Juno
Dennis Whitaker x f!reader
Synopsis: Trinity Santos drags Dennis Whitaker to Night One of your three-show run in Pittsburgh, expecting nothing more than overpriced merch and a few blurry selfies. Dennis likes your music, but he was definitely not expecting to be your Juno Arrest. Thirty-eight hours later, still reeling from the fact that he was chosen, Dennis is back on shift at PTMC when a VIP trauma alert rolls in. What he doesn’t expect is for that stretcher to carry the same woman who called him gorgeous under stage lights. What happens when there’s no crowd between you two? Just a trauma bay, a few sutures, and a question neither of you saw coming.
word count: 2.3k
Warnings: Medical inaccuracies, medical setting, Sabrina Carpenter inspo
Part 2 out now :)
Trinity Santos had been counting down to this concert the way some people counted down to New Year’s. The moment she saw the confirmation email for the tickets in her inbox, she had her shift swapped and started planning her outfit like it was the Met Gala.
Dennis had watched Trinity’s descent into madness with quiet amusement from the couch.
“You know it’s just a concert, right?” he’d said one night, glancing up from his laptop as Trinity strutted across the living room, giving Dennis a private fashion show.
She stopped mid-pose, offense written across her face. “Just a concert? Huckleberry, this is the event of the year.”
He tried—and failed—to hide a smile. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I am not dramatic,” she spun toward him, pointing dramatically. “And you are coming with me.”
He blinked. “I am?”
“Yes. Yolanda couldn’t get her shift covered and I have a spare ticket,” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Plus, you like her.”
Dennis’s shoulders stiffened. “I don’t—”
“Yeah you do.”
“I just think she’s talented,” he corrected carefully.
Trinity folded her arms, “You were belting ‘tears’ in the shower last night.”
His ears turned pink.
She grinned, triumphant. “Face it, Whitaker. You’re a fan.”
Dennis shook his head, but he couldn’t quite hide the small smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s still just a concert,” he muttered.
“Keep telling yourself that, Huckleberry.”
Now, weeks later, Trinity was standing in their apartment foyer, dressed in a lace baby blue mini dress and knee-high boots, staring at Dennis like she was appraising a patient.
“You cannot wear that.”
Dennis glanced down at his plain dark tee and jacket. “Why?”
“You look like you’re going to a faculty meeting.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just a concert.”
“She might see you.”
He froze.
Trinity pounced. “Exactly.”
“I doubt she’ll notice me,” he said, adjusting his shirt. “There are twenty thousand people.”
Trinity grabbed her bag. “You underestimate the power of fate.”
———————
The arena was electric before the show even started.
Heat radiated from the bodies packed shoulder to shoulder—the scent of perfume, popcorn, and anticipation hung thick in the air. The stage glittered under low lighting, the massive screen looping your tour visuals.
When they reached the barricade, Trinity actually gasped.
“Huckleberry, we’re so close!”
He looked up at the stage and swallowed. They were so close he could see the texture of the runway.
“You realize,” he said quietly, “statistically speaking, our odds of interaction are minimal.”
“Stop bringing statistics to a concert,” Trinity hissed. “Manifestation only.”
He tried to laugh it off, but his pulse had already quickened.
Then the lights dimmed. The intro video began, bass rumbling through the floor, vibrating through Dennis’s ribs.
Backstage, you stood in the shadows, towel cinched tight around your body, in-ears humming with the click track.
You inhaled.
Exhaled.
“Stand by,” came the cue.
Seconds later, your cue hit, signalling for you to run out.
You burst onto the stage, halting dramatically, lifting a hand to shield your eyes from being blinded by the intense white beams. The roar was instant and overwhelming, washing over you in waves.
You scanned the audience.
And there—in the front row stood a guy with dark hair and a sharp jaw. He looked stunned. Completely, utterly stunned. Beside him, there was a girl who was practically vibrating with excitement.
The opening notes of “Taste” started.
You dropped the towel, revealing the bodysuit, which shimmered under the lights—crystals catching every flash. The crowd exploded at the sight.
Dennis forgot how to blink.
You then try to grab the mic that was suspended just out of reach. Once you finally get it out, you look back at the crowd, eyes finding him as a slow smile curved across your mouth. You knew one thing at that moment, he had to be the Juno Arrest tonight.
Dennis’s brain short circuited.
“Is she looking over here?” he murmured.
Trinity’s grip on the barricade tightened. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”
The show moved in a blur of choreography and high notes that made the crowd scream louder, but every few songs—you looked back. And every time, Dennis flushed deeper.
Trinity leaned toward him during one intermission. “If you get picked for Juno arrest, I’m transferring hospitals.”
“I’m not getting picked,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.
The beat started back up, and the arena knew exactly what was coming.
You reappeared with your two dancers, strutting down the catwalk, hips swaying, confidence radiating.
