HEADCANONS — OH, They’re Definitely A Thing
Dana Evans x Paramedic! Reader
It starts subtly. So subtly that neither you nor Dana notice at first. Just small things—routine things. The kind of interactions that blend into the background noise of a busy ER where alarms beep, stretchers roll, and adrenaline never quite fades.
But your coworkers notice.
Oh, they notice.
It’s the way Dana’s voice changes when dispatch calls in your unit number over the radio. Not dramatically—she’s too professional for that—but there’s a shift. A tiny softening at the edges, like tension easing from her shoulders before you’ve even walked through the ambulance bay doors.
*
The first time someone points it out, it’s during a lull at the nurses’ station.
“Unit 12’s five minutes out,” a nurse says casually.
Dana nods, already reaching for the trauma room clipboard, moving with brisk efficiency.
Then another nurse—smirking—leans over and mutters just loud enough for the group to hear:
“Funny how you always take their handoff yourself.”
Dana doesn’t even look up.
“I’m the charge nurse,” she replies flatly.
But there’s a faint pink creeping up her neck.
*
The tension becomes obvious the night you arrive with a messy trauma case—blood, chaos, the whole works. You’re exhausted, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin, hands shaking just slightly as you finish your report.
Dana stands closer than she needs to.
Close enough that her shoulder brushes yours when she reaches for the chart. Close enough that she notices the tremor in your fingers before anyone else does.
And without thinking, she places her hand briefly over yours.
Not dramatic. Not lingering. Just a steady, grounding touch.
The room goes very, very quiet.
One of the residents glances at another nurse. The nurse raises both eyebrows. Someone coughs to hide a grin.
You and Dana both step back at the exact same time, suddenly aware of the audience.
*
After that, it becomes a running joke among the staff.
Whenever your ambulance backs into the bay, someone inevitably calls out: “Dana, your girlfriend’s here.” Or: “Better fix your hair, Evans.”
She pretends to ignore it. She rolls her eyes. She threatens to assign people the worst shifts imaginable.
But she always ends up at the ambulance doors anyway.
*
The paramedic crew definitely notices too. Your partner starts timing how fast Dana appears after your rig pulls in. The record is six seconds.
“That’s not normal,” they tell you one night, watching her stride across the floor with laser focus the moment you step inside.
You shrug, trying to play it off.
“She’s just doing her job.”
Your partner snorts.
“Yeah,” they say. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
*
The real giveaway happens during a brutal overnight shift—back-to-back calls, no breaks, the kind of night that leaves everyone running on fumes.
You finally stumble into the ED after a particularly rough pediatric call, face pale, exhaustion written into every line of your body.
Before you even finish your report, Dana quietly slides a bottle of water into your hand.
No announcement. No fuss. Just instinct. Like she’s been watching you from across the room. Like she always is.
One of the nurses leans over to another and whispers:
“That’s not subtle anymore.”
*
Still, neither of you admits anything.
Not when your hands brush while transferring a patient. Not when Dana saves the last decent cup of coffee for you during a long shift. Not when you linger a second too long at the nurses’ station after every handoff.
The tension just… builds. Quiet. Charged. Impossible to ignore.
Eventually, the entire department reaches the same conclusion. They start placing bets. Nothing official—just quiet wagers whispered over charting stations and coffee machines.
When will it happen? Who will crack first? Will it be a confession in the supply room? A kiss in the ambulance bay? A heated argument that turns into something else entirely?
The consensus is unanimous:
It’s not a matter of if.
It’s a matter of when.
