#reader is male coded

“Casual.”

He’d said. And god, how you despised that word. Who needs commitment when you can always fuck around with no problem? No nagging about late shifts, no effort put into sweet dates, no worries about if they’re loyal and no problem meeting the parents because there’s no point in it. Really.

You’ve watched as they’ve all come and gone, tapped your foot impatiently while they warped and shaped his perception of love over time.

First came Liz, tall and slender with beautiful black hair and a funky air about her. Everyone knew what kind of woman she was, what she wanted. Everyone but John, of course. She was sweet enough, but in the end John walked away with little more than a twinge of humiliation and a positive STD test. No one let him live it down for weeks afterward, and you held his hand as he steamed with embarrassment on your couch and held an ice pack to his groin.

Then there was Susan Lewis, short lived and playful. Though you never saw them do anything explicitly romantic it wasn’t a well contained secret that they liked each other. When she brushed off his advances at her front door, he came whining to you. And you’d ran your fingers through his short brown hair as he stared at the TV and sighed.

And of course, the most recent of them all, Harper Tracey.

Harper, well, she makes even your heart skip a beat. Maybe not for the same reason Carters did. But anyone with eyes can tell how beautiful she is. Inside and out. The problem is, objectively, she’s the perfect woman. Pretty, capable, witty and smart. The perfect mix of everything that really explains why John was so smitten. Sometimes, when you’re alone in bed, you imagine what it feels like to kiss her. Feel her lips on yours and her skin under your hands. What texture her hair is, and what her perfume tastes like against her neck. Not for your own pleasure, but to understand why John wanted her so badly.

Yet, even she is human. Flawed. And temptation wrung out any good faith between them quickly, (Courtesy of Doug Ross.) And just like always: youu had been there. Pinched his cute nose and reprimanded him for taking down on himself in the aftermath.

So after spending so many months as Carters best friend, watching, and waiting, and lecturing him about how each fling would end. He had finally turned his eyes on you.

You were no Liz. Not fun and adventurous and ready to get busy anyhow and any way. And you’re not Susan. Effortlessly sexy, smart, sarcastic and maternal. And you’re certainly not Harper. Beautiful, and fun, and the perfect blend of both women who had previously stolen his heart. But you aren’t nothing either.

You figured, at first, that was enough. Knowing John, being his peer, and being mildly attractive. An emergency medicine intern with a heart of gold and naive infatuation. How couldn’t it end perfectly? It was written like a beautiful fairytale love story.

You’d smooth his tie, bite your lip, and laugh at his jokes. You’d play with his hair, and coo down at him, and comfort him when he needed it. And when his requests to come home with you became sensual and intentionally romantic you’d never say no. It really did seem like you were dating. And sure, things didn’t change between you at work. No one else really knew that you’d crossed that line. But that was okay in your book, because eventually they would.

That was what you had thought, anyway. Until he had taken a hammer to your word view.

It was a few weeks into your new arrangement.

Work was fine. As odd a shift as any. Sweet old lady with a purse full of insects, and a hit and run victim to the likes of his own wife. But it wasn’t extremely busy, and there was enough time and morale that playful banter flitted amongst coworkers easily. And John had gotten off almost the same time as you. So, naturally, as had been happening since he’d kissed you on your doorstep and pleaded to come in with you weeks after Harper had broken his heart, you’d gone home together.

Never his place. No. Just yours.

And that was enough.

The sex was good. He’d gripped your headboard and made you see stars, kissed you hard in the aftermath and brushed the sweaty hair from your face as you caught your breath. He had teased you as you peeled away to get cleaned up, and you’d slinked off to the kitchen to make a snack as he followed suit.

He had settled for unhelpfully eating the fruit you chopped for a nice fruit salad while you plucked the ingredients from the fridge for two sandwiches when you spoke. Voice embarrassingly strained from earlier.

“You take up in my bed, eat my fruit, and don’t even help me cook. Why do I keep letting you in?” You had said, smiling up at him with a fondness that was difficult to ignore. “You’re like a stray,” You snorted, bumping him with your hip as you sliced the bread. His teeth had snapped through an apple slice before he spoke, sighing the words out wistfully.

“You let me in because you like having me around. Seems like a fair enough trade. Don’t you think?” His hair shined under the dim kitchen lighting. Still damp, he had smelt of sex.

“I suppose,” You had smiled, softly placing your knife on the counter and turning to him. Bracing your hand next to his hip, he cocked a brow down at you. Smirking as you leaned up to speak against his lips. “Though it would be nice to see your house every once and a while. I always wondered what the Carter Manor looks like.”

He had snorted, shaking his head as he clicked his tongue. And you shared a sweet kiss that tasted of apple. When you pulled back, he picked up another slice and slumped back into the counter.

“You don’t want that,” his tongue prods at his cheek and he clears his throat. “It’s cold, and quiet, and too fancy,” he said. Waving his hand about mindlessly as he bit into his slice. He spoke around a mouth full this time, voice climbing an octave as he chewed. “Besides, I like your house better. What’s the point in dragging you out to my fancy hell hole for something casual?” He muttered, his words a bit skewed as he licked off the stuck fruit from the roof of his mouth. Like it was a well known fact. It stung the way he spoke, as if he hadn’t just broken your heart.

Your fingers stilled over the plate. Though John stood oblivious; tossing back a handful of blueberries and humming in delight. Your breath had quickened once you found the strength to speak.

“Oh,” A snipping silence followed, filled only by the sound of the clock ticking. Or his fingers rubbing over the rag on the counter. You swallowed thickly before you spoke next. “casual?” You had inquired. Voice painfully uneven. It aimed for something sort of laid back, and you aren’t sure if it landed or not. But John cleared his throat to speak regardless; adjusting the way he leaned against the counter as one brow climbed his forehead. He worked his jaw at the tartness of the fruit and spoke.

“Yeah.” He said, smacking his lips. “I mean, we aren’t dating. Why would I make you sit through family dinner?” He had snorted, like he was cracking some colossal joke. Flashing his sweet, uneven teeth. A strand of hair brushing over the bridge of his nose. It made you sick. So you tapped your fingers against the cutting board and swallowed hard.

You had meant to be bold. To turn and confront him with disbelief, or anger, or annoyance. Some emotion that wasn’t downright pathetic. But, unfortunately, you had simply stared up at him through watery, scrunched up eyes. And spoke with a shaking voice.

“We aren’t?”

It might have given you a sick sense of pleasure to see him clam up the way he had if not for the fact you were busy splitting in two. John frowned, jaw slowing as he swallows his mouth full of apple and sputters.

“I don’t— I mean. No?”

He muttered, laughing nervously.

“We never talked about it. We definitely never put a label on anything. I— I mean I..” he throws his hand up, turning his nose up at you with an undistinguished expression of panic. “I thought you knew..”

You took a deep breath, and bit your lip, and nodded. Turning back to your cutting board and continuing to assemble your sandwich in silence. If John saw the tears slide down your cheeks, he didn’t say anything. And if you willed yourself hard enough you could pretend it was fine while you both ate in silence, pretend that you didn’t care.

You hadn’t talked about it after that. Not even a passing “I’m sorry.” From him.