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You offered a small, apologetic smile to his new friends. They didn’t look annoyed, per se, but there was a distinct air of resignation about them.

Your eyes flicked down to Spencer’s hand. Ah. Of course. He was holding a straight flush. You’d lost him about thirty minutes ago, which likely meant he’d been unknowingly bankrupting these strangers for the better part of that time.

A young woman across the table caught your eye. Her expression was one of pure desperation. “Please help,” she mouthed, her gaze flicking meaningfully between you and Spencer’s cards, clearly hoping for an insider’s tip.

You gave her a sympathetic little smile and leaned down closer to Spencer, your voice dropping to a murmur meant only for him. “Spencer.”

He looked up again, and his eyes softened, the focus shifting entirely from the game to you. You brushed a stray curl from his forehead, your fingers lingering for a moment. His skin was warm.

“You’re a bit warm. That’s not good,” you chided gently. “How about we get some fresh air?”

Spencer was utterly dazed. What you couldn't possibly know was that his dazed state wasn't solely the product of the alcohol. It was the intoxicating combination of your proximity, your touch carding through his hair and your hand on his back. His long-standing crush was currently fussing over him, and his brain was short-circuiting beautifully.

“Okay,” he mumbled, his agreement pliant. He turned back to the table. “Sorry for not finishing the game.”

A chorus of relieved voices answered in unison. “Oh, no, it’s fine!”

You couldn’t help a small grin as the woman who’d pleaded for help mouthed a grateful, “Thank you.”

One of the men, who looked as though he’d lost a significant bet, shook his head and mumbled under his breath, “How could you ever play cards with him?”

You chuckled, slipping your arm around Spencer’s waist to help steady him as he stood. “Oh, trust me,” you said, “I’ve gotten used to it.”

As you began to guide him away, you heard the woman whisper conspiratorially to her friend, “Well, yeah, he’s cute. I’d also be fine with it if I was dating him.”

You paused, glancing back at her in confusion, but in that moment, Spencer stumbled, his full weight leaning into you. You caught him easily, your attention immediately returning to the task at hand. “Okay, easy there, genius,” you said, steering him toward the door and making sure he waved a clumsy goodbye to the team.

You managed to guide a wobbly Spencer out the heavy door of the bar. But the moment you cleared the threshold, his legs seemed to give out entirely. He simply folded, settling directly onto the sidewalk.

“Spencer!” you called out.

He looked up at you, completely unbothered, propping his chin in his hand with his elbow resting on his knee. “Hm?”

“Don’t sit on the ground. It’s dirty,” you chided, reaching for his arm.

“I don’t care,” he mumbled, his head already beginning to loll precariously in his palm. “The entire bar was dirty. It doesn’t matter now.”

You sighed, a fond exasperation washing over you. Arguing with a drunk genius was a losing battle. So, you gave in. You carefully lowered yourself to sit beside him on the concrete, ignoring the chill that seeped through your clothes. Gently, you took his arm from his knee and guided his head to rest on your shoulder instead. He leaned into the contact immediately, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he nestled against the curve of your neck.

“I’m cold and warm,” he complained, his voice a mumble against your skin.

You chuckled softly. “You drank a lot, and it’s cold outside,” you explained, carefully shifting to wrap an arm around his back to steady him. You pressed your free hand to his forehead again. He was still too warm. “We should get you home,” you murmured, your voice filled with concern.

“Okay,” he agreed easily, nuzzling even closer.

The smile that touched your lips was involuntary and full of affection. Getting him home, however, was where the real challenge began.

The short walk to your car was exhausting to say the least. You half-carried, half-dragged him, his tall frame leaning heavily on you as he offered slurred commentary on the urban planning of the sidewalk cracks. Getting him into the passenger seat felt like buckling a very large and completely uncoordinated child into a car seat.

The drive was quiet. But the grand finale was the stumble up the stairs to his apartment building. It was… an experience. Each step was a negotiation.

“Just one more, Spencer, come on.”

“These stairs are surprisingly loud,” he slurred, clinging to the banister with one hand and your shoulder with the other.

“That’s because they’re old,” you grunted, heaving him up another step. “And you’re drunk.”

“Correlation is not causation,” he retorted, though the argument lost all its impact when he immediately tripped on the next step.

By some miracle, you finally reached his door. Fishing the keys from his pocket, you unlocked it and guided him inside.

Somehow, with a great deal of coaxing and maneuvering, you managed to guide him into the bathroom. You positioned him to lean against the counter, his hands gripping the edge for support. You stepped into the space between him and the sink, gently nudging his knees apart so you could stand closer. He complied without protest, his dazed eyes fixed on you.

The air was thick with a new kind of tension. To break it, you focused on a simple task. Your fingers went to the knot of his tie, loosening it.

"Why did you wear a tie to the bar?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you slid the fabric from his collar.

Spencer hummed. "I don't know what else to wear."

"You can just wear a cardigan," you suggested, a soft smile playing on your lips as you folded the tie and set it aside on the counter. "You have nice ones."

"Would you like that?" he asked quietly, his head tilting.

"Would I like what?"

"You said that you love my ties," he stated.

"I do," you affirmed, slightly confused but sensing you were treading on delicate ground.

His next words came out in a rush. "I wanna look good for you, so I try to wear ties as much as I can." There was no shame, no blushing self-awareness. It was a devastatingly honest confession poured straight from his heart, facilitated by the alcohol flooding his veins.

"Spencer!" you breathed, your hands stilling as you stared at him in shock.

His face fell instantly, confusion clouding his features. "What? Do you not like them anymore?" he asked, his voice tinged with sadness. "I can wear something else."

"You can wear whatever you want," you managed to say, your mind reeling. A part of you felt a pang of hurt at the thought that his clothing choices weren't entirely his own. "Why would you wear something just because I complimented it?"

"Because I like it when you compliment my ties," he mumbled, his body swaying slightly. You instinctively steadied him by placing your hands on his waist, the contact sending a jolt through you. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a second before finding yours again. "Or when you touch them to look at the pattern. It makes me feel really warm on the inside when you do."

The air left your lungs. You stared, utterly speechless. In his inebriated state, Spencer Reid had just confessed his crush on you to you. He had no idea of the magnitude of what he'd just revealed.

Needing a moment to process, you quickly grabbed the cup of water you'd set aside earlier. "Here, drink this," you instructed softly, holding the cup to his lips. As he drank, you used your free hand to gently brush the soft curls back from his fever-warm forehead.

You gently wiped the stray water droplets from his chin with your thumb, your touch lingering for a heartbeat. Needing to do something, anything, with your hands, you began to unbutton the top button of his shirt, just to give him a little more air. He sighed in relief.

In the quiet of the bathroom, his voice was small. "Are you mad at me?"

Your eyes snapped back to his. "No," you said softly. "Not at all, Spencer. I could never be mad at you for that." You cupped his cheek, your thumb stroking his warm skin. "I'm just… worried that you take my words too much to heart."

His response was soft. "I do."

A flicker of that earlier disappointment must have shown in your eyes, because he quickly continued.

"I remember that one time you told me you liked my eyes," he mumbled, his gaze drifting to a spot on the bathroom wall. "And ever since then, I like them more. You were right… they do look nice when the sun hits them."

"Yeah?" you asked, your voice colored with hope.

"Mhm," Spencer nodded, his head lolling slightly before he found your eyes again. "I also like my outfits more. I always hated them." He confessed this with resignation that broke your heart a little. "I didn't know what else to wear. People… people weren't always nice about my clothes. You were the only one who was ever nice to me about them. And you actually meant it." He gave you a tentative smile, one that grew just a fraction when he saw the genuine smile blooming on your own face.

"Well, I do love your outfits," you whispered, your hand moving from his cheek to smooth the collar of his shirt. "They're so uniquely you. It makes you look so handsome."

Spencer blushed, the red somehow deepening beneath the alcohol-induced flush. He ducked his head. "I can't get used to that," he mumbled into his chest.

"Used to what?" you prompted softly, tilting your head to try and catch his downcast eyes.

He finally looked up, his whiskey-colored eyes meeting yours. "Your compliments," he whispered, a confession as potent as any other he'd made tonight.

“Well, get used to them, handsome,” you smiled as you guided the cup back to his lips. He drank obediently, but his eyes never left you, watching you intently over the rim. You held the gaze and it felt strangely intimate.

Once he’d finished, you set the cup aside and turned to grab his toothbrush. The small bathroom cabinet offered two different tubes of toothpaste. You weren't sure which one he liked more.

“Who were you talking to in the bar?” Spencer’s voice was quiet.

“When?” you asked, your hand hesitating between the two options before settling on the mint.

“In the booth. There was a guy… you were laughing with him.” His tone was carefully neutral, but the specificity gave him away.

You looked up from the toothbrush, the paste forgotten in your hand. You gave him your full undivided attention. “I don’t even know who that was, Spencer.”

“You seemed comfortable with him,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the countertop.

You watched him for a long moment, studying the slight downturn of his mouth, the way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes. Understanding began to warm your chest. “Spencer,” you began softly, leaning a hip against the counter to face him fully. “Were you jealous?”

His head lifted, his eyes searching yours. “Maybe,” he finally mumbled. “You touched his arm… like, five times,” he whispered, as if confessing a grave misdeed.

Your heart squeezed. You tilted your head, your voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “Do you want me to touch your arm?”

“No. Yes,” he stammered, frustration creasing his brow. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to touch me. And I know you touch me a lot.” His eyes flickered down to where your hand was resting on his waist, your thumb unconsciously making soothing circles against the fabric of his vest. “You’re doing it right now.”

You followed his gaze, a soft smile gracing your lips. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I am.”

He opened his mouth, trying to articulate the tangled mess of feelings, but his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. The alcohol was a thick fog, making it impossible to find the right words.

You understood. “But you want it to mean something,” you supplied gently, your thumb stilling its motion. “When I touch you, you want it to feel special. You don’t want it to be something I do with just anyone.”

Spencer stared at you, his expression a mixture of relief and wonder that you had somehow untangled the knot he couldn't. “I guess so,” he mumbled.

You understood completely. Your casual friendly touch with that stranger had, in his eyes, devalued the currency of your affection. It made the way you cared for him seem ordinary, when to him, it was everything.

He fell silent for a long moment, processing his own words. Then, he shifted uncomfortably against the counter. "That sounded… oddly possessive," he mumbled, a flicker of clarity breaking through the alcoholic haze. "I didn't mean it like that," he corrected himself worried.

Honestly, you hadn't taken it that way at all, but you stayed quiet.

"I just… like you. A lot."

You took a sharp breath at the directness of the words, your heart stuttering in your chest. But you remained outwardly calm.

"And sometimes," he continued, "I think you like me back. Because of your gentle touches and your really nice compliments." He explained it so sweetly, that a smile inevitably formed on your face. "And Morgan tells me you like me," he added, offering a sheepish smile.

"And then I get hopeful," he whispered, the smile fading, "but then I see you compliment Morgan's shoes, or I see you touch that guy's arm in the bar, and then I just think… how could you like me? That you're just kind like that. That you're just nice to people, and that I'm just… imagining it all." He finished with a tired sigh, rubbing his eye.

You had stayed quiet throughout his entire confession, letting him pour out the insecurities he usually kept locked behind a wall of facts and statistics. Now, you slowly placed the forgotten toothbrush on the counter, bristles up to keep it clean. Your hands came up to cradle his face, your thumbs stroking his warm cheeks.

"I do like you," you whispered, the words finally breaking free. "Very much so. And the compliments I give you are genuine, and they are special. They're just for you, Spencer."

Spencer blinked at you, his eyes widening. "You like me?" he asked, his voice full of awe.

"Very much so," you affirmed, your smile softening.

"Oh," he breathed, a dazed smile spreading across his face. "That's good." He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a second, utterly content with the feeling of your hands on his skin.

You smiled, but the expression became more careful, when Spencer's gaze drifted downward from your eyes. He was staring at your lips, his head tilting as he leaned in slowly.

Gently, you pulled back, just an inch.

He froze, his eyes snapping back to yours, now wide with fear and confusion at the rejection.

"You're drunk," you said softly. You kept your hands on his face, brushing over his cheekbones. "I'm not kissing you when you're drunk."

He processed this, then nodded slowly. "That makes sense," he conceded. But his eyes, full of longing, lingered on your lips a moment longer.

You offered a soft reassuring smile, quickly grabbing the toothbrush to give him a task. Applying a stripe of toothpaste, you held it up for him. To your relief, his motor functions seemed to return for this familiar routine. He took it and began brushing, his eyes never leaving you the entire time.

Under his unwavering gaze, you began to feel warm yourself. You weren't sure if it was the intensity of your conversation or the bright bathroom lighting, but you found yourself fixing your hair behind your ear before shrugging off your thin autumn jacket, letting it rest on the counter beside his tie.

Once he was finished, he slumped against the counter. He looked utterly exhausted.

"Okay," you said softly, reaching out your hand. He took it without hesitation, his fingers lacing with yours. "I know you're going to say you're not hungry, but I just want you to eat one thing before bed. I barely saw you eat anything at the bar." You had a feeling you knew why, the mysterious man had introduced himself just as the food arrived, and Spencer had promptly vanished. That's when you had lost him.

"Okay?" you prompted gently.

Spencer nodded, a sleepy smile touching his lips. "Okay," he agreed happily, letting you lead him by the hand to his small kitchen.

There, he simply leaned back against the counter, his hands coming up to rub at his tired eyes again.

"Stop that," you whispered, gently pulling his hands away. "You'll make them redder."

"Sorry," he mumbled as he let his hands drop.

You started rummaging through his cabinets, finally finding a sealed package of cookies. Ripping it open, you handed him one. He took it obediently and began to nibble. Yet, even in his drowsy state, his gaze was a magnet, drifting from your eyes down to your lips once more.

"I can't wait to kiss you," he mumbled around a mouthful of cookie.

The blunt confession made a fond smile form on your face. "Oh, really?" you asked amused.

He sounded oddly flirty, a side of him so rarely seen, and it sent a wave of warmth through you.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. He reached for another cookie, his movements slow. “The first time I thought of kissing you was when you wore that peach lipgloss.”

You thought for a second, a smile playing on your lips. “Lip oil,” you gently corrected.

“Lip oil. Right,” he repeated, filing the information away with a serious nod. “It smelled really nice. And you looked… really pretty.” The simplicity of the compliment, delivered with such honesty, struck you deeply.

You had been honestly at a loss for words throughout this entire conversation. Giddy joy was bubbling up inside you, making you want to jump on the bed, scream into a pillow in sheer delight, and kick your feet in the air like a thirteen-year-old girl with her first crush.

“Well,” you said, your voice soft and slightly flustered, “I’ll make sure to wear that lip oil when we kiss.”

His eyes, which had been half-lidded with exhaustion, widened with happiness. “Yeah?” he asked, his entire face lighting up.

“Mhm,” you nodded, your heart swelling as you watched him. The mere idea of genuinely planning your first kiss was exciting him so visibly, that it was almost too much to bear.

He took another happy bite of his cookie, then paused, his brow furrowing in a look of deep concentration. “Am I still drunk?” he asked. “I ate and drank.” Apparently, alcohol also had the temporary side effect of lowering his iq.

You couldn't help the soft giggle that escaped you. “Yes, Spencer. You’re still very drunk,” you said, your voice fond as you handed him another cookie to keep him occupied.

“Right,” he mumbled, his shoulders slumping in disappointment. The logical part of his brain had confirmed the truth, but the hopeful, lovesick part was clearly impatient for the sober morning to arrive.

You smiled softly, watching the flicker of insecurity cross his face as the initial euphoria faded, replaced by a more sobering self-awareness.

"You do want to kiss me too, right?" he asked quietly. "You're not just going to kiss me because I'm being weird right now. And drunk. And saying lots of things I shouldn't be saying?" Spencer spoke slowly. "I really, really don't want you to feel like you have to kiss me or force yourself to do something you don't want to. I get it if you just wanna stick with us confessing to each other." He stared at you intently, his hazel eyes searching yours for the absolute truth.

"Spencer," you said, your voice full of certainty, "I'd love to kiss you, and I'm not doing you a favor. I really want to kiss you."

"Okay," he quieted down, a relieved smile finally gracing his lips again, the worry melting away.

"Can I hug you?" he asked softly after a moment. "I don't think I'm too drunk to not hug you." His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to gauge his own sobriety for such an important task.

You smiled, your heart feeling impossibly full. "Yeah, come here." You held up your arms, and he fell into them. He tried his best to hold his own weight, but his coordination was still lacking, causing him to lean into you more than he probably intended. You didn't mind in the slightest.

"You feeling better?" you asked softly, your fingers gently brushing through his curls. You were talking about the alcohol, the dizziness and the overwhelming nature of the night.

"Yeah," he mumbled into your shoulder, his voice muffled and content. "Cookies helped."

"That's good, honey," you said, the endearment slipping out naturally as you brushed a hand over his back.

He stood there for a long moment, before he pulled back just enough to look at you. "Are you going to call me that when we're boyfriend girlfriend?" he asked, his tone utterly serious.

You bit your lip, hard, to stop the laugh that was about to come out. You stood there, trying to compose yourself at his adorably formal phrasing. "You mean 'honey'?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly with suppressed amusement.

He nodded, his expression earnest.

"Do you like it?" you asked softly.

"Yes," Spencer mumbled, a faint blush returning to his cheeks.

"Okay," you said, your smile so wide it almost hurt. "Yeah, I can call you that when we're boyfriend girlfriend." You couldn't stop yourself from the fond tease of repeating his chosen label.

Spencer squinted his eyes. "You're making fun of me," he mumbled, though there was no real hurt in his tone.

You giggled out loud as you held onto his waist for balance, both of you swaying slightly. "I'm sorry," you managed between soft laughs. "I just—why did you say 'boyfriend girlfriend'? It's so formal."

Spencer was smiling a bit at the sound of your laughter, but his eyebrows furrowed in genuine confusion. "Isn't that the term?"

"It just sounds a little funny, that's all," you explained, your giggles subsiding into a warm smile.

Spencer chuckled along. "Okay. Yeah, maybe it does sound a bit odd," he conceded. "Is 'couple' a better term?"

"Yeah, honey, it is," you affirmed, your voice fond.

He felt a new kind of warmth spread through his chest, one that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the way you said that word.

"Should I call you an endearment, too?" he asked carefully.

You tilted your head, your smile softening. "I don't know. Do you want to?"

Spencer shrugged, a small shy gesture. "It would be nice," he admitted, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. "It'd be my special word for you."

Your heart melted. It was clearly very important to him and you found it incredibly endearing. "Well, do you have any in mind?" you asked softly, finally taking the cookie box from his loose grip and putting it away, noticing he hadn't taken any new pieces.

Spencer stayed quiet, staring into the distance as he thought. After a long moment, he looked back at you, his expression nervous. "Would you like… 'sweetheart'?" he said, the word sounding gentle and sweet on his tongue.

You smiled, touched by the old-fashioned sweetness of it. "Would you like to call me 'sweetheart'?" you asked, wanting to hear his reasoning.

He nodded, a little more sure now. "Yeah. I think so. My aunt's husband used to call her that. And she loved it. She would fluster every time." He didn't mention how his aunt and her husband were the only couple he'd ever seen growing up who genuinely seemed to love each other, a beacon of what a relationship could be amidst the chaos of his own parents. He didn't have the words for that yet, but the memory was a good one.

You smiled fondly. "I would love that," you said, your voice sincere.

"Okay," he whispered.

Spencer seemed happy, and utterly exhausted. "Come on, let's get you to bed," you said quietly, leading him by the hand toward his bedroom. He followed willingly, his fingers laced tightly with yours.

In his room, you grabbed a set of pajamas from a drawer and handed them to him, turning your back to give him privacy to change. Once he mumbled a quiet "done," you turned back to find him swaying slightly on his feet. You guided him into bed, gently maneuvering him onto his side, a precaution against the alcohol still in his system. He complied without protest.

Soon enough, you were standing above him, looking down at his sleepy form with a fond smile. His eyes were closed, his breathing beginning to even out. "I'll come by tomorrow, okay?" you whispered, not wanting to startle him.

His eyes flew open immediately. "What?"

"I'll come by in the morning. I'll bring you some food for your hangover," you explained, softly brushing a stray curl from his forehead.

"You're not staying?" he asked, his voice filled with disappointment and surprise.

You looked at him, a little taken aback. "You want me to?"

"Yeah," he nodded. Now that he had you here, he never wanted you to leave.

You watched him, sensing the unspoken thought. Your smile was soft and understanding. "Okay," you whispered. "Well, move aside, sleepyhead."

To your luck, you were wearing clothes comfortable enough to sleep in. You slipped into the bed beside him, turning onto your side to face him. He watched your every movement. Now you were face to face, sharing the same pillow.

"Thank you for taking care of me," Spencer whispered. This time, he was the one to reach forward, his fingers gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. It was a careful touch, one he had been too nervous to initiate all night, the hug being the only bravery he'd allowed himself. His palm cupped your cheek, his hand big and warm, almost engulfing the entire side of your face.

"Any time," you mumbled, leaning into his touch. "I had fun, you know."

He raised a questioning eyebrow.

"I mean," you grinned, "it got my long-time crush to confess his feelings to me."

Spencer blushed but still scooted closer. You let him. The two of you watched each other for a long time. But sleep was clearly trying to claim him. His blinks were becoming longer, his breathing deeper. He tried to fight it, wanting to cherish this new reality of being able to simply look at you, but the exhaustion was winning.

As if reading his thoughts, you whispered softly, "Sleep, Spencer. I'll be here in the morning."

Reassured by the promise of a lifetime of mornings to come, he finally let his eyes drift shut, a smile on his lips as he surrendered to sleep, your hand still resting gently in his.

When morning came, it arrived with a pounding against the inside of Spencer’s skull. He stayed perfectly still, staring at the ceiling of his apartment. Any movement, even the subtle shift of his eyes, sent a fresh wave of nausea through him.

He laid there for long minutes, when the memories of the previous night came rushing back. Your hand on his back in the bar. Your hands cradling his face in the bathroom.

The confession about his ties, his eyes, his…feelings.

His mouth fell open in a silent gasp of horror. He sat up abruptly, a move he instantly regretted as the room tilted violently. He looked to the side of the bed.

It was empty.

A cold dread washed over him. He had done it. He had shattered your perfect friendship. But then his eyes landed on the nightstand. Your hair clips were there, placed neatly beside the lamp. You must have taken them out before bed. A spark of hope flickered in his chest.

He carefully swung his legs out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. There, draped over the counter next to his tie, was your thin autumn jacket. You were still here.

And then the terror returned, tenfold. He wanted to run. To flee his own apartment and hide from the vulnerability he had so carelessly displayed. But as he stood there, paralyzed by shame, another memory surfaced.

He had been fumbling with his pajama pants, the fabric seeming to conspire against his alcohol-slowed fingers. You had had your back turned to him, giving him privacy, and your voice had been soft.

"Spencer?"

"Hm?"

"Promise me something. Please don't regret a single thing tomorrow."

He’d been too focused on the monumental task of getting dressed to fully process it, mumbling a quick, "Yes, i promise," just to satisfy you.

He took a shaky breath and splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it bringing more snippets of the night back. "I can't wait to kiss you." "It'd be my special word for you." "Sweetheart." Shame heated his skin, but he fought it, clinging to the memory of your promise and his own.

He grabbed his toothbrush, squeezing a generous amount of toothpaste onto the bristles. The minty taste was a welcome assault. He could hear sounds coming from his kitchen. You were in his kitchen.

He brushed his teeth for ten full minutes. He scrubbed harshly, wanting to erase every last trace of the night's indiscretions, wanting his breath to be perfect.

Because he remembered, with agonizing specificity, the conversation about kissing. And he was determined to be ready.

Spencer slowly tiptoed towards the kitchen once he was done, hovering in the doorway as he silently watched you. You were at his stove, humming softly as you flipped a golden-brown pancake.

Soon enough, you felt his presence and turned, a warm smile immediately gracing your features. Spencer’s eyes darted instinctively to your lips, then away, a flush creeping up his neck.

“Good morning,” you said, turning off the stove.

“Morning,” he whispered, his voice rough with sleep and regret. He stood there, awkward and embarrassed, but trying his best to hold his ground.

“How’s the headache?” you asked, your tone sympathetic.

“Bad,” he admitted, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. “Like, really bad.”

You nodded and moved to the counter, grabbing a glass of water and some vitamins. “Here, take this.”

As you handed them to him, your fingers brushed against his. Spencer froze slightly at the contact, a difference from the way he’d leaned into your touch just hours before. He took the vitamins and swallowed them quickly, his eyes darting everywhere around the kitchen, anywhere but at you. Unlike yesterday

“I made you pancakes!” you announced, trying to cut through the tension.

Spencer glanced at the small stack on the plate. “Thank you,” he said with a weak, strained smile. “You really didn’t have to do that. I’m so sorry for… for last night.” He stuttered over the apology, the words heavy with shame.

You gently took the empty glass from his hands and then, before he could retreat, you took his hands in yours. They were trembling slightly.

“Spencer,” you said, his name sounding so sweet coming from you.

