping around you like a warm, slightly chaotic hug. The air was thick with the scent of spilled beer, fried food, and the unmistakable hum of off-key singing battling to be heard over raucous laughter.

“Look, it’s not that bad. Jesse’s gonna sing. That alone’s worth the price of admission.”

As if summoned, the doors burst open and Jesse’s voice floated out, already drunk on his own performance.

“AND I… WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUUUUUUU—”

Ellie winced. “Okay, maybe not worth it…”

“Jesus Christ,” you said, blinking.

Then, Dina appeared in the doorway, waving you both over like a hyperactive camp counselor. “LET’S GO, ROCKSTARS! WE GOT A SIGN-UP SHEET AND EVERYTHING!”

You sighed. You were definitely being dragged into this. Literally — Ellie grabbed your hand, lacing her fingers with yours to pull you toward the door. It was warm and calloused and distracting.

Jesse had just finished his set, a rough but enthusiastic rendition of “I Will Always Love You” that had the whole bar both cringing and cheering. He spotted you instantly and practically jogged your way, a goofy grin plastered across his face.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” he said, clapping a heavy hand on your shoulder.

You raised an eyebrow, the memory of the favor you’d done him flashing in your mind. “You owe me.”

Jesse’s grin widened, the kind that promised you were about to get a good deal. “I’m buying your drinks. And I’m getting you cheese fries. Extra cheese.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, okay.”

Dina slid into the booth beside Ellie, already halfway through her second drink, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “Ready to see what real singing looks like?”

Ellie slipped her hands under the table, her eyes flickering nervously between you and the stage lights. “I’ll just… watch,” she muttered, voice low and a little shaky.

Dina shot her a sly, knowing smile. “What happened to doing it with them?”

Ellie glanced at you, cheeks tinting pink as a small, nervous laugh escaped her. “Knowing me, I’d just get way too flustered and end up embarrassing myself.”

The minutes crawled, the bar a blur of drunken crooners and cheering crowds. Then the host’s voice crackled over the mic.

“Next up—Y/N!”

Ellie’s breath hitched. You caught her gaze, smiling softly as you mouth. “Watch this.”

You moved to the stage as the first haunting piano chords of Adele’s “All I Ask” drifted through the speakers — a song that demanded both emotion and technical skill, perfect for showing off everything you had.

The room hushed.

Your voice stepped forward — smooth, velvety, commanding yet vulnerable.

“I’ll leave my heart at the door, I won’t say a word...”

Every word hung in the air, rich and alive, pulling the audience into your world.

Ellie sat frozen, her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened as your voice climbed effortlessly through the melody.

“Take me by the hand Hold me like I’m more than just a friend...”

The notes soared, filled with raw emotion and power, sliding through the room like a secret whispered in a crowded room.

Ellie’s fingers clenched the edge of the table, her face flushed a deep shade of red. She bit her lip, struggling not to stare, but you had her completely captivated.

From the corner, Dina nudged Jesse with a smirk. “Someone’s… distracted.”

Jesse chuckled low. “Horny, no doubt.”

Ellie elbowed him, cheeks burning hotter, but her gaze never left you.

You reached the song’s climax, effortlessly hitting every high note with breathtaking control, your voice a perfect blend of strength and vulnerability that left the room breathless.

When the final note faded, the applause erupted like thunder. You smiled and stepped down, your heart pounding, but your face calm.

Ellie sat back, completely undone.

“They're unreal,” Ellie murmured, voice shaking. “How the hell are you real?” She asks as you find your way back to the booth.

Dina raised her glass. “To Y/N—destroying Ellie’s composure since day one.”

Ellie groaned, hiding her face in her hands, cheeks still burning.

You leaned in close, your voice a low whisper only for her. “Want a private encore later?”

Her eyes met yours—wild, fiery, and desperate. “God, yes.”

The night stretched on, full of laughter, music, and the electric tension only you and Ellie could share. And yeah—those cheese fries? Totally worth it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . A/N:

HELLO IM BACKKKKKK! Uni and work has been kicking my ass, plus i've been not feeling the greatest and have had zero energy to write.

But i'm back!

FREE PALESTINE

AFTER MIDNIGHT - One-Shot

song: After Midnight (Chappell Roan)

pairing: no outbreak! ellie williams x singer! reader

tags: smut (I kinda had to), ellie is DOWN BADDDD, fluff, ellie just loves.

summary: You perform at a festival, and Ellie can’t look away. Backstage and in a hotel room, the heat between you explodes into a slow, worshipful night of passion.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .