#er fic

This thing between the two of you is pretty new, only a couple of months old, and John’s managed to get his hands on you a few times. His hand on your thigh while driving, your feet in his lap while watching a movie with his lazy hands on your ankles, his nose pressed to the top of your head while you slept.

He can count on two hands the number of times you’ve let him kiss you longer than a soft press of his lips to yours. He’s tasted your chapstick, knows the taste of your spit mixed with his. 

He’d finally taken you out on a real date. A nice dinner, a bouquet of flowers that you’ve placed in one of your nicest glasses in the kitchen, and a whole evening of John charming the breath out of you. He had driven you home and not even bothered to hide his glee at being invited in. 

“I had a really good time,” you’d admitted, looking down at your shoes. John’s heart has been trying to crawl out of his throat since he came to pick you up. Delicate black shoes, a pair of tights that is hiding a hole in the upper thigh under a pretty red dress the same colour of the blood he’s drawing from biting his tongue all night. 

John had an index finger curled around your middle finger, and he had used it to tug you closer to himself, and this time you let him. Letting him pull you into his lap on your soft couch, halfway through airily suggesting that he find something for you two to watch when he kissed you. 

He keeps you there for almost twenty minutes, pulling those pretty flats off and makes himself dizzy by peeling those ripped tights off your legs. You’re smiley, kissing him back, threading your fingers through his hair with the utmost care and softness. “I had such a good time, baby,” he kisses the fat of your cheek, feeling the way they warm under his touch. “Loved seeing you, look so pretty.” His hand had gone slowly from the back of your knee, up, up, and up, until it was past the hem of your skirt. 

He was being so slow, knowing you’re kind of jumpy and not wanting anything to happen without you having the opportunity to stop him. Hands grabbing at your thighs wherever they could reach, committing every one of your pleased noises to memory. 

You’d pulled away, sounding breathless and looking kissed. “Do you want something to drink? I have tea?”

He had laughed, fully and utterly endeared. “Sure, baby.”

John hadn’t quite thought it through, just wanting to agree with you, feeling his nose against the flat of your jaw. You’d climbed off his lap at that, legs shaky, still giggly, and pranced off to your kitchen, leaving him spread on the couch feeling a little embarrassed and a lot turned on. 

He wants to say he doesn’t care that the two of you haven’t hooked up, but care doesn’t quite feel right. Mind seems too indifferent. It doesn’t bother him, he’d wait forever if he had to. Even if he didn’t have to and you’d just prefer it. A quiet life of the two of you, cohabitating an apartment where he gets to look at you every day. He won’t say he hasn’t thought about it though. Hasn’t collapsed into bed after a twelve hour shift and had his thoughts drift with his hands following suit. 

You’re not quite his girlfriend, but the two of you have been seeing each other for enough time that he doesn’t feel like it’s creepy that he thinks of you that way. As it stands, it’s only on occasion. If it got any further it might be a little creepy. It depends on what you think. The idea of asking you brings a sickly burn to his face - hey, baby, you don’t mind if I touch myself while thinking of you, do you? Don’t worry, it’s only like, half the time. That’s probably worse than if it was every time. 

Fuck, you look pretty. With your dress he can see your upper thighs and your entire upper chest, the top coming to rest just high enough to protect your decency. You kept pulling it up over dinner because you would lean down over your plate and accidentally give him an eyeful. He charitably pretended not to notice. You always look pretty, even when you’re not showing skin. He likes you with your lovely dress, he likes you in the chunky sweater you’d been wearing the first time he met you, he likes you that time he’d accidentally come into your bedroom while you were changing and gotten a glimpse of you pulling your skirt up.

What he had liked even more, though, was the embarrassed smile that had stretched up your face and the quiver of your voice as you’d told him to turn around. 

You’re taking a very long time, turned away from him and fussing with a mug, and he wants to go over to see you. It’s practically been a billion years since he got to see your face. 

“Baby,” he groans, leaning down so the back of his neck is curved with the arm of your sofa.”Where’d you go?”

You cough, startled. “You wanted tea?” Not that bad. 

“You growing the tea leaves over there?” He lilts, voice honeyed and lazy. “I’m forgetting what you look like.”

There’s some twinkling of metal on ceramics, and soon the pad of your feet. You have a mug of tea, slightly misshapen, cream coloured with fruit painted on, and you offer it to him bashfully. “Still like me?”

He takes the mug and puts it down on the floor, hands enveloping yours. “Hmm,” he pretends to think. “Need a closer look,” he presses another kiss to the side of your mouth. “The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Can’t believe you kept me from seeing this for a whole nineteen minutes. Some new kind of torture.” His lips quirk up at the side.

You look down, embarrassed under his intense gaze as he pulls you into his lap again. 

“You couldn’t be a doctor, pretty girl,”’ he says, not unkindly but with a formality that leaves little room to argue. “First rule is do no harm,” he presses a distracted kiss to your temple. “And you’re fucking killing me.” He can feel the plush of your thighs under the pads of his fingers. 

You stutter a laugh and he can feel it against his face. “I’m killing you?”

He looks at you gravely. “To death.”

You giggle and he’s hit right in the gut with a yearning that makes him feel like a high schooler. John feels like his breathing has synced with yours, the two of you drawn together instinctively as he kisses you again. He swallows you sighs, touches your legs, and tries to avoid thinking about the twitchiness of his hardening cock. You accidentally get too close to it and he lets out a deep groan. “Still killing me,” he mutters, not bothering to pull back fully. 

You make a slicing motion across his neck with an index fingernail, teasing. “Don’t think I can stop,” you admit. “You seem kinda weak spirited.”

John laughs, ducking his head to get his mouth on whatever part of your hand is still at his neck, settling on kissing the side of your finger. “Me? Weak spirited?” He laughs. “What gives, babe?”

That makes you smile and he regrets not trying to nip at you, he might have gotten a full laugh. He decides to rectify that, taking his hands and digging his fingers into your sides. He gets something that’s a cross between offense, glee and bewilderment. In your surprise, he bolts up and overshoots, shooting forward to push you on your back. “Woah, officer.” He has each of your wrists in his hands and you squirm under him. “Give a girl some warning.”

“Is that really the path you want to go down?” He kisses you again, perfectly content to keep you smiling up at him, “You want to be a bad girl?” His tone is stilted and awkward, and you’re completely endeared. John’s a flirt, but he doesn’t usually like them as much as he likes you. 

“This is a wrongful arrest,” you insist. “You can check my record, it’s clean.”

He kisses you and you make a happy noise that sends blood straight to the tips of his ears and the pull of his groin. 

John’s grip on you tightens without him meaning it to. He’s trying so hard to keep this light, innocent, plausibly deniable, but you’re looking up at him with those pretty eyes and he can feel his self-control crumbling faster than the arms trying to hold him above you. 

“That’s cute,” he says against your skin. “My girl’s never been arrested before.” His hips shift almost involuntarily against yours, and he knows you can feel he’s half-hard just from kissing you. He doesn’t have it in him to be embarrassed, not when he’s trying so hard to behave. The little sigh you let out at the feeling doesn’t help his case. 

“John,” you say his name just to say it, blinking up at him like one time your eyes will open and he’ll be gone. He makes a bit of a face. 

“No one I know really calls me John,” he admits. “Most of the other doctors call me Carter.”

His lips are down at your neck by this point, and he can feel the vibrations of each breath you take. He shoves down the feelings of wanting to swallow them,

“Do you want me to call you Carter?”

He shakes his head, nose brushing your jaw. “No, baby. I like hearing it from you.” You duck your head to try and catch his mouth once he reaches your collarbone and he lets you if only to keep you comfortable.

“Want me to stop?” He asks gently. He pulls back enough to look at your eyes. “Pretty girl, gotta tell me what you want.”

You’re breathless against him. “Want you,” you admit. 

A noise barrels its way from his mouth and dilutes itself against your skin. You’re driving him insane, you’re going to be the fucking death of him. How is he meant to function after you say shit like that?

“Yeah?” he rasps, voice already wrecked. His hips are staying decidedly still, but the way your body arches under him isn’t helping. “You want me?” He swallows against you, mouth suddenly bone dry. 

He lets your hands go, one hand coming to clutch the arm of the sofa behind your head, the other travelling down to rest on the outside of your thigh, teasing the hem of your dress. “What part of me does my girl want, hey?”

He knows, can feel the heat between your legs, wants to push his knee between your thighs and finally feel you. 

“Your fingers…”

Oh, God, you’re going to be his undoing. 

“Yeah, sweet girl?” He’s out of breath and he hasn’t even gotten under your dress yet. He pushes his lips to yours and slides off his position above you, now kneeling at your side. Completely and wholly devoted. “You can have my fingers. Can have anything you want, baby, you just gotta tell me.”

His hands push the skirt of your dress up, bunching it around your waist. His name tumbles from your lips and he feels his cock twitch at the sound. Your upper thighs are printed on the back of his eyelids, he’s never been so hard in his entire fucking life, and if he’s not careful he’s going to admit he loves you. 

“John,” you whimper at the feeling of him rubbing circles into your thighs. “Don’t tease me.”

He plants a kiss to the side of your knee, reaching a hand up to let you thread your fingers through his. His thumb brushes a line up your panties, and he can feel how wet you are already. 

“Fuck, baby,” now he’s started he can’t stop. “All this just for me? You’re so fucking wet.” His thumb finds your clit through your panties and you keen, throwing your head back, already so worked up. His shy girl, out of breath, begging him to make her cum.

“Please,” your voice is uneven. “Don’t- please touch me.”

He can smell you through the saturated fabric and when he slips his hand underneath through the side, pressing his thumb into your folds he groans like he’s the one getting groped under the clothes. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he can’t even get a good view of your pussy with your underwear and his hand in the way, but it’s enough to have him rock fucking hard. “So pretty, all spread out for me? Is this for me?” He knows it is, but he needs to hear you say it. 

Needs to hear you tell him he’s got you dizzy and touched and desperate while his hands is in yours. He knows it, wants to hear you gasp it out. 

“Uh huh,” you nod, eyes clamped shut, vaguely embarrassed at the fact you can’t articulate your feelings. “Just for you.”

He’s rutting against the sofa on his knees on pure instinct, too focused on you to even register. His nose gets up in there to join his fingers, and he’s sure he’s squeezing the life out of your hand. “Fuck, smell so good.” He licks a stripe up your panties and almost cums at the sound that pulls from you.

“Can I take these off?” He looks up at you, eyes wet, one thumb running over your knuckles and the other absently toying with your clit. “Please?”

“Yeah, Johnny,” you breathe. “Yeah, you can take ‘em off.” He lifts your hips enough to tug them down - heart constricting at how pretty they are; pink and lacy and (potentially?) just for your date tonight. They go straight into his back pocket, and he’s distracted briefly at the idea you might forget to ask for them back. 

He doesn’t waste time after that, his face finding purchase at your core as soon as he’s able to. He groans into your pussy at the taste, licking from your hole to your clit. He can vaguely hear you moaning above him, can feel the friction of his cock against the inside of his pants, your nails digging into the back of his hand, but that all falls at the wayside behind the punch-sweet slick coating his chin. 

You can’t recall ever being touched like this, one hand clutching his so tight his knuckles are turning white, the other stroking his hair as softly as you can bear to. “Oh, that’s so nice, can you- oh, just a little up.” He lets you give him direction until an almost violent moan rips itself from your chest and you finally take a good grip on his hair. 

“There?” You can barely hear him because he doesn’t bother to detach himself from your cunt. 

“Uh, huh,” you nod, blissed-out and dazed, hips twitching at the vibration of his voice against your clit. 

John’s eaten pussy before, would consider himself quite good at it, but the way you’re bucking up to meet him, the fluttering of your walls around him, the god-fuckin’-have-him sweetness on his tongue has made every coherent thought fly out the window. “Can I use my fingers, baby?” He gasps out, coming back up for air. “Please? Wanna feel you, wanna feel you so bad I bet you’re so tight, aren’t you, pretty?”

“Yeah, Johnny.” No one calls him John and even fewer have ever called him Johnny. “Please, want your fingers.”

His brain is completely fried as he slips two fingers inside your pulsing hole and feeling the way you completely suck him in. He’s about five seconds from ruining your very nice couch when you clench down on him with an agonising moan.

His fingers are moving so slowly it’s almost torturous, brushing that sweet spot deep inside you that you’ve never been able to reach with your own fingers. John laps at your clit, flat, broad strokes over the swollen nerves as he pushes in deeper with his fingers. 