“Hm?” he mumbled in response, still looking determinedly at a point over your shoulder.

“What did I tell you yesterday?” you prompted, your voice patient.

He looked away, his jaw tightening. He remained silent, the weight of his embarrassment seeming to press him into the floor.

“Spencer,” you said again.

He finally relented, the words a defeated mumble. “Not to regret what I said.”

“Exactly!” you said, your voice brimming with warmth. You released his hands, only to bring your own up to gently frame his face, guiding his gaze until he had no choice but to meet your eyes.

His worried hazel eyes finally locked with yours. And what he saw there wasn’t pity or regret. He saw your happy eyes, shining with affection. The tension in his shoulders began to dissolve.

“So, will you please listen to me?” you asked, your voice soft.

Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, the ghost of his embarrassment still lingering, but then he nodded. “Okay,” he sighed, the sound full of relief. “I’ll try my best.”

He saw you open your arms slightly and he let himself fall into the hug, his own arms wrapping around you tightly. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, closing his eyes. “God,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your skin. “I can’t believe I said all of that.”

You held him close, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. “It’s fine,” you whispered. “Honestly, it progressed our relationship in ways it hadn't in the past few years.”

Spencer let out a genuine chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours. “Guess so,” he conceded, finally pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes immediately darted down to your lips, and a knowing grin spread across your face.

“Peach lip oil,” he whispered as he noticed you were waiting for him to acknowledge it.

“Yup,” you confirmed, your grin widening. “Had it in my bag. Thought I could put it to good use.”

A deep blush colored his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. “Right. Yeah,” he breathed, his gaze locked on yours.

Your hands slid down his chest, smoothing the soft wool of his cardigan. “So,” you began, your own voice dropping to a slightly flustered whisper. “You’re sober.”

Spencer nodded, watching you. “Completely.”

“If you’d like,” you said, your heart hammering against your ribs, “you can kiss me now.”

A slow, wondrous smile spread across Spencer’s face. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I’d like that very much.”

His hands came up to frame your face, his touch infinitely more sure than it had been last night. His thumbs stroked your cheeks as his eyes flickered down to your glistening lips and back up. He smiled fondly, and then, gathering his courage, he finally pressed his lips to yours.

It was nice. More than nice. It was soft, and warm. A happy hum vibrated in his throat, and you echoed it with one of your own. The kiss broke several times, because neither of you could stop smiling. When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his, both of you simply smiling.

"I've wanted to do that for two years," Spencer breathed.

You felt your heart swell, your smile widening. "Yeah," you whispered back. "Me too."

A look of pure wonder crossed his face, and he leaned in to capture your lips once more in a sweet affirming kiss. When he pulled back again, his expression was slightly dazed. "I'm not dreaming, am I?" he asked softly, his eyes searching yours.

You shook your head slowly, your hands coming up to cradle his jaw. "No, honey," you whispered. "You're not."

The term of affection had an immediate and delightful effect. A charming blush spread from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. You couldn't help the wide grin that spread across your face.

"Yeah," he mumbled, a blissful smile finally breaking through his flustered state. "Definitely not dreaming."

you take a deep breath and exhale. you know she wants to tease, but you try to keep your dignity.

"ran out... been a long shift."

parker fights a smile, even though she knows you can't see her. when parker clocked out this morning, you had already changed twice – a friday night out alcohol poisoning, a poor kid with gastroenteritis. you had taken it like a champ both times. she knew you weren't really as nonchalant about getting vomit on you as you wanted everyone to think, especially the patients. happens all the time, really, you always say, with the kindest smile on your face as you wipe off as much as you can. it doesn't, but the patients don't have to know that, do they? it's silly how it makes parker's chest tighten a little – that you care so much about not making others feel small, that parker notices what you don't say out loud.

it doesn't change the fact that she would have loved seeing your face as you scurry around the department for new scrubs, again.

"you want me to get you some?"

"fuck, no," you scoff. "i'm getting the fuck out of here. just waiting for my younglings to finish their charts," you say, almost sounding fond. she assumes it's the effect of leaving your place of work after a shift and a half that makes you sound so serene, and that some hours ago you were looking at your younglings like a drill sergeant.

you're both quiet for some time. you turn to look at her, but she looks composed as always. 

"you nervous?"

parker sighs. the truth of the matter is, she's really not. the word deposition would imply it, but she knows neither her, nor mel did anything wrong. you know it, too. in fact, sometimes you seemed more upset than parker herself. upset at the antivaxxer parents, upset at the system. upset that innocent doctors who save lives have to be berated in such a way so that the rich get richer, the poor, poorer. it doesn't help, of course, getting upset. but you do anyway. it's how you care, parker figured a long time ago.

"we didn't do anything wrong. and anyway, that's what it's about the least."

you let it sit for a moment. you want to hold her hand, but think maybe you're not there yet. sometimes, it feels like you two share a specific wavelength on which you understand each other so effortlessly. other times, you feel like maybe you're making it up in your head.

"text me when it's over."

parker knows you're looking at her, but doesn't feel like she can look back at you. it's a line you two dance around a lot – when you grab breakfast after shift, when one catches the other getting some air, or when you stay over. giving intimacy and letting it sit there, because neither is confident enough to take it further. still, appreciating it for what it is. there's comfort and care in that, too.

she looks at you instead of answering. you avert your eyes to somewhere vaguely in her direction, and she does the same. you sigh again and lean your head against her shoulder. you wish you could stay here like this forever – away from the noise, bunking in a bed too small for the both of you. not that you would ever say it out loud. she would make fun of you for the rest of your life. 

she wouldn't, but you don't know that. parker's much softer on the inside than you give her credit for, she thinks. then again, god forbid you ever know the extent of her feelings. it scares her sometimes, how much she wants to say yes to your invite for some coffee when she drops you off after work, despite it being 9 am and your bedtime. how much she wants to come up to your tiny apartment full of life, pet your silly cat, drink the coffee you make her, sleep cuddled up with you in your bed. wake up when it's already dark outside and cook lunch, swaying to some music in your kitchen. smooth out the grumpy creases on your forehead. kiss you when you go for a smoke on a rare night out with your coworkers. hold you when work gets too much. being held by you when work gets too much. be with you.

And as he stood there in the doorway like he had turned into a statue, Eddie took a deep breath and realised there wasn't just a warmth in the air, but a homely smell too. Something was cooking; it had been a while since he'd come home and had food already prepared.

He was more used to re-heating food his Abuela had sent over than he was having it pre-prepared when he came home. Eddie knew he wasn't the best cook in the world, growing up caring for his younger sisters hadn't done anything to improve his cooking skills. Nor had being a single parent to Chris helped him in the kitchen department.

"Dad!"

A smile was already worming its way onto Eddie's lips and he opened his eyes just in time to see Chris aiming for him.

He held his breath deep in his lungs, biting back a groan when his boy barrelled into him full force, binding his arms around Eddie's waist and pushing him back until he was pinned against the door.

"Hey bud, what have you been up to?" Tilting down, Eddie smothered his lips into Chris's curls and ran a hand up and down his back. Relishing in the embrace for a few seconds, maybe a minute or longer before he leaned back and Chris stared up at him with those big brown eyes and a wide smile.

"We made lasagne."

"Oh, that's what it is, smells good." He patted Chris's shoulder and gave a small nudge as an indicator for them both to move away from the door.

When Chris turned and made a beeline back towards the kitchen, Eddie followed, both hands on Chris's shoulders as they followed the smell that was making Eddie's stomach growl like he had been on a pilgrimage and hadn't eaten for days.

The smell was intoxicating and by the time Eddie reached the kitchen, he felt like his throat had been cut and he couldn't remember the last time he ate or if he'd managed anything for lunch with how busy the shift had been today.

But all thought of food was set aside when he looked around the kitchen and set his sights on her.

(Y/n).

She was stood with her back to the kitchen doorway, gliding from one side to the next like her feet weren't touching the floor. There was an elegance about her that made Eddie rooted to the spot, unable to do anything except watch her.

There was a teatowel tossed over her shoulder and she was humming to whatever tune was playing on the radio that sat on the window ledge in front of her.

Eddie couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a sight like this in his kitchen, or indeed his home altogether.

"You cooked," Eddie wasn't sure whether it was a statement or a question that left his lips, and his hands remained on Chris's shoulders while his gaze never tore away from (Y/n). His tone was light, no accusation or annoyance- how could he be annoyed at such a lovely gesture?

He watched, entranced, as she turned so quickly on her heels that a strand of hair whipped back over her shoulder like it had a life of its own and a nervous smile fluttered across her lips. Both hands reached behind her to hold onto the counter, steadying herself and giving her something to grip and focus on while her eyes found Eddie's intriguing stare.

"Yeah, someone was hungry and I thought it would be one less thing for you to do. I- I hope that's okay," The way (Y/n) smiled and that gentle tone in her voice made Eddie grin and he nodded quickly as if to ensure that she knew he wasn't annoyed by the gesture.

"Thank you. You didn't have to."

Their gaze finally broke when Chris tilted his head back into Eddie's chest to stare up at him. "(Y/n)'s staying for dinner, right?"

Eddie's eyes danced back towards (Y/n) as he nodded. "Course she is… you can't cook and leave without eating."

"I'll set the table." Enthusiasm flooded Chris's voice and he tore away from Eddie's hold for one second before something seemed to click in his mind and he turned back towards his dad with wide eyes. "(Y/n) hurt her hand, you can fix it, right?"

Eddie's gaze darted between Chris and (Y/n) who quickly bowed her head as if to hide the embarrassment blossoming within her gaze. He nodded his head which seemed to settle Chris and let him saunter out of the room towards the dining room so he could begin setting the table for three instead of two.

Once he was safely out of sight and earshot, Eddie took a deep breath and stepped into the kitchen. Trepedition flooded his system as if this wasn't his own home that he could walk around as he pleased. His fingers flexed at his sides until he lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck like it would somehow rub away the tension beginning to build within him.

He never knew how to act around (Y/n). She made him so nervous he was like a school boy all over again, and she didn't seem to realise the kind of effect she had.

He cleared his throat, teeth catching on his lower lip when he was stood in front of her and his head tipped to the left, waiting silently yet patiently for (Y/n) to tell him what the problem was.

A nervous smile was already flooding (Y/n)'s face, a feeble attempt to cover up the embarrassment she felt and hide the nerves that were bursting to life in her stomach and aiming straight for her heart. Whenever she was close to Eddie, this close that their chests were an inch apart and she could feel each deep breath he took, she suddenly went blank.

Talking became a hard task, her mind didn't seem to work properly and she never knew what to do with herself. And looking into his eyes was near impossible; those eyes could see right through her, (Y/n) was sure of that.

"What happened?"

"It's nothing, just a cut-"

"You know I'm a medic? Besides, I can't exactly let you go home after taking care of Chris for me if you've hurt yourself and I didn't at least check."

Eddie would feel extremely bad if he let (Y/n) leave with some sort of injury and he didn't take the time to at least look at it or clean or bandage whatever injury she had, whether it was a minor cut or just a bruise. Especially when she had made dinner for him and Chris, a lovely gesture in itself. Eddie had to return the favour.

He didn't have much interaction with Maddie, but God was Eddie thankful she had introduced him to (Y/n) and recommended her as a babysitter. Eddie wasn't sure he had ever been as happy to get to know someone as he was around (Y/n).

Every time she came over to babysit Chris, Eddie wished he didn't have to go. Sometimes she stayed late just to talk after Chris had gone to bed and they talked on the phone and messaged more than just a quick hello or to arrange for her to care for Chris when Eddie was working late.

She was intoxicating and Eddie wanted to be around her and within one inch of her at all times.

He watched the sheepish look that flooded (Y/n)'s face before she meekly held out her left hand for Eddie to inspect while her other hand stayed clamped around the kitchen counter behind her.

He didn't need to, but he stepped closer until their feet were touching and he was looming over her, caging her between him and the counter.

One hand carefully curled around her wrist, trying hard not to squeeze too tightly while he unravelled the make-shift bandage she'd created around her hand, which happened to be made out of kitchen roll.

Eddie's brows narrowed as he turned (Y/n)'s hand this way and that, lifting it closer both for inspection and to get the light shining on it better. There was a cut right in the crease of her hand between her thumb and index finger. It didn't look deep enough for stitches or glue, but it was enough for quite a bit of blood which was dried into her palm and caused a bit of kitchen roll to stick to her skin.

"A knife?" He guessed quietly, trying not to poke the cut while he pressed on her skin to check whether it was still bleeding or not.

"Hm, I'm not usually this clumsy."

"Luckily you don't need stitches, but I'd like to clean it up and bandage it." His words weren't quite a question but they still required permission, and (Y/n) nodded.

Her skin felt cold and lonesome when Eddie's touch retreated and she watched the creases appear in his shirt and the way his shoulders hunched and tensed as he turned his back to her to search the cupboards. His hands scoured the top left cupboard until he found a dark leaf green box with a white plus sign on the front. A medical kit.

When Eddie was back in front of her again, there was almost no distance between them.

(Y/n) could feel each breath Eddie took, her eyes became focused on the rise and fall of his chest until she felt his touch on her hand again. The feeling of his fingers curling around her wrist, pulling her hand higher until it was level with his throat, just a few inches away from his face.

The way his features scrunched up in scrutiny and furrowed in concentration was intriguing and while his eyes were locked on her small wound, (Y/n) could look at his eyes. When he wasn't watching her, she could study him better.

He was gentle when he dabbed antiseptic along the wound, he paused when she hissed and he was careful when he cleaned the dried flecks of blood from each crease in her palm. When it started to bleed just a little, Eddie held some cotton against the cut, laying his fingers into her palm almost like they were about to hold hands.

His eyes lifted then, checking whether she was alright or if the antiseptic was burning or stinging at all. And the smile that flickered across his face made (Y/n)'s stomach jolt.

She watched the debate in his eyes about whether to put a plaster over the cut, but he decided against it. A plaster wouldn't stay in the crease of her hand especially when she bent her fingers or thumb or tried to grab something, it would come loose easily.

Instead, he lathered some cream along the cut and placed a small cotton patch into the crease before finding a roll of bandage. He wound the soft white material around her thumb and the side of her hand and then a few lines around the middle of her palm and the back of her hand to make sure it stayed in place.

He let go of her wrist to tear the bandage and tuck the end in so neatly it was like he was creating a masterpiece instead of patching her back together.

When Eddie's thumb stroked across the bandage along the back of her hand, (Y/n) moved before she could scold herself and think better of it. Her hand curled over his as if she were pinning him in place, not wanting his touch to disappear.

The action had Eddie's eyes widening and lifting to meet her gaze, but his expression was blank. Every emotion was held within his dark eyes and those expanding pupils that seemed to hold another world within them entirely.

"Thank you," (Y/n) could barely hear her own voice, she seemed to be whispering and she couldn't speak any louder in fear it might shatter the fragile atmosphere that was building around them.

"No problem, no other injuries I need to check, right?" It was as if they were held within their own little bubble, (Y/n) could barely hear Eddie's voice over the pounding of her heart like it was beating right in her ears. But she managed to shake her head even though she didn't want to, she didn't want to say no in case the moment fractured and Eddie's touch disappeared completely.

Eddie's left hand stayed laid on top of hers, thumb still smoothing over the creases in the bandage. But his other hand carefully peeled apart from her wrist, letting go from where he had been holding her hand up for assessing.

He seemed to be moving on autopilot, eyes completely locked on (Y/n)'s while his hand reached out for a loose tendril of hair that he carefully glided back into place behind her ear. The feeling of his finger against her temple and the path it traced down the back of her neck had (Y/n) shivering and almost turning to jelly.

But when his touch boldened and his hand curved beneath her hair to cradle the back of her neck, (Y/n) found herself moving too.

Her hands shifted, one clutching Eddie's wrist, pinning their hands in the air between them while her freshly bandaged palm pressed down into Eddie's chest, but not to push him away. Never to push him away. Her fingers scrunched up the starched fabric of his work shirt, keeping him exactly where he was in case he dared think about stepping back from her and this moment they shared.

When Eddie's head inclined towards hers, (Y/n) closed her eyes. She couldn't help it and she didn't care if it made her presumptuous.

Almost every time she was round here to look after Chris or the few times Eddie dropped him off at her place, all (Y/n) could think about was having a moment with Eddie. Having an intimate moment, a connection, anything more than a funny or serious conversation and heated glances from afar. And now it was so close to becoming a reality.

His lips ghosted over hers, and the touch was electric. So much so that (Y/n) was sure if she opened her eyes she would see sparks of light bursting between them.

The feeling was so light and gentle compared to the way Eddie was cradling her neck, like he was holding her in place and ensuring she wasn't about to pull back or let the magic fade. She could feel his thumb tracing her skin like he was soothing one of the thousands of nerves that were going haywire within her skin.

His lips were soft yet firm when they pressed down on hers and (Y/n) tilted her head up, chasing his touch as if it was about to disappear. Her breath was held deep within her lungs and her fingers tightened in his shirt, clinging to him as he sighed into her mouth.

"Is it ready now?"

The moment shattered like a crystal glass against the floor. Chris's voice broke through the serenity of the moment and out of instinct, (Y/n)'s hands pulled back and retreated from Eddie's skin. And his touch left her, his hand shifting from her neck and moving to grasp his own neck like he was trying to tell himself what was real and what had been his imagination.

Eddie was the one who stepped back, adding two or maybe three feet of space between them just as Chris trotted into the kitchen with a bright smile, unaware of the moment that was now a fading dream.

"I think so," (Y/n) breathed, forcing herself to smile as she turned towards the oven and quickly switched it off. But when she glanced over her right shoulder, her gaze locked on Eddie.

There was a dark rouge blush tainting his cheeks and the beginning of a smile etched onto his nervous features.

Were things going to stay the same, or had they inevitably changed forever?

***

Half past ten.

It was half past ten at night; not exactly the time when Eddie would invite people over, especially with Chris being asleep in bed now.

It wouldn't be like his Abuela to come round at night, she didn't leave the house after seven o'clock. He didn't have any other close family or relatives around who could be at the door, and he knew the team wouldn't just turn up out of the blue either. Buck would always ring or text if he wanted to come over for a drink or needed to vent, he didn't turn up unannounced. Eddie hadn't invited anyone round.

So who the Hell was rapping on the front door in such a frantic rhythm?

Eddie set his glass down on the coffee table, pushing to his feet with knees creaking in protest and tiredness fading from his body, replaced by uncertainty and worry.

"Alright." He uttered, practically spitting the word as he jogged into the hall, flicking the light on as he passed and headed to the door.

He didn't know what to expect on the other side. He had no conscious thought of who would be there or what they would want, and his eyes continuously flickered towards the baseball bat propped up against the cabinet. A weapon in case it was some doped up person on the other side of the door wanting to cause a scene or bust their way in.

And that didn't seem like such a far-fetched idea, considering the time of night and how very few people it could actually be pounding on his door.

Eddie got it wrong; whatever he had been anticipating wasn't standing there on the threshold.

Out of all the people Eddie could think it would be, (Y/n) hadn't even crossed his mind.

She had never turned up on his doorstep unannounced before, and out of all the times Eddie had been around her, he had never seen her cry. The sight was something that cut through flesh and bone and hit him right at his core, stealing the breath from his lungs like he had been punched in the gut.

"(Y/n)- fuck!"

Eddie barely had any time to drag his eyes up and down her frame before (Y/n) threw herself at him. He wasn't sure whether she was trying to get inside the house for some sense of security or whether she wanted comfort and reassurance. Either way, it didn't matter.

His arms froze at his sides like they were playing some kind of party game and his eyes widened like saucers. All he could do was stand perfectly still for about ten seconds as (Y/n) pushed herself so forcefully into his chest that his sternum shuddered and ached.

He could feel her nose squashing against his chest and the tears he had seen streaming down her features were now soaking into his shirt. Which also happened to be fisted up in her hands, causing Eddie to shake almost as badly as (Y/n) was. The way she gripped his shirt felt like she was clawing at the material enough to tear holes into the fabric, not that Eddie minded, but it made his panic over (Y/n) rise sky high nonetheless.

"Okay, okay inside. Come on honey." His voice was oddly quiet yet with a rough edge like the words were layered in grit.

Eddie found the power to move again and he bound his right arm around (Y/n)'s waist, keeping her secured against his chest while his feet shifted and he stumbled backwards until they were both safely inside the house. He flung his free hand out to shut the door, barely managing to twist the lock before he cupped his hand against the back of (Y/n)'s head.

He could feel each shallow breath she let out, she was barely taking in any air, too focused on letting out harsh gasps and muffled sobs into his shirt.

For a while maybe even a few minutes, they stayed like that, clinging to one another like the world was about to end and this was their last moments together.

With his hand cupping the back of her head, Eddie slowly curled his fingers into (Y/n)'s hair while his other hand slowly curled over her hip, testing the waters just in case she didn't want his touch. But with the way she was clinging to him, it seemed reasonable that she wanted and needed some sense of security.

Tilting his head down, Eddie buried his nose and mouth into the top of (Y/n)'s head, trying to slow down his breaths to something more natural and calm so that (Y/n) would try and do the same.

He kept her cocooned to his chest until all the raging thoughts in his mind started to get too overwhelming to think about. All the possibilities, all the crude thoughts and wonders of what had happened tonight, why (Y/n) was in such a tearful, panicked state. What had she gone through, and why had she come here to Eddie, of all people? All of those thoughts ravaged his mind until he couldn't think and couldn't see straight anymore.

He couldn't stand like this any longer. As much as Eddie had been craving to know what it felt like to have (Y/n) this close, to have her in his arms, this wasn't the way he wanted it. He didn't want her clinging to him like she was afraid someone was going to come and snatch her away from him. He didn't want her sobbing into his chest or trembling and gasping like this. And he didn't want to stay in the darkness any longer without knowing what the problem was.

With a deep breath that ached his chest, Eddie carefully peeled back his arms from (Y/n)'s frame so his hands could cup her face instead.

His touch was gentle, careful as he cradled her features in his hands, dragging his thumbs across her cheekbones while he pulled her face away from his chest so he could look down at her. He had to bend his knees and crouch until they were level and he could see into those frantic, watering eyes.

It took a lot of effort for Eddie to tear his gaze from (Y/n)'s eyes and sweep his eyes up and down her frame.

"Christ- Dios, (Y/n) what happened?"

The longer he stood there in silence, desperate for an answer that wasn't coming, the more frantic Eddie began to feel.

The pressure his thumbs applied to her features increased and he was almost shaking her head back and forth as he took in every little change he could see. The blood streaking down from her nose was making Eddie's stomach do summersaults in panic. It was creating wavy lines across her lips and down towards her chin but it looked like the bleeding had stopped by now, the lines were dried like acrylic paint setting on canvas.

There was a cut over her left brow where the skin had split and was starting to swell up already. But Eddie could barely take in anything when (Y/n) was trembling like invisible hands were rickoting her back and forth.

"Did someone do this to you?"

The meek nod of her head set Eddie's top lip curling into a snarl and his jaw started to grind from left to right in a vain attempt to stop himself from saying something or shouting out at the rage building up deep within his chest.

Someone had hurt her. Someone had used her as a punching bag, she'd been hit over her eye and either punched or whacked in the face to cause that nosebleed. And the way that (Y/n) was hunching over and coiling in on herself, unable or unwilling to stand up straight told Eddie that it wasn't just her adoring face that had been hurt; she was in pain.

"Fuck. Fuck- okay I'm gonna need you to tell me what happened, can you do that for me?"

(Y/n) closed her eyes when she felt Eddie's temple resting against hers. He was being cautious, clearly not wanting to inflict any further pain on her or irritate the cut above her eye, but the feeling of their temples touching and their breaths intermingling was both stimulating and overwhelming all at once.

She could feel each ragged breath Eddie took fan against her wet, parted lips just like last week when he'd kissed her.

She couldn't be sure which one of them was shaking worse when Eddie's hands were practically writhing her head back and forth with the anger that was coursing through his veins, but she was shaking just as vigorously.

Her hands remained clutching at his shirt, her nails one thread away from tearing through the material and scratching into his chest, although he probably wouldn't notice either way. Her knuckles felt fit to burst with the tight grip she had on him, but she didn't want to take one step away from Eddie. (Y/n) wanted to remain this close forever because at least being like this, she knew she was safe.

She was protected.

The blood caked over her top lip made it hard to speak when she felt like she was breaking out of a mould she had been cast in. But she parted her lips and finally managed to utter a few words rather than just a sob or a croaky flicker of breath.

"I was g- going home, he- he grabbed me. Wouldn't le- let me go,"

It almost felt wrong to pull her forehead away from Eddie's, but when she slumped down and meshed her face back into his chest, the feeling was so overwhelming that (Y/n) was sure she passed out for a few seconds. Her breaths were turning heavier, no longer shallow puffs of air but deep, ragged gasps that made her chest ache and felt like her lungs were overfilling themselves.

It was supposed to be a night out. Nothing bad was supposed to happen or go wrong.

Everything had been fine until it was time to leave. (Y/n) said goodbye to her friends who were most likely still at the bar they had all gone out to, she had her bag and her senses and she wasn't blackout drunk like some of the other people leaving around the same time as her.

