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emsgotdamunchies · 24 days ago

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★,°:.☆/$:.°★| coincidental drunks |★,°:.☆\$:.°★

ONE usage of y/n, fem! reader, sfw, written in one sitting with no music and at 4:30am. good luck reading this because it has NOT been proofread.

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it’s been around a year since you and max split up over complications in both of your personal lives. you decided to head down to a bar in the town, trying on a dress you probably won’t ever wear again in hopes of finding someone.. or at least getting someone to buy you a drink or two.

as you head toward the bar, someone bumps into you and spills a half-ful pint of beer on your dress. you look down at yourself, the sticky drink seeping onto your skin. as you look up, however the disgusted look soon turns to one of nostalgia as your eyes lock onto his.

“i-im sorry, i didn’t see you there-“ Max starts, but he loses his words when he sees who he’s talking to. you. Max’s heart increases as he looks at you, his eyes locking with yours for the first time in what feels like forever.

“Uhm, i-im sorry about your dress.” he says, placing his now empty glass down on the table. he looks at your dress, and your body, before he looks back at you. “it’s fine, i was gonna give this away soon anyway..” you manage to say, eyes still locked tightly onto his as if it would hurt to look away.

both of you have changed over the past year, and that seems apparent now as suddenly everyone around the two of you fades out. they don’t matter anymore, all that matters in this very moment are you and max.

“..uhm, you sure? i wouldn’t mind paying for a new one.” he says, a small smile on his face to brighten the mood. you both chuckle nervously before you speak. “no, no, really it’s okay.. uhm…” you clear your throat, holding your hands behind your back. “how’ve you been..?”

those words hit max harder than he thought they would, and all of a sudden the yearning and neediness he thought he got over suddenly crashed back at him all at once.. maybe he was never over you.

“i’ve been okay actually.. i’ve gotten quite a big following online now actually.” he says, scratching the back of his neck. he doesn’t know what else to say, he obviously doesn’t want to seem to eager.. and neither do you.

“oh, well, that’s good.” you say with a smile, covering up the fact that you’ve never stopped watching his uploads. every time one came out you would watch it in bed, giggling like a schoolgirl at his funny personality and missing when he was yours.

maybe he could be yours again.

“hey.. can i buy you a drink? maybe we could catch up?” max offers, his face lighting up with a smile. you accept his offer and sit on the quiet side of the bar, facing each other as you sit on bar stools.

you both talk about adventures and milestones that had happened in the last year, sharing congratulations and surprise at the accomplishments. you can tell by the look in his eyes that max had missed you.. and he can tell you missed him too.

after a few drinks, the both of considering being tipsy as an understatement, the important question comes up. max asks first.. and obviously you accept. “..hey, wanna go back to my place so we can talk some more?” he offers.

“i think i still have a hoodie of yours. you can throw that on instead of the dress if you’d like..?” he adds, his words slurring slightly. “yeah, that’d be great actually.” you say, a wide smile on your face that shines the way you feel.

you both make the way out of the now busy bar, stumbling onto the pavement as max gets his phone out to call an uber. as he talks on the phone you look at him. under the dim streetlight and the moons rays, he looks just like he did when you were with him.

the way his dark brown eyes glimmer slightly, and the way his mouth pinches at the end of his smile makes you wonder why you broke up in the first place. he says his thank-yous to the other line and hangs up, holding his phone in his hand as he looks down at you.

“it’s.. not far from here.” he says softly. “i know, i remember.” you coo back in a similar tone. the way you’re smiling at him makes him want to grab your face and kiss you.. but he doesn’t want to make the same mistake of falling in love all over again.

when the uber arrives, you get in the back and max gets in the front, saying casual hellos to the driver. as he turns corners back to max’s apartment you look out the window, reminiscing on times when you took this route almost every day to see him. he’s thinking the same exact thing.

as the uber halts infront of his apartment, max steps out the car and hands the driver some money. then, before you can open the door of the cab, max opens it for you, holding a hand for you to hold on to as you exit the car. a small blush covers your face as you thank the uber, closing the door and watching him drive off.

you walk behind max as he opens the door, unlocking it and walking in to the place you once called home. it’s not changed, except for a few plants you bought him having been removed.. which hurts to think about, but you understand.

you take your heels off at the door and walk with max to the couch. you sit down accidentally in the same place you always used to, and as max looks down at you he remembers the way you’d always be curled up against him under a blanket, watching whatever was on.

as he stares at you, you look up at him with a drunken smile before you talk. “so, you mentioned a hoodie of mine..?” you ask, and that snaps him out of his little fantasy. “oh, right.. yeah. i’ll go look for it.” he says, and walks away to make his way up to his room.

a few minutes later he comes back down, one of his hoodies in his hand. “so.. i don’t know where yours is, but you can just wear mine. its a large one, so it’ll cover you just fine.” he says with a smile, passing you the hoodie.

“thanks.. wow, you still have this?” you chuckle and look at his hoodie. he chuckles in response. “yeah, it’s a good one.” he responds with a playful tone of voice. you look up into his eyes, ears replaying what he said in the tone he said it in.

“..yeah, i mean, why wouldn’t you.” you mumble as you try to find your way around the hoodie. he raises an eyebrow at you. “i thought it would be nice to wear that instead of, you know, the dress with beer all over it.” he says, and as you raise an eyebrow at him he realises how he came across.

as he stutters you laugh. “no, i get it… i’ll go change in the bathroom.” you say, stumbling ever so slightly as you stand up, and you make your way to the bathroom. as you unzip the dress and slide out of it, putting his hoodie on that falls just a bit shorter than the dress did on your thighs you look in the mirror.

memories crash of the times you wore this around his house, remembering how things were. you take a deep breath before you’d walk out of his bathroom, your dress in hand. as you step into the living room, he eyes you up and down, eyes adjusting to a familiar sight.