“So fucking tight,” he groans, barely even talking to you anymore. He feels something drip down his neck and the only thought that goes through his head is a mournful what a waste. All rational thought is gone, he can’t even remember his own name when you’re not crying it, and he doesn’t care to. 

He takes his mouth off your clit - dutifully replacing it with the thumb of the hand that’s inside you - to bring his mouth under his hand. John maneuvers himself so he can lap the drops of your essence where his fingers are fucking you deep enough to make tears prickle at the corners of both your eyes and his. 

John can feel you clenching, so tight he can’t imagine having feeling in the tips of his fingers much longer, and he groans again, pressing his nose to your inner thigh. “You close, baby?” He asks, mouth full. You nod at him, pretty makeup smudged around your eyes, pupils blown and looking somehow impossibly prettier than he’s ever seen you. He’s going to marry you. You’re not even his girlfriend yet. “Gonna make my girl come,” he slurs against your slick.

You make a strangled noise like you can’t breathe, the hand not in his is clenching your skirt so you can see his face. John would let his fingers fall off if it meant you kept panting his name the way you are and getting to feel you grip him the way you are on both of his hands. 

“Can you come for me, sweet girl?” he coaxes, curling his fingers again and moving his mouth back up to wrap his lips around your clit.

“Fuck!” Your hand grips his hair so hard he cries out against your core. “John- Oh!”

He shoves his fingers in further, trying to get as deep as he can to push an orgasm out of you. “There we go, fuck, you look so pretty- taste so good. Need you to come, can you come for me? Please - God - need you to come for me. Please, baby. Fucking- fuck- love-”

You come hard around him, gushing around his fingers with a cry of his name. John’s pressing open mouthed kisses to your core, absolutely no finesse or rhythm, just trying to get as much of you in his mouth as he can. 

“Oh, thank you baby,” he squeezes your hand, trying to stop his eyes from clamping shut so he can see the shine of your lips as your jaw forms the O of his name. 

You jerk, pressing the back of your heel into his back, scrambling to find something to hold in your spare hand that’s gone back and forth between your skirt and his hair, settling on pulling his hair which makes him whine into your thigh. 

You lay them for a moment, still in a daze as you come down from your orgasm, getting hit with an aftershock as he pulls his fingers out of you and presses them right against his tongue. 

John can vaguely feel his heartbeat behind his eyes as he sucks the taste of you off his fingers, revelling in the way his mouth is slick with you. He pulls back on his haunches, squeezing the fingers in his hand gingerly. “You okay, baby?”

You nod, flushed and glowing, smoothing down the hair that’s stuck to his forehead. “Yeah,” you sigh out. “Yeah, John, I’m okay. C’mere,” you tug him off his knees by the collar of his too-fancy shirt and pull him back on top of you. You kiss him firmly, uncaring that the lower half of his face has a sheen of your arousal. 

He lets himself be manhandled, one hand still in yours and the other on your bare thigh. Even though you’ve just had one of the most scathing, white-hot orgasms you’ve ever had, he’s the one who looks completely ruined. 

“You’re crazy, Carter,” your spit mixes with your arousal fluid and he swallows it eagerly. 

He shakes his head against your mouth. “Uh uh, not from you.”

“You don’t like that?” He hums disapprovingly. “John? Johnny? Baby?” He groans and you know you’ve hit the jackpot there. 

John chases your mouth as you pull away. You blink at him through wet lashes and when you speak John feels both his heart and his cock jump. “Can I suck you off, baby?”

He chuckles under his breath, avoiding your eyes and pulling back just enough. “I, uh…” he pulls one of his hands back just to scratch the side of his neck, his skin pink under his palm. He’s suddenly very aware of how sticky his underwear feels. “I kind of already…”

He doesn’t have to say anything, you see the flush of his face and the growing wet patch on the front of his pants. 

“Already?” You seem very excited at the fact that he came in his fucking pants like a virgin. “Just from going down on me?”

He groans. “I- yeah,” he admits, embarrassed. “I was… yeah, just from doing that.” Even the tip of his nose is red. “You’re too pretty, sweet girl, drove me crazy.” He leans in and lets you close the gap - just in case his desperation is too much for you now. 

You kiss him sweetly. “Had a really good time tonight, John,” you can’t quite look him in the eye, like you’re the one who’s embarrassed even though he’s got a sticky mess in his lap. You’re past the point where you have to ask if you’re going to continue seeing each other, but you always try to gauge how he’s feeling after every date. 

And he’ll be damned if he lets you think for even a single second that he’s feeling anything other than completely obsessed with you. “Me too, baby,” he pulls you down, laying back on the sofa and pulling you close.

He’s only half on the couch, one leg hanging off and when he shifts to let you get comfortable there’s a clink of ceramic on wood and you shoot up. “Shit!” You roll off him and scoop up the cup of tea, now mostly cold. 

“Hey, baby?” He lays there, calling out to where you duck off to the kitchen. You hum distractedly to show you’re listening. “Do you mind if I take a shower? Not super stoked at the idea of spending the night covered in jizz.”

You arrive back with paper towels. “Oh you’re staying the night, are you?” He never has before. That’s probably because he’s never had his fingers inside of you before. Your voice is teasing as you get on your knees to clean up the spill. 

“I can’t drive home like this,” he protests. 

You giggle. “Yeah you can shower, you know where it is.” He hauls himself off the sofa, kissing the top of your head as he goes past you. 

“Wanna come with?” he’s not asking you to shower with him and you both know it. You’ve showered with him in the room before, he likes to come sit on the floor and sit with you with you behind the curtain.

You throw a look over your shoulder at him.

John Carter had never experienced true affection, not even as a young boy. His childhood was overseen primarily by nannies and boarding school dorm parents. His sister was uninterested in him, his brother took out his anger on him, and their family was never the same after his passing. 

The only person he really felt connected to was his Gamma, although she was still a woman of class. She’d hug him stiffly, kiss his cheek in greeting, but that was the extent. She wasn’t overly warm, or snuggly, like some grandmas were. As a kid, he’d see his friends get picked up from school, or at their baseball games with their parents cheering them on in the stands. Forehead smooches were wiped away in disgust, hugs shrugged off in embarrassment. And John couldn’t understand exactly why those sights always left him feeling just a bit hollow.

He’d never had affection, so he didn’t realize how much he missed it.

Until you.

When he met you, it was head over heels. Love at first sight. Ironic, seeing as you didn’t believe in those things, but he did. He knew they did because it had happened to him.

You were a paramedic, newly trained, and brought onto the scene as Riley’s partner when Shep moved out of the county. You knew there was history between Shep and Carol, who you became fast friends with. You didn’t prod. But Carter could feel Carol relax as you proved yourself time and time again to be the opposite of what Shep was. You were kind, steady, and always willing to help. You could take someone down if you needed to, but only then, and you were wonderful at getting through to the patients reluctant to ask for help.

And you were gorgeous. It always baffled Carter how you could look so ethereal after spending hours running around, sweating in the heat. Your uniform was drab, but on you? Carter loved to see it. Though, he’d love to see you in a potato sack, for all he cared. The look of concentration that fell over your face while working drove him nuts, and he’d been distracted by it more than once. Then you’d yell at him to focus up, and he’d get his head together.

See, you were witty and not afraid to make a joke, but when you had a patient in front of you, that was the priority. There was no pulling you from someone in need. While Carter certainly admired you for that, it made it difficult for him to find a natural time to talk to you, get to know you, and ultimately, confess his undying love for you in a relaxed, breezy type of way.

Because Carter was sure about you. You met on one of the first true spring days of the season, with an open ankle fracture and Benton breathing down your neck. Just four or five months of inane stuttering and acute fits of idiocy in your presence, and Carter finally summoned the courage to ask you out on a real date, and the rest was history.

A few months in, Carter was proving to be the sweetest boyfriend you could have hoped for. Attentive, loving, considerate, he regularly went out of his way just to make your life the tiniest bit easier. He saved your favorite recipes to cook, picked up the book you mentioned weeks ago on his day off, brought you little gifts just because they reminded him of you. But you noticed one thing he seemed to struggle with.

Touch.

Now, in the bedroom, all was good and well. In fact, a little better than that. But despite what he did in the sheets, he still asked to hold your hand. Still apologized if your legs brushed sitting next to each other on the couch. Still slid over to his side of the bed when you spent the night, allowing at least a foot of room between you.

The strangest thing was, he seemed to like touch. When you did hold his hand, he lit up like a Christmas tree, and if you scratched his head, he’d close his eyes and lean into you. He just seemed hesitant to initiate it, as if he was afraid of bothering you, or scaring you off. You tried to be patient, let him go at his own pace, but sometimes you just wanted to cuddle your boyfriend after a hard shift.

So one day, you decided to clear the air, for good measure.

“You know,” you said lightly, one night, over chinese takeout and Jeopardy. “You don’t have to ask to hold my hand. You can just hold it.”

He glanced over at you, eyebrows raised.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” you said, setting your chopsticks down, growing smile on your face. “I mean, it’s very polite. I appreciate it. But… I like it when you hold my hand. I’ll never say no.”

He broke into a bashful smile, cheeks tinting pink, and he looked down at his noodles. You scootched over a bit closer to him, and ran a finger over his brow fondly.

“I just don’t wanna make you feel uncomfortable,” he said, eyes still down.

“That’s sweet,” you said, heart burning for the softness in his voice. “But consider this a standing acceptance to hand holding. Or anything. If I’m not in the mood, I’ll tell you. Okay?”

He nodded timidly, and you kissed his cheek and picked up your chopsticks again. You let your attention turn back to Alex Trebek. Sometimes the contestants were so stupid, they made you want to try and get on the show. But as you shouted out answers, you felt Carter’s warm, slightly clammy hand inching up under your arm. You let your hand fall away from your box of food and he threaded his fingers through yours.

You didn’t look at each other, just grasped each other's hands tight and watched your show.

That was the start. Hand holding. At first, he was still a little nervous. Still working to accept what you said as true, that you wouldn’t be mad, or annoyed, or disgusted by his spontaneous touch.

After the third or fourth time, it was like a dam broke. At every turn, there he was grabbing your hand. He would wake up early on his days off just so he could hold it as he walked you to work. In bed, on the couch, on dates, even at work sometimes, you could always find his hands linked with yours. Even just pinkies crooked together under a table if there were people around. 

Eventually, as much as you hated it, you couldn’t keep holding things up for it. You couldn’t stop cooking, or reading, or fixing the showerhead to hold hands with him. So he expanded. He started keeping a hand on your lower back, or linking your arm through his, or running his hands up and down your sides. He’d dig his fingers in if he wanted to hear your laugh.

Soon enough, there was a constant point of contact between the two of you. Arms hooked, heads on shoulders, legs wound together. You found yourself with less of a boyfriend, and more of a koala. He’d cling to you like his life depended on it, headbutting you until you ran your hands through his hair.

You complained. But you didn’t mean it.

“John,” you said, as he nuzzled into your neck. “I’m trying — Johnny!”

He just hummed, hands running all along your body, your thighs, your butt, your tummy, your boobs, your armpits — any spot he could find. You couldn’t help but giggle as he pressed lazy kisses to your neck, which really undercut your stern tone.

“I’m trying to read this article!”

“Then read,” he drawled, and you could feel his grin against your skin. “I’m not stopping you.”

You huffed, amused, and playfully pushed his head away. To your surprise, and slight disappointment, it appeared to work, as he pulled back. But as you craned your head to see him at the foot of the bed, he began tugging on the bottom of your hoodie. You squealed as his cool cheeks pressed against your bare stomach, as he shoved his head right underneath the oversized sweater. You let your paper fall to the side as he pulled himself through and rested his head on your chest, eyes just barely peaking out from the collar. His arms followed, and his hands went right to your chest too.

You sighed.

“This is your sweatshirt, you know,” you said, pretending to be indignant. “So if you stretch it out —!”

“Worth it,” he mumbled, nosing your clavicular notch.

You wrapped your arms and legs around his sleepy weight and let yourself relax. He was warm, and soft, and grounding. It didn’t take long for his snores to lull you into a slumber of your own.

It was an amazing thing to Carter that he could feel such comfort whenever he wanted. That not only did he find an amazing woman to fall in love with, she loved him back. And you did. Every time you gave him a scalp massage, or kissed a pout off of his lips, or gave his bum a waggish squeeze as he made dinner, he could feel his heart swell.

Although to date you had never turned down his touch, whether loving, teasing, scandalous, or comforting, there were of course external factors to consider. Too many times would your lovely face distract Carter from work. He’d think about wrapping all his limbs around you, feeling you everywhere, senses completely filled by you. It was an intoxicating daydream.