Then he grabbed her. Rough fingers melting through her skin, her heels scraping against the floor as he dragged her round the corner whilst no one seemed to see or think that anything was amiss. It had been the same guy that had offered to buy her a drink at the bar, the guy (Y/n) politely brushed off and didn't spare one more thought to.

"Did you know him?"

Her head shook against his chest. "No, he wanted t-to get me a drink, said no. I punched, kicked, managed to get him o-off… e- everything hurts, Eddie."

A feeble cry left her lips as her elbows coiled into her waist and she hunched forward again until she was curled over, pushing her face into Eddie's chest. Each pulse of her heart was sending her nerves into a frenzy. Pain was circulating through her blood and it hurt, everything ached and felt like it was tearing apart and it was agony.

"Okay, can I take a look?" His voice was so tender that it didn't seem to match the taut, tightening muscles (Y/n) could feel or the brisk way he was stood like he was trying to stop himself from morphing into a different being entirely.

He felt her nod into his chest but his hands didn't move away from her face for a few seconds.

Standing here in the hallway didn't seem like the best place to try and calm (Y/n) down and find out how badly she was injured and what to do next for the best course of action.

Eddie took a sweeping look around before he carefully shifted his hands down to hold onto (Y/n)'s hips. At first, he wasn't sure whether it was the right place to touch her but she didn't pull away, her hands stayed fisted in his shirt and she didn't bother to lift her head from where it was buried into his chest.

He started to walk backwards, gently tugging (Y/n) with him until they were doing a strange dance, walking in tandem towards the kitchen. The bathroom would be too close to Chris's room and he didn't want to wake Chris and have him see (Y/n) like this, that wouldn't be fair on her and it would panic him too.

As they passed over the threshold, Eddie flicked on the lights and steered (Y/n) towards the sink.

He could see just how badly (Y/n) was shaking when he finally let go of her, pulling back so he could scout through one of the cupboards for the medical kit. He tossed the green plastic kit onto the counter before he ran his hands under the tap, flexing his fingers against the water to try and get the feeling back and stop his muscles that felt like they were tightening up.

Once his hands were dried and he was stood in front of her, Eddie dragged his eyes up and down her trembling form once again.

Her arms were bound around her chest and her head was ducked forward. She was shaking back and forth, leaning her hips back against the counter to prop herself up.

Eddie's teeth punctured down into his lower lip, despair fuelling his eyes as a sigh flared through his nostrils.

A quiet "Alright, come're," muttered past his lips as he leant forward and curled his hands around (Y/n)'s hips in a firm grasp, waiting for her to look up at him before he lifted her from her feet. Her hands quickly held onto his shoulders as Eddie carefully lifted her up onto the kitchen counter.

This would be easier for (Y/n) than trying to stand up, she could try and relax and regain some sense of calm while Eddie checked her over and tended to any injuries she had. And this way he could see her better and didn't have to crouch down or ache his neck to assess her.

(Y/n) found herself barely able to breathe once again when Eddie's hands carefully pushed her knees to the sides so he could stand between her thighs. Even when they'd shared a kiss last week, (Y/n) wasn't sure they'd been this close.

His pelvis was practically touching hers and her knees were pressing into his hips, caging him in just in case he changed his mind and tried to move away.

She watched the way Eddie's gaze dragged up and down her frame ever so slowly, taking into account anything that seemed odd and scouring for any injuries he needed to tend to. He looked so focused that (Y/n) found herself wondering if this was how he looked when he was at work caring for people and tending to injuries when he wasn't putting out fires. That train of thought calmed down the nerves raging within her.

"Where'd that asshole hurt you?"

His tone made her shiver and she dropped her eyes down to her lap while she gingerly held out her right hand for him to see.

When the guy wouldn't let her go and tried to pin her to the wall, the first thing (Y/n) thought to do was to punch him. She wasn't the best fighter, not by any means and she certainly didn't meet Eddie's standard- she knew he had a thing for boxing. But she tried her best.

Her punch managed to phase her attacker for a few seconds, enough to get her off the wall he pinned her to but in return, he'd grabbed her hand and bent her fingers.

A tut escaped Eddie's lips and he shook his head when he held her hand so delicately in his palm like he'd done last week, tending to her cut. This time, he was tracing the pad of his fingers over the top of hers, nodding to himself that her middle finger wasn't broken but it was certainly dislocated.

"Can I pop it back into place?" If Eddie didn't do it then she would need to see a doctor, her finger couldn't be left like this and Eddie knew him tending to (Y/n)'s wounds would be a lot calmer, easier and quicker than waiting in the emergency room.

He waited for (Y/n) to nod before he spread her hand out on her thigh, one hand holding the very base of her middle finger while his other hand grasped the end of her fingertip.

"Alright, one, two… three."

As soon as the last number left his lips, Eddie gave a sharp tug until her finger pulled out of place. He didn't give (Y/n) chance to breathe before he pushed the joint right back into its socket and bent her finger towards her palm to check that it was properly righted.

A sharp cry left (Y/n)'s lips and her eyes snapped closed as she started to shake. Her left hand gripped the edge of the counter she was perched on, feeling the sharp marble edge cutting into her palm which dulled a pinch of the agony flowing through her finger.

She'd never dislocated or broken any fingers before, and that crunching sound was ringing in her ears. God, she hoped she would never have to feel that again.

Tears began to streak down her face and it took (Y/n) a few moments before she felt able to open her watering eyes. When she did, she looked down to see that Eddie had a roll of tape clasped between his teeth and he was carefully sliding a rectangle patch of gauze between her index and middle fingers.

Curiosity flooded her eyes as she watched Eddie work, seeing him roll a small wad of bandage around both fingers before a length of tape was secured around the top. Her finger needed a few days to heal and settle and Eddie didn't want it popping out of place again, binding them was the only thing that he could do for her.

He stroked his thumb over the back of her hand for a few seconds, gaze locked on her hand like he was too nervous to lift his gaze and look anywhere else in fear of meeting her eyes.

Tears continued to trace down (Y/n)'s face that was angled downwards, but Eddie took her by surprise when his fingers pressed beneath her chin and he tilted her head up. Still, he wouldn't meet her gaze but he lifted her head higher so he could check her nose.

Not broken, thankfully. Eddie grabbed some cotton, ran it under the tap and began to dab and wipe the caked blood from her nose. When it came to cleaning the blood from her lips, his movements were slower, more tender as the wet cotton graced along her lips which Eddie wanted to replace with his own. But he held back the urge; he needed to take care of her first.

A shuddering breath left Eddie's lips when his eyes finally locked with (Y/n)'s and it was like he could see everything within them. He could see the attack, he could see the terror and anger and agony she'd felt when it happened. But he could also see those emotions starting to wash away the longer he stood there, tending to her cuts and bruises.

He couldn't help the way his tongue darted across his lips and he sucked in a deep breath, blinking away the emotions threatening to overcome him as he moved onto the next task at hand.

His left hand still cupped (Y/n)'s chin, thumb stroking delicately up and down, dangerously close to her lip while his right hand pressed and prodded at the skin around the cut to her brow.

"You don't need stitches, just some suture strips."

(Y/n) couldn't nod when Eddie was holding her chin, but she knew the look in her eyes told him she understood.

She waited patiently, one taped up hand resting on her thigh while the other started to tap against the counter. Her wet lips rolled together and her breaths started to become shallow again as she looked up at Eddie.

The furrow of concentration in his brow, the way his lips parted and small huffs escaped them as he became focused on the task at hand. How careful he was and how his eyes narrowed as he started to clean the cut to the left side of her temple right over her brow. How he winced and hissed himself when he cleaned it with antiseptic like he was the one feeling the flickering heat of pain licking at the wound instead of (Y/n).

Only two small white suture strips were needed over the cut to keep the skin closed together so it would heal properly and Eddie found himself stroking his thumb up and down (Y/n)'s chin while he scrutinised the wound to make sure his handy work would suffice.

The silent look no Eddie's face conveyed the question in his head; any more injuries he should tend to?

(Y/n) sank her teeth down into her lip that had already been chewed to shreds from panic, fury and pain, and gingerly hooked her fingers into the hem of her shirt which she rolled up. She didn't care that she was lifting it as high as her bra and giving Eddie a view of her chest that he clearly hadn't been expecting.

After a second thought, (Y/n) huffed and grunted as she struggled to yank the shirt over her head altogether, tossing it to the floor. It would be much easier so she herself could see if she had gained any cuts or bruises. She had been shoved against the wall more than once and it felt like teeth had scraped up and down her back and her attacker had hit and whacked against her chest and abdomen in their struggles. She didn't know what kind of marks she might have.

She noticed the way Eddie gulped and how his chest puffed out as he held his breath deep in his lungs, trying to clear the fog that was threatening to roll in across his mind.

His fingertips tickled as they traced along the centre of her chest, her sternum and when he touched her sides (Y/n) wasn't sure whether she flinched or whether he tickled her. He peered over her shoulder to check her back, but there were only graze marks there, not deep enough to draw any blood. And she would have some deep bruises on her left side in the morning, but nothing to worry about.

Still, Eddie pressed his fingertips against (Y/n)'s chest and felt over each rib just to check that none of them were broken. (Y/n) had been stooped forward and cowering when she arrived, but it was sore muscles and impending bruises that caused that, no broken bones. She had been as lucky tonight as she was unlucky.

"Honey what happened to your shoes?" Eddie's brows furrowed as he glanced down when (Y/n)'s feet started to tap against his thighs, an anxious habit that clearly wasn't supposed to attract his attention. But when he looked, he realised she was barefoot.

"Broke a heel when I kicked him," It was clear in her tone and how slow and certain she spoke now that she was calming down. "Ran better without them."

Kicking had been the only defence mechanism (Y/n) could do in a hurry once he'd dislocated her finger and shoved her back. But her flimsy heel broke when it rammed into his chest and the shoe came off when she started to run away. Running with one heel wasn't a good idea and it slowed her down so (Y/n) kicked it off and pelted down the street, bare foot.

Her feet didn't even hurt, but that could be the adrenaline still coursing through her veins, taking time to taper off.

She almost wobbled back against the window when Eddie's hand suddenly curled around her ankle and he gently lifted her leg so he could see the soles of her feet. He checked both, breathing easier when he saw that she hadn't cut either foot and there was no glass or broken shards imbedded in her soles.

His hands shifted up until both were curled around (Y/n)'s thighs causing his pointed shoulders to stick out and he arched forward like he was trying to merge their chests together. But there was a curious look in his wide eyes that made (Y/n) go still.

"Why'd you come here? You didn't call for the police, or run home, or go to the emergency room. Why come to me?"

His tone was softer than it had been earlier, no hatred directed towards the person who had put her through this dilemma. No sorrow or panic woven into his tone, just a gentleness that made his voice quiet like a whisper on the wind which whirled around (Y/n)'s heart.

"I… I just, when I started running, I ended up here. Wanted to feel safe; you make me feel safe."

Eddie was safe, his house was like a second home to (Y/n) with the amount of times she was here to babysit Chris or help out in some way. And she didn't have to think about it, her mind just propelled her body in this direction until she was stood on Eddie's doorstep.

She knew she would be safe if she came here, she knew Eddie would look after her and he could patch up her wounds quicker and more tenderly than any nurse. (Y/n) didn't want to talk to the police, she hadn't been in any state to stand around and wait for them to arrive. She didn't want to go home and be alone after what she'd gone through and she certainly didn't want to sit and wait for hours to be seen by a stranger at the hospital.

Eddie had been at the forefront of her mind.

"You'll always be safe with me."

As soon as he said those words, it was like a switch had been flipped in (Y/n)'s mind. She couldn't stop herself like she had become possessed and her hands were suddenly cupping Eddie's face, pulling him that much closer until he was within reach for her lips to crash down onto his. And she wasn't letting this moment go for anything in the world.

His chest moulded against hers, leaning into her like he had lost his footing and was trying to regain his balance and (Y/n) felt the cold edge of the windowsill against her back. His hands reached out to grasp onto her hips, his touch not harsh enough to bruise but firm enough to show that he wasn't going to let her go.

(Y/n)'s lips parted against his, emitting a gasp when Eddie pulled her by the hips until she was sat on the very edge of the counter, her thighs now encasing around his hips instead of her knees.

One hand shifted up to cup the back of her neck again beneath her hair and (Y/n) felt his other hand curving around from her hip so his arm was safely bound around her waist. Pinning their chests flushed together while (Y/n) bound her arms around his neck, fingers on her good hand knotting into the longer strands at the back of Eddie's head. And the sharp tug she gave earned a moan vibrating past his lips and into her mouth.

"Glad you came to me, honey." Eddie murmured against her lips, barely able to suck in a proper breath before their lips were locked again.

“Um, your ring? I didn’t know you were married.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dr. Shen wince before backing out of the room. “I’m just gonna…yeah.”

Abbot turned to face her fully, looking her over with narrowed eyes. “I don’t really like to talk about it. Thanks for bringing it up.”

Victoria’s eyes went wide. “I’m…I’m sorry?”

“My wife is gone, Javadi. She is no longer among us. I wear the ring as a reminder.”

“Oh my god,” her voice was little more than a whisper. Then a little louder, “I am so sorry, Dr. Abbot. How long has she been gone if you don’t mind my asking?”

He sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “It seems like just this morning we were having breakfast together.”

With that he left the room, leaving Victoria gaping behind him.

Abbot didn’t treat her any differently the rest of the night, but Victoria couldn’t keep from feeling she’d screwed up. As soon as Dr. Robby appeared for his shift the next morning, Victoria intercepted him.

“Dr. Robby,” she said, fingers twisting together in front of her. “I think I really messed up.”

Robby looked down at her, slipping his sunglasses into his pocket. “What happened?”

“Well, I asked Dr. Abbot about his wife.”

His response was not what Victoria expected. Robby tilted his head back and groaned, the sound deep and drawn out. Finally, he looked at her again with a huff. “And what precisely did Dr. Abbot say about the Mrs.?”

“Um, that she was gone and he didn’t like talking about it. It seemed really recent too.”

Robby looked more amused than anything now as he hummed in agreement. “Oh, it’s been years now.” He placed one large hand on her shoulder and squeezed slightly. “Don’t worry, Javadi. He won’t take it personally. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Relief flooded through her. “Thank you, Dr. Robby,” she said in a rush and hurried off down the hall.

Robby watched her go with a shake of his head before heading to the hub where you were standing beside Jack as you both sipped a coffee and shared a breakfast sandwich. He pursed his lips and dropped his voice before saying, “I hear you’re a widower, Jack. My condolences.”

You swallowed the bite you’d been chewing and turned to glare at Jack. “Who?”

He chuckled, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. “Javadi.”

You sighed. “Will you please quit telling people that I am dead?”

“I didn’t,” he protested.

When you lifted a brow, he held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I didn’t. I simply said you were gone. She assumed.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m on days for a week, not dead. You’re an idiot.”

“Hey,” he protested.

“No, she’s right. You are,” Robby said, clapping his friend on the back.

“You hush,” Jack snapped. “You don’t get to contribute to the conversation. I haven’t forgotten you tried to steal her from me.”

“For fuck’s sake, Jack,” you and Robby muttered almost in unison.

You leaned in so only they would hear you. “If you don’t quit tormenting people, I’m going to start going by Abbot so you can’t get away with it anymore.”

As you walked away, Jack called after you. “That is not nearly the threat you think it is!”

You felt your own mouth curling into a quiet smile despite yourself. “So this must feel really nostalgic for you then, huh?”

“Extremely,” he deadpanned.

“Well…” you sighed. “Got any tips for me then, old man?”

Jack exhaled a heavy breath and turned to face you while the heavy machine beeped and buzzed beside you. He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his camo pants and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, look at it this way— Today is gonna suck, but… That means every shift from now can’t possibly get worse than this one, right?”

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “That, or we just… keep descending into another circle of hell every day.”

Jack smiled wider at your cynicism, patting you softly on the shoulder before sauntering off the way he came. “That’s the spirit, kid.”

You still feel his hand on you even now, wide and warm over your thick black scrubs, while you trudge through the rest of your charting. You hate the effect he has on you; you hate how often he plagues your every thought. It takes a great amount of muscle memory, you find, not to accidentally jot his name down as your hand moves the pen on autopilot. 

You don’t think it’d feel quite as pathetic if you thought that there might be an inkling he felt the same way about you. But now, all you are is an R4 with a stupid schoolgirl crush on her boss, and half a mental breakdown away from scribbling little hearts in her notes with his initials scrawled inside.

“You plan on getting in on this?” Santos asks in place of a greeting as she slides her swivel chair next to yours. She wears a faint smirk on her lips and a mischievous glint in her light eyes that gives you great pause.

Ink smudges on the inside of your wrist as you halt your scribbling to flash her a dubious look. “…On what?”

“Ahmad got bored after Princess won the last bet,” she tells you, reaching behind her to tighten the half-ponytail at the crown of her head. “Said the grid was too good to take down so soon, so… He started a new one.” 

You scoff a dry laugh and turn away again. 

“Yeah? What is it this time— Which one of us is gonna be the first to have a breakdown and quit? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’d win that one…”

“Close…” Trinity croons, leaning in like she’s about to tell you some sort of secret. Her eyes flit somewhere over your shoulder, in the vague direction of where Mohan stands with Jack across the room, before she confesses. “It’s about Abbot and Samira. I have it on good authority that they were getting pret-ty close in Central 4 together…”

“C-Close?” you echo on bated breath. 

Your head whips over your shoulder to the other side of the workstation, where Jack and Samira exchange information about one of her patients. You hadn’t given their closeness a second thought before now. It’s like you blinked, and now the sight of them together makes you feel sick. 

You hope Santos doesn’t see the hurt weighing down your features when you turn back to her. “What— What do you mean close?”

“I mean, Dr. Abbot was half naked while Samira was tending to his shoulder,” Trinity explains with a scoff and turns back to her own clipboard. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it until I heard her say, ‘It’s our little secret—’” 

She mocks in a high-pitched voice, which sounds nothing like Samira’s, before laughing to herself.

“—Like, c’mon. You guys could at least try to be subtle about it.”

You know she expects you to start laughing with her, but you struggle to find the energy to do so now.

“Yeah…” you sigh instead, hardly audible as you struggle to speak through the sudden tightening in your chest. “Right…”

“You should go place a bet,” she tells you, half-distracted by the files before her. “You could win back the money you lost and then some.”

“With what?” you joke with a sad scoff. “The three dollars I have left to my name?”

She flashes you a deadpanned look. “If that’s all you have to lose, I think I’d take those odds.”

You figure Trinity’s right. You have nothing more to lose, in truth — not after the shit day you’ve already had, and the money you’ve already lost, and the teenage heart inside of you that’s already broken. 

You finish up your charting, return the clipboard to the patient rack, and retrieve your wallet from the locker room. Because, as you see it, you’ll either leave this shift about a hundred dollars richer or with nothing at all; either totally vindicated or with a bank account just as empty as you feel on the inside.

You find Ahmad in the security room, and he flashes you a toothy grin as you slink through the doorway like a shy little storm cloud. He motions with the notepad he holds in a sun-kissed hand. “I knew you’d wanna get on the books, kid— What’d it take to convince you this time?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug with a mournful sigh. “I just… realized that I have nothing else to lose, I guess…”

Dr. Barker laughs from beside you.

“Well, that’s always the best reason to make a bet, in my experience,” he jokes with a pearly white smile, pushing the sleeves of his navy button-down up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tanned, scruffy forearms. 

Nick Barker stands quite a few inches taller than you — which you hadn’t expected before now, since he’d spent most of his time in the E.R. sitting behind the portable radiology machine. He has to look down at you from the bridge of his broad nose from this angle, with eyes so dark they’re almost black. 

He’s almost effortlessly handsome. Like, Disney prince sort of handsome. The kind of handsome that makes it impossible to look into his eyes without blushing like a schoolgirl.

“I’m normally a lot more responsible than this, but… I figured all things considered…” you trail off with a sheepish shrug.

“Yeah, you’re talkin’ to the girl who hasn’t taken a day off since I started here— Two years ago,” Ahmad scoffs. “I think you deserve to let loose every once in a while, Doc, all things considered.”

He taps you gently on the head with his notepad. You roll your eyes and reach into the pocket of your scrubs, cheeks burning under the weight of the sudden attention you’re getting. 

“Just put me down for $10—” you say, but cut yourself off when Ahmad hisses through his teeth. “…What is it?”

“Minimum this time twenty,” he grimaces.

Your shoulders deflate with a sigh. “Seriously?”

“We had to up the ante this time, kid— Rules of the game.”

“Then I guess put me down for twenty…” you huff and pluck your wallet from your scrub pockets. “For… unrequited…”

“Unrequited by who?” Ahmad presses with his brows raised to his hairline.

“I don’t know. Samira, I guess,” you shrug, half-timid, ‘cause it’s not like you totally believe it either. You’re just trying to take a page out of Trinity’s book, really, and manifest something good for yourself for a change — pretending that Abbot isn’t into her in the hopes that it’ll make it somehow real.

“What?” Ahmad laughs like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t believe in love?”

You flash him a solemn look in return. “I’ll start believing in something again when the systems come back up,” you answer in a monotone.

“Touche…” he nods slowly while Dr. Barker exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. 

A familiar voice comes suddenly from the entrance:

“I think that is the single sanest answer I’ve heard all day,” Jack Abbot himself hums in a gritty deadpan. 

You nearly break your neck with how fast your head whips over your shoulder, finding the man leaning against the doorway with his toned arms crossed over his chest and a smug smirk dancing on his lips. 

Your skin prickles with a red-hot heat while your pounding heart drops to your stomach. If he wasn’t into you before, he certainly won’t be now — not with you making bets on his love life like a crazy person with nothing better to do. (Though, in many ways, that is exactly what you are.)

“Dr. Abbot…” Ahmad croons, trying to play casual despite knowing his secretive betting ring’s finally been found out. “That’s funny— We were just talking about you.”

“Robby may or may not have told me,” Jack confesses as he saunters slowly into the security room, boots heavy on the white linoleum. “Wanted me to tell him if there was something going on with Mohan and me, so he could recoup the money he lost in the last bet.”

“…Well, is there?” Nick wonders lowly.

“C’mon, Barker. Where’s the fun in that?” Jack scoffs a dry laugh, then goes strangely solemn again in a flicker. “Even though, as an attending, I think I have to say that I am very against this— I feel like this has H.R. violation written all over it.”

“Well, what Gloria doesn’t know, won’t hurt us, right?” Ahmad quips.

“I’ve been livin’ by those exact words for years, brother.”

Your hands are clammy and trembling for a reason you can’t name as you pull two crumpled bills from your wallet — a dingy, pastel Polly Pocket billfold you’ve had since you were twelve — as if you needed another reason to look any less cool in front of Jack. The pale pink interior is left glaringly empty, save for a few folded receipts and miscellaneous fortune-cookie slips.

“Wow…” you huff as you pass Ahmad the twenty. “That is all the cash I have to my name. I’m officially more broke than I was in med school— I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“I can take you out to dinner with my winnings, if you want,” Nick offers suddenly. 

Your head snaps in his direction, and his eyes widen, as though surprised by his own forwardness. He swallows hard, pronounced adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, scruffy with a five o’clock shadow. 

“You know, if you— if you wanna… let loose or whatever.”

Your lip flickers upward in a shy smile when Dr. Barker sighs and shakes his head to himself. A few rogue strands of dark hair fall from their gelled quaff and hang over his forehead until he pushes them back in place again. 

“Sorry, that, uh…” He chuckles awkwardly at himself. “That came out weird.”

“I might be stuck in charting jail for the rest of the night, actually,” you say with an apologetic grimace, wringing your clammy fingers into knots. “Can I get back to you on that?” 

“Yeah!” he blurts, a little quicker than he means to. He clears his throat and, in an octave lower, repeats himself. “Yeah. Totally. No worries.”

You dismiss yourself with a quiet smile and lack the courage to look Jack in the eye when you pass him on the way to the door. He watches you leave and waits for you to glance back at him with his heart in his throat. You never do. 

Still, though, he can’t help but feel a little proud of himself; after watching you turn down the handsome radiologist every woman on this floor has been fawning over all day. He turns back around and hisses through his teeth, trying not to look as smug as he feels. 

“Damn,” Jack deadpans. “That was cold, man…”

Nick’s dark eyes widen and flit wildly between the two men on either side of him. “Wait— Really?”

“Ice cold…” Ahmad affirms with a slow nod. “Girl said she’s broke, and you think she’s gonna say ‘no thanks’ to some free food? In this economy? Yeah… She’s not into you, man.”

Jack claps the solemn boy hard on the shoulder. “You win some, you lose some, kid… Don’t take it too hard.”

You forget all about the stupid bet and Nick’s offer some hours later, when Robby sticks you with Ogilvie and tells you to walk the MS4 through your canthotomy patient. 

You talk aloud as you slice your scalpel through the young girl’s eye, where the socket is raging red and bulging from the pressure behind it. The boy doesn’t say a word the whole time, just holds the plastic cup where the bright crimson blood drains from the eye, and doesn’t move a muscle until it stops.

