The ER doesn’t stop for grief.

Not for fear. Not for heartbreak. And definitely not for people trying to outrun their pasts.

At thirty-two, student doctor Rosalie Kade enters The Pitt with steady hands, a soft heart, and more scars than anyone can see. In a hospital where exhaustion is worn like armor and compassion is often mistaken for weakness, Rosalie refuses to harden.

Even when the emergency room threatens to break her apart.

Especially when Dr. Robby starts noticing her.

Brilliant. Burned-out. Impossible to read.

He sees too much. And Rosalie has spent her entire life trying not to be seen at all.

But beneath the fluorescent lights and trauma calls, something dangerous begins to grow between them—

Because some people survive by shutting the world out.

And others survive by loving too much.

@jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @angelbabyyy99

The fluorescent lights were just a little too bright. They always were at this hour.

Rosalie Kade stood beneath them, shoulders slightly tense, her gaze drifting past the ambulance bay doors to the early morning sky.

Soft orange and pale pink stretched across the horizon—quiet, almost gentle. A stark contrast to everything inside.

Her fingers found the small hummingbird pendant resting against her chest, thumb brushing over the worn metal out of habit more than thought.

Grounding. Always grounding.

Behind her, the night shift filtered out in tired waves—low voices, slow steps, the kind of exhaustion that settled deep.

In four weeks as a student doctor, she’d learned the rhythm of it. Learned the people, too.

“Doctor Kade.”

She turned slightly as Dr. Jack Abbott passed by, already shrugging into his coat. Grey curls, permanently tousled. Gruff voice. Tired eyes that missed very little.

“Good shift,” he said. “You’ve got potential, kid.”

Rosalie smiled softly. “Thank you, Dr. Abbott.”

He gave a short nod and kept walking, disappearing with the rest of the night staff.

And just like that—

they were gone.

The morning shift began to filter in. Fresh faces. Fresh energy. A reset.

But Rosalie didn’t move.

She stayed exactly where she was.

Because going home meant quiet. And quiet meant thinking.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the pendant.

She hated today’s date.

With a quiet breath, she turned and headed toward the on-call room.

Coffee first. Then she’d keep moving. Keep working. Keep herself too busy to feel it.

The coffee was terrible.

Watery. Bitter. Barely worth the effort.

Rosalie took another sip anyway as she walked toward the nurses’ station.

An older woman stood there, flipping through a chart.

Mid-fifties, maybe. Fine lines etched into her face—not harsh, just lived-in. Blonde hair twisted into a worn brown claw clip. Pale blue eyes that had clearly seen too much—

—but her smile came easy.

Warm. Immediate.

“You new here, kid?”

Rosalie shifted the cup in her hands, smiling.

“Well… yes and no. I’ve been here four weeks, but today’s my first day shift.”

The woman’s expression softened further.

“Welcome, hon. I’m Dana Evans—charge nurse.”

Another nurse leaned in beside her, a head wrap neatly tied, a teasing grin already forming.

“And a damn good one.”

Dana rolled her eyes lightly. “Yeah, yeah.”

Then back to Rosalie.

“And you are?”

“Rosalie Kade. It’s nice to meet you.”

She reached out, and Dana took her hand without hesitation. Firm. Grounded.

The other nurse smiled.

“Perlah,” she said. “You can call me Perlah, kid.”

Rosalie nodded, warmth flickering across her face. “Nice to meet you.”

The doors burst open.

“Female! Severe lower abdominal pain—BP dropping!”

Everything shifted.

“Trauma one,” Dana called immediately.

Rosalie was already moving.

Of course she was.

She reached the stretcher as it locked in place, setting her coffee aside without a second thought.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Kade, I’ve got you,” she said gently, hands already working.

Pulse. Fast.

Skin— cold.

She moved to assess the abdomen—

and walked straight into something solid.

She stepped back quickly, startled. “Oh—sorry—”

She looked up.

And up.

A man stood in front of her—tall, broad-shouldered, presence filling the space before he said a word. Cargo pants. Olive hoodie pushed up at the sleeves.

Not in scrubs.

But unmistakably in charge.

His eyes flicked down to her. Measured. Sharp.

“Maybe look where you’re going next time.”

Heat rushed to her face.

“Sorry… Doctor?”

He’d already stepped past her, focus shifting entirely to the patient.

“Dr. Michael Robinavitch,” he said, voice steady, clipped.

Then—

“Robby.”

The woman curled in on herself, a sharp cry breaking through her teeth.

Rosalie was at her side in seconds.

“Hey, hey—it’s okay. I’ve got you,” she murmured, one hand steady on the patient’s arm. “Talk to me—when did the pain start?”

“L…last night,” the woman groaned.

The monitor beeps quickened.

Blood pressure low. Heart rate climbing.

Rosalie glanced up.

Dr. Robby was already watching her.

“Thoughts, Doctor?”

She hesitated—just a second.

Too long.

“Internal bleeding?”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Is that a question?”

She swallowed, refocused, forcing herself to look at the patient again.

“No visible bruising… abdomen’s tender, but not rigid…” she murmured, thinking out loud now. “We should do a FAST scan.”

A beat.

Then he nodded once.

“You should’ve led with that.”

Rosalie grabbed the ultrasound probe, already moving.

“This might feel cold,” she told the patient gently, squeezing her hand before applying gel.

She pressed the probe to the abdomen. Watched the screen. Adjusted. Focused.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Wait…”

Robby stepped closer, looking over her shoulder.

There it was.

Dark. Pooling where it shouldn’t be.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Call OR. Possible ruptured ectopic pregnancy.”

The room shifted instantly.

Rosalie’s breath caught. Her eyes flicked back to the screen, then to him.

“Why?” he asked without looking at her.

She forced herself to answer properly this time.

“No trauma… low BP, tachycardia… free fluid on the scan…” she swallowed, steadier now, “likely internal bleeding from a rupture.”

He nodded once.

“Good.”

Then, sharper—

“We don’t guess, Doctor Kade. We observe, then we decide.”

Rosalie nodded quickly. “Yes, Doctor.”

But her hands?

Shaking a little

They began wheeling the patient toward surgery.

Rosalie didn’t let go of her hand right away.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said softly, walking alongside the stretcher for as long as she could. “We’ve got you.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to the woman’s ring.

“I’ll call your husband.”

The patient was taken through the doors.

And just like that—

she was gone.

Rosalie stood there a second too long.

Then turned, already reaching for her phone—

“Let Dana or Perlah handle that.”

She looked up.

Dr. Robby stood just behind her.

“Doctors don’t usually make those calls,” he added. “You’re needed here.”

Rosalie paused, her hand lowering slowly.

“Oh… I—okay.”

She folded in on herself slightly—hating that she did.

He watched her for a second. Not unkind. Just assessing.

“As a doctor,” he said, tone more measured now, “you need to be more confident in your role.”

She nodded quickly. “Yes, Doctor.”

“Robby,” a voice called from across the floor. “Whitaker needs you in Trauma Three.”

He exhaled, already turning.

“Of course he does.”

And then he was gone.

The noise of the ER rushed back in.

Rosalie stayed where she was for a moment longer, trying to steady herself.

“Hey.”

She turned.

Dana stood beside her.

The older woman’s gaze softened almost immediately.

She stepped closer, resting a hand briefly against Rosalie’s arm.

“Don’t take that too hard,” she said gently. “You’re still finding your footing.”

Rosalie swallowed, her voice catching slightly.

“I just… I don’t want to mess this up.”

Dana gave her a small, reassuring squeeze.

“You won’t. You’ve got good instincts. Trust them.”

Rosalie nodded, blinking quickly.

“Thank you.”

And before she could stop herself—

she leaned in and hugged her.

Quick. Tight. Instinctive.

Then immediately pulled back.

“Sorry—I’m a hugger.”

Dana let out a soft laugh. “It’s alright, kid.”

Across the room—

a dark-haired woman leaned against the counter, eyes tracking Rosalie.

“Princess.”

Perlah didn’t look up from her chart. “That’s not my name.”

Trinity smirked. “You answered anyway.”

Perlah sighed, finally glancing at her. “What do you want, Dr. Santos?”

Trinity tilted her chin toward Rosalie.

“The new one.”

A pause.

“Already messing up, and she hasn’t even been here an hour.”

Perlah followed her gaze.

Rosalie stood across the room, quieter now, resetting after the case.

“That’s not fair,” Perlah said. “She came off the night shift. Dr. Abbott’s her attending.”

“Cruz says she’s solid. Good hands. Soft with patients.”

Trinity’s eyebrow lifted slightly. “Didn’t look like it.”

Perlah shrugged. “I don’t know her yet. But maybe she’ll surprise you.”

Trinity watched Rosalie a second longer.

Really watched her this time.

The way she stood. The way she folded in, just slightly, when no one was looking.

A slow shake of her head.

