daisy

And the thing is, Joel can’t even be mad. Well he can, but being angry is only going to make the situation worse, considering it was his anger that has caused the quiet in the first place. 

Your shoes are still by the door, which does settle his heart a bit. At least he knows you’re still here, still safe under this roof and not halfway across town sleeping at Tommy and Maria’s just to spite him. 

He grunts as he slides his boots off, placing them next to yours. His stomach growls, but he ignores it in favor of gently padding up the stairs in his socks. The hallway is dark, save for the soft light of a lamp peaking out from under the bedroom door. He pushes it open slowly, trying not to wake you. 

You’re curled up on your side of the bed, facing away from him, knees pulled up to your chest under the blanket. You’re asleep, but not peacefully. There’s a furrow in your brow and one of your hands rests on his pillow like you’re reaching out for him. 

“Oh, baby…” he whispers under his breath. Guilt surges through his veins, but he swallows it down as he begins to unbuckle his jeans. He forces himself to take a quick, cold shower, and then slides into bed next to you, lifting your hand to rest on his chest instead of the sheets. 

Your eyes flutter open. For a moment, your gaze is all love. A small smile lifts at the corner of your mouth and you start to move closer to him. Then you stop, the memories of your early morning argument reentering your mind, and pull your hand back from his skin. 

“How’d it go?” You ask. There’s concern, yes, but not the normal warm tone he usually associates with your voice and coming home. 

“Fine.” His voice is gruff and his drawl is long and slow. “Jesse shot a buck and we hauled it back.” 

You make a low humming noise in response, settling further into your own pillow, away from him. An awkward silence engulfs the room, one that is so unfamiliar between the two of you that it makes Joel’s skin crawl. 

He gives in, reaching for your arm. “C’mere.” He encourages, and you do, though the look on your face is reluctant. You don’t relax fully into him like you usually do and he huffs. “You know ‘m sorry, right?” 

“Are you?” You turn so you’re looking into his eyes, your chin against his chest. “You weren’t sorry when you left this morning.”

Joel closes his eyes tight. He regrets leaving like that, spewing angry words in your direction before slamming the door. He lifts a hand to run it through your hair and you finally curl into him. 

“I was- I am sorry.” He says again, voice even lower this time. “I shouldn’t have- I just- I don’t like leaving you to go on patrol.” 

“I know, Joel, but you can’t-”

“I know.” He interrupts you, “I know. I can’t take that out on you, baby, ‘m sorry.” 

You purse your lips like you’re pondering his words, but then you lean forward to press a kiss to his mouth. “Or you could take me with you on patrol.” 

Joel wants to tell you no. He wants to say that, if it’s up to him, he would never let you leave the safety of Jackson ever again. But he doesn’t want to fight again, and he definitely doesn’t want you to stop pressing kisses to his jaw like you are now. 

“Let’s talk about that tomorrow.” He says, and then he lifts you onto his lap, prepared to spend the rest of the night trying to get you to forget that the two of you had even fought to begin with. 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

He has a crush on you. A nurse, his coworker. The prettiest woman he’s ever seen in his life. 

Its horrible. 

And he knows better, that’s the thing! He’s told himself time and time and time again that he would never do that. He’s seen coworkers’ relationships get fucked up and fail miserably. He’s seen cases of unrequited love that end in HR meetings and night shift swaps. All his crush will do cause drama and chaos in a place that is already too full of drama and chaos. 

And yet...

Dennis’ heart starts to pound wildly before he even fully registered that it’s you that is walking up to him. It’s like his body responds to you without him even meaning to, orbiting you like a planet to a sun every time you’re in his vicinity.

“Hi!” You greet happily, setting your tablet down and leaning against the counter as you look at him. Your smile is beautiful, and Dennis wishes he could sear the image of you into the backs of his eyelids. 

“Hi.”

“Your hair looks nice today,” Dennis blinks at your words, his brain stumbling and struggling over every syllable that leaves your mouth. It’s like his entire capacity for thinking vanishes the moment you lay your eyes on him. 

“What?” 