“still fits you.” he says in a teasing voice, making you look over at him. “what’s that supposed to mean?” you retort, a playful voice that he hasn’t heard in a while caresses him.

“oh, i don’t know..” he coo’s, watching as you place the dress near your shoes at the doorway, before making your way over to the couch and sitting next to him.

after around an hour of talking, you find yourself staring into his eyes. all at once, feelings of desperation hit you. so does realisation. he invited you to his house.. you’re in his house. you wonder why. he raises an eyebrow at you. “are you even listening?”

“yeah, just..” you hesitate. “..i missed you, max. i missed you a lot.” you say, and he raises his eyebrows. he never expected you to feel the same way. he smiles, leaning slightly towards you. “i missed you too, i’ve hated not having you around.. if im honest, i’ve wanted you here ever since you left.”

your eyes widen at his confession. you smile and sit a little closer. “yeah, me too.. i’ve missed being around you.” you say. he sits a little closer to you, and you rest your head on his shoulder. this signals to him that he just won.

he instantly shifts position to be leaning slightly, one of his larger hands placing itself on your upper waist to guide you to lay against him. you don’t fight back, matter of fact you give in. you rest your head on his chest and move a hand to hold him, tucking a leg over his and clinging to him.

he chuckles warmly, his hand moving rest on your hip. “you weren’t lying, huh?” he chuckles. you smile and tilt your head to look up at him, your warm, alcohol laced breath hitting his. “neither were you.”

he moves his hand up to your face, guiding you to lay back down. you don’t resist, doing as his hand tells you to and resting your head against his chest. you let out a soft sigh, closing your eyes.

before you can fully relax, max sits you up and moves both of his hands to your shoulders. he takes a deep breath in before he talks. “..i wish we never broke up, y/n.” he says, and all your feelings crush back.

“me too. i’ve regretted it since the minute we left eachother.” you say, looking longingly into his handsome brown eyes. “..i miss being with you, max.” you say, and he smiles at you. before you both know it, max has you on his lap, hands around you, kissing him.

your arms wrapped around his neck and mouth on his, you’ve both silently agreed to one thing.

you’re back together.

you seperate the kiss to look into his eyes. “i love you, max.” you say, and he moves a hand to your cheek. “i love you too.” he says back in a relaxed tone, and you nuzzle up against him, cuddling him on his couch as you both slowly drift off to sleep.

the byproduct of a drunken night has never been better, you’re both back where you wanted to be.. and his fans will be excited to hear it too.

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im sorry it’s so shitty and that there’s so many time skips i really have no imagination lately 😭

but thanks for reading!! reblog & like to help motivate me to write some more <3

#3fs #3fs x reader #max 3fs #yeah i wrote another one baby #it’s sfw like before but maybe a bit more nsfw one coming soon idk #im sleep deprived and school is tommorow

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emsgotdamunchies · 25 days ago

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PLEASE CAN YOU FEED US MORE 3FS CONTENT (I'm starving 🥺)

so actually i wrote a smut chapter to that fanfic i wrote yesterday if you guys want that!! or i can write another sfw one watcha thinking

#3fs #max 3fs #3fs x reader

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emsgotdamunchies · 26 days ago

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｡+ﾟ. .+:｡ﾟ☆ | late night convos - 3fs | ☆ ｡ﾟ:+. . +ﾟ｡

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NOT proofread, written in one sitting give me a break, fem!reader, probably won’t continue. 😜

Max had been your roommate for a while, probably a few months, since you’d graduated. Him and you aren’t exactly.. friends. There’s arguments; he gets annoyed when you accidentally play music too loud or start drying your hair in the middle of his recordings, you get annoyed at him for screaming or yelling at his computer when you’re trying to concentrate.

Tonight, it’s quite late, circa 11pm and you walk into the kitchen, but Max happens to be there too. He offers you a glance from the corner of his eye before looking back at the microwave, presumably waiting for something to cook.

He keeps his gaze now on you, watching out the corner of his eye with his head slightly turned to you as you open the fridge, grabbing an energy drink. “Why are you drinking a monster so late?” He asks, his voice interrupting the silence.

“It’s never too late for a drink.” You chirp back, cracking it open and placing it on the counter, before grabbing a glass from the cupboard above. You turn to face max as you pour the monster in the glass. “What about you? why are you up so late?” You add. He keeps his eyes on you for a second before turning back to look at the microwave. “I couldn’t sleep, been filming too much. I decided to grab something to eat and chill out.” he responds, turning to look at you.

He rests his hip against the counter, folding his arms under his chest. “Shouldn’t drink that at such a late hour, y’know. You could get heart problems..” He says, hints of a smirk tugging at his lips under the fluorescent kitchen lighting.

“Oh well, it’ll get me hyped up to go to sleep i guess.” You say and take a sip, before you look into the glass and groan, walking toward the sink to pour it out. “you know, max, i often wonder who raised you. why do you suck at washing dishes?? this cup still had coffee in it.” you croak, eyeing him up with a death stare.

Max rolls his eyes with annoyance once you mention the cups, but can't deny it. He's a pretty careless guy most of the time.. atleast in the comfort of his own home. "I'm too busy to wash things. I'm a popular YouTuber, I don't have time to clean things, you know." He retorts, taking a small step closer to you and leaning off the side.

You huff at him. “you use the word ‘popular’ too loosely.” you say and look into his eyes. With around a foot distance between you and max, you realise this is the closest you’ve stood to him. Max smirks slightly, putting his hands in his pockets as he towers over you.. A playful smile on his face makes you look at his lips for a moment longer.

“.. are there any clean cups in this apartment?” you ask, less annoyance in your voice than usually when talking to him. Max picks up on that, but saves commenting on it for a later time. “Probably no. maybe you should wash some for me.” He teases, a smirk plastered on his face.

You raise an eyebrow at him, placing a hand on your waist that drags his attention slightly. “Oh yeah? remind me, max, who’s the one with an actual job here?” You say, hints of a smirk tugging on your lips. You only ever smile when you’re rude; and max can tell this isn’t like that. Maybe you’re both tired, maybe it’s late, or maybe things are changing.

“Wow.. ‘actual job’? id like to remind you that i have Seven hundred and fifty thousand subscribers. I get paid to record videos and people send me money for playing games. I’m doing just fine.” He retorts, finding it fun to have this type of banter with you instead of your usual arguments.

“I don’t need randoms on the internet sending me money for a living, that’s what makes us different.” You start, folding your arms under your chest. “In a few years you’ll wish you’d payed attention and gotten a job instead of a youtube channel, 3fs.” You finish with a teasing tone in your voice, squinting your eyes at max as you talk.

He finds it humerous that you called him by his online name, it replaying in his ears.. in your voice. “You should go to bed, your voice is irritating me.” He says, hoping you don’t see under his façade of him acting like he doesn’t care. under everything, he’s secretly wished for weeks that you’d stop being mean to him.. he sees something in you he’s seen nowhere else.

the way you laugh with your friends but never around him has made him feel jealousy like nothing else.. so naturally he acted the same around you. “Yeah? you’d love that wouldn’t you.” you say, teasingly taking another step closer to him. you raise an eyebrow at him and tilt your head, your eyes locked onto his.

“you’re the irritating one, im surprised you haven’t lost your voice yet.” you say, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “go eat whatever you made and you go to sleep, i bet you have such a difficult day of editing videos ahead of you tomorrow.” You say in a sarcastic voice, toying at his routine of making content.

He grumbled as you teased him. He hated how cocky you could be sometimes, but he also found it surprisingly attractive. He was so used to being the playful one, but you just had this way of getting under his skin. “It is damn hard, y'know. I gotta sit at my desk for a few hours, edit my videos, and then talk to a camera again. Real tough.” He responds.

“sure..” you say in a stretched voice, nodding your head along with your words. max huffs at your comment, chuckling slightly while looking into your eyes with a slightly raised eyebrow. in the moment, you realise something.. max is oddly attractive. you’d heard some friends comment on him before but you’d always laughed it off, he could never be hot… right?

his voice snaps you out of your little sidetracked-thoughts, making you blink a few times at him. “id like to see you try and complete various different games each day whilst entertaining an audience. it’s difficult stuff, you know.” his voice hums, being oddly nice in your ears.

“i wouldn’t know. i’ve never touched one of your videos. i can sure hear you filming them though.. im surprised we haven’t gotten a noise complaint.” you coo. “im pretty sure our neighbours hate you..” you add on, smirking again slightly in a more.. teasing way. The way you furrow your brows slightly and tilt your head, has max rethinking this situation.

he debates what to do.. he knows he should go to bed, but this is too promising. he takes another step towards you, leaving half a foot distance between your body and his, and he looks down into your eyes. “oh.. come on, im sure you love my channel. you know you’ve watched at least one of my videos.” he says. your teasing image falters slightly at the glance he gives you.

“..i watched a singular one a few weeks back to seeing all the noise is worth it. it isn’t, by the way.” you raise your eyebrows and shake your head as you talk. he rolls his eyes at your comment before the microwave beeps. he walks back to it to grab his food and you miss his body close to yours.

as if he read your mind, he walks back over to you, standing a bit closer than before. you take your hands out of your hoodie pocket and place them by your side. “You totally watched more than one. you can’t get enough of me and you know it.” he says, grinning and looking into your eyes.

You watch as he methodically looks down at your lips for a moment before looking back into your eyes like routine. it makes your stomach flip.. you’d never felt this way about him before, so why now? A smirk on your mouth, you take a step closer to him and tilt your head, now barely any distance between you and him remains.

“i think ive gotten enough of you already.” you coo, a voice quieter than before. your eyes are dragged to his hand as he places the food he had on the counter, before folding his arms under his chest. you look back up into his eyes as his voice hits your ears once again.

“sure you have..” he teases, his eyes dragging themselves across your body, eyeing your legs revealed from your shorts, his eyes observing your hoodie, before looking into your eyes once more. “..you’re being oddly friendly tonight, aren’t you? i’ve never seen you in this way..” he teases, his melodramatic voice caressing you.

your breath hitches in the back of your throat, and your eyes flutter slightly as he talks. you tilt your head and talk back once again. “hah.. i could say the same to you.. you always give me such death stares whenever i try to talk to you.” you say, looking away for a moment after talking.

“that’s different.” he looks up at you as he talks, and you look back at him as he unfolds his arms. “i do that because you do it to me. im not like that to anyone else.” he says, and it hits you for a moment. “w-wait, you think i death glare you? you think im mean?” you chuckle, trying to make a joke out of the moment.

He looks at you with sincerity, his eyes not leaving yours. you stop smiling slightly and raise your eyebrows a bit. He looks at you so genuinely, a small, warm smile forming on his lips. you look away and chuckle for a moment before you look back up at him. “i don’t intend to be mean to you.. you’re just.. y’know.. kinda annoying sometimes.”

“oh i know. it’s who i am.” Max says proudly, and for a moment you lock eyes with him. both looking at eachother with eyes that long for something else.. he takes a small step closer to you, his legs almost touching yours as he looks down at you.

in that moment, both of you looking longingly into eachothers eyes, you begin to feel.. almost a crush on him. your heart speeds up and your cheeks flush as your eyes begin to stare at his lips. he picks up on that, looking at yours before he hesitates; then, within a second, he leans in to plant a kiss on your lips. finally feeling his mouth against yours, you freeze.

it takes you by suprise and before you could lean in to show him how much you’d wanted that, he pulls away, looking away in regret. “i-im sorry.. i got carried away.. i-“ you cut him off with another kiss, tilting your head to press your lips against his. he leans in almost instantly, one of his hands moving to your shoulder and the other to your waist.

you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him close to you as he pushes his body flush against yours. he backs you up until you feel your legs against the kitchen table, your back hitting it as you stand against it. one of your hands intertwines with his hair as he guides you to sit on the table, using his hands to spread your legs, sending a shiver down your spine. he stands between your legs and wraps his arms around you, leaning and kissing you like he needs it.

Max kisses you until he runs out of breath, pulling away and resting his forehead against yours. With your hand on his shoulder, he leans back slightly. he looks into your eyes as his chest heaves, and he smiles softly at you. “you’re hot.. by the way..”

his comment makes you chuckle, and you pull him in for another kiss, his hands travelling your body like there’s no tommorow. you lean back, using a hand to prop yourself up as he leans rhythmically against you, humming into the kiss..

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YEAH THATS UH !!! MHM i don’t wanna do any more bcs like he’s an actual human and i don’t wanna be a creep nor do i wanna be a weirdo 😓

#3fs #this dude 3fs #3fs x reader #max 3fs #we need more 3fs fanfics #there’s not enough dude #he’s so fine

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emsgotdamunchies · 2 months ago

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guys.. i have a problem 🤦🏾‍♀️

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emsgotdamunchies · 2 months ago

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The Weight of What We Carry

gregory house, james wilson, allison cameron, robert chase and eric foreman x gn reader

sfw

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(ФωФ): reverse comfort, comforting them after a patient dies, hurt to comfort, established relationship.

no cuddy cuz i dont wanna. i know my inbox is closed but I'll accept house md requests😭🙏 so if you have a house md request go ahead.

group solo whatever doesnt matter im HYPERFIXATIIIIINGGGGGG WOOOOOOO

next house md post is PROBABLY group, domestic life version? no idea.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･

No One Tends to the Healer

The apartment smelled like rain and something bitter—probably the coffee House had left on the burner for too long. It was half-past nine when you finally unlocked the door, shrugging off your jacket with fingers stiff from the chill outside. You didn’t call out to him, didn’t need to. The moment you stepped inside, the silence told you everything.

You toed off your shoes and made your way toward the living room. There he was: slouched on the couch like a marionette with cut strings, bottle of cheap whiskey dangling from two loose fingers. The TV flickered muted reruns against the walls, bathing the room in ghostly light. His cane was abandoned somewhere near the coffee table, forgotten, as if even the effort to fake functionality had been too much tonight.

You crossed the room quietly and lowered yourself onto the couch beside him. He didn’t look at you at first, just kept his bleary, guarded gaze fixed somewhere in the space between the coffee table and the TV.

"You’re home late," he said eventually, voice rough, words slurred just a hair—not enough for most people to notice, but you weren’t most people.

"Got caught in the rain," you answered, gentle, tugging the bottle from his fingers before he could protest. He let you. That alone was worrying.

The bottle clinked softly against the hardwood as you set it down, and you turned to face him fully. His eyes—those icy blue eyes that had once seemed sharp enough to cut glass—were dull tonight.

"You wanna tell me what happened?" you asked. No accusations. No prodding. Just an offer.

House barked a laugh, low and humorless, before finally looking at you. His expression was a mess of exhaustion and anger and something underneath it all that almost looked like fear. "Patient died," he said bluntly, as if daring you to react.

You didn’t flinch. You just nodded, your heart tugging painfully inside your chest. You knew better than to offer cheap condolences. He hated that. Hated pity, hated hollow reassurances.

"Wasn’t your fault," you said, but only after a pause long enough to show you weren’t parroting the obvious. "You did everything you could."

House shifted uncomfortably, like your words were knives he didn’t want to admit were hitting their mark. He leaned his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

"They all say that," he muttered. "Cuddy, Wilson, the team. All the same bullshit. ‘You did your best, House.’ ‘No one could have done better, House.’" He turned his head, looked at you with a sneer that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Know what the truth is? I missed something. I missed something and he died."

You shook your head slowly. "No. The truth is, you’re human. You get tired. You make mistakes. Sometimes things happen that are out of your control. And you hate that, you hate not being god."

He stared at you for a long beat, and for once, had no snarky retort.

You reached out, brushing your fingers lightly over the back of his hand. He flinched—barely, a muscle jumping in his jaw—but he didn’t pull away.

"You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders every damn day, House," you said softly. "You walk around like you’re invincible because if you don’t, if you stop for even a second and admit you’re not...you’re scared you’ll break."

His breathing was uneven now, nostrils flaring slightly, as if he was fighting something much bigger than pride.

"And that’s okay," you continued. "You’re allowed to break. You’re allowed to fall apart."

Another silence stretched between you, dense and heavy. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, House slumped forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder. It was a clumsy, ungraceful motion, but it shattered something inside you nonetheless.

