#er show

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!

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."

The first time you notice something's off with Carter, it's a Tuesday morning during shift change. He's standing at the admit desk, staring at you with an intensity that makes you self-conscious, but the moment you look up from the chart you're updating, he quickly diverts his eyes to the patient board, pretending to study it with sudden fascination.

"Carter, you're not even on for another hour," you say, glancing at the clock. "Why are you here so early?"

He fumbles with his stethoscope, nearly dropping it. "I, uh... wanted to review some cases. Get a head start. You know how it is."

You do know how it is, but Carter's never been the type to show up an hour early just to hang around the admit desk. Still, you shrug it off. It's the holidays, everyone's acting a little strange with the added stress and the Secret Santa exchange looming over the department.

But then it happens again on Wednesday. You're in the lounge, finally grabbing a coffee after a brutal three-hour surgery consult, and Carter walks in, sees you, and immediately freezes like a deer in headlights. His eyes go wide, and he just stands there in the doorway.

"Are you going to come in or just block the entrance?" you ask, amused despite your exhaustion.

"Right. Yes. Coming in." He moves stiffly to the coffee maker, pours himself a cup he doesn't seem to want, and hovers near the bulletin board, stealing glances at you every few seconds.

"Carter, are you okay?"

"Fine! Totally fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?" His voice cracks slightly on the last word, and he clears his throat. "How's your day going?"

"Long. Yours?"

"Also long. Very long. Extremely... long." He nods too many times, then apparently decides he's had enough of whatever this interaction is and practically flees the lounge, leaving his untouched coffee on the counter.

You stare at the abandoned cup, thoroughly confused.

By Thursday, Carol had noticed too. She sidles up to you at the nurses' station while you're charting, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "So, what's going on with you and Carter?"

"What? Nothing. Why?"

"Oh, come on." She leans against the counter, lowering her voice. "He's been following you around like a lost puppy for three days. Yesterday, he walked into a supply closet because he was too busy watching you walk down the hallway."

You feel heat creep up your neck. "He did not."

"He absolutely did. I saw it. Mark had to help him untangle himself from an IV pole." She's grinning now, clearly enjoying this. "It was the most pathetic thing I've ever seen, and I've watched Ross try to flirt."

"Carter's just... he's been stressed lately."

"Uh-huh. Stressed. That's what we're calling it." Carol taps her pen against your chart. "Remember last year when I was acting weird around Doug before I finally admitted I had feelings for him?"

"That was different."

"Was it though?" She raises an eyebrow. "You remember how you told me I needed to either do something about it or stop mooning around the ER like a lovesick teenager?"

You do remember. You'd been pretty direct about it, actually, over margaritas at Doc Magoo's after a particularly hellish shift. Carol had been grateful for the tough love, even if she'd thrown a napkin at you first.

"This is not the same situation," you insist.

"If you say so." But her smile suggests she knows better.

Friday afternoon, Susan joins the conspiracy. You're in the lounge again—you're starting to think you should just avoid the lounge entirely—when she walks in and immediately zeroes in on you with a knowing look.

"I heard something interesting," she says, settling into the chair across from you.

"I'm too tired for cryptic statements, Susan."

"Carter asked Mark for advice on buying a gift for someone."

Your heart does a weird little flip. "Okay?"

"A romantic gift. For someone he has feelings for but hasn't told yet." Susan's overseeing your face. "He was very specific about wanting it to be thoughtful and personal, not generic."

"That could be anyone," you say, but your voice sounds unconvincing even to your own ears.

"Could be," Susan agrees. "Except Carol saw him staring at you for a full five minutes yesterday while you were talking to a patient. He didn't even blink. It was actually kind of creepy, but also kind of sweet?"

Carol appears in the doorway as if summoned. "Are we talking about Carter's massive crush?"

"We are not—there's no crush," you protest.

"Honey." Carol sits down next to Susan, and you realize you're being tag-teamed. "I've known you for four years. We've been through hell together in this ER. Remember when that guy came in with the chainsaw injury and you held my hair back when I threw up afterward?"

"Your point?"

"My point is, I know you. And I've seen the way you look at Carter when you think no one's watching." She softens her voice. "You like him too."