“No,” she said quietly. “She won’t.”

Perlah frowned. “Don’t do that.”

Trinity glanced at her. “Do what?”

“Decide who someone is before they’ve had a chance to prove you wrong.”

Trinity smiled.

Not kind. Not amused.

Just certain.

“She already has.”

Perlah went back to her chart. “Don’t be mean, Dr. Santos.”

Trinity pushed off the counter.

“Me?”

She started walking.

“Never.”

Rosalie looked up as she approached, offering a small, warm smile.

“Hi. I’m Rosalie Kade,” she said gently. “Most people call me Ros.”

The dark-haired woman didn’t return it.

Not even a little.

“I’m Trinity Santos. First year.”

Rosalie brightened slightly. “Oh—wow. That’s great.”

Trinity let out a quiet laugh.

Not amused. Not kind.

“You think so?”

Rosalie tilted her head, a little confused—but still open. “Of course.”

Trinity stepped closer.

Not aggressive. Just deliberate.

“You think you’ve got what it takes?” she asked, voice low. “To be here?”

That landed.

Rosalie straightened just a fraction. “Excuse me?”

A small smirk tugged at Trinity’s mouth. “You heard me.”

Rosalie didn’t snap. Didn’t shrink either.

“I’m not here to compete,” she said softly.

Trinity leaned in slightly.

“That’s not how this works.”

A pause.

Then—

“People like you don’t last.”

Rosalie’s fingers curled slightly at her side.

But her voice stayed steady.

“I’m still here.”

That—just that—was her answer.

Trinity studied her for a second longer. Reassessing.

Then she stepped back.

“Good luck with that.”

A glance over her shoulder as she turned—

“And try not to kill anyone today… Softie.”

She walked off.

Silence lingered.

Rosalie stood there a moment. Breath slow. Controlled.

Then, quieter—more to herself than anyone else:

“My name’s Rosalie.”

Exhaling softly, Rosalie caught her pendant between her fingers, watching as Trinity Santos disappeared down the hallway.

“I wonder who hurt her so badly,” she murmured quietly.

Mostly to herself.

Turning on her heel, she headed toward the patient board, eyes scanning the overwhelming list of names, room numbers, and flashing updates.

Too many.

Too fast.

And promptly walked straight into someone again.

“Oh—s-sorry.”

She looked up.

Of course.

Dr. Robby.

He stared down at her for a moment before speaking.

“Dr. Kade.”

He watched her with those dark brown eyes, that’s seen too much.

“You might want to start looking where you’re going.”

Rosalie winced slightly.

“I know… sorry. I’m just a little off my game today.”

She glanced up at him through dark lashes, green-blue eyes carrying something he couldn’t quite name.

Kindness.

Grief.

Loneliness.

Something.

Robby studied her a second too long before stepping aside.

“Go to triage,” he said. “Find Dr. McKay and help there for a while.”

Rosalie nodded immediately.

No argument. No attitude.

“Okay.”

Then she turned and walked away.

Robby’s gaze lingered on her longer than it should have.

There was something strangely familiar in the way she carried herself.

Something he couldn’t place.

A tired hand dragged over his face.

Around him, the ER continued in constant motion.

Whitaker talking to a patient somewhere down the hall. Santos arguing with a nurse about labs. Monitors beeping. Phones ringing.

Chaos.

Constant, exhausting chaos.

And somehow—

He already felt tired.

The shift had barely even started.

Every day he walked through those doors swearing it would be his last.

And every day—

he came back anyway.

Why?

That was the part he could never answer.

The moment Rosalie stepped through the triage doors, she felt it all at once.

Overwhelmed.

Too many people. Too many voices. Too much pain packed into one place.

Tears burned briefly behind her eyes as she took it in.

Fear. Grief. Panic. Hurt.

Human suffering in every direction.

She swallowed it down quickly.

There wasn’t time for feelings here.

Scanning the room, she spotted a woman with messy auburn bangs flipping through a chart.

Rosalie approached carefully.

“Dr. McKay?”

The woman looked up.

“Yeah?”

Rosalie offered a small smile.

“I’m Dr. Kade. Dr. Robby sent me down to help.”

Dr. McKay nodded once, already moving toward the next bay.

“Alright then, Dr. Kade,” she said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

And so it began.

A little girl with glue stuck to both hands.

A drunk man with a deep cut above his brow after a fight involving a broken beer bottle.

An elderly woman convinced she was actively dying from heartburn.

Rosalie handled each patient with surprising ease.