Your laugh is like a sound from heaven, and your hand falls onto his arm as you lean into the motion. His skin burns where yours touches it. “I said your hair looks nice. Why do you look so shocked?”

Well, shit. He feels as a blush flourishes over the skin of his face and neck. He’d bet money even the tips of his ears are bright red. You pull your hand away from his arm to tuck some hair behind your ear and he has to swallow back a sound that threatens to escape him at the loss of your touch. 

“I… I uh…” He shakes his head, no coherent thoughts able to form or produce themselves as words. “I washed it…”

You laugh again, even sweeter and more boisterous this time. 

If Dennis wasn’t… himself, he’d been sure you were trying to flirt with him. Instead, he feels like maybe you’re joking and he just doesn’t get it.

“Oh, Dr. Whitaker…” Your laugh turn into a fit of giggles that seem to have a hard time going away. “You’re so cute.”

Oh, you definitely have to be fucking with him again. There’s no way you aren’t laughing at him, that he isn’t the butt of some joke. 

You notice the moment his face falls. Yours does too, your smile slowly fading into a look of concern he’s really only ever seen directed at patients. It makes him feel exposed in a way that he hates, knowing you can read him so well, that he’s so obvious. 

“What’s wrong?” 

He wants to laugh. And cry. His stomach is in knots and he feels like he might puke. You’re making fun of him. Never once in his life has a girl like you given him attention, and there’s absolutely no way that you’re serious. The feeling gets under his skin, urgent and familiar.

“You can give it up now.” Your eyebrows furrow even further together at his words, and especially at the tone of them. “It’s not funny anymore, okay?”

“What are you talking about?” Your eyes dart quickly over different parts of his face, like you might somehow discover the answer there. 

Dennis purses his lips, and lowers his voice and his gaze. “I really wish you’d stop making fun of me.”

Something shifts in your expression, your face a mosaic of all sorts of things he can’t possibly know. It settles on something between hurt and pity. “Dennis, what are you talking about?”

He hardly notices the use of his first name, his tongue digging into the inside of his cheek as his gaze bounces around nervously to make sure no one is close enough to hear the two of you. He’d pull you aside into the stairwell if it wouldn’t be absolutely devastating to his already bruised and battered ego. “You keep saying things like that. But it’s not funny. Not to me.”

“Why do you think I’m joking?” You lean away from him, voice lower than he’s ever heard it. You look… devastated, if he’s being honest with himself. “Do you think I’m making fun of you?”

“Aren’t you?” The words leave his lips faster and more broken than he would ever admit. You don’t respond. Instead, you grab his wrist, and you lead him to the stairwell, away from prying eyes and ears. 

When you finally turn back to him, there’s a pain in your eyes that only makes him feel worse. “Do you really think I’m making fun of you?”

Dennis falters. Of course you’re making fun of him, you have to be. Because if you aren’t…

He can’t let his mind go down that route. He needs to squash this crush he has on you and any indication that you even find him tolerable would make his life a thousand times more difficult. 

You speak up again before he can muster up any kind of answer. “Do you really think I’m that cruel?” 

“You have to be.” The words aren’t purposeful, but he says them all the same. You blink, emotions swirling in your irises, and he stutters out another, “B-Because otherwise that… that means you mean it.” 

“I do mean it.” Somehow, your words hit even harder than his, and the entire world stills, everything gone but you and him. You reach out for his hand and Dennis feels like he might keel over. “I really mean it, I’m sorry if you thought I was making fun of you.” 

Dennis squeezes his eyes shut, his palm probably sweaty where it presses against your own. His stomach is in knots, his jaw clenches so hard he knows it’ll ache in the morning, but his heart feels lighter. Somehow, something about your admission makes him feel better despite it making the situation astronomically worse. 

“I’m sorry…” Is what he manages to choke out. “I shouldn’t have- I know you aren’t mean, I just…” His voice trails off when he meets your gaze again. He wonders what he looks like: bloodshot, puffy eyes, bright red nose, messy hair. And you, beautiful, perfect you, softly tilt your head, eyes still shining despite everything as you blink slowly. It makes his throat dry and he can’t find any more words.