“I think that’s the closest I’ve come to puking since I started med school,” the boy confesses when it’s done, standing just over your shoulder while you fill out the patient’s med slip. “I didn’t even get that close during cadaver lab, when all of us started craving meat from the formaldehyde— I’m pretty sure five people dropped out that day alone…”

His voice trails off when Samira catches your eye, rushing by the desk with her wild curls falling from her claw clip. She wears the hard shift all over as she makes a beeline directly for Jack, planting herself ahead of the older man; so close she has to tilt her chin to meet his gaze. 

Your hand freezes around the pen as you keep your eyes on the two of them, staring harder than you probably realize as you struggle to make out their conversation. Their words are drowned out by Ogilvie’s rambling, and the surrounding beep and chatter of the crowded E.R. 

Mohan talks wildly with her hands and says something about “a letter,” while Jack nods along sympathetically and says something along the lines of “give me your number.” 

Your chest flares with a white-hot feeling when you watch the man pass Samira his phone to plug her number into. It’s like the world has fallen out from under you and swallowed you whole, like you’re drowning in the fire of your own envy. 

You’re barely seven hours on the job, and you’ve already lost all your cash — you’ll be doomed to the three-day-old leftovers in the fridge, if the newfound heartache hasn’t already snatched your appetite for the evening. That means you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow morning — still broke, still hungry, still heartbroken.

Then you remember Dr. Barker — Disney prince Dr. Barker — and his offer of dinner from earlier in the security room. 

You make the terribly impulsive decision to take fate into your own hands and forget to properly dismiss yourself before dropping the finished order slip off across the room. Ogilivie is quick to follow close behind, lacking any real sense of personal space. He nearly trips over himself to keep from running into you when you freeze suddenly in place.

“You don’t have to follow me anymore,” you tell him.

“Oh… Well, then… What am I supposed to do?” the blonde boy shrugs.

“I don’t know. Do whatever you want…” you trail off and glance around the bustling work station. You spot Trinity standing at the chart rack and motion over to her. “Go help Dr. Santos with her next patient.”

The dark-haired girl turns at the sound of her name. 

“Oh, please don’t—” She cuts herself off with a sigh when Ogilvie makes his way towards her anyway. “Fuck. Fine…”

You continue your trek to the other side of the crowded work station, where the portable radiology machine takes up the majority of the room. You can smell the man’s expensive, musky cologne before he ever comes into view.

“Hey, Nick…” you greet, then wince at how weird it sounds a second later. “I mean, Dr. Barker— Sorry—”

He glances up from his work at the sound of your voice. “Nick is fine,” he assures with a kind grin and a pair of chocolate-colored eyes.

You try to smile back, but your nervousness makes it look more like a grimace. “It’s not, like, totally too late for me to take you up on that offer for dinner, is it?”

“No!” he blurts with a shake of his head. “Of course not!”

“Great…” you say with a relieved sigh.

“Yeah, I’ll— I’ll text you the details later.”

“Oh. Well, you don’t…” You scrunch the bridge of your nose in a sheepish look. “You don’t have my number…”

His mouth falls softly agape with the realization. “Oh. Right. Duh.”

You smile wider despite yourself, ‘cause he’s almost as awkward as you are, which you didn’t think was possible before now — especially not for someone as pretty as he is. 

You turn away and grab the nearest pen, clicking it on with your thumb before reaching for his arm. You scribble your number over the dark blue veins on his wrist with a newfound confidence — one that you never had before now, one spurred on by the man’s obvious shyness. 

You feel Nick’s eyes on you when you look away, flitting wildly across your profile. 

“This isn’t… This isn’t just because of the bet, is it?” he wonders with a waver in his voice.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You know, the whole thing you said about… losing all your money or whatever,” Dr. Barker explains with a sheepish laugh. “You’re not just going out with me for a free meal, are you?”

“Well, isn’t that kinda the point of going on dates? The free food?” you joke with a dry laugh, which fades instantly at the confused look Nick gives you in response. Your face floods with horror a second later. “I’m kidding! I’m totally kidding— Of course not.”

“Okay,…” Dr. Barker says with an awkward chuckle. “Good.”

“Good,” you echo with a sigh and rise to full height again.

“I’ll, uh— I’ll text you.”

“I’ll be waiting,” you chirp with a polite nod and a giddy grin, which ebbs the second you turn away from him. You shake your head as you slink back through the bustling emergency department, squeezing your eyes shut and murmuring under your breath in disgust, “I’ll be waiting—?”

You nearly trip over yourself when you ram suddenly into a firm body. Two calloused hands grasp gently at your elbows as you stumble backwards. You almost lose your breath when you find Jack Abbot towering over you.

“Shit… you huff. “Sorry, I— I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Where’ve you been hiding?” Jack squints. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Your shy smile fades into a disbelieving squint almost instantly; at the bitter reminder of Jack and Samira — of the seemingly intimate conversation they’d shared just minutes ago, and of the bet you know you’re bound to lose now.

“No, you weren’t,” you deadpan.

“I was,” he insists. “I feel like I always am, some way or another.”

Your chest warms at his words. You choke on the funny feeling when you force yourself to swallow it down. “I was just— walking one of the interns through a lateral canthotomy,” you stammer as you step back out of his hold.

“Gnarly,” Jack hums with a slow nod.

“Did you, uh… Did you need me for something?”

“Yeah, I have a patient over in Trauma 2— Sliced through his left hand with a circular saw,” Jack explains, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose as he crosses his strong arms over his chest. “But the crazy part is, he used his right hand to take the nail gun and—”

“Oh, my god,” you blurt before you mean to. “He tried to put his hand back on with the nail gun, didn’t he?”

“Close…” he hums with a knowing glint in his eyes. “He used the gun to fire two nails into his temple— Said he thought it would distract him from the pain in his hand. And the weird thing is, he’s walking and talking just fine.”

“Holy shit…” you mumble, wide-eyed. “Why do you always get the cool cases?”

“You can have it,” he assures you, with something soft swimming in his eyes. “That’s why I wanted to find you— so you could do it with me.”

Something about it feels way more intimate than being asked out for dinner.

You finish the rest of your shift as normal — feeling like a shell of your former self after hours of running on fumes; both excruciatingly tired and buzzing with white-hot adrenaline all at once. 

The only real difference between today and every other day before this one is that, for the first time in a long, long time, you actually have plans outside of work — almost like a real human person with a social life would.

You return home after the long day, only for an hour or so, to shower and change out of your scrubs. You wash away the scent of blood, sweat, and antiseptic from your skin, and only cut your knee once when you shave your legs for the first time in weeks. You pull out a nice top, a short skirt, and a real bra from the depths of your closet. You go as far as to break out the expensive perfume that you’ve had for years, ‘cause you only use it on extra special occasions, which tend to be few and far between for you.

You feel like an entirely different person when you meet Dr. Barker at the address he’d sent you a few hours ago — a nice bar, just a few blocks down from your apartment building, that you’d been meaning to visit for years but found every excuse in the book to stay home instead. You find the man sitting alone in a far booth in the dimly lit room, sipping slowly at the beer he nurses in his hand, and feel a little like a fraud when you slide into the vinyl seat across from him. 

Nick has only known you for the better part of a work shift, to be fair, not counting the handful of times you’d smiled politely in passing when you clocked out for the day. You know he’s got some version of you in his head already, like all men do — someone much cooler than you really are, someone much better at separating their work life from their personal life than you are.

You prove him wrong in record time, sharing a plate of loaded nachos between you and forgetting to eat any of it as you get too easily lost in your ramblings. You tell him of the long shift, and of the man you met with two nails in his skull, and fail to remember that not everyone can talk of blood and gore over a meal as easily as you can.

“—Honestly, I’m still surprised it didn’t hemorrhage! The X-Ray showed one of the nails was, like, half an inch away from nicking an artery,” you ramble with a giddy grin. “I pulled them out with some local anesthetic, and he was totally fine— Well, except for the hand, obviously. ‘Cause he did lose a few fingers, but… Dr. Abbot took care of that, so…”

“Did he?” Nick hums, hiding his smile behind the pint he brings to his mouth. 

He thinks this must be the fifth or so time you’ve brought up the man’s name tonight alone — not that you seem to notice. He doesn’t know whether that’s supposed to make him feel better or worse.

“Yeah— I always tell him he would’ve been an amazing surgeon if he didn’t have the hand-eye coordination of, like… A half-blind sloth,” you say, then swallow hard at the playful look Nick gives you in response. “‘Cause, you know, sloths are really clumsy, and they… Sometimes mistake their own limbs for branches, so… They fall a lot…”

You trail off and reach for the glass of water at your side, becoming very suddenly self-aware of your inability to stop rambling.

“You talk about him a lot,” Nick observes with a kind smile, licking the sheen of alcohol from his lips.

 “…Who?” you wonder with furrowed brows.

“Dr. Abbot.”

Your features flood with terror. “Do I?”

His broad nose scrunches with a breathy laugh. “A little bit, yeah.”

“Oh, god…” you groan and hide your face behind your hand. Nick’s laugh gets lost in the rock music playing overhead. “That’s so annoying. I’m sorry—”

Your phone glows to life as it buzzes against the wooden table it sits on. You reach over to flip it face down before you can read the message on the screen.

“I didn’t… I didn’t even notice… I’m so sorry.”

It vibrates again, twice more in quick succession.

Your stomach twists with the anticipation of what it might say.

“It’s whatever,” Dr. Barker shrugs, pushing the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows. “I get it. He’s your boss and everything, so…”

Your phone buzzes on the table once more, for longer this time, now with a phone call. 

You tense, but make no move to answer it, for fear of making this more awkward than you already have — though your pretending not to hear it doesn’t make it any better. 

The corner of Nick’s lip twitches into a sympathetic smile, ‘cause he can tell that you’re trying to be polite, even though you’re fidgeting at the thought of answering it. Because your friends usually only ever text you, so if someone’s calling, it’s bound to be important.

“You can get that if you need to—”

“Thank you,” you sigh before he’s properly gotten the words out, scrambling for your phone with anxious hands. “I’m so sorry. It’ll be quick, I swear. I’m sure it’s just… Fuck.”

The call ends before you can answer it. 

Nick’s eyes widen at your reaction. “Everything okay?”

“It’s Parker…” you answer with your eyes trained on the blue-white screen. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh beneath your skin-tight top. “And I know it’s serious because she despises double-texting and she just sent me four back to back, so…”

Your eyes are wet and preemptively apologetic when they dart to the man across the table, who meets the disaster of you with a tender grin.

“You gotta go back in, huh?” he squints.

“I do…” you sigh. “I’m so sorry—”

“Just make it up to me next time,” Nick shrugs, watching with kind eyes as you scramble for your phone and purse. “When I win that bet, I mean. I’ll take you out somewhere nice— We can do this for real. If you want.”

You slide out of the cracking vinyl booth with a grimace — equal parts unnerved at the idea of doing this a second time and half-surprised that Nick would even want to, after you did nothing but anxiously ramble before bailing on him out of nowhere.

“Yeah…” you waver anyway as you stand to full height again. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”

“Thank you again— I’d kiss you right now if I could,” Dr. Ellis tells you when you pass her in the ambulance bay, where she hurries out of the E.D. on long limbs. She calls over her shoulder, moments before she’s out of earshot. “You look hot, by the way!”

The passing reminder of what you’re showing up to work in hits you like a punch to the stomach. 

The double doors of the PTMC part for you, and the air-conditioned emergency room wraps its cold fingers around every inch of your exposed skin — your shaven legs, arms, and collarbones; all of which are normally concealed by your dark scrubs and undershirts. 

You can’t help but feel a bit like you’re doing the walk of shame as you race past the work station with your head bowed, barely noticing that the systems are up and running again as you go. You’re too busy trying to make yourself as small as possible on your way to the scrub dispenser down the hall.

Jack smells you before he sees you.

He gets a sudden whiff of something sweet and creamy, like whipped vanilla and fresh raspberries, something candied enough to eat. Then he looks over his shoulder, from where he’s stood at the front desk, and finds you rushing past him in a hurry. His neck nearly cracks with the strength of the double take he gives at the back of you — short skirt swishing around your thighs, tight shirt showing a sliver of your lower back. He feels a little like he’s in middle school again, going wild at the mere sight of a girl’s bare shoulder. 

By the time his brain starts working again to greet you, you’ve already turned the corner.

“Whoa, gotta hot date tonight?” he hears Shen ask as you walk by.

“Just left one, more like,” you scoff.

“Damn. Poor guy,” the man quips, then laughs when you flip him off.

“…What the hell?” Jack mutters under his breath, with his eyes still trained on the empty hall you’d just disappeared down.

“What? You didn’t hear?” McKay wonders aloud, from where she’s hunched over the monitor across from him, still closing down for the day now that the ED isn’t in analog hell anymore. She peers up at him with tired blue eyes, half-hidden beneath her wild fringe. “Don’t tell Princess, but apparently, she went out with that Dr. Barker guy from radiology.”

“Oh, really?” Jack hums, nodding slowly to feign interest. He hopes the hurt flaring in his chest doesn’t show all over his face as he turns back to his computer. “Sounds fun…”

Javadi eyes him from behind McKay’s shoulder. Her dark, observant stare traces the edges of his face as she twirls the string of her lavender jacket with her pointer finger. 

“Well, don’t look so upset about it, Dr. Abbot,” she jokes with a quiet laugh, half-dazed from the long day. “I have a lot riding on this bet about you and Mohan, you know—?”

Cassie flashes the younger girl a wordless look.

Victoria’s eyes go wide when they flit back to Jack’s. 

“—Which I wasn’t supposed to mention in front of you…” she blurts and fakes an awkward laugh. “There is no bet, actually. I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Jack doesn’t ease the tension by telling her that he already knows; that he has known all day. He just flashes her a half-smile and a pair of squinted eyes as he steps back from the monitor. 

“Real smooth, kid…” he jokes before he walks away.

He leaves the work station and turns the corner to find you cradling a pair of black scrubs to your chest and making a beeline for the restroom nearest to the break room. He rushes on long legs to catch up with you, limping slightly from his prosthetic. You freeze at the sound of your name from his lips, echoing from down the long hall. Your skirt swishes around your thighs as you spin in place to face him.

“Hey…” Jack greets, only slightly out of breath when he towers finally over you.

Your brows lower in confusion at the sight of his flustered state, but you smile nonetheless. “Hey…?”

“How was the, uh… The date?”

“Date?” you scoff. “What date?”

“The one you had with Dr. Barker.”

His biceps strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest, peering down at you from the bridge of his nose. Your cheeks flare instantly. You can’t help but feel like you’ve been caught, like he’s just found out you’ve been cheating on him or something — even though the two of you aren’t even together, even though it’s abundantly clear that he wants someone else.

“Well, it wasn’t— it wasn’t really a— a date,” you stammer and turn away. “It was just… dinner.”

“Right,” Jack scoffs and follows behind you the short distance to the bathroom. “Because the two of you weren’t flirting in the security room or anything.”

You huff an emotionless laugh and roll your eyes at him, even though you know he cannot see you. “Yeah, because you and Samira weren’t flirting in Central 4 this morning or anything…” you echo in a gritty monotone.

Jack catches the bathroom door before it can shut behind you. You glance over your shoulder when you hear it hit his palm. You find the man looming in the doorway with something mischievous glittering in his narrowed eyes.

“I’m trying to get changed,” you deadpan, despite the distant fluttering in your chest.

Jack passes through the threshold and lets the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone in the empty bathroom, where the white-blue fluorescent lights buzz overhead. 

“Am I hearing things, or do you sound a little jealous?” the older man quips, glittering eyes trained on the back of you as you duck into the singular stall across the room.

It clicks shut behind you. 

“Aren’t you the one who came chasing after me, Dr. Abbot?”

“Aren’t you the one who ran off from your date just to come back in?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” you laugh.

“C’mon,” Jack scoffs. “You know what.”

Your short skirt pools around your feet with a quiet thud. You step out of it and toe off your right shoe, sliding on the adjoining pant leg before slipping the sneaker back on again. You do the same for the left side, and Jack has to shake the visual of your half-naked body from his head.

“I thought we had… You know, I thought we had a thing going on…”

“A thing?” you repeat, half-muffled, as you slide your shirt over your head. You hang it over the stall before reaching for your scrub top. “I wouldn’t exactly consider flirty comments and lingering eye contact a thing.”

Jack catches a glimpse of your bare spine through the sliver in the door frame. He swallows hard and forces himself to look down at his feet.

“You say that like I don’t wish I could do more,” he tells you. “I’m an attending— I can’t just go around making moves on my residents. It’s not a good look.”

The stall door squeaks open again. You come into view, now dressed in your scrubs, and wearing a hardened scowl on your dolled-up face. “Well, that didn’t stop you from getting Samira’s number, did it?” you argue. “Or letting her patch you up this morning?”

“I gave her my number because she asked for a recommendation letter, and I told her I’d give her one,” Jack confesses, watching you with a glittering gaze as you storm past him with your clothes cradled to your chest. He makes room for you by the sink and fights back a grin while you scrub angrily at your hands. “And I was patching myself up, actually, until she walked in looking for her patient.”

“Well, how convenient…” you grumble.

Jack smiles wider. “You are jealous,” he croons.

“I am, actually,” you deadpan, with your eyes trained on the soap you suds between your fingers. Even still, you can see the man in your peripheral vision, standing in the mirror just behind you. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, and smell the cologne lingering on his clothes.

“So that’s why you went out with the Barker guy, huh?” Jack lilts. “You just wanted to make me jealous…”

“No, actually,” you tell him. “I went out with Nick because I figured I should probably stop chasing after a guy that obviously doesn’t want me.”

You turn off the faucet with your fist and reach for the paper towel dispenser at your side.

Jack follows your every move.

“Yeah?” he hums lowly. “And who said I didn’t want you?”

You turn around to glare at him despite the newfound heat swimming in the pit of your stomach. 

“Well, I think you’ve made it pretty clear, Dr. Abbot,” you deadpan. “I don’t think the entire floor would be betting on you and Samira otherwise.”

Jack takes a daring step closer, until you have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze when he towers suddenly over you. With his hands crossed over his chest, he bows his head and tells you, “Well, I don’t want Mohan. And I don’t care about that stupid bet. Is that clear enough for you?”

Your chest warms with a familiar feeling. Your features crumple under the weight of it as you murmur sheepishly, “Okay. I’m not even trying to be funny right now, but if you’re trying to tell me that you do like me, you’re going to have to say that outright, or else my brain won’t—”

You feel his hands on you, wide and warm around the outsides of your elbows. You feel your feet stumbling on the tile, and your chest colliding with his, and then his mouth pressing against yours. You feel his chapped lips, his coarse scruff, and his exhaled breath from his nose as it fans warm over your skin. 

You freeze against him, too stunned that he’s kissing you at all to remember to kiss him back.

Jack pulls away from you a dizzying second or more later. He peers down at you with a heavy gaze and smiles when he realizes you haven’t yet taken your eyes off him.

“I like you…” he tells you slowly, as though to make sure you’re really hearing him. “Are we clear now?”

You swallow hard and nod your head, licking at your kissed lips in a feeble attempt to taste him again. 

“Crystal,” you quip drily.

You rise to the tips of your toes and wrench your free hand in his scrub top, with every intention of kissing him again — for real this time. You flinch in a fleeting panic when the bathroom door squeaks open a second later. 

Samira slips inside, too distracted by the phone in her hand to see what she’s walking in on. You and Jack freeze against one another accordingly, as if being so still will somehow make you invisible.

The door closes behind her and muffles the never-ending chaos outside. Only when it clicks shut again does Samira look up from her phone, dark eyes wide as they flit wildly between the two of you.

“Holy shit…” she mumbles under her breath, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.

You push the man away from you on instinct. 

“We weren’t doing anything!” you blurt, hardly convincing in the matter.

Jack’s soft eyes cut over to you. “Real smooth,” he mumbles.

Samira’s look of shock ebbs into a giddy smile. 

“I knew it!” she exclaims, voice ringing through the tiled restroom. “Ahmad looked at me like I was crazy when I put forty dollars on the two of you, but I knew I was right!”

Your brows furrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“The bet,” she shrugs with a smile. “I put mine on the two of you. Which means I just got a couple hundred dollars richer, at least.” 

  The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach. 

“Which means I just lost all of my money…”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I can spare some of my winnings. I mean, it’s only right, right?” Samira says with a pretty laugh. “You guys can go out for drinks or something special. My treat.”

It becomes suddenly very difficult to imagine yourself from five minutes ago — back when you were overcome with jealousy just by the sight of her alone — knowing now that she had been rooting for you this whole time. Jack seems to know this, too, based on the smug smile he gives you.

“This real nice of you, Mohan,” he says. “But if I’m taking my girl out for drinks on a first date, I’m gonna be the one payin’ for ‘em— No offense.”

“None taken,” she shakes her head. “Means more money for me.”

You’re still catching your breath in the meanwhile, ‘cause the newfound title has all but punched the breath from your lungs. My girl, he’d said, and god, you wanted nothing more than to be his girl.

“We should, uh—” You clear your throat when the words get stuck there. “We should probably get out of here before the others think something weird is going on…”

“Something weird is happening— The entire E.D. is betting on my love life,” Jack scoffs as he follows you out of the bathroom, where the chaos of the E.R. finds you almost instantly. “Sorry you lost, by the way. The bet, I mean…”

He catches himself nearly reaching out for your hand. He balls his own into a fist instead to fight the urge. You can see the longing to glittering in his eyes, anyway, when you turn to flash him a sheepish look in response.

“Well, I didn’t lose completely,” you lilt with a lazy shrug. 

“No?” Jack hums.

“No…” you grin. “I think I won where it mattered.”

No one threw a party quite like Rebekah Mikaelson. Over the many years that you and Hayley had been best friends, you had heard all about her parties. Full of laughter, dancing, and the finest liquor money could buy. It sounded amazing, but your ex-boyfriend Mike didn't enjoy parties… so you had never been to one before.

He didn't enjoy most things, actually. Not when they didn’t revolve around him.

So when Hayley burst into your apartment with a garment bag and a curling iron, declaring that you were going to the Mikaelson ball tonight, you laughed.

And then panicked.

"Absolutely not," you said, dodging the brush she was already brandishing like a weapon. "I'm not really ball material."

Hayley gave you a once-over, arching a brow at your ratty sweatpants and the hair that hadn’t seen a brush in days.

You crossed your arms over your chest. "You can't just spring this on me. I don't have anything to wear, and I don't... Look, I'm a mess."

"I'm well aware," Hayley replied. "That's why I brought backup."

The doorbell rang.

"Oh, god," you said, backing up a step.

But Hayley was already at the door, opening it with a flourish. Rebekah swept into the room, blonde hair bouncing as she set her sights on you. She was beautiful and confident and everything you wished you could be.

"Oh, dear. You are a bit of a disaster."

"Thank you for the honesty," you mumbled. "Apologies for lacking the perfect vampire constitution."

"Nothing a little blush can't fix," she said, waving her hand. "Don't worry. I have everything under control."

"You really don't," you said, but both of them were ignoring you, chatting animatedly about dresses and hairstyles.

"I don't have anything to wear, it's too late to-"

"Yes, you do." Rebekah thrust a garment bag into your hands. "My dress should fit you."

"This is ridiculous," you said.

Hayley was already ushering you into the bathroom, telling you to hurry because they only had an hour to work.

"One hour!" she called after you.

You rolled your eyes, shutting the door and taking a deep breath.

The garment bag hung from the back of the door, innocuous and threatening all at once. You stared at it for a moment, then unzipped it carefully like it might explode.

It didn’t. Instead, it shimmered.

A beautiful velvet blue dress caught the light in delicate ripples. You let out a breath and reached out, running your fingers over the fabric.

"Hurry up!"

"All right, all right," you grumbled, pulling off your clothes and sliding the dress over your head. It hugged every curve, the back plunging past your waist. It was more skin than you were used to showing. You weren’t sure if that thrilled or terrified you.

"Let me see!" Rebekah knocked on the door.

"Hold your horses," you called, smoothing your hands down the front of the dress.

They didn’t even wait for you to finish zipping it before dragging you out to sit on the edge of the couch. Hayley tackled your hair while Rebekah handled makeup, the two of them bickering affectionately as they worked around each other like a well-oiled glam squad.

"Ow! okay, that’s attached to my head," you muttered as Hayley tugged a curl into place.

"Beauty is pain," she replied cheerfully, curling another section. "Now hold still."

Rebekah smoothed something over your cheekbone. "We’re going soft and sultry. You already have the eyes, we’re just enhancing the drama."

By the time they were done, your hair fell in glossy waves around your shoulders, your lashes were long and fluttery, and your lips had just enough sheen to catch the light. You barely recognized the person blinking back at you in the mirror.

You didn’t look like the girl who spent months hiding from her own reflection. You looked like someone who belonged at a ball.

"One last thing," Rebekah said.

You turned to her, raising a brow. She held out a necklace, made of glittering diamonds… and a very large ruby in the center.

"That's way too much," you said, shaking your head.