Gentle voice. Steady hands. Quiet patience.

Even when people yelled.

Even when they cried.

Minutes blurred together.

And somehow—

she kept going.

“You’re going to be one of the good ones,” Dr. McKay said eventually, watching Rosalie finish wrapping a patient’s wrist.

Rosalie let out a soft laugh.

“I just want to help people,” she admitted quietly. “Save them, if I can.”

Dr. McKay’s expression softened slightly.

“I know.”

She smiles sympathetically 

“But you can’t save all of them. Remember that.”

Later, they stood just outside the ambulance bay doors, stealing a moment of cool morning air between patients.

For the first time all shift—

Rosalie breathed.

Then the ambulance pulled in.

Fast.

Too fast.

Rosalie was already moving before the doors fully opened.

And the second they did—

everything changed.

Her eyes widened.

Hands instinctively lifting slightly.

Defensive.

Careful.

A man in his late forties stumbled out first, blood soaking through his shirt from a gunshot wound to the torso.

And in his shaking hand—

a gun.

Behind him, paramedics pressed desperately against another patient bleeding out on the stretcher.

Terrified eyes met hers.

Silent warning.

The man pointed the gun directly at Rosalie.

“You,” he barked.

The weapon shook slightly.

“You’re gonna patch me up. No cops. No funny business.”

Rosalie’s heartbeat slammed against her ribs.

Still—

she nodded.

“O-okay,” she managed softly. “I’ll help you.”

The man moved closer.

Too close.

Towering over her.

“Please…” she whispered carefully, eyes fixed on the gun. “Could you put it down?”

A sharp grunt left him suddenly as pain ripped through him.

Then—

without warning—

he shoved the gun hard into her side.

“Walk.”

Rosalie stumbled forward.

Her hands trembled violently now.

Cold steel dug against her ribs as he forced her through the trauma bay doors.

The second Dr. McKay saw the weapon—

her face drained of color.

And then she shouted:

Okay hi… so 😅

This is my first one-shot for Jack Abbott (The Pitt) — not my first time writing (been doing that for a while now), but definitely my first time diving into this man and this show… and yeah, I’m completely addicted at this point, no shame 🤷‍♀️

⚠️ Warnings:

Emotional angst

Patient death / overdose

Hospital/medical trauma themes

Age gap

Attending x doctor dynamic

Kissing / tension / questionable decisions 👀

⚠️ Important: This is my original work. Please do not copy, repost, translate, or claim it as your own anywhere. Respect writers.

This is a raw, emotional one-shot—kinda messy in the best way, a little chaotic, very feelings-heavy… basically me putting my heart on paper and hoping it hits someone the same way it hit me while writing it.

I would love to hear what you think—seriously. Comments, reactions, screaming, crying, all of it. Tell me your favourite part, tell me if it hurt, tell me if you’re mad at me for the ending 😅

And if you want more of this universe… just say the word 👀

@jackles010378 @k-slla @winchesterwild78

***********************************************************************

Yet another night, yet another 12—maybe 15—hour shift. Verdict’s still out, we’ll see. Coffee in hand, smile on my face as I walk into the Pitt. Night shift is a whole other beast—one that doesn’t like to be tamed, but runs wild into the open, breathing down every doctor’s and nurse’s neck. And don’t even get me started if it’s a full moon—it’s like the crazies are even crazier. But hey, I live for the adrenaline.

Heading to the nurse’s station, I catch a glimpse of him—the man I have the biggest crush on… Okay, fine, maybe it’s more than a crush… but I ain’t acting on it. He’s my attending, and nearly fifteen years older than me. So I keep my distance. Don’t wanna cosy up to the Bossman.

I take another sip of my steaming hot vanilla latte, my tongue darting out to catch a drop sliding down the lid.

He nods curtly. No smile, but no annoyance either—just courtesy. “Doctor.”

I nearly choke. “Dr. Abbott—hi. You doing good? Are you? What are you up to? Having a good shift?” Can I please just stop rambling?

He squints his light eyes. “How much caffeine have you had already?” Then adds, “Try to breathe between words.”

I can feel my cheeks burning. “Uhm… yeah, too many.” I shake my head. “Excuse me—patients and all that.”

WARNING - Too many to mention, if your under 18 - STOP!!!, if not enjoyz, and let me know what you think... Love y'all remember to like and comment and please don't copy my work.

She was running from Silas. So why the hell did his arms feel like home?