“Carter!” Benton would yell. “Get your ass up and make yourself useful!”

Carter would mutter an embarrassed apology and rush off, not before catching the mirthful glint in your eye.

Carter spent most of his time at your apartment by the time you reached the six month mark. It wasn’t bigger than his, the heating and air conditioning went out at less than convenient times, and the washer and dryer were five floors down in a creepy basement. But it was homey, with tokens of your treasured memories adorning every possible surface, the fridge plastered with photos under souvenir magnets from all the places you’d visited. Home knit blankets, mismatched mugs, and movie posters painted the dingy apartment into something comforting.

He never wanted to leave. He loved knowing that you were never more than 15 steps away from him. Your sheets smelled like you. He used your lotion just to keep part of you with him throughout the day. You scolded him for it, but after hard days you’d smooth your most expensive face masks on him in the tub, and let him use as much of that lotion as he wanted.

One Saturday, the last free night you had together before some back to back shifts, he was getting ready for bed, and realized — the two of you had built a happy home. It was welcoming, and warm, everything his childhood home wasn’t. Yours was full of love and laughter, dancing in the glow of the refrigerator, and shopping together in pajamas. It was everything he never dared to let himself dream of.

And he didn’t ever want to live without it.

He turned to you, where you sat under the covers, reading an Agatha Christie book you’d read a million times before, eye mask ready on your head, hair up, a spot of zit cream on your face, and he could feel it in his whole body.

His eyes never left you as he crawled under the comforter on his designated side of the bed. He didn’t need to look to know his watch, tattered book, and vitamins were on the nightstand, and he knew his blue toothbrush was sitting next to your green one in the bathroom. As he settled down, you set Agatha aside and grabbed vaseline from your table.

It had become a sort of night time ritual, you moisturizing his hands with vaseline. You knew he never did it himself, just kept using hand sanitizer and antibacterial soap on his poor hands, which were already strained pushing meds, lifting patients, and suturing. You rubbed the vaseline into his cracked skin with such gentle care, and right now, he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

Your tired ones met his, and you smiled suspiciously.

“What are you looking at?”

“Just —” he sighed, eyes wide as saucers, in awe of you, of the privilege it was to see you like this. “Let’s live together.”

You froze, mouth parting a bit. “What?”

He scooted closer to you, removing his hands from your grip to cradle your waist. He was nervous, but smiling like an idiot.

“You make me the happiest I’ve ever been,” he said. “And whenever I go back to my place, I — I feel so homesick. I can’t live when you’re not around.”

You just stared at him.

“You’re crazy,” you said, but it came out mushy.

“I don’t care,” he said, pulling you fully into his lap. “I really don’t. I just want you. More than anything.”

You couldn’t control your smile as he kissed your face.

“We’ve only been going out, what — six months?”

“And seventeen days,” he said, playing with the baby hairs at the nape of your neck. “Look, I totally understand if you don’t want to. I just want you to know that I’m ready whenever you are.”

“I’m ready,” you breathed. “But are you sure you want to move in here? I wasn’t sure I was gonna renew the lease, and —”

He didn’t even wait for you to finish before he pulled you into a heated kiss. One hand roved under the almost ten year old high school softball tee you wore, while the other teased the edge of your granny panties, the cute ones with the polka dots. He knew you were always self conscious in them, but he might have preferred them to the white lacy pair you wore on Valentines Day.

He pulled back just to take a breath and pant, “We can move into a new place.”

You were smiling almost as wide as he was.

“With both our salaries combined we could probably get a bigger place,” he said. “Maybe even with a washer and dryer in the apartment.”

You giggled.

“Closer to work, too,” you said, as John began kissing down your neck. “Oh, and pet friendly! I’ve always wanted a cat.”

He resurfaced to raise a brow.

“Can’t we get a dog?”

You scoffed.

“When would we have the time to take care of a dog?” you snorted. “Besides, you’re a cat person, you just don’t know it yet. I had a cat growing up. She was my best friend. And she lived for like twenty years, too!”

“Thelma,” he nodded with a smirk. “I remember.”

You rested your head on his shoulder and he leaned back against the headboard, one hand still exploring under your top, in a domestic, familiar way, somehow.

“I promise you’ll love our cat,” you said, rubbing your nose against his freshly shaven cheek.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, absorbing your touch. “I’ll give you a cat. I’ll give you anything you want.”

Three months later, you sat on the mattress of your partially furnished apartment. It was so close to work you could hear the L echoing in the distance, which Carter was worried about, but you loved. Your “bed” wasn’t really a “bed” yet, as you were still missing a frame. It was flat on the floor for now. 

The couch was up, which Doug and Mark were only too happy to complain about as they helped Carter lug it up the steps. Apparently, according to Carter, you were too pretty to do grunt work on a hot summer day. You were inclined to agree, so you worked on building some shelves for the living room.

There were still pizza boxes on the floor, and clothes in piles in laundry baskets, but you didn’t care. You were tangled up together in bed, compensating for the body heat with three fans pointed at you and no sheets; and between you lay a little sleeping kitten. Louise, Carter had named her.

You watched smugly as your Johnny gently stroked the kitty between the eyes, watching her with pure adoration. You were fairly certain he was minutes away from tears of joy.

“I told you,” you whispered sleepily, but proudly. “You love her.”

Without ceasing his petting, lest Louise protest, he squished his face right next to yours.

“Yeah,” he said. “But I love you more.”

---

a/n - would ppl be interested in a meet cute blurb with paramedic!reader? i actually kinda love that dynamic

requests open!

Your parents were never fully together, per se, but your dad was a fairly constant presence in your life. At every birthday, recital, soccer game. He’d go away for work, and come back with some kind of present for you, and a little gift for your mom too.

If somebody had told you that his ‘work trips’ simply meant that he was with his other, original, family, you would have laughed.

There’s no way.

How could a man maintain two entirely separate families in the same city, and not get caught until your mom has a massive heart attack and dies in her sleep?

As your newfound legal guardian, he’d been left to introduce you to Mark and his mother. The other Greene Family.

To this day, you’re still not sure how he broke the news. You’ve never asked Mark - it didn’t seem fair to reopen old wounds.

As a nine-year-old with no other relatives, you’d moved into the box room at the back of the house - barely enough room for a bed, much less a person. It didn’t help that Mark’s mom insisted every single trace of your life be confined to that room.

If somebody was visiting, they’d never know you even lived there.

In hindsight, you understand where she was coming from. Mark’s parents had been married, and your presence wrecked that. They didn’t separate, but it was never the same.

All of them, including your dad, would have been far better off without you.

Despite that, Mark was a saving grace. Never once did he hold your past against you, understanding that you had nothing to do with your dad’s grievances. Instead, he took you under your wing, even at eighteen. He played soccer with you, took you out to lunch, and looked out for you.

Of course, it couldn’t last forever, and soon Mark went off to college, leaving you caught between a depressed step-mother (if that was what you could call her), and an alcoholic father.

Life was hard, made brighter only by Mark’s occasional visits. He’d call and write, telling you all about medical school - how he had a girlfriend named Jen, and they were going to have a baby. Sometimes, you liked to pretend that you had no parents at all, and simply lived with your brother.

Even now, you wonder if you would have become a doctor without Mark’s influence.

You hadn’t quite taken the same path as him, training as a nurse during undergrad, before landing a scholarship for medical school. Even with the extra help, you wouldn’t have been able to afford to move to Chicago without him.

The nursing job at County? Definitely something Mark managed to wrangle on your behalf. You can pick up locum shifts whenever you need some extra cash - Carol always needs the help.

You moved into his and Jen’s spare room, barely bigger than your one back home, but endlessly more inviting. You paid your rent in babysitting Rachel until you had enough saved to get your own shoebox, and life suddenly started looking up. Now, finally, it’s all making sense.

You’ve started your clinical rotations. Practicing the job you’re going to be working until you’re sixty. Being at County helps - you’ve grown very familiar with Mark’s friends over the years. Doug, Carol, Susan.

Feels a little less like being thrown to the wolves.

After a harrowing six weeks in surgery, spending as much time as possible in the ER with Benton, you’re finally back until Christmas. You love it here. It’s exactly your speed.

There’s just one problem.

In your entire medical school career thus far, nobody has terrified you the way John Carter does. Not because he’s scary, or unpleasant, or anything of the sort.

But because you can’t think straight whenever you’re in a ten-foot radius of him. Which, unfortunately, is most of your day.

It’s not your fault. Carter is exactly your type - practically tailor-made to your tastes. If you’d been asked to build yourself a boyfriend at the age of ten, you’re pretty sure you would’ve come up with somebody almost identical to him.

Maybe he wouldn’t be quite so popular with women. You’ve never been one for competition - ironic, since you’ve chosen to devote your life to medicine.

You had been clocked immediately by Doug and Carol for your crush, leading to some interminable teasing during your surgical rotation. After all your time in Chicago, they’ve become as much siblings to you as Mark.

Unfortunately, Doug Ross is far more perceptive than Mark Greene, and likes to lord that fact over you. Thus far, his meddling has included shoving you into Carter, tricking you both into wearing matching costumes at the ER Halloween party, and even locking you both in a supply closet under the guise of a dodgy hinge.

Things have only gotten worse now that you’re in the ER every day, with a whole new group of students.

There are four of you. You, Iain, Madeline, and Emil. All entrusted largely to Carter for the duration of your placement.

Emil is nice. Quiet, and very obviously not cut out for Emergency Medicine (he’d confessed to you on day one that he was gunning for geriatrics), he’s smart in an entirely non-judgemental way, and you’ve studied with him on more than one occasion.

You tried your hardest to like Madeline. As one of the few other women on your course, you’d felt like it was important to have some kind of sisterhood. Support each other in a field dominated by men. She didn’t quite share the same sentiment. While she doesn’t seem to have a huge interest in the ER, she does have an interest in John Carter.

A big one.

If you thought your crush was obvious, Madeline is shameless. She’ll try and flirt with him over the most severe traumas, while the rest of you are elbow-deep in some guy’s guts.

The worst part was, you thought it might be working at the start. For the first week or so, he seemed to entertain it, leading to all sorts of rumours in the ER.

You’re not proud to admit it, but it made you sick with jealousy. Pulling some strings with Mark, you cited an interest in paediatrics as an excuse to work with Doug instead, and tried to put John Carter out of your mind.

It worked for all of a week, before you went to a hospital gala with Mark and the others, and Carter was suddenly everywhere.

It was like Madeline didn’t exist anymore. He was calling for you with traumas, showing you how to suture, and helping you with your charting.

You have no idea what changed.

According to Doug, Carter is into you. But given his track record with Carol, you’re not jumping to take his advice. You’re too scared to ask for anyone else’s opinion, for fear it gets back to John.

It’s only so long before Mark figures it out.

He may be oblivious, but he’s not stupid.

“What’s your problem?” He asks, dropping down next to you in the doctor’s lounge.

You jump slightly at the intrusion, having spent the last ten minutes lost in your thoughts. Madeline’s been even more overt with her flirtations today, and you’re starting to worry that it might be working. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Mhm,” Mark replies, entirely unconvinced. “You sound like Rachel. And she’s seven.”

You shoot him a glare. “I do not. I just don’t want to come running to my brother every time anything goes wrong. Gives the wrong impression.”

“You know - you don’t have to make everything as hard as humanly possible for yourself, just because you don’t want to ask for help.”

“I ask for help!” You protest, and Mark snorts.

“Sure. And I’m not getting a divorce.”

Finally, there’s Iain. The worst of them all. Before he even opens his mouth, it’s obvious that he wants to go into surgery. Trauma surgery, to be specific. He carries himself like he’s already an intern, like this placement is just a formality before someone hands him a scalpel and a title.

And for some reason, he’s decided you’re the easiest one to bait.

Carter is tied up with a complicated trauma, Madeline hovering nearby like a shadow, Emil buried in charts, and you’re left with Iain and a patient who needs sutured - simple enough on paper.

“I’ll do it,” You say, a little too quickly, trying to sound confident.

Iain doesn’t stop you. He just steps back, folding his arms. Watching.

It’s almost worse.

You prep the site, hands steady at first as you gather the needle. You’ve done this before. Plenty of times. But there’s something about the way he’s standing there - silent, expectant - that makes your fingers feel heavier than usual.

“Local?” he asks, after a beat.

“I’ve got it,” you reply, sharper than you mean.

A pause. Then, mildly, “Just checking you weren’t going to skip steps.”