"It's my party," Rebekah said, stepping closer and draping the necklace around your neck. "If I say it's the finishing touch, then it's the finishing touch."

"Are these real diamonds?"

"Of course," Rebekah said.

"Rebekah," you started.

"I'm loaning it to you," she said. "You can keep them for the evening, and I'll come get them tomorrow."

Your fingers found the ruby instinctively, thumb brushing over its polished surface. It didn’t feel like something that belonged to you. But maybe, just for tonight…you could pretend.

"Can I talk to you two for a second?"

Klaus looked up first, lazily amused, already halfway through a glass of bourbon. Elijah glanced over as well, more curious than concerned.

It was just before the party. The compound was nearly ready. Candlelight glowed along the walls, soft music filtered in from the courtyard, and the scent of fresh flowers clung to the air. A few staff moved in and out of the hall, but this room was quiet. Tucked away from the chaos.

Hayley stepped inside and shut the door behind her. She stayed by it for a second, like she was still deciding whether this was a good idea.

"I need a favor," she said.

Klaus leaned back in his chair, arms stretching wide along the back like he was settling into a throne. "I’m sorry, Hayley, but I can't give you another child. At least not yet. Maybe in a few-"

She hurled an unopened bottle of whiskey at his head with the kind of force that would kill a normal person. Klaus ducked and caught it midair, grinning like he just won a prize.

Elijah sighed, setting down the glass he was polishing and straightening the cuffs of his jacket. "What can we help you with, Hayley?"

She glared at Klaus as she crossed the room, then turned her attention to Elijah. "My friend is coming tonight. The one I told you about. She’s been through a lot this year."

Klaus snorted and took a sip of his drink.

Hayley ignored him. "She had a bad breakup and hasn’t really left her apartment since. The guy treated her like garbage. Told her she was nothing. It got in her head. She doesn’t think she’s worth anything anymore. And I need you to help me convince her otherwise."

Klaus raised a brow, swirling the glass in his hand. "And what exactly do you want us to do, love?"

"Nothing complicated. Just flirt with her. Make her feel good. Seen."

Klaus tilted his head, amused. "What makes you think we’re qualified for such a task?" He leaned back again, waiting for her answer with a smirk already tugging at his mouth.

"You know why," Hayley said, crossing her arms tight over her chest.

"I think I have to hear you say it," Klaus replied, eyes gleaming.

Hayley refused to bite. She turned toward Elijah instead.

Elijah straightened subtly. "I’m not sure how comfortable I am-"

"Please," she said, cutting him off. "I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important."

There was a pause. Elijah’s brow furrowed, but then he gave a single nod. "Very well."

Klaus scoffed behind his glass. "I’m not going to help unless you say the words."

Hayley sighed, leveling him with a look. "Because the two of you are the most charming and handsome men I know."

Klaus beamed like he had just been crowned prom king. Elijah remained still, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"But you also have the personality of a rabid dog," Hayley added.

"Well," Klaus said, setting his drink aside. "I suppose we can do this for you, darling little wolf. But only because you asked so nicely."

The courtyard was already glowing, lit from below by soft golds and flickering candles, with strings of fairy lights webbing across the balconies like constellations. You looked up at it all with your mouth hanging open.

Hayley had described it before, but it was so much more. The music was a low, rhythmic thrum, and the air was warm, heavy with the scent of jasmine and champagne.

And there were people everywhere. Dresses spun through the air, and laughter danced above the melody.

You felt frozen for a second. Not in fear, exactly. Just in awe. This didn’t feel like something you were supposed to walk into. It felt like something you were supposed to watch from a window or a screen.

"Hey," Hayley said, nudging your shoulder gently. "You good?"

You swallowed, nodding.

Rebekah stepped closer, reaching for the necklace around your throat and adjusting the ruby pendant. She didn't say anything, but her eyes softened as she smoothed her hands over your shoulders.

Then she linked her arm with yours and began steering you into the crowd.

"Remember," she whispered. "This is my party. That means everyone here is beneath us."

You giggled, and some of the tension bled out of your body. Hayley grabbed your other arm, and you let yourself be led further into the courtyard.

"There are some people I want you to meet," Hayley said.

"Oh I don't... I'm not sure-"

But it was too late, they were steering you towards two of the most attractive men you had ever seen. You knew who they were, Rebekah's notorious brothers. One of them was dark-haired and serious, with a jawline that could cut glass and a perfectly fitted suit. The other was blonde, smirking like he knew all of your secrets, and his tie was loosened and untucked like he couldn't be bothered to keep up appearances.

"Elijah. Klaus."

Both men looked up, and for a split second, you thought they would look right past you, these weren't the kind of men who usually gave you attention. But the blonde smiled and stepped forward, holding out a hand.

"I'm Niklaus," he said, taking your hand in his and placing a gentle kiss to the back of it.

Your heart did a funny little dance in your chest. "Hi."

He kept hold of your hand as he tilted his head. "And what's your name?"

"Y/N," you replied, and his smile widened.

"Y/N," he repeated, his accent wrapping around the syllables and making them sound exotic. "A beautiful name for a beautiful woman."

You laughed and shook your head, a blush creeping over your cheeks. You had no idea how to respond to him. No one had ever spoken to you like this.

"Oh, look at that blush. So precious," he said, finally releasing your hand and stepping back. "Isn't she precious, Elijah?"

The other man shifted closer, and the scent of his cologne made your stomach flutter. You were so distracted by it that it took you a second to realize he was also holding out a hand. You took it, and he pressed a soft kiss to the back of your knuckles, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Quite," he murmured, his gaze lingering on your lips.

You felt a rush of warmth at the attention, the first spark of attraction you had felt in months. It was nice to be seen.

Rebekah squeezed your arm, breaking the spell. "We're going to leave you to it. Have fun, Y/N."

"Oh, um," you said, not wanting to be left alone.

But they were already gone. Leaving you alone with two strangers. Two beautiful strangers.

You stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do. You could feel their eyes on you, taking in every detail, and it made your skin prickle with heat.

"So... Uh. What do you guys do for work?"

It was a stupid question, and you regretted it as soon as you asked. But it was the only thing that came to mind.

"We don't... exactly have jobs," Klaus said, grinning. "Not the traditional sort, anyway."

"Right... I knew that." You laughed nervously, fiddling with the necklace. "Vampires don't really work, do they?"

"Not typically, no," Elijah said. "But there are ways to pass the time."

"Like throwing parties," you offered. "Rebekah’s specialty,"

"Among other things," Klaus said, flashing another smile. "Our sister enjoys being the center of attention."

He took a step closer, tilting his head as his gaze traveled down your figure once more; lingering a moment too long.

"But tonight, I’d say you might be giving her a run for her money."

You blinked. "Me?"

"That dress," he said, voice dropping into something lower, smoother. "It’s sinful. And you're wearing it like it was stitched for you by the devil himself."

Your mouth opened, then closed again.

Klaus smiled, pleased with your fluster. "Tell me something, love. Are you single?"

The question landed too fast. Too sharp.

Your breath caught. "What?"

He chuckled, lifting a brow like it was nothing. "I mean, any man would be mad to let you walk out looking like that unattended. But maybe you're into that. A little danger. A little attention."

You swallowed, throat suddenly tight. The heat on your skin wasn’t from his flattery anymore. It was that sinking, curling pressure in your chest. The kind you knew too well.

Your ex Mike used to talk like that.

Fast. Intense. Like you were being swept up in something heady and grand. Until it wasn’t fun anymore. Until the compliments turned into cages.

Your fingers pressed against the ruby at your throat. You forced a smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

"I should get some air," you said, voice thinner than you meant it to be. "It’s… it’s warm in here."

You turned before either brother could say another word, slipping into the crowd as fast as your heels would let you.

You didn't stop until you reached the second floor balcony. The cool air hit your cheeks, and you closed your eyes for a moment. It helped, a little.

The voices in the courtyard echoed up from below, the music filtering out into the cool night air. You wrapped your fingers around the stone railing, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

The door opened behind you, and you glanced back. It was Elijah, standing there with his hands clasped behind him.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Fine," you replied. "It was just... too hot in there."

"Ah."

You expected him to turn and go, but he didn't. Instead, he moved closer, leaning against the railing a few feet away from you.

He held out a bottle of water. "I thought you might need this."

"Oh," you said, surprised. "Thank you."

You took the bottle, twisting off the cap and taking a long sip. It was cool and refreshing, washing away some of the dryness in your mouth.

Elijah was quiet, but his presence was soothing. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, curious about him.

"How long have you known Hayley?" he asked.

"Only a couple of years," you replied. "But we've become close. She's... she's been a good friend to me."

He nodded, looking out over the courtyard. "She is a good person."

"Yes, she is," you agreed, smiling.

There was a pause. You weren't sure what else to say, but you didn't want him to leave. You turned back to the railing, enjoying the way the cool air caressed your bare shoulders.

"I'm sorry if my brother upset you," he said.

"He didn't," you replied. "It's just... I'm not used to people talking like that. At least not to me."

Elijah tilted his head. "How do you mean?"

You shrugged, tracing the curve of the railing with one finger. "I've never been the type of girl men notice."

"I find that hard to believe."

You glanced up, startled. He was looking at you, expression sincere. He held your gaze, his eyes dark and bottomless. You could feel the intensity of his focus, the way it pulled at something inside you. It was intoxicating.

Your pulse fluttered. You bit your lip, looking away. "Thank you," you whispered.

"You're welcome," he replied, and his voice was deeper than before.

"So... What's it like living for centuries?" You tried to keep your tone light, but the words still felt silly. Elijah's lips twitched.

"You never asked Rebekah?"

"No. She scares me a little."

Elijah laughed. It was a quiet, reserved thing. But it lit up his face, making him look younger. Less serious.

"I suppose I don't know any other way, it's like asking a fish what it's like to swim."

"That makes sense," you replied. "Though, I'm sure it's not without its perks. Like all the history, art and culture you get to witness."

"Those are some of the best parts," he agreed, his expression softening. "I've lived in New Orleans for a long time, and I always enjoy seeing what changes it goes through."

"Although, there is always a point where the new becomes the normal and the old is forgotten." You sighed, leaning forward against the railing. "I've spent my whole life living in the past, and now the present feels so daunting."

Elijah looked thoughtful, considering. "It is true, things change. But the important things remain."

"Like what?"

"Music," he said. "Laughter. Love. These things will always exist, no matter how much the world changes." He paused, his eyes catching yours again. "And you can create your own history, if you wish."

You smiled, tilting your head. "Have you done that? Made your own history, I mean."

"In my own way, yes." He said, a private smile crossing his lips.

You looked at him, wondering what his story was. Wondering what it would be like to see the world through his eyes.

"So, is this a normal day for you, then? Parties and champagne and..." you trailed off, glancing down.

"Occasionally," he replied, amusement tugging at his mouth.

You straightened a bit, turning to lean your hip against the railing and look at him.

"I bet it's a nice break from... whatever it is vampires do during the day," you said.

He laughed softly, nodding. "It is, although I prefer peace and quiet if I'm being honest... Would you like a tour?"

"Sure," you said, feeling a little thrill.

"Follow me," he said, holding out an arm for you.

You hesitated a moment before sliding your arm through his, allowing him to lead you back inside the building.

He walked slowly, guiding you down a long hallway. It was quieter here, and the music and laughter faded into a soft hum.

You looked around, taking in the details. Everything was old and ornate, but it was well cared for. You couldn't help but notice the art and sculptures dotting the walls and tables.

"That's beautiful," you said, gesturing toward a painting hanging in an alcove.

"It's one of Niklaus'," Elijah replied.

"Really?" You studied it more closely, taking in the brush strokes and colors.

"Yes. He has a keen eye for beauty."

"He's talented," you said, smiling.

Elijah led you down a smaller hallway, stopping in front of a set of doors.

"This is the library," he said, opening them.

You gasped. It was a huge, spacious room, lined with bookshelves and lit by soft lamps. You stepped inside, turning in a slow circle.

"This is amazing," you said, gazing at all the ancient books lining the walls.

"It is," he agreed, moving toward a shelf and running his fingers along the spines.

You watched him, admiring the way he touched the books with reverence, like they were precious things. You wondered how many times he'd read each one, if he had a favorite.

"Have you read all of these?" you asked.

"Most of them," he said, smiling as he pulled a book from the shelf.

He flipped to a page and showed it to you. It was a detailed drawing of a necklace. The very same one resting against your skin.

Your hand reached up instinctively to touch it.

"That’s…" you trailed off. "This is the same one?"

He nodded, stepping closer.

"It once belonged to a noblewoman in 15th-century France," he said, voice quiet. "Her husband had many affairs, wasn't subtle about it either. But every time he was caught he would buy her a new piece of jewelry to make up for it."

His fingers brushed yours as he moved the pendant between his fingertips. His touch was gentle, feather-light.

"She then sold all of her jewels to Rebekah so she could run away with her lover," he continued, smiling. "It's a symbol of choosing freedom and happiness over safety and comfort."

You blinked, stunned. "And now Rebekah lends it to random girls at her parties?"

Elijah smiled. "Rebekah doesn't lend that necklace lightly. And you're hardly random."

The compliment hung in the air, soft and startling. You blushed, ducking your head.

"Would you like to see more?" Elijah asked, holding out his hand.

"Please," you said, slipping your fingers into his.

His palm was cool against yours, and his touch was firm but gentle. He guided you through the halls, pointing out different rooms and telling you stories about each one. You hung onto his every word, the way he described the past and present with equal reverence.

You passed a pair of glass doors that looked out over the courtyard. The sound of a string quartet floated through, and the laughter and chatter of the guests spilled out into the hall.

"Do you want to dance?" Elijah asked, glancing toward the music.

"With you?"

"Unless you wish me to fetch Niklaus?" he teased, raising a brow.

You smiled, shaking your head.

"No, I mean... I'd love to."

He opened the door, leading you back under the glow of the fairy lights. You could see the crowd below, swirling and laughing and dancing.

He pulled you gently toward him, one hand settling at your waist, the other holding yours.

The music washed over you, slow and sweet. You swayed together, his eyes fixed on yours, your free hand came up to rest against his shoulder.

"Thank you for the tour," you said, smiling up at him.

"It was my pleasure," he replied, his expression soft.

"I'm not really a party girl, but this is nice."

"What do you like to do, then?" he asked, curiosity coloring his tone.

"Honestly? I'm happiest with a book and a cup of coffee."

Elijah chuckled. "I can appreciate that."

"Yeah, Hayley says I need to get out more," you said.

"I agree. You're very easy to talk to."

You blushed. "That's because you're good at making conversation."

"No, it's because you're interesting."

"Really?" you asked, unable to keep the surprise out of your voice.

"Yes. You have a keen mind and a sharp wit," he said, smiling.

You shook your head, laughing. "No one's ever said that to me before."

"Then they are fools," he replied, his grip on your waist tightening slightly.

You fell silent, letting the music wash over you. It was nice, dancing with Elijah. He made you feel safe and desirable in a way no one had before.

The song ended, and you reluctantly let go of him, stepping back. For a moment your hands lingered, still linked, neither of you wanting to be the first to pull away.

Then he gently pulled you in, and his lips met yours in a soft kiss. Your eyes fluttered closed as the world around you disappeared, melting away until there was nothing but his touch and the warmth that bloomed through you.

When you parted, it was with a shy smile. He tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing along your jaw.

"That was... unexpected," you said.

He smiled, leaning in to kiss you again. "Good or bad?"

"Very good," you whispered, wrapping your arms around his neck.

The music began again, a soft melody floating through the air. You pressed closer to him, letting him lead as you swayed together.

"Would you like another drink?" Elijah asked after a while.

"Sure," you replied, not quite ready to let go of him.

He smiled and held out his hand. You took it, walking beside him as he led you back downstairs into the courtyard.

As you reached the bar, Elijah glanced toward a staff member passing by with a tray of empty flutes.

"I’ll be right back," he said. "Going to fetch a bottle of something special."

You nodded, dazed, your pulse still skimming just below your skin.

Elijah disappeared into the crowd, leaving you standing by the bar, warm and a little breathless. You pressed your fingers to your mouth and laughed softly to yourself. It felt silly, but… real. Like something was shifting inside you, something that hadn’t moved in a long time.

You turned slightly, meaning to watch him go, when a familiar voice cut through the hum of music and chatter.

"She’s practically glowing," Klaus said, his tone smug. "Though I could swear I had her blushing first.”

You froze as another familiar voice joined in, this time Hayley. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Isn’t it? You bring her here, dress her up, and put her in Elijah’s path… of course he plays the perfect gentleman. But even for him, I’d say he’s laying it on a bit thick tonight.” Klaus swirled his drink lazily. 

Hayley’s voice softened, almost lost under the murmur of the crowd. "She needed to feel special, Nik. That’s all. And he did exactly that. Did you see the smile on her face? Dancing with her on the balcony? She’ll be talking about that for months instead of her stupid ex."

Klaus gave a low, amused hum. "If you say so. Still, quite the performance."

"Shhh," Hayley warned, her voice dropping. "I don’t know where they went, and I don’t want Y/N hearing you.”

Your blood ran cold. The air left your lungs, leaving you lightheaded and sick. That’s when the ringing started in your ears.

You stared at the polished bar top. The ruby necklace burned against your throat.

You let him kiss you.

You let yourself believe it meant something.

That a man like that could want someone like you.

Slowly, you unclasped the necklace. The sound of it sliding off your skin was the only thing you could hear above the blood rushing in your ears.

You turned around.

Hayley was the first to spot you, her smile faltering. "Y/N-"

You walked straight toward them.

Klaus stood straighter, caught off guard. Hayley stepped forward, hands lifted like she was about to explain something that didn’t need explaining.

You held out the necklace.

"This was a nice touch," you snapped, "Expensive. Just enough sparkle to make the humiliation really shine."

"Wait, just-" Hayley started.

You dropped the necklace at her feet. Hayley stared down at it. When she looked up, her face was stricken.

"Tell Elijah I don't need his fucking pity, and I certainly don't need yours," you said, eyes fixed on hers.

You turned, pushing through the crowd without looking back. You ignored the stares, the whispers, the music fading away behind you. Past everything that had made you feel beautiful for a few brief hours.

You didn’t stop until the air was cold in your lungs and the noise of the party was far, far behind.

Elijah was in the back of his private wine cellar, trying to find something fitting for you. Something sweet and earthy.

The last hour had been one of the best of his long life. You were funny and smart and warm. It was so easy to fall into conversation with you, like the words just came.

He knew what a rare thing that was, that special spark that drew two people together. He knew he needed to nurture it, protect it, before the night ended.

So he was here, poring over the labels of his finest wines, trying to decide which one would say what he couldn’t yet find the words for.

It was a small thing, really. A tiny gesture. But you were worth it.

He grabbed a bottle of Chateau Latour from 1805, it was a good year, one he wanted to tell you about. He would, if you stayed. If the night grew long and the conversation never slowed.

He smiled at the thought and scaled up the cellar steps two at a time.

He was halfway across the courtyard, headed for the bar, when a commotion near the entrance caught his attention.

Your voice.

Sharp. Cold. Cracking with fury.

He paused, instincts sharpening.

"This was a nice touch," you were saying, voice too calm, too controlled. He followed the sound instinctively, a bottle still clutched in his hand. "Expensive. Just enough sparkle to make the humiliation really shine."

A few guests turned to look. Elijah stopped in his tracks as he saw you. Your shoulders squared, lips trembling, ruby necklace dangling from your fingertips.

"Wait, just-" Hayley started.

You dropped the necklace at her feet.

"Tell Elijah I don't need his fucking pity, and I certainly don't need yours."

And then you were gone.

Elijah stood frozen.

The wine bottle slipped slightly in his grip.

Hayley and Klaus both turned to look at him, the same look of shame on their faces. He was moving before they could speak, grabbing Klaus by the front of his shirt and pulling him in close.

"What did you do?" he hissed.

"Just revealed the truth of her evening, brother," Klaus said, smirking. "Nothing wrong with a bit of honesty."

Elijah shoved him, looking at Hayley, his expression dark.

Hayley sighed, shaking her head. "I was just trying to help her," she snapped, throwing her hands up. "I wanted her to feel desired again. I didn’t think you would go that far and lead her on!"

"I wasn't leading her on," he said, his composure cracking around the edges. "From the moment I saw her, I was…" His voice dropped. "This wasn’t a performance."

He turned on his heel before they could answer, the set of his shoulders rigid, steps fast and purposeful, cutting through the crowd.

Toward the only thing that mattered.

Finding you.

You couldn’t get to your apartment fast enough. The tears came now, blurring your vision. All you could think about was getting home and locking the door. Possibly never leaving again.

You had just made it to the gate when Elijah appeared.

"Wait," he said, his voice cutting through the roar in your ears.

"I have nothing to say to you," you said, pushing the gate open and marching up the steps.

He followed you. "Please, Y/N. Let me explain."

You fumbled with the key, struggling to fit it into the lock. Your hands were shaking so badly, you couldn't seem to get the right angle.

"I'm sorry," Elijah said, his voice low and urgent. "Tonight was a terrible misunderstanding, I wish to explain myself."

"Don't." You spun to face him, wiping at your cheeks. "Don't insult my intelligence. I get you were just trying to be nice. And I appreciate that. Really. But…" you sucked in a shaky breath, fresh tears blurring your vision. "But I can't…I can't handle being treated like a charity case, or a joke, or-"

"You are not a joke," Elijah said, shaking his head. "That wasn't... That wasn't what I was doing."

"Well, it wasn't what I wanted either," you said, your voice catching in your throat.

"Y/N-"

"Just leave," you said, turning back to the door.

You finally managed to get the key in the lock, twisting it open and stepping inside. You were about to slam it shut when Elijah spoke again.

"I would like the opportunity to show you who I really am," he said, his voice soft.

You turned to look at him, the rage and hurt bubbling up in your chest.

"I've seen enough."

You slammed the door, not caring if the sound echoed down the hallway. Not caring about anything anymore.

“So. System overload, huh?” Robby asks, stepping up beside you as he studies the board. “How’d you come up with that one?”

You grin, “Too many medical dramas.”

“God, you watch those?” Robby grimaces, shaking his head.

You shrug, “Jack watches them, too. Actually, it was his idea.”

He chuckles. “I’m sure it was. Speaking of Jack, I’m surprised you let him join SWAT today.”

Sighing, your shoulders immediately fall. It’s a topic you’ve argued with Jack several times. You don’t understand why he wants to volunteer today. The job is dangerous, he’s retired from the army, you can’t wrap your head around why can’t he just work a regular shift. But at the end of the day, you still chose to support him. Because Jack has his demons, too. And maybe this is his way to face them. Whatever the outcome, your job is to be there when it’s over. To hold the line. To catch him if he falls.

“Let him?” You scoff, “No, he does what he wants.”

“Maybe it’s an adventure thing.”

You hum sarcastically, “Mm-hmm, like you and your bike?”

“We all need some sort of therapy, right?”

“I guess,” You sigh again, “Jack’s probably gonna stop by later at the end of the shift. Before you head off on your grandadventure.”

“You know, you’re the only person today who’s called my sabbatical an adventure and not a mid-life crisis.” Robby grins.

“Nuh-uh,” You put up a hand, “I still think it’s a mid-life crisis trip. No helmet, Robby? Really? I saw you pull up.”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth and pretends to busy himself. “Oh, would you look at that. Patients. Back to work, doctor.”

You just shake your head at him.

You spent the next hours moving nonstop. Treating patients, teaching med students and interns, spending some time with Baby Jane Doe. So far nothing has blown up in your face yet, which is a good sign, but it’s the 4th of July. Crazy things are bound to happen on this day.

You just finished taking care of a head lac, sanitizing your hands while you exit the patient room and checking your phone. Jack’s last check-in was a couple hours ago, and you didn’t see it.

→ Change our bet. Cyberattack. 5 hours.

Your brows raise, but there’s a sigh of relief. How does he get intel like these?

Regardless, you make your way towards Ahmad. At least Jack’s safe.

“Oh, I know that look.” Ahmad guesses, “Changing your bet? Gotta double it.”

“Double??” You scoff, “Come on, man.”

“Hey, I didn’t make the rules.” He raises his hands in surrender, “So what’s it gonna be?”

You exhale through your nose, handing him the extra $30. “Cyberattack. 5 hours.”

“Interesting,” He notes, “Princess said the same thing.”

You shrug, analyzing the board for anything interesting. That’s when you notice a sticky note buried under several others. One corner sticks out just enough for you to catch the name written across it; ‘Abbot’. A bet on Jack? What could it be about?

You reached up and picked it out. When you read the content, your face falls immediately.

'abbot <3 mohan. how? when?'

And you see several bets being placed on it.

$20 they makeout in the oncall room. end of month -princess.

$10 they fuck to relieve stress. after 4th of july -santos.

$30 abbot confesses first. before end of year. -donnie.

$40 never. jack wouldn't have the guts to do it. -robby.

$40 also never. mohan rejects him. -dana.

There are several others, but you can't read them anymore. You feel like your ears are ringing, you can't think straight, and you need to breathe.

Jack and Samira? Jack had something with Samira? Why didn’t he tell you? Was it one sided? Does Samira know? Who won the bet? Did anything happen between them? Does Jack still feel something towards her now?