You seem to realize he isn’t going to finish, and purse your lips. Your fingers twiddle mindlessly together, hands clasped in front of you. “I mean it.” You finally say again, confidently reaching a hand up to push a piece of his hair back into place. “Your hair does look nice. And you are cute.” 

Dennis thinks he might die. Like actually, truly might have a heart attack and die. “Th-Thanks.” 

You brighten, and if he hadn’t just been personally subjected to the previous upset in your expression, he would have never known you’d been upset at all. 

“I have some patients to check on.” Your hands gesture toward the stairwell door behind you, and Dennis gives you a dumbfounded nod. You turn to leave, but pause, steel your shoulders, and turn back to face him again. 

“Dr. Whitaker?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you want to go out for dinner after your shift?” 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

Followed closely by the lovely smile that’s on your face when he opens the door and steps inside. 

“Hi, Bren.” You say softly, folding up a tiny onesie with stethoscopes on it. His heart swells at the sight, though the smile he gives you is chiding. 

“You aren’t supposed to be on the floor.” 

You don’t look even an ounce guilty at his words. You just slide the onesie into the drawer, grab another one to fold and shrug at him. “The rocking chair hasn’t arrived yet.” 

With a sigh, he slides down next to you, grabbing another onesie to fold along side you. They’re so small, he can hardly believe any baby of his will ever fit into them. You start humming again, the two of you filling the drawers of the dresser with soft baby clothes. 

He huffs as he stands up, then stops to admire your work. You raise your hands toward him. 

“Can you help me up?” 

He takes your hands in his and helps lift you from the ground, your swollen belly forcing you off-balance. But he’s there to steady you every time. 

You get a kiss on the lips as you stand beside him, and he slides his palm over your belly. He 

“How soon until we can have another one?” He asks.

You scoff, “Bren, I haven’t even given birth to the first one yet.” 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

Followed closely by the lovely smile that’s on your face when he opens the door and steps inside. 

“Hi, Bren.” You say softly, folding up a tiny onesie with stethoscopes on it. His heart swells at the sight, though the smile he gives you is chiding. 

“You aren’t supposed to be on the floor.” 

You don’t look even an ounce guilty at his words. You just slide the onesie into the drawer, grab another one to fold and shrug at him. “The rocking chair hasn’t arrived yet.” 

With a sigh, he slides down next to you, grabbing another onesie to fold along side you. They’re so small, he can hardly believe any baby of his will ever fit into them. You start humming again, the two of you filling the drawers of the dresser with soft baby clothes. 

He huffs as he stands up, then stops to admire your work. You raise your hands toward him. 

“Can you help me up?” 

He takes your hands in his and helps lift you from the ground, your swollen belly forcing you off-balance. But he’s there to steady you every time. 

You get a kiss on the lips as you stand beside him, and he slides his palm over your belly. He 

“How soon until we can have another one?” He asks.

You scoff, “Bren, I haven’t even given birth to the first one yet.” 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

Followed closely by the lovely smile that’s on your face when he opens the door and steps inside. 

“Hi, Bren.” You say softly, folding up a tiny onesie with stethoscopes on it. His heart swells at the sight, though the smile he gives you is chiding. 

“You aren’t supposed to be on the floor.” 

You don’t look even an ounce guilty at his words. You just slide the onesie into the drawer, grab another one to fold and shrug at him. “The rocking chair hasn’t arrived yet.” 

With a sigh, he slides down next to you, grabbing another onesie to fold along side you. They’re so small, he can hardly believe any baby of his will ever fit into them. You start humming again, the two of you filling the drawers of the dresser with soft baby clothes. 

He huffs as he stands up, then stops to admire your work. You raise your hands toward him. 

“Can you help me up?” 

He takes your hands in his and helps lift you from the ground, your swollen belly forcing you off-balance. But he’s there to steady you every time. 

You get a kiss on the lips as you stand beside him, and he slides his palm over your belly. He 

“How soon until we can have another one?” He asks.

You scoff, “Bren, I haven’t even given birth to the first one yet.” 

°˖✧✿✧˖°