Heat creeps up your neck. You inject the anaesthetic, wait a moment longer than necessary, just to be sure. The patient winces, then settles.

Taking a breath, you angle the needle and press it into the skin. You realise immediately that your bite is wrong, and that the stitch won’t hold. Instead, it tears the flesh at one side. Thankfully, your patient isn’t watching, instead opting to look out the window instead.

God, you wish it was a cannula. Or bloods. You’ve been doing them for years - can get even the most tricky veins with your eyes closed.

But suturing is almost exclusively medical students and doctors. You haven’t had nearly as much practice. Especially with Iain’s presence.

You’re totally off your game.

“Depth’s wrong,” Iain says.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Your jaw tightens. “I said I’ve got it.”

A small pause.

“Right,” He says. “Looks that way. You’re overthinking it. Or maybe underthinking. Hard to tell.”

You don’t respond, teeth gritted as you prepare for another attempt..

“Hand it here,” He adds, already reaching for gloves.

“No,” You snap. “I’ve got it.”

“Based on what?” he replies evenly.

You feel the patient shift under your hands.

“I said I’ve got it,” You repeat, quieter now.

His voice is devoid of all emotion, “You don’t.”

He steps in before you can stop him, close enough now that you have to move aside or be in his way. The decision is made for you.

God, you can’t believe he’s making such a fool of you in front of a patient. In private, you expect that kind of thing. But you’d hoped he would have slightly more respect for you in public.

“Watch,” He says, the word edged with a derision that makes your stomach ache. “This isn’t complicated.”

You leave him to it, for fear that you’re about to cry in the middle of Curtain Two. You’ve had enough embarrassment for one day, and stick to charting, to small tasks, to anything that doesn’t involve someone standing over your shoulder waiting for you to mess up again.

By the time things finally start to quiet down, you slip out under the excuse of grabbing supplies you don’t actually need.

The staff room is empty when you get there. Fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead, vending machine buzzing in the corner. You lean back against the counter, pressing your palms into your eyes for a second, willing the tightness in your throat to go away.

It was stupid.

It shouldn’t matter. You’ve done cannulas before. Nobody gets all of them first time. That’s not how it works. You shouldn’t be letting a stupid comment from a rich prick stick in your head like that. You’ve worked harder in the past year than he has in his whole life, just for the privilege of getting to be here.

A few tears come anyway.

Maybe Mark’s mom was right. Maybe you did just follow him out here because you had nothing else going for you.

“Hey.”

You drop your hands immediately.

John is standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, like he’s been there a second, like he’s been watching you.

“You alright?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Fine.”

He doesn’t move. “Carol said you were upset.”

You sigh. Of course she did.

You let out a small breath, shaking your head. “I’m okay. Just - long shift.”

“You’ve had longer. Worse. What’s different about today?”

If he keeps looking at you with such a tender expression, you think you might bawl. “Just Iain being a dick. I don’t really want to talk about it. Exam stress, portfolio stuff, it all just caught up with me. M’fine. Promise.” You offer him a smile, though you can’t imagine it’s in any way convincing.

“Want me to give him the impaction in four?”

You snort. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course. Guy's a dick.”

“I think… that would make me feel a little better, yeah.”

“Consider it done,” Carter muses, before continuing. “I know you don’t like to use the Mark connection, but if Iain’s really bothering you-”

“I’m fine, John. Promise.”

He nods, and steps back towards the door, when you speak again.

“Carter?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think you could maybe give me some suturing tips tomorrow? I think I could use some practice.”

He doesn’t seem at all surprised, and you wonder how much he knows. Just as he’s about to leave, he pauses. “You know, she had chronic steroid use. Makes skin really fragile.”

“What?” Your head whips round to face him.

“Not your fault,” Carter shrugs, and then he’s gone.

*****

You manage avoid Iain until your final hour, when Carter appears at your back. “Greene, McDougall - I want opinions.”

You fall into step behind John, Iain a few paces behind, barely able to hide his disinterest.

“Middle-aged male,” He says quickly. “Chest pain. Came in about twenty minutes ago. Central obesity, history of Type 2 Diabetes, currently taking Metformin, Propanolol and Atorvastatin. Here,” He passes you a chart, “is his ECG. Talk to me.”

You examine the patient in the bed first, while Iain goes straight for the ECG. The patient - Michael Murray, you note - is diaphoretic, pale, one hand pressed flat against his chest. Not sweaty, the way you’d expect from a straightforward MI, but you can’t rule it out yet.

Iain answers first, of course.

“Likely non-cardiac,” he says, glancing briefly at the chart. “Could be reflux. Maybe musculoskeletal. He’s overweight, risk factors unclear. When patients are that obese, they can’t really tell what’s chest and what’s stomach pain.”

You reach for the ECG, examining it carefully. On first glance there’s nothing hugely wrong - no obvious STEMI, or tented T-waves. But there is some ST-depression. “I would do another ECG. Posterior this time. Make sure it’s not an MI before I move onto other differentials.”

“Based on what?” Iain asks.

“ST-depression in the anterior leads. And I think I see some prominent R waves in V1 and V2.”

“It’s non-specific,” He cuts in. “You can’t call a posterior infarct off that.”

“I’m not calling it,” You reply, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m saying it’s a possibility.”

“A remote one. Much more likely indigestion given the presentation.”

The patient shifts again, visibly uncomfortable. You glance at Carter, who remains quiet, and you suddenly realise what he’s waiting for. He wants you to fight for this, for your patient. “I’ll do another one,” You say, reaching for the leads. “Posterior, this time.”

Iain’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “It’s not necessary,” he says.

“Maybe not,” Carter replies evenly. “But it’s quick, cheap, and if she’s right, it matters a hell of a lot to this patient.”

It’s a strange feeling when the ECG comes back with massive ST-elevation in the V7 to V9 leads. On the one hand, you know the patient has just had terrible news delivered to him, and you empathise greatly. On the other hand, you’re so relieved to finally get one up on Iain.

Within minutes, the trolley’s being wheeled out, heading upstairs to the cath lab. As it disappears through the doors, Carter turns back. His eyes land on Iain.

“You see the problem?” He says.

Iain doesn’t answer.

“You didn’t even glance at the patient. You went straight for the ECG, and treated him like a textbook case. Pain, presentation, risk - those matter more than your first impressions.”

Iain’s expression is tight. “It wasn’t a classic presentation.”

“They rarely are,” Carter replies. “That’s the point.” He checks his watch, before letting out a heavy sigh. “Anyway, I think that’s a good place to stop for the night. Go, try and enjoy the rest of your nights, and be here for seven sharp.”

You all disperse, and make for the lockers. Despite the save at the end of the day, you’re still desperate to get home, and clean the hospital grime that lingers for weeks out of your hair. Carter follows, chatting absentmindedly about the MI. How he doesn’t think he would’ve caught it at that age.

Madeline tries to catch him on the way out of the lounge. Asking for some kind of favour regarding her portfolio.

“Hm? Yeah, I’ll catch you tomorrow. We can talk about it then.” Carter’s voice is distracted, and he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t stop.

Madeline falters, just slightly. “Oh - okay.”

But he’s already looking past her.

At you.

“You heading out?” he asks.

You nod, adjusting your bag. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says. “Come on - I’m done too.”

You push through the hospital doors together, the air outside cooler, quieter - for a second, neither of you say anything. You wipe at the sweat on your forehead, and let out a small sigh.

Finally, he speaks, “You did well back there.”

You glance over at him. “I almost didn’t say anything.”

“I know,” He shrugs. “I watched you hesitate. But you spoke up, and that’s what matters. You saved a man’s life today.”

“You knew it was a posterior MI,” You argue.

“I suspected - you confirmed.” He pauses for a second, as you walk up to your respective platforms. “Get some sleep. You look like you need it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Me too,” he admits. “Long shift.”

The train pulls in, brakes screeching slightly as it slows. “See you tomorrow, Carter.”

He offers you a soft smile. “See you round, Greene.”

*****

You hear them before you see them. Heading into work first thing, you’d been planning on getting a head-start on some scut work to free you up for studying later. It appears some of your colleagues have beaten you to it.

You don’t mean to overhear, but the lounge door is creaked open, and when you pause to tie your lace, you catch a voice.

“…it’s getting ridiculous.”

Madeline.

You pause, just out of sight of the doorway.

“What is?” Iain’s voice, lower, disinterested.

“Carter,” She says, sounding annoyed. Like he should just immediately know what she’s talking about. “Or have you not noticed?”

A beat.

Then, dryly, “If this is about you not being the centre of his attention anymore, I’m not interested.”

“It’s not that,” She snaps, a little too quickly. It definitely is.

You should leave.

You don’t.

“It’s about her,” Madeline continues. “He keeps pulling her onto cases. Showing her things he doesn’t show the rest of us. I mean, I know she’s his boss’ sister, but come on.”

“He’s overcorrecting,” Iain says. “People do that. Get fixated.”

“On her?” Madeline scoffs. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” Iain says, quieter now, but sharper.

Madeline doesn’t answer straight away.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, guarded.

Another pause. You can almost picture the look on his face. “Come on,” He says. “You’re not that naïve.”

Your stomach twists.

Madeline lets out a small, incredulous laugh. “You think - what? That they’re…?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

“I think,” Iain says finally, “that kind of attention usually comes with a reason.”

“No,” Madeline says quickly. Too quickly. “That’s not - no. He wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t?” Iain repeats, almost amused. “I thought that was actually kind of his thing. If you’re to believe what the nurses say.”

“He’s not like that,” She insists, but there’s something strained underneath it now. “And she-” a scoff, sharper this time, “-she’s not exactly-”

She stops again, like even she doesn’t quite know how to finish it. She doesn’t have to.

“Right,” Iain says, unconvinced. “Because this makes so much more sense otherwise.”

“It doesn’t have to be that,” Madeline snaps. “Maybe he just… pities her or something.”

That stings in a completely different way.

“Sure,” Iain says. “That must be it.” His tone makes it clear he doesn’t believe that for a second. “Either way, it won’t last.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means,” He says, “if it’s about performance, she won’t keep up. I mean, she’s a fucking nurse, for Christ’s sake.” A pause. “And if it’s not,” He adds, “that kind of thing burns out fast. She’s just pretending, and they’re all indulging her because they like her.”

Madeline doesn’t respond.

You don’t wait to hear more. Your pulse is loud in your ears, drowning everything else out.

She won’t keep up.

That kind of thing burns out fast.

Not only do you have to deal with the very real prejudices against you for your background - now there’s apparently a sex scandal, so obscure that even you and Carter aren’t aware of it, despite allegedly being involved.

You just need to keep your head down, and ignore them entirely.

A patient needs reviewing. Then another. Observations, notes, small jobs no one else wants - you take them all, keep moving, keep your hands busy so your head doesn’t catch up.

When there’s a lull, you pull out your notes, leaning against the counter, flipping through exam checklists. Cardio, Neuro, GI, Breast - just a few of the practical exams you need to be able to perform flawlessly for your OSCEs coming up next month. You mouth them under your breath, like if you say them enough times they’ll stick in your brain.

“Practicing or hiding?”

You look up.

Carter nods toward the empty treatment bay. “Come on.”

You follow him in without question.

He sets up a practice pad, hands you the needle holder. “Show me.”

You start slower this time. Deliberate. Thinking about depth, angle, tension - getting the perfect bite. Already, things are looking better - all you had to do was remove Iain from the equation. He gives you a few tips, showing you how to do other stitches for different injuries, and you get to practicing on a banana.

He watches your next stitch. “OSCEs coming up, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll be fine,” He says. “They’re more interested in whether you think about what you’re doing than whether it’s perfect.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“It’s true,” John shrugs. “Talk through it. Show your reasoning. Half of this is just convincing people you know why you’re doing something. Tell them what any sign you spot could indicate”

You nod, tying off the stitch a little more neatly this time.

“See?” he adds. “That’s already better.”

Before you can respond-

“Carter - trauma incoming! We need you in the bay.”

“Shit,” Carter scrubs a hand across his face. “I’m sorry-”

You’re about to interject and tell him it’s fine, that he’s done more than enough already, when he keeps talking.

“You want to run through some examinations later?”

“Oh,” You reply. “I uh, I get off at five.” It’s not that you aren’t grateful for the offer. But you’ve been here since six-forty-five this morning, and the idea of overtime is not an appealing one.

“Yeah, I know. I do too. You could come round to my place - we could order pizza, do a practice exam?”