“Pittsburgh!” you called, breathless and glowing. “You’ve been unreal tonight!”
The roar that followed shook the rafters.
“But…” you continued, pacing slowly, hand over your heart. “All night long, I keep seeing this guy in the crowd.”
Dennis went still.
Trinity slowly turned her head toward him.
“I just can’t keep my eyes off him.”
The camera swept across the front rows.
Trinity shook her head. “No, there’s no way—”
The sirens blared as his face filled the giant screens with flashing red and blue graphics and the word ARREST stamped around him. He looked like he’d been caught committing a felony.
Trinity screamed in his ear. “IT’S YOU.”
You leaned down at the edge of the stage, smiling wickedly.
“Hi,” you said sweetly. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”
Dennis opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Trinity elbowed him, hard enough it would probably leave a bruise.
“Dennis!” she shouted for him.
You laughed. “Dennis?”
He swallowed. “Y-yeah.”
“Oh, Dennis,” you sighed theatrically. “You’ve been distracting me all night.”
His face turned crimson.
You tilted your head, studying him. “You see, Dennis… in the past, I’ve only dated man-children with bad jobs.”
The crowd booed.
“So please,” you continued, biting your lip, “tell me… what do you do for work, pretty thing?”
Dennis stared up at you like you’d just asked him to perform surgery onstage.
“I—I’m a doctor,” he managed.
The arena erupted.
You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your mouth. “A doctor?”
He nodded quickly, cheeks burning.
Trinity leaned into his side. “Use full sentences, Whitaker.”
You grinned. “Wait—that’s actually so hot.”
Dennis looked like he might faint.
“Well,” you said slowly, standing up straight and stepping closer to the edge of the stage, “Doctor Dennis… maybe you can help me.”
He swallowed.
“I think something’s wrong with me,” you continued, fanning yourself dramatically. “My heart is racing, my temperature’s rising, and my clothes keep falling off.”
The crowd screamed as your long skirt dropped, revealing a shorter one underneath.
“Is that normal, doctor?”
Dennis blinked rapidly. “I—uh—depends—”
You laughed, delighted by how flustered he is.
“Oh no,” you teased. “He’s shy.”
Trinity called up, “He’s always like this!”
Dennis shot her a betrayed look.
You turned to your dancer and accepted the pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, swinging them lightly.
“Dennis,” you said, voice soft but playful, “I usually arrest people for being too hot.”
Dennis covered his face briefly.
Trinity was doubled over laughing.
“Would you like to go to jail… or back to my place?”
You hand the handcuffs to security who passed them down to him. Dennis swallowed hard as he felt the soft fabric lay in his hands.
“The latter!” he shouted, a sudden wave of confidence washing over him.
You beamed. “The latter? Oh my gosh, perfect.”
The crowd roared.
“This one’s for you, Dennis.”
Trinity took the handcuffs and leaned into his ear. “We’re putting this on the shelf next to our diplomas.”
He laughed breathlessly. “I can’t feel my legs.”
The music kicked back in, and you danced across the stage, completely in your element. As you reached the heart-shaped platform, you let a quick, playful smirk flash across your face.
“Wanna try out some freaky positions?” you sang. “Have you ever tried this one?”
On the beat, you stepped to center and dropped smoothly into a deep, balanced squat in your heels— knees apart, back straight, completely in control. One hand traced down your thigh in time with the music while your hips rolled once, sharp and precise. You tipped your chin down, eyes lifting toward the crowd beneath your lashes for just a split second before blowing a kiss out to the stadium.
The place erupted.
You dropped fully onto your knees, hair flipping as you went back to singing like it was effortless.
Dennis exhaled slowly. Beside him, Trinity screamed at the top of her lungs—
“I MANIFESTED THIS!”
———————
It had been thirty-eight hours since the show.
It hadn’t truly hit him until just after the show. Trinity and him had just got back to their apartment, still buzzing, Dennis still replaying the conversation in his head. He’d showered, crawled into bed, and stared at the ceiling.
Out of all people.
He’d been picked.
And now, after hours of spiraling, he was back at PTMC for his shift. Fortunately for Dennis, the ER had been manageable all day—a couple of minor traumas, one admission for sepsis, nothing overwhelming. Unfortunately for Dennis, the internet had not been manageable.
Victoria had shown him a slow-motion edit at 8:00 a.m.
Trinity had found a freeze-frame of his face—wide-eyed, flushed, staring up at the stage like he’d just seen God descend in platform boots.
“You looked so gentle,” Victoria said thoughtfully.
“I looked surprised,” Dennis replied.
“You looked in love,” Trinity corrected.
“I am not in love.”
“You were gorgeous, apparently,” Trinity added.
He turned red again.
Before he could defend himself further, Dana’s voice rang out. “VIP incoming with a possible head trauma and hand lac. ETA, two minutes. It’s some singer,” your name echoed throughout the emergency department.