You shove the sticky note in your pocket, rushing out of the room to go somewhere you can breathe some fresh air. You run to the ambulance bay, but Robby’s there right now and you cannot deal with that, remembering that he bet Jack wouldn’t dare make a move on Samira. Which means he knew. No, everyone knew.

Fuck. Just how embarrassing is this? You joined PTMC a little over a year ago and fell in love with Jack. You were never shy about it, never hesitant to be seen with him, or to let people know you were together. And now you’re realizing you might not have been the actual woman he originally wanted like that.

Your stomach twists at the thought. It shouldn’t matter. He had a life before you. You know that. He didn’t owe you anything. Still, something about finding out this way makes you feel stupid, like you walked into an inside joke everyone else was already in on. And you’re the punchline.

You turn to a random patient’s room, pretending to check on them.

“—Our little secret.”

You manage to hear a voice before you open the curtains, and you see your Jack sitting on the bed with his shirt off, with Samira with her gloves on, standing behind him.

Your eyes widen and you stop in your tracks.

If you were being rational and logical, you would be able to make the connection that Samira is patching Jack up from a wound, but you're dealing with too much information too fast, and the twisting feeling in your chest only gets worse.

Jack can see it in your eyes. The way they’re tearing up, how your chest is heaving, and how you can’t really make eye contact—you’re about to panic. Fight or flight. And he knows exactly what happens next if it hits full force: you’d shut down, you’d barely speak.

“Sweetheart—”

“No,” You say immediately, bringing a hand to your mouth because you feel like you could throw up, “Don’t— I can’t—”

He stands up, already wanting to hold you, but you're already stepping away from the room to find somewhere you could be alone.

Are you just a rebound because he couldn’t get Samira? Just a replacement? Did he settle for you? Was he just lonely, and you happened to be there at the right time, saying the right things, filling a space that was never really meant for you? Is he dating you just to get her jealous?

You walk as quickly and as calmly as you can out to the ambulance bay again, seeing it’s empty now.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, the cool air brushing against your face. Your chest isn’t heaving anymore. The breaths you take are still short, but your head is clearer now. However, the tightness in your chest, the aching pain, they don’t go away.

Your breath becomes a sob, and before you know it, tears are falling from your eyes.

“Damn it,” you mutter under your breath, wiping the tears with your sleeves.

It’s a ridiculous thing to cry over.

You have Jack. He’s yours. You’re just being insecure. Jealous. Overthinking and overreacting. That’s all this is.

So why does it still hurt so much?

There’s no doubt that Jack wants to be with you. He shows it every day. But if Samira had reciprocated back then… if things had lined up differently… where would that have left you?

Fuck. No. Stop. Stop thinking like that.

You’re not sure when you’ve dropped to the ground, crouching while keeping your head hanging low. All you know is, you’ve probably stayed too long out in the bay, because Robby’s found you and he looks concerned. So you quickly duck back inside.

You’re not trying to avoid Jack. It’s just been incredibly chaotic ever since they announced the system was going offline to prevent a cyberattack—which also means you and Jack won the bet, yay—that everyone’s drowning trying to keep up with the paperwork.

Besides, you haven’t really seen him ever since the little… incident you saw. Right now he’s occupied in a trauma with Robby and Whitaker, your eyes meeting for a fleeting second through the glass doors and you can see him fighting the urge to go to you before Robby calls him again.

You swallow hard. The sticky notes in your pocket feeling like it weighs a ton.

Right after you’ve finished the discharge papers of one of your patients and ding the call bell, you feel his presence next to you, holding your arm and guiding you to the lockers.

He doesn’t look happy.

Once the door closes, Jack lets your arm go, and you’re backed against the wall. His arms are in his pockets, but they might as well be next to your head with the way he’s looking at you.

“What’s going on?”

You open your mouth to speak, but you don’t know where to begin.

I found out about you and Samira. Do you love her or me? What was that ‘little secret’ you guys were talking about? If she told you she loved you now, would you choose her? Why didn’t you tell me?

Jack exhales through his nose, the tension clear. He turns to his locker to grab his things. “Look, I gotta go. Gotta sleep a bit before my night shift later. I know this isn’t ideal, we don’t have much time, but… I’d rather we talk about some of it now than later.”

You close your mouth, nodding and understanding.

He softens slightly. “Baby, please. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

You glance at your feet, biting your lip, pressing your nails to your palms to calm your nerves and finally gather the courage to ask: “Do you have… feelings… for Samira?”

Jack’s head snaps toward you so fast it almost startles you. His brows are furrowed. His eyes are sharp and almost pointed at you, he definitely was not expecting that question.

“Or, did you?” You add, trying to correct yourself.

His hard expression hasn’t changed, but he’s no longer looking at you. He closes his locker, fumbling with his bag.

And it’s his silence that breaks you.

“Jack?” You ask, voice sounding like you’re in disbelief.

“No—” He immediately answers, “—I don’t. Sorry, that question just… took me by surprise.”

You don’t look convinced.

“Baby,” Jack softens, stepping closer, “There is nothing going on between me and Mohan. I promise.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to will the tears away. “Are you sure?”

His brows raise, because why would you ask him that? “Yes—look, where is this coming from? Baby, I promise what you saw earlier was just a coincidence, okay? I was gonna patch myself up but she was already there. There is nothing going on.” He’s holding onto you now, looking deeply into your soul with concern.

Because he needs you to understand there’s no one else in this world for him. His entire existence, his entire life, revolves around you now. He doesn’t know how else to convince you, not when you look like he’s betrayed your trust.

Your lip trembles.

You should believe him. You know he’s probably telling the truth. But you can’t help but feel there’s still something he’s hiding from you. So you fish the wrinkled sticky note in your pocket.

“I found this buried behind the other betting notes,” You mutter, putting the notes in his palm.

Jack hasn’t opened the notes yet, looking at you for an explanation first.

“I would’ve understood if you had just told me in the beginning,” you continue, your throat tightening despite how hard you’re trying to stay calm. “I mean, it’s not like you owed me an explanation. I just… I don’t understand why I had to find out like this.”

He finally unfolds the wrinkled notes, and his jaw clenches when he reads them.

He doesn’t really react. He’s not shocked. And that tells you what you need to know.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, a hollow laugh escaping, the sadness and hurt simmering into disbelief. “You knew about the bet.”

“Whoa, no—” Jack immediately interjects. “Not in the way you think. I found out about this a long time after it ended.”

Your eyes snap to him. “It ended?”

“Yes—”

“Who won the bet?”

“Why does it matter?” Jack sighs but then answers anyway, “I don’t know, honey.”

You bite your lip, trying to look anywhere else but his eyes, but you can’t escape him.

Your mind is still so loud. It keeps going, keeps spinning, feeding you every worst-case scenarios where you're the one who loses. It's exhausting, living in your own head like this. And you don't know how to tell Jack that. How do you explain that your biggest fear isn't what did happen, but what could. That somewhere in the back of your mind you're terrified that if Samira changed her mind, you'd lose him without warning.

“Hey.” His voice drops quieter. His hand comes up to your jaw, tilting your face back toward his. “Look at me.”

You do, reluctantly. And you hate how much just looking at him undoes you.

“I need you to hear me right now,” he says, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Just listen to my voice, okay? Not whatever your brain has been spinning all day. Me.”

“Jack—”

“Yes, I had a crush on Mohan,” he says plainly. “It was nothing. It went nowhere because I didn’t want it to. And then months later, you showed up, and I never thought about her ever since.” He shakes his head slowly. “You’re the light of my life. First time I saw you, I knew you’re it for me.”

Despite yourself, a small, watery laugh escapes you. “We were yelling at each other.”

“In my defense, it was your first day and no one told me there was a new hot doctor in town. And we also made out right after, so…”

You shake your head with a small smile. The ache in your chest hasn't fully gone yet, but is much more manageable now. You swallow hard after a beat passes. “You could've told me.”

Jack nods, not making excuses of it. “You’re right. I should have. I didn't think it mattered enough to bring up. And that was stupid of me. But I promise, it was never something I was hiding from you. I’d forgotten about it. I didn’t even think of it.”

You nod back. “What was the little secret?” you ask quietly. “What I walked in on earlier… what did she mean by that?”

He exhales and opens his mouth to explain, when the locker room door swings open and Robby comes in.

“You guys better not be playing hide the zucchini,” Robby jokes, “Jack, Howard is ready for transport. They need you out front.”

Jack's jaw tightens. He looks at Robby, then back at you, and you can see it in his face, the frustration of fucking terrible timing.

“Give me a minute.” He says.

Robby hesitates for just a second, then gives a small nod and lets the door shut behind him.

Jack turns back to you. His hand finds your face again, tilting up so you're looking at him. “She was helping me with my wound on my back. A bullet grazed my vest. I wanted it to be off the books. That was the secret.” He gave you a summary.

He slings his backpack on his other shoulder and gives your forehead a kiss. “We’ll talk more later, okay? I promise you that’s all it was.”

You nod, not fully trusting your voice.

He lingers a second longer than he should, thumb brushing your cheek, and then he's gone. And you don’t like how everything feels too quiet without him in it.

One year ago…

“Are they still at it?” Robby frowns, hearing the loud voices coming from the supply closet.

You and Jack only met moments ago. It’s your first day in PTMC, and by some luck, you arrived on a stretcher, doing chest compressions on a patient. Robby’s met you before, so though he was surprised, he didn’t get in your way.

However, Jack, having never met you, immediately carried you off the patient, taking over the compressions himself.

“Wha— Hey!” “Somebody get her out of here!”

If it weren’t for Robby finally explaining that you’re the new attending joining them and not a patient or visitor, Jack would’ve probably dragged you out himself.

“Sounds like it.” Dana confirms. “She’s feisty. I like her.”

Robby hums, “Reminds you of yourself, punchy?”

Dana chuckles, “You’re lucky I haven’t actually punched anyone, Cap.”

Your argument with Jack continues.

“You didn’t have to man-handle me like that!”

“I wasn’t man-handling you, it was just easier to carry you rather than pulling you to come down! What if you’d fallen??”

“Well I could’ve fallen with you 'carrying' me anyway!”

Jack scoffs, “What, you think I'm not strong enough to carry you, princess?”

“Don't fucking call me that. And no, I don't think you are.” You step closer as if challenging him.

You stay like that for a second. Eyes glaring at each other, out of breath, bodies so close that you can feel each other’s warmth… and with one glance at his lips, Jack’s resolve breaks. You’re kissing him before you know it. His hand on the back of your neck, the other around your waist to feel your body press against him, while yours are bunched in his scrubs, pulling him closer.

You moan when you feel his tongue intrude your mouth. And Jack’s about to slip his hand under your shirt when there’s a knock on the door.

“Alright guys, quit it.” Robby’s voice booms from outside. “It’s gotten quiet so I’m assuming you’re… doing something else. We got a trauma coming in. Let’s go.”

You push yourself off of him immediately. Wiping your mouth of his saliva and looking away despite your heavy breaths and flushed face.

Jack smirks, licking his lips and opening the door for you, signaling you to go first. You roll your eyes and walk first anyway, cursing on your way out.

“Jack-ass.”

“Brat.”

The memory brings a smile to your face now.

It’s definitely not the most romantic way to meet the love of your life, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. And needless to say, you’re grateful Robby didn’t report you to HR on your first day.

You’ve decided to work an extra couple of hours since things are still chaotic and the night shift would need help. Not to mention that you don’t really want to go home to an empty house right now.

It only took you and Jack about a month before admitting that you wanted to be more than just friends who occasionally make out. And once you’ve embraced the fact that you’re in love with him, everything became easier. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. You still argue, but none of it makes you want to walk away.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

You feel Jack’s arm around you as he kisses your head.

You lean into his touch. “Hi.”

He looks better now after a few hours of sleep, changed into another black t-shirt and dark cargo pants. He stands beside you, shoulders touching. He doesn't say anything right away, and neither do you.

You’ve had the rest of the day to think about what happened. Your feelings. Your relationship. And you have to admit, your earlier reaction was… a lot of anxiety and panic. Jack left you texts throughout the day, and his reassurances have calmed you down, and now you’re ready to talk to him.

“Staying for the night shift?” He asks.

“Just a few hours.” You say, then turn to him.

“Can we… talk?”

His hand finds yours, fingers slipping between yours. “Come on.”

He takes you to the rooftop, where it’s quieter and the chances of someone walking in is low. The rooftop was also where you and Jack managed to um… relieve some stress back then. It was a daring thing that you don’t think you can do again.

The breeze hits your face and you take a deep breath, following Jack to sit a few feet from the edge. He knows you hate dangling your feet, you once told him it’s very dangerous because “what if your leg falls off??”. It puts a smile on Jack’s face just remembering it.

Silence stretches between you, and you know you can’t delay it any longer.

“I’m sorry.”

Jack’s head snaps towards you, looking confused.

You continue anyway. “I saw the bet and my mind immediately assumed the worst. I guess it triggered an insecurity in me…”

“Honey—”

“No, I… I need to get this out,” You take a deep breath, fidgeting with your fingers. “I hate that everyone knew you had a thing for Samira except me.” You admit. “It makes me feel stupid. Most of them were rooting for you to get together and I… I feel like I’m a replacement. Because you couldn’t get her.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. You feel like crying but it seems like your tears have dried out. “And I’m scared that you might leave me for her if she turned out to have reciprocated your feelings.”

Jack softens, scooting closer to you and taking your hands in his, kissing them dearly.

“You shouldn’t say sorry.” He says, “I’m sorry because I didn’t tell you. You’re not a replacement, sweetheart. You never were, you never will be. You're not someone I settled for because things didn't work out somewhere else.” He tilts his head, making sure you’re still with him.

“That crush was just… admiration. Purely surface level. I wasn’t interested in her that way.” Jack explains, “And I guess… knowing my staring problem, I probably wasn’t sublte and people started reading too much into it. And you know gossip here spread like wildfire.”

You press your lips together, nodding while you listen to him.

“But look,” Jack straightens, “I don’t want to downplay your feelings. They’re completely valid, okay? If you told me you had the same thing with… with Robby, I would’ve lost it. I should’ve told you. I’m sorry I didn’t.” He repeats. “You deserved to hear it from me first.”

You let out a breath of relief, nodding again and leaning your head on his shoulder.

Jack puts an arm around you, kissing your temple. “And as for Mohan, there is no scenario where I leave you for her. Or for anyone. You hear me?”

“Mm-hmm.” You hum.

“Thank you.” You say after a second, “for understanding. For apologizing. For accepting me. I love you.”

Jack tilts your head to look at him. “No thanks needed. I love you. I love every part of you.”

You smile at him, finally able to let go of the weight on your shoulders.

The silence that follows is different from before.

“I don’t think you were subtle with me either.” You say after a while, chuckling.

“Honey, we snogged the first day we met. We don’t do subtle.”

You groan, “My God. Who says snogged anymore?”

“This old guy.” Jack laughs. “Now come on. We should go down and talk to Robby before he leaves.”

You exhale, gathering the will to go back into the fray before getting up, then offering Jack your hand. “Alright gramps, let’s go.”

He snorts, shaking his head, but taking your hand anyway so you can help him up. “Don’t push your luck, sweetheart. You’re gonna be screaming this ‘gramps'’ name tonight.”

You gasp, “Ew! Jack! That sounds so creepy.”

“You started it.”

You’re both laughing as you make your way down through the elevator.

“Hey,” Jack calls your attention, smiling and sending you a knowing look. “Just you and me, alright?”

You smile back, “you and me.”

You both freeze before Wally launches himself out of the bed and into the chair beside it, but it’s too late. Dick pauses, eyes darting from you, to Wally, and back. Another beat of silence, then Dick shrieks, “Why were you in bed with my sister?”

“Dick, be quiet, we’re in a hospital,” you hiss as Wally scrambles to explain, “Dick, I swear, we were—”

“When?” Dick’s voice is softer but turns sharp, cold, and you feel your stomach drop. 

“When what?” you ask. 

“When were you going to tell me?” He’s staring at Wally, whose mouth opens and closes but no words come out. 

Dick inhales deeply and then turns to you. “How long?”

“Five months.”

Dick nods, pinching the bridge of his nose and he finally says, “You know, I’m not even mad that you two are together. It’s weird to see, yeah, but I’m more angry that you two didn’t feel like you could tell me.”

You and Wally exchange glances. You both hate this, hate hurting Dick. Wally’s hand finds yours as you say, “We didn’t mean to hurt you, Dick. It’s just… we didn’t know where this was going— if it was going anywhere when this first started. We thought it would be better that no one knew, just in case nothing happened or if it ended badly, then it wouldn’t burden you or the team.”

“But you can,” Dick says. “We’re a team, I’m your brother.” He looks at Wally. “And your best friend. We share these burdens, all the good and the bad.”

“We know,” Wally pipes up. “And we should have told you but we made what we thought was the right decision at the time.” 

Dick’s silent again and Wally, voice soft and careful, says, “I really love her, man.” You’ve heard Wally say it before, say it a hundred times, and it still makes your heart flip. 

Dick considers the two of you and sighs again. “No more secrets.”

You two nod. “We promise.”

“And no making out in front of me, I don’t think my heart could take that.”

You make a face. “Trust me, Dick, neither of us want to do that.”

“Well—” You shoot Wally a glare before he can get any further and Dick snorts. You turn back to him. “Want to watch with us?”

“Sure, as long as you restart from the beginning.”

Wally groans, “Oh, come on!”

ROY HARPER

Roy’s hands are everywhere — your waist, your hips, your thighs — as the elevator ascends towards your floor. He has you pressed into the wall, your lower back pressing into the railing though your discomfort is dulled by the heat surging through your body. 

The elevator chimes and the door slides open. You nudge him away from you, and you roll your eyes playfully when you’re met with his pout. “Come on, big guy, it’ll be more comfortable in my apartment.”

Roy asks, “Sure you don’t want to just do it here?”

“Fairly certain.” You drag him out and towards your apartment, fumbling with the keys at Roy insistently nips at your neck, grip firm on your sides. 

As soon as you push the front door open, Roy’s kicking it closed. He crowds you against it, lips slotting against your again. You can’t stop the small noise that bubbles up in your throat as his tongue slips into your mouth, your hand flying to his hair.

A voice sounds from behind you, shocked and indignant. “What the fuck is this?” 

Your heart rate spikes for a second at the intrusion but you’d know the voice anywhere. The two of you separate and you spot Jason in your living room as he stands slowly out of the armchair he’d been occupying. You can’t help but shout back, “What the hell are you doing in my apartment, Jason?”

“You gave me the spare key, remember? And this isn’t about me!” Jason storms towards the two of you and you step in front of Roy as he snarls, “What the hell, Harper?”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Hood, we’re all adults here,” Roy fires back.  

“She’s my sister! Of all the women in the world, you chose to fuck with her?”

“I’m not fucking around!” Roy snaps. “And don’t talk about her like she’s not here.”

Jason looks over at you. “Why him?”

“Because he’s sweet and funny and a really good kisser.” Jason makes gagging noises in response though he’s seemed to calm down from his initial reaction. 

He glances between you, sizes Roy up and sighs heavily. He levels Roy with a steely look and says, “You hurt her, and I’ll make you wish you were dead.”

“And that would be totally fair of you,” Roy says quickly, his hand cautiously coming to rest on your waist. “But I won’t.” His eyes meet Jason’s with a look that’s crystal clear: I love her.

Jason’s scowl stays on his face but his shoulder has dropped and his body relaxes. “Fine.” He turns on his heels, stalking off your hallway. When you call after him, asking where he’s going, Jason replies, “To bleach my eyes.”

CONNER KENT

Tim feels like shit. He hasn’t been able to kick the bout of flu he received while on a mission up in Maine, sniffling and coughing and suffering through body aches. He swears he’d rather take a kick from Bane than ever feel like this again. What’s worse is that, mentally, he’s fine — sharp as ever — but physically, he can barely stand without getting dizzy. 

Bruce forbade him from going on patrol tonight, for everyone’s sake. Tim knows he’s one sneeze away from Damian strangling him with his cape, as he so vividly described to Tim. Alfred’s on duty downstairs in case Tim thinks about sneaking out to do work or down to the Cave but honestly, Tim doesn’t think he can make it to the door. So, here he is, stuck in his bedroom, huddled under mountains of blankets and tissues. His laptop is propped on his legs, and he’s been passively watching shows and movies. 

After getting bored of whatever crime drama he had been mentally picking-apart, Tim clicks out of the streaming service and onto a different application. He had wired into the Manor’s security system so that he could monitor the common areas from his room if he pleased. He’s gotten some good blackmail material on nearly everyone, from Dick drinking milk straight from the carton and putting it back, to Jason and Damian rough-housing and breaking a centuries-old vase and then blaming it on some freak accident, to Bruce tripping over the foyer rug when he was half-asleep. Tim’s got receipts at his disposal for strategic deployment when need be.

He flips through each room. Nothing really exciting given that everyone is out. The Cave is empty, the hallways are empty. The most interesting thing is that Alfred seems to have dozed off on the sofa while watching something on Masterpiece Theater. 

Tim’s about to close out of the feed until he sees movement on the front porch. He doesn’t look in time to see but it’s easy to follow whoever it is into the foyer. Tim’s body, despite the aches and pains, winds itself tight, ready to race downstairs and strike. Two figures come into focus. 

Tim sees you first, draped in a leather jacket that looks too familiar. He frowns. You had told everyone that you would be out of town for the weekend so you couldn’t go on patrol. And yet, here you are at the Manor. 

You’re speaking to the other person just out of frame but soon, they come into focus. Dark hair, broad shoulders, and a shit-eating grin. Tim blinks at the screen once, twice, because it can’t be his best friend. It can’t be Conner Kent, who’s smiling at you like that. 

Tim’s fingers move on their own, pressing a button to turn on sound. You’re speaking softly, but the state-of-the-art microphones catch everything with ease. “Everyone should be out, except Alfred, and he knows,” you tell Conner as you slip your shoes off.

“That’s good, ‘cause I’ve been waiting all night to do this.” Then, with abject horror, Tim watches as his best friend pulls you in by the waist and kisses you. On the mouth. With passion. 

Maybe if he was feeling better, he would have thrown open his door and flown down the stairs to confront the two of you directly. Maybe he would have yelled at Conner because you’re his sister. Maybe he would have argued with you because that’s his best friend. Instead, Tim clicks another button, leans close to his computer so the mics pick up sound loudly and clearly, and mentally apologizes to Alfred for waking him up. 

“You know there are cameras all over the Manor, right?”

BONUS: DAMIAN’S THOUGHTS ON YOUR BOYFRIEND

WALLY WEST

Damian doesn’t get it. You’re intelligent and capable, and yet you chose Grayson’s goofy friend — Wally West, Kid Flash — who can never sit still, makes horrendous jokes and who sometimes (and only within Dick’s eye and earshot) calls Damian “kiddo” and ruffles his hair before sprinting off at the speed of light. Still, he supposes that because he’s Grayson’s friend, he could be… acceptable. 4/10, and that’s very generous. 

ROY HARPER

How could you have chosen someone who looks disheveled half the time and chooses to willingly hang out with Todd? He’s far too chaotic and reckless to be deserving of you, his beautiful and talented older sister. Damian’s still wracking his brain for a reason… did you lose a bet? Is Harper paying you? At least he has a car and a mortgage. 2/10.

CONNER KENT 

Damian believes that anyone who associates with Drake should stay far away from you, much less hold your hand and kiss you and take you on dates. He can’t believe that Drake’s arrogant, hot-headed friend is the object of your affection. He’ll have to speak with Drake about keeping his unworthy friends away from you in the future. To Damian, the only redeeming quality about Conner Kent is that Jon likes him. 1/10. 

“Would you like to tell her.. about these feelings?” Dick tries again, settling for a more emphatic approach.

Damian winces, averting his gaze—trying to displace the sudden lodge in his throat. “I assumed there were more steps that entail to a courtship. You’re clearly well-versed in them.”

Dick clears his throat. “It isn’t like a routined dance, Damian.” At Damian’s furrowed brow, he continues. “Falling in love—dating, it comes naturally between two people. It’s the million little moments, built upon each other that no practiced motion can recreate. It happens regardless of choices, and that’s the beauty of it.”

“Naturally.” Damian tests the word on his tongue, but like he suspected, it ran off with a bitter taste. While he has been deemed a prodigy, a perfect weapon—being a normal human was not something trained into his veins, but rather suppressed.

“Maybe it is for you, Grayson—but where I was raised, details of courtship and emotional connection with another person were never discussed. My body is not programmed to have these natural decisions come forth to my mind, and I-”

It feels like swallowing glass when he mutters. “I require your assistance to explain it to me.”

Dick’s gaze softens in pity, which weighs heavier, worse than his laughter earlier. “Hey, we actually started off on the same boat. If anything, at least you didn’t have to experience Bruce’s attempt at explaining it. He’s more an expert than any of us when it comes to emotional suppression.”

“Love..” Dick ponders. “It hits you when you least expect it, but spending time together does test if the feeling is reciprocated.”

“I suppose there are some steps that you could follow.” Dick murmurs, thumb trailing his chin in thought. “Alright, here’s the plan.”