You must be dreaming. This cannot be real. And yet, Carter’s scribbling something down on a piece of paper, and pressing it into your hand. An address.

“Any time after six is fine.”

*****

It’s only when you’re trying to pick out an outfit that you realise what a terrible idea this may be. Half of your classmates already think you’re sleeping with Carter - anything that could come out of tonight would surely only further that.

Then, you really start to consider Iain and Madeline’s position in your life. Realistically, once this rotation is over, you’re unlikely to ever see them again. Your graduating class is huge, and soon you’ll all be picking electives anyway.

In an ideal world, you’ll match to County. Neither of them want to stay in Chicago after graduating.

You’re overthinking.

This is fine.

Carter is your friend, and that’s all this is.

You manage to get out of your head, and land on an outfit - a slightly-nicer-than-average top and jeans. Casual, but definitely a step up from scrubs.

Unfortunately for you, Carter had neglected to mention the fact that he lives in a literal castle. You’re still trying to get your bearings when he opens the door, smile wide. “Hey, you made it!”

“Are you like a Kennedy or something?” You mumble, glancing around the foyer as he leads you inside. Your whole apartment could fit in one tiny corner of the hallway “Jesus.”

He has the decency to look a little embarrassed, rubbing at his neck. “Uh, yeah - the Carter Family isn’t really known for subtlety. But my grandparents are away on holiday, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.”

“I don’t think we’d be encroaching on their space even if they were here.”

Truthfully, you’re glad there’s nobody else here. While the red cotton is nicer than scrubs, it’s certainly not nice enough to meet Carter’s rich-as-God grandparents.

His room isn’t quite as extravagant - very Carter, but still obviously full of items that cost more than you make in a month. “Make yourself at home.”

You let your backpack drop to the floor, and perch at the very edge of the bed, too scared to touch anything else. “So… uh, how do you want to do this?”

“Well,” He starts, leaning back against the headboard. “I figured I could be your mock patient, and you can just treat this like an OSCE. Then we can go over anything you missed at the end over pizza?”

“Are all the medical students getting such special treatment?” Deep down, you know the answer already, but a part of you wants the confirmation.

Carter scoffs. “God, no. Emil, I would consider helping him out within my working hours. The other two are on their own though.”

“Really?” You murmur, leaning forward to rest your chin on your elbow. “Thought you were quite fond of Madeline-”

“Who said that?” Any teasing has disappeared from his tone, his brow furrowed slightly.

“Nurses talk,” You shrug. “You’re forgetting I still do the occasional shift. Lydia knows all.”

“Well, she doesn’t know that,” He grumbles. “I do not like Madeline. At all.”

“Got it,” You reply, suddenly desperate to change the subject. Maybe he’s regretting suggesting this. “Shall we get started?”

“What do you want to do first?”

“Um, Cardio.”

*****

“Okay,” Carter breathes, face only inches from yours. “What’s next?”

“I need to listen to the valves of your heart now,” You reply, trying to drag your gaze away from his. “But uh, first I need to feel your apex beat.”

“Good girl.”

You stiffen just slightly at the phrase, praying that he hasn’t noticed the shift. Your mind races ahead of you, wondering what it would be like if he was saying that in a different context, while you were writhing under him-

No.

You can’t think of him like that. Especially not now. He’s your friend, and he’s doing you a favour, and all you can do is think about how much you’d like him to-

“Mid-clavicular line,” You say, voice barely more than a squeak. “Fifth intercostal space.”

Your fingers press down his bare chest as you feel his ribs, moving slightly until you feel the familiar thump against your hand. It’s strong and regular, but definitely a lot faster than you’d be expecting from a guy Carter’s age.

“What do you notice?”

“It’s a little fast. I should listen to make sure.”

He just nods, and lets you reach for the stethoscope, before you press the diaphragm to the mitral valve. Just as you felt before, his heart is hammering.

You swallow heavily. “Still tachycardic.”

“Why do you think that might be?”

“Um, I guess it could be stress, high caffeine intakes, exercise…”

“Close proximity to a pretty girl?”

“What?”

“S’a good differential. Definitely one you should consider. Now, c’mon. Keep going.”

As if you can think about anything else after that admission. But he’s looking at you expectantly, and you try desperately to make your brain start thinking straight again. You listen to the other valves, and start to check for thrills and heaves, praying that he can’t tell how clammy your hands have gotten.

You press the bell of your stethoscope to his carotid, pretending not to notice the way his eyes keep flitting to your lips. “No sign of aortic stenosis,” You say softly, and Carter nods.

“Good sign. What next?”

“Um…” Shit. Your mind has drawn a total and utter blank. Your brain is too occupied with the way Carter’s cologne tickles your nose. “I don’t remember.”

He watches you for a second, before deciding to put you out of your misery. “You should check my back next.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Thanks.”

You check for scars or deformities, before listening to his lung sounds. Because of the way he’s sitting up, your back ends up bent at an awkward angle while you try and check for sacral pitting. “You know,” He murmurs. “Might be easier for you to just sit there.”

The idea of being any closer to John than you are right now makes you positively dizzy, but you’re not in the habit of not listening to him. Mostly.

Bracing your hands across his bare shoulders, you hoist yourself behind him, and get settled. Really, it’s unnecessary. You know already that Carter doesn’t have sacral pitting.

“Nothing interesting?”

“Nope.”

“Can’t really hear you from back there,” He replies. “Sit up a little closer to my ear, honey.”

You comply, getting ready to give him a rundown of the examination, when Carter tilts his head, and kisses you.

Even though the entire study session has arguably been preamble for this, it still manages to catch you off guard. His lips are soft but intentional, parting your own with his tongue.

God, you can’t believe this is happening.

In just a single movement he twists, bracing over you as you’re crowded up against his headboard. Your hand tangles in his hair, pulling him further into you.

As close as he can humanly get.

“Nobody would dare fail you if this is the kind of exam you give,” Carter mumbles between kisses, and you groan.

“You’re so mean.” There’s no real bite to it, but you pout against his lips anyway.

His fingers tug at the hem of your sweatshirt, and you lean back to let him discard it, leaving you in only your bra. It’s definitely not one of your sexier items of clothing - focused entirely on comfort during long shifts in the ER - but up until twenty minutes ago you’d assumed that this was simply a study session.

If it were anybody else, you’d feel self-conscious.

Something about John puts you at ease, though. It always has. Even when you were deeply terrified of him, of embarrassing yourself in front of him, you’d known deep down that he’d never make fun of you, even if he didn’t feel the same.

Based on the way you can feel him hardening against your thigh, you figure that’s not an issue. “Prettiest girl in the world,” He mumbles, lips returning to your neck. Eyes fluttering closed, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, and he allows you to tug them downwards. Yours go next, leaving you both in your underwear.

When it comes to foreplay, you’re used to a finger or two, scissoring you open just enough for the main event.

You’re not expecting John to draw back entirely from you, as he starts to press kisses down your navel.

You’re almost embarrassed for him to reach your panties, given how much you’ve managed to soak through them in just a short time. “Is this for me, or do cardio exams just really get you going?”

He shoots you that shit-eating grin, and you roll your eyes, before allowing your upper half to flop back onto his pillow. If he wants to be a dick, two can play at that game-

“Oh.”

Carter wastes no time, mouthing at your cunt through the wet fabric. One hand settles on each thigh, holding you firmly in place for him.

There’s no build-up - just John and his tongue, relentless against your skin. You don’t even register when he gets the fabric out of the way, your hand finding a home in his hair to guide him to where you need it most. “F-Fuck, John-”

“Yeah, honey? You like that?”

The coil in your belly is tightening, and you feel the familiar wave of panic start to wash over you. You’ve never been good with orgasms - it’s always felt too scary to let yourself go like that with another person. What Carter is doing feels really fucking good, but you also know that you don’t want to ruin this. “Need you up here-”

He complies immediately, clambering back up to press his lips to yours. You taste yourself against him, moaning into his touch.

Everything’s going so well, Carter’s reaching for his bedside table, when…

“You have had sex before, haven’t you?”

You pull back. “You did not just ask me that.”

“What? You're… young.”

You stare at him, jaw dropped. “I'm twenty-five, not sixteen. What are you - twenty-nine?”

“Twenty-eight,” He grumbles.

“Well - I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Not worried,” He replies, more earnest than you expected. “Just want it to be good for you.”

You’re suddenly overwhelmed with a deep affection for the man in front of you, and lean forward to kiss him again. The wrapper crinkles as John fiddles to get the condom out without breaking contact with you.

“You’re sure about this?” He asks, and you laugh.

“Not sure I could get a better anatomy lesson if I tried-”

Your voice cuts off in a sharp gasp as he pushes in just slightly, before pulling out again, cock head dragging through for folds. “Fuck.”

He does it again, pushing just a little further, and then retreating. Only on his third time, does your hand cup the back of his head, to draw him against you. Carter bottoms out with a low moan, hips rolling so he catches your clit.

Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, and he starts to move.

“Thought about this so much, sweet girl,” He grunts, peppering kisses across your cheeks as he rocks against you.

It’s a real effort to form a coherent thought, and you lace your fingers through his. “You h-have?”

“Haven’t been able to get you out of my head since that gala. H-Had to get myself off in the shower as soon as I got home, ‘cause of that dress. ‘Cause of you in that dress.”

“Didn’t realise you even noticed.”

“S-Should’ve taken you home right there. Shouldn’t have left you wondering how I felt.”

Carter looks just as overwhelmed as you feel - a bead of sweat is trickling down his chest, and there’s a vein on his forehead that looks like it’s in serious danger of bursting. He picks up the pace a little, and you whimper.

You’ve never whimpered in your life.

You hope you remember this moment for the rest of your life. “Kiss me, Johnny.” Your voice is breathless, almost unmoored from your body.

You can feel the coil tightening again, but it doesn’t feel quite as scary when John is looking at you so sweetly, and pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth in between his praise.

It creeps up on you, and soon your face is buried in the crook of his shoulder as you cry out his name.

*****

“God. Your brother is going to kill me.”

“Mhm, he’ll get over it.” You’re currently tucked into Carter's side under the duvet, fingers tracing soft patterns onto his chest.

“Easy for you to say,” John snorts. “You won’t be the one he kills.”

“I’ll make sure that you’re remembered,” You hum, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you bite back a laugh. “I’ll throw you a memorial, get Benton to eulogise you. It’ll be the event of the season.”

“Glad to hear it. “Make sure to make it tasteful,” He adds, deadpan. “I want something upbeat. Something that says ‘he died young, but at least he had good hair.’”

“You do have good hair,” you murmur, carding your fingers through it like you’re proving the point. “I’ll make sure that’s mentioned. Extensively. Very pullable.”

“I’m sure my grandmother will love to hear that that’s my defining trait.”

“Well, you also give really good head. I’m not sure she’d want to hear about that, though.

A comfortable silence settles over you both, Carter’s arm tightening round you. “…You really think he’ll be that mad?” He asks after a moment, voice dropping just a notch.

You shrug against him. “Mad, yeah. Murderous? Probably not. He likes you.”

“He tolerates me. But just so we’re clear - if I do die, I want you to erect a statue in my honour.”

You groan. “Absolutely not.”

“Life-size.”

“No.”

“Bigger than life-size. Ten feet fall.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Bronze,” He continues, ignoring you entirely. “Dramatic pose. Maybe a sword.”

“You’ve never held a sword in your life.”

“Details.”

It isn’t until an hour later, when you’re cross-legged on John’s bed wearing only his shirt, a pizza box perched between you both, that you have the courage to ask. “So… like, was this just a one-time thing, or… what?”

Not your most eloquent of phrasing, but you figure you’d scare him off if you admitted that you’ve been in love with him pretty much since you saw him for the first time.

“Technically it’s already a two-time thing, since we fucked again in the shower.”

“John-”

“Okay, okay,” He concedes, hands in the air. “Comedy surrounding the sex is not appreciated. Noted. Well… on that note. I think I’d really like to take you out for dinner. Celebrate your catch yesterday properly. Celebrate you properly.”

You smile, so wide that it almost makes your cheeks hurt. “Really?”

“Oh yeah. You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Greene.”