You shifted to wrap your arms around him, pulling him against you properly. He was stiff at first, rigid and reluctant, he didn’t know how to accept comfort. But when you didn’t let go, when you just stayed there, silent and solid, you felt it—the slight sagging of his frame, the way his hands came up, hesitant, to clutch weakly at the back of your shirt.

"You’re not alone," you murmured into his hair, the scent of him—whiskey, rain, soap—filling your lungs. "You don’t have to carry it all by yourself."

He made a sound then, something raw and choked off, and you felt your heart break all over again.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. You lost track, content to simply hold him as the storm raged outside. His breathing evened out eventually, though he never moved away. His weight against you grew heavier, more trusting.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible. "You’re too good to me."

You smiled faintly, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Someone has to be."

He let out a shaky breath that might have been a laugh if you squinted hard enough.

"You’re gonna get tired of this eventually," he muttered. "Of me."

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, your fingers threading through his graying hair in a soothing, absent motion. "I’m not going anywhere," you said firmly. "You’re stuck with me, House."

There was something in his gaze then, something so unguarded it made your chest ache. Vulnerability, laid bare. Trust, fragile and tentative but there nonetheless.

"God, you’re stupid," he said, and there was real affection in the insult, a House-brand admission of love.

"Maybe," you said with a shrug. "But so are you."

He huffed, a tired, breathy laugh, and you took it as a victory.

"You gonna let me take care of you tonight?" you asked, voice soft.

He hesitated. That instinctive, ingrained stubbornness warred visibly across his face. But finally, with a slight nod, he gave in.

You helped him up carefully, mindful of his leg, mindful of the way he leaned into you a little more than usual. No jokes. No quips. Just the heavy, weary acceptance of someone who’d been fighting alone for too long.

In the bedroom, you coaxed him onto the bed, pulling off his shoes and helping him out of his rumpled button-down. His body was littered with old scars, the map of a man who’d survived far more than anyone should have to. You treated each one with silent reverence as you tucked him beneath the covers.

When you slid in beside him, he turned wordlessly into your arms, his head finding the familiar crook of your neck. You threaded your fingers through his hair again, slow and rhythmic.

"You don’t always have to be strong," you whispered against his forehead. "Not with me."

He didn’t answer, but the way he clutched at you, the way he breathed against your skin, said more than words ever could.

And as the rain softened against the windowpanes, as the storm outside began to quiet, you stayed there with him—his anchor in the aftermath, his shelter when the world got too heavy.

For once, Gregory House allowed himself to lean on someone else.

And you held him, steady and sure, until the storm passed—inside and out.

When the Caregiver Crumbles

The door clicked softly behind you as you entered the apartment, shaking the rain from your umbrella with a few half-hearted flicks. The floor creaked under your steps; the place was almost too quiet, save for the faint tick of the kitchen clock and the low rumble of thunder outside.

You shrugged off your coat, draping it over the nearest chair, and caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye. Wilson sat on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, hands steepled tightly under his chin. His usually polished appearance was disheveled—tie askew, shirt sleeves wrinkled, hair mussed like he’d been raking his fingers through it for hours. His eyes, those warm brown eyes that could coax confessions and comfort from the most stubborn souls, were dull and rimmed with red.

You crossed the room slowly, as if afraid a single loud move would shatter the fragile, brittle air around him. He didn’t even look up when you knelt in front of him, resting your hands lightly on his knees.

"Hey," you said, voice soft, threading its way into the heavy silence between you. "Talk to me, Jamie."

His mouth twitched into something that might’ve been a smile under different circumstances, but it fell apart before it could even form. He dropped his hands and finally looked at you, and the raw devastation in his face made your chest ache.

"I lost her," he said, the words cracking apart like brittle glass.

You didn’t need to ask which patient he meant. Evelyn—the young woman he'd been treating for months, pouring every ounce of his knowledge and compassion into her case. She was only twenty-eight. You squeezed his knees gently, grounding him.

"I did everything," he said, voice rising just slightly, hoarse and angry and broken. "Every treatment, every trial, every last-ditch effort. I fought for her. I fought."

"I know you did," you murmured.

"It wasn't enough." His fists clenched in his lap, knuckles whitening. "She was supposed to get better. She trusted me. Her family trusted me." His face twisted, a strangled breath rattling out of him. "And now she's gone, and they’re left picking up the pieces, and I'm sitting here pretending like my whole world didn’t just collapse too."

You rose from your crouch slowly, gently, and slid onto the couch beside him, curling your body around his trembling frame. He didn’t resist when you pulled him against you, his head dropping heavily onto your shoulder. His hands gripped your sides, almost desperate in their need for something, anything solid.

"You’re allowed to grieve too," you whispered into his hair, fingers smoothing soothing circles against his back. "You're allowed to be devastated, James. You loved her in your own way. You fought for her like she was family."

He made a broken, wounded sound deep in his throat and tightened his hold on you.

"They always say not to get attached," he choked out. "‘Stay professional, Wilson. Stay objective.’ But how do you watch someone waste away and not care? How do you smile at them, encourage them, sit with them through the worst moments of their life, and just…detach?"

"You don’t," you said simply. "You can't. That's what makes you good, James. That’s what makes you human."

He shook his head violently against your shoulder. "It’s killing me," he whispered. "It’s killing me every time."

You cupped the back of his head, pressing a kiss to his temple, your heart breaking anew with every shattered word that fell from his lips.

"You carry so much," you said, your voice trembling despite yourself. "You give everything you have to everyone else and never keep anything for yourself. No one sees how much it tears you apart. But I do, I see you."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face crumpled and vulnerable in a way few had ever seen. His hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing under your eyes like he was trying to memorize you.