Why the hell did she melt into him like he could hold her up, like he could make everything right? Her feet barely touched the floor as she disappeared into the bathroom. She stood before the mirror, staring herself down—recognizable, but not in the way she used to be. Not the strong, unshakable woman she was just weeks ago. No... this reflection looked more like her teenage self—the girl trapped in a cage, twisted by too many buried secrets.

Her fingers clutched the edge of the counter like it could ground her, like it could stop her from falling into the truth.

“Your parents knew. Your brother sold you and Hope.”

His words echoed, looping louder with every breath, tightening in her chest like a noose. But the worst part? She wasn’t angry at Silas. No, not him.

She was angry because deep down... she already knew.

Somewhere inside her, buried beneath the pretty lies and practiced smiles, she’d always known.

But how could it be true?

They loved her. Didn’t they?

Her gaze locked with her own in the mirror—green eyes turned stormy grey. They only ever did that when she was that sad. That wrecked. When even her eyes couldn’t pretend anymore.

She inhaled a sharp breath, scrubbing at her bloodstained hands—hands that had tried to stop her brother from bleeding out. Guilt clawed at her insides like a feral animal. She’d shot him... thinking it was Silas.

Is she losing her mind?

She must be.

Because after weeks of Silas tormenting her, tearing her apart piece by piece, she still clung to him like a shattered vase trying to hold itself together. Knowing it was wrong. Knowing she shouldn’t.

The blood was gone now, washed away minutes ago. But still she scrubbed. Like maybe if she kept at it long enough, she could scrub away the guilt, the grief, the confusion—like she could make it all make sense.

The bathroom door creaked open.

She didn’t need to look. She knew that tic-tac rhythm of Garcia’s heels.

Penelope stepped in, took one look at her, and whispered, “Oh, sweetie…”

Then she wrapped her in the kind of hug that undid everything Meredith was barely holding together. And she sobbed. Loud, broken, heaving sobs into Penelope’s shoulder.

“I’m a terrible person,” she gasped between sobs.

But sweet, radiant Penelope only held her tighter, whispering that she wasn’t. That she couldn’t be.

But how could she know?

No one knows.

Not really.

Not like Meredith does.

Not the things that happened. Not the monsters in the dark. Not the shadows that changed her forever.

Some days, she’s not even sure she’s real. Or if anyone—or anything—around her is.

Her first day back after two months on leave.

Thankfully her brother made it. Thankfully she got cleared. No psych hold, no suspension. Just silence.

No one on the team could reach her—she’d practically vanished for seven straight weeks.

Everyone thought she went off to “find herself.” That’s what she wrote in that half-assed message she sent out. “I’m searching for peace… to mend my heart.” All poetic and shit.

But the truth?

The truth was uglier.

The truth was—the second she walked out of that bathroom, red-eyed and shattered, she didn’t go to some self-help retreat. She went straight to her mother’s house.

And asked the one question that had been burning a hole through her chest:

“Mom… did you know?”

That sentence hit like a sledgehammer. Her mother collapsed onto the kitchen floor, sobbing, choking on guilt.

Because she did know.

Not at first. But eventually.

Through the wails and the tears and the shaking hands, Meredith finally heard the truth—all of it.

Her brother had arranged it. Sold her. For money.

He owed loan sharks after getting deep into gambling debt. And they threatened to kill him. So instead, he threw her to the wolves.

And only after a full damn year of her being missing did he finally spill it all to their parents.

Her mother begged for forgiveness, stammered out something about how sorry they were, how they thought she was dead, how they were scared, and—blah blah bloody blah.

She didn’t stay to hear the rest.

Not after the call came through that her brother made it out of surgery. That he was going to survive.

She walked straight to the nearest street corner and bought more drugs than she could possibly need.

And she used.

Fled to her apartment and got high out of her damn mind—numbing everything, erasing herself piece by piece.

The next thing she remembered?

Narcan.

Waking up.

Opening her eyes to find Silas—freaking Silas—sitting there, holding her, brushing the hair away from her face like he cared. Like he hadn’t broken her.

And for the next few days, he stayed. Took care of her. Fed her. Watched her shake and sweat through the withdrawals. Then one morning, he loaded her into a van, drove through the night, and dropped her off at some mountain-view rehab facility.

He never looked back.

She hasn’t seen him since that day.

And now? Now here she is. Back at work. Looking cleaner. Healthier. Brighter, maybe. Wearing the mask she stitched together in therapy.

She walked to her desk and sat down like nothing happened. It’s early. The bullpen is still quiet. Team members slowly filtering in, side-eyes and soft greetings.