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eight lots of sutures, two ruined shirts, a broken shoelace and a pair of wet socks later, carter was ready to call it quits and head home feigning sick. he had already been here thirteen hours anyway, it wasn't like he had just showed up and felt like leaving early for the sake of it.

the sight of you made him envious. you look as good as you did when you pulled up to pick him up from the kerb thirteen hours ago. you'd been practically living in the hospital's on-call room since yesterday, but you looked so lively that it was hard to believe you'd been here that long.

your scrubs still looked pristine, but that was only because your bloodied ones had been discarded a few hours ago after a cyclist trauma rolled through the doors. there was the tiniest amount of frizz sticking up from the back of your ponytail, but overall your smile said a thousand things that blinded him into oblivion. maybe that was why you looked so refreshing.

the lights dimmed, the faded roar he could hear faintly in the background raising the hairs on the back of his neck with suddenly proximity until he found himself face-down on the floor, the stool he had been sitting on to mindlessly fill out paperwork skidding away from him until it hit the nearest gurney.

was the power out? he thought briefly before swarming clouds of dizziness flooded his line of sight, building up a blurriness that canceled out the harsh hospital lights. black spots swam across his vision, a distant groan slipping past his lips, and a very warm set of hands brushing across his face in the gentlest manner.

your silhouette blocked out the remaining light that filtered through the dark spots, and a dizzy smile pulled his lips upwards.

"CARTER," you called out, fishing your penlight out of your pocket and flashing it across his eyes. he flinched away from the light and tried to roll onto his side.

your heart had sank when one of the patients admitted under carter's care earlier had shoved wendy out of the way to pick up his IV stand and bash it over carter's head, shouting something about his results taking too long or something . . . you had ignored it completely with sudden tunnel vision because john carter was on the fucking floor bleeding from his head. you had been the first to his side and he had relaxed his head into your hands so tenderly that if you weren't so worried you probably would've noticed it clearer.

"jesus," you huffed, looking up from carter to where the aggressive patient was still kicking and screaming. "someone sedate him and help me out over here!"

you were strong but you weren't strong enough to pick up carter's borderline-dead weight. you half-hoisted him up and then let mark help support the rest of him until he was placed on the gurney carol had rolled over.

"okay, uh," you looked around the ER until you spotted deb helping the nurses pick up medical supplies that the patient had knocked across the floor. "move him into exam room 2, please."

"got it," carol smiled before helping mark guide a groaning carter away.

carter was probably fine, you knew that much. at most, he'd likely have a concussion and a bump on his head for a week or so . . . you were hoping it wouldn't become your problem.

knowing mark greene, it probably would become your problem.

THE EXAM WAS BRIEF. you quickly cleared that it wasn't anything serious, nothing more than a moderate concussion and some bleeding from a gash on the back of his head.

"am i dying, doc?" carter's voice was fluttery from the morphine. his eyelashes fluttered in a similar fashion, blinking his glassy eyes open and shut, following your every movement.

you scoffed, "baby."

"aw," carter pointed a finger at you like he knew something you didn't. "how sweet of you. look at you, being so lovely."

"no," you deadpanned, rolling your eyes and desperately trying to stop the smile that was threatening to pull your lips upwards. "i'm calling you a baby. i know toddlers who let me check for injuries better than you did."

carter waved it off, hardly remembering the way he whined and moaned about needing morphine before he 'perished'. it was quite the entertainment. "my brain hurts, okay? you try getting . . . wait," he paused, squinting before wincing. "what happened again?"

"one of your kind patients bashed you over the head with an IV stand," you said it simply, writing a few notes down on carter's chart attached to your clipboard as if it wasn't a big deal that this incident had occurred. you were absolutely not going to be telling him that you had been worried and therefore nonchalance was key. "and you have a moderate concussion and are gonna need stitches."

"stitches?" he sighed and shook his head. you hadn't had the time to properly close up the wound when examining him earlier, and you used a temporary fix until you could go find one of the med students. "speaking of . . . which med student do you want? or d'you want me to randomly pick one?"

carter paled impossibly further. "don't you dare."

"what?" you flashed him an innocent smile. "they have to learn at some point."

"and that learning will not be on my head, thank you," carter's lips were pulled into the straightest line you had ever seen. you couldn't help but let a chuckle slip when he crossed his arms and sunk back into his fluffed pillow. "can you do it?"

you sighed, "carter, i'm busy. your patients are now my patients and—"

"please?"

he was doing this annoying pouty thing with his face. his glassy eyes looked so wide and innocent, tears collecting carefully in his waterline like a weapon. you were stupidly falling for it just like every other stupid thing he did in your presence.

how could you say no to that face?

"fuck me," you grumbled under your breath, shaking your head. "fine, whatever, but you owe me the second your concussion is gone."

"mhm," he hummed, deep in thought as he stared ahead at the white wall across the room. "would a nice dinner suffice?" he asked, and you kept quiet to stop your smile from appearing in front of his eyes.

CARTER was brave the second the suture kit came out.

it was like a switch had been flipped and he was suddenly convinced that he wasn't dying . . . you had a feeling him wanting to take you out to dinner had something to do with that.

he liked watching you do sutures, and so it was a shame that he couldn't watch you do his. there was something so magical about your hands and their steadiness; something about the way you could do them so perfect every time that when patients came back to have them removed, there was hardly a visible mark. he envied it to some degree, but he made it his goal to do them just like you instead.

you impressed him every single day, and he wanted to do the same thing back by not being a baby about his injury.

"you doing okay?" you asked quietly, checking in for the fifth time since you had started. you were taking a little longer to perfect his, wanting them to perfect so that he hardly got a gnarly scar.

carter scoffed like it didn't even bother him. "me? yeah, totally fine. this is nothing at all. doesn't even hurt."

that's because you are literally numb, you thought, rolling your eyes and tying another knot. you smiled now that he couldn't see you, "aw, so you don't want me to kiss it all better for you, dr. carter?"

he spluttered, and you were smart to stop stitching him up when he started moving. "that's not— i wasn't— i mean . . . but—"

your laugh was airy, light and carefree in its quietness. "i'm fucking with you."

"so . . ." carter said after a moment of silence. "you . . . don't want to kiss me? i mean— you don't want to kiss it better, then?" you could see his frown and it made your heart beat a little faster.

"mhm," you hummed, focusing back in on his wound. "take me out to that dinner first."

You’re used to the nurses’ gossip; sometimes it’s unfounded, so you’ve learned to check your sources with Carol and Jerry to know what’s true. You take your chart to the front desk and return it to the stack. You lean on the desk, drumming your fingers.

“Hey, Jerry.”

He nods. “Hey. Woman with a head lac in Curtain Two. Shattered a vase and cut herself.”

“Okay. Do you know where Benton is?”

Jerry snorts. “Sure. He’s tending to His Highness, Howard Davis.”

“Who?”

“We have a medical wing named after him.” He rubs two fingers together. “Y’know?”

“Oh. Wow.”

“Yeah, and get this: Carter went to school with his son. Davis called him Johnny.”

“Johnny?” You grin. Carter is so not a Johnny.

“Yup.” Jerry pops the ‘p.’ “Swift came in and had me call Chicago’s greats just ‘cause Davis had a little cut on his hand.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve got our priorities in order,” you say, laughing.

“Sure. Wish I had a medical wing to donate.”

The phone rings. You take that as your cue to go tend to the woman behind the curtain. She’s deeply apologetic, even though you assure her that this is what you’re here for. You need to up your procedure count anyway. You’re pretty sure Benton will give Carter the surgery internship next year, but Mark Greene had told you that he’d be thrilled to have you back in the ER. It’s not your first choice, considering you want to be a chief of surgery one day, but you switched hospitals halfway through your rotation this year. You’re lucky to be offered anything at Cook County in the first place.

Besides, you like it here. You like the doctors, the staff… you like Carter too, even if he can be a little bit of a pain during times like these, when you have to compete for opportunities. But he’s been nothing but nice to you since you arrived, and he’s shown you all the ropes he could. 

And he’s rich? Jesus. You wonder why he’s even here. Surely, he could do anything, right?

“Okay, Mrs. Maldonado,” you say, finishing the woman’s stitches. “You’re all set. If you feel dizzy or nauseous, return immediately, okay?”

She thanks you and apologizes one last time before going to be discharged. You return that chart to the desk, then head for the stairs, on the hunt for Benton. He’d hinted at a chance for you to scrub into a hernia repair, and you want to make sure he hasn’t forgotten. 

But Benton comes out of the elevator before you can go upstairs, flanked by Carter and who you assume to be Davis. His hand is wrapped, and he’s talking animatedly about horses. Benton looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. He raises his eyebrows at you. 

“Hi, Dr. Benton,” you say quietly. “Can I still scrub into the hernioplasty?”

“Yeah, fine. One sec.” He turns to Davis, who has stopped talking, and is now studying you. You smile, and he smiles back, but it’s not warm.

“Mr. Davis, it was a pleasure,” Benton says. “I hope your hand heals fast.”

“You did excellent work,” Davis says, patting Benton’s shoulder. “It was good to see Johnny again.” He gestures to you. “And you must be the girl who got Johnny’s heart!”

Your eyebrows lift. “I’m sorry?”

Carter is slicing his throat with his hand behind Davis, shaking his head urgently. Play along! he mouths. Your gaze flicks from him to Davis. 

“Uh…”

“Oh, don’t be shy. Johnny told me all about you. Dating another medical student, well, I guess that figures. I told him he should catch up with Katrina, my daughter, but he can’t with you keeping him honest. Tell me, where did you go to school?”

“I went to Illinois State for my undergrad,” you say.

Davis looks you over. “Uh-huh. I see. And you two are in the same program?”

“That’s right, sir,” Carter says. “That’s how we met.”

You open your mouth to correct him, but Benton, by all the graces of God, interrupts.

“I’m really so sorry, Mr. Davis, but I need my students back. They’re scrubbing into a surgery. You understand, I hope.” Benton doesn’t sound sorry at all. You love it. 

“Oh, sure, sure.” Davis waves his uninjured hand. “Of course, Dr. Benton. Keep up the great work, you and John. Johnny, I’ll see you and this young lady for dinner tonight, yes? Seven sharp.”

“We can’t, unfortunately, as I mentioned before, sir. We’re on-call till midnight,” Carter says, rubbing his hands like he's washing them. A nervous habit. You've noticed that Carter's hands get cracked and red on colder days like these; you've been meaning to give him a pocket lotion, identical to the one you keep in your coat. “We’re not able to get off early.”

“For one night! I think the hospital can survive. Benton, can you let these kids go for a few hours?”

Benton smiles flatly. “Of course, Mr. Davis. We can survive.”

“Fantastic! Johnny, I’ll send the car. You know how that goes.” He nods at you, a little stilted. “And you. Don’t worry about wearing your scrubs. I’m sure it’d be too much trouble for you to change. Johnny’s always dressed up, aren’t you, John?”

Carter rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh—habit from my dad, I guess.”

Davis laughs like that’s the best thing he’s heard in a decade. “You’re right about that! Well, I’ll see you soon. Take care.”

He pats Carter’s shoulder and leaves. Carter shoves his hands deep in his pockets, avoiding both your and Benton’s gaze.

“Didn’t know I’d stolen your heart, Johnny,” you say, hands on your hips.

“Oh, there’s a lot you don’t know about him,” Benton says. “Carter here liked riding horses before he came to slum it with us, didn’t you?”

Carter sighs. “Dr. Benton, can we have a minute?”

Benton rolls his eyes. “Both of you finish your charting, and then I’ll see you for the hernia.” He points to you. “Got it?”

You nod. “Got it.”

“Great. We should be finished by the time the car arrives, Mr. Carter.”

Carter winces as Benton walks away. You tilt your head.

“I need to talk to you,” he says.

“Uh-huh. Since when are you loaded and dating me? All in one afternoon? Should I expect a ring tomorrow?”

“I’m not loaded, my parents are.”

“Yeah, that’s what rich kids say to attempt modesty. You raced horses?” you ask.

“I didn't race, it was dressage. With an Icelandic pony. Look—”

“A pony? I thought ponies couldn’t be ridden.”

“Some are bred to be ridden. Can I just explain?”

“Wait, I have another question. Is caviar really worth the hype? ‘Cause it looks like those decorative beads that they sell at Pier One, and I’ve always thought it was really weird how obsessed some people are with eating animal embryos and babies.”

Carter pinches the bridge of his nose. “Um, I haven’t had it in a long time, but from what I remember, it was only okay. Can we talk now?”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, herding you into an empty on-call room. He turns on the light and closes the door. You sit on the bed and watch Carter pace a few times before speaking.

“Okay, so, I went to school with Mr. Davis’ son, Greg, as you might have heard. And Davis started talking about Katrina, his daughter, who’s a year younger than Greg and I.”

“Greg and me,” you say.