"I don't know how to stop," he confessed, voice wrecked and bare. "I don't know how to stop caring."

"Good," you said fiercely, taking his face in your hands. "Don’t. The world doesn’t need another cold, detached doctor. It needs you. It needs someone who fights and cares and hurts when they lose someone."

He blinked hard, a tear escaping despite his best efforts. You caught it with your thumb, stroking his cheek gently.

"You don't have to be strong right now," you murmured. "You don't have to be the caregiver tonight. Let me take care of you, James."

For a moment, he just stared at you, as if the offer was too big, too impossible to accept. But then he exhaled a long, shuddering breath and leaned into you fully, burying his face against your neck. You wrapped your arms around him tightly, holding him together piece by piece.

"You won’t scare me away," you promised, voice steady against the storm inside him. "I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere."

The hours passed in a haze of rain and broken whispers. You coaxed him into lying down with you, tugging a blanket over both your bodies. He fit himself against you like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go. You didn’t try to fill the silence with empty words. You just held him, ran your fingers through his hair, pressed kisses to his forehead every so often, murmured his name when he trembled.

He drifted in and out of restless sleep, clinging to you like a man adrift at sea. Once, he woke with a strangled gasp, the grief clawing its way out of his chest, and you soothed him with gentle hands and soft shushing sounds, rocking him slightly.

In the early morning, when the sky began to lighten with the hesitant colors of dawn, Wilson shifted to look at you properly. His face was raw and unguarded, stripped of the charming, put-together façade he wore for everyone else.

"I don't deserve you," he said hoarsely, his hand trembling slightly where it touched your cheek.

You caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of it. "You deserve the whole damn world, James Wilson," you said fiercely. "You deserve someone who sees every piece of you and loves you more because of it."

He made a choked, broken noise and leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.

"I love you," he whispered, so quietly you almost missed it.

"I love you too," you whispered back, your heart aching with the sheer weight of it.

And there, in the thin, tender light of a new day, James Wilson allowed himself, for once, to be held. To be cared for. To be loved without condition, without expectation.

And you stayed, arms wrapped tight around him, promising silently with every beat of your heart that you would never let him bear the weight of the world alone again.

Beneath the Armor

The hospital air clung to you, a sterile, humming presence you couldn’t quite shake off even after you stepped into your shared apartment. You set your bag down quietly, glancing toward the living room where the light was still on.

Foreman sat on the couch, hunched forward, his elbows digging into his thighs, one hand tangled in his hair. He was still in his scrubs, a slight tremor running down the lines of his back. Normally so composed, so unshakable—it jolted something inside you to see him like this, brittle and breaking under a weight no one else seemed to notice.

You moved slowly, giving him time to sense you before you got too close. Foreman hated being ambushed, hated feeling cornered. But when your knees brushed against his and he finally looked up at you, the ironclad mask he always wore had already cracked down the center. His eyes, usually sharp and commanding, were glassy with grief he hadn't found words for yet.

You dropped down onto the coffee table in front of him, close enough that your knees brushed with every breath he took.

"I screwed up," he said, voice so low you had to lean in to catch it. "Kid came in—seizures, confusion. I missed it. Missed a tumor pressing on his brain stem. By the time I realized..." His mouth twisted, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he forced himself through it. "He died on the table before we could do anything."

Your heart broke for him, but you didn’t say anything yet. He wasn’t ready for soft words. He needed space to let the flood out.

"I don't miss things like that," he ground out, hands tightening into fists. "I don't. I'm supposed to catch it, I'm supposed to know better, be better—" He broke off with a ragged breath, turning his face away, as if ashamed to even look at you.

"You’re human," you said finally, voice even, calm against the whirlwind he was drowning in. "You’re allowed to make mistakes."

He laughed, but there was no humor in it—just bitterness, sharp and scalding.

"Not me. Not Foreman. Not the guy who pulled himself up from nothing, who had to be twice as good just to be seen as equal. I can’t afford mistakes." He dragged his hands down his face, exhausted. "One mistake, and it’s proof. Proof that I was never good enough to be here in the first place."

You scooted closer, until your hands rested lightly on his thighs, grounding him.

"You're not a statistic," you said firmly. "You're not a résumé or a list of awards or a perfect track record. You’re a man who’s saved lives—hundreds, Eric. Hundreds. You are allowed one bad day."

He shook his head, some bitter part of him still clinging to the anger because it was easier than facing the fear beneath it.

"Tell that to the kid’s parents," he muttered.

You reached up, catching his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

"I would," you said. "I would tell them that Eric Foreman is the reason their kid even had a chance. That he fought for him. That he cared when a lot of doctors would’ve written him off. That losing him is not proof of failure—it's proof that you cared enough for it to hurt this much."

For a long, shuddering moment, he just stared at you, the fight draining out of him in slow, aching waves. His shoulders sagged, the exhaustion finally catching up to him, and he let out a broken breath.

"I don't know how to let it go," he admitted, voice raw. "I keep seeing his face. His parents. I keep thinking about the moment I realized I'd missed it and it was already too late."

You moved onto the couch beside him, pulling him into your arms. He was stiff at first—Foreman never liked vulnerability, never liked feeling small or weak—but after a moment, he gave in, letting you cradle him against your chest. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding on tightly.

"You don’t have to let it go right now," you whispered against his temple. "You’re allowed to mourn him. You’re allowed to be angry and broken and sad. I'll carry it with you, Eric. You don’t have to do this alone."