But none of them really know where she’s been.

Not the monsters she met.

Not the pain she buried six feet deep just to function.

As she sat there—listening, nodding, offering faint smiles—she felt like a stranger in a familiar land. Everything looked the same. Sounded the same. Hell, it even smelled the same. But she wasn't the same. The air felt heavier now, like even her lungs had forgotten how to breathe without effort.

The only constant in this job? The cases. The killers. The chaos. New town, new monster, new horror show waiting to unfold—and always the victims. Damn, the victims.

Getting ready to board the jet, the usual buzz of pre-mission chatter echoing around her, Meredith Lang reminded herself: this is who she is. This is what she’s meant to do—hunt the monsters, lock them away, make the world a little less terrifying.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s why she never told anyone her captor’s name.

Because Silas… he wasn’t just a monster.

He was more complicated than that.

His heart, if you could call it that, was stained in darkness—but not hollow. Somewhere in those twisted, blood-soaked edges… there were still slivers of something almost human. And somehow, that made it worse.

Warnings: This might be triggering for someone who've lost someone due to depression, or has been feeling in the dark lately - please know, there's always help out there, there's someone who cares. and if you can't seem to think of anyone, feel free to message me. I love ya okay! With that being said, enjoy this chapter, and thanks for reading, if it made you feel something, feel free to comment and like. But please don't copy my work. love y'all so much. xxx <3

Since that moment in the hospital with Nathan, I haven’t stopped running.

Not physically—no, I mean the kind of running you do from yourself.

I threw myself into work, let the chaos fill the cracks, anything to stop the noise in my head. I haven’t seen him since that night. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still feel the press of his lips… the weight of what I shouldn’t have wanted.

When I can’t sleep—and lately, that’s most nights—I run. Or I hit the gym until my body’s too sore to think. Because everything feels too loud, too close, too damn much. And I feel nothing.

It’s all of it—Tom, Mark, Nathan, this cursed case, the nightmares that claw through my sleep.

But if you looked at me, you’d never know. I still smile in all the right places. Still laugh like the woman I was before life got ugly. Before the fear became a part of me.

No one knows how many times I’ve—

“Hey, you with us?” Mark’s voice cut through the fog. Of course it was him.

I blinked, focusing on his face, on Oliveras next to him. “Yeah,” I lied softly. “Just tired.”

He tilted his head. “We’re checking out that lead, remember?”

“Right. Sure,” I said, forcing a smile and trailing after them like some damn lost puppy.

The car ride was full of their usual bickering—Mark teasing, Oliveras snapping back—but it all faded into white noise. My mind was somewhere else, my fingertips tracing the faint scar along my neck.

The one Tom left.

Sometimes I still feel the cold blade against my skin, the weight of his breath in my ear.

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t fought back. Wish I’d just… let it happen.

At least then, maybe I’d finally be done running.

We came to a stop, and my body moved like it wasn’t even mine anymore. On autopilot.

Strangely, I was grateful for it—because as long as I kept moving, it looked like I was fine.

Damn, I hate that word. Fine.

After about an hour, the so-called lead turned into a dead end. Figures. While Mark and Oliveras argued over next steps, I wandered off, letting my feet choose for me. The warehouse was hollow and cold, just like I felt inside. Somehow, I ended up on the roof, looking down.

Gravity had this way of calling to me—softly, almost kindly. And for a split second, the thought crept in. The dark one.

No one ever tells you this part about surviving trauma. They patch you up, clear you to leave, and tell you you’re lucky. But they don’t tell you that when you check out of the hospital… sometimes, you’ve already checked out on living.

My phone buzzed, cutting through the fog. I took a step back, feet finding solid ground again.

“Yeah?” I answered, voice flat.

“Where the hell are you?” Mark’s tone was gruff.

“Coming. Thought I saw something—sorry.”

“Move your ass.”

I rolled my eyes. “Keep your whiskers in check, damn it,” I muttered under my breath, hanging up.

And just like that, I went back down—back to pretending. Slipped into the SUV without a word, like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t almost leaned too far over the edge.

We walked into the office, and there he was — Nathan.

Back already. Too soon, if you ask me.

Funny, huh? I care about everyone else but can’t seem to give a damn about myself.

The team swarmed him, clapping his back, cracking jokes like he hadn’t almost died a few days ago. When it was my turn, I held out my hand, all business.

“Welcome back, sir.”

My voice came out too professional, too polished — like I’d rehearsed it.