You open your mouth to deny it, but the words don't come. Because she's right. You do like him. You've liked him for months now, maybe longer. You like his earnestness, his dedication, the way he really listens to patients. You like how he gets excited about diagnoses, how he's always trying to learn, how he brings in donuts for the nurses without being asked. You like his smile, rare but genuine, and the way his hair falls across his forehead when he's been running around the ER for hours.

"Oh my God," Susan says, reading your face. "You do like him."

"This is a disaster," you mutter, dropping your head into your hands.

"This is not a disaster," Carol says firmly. "This is perfect. You both like each other, you're both just too chicken to do anything about it."

"We work together. It's complicated."

"So do me and Doug," Carol points out. "So does literally everyone in this hospital who's ever dated. It's only as complicated as you make it."

Susan nods. "Plus, it's kind of romantic. Secret Santa and secret feelings? Very Hallmark movie."

"My life is not a Hallmark movie."

"It could be," Carol says with a grin. "Just wait for the gift exchange tomorrow. I have a feeling it's going to be interesting."

She's not wrong.

Saturday arrives with the kind of organized chaos that only an ER during the holidays can produce. There's a multi-car pileup on the expressway, two cases of food poisoning from a office party, and a Santa Claus with a dislocated shoulder from a mall incident. By the time the Secret Santa exchange rolls around in the early evening, you're exhausted, covered in various bodily fluids, and seriously considering just going home.

But the tradition is sacred, apparently, so you find yourself crowded into the lounge with what feels like the entire ER staff. Mark is playing Santa, wearing a hat that Weaver produced from somewhere. Doug is making jokes about his gift being "the gift of his presence." Carol is trying to organize people into some semblance of order.

And Carter is standing in the corner, looking like he might pass out.

You catch his eye across the room, and he goes pale. Actually pale. Susan, standing next to you, notices and elbows you gently.

"He looks terrified," she whispers.

"Maybe he got stuck with Kerry for Secret Santa," you whisper back.

But then Mark starts calling names, and people begin exchanging gifts. There's laughter, some gag gifts, and some genuinely thoughtful ones. Carol gets a beautiful scarf that makes her tear up a little. Doug receives a book called "Feelings for Dummies" that makes everyone laugh. Mark gets fancy coffee that he immediately opens and starts brewing.

Then Mark calls your name.

Your stomach flips. You make your way to the front of the room, hyperaware of everyone watching. Mark hands you a wrapped package—not large, but carefully done, with neat corners and a real ribbon, not the curling kind from a roll.

"Secret Santa says this is for you," Mark says with a smile that seems to know more than it should.

You look around the room, trying to figure out who drew your name, and your eyes land on Carter. He's gripping his coffee cup so hard his knuckles are white, and he's staring at you with an expression of such naked hope and terror that your breath catches.

Oh.

Your hands shake slightly as you unwrap the gift. The paper falls away to reveal a book—not just any book, but a first edition of your favorite novel, the one you mentioned once, months ago, in passing during a quiet moment at the admit desk. You'd been talking about comfort reads, about the books you return to when the world feels too heavy, and you'd mentioned this one. You can't believe he remembered.

But it's not just the book. Tucked inside is a bookmark, clearly handmade, with a quote from the novel carefully written in what you recognize as Carter's precise handwriting. Below the quote, he's written: "For the quiet moments between the chaos. -J.C."

Your eyes blur with tears. It's so thoughtful, so personal, so perfectly chosen that you can't quite process it. This isn't a generic gift. This is someone paying attention, someone who listens, someone who cares.

You look up, and Carter is watching you with barely concealed anxiety. The room has gone quiet, everyone sensing something significant is happening.

"Carter?" you say softly.

He sets down his coffee cup and crosses the room, and suddenly you're standing face to face, the book clutched to your chest, and everyone else might as well not exist.

"I hope it's okay," he says, his voice low and rushed. "I know it's maybe too much for Secret Santa, but when I saw it at the bookstore, I just—I remembered you talking about it, and I thought—I mean, I wanted—" He stops, takes a breath, runs a hand through his hair in that nervous gesture you've come to recognize. "I'm your Secret Santa. Obviously. You probably figured that out."

"Carter—"

"And I know this is probably not the right time or place, and we work together, and there are all these reasons why this is complicated, but I just—" He's rambling now, the words tumbling out like he can't stop them. "I really like you. I have for a while now. Months, actually. Maybe longer. And I know I've been acting weird lately, everyone's probably noticed, I walked into a supply closet the other day because I was distracted watching you, which Mark will probably never let me live down—"

"You really did that?" you interrupt, fighting a smile.