His breath hitched sharply against your neck, and you realized he was crying—silent, shuddering sobs that he tried desperately to contain. You rocked him gently, running your hands up and down his back, whispering soft, meaningless reassurances. Just being there. Just being solid when everything else felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

It was a long time before he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I feel like if I start crying, I'll never stop."

You kissed the top of his head, your heart aching for him.

"Then cry until you’re empty," you murmured. "I’m not going anywhere."

He clung to you tighter, burying his face against your shoulder. You stayed like that for what felt like hours, the storm inside him finally breaking, finally letting go. The steady patter of rain against the windows was the only soundtrack to the moment he allowed himself to fall apart.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red and raw, but lighter somehow, as if shedding the grief had let in the first breaths of air after drowning.

"I’m sorry," he rasped, wiping his face with the sleeve of his scrubs.

"Don’t be," you said fiercely. "You don't ever have to apologize for being human with me."

He exhaled a shaky laugh, resting his forehead against yours.

"You’re too good to me," he whispered.

You smiled, thumbing gently at the line of his jaw.

"You’re worth it," you said. "All of you, you don’t have to hide from me."

Foreman closed his eyes, letting the words sink in, letting himself believe them. When he opened them again, something softer flickered behind the exhaustion. A tentative hope.

He leaned in, kissing you deeply, desperately. You kissed him back just as fiercely, holding him together with every beat of your heart.

And when you finally pulled back, you pulled him into the bed, tucking him against you, feeling the way his breathing slowly evened out, the way he finally, finally let himself rest.

Eric Foreman, the man who always stood tall and proud, allowed himself—for tonight, at least—to fall apart in your arms. And you stayed, fierce and unwavering, holding his broken pieces together until he could find the strength to carry them again.

The Weight of Her Kindness

You heard the door open before you saw her. The soft click of it shutting echoed unnaturally loud in the quiet house. Allison’s footsteps were light—too light—and you knew before she even rounded the corner into the living room that something was wrong.

She stood there, framed by the dim hallway light, her scrubs wrinkled from the long shift, her hair pulled messily into a ponytail that had started to come undone. In one hand she held her hospital bag, which she dropped with a muted thud by the door.

You didn’t say anything. You simply opened your arms.

It was all it took.

Cameron crossed the room in three quick strides and collapsed into you, folding herself into your embrace like a woman too exhausted to keep standing on her own. You wrapped your arms around her tightly, feeling the slight tremble in her shoulders, the way she buried her face into your chest and clung.

For a long time, there was only the sound of her breathing—sharp and uneven, like she was fighting against the dam of emotions straining inside her.

When she finally spoke, her voice was cracked and hoarse.

"I lost someone today."

You didn’t move, just tightened your hold on her, letting her talk at her own pace.

"It wasn't supposed to happen," she whispered. "He was supposed to get better. We found the diagnosis in time. We started the treatment. He..." Her voice broke. She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at you, her beautiful eyes swimming with unshed tears. "He was smiling yesterday."

You brushed a stray hair from her face, heart breaking with every word.

"He was smiling," she repeated, voice sharpening with the raw edge of grief, "and today he’s gone. And I keep thinking, what if I missed something? What if I pushed for a treatment that wasn’t right? What if—" She bit down hard on the words, as if punishing herself even for speaking them.

You cupped her face in your hands, gently forcing her to meet your gaze.

"Allison," you said softly, "you didn’t fail him. You gave him hope. You gave him care. You gave him a fighting chance."

Her lip quivered. She looked so small in that moment, stripped of all her usual quiet strength, her compassion turned inward into a weapon against herself.

"I feel like..." She closed her eyes tightly, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I feel like I make it worse. Like I make it harder when they go because I let them believe they’d be okay. Because I believed it, too."

You pulled her closer again, resting your forehead against hers, your breath mingling.

"You believe because you care," you murmured. "And even if it hurts—especially because it hurts—it means you gave them something real. Something beautiful. Not false hope. Human hope."

She let out a soft, broken sob and clutched at you, her hands fisting in your shirt. You held her through it, murmuring little things you weren’t even sure she heard—just soft words, grounding touches.

When the worst of it passed, she sagged against you, utterly spent. You guided her gently to the couch, pulling a blanket around the both of you, keeping her tucked into your side.

"You always have to be the strong one, don’t you?" you said quietly, stroking your fingers up and down her arm. "For everyone else. But not with me. You don't have to hide when you're hurting."

Her fingers found yours under the blanket and laced together, her grip tight, as if she was still anchoring herself to you.

"I just..." she started, voice small. "I want to save them all. Even though I know I can't. I know it's not possible. But it still feels like... if I were just better—"

"No," you said firmly, tipping her chin up so she couldn’t look away. "Don’t even finish that thought. You are more than good enough. You're the best thing that ever walked into that hospital. Your heart—your beautiful, infuriating heart—is what makes you extraordinary. Not just as a doctor. As a person."

Tears welled again, but this time she didn't try to fight them. She let them fall, safe in the knowledge that she didn’t have to pretend here, not with you.

You kissed her forehead, then her temple, then the salty trail of tears on her cheek, each kiss a silent vow that you would be here, as long as she needed you, as long as she let you.

"You don't have to fix everything," you whispered. "You just have to be you. That’s enough. That's more than enough."

Her arms slid around your waist, holding you tightly, her breath warming the curve of your neck.

"You always know what to say," she whispered back, her voice thick with emotion.

"Only because I love you," you murmured, kissing the crown of her head. "And because I know you."