Gotham Outdoor Ice Rink, Bristol, Gotham. (Grayson's Brilliant Plan)

Damian may not be well-versed in the matters of courtship. However, standing stiffly in competition with the street lamp beside him, his nose buried into his green scarf more so to hide his shame rather than from the winter cold, his regret grows tenfold with every passing minute for even agreeing to this.

You're bound to arrive at any moment, and he'd rather suffer in his regrets than leave you stranded on a date his brother suggested. Not that he used that term, he could barely handle deeming it a hang out.

In his earpiece, Dick’s voice echoes with irritating amusement.

“Damian, you need to relax. You look like an assassin waiting for your target to appear.”

“Train to be one from the moment you were born with a family legacy on your shoulders and see how that affects your posture.” Damian grumbles.

“It’s okay if you’re nervous. I’ll guide you if you freeze, remember?”

“I’m not nervous—”

His peripheral vision recognises your silhouette before he can even finish his retort. All sound seems to fade past the stuttering in his chest, including his brother’s teasing, and maybe time slows too—he wouldn’t put you below that possibility. You’re busy with your scarf that’s loosened enough to reveal your lips, and you don’t even notice that you’re speed-walking right towards him.

It’s instinctive, not at all pleasing when his hands reach out just in time to grab onto your shoulders before you slam face-first into his coat.

Your eyes widen comically, but it doesn’t appease the thundering of his pulse, not especially when you smile at him like that, bashful and sweet. “Damian! Fancy bumping into you here." You tease.

“Perfect meet-cute.” Dick whispers to himself. “Tell her it’s fine—that you actually think it’s cute.”

“What?” He snaps, feeling ashamed at the mere suggestion.

You blink twice at his sudden reaction. He needs to recover quickly, say something.

“Watch where you’re going.” He slips out.

He can hear the sound of Dick slapping his own forehead, echoing in his eardrums.

Thankfully, you don’t seem deterred by his slow-witted response, grin still in-tact. “Apologies for almost ruining your luxurious scarf. Though I’ll must say, green looks really good on you.”

He tenses. This is the moment, he must say something right this time.

“Brings out the colour of my eyes.” Dick offers through a sigh.

Perfect. Something witty, and completely appropriate for the situation.

“Brings out the colour of my eyes.” Damian’s delivery is completely robotic, unlike the one he heard in his ears, carrying none of the light-hearted tone that made it sound right.

Miraculously, it only cracks a laugh out of you.

“She’s an angel.” Dick groans, almost pitifully.

He winces, letting you go before offering his hand. “The snow’s slippery.” His excuse is well-rehearsed, recovering back into the steps Dick gave him.

Your expression brightens, taking ahold of his hand. It’s a perfect fit, your glove in his and a warm glow is forming behind his ribs—an unsteady, pleasant feeling, almost enough to forget the mistake he made.

“Smooth recovery.” Dick comments in approval. “Bring her to the next location.”

If Damian could, he’d mute Dick's channel immediately if he was going to be reminding him every second. It was distracting and nerve wracking to be multi-tasking two tasks at once, especially when you easily compelled him to lose all train of thought.

The skating rink is crowded, more than he’d like, but he wasn’t up for improvisation after his earlier attempt. It’ll have to do, and he’s sure his withering glare can clear enough space for the two of you.

“I’ve always wanted to try ice skating.” You’re brimming with glee with your gaze glued to the ice, and his eyes trail over your excitement with a tender patience. He’d like to sketch it out when he was back home, but even the thought of ending this moment was incomprehensible, so he settles on bending down to tie your skating shoes.

”Just to warn you—” Your joyful glimmer falters into a rare bundle of nerves. “I’ve never skated—like ever. You’ll need to teach me the ropes.”

His lips quirk the slightest lift. “You have the best teacher in all of Gotham.”

“Really?” You tease, leaning down slightly that he feels the warmth of your breath over his nose, sending goosebumps down his arms. “That’s a bold claim.”

“I was raised on snow mountains since I was an infant. A skating rink in Gotham is a small feat for me, and it shall be for you.”

“Less bragging, more swooning.” Dick’s voice echoes in his eardrums.

Damian’s expression clamps shut as he leads you towards the ice. He takes the first step and balances himself perfectly on the naturally formed ice. You enter immediately on the wrong angle, and slip. He doesn’t think, his free hand wrapping around your waist before you fall.

He freezes, and you do too. Caught at the entrance of the rink in the corner where no one is watching, you’re wrapped so closely in his embrace—his body instinctively shielding and protecting you. He feels his entire face burning up from the lack of distance.

“Maybe ice and me are less compatible than you think.” You whisper, as if the ice would crack and swallow you whole if it heard you.

It’s enough to kick him back into his senses, and he quickly lifts you back up to your feet. Gently letting go of your waist, he ignores the jittering in his fingers by taking hold of your hands instead.

“Hasn’t been proven yet.” He answers, looking down at your feet. “Mirror my stance.”

Your own gaze shifts down, and you adjust the blades of your shoes into the same V position. You’re shuffling less, which is already a sign of improvement.

“Alright, now one step forward, and the other leg lifts like a kick.” Damian instructs.

You try, but your feet wobble at your first kick, making you fall into his arms again. Not that he minds.

“You’re lifting too early.” He notes. “You’ll have to glide with your other foot first.”

Your brows furrow together, an adorable concentration creased in the centre as you try again. You manage it the second time, and he finds it despite himself, vulnerable to smiling when you let out a huff of joyous laughter as you glide with him, his hands still holding onto you.

“I guess you proved yourself right.” Your focus is still on your feet, but when you lift your gaze, you’re leaning close to him just like before when he had caught you—with such pure, content bliss that the word ‘beautiful’ fails to describe your features. “You are a good teacher.”

Dick’s muttering something in his ear, but the erratic signals shooting through his brain fries all comprehension of what he’s supposed to do next other than stare at you speechless like a bumbling fool.

He messes up his next step, and before he knows it, he’s tumbling down to the ice, and you fall down with him through your connected limbs. His body shields you from the freezing ice, but nothing protects him from the shame that drowns his entire conscience—of falling onto the ice which he has never done in his lifetime, and dragging you down with him.

He hears Dick clearly now, laughing so hard that it stings his eardrums from the high frequency.

“Damian!” You call out, and your gaze is half worry, half shock. “Are you okay?”

His ears flush with blood at your question, most likely reddened as if there wasn’t enough to mope about.

“I would very much like for the ice to swallow me whole.” He mutters dryly. “Other than that, I am uninjured.”

“I so have that captured.” Dick howls through the earpiece. “I’m calling it, this is going to be the topic of discussion for our next family dinner.”

Damian discreetly rips his ear-piece out and shoves it into his coat’s pocket when your gaze averts to an elderly couple stopping by the two of you like his fall is some tourist attraction, asking if he needed any help to get back to the entrance.

He is never asking Grayson for help ever again.

The Bat-Cave, Wayne Manor (Drake’s Secondary Home)

“You sure you have the right person?” Tim guffaws, his expression a mixture of horror and fascination. “Haven’t you tried—”

“Grayson, yes. He has failed.” His scowl has dug deeper if possible, the faint memory of Dick’s laughter still penetrates his eardrums when he isn’t preoccupied with his responsibilities.

Pointing an intrusive finger to his new prey, he speaks. “You are to prove yourself more worthy than he is, as the next best in line for successful courtships.”

Tim raises a brow. “Didn’t know you kept track.”

Damian scowls. “Your methods are unconventional, but there are no other better alternatives.” Imposing and distracting with his crossed arms, casting a shadow over the littered papers, his presence eventually forces Tim to detach from the case he was working on.

“Alright, what’s her name?” Tim sighs, his fingers switching to a new tab where the identity search bar flickers.

Damian stiffens, defensive. “Why would you require her name?”

“To search for her, genius.” Tim comments as if it’s obvious that an illegal identity search is the best course of action. “I can have her interests, dislikes, and her entire profile mapped out in less than five minutes.”

“That’s dishonourable.”

“It’s efficient.” Tim fires back. “Or else we’ll be here all day. Why waste time on the uncertainties when you can already mould everything to go perfectly?”

“My respect for you shrinks by the second, Drake.”

Tim snorts. “As if you had any in the first place. Don’t act like you haven’t done your own illegal searches. Suddenly, it’s your crush and I’m not allowed to look into it?”

The back of Damian’s neck grows hot at the mere use of the word ‘crush’, dumbing his feelings down to something so.. pathetic. “Fine, I’ll do it myself. You’re not allowed to so much as glance at her.”

Tim’s hands raise in mock surrender. “I would never.”

As Damian settles into the seat, given the privacy as Tim launches himself into the spare chair, spinning it backward with his back facing the Bat-computer, he can feel the latter brewing with something to say.

“Spit it out.” Damian huffs.

“I just—” Tim starts. “Never thought I’d live to see the day of you softening up for someone. I mean—it’s even made you come all the way for my assistance.”

“I did not come for assistance.”

“Advice is practically the same thing.” Tim remarks. “You may have called it dishonourable, but can you truly claim you love a person if you don’t know them fully? I think falling in love means having a curiosity so strong for someone that you would like to know them as deeply as they know themselves. Isn’t that what it means to love?”

Damian’s gaze flickers to Tim who yawns widely, tucking his head into his elbows over a long drought from sleep after staying up for two days straight. It… resonated with him, his never-ending greed to learn the intricacies of your emotions and actions, to know the depths behind each story you held in your mind.

He’s spent long, treacherous months avoiding even the mention of your name anywhere outside the confinements of his mind, aside from the occasional scribble and tear of his paper, and his hunger has become an obstacle that even he can’t tackle any longer. With a mental push, the mere action of typing your name numbs his fingers from the anticipation.

Your social media accounts pop up—one is public with your name listed, and another is a photography account. There’s not many photos, but there’s enough that it feels like he’s peeking into something intimate, a catalogue of your life that has his heart quickening.

He remembers vividly of you asking to exchange social media accounts when you had first met, before he quickly shut it down, commenting that he refused to have such useless applications.

Yet, here he was—frozen, mesmerised at the sight of your smile captured on your digital camera, unable to scroll further past your most recent post. It didn’t capture the true essence of your joy like he remembered so clearly from that failed date, but it still struck him all the same.

Even his denial falls silent when he’s looking at you, because he’d be a fool to pretend away the quick pattering of his heart, or the small smile etched into his lips caused by you. His mind has formed a despicable habit—a quiet, dreadful longing whenever he envisions even a frame of you in his mind.

He has fallen for you quietly—strongly, and even as he scrolls further, to the latest bookstores you’ve frequented, or your blurred snapshots of sunsets along the Gotham horizon, he’s not satisfied. What is the use of seeing these images if he wasn’t there to witness it or hear from you in person?

He wants to be in your life, not just a mere bystander, but he doesn’t know how to say it.

“You’ve been deathly silent for ten minutes.” Tim comments. “It’s kind of making me curious—”

“I will gouge out your eyes myself, Drake.”

There’s only one person he has left to ask, and as he pierces a coffin-burying glare into Tim’s prying gaze, he wasn’t sure if he’d get the answer he needed.

89, Skirley Apartments, Park Row (Crime Alley) (Todd’s Rebellious Man-Cave)

Jason whistles, leaning against the door to his mess of an apartment. “You must be desperate if you’ve come to see me.”

The disgruntlement in Damian’s expression comes mostly from embarrassment and partly from the state of disarray he finds from one single swipe past the gap of Jason’s shoulder and the door frame. Motorcycle gear is splayed out over the scratched floorboards, signaling another random side project.

Barely lived in, and somehow a complete mess that would have Alfred over in a snap with his emergency cleaning set.

“Grayson’s overly optimistic and Drake’s downright creepy.” Damian huffs.

“And that leaves me..?” Jason’s brow raises, a taunting smirk on his lips.

“As the last option.” Damian grits.

Jason steps back, his back pushing against the wood to allow Damian into his less-than-adequate living quarters.

“Well, sorry to break it to you, kid—” Jason plops down onto the couch, and the pillow-seat sinks under his weight. “But my understanding of love is barely any better than yours.”

“You’re still the second oldest.” Call it desperation, Damian isn’t sure if he’s above that anymore after the failure of his two other brothers. “You must’ve had some experience.”

“Now, age matters?” Jason mocks. “Well—if you want my two cents, I suppose I can give it.”

“There’s no point beating around the bush.” Jason states. “If you really like her, you just have to say it. Even if it hurts, especially if you’re scared it’ll hurt. That means there’s something worth to lose, and to never ask, it’s always gonna hurt worse than knowing.”

“That’s the whole point of love. It takes being brave, and realising the possibility of something real right in front of you—and fighting for it. You only have so few chances in the world to experience it, and you’re going to waste something like that over fear of what—rejection?”

“Have a heart-to-heart. That’ll always mean more than some hidden message, hoping she’ll notice and give in first.” Leaning back, Jason eyes Damian with a rare look he doesn’t recognise, because there is no possibility in the world that wisdom could exist in that big-head of his. “If she doesn’t return how you feel, that sucks. You’ll live barely, then it’ll heal and you move on. If you never answer the question? It’s gonna haunt you for life. The one that got away.”

The thought of losing you to cowardice, of being a permanent outsider to your life, nearly ruins him. Damian can’t afford that, not when there’s never been a person he desired for more than you. This week has made sure of that.

Even more of a horrifying realisation is that of all people, Jason Todd was the one that got through to him. His trained eyes scan the perimeter for any signs of a secret partner, a reason for this sudden shift in his usual, thick-headed sibling. “Where did you obtain such knowledge?”

Jason’s lips quirk up. “Jane Austen, you should try her sometime.”

135, Kane Street, Otisburg (Damian's Last Resort)

Damian has only felt the urge to puke on two occasions this past year. Firstly, when he discovered old photos of Dick’s first Nightwing costume in an old album, and had to wash his hands twice with anti-bacterial soap. Secondly, when a rare poison seeped into his bloodstream that he had not already trained to be immune to.

Never had the nauseating feeling of nerves scale till the point of trembling fingers and stiff legs. He just needed to tell the truth, so why did the matter seem so petrifying?

He’s been standing outside your door, letting the winter frost bite at his exposed skin—like a pathetic loser for the past fifteen minutes and if he stood there any longer, he might as well brand himself as one. His hand comes up to knock in three measured beats, and he waits with the patience of Dick’s pit-bull for a belly rub.

The door unlocks, and your tousled hair greets him first. His heart tugs at the sight of you in your home attire, with your loosened shirt and pajama pants dragging against the floor. You’re utterly beautiful, even as you’re slapping your cheeks lightly to coerce yourself awake. It takes a few seconds for the realisation to hit your half-asleep features before your eyes nearly pop out.

“Damian? It’s five in the morning! What are you doing here?”

“I have romantic feelings for you.” He blurts with the subtlety of a ramming gun.

“If you reciprocate, I would like to..” He pauses, his thoughts competing with the rapid pace of his heartbeat. “Wait, I didn’t think this through.”

You blink slowly, shock blasted over your face, before a soft, warm smile creeps over your lips. “No-no, go on.”

He wants it to be perfect, but his words were too direct, too harsh. He wasn’t like Dick, who was naturally charismatic with others, or Tim who thought two steps ahead for every interaction, or Jason who bulldozed through without a care in the world. He doesn’t want to risk losing you over his own incompetence. “No, I feel like I’ve started it all wrong.”

“It’s five in the morning, even Damian Wayne is human enough to mess up his words at this hour.” You tease. His shoulders sag in relief at the sound of your comforting voice, which he suspects is the purpose of your teasing. To calm him, tell him it’s okay.

“Right.” He mutters. “May I start over?”

“I’m all ears.” You grin.

He cracks a soft smile in return. It is difficult for him to be human, to feel his faults bubble to the surface, but in front of you, he is willing to try. “I am unfathomably, undoubtably.. and completely in love with you. Romantic feelings don’t even come close to describing the knowing in my heart that it has chosen you from the very moment you entered my life.”

“When I am around you, it’s as if the world disappears, and all I envision is you.” He admits. “From the moment you approached me with your maddening smile and charming wit, I don’t believe I could have ever fought against it, against you.”

“Your laughter brings joy to me, your sadness distracts me of all my senses, and your very existence is a gift in my life that I cherish deeply and.. I’m terrified at the idea of losing that, losing you.”

“Love..” He hesitates. “..is a difficult concept for me to understand, because it has never been shown to me outright. So when I felt this desire—this constant want to be in your presence, I sought for understanding.”

“I see now—that love can’t be explained in just mere words. It is the shared moments between us that I replay in my mind, the small details I find myself noticing of you and cherishing deeply, and the fear of losing that privilege of knowing you. I realised.. that I can’t fathom continuing my life without you in it.”

“I don’t know if I deserve to be by your side, but I would like to try.” His gaze finds yours, and he hopes. So desperately, he hopes. “Would you have me, even if I am a fool who doesn’t know the right things to say?” His plea is quiet against the silent rustle of the trees, the dark twilight sky that watches over them.

Your eyes soften, filled with warmth and that same, brimming happiness he has memorised from the time spent on the ice. “You’re only an idiot if you think you didn’t say all the right things, Damian.”

His chest, tight till the point of rupturing, feels like it’s finally able to breathe.

Leaning in slowly, right across the barrier of the doorstep that separates you from him, you gift him with a soft kiss pressed against his lips and his entire world falls apart, not that it ever truly existed before you.

He takes you into his arms, lifting your feet off the doorstep as his boots crunch against the melted snow when he kisses you back. He has never kissed anyone before, but the feeling of wanting you so close to his soul only feels natural when you’re here in his arms.

It’s sweet, clumsy—and out of all the moments he’s spent with you, he truly wished he could replay this over and over.

When you break the kiss, he has to remind himself to not follow after you when you whisper softly against his lips. “You never finished. What did you want to do if I reciprocated?”

Visions, blurred and incoherent, flash through his mind but it’s nothing compared to the real thing right in front of him. “Everything. As long as you’re mine, the possibilities are endless.”

“Of course I’m yours, Damian.” Your eyes crinkle into that puddle of warmth that melts through all his defences. “No one has ever come to my doorstep, at five in a winter morning, professing their love before.”

His brows furrow, lips nearing to a pout. “Has anyone ever tried professing their love in other ways?”

You laugh, and he can get used to that. Making you smile and laugh as if it’s his one purpose on this planet. “No—I think my heart was too busy being taken by the person in front of me, who just conveyed what love is so perfectly that I can never think of anyone else.”

He relaxes at that, feeling his own smile deepen at the relief of finally having you in his arms, and in the comfort of the warmth shared under the dim streetlights, he thinks he’ll have to temporarily bump Jason to the number one spot in his long line of siblings.

Not that he’d ever tell him that—but he supposes if a limited edition of Jane Austen's collection ends up at Jason's doorstep tomorrow, it would have simply been the universe's divine gift.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

There are too many questions, none that can be addressed in this room when Damian is staring at you like he used to, completely unguarded and softened into a blurred memory of someone who used to hold your heart delicately.

“Damian.” You mutter briskly, even when the notion of addressing him weakens you. “I need to have a talk with Dick. Outside.”

Damian’s brows furrow. “Why did you call me that?”

Your steps that are halfway turned towards the door falter. “Your name?”

“Yes. You only call me that when you are angry.” He states, trying to lift himself from the bed. The restraints tighten, marking angry red lines over his wrists, but he doesn’t even flinch as he tries to reach for you.

Dick is quick to stop him, pushing him down by the shoulders. “The doctor says no movement.”

“I have given my opinion on the doctor’s expertise repeatedly.” Damian scoffs, irritated—but his gaze is distracted, trying to meet yours past Dick's shoulders. “Beloved, if you’re mad that I endangered myself, I assure you I am in perfect health.”

“That’s not—” You swallow, feeling an awful sink in the pit of your stomach and harshly avert your gaze. “Dick, outside. Now.”

Damian calls out your name, but you’re out the door before he—or whatever version of him was waiting for you in that room, can twist your emotions further.

You hear the door close gently behind you and sense the lingering guilt that hovers in the air.

You stare blankly at the chipped paint of the hospital walls. “You shouldn’t have called me here.”

“I know.” Dick sighs, and only now can you truly hear his distress. “You should’ve seen him. He was convinced you were in danger—that we were hiding something when you didn’t show after the first hour of his consciousness.”

“I can’t—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t go back in there pretending everything’s fine.”

Dick hesitates. There's a reason you were called over—which he purposely excluded in the call. “The doctor said we have to keep his stress to a minimum. We’re worried his condition will be unstable if you’re.. not around.”

You whip your gaze to meet his, but he's looking back at the door, where his youngest brother laid—unaware of the turmoil that was happening outside. You suck in a breath. “It’s not my job to be his keeper.”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking you… as a friend." He pleads, looking back at you. "He’s my brother, and I know something happened between the two of you—and that he’s been stupid, which is why he ended up getting a concussion in the first place.”

His suggestion is loud in the silence, that the possibility of Damian's impulsivity which led to his injury is because of you. It couldn't be true. Not when he made it so evidently clear that you mattered the least to him out of everything in his life's priorities.

“He doesn’t want to admit it.” Dick tries. “He never does when it comes to his emotions, but he needs you. I know you won't believe me, not when he’s the one that should’ve told you, but you saw that look on his face. It’s like he finally allowed himself to breathe when he saw you.”

“So—" Your hands flail, desperate to release some tension. "What do you expect me to do?”

“Just.. be around him, the same way it was before, till he gets his memories back.” He sighs again, running a hand through the mess of his hair, knowing how unfair it sounds. "If anything, it may help speed up his recovery. You won't have to deal with him for long."

Your fingers run over the crescent moons your nails have indented into your palms. The silence drags, and you know there's already a conclusion being made without your consent. “...This is insane.”

—

“Something's wrong.” Damian comments, watching you shuffle around his apartment, well, you had to get used to it being your shared apartment again—when he straight up refused on staying over at his family's manor.

Something doesn't quite cut it. “Nothing's wrong.” Your voice is stiff even to your own ears and as you pull out the kitchen drawers. Your heart squeezes at the sight of your mugs still kept inside, unchanged since you moved out.

It wasn’t just the mugs, but almost everything inside the apartment—as if time has frozen within these walls, because he didn’t throw any of your leftover belongings away.

“I can feel it. There is something you’re hiding.” He pushes.

"Since when were you the empath?" Taking out a dusty mug, you rinse it over the open tap, focusing heavily on the task to avoid his prying stare. “Dick said not to tell you.”

“It doesn’t matter what Grayson said.” Despite obvious instructions from the doctor, Damian disregards them and moves abruptly from the couch, hand still clutching an icepack to the back of his head. “You can tell me anything.”

You slam down the mug with more force than necessary, causing a loud screech through the air. It freezes the atmosphere in the apartment, and you make the mistake of glancing over to see his reaction. Taken aback, the rarest hurt displays itself across his face, forcing you to look back down at the counter. This is going to be impossible.

"Damian, please sit down." You plead, refusing to look at him. "You're not meant to be moving."

His frustration ticks. You can feel it in the barest hunch of his shoulders, because the curse of reading his habits still comes so easily. He rounds the counter, stopping right in front of you. His free hand comes to lift your chin with the intention of forcing you to meet his gaze, but you grab his clothed wrist before he can even come close to contacting your skin.

Shock doesn't come close to describing the parting of his lips, the widening of his pupils. "You are angry." He states, but it comes out in a huff of disbelief.

"Damian." Your voice comes out as a warning. "You should be resting."

"No."

"Why?" You snap.

"The woman I am in love with is clearly upset with me, and I have no recollection of why." He answers briskly. "You’re calling me by my birth name which I have never hated more to hear, because it means I have disappointed you. Forgive me, if I am concerned."

The word 'love' sets off the wrong trigger.

“Love? It didn’t seem like it when you broke up with me.” It spills out before you can stop it. You suck in a breath, already regretting it. There goes your promise to Dick.

You expect his expression to fall into the one you’re familiar with, cold—cutting, but as the seconds pass, the hit doesn’t come like you expect it to. His brows knit together in complete bafflement. “Why would I do such a thing?”

You shrug, an aloof act that fools not even you. You’re the last person who can answer a question that’s been haunting you since he did it. “Beats me.”

“I would never—ever leave you, Beloved.” His voice is strained, as if the mere thought confounds him with disbelief. "If this is your punishment for me going on that mission without your permission, I am sorry. Just—"

His lips purse together, and his hand still caught in yours loosens itself from your grip to grab hold of your fingers, tentatively interlacing them together. "Don't ever say those words again."

Your lips part and close, confusion etched in your features. The Damian in front of you—doesn't coincide with the one in the last memories you have with him at all.

He struggled when you weren't there. Dick's voice rings in your ears, having said that right when you were signing the papers for Damian’s discharge, listing your name to be put as his emergency contact to provide updates on his condition.

"Right, fine." You dismiss, even when you can see how your short response stings him. "If you don't want me to be pissed, please go back to the couch. I will call the hospital on you if you don't listen."

His expression stiffens at the thought of being trapped in that stuffy room flooded with fluorescent lights, of the pushy nurse who demanded he’d get bed rest for at least forty-eight hours as he exited the doors. In restrained obedience, his expression flickers in contemplation. "Then you’ll come with me."