"So you heard about that." He winces. "Great. That's... great. But yes, I did, and it's because I can't seem to think straight when you're around, and I've been trying to figure out how to tell you, and then I drew your name for Secret Santa, and it felt like maybe it was a sign, or at least an opportunity, and—" He stops abruptly, seeming to realize he's been talking for a while. "I'm sorry. I'm rambling. I do that when I'm nervous."

"I've noticed," you say softly. Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can hear it. "Carter, this gift is... it's perfect. It's the most thoughtful thing anyone's ever given me."

His face lights up with hope. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You take a breath, aware that everyone in the lounge is watching but finding you don't really care. "And for the record, I like you too. I have for a while."

"You—really?" He looks stunned, like this possibility never occurred to him.

"Really. I thought I was being obvious about it, actually. Carol and Susan certainly figured it out."

"We did!" Carol calls from somewhere behind you, and there's scattered laughter.

Carter doesn't seem to hear her. He's staring at you like you've just told him he won the lottery. "I can't believe—I mean, I hoped, but I didn't think—" He stops, shakes his head, and suddenly he's smiling, really smiling, and it transforms his whole face. "Can I take you to dinner? After shift? Or before shift? Or literally any time you're free?"

"Yes," you say, and you're smiling too, so wide your cheeks hurt. "Any of those times. All of those times."

"Okay. Good. That's—that's really good." He's still smiling, and he takes a small step closer, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, close enough that you can smell his cologne mixed with the antiseptic smell that clings to everyone in the ER. "Is it okay if I—can I kiss you? Is that—is this okay?"

Your answer is to close the distance between you, rising up on your toes to press your lips to his. For a moment, he freezes in surprise, but then his hands come up to cup your face, gentle and sure, and he's kissing you back with a tenderness that makes your knees weak.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, a question and an answer all at once. But then his fingers slide into your hair, and you grip the front of his lab coat, and the kiss deepens into something that feels like a promise. He tastes like coffee and mint, and the way he holds you—like you're precious, like you're something to be treasured—makes your heart swell.

When you finally break apart, breathless, the lounge erupts in cheers and applause. Carter's face is flushed, his lips slightly swollen, and he's looking at you with such open adoration that you feel heat flood your cheeks.

"Best Secret Santa ever," Doug calls out, and everyone laughs.

Carter ignores them all, his attention focused entirely on you. "I've wanted to do that for so long," he murmurs, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.

"Me too," you admit.

"Yeah?" That hopeful note is back in his voice, like he still can't quite believe this is real.

"Yeah." You lean into his touch, the book still clutched between you. "Thank you for the gift. For paying attention. For being brave enough to say something."

"Thank you for not running away when I started rambling," he says with a self-deprecating smile. "I know I can be a lot sometimes."

"You're not a lot. You're just right." You kiss him again, quick and sweet, and his smile against your lips is the best thing you've felt all day.

Around you, the party continues. Someone turns on music. Carol catches your eye and gives you a thumbs up. Susan is grinning like she just won a bet—she probably did. Mark is shaking his head with an amused smile.

But you barely notice any of it. You're too focused on Carter, on the way he's holding your hand now, his fingers laced through yours, on the way he keeps looking at you like he can't quite believe his luck.

"So," he says, "about that dinner. Are you free tonight? After shift?"

"I'm free," you confirm. "Where did you have in mind?"

"Honestly, I was so focused on the gift and working up the courage to tell you how I feel that I didn't plan past this point." He laughs, a little embarrassed. "I have no idea. Somewhere nice? Somewhere quiet where we can actually talk?"

"Anywhere is fine," you say. "As long as it's with you."

His smile could light up the entire ER. "I really like you," he says again, like he needs to make sure you know, like he's still amazed he gets to say it out loud.

"I really like you, too, Carter."

And when he kisses you again, soft and sweet and full of promise, you think that maybe Carol was right. Maybe your life is a little bit like a Hallmark movie. And maybe, just this once, that's perfectly okay.

The ER will still be chaotic tomorrow. There will still be emergencies and long shifts, and difficult cases. But right now, in this moment, with Carter's hand in yours and his smile warming you from the inside out, everything feels exactly right.

Best Secret Santa ever, indeed.