A small, shaky laugh escaped her—half-sob, half-relief—and she burrowed closer. You welcomed it, welcoming every vulnerable piece of her, every trembling inch.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," she admitted quietly, voice raw.

"You’ll never have to find out," you promised against her skin. "I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever."

Hours later, after the tears had dried and the world outside had faded into unimportant darkness, you felt her breathing even out, her body finally relaxing completely in your arms.

You stayed awake a little longer, holding her, memorizing the weight of her against you, the fierce tenderness you felt, the soft beat of her heart.

You stayed because you knew, tomorrow, she’d wake up, put herself back together, and go out into the world to heal people again, even if it broke her a little every time.

And you would be there, always, to catch her when she needed somewhere safe to fall.

Fractures Beneath the Smile

You heard the front door click open and shut again—softly, almost guiltily—and set down your book, waiting. Chase’s keys clattered a little too hard into the ceramic bowl by the door. His shoes scuffed along the hallway with none of their usual casual grace. You didn't call out. You knew him too well.

When he finally appeared in the living room, he looked like a ghost of himself. His tie was hanging loose around his neck, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, hair tousled like he'd raked his hands through it a hundred times. His face was drawn tight, his eyes glassy, and one glance was enough to know tonight was bad. Really bad.

He hovered awkwardly by the arm of the couch for a second like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to sit down, then sank into it without waiting for permission. You tucked your legs under you, angling your body toward him. Still, you didn’t push.

The silence stretched thin between you before he finally rasped out, "Lost a patient today."

You nodded gently, inviting him to continue.

"It wasn’t—it wasn’t even complicated," he said, voice brittle with the beginnings of self-loathing. "Routine surgery. Standard complications. Textbook management. I did everything by the book." His laugh cracked in the middle, ugly and pained. "And he still died."

You reached over and took his hand, grounding him with your touch. His fingers twitched but didn’t pull away.

"I keep thinking," he said, staring at your joined hands like they were foreign, "what if I missed something? What if there was a sign and I didn't see it because I was—" His jaw tightened, frustration radiating off him in waves. "Because I was cocky, or distracted, or just not good enough."

"Robert—" you began, but he shook his head fiercely, needing to expel all of it first.

"I keep telling myself this happens. It’s part of the job. House would say it's a numbers game. Wilson would hand me some wine and tell me to grieve and move on." His mouth twisted, half-smile, half-grimace. "Foreman would tell me to get over it, that it’s not about me."

He lifted his eyes to you, pleading in their openness, raw with guilt and something deeper, more desperate.

"But what if it is about me?" he said, voice cracking under the weight of it. "What if it’s always been about me screwing up?"

You shifted closer until your knees touched, wrapping both hands around his.

"Robert, you didn’t kill him," you said, your voice quiet but firm. "You did everything right. Sometimes… it just isn’t enough. Sometimes the worst happens anyway."

He made a soft, broken sound—half-sob, half-sigh—and bent forward, pressing his forehead against the back of your hand. You stroked his hair gently, threading your fingers through the soft blond strands.

"You carry so much," you murmured, brushing your lips against his temple. "You hide it so well. All the pain, all the self-doubt. You think you have to bear it alone because that's what you were taught. But you don't have to, not with me."

He let out another shuddering breath, his body trembling under your hands. When he spoke again, his voice was almost childlike, stripped of all its usual charm and bravado.

"I'm so tired," he whispered. "I'm tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt. Of acting like I'm the guy who always bounces back, who doesn’t care. I care. I always care, and it never feels like it’s enough."

Your heart splintered at the naked vulnerability in his voice. You slid onto the couch beside him fully, pulling him into your arms. For a moment he resisted, stiff and tense, but then something inside him cracked fully open and he folded against you, clutching at your sides with desperate hands.

You ran your hands up and down his back, feeling the tremors working their way out of him.

"You don’t have to pretend with me," you said against his hair. "You can be tired. You can fall apart. I’ll still be here."

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. It felt like holding someone trying to piece himself back together with trembling, bloody fingers.

"I keep thinking if I'm just better, smarter, stronger—if I just try harder—it'll stop hurting," he said, voice muffled.

You pressed a kiss to his hair, lingering there.

"It won't," you said gently. "Because you’re human. And because you have a heart bigger than you want anyone to see. It’s not a weakness, Robert. It’s the best part of you."

Slowly, so slowly, he began to relax in your arms. His breathing evened out a little, his hands still clutching at you but less desperately now, like he trusted you to hold him through the wreckage.

When he finally pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes were swollen but clear, a fragile sort of clarity replacing the storm you’d seen earlier.

"I don’t deserve you," he said, half-laughing through the roughness of his voice.

"You deserve so much more than you think," you said seriously, framing his face in your hands. "You deserve someone who sees every broken, bruised, beautiful part of you and chooses you anyway. And I do. I always will."

He closed his eyes, swallowing thickly, and leaned into your touch like a man starved for something he hadn’t even dared to hope for.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t like the easy, teasing kisses he usually gave. It was raw and aching, a silent thank you carved into the shape of his lips. You kissed him back just as fiercely, cradling his face, pouring everything you had into him.

When you finally pulled back, you drew him down with you onto the couch, wrapping yourself around him until he was cocooned in your warmth. He let out a long, shuddering sigh against your chest, his hand resting over your heart like he needed to feel it beating. Proof you were real. Proof he wasn’t alone.

You stayed like that long into the night, whispering soft reassurances whenever the tremors came back, stroking his hair when the grief and guilt threatened to claw their way out again.

And when he finally drifted into sleep, exhausted and clinging to you like a lifeline, you held him even tighter, vowing silently to catch him every single time he fell.

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