Carter stops pacing. “What?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s ‘Greg and me’ ‘cause it wouldn’t make sense if you said ‘Katrina is a year younger than I.’ Well, I guess you could say that, but it sounds really weird, like strangely archaic and formal—”

“Seriously? Now?”

You shrug. “Okay, whatever. I guess I expected more from—where’d you graduate? Vanderbilt?”

“Brown. If this is you trying to soothe my nerves, it’s not working.” Carter's a little unkempt, which isn't unusual after a full shift, but you're only three hours in. His stethoscope is slung unevenly around his neck. You reach up to pull one end down so it's even. He blinks at you. 

“You’re right,” you say solemnly. “This requires drastic measures. I’ll tell Alfred to fetch the smelling salts immediately, Mr. Wayne.”

That gets a laugh out of him, and you smile, happy he’s a little less tense. Tense Carter is never fun to witness. He sits next to you on the bed. You pat his back, encouraging him to keep explaining. 

“Davis was asking me about my life and… y’know, women in my life. He started talking about Katrina, and how she’s ‘managing a bank, but she’s still unmarried! Ain’t that a damn shame!”’

You grimace. “What century is this guy from?”

Carter scoffs. “Not ours or the last. He’s really old-fashioned. He told me that Katrina’s visiting him in Chicago for work and he’d love for us to catch up, and I… I panicked.” He groans, running his hands through his hair and tugging the ends. “I’m sorry. Your name was the first I thought of. I said we’ve been together for a year.”

“Why don’t you just go out to dinner once with Katrina and then tell her you don’t feel a spark, or whatever?”

Carter blows out a slow breath. “No, that wouldn’t work. She’s… God forgive me, honestly, I don’t like saying this about people, but she’s crazy. She set this girl’s hair on fire in her junior year because the girl slept with Katrina’s boyfriend. Katrina was drunk, but…” 

“Yeesh,” you say. “I take it there was no disciplinary action?”

“The dean tried, but Davis just threw money at him, and it all went away. Katrina was back in school a few weeks later. Even Greg would warn his friends not to get involved with her. She was out of control for years, and I can’t imagine she’s much different now.” He looks at you, eyes big and pitiful. “I’m really sorry. Maybe we can say we have to be quarantined for tuberculosis or something.”

You hum. “We could. Or we can just go to dinner for a few hours and then Jerry can page us back to the hospital. That way, Davis won’t hound you to meet him again.”

Carter’s eyebrows lift. “You’re taking this really well, considering I just threw this at you.”

“Oh, well, you had a fantastic reason. Johnny Carter is never caught unawares!”

He shakes his head. “I always hated when he called me that. I never felt like a Johnny.”

You bump his shoulder with yours. “Yeah, sorry. I think it’s either John or Carter. Do you have a middle name?”

“Truman.”

“Yikes.”

He snorts. “My dad’s John Truman Carter Jr. So…”

You smile slowly. “Oh, Carter. You cannot tell anyone else that. They will literally never let you live down John Truman Carter the Third.”

He flops back onto the bed horizontally. “Tell me about it. I thought I could graduate without anyone finding out about my family. I don’t want anyone to treat me differently just ‘cause he has money. I’m still the same guy you all know.”

You lie down next to him, propping your head on your hand. One of his suspender straps has slipped down his shoulder, so you pull it back up. You smooth his tie. 

“You’re still Carter to me,” you say. “But the suspenders make a lot more sense.”

He smiles and looks down at his shirt. You’ve never noticed how long his lashes are; this close, you can see that they cast shadows on his cheeks.

“My dad made me wear them for most of my life. Never thought twice about it, honestly.”

“I think they’re dashing. Do they get the ladies hot? Do said ladies snap them against your skin?”

“Oh my God,” he says, cheeks pinking. “No comment.”

“That’s absolutely a yes!”

“New subject. Are you sure you want to do this? I can find a way to get you out of this. You shouldn't have to suffer just because of my stupid mouth.”

Carter’s mouth isn't stupid at all, though you don't say so. He's got a perfect mouth, actually. It's pink and when he smiles, his mouth turns upside-down, which you didn't expect the first time you met him. When he shows his teeth, it's even better. Carter has the cutest grin. You look at his mouth now, how it's pulled into a frown. You want to trace his lips until he smiles again. 

“I don't mind,” you say. “He's a super important guy, right? Donated a lot to the hospital? We should keep him happy.”

Carter scowls. “This is exactly what I didn't want to happen. I thought the days of meeting my dad's friends and listening to their ridiculous, out-of-touch problems were over. I chose my own path, and I still can't escape them.” 

He presses his palms to his eyes. You take a moment to look at the shape of him: his long legs bent over the edge of the bed, his striped white shirt tucked into his pants, the lean lines of his torso. His chest rises and falls quickly. 

You savor moments like these, despite his freakout. Carter's the only one who makes you feel like a person at work. He sat with you last month when you lost a little boy in emergency surgery and held your hand while you cried. He's brought you countless bagels and coffees and vending machine chips. Sometimes you just sit together, when you have a second to spare. 

“Carter.” You touch his chest. It's warm. He runs so warm, and it surprises you every time. “It'll be fine. You're still on your own path. One dinner won't derail your independence.”

It's beginning to click now, why Carter takes mistakes so personally, like he's failed himself over and over. Why he was desperate to move out, why he never speaks about his family, and why he never has any plans for the holidays. He's mentioned his brother's cancer once to you, nothing else. 

He lifts his hands. “I know. It's just, Davis can be a little much. You shouldn't have to deal with it.”

“I can be couth. Address the one percent.”

“I didn't mean it like that. You're amazing. He can be brash. There's a reason Greg moved across the country to be away from him.”

“I think I'll be okay,” you say. “Don't worry, Carter. You will owe me, though.”

Carter nods like he was expecting that. “Of course. Anything you want.”

“I have to think about it.” You hop off the bed and extend a hand. “C'mon, Kentucky Derby. We need to get back to saving the world.”

Carter takes your hand and stands. “That doesn't even make sense. I didn’t race.”

“Well, I don't know any famous dressage competitions. That's outside of my tax bracket.” 

The hernia repair goes well. Benton lets you go with minimal grumbling, maybe because he realizes that Swift will be on his ass if Davis complains. You change out of your scrubs, Davis’ comment still ringing in your ears. You dress professionally when the occasion calls for it, and you always have a set of work clothes in your locker. Mostly, you wear scrubs or t-shirts you don’t mind getting blood on.

Benton has never commented on it, nor has Mark, so you stuck to it, prioritizing comfort and hygiene over anything else. It’s a hospital, not Fashion Week.

But as you change and look yourself over in the bathroom, you’re wishing you had the means to make more of an effort. Your hair is styled efficiently, out of your face, protecting it until the next wash. Your face is plain, skin free of jewelry. It’s too much of a work hazard with grabby or drunk patients, and you sweat frequently, running around the way you do.

You lean in to inspect your skin, the hair on your face, natural discoloration around your features. The change of clothes helps; you’re in a nice pink blouse and dark pants. The last time you wore this was for a meeting with Morgenstern about a scholarship opportunity. 

There’s a knock on the door. “Hey, almost ready? I think the car’s outside.” Carter.

“Yep, ready!” You smooth your shirt down and grab your stuff, opening the door.

Carter’s got his coat on, in his usual digs, but there’s no reason for him to worry about appearances. Now that you know about his family, it’s easy to imagine him in a room full of elites, wearing a sports jacket and drinking expensive scotch or champagne. Hate it or not, you’re sure Carter’s really good at mingling with people like that. He was one of them. Is.

“Is this okay?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

“You look nice.” He smiles, but it’s a little confused. “You didn’t have to change, though.”

“No one wants me in my stinky scrubs,” you say breezily, turning to put on your coat so you don’t have to look at Carter.

He sighs, and when you look at him, he’s frowning. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Carter, don’t be a silly goose. You said the car’s waiting, right? Let’s go.”

He reluctantly follows you out, through the hospital, and into the cold February air. You tuck your scarf tighter around your neck. Carter takes your hand and points at a black towncar. 

“I think that’s it.”

The seats are soft and leathery. You’re almost afraid to sit, worried you’ll ruin it. Carter chats with the driver, and if he’s nervous about dinner, it doesn’t show. You watch the city blur past, content to let Carter take the lead. At work, you’re clever and ambitious, and you and Carter have even gone toe-to-toe a couple times.

The medical field is already difficult enough; going into surgery as a woman is about twelve times harder. Benton respects you… you think he does, anyway. He’s tough on everyone, which comforts you. But you know most surgical residents aren’t like him. There’s a certain demographic that enters this field. 

Carter touches your wrist gently, and you look at him.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “I’m fine, Carter.”

He laughs a little. “Probably shouldn’t call me Carter at dinner. None of my girlfriends called me Carter.”

It’s just pretend, just for tonight, but Carter calling you his girlfriend sends a jolt of electricity through you. You’ve seen and even met a few women he’s dated, or, more accurately, had flings with. He’s affectionate, clingy when he thinks he has privacy.

For a while, you hated how your body reacted to the sight of him with women. Carter is technically your competitor, and liking him is only a distraction. Now you’re friends, but it was frustrating at the beginning, trying not to like him. Carter’s sweet, which made it worse. 

At least now you have no conflicts. You’ve accepted how you feel, you just bury it. 

“John, then.” It’s unusual coming out of your mouth, but it’s nice. “I guess you should call me by my first name too.”

He nods. “For sure. I told Jerry to page us at eight.”

“Only an hour?” You grin. “No faith in me?”

“No faith in me,” he says. “I’d rather do a hundred rectal temp checks.”

“Oh my God, it can’t be that bad!” you say, laughing.

“No, it won’t be. I haven’t done this in years. I’m just intolerant, I guess.”

The car pulls up to the establishment: Gibson’s, an upscale American bar and grill. Carter gets out and comes around to your door so you don’t have to slide across the seat. He opens the door and takes your hand, helping you out.

“Such a gentleman,” you say.

“Sometimes,” he says, a little bashful. His cheeks are flushed with cold. “Remember, we’ve been dating a year. We met at school.”

“Got it.” 

Carter links your arm with his. You walk in together. Carter gives his name and helps you out of your coat to give it to the coat check attendant. You rush to unwrap your scarf, and Carter holds your shoulder, a silent message. Relax. You slow down. You deserve to be here too. You were invited, after all.

You’re brought to the table, where Davis is already seated. He waves, calling Carter over. Carter pulls your chair out for you, then pushes you in. He takes his seat next to you. 

“I’m so pleased you could make it,” Davis says, like you had a choice. “Nice having a break from the hospital, eh?”

“We like our work, but it’s nice to have a break,” Carter says diplomatically. “What’s good here?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I already put an order in for three ribeyes.” He points at you. “It’ll knock your socks off.”

“Mr. Davis, we appreciate that, but she doesn’t eat red meat,” Carter says.

Davis squints at you. “Since when? Some fad diet?”

“No, it’s just a personal choice. We see a lot of heart problems in the ER, so I’ve been cutting back. But it’s okay, I can—”

Carter interrupts your excuse. “Mr. Davis, surely you understand. She’d really prefer to eat something else.”

Davis sighs like he killed the cow himself. “Sure, fine. A little beef does you some good, you know. John here loves steak! Should’ve found yourself a steak-lover, Johnny.”

Carter just presses his lips together. You awkwardly fold your hands in your lap as Davis waves over a waiter to give you a menu. You order quickly, not wanting to prolong the tension. 

“So, tell me, what do your parents do?” Davis asks. 

“My mother is a teacher, my dad was a mechanic. He retired.”

“Hm. They must be glad you’re becoming a doctor.”

“Yes, they’re very proud,” you say.

“Costly, though. You must be drowning in debt.”

You stutter, surprised at his bluntness. “Oh, um, I was fortunate enough to get some merit scholarships, and other aid, but yes, it’s expensive. I have loans, but who doesn’t, right?”

Davis is silent. Right. No one at this table shoulders loans. You glance at Carter, who looks exhausted already.

“Katrina’s on the board for PNC Bank,” Davis says. “No decent guys at work, though. You’d think that the higher you go, the better the options, but no luck.”

“I’m sure she’ll find someone,” Carter says.

“Has she tried those matchmaking services?” you ask. “I had a friend who got married through one of those, and she’s happy.”

Davis raises an eyebrow. “My daughter can find a good fellow on her own.”

“It was only a suggestion,” Carter says. “The Maynors did the same thing with their daughter.”

Davis hisses through his teeth. “Yeah, I remember. That’s because Alexis Maynor had nothing going for her. No looks, no charm, not even a viable career. I suppose if you’re that desperate, you have to rely on those kinds of things.”