The entire department straightened.
Robby stepped forward immediately, scanning the residents. “Whitaker, you’re with me.”
Dennis blinked, pointing at himself. “Me?”
Robby gave him a look. “You’ve already met.”
Javadi choked on her coffee.
Dennis followed Robby toward Trauma Bay 2 as the ambulance doors opened.
Security entered first, then the stretcher.
And there you were.
You’d look paler than under stage lights, with faint swelling near your temple and excess glitter that clung to your skin. One hand was loosely wrapped in gauze that was slowly blooming red.
Dennis’s stomach dropped.
Professional. Be professional.
You were transferred smoothly to the trauma bed. Monitors were attached, and vitals were called out.
“Hi,” Dennis said automatically, stepping forward. “What’s your name?”
Your eyes shifted toward him, recognizing him instantly. You stared at him for one beat—then smiled faintly.
“I’m a little offended you don’t remember me.”
Behind him, Perlah made a strangled sound, trying not to laugh.
Robby’s eyebrow lifted slightly.
Dennis cleared his throat. “Trying to check your cognitive function.”
“Uh-huh.” You gave your full name properly this time, still watching him.
“What happened?” Robby asked.
“Missed a landing during rehearsal. I tried to adjust, but I lost that battle.”
“Nausea?”
“A little.”
“Vomiting?”
“No.”
Dennis gently took your injured hand. “You’ve got a pretty deep laceration.”
You glanced down. “My mic. The rhinestones are beautiful but also apparently violent.”
It was about five centimeters across the palm, deep enough to need stitches instead of glue.
“We’ll get a head CT,” Robby said. “Then Whitaker will close that lac.”
“Yes, sir.”
The CT came back clear. No bleeding, and no fracture. Just a mild concussion.
When Dennis returned with the suture tray, you watched him with open curiosity.
“Do you always forget the names of people who arrest you?” you asked lightly.
He nearly dropped the sterile packet. “I didn’t forget.That’s just standard protocol.”
“Sure it is, pretty.”
He inhaled slowly and pulled on gloves. “This will sting.”
“Be gentle,” you murmured.
He injected lidocaine carefully. His hands were steady now—calm, precise.
“How long have you been doing this?" you asked.
“I’m an intern, so I’ve only been out of med school for two months.”
“That’s impressive, surviving med school.”
“It’s… normal.”
“Don’t do that,” you said softly.
“Do what?”
“Shrink yourself.”
That caught him off guard.
He focused on the first stitch. “You shouldn’t be rehearsing with a concussion.”
“You shouldn’t have been staring at me like that in front of an arena full of people.”
His hands paused—just slightly—before continuing.
“That wasn’t intentional.”
“Oh?” you asked. “You always look at random women like that?”
Heat climbed his neck again, a deep shade of red replacing his complexion. “You were performing.”
“And now?”
“You’re my patient.”
“And after I’m discharged?”
He shook his head as he tied off the stitch and snipped the suture, “I’m still your doctor.”
You watched him work, head tilted slightly.
“Do you like this?” you asked.
“Emergency medicine?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes, I love it.”
“Why?”
He hesitated then answered honestly: “You get to help so many different people, all with different things. It makes you feel… important.”
That made you quiet.
“Good answer,” you said finally.
When he finished bandaging your hand, he stepped back. “No dancing and avoid screens and alcohol for at least forty-eight hours.”
You made a face. “I have a show tomorrow.”
“It’s medically necessary.”
“Bossy.”
“Doctors orders.”
You smiled at that.
As he reviewed discharge precautions, you interrupted gently. “I’ll be in Pittsburgh until the end of the week.”
He nodded. “Three more shows.”
“You’re keeping track?”
“It’s public information.”
You held his gaze. “Are you going to ask me to dinner, Dr. Whitaker?”
The use of Dr. did something unfair to his nervous system.
“I—” He steadied himself. “Yes. I would love to take you to dinner.”
“Tomorrow after the show?” you asked.
“If you’re feeling okay.”
“I will be.”
You handed him your phone. He entered his number carefully, like it required precision.
Security gathered as you sat up slowly.
Princess hovered nearby, clearly debating whether to stay professional or go full fangirl.
“Do you want a picture?” you asked her kindly.
Her face lit up. “Really?”
The first photo was quick, then Victoria stepped in, and then Trinity—even Dana got a photo.
Robby stood near the desk, unimpressed but not intervening.
When you were finally wheeled toward the exit, you looked back at Dennis.
“Don’t forget me this time,” you said lightly.
He met your eyes, steadier now. “I won’t.”
And this time, there was no crowd, no stage lights. Just the hum of the ER, the smell of antiseptic, and a date set for tomorrow night.
a/n: let me know if you want a part 2 :)