Your lips part to argue, but he's already pulling you along, his hand still intertwined with yours, dragging you along to the couch. He sits, forcing you right into his lap.

"You are to remain here till I am well." He states, his free arm coming to rest on your thighs, trapping you in his hold.

"That is—" You splutter. "I didn't agree to this."

"Call it compromise." He remarks, his scarred fingers squeezing yours. "I will not feel better till you are no longer mad."

You stare at him in disbelief. Had he ever been this clingy before? Your brain has trained so hard on forgetting the details that it's hard to make sense of what's real and what isn't.

"You're unbelievable." You mutter.

"And you're mine still." He responds easily.

It stills your heart, so sudden in tearing open the wreckage that lays hidden that you have to settle on staring at the windows instead, at the row of your wilted plants that he's struggled in keeping alive.

He sets the ice pack on the end table, his freezing hand coming up to caress your chin, sending a shiver down your spine at the cool temperature. "Will you truly not tell me what has displeased you?"

You had. Quite abruptly too with all your honesty. It still shocks you that he rejected the possibility of a break-up so quickly.

"Patients shouldn't speak so much." You mutter, knowing his stubbornness will get you nowhere closer to convincing him.

His lips quirk up into the faintest smile. "You worry."

"Of course, I am worried." When Dick had called you, Damian and emergency room was enough to toss your senses to the wind. Nothing of the past even made its way into consideration when you had rushed over, barring Gotham's traffic laws and all.

"For someone who prides himself on the least concussions among his siblings, you're not doing a very good job in living up to your word."

“But I have lived up to my word.” He answers.

You shift your gaze to him, confused.

“My promises to you mean more than some tally.” He declares. “I gave you my word that I will always make it back home to you, alive.”

His promises mean nothing. They shouldn’t—but the way he looks at you, filled with utter devotion, makes you wonder when he decided this version of him didn’t belong to you anymore.

It’s like you’re tossed into a time loop, forced to experience what you’ve lost over and over with every reminder.

“I should make dinner.” You announce abruptly, desperate to be out of his arms.

He stares at you in surprise, blinking slowly. “Alright, I shall accompany you.”

“What happened to staying on the couch?”

He shrugs. “That was the doctor’s orders, and I don’t recall making any promises to that loon.”

—

Dinner settles as a silent staring competition, tension running thick through the air with only him as the singular active participant, his eyes staring unblinkingly, digging a hole into your very bones as you poke at your plate, long after the meal has finished.

Just when sleep finally arrives, and you think you’re free from your nightmarish duties, caught between torn memories and thin lies, do you realise your mistake. Sleeping arrangements.

Damian pulls at the sheets, clearly expecting you to sleep by his side. Your mind scrambles for an excuse to sleep elsewhere but there is only one bedroom, and sleeping on the couch will only reinforce his suspicions of you being upset.

Just act like normal. Dick had suggested, like it’s that easy to resume being the girlfriend to your ex who doesn’t remember that he is one.

"Beloved?” He calls, snapping you out of your stupor.

You’re truly in for it. Your foolish decision to play pretend has reached its limits, and you’re to bear the consequences.

“Coming.” You respond weakly, making your way over to the bed.

You settle at the very edge, laying down stiffly as you pull the sheets over you. Seconds pass in silence and you think you’ve done it, completed your task without complications, when you hear a sudden displeased grunt.

Large hands wrap around your waist, and tugs you into a broad chest. Your eyes snap open wide, completely frozen as Damian tucks his nose into the crook of your shoulder.

“It is cruel even of you to be so far when I am injured, habibti.” He whispers against your ear.

You can barely breathe, scared he’ll feel the palpitations of your heart hammering against your ribs, right above his hold. He only calls you that when he is desperate, when a single language can’t capture what he wishes to convey.

“You told me yourself.” He grumbles. “Even if it carries to the next morning, we must never go to sleep angry at one another.”

Your lip quivers, and you force your eyes shut. “I am not angry.”

He’s silent, but his grip tightens ever so slightly, as if afraid you’ll drift further away if he doesn’t. “...I choose to believe you.”

—

Desperation is a rare look on Damian, but you think even this is cutting close to your given patience.

“I am unable to feed myself.” He shrugs, hands crossed over in obvious pretence.

“Damian—”

His gaze sharpens.

You resist a sigh. “Dami. I have to head to work, and you’re not starving yourself.”

“Five minutes.” He rebuts. “That is my usual speed for breakfast. You can spare that.”

He is right. You usually get to the office early anyway, but that doesn’t make his weaponised incompetence any easier to swallow—even for five minutes.

“Last I recall, concussions don’t erase your ability to use a spoon.” You retort, grabbing the utensil with more force than necessary. “And you were eating perfectly fine last night.”

“I suppose the doctor is right.” He remarks. “I require bed rest—and last night, I did not sleep well. A certain someone was desperate to escape my hold.”

“Petty.” You mutter, scooping the porridge and blowing on it. He watches you intently, seemingly very pleased with himself.

You lift the spoon to his lips, your lips pursed in impatience. With a deliberate slowness, he leans in, his fingers sneakingly wrapping around your wrist. He brings the spoon to his lips, but his eyes are trained on you.

He takes a bite, and hums. He lets his fingers drum softly against your wrist for a few more seconds before he comments. “My appetite is satiated.”

You scoff, but you can’t help the smile that quirks up involuntarily. “Liar.”

He shakes his head, feigning ignorance. “I suppose for my survival, you will have to feed me every morning."

"Since you clearly need to be babied, why don't I call Dick over to spoon-feed you then?"

His expression sours comically. "That is a horrible suggestion."

"Then, figure out how to use your hands." You mock, forcing the spoon into his fingers. "I'm heading off to work, don't do anything stupid."

"That's reserved for my siblings." He mutters, and his gaze traces over you, searching. Whatever he wants to find, it's not there, hidden by the mask you've put on, and his shoulders droop.

Crossing his arms, he looks at you with a thick expression. "I'll wait for you."

Grabbing your bag, you give him the barest nod as a response and you’re halfway to the door when his throat clears. You resist a sigh, and force yourself to look back at him. "Yes?"

“Aren’t you forgetting something important?” He mutters briskly.

Your brows furrow, thinking. He’s on his prescribed meds, has attempted at breakfast, and is on house arrest till he recovers, barred from all patrols till he’s able to function without an ice pack to his scalp.

His expression contorts briefly in disappointment, before he mutters something incoherently. Walking over to you, he stares at you with a narrowed expression before he leans in—and presses a kiss to your forehead.

You blink rapidly, growing flustered.

“For good luck.” He murmurs. “Since you’re the one leaving earlier this time, I’ll forgive you for forgetting.”

Right, you used to always give him a kiss before you left, till it became a ceremonious habit. He always seemed so undeterred to them, that you assumed he was merely tolerating your teasing by standing as still as a statue.

You never thought he actually waited for them.

Staring at him speechlessly, you find your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. For someone who’s lost his memories, he was strangely hyper-aware of all your previous habits.

“Have a good day, beloved.” He wishes, eyes softening in a cruel, dangerous form of lowering your defences.

Blinking harshly and regaining your senses, you mutter a quick goodbye and leave as quickly as you can. You wish you could tear out the beating organ in your chest that refuses to calm down at his affections.

He is not your Damian and hasn’t been for months. You refuse to fall for him again, not when it meant having your heart broken twice when he wakes from this feverish nightmare and remembers… that he doesn’t love you anymore.

—

Twilight has long settled among the darkened dusky clouds, and your back aches from hunching over your desk for the last couple of hours.

It was a reprieve to be away from Damian, to be sucked into a part of your life where it was constant with your past and present. So much so, you over-did yourself on your workload, starting on more tasks than you were supposed to.

Checking the clock, you wince. Eight p.m.

You were supposed to be home three hours ago. Checking your phone, you’re surprised to find no notifications, asking for updates on your location or the time you’ll reach home. Only to remember you blocked him eight months ago.

You curse, quickly unblocking him. You can only imagine his reaction—of you not coming back home at your usual hour and being unreachable?

Quickly packing your bag, you grab for your coat, stumbling as you tug it on and exit through the revolving doors. One hand haphazardly scrolls through your phone, pressing on his contact, and you’re busy thinking of some flimsy excuse that didn’t involve avoiding his entire existence. Too busy to notice someone approaching you at alarming speed.

The harsh yell of your name, echoed in a deep timbre that could only belong to him, snaps you out of your daze.

You wince, readying yourself before you turn. You expect him to be angry, disappointed. A mirror of the perfect statue you remember in your memories, cold and detached.

You didn’t expect to see him panting, hands on his thighs, hair sticking in all directions, and his eyes—filled with an uncharacteristic panic. Damian Wayne, the epitome of a man carved into a sharpened blade, stands before you as a complete mess.

"You didn't come home." He states, voice barely constrained to be levelled.

"Damian."

"Whatever I have done, forgive me." He exhales, sweat pooling at his forehead, cheeks reddened from running as he lifts himself back up, towering over you. Yet, he has never looked so vulnerable. "I just needed to make sure you were okay."

Damian Wayne never begs, not even when you walked out the door eight months ago.

Yet here he was, one hand coming up to clutch his head, gritting his teeth and trying to conceal his pain. Whatever pretence you held, the cold front you’ve desperately tried to upkeep to distance yourself—completely vanishes as you rush towards him.

“Damian, you’re not supposed to strain your head. Much less run all the way here.” Your stern expression falls short, replaced with worry as your eyes rapidly look him up and down. “It could lead to complications.”

“It felt wrong.”

The crease between your brows deepen. “What felt wrong?”

“Letting you walk away.” He grits. “Seeing you close the door on me. My body exhibited strange symptoms—palpitations, nerves—and somehow, I was convinced if I let you go, you’ll never come back. My head’s been hurting since and I waited. I truly tried.”

"I found notes." He says through the clenching of his jaw. "From the last few months in my phone."

You freeze.

"It contained your routine of how often you water your plants, your favourite recipes, and half-written texts I've never sent." He lists out. "As if I'm afraid I'll forget. Like you weren't there to remind me."

"Just stop. You're hurting yourself." It's hard to see him like this—so unguarded, filled with pain. It's hard to hear his efforts, when neither of you can understand what went through his mind, lost in his scattered memories. "I'll go home with you."

"I can't remember what I've done." Abruptly removing his hand from the back of his head, his fingers come up to caress your cheek. Even distressed, his touch is so soft, so gentle. His eyes search yours, trying to find the answer he seeks. "I don't know if I deserve to ask you to go home. Not when I haven't made it up to you."

"No matter how angry I am, I will never want to see you in pain." You plead. Grabbing onto his fingers, you interlock them with yours and tug him along back to the apartment. "We’re going home."

—

The kitchen counter is filled with your favourite flowers, even when you know he can’t stand the smell of them wilting two days later. An uneaten plate has grown cold on the dining table, evidence of a meal he’s cooked for you.

It's unbearable, because the guilt that drowns your chest, deepens into a painful tug at every controlled breath, pulling at the thought of him waiting for you alone. You drop your bag on the sofa, but the pretense is holding on by a thin thread and when you turn—he's standing there and watching, his gaze locked onto you as if he could look at nothing else.

You haven’t even noticed the tears streaming down your face, but you’re just so tired. Of fighting this obvious battle you were never meant to win.

You still love him. Even if he’s forgotten the fight, and the words he said that tore you apart.

Maybe it's the sight of your tears. He hated it whenever you cried, no matter how bad a fight’s ever gotten—but the distance he maintained out of respect for you vanishes as he moves in an instant, arms wrapping around you. He mutters into your hair, begging. “I’m sorry, hayati. Do not cry because of me.”

“I missed you.” Your voice cracks. “So much. It killed me to be away—but it was what you wanted.”

"Never." His voice lowers, desperate to make you believe, pulling away with his hands still wrapped around you, lowering his head to force you to meet his eyes. "I will never wish for your absence.”

He leans in, forehead pressed against yours. "You are all I could ever want. You're the reason I fought tooth and nail to make it back from that mission. You're what makes sense when everything else crashes. The idiot I was, I rebuke all his decisions because I want you. Now. Forever."

"I don't know if you'll mean it." Your voice comes out hoarse, broken. "When you remember the reason that you pulled away."

"I may have lost my memories." He says sternly. "But I know who I am. That has never changed. Not before, and certainly not now. You’re the only one who’s ever been the keeper to my heart, and it’ll be you till my last breath.”

You want to believe him. So desperately, you want to love him again and not fear that he'll drift away, with the fear of disappointing his father, or letting his never-ending mission break the two of you apart again.

"If losing my memories is what it takes to get you back, I will do it again and more." He says with absolute conviction. "I have never been more sure. This is what I want. You are all I need. So, stay. We'll figure this out together. Even when my memories return."

"Just—don’t leave me." His voice softens, his gaze pooled with a deep-set fear that his body seems to remember, even when his mind is frayed. "I can’t bear it.”

—

His plea follows you into your dreams. This version of him is still hard for your mind to wrap around, that when you wake from a shuffle of movement, it takes you a moment to readjust and recognise your surroundings. Or rather, the arms pulling away from your waist. You force your eyes open, blinking blearily before turning around to face him.

"Dami?" You murmur.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he's looking at you with a sober, dreaded realisation, like—he's woken up from a dream.

It strikes you immediately, the fog in his gaze that has lifted, and you're quick to pull away fully to your side of the bed, the sheets dragging along your legs. "You remember."

"Beloved." His hand reaches out, disbelieving—but it freezes mid-air and pulls back, a quiet guilt filling his gaze. "You're here."

You swallow, pulling your knees under your elbows. "Are you going to kick me out?"

His expression cracks—revealing a cold rage taking over his expression, but it wasn't directed at you. It was for himself.

"No." He answers shortly, disgust creased into the tension between his brows. "I should be the one to leave. I have hurt you, deeply. I took advantage of your kindness while I was unable to recover my memories, and trapped you into being here with me."

His jaw clenches, and he averts his gaze. "I understand if you want to be done with me. Permanently. I will have it all sorted by the morning."

No. That is not what you want. You want him—honest and bearing his heart to you, the way he did earlier. You didn't want kindness, or polite pity, because you still see the man you love under the mask that he's desperately trying to upkeep.

"No." Your voice echoes against the walls, and his gaze snaps to you. "I do not want you to go. I want you to tell me everything. What you were thinking, what you did while I was gone, and what you want from me. I'm not letting you let me go this time, Damian. So, talk."

He inhales, and even as his fists dig into the sheets, there is a quiet, trembling hope you find when his eyes soften, tracing over your features like he's finally able to breathe with you in his vision.

"I lost sight." He speaks, his voice weaker than you've ever heard it. "Of what truly mattered. The mission, the fights with Father—it consumed me as a never-ending battle to prove myself. With every failure, it escaped as a lash, a punishment that slowly began to trick my mind into thinking that I did not deserve life's blessings. That I did not deserve you."

"I thought you were better off without a partner who always came back needing stitches, bleeding across the floorboards." His gaze darkens, and somewhere in him, he sounds as if he still believes it. "That you deserved someone who was stable, warm, kind. Who knew how to use his words instead of wielding them like a dagger. Who could hold your heart without being so afraid of breaking it."

"I was so sure of it." He mocks, a cold dagger dragging over the open wound of his regret. "I made the decision for us without asking."

"I regretted it." He says quickly, gaze flickering with a sudden intensity. "Immediately. On the first sleepless night, when I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the side you always occupied. When the plants started to wilt as if they couldn't bear anyone's hands but yours. When I made two coffees in the morning and had to drain it in the sink."

"I had reserved a space in each part of my life unknowingly, for you." He admits. "When I lost you, I felt it—this unbearable loss—and I knew I’ve made it impossible to live without you.”

"But you did." You mutter. "For eight months."

"Living?" He smiles wryly, and not a hint of it reaches his soulless gaze. "I knew that I had hurt you, and I would’ve been an even more selfish bastard if I asked you to forgive me. But I was not living.”

“I carried on in the only way I knew how before meeting you. By surviving—barely. I grew reckless. Impulsive. Threw myself into mission after mission. By the time I realised how far gone I was, I was bleeding out in an alleyway and Dick was dragging me to the hospital."

You could only let silence answer for you. His honesty, which was all you ever wished for, was simultaneously so much to bear.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?” You ask quietly.

"Every single word." His fingers twitch, a slight tremor he tries to hide by digging deeper into the sheets. "You are all I want. There wasn't a day since you left that I haven't regretted letting you go. I may have survived, but the clock on my life stopped till you came back into it."

A lock that's been trapped in that hollow cavity in your chest, weighing you down since the first time you saw him in the hospital, and maybe even before then—finally breaks. Your hands come up to shield the pain you’ve desperately tried to hide, tears running down to no avail.

Whatever semblance of dignity he was trying to uphold, it completely shatters as he reaches for you, pulling you into his arms. He lets out a deep exhale, hands rubbing against your back, comforting and warm.

"I am sorry I hurt you." He mutters into the crown of your head. "I am sorry I've been a fool. No apologies can make up for what I've done to us—only that I regret every moment I wasted, and that it took me this long to tell you what you deserved to hear."

"I don't want you to go away, Damian." It’s the most genuine plea you’ve ever asked of him, bearing your heart so deeply that it terrifies you of its vulnerability. "Don't disappear on me again. Don’t shut me out. I hated not being able to read you, and feeling like I was isolated in what was meant to be a partnership between the two of us."

He shakes his head wordlessly, pulling away slightly to lower his gaze, meeting yours and there’s a raw desperation in the green of his eyes. “I will never leave. Not as long as you’ll have me—I will spend the rest of my life forging myself to be the man you deserve. I will communicate. I will apologise. I will do anything you want, hayati.”

“You have a lot to make up for.” You remind him.

“As long as you’ll give me the time.” He answers. “I will not waste a moment more.”

“I want grovelling.” You go on. “Like—on your knees grovelling.”

“I can do it now.” His response is quicker than sound, and he’s already ready to obey your every command.

“I want you to tell me when you feel something is wrong. When you feel you’re not enough, you have to say it.” You demand.

“Yes, my love.” He answers, a soft nod brushing against your forehead.

“I want you to call the hospital now, because we need to get a scan to make sure everything’s okay.”

His expression falters—a brief hesitation at the thought of the pushy doctor and his accompanying nurse.

“Damian.”

He flinches at the sound of his birth name, stressed in that particular tone that signals you're not joking about your conditions if he wanted to be with you again. Not even his hatred for hospitals will risk him even the slightest chance of losing you.

With or without his memories, he had always known that you're the peace in his life that he thought he didn't deserve, but cherished so deeply that he finds no meaning in the word if it weren't for you.

“I will call the hospital immediately, Beloved.”

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“I don’t know what you want me to say right now, Y/N!”

You hated this. You never fought with Bucky. He was your person, you two just meshed so well. It was rare an issue came along that pushed the two of you to an argument. Even then, you never shouted at each other, never got heated, never battled with each other.

Something about tonight was different. Maybe it was the build-up of anger on your part that pushed you to say something, but you didn’t regret it. Every time he returned from a mission it was the same. Whether it went good or bad, you could count on Bucky stumbling through your shared apartment door. Bleeding, limping, bruised- anything but in good condition. It was killing you.

Each time he just waved it off, saying he was fine. That he was a super soldier and could handle it. That he was literally ‘made to take a beating’. Each time you bite your tongue. It wasn’t worth the fight. But you no longer could, not after his latest mission.

From what you got out of Sam, a group of agents jumped Bucky out of nowhere while they were separated. Well, he and some hostages. For their sake, he had to distract and take on all the men alone, giving the hostages time to escape to Sam and the jet. The encounter resulted in a cracked rib, severe bruising, and a lovely limp from a strained leg. Sam was livid, saying he didn’t understand why he didn’t call him for support. The two of you shared the conclusion that Bucky was being far too risky on missions. You were done with it, deciding to finally say something.

That’s how that fight began. As he stumbled into the kitchen, digging through the fridge for a drink, you tried to tell him to sit, that you would help him. Asking to clean his scrapes and bruises. He was having none of it. He was short with you from the beginning and you weren’t okay with that. Making your concerns for him known as calmly as possible still brought you here. Shouting at each other from across the tiny Brooklyn apartment.

“I want you to tell me you’ll be more careful! That you’ll stop throwing yourself into unnecessary fights!” you said, your voice already hoarse from the foreign tone.

“Are you serious? It’s my job, Y/N! I can’t just protect myself over the hostages!” he said, standing from the couch, his jaw clenched with anger. The sound of your name on his tongue, normally sweet like honey, instead short and firm. The fact he was using your name at all was upsetting. You could count on one hand the time he called you Y/N instead of doll or love. It made you taste bile.

“I’m not asking that of you! I just want you to think more. You could’ve called Sam!” you took a few steps closer to him. “You're not invincible!” 

“You’re gonna stand there and tell me how to do my job? You’re just a civilian, Y/N!” 

His words stung, but you let it slide. Honestly, they were true. But that didn’t matter. You were right, Sam knew it, the team knew. Bucky probably knew it too. There had to have been a reason for his recklessness. And you loved him too much not to find out.

“I may just be a civilian, but I’m right. I’m a civilian who loves you and cares about you. A civilian who can’t stand watching you collapse in the doorframe every month. I can’t deal with the thought of you getting yourself hurt on missions when I know you don’t have to! It’s killing me, Buck!” you were pleading at this point. Begging him to hear you. For your words to shatter that wall built around him.

He paused for a moment, his face stern and cold. You just wanted him to say something. Anything.

“Well, I didn’t ask you to care about me! It’s exhausting having you care so much!”

Not that.

Your throat burned, tears welling in your eyes. He couldn’t have meant that. He always did this. Pushing you away before he got vulnerable. It never worked. Until now. 

“I...I can’t do this anymore,” you took off for the bedroom. Bucky just stood in the living room, staring at the ground battling with the words he just said. He didn’t mean it. He regretted it the minute they left his mouth. The second he saw the look on your face. God, he deserved another decade with Hydra just for that. He hated himself for letting his anger lash out at you. 

So why couldn’t he just take it back? Why was he glued there in place, kicking himself instead of apologizing? Pride? Self-loathing? Self-sabotage. 

You pushed past him to the hall closet, duffle bag in hand looking for your coat. As soon as he saw the bag, The color drained from Bucky’s face. He’d never been more scared in his life. Were you leaving him? What had he done? You couldn’t leave him.

“What are you doing?” the words barely made it out of his mouth, his voice shaking and strained. 

“I’m spending the night with my friend. Since having me care about you is just so exhausting, I’m giving you the space you so clearly need,” you said, digging through the closet for your coat.

“Please don’t go,” he staggered over to you, shaking as tears welled in his eyes. “Please, Doll, please don’t leave me.”

“I can’t do this anymore, Buck. I’m so sorry that me caring about you is such a burden.”

Finally, you found your coat. Turning around to grab your bag, you caught sight of your boyfriend. He was a mess. His eyes were frantic and scared. Brows knit tight together and his lips quivered. Your heart burned at the thought that your leaving did this to him. But this was what he wanted, right?

“I didn’t mean it, love. Please I didn’t...I love you so much. I always want you there for me,” his hands were shaking at his sides. He could feel a panic attack coming on, but he pushed on. This was his mess and he needed to fix it.

“Then why did you say it, James?” 

James. Shit, he really fucked up.

“I don’t know… I just. I always do this. I’m not used to this, Doll. Having someone around. Someone who gives a shit if I come home or not. It’s scary. The last person I let in left me alone in a new century with no one,” his words were broken and jumbled. His own tears blurred his delivery.

“Buck..”

“I’m so sorry, Doll,” his knees crashed to the ground. Trembling, he reached out, wrapping his arms around you. Clutching onto you like a lifeline. His head rested against your abdomen and he sobbed. “Please, I know I’m a mess. I know I fucked up. I know I don’t deserve you. I know you probably should, but please, please don’t leave.”

You were still, taking a moment to breathe. Slowly you wrapped your hands around his head, playing with the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck. Your bag and coat fell to the floor as you lowered yourself to his level, your position mirroring his.

You were never going to leave forever. Just for the night to cool down. The fact that his brain immediately thought the former was cruel. Your heart broke for him. 

“Buck, I’m not gonna leave,” you said, rubbing your hands over his arms.

“You’re not?” his head shot up, little sniffles falling as he tried to collect himself.

“No, Sweetie. I just, I want you to take better care of yourself. That’s all I’m asking. And then, what you said, it hurt.”

“I’m so sorry, love. I can’t believe I said that. I didn’t mean it. You’re the best thing about me, the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t deserve you, sometimes I feel like I let that get the best of me. But I hurt you. I never want to do that. I love you so much. Your kisses and baths are the best parts of coming home from a mission. Every time I’m nursing a black eye in the jet, I look forward to you holding me and kissing it better. I care about you so much. And I love how much you care about me. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“I love you, Buck,” you said, pressing a fleeting kiss to his forehead, before placing your own against it. “Promise me you’ll be more careful, Hun.”

“I promise, Doll. I promise.”

“Good. Now can I please get this blood off your face?”