Jesus. If this is how Davis is, you’d hate to meet either of his children. 

“So, a teacher. What does your mother teach?” Davis asks.

“She teaches high school biology.”

He raises a brow. “And she didn’t want to become a doctor herself?”

“I think she liked teaching more. She likes the kids and the schedule.”

“Ah, well. Not everyone can do. Some must teach.”

You tuck your tongue into your cheek, trying not to snap. “Respectfully, Mr. Davis, all of history’s greats would never have become great without a good teacher.”

“And yet we never hear about them,” Davis says, chuckling. 

The waiter arrives then with your food—truly wonderful timing. You wish you had a clock to know how much longer you have to put up with this. Hopefully not long. You can weather through it; he’s not much worse than the smarmy classmates and older doctors you’ve dealt with.

“So Johnny, when are you getting married?”

Carter’s cutting his steak with laser focus. He glances at you, then clears his throat. “We haven’t really discussed it, sir.”

Davis guffaws. “Johnny, I didn’t mean you two. Oh, I’m sure you’re a splendid girl,” he says to you. “But Johnny, you need a family woman. Someone who’ll take care of you at home.”

“I take care of myself just fine,” Carter says, the muscles in his jaw jumping. “And we’re very happy together.”

“Two doctors? Your schedules will never work. You’ll fall apart within a year. Not to mention, Jack and Eleanor wouldn’t approve.” He waves a hand at you. “Surely, you can find someone more your speed, huh?”

Your eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

“Someone who shares your background! You can’t have much in common, besides the hospital. What are you specializing in, anyway? Pediatrics? Gynecology?"

You can’t believe it. Davis saw you right next to Carter and Benton. He saw Benton speak to you, address you as his student. And he… what? Assumed you were lost?

You take a slow breath. In, out. “No, actually, I’m studying surgery. I want to be a chief of surgery.”

“A female chief of surgery, wow. Someone’s got big dreams. Johnny, this is what I mean—you don’t want a girl who’s competing with you for the same spot.”

“You know what?” Carter throws his napkin onto his plate and stands. Several people’s heads turn.

“Mr. Davis, you’ve been unbelievably rude tonight. Just because you’re a friend of my father’s doesn’t mean you have any right to judge what I do or who I love. This woman here is fantastic. Her. Right here.”

Carter thrusts a hand at you. You lower your eyes briefly, not wanting to see Davis’ irate expression. But then you look at Carter, and his intensity steals the air from your lungs.

“I’m in love with her! I’d be proud to call her my wife someday. She’s a great doctor, and if she became chief, it would be well-deserved. I am more than my family. I barely see my parents these days, and even if I did, I wouldn’t give a shit about what they think. This is my path. My life. She’s in it, in a big way, and you aren’t.”

Your and Carter’s pagers beep then, and you’d laugh at the timing if Davis wasn’t turning an interesting shade of red. Carter turns the alert off.

“That’s the hospital. We have to go.” He pulls out his wallet and tosses a few bills onto the table. “For our share. And by the way? Katrina’s a bully, and so are you. That’s why she can’t get married.”

Carter helps you out of your chair, then rests an arm around your back as you go to the coat check. Soon enough, the restaurant resumes its usual bustle, letting you leave in peace. Carter’s quiet the whole time. You follow him outside where he tries to flag down a cab in vain. 

“Carter,” you say softly.

He checks his watch and grumbles, failing to wave another cab. “What, do they have somewhere to be?” he mutters. 

“John.”

Carter looks at you, mouth twitching at the name. “Yeah?”

You sigh. “You should go back. Apologize. He’ll complain to Swift. What if you get kicked out?”

“He wouldn’t go that far,” Carter says. “My dad’s a jerk, but if he ever found out Davis was the reason I got dropped from the program, he’d go after him.”

“Still, it wasn’t—I’m not worth all that trouble. You can still smooth things over. Say you had a hard day, say we fought or something.”

Carter blinks at you. “Not worth—what are you talking about? Of course you’re worth it. He was totally out of line. That shit he said about your mom? God, who the hell does he think he is?”

“It was out of line, Carter, but you and I are just friends. We were pretending, remember? It’s not like any of that stuff about you loving me is true.”

Carter glances at the road, the pavement, anywhere but your eyes. Your heart thumps in your chest.

“Carter?” Your voice is weak. “Is it?”

“There’s a reason I said your name,” he says, and bites the inside of his cheek. “It was… wishful thinking.”

You take a careful step forward. It’s freezing. You want to be wrapped in Carter’s warmth.

“You’re in love with me?”

He nods, staring at his shoes. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you say, not daring to breathe in case you fill your lungs and it all melts away. “I just thought of a way you can pay me back for tonight.”

The look Carter gives you tells you that he knows what you’ll say, but he needs to hear it anyway. “How?”

“Kiss me.”

He takes your face in his hands tenderly, thumbs rubbing your cheeks. He kisses you, his mouth warm and firm. Not stupid. His bangs tickle your forehead. You close your eyes and push his bangs back, raking your fingers through his hair. He makes a pleased sound and pulls you closer. You’ll never be cold again.

Carter pulls back just enough to rest his forehead on yours, nose bumping your cheek. “You are worth it.”

You smile widely when John opens the door to his apartment, holding up your bag of snacks in one hand, and a DVD in the other before you breeze past him and into the warm air of his place. It’s only early October, but it’s starting to get cold at night, and the tip of your nose feels frozen, as well as your hands.

“Whoa, wait. Are those the movies we’re watching?” John asks as he closes the door behind you, his eyes wide, although he’s trying to keep his face void of any emotions.

“I haven’t seen it in years. I thought we’d have a slasher movie night,” you tell him with a nod. You set your bag and the movies down on his kitchen counter, then turn to face him again, finally taking in the sight of your best friend in sweatpants and a crewneck sweatshirt. He looks so cute that it makes your stomach flip, especially because you’re so used to seeing him dressed up in his slacks and button downs around the hospital, but you try to push those thoughts aside. You’re best friends. That’s it. 

“Slashers. Right, yeah, okay. We can do that,” he says, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. You can see the unease on his face immediately, and it makes you smile.

“What, scared of horror movies, Carter?” you tease, raising a brow and crossing your arms over your chest. You’re met with a scoff, but you know there’s at least a little truth behind your words. He’s just too afraid to admit it.

“Me? No, of course not. I bet I’ll be the one holding you once the movie starts,” he teases back, crossing his own arms over his chest defensively.

“Yeah? You think so?” you ask with a small laugh, shaking your head. You love scary movies, and he knows that.

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” he says smugly. You let out a sharp laugh, rolling your eyes and mumbling a quiet “yeah, alright,” before you turn to grab your bag. You pull out all the chocolate and candy you brought, then grab the DVD and turn to face him.

“I’ll get the movie set up and you can make popcorn?” He nods, giving you a boyish grin, then you both get to work. As John waits for the popcorn to finish in the microwave, he watches you in the living room from his spot in the kitchen. 

Seeing you right at home in his apartment makes his heart beat faster, and he feels a sense of pride in his chest that you already know where everything is when you begin to collect blankets and pile them up on the couch. It’s like you belong here with him; you’re meant to spend nights with him like this, all curled up on the couch in your comfy clothes. Completely at peace with each other. 

Once he’s got the popcorn in a bowl, he comes over to the couch and sits down right beside you, trying to ignore the anxiety swirling in his chest. It’s not like he’s afraid of horror movies, it’s just that he can never seem to figure out when the jumpscares will be, and he jumps every single time. He’s liked you since he first saw you at the hospital, and although he knows you won’t really care, he doesn’t want to humiliate himself by making you think that something as silly as a slasher film will spook him.

Once you’re both settled, blankets surrounding you and snacks nearby, you look over at John and wiggle your eyebrows with a smirk.

“Ready?” you ask.

“I was born ready,” he replies cooly, and you raise a brow, then nod once.

You raise the remote and hit play, letting the TV screen light up his dark living room; you made sure to turn off all the lights in the apartment once John was done making the popcorn.

As the title scene of the movie pops up, reading “A Nightmare on Elm Street” in big red letters, John reaches over to his left and turns on the lamp beside the couch. When you turn to him with a raised brow, all he says is “I don’t want you to get too scared.” 

“John, turn off the lamp,” you say with an amused smile, giving him a soft nudge with your elbow.

“I don’t want you to get scared. I’m trying to help,” he says again, looking at you like it’s obvious.

“Oh my god, you’re such a baby,” you say with a roll of your eyes, then without a second thought, you get up on your knees beside him and reach for the lamp yourself. John’s eyes widen as you move, your body now leaning over his lap as you reach over him and towards the lamp on his side of the couch. Your chest is dangerously close to his face in this position, and he has to clench his fists in order to not think about it, but it’s hard. You’re so close to him, and he can smell your perfume, and he wants nothing more than to grab one of your thighs and move it until you’re straddling his lap.

You flick the lamp off, then settle back into your spot beside John, your left side pressed firmly against John’s right side.

As the movie plays, you can feel how tense John is, and although you try to ignore it, the first jumpscare that happens in the movie causes him to flinch so hard that you bite your tongue, and then you understand.

“Oh, my god. Are you actually afraid of horror movies?” you ask with a laugh, looking over and seeing his wide eyes and red cheeks.

“What? No! Of course not! I’m fine,” he tries to brush you off, shaking his head incredulously. You narrow your eyes, studying him for a moment, and when all he does is stare back at you expectantly, you turn your head back to the screen, continuing to watch the movie. You’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, you think to yourself, maybe he’s thinking about something else, and wasn’t paying attention.

When the second, and then third jumpscares make him jump too, it takes everything in you to not laugh. From the corner of your eye, he doesn’t look scared, but each time something pops up on the screen, he flinches so hard that his body crashes into yours. You find it endearing; he’s not actually afraid of the movie, his body just doesn’t do well with being surprised.

The thought makes you smirk to yourself, and you know you shouldn’t, but since you know the movie so well, you reposition yourself during one of the slower parts of the movie, one that you know is followed by another jump scare. Your elbow is now propped up on the back of the couch as you keep your eyes glued to the screen, and when the music picks up, you put your hand right behind him, hovering over his back. When the next jumpscare pops up, you touch his back with your hand, which makes him jump up onto his feet and whip his head around.

You can’t fight back your laughter now, and your giggles fill his ears as he looks between your amused face and your hand. He lets out a huff, running his hand through his hair as his shoulders finally deflate.

“Very funny,” he says, and you can’t help the way your heart clenches in your chest when you see the embarrassment on his face. Every time you see those big brown eyes looking anything other than happy, your heart hurts.

“Come on, I had to. You’re so jumpy,” you say with a laugh. He’s still standing in front of you, with a slight frown on his face, and you sigh, grabbing his hand and pulling him back down onto the couch.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” you say, looking over at him with big, guilty eyes and your own frown. You didn’t want to upset him, you just thought it would be funny to make him jump. “We can watch something else, if you want.”

“You’re so mean,” he says with a pout, crossing his arms over his chest with a huff.

“John, come on, I said I was sorry,” you say again, now facing him as you sit cross legged on the couch. You tilt your head to the side, trying to get him to look at you, then move your face closer to his as you give him your own pout. “I’m sorry.”

When he finally looks over at you, he feels all of his annoyance for you evaporate. You’re just so pretty with your pouty lips and your big eyes, and he’s not sure what comes over him; his racing heart or the heat he feels on his cheeks, but without another thought, he leans forward and presses his lips to yours.

As soon as he does it, he almost pulls away, terrified that he’s just ruined the friendship, but when you kiss him back, he stays in place and finally lets himself melt into you. His lips move in time with yours as he raises a hand to your cheek, keeping you firmly in place as he deepens the kiss.

When you finally pull away for air, you both have dazed smiles on your faces, and neither of you look away from the other. John’s thumb is rubbing absentmindedly against your cheek, and you lean into his touch instinctively, biting your bottom lip.

“I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you,” he tells you softly, afraid to ruin the moment by speaking too loud. The movie is still playing in the background, but neither of you hear it. It’s like the only things in the room are you two.

“I’ve wanted you to do that since I first saw you,” you reply with a sheepish smile, feeling your cheeks heat up at your admission. As if you didn’t just kiss him. As if he didn’t just kiss you.

“Yeah?” he says, and you nod, laughing softly at his surprise.

“Who knew all I had to do to get you to kiss me was scare you?” you tease softly. He scoffs and rolls his eyes, then pulls your face closer again.

“I’m not scared anymore,” he murmurs, then kisses you again.

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