He took my hand, mumbled a thank you. The smile on his lips didn’t match his eyes.

Those eyes looked… hurt.

And of course they did.

Because of me.

But I can’t. I can’t let him in. I can’t let him see the mess I am underneath the badge and the brave face. How could I let him feel something for me — me — when I don’t even know what I am anymore?

I sank into my chair, eyes fixed on the evidence board, though I didn’t see a damn thing. Just a blur of photos and red string and exhaustion.

I know it’s getting worse.

Damn, I’m a trained clinical psychologist — I know.

But how do you treat yourself, huh? Someone tell me.

Because I don’t know.

Hours bled together. Everyone around me moved like ghosts, talking, laughing, pretending.

I interacted when I had to.

Smiled when expected.

Hell, I should get an Oscar.

Nathan wrapped up the day with, “Tomorrow’s another day. Get some rest.”

And just like that, I was gone.

First one out the door — because facing him? Yeah, not happening. Call it cowardice if you want. I call it survival.

I grabbed my gym bag and disappeared.

The punching bag didn’t stand a chance.

Every swing landed harder, faster — like I could beat back the noise in my head if I just hit hard enough. But the truth? The damn thing wasn’t my enemy. My problems were — and they were winning.

Sweat stung my eyes. My knuckles were raw, split, bleeding. I kept going anyway, until suddenly a pair of strong arms wrapped around me from behind.

I screamed, fought, kicked.

Then—

“Would you stop fighting?”

Nathan.

Damn, that was loaded in all the wrong ways.

“Leave me the hell alone,” I spat, still thrashing. But he didn’t let go. His voice dropped low, gentle.

“Please… please listen to me. You’re destroying yourself.”

That stopped me cold.

“What?”

He turned me around in one swift movement, his blue eyes burning straight through me.

“You think I don’t see what’s happening to you?”

I looked away, staring at the gym floor, because anywhere was better than his eyes. But he lifted my chin with one finger, brushed the sweaty hair from my face with the other.

“It literally hurts to see you like this,” he said, voice rough. “If you’d just talk to me — to someone.”

My lip trembled. Damn it.

“I… I don’t know where to start. How to start.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes softening. “Take my hand. We’ll take baby steps, okay? Please.”

Tears blurred my vision.

“Nathan… please. We—we can’t.”

He shook his head. “This isn’t about us. Or what happened in the hospital. This is about you.”

Barely a whisper: “I don’t know what to do next.”

He extended his hand.

I stared at it.

Then placed mine in his.

I was too tired to resist.The ride to his place was quiet. He didn’t say much — just that I could shower, crash in the spare room.

But his tone said everything:

I can’t let you be alone tonight.

What Could've Been 🤭 Part Three❤️

@jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @angelbabyyy99 @cutedisneygirl @monkey-d-hoshizora98

..........

Just before dawn, I’m in the office again. We’re finally getting closer to Volchek. From what I’ve gathered, he’s a bitter man—a man with a grudge against America. Then again, doesn’t every other terrorist?

As the team filters in, I greet each one with a polite smile, keeping my head down, keeping the routine. But then he walks in. Mark. Laughing with Oliveras like the past never happened.

I literally want to puke.

The way he kissed me and just left—like we didn’t share history, like he didn’t taste like goodbye. I glance away, pretend to be busy, refuse to look up. He doesn’t exist to me. Not anymore.

Blythe calls us in for an update. I nod along, but if I’m honest? I don’t hear a damn word. My brain’s too busy replaying the look Oliveras gave him—the same look I used to give him. Like he hung the damn stars.

Now, all he’s hung me on is this jagged sense of brokenness I can’t seem to shake. Not that I’d tell anyone. I prefer to keep it all locked inside where it can’t spill out and ruin what’s left of me.

The room empties out one by one until it’s just me and Nathan. His voice breaks through the fog.

“Hey. You with me?”

I look up, meet his sharp blue eyes. “Yeah.” I try to sound neutral.

He studies me, unimpressed. “I need your head in the game.” Then, after a pause that feels heavier than it should, he adds quietly, “You’ve been seeing someone—for what happened?”

Author’s Note:

Hi loves 💕 This is a one-shot featuring Mark Meachum (from Countdown). I’ve been itching to write something raw, emotional, and messy with him, and this poured straight out of me. Expect angst, heartbreak, unresolved tension, and a hell of a lot of feelings. This piece is told through my OC’s POV—she’s a profiler-turned-teacher dragged back into the field, and guess who she runs into again? 👀 Yeah… you already know it’s going to hurt. Now we also have Mark's POV 🐞🤭

Warnings: (18+)

Anything else let me know.... If you wanna be tagged let me know...

Remember: this is my work, it's truly based on fiction, so please don't take my work. Thank you. 🤭

He left her standing there, hurting, while he escaped like a coward into the office, searching for evidence that wasn’t even his priority.

@jacklesversebingo @winchesterwild78 @angelbabyyy99

But the truth? He hadn’t broken up with her because she was too clingy, or too sensitive. If anything, those were the pieces of her he loved most—the parts that made her human, soft, real. Hell, he still loved them. He still loved her.

But with everything going on, with the darkness breathing down his neck, he couldn’t give her forever. He couldn’t risk it.

He stared down at the papers scattered across the desk—sketches of bombs, maps of high-value targets. His vision blurred, the lines bleeding together as heat pricked his eyes. The pounding in his skull grew louder, heavier, reminding him of his own mortality.

🖋️ A/N:

This one-shot was born the moment I heard “Cry” by Lee Brice—yeah, that song ripped me open, and out came Beau Arlen, bruised knuckles and broken heart. The prompt that lit the fire? "Do I have to take it off again?" from @jacklesversebingo Beau just wouldn't shut up after that. This is my love letter to regret, to stubborn men who break late, and to the kind of love that lingers in the quiet. As always, reblogs and comments keep the muse fed 💌

—Nesca / LadybugBooklover 🐞

⚠️ Content Warnings:

Mature emotional themes (regret, heartbreak, male vulnerability)

Alcohol use (mentions of beer as a coping mechanism)

Adult language (soft cussing & emotionally charged dialogue)

Suggested sexual imagery (not explicit, but references intimacy)

Mentions of past relationship conflict/divorce Not suitable for readers who dislike angst or emotional vulnerability in male characters.

📜 Copyright Notice:

This work is 100% original fan fiction based on the character Beau Arlen (no copyright infringement intended). Do not repost, translate, or copy this work without permission. Tumblr reblogs = LOVE. Copy/paste or reposting = don’t be that gremlin.

© 2025 Nesca / LadybugBooklover 🐞 All rights reserved.

🔢 Word Count: ~960 words of raw, poetic heartbreak…

🐞❤️Tags: @jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @cutedisneygirl @angelbabyyy99

The curtains were drawn tight, but the shadows didn’t care. They slipped through anyway, dancing across the jagged lines of his face—the face of a man who once wore charm like a second skin. Beau Arlen. Sheriff. Symbol of strength in a town that clung to tradition like gospel.

But that strength? It cracked the moment he saw you again.

He sat there, fists clenched, jaw tight with the kind of grief that don’t come from bullets or bloodshed, but from love gone wrong—twice. You’d think a second divorce would sting less. Hell, you'd think he'd be numb by now. But no. This one gutted him.

And deep down, beneath all that badge-and-gun bravado, he knew it—he knew it was his fault. But damn it, he’s always been a stubborn mule. The kind of man who'd rather break than bend.

A/N: Awww my loves, Y'all know how I feel about this book - it's so close to my heart like for real and honestly in this Chapter we learn a little more about Clay and Kacie and just ahhhhh it's so - ya know what just read it and find out... Xo

Warnings: Some light swearing, mentions of people dying, betrayal, and alcohol consumption.

Please Note: This is a work of fiction, but it is MY work, so please don't go stealing like some lil evil gremlin okay?... Mwaaahz thanks.

Cover/Pics/etc: Pinterest, and Pinterest.

Tags: @jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @cutedisneygirl @cutedisneygirls-blog @angelbabyyy99 tags are open so if ya want to be ya know tagged ... let me know, DM, comment shout it from the rooftops... Xo...

Kacie’s fingers curled around her coffee mug. It had been a month—thirty damn days—since she came back to Memaw’s farm. She still hadn’t spoken to her mother. Tried calling once. No answer. Honestly? A blessing in disguise.

Clay helped on the ranch here and there, but let’s be real—Kacie didn’t know jack about running the place. One look at the bank statements told her everything: the ranch was drowning. Fast. And she didn’t know how to swim.

She was an artist. A broke one. With zero business sense and nothing but dried-up paint tubes and regret. Maybe her parents were right. Maybe she should’ve gone to college. But hell—sitting in a classroom never felt right.

Now here she was. Middle of nowhere. No plan. No money. No clue.

The only thing she knew? She had to save the ranch. Memaw would’ve